The only true benefit of living on Baker Street was its proximity to Regent’s Park, which provided acres and acres of escape. Unfortunately, even the short walk from our house to the Outer Circle was too long to keep my father’s words from catching up to me. I tried to once more focus on the ridiculous boy playing alchemist in the basement of a school theater, but it wasn’t enough to block out the echo of the hate in my dad’s voice, the feel of the spittle that flew from his lips to my cheek. The disgust in his eyes.
I was thankful for the darkness as I crossed York Bridge into the park proper. I turned left and made sure to keep my head down and only wipe at my eyes when I was in the shadows between path lights. Nothing worse than a complete stranger asking what’s wrong and having to come up with some stupid lie about how the dog’s run off or a beloved goldfish died. Once my feet were on the grass, the tears flowed more freely.
I wasn’t the only one there. I scanned the lawn down to the lake. There had been a murder in the park, according to Dad, but all the regulars were still about. The old woman who looked like a globular thing because of all the bags she had strapped to her body. The man who had a wallet in each of his back pockets and always managed to drop one when he leaned into the rubbish cans to pick out his recyclables. I walked past them and a few silhouettes of people who didn’t matter and didn’t look up. Some kind of privacy bubble surrounds us whenever we leave civilized things like paths and lamps behind.
The bandstand was deserted, save for one shadowed figure, who almost always seemed to be leaning on the far side of the monument when I came to the park at night. I might not have noticed him at all except for the orange glow that backlit the silhouette of his head when he took a drag from his cigarette. I should’ve been afraid of him. I used to be afraid to be in the park at night, but that never stopped me from running to it. I was, perhaps, less bothered by a racing heart than a broken one.
I climbed up onto the platform and walked across to the side that faced the lake. The scent of burning cloves surrounded me as I tried my best to convince myself that nothing my dad said meant anything.
Problem was, he wasn’t wrong. Not about Mum. She wasn’t the pristine saint of our memories, but she was a good mom. Dad didn’t drink when she was well. Seanie didn’t get hit when she was alive. None of the boys did. And that was on me, because it was my job to take care of them now that she was gone. Even on nights like tonight, when I just wanted to get on a train and never look back. I only didn’t because I knew that bedtime would come soon enough, and I’d have to be back at the house to make sure Seanie brushed his teeth.
I sat up straighter and dried my cheeks with the sleeves of my coat one final time, then kicked my feet over the side of the bandstand platform to dangle freely. I could barely make out glimpses of the reflected moon through the long droopy tendrils of the giant willow tree that stood at the shore. The tree looked a little like I felt—weary and alone.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
I jolted when the shadowed figure spoke, then again when I realized who was speaking. Hearing Sherlock’s voice out in the middle of Regent’s Park was so surreal, it took me a moment to realize I wasn’t just imagining it.
“Are you talking to me?”
He stepped into the moonlight and I almost didn’t recognize him out of his uniform. He was like a different person in his gray peacoat and blue-striped scarf, as put together as he had been rumpled earlier in the day. He pulled a drag from his dark brown cigarette, just as a pack of wiggling dogs jostled past the bandstand, their owner struggling to keep hold of the leashes.
“I don’t understand pets,” he said, loud enough for the poor grasping woman to hear. “People claim to love their animals but then hoard them in tiny little boxed yards or houses. They force them to act against nature in line with human conveniences. It’s a bitter way to show love, yes?”
He didn’t wait for me to answer, instead blew out some smoke and kept on with his tirade. “If one truly loved animals, wouldn’t she rather see them live wild and free? Not domesticated and caged and humiliated, as servants to be ordered about.”
When the owner walked out of earshot, Sherlock took another quick drag and blew it out after her, then turned back to me.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your private moment, but I realized after you left my lab that I never asked your name.” When I didn’t answer, Sherlock slid one hand in his pocket and with the other flicked ash into the breeze. “I’ve seen you here many times and never once wondered after your name until today. Is that terribly cold of me?”
“Probably.”
He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking into an almost-grin, then dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “Shall I guess your name, then?”
“You couldn’t.”
“It doesn’t suit you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe it does. You can call me Mori.”
“Ah, but that’s not your actual name.” Sherlock leaned back against the closest post and looked up at the bandstand’s concave ceiling. “Is it short for something?”
“Yes, but does it really matter? Isn’t Mori enough?”