Full Fathom Five, or, the Torment. Chapter Two.
Title: Full Fathom Five, or, the Torment. Chapter Two.
Author: ghislainem70
Word Count: 943
Rating: NC-17
Warning: graphic depictions of violence (entire work), explicit sex (entire work)
Note: This fic was inspired by a tweet by Mark Gatiss, noting his fondness for the film "I Know Where I'm Going," also a fave of the author's.
Full Fathom Five, or, the Torment. Chapter Two.
They traveled to the Isle of Mull by Royal Navy Sea King long-range transport helicopter bearing the dragonfly emblem of the 845 Naval Air Squadron and their motto, "Audio Hostem - I hear the enemy." Mycroft looked seriously green and quite ill throughout the flight, and kept unwrapping little lozenges to suck.
There were a few uncommunicative naval flight officers sitting well apart on the flight, and John recognized among them Lt. Mark Jarvis, with whom he had been briefly stationed in Afghanistan. Their eyes met meaningfully, but Jarvis made a sign and John said nothing.
Upon landing roughly outside of Tobermory at dusk in high winds, Mycroft and Sherlock immediately left for their urgent briefing with a Certain Person at Glengorm Castle. Lestrade and John were left to set up at the very Victorian grand hotel, the Western Isles. Sherlock had advised them to visit a local pub and see what they could learn about the lighthouse disappearances.
They briefly dropped their bags in their assigned rooms. Sherlock and John had sensibly been given one room --no doubt Mycroft’s doing -- dubbed "the Glenlivet," Lestrade in "the Tobermory." Lestrade bit back a groan upon finding that the rooms were adjoined by a warped and flimsy-looking door with a huge old-fashioned keyhole.
An arctic wind blew harshly throughout the picturesque town, and the waves were whipped to high white-capped peaks. There were no boats sailing in Tobermory Harbour. After briefly putting their heads in the Western Isles’ own pub, they rejected it as being filled with tourists. "Twee," Lestrade muttered under his breath.
They bundled into parkas, scarves and gloves and headed down Tobermory’s Main Street along the harbourfront. It was now quite dark. All that could be seen of the town was a ring of twinkling lights. The strong frigid wind plucked at their scarves and they held their heads down against it, striding easily side by side. They shortly came to a modest hotel, the somewhat down at the heels MacLaine Arms, and exchanged a glance of agreement.
Throwing open the door, they were warmed by the traditional pub atmosphere and settled into a table near the fire. There were no tourists here, only local fishermen and workers. A few men were playing darts at the back. There was a savory scent from the kitchen. John and Lestrade ordered their pints and settled back to listen covertly.
They did not have long to wait. A grizzled fisherman, clocking Lestrade and John as outcomers with a shrewd glance, began loudly holding forth in the almost unintelligible local accent.
"They’ll not find those lighthousemen, not if they look for a hundred years," he remarked loudly, taking a gulp from his pint. "Nor the others, neither."
John and Lestrade exchanged a look of alarm. Others?
"I seen yon helicopter," the fisherman continued. "You’re here for the lighthouse. Every body ken the Queen’s yacht was smashed up. Terrible, that, it was a real beauty."
Here there was lively speculation whether the yacht would be drydocked for repairs in Tobermory or towed to another larger shipyard on the mainland, and various wagers were ventured as to the rich fees that could be earned for putting the Queen’s yacht back to rights.
No one in the pub wanted to take up the talk of the missing lighthousemen, or "the others," in front of the outcomers, though, and talk drifted to football scores. John wondered what Sherlock would do, then had some inspiration.
"Look, one of the lighthousemen was my wife’s brother," John said. "I offered to come up and do what I could."
"And aren’t you with the police, then?"
"I’m a doctor," John said simply. The locals loosened their tongues a bit.
Lestrade leaned back into the shadows of the dark snug corner and started in on the very respectable Tobermory single malt, as he watched John by the firelight.
They learned that on the night that the Queen’s yacht foundered, the storm had been completely unexpected, or as unexpected as storms ever are in the Hebrides. As John and Lestrade knew, the lighthouse had failed to give warning and the Queen’s yacht, driven by the storm, had foundered upon rocks in relatively shallow waters near the coastline.
The next morning, the lighthouse had been found empty, half-eaten meals on the kitchen table, and a red hot overboiled tea kettle on the stove. The mens’ boat was covered with a tarp and dry inside. The lighthouse beacon was switched off.
There was no sign of the men, nor even a scrap of their clothing, anywhere on the small lighthouse rock. They had simply vanished. But they had not been swept into the sea. Modern improvements had been made to the lighthouse including electronic cameras to monitor activity on the island, for safety purposes. It was rumored that the video footage showed that the men never left the lighthouse that night.
No one could explain why they should have switched off the lighthouse beacon.
Their greatest discovery was that over the past month, three other local men, workers who serviced the lighthouse with provisions and made such repairs as the lighthousemen themselves could not, had vanished. There were mutterings in the smaller villages of Mull that there was a dark force at work here, that the lighthouse was cursed.
Last orders were called, and Lestrade and John went back out into the cold night.
To be continued . . .
Back to Chapter One: ( Read more at my LJ ) Next Chapter Three:( Read more at my LJ )