Four at The Thousand Faces 5/?
anonymous
June 3 2011, 10:25:50 UTC
Beside John, Lestrade crossed his arms and raised his chin. "So, are we dead, then?" he asked, steady and straightforward.
Antigone shook her head, gentleness in her dark eyes. "No, good heroes, only sleeping after dangerous trials. Your stay here this time will be brief, and we hope you will enjoy others in the future. But if you so choose it at the end, you may make this your final home. The Thousand Faces welcomes permanent lodgers."
"You say heroes..." Sherlock began.
"You could not have journeyed to this place if you were not one," she said simply. "I recognize it, and the stones recognize it, even if you do not see it in yourself."
Raising a hand, Antigone deflected their replies. John realized that a blushing Lestrade had drawn a breath, as if to protest, while Sherlock and Mycroft wore matching - if fleeting - scowls of scepticism. He himself felt only painfully and absurdly humbled. After a moment he straightened a bit where he stood, and a beat later he sensed that Lestrade did the same.
She considered each of them in turn. "After you depart today, you will not remember your time within these walls. If, however, you find comfort or encouragement here, you will take it with you. I suspect you will want to begin in the wing for the Contemporary West, but of course you are free to venture anywhere you wish."
Wing? John thought. The building was square, and he doubted it could hold a single ballroom.
"Let me guess." John said, after he scrubbed his hand over his face. "It's bigger on the inside."
Antigone grinned and graced him with a decidedly undignified wink before moving toward the doors.
"I wonder," John said, "if this is what those bloggers call a 'mashup.' Or is it 'AU'?"
"How about that collective unconsciousness thing?" Lestrade said, gesturing vaguely. "What's the word? Ah, monomyth?"
"Platonic ideal forms," Mycroft murmured, perhaps to himself.
All eyes turned to Sherlock.
"How many times must I repeat myself?" The consulting detective huffed, though the twitching of his lips and flexing of his fingers betrayed his excitement. "It's a mistake to theorize before you have data."
As the doors opened, music spilled out to flood the air around them.
"Wagner," Sherlock said.
"The King's Singers." That from Mycroft.
"The Clash," Lestrade added.
"Actually" - awed, John chuckled - "it's Gerry Rafferty. 'Baker Street,' in fact."
The fresh thrill that coursed through his veins was echoed in Sherlock's eyes. No, not boring at all, this.
As John passed through the open doors, he mouthed the words without giving them voice:
"When you wake up it's a new morning, The sun is shining, it's a new morning, And you're going, you're going home..."
Four at the Thousand Faces 6/?
anonymous
June 3 2011, 19:08:30 UTC
"New people!" came an exclamation. "I love meeting new people."
It seemed their arrival had interrupted a game of darts in the main hall. Walls and floors of gnarled wood, stained and aged to a cinnamon warmth - most definitely not ancient stone - provided a cosy atmosphere of welcome.
A young woman with honey-coloured hair bounded ahead of her friends to greet them. She wore workers' coveralls that had been softened by loving, homemade touches, including a patch in the shape of a teddy bear.
"This your first time?" Her excited words gave no opportunity for answer. "Something else, ain't it? I've explored all over and haven't even left this wing yet. The whole place is humongous. And everyone's so interesting."
Three other women gathered beside her. One was an exotic beauty who appeared to John's eyes like a cross between a queen and a courtesan. Another reminded him of Antigone, with a young body and old eyes, except this girl paired heavy combat boots with her flowing shift.
The third woman possessed an air of authority as well as carefully reigned menace. If ever an Amazon had travelled to the old American West… By force of will, John repressed guilty adolescent fantasies of warrior women before he could embarrass himself.
The two groups of four considered each other for several heartbeats, and John was struck by the sudden sympathy and knowledge that seemed to flow between them, as if each of them had recognized someone truly familiar, even kin, in the face of a stranger.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, they reordered themselves and stepped forward to converse in pairs.
The commanding woman offered John her hand, which he shook. "Zoe. Always proud to know a fellow soldier."
"John. Likewise," he agreed.
"It's a shock, at first, meeting people here like this. You get used to it."
"Good." John licked suddenly dry lips. "Dear God. That… it's beautiful."
"What, this old thing?" Her lips curled into an expression that seemed both fond and feral as she glanced at her hip. "She's a good old girl. Helped me and mine out of a predicament or two."
“It's… Sorry, I don’t mean to stare, but…”
Crossing her arms, she peered down her nose at him. "Y'know what they say: show me yours and I'll show you mine."
Four at the Thousand Faces 7/?
anonymous
June 3 2011, 19:12:40 UTC
As John darted a glance at the others and the room beyond them, Zoe added, "No one bats an eye if you're carrying. Some folks 'round this place have swords. Hell, some have lightsabers."
With a practiced move he produced his service sidearm and offered it to her. She whistled as she accepted it.
"Pistol man, are you?"
"Browning L9A1."
She shot him a glance through her dark lashes. "Funny, would've guessed something more like a SIG-Sauer P226. Then again, I'm no expert on antiques."
"Yeah, well." He coughed.
With a grin, she drew her lever-action carbine from its holster and held it out to him. He ran his fingers along the barrel and then cradled it, testing its weight.
"Called a 'Mare's Laig,'" she explained, "'cause it kicks at both ends."
"Reminds me a bit of an old Winchester model. Maybe 1892?"
"Must be. You're not the first to say it." After a thoughtful look, she said, "Looks better in your grip than in most others'."
He tightened his hold on the weapon, knowing her words for the honour they were.
As she eyed his pistol from every angle with evident appreciation, she said, "Just remember: mine's bigger."
"Bet you say that to all the blokes," he replied, and they both laughed. It felt - God, it felt wonderful. Liberating. As if someone understood.
For a moment, he indulged his curiosity and listened to his nearest companions.
"… my eye on this man, decent and kind and handsome like you, and I swear, if his hair ever gets all glittery-silvery like yours" - this from the vibrant young woman who had greeted them so enthusiastically - "I may just tie him to the bed and never let him up again."
John couldn't be certain if Lestrade was chuckling or choking. A bit of both, perhaps.
On John's other side, the woman-child in the boots peered up at Sherlock in much the same way that Sherlock peered down at slides under a microscope. "You see, and you comprehend," she said.
"I observe," he countered.
"Come," she demanded. "There's someone you need to meet. Two someones. They're the same. Only in two separate timelines. So they're different."
Taking Sherlock by one bony wrist, the girl clomped off across the hall. To John's surprise, Sherlock followed without protest.
And it was fine, John thought, contemplating the work of art that was the smooth carbine in his calloused hands. It was all fine.
Four at the Thousand Faces 8/?
anonymous
June 4 2011, 04:05:14 UTC
The four men parted ways without discussion, without plan, instinctively satisfied that they faced no danger in this place and would find each other again when the proper time arrived.
John had embarked on a quest for something to drink - originally, a cup of tea, but now he thought he’d welcome something stronger.
Thus far he’d wandered past an assortment of samurai, a charismatic hunchback (whether an admiral or a count, John remained uncertain), a blue and bald female who claimed to be a plant, and an older man who wore a cardigan, carried a strawberry milkshake, and asked John if he wanted to “get high and talk string theory.”
John fervently hoped the latter never crossed paths with Sherlock.
Ducking in a side door, he found a chamber with walls formed by a massive aquarium. The light shimmered and danced as it reflected off and refracted through the glass and water. Fish of every conceivable shape and size and colour swam in all directions.
To a heart scoured raw by thirsty sand and baking sun, the room was a balm.
Too late he discovered the sofa and chairs tucked into a corner, and the petite woman in the severe suit on the sofa, curled around a worn copy of Moby-Dick.
“Sorry,” he said, backing toward the door. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No, wait.” She removed her glasses and tucked a fall of ginger hair behind her ear. “Nothing here is a coincidence; I’ve learned that much. You’re welcome to join me. There’s wine in the carafe on the stand, if you’d like a glass.”
As he helped himself, he had the impression she was examining him, and he rather thought he knew how a cadaver felt in an autopsy.
She gave him an encouraging smile when he settled himself in a chair, however. The time passed very quickly after that.
“I’m guessing you have a partner. Or colleague. Or associate.” At his nod, she said, “They call mine Spooky.”
“They call mine Freak.”
“Let me guess: half the time you’re in medical mode, hoping he’s not hurt too badly for you to patch up. Half the time you’ve got your gun in hand, chasing after him like some glorified bodyguard. And half the time you’re trying to translate the crazy things he’s said into something comprehensible. You know what that means.”
Deadpan, John said, “You end up with three halves.”
“And the fact that makes sense to both of us proves just how crazy our lives have become since we’ve met our respective partners.”
He raised his glass in wholehearted agreement.
“I’m new to this,” he said, “so please feel free to share any words of advice, Doctor… um…”
“Scully. My mother's the only one who call me Dana.”
Four at the Thousand Faces 9/?
anonymous
June 4 2011, 07:43:44 UTC
“Good to meet you, John," Scully said. "So, does yours have a sister?
“A brother.”
“The proverbial elephant in the middle of the room?”
“A whole herd, actually.”
Folding her legs beneath her, she rested her cheek on her hand and gave him the hard-won rueful look of the perpetually resigned. “Get used to it. It never gets any better.”
John sighed. Then again, he hadn’t expected anything different. To be fair, Mycroft did have his uses. Most importantly, he cared about Sherlock, after his own fashion, whether Sherlock welcomed his concern or not.
“Be sure you have an ally, preferably one with some authority,” she continued. “The kind of friend who’s willing to break a few rules - and quite possibly himself - to help you both when no one else will.”
He thought of Lestrade. “Done.”
“Sometimes the solution to your mystery will raise more questions than it answers. Sometimes the thread you’re following will unravel and leave you empty handed, and sometimes it will prove to be a single filament in an immense web of conspiracy designed to entrap you, crafted by hands you’ll never see.”
Really, he thought, she was rather eloquent. Or perhaps it was the wine.
“And sometimes, that grotesque thing that looks like a giant mutant flukeman will turn out to be-”
“What?” John asked, shocked.
“Exactly that: a giant mutant flukeman.”
“Right,” he said, and took another swallow. And another.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve done for him since you two started working together?” she asked.
He never considered refusing to answer.
“I could say I killed a man, but that wasn’t the worst. I’m not even sorry. It had to be done.” Several heartbeats passed. “I allowed a criminal to use me against him. For a handful of minutes - moments, really - Sherlock thought I’d betrayed him. The longest moments of my life.”
“It doesn’t sound like you had much choice,” she said, matching his quiet tone. “But that doesn’t help, I expect.”
“No.”
“I shot my partner,” she said, after a time.
John raised an eyebrow.
“I shot him to keep him from doing something incredibly stupid and throwing away the rest of his life.” She shrugged. “Like you said: it had to be done. The alternative was unthinkable.”
With a frown, she added, “It didn’t make cutting him open or stitching him up any easier, though, knowing I was the one who put that bullet in him.”
A pause stretched out between them.
Meeting John’s gaze at last, she said, “Don’t get me wrong: there are days I’d be more than happy to shoot him again.”
His effort at keeping a straight face was only half-hearted. “Cathartic, was it?”
This time she raised her glass in a mock toast. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Four at the Thousand Faces 10/?
anonymous
June 4 2011, 10:49:13 UTC
***
From the vantage point of the intimate balcony table, Mycroft Holmes found that he could survey the whole of the cosmopolitan café below. He was by nature a man who preferred to sit with his back to the wall, to keep his eyes on every entrance, to monitor comings and goings.
To deflect attention away from himself, unless absolutely necessary. To fix it on others, constantly.
“You found the ideal location, Ms. Serra,” he said.
A serene smile played across the woman’s dark features as she poured their tea. Even in motion, she had a stillness about her.
“Please, call me Inara,” she said. “This is a favourite spot of mine. One can find a moment of quiet here, without losing touch with the unique chemistry of this place.
“I find that individuals who have much entrusted to them, who think more of service and duty than self-indulgence, rarely have the opportunity to experience such quiet.”
Mycroft nodded. “It’s most welcome,” he said in a hush.
They drank from delicate china cups without conversation, watching the patrons on the main level. Something taut and tense began to uncoil inside of the man as the peaceful minutes unfolded.
When a young waiter approached their table, Inara rose and intercepted him. She returned to Mycroft carrying a crystal glass and silver spoon.
“Dessert for you,” she said, placing the chocolate mousse before him. “With the compliments of the party downstairs in the right corner.” With a graceful hand, she indicated a gathering below them.
Six chairs fitted around a circular table, subtly paired into three groups of two each. Mycroft already had formulated some thoughts about them as he observed the room.
The slight man in the black turtleneck with the shaggy blond hair was a Soviet Russian - no, a former Soviet Russian. The dark-haired, dark-eyed, sophisticated man in the fine suit beside him was American, to be sure. Both exuded professionalism and, only a bit below the surface, danger.
The next pair, too, was American: one white, one black, both handsome, both deadly serious behind friendly grins. Their clothes might suggest a professional sportsman and his trainer, but their demeanours, their eyes, told Mycroft that neither was playing a game.
Fortunately, Mycroft sensed nothing but genuine respect aimed toward him. This haven’s guests, he reminded himself, posed no threat to their own.
The chic couple was British, Mycroft could tell. The woman was lovely as much for the fierce intelligence in her eyes as for her classical features. As she sensed his regard, she nodded and gave him a half-smile more fascinating than the Mona Lisa’s. Her dapper partner, after sharing a warm look with her, turned his eyes up toward the balcony and raised his umbrella, handle-first, as if in salute.
Unexpectedly touched, Mycroft took up his own umbrella and returned the gesture.
After additional smiles and nods were exchanged, the six at the downstairs table returned to their private discussion.
“It’s one of my favourites,” Mycroft said, admiring the mousse and mentally cursing his omnipresent diet.
“They are spies, after all,” Inara said. “Some of the very best. It’s their business to know things.”
As she refreshed their tea, she offered another comment with seeming nonchalance: “Not that it’s relevant to you, of course, but I’ve discovered that nothing edible here has any calories. It’s one of the many wonders of this place.”
“Is that so,” he said, as if the information were inconsequential.
To his disappointment, he found even that knowledge to be a lever insufficient for moving his anticipated guilt. Some walls of self-control, patched and reinforced over the years, were too thick to breach easily.
After further consideration, he added, “Ah, I don’t suppose you fancy chocolate mousse, my dear?”
Smiling, she turned back to him, a spoon from the tea service already in hand. “A joy shared is a joy doubled?”
“Yes. My thoughts precisely,” he said, relieved.
Together they savoured both the dessert and the comfortable, blessed silence.
Four at the Thousand Faces 11/?
anonymous
June 4 2011, 17:34:43 UTC
***
Sherlock slouched in the overstuffed chair, crossing his long legs at the ankle, steepling his fingers as his eyes darted back and forth between the aged figure and that man’s younger, alternate self.
The pointed ears. The pointed brows. The pointed logic of it all.
Already this surreal sanctuary felt more like home to him than any residence of his family’s ever had done.
“… at which point I put the situation into a more helpful context for the crew,” the elderly one intoned in a throaty rasp, “noting, ‘As an ancestor of mine once said, once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
For a moment Sherlock’s breath caught. “You said this?”
“Indeed.”
“That’s…” He’d never before entertained the thought of progeny, intellectual or otherwise. “That’s good. Very. Good of you.”
“I surmised that you might find it gratifying,” the white-haired Spock said, inclining his head.
“I assume that you solved the mystery by tracing the neutron surge to a Bird of Prey capable of firing photon torpedoes while still cloaked.” This mouthful came from the younger Vulcan.
The jargon might have been unfamiliar to Sherlock, but he gleaned its meaning readily enough.
My method worked, he thought. And then, with smug abandon, Of course it did.
“Precisely.” With an air of satisfaction, the elder Vulcan indicated a board spread out before them. “Now, may I interest any of you in chess?”
“The tri-dimensional kind’s more fun, Prime,” the girl in the combat boots pouted from across the table. Then, mercurial, she grinned slyly. “I always beat Reboot here.”
The younger Spock pointedly ignored her and glanced toward Sherlock. “Are you familiar with the tri-dimensional version of the game?”
“Not at all,” Sherlock answered, levering himself upright. Planting bony elbows on the table, he leaned toward his companions, offering a grin of his own. “But I think you’ll find I’m a very quick study.”
Antigone shook her head, gentleness in her dark eyes. "No, good heroes, only sleeping after dangerous trials. Your stay here this time will be brief, and we hope you will enjoy others in the future. But if you so choose it at the end, you may make this your final home. The Thousand Faces welcomes permanent lodgers."
"You say heroes..." Sherlock began.
"You could not have journeyed to this place if you were not one," she said simply. "I recognize it, and the stones recognize it, even if you do not see it in yourself."
Raising a hand, Antigone deflected their replies. John realized that a blushing Lestrade had drawn a breath, as if to protest, while Sherlock and Mycroft wore matching - if fleeting - scowls of scepticism. He himself felt only painfully and absurdly humbled. After a moment he straightened a bit where he stood, and a beat later he sensed that Lestrade did the same.
She considered each of them in turn. "After you depart today, you will not remember your time within these walls. If, however, you find comfort or encouragement here, you will take it with you. I suspect you will want to begin in the wing for the Contemporary West, but of course you are free to venture anywhere you wish."
Wing? John thought. The building was square, and he doubted it could hold a single ballroom.
"Let me guess." John said, after he scrubbed his hand over his face. "It's bigger on the inside."
Antigone grinned and graced him with a decidedly undignified wink before moving toward the doors.
"I wonder," John said, "if this is what those bloggers call a 'mashup.' Or is it 'AU'?"
"How about that collective unconsciousness thing?" Lestrade said, gesturing vaguely. "What's the word? Ah, monomyth?"
"Platonic ideal forms," Mycroft murmured, perhaps to himself.
All eyes turned to Sherlock.
"How many times must I repeat myself?" The consulting detective huffed, though the twitching of his lips and flexing of his fingers betrayed his excitement. "It's a mistake to theorize before you have data."
As the doors opened, music spilled out to flood the air around them.
"Wagner," Sherlock said.
"The King's Singers." That from Mycroft.
"The Clash," Lestrade added.
"Actually" - awed, John chuckled - "it's Gerry Rafferty. 'Baker Street,' in fact."
The fresh thrill that coursed through his veins was echoed in Sherlock's eyes. No, not boring at all, this.
As John passed through the open doors, he mouthed the words without giving them voice:
"When you wake up it's a new morning,
The sun is shining, it's a new morning,
And you're going, you're going home..."
(tbc)
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This is so lovely and so much fun. Their reactions, the pop culture references, the SONGS! :D
I'm definitely looking forward to more!
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It seemed their arrival had interrupted a game of darts in the main hall. Walls and floors of gnarled wood, stained and aged to a cinnamon warmth - most definitely not ancient stone - provided a cosy atmosphere of welcome.
A young woman with honey-coloured hair bounded ahead of her friends to greet them. She wore workers' coveralls that had been softened by loving, homemade touches, including a patch in the shape of a teddy bear.
"This your first time?" Her excited words gave no opportunity for answer. "Something else, ain't it? I've explored all over and haven't even left this wing yet. The whole place is humongous. And everyone's so interesting."
Three other women gathered beside her. One was an exotic beauty who appeared to John's eyes like a cross between a queen and a courtesan. Another reminded him of Antigone, with a young body and old eyes, except this girl paired heavy combat boots with her flowing shift.
The third woman possessed an air of authority as well as carefully reigned menace. If ever an Amazon had travelled to the old American West… By force of will, John repressed guilty adolescent fantasies of warrior women before he could embarrass himself.
The two groups of four considered each other for several heartbeats, and John was struck by the sudden sympathy and knowledge that seemed to flow between them, as if each of them had recognized someone truly familiar, even kin, in the face of a stranger.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, they reordered themselves and stepped forward to converse in pairs.
The commanding woman offered John her hand, which he shook. "Zoe. Always proud to know a fellow soldier."
"John. Likewise," he agreed.
"It's a shock, at first, meeting people here like this. You get used to it."
"Good." John licked suddenly dry lips. "Dear God. That… it's beautiful."
"What, this old thing?" Her lips curled into an expression that seemed both fond and feral as she glanced at her hip. "She's a good old girl. Helped me and mine out of a predicament or two."
“It's… Sorry, I don’t mean to stare, but…”
Crossing her arms, she peered down her nose at him. "Y'know what they say: show me yours and I'll show you mine."
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With a practiced move he produced his service sidearm and offered it to her. She whistled as she accepted it.
"Pistol man, are you?"
"Browning L9A1."
She shot him a glance through her dark lashes. "Funny, would've guessed something more like a SIG-Sauer P226. Then again, I'm no expert on antiques."
"Yeah, well." He coughed.
With a grin, she drew her lever-action carbine from its holster and held it out to him. He ran his fingers along the barrel and then cradled it, testing its weight.
"Called a 'Mare's Laig,'" she explained, "'cause it kicks at both ends."
"Reminds me a bit of an old Winchester model. Maybe 1892?"
"Must be. You're not the first to say it." After a thoughtful look, she said, "Looks better in your grip than in most others'."
He tightened his hold on the weapon, knowing her words for the honour they were.
As she eyed his pistol from every angle with evident appreciation, she said, "Just remember: mine's bigger."
"Bet you say that to all the blokes," he replied, and they both laughed. It felt - God, it felt wonderful. Liberating. As if someone understood.
For a moment, he indulged his curiosity and listened to his nearest companions.
"… my eye on this man, decent and kind and handsome like you, and I swear, if his hair ever gets all glittery-silvery like yours" - this from the vibrant young woman who had greeted them so enthusiastically - "I may just tie him to the bed and never let him up again."
John couldn't be certain if Lestrade was chuckling or choking. A bit of both, perhaps.
On John's other side, the woman-child in the boots peered up at Sherlock in much the same way that Sherlock peered down at slides under a microscope. "You see, and you comprehend," she said.
"I observe," he countered.
"Come," she demanded. "There's someone you need to meet. Two someones. They're the same. Only in two separate timelines. So they're different."
Taking Sherlock by one bony wrist, the girl clomped off across the hall. To John's surprise, Sherlock followed without protest.
And it was fine, John thought, contemplating the work of art that was the smooth carbine in his calloused hands. It was all fine.
(tbc)
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John had embarked on a quest for something to drink - originally, a cup of tea, but now he thought he’d welcome something stronger.
Thus far he’d wandered past an assortment of samurai, a charismatic hunchback (whether an admiral or a count, John remained uncertain), a blue and bald female who claimed to be a plant, and an older man who wore a cardigan, carried a strawberry milkshake, and asked John if he wanted to “get high and talk string theory.”
John fervently hoped the latter never crossed paths with Sherlock.
Ducking in a side door, he found a chamber with walls formed by a massive aquarium. The light shimmered and danced as it reflected off and refracted through the glass and water. Fish of every conceivable shape and size and colour swam in all directions.
To a heart scoured raw by thirsty sand and baking sun, the room was a balm.
Too late he discovered the sofa and chairs tucked into a corner, and the petite woman in the severe suit on the sofa, curled around a worn copy of Moby-Dick.
“Sorry,” he said, backing toward the door. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No, wait.” She removed her glasses and tucked a fall of ginger hair behind her ear. “Nothing here is a coincidence; I’ve learned that much. You’re welcome to join me. There’s wine in the carafe on the stand, if you’d like a glass.”
As he helped himself, he had the impression she was examining him, and he rather thought he knew how a cadaver felt in an autopsy.
She gave him an encouraging smile when he settled himself in a chair, however. The time passed very quickly after that.
“I’m guessing you have a partner. Or colleague. Or associate.” At his nod, she said, “They call mine Spooky.”
“They call mine Freak.”
“Let me guess: half the time you’re in medical mode, hoping he’s not hurt too badly for you to patch up. Half the time you’ve got your gun in hand, chasing after him like some glorified bodyguard. And half the time you’re trying to translate the crazy things he’s said into something comprehensible. You know what that means.”
Deadpan, John said, “You end up with three halves.”
“And the fact that makes sense to both of us proves just how crazy our lives have become since we’ve met our respective partners.”
He raised his glass in wholehearted agreement.
“I’m new to this,” he said, “so please feel free to share any words of advice, Doctor… um…”
“Scully. My mother's the only one who call me Dana.”
“I’m John.”
(tbc)
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“I’m John.”
(tbc)
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“A brother.”
“The proverbial elephant in the middle of the room?”
“A whole herd, actually.”
Folding her legs beneath her, she rested her cheek on her hand and gave him the hard-won rueful look of the perpetually resigned. “Get used to it. It never gets any better.”
John sighed. Then again, he hadn’t expected anything different. To be fair, Mycroft did have his uses. Most importantly, he cared about Sherlock, after his own fashion, whether Sherlock welcomed his concern or not.
“Be sure you have an ally, preferably one with some authority,” she continued. “The kind of friend who’s willing to break a few rules - and quite possibly himself - to help you both when no one else will.”
He thought of Lestrade. “Done.”
“Sometimes the solution to your mystery will raise more questions than it answers. Sometimes the thread you’re following will unravel and leave you empty handed, and sometimes it will prove to be a single filament in an immense web of conspiracy designed to entrap you, crafted by hands you’ll never see.”
Really, he thought, she was rather eloquent. Or perhaps it was the wine.
“And sometimes, that grotesque thing that looks like a giant mutant flukeman will turn out to be-”
“What?” John asked, shocked.
“Exactly that: a giant mutant flukeman.”
“Right,” he said, and took another swallow. And another.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve done for him since you two started working together?” she asked.
He never considered refusing to answer.
“I could say I killed a man, but that wasn’t the worst. I’m not even sorry. It had to be done.” Several heartbeats passed. “I allowed a criminal to use me against him. For a handful of minutes - moments, really - Sherlock thought I’d betrayed him. The longest moments of my life.”
“It doesn’t sound like you had much choice,” she said, matching his quiet tone. “But that doesn’t help, I expect.”
“No.”
“I shot my partner,” she said, after a time.
John raised an eyebrow.
“I shot him to keep him from doing something incredibly stupid and throwing away the rest of his life.” She shrugged. “Like you said: it had to be done. The alternative was unthinkable.”
With a frown, she added, “It didn’t make cutting him open or stitching him up any easier, though, knowing I was the one who put that bullet in him.”
A pause stretched out between them.
Meeting John’s gaze at last, she said, “Don’t get me wrong: there are days I’d be more than happy to shoot him again.”
His effort at keeping a straight face was only half-hearted. “Cathartic, was it?”
This time she raised her glass in a mock toast. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
(tbc)
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From the vantage point of the intimate balcony table, Mycroft Holmes found that he could survey the whole of the cosmopolitan café below. He was by nature a man who preferred to sit with his back to the wall, to keep his eyes on every entrance, to monitor comings and goings.
To deflect attention away from himself, unless absolutely necessary. To fix it on others, constantly.
“You found the ideal location, Ms. Serra,” he said.
A serene smile played across the woman’s dark features as she poured their tea. Even in motion, she had a stillness about her.
“Please, call me Inara,” she said. “This is a favourite spot of mine. One can find a moment of quiet here, without losing touch with the unique chemistry of this place.
“I find that individuals who have much entrusted to them, who think more of service and duty than self-indulgence, rarely have the opportunity to experience such quiet.”
Mycroft nodded. “It’s most welcome,” he said in a hush.
They drank from delicate china cups without conversation, watching the patrons on the main level. Something taut and tense began to uncoil inside of the man as the peaceful minutes unfolded.
When a young waiter approached their table, Inara rose and intercepted him. She returned to Mycroft carrying a crystal glass and silver spoon.
“Dessert for you,” she said, placing the chocolate mousse before him. “With the compliments of the party downstairs in the right corner.” With a graceful hand, she indicated a gathering below them.
Six chairs fitted around a circular table, subtly paired into three groups of two each. Mycroft already had formulated some thoughts about them as he observed the room.
The slight man in the black turtleneck with the shaggy blond hair was a Soviet Russian - no, a former Soviet Russian. The dark-haired, dark-eyed, sophisticated man in the fine suit beside him was American, to be sure. Both exuded professionalism and, only a bit below the surface, danger.
The next pair, too, was American: one white, one black, both handsome, both deadly serious behind friendly grins. Their clothes might suggest a professional sportsman and his trainer, but their demeanours, their eyes, told Mycroft that neither was playing a game.
Fortunately, Mycroft sensed nothing but genuine respect aimed toward him. This haven’s guests, he reminded himself, posed no threat to their own.
The chic couple was British, Mycroft could tell. The woman was lovely as much for the fierce intelligence in her eyes as for her classical features. As she sensed his regard, she nodded and gave him a half-smile more fascinating than the Mona Lisa’s. Her dapper partner, after sharing a warm look with her, turned his eyes up toward the balcony and raised his umbrella, handle-first, as if in salute.
Unexpectedly touched, Mycroft took up his own umbrella and returned the gesture.
After additional smiles and nods were exchanged, the six at the downstairs table returned to their private discussion.
“It’s one of my favourites,” Mycroft said, admiring the mousse and mentally cursing his omnipresent diet.
“They are spies, after all,” Inara said. “Some of the very best. It’s their business to know things.”
As she refreshed their tea, she offered another comment with seeming nonchalance: “Not that it’s relevant to you, of course, but I’ve discovered that nothing edible here has any calories. It’s one of the many wonders of this place.”
“Is that so,” he said, as if the information were inconsequential.
To his disappointment, he found even that knowledge to be a lever insufficient for moving his anticipated guilt. Some walls of self-control, patched and reinforced over the years, were too thick to breach easily.
After further consideration, he added, “Ah, I don’t suppose you fancy chocolate mousse, my dear?”
Smiling, she turned back to him, a spoon from the tea service already in hand. “A joy shared is a joy doubled?”
“Yes. My thoughts precisely,” he said, relieved.
Together they savoured both the dessert and the comfortable, blessed silence.
(tbc)
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...do go on. *leans forward*
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Sherlock slouched in the overstuffed chair, crossing his long legs at the ankle, steepling his fingers as his eyes darted back and forth between the aged figure and that man’s younger, alternate self.
The pointed ears. The pointed brows. The pointed logic of it all.
Already this surreal sanctuary felt more like home to him than any residence of his family’s ever had done.
“… at which point I put the situation into a more helpful context for the crew,” the elderly one intoned in a throaty rasp, “noting, ‘As an ancestor of mine once said, once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
For a moment Sherlock’s breath caught. “You said this?”
“Indeed.”
“That’s…” He’d never before entertained the thought of progeny, intellectual or otherwise. “That’s good. Very. Good of you.”
“I surmised that you might find it gratifying,” the white-haired Spock said, inclining his head.
“I assume that you solved the mystery by tracing the neutron surge to a Bird of Prey capable of firing photon torpedoes while still cloaked.” This mouthful came from the younger Vulcan.
The jargon might have been unfamiliar to Sherlock, but he gleaned its meaning readily enough.
My method worked, he thought. And then, with smug abandon, Of course it did.
“Precisely.” With an air of satisfaction, the elder Vulcan indicated a board spread out before them. “Now, may I interest any of you in chess?”
“The tri-dimensional kind’s more fun, Prime,” the girl in the combat boots pouted from across the table. Then, mercurial, she grinned slyly. “I always beat Reboot here.”
The younger Spock pointedly ignored her and glanced toward Sherlock. “Are you familiar with the tri-dimensional version of the game?”
“Not at all,” Sherlock answered, levering himself upright. Planting bony elbows on the table, he leaned toward his companions, offering a grin of his own. “But I think you’ll find I’m a very quick study.”
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