FIC: A Weekend in the Country (3/6)
Title: A Weekend in the Country (2/6)
Author: Winter_of_our_Discontent ( winter_hermit)
Betas: analineblue, lareinenoire
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Holmes, Q (Skyfall), Martin Crieff (Cabin Pressure), Merlin (The Adventures of Merlin)
Rating: PG13
Warnings: none
Summary:
“It may interest you to know, John, that while Sherlock is of course my younger brother, he is not my only brother.”
“Oh god,” John said, pulling himself upright, “there are more of you?”
Wherein John finally meets Sherlock’s brothers (all of them) and his mother, imagines the Christmas dinners, and learns a great deal more about his flatmate and himself.
A/N: Since Skyfall, I’ve seen a number of fics featuring Q as a younger Holmes brother. That, of course, led to me thinking about some of the other characters I’ve seen added to the Holmes clan in fanfiction, and ended with me deciding to go for broke.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three on AO3 or below this
John woke up to a Sherlock-free room, though from the state of the duvet it looked like Sherlock had remained some time after John had fallen asleep.
Hopefully Sherlock had actually slept at some point. They’d only recently finished their last case, which meant he’d be working at a sleep deficit, and today was likely to be challenging enough without worrying about Sherlock falling over in the middle of it.
John carried his toiletries and a change of clothes down the hall to the large bathroom near the end of it. However old the house was, the plumbing was clearly newer, as the hot water was plentiful and the water pressure firm. He sincerely hoped that whatever was on the schedule for today would be a bit less formal, as he didn’t much fancy an entire weekend in his suit. The fact that Mycroft’s assistants had packed jeans and jumpers was certainly a promising sign, John decided as he changed into jeans, a checked button down, and a burgundy cardigan.
On the way to the stairs he passed the room next to his, Sherlock’s old bedroom. John paused, wondering if he should… Sherlock was probably gone by now, the room empty. And it wasn’t as though the tall git ever respected his privacy.
John rapped on the door once. No answer. He said Sherlock’s name, still no answer.
Satisfied the room was empty, John carefully opened the door.
The bed was pristine, as was the rest of the room. It actually looked even more like a hotel room than John’s pseudo-Victorian B&B of a guest room, which had at least been personalized a bit with extraneous antique furniture and some indifferent oil paintings. Here, the walls were bare. John’s bed was bigger, too, no wonder Sherlock would rather stay in the guest room than this one.
He wondered if Sherlock had simply moved all of his things to Baker Street or if there was more to the story.
He wondered if Sherlock would ever trust him enough to tell him if there was.
Downstairs, John found Freddie, Martin, and Merlin tucking into breakfast, Martin and Merlin as though they hadn’t, contrary to John’s actual memories of last night, ever eaten before nor did they apparently expect to do so again.
The table and several sideboards were laden with food in the fullest Full English John had ever seen. He filled a plate rather optimistically with bits of a half dozen things, then topped the arrangement rather whimsically with an orange from an actual fruit pyramid.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“Mmfp.”
“Mwnng.”
John made a valiant effort, but in the end the breakfast defeated him, leaving him with a half empty plate, a half eaten orange, and a strong urge to nap for the rest of the weekend. “Where’s…” he stopped himself from saying Sherlock, even if he meant Sherlock, because asking about him specifically seemed a bit needy, and changed it to “everyone else this morning?”
Unsurprisingly, it was Freddie who answered. “Mycroft’s off doing all the things he can’t possibly leave alone even though he’s supposed to be taking the weekend off, and Sherlock and Mother are talking.”
“Ah,” John said.
“They’ll likely be a bit longer… Fancy a bit of shooting? Not live targets, we’ve got a sort of a range set up in back.”
“I didn’t figure you for the sort,” John said, surprised but amenable. Target practice was certainly preferable to hanging about here, waiting for Sherlock to finish his talk and worrying about how it was going.
Freddie shrugged. “Sometimes a trigger needs pulling. Best to know how.”
John thought of Afghanistan, and of a night, a bit less distant, at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College. “Yeah, I suppose so.” He turned to the other Holmes. “Either of you interested?”
Merlin shook his head, “My weapon of choice is scathing journal reviews with cutting dissections of their methodological errors.”
Freddie added, “A gun in his hand would be more dangerous to him than anyone else.”
“But you should see me with a red pen,” Merlin said, grinning. “Absolutely lethal at twenty paces.” He mimed throwing a pen like a tiny javelin.
“I’m only good at hitting the ground. With my plane. Which isn’t to say I crash!” Martin hastily added. “Just… landing. Which I’m quite good at, actually. Well, I mean, of course I am. I mean, pilot, after all.”
***
John tried not to react suspiciously when Freddie handed him a Sig Sauer. Not his Sig, thankfully, that was (hopefully) still safely hidden back in his flat, in a location he liked to pretend very hard that Sherlock didn’t know about.
“Good gun,” he said, turning it over in his hands. The gun was excellently maintained and in perfect working order, unsurprisingly. The weight felt comfortable in his hands.
“Thought you might enjoy something you were familiar with,” Freddie said, the slightest hint of a smile on his face.
Bloody Holmeses. He might have just meant the Sig was standard issue army, in which case it meant he knew something about John’s history, he might have meant that Sherlock, or more likely Mycroft, had mentioned that John still had one, or he might have meant that he could somehow look at John and know, with full Holmesian confidence and no prior knowledge, that of course John had an illicitly acquired firearm of this particular make and model.
He decided not to overthink it. Sometimes a gun was just a gun, and sometimes a nice gesture was just a nice gesture. Unless it was Mycroft’s.
“What’ll you be shooting with?” John asked, politely curious, as they made their way away from the house. “Another Sig?”
Freddie shook his head. “Walther PPK.”
“That’s an… interesting choice.”
“Surprisingly popular in certain circles,” Freddie said, smiling again. The smile looked a little like one of Sherlock’s, though it had a restraint that none of his possessed.
There was something meditative about target practice. Far removed from the adrenaline and noise of a combat setting, it was instead a sort of controlled communion between yourself, your weapon, and the target you were sighting.
There was a gun club in London that John used whenever he could find time; it was conveniently close to a Tube stop and catered to a number of veterans. He appreciated being able to practice at all, but being able to shoot outside again felt wonderful. Here the skies were greyish and chill enough for him to be grateful for his jacket, and the air smelled damp and fresh thanks to a slight breeze, free of the lingering gunpowder scent that clung to indoor ranges. It felt pleasantly challenging needing to adjust for humidity and wind when he aimed.
“You’re the expert, obviously, but I think they’re dead,” Freddie said eventually.
“Cry God for Harry, England, and St. George,” John replied, grinning. Their paper targets now boasted an impressive array of fatal wounds to the chest and head. “You’re a damn good shot.”
“You’re no slouch yourself, Captain.”
“Ta,” John said, pleased, as they made their way back to the manor house. A tiny part of him relished the opportunity to show off any of his skills a bit in front of Sherlock’s family, especially in a way that was a great deal pleasanter than performing an emergency tracheotomy at the dinner table. Though at least if he ever did have to, the Holmes clan weren’t likely to be as squeamish about it as the time he’d had to on his then-girlfriend’s uncle over Christmas. Her parents had been effusive in their thanks and praise, but Emma had barely been able to look him in the eyes afterwards, and they’d broken up by mid-January.
Sherlock would probably just critique his technique.
Author: Winter_of_our_Discontent ( winter_hermit)
Betas: analineblue, lareinenoire
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Holmes, Q (Skyfall), Martin Crieff (Cabin Pressure), Merlin (The Adventures of Merlin)
Rating: PG13
Warnings: none
Summary:
“It may interest you to know, John, that while Sherlock is of course my younger brother, he is not my only brother.”
“Oh god,” John said, pulling himself upright, “there are more of you?”
Wherein John finally meets Sherlock’s brothers (all of them) and his mother, imagines the Christmas dinners, and learns a great deal more about his flatmate and himself.
A/N: Since Skyfall, I’ve seen a number of fics featuring Q as a younger Holmes brother. That, of course, led to me thinking about some of the other characters I’ve seen added to the Holmes clan in fanfiction, and ended with me deciding to go for broke.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three on AO3 or below this
John woke up to a Sherlock-free room, though from the state of the duvet it looked like Sherlock had remained some time after John had fallen asleep.
Hopefully Sherlock had actually slept at some point. They’d only recently finished their last case, which meant he’d be working at a sleep deficit, and today was likely to be challenging enough without worrying about Sherlock falling over in the middle of it.
John carried his toiletries and a change of clothes down the hall to the large bathroom near the end of it. However old the house was, the plumbing was clearly newer, as the hot water was plentiful and the water pressure firm. He sincerely hoped that whatever was on the schedule for today would be a bit less formal, as he didn’t much fancy an entire weekend in his suit. The fact that Mycroft’s assistants had packed jeans and jumpers was certainly a promising sign, John decided as he changed into jeans, a checked button down, and a burgundy cardigan.
On the way to the stairs he passed the room next to his, Sherlock’s old bedroom. John paused, wondering if he should… Sherlock was probably gone by now, the room empty. And it wasn’t as though the tall git ever respected his privacy.
John rapped on the door once. No answer. He said Sherlock’s name, still no answer.
Satisfied the room was empty, John carefully opened the door.
The bed was pristine, as was the rest of the room. It actually looked even more like a hotel room than John’s pseudo-Victorian B&B of a guest room, which had at least been personalized a bit with extraneous antique furniture and some indifferent oil paintings. Here, the walls were bare. John’s bed was bigger, too, no wonder Sherlock would rather stay in the guest room than this one.
He wondered if Sherlock had simply moved all of his things to Baker Street or if there was more to the story.
He wondered if Sherlock would ever trust him enough to tell him if there was.
Downstairs, John found Freddie, Martin, and Merlin tucking into breakfast, Martin and Merlin as though they hadn’t, contrary to John’s actual memories of last night, ever eaten before nor did they apparently expect to do so again.
The table and several sideboards were laden with food in the fullest Full English John had ever seen. He filled a plate rather optimistically with bits of a half dozen things, then topped the arrangement rather whimsically with an orange from an actual fruit pyramid.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“Mmfp.”
“Mwnng.”
John made a valiant effort, but in the end the breakfast defeated him, leaving him with a half empty plate, a half eaten orange, and a strong urge to nap for the rest of the weekend. “Where’s…” he stopped himself from saying Sherlock, even if he meant Sherlock, because asking about him specifically seemed a bit needy, and changed it to “everyone else this morning?”
Unsurprisingly, it was Freddie who answered. “Mycroft’s off doing all the things he can’t possibly leave alone even though he’s supposed to be taking the weekend off, and Sherlock and Mother are talking.”
“Ah,” John said.
“They’ll likely be a bit longer… Fancy a bit of shooting? Not live targets, we’ve got a sort of a range set up in back.”
“I didn’t figure you for the sort,” John said, surprised but amenable. Target practice was certainly preferable to hanging about here, waiting for Sherlock to finish his talk and worrying about how it was going.
Freddie shrugged. “Sometimes a trigger needs pulling. Best to know how.”
John thought of Afghanistan, and of a night, a bit less distant, at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College. “Yeah, I suppose so.” He turned to the other Holmes. “Either of you interested?”
Merlin shook his head, “My weapon of choice is scathing journal reviews with cutting dissections of their methodological errors.”
Freddie added, “A gun in his hand would be more dangerous to him than anyone else.”
“But you should see me with a red pen,” Merlin said, grinning. “Absolutely lethal at twenty paces.” He mimed throwing a pen like a tiny javelin.
“I’m only good at hitting the ground. With my plane. Which isn’t to say I crash!” Martin hastily added. “Just… landing. Which I’m quite good at, actually. Well, I mean, of course I am. I mean, pilot, after all.”
***
John tried not to react suspiciously when Freddie handed him a Sig Sauer. Not his Sig, thankfully, that was (hopefully) still safely hidden back in his flat, in a location he liked to pretend very hard that Sherlock didn’t know about.
“Good gun,” he said, turning it over in his hands. The gun was excellently maintained and in perfect working order, unsurprisingly. The weight felt comfortable in his hands.
“Thought you might enjoy something you were familiar with,” Freddie said, the slightest hint of a smile on his face.
Bloody Holmeses. He might have just meant the Sig was standard issue army, in which case it meant he knew something about John’s history, he might have meant that Sherlock, or more likely Mycroft, had mentioned that John still had one, or he might have meant that he could somehow look at John and know, with full Holmesian confidence and no prior knowledge, that of course John had an illicitly acquired firearm of this particular make and model.
He decided not to overthink it. Sometimes a gun was just a gun, and sometimes a nice gesture was just a nice gesture. Unless it was Mycroft’s.
“What’ll you be shooting with?” John asked, politely curious, as they made their way away from the house. “Another Sig?”
Freddie shook his head. “Walther PPK.”
“That’s an… interesting choice.”
“Surprisingly popular in certain circles,” Freddie said, smiling again. The smile looked a little like one of Sherlock’s, though it had a restraint that none of his possessed.
There was something meditative about target practice. Far removed from the adrenaline and noise of a combat setting, it was instead a sort of controlled communion between yourself, your weapon, and the target you were sighting.
There was a gun club in London that John used whenever he could find time; it was conveniently close to a Tube stop and catered to a number of veterans. He appreciated being able to practice at all, but being able to shoot outside again felt wonderful. Here the skies were greyish and chill enough for him to be grateful for his jacket, and the air smelled damp and fresh thanks to a slight breeze, free of the lingering gunpowder scent that clung to indoor ranges. It felt pleasantly challenging needing to adjust for humidity and wind when he aimed.
“You’re the expert, obviously, but I think they’re dead,” Freddie said eventually.
“Cry God for Harry, England, and St. George,” John replied, grinning. Their paper targets now boasted an impressive array of fatal wounds to the chest and head. “You’re a damn good shot.”
“You’re no slouch yourself, Captain.”
“Ta,” John said, pleased, as they made their way back to the manor house. A tiny part of him relished the opportunity to show off any of his skills a bit in front of Sherlock’s family, especially in a way that was a great deal pleasanter than performing an emergency tracheotomy at the dinner table. Though at least if he ever did have to, the Holmes clan weren’t likely to be as squeamish about it as the time he’d had to on his then-girlfriend’s uncle over Christmas. Her parents had been effusive in their thanks and praise, but Emma had barely been able to look him in the eyes afterwards, and they’d broken up by mid-January.
Sherlock would probably just critique his technique.