Fiction Friday: Not for Profit, Part Four

[Part Three here.]

Jonathan was sitting in a metal chair in the center of the room. His left wrist was handcuffed to the chair arm. His right hand was free, but his right sleeve was covered in blood from what looked awfully like a bullet wound just below the shoulder. His ruined suit jacket had been tossed onto a gurney nearby.

There was a large orderly already in the room, carrying a large pistol. After Dr. Reyes followed me inside,  the orderly moved to block the door. I know that must have happened, because he was there later, but I didn’t notice at the time.

I took a step toward Jonathan. “David?!”

I will never forget the look he gave me: his realization that, with everything I was feeling, I had remembered. “What is this?” I asked.

He looked at Reyes and answered, “A mistake.”

“Really.” Reyes didn’t sound very interested. He was already taking my laptop out of its case.

“A big one,” I added. “What do you think you’re…”

Reyes ignored me. He was only interested in Jonathan. “She delayed her visit for a week and arrived the day after you did. She spoke to you not five minutes after you met with me. She has spent the last six hours going through our financial records. And yet you expect me to believe that her presence here is coincidence?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” said Jonathan, continuing to bleed. He looked at me: “Sorry.”

Reyes had opened my laptop. It gave its familiar start-up chime. I wanted to laugh, and then to cry: my computer still thought this was a normal day.

“Password,” said Reyes. I gave it to him. I didn’t dare look at Jonathan. I had used his birthday, for a reason that I was suddenly very much afraid he would misunderstand. When I set it up, I had told myself that it was the one number no one would expect me to use, but since I was having a hard time believing that right now, I didn’t think Jonathan would believe it, either.

But there were more pressing concerns, and I brought them up in a voice that was too loud because it was shaking. “I don’t know what’s going on here, and I don’t want to, and I promise I won’t say anything.” (That last bit was no longer true, but the lie came easily.) “But the Foundation knows I’m here, and…”

“Point,” agreed Jonathan, and if he wanted to take over I was happy to let him. “She can’t just disappear.”

“She won’t.” Reyes moved closer to me, but still addressed Jonathan. “On her way back to the airport, she will be tragically ambushed by the thieves who are such a sad fact of life in this country, and it will end badly. The only question is whether she will have been raped first.”

I felt my face go hot. I couldn’t control that, but I could and did look Reyes in the eye. And I rejoiced when he looked away. He took out his cell phone to send a brief text message, then returned to my computer.

“You won’t find anything there,” Jonathan told him.

“Maybe not. But I have a laptop and an internet connection. You could do everything I need right here.”

“Could,” agreed Jonathan. “Won’t.”

“And your partner?”

“I’ve told you she’s not…”

The door opened, and a second orderly came in, pushing Hector in front of him.

Hector took in the situation at a glance and clearly decided first things first. He took a step toward Jonathan, but Reyes shook his head. The orderly dragged Hector back. “If you want the doctor,” said Reyes, “you’ll have to pay in advance.”

Jonathan shrugged as well as he could. “I’ll save the money.”

I honestly don’t know whether I was surprised. About Hector, I mean. When I look back, it seems more than obvious. It seems inevitable. Standing there, watching him, I remembered that less than half an hour ago (if you care to measure in minutes) I had desperately wanted him to be what he seemed, had felt personally betrayed when he had appeared to be less. And all the time he had been more.

I think that time he must have read my thoughts. He gave me a smile that was equal parts laughter and apology. “I lied. It matters.” Then he looked back at Jonathan. “Bullet still in there?”

“Yeah. Any point in asking who you are?”

“No, but thanks.” Hector turned to Reyes, addressing him as if this were any other consultation. “He’s the only one who can do what you want. If you want him alive to do it, that bullet needs to come out and the bleeding has to be controlled.”

“Stop being a doctor,” snapped Jonathan.

“No,” answered Hector, and waited for Reyes.

Reyes said something to one of the orderlies, something that neither Jonathan nor Hector seemed to like. The man reached into his pocket and produced a nasty-looking clasp knife. There was nothing surgical or precise about it, which was clearly the point. I experienced a brief moment of nausea, anticipating what I was about to see.

Then I saw that the knife was being offered to me.

I backed away. “I can’t.” It came out as a whisper.

Reyes took the knife and came to stand in front of me. “If Mr. Blair would like Dr. Perez to take over, he knows what to do. If you prefer to wait and watch him bleed to death, that is your choice. But those are the only choices here.”

Fiction Friday: Not for Profit, Part Three

[Part Two here.]

Hector was waiting in the lobby for me, bright and early the next morning. Too bright and early, considering I had dozed off around 3:30, and I can’t stand morning people at the best of times, but Hector’s greeting was more infectious than annoying. Besides, I reminded myself that for the next ten hours I could avoid thinking about Jonathan. I was here to interview staff, meet patients, and read balance sheets, and it was high time I got down to it. This was a world I understood.

I had one question answered very quickly. When Hector introduced me to Dr. Reyes, I recognized the man who had opened the door for me yesterday at the museum. He recognized me, too, and made another bow.

For the rest of the morning, Hector let Dr. Reyes do most of the talking, though he accompanied us throughout our tour of the hospital, occasionally filling in a detail or prompting Dr. Reyes on a patient’s name. The grant proposal had been full of Dr. Reyes. I soon decided that, while the photo had been accurate enough, my other impressions had not been. The man on the page was a solid but undistinguished doctor who talked a lot without saying much. But that’s why we do site visits. The measure of a man is not in what he says.

The hospital, as I now knew, had been built from the ground up just six years before, all of it done with private donations. I warmed to Dr. Reyes as he pointed out every feature, from the gleaming, sterile operating room to the well-stocked recovery ward. While reading, I had thought they were moving too fast with their expansion plans. Now that I was there, everything indicated success, stability, and confident leadership. These were the people to meet the need.

And the need was there. The hospital was full. We had lunch — Dr. Reyes, Hector, and I — with one of the nurses, a young woman who had chosen her profession after Dr. Reyes treated her infant daughter for typhoid fever. She told me about 20-hour shifts, about mattresses spread on the floor during a malaria outbreak, and about the need to expand vaccination programs. Hector, almost a shadow throughout the morning, actually joined the conversation then. I gathered that one of his main responsibilities was to coordinate the deliveries of vaccines and drugs donated by a dozen NGOs. He dwelt at some length on the need for proper storage conditions for the vaccines, a major component of the planned expansion. By the end of lunch, I saw clearly both the need and the plan, and I only had one question left: Could they add?

I’m a CPA. I don’t care about grammar or spelling (unless you’re a university). But if your balance sheet doesn’t balance, I’m not going to give you money: you don’t know what to do with it.

Dr. Reyes showed me to his office, asking me to consider it my own for the afternoon. I told Hector that he could just leave me to my spreadsheets, but he pointed out that most of their donor records weren’t on the computer, and that he knew his way around the files a lot better than I did. It’s hard to argue with logic. We spent the next few hours immersed in numbers — happily on my part, cheerfully on Hector’s. With unruffled good humor, he went back and forth with files, and even insisted on bringing me coffee. He had a story to accompany every receipt, and all in all, I have never done a more pleasant audit.

But late in the afternoon, Hector was called away to a patient. For the first time that day, I was left entirely alone with my thoughts. I had heard dozens of anecdotes. Now I sat back to look at the big picture.

It didn’t fit. They had grown too fast. They were too well stocked. I fully believed that the need was still greater, but the fact was that even what they had now had been done a little too easily. I told myself that I was jumping to conclusions, that my perception of Mexico had been warped by the evening news, that even in an impoverished small town, a large amount of money could be honestly come by. But I couldn’t help thinking that everyone, even (especially?) Hector, had been working very hard to keep me from drawing those conclusions. And I knew that Jonathan had not come here to write a book.

When Hector came back, I barely let him get into the office before asking, “Which cartel paid for this?”

I desperately wanted him to look surprised. One idealist would have made me feel less lonely. Or maybe less stupid. And I needed him, at least, to be what he had seemed. But he quickly pulled the door closed behind him and said, “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that.”

“Because it’s true?”

“Because it’s dangerous to say it.”

“But is is true?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

When I didn’t answer right away, he dragged a chair over next to mine. He looked like he wanted to take my hand, but he restrained himself. “Miss Evans. I’m glad it does matter to you. I wish I could afford to let it matter to me. Yes, some — all right, most of the money that comes in here is not from a good place, and when it leaves here most of it doesn’t go to a good place, but at least while it’s here it does some good. You focus on what’s in front of you, and you try not to think about the rest. It gets easier with time.”

That much was obvious. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he’d long since made his peace with what he didn’t want to see. I wondered how much time it had taken.

I think he saw me wondering, because he smiled. Equal parts sympathy and chagrin. “You’re not there yet. I get it. Do whatever you like about the grant. Just don’t ever mention this to anyone. I’m not joking when I say it’s dangerous.”

“Do you ever worry about yourself?”

He shrugged. “Remember, I’m safely ensconced on the wrong side.”

“That’s what I mean.” I fumbled for words. “What if… What if you were found out?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“No.” I would regret anything that happened to Hector, but Jonathan was Jonathan.

“Okay then. Go home and don’t say anything.”

In what follows, it’s important to remember that I fully intended to follow Hector’s advice. I had spoken in the first heat of anger, but I was every bit as scared as he wanted me to be. You can say that’s natural and understandable, and I’ll agree with you. Just don’t try to tell me it wasn’t wrong.

Hector gave me a few minutes to collect my thoughts. He used them to collect my notes and my laptop. I found myself being presented with a neatly packed bag. “Come on. You should have been out of here an hour ago. You don’t have to speak to me, but let me walk you back to the hotel.”

I nodded. He opened the door. I took a deep breath and told myself everything was fine.

On the way out, we ran into Dr. Reyes. “Hector. There you are. Mrs. Garcia stopped in and she’s asking for you.”

Hector rolled his eyes, but he said good-naturedly enough, “She does realize she’s not the only woman who’s ever been pregnant, right? I’ll go talk to her. Miss Evans…”

“I can find the hotel,” I assured him.

Hector nodded and left us. Dr. Reyes fell into step beside me. “Did you get everything you needed?”

“I think so,” I answered. And a lot more than I needed. “Everyone has been very helpful.”

“I’m glad to hear it. We are very grateful to you for coming, though I confess we were also surprised. But then, I think, the timing was convenient for you?” As he spoke, he held open a door for me.

I didn’t know the hospital well, and anyway, I had plenty on my mind, so I hadn’t paid attention to where we were going. As I walked through the door, I realized we were in the operating room. Before I could ask why, the why became very obvious.

And I knew, right there and then, what my answer would have been.

Fiction Friday: Not for Profit, Part Two

[Part One here.]

By the time I had crossed the square, I was grateful for the dim coolness of the museum. As I entered, a balding middle-aged man was just coming out, and he held the door open for me with a charming little bow. He looked faintly familiar, and while I paused to leave a donation I puzzled over who I could possibly know in Mexico. But I didn’t puzzle long, as I quickly realized I wasn’t alone: Jonathan was standing at the far end of the room, his back to me, leaning over to examine something in a glass case.

It was Jonathan as in my ex-fiancé Jonathan. The “ex” part had been his idea, not mine. We met in college and soon began spending our evenings together in the campus coffee shop, where he would beat me at darts while he talked history and I talked accounting. And somehow it worked. We got quietly engaged the spring of his senior year, before he headed off to Georgetown (the showoff) to get his master’s. I knew long-distance engagements were usually trouble, but once again, somehow it worked. We called each other most evenings, of course, and Jonathan wrote. I know, who writes letters anymore? But he did. It must have been the historian in him. On nights when he didn’t call, I could re-read the letters, and the loneliness wasn’t fun, but it was a good year. The way you handle being apart can tell you whether you’re meant to be together. Or at least, I thought so.

He came to my graduation that May. I told myself that a little reserve was only natural after we’d been separated so long. That summer, the letters became less frequent and the calls just a little shorter, but I was cramming for the CPA exam and it was easy not to think about anything else.

He waited until after I’d passed the exam. I was grateful to him for that, even then. And he flew out to talk to me in person. I don’t believe you can soften a blow, but at least you can face it. He was sorry and, I think, ashamed, but he had met someone else. There wasn’t much to say on either side. The bare statement did the trick. We wished each other well — he probably meant it — and said goodbye.

I hadn’t seen him in four years, but now I knew it was him even before he turned around. So I had a second or two’s advantage over him, and yes, I enjoyed it. I was determined that he was going to deal with seeing me.

He didn’t look pleased. It took him a few moments to make a decision, and while he hesitated, I studied him. He looked good. I could admit that, and the admission had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Yes, I checked. But if his second engagement or his marriage (I preferred engagement) hadn’t lasted either, it was not exactly an incentive to think about a rebound. He had left me. If he had left someone else after that, well, maybe he was better off alone.

Besides, there were other things to think about. Things like the small gold signet ring on his right hand. The diamond-set Rolex on his wrist. The obviously bespoke light grey suit. This was a man who had so far published exactly one book: a biography of Sir Francis Walsingham. It was a really good biography, but Sir Francis Walsingham does not pay for that kind of tailoring. More importantly, none of it was Jonathan. Some things don’t change in four years. Or ever.

Whatever he was thinking about, he made up his mind. “Hi.”

“Hi.” This was his problem, not mine.

“‘Of all the gin joints,’ huh?” He took a step toward me. “Except that you’re a beer drinker, aren’t you?”

It hurt that he remembered that.

“Can I buy you one?”

Dignified silence is harder than it looks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean… There’s no point, is there? It’s a small town, but I’ll only be here three days. We can ignore each other that long.”

“Yeah, but I need to say a couple of things first.” He saw that I was about to speak and put up a hand. “Natalie, please. This is not to rehash the past or offer explanations. This is right here, right now. There’s something you need to know.”

*******

I let him buy me a beer. I was curious, but it was more than that. I had only heard him use that tone once before: the night he proposed. He had looked and sounded then as if a minor matter like the end of the world wouldn’t distract him, and he looked and sounded that way now.

He took me to a cantina just off the square. When the waitress had brought beer, guacamole, and chips, and then made herself scarce, I expected him to launch right in, but he started by asking why I was there. I told him about my job and about the hospital, and because it seemed natural I even told him about the week’s delay and my sister’s baby. I suddenly remembered that he’d been my date to her wedding, and that I’d tripped over my bridesmaid’s dress on the dance floor.

He murmured congratulations that we both knew I wouldn’t pass on, but his mind was elsewhere. “Do you trust me?”

“I used to.”

He deserved that, and he knew it. “And now?”

I thought, Heck no, are you crazy? But I heard myself say, “I’ll try.”

“Okay. Just listen, and I’ll answer questions at the end if I can. We met at the museum — I mean met met, as in complete and total strangers. I told you my name was David Blair and that I was in banking, but I didn’t seem to want to give details. You got the impression I was here on vacation. You let me buy you a drink, we flirted a little, I wasn’t your type.” He paused. “You want it?”

I shook my head. “Too easy.”

“No hard feelings, we went our separate ways, and that was that.” He saw the waitress glance in our direction, so he smiled, but his eyes weren’t smiling.

My first thought, when I was capable of having thoughts, was Why are you trusting me now? But the answer was obvious. He was trusting me now because he had to. And for no other reason. And there were more important questions to ask. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not if your memory’s still good.”

“Is this why you left me?” I knew it was, but I needed him to say it.

“Yes.”

“Will you call me when it’s over?” It was my turn to stop him from speaking. “I know you can’t explain. That’s become very obvious. But just this once, I need to know you’re all right.” When he nodded, I reached into my purse and handed him a business card.

He looked at it, but then he handed it back. “I wasn’t your type. You wouldn’t have given me a card.” He drained his beer and clinked the bottle against mine. “Don’t worry — my memory’s still good, too.”

*******

It occurred to me that night (when you’re not sleeping stuff occurs to you) that I had never for a second doubted what side he was on. I was angry at him, more angry now than I had been four years ago, but I simply wasn’t able to doubt him. Like the Rolex, it wasn’t Jonathan. So I forgot about doubt and concentrated on anger. He should have told me. There I was on safe ground. He should at least have asked what I wanted. But after dwelling on that in righteous certainty, at about 1 a.m. I asked myself what my answer would have been.

There I wasn’t nearly as certain.

Fiction Friday: Not for Profit, Part One

[Rationale (-ization?) can be found here.]

Not for Profit

They asked me to change the names.

Actually, they asked me not to write it at all, but I pointed out that it might as well be fiction — no one would believe it. And it needs to be told. So we compromised.

This is fiction.

I’ve changed the names.

*******

When I met Hector Perez, he was the bright spot in the middle of a very long day. I was on my first foreign site visit as the very junior program officer at a very big charitable foundation. I had a laptop case stuffed with the proposal and supporting financials of a Mexican hospital. Okay, Mexico wasn’t exactly the ends of the earth, but it still counted as foreign. I was running late — more than a week late, as I’d had to postpone the trip to help my sister while she had her third baby. Somehow Aunt Natalie, with no children and no prospect of any, was always the first choice to watch the kids. Now that the trip was finally on, I was also running late because of traffic, and on the way to the airport I managed to spill a cappuccino on the sleeve of my brand new, professional-but-still-practical-in-the-heat white linen jacket. During the flight, I convinced myself that I was completely unprepared and that it would be painfully obvious to the hospital staff, and that it must have been painfully obvious to my boss, so they must be setting me up to fail, and what was I doing in this job, anyway?

Then I took a deep breath and told myself everything was fine. That works more often than you might think.

Hector met me at the airport. He was wearing khakis and a loose shirt, and a wooden rosary around his neck peeked out at the collar. He approached with a smile and a firm handshake, and asked “Miss Evans?” with a purely American accent.

“California,” he added, either through telepathy or habit, as he took my bag. “Born and raised in Long Beach, pre-med at UCLA. I got permission to do a year of my internship here.”

“Permission from where?”

“Johns Hopkins,” he admitted, with a smile that held equal parts pride and embarrassment. I learned very quickly that that was Hector’s normal smile: it said two things at once, and they were usually contradictory.

“I don’t remember reading about you in the proposal.”

He shrugged. “I’ll be gone soon enough. They’ll still be here.”

He led me out of the airport to an ancient Volkswagen Beetle. As he opened the passenger door for me, he said that the hospital was about an hour’s drive, “not counting flat tires, washed out roads, or other acts of God.” Since the car was practically riding on rims as it was, I wanted to ask what he called a flat tire, but decided against it.

As he drove and kept a lookout for acts of God, I asked him how a Johns Hopkins intern had been drawn here. He told me about the hospital, about Dr. Reyes (whose name had been in the proposal) and about some of the patients he had seen. He was a persuasive advocate, and I wondered aloud whether he had chauffeured any other program officers.

He shook his head. “I’ve been here ten months, and you’re the first one I’ve seen. Honestly, I don’t think most of us expected you to really show up, either. We’re small, kind of under the radar out here. Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but does your being here mean we’ve got a shot at a grant?”

“I really can’t…”

“I get it. Anyway, you should see the place before you make up your mind.” And, with perfect timing, he chose that moment to tell me that the cooler in the back seat was stocked with bottled water. Before I could reach back, he had snaked his arm around the back of his seat, snared a bottle, opened it one-handed, and presented it to me. As I held it to my wrists and temples and then took a sip (gulping didn’t seem professional), Hector grinned: “How are we doing on first impressions?”

*******

Hector saw me checked into the hotel and insisted on carrying my bag up to my room. I was surprised by the size of the hotel: from what I had seen of the town driving in, it didn’t seem large enough to support that much tourism. Hector explained that the town had seen action during the Mexican War of Independence in the early 1800s, so it attracted historians, photographers, sightseers, and various combinations of the three. There was even a small museum on the other side of the square.

In the interests of full disclosure, I should mention here that I gave myself a pat on the back when I turned down an entry-level position at PricewaterhouseCoopers to take an internship at the foundation. I had the inner glow of altruism which comes from joining the not-for-profit sector, and which had lasted until I read my first grant application from Rwanda. I knew then that I understood neither courage nor self-sacrifice, and I had reminded myself of that every day since. So when Hector mentioned the museum, it seemed like a good opportunity to learn about people who had understood both.

Be careful what you wish for.

Fiction Friday: A Thursday Introduction

Well, we’ve learned a few things in these last couple of years of mostly-not blogging. The most obvious one is that I don’t have a lot to say. Not a lot that I consider worth the trouble of saying, that is.

 

Except that’s not entirely true. I do have things to say, but I have trouble translating them into “blog”. I think in story.

So I’m going to try an experiment. Over the next few Fridays, I’m going to serialize a story I wrote awhile back. (Yes, the scheduling is totally based on alliteration.)

This is, honestly, something that I never expected anyone to read. The brief introductory section, and the central moment of inaction, popped into my head one day, and I fashioned the story around them so that they would leave me alone. But I’ve had no idea what to do with it: it just clearly wanted to exist. I’m not in the least sure it’s any good, but it says some things I wanted to say.

See you tomorrow!

The After-the-Reichenbach Fall: His Last Vow and the Problem of Sin

[Spoiler alert: We’re going to talk about the ending of His Last Vow. (Well, not the ending ending. All I will say about that is that I don’t think it’s a trick: go re-watch John’s abduction in The Empty Hearse.) Properly speaking, we’re going to talk about the climax of His Last Vow. You know, the part where Sherlock makes sure he has plenty of witnesses before shooting an unarmed man in the head. (I’ve never been very good at spoiler alerts.)]

[Note to family and friends: Should I ever need morphine, and should you not have it, I fully intend to bellow, “Then what is the point of you?!?” in the best public-school accent I can muster. You have been warned. Now on with the post.]

“The point I'm trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend. And certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship.”

- Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of Three

Are there people who identify with John Watson? For me, it’s always been Sherlock. Not that I think I’m a genius, but that I would happily divide the world into “people” (defined as those I care about) and -- to borrow from the smarter Holmes brother -- “goldfish”.

So I guess what I’m saying is, I’m Sherlock with less excuse.

Great.

It’s been widely said that we’ve seen a more human Sherlock in Series Three, and I think that’s true, but not because he learns to love. The fact is, Sherlock has always been willing to love: remember what happened to the CIA agent who roughed up Mrs. Hudson? He is just extremely careful about whom he chooses to love. And how. And isn’t that the temptation for all of us? “To love” is an active verb. It’s something that we decide to do, and something that can be done on our terms.

To BE loved? Now that’s scary.

Being loved requires humility. It requires a willingness to surrender control and accept a gift freely given -- and often undeserved. The Sherlock of A Study in Pink does not deserve John Watson’s friendship, but it is given, and Sherlock doesn’t understand why. Even by the end of Series Two, he still thinks love should be earned, should somehow be based on merit. In The Reichenbach Fall, he asks faithful lab assistant Molly Hooper, “Molly, if I weren’t everything you think I am -- everything I think I am -- would you still want to help me?” She replies simply, “What do you need?” Molly doesn’t love Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. She loves Sherlock.

And two and a half years later, it is Molly who snaps when she sees the results of his Dr.-Watson-ordered drug test in the opening of His Last Vow:

The language here, a language of gift and obligation, is breathtaking. A gift places us under an obligation to the giver: an obligation of gratitude, but also an obligation not to abuse the gift. By abusing himself, Sherlock has abused his friends’ love -- not least, as John points out, by refusing to acknowledge that love and ask for their help.

But the episode’s most stunning scene is yet to come. Christmas with the Holmes family. Mycroft and Sherlock pretending to put up with their parents’ confounded...normality (and Mycroft not really even bothering to pretend: “Am I glad, too? I haven’t checked.”). The brothers sneak outside for a forbidden smoke break, and Mycroft warns Sherlock not to pursue Charles Augustus Magnussen, calling him a necessary evil, “not a dragon for you to slay.” Mycroft says he has been authorized to offer Sherlock a job, but that he hopes Sherlock will decline it. Sherlock promptly declines, then asks what the job is. MI-6 wants him to go back undercover in Europe (capitalizing on his work destroying Moriarty’s network during the [interminable!] two-year gap between Series Two and Three), but Mycroft has estimated that he will last only six months before being discovered and killed.

Then this happens:

And here’s a question: As the scene concludes, Sherlock asks, “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” and Mycroft suggests, “Merry Christmas.” Recall that Magnussen’s ultimate plan is to ensnare Mycroft, and recall Sherlock’s last two words before shooting him. Sherlock is primarily thinking of John and Mary in that scene, but is he also answering his brother? It is certainly not the answer his brother wanted: “Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?” *

We have grown accustomed to seeing Sherlock use people. His relationship with Janine is perhaps the most egregious example, ending in her unexpected and brilliant parting shot: “We could have been friends.” For just a moment, Sherlock looks at someone he had placed firmly in the “goldfish” category...and discovers that she is a person. (I. Love. Steven. Moffat.)

Anyway. What we don’t notice so easily is that Sherlock also uses himself. The heroin, after all, was for a case. And in A Study in Pink, he risks suicide for a point of pride. Irene Adler sums him up when she takes away his clergyman’s collar in A Scandal in Belgravia:

Irene: Disguise is always a self-portrait.

Sherlock: You think I’m a vicar with a broken face?
Irene: I think you’re damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power -- in your case, it’s yourself.

Sherlock believes that he is completely his own master: to preserve, or to destroy. When he kills Magnussen, he is once again using himself. It’s not that he thinks it’s right. He thinks it’s a necessary evil, and he takes that evil upon himself. But in doing so, he also takes that evil into himself, betraying the people who love him by making himself something that he was not before. “My brother is a murderer,” says Mycroft, and for once there is no quip to disguise the simple truth.

But Sherlock has betrayed more than his friends, and at least one person in the series does hint at a higher power. Go back and look at the Molly scene again. His friends are not the only, or the first, thing she thinks of: “How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?” There is more being given here than John’s, or Molly’s, or Mycroft’s love.

A gift places us under an obligation to the Giver.

*Dear Mr. Gatiss: After the empty house/Mary as client sequence, I didn’t think my heart could be broken again. You re-made it and re-broke it, right here.

Literary PSA

Go here now. Purchase. Read.

That is all.

Thank you.