‘Does it ever bother you?’ Lucy asked. ‘Working with the dead every day?’
Sherlock considered this seriously. ‘Not really. I think I see it differently than most people do. The dead can’t suffer any more – whatever pain they experienced in life is over. What I do is give them dignity, give them a voice to explain what happened to them. There’s something almost sacred about that, in a way.’
It was a thoughtful answer, spoken with genuine feeling. Lucy found herself warming to him just like she had the last time.
They finished the steak and ordered more drinks, the conversation flowing easily. Sherlock had a dry wit that caught Lucy off guard, making her laugh with his observations about hospital politics and the peculiar egos of surgeons. He asked about her work in a general way that didn’t push boundaries, seemed genuinely interested in how she’d ended up in the police, although she was sure she’d told him the last time, and listened attentively when she talked about the challenges of being a woman in what was still, despite everything, a male-dominated profession.
‘Fancy another drink somewhere else?’ Sherlock suggested as they settled the bill – he’d once again insisted on paying, waving away her protests. ‘There’s a decent wine bar just around the corner. Unless you need to get home?’
Lucy checked her phone. Ten thirty.
‘Another drink sounds great. At my place. But I can’t get hammered.’
‘Me neither. I’m on call.’
They walked out into St Andrew Square. ‘Shall we hop on a tram?’ she said.
‘I’d rather just sit down in it,’ he replied, laughing.
She laughed back. ‘The tram stop is right at my building in Leith. I’ve moved since you were last here, drinking with me.’
‘Lead the way.’
They rode the tram down to the Shore and five minutes later were in her flat.
‘So,’ Sherlock said, settling back in his chair after Lucy got them both a beer from the fridge, ‘tell me something interesting about yourself that has nothing to do with police work.’
‘That’s a challenge,’ Lucy admitted. ‘I feel like I’ve become my job lately.’
‘Then tell me about before. What did you want to be when you were younger?’
‘A writer,’ Lucy said, surprising herself with the admission. ‘I wanted to write novels. Crime novels, actually, which I suppose explains the career choice.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘Life, I suppose. University, then work, then the realisation that I didn’t have anything interesting to write about. All the best crime fiction comes from people who’ve actually experienced something worth writing about.’
‘And now you have,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘Years of policework, real crimes, real investigations. You could write the most authentic crime novel ever written.’
‘Maybe someday,’ Lucy said, though she doubted it. The idea of sitting down and actually writing seemed impossibly distant, a dream from a younger, more optimistic version of herself.
They talked for another hour, then two. Lucy lost track of how many drinks they’d had – enough that the edges of the world had gone pleasantly soft, enough that she was laughing more freely than she had in months, enough that when Sherlock suggested they should probably call it a night, she heard herself saying something she definitely hadn’t planned to say.
‘Thank you for saving me from a miserable evening alone after being stood up,’ Lucy replied. ‘I was ready to go home and eat ice cream while hate-watching terrible reality TV.’
‘A noble pursuit, but I think we can agree this was superior.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I should probably go,’ Sherlock said eventually, though he made no move to stand. ‘It’s late, and you’ve had a long week. Which isn’t over, if you’re working tomorrow. I won’t be unless I get a call.’
‘You could stay,’ Lucy heard herself say. ‘If you want. I mean, it’s late, and taxis can be hard to find at this hour. Plus it would cost a fortune to Fife.’
Sherlock set down his mug and turned to face her properly. ‘Lucy, are you sure? You’ve had quite a bit to drink, and I don’t want you to do anything you might regret tomorrow.’
‘I’m sure,’ Lucy said, and she was. She was tired of being alone, tired of every evening being about work, tired of the careful professional boundaries she maintained every single day. Tonight, she just wanted to be a normal person having a normal connection with someone who made her laugh.
Sherlock smiled, genuine and warm. ‘Then I’d love to stay.’
