A Study in Charlotte

She’ll understand, I told myself after a good hour of stewing. She’ll understand why I did it. And, for now, I’ll respect her need for distance—I can do that much—and when she’s back, I’ll apologize, and we can get on with the business of not getting ourselves killed.

That was when I remembered rules 1 and 2.

Search often for opiates and dispose of as needed.

Begin with the hollowed-out heels of Holmes’s boots.

Maybe we weren’t so divorced from the past as I wanted to believe. I thought, Oh, I am one stupid son of a bitch, and I hardly remembered to grab my coat as I flew out the door.

Between our house and the road was a flat expanse of grass, dusted lightly with snow. When I was a child, it had been its own continent, unending. But now it seemed the size of a postage stamp. It was unforgivingly white, and open, and showed no sign of her. How had she managed to move without footprints? All I could pick out were those of rabbit and deer.

We were a half mile from the nearest house, and even farther from any sort of civilization. Still, I tromped out to the middle of the road and shadowed my eyes, looking far in both directions. I saw pavement, flat land, our nearest neighbor’s weathervane. I didn’t see her.

Well, before I took my father’s car to go out looking, I’d rule out the rest of our land. I’d be thorough. Holmes would have been thorough, looking for me.

God knows what I’d say when I found her.

I MADE QUICK WORK OF THE TREES ALONG THE SIDES OF THE house. I spent longer in the shed my father had built to store his tools. The lawnmower was there, and his sawhorses, and though it seemed like there was nothing else, I examined the shed from both the inside and out, looking for unaccounted-for space, a hidden room. I felt every inch of wood with my bandaged hands. Nothing. Still nothing.

I stalked out into the backyard and considered the stretch of open, icy land behind the house, wondering if she’d managed to turn herself the same colors as the landscape, if she was somehow standing right next to me. If she’d erased herself altogether.

Through the back window, I glared at Detective Shepard’s bent head. My father was opposite him, trying not to watch me, and failing. I glared at him too.

I’d get in the car, then. I’d scour all the countryside between here and Sherringford, and I’d find her, somehow. After I was sure she hadn’t OD’d, I’d let her hate me all she wanted. But my hands, beneath their bandages, were beginning to freeze. I had no intention of getting frostbite twice in two days. Gloves, I thought, climbing the porch steps, and then the car, and then Holmes—

Below my feet, I heard snickering.

It was an ugly laugh. A laugh you’d hear from a small boy who’d just plucked the wings from a fly. Still, it was hers, and I jumped off the side of the porch, getting to my hands and knees to peer into the foot of darkness underneath.

In the frozen mud beneath the stairs, Holmes had tucked herself into a small dark ball. Her head was tipped to one languid side, considering me. I knelt there, unmoving. She saw me, it was clear; it was also clear she wasn’t processing what she saw. Her bare feet were black with dirt, her hair wild.

She’d hidden herself under the porch the way a beaten dog would.

74. Whatever happens, remember it is not your fault and likely could not have been prevented, no matter your efforts.

My father, once again, was proving himself an idiot. “Holmes?” I whispered.

“Hello, Watson,” she said drowsily. I crawled up next to her, past her socks and shoes all in a pile, past her tucked-up legs. Her eyes flicked over to me, unconcerned. I noticed, with a shock, that her pupils had constricted to tiny black dots. “Hello,” she said again, and laughed.

“How much have you taken?” I asked, shaking out her socks and pulling them back over her freezing feet. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t respond either, even when I put a hand inside one of her boots and came up with an empty plastic bag. “God, have you always kept this stuff with you?”

“Rainy days,” she said, shutting her eyes. Her voice wasn’t ragged, or hoarse—it wasn’t hers at all. “Oh, Watson. Always so disappointed.”

“No, stay awake,” I said, tapping at her cold face. She batted my hand away halfheartedly. “What have you taken?” I asked.

“Oxy. Slows it all down.” She smiled. “Done with coke. Hate coke. Am I disappointing you?”

“No.”

“Liar,” she said, with sudden venom. “You expect impossible things, and I refuse to deliver. Can’t do it. Won’t.”

“I am not expecting anything from you,” I said, “except for you not to freeze to death.” Shucking off my coat, I wrapped it around her. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

“No.”

“Holmes, it’s freezing, we need to get you into a hot bath.” I tugged on her arm. Immediately, she clawed at my injured palm with her nails. I flinched away.

“I said no,” she said, staring at me with eyes that were all iris and no pupil.

I cradled my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. “How much have you taken?”

“Enough,” she said, looking away. She was bored again. “I won’t die. Go away.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“Go away. Take your coat, it smells like guilt.”

“Actually,” I said, “I think I’m fine right here.” I couldn’t make her go inside. I probably couldn’t make her go anywhere with me ever again. What else could I do? After a moment, I tucked myself in beside her, hoping my body heat, at least, would do something to warm her up.