Circling the Sun
TITLE: Circling the Sun
CHARCTERS: John, Sherlock
RATING: General.
WARNINGS/KINK/CONTENT: None.
GENRE: John POV, some humour, some potentuous overtones...
WORDS: 3,413.
CHAPTERS: 1/1 (complete)
DISCLAIMER: Nothing is mine, I am afraid, and I apologies to Steve Moffat/Mark Gatiss, the BBC and the Conan Doyle Estates for borrowing all their characters for a while. I promise to keep them warm, dry, well fed and safe from harm.
SUMMARY: Ever since he was a boy, John had been obsessed with the solar system. A short, backstory piece, set in the Planetarium, after the encounter with the Golem (The Great Game). Possibly slash, if you squint very hard, as well as some blatant (or maybe not so blatant) Sherlock worship!
This fic was inspired by an orrery which I saw during a visit to the National Museum of Scotland, in Edinburgh, but a basic google image search on 'Orrery' will give you and idea of the thing I had in mind (can't work out how to attach an image here).
Partially beta'ed by the wonderful ureshiiichigo and Draugdur, but largely re-written (on their advice) so sorry for any later mistakes, which are all my fault.
Circling the Sun
John slammed through the Plantarium door at full pelt, sending a spike of pain searing through his left shoulder. Despite standing only five foot six inches in his socks, he was damned if he was going to let some Boris Karloff throwback get the better of him. Bollocks to that. He would catch the bastard and when he did … Well, he would sort that bit out later.
Careering into the corridor, the glare of the strip lighting temporarily blinded him - dazzling after the stygial gloom of the auditorium. Blinking a couple of times, he willed his eyes to focus, the world seeping into view in time to see his lumbering assailant disappearing around the far corner. He charged off in pursuit, heart hammering like a fucking U2 drum beat, and trying desperately not to slip on the waxed floor. There was still the metallic tang of blood in his mouth from the fight, and his lungs burnt with every breath, but his legs kept pounding as if they had a life of their own, shortening the distance between him and the figure that lurched ahead. At least he had agility on his side, though, admittedly bugger all else.
Rounding the corner, he dove through another set of swing doors, sending them banging back on their hinges, and sped into a darkened gallery. The air was suddenly filled with tiny clicks as the energy efficient lighting flickered on - motion sensors already tripped by the Golem - and a seemingly random pattern of illumination spread out across the room. It revealed a variety of display cabinets, some of which were cast in sharp relief between patches of residual shadow.
Without stopping, John scanned the room, looking to pick up the assassin’s path. Crouched in the darkness at the far end, he caught a glimpse of a hunched figure, possibly doubled over in pain. Maybe the bastard was injured, he thought. But no, the Golem was pulling something off of the wall. What the…? Before John had a moment to process anything more, a red fire extinguisher rolled noisily across the floor. It curved in a graceful trajectory, arcing directly across his path. John tried to adjust his course and veer away from the bloody thing, but his momentum carried him forward at such a rate that it was impossible to avoid it without hitting one of the glass cabinets. Breaking his pace with a small half step, he attempted to leap over the offending object in what was a last ditched attempt to avoid disaster. This only served to makes matters worse; his foot landing smack bang on the cylinder and sending it spinning away underneath him, upsetting his equilibrium. Frantically, he sought for purchase with his other foot but was sent barrelling across the floor, sprawling gracelessly and smashing, with full force, into the glass domed cabinet at the centre of the room, knocking it to the floor. There was a tremendous bang as the thing exploded in a shimmering cascade of safety glass. Then everything went dark.
Harry had his head in one of the kitchen cupboards again, and was slamming the door repeatedly against his skull. He really wished she would stop. His left ear was beginning to smart and he had a pounding headache. Hot tears of frustration were welling up behind his eyes as he tried to twist free and grab her wrists, but she slithered away and continued her relentless assault. He let out a low groan and shifted his position in an effort to avert the worst of her savage blows. There was something warm oozing down his face and a weird substance under his fingers. It felt like crushed ice. No, not ice because it wasn’t cold. What was it? Was it bone? Was it his head? For fuck’s sake, Harry! Had she shattered his bloody skull? In a blind panic he cracked open his eyes, a sudden pain refracting through his frontal lobe, before receding into a dull throb.
Still disorientated, John gradually began to take in his surroundings. He was lying prone over the shattered display cabinet, with a headache the size of hurricane Katrina raging in his cranium. Still, at least all of his limbs seemed to be functioning as they should. He lay there for a few moments, recovering, then tentatively sat up, rubbing furiously at his elbow. There was a bad cut over his left eye which was bleeding profusely, and he gingerly explored the wound, poking at the edges with his finger. It didn’t feel like there was any glass in it, nor was it too deep. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand and applied pressure, and after a minute or so the bleeding stopped.
Running his hands over his head, he checked for any other injuries, grateful for the practicality of his short hair. There was no evidence of anything life threatening. His vision seemed perfectly ok, and there was no nausea or cold sweats. Apart from his head wound, the only obvious injuries were a multitude of minor contusions which were already starting to blossom across his skin like a bed of yellow and purple dahlias. It was his elbow that had suffered the brunt of the collision. It hurt like fuck, but seemed to still function as it should. The same, however, couldn’t be said of the display case. It lay shattered and twisted on the tiled floor: broken beyond repair.
John glanced over in the direction of the exit. There was no sign of the Golem, which, come to think of it, was probably bloody a good thing. He hadn’t much fancied his chances in a fight with the bloke before he had run headlong into a piece of museum furniture, and he certainly wouldn’t have stood a cat in hells chance now. Sighing, he continued to dab at his head wound, glancing down at the small pool of blood coagulating on the floor, where he must have had lain unconscious. Shit, how long had he been out for? He checked his watch. It could have only been a minute or so, thank god.
Right, he thought, and carefully stood up, brushing little chunks of glass out of his clothes. The effort made him feel woozy again, and he lent forward on his knees, waiting for the whooshing sound in his ears to subside. The position made the blood rush to his head, causing the wound above his eye to start bleeding again; little drops of crimson seeping onto the white tiles. He staunched it and counted slowly to ten, breathing deeply, and then stood up carefully. There were no ill effects this time. So far so good. Taking a few tentative steps back, he surveyed the chaos which ensued around him.
The display cabinet was a write off. The glass dome had shattered into a thousand tiny tessera, and the surrounding case was a shipwreck of splintered wood, brushed velvet and plastic. In the midsts of this destruction were the remains of what had once been a beautiful brass and enamel orrery. The stricken object lay in a disjointed heap on its side; the delicate mechanism now a twisted mass of broken wire and buckled armature. Amongst the debris was a cream coloured exhibit label, splattered along one edge by his blood. It read:
Orrery, or Planetarium, dating to the mid eighteenth century and designed by the London instrument maker, Benjamin Martin.
A mechanical device designed to illustrate the orbit of the planets and moons around the sun. This model was designed for Sir William Cavendish, the 5th Duke of Devonshire, c. 1770, and is thought to be the finest and most elaborate surviving example of Martin’s work. It features six armatures, radiating from a central post, in which is set an amber sun. Each arm holds an ivory sphere representing the six known planets of the solar system, as they were in the 18th century - Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune. Saturn, Jupiter and the Earth are orbited by their own moons, each set with fresh water pearls. This intricate mechanism is driven by a small hand crank. A turn of the crank engages a series of gear wheels, setting the dance of the planets in motion.
Year made: c. 1770
Acquisition No: TSG1072
John gazed forlornly at the fractured instrument. As a kid he had been obsessed with space, staying up late with his granddad to watch the launch of the space shuttle, Columbia. He had known all the cards in his Top Trumps ‘Space Race’ pack by heart, and his bedroom wall had been plastered with constellation maps and posters of the solar system. On his desk could always be found a selection of Airfix models in various stages of construction; although he was never one of those kids who wasted hours painting the things. He just liked popping out the moulded plastic and gluing all the fiddly bits together. He would then nick some cotton out of his mum’s sewing basket, and string them up all over his bedroom ceiling.
On his tenth birthday, he had been taken as a special treat to the Science Museum in Kensington. It was one of the few occasions he could remember when the whole family were together. His dad must have been between postings; probably after West Germany but before Northern Ireland. It had felt like torture waiting for the day to come - each minute lasting an hour, each hour lasting a century - until finally they had all piled into the old Astra for the journey down the M1 from Catterick. Even having to sit in the back with Harry, who kept farting and trying to give him Chinese burns, didn’t quell his enthusiasm. All these years later, the trip still ranked up there in his top ten list of ‘best ever’ experiences, right alongside graduating medical school; passing out at Sandhurst; his first bite of warm baklava; sex for the second time (isn’t everyone’s first time shite?) and meeting Sherlock - though not necessarily in that order.
It had been touch-and-go whether they would make it to the museum at all. His folks had a monumental row after getting lost on the North Circular and ended up in Barnet; all because his dad refused to stop and ask for directions. Finally they had arrived and pushed through the great glass doors into the museum’s inner sanctum. Ignoring Harry’s protestations about wanting to go to the Natural History museum instead, he had grabbed his dad’s hand and made a bee-line to the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery. It was there that he had seen his first orrery. It had been very much like the one that lay shattered before him now, although much smaller and simpler in design. The thing had seemed oddly out of place: an anachronism amongst the intricate tangle of wires and humming circuitry of the modern age. John had found himself strangely drawn towards it, staring at the bizarre object for ages, his palms leaving greasy smears on the glass cabinet.
Noticing his interest, and possibly tired of fighting off the constant onslaught of snotty kids trying to snap the antennae off of the Sputnik replica, the gallery assistant had come over to talk to him. She explained how the rather incongruous instrument worked. How its movement replicated the relative positions and motions of the planets and moons. Allowing men to visualise and calculate the workings of the solar system. Warming to her subject, she told him about Galileo and the later observations of Tycho Brahe, as well as Kepler’s subsequent calculations of and theory of planetary motion. John had absorbed her every word, his imagination fired by tales of men with the ability envisage things beyond their immediate perception: to grasp the intricacies of a thousand unfathomable connections and fashion these into a single, calculable truth. At least, that was how adult John liked to remember it, although, he had a sneaking suspicion that ten year John had been more impressed with the fact that Brahe had a gold nose.
In honour of his birthday, the curator had then offered to set the delicate orrery in motion. Young John hadn’t believed his luck and had huddled in closer as the attendant undid the lock on the side of the case. He swore he had felt the air of a forgotten century whisper over his skin as she opened the glass and turned the handle of the small crank, setting the mechanism in play. He had stared, mesmerised, as the instrument jerked into life, the gears sticking a little after long disuse. The movement juddered and clicked, but as it picked up pace the convoluted dance began to unfold. Mounted on the slender armature, each of the planets traced a measured path around a frigid brass sun. Closest was Mercury, spinning wildly to keep pace, and passing so close to the star at its perihelion that it seemed in danger of being burnt to a crisp. Yet always at the last moment it spiralled off, arcing away on its elliptical orbit, before gravity inexorably pulls it back to begin the chase all over again. The other terrestrial planets - Venus, Earth and Mars - similarly whirled and span, as they revolved round the star, whilst marking the outer reaches of the system were the three gas giants - Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune - remote and mysterious; their vaporous surface, shifting and unfathomable.
Once in full motion, the machine moved with an awkward beauty. A grace that was hypnotic. It was almost silent, omitting only a low whirr as the action of the planets and tiny moons beat out the meter of a silent minuet. Each sphere caught in the passage of its own unique orbit, but bound together in an immutably geometry by the gravitational pull of the star. Sol, the central mass and brightest object in the solar system, its luminosity our primary source of light, heat and energy. Brilliant but volatile, and burning with an intensity which will inevitably bring about its own destruction.
“John,” Sherlock’s deep voice rang out along the empty corridors. “John, John. Where the hell are you?” Agitation mixed with concern, and the faintest echo of alarm, were all parcelled together in that single statement. It broke through John’s reverie in a heart beat.
“It’s OK, Sherlock. I’m in here,” he looked around the room, taking in the scene and grounding himself in the present. “First gallery at the end of the corridor,” he called out, but before he had even finished his sentence, Sherlock’s steps were ringing out on the polished floor and the double-doors swung open in a halo of light. A swirl of impeccable tailored dark wool, billowed into the centre of room.
“John?” The steps slowed to a cautious walk, the unmistakable crunch of broken glass, setting John’s teeth on edge.
“I am over here, Sherlock,” he propped himself up and pushed his weight forward against the wall till he was standing upright; the movement sending all the eco-lights springing once more into life. Taking a faltering step, John started to feel felt a bit dizzy again and slumped back against the cream paintwork. The cool surface felt good, and he let it support his weight as he sank down on his haunches, his head in his hands, waiting for the bout of impromptu nausea to subside. There a small flurry of movement next to him, barely perceptible, and the whisper of cold fingertips placed hesitantly on his wrist. He prised open his eyes and saw Sherlock crouched in front of him, the younger man wearing an uncustomary expression of obvious concern.
“Are you alright, John? Can I…should I do something?” Confusion wrestled with anxiety on Sherlock’s face as his eyes darted around the room, taking in the shattered exhibition case and the twisted remains of the orrery. He then noticed the trail of blood rapidly congealing on the floor. All told, there was really quite a significant amount of blood. An mount which might conceivably be solely attributable to a head wound, but similarly could be concomitant with an array of other injuries, ranging in degrees of severity. Sherlock silently processed the information, running through every viable prognosis. His eyes flicked back to John. “Ambulance,” he said suddenly. “I should probably call an ambulance, get you… sorted out,” he waved his hands ineffectually in the air. “They can fix…all this.”
“Its OK, Sherlock,” John soothed, but the flapping continued unabated. The taller man leapt to his feet, bashing vehemently at the keys of an apparently a broken phone, before hurling it across the room in exasperation. He span round on his heels, tuning in a graceful arc, while muttering under his breath. The voluminous black coat fanned out behind him and his long arms circled futility in the air a couple of times, before his hands were finally brought to rest on either side of his temple.
“SHERLOCK,” John interjected again, feeling giddy by proxy. The revolving stopped. “It’s OK”. The detective squatted down on his haunches and stared into the injured man’s face, scanning each feature carefully before finally catching his eye. “It’s all OK, I’m OK.” There was a moment’s brief pause, Sherlock held his gaze, scrutinising or calculating something, then, apparently satisfied, nodded and stood up.
“Phone’s kaput,” the detective waved vaguely in the direction of the shattered mobile.
John was surprised by such a blatant statement of the bleeding well obvious, but decided not to mention it.
“It must have happen when Dzundra attacked me. Nice line in brawling by the way,” Sherlock said, gesticulating towards John. “Did they teach you that at Sandhurst?”
“Commissioning Course, Module one - Basic brawling for officers,” John smirked. “Punching, slapping, elbowing, eye gouging, and kicking your opponent in the bollocks, are all taught as standard, but leaping on your assailant’s back and trying to bite his ear off, was all my own work,” he grinned.
Sliding himself up the wall and pushing forward on the balls of his feet, John returned to a somewhat wobbly standing position.
“Are you sure you are OK?” Sherlock queried.
The doctor nodded and took a couple of steps forward. “The Golem got away, though,” he sighed.
“Oh forget about him,” Sherlock flicked his hand in the air dismissively. “Hired gun. Not important. No, we need to get back to the Hickman. That Vermeer is definitely a fake, John, I know it is. Why else would someone hire an assassin to bump off a gallery assistant?” He sneered. “Obviously, Woodbridge saw something that exposed the painting as a fraud, and he may - or may not - have discussed it with Professor Cairns. The Golem evidently thought so; hence his little visit. But what was it? I need to think,” he steepled his fingers together against his lips and started to pace backward and forwards. “There is something obviously wrong with the painting; something a dull-witted security guard could see,” he snarled in frustration. “It has to have something to do with astronomy, that much is apparent, but what? I have to see the painting again, John. Really look at it. It must be there.” Without a second thought, he strode off through the swing doors, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
The room was suddenly all too quiet, as if all the air had been sucked out, and the place was left holding its breath. “Just for once, you git, I wish you would wait for me?” John murmured, as he heaved himself forward in the direction of the door. But before he reached it, he stopped, glancing down again at the twisted form of the orrery, which lay sprawled in a broken heap. The slender limbs of the armature stuck out at obscene angles from the central torso, and at the head rested the fractured remains of the amber Sun, broken into several pieces on the tiled floor. Splatters of spilled blood sullied the shattered sphere; the splintered pieces glistened dully in the clinical fluorescent glare of the strip lighting.
“Will you come on John?” Sherlock slammed open the door again. “We need to get to the gallery,” he snapped irritably, but John remained rooted to the spot. “Now, John, now. We need to go now.” He held the door open and chivvied the still slightly stunned doctor out into the corridor. “Come on, we’re rapidly running out of time,” he huffed. “For all we know, the countdown may already have started.”
End Note:
I make no claims to be an astrophysicist so apologies for any mistakes. All info, I am ashamed to say, gleaned from internet searches (shame on me :)). Please feel free to leave comments, even if it is only to laugh at how ridculously wrong my science is :)
CHARCTERS: John, Sherlock
RATING: General.
WARNINGS/KINK/CONTENT: None.
GENRE: John POV, some humour, some potentuous overtones...
WORDS: 3,413.
CHAPTERS: 1/1 (complete)
DISCLAIMER: Nothing is mine, I am afraid, and I apologies to Steve Moffat/Mark Gatiss, the BBC and the Conan Doyle Estates for borrowing all their characters for a while. I promise to keep them warm, dry, well fed and safe from harm.
SUMMARY: Ever since he was a boy, John had been obsessed with the solar system. A short, backstory piece, set in the Planetarium, after the encounter with the Golem (The Great Game). Possibly slash, if you squint very hard, as well as some blatant (or maybe not so blatant) Sherlock worship!
This fic was inspired by an orrery which I saw during a visit to the National Museum of Scotland, in Edinburgh, but a basic google image search on 'Orrery' will give you and idea of the thing I had in mind (can't work out how to attach an image here).
Partially beta'ed by the wonderful ureshiiichigo and Draugdur, but largely re-written (on their advice) so sorry for any later mistakes, which are all my fault.
Circling the Sun
John slammed through the Plantarium door at full pelt, sending a spike of pain searing through his left shoulder. Despite standing only five foot six inches in his socks, he was damned if he was going to let some Boris Karloff throwback get the better of him. Bollocks to that. He would catch the bastard and when he did … Well, he would sort that bit out later.
Careering into the corridor, the glare of the strip lighting temporarily blinded him - dazzling after the stygial gloom of the auditorium. Blinking a couple of times, he willed his eyes to focus, the world seeping into view in time to see his lumbering assailant disappearing around the far corner. He charged off in pursuit, heart hammering like a fucking U2 drum beat, and trying desperately not to slip on the waxed floor. There was still the metallic tang of blood in his mouth from the fight, and his lungs burnt with every breath, but his legs kept pounding as if they had a life of their own, shortening the distance between him and the figure that lurched ahead. At least he had agility on his side, though, admittedly bugger all else.
Rounding the corner, he dove through another set of swing doors, sending them banging back on their hinges, and sped into a darkened gallery. The air was suddenly filled with tiny clicks as the energy efficient lighting flickered on - motion sensors already tripped by the Golem - and a seemingly random pattern of illumination spread out across the room. It revealed a variety of display cabinets, some of which were cast in sharp relief between patches of residual shadow.
Without stopping, John scanned the room, looking to pick up the assassin’s path. Crouched in the darkness at the far end, he caught a glimpse of a hunched figure, possibly doubled over in pain. Maybe the bastard was injured, he thought. But no, the Golem was pulling something off of the wall. What the…? Before John had a moment to process anything more, a red fire extinguisher rolled noisily across the floor. It curved in a graceful trajectory, arcing directly across his path. John tried to adjust his course and veer away from the bloody thing, but his momentum carried him forward at such a rate that it was impossible to avoid it without hitting one of the glass cabinets. Breaking his pace with a small half step, he attempted to leap over the offending object in what was a last ditched attempt to avoid disaster. This only served to makes matters worse; his foot landing smack bang on the cylinder and sending it spinning away underneath him, upsetting his equilibrium. Frantically, he sought for purchase with his other foot but was sent barrelling across the floor, sprawling gracelessly and smashing, with full force, into the glass domed cabinet at the centre of the room, knocking it to the floor. There was a tremendous bang as the thing exploded in a shimmering cascade of safety glass. Then everything went dark.
Harry had his head in one of the kitchen cupboards again, and was slamming the door repeatedly against his skull. He really wished she would stop. His left ear was beginning to smart and he had a pounding headache. Hot tears of frustration were welling up behind his eyes as he tried to twist free and grab her wrists, but she slithered away and continued her relentless assault. He let out a low groan and shifted his position in an effort to avert the worst of her savage blows. There was something warm oozing down his face and a weird substance under his fingers. It felt like crushed ice. No, not ice because it wasn’t cold. What was it? Was it bone? Was it his head? For fuck’s sake, Harry! Had she shattered his bloody skull? In a blind panic he cracked open his eyes, a sudden pain refracting through his frontal lobe, before receding into a dull throb.
Still disorientated, John gradually began to take in his surroundings. He was lying prone over the shattered display cabinet, with a headache the size of hurricane Katrina raging in his cranium. Still, at least all of his limbs seemed to be functioning as they should. He lay there for a few moments, recovering, then tentatively sat up, rubbing furiously at his elbow. There was a bad cut over his left eye which was bleeding profusely, and he gingerly explored the wound, poking at the edges with his finger. It didn’t feel like there was any glass in it, nor was it too deep. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand and applied pressure, and after a minute or so the bleeding stopped.
Running his hands over his head, he checked for any other injuries, grateful for the practicality of his short hair. There was no evidence of anything life threatening. His vision seemed perfectly ok, and there was no nausea or cold sweats. Apart from his head wound, the only obvious injuries were a multitude of minor contusions which were already starting to blossom across his skin like a bed of yellow and purple dahlias. It was his elbow that had suffered the brunt of the collision. It hurt like fuck, but seemed to still function as it should. The same, however, couldn’t be said of the display case. It lay shattered and twisted on the tiled floor: broken beyond repair.
John glanced over in the direction of the exit. There was no sign of the Golem, which, come to think of it, was probably bloody a good thing. He hadn’t much fancied his chances in a fight with the bloke before he had run headlong into a piece of museum furniture, and he certainly wouldn’t have stood a cat in hells chance now. Sighing, he continued to dab at his head wound, glancing down at the small pool of blood coagulating on the floor, where he must have had lain unconscious. Shit, how long had he been out for? He checked his watch. It could have only been a minute or so, thank god.
Right, he thought, and carefully stood up, brushing little chunks of glass out of his clothes. The effort made him feel woozy again, and he lent forward on his knees, waiting for the whooshing sound in his ears to subside. The position made the blood rush to his head, causing the wound above his eye to start bleeding again; little drops of crimson seeping onto the white tiles. He staunched it and counted slowly to ten, breathing deeply, and then stood up carefully. There were no ill effects this time. So far so good. Taking a few tentative steps back, he surveyed the chaos which ensued around him.
The display cabinet was a write off. The glass dome had shattered into a thousand tiny tessera, and the surrounding case was a shipwreck of splintered wood, brushed velvet and plastic. In the midsts of this destruction were the remains of what had once been a beautiful brass and enamel orrery. The stricken object lay in a disjointed heap on its side; the delicate mechanism now a twisted mass of broken wire and buckled armature. Amongst the debris was a cream coloured exhibit label, splattered along one edge by his blood. It read:
Orrery, or Planetarium, dating to the mid eighteenth century and designed by the London instrument maker, Benjamin Martin.
A mechanical device designed to illustrate the orbit of the planets and moons around the sun. This model was designed for Sir William Cavendish, the 5th Duke of Devonshire, c. 1770, and is thought to be the finest and most elaborate surviving example of Martin’s work. It features six armatures, radiating from a central post, in which is set an amber sun. Each arm holds an ivory sphere representing the six known planets of the solar system, as they were in the 18th century - Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune. Saturn, Jupiter and the Earth are orbited by their own moons, each set with fresh water pearls. This intricate mechanism is driven by a small hand crank. A turn of the crank engages a series of gear wheels, setting the dance of the planets in motion.
Year made: c. 1770
Acquisition No: TSG1072
John gazed forlornly at the fractured instrument. As a kid he had been obsessed with space, staying up late with his granddad to watch the launch of the space shuttle, Columbia. He had known all the cards in his Top Trumps ‘Space Race’ pack by heart, and his bedroom wall had been plastered with constellation maps and posters of the solar system. On his desk could always be found a selection of Airfix models in various stages of construction; although he was never one of those kids who wasted hours painting the things. He just liked popping out the moulded plastic and gluing all the fiddly bits together. He would then nick some cotton out of his mum’s sewing basket, and string them up all over his bedroom ceiling.
On his tenth birthday, he had been taken as a special treat to the Science Museum in Kensington. It was one of the few occasions he could remember when the whole family were together. His dad must have been between postings; probably after West Germany but before Northern Ireland. It had felt like torture waiting for the day to come - each minute lasting an hour, each hour lasting a century - until finally they had all piled into the old Astra for the journey down the M1 from Catterick. Even having to sit in the back with Harry, who kept farting and trying to give him Chinese burns, didn’t quell his enthusiasm. All these years later, the trip still ranked up there in his top ten list of ‘best ever’ experiences, right alongside graduating medical school; passing out at Sandhurst; his first bite of warm baklava; sex for the second time (isn’t everyone’s first time shite?) and meeting Sherlock - though not necessarily in that order.
It had been touch-and-go whether they would make it to the museum at all. His folks had a monumental row after getting lost on the North Circular and ended up in Barnet; all because his dad refused to stop and ask for directions. Finally they had arrived and pushed through the great glass doors into the museum’s inner sanctum. Ignoring Harry’s protestations about wanting to go to the Natural History museum instead, he had grabbed his dad’s hand and made a bee-line to the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery. It was there that he had seen his first orrery. It had been very much like the one that lay shattered before him now, although much smaller and simpler in design. The thing had seemed oddly out of place: an anachronism amongst the intricate tangle of wires and humming circuitry of the modern age. John had found himself strangely drawn towards it, staring at the bizarre object for ages, his palms leaving greasy smears on the glass cabinet.
Noticing his interest, and possibly tired of fighting off the constant onslaught of snotty kids trying to snap the antennae off of the Sputnik replica, the gallery assistant had come over to talk to him. She explained how the rather incongruous instrument worked. How its movement replicated the relative positions and motions of the planets and moons. Allowing men to visualise and calculate the workings of the solar system. Warming to her subject, she told him about Galileo and the later observations of Tycho Brahe, as well as Kepler’s subsequent calculations of and theory of planetary motion. John had absorbed her every word, his imagination fired by tales of men with the ability envisage things beyond their immediate perception: to grasp the intricacies of a thousand unfathomable connections and fashion these into a single, calculable truth. At least, that was how adult John liked to remember it, although, he had a sneaking suspicion that ten year John had been more impressed with the fact that Brahe had a gold nose.
In honour of his birthday, the curator had then offered to set the delicate orrery in motion. Young John hadn’t believed his luck and had huddled in closer as the attendant undid the lock on the side of the case. He swore he had felt the air of a forgotten century whisper over his skin as she opened the glass and turned the handle of the small crank, setting the mechanism in play. He had stared, mesmerised, as the instrument jerked into life, the gears sticking a little after long disuse. The movement juddered and clicked, but as it picked up pace the convoluted dance began to unfold. Mounted on the slender armature, each of the planets traced a measured path around a frigid brass sun. Closest was Mercury, spinning wildly to keep pace, and passing so close to the star at its perihelion that it seemed in danger of being burnt to a crisp. Yet always at the last moment it spiralled off, arcing away on its elliptical orbit, before gravity inexorably pulls it back to begin the chase all over again. The other terrestrial planets - Venus, Earth and Mars - similarly whirled and span, as they revolved round the star, whilst marking the outer reaches of the system were the three gas giants - Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune - remote and mysterious; their vaporous surface, shifting and unfathomable.
Once in full motion, the machine moved with an awkward beauty. A grace that was hypnotic. It was almost silent, omitting only a low whirr as the action of the planets and tiny moons beat out the meter of a silent minuet. Each sphere caught in the passage of its own unique orbit, but bound together in an immutably geometry by the gravitational pull of the star. Sol, the central mass and brightest object in the solar system, its luminosity our primary source of light, heat and energy. Brilliant but volatile, and burning with an intensity which will inevitably bring about its own destruction.
“John,” Sherlock’s deep voice rang out along the empty corridors. “John, John. Where the hell are you?” Agitation mixed with concern, and the faintest echo of alarm, were all parcelled together in that single statement. It broke through John’s reverie in a heart beat.
“It’s OK, Sherlock. I’m in here,” he looked around the room, taking in the scene and grounding himself in the present. “First gallery at the end of the corridor,” he called out, but before he had even finished his sentence, Sherlock’s steps were ringing out on the polished floor and the double-doors swung open in a halo of light. A swirl of impeccable tailored dark wool, billowed into the centre of room.
“John?” The steps slowed to a cautious walk, the unmistakable crunch of broken glass, setting John’s teeth on edge.
“I am over here, Sherlock,” he propped himself up and pushed his weight forward against the wall till he was standing upright; the movement sending all the eco-lights springing once more into life. Taking a faltering step, John started to feel felt a bit dizzy again and slumped back against the cream paintwork. The cool surface felt good, and he let it support his weight as he sank down on his haunches, his head in his hands, waiting for the bout of impromptu nausea to subside. There a small flurry of movement next to him, barely perceptible, and the whisper of cold fingertips placed hesitantly on his wrist. He prised open his eyes and saw Sherlock crouched in front of him, the younger man wearing an uncustomary expression of obvious concern.
“Are you alright, John? Can I…should I do something?” Confusion wrestled with anxiety on Sherlock’s face as his eyes darted around the room, taking in the shattered exhibition case and the twisted remains of the orrery. He then noticed the trail of blood rapidly congealing on the floor. All told, there was really quite a significant amount of blood. An mount which might conceivably be solely attributable to a head wound, but similarly could be concomitant with an array of other injuries, ranging in degrees of severity. Sherlock silently processed the information, running through every viable prognosis. His eyes flicked back to John. “Ambulance,” he said suddenly. “I should probably call an ambulance, get you… sorted out,” he waved his hands ineffectually in the air. “They can fix…all this.”
“Its OK, Sherlock,” John soothed, but the flapping continued unabated. The taller man leapt to his feet, bashing vehemently at the keys of an apparently a broken phone, before hurling it across the room in exasperation. He span round on his heels, tuning in a graceful arc, while muttering under his breath. The voluminous black coat fanned out behind him and his long arms circled futility in the air a couple of times, before his hands were finally brought to rest on either side of his temple.
“SHERLOCK,” John interjected again, feeling giddy by proxy. The revolving stopped. “It’s OK”. The detective squatted down on his haunches and stared into the injured man’s face, scanning each feature carefully before finally catching his eye. “It’s all OK, I’m OK.” There was a moment’s brief pause, Sherlock held his gaze, scrutinising or calculating something, then, apparently satisfied, nodded and stood up.
“Phone’s kaput,” the detective waved vaguely in the direction of the shattered mobile.
John was surprised by such a blatant statement of the bleeding well obvious, but decided not to mention it.
“It must have happen when Dzundra attacked me. Nice line in brawling by the way,” Sherlock said, gesticulating towards John. “Did they teach you that at Sandhurst?”
“Commissioning Course, Module one - Basic brawling for officers,” John smirked. “Punching, slapping, elbowing, eye gouging, and kicking your opponent in the bollocks, are all taught as standard, but leaping on your assailant’s back and trying to bite his ear off, was all my own work,” he grinned.
Sliding himself up the wall and pushing forward on the balls of his feet, John returned to a somewhat wobbly standing position.
“Are you sure you are OK?” Sherlock queried.
The doctor nodded and took a couple of steps forward. “The Golem got away, though,” he sighed.
“Oh forget about him,” Sherlock flicked his hand in the air dismissively. “Hired gun. Not important. No, we need to get back to the Hickman. That Vermeer is definitely a fake, John, I know it is. Why else would someone hire an assassin to bump off a gallery assistant?” He sneered. “Obviously, Woodbridge saw something that exposed the painting as a fraud, and he may - or may not - have discussed it with Professor Cairns. The Golem evidently thought so; hence his little visit. But what was it? I need to think,” he steepled his fingers together against his lips and started to pace backward and forwards. “There is something obviously wrong with the painting; something a dull-witted security guard could see,” he snarled in frustration. “It has to have something to do with astronomy, that much is apparent, but what? I have to see the painting again, John. Really look at it. It must be there.” Without a second thought, he strode off through the swing doors, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
The room was suddenly all too quiet, as if all the air had been sucked out, and the place was left holding its breath. “Just for once, you git, I wish you would wait for me?” John murmured, as he heaved himself forward in the direction of the door. But before he reached it, he stopped, glancing down again at the twisted form of the orrery, which lay sprawled in a broken heap. The slender limbs of the armature stuck out at obscene angles from the central torso, and at the head rested the fractured remains of the amber Sun, broken into several pieces on the tiled floor. Splatters of spilled blood sullied the shattered sphere; the splintered pieces glistened dully in the clinical fluorescent glare of the strip lighting.
“Will you come on John?” Sherlock slammed open the door again. “We need to get to the gallery,” he snapped irritably, but John remained rooted to the spot. “Now, John, now. We need to go now.” He held the door open and chivvied the still slightly stunned doctor out into the corridor. “Come on, we’re rapidly running out of time,” he huffed. “For all we know, the countdown may already have started.”
End Note:
I make no claims to be an astrophysicist so apologies for any mistakes. All info, I am ashamed to say, gleaned from internet searches (shame on me :)). Please feel free to leave comments, even if it is only to laugh at how ridculously wrong my science is :)