Chapter Text
PART SIX: SHERLOCK
Chapter 18: Forever
I try to explain it all to John once. Try to get him to understand why I did what I did.
We're all made of stuff from the stars. We're all on a doomed chunk of rock hurtling towards nothingness, a rock in a sea of other rocks circling other stars.
There are six billion people on this planet - all born with an expiration date.
Moral is relative. Murder and mercy are separated only by a changing code of ethics defined by fallible humans.
"Have they put you on something?" John asks, clearly trying to evaluate my pupil size.
I stop trying.
Memories of John, of us, become a sort of a rosary. When my mind is too idle and begins gnawing at its own tail, I go through the most important ones in my head as though I'm flipping through a photo album.
They're still hurting John because of me. One day, at work, a nurse from an adjoining ward who didn't know who he was, stopped him as they walked past one another in the hallway because she was collecting signatures for a petition to reinstate the death penalty in this country. A petition that was started because of me.
What options did John have in that situation? Don't sign it and tell her about me, about us? Sign it and keep quiet? I would have understood if he had.
He would never wish me dead, but I would certainly wish for others to stop punishing him in these strange and unexpected ways for what I've done.
John has had offers for substantial amounts of money for my even most trivial belongings. Groupies are willing to pay thousands of pounts for even just a ballpoint pen. John refuses to sell anything to these people.
"I don't care if they're offering eleven thousand pounds for your scarf. I'm not selling it so that some dimwit can have a wank on it," he told me.
A year after my sentencing there's a headline in the Mirror, 'The ex-boyfriend of The Dissector tells all!'. How delightful.
Victor Trevor, my university on-off shag had decided to cash in. In the piece he claims to be friends with me and my alleged current beau, a doctor.
He even claims that I had planned on making him one of my victims. That he was my type - since I apparently killed young, strong men just because I wanted to show everyone I could.
That is only part of the truth. Mostly I chose them because they were strong enough to survive through the initial muscle relaxant dose.
I'd have never killed Victor. I'm not that stupid.
John never mentions the article. I'm grateful for that.
"You could appeal," John suggests one afternoon during visiting.
I scoff quietly. I notice a young, scruffy couple sitting by a nearby table pass a package between themselves. None of the guards notice. Drugs, most likely.
Even though I admit the longing still exists, I'm not going to start using in prison. If a supply route got cut off, going through withdrawal in these circumstances would be both painful and dehumanizing. I'll not stoop that low.
I had adamantly refused to lean on an insanity defence. Being declared mentally incompetent would have been my only chance to avoid a lifer's prison sentence, a 'whole life tariff' as they call it. Still, I would rather be here with my wits intact, than to be locked up in some ward for the criminally insane, with antipsychotics and mood stabilizers forced on me by the bucketful.
They didn't let me take the stand at my own trial. After talking to John my barrister had decided that I would sink my case even further because apparently nobody likes me.
They didn't like me any better before all this came to light.
I killed 38 people. How could a few words spoken at court possibly make it worse?
"Appeal for what? A reduction of my sentence from 230 years to 190?" I ask John, who doesn't reply.
I move my hands forward so that I can cover his left hand with my right one. He flinches but does not withdraw.
"John. You're allowed to think I belong here."
His eyes rove around the large room. Paint is peeling off the ceiling. The high windows have thick bars. The only piece of nature that's visible is some patchy, brown grass in the distance. The chairs are uncomfortable and made out of ugly orange plastic.
Today is rare because none of the other visitors are stealing glances at us. It appears that my infamy rivals even that of Steve Wright, Ian Brady and Dennis Nilsen. The Suffolk Strangler, The Moors Murderer, The Kindly Killer.
Here's the Baker Street Dissector, the one with the most victims in the British history of homicide.
"Nobody belongs here," John says with a modicum of determination.
Not even me?
"I can't do this anymore," John says, "Not anymore," as though repetition somehow lessens the impact.
"Of course not," I say and attempt an encouraging smile. Judging by my usual lack of success in emulating normality, it probably comes across as something else entirely.
"I need to find something else, build another kind of life, you know," John says, not looking at me.
"Of course you do," I say, and wring my hands under the table. They still insist on handcuffing me during visiting. Other prisoners don't get to enjoy such a privilege. I should feel honoured, notorious. Mostly I just feel inconvenienced.
"Do you think I'm a bit like those women who want convicts as pen pals?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and sounding bored.
I don't answer. I recognize self-pity when I see it. I'm not immune to it myself.
"I loved you. I think I did," John suddenly says and smiles a small, sad smile. Before I can process any of it he grabs his now empty plastic bag of souvenirs from the outside world that he always brings me - chocolate and soda - and stands up. He crumples the white plastic bag into a ball and stuffs it into his trouser pocket.
Then he walks out without a word.
I say "Bye, John" to him in a voice that doesn't really sound like me.
Two nights after that, I dream of the one I killed three days after my thirtieth birthday. Blond hair, beautiful skin, tight jeans. More than willing to go home with me. I cut out his heart and held it in my hands for a long time.
In my dream, John was there, watching. In my dream, I stopped before the killing blow and let the man go. He turned into a bird.
I don't know what any of it means.
All I know is that when there's visiting hours again the next Wednesday, John comes back.
And he comes back the Wednesday after that.
And all my remaining Wednesdays.
Because his heart is the only one I can hold now.
- The End -