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The Gödel Problem	By : marksandspence Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1053 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is based solely on the television show Sherlock that airs on BBC1, written by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All characters belong exclusively to them, the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s estate.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter 2: Of Sights and Smells and Clever Touches
“I’ve put your things in the spare room,” Sherlock says as Sio walks through the flat toward the kitchen. She looks like she is about to drop.
“I think I need a bit of a sleep. The pills are kicking in nicely. Do you mind?” Sio says quietly as she continues her forward momentum toward the room.
Sherlock shakes his head and follows her to the kitchen.
“Shall I make us some tea before?”
“Alright.”
She disappears into the spare room and after a moment, she pokes her head out with a wide grin.
“You bought a new bed,” Sio says with surprise.
He responds with a tempered smile and an acknowledging shrug.
He had. A queen, no less. In fact, there was no small amount of internal conflict over where to put it – in his own room or the spare. He had finally settled on the spare, unwilling to change his room just in case it turned out to be unnecessary. It still seemed the best choice.
She returned to peruse the room to see what Sherlock had rescued from her flat. In the end, all she could find was a drawer full of lingerie, five books, a hairbrush and an A4 envelope containing a few pictures and papers with scribbled notes.
By the time Sherlock came to the door with her cup of tea, she was already asleep.
*
Sherlock, standing in the center of the main room of his flat, only notices the phone in his hand when he hears a voice coming from the other end.
“Hello?”
“John. What is it?” Sherlock says as he notices his violin case is still open.
“You called me.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. I’m on my way out the door. What do you need?”
“Oh. Uh…” Sherlock stalls as he tries to remember what brought him to dial John’s number, an action of which he has no memory.
“How’s Sio?” John leads.
Right, it is starting to come back now. “I’m not sure,” he confesses.
“That doesn’t sound promising,” John responds.
“No, I mean, I haven’t actually spoken to her.”
“It’s been two days,” John responds with some concern. “Has she eaten anything?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve heard footsteps. The odd faucet in the bathroom.”
“Ok, that’s something,” John sighs.
“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“What are my responsibilities as a husband?”
“Well. It’s not a proper marriage is it, so I don’t know if that is the question you should be asking. It’s just a piece of paper,” John says.
“Right. But suppose it weren’t. Just for the sake of argument, what would that entail?”
“You’re overthinking it. But I suppose a good starting point might be to try and get her to eat something. And then just talk to her.”
“Right. Good. Yes.” Sherlock says, abruptly hanging up the phone.
*
A few hours later, he taps on the door to the spare bedroom. Not hearing anything, he opens the door a crack.
“Mrs. Hudson has made some soup. It smells rather good,” he says.
Without any movement, a voice emanates from the tousled pile of duvet, “give me a moment.”
He rushes to the kitchen, searching his cupboards for bowls, only to find two sitting on the counter next to the pot that Mrs. Hudson had brought up. Along with spoons, napkins and a basket of rolls. He moves everything to the table and sits down. After a few minutes, Sio emerges from the bedroom, dressed only in one of his t-shirts and a pair of black knickers. The bruises on her legs have turned a paler shade of green since he’d seen them last. Her hair is in bedlam, but she did noticeably take the time to apply a bit of tinted lip balm. She walks to the table, sits and serves herself some soup, taking a roll from the basket.
“Do you have some water?” She asks quietly.
He gets up and quickly returns with a glass. They eat in silence for while.
“How long has it been?” She says.
“A couple of days,” he answers.
“Sorry. I took too many pills. I don’t remember…”
“It’s quite alright. Do they help?”
“Not enough.”
He nods. She finishes her bowl.
“Did you take that from the laundry?” He asks, indicating the undershirt.
“Do you mind?”
“No. But I don’t understand….”
She starts, “Olfaction is the most ancient sense…,” she pauses, subtly shaking her head indicating her lack of energy to explain fully. “I find it calming.”
Sherlock frowns. “I am actually here.”
She looks over at him with a weak smile. “I know. But surely you have better things to do than spend two days in bed….sleeping.” She is careful to emphasize the last word.
He nods. But then says quietly, “I don’t mind.”
She takes another bread roll. “I’m not traumatized or anything if that’s what you’re thinking. I just….hurt. The adrenaline got me quite a long way, but now…I’ve never felt so tired.”
In truth, she is unsure, torn. She had not thought this far ahead. Would she be able to keep herself from flinching? Would the touch of his skin be calming or induce the reflexive shudder she had before. How embarrassing after all her words, her instruction. But she does not feel herself – she feels new, somehow. Reverted.
“Of course.” Sherlock nods.
After a moment, he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, sitting up unnaturally tall. His lips move nearly imperceptibly as he considers his next choice of words.
Perceiving he is about to say something of import, Sio’s eyes widen slightly as she tries to clear the fog from her mind. She starts to feel a bit ill at the thought of potentially having to censor her reaction.
After an implausibly long moment, Sherlock begins, “Regret is something I try never to indulge in, as it serves no purpose. However, for reasons I cannot quite divine, I feel compelled to acknowledge that I wish we’d parted differently. Perhaps there was no point, but I regret muting your evaluation of that fact. It was your judgment to make.”
Sio has to think a moment to even remember what he is talking about. So much has happened in the interim. Too tired to parse his motives – is he selfishly fishing to hear the words? Is he acknowledging their shared difficulty with expressing emotion? – she just stands up from her chair, wincing slightly from the movement.
“I’d like to have a shower,” she says, trying to ignore the expectant look on his face. He nods. Before entering the bathroom, she turns her head to the side and adds, “It is easy to say when you don’t mean it.”
*
Sio emerges from the shower a while later. Wrapped in a towel, she walks into the hallway. At first, she turns toward the spare bedroom. She gets as far as reaching for the doorknob before pausing and then turning back around. She takes a breath and then heads toward the living room, where Sherlock is seated quietly not reading the book that is in his hand.
“Lets get this over with,” Sio says with resignation.
“What?” He asks.
She drops the towel.
“I haven’t wanted you to get a good look. I knew you couldn’t help but reconstruct. But I’m tired and don’t want to hide.” To keep her from dwelling on his gaze, she leads him as she does a quick twirl. “Three cracked ribs and an infected puncture wound on my lower back; the rest looks crap, but is just bruising.”
With gingered movements, she picks up the towel, wraps it around herself and heads back to the bedroom without a word.
He’d had enough of a look in the car on the way to the airport to get the gist of it. This was worse, but he can understand why she would want him to see; the bruises most obviously left by hands – on her throat and thighs are the hardest to extricate from his mind. He does his best to temper the rising rage, as was clearly her objective.
*
It had taken hours to soothe himself – to remove the horrid reconstructions from his mind. A new composition had done the trick, though it took more effort than he was used to. An unfamiliar key, a rollercoaster of crescendo and diminuendo, all had been necessary to supersede his simmering anger and frustration. In the end, he had managed it and retired to his bedroom with only a fleeting thought to Sio’s status, next door.
Hours later, Sio stands in the doorway of Sherlock’s room. Awoken by pain, she had endured more to get up and find the bottle of pills she had mistakenly left in the bathroom. But instead of returning to the guest room, she took the more familiar path. Unsure what to do afterwards, she let herself lean against the frame of the door. If it hadn’t been for her desperate tiredness, she would spend more time standing, as it was the position that caused her the least discomfort. The pills will kick in soon enough and she shouldn’t risk accidentally falling over, so she takes a tentative step into the room. Soon, she is carefully climbing into bed next to Sherlock. Freed from the pressure of veiling her reaction, she places her hand gently on the middle of his back. Not knowing if he has noticed, she whispers, “Is this alright?” He neither moves nor speaks, she assumes because he is fast asleep. His eyes open, but he does not respond. She considers leaving, unsure of her motivation to share his bed in the first place. Had she ever shared a bed for comfort alone? While she considers this, she drifts off to sleep.
Sherlock is awoken by the movements and distressed sounds of Sio having a nightmare next to him. He observes her for a few minutes before reacting – he thinks it might have been initiated by her rolling over onto her back in her sleep, though dreams are rarely so easily parsed. At first, he tries simply to roll her back onto her side, removing the friction on her wounded back. But then he decides to do something much more sensible. He gets out of bed, positions himself appropriately and then scoops her up in his arms. As her body is lifted off the bed, she awakes with a start. Sherlock carries her back the spare room and carefully places her onto the larger bed.
“Sorry,” she whispers, rather mortified. She shifts herself into the only position in which she has been able to sleep these past days and sighs when the pain stops.
Sherlock moves the duvet over her, but instead of turning to leave the room as she had expected, he gets into bed next to her.
*
The next morning, Sio awakes to find Sherlock sitting up in bed, reading a book. He does not react as she blinks, rubs her eyes and props her head up on her elbow.
She squints to read the title of the book in his hands, “Mysteries of Bee Keeping Explained, by Moses Quinby. Is it good?”
His eyes flick over briefly to her when she speaks. He responds, “I’ve read it before.”
“I don’t suppose it's a read aloud sort of book,” she inquires with obvious skepticism.
“Are you interested in beekeeping?” He asks.
“I can honestly say that I have never given it a thought,” she answers.
“I suspect you might prefer a book that deals more directly with bees and navigation. Beekeeping is a rather technical endeavor,” he says.
“Do you have such a book?” She asks.
“No,” he responds.
Sio watches as he marks the page he was reading, closes the book and sets it down on the table next to the bed.
“You have a new scar,” she says.
“At least two, I suspect. It has been a rather busy two years,” he admits.
“The price of being an action hero?” She teases.
He glances over to her before answering, “it does come with the job, for better or worse.”
“I couldn’t do that. Put myself in a position where pain was a likely consequence.”
Mildly annoyed at the perceived flattery, Sherlock frowns and says, “Why would you say something so patently untrue? You’ve just done that.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. I was foolishly playing at something, with no thought given to the potential outcomes unrelated to my goal. I’d never do that again. The thought of it makes me feel rather ill.”
“You would. Perhaps by mistake. Tunnel vision is an unfortunate consequence of genius.”
“But not for you,” Sio says with mild amusement.
“I wouldn’t be able to do what I do if that were the case. Imagining every eventuality is absolutely required in my profession.”
“Why don’t you tell me about them.”
“Tell you about what?”
“Your cases.”
“Which ones?”
“I don’t know. The good ones.”
“Why?”
“I'm interested. And I’d like a distraction – something else to think about. Or you could read me your bee book.”
Sherlock thinks a moment, then offers, “Perhaps we could make it a challenge. I will present the facts of the case and you try to solve it.”
“But that seems terribly unfair. I’m sure I’ll be useless at it.”
“I can teach you,” Sherlock says, his eyes lighting up.
Seeing his mood lift perceptibly, Sio nods, “Alright. But there will be no mocking. Else I’ll give you differential equations to solve.”
“There is always mocking. Though I do have a particular aversion to equations – Mother used to punish us with calculus.”
“Fine. Wouldn’t want to give you another reason to call me mother.”
Sherlock smiles rather gleefully as he brings his hands to his face and prepares to present the first case.
*
Hours (days?) later, Sherlock and Sio are in bed, her body now closer, their hands freely touching.
“It was the Vicar. Whatever his name was,” Sio mumbles.
“You’re getting good at this. Finally,” Sherlock responds.
“Not really,” she admits.
“You’ve got the last four. Or have you been reading John’s dreadful blog?”
“Certainly not. I am simply Clever Hans.”
“I’m giving it away?”
“Subtly. It’s rather sweet.”
“I suppose I’ll have to write them down next time.”
“What’s the fun in that?” she answers, resting her head on his chest. He sweeps his fingertips up her back, then through her hair.
“What should we do now?” He leads.
Sio rolls back onto her side, propping her head in her hand.
“Do you have any alcohol?” She asks. “The pills are gone.”
“I could get some. Or…something better,” he responds with a raise of an eyebrow.
With a subtle nod from her, Sherlock slips out of bed and returns a few minutes later, brandishing the opium pipe she had given him.
“I kept a stash for just such an occasion,” he says with a nearly boyish grin.
“For me or for you?” She responds with a skeptical frown.
Sherlock’s expression turns vaguely sinister and he says, “you won’t feel a thing.”
He starts to prepare the pipe as she looks on. She sits up on the bed. Her expression changes as she snatches a pillow and starts to pick at the escaped down feathers clinging to the cover.
Sio takes an exaggerating breath, “before we do this and things quickly devolved into a haze of drugs…and sex, presuming the drugs work, I feel like I should…”
Cutting her off, Sherlock looks up from the pipe preparations and says abruptly, “no need.”
With a bemused smirk, she replies, “but you know what I was going to say.”
“I know your intention; whether or not you would have succeeded is an entirely different question. Thought it better to save you the turmoil,” he responds, feigning distraction with the pipe.
Sio eyes him suspiciously, “How…considerate. But before you seemed to indicate a desire to hear the words, at least that was my interpretation.”
“An incorrect one,” he responds abruptly. Adding with a hint of typical condescension, “though a reasonably understandable mistake.”
“What’s changed?” She asks, setting the cushion aside.
“Nothing has changed. I told you, you misinterpreted,” he responds rather coldly.
Sio sits up straighter, “this makes me want to say it just to see you squirm.”
“Go on then,” he challenges, glancing nervously between Sio and the pipe in his hands.
After an awkward pause, Sio relaxes her body slightly, “but if I say it, then you won’t be able to say it back and that will ruin the mood,”
“How do you know?” Sherlock asks, now staring at the wall on the other side of the bed.
Deflating her body further, Sio responds, “I know because…I can’t even say it now and if I can’t…”
“But you feel the same. As you did…when you nearly said it before?” Sherlock suggests, his mouth suddenly dry.
She forces herself to look him, her heart pounding hard.
“Yes.”
“What I had intended to imply the other day is that, well, even though I never said it, I feel the same,” he explains, shifting his gaze between Sio and the wall behind.
“Then we feel the same. Roughly speaking. As far as it is possible to actually know what another human experiences, which could still be not quite….perhaps with the right technology…” She lets her voice trail off without finishing her thought.
“Good. Yes,” Sherlock responds, his body relaxing back into the contours of the bed.
There is a pause as they recover from this (relatively) intense moment.
Sio breaks the silence to say, “But do you wonder if there is a difference between knowing and being told? Why do they make such a fuss about it?” The ‘they’, as always, is understood between them as everyone else.
Sherlock thinks back to the day she left. He had been so angry, so frustrated by the situation that when she spoke, the words made him bristle; they stung and not in the usual way. But in the days after, when the anger began to shatter into mere shards of annoyance, he played them over in his mind, hearing her voice “Sherlock, I love…” He cursed himself for not letting her finish. But why? Why was it important to him to hear it all? Its not as though he really believed she was going to say “Sherlock, I love blackberries” or “Sherlock, I love playing conkers”; it was definitely going to be a “you” at the end of that sentence. Still. For a time, he desperately wanted it to be her voice to finish it. He winces at his own irrationality.
“It is easier to detect a lie that is spoken,” Sherlock responds. “They want to be reassured. Which is rather ironic since most people are useless at telling the difference.”
“You can,” Sio says in an almost whisper as she casually moves her arm close enough to just touch the side of his waist. I wonder if I could, she thinks to herself. She had always been disappointed at how easily they believed her fake words. So easy to say when they mean nothing and yet so many people desperate to believe them.
“Ready?” Sherlock says with renewed excitement, brandishing a lighter.
*
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The Gödel Problem