Sherlock Fic: Let's Dance
Title: Let's Dance
Sequel to: Ashes to Ashes
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Summary: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Wordcount: 11,800
Genres: Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Warnings: Violence, Sexual Abuse of a Child (in the past, mentioned), Suicidal Ideation
Spoiler: Reichenbach does not happen in this universe, everything else does. There are no spoilers, though.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC and Gatiss/Moffat; I'm making no money, this is just for fun. The summary is taken from the novel 'Rebecca' by Daphne du Maurier.
Author's Notes 1: Sequel to ' Ashes to Ashes'
Author's Notes 2: Trigger warning for discussions about the sexual abuse of a child and dealing with the aftermath. Please do heed the warning; quite a few readers of 'Ashes to Ashes' were upset about the story and honestly, this one isn't easy reading stuff, either. You have to trust me, though; I don't do unhappy endings.
A HUGE thank you to my lovely beta heavenlyxbodies, not only for wading through this thing but also for putting up with the author's brooding. Again, the biggest thanks to my sister E. for extreme-cheerleading. :)
Let's Dance
Experience: That most brutal of teachers.
But you learn, my God do you learn.
C.S. Lewis
"How would you phrase it? Ah, I remember: I am so disappointed with you."
"Sherlock…"
"Ah, ah! Let me continue. If you had a good day at the office you would say: I am so very, very disappointed with you."
Earplugs. Why didn't I think of earplugs?
It was certainly not the first time John had to listen to the Holmes brothers squabbling, but usually he could just leave, maybe even bang a door if he was in the mood for it. But he couldn't exactly open the door of a car driving far too fast on the M4. Well, he could. But it would definitely put a damper on this nice, sophisticated family outing. And on Sherlock's mood. John wasn't so sure about Mycroft's.
"You can't possibly believe…"
"This has not anything to do with believing. I am just stating the obvious."
Christ.
John wouldn't even mind if they would fight about something worthwhile, for example about the whereabouts of Dr Richard Holmes. Or about the very important, but for some reason not yet mentioned topic of what they would tell Mrs Holmes when she asked why John was accompanying Sherlock to her birthday party. But no, no. They were fighting because Mycroft had apparently chosen the wrong birthday present. No, that wasn't fair, he had chosen the right present… it just had the wrong colour.
"John, what do you think about…?"
"God, Sherlock, leave me out of this, will you?"
Immediately, Sherlock looked affronted, and John drew his shoulders up, pressed himself even further into his corner and stared out of the window at the landscape flying by, not seeing anything. He found it hard to cope with the way Sherlock was behaving, with the mask so firmly put in place. Rationally, John knew what was going on and hell, he even approved of it, but nonetheless, his emotions were clashing badly with his rationale.
Two days, it had been only two days and still, John had already gotten used to a gentler side of Sherlock, a softer… Gentle, soft, my arse! John huffed silently. He was the biggest sap running around freely in England. When he tried to think dispassionately of the last days, he would have to describe them as awkward, exhausting, and stressful. Sherlock and he, they had had a rocky start into a rocky relationship; moving from being friends to being lovers might sound easy, but it was not, especially not with the baggage they had to carry with them. They had to readjust boundaries and, of course, they had tried to do that without talking about it, so they had bumped into each other constantly, both physically and metaphorically. The whole time, John had been afraid of making a wrong move, and Sherlock had noticed it every time and had begun a fight with him. There had been lots of yelling. There had also been some tenderness. And that had usually started the next round of becoming afraid and fighting and yelling.
John could have sorted all this out if he managed to think about it objectively. He did not. He was flying high on endorphins. The last two mornings, he had woken up and spent, at least, one hour staring at the man who was miraculously sleeping beside him. Or on top of him. It had been no surprise; Sherlock Holmes was a cuddler. He had never really had any idea of keeping his distance, and now Sherlock was incredibly affectionate… whenever they were in a room with a bed in it. Or a fridge, John thought and frowned. One part of him wished it hadn't happened, at least, not the way it had. And he fervently wished Mycroft hadn't come by. John closed his eyes; he still could see Sherlock on the floor, head thrown back, utterly gone…
Mycroft cleared his throat, loudly. "John, you should… think of something else. We'll be at the house shortly."
Eyes snapping open, John looked at Mycroft for a moment, then nodded. "You're still on top of things. Would you be so kind to lay out the rules for me, how you want me to behave?"
Sherlock beside him started to frown, but John didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on Mycroft who had flushed slightly.
"Well, there is no reason for either of you to… alert everyone about your…"
"Our what?" Sherlock asked.
"The status of your relationship. I told Mummy that you are… friends, flatmates. You know how she is."
"Your mother is a homophobe?"
Mycroft's head turned back to John. "No, she is not," he said angrily, "not at all. Mother would be delighted; she would all but adopt you. But your relationship is very new and…I just do not want her to get used…" he trailed off again; suddenly he seemed more nervous than angry.
Sherlock sat back. John threw a quick look at him and winced; Sherlock's eyes were cold.
"Thank you so much for the confidence, Mycroft."
John looked down at his hands and sighed. He always had thought that Harry and he had a bad relationship, but their fights, they were nothing like what these two could do to each other with a few words. The real tragedy was that Mycroft was trying hard to get along with his brother and was still failing every time; while Sherlock was always assuming the worst from Mycroft.
The silence that followed was so loud and went on for so long it became almost unbearable for John. Careful what you wish for. You should have enjoyed the bickering. Already doubting the wisdom of his actions and doing it anyway, John reached out for Sherlock's hand with his own and was surprised when it got snatched immediately. He glanced at Sherlock again and found him staring out of the window. Following his gaze, John felt his eyes going wide. Sherlock's grip on his hand got tighter.
"That is… 'The House'?"
"Yes."
John tried not to gape, but could not stop. He had known -of course he had, from the first moment on- that Sherlock came from old money. But he hadn't expected something so… dramatic, there was no other word for it. It would still take them some time to reach it, but despite the distance, despite the ugly weather, it was beautiful. Pearly-white, situated on a hill, surrounded by firs, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. John shook his head. "Wow," he said softly. Sherlock cocked his head to the side and leaned forward, whispering into John's ear, "Mother calls it Manderley."
***
They had just gotten out of the car when the door to the house burst open and an extremely tiny and plump woman shot out, ran over to Sherlock and literally pounced on him. Laughing, Sherlock caught and hugged her, and she was talking even more quickly than John had ever heard Sherlock talking, out of breath and giggling and tousling her son's hair. John was rooted on the spot; this morning, Sherlock had told him -well, maybe 'warned' was the better word- that his mother was very sentimental, but still, John had imagined Mrs Holmes to be the exact opposite of what he could see now. He had expected a tall, lean, distinguished lady. After all, even the Queen herself would appear overly emotional between Mycroft and Sherlock.
Watching Mrs Holmes bouncing toward a laughing Mycroft -Jesus, Mycroft is laughing!- John retreated slowly to the boot where Mycroft's driver was just unloading their overnight bags, but before he could offer to lend a hand, John's arm got grabbed by Sherlock who drew him back to the others.
"Mummy, allow me to introduce Dr John Watson. John, this is my moth…"
Mrs Holmes interrupted him. "Oh, I am very happy to finally meet you, Dr Watson!" she beamed, enveloping John's hand between hers. "Mycroft told me so much about you!"
John heard a muffled sound coming from Mycroft, but he could not take his eyes off Sherlock's mother. She had a beautiful round face like a china doll with huge, slightly slanted blue eyes, long, long lashes, a shock of unruly salt-and-pepper locks pinned up into an enormous bun -her hair had to be very long- and a radiant smile that was all… Sherlock.
John swallowed. "Happy Birthday, Mrs Holmes. Thank you for the invitation."
"Oh, thank you! And Sherlock's friends are always welcome here," she laughed and glanced up at her son, open adoration in her eyes. John winced a bit at her words, but Sherlock didn't react to them at all, just leaned down again to kiss his mother's cheek. He looked incredibly young.
"Now, let us go inside! The weather's so nasty today; can you believe that they said it will snow tonight? Snow! Today of all days! I cannot imagine… No, please, Dr Watson, let Charles handle the bags!"
All of a sudden, the atmosphere changed. Sherlock froze, Mycroft frowned, and John had no idea what was going on; he looked back and forth between the brothers, Mrs Holmes, and a young man standing in front of him, reaching for the bag in John's hand.
"You're the young Charles Adams?" Mycroft asked in a cold tone, stalking over.
"Yes, sir," the guy answered, apparently intimidated. John could see why… Mycroft had lost his smile.
Mrs Holmes shook her head and tapped on Mycroft's arm. "I forgot to tell you; I employed Charles a week ago. We're so glad to have him!" Turning to John, who still didn't understand a word, she explained, "Charles' late grandfather was our butler for many years. His name was also Charles… it's all a bit confusing!" She laughed again and John forced a smile on his lips, while he watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.
Standing very upright, Sherlock looked at the house, expression blank.
The last item in the boot was Sherlock's violin case; John got hold of it, ignored Mycroft's prolonged, "I see," as well as Mrs Holmes' on-going chattiness and went over to his lover. "You okay?"
"I am fine," Sherlock answered calmly.
Right.
"Come on now, boys. You are late anyway!" Mrs Holmes hurried toward the front door, a miffed looking Mycroft on her heels. John and Sherlock followed them at a more leisurely pace -John worried and Sherlock seemingly unfazed again.
The moment they entered the hall, they were at once separated by several servants who descended on them like shepherd dogs parting their flock. The sudden heat and the babel of voices of God knew how many people felt like a physical attack to John. Dazed, he opened the white parka he was wearing over his best suit; one of the servants helped him out of it. Yet another one reached for the violin case, but John shook his head. "I'll keep that, thank you." He looked around for Sherlock to ask him where he wanted the violin. It took some time to find him. He and Mycroft were surrounded by people who all looked extremely posh; there was much shoulder-clapping going on. Every now and again, John caught glimpses of Mrs Holmes who seemed beside herself with joy.
John sighed; he had known beforehand that he would stick out like a sore thumb amidst those people and still, he felt a bit stupid, standing there alone, clutching a violin case. He let his eyes wander around, from the living room -Room? Hall!- filled with people and maids, who were juggling salvers with various drinks, to the impressive double staircase leading to the upper rooms and, to John's right, the dining hall where other servants hastened around an enormous dining table that was already decked out with blindingly shining crystal glasses and bowls, not to mention the gigantic chandelier that hung above it. Well, it may be a bit creepy but Manderley is definitely the right name for this place.
Wondering where the bathrooms were, John turned his head back to the cluster of people, when he suddenly noticed someone standing at the head of the previously empty staircase. And even before he raised his eyes, he knew, he knew whom he would see.
Impeccably groomed from head to toe, Sir Richard Holmes looked down at John, an amused smile on his face.
***
From one second to the other, John was flooded with hate; hate so intense he got dizzy from it. He took two quick steps forward, then, just as suddenly, he stopped again.
Sherlock!
Turning his head, he saw Sherlock standing with his back to him, one arm around his mother's shoulders. John looked back at Holmes who hadn't moved; only his smile had become taunting, and one eyebrow was raised mockingly.
Feeling completely impotent, John didn't know what to do. A sound escaped him, but instead of the expected growl or yell it was only a whimper. Torn between the need to fight and the need to protect, John threw another desperate, vain look in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock didn't notice a thing, but for some reason, Mycroft did. He turned slightly and looked at John questioningly… and then he saw his father. Immediately, his face became scarlet with a streak of white around the eyes.
Suddenly, the choice was easy. John decided to let Mycroft deal with his father. John's duty was to get Sherlock out of this house as soon as possible. He was almost right next to Sherlock when he realised his mistake. Mycroft did not move, did not take any action whatsoever; in fact, he didn't do anything besides getting his expression under control again. John, stunned, waved his hands around, but now Mycroft ignored him completely; his suddenly composed gaze was fixed on his father, who was already slowly going downstairs… and would reach the bottom any second now.
John gave up on Mycroft, gave up on attacking, gave up on anything, really, and closed the distance to his still unsuspecting lover. Without hesitating or paying any attention to decorum, he laid his arm around Sherlock's waist and ripped him away from the animated conversation with whomever and from Galiena Holmes, who almost overbalanced because her son had to let go of her all of a sudden. Sherlock made a startled noise and looked at him; whatever he saw on John's face made his eyes narrow.
"John? What…"
"We have to go. Now!" John whispered urgently.
"What happened? What…?" Sherlock leaned forward as if to get a closer look at John's face, then his gaze wandered over to Mycroft and he froze. John turned to also take a look and saw Mycroft striding towards his father, still with this weirdly unperturbed facial expression. John's grip on Sherlock's waist tightened. "Let's go."
"No." Sherlock stood very straight again.
"Sherlock…"
"Let go of me." Clipped, cold tone. "Stay out of this."
John, unable to let go, stared up at Sherlock. He felt at once sick to the stomach by what he saw. There was no trace of emotion, Sherlock's face and eyes were as cold as his voice. His gaze had left his brother and father; he was now looking at his mother who was on her way to husband and son.
"Stay out of what exactly?" John asked hoarsely.
Sherlock made a very pointed step away from him, and this time, John let him. "Control your temper, John."
Control my… "Dr Watson! Come and meet my husband, Richard!" Mrs Holmes beamed at her husband while Mycroft circled the couple and, instead of standing close to Sherlock, stopped beside John, a definite warning in his eyes.
"Dr Watson. Pleasure to meet you. Again." Richard Holmes' smile was broad, showing off pearly-white teeth.
John had always thought 'seeing red' was just an expression; now he knew better. He was filled with adrenaline; his mouth was bone-dry and at the back of his throat he could taste something metallic, like blood. Somehow, he managed a jerky nod. He couldn't have spoken a word if his life had depended on it.
Silence for a moment; then, unexpectedly, Mycroft began to speak. "Father has already met Dr Watson at the congress, Mother. John accompanied Sherlock."
"What? You already met up with Sherlock? But then… why did you want me to keep this a secret?"
Richard Holmes didn't answer for a few moments; he was looking at John, appraisingly. Finally, he turned to his wife. "I met Sherlock and Mycroft, Galiena. Since I wanted this to be a surprise, I told them I had to leave again."
"And they believed you?" Mrs Holmes laughed. "How silly!"
"Yes," John heard Mycroft's toneless voice next to him, "silly."
John willed himself to look away from Holmes and at Sherlock who stood beside him, still ramrod straight. He didn't notice John, but neither did he look at his parents anymore or at his brother; he stared straight ahead at the staircase, eyes dark. Worried to death and not at least willing anymore to think about what he should or should not do, John clutched Sherlock's hand. Fuck them. Fuck each and every one of them. The hand in his twitched nervously, but John held on tight.
Silence again; John heard Mrs Holmes taking a deep breath.
"Oh. OH! Why didn't you tell me?" she cried, and before John could blink he found himself engulfed in a tight hug, then Sherlock's mother whirled around to face her husband again. "Another surprise! How wonderful!"
Holmes' stance was mirroring Sherlock's earlier pose perfectly. He did not move, he just stared at the entwined hands in front of him. The look in his eyes was strangely amused; for some reason, it chilled John to the bone.
"Indeed," Holmes said eventually, "another surprise. And the night is still young."
***
The doorbell rang, and John seized the opportunity of the arrival of new guests and pulled Sherlock into a corner of the hall, almost knocking over a floor vase with the violin case he still had in his hand. Sherlock followed him slowly -John was sure that if he stopped dragging him Sherlock would simply stand still. "Sherlock? We really have to lea… "
"John? Oh, may I call you John?"
Turning his head, John found himself face-to-face with Mrs Holmes again.
Please, go away. "Ah, yes, of course you may, Mrs Holmes."
"Stop that! Call me Galiena, please?"
"… Thank you so much. It's an honour. Galiena." Go away!
Sherlock's mother smiled at him. "Please, give me the violin; I'll put it on the piano, shall I?" She beamed at Sherlock, who nodded and then she scurried off again.
"Can we go somewhere more private to talk? I'm sure your mother will be back the moment she…"
"No, she won't." Sherlock looked over to the entrance. "She has other things on her mind now. My father's best friend has just arrived."
The first thing John saw was Mycroft who stood aside and downed his drink like a sailor would and immediately filled his brandy glass again. Then he noticed a couple of men in dark suits with earpieces and grim faces. And then…
"Oh, Jesus Christ!"
"John…"
"Is that…?"
"Indeed. The reason Mycroft will be drunk in no time." Sherlock looked at John. "Do not worry, no one, not even my mother will introduce you. Just ignore him."
"I won't have to ignore him. We will leave."
"No."
"Sherlock…"
"No," Sherlock repeated, voice cold again. "I won't go anywhere. But…" he hesitated for a moment, then continued, "…you should leave." John snorted, but Sherlock shook his head. "It's the best solution for everyone. Leave. I want you to leave."
"You do not really think I would abandon you, leave you alone here with this bastard? Please tell me you don't think that."
"Don't be dramatic. It has nothing to do with you abandoning me, it is just…"
Suddenly angry, John interrupted him. "It has everything to do with abandonment!" Noticing how loud his voice had become, John swallowed and tried for calmness. "I won't leave without you. I want to stay with you."
There was a loud GONG.
Dinner bell. Wonderful. While he was watching Sherlock's cold expression, John wondered if he would be able to eat and actually swallow anything.
***
As it turned out, John could eat. As long as the bastard at the head of the table was able to gorge himself John would do the same. On and on, through soup and fish, he kept up with Holmes, bite for bite.
The seating arrangements were interesting, John thought. He was sure they had been changed for him, and him alone. I probably should feel honoured. At the head of the table, Sherlock's parents sat; right next to the bastard, John was sitting… in stabbing distance, which suited John fine. Opposite to him, Sherlock was sitting, eating slowly, his mother to his left, Mycroft to his right side.
Mycroft. Jesus. He was drinking the wine quickly as if he was scared it would be outlawed tomorrow. As far as John had seen, he hadn't eaten a thing yet.
To Mycroft's right side… John tried to not look at the man sitting there. He was a bit too… royal for him to stomach. John also did his best to ignore the bodyguards standing close to the wall, two behind Sherlock, the other two no doubt directly behind him.
The servants appeared again to clear away the second course. Richard Holmes sat back, kind of lounging on his chair. John looked away for a moment; it was hard for him to see how familiar the pose was. His gaze flitted back immediately, though, because Holmes started to speak. Until now, he had kept silent, letting his wife chatter like a bird throughout the whole meal; it had gotten on John's nerves badly, but now he wished she would keep going.
"Mycroft. You haven't eaten much. What is going on?"
Mycroft looked up, but before he could answer, his mother chopped in. "Are you still on a diet?" She laughed. "The poor boy has inherited my metabolism, I'm afraid." The conversation on the table started to ebb off and so her next words appeared to be even louder than they were. "Sherlock has been dealt better cards, haven't you, sweetie?" She laid a hand on Sherlock's forearm; he smiled at his mother.
"Yes, he is still a pretty thing, isn't he?"
To see Sherlock's reaction to his father's words was frightening; at least for John. He blushed and looked at his father, eyes very bright. For a glorious moment, John thought, Here we go. Finally. He was so ready to beat the shit out of Holmes that it took him a second to realise that Sherlock wasn't gearing himself up for a fight… not at all. He smiled at his father, a fleeting smile, there for a minute and gone again, with Sherlock looking down at his plate, but…
Taken aback and with no idea what was going on, John turned his face toward Holmes. And there it was, that look in his eyes, that perversely longing, owning, satisfied look John had already seen once, a few days ago at the hotel.
Very slowly, John took hold of the sharp silver knife that had been laid out for whatever meat would arrive with the next course. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Mycroft sitting up, tensing all over. Strange indeed, what Mycroft thought important and what not. With one short motion, John let the knife handle rap on the table, once. Immediate success; Holmes' eyes left his son and fixated John. Of course, they were mocking, looking back and forth between John's face and the knife in his hand. Letting himself imagine for a moment how easy it would be to slit the bastard's throat even through the silken scarf he no doubt had to wear tonight, John also smiled, broadly. Holmes watched him for another minute, then, suddenly, leaned forward quickly, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced, chin resting on the hands. He was very close. John felt his adrenaline levels skyrocketing. He carefully laid the knife down at the table again; he would not need a knife.
"Tell me, Dr Watson, do you take good care of my son? He is very dear to me."
"Very good care. Do not trouble yourself."
The ensuing silence was broken by Mrs Holmes. "Oh, I meant to ask you, how did you and Sherlock meet?"
John let his gaze leave Holmes as if he meant nothing. "A mutual friend introduced us and…"
"A mutual friend?" Holmes tossed in.
Mycroft coughed, but John did not need the warning. "Yes, a mutual friend," he repeated, sounding as if he was talking to a child, which was no mean feat, considering the mood he was in. Turning back to Sherlock's mother, he continued, "I just came back from Afghanistan and was looking for a flatmate. We…"
"Oh, so you are an army doctor?" the one person on the table John didn't even know how to address asked. He floundered for a moment, but for some reason, Holmes helped him out.
"Yes, he is. Fascinating, isn't it?"
"It is!" Mrs Holmes cut in again, eyes big. "Sweet Lord, what you must have seen!"
"Indeed!" Holmes' eyes became wide, too; he was now openly mocking his wife. "So you're… what? An expert at treating… bomb victims?"
John nodded slowly. "Yes. That and… treating gun shots."
This time, Mycroft's cough was for real. He was apparently choking on the wine. His mother shook her head wildly; a few more locks were escaping the bun on her head. For the first time, John felt uncomfortable looking at her. She was a bit beside herself, with hectic red blotches on her face and a strange gleam in her eyes. Her other guests seemed to share John's opinion. The table had fallen silent, only Holmes appeared unfazed.
"Terrible! Terrible! But back to you and Sherlock! So you shared a flat?"
John nodded again. He tried to catch Sherlock's eyes inconspicuously, to no avail; Sherlock stared down at the table top.
"And then you fell in love? How romantic! Oh tell me, why did you fall in love with Sherlock?"
By now, Holmes looked ready to burst out laughing, Mycroft looked like he wanted to vanish under the table, and the rest of their company seemed to hold their collected breath due to this unbelievable breach of protocol. Only Sherlock did not appear embarrassed, he did not flinch, in fact, he did not move at all.
What's not to love? But the words died on John's lips when Sherlock suddenly spoke up. "Mummy, please… a change of topic would be welcome. You're making John uncomfortable."
His mother blushed and stammered, "Oh, I'm sorry, John!" and Holmes leaned back on his chair, taking a sip of wine. John tried -again- to get Sherlock to look at him but his lover didn't play along; instead, he leaned over to Mycroft and murmured something that made his brother grunt.
The third course arrived.
***
Clutching the glass with water in one hand, John shifted around to find a somewhat comfortable position on the most uncomfortable chair he had ever sat on. Mycroft beside him sat ramrod straight, of course, maybe the alcohol helped blurring the edges of the carved wood.
The party had moved on to the living room after dinner was over. John bitterly regretted the two slices of Beef Wellington he had somehow managed to gobble down; they had turned to lead the moment he had entered the huge room and seen the gleaming black Schimmel grand piano standing centrally arranged in there. The violin case on it had already been opened, the violin waiting for Sherlock.
John looked past Mycroft at Sherlock, who stood engrossed in conversation with his mother and two elder women at the table where the presents were heaped up, then his gaze flitted over to the large fireplace behind the grand piano; there, Holmes leaned at the mantelpiece, laughing about something his apparent best friend just said to him. As if he could sense John's stare, Holmes raised his head and looked directly into John's eyes. For a minute, his expression was completely impassive, almost bored. He straightened up, put his tumbler on the mantel and took hold of the poker resting in the fire next to him. Drawing it out, Holmes moved it slightly from one side to the other, as if admiring the red-hot steel. His eyes never left John, though, not even for a second.
John didn't need to see the slow smile blooming on the bastard's face to know that he had gotten exactly what he had wanted from one John Watson; an infuriated, helpless, indubitably murderous and at the same time powerless looking man. It didn't matter. If Richard Holmes wanted to play head games with him for the rest of this fucked up visit… that was fine with John. The important matter was to keep Sherlock out of the line of fire. John could see from the corner of his eyes that Sherlock was still busy with the ladies; his mother was just hugging her youngest son close to her.
"John?"
Wondering how Mycroft still managed to appear completely sober, John murmured, "What?"
"What is going on right now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Between you and my father."
An angry answer already on the tip of his tongue, John reconsidered. Not sober. Dead drunk. "Shall I draw you a picture?" he finally hissed, trying for something between lack of comprehension and sarcasm, failing spectacularly.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
John almost growled. "The poker?"
"What about it?"
Mycroft looked bewildered, and John took a deep breath. How can he not know? How can he…?
"John?"
"Nothing. It's not… important." John swallowed. "Your father likes to play games, that's all."
Mycroft's expression hardened. "Don't let him get to you. He is not someone…"
Mycroft continued to talk, but John tuned him out; he was distracted by the bastard moving through the room, coming to a halt between his wife and Sherlock. And then… Holmes laid an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and John did not realise he had stood up until he felt Mycroft's hand circling his wrist like an iron shackle.
"John!" Mycroft hissed at him, but John wasn't moving anyway. He was watching Sherlock's parents and his lover, and what he saw did not make sense. Holmes said something that made the ladies laugh, his wife clapped her hands once and Sherlock… nodded, seemingly amicable. John shook his head slightly. He knew Sherlock had an incredible talent for self-control and a thousand masks at hand, but… they were so close, standing so close together and…
"John! I know this must be hard for you, but please, look at them. Follow Sherlock's example, would you? If he can do it you should be able, too!"
Looking down at Mycroft, John felt the overwhelming need to start screaming, at Mycroft, at Sherlock, at Sherlock's mother, at everyone present. In a barely constrained voice, he asked, "And why is that? Huh? Can you tell me why we have to go through this charade and…?"
"Ah, Dr Watson, I know these chairs are extremely uncomfortable. Do you want me to find something to bolster… you up?"
Mycroft's hand on his wrist fell away, and John turned around slowly. Holmes was directly in front of him, as close as he had been at the hotel, a soft smile playing on his lips. Behind him, Sherlock stood at the piano, tuning the violin and ignoring John completely.
"Dr Watson? Are you all right?"
It would be so easy to beat the bastard into a bloody pulp. It was also easy to see that this was exactly what Holmes wanted… he wanted John to attack him. And then what would happen? The guards would be over me before I'll get the first real punch thrown… and I would be dragged to the next police station to spend the night there. That is what he wants. John blinked once. "I am fine. But if you'd find me a cushion, it would be most appreciated."
Part Two
Sequel to: Ashes to Ashes
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Summary: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Wordcount: 11,800
Genres: Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Warnings: Violence, Sexual Abuse of a Child (in the past, mentioned), Suicidal Ideation
Spoiler: Reichenbach does not happen in this universe, everything else does. There are no spoilers, though.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC and Gatiss/Moffat; I'm making no money, this is just for fun. The summary is taken from the novel 'Rebecca' by Daphne du Maurier.
Author's Notes 1: Sequel to ' Ashes to Ashes'
Author's Notes 2: Trigger warning for discussions about the sexual abuse of a child and dealing with the aftermath. Please do heed the warning; quite a few readers of 'Ashes to Ashes' were upset about the story and honestly, this one isn't easy reading stuff, either. You have to trust me, though; I don't do unhappy endings.
A HUGE thank you to my lovely beta heavenlyxbodies, not only for wading through this thing but also for putting up with the author's brooding. Again, the biggest thanks to my sister E. for extreme-cheerleading. :)
Let's Dance
Experience: That most brutal of teachers.
But you learn, my God do you learn.
C.S. Lewis
"How would you phrase it? Ah, I remember: I am so disappointed with you."
"Sherlock…"
"Ah, ah! Let me continue. If you had a good day at the office you would say: I am so very, very disappointed with you."
Earplugs. Why didn't I think of earplugs?
It was certainly not the first time John had to listen to the Holmes brothers squabbling, but usually he could just leave, maybe even bang a door if he was in the mood for it. But he couldn't exactly open the door of a car driving far too fast on the M4. Well, he could. But it would definitely put a damper on this nice, sophisticated family outing. And on Sherlock's mood. John wasn't so sure about Mycroft's.
"You can't possibly believe…"
"This has not anything to do with believing. I am just stating the obvious."
Christ.
John wouldn't even mind if they would fight about something worthwhile, for example about the whereabouts of Dr Richard Holmes. Or about the very important, but for some reason not yet mentioned topic of what they would tell Mrs Holmes when she asked why John was accompanying Sherlock to her birthday party. But no, no. They were fighting because Mycroft had apparently chosen the wrong birthday present. No, that wasn't fair, he had chosen the right present… it just had the wrong colour.
"John, what do you think about…?"
"God, Sherlock, leave me out of this, will you?"
Immediately, Sherlock looked affronted, and John drew his shoulders up, pressed himself even further into his corner and stared out of the window at the landscape flying by, not seeing anything. He found it hard to cope with the way Sherlock was behaving, with the mask so firmly put in place. Rationally, John knew what was going on and hell, he even approved of it, but nonetheless, his emotions were clashing badly with his rationale.
Two days, it had been only two days and still, John had already gotten used to a gentler side of Sherlock, a softer… Gentle, soft, my arse! John huffed silently. He was the biggest sap running around freely in England. When he tried to think dispassionately of the last days, he would have to describe them as awkward, exhausting, and stressful. Sherlock and he, they had had a rocky start into a rocky relationship; moving from being friends to being lovers might sound easy, but it was not, especially not with the baggage they had to carry with them. They had to readjust boundaries and, of course, they had tried to do that without talking about it, so they had bumped into each other constantly, both physically and metaphorically. The whole time, John had been afraid of making a wrong move, and Sherlock had noticed it every time and had begun a fight with him. There had been lots of yelling. There had also been some tenderness. And that had usually started the next round of becoming afraid and fighting and yelling.
John could have sorted all this out if he managed to think about it objectively. He did not. He was flying high on endorphins. The last two mornings, he had woken up and spent, at least, one hour staring at the man who was miraculously sleeping beside him. Or on top of him. It had been no surprise; Sherlock Holmes was a cuddler. He had never really had any idea of keeping his distance, and now Sherlock was incredibly affectionate… whenever they were in a room with a bed in it. Or a fridge, John thought and frowned. One part of him wished it hadn't happened, at least, not the way it had. And he fervently wished Mycroft hadn't come by. John closed his eyes; he still could see Sherlock on the floor, head thrown back, utterly gone…
Mycroft cleared his throat, loudly. "John, you should… think of something else. We'll be at the house shortly."
Eyes snapping open, John looked at Mycroft for a moment, then nodded. "You're still on top of things. Would you be so kind to lay out the rules for me, how you want me to behave?"
Sherlock beside him started to frown, but John didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on Mycroft who had flushed slightly.
"Well, there is no reason for either of you to… alert everyone about your…"
"Our what?" Sherlock asked.
"The status of your relationship. I told Mummy that you are… friends, flatmates. You know how she is."
"Your mother is a homophobe?"
Mycroft's head turned back to John. "No, she is not," he said angrily, "not at all. Mother would be delighted; she would all but adopt you. But your relationship is very new and…I just do not want her to get used…" he trailed off again; suddenly he seemed more nervous than angry.
Sherlock sat back. John threw a quick look at him and winced; Sherlock's eyes were cold.
"Thank you so much for the confidence, Mycroft."
John looked down at his hands and sighed. He always had thought that Harry and he had a bad relationship, but their fights, they were nothing like what these two could do to each other with a few words. The real tragedy was that Mycroft was trying hard to get along with his brother and was still failing every time; while Sherlock was always assuming the worst from Mycroft.
The silence that followed was so loud and went on for so long it became almost unbearable for John. Careful what you wish for. You should have enjoyed the bickering. Already doubting the wisdom of his actions and doing it anyway, John reached out for Sherlock's hand with his own and was surprised when it got snatched immediately. He glanced at Sherlock again and found him staring out of the window. Following his gaze, John felt his eyes going wide. Sherlock's grip on his hand got tighter.
"That is… 'The House'?"
"Yes."
John tried not to gape, but could not stop. He had known -of course he had, from the first moment on- that Sherlock came from old money. But he hadn't expected something so… dramatic, there was no other word for it. It would still take them some time to reach it, but despite the distance, despite the ugly weather, it was beautiful. Pearly-white, situated on a hill, surrounded by firs, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. John shook his head. "Wow," he said softly. Sherlock cocked his head to the side and leaned forward, whispering into John's ear, "Mother calls it Manderley."
***
They had just gotten out of the car when the door to the house burst open and an extremely tiny and plump woman shot out, ran over to Sherlock and literally pounced on him. Laughing, Sherlock caught and hugged her, and she was talking even more quickly than John had ever heard Sherlock talking, out of breath and giggling and tousling her son's hair. John was rooted on the spot; this morning, Sherlock had told him -well, maybe 'warned' was the better word- that his mother was very sentimental, but still, John had imagined Mrs Holmes to be the exact opposite of what he could see now. He had expected a tall, lean, distinguished lady. After all, even the Queen herself would appear overly emotional between Mycroft and Sherlock.
Watching Mrs Holmes bouncing toward a laughing Mycroft -Jesus, Mycroft is laughing!- John retreated slowly to the boot where Mycroft's driver was just unloading their overnight bags, but before he could offer to lend a hand, John's arm got grabbed by Sherlock who drew him back to the others.
"Mummy, allow me to introduce Dr John Watson. John, this is my moth…"
Mrs Holmes interrupted him. "Oh, I am very happy to finally meet you, Dr Watson!" she beamed, enveloping John's hand between hers. "Mycroft told me so much about you!"
John heard a muffled sound coming from Mycroft, but he could not take his eyes off Sherlock's mother. She had a beautiful round face like a china doll with huge, slightly slanted blue eyes, long, long lashes, a shock of unruly salt-and-pepper locks pinned up into an enormous bun -her hair had to be very long- and a radiant smile that was all… Sherlock.
John swallowed. "Happy Birthday, Mrs Holmes. Thank you for the invitation."
"Oh, thank you! And Sherlock's friends are always welcome here," she laughed and glanced up at her son, open adoration in her eyes. John winced a bit at her words, but Sherlock didn't react to them at all, just leaned down again to kiss his mother's cheek. He looked incredibly young.
"Now, let us go inside! The weather's so nasty today; can you believe that they said it will snow tonight? Snow! Today of all days! I cannot imagine… No, please, Dr Watson, let Charles handle the bags!"
All of a sudden, the atmosphere changed. Sherlock froze, Mycroft frowned, and John had no idea what was going on; he looked back and forth between the brothers, Mrs Holmes, and a young man standing in front of him, reaching for the bag in John's hand.
"You're the young Charles Adams?" Mycroft asked in a cold tone, stalking over.
"Yes, sir," the guy answered, apparently intimidated. John could see why… Mycroft had lost his smile.
Mrs Holmes shook her head and tapped on Mycroft's arm. "I forgot to tell you; I employed Charles a week ago. We're so glad to have him!" Turning to John, who still didn't understand a word, she explained, "Charles' late grandfather was our butler for many years. His name was also Charles… it's all a bit confusing!" She laughed again and John forced a smile on his lips, while he watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.
Standing very upright, Sherlock looked at the house, expression blank.
The last item in the boot was Sherlock's violin case; John got hold of it, ignored Mycroft's prolonged, "I see," as well as Mrs Holmes' on-going chattiness and went over to his lover. "You okay?"
"I am fine," Sherlock answered calmly.
Right.
"Come on now, boys. You are late anyway!" Mrs Holmes hurried toward the front door, a miffed looking Mycroft on her heels. John and Sherlock followed them at a more leisurely pace -John worried and Sherlock seemingly unfazed again.
The moment they entered the hall, they were at once separated by several servants who descended on them like shepherd dogs parting their flock. The sudden heat and the babel of voices of God knew how many people felt like a physical attack to John. Dazed, he opened the white parka he was wearing over his best suit; one of the servants helped him out of it. Yet another one reached for the violin case, but John shook his head. "I'll keep that, thank you." He looked around for Sherlock to ask him where he wanted the violin. It took some time to find him. He and Mycroft were surrounded by people who all looked extremely posh; there was much shoulder-clapping going on. Every now and again, John caught glimpses of Mrs Holmes who seemed beside herself with joy.
John sighed; he had known beforehand that he would stick out like a sore thumb amidst those people and still, he felt a bit stupid, standing there alone, clutching a violin case. He let his eyes wander around, from the living room -Room? Hall!- filled with people and maids, who were juggling salvers with various drinks, to the impressive double staircase leading to the upper rooms and, to John's right, the dining hall where other servants hastened around an enormous dining table that was already decked out with blindingly shining crystal glasses and bowls, not to mention the gigantic chandelier that hung above it. Well, it may be a bit creepy but Manderley is definitely the right name for this place.
Wondering where the bathrooms were, John turned his head back to the cluster of people, when he suddenly noticed someone standing at the head of the previously empty staircase. And even before he raised his eyes, he knew, he knew whom he would see.
Impeccably groomed from head to toe, Sir Richard Holmes looked down at John, an amused smile on his face.
***
From one second to the other, John was flooded with hate; hate so intense he got dizzy from it. He took two quick steps forward, then, just as suddenly, he stopped again.
Sherlock!
Turning his head, he saw Sherlock standing with his back to him, one arm around his mother's shoulders. John looked back at Holmes who hadn't moved; only his smile had become taunting, and one eyebrow was raised mockingly.
Feeling completely impotent, John didn't know what to do. A sound escaped him, but instead of the expected growl or yell it was only a whimper. Torn between the need to fight and the need to protect, John threw another desperate, vain look in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock didn't notice a thing, but for some reason, Mycroft did. He turned slightly and looked at John questioningly… and then he saw his father. Immediately, his face became scarlet with a streak of white around the eyes.
Suddenly, the choice was easy. John decided to let Mycroft deal with his father. John's duty was to get Sherlock out of this house as soon as possible. He was almost right next to Sherlock when he realised his mistake. Mycroft did not move, did not take any action whatsoever; in fact, he didn't do anything besides getting his expression under control again. John, stunned, waved his hands around, but now Mycroft ignored him completely; his suddenly composed gaze was fixed on his father, who was already slowly going downstairs… and would reach the bottom any second now.
John gave up on Mycroft, gave up on attacking, gave up on anything, really, and closed the distance to his still unsuspecting lover. Without hesitating or paying any attention to decorum, he laid his arm around Sherlock's waist and ripped him away from the animated conversation with whomever and from Galiena Holmes, who almost overbalanced because her son had to let go of her all of a sudden. Sherlock made a startled noise and looked at him; whatever he saw on John's face made his eyes narrow.
"John? What…"
"We have to go. Now!" John whispered urgently.
"What happened? What…?" Sherlock leaned forward as if to get a closer look at John's face, then his gaze wandered over to Mycroft and he froze. John turned to also take a look and saw Mycroft striding towards his father, still with this weirdly unperturbed facial expression. John's grip on Sherlock's waist tightened. "Let's go."
"No." Sherlock stood very straight again.
"Sherlock…"
"Let go of me." Clipped, cold tone. "Stay out of this."
John, unable to let go, stared up at Sherlock. He felt at once sick to the stomach by what he saw. There was no trace of emotion, Sherlock's face and eyes were as cold as his voice. His gaze had left his brother and father; he was now looking at his mother who was on her way to husband and son.
"Stay out of what exactly?" John asked hoarsely.
Sherlock made a very pointed step away from him, and this time, John let him. "Control your temper, John."
Control my… "Dr Watson! Come and meet my husband, Richard!" Mrs Holmes beamed at her husband while Mycroft circled the couple and, instead of standing close to Sherlock, stopped beside John, a definite warning in his eyes.
"Dr Watson. Pleasure to meet you. Again." Richard Holmes' smile was broad, showing off pearly-white teeth.
John had always thought 'seeing red' was just an expression; now he knew better. He was filled with adrenaline; his mouth was bone-dry and at the back of his throat he could taste something metallic, like blood. Somehow, he managed a jerky nod. He couldn't have spoken a word if his life had depended on it.
Silence for a moment; then, unexpectedly, Mycroft began to speak. "Father has already met Dr Watson at the congress, Mother. John accompanied Sherlock."
"What? You already met up with Sherlock? But then… why did you want me to keep this a secret?"
Richard Holmes didn't answer for a few moments; he was looking at John, appraisingly. Finally, he turned to his wife. "I met Sherlock and Mycroft, Galiena. Since I wanted this to be a surprise, I told them I had to leave again."
"And they believed you?" Mrs Holmes laughed. "How silly!"
"Yes," John heard Mycroft's toneless voice next to him, "silly."
John willed himself to look away from Holmes and at Sherlock who stood beside him, still ramrod straight. He didn't notice John, but neither did he look at his parents anymore or at his brother; he stared straight ahead at the staircase, eyes dark. Worried to death and not at least willing anymore to think about what he should or should not do, John clutched Sherlock's hand. Fuck them. Fuck each and every one of them. The hand in his twitched nervously, but John held on tight.
Silence again; John heard Mrs Holmes taking a deep breath.
"Oh. OH! Why didn't you tell me?" she cried, and before John could blink he found himself engulfed in a tight hug, then Sherlock's mother whirled around to face her husband again. "Another surprise! How wonderful!"
Holmes' stance was mirroring Sherlock's earlier pose perfectly. He did not move, he just stared at the entwined hands in front of him. The look in his eyes was strangely amused; for some reason, it chilled John to the bone.
"Indeed," Holmes said eventually, "another surprise. And the night is still young."
***
The doorbell rang, and John seized the opportunity of the arrival of new guests and pulled Sherlock into a corner of the hall, almost knocking over a floor vase with the violin case he still had in his hand. Sherlock followed him slowly -John was sure that if he stopped dragging him Sherlock would simply stand still. "Sherlock? We really have to lea… "
"John? Oh, may I call you John?"
Turning his head, John found himself face-to-face with Mrs Holmes again.
Please, go away. "Ah, yes, of course you may, Mrs Holmes."
"Stop that! Call me Galiena, please?"
"… Thank you so much. It's an honour. Galiena." Go away!
Sherlock's mother smiled at him. "Please, give me the violin; I'll put it on the piano, shall I?" She beamed at Sherlock, who nodded and then she scurried off again.
"Can we go somewhere more private to talk? I'm sure your mother will be back the moment she…"
"No, she won't." Sherlock looked over to the entrance. "She has other things on her mind now. My father's best friend has just arrived."
The first thing John saw was Mycroft who stood aside and downed his drink like a sailor would and immediately filled his brandy glass again. Then he noticed a couple of men in dark suits with earpieces and grim faces. And then…
"Oh, Jesus Christ!"
"John…"
"Is that…?"
"Indeed. The reason Mycroft will be drunk in no time." Sherlock looked at John. "Do not worry, no one, not even my mother will introduce you. Just ignore him."
"I won't have to ignore him. We will leave."
"No."
"Sherlock…"
"No," Sherlock repeated, voice cold again. "I won't go anywhere. But…" he hesitated for a moment, then continued, "…you should leave." John snorted, but Sherlock shook his head. "It's the best solution for everyone. Leave. I want you to leave."
"You do not really think I would abandon you, leave you alone here with this bastard? Please tell me you don't think that."
"Don't be dramatic. It has nothing to do with you abandoning me, it is just…"
Suddenly angry, John interrupted him. "It has everything to do with abandonment!" Noticing how loud his voice had become, John swallowed and tried for calmness. "I won't leave without you. I want to stay with you."
There was a loud GONG.
Dinner bell. Wonderful. While he was watching Sherlock's cold expression, John wondered if he would be able to eat and actually swallow anything.
***
As it turned out, John could eat. As long as the bastard at the head of the table was able to gorge himself John would do the same. On and on, through soup and fish, he kept up with Holmes, bite for bite.
The seating arrangements were interesting, John thought. He was sure they had been changed for him, and him alone. I probably should feel honoured. At the head of the table, Sherlock's parents sat; right next to the bastard, John was sitting… in stabbing distance, which suited John fine. Opposite to him, Sherlock was sitting, eating slowly, his mother to his left, Mycroft to his right side.
Mycroft. Jesus. He was drinking the wine quickly as if he was scared it would be outlawed tomorrow. As far as John had seen, he hadn't eaten a thing yet.
To Mycroft's right side… John tried to not look at the man sitting there. He was a bit too… royal for him to stomach. John also did his best to ignore the bodyguards standing close to the wall, two behind Sherlock, the other two no doubt directly behind him.
The servants appeared again to clear away the second course. Richard Holmes sat back, kind of lounging on his chair. John looked away for a moment; it was hard for him to see how familiar the pose was. His gaze flitted back immediately, though, because Holmes started to speak. Until now, he had kept silent, letting his wife chatter like a bird throughout the whole meal; it had gotten on John's nerves badly, but now he wished she would keep going.
"Mycroft. You haven't eaten much. What is going on?"
Mycroft looked up, but before he could answer, his mother chopped in. "Are you still on a diet?" She laughed. "The poor boy has inherited my metabolism, I'm afraid." The conversation on the table started to ebb off and so her next words appeared to be even louder than they were. "Sherlock has been dealt better cards, haven't you, sweetie?" She laid a hand on Sherlock's forearm; he smiled at his mother.
"Yes, he is still a pretty thing, isn't he?"
To see Sherlock's reaction to his father's words was frightening; at least for John. He blushed and looked at his father, eyes very bright. For a glorious moment, John thought, Here we go. Finally. He was so ready to beat the shit out of Holmes that it took him a second to realise that Sherlock wasn't gearing himself up for a fight… not at all. He smiled at his father, a fleeting smile, there for a minute and gone again, with Sherlock looking down at his plate, but…
Taken aback and with no idea what was going on, John turned his face toward Holmes. And there it was, that look in his eyes, that perversely longing, owning, satisfied look John had already seen once, a few days ago at the hotel.
Very slowly, John took hold of the sharp silver knife that had been laid out for whatever meat would arrive with the next course. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Mycroft sitting up, tensing all over. Strange indeed, what Mycroft thought important and what not. With one short motion, John let the knife handle rap on the table, once. Immediate success; Holmes' eyes left his son and fixated John. Of course, they were mocking, looking back and forth between John's face and the knife in his hand. Letting himself imagine for a moment how easy it would be to slit the bastard's throat even through the silken scarf he no doubt had to wear tonight, John also smiled, broadly. Holmes watched him for another minute, then, suddenly, leaned forward quickly, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced, chin resting on the hands. He was very close. John felt his adrenaline levels skyrocketing. He carefully laid the knife down at the table again; he would not need a knife.
"Tell me, Dr Watson, do you take good care of my son? He is very dear to me."
"Very good care. Do not trouble yourself."
The ensuing silence was broken by Mrs Holmes. "Oh, I meant to ask you, how did you and Sherlock meet?"
John let his gaze leave Holmes as if he meant nothing. "A mutual friend introduced us and…"
"A mutual friend?" Holmes tossed in.
Mycroft coughed, but John did not need the warning. "Yes, a mutual friend," he repeated, sounding as if he was talking to a child, which was no mean feat, considering the mood he was in. Turning back to Sherlock's mother, he continued, "I just came back from Afghanistan and was looking for a flatmate. We…"
"Oh, so you are an army doctor?" the one person on the table John didn't even know how to address asked. He floundered for a moment, but for some reason, Holmes helped him out.
"Yes, he is. Fascinating, isn't it?"
"It is!" Mrs Holmes cut in again, eyes big. "Sweet Lord, what you must have seen!"
"Indeed!" Holmes' eyes became wide, too; he was now openly mocking his wife. "So you're… what? An expert at treating… bomb victims?"
John nodded slowly. "Yes. That and… treating gun shots."
This time, Mycroft's cough was for real. He was apparently choking on the wine. His mother shook her head wildly; a few more locks were escaping the bun on her head. For the first time, John felt uncomfortable looking at her. She was a bit beside herself, with hectic red blotches on her face and a strange gleam in her eyes. Her other guests seemed to share John's opinion. The table had fallen silent, only Holmes appeared unfazed.
"Terrible! Terrible! But back to you and Sherlock! So you shared a flat?"
John nodded again. He tried to catch Sherlock's eyes inconspicuously, to no avail; Sherlock stared down at the table top.
"And then you fell in love? How romantic! Oh tell me, why did you fall in love with Sherlock?"
By now, Holmes looked ready to burst out laughing, Mycroft looked like he wanted to vanish under the table, and the rest of their company seemed to hold their collected breath due to this unbelievable breach of protocol. Only Sherlock did not appear embarrassed, he did not flinch, in fact, he did not move at all.
What's not to love? But the words died on John's lips when Sherlock suddenly spoke up. "Mummy, please… a change of topic would be welcome. You're making John uncomfortable."
His mother blushed and stammered, "Oh, I'm sorry, John!" and Holmes leaned back on his chair, taking a sip of wine. John tried -again- to get Sherlock to look at him but his lover didn't play along; instead, he leaned over to Mycroft and murmured something that made his brother grunt.
The third course arrived.
***
Clutching the glass with water in one hand, John shifted around to find a somewhat comfortable position on the most uncomfortable chair he had ever sat on. Mycroft beside him sat ramrod straight, of course, maybe the alcohol helped blurring the edges of the carved wood.
The party had moved on to the living room after dinner was over. John bitterly regretted the two slices of Beef Wellington he had somehow managed to gobble down; they had turned to lead the moment he had entered the huge room and seen the gleaming black Schimmel grand piano standing centrally arranged in there. The violin case on it had already been opened, the violin waiting for Sherlock.
John looked past Mycroft at Sherlock, who stood engrossed in conversation with his mother and two elder women at the table where the presents were heaped up, then his gaze flitted over to the large fireplace behind the grand piano; there, Holmes leaned at the mantelpiece, laughing about something his apparent best friend just said to him. As if he could sense John's stare, Holmes raised his head and looked directly into John's eyes. For a minute, his expression was completely impassive, almost bored. He straightened up, put his tumbler on the mantel and took hold of the poker resting in the fire next to him. Drawing it out, Holmes moved it slightly from one side to the other, as if admiring the red-hot steel. His eyes never left John, though, not even for a second.
John didn't need to see the slow smile blooming on the bastard's face to know that he had gotten exactly what he had wanted from one John Watson; an infuriated, helpless, indubitably murderous and at the same time powerless looking man. It didn't matter. If Richard Holmes wanted to play head games with him for the rest of this fucked up visit… that was fine with John. The important matter was to keep Sherlock out of the line of fire. John could see from the corner of his eyes that Sherlock was still busy with the ladies; his mother was just hugging her youngest son close to her.
"John?"
Wondering how Mycroft still managed to appear completely sober, John murmured, "What?"
"What is going on right now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Between you and my father."
An angry answer already on the tip of his tongue, John reconsidered. Not sober. Dead drunk. "Shall I draw you a picture?" he finally hissed, trying for something between lack of comprehension and sarcasm, failing spectacularly.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
John almost growled. "The poker?"
"What about it?"
Mycroft looked bewildered, and John took a deep breath. How can he not know? How can he…?
"John?"
"Nothing. It's not… important." John swallowed. "Your father likes to play games, that's all."
Mycroft's expression hardened. "Don't let him get to you. He is not someone…"
Mycroft continued to talk, but John tuned him out; he was distracted by the bastard moving through the room, coming to a halt between his wife and Sherlock. And then… Holmes laid an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and John did not realise he had stood up until he felt Mycroft's hand circling his wrist like an iron shackle.
"John!" Mycroft hissed at him, but John wasn't moving anyway. He was watching Sherlock's parents and his lover, and what he saw did not make sense. Holmes said something that made the ladies laugh, his wife clapped her hands once and Sherlock… nodded, seemingly amicable. John shook his head slightly. He knew Sherlock had an incredible talent for self-control and a thousand masks at hand, but… they were so close, standing so close together and…
"John! I know this must be hard for you, but please, look at them. Follow Sherlock's example, would you? If he can do it you should be able, too!"
Looking down at Mycroft, John felt the overwhelming need to start screaming, at Mycroft, at Sherlock, at Sherlock's mother, at everyone present. In a barely constrained voice, he asked, "And why is that? Huh? Can you tell me why we have to go through this charade and…?"
"Ah, Dr Watson, I know these chairs are extremely uncomfortable. Do you want me to find something to bolster… you up?"
Mycroft's hand on his wrist fell away, and John turned around slowly. Holmes was directly in front of him, as close as he had been at the hotel, a soft smile playing on his lips. Behind him, Sherlock stood at the piano, tuning the violin and ignoring John completely.
"Dr Watson? Are you all right?"
It would be so easy to beat the bastard into a bloody pulp. It was also easy to see that this was exactly what Holmes wanted… he wanted John to attack him. And then what would happen? The guards would be over me before I'll get the first real punch thrown… and I would be dragged to the next police station to spend the night there. That is what he wants. John blinked once. "I am fine. But if you'd find me a cushion, it would be most appreciated."
Part Two