The Letter of the Lore (6)
anonymous
September 29 2010, 13:45:39 UTC
He leaves the picture with the girl who stands on the corner and sleeps under the bridge (she calls herself Sasha, but her real name is Tina). She promises to pass it around. They will find Theodore, wherever he may have gone.
*
Mycroft visits at just past three pm. He no longer tries to get an invitation, just walks in as though he owns the place, though they both know he does not. He has no power here.
“You shouldn’t have gone to the oak tree,” he says. “You know better.”
“It’s fine, Mycroft, stop worrying.”
“Entanglements with that side of the family rarely end well. Remember Uncle Norwood?”
Sherlock does remember Uncle Norwood, who was always fed with a spoon. He stared off into the middle distance and spoke words that no one understood under his breath. Uncle Norwood who stared at you sometimes and yelled in the middle of the night.
“I’m not Uncle Norwood,” Sherlock says.
“No. He at least had a modicum of common sense.” Mycroft has his umbrella set across his lap, and he is holding onto both ends, hands wrapped around tight.
*
It is not Sherlock’s underground network of homeless and transients that finds Kent. It is Lestrade.
The man and woman died of a stroke, they say, in bed together
The bodies are slumped, half way through their coupling. It’s a disgusting mess and a clear message.
“Natural causes?” Sherlock says. Lestrade grimaces, his face indicating clearly what he thinks of that idea.
“There are markings,” he says, “on the door - like scratches. And - she’s not more than 25; he can’t be more than ten years older.” He’s actually one hundred and twelve years older, Sherlock knows, but facts like that will complicate matters. “The doctor says they died at approximately the same time. That’s not natural causes.”
“I’ll take a look,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t doubt this is murder. The word ‘stroke’ is an old hangover from folklore - elf-stroke or fairy-stroke - and the timing of their deaths, caught in infidelity to one of the Fae with a mortal. He has no doubt how this came about.
He understands now how Theodore managed to escape. The Fae are not allowed to separate soul mates or true lovers. The story of Tam Lin is embellished, but true.
She couldn’t separate them, so she let them die together. Those are the loopholes that Faerie-kind slip through. Sherlock can see the elegance and attraction of it. He wants to laugh a little. Kent must have known the rules; he must have thought himself safe.
He swallows down his laughter. John is looking at him too carefully and laughter, after a sight like that, is no doubt more than a bit not good.
He examines the door instead. Steady and strong. There are scratches in it, but it is not made of Rowan and has no iron in it - so its protection had been minimal. The scratches are deliberate: runes and Faerie script, to mask the presence of the assassin. A hundred years in Faerie thrall would have made Theodore sensitive to them.
“So,” Lestrade says, coming up to him, “what do you think?”
“Natural causes,” Sherlock repeats. “Come along, John.”
“Natural...?” Lestrade gapes, Anderson stares and even John looks confused.
“Yes,” Sherlock repeats. “Just ask the pathologist.”
*
Mycroft visits at just past three pm. He no longer tries to get an invitation, just walks in as though he owns the place, though they both know he does not. He has no power here.
“You shouldn’t have gone to the oak tree,” he says. “You know better.”
“It’s fine, Mycroft, stop worrying.”
“Entanglements with that side of the family rarely end well. Remember Uncle Norwood?”
Sherlock does remember Uncle Norwood, who was always fed with a spoon. He stared off into the middle distance and spoke words that no one understood under his breath. Uncle Norwood who stared at you sometimes and yelled in the middle of the night.
“I’m not Uncle Norwood,” Sherlock says.
“No. He at least had a modicum of common sense.” Mycroft has his umbrella set across his lap, and he is holding onto both ends, hands wrapped around tight.
*
It is not Sherlock’s underground network of homeless and transients that finds Kent. It is Lestrade.
The man and woman died of a stroke, they say, in bed together
The bodies are slumped, half way through their coupling. It’s a disgusting mess and a clear message.
“Natural causes?” Sherlock says. Lestrade grimaces, his face indicating clearly what he thinks of that idea.
“There are markings,” he says, “on the door - like scratches. And - she’s not more than 25; he can’t be more than ten years older.” He’s actually one hundred and twelve years older, Sherlock knows, but facts like that will complicate matters. “The doctor says they died at approximately the same time. That’s not natural causes.”
“I’ll take a look,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t doubt this is murder. The word ‘stroke’ is an old hangover from folklore - elf-stroke or fairy-stroke - and the timing of their deaths, caught in infidelity to one of the Fae with a mortal. He has no doubt how this came about.
He understands now how Theodore managed to escape. The Fae are not allowed to separate soul mates or true lovers. The story of Tam Lin is embellished, but true.
She couldn’t separate them, so she let them die together. Those are the loopholes that Faerie-kind slip through. Sherlock can see the elegance and attraction of it. He wants to laugh a little. Kent must have known the rules; he must have thought himself safe.
He swallows down his laughter. John is looking at him too carefully and laughter, after a sight like that, is no doubt more than a bit not good.
He examines the door instead. Steady and strong. There are scratches in it, but it is not made of Rowan and has no iron in it - so its protection had been minimal. The scratches are deliberate: runes and Faerie script, to mask the presence of the assassin. A hundred years in Faerie thrall would have made Theodore sensitive to them.
“So,” Lestrade says, coming up to him, “what do you think?”
“Natural causes,” Sherlock repeats. “Come along, John.”
“Natural...?” Lestrade gapes, Anderson stares and even John looks confused.
“Yes,” Sherlock repeats. “Just ask the pathologist.”
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