Fic: The Spy Who Loved Me (1/?)
John has come to believe that silence is a dangerous thing: whether it’s the silence before the policeman tells him both of his parents are dead, killed in a car crash; or the silence before the Taliban attack that leaves him half-dead, bleeding out through the bullet wound in his shoulder; even the silence moments before Sherlock pulls the trigger and detonates Moriarty’s bomb. Silence is a powerful omen that John has learnt to fear. So when he returns home from the surgery to find 221b Baker Street shrouded in just the kind of ominous silence that sends tingles down his spine, John is instantly worried.
He has experienced a number of different silences in his months in Baker Street, all of them subtly different. There is the silence that signals a strop of catastrophic proportions from his temperamental flatmate; this is occasionally brought on by a visit from Mycroft, but more often than not follows several days without a case. In this situation, he knows he will find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, looking petulant and refusing to speak and he knows by now that there is nothing he can do but wait for Sherlock to bring himself out of these black moods. This silence hangs over the flat for days on end and John escapes as often as he can until the storm passes.
Then there is the silence that usually accompanies a case: a different kind of silence - much less malign than the kind that fills Baker Street when there is nothing to occupy Sherlock’s brilliant mind. With this kind of silence, John will find Sherlock standing by the bulletin board, hands pressed together, eyes flicking over the evidence - perfectly still as his mind races at a million miles an hour, searching for the one clue which will reveal everything. This is the kind of silence that it is safe to break and John will gently prod, question, theorise - and it will finally be broken by loud exclamations from Sherlock, often followed soon after by a whirlwind exit from the flat.
Finally, the flat will descend into silence when Sherlock is completely focussed on some experiment or another and John will find him hunched over the table, beakers bubbling with god-only-knows-what or some part of the human anatomy on the table: the scientist in his element. These silences are only dangerous when Sherlock gets his hands on slightly more flammable - or even explosive - substances and John will stand at a safe distance, prepared for the worst. In Sherlock’s defence, only two experiments to date have led to an explosion, but John has learnt that caution pays when it comes to Sherlock.
John is familiar with all of these silences (intimately) but the silence he finds when he returns home that evening is something new. He sees Sherlock’s coat hanging on the banister, so it’s not that other (peaceful) silence which means Sherlock is out. Everything in Baker Street seems to have come to a stop and all he can hear is his own breathing. It is unsettling enough that as soon as he has thrown off his coat, he races up the stairs, wondering what new, awful thing he will find today. John throws open the door to the living room of their flat - and comes to a startled stop. Sherlock is sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace, his attention absorbed in a single sheet of paper - what looks like a letter. John would think this was a new twist on the silence accompanying a case - if not for the look on Sherlock’s face. He looks absolutely devastated.
“Sherlock?” he calls.
Sherlock makes no sign that he has even noticed John’s presence and John takes a step forward. His mind is running through all the horrible things that would cause this look on Sherlock’s face. Has Mycroft done something? No. Maybe something has happened to Mrs. Hudson? That can’t be it.
“Sherlock, what is it?” he finally asks, concern flooding his voice, “Moriarty?” It is the only thing he can think of that might have this effect on Sherlock.
Sherlock looks up finally and there is something awful in his eyes as he shakes his head.
“What is it then?”
John’s gaze is drawn to the sheet of paper which must be the cause of Sherlock’s strange mood and as soon as Sherlock notices his gaze, he hands it to him silently. John takes it with a frown, not missing the fact that Sherlock’s hand is trembling. John turns the paper over and recognises the letter instantly - at least, the type of letter. He’s seen enough of these to know what he will find in the formal phrases of the letter: We regret to inform you that so-and-so was killed in action. He was a brave soldier, fought for his country, our thoughts are with you at this time etc.etc. Cold, empty sentiment. The symbol at the top of the paper is not military though and it takes John a moment to recognise it: Secret Service.
His curiosity sufficiently peaked, John scans through the first few words and finds the name of the poor sod who’s been killed. Victor Trevor. It’s not a name he knows and he looks to Sherlock once more. Sherlock is staring at the floor, his fingers twisted together tightly.
“Is this for a case?” John asks in confusion.
Sherlock shakes his head again and John frowns.
“Who’s Victor Trevor then?”
Sherlock raises his head and there’s a twitch in his expression but before John can get his answer, he hears footsteps on the stairs behind him and Sherlock’s gaze narrows on the door. John turns just in time to see Mycroft reaching the door, but his attention is instantly drawn back to Sherlock, who rises to his feet and pushes past Mycroft before he is barely in the room.
“I don’t want to see you,” Sherlock gets out, “Not now.”
The door to Sherlock’s bedroom slams a moment later and John stares at it in astonishment for several long moments before turning his confused gaze on Mycroft.
“Am I missing something?”
Mycroft’s face is twisted with something like sympathy - it doesn’t sit quite right on him - and his eyes flick to the paper still in John’s hand.
“Is that about Victor?”
“Yes,” John answers. Of course Mycroft would know what was going on.
“I just heard,” Mycroft explains, his forehead creasing into a frown as he looks towards Sherlock’s room, “I came as soon as I could.”
“Okay, wait, who on earth is Victor Trevor?” John asks impatiently.
Mycroft eyes him for a few moments before speaking up in reply.
“If Sherlock hasn’t told you himself, it’s not really my place to say,” he murmurs, pausing in consideration before he continues, “Saying that, he may need you now more than ever.”
Mycroft considers for another moment, leaving John hanging in anticipation, before he finally speaks up, his eyes flicking briefly towards Sherlock’s bedroom.
“Victor Trevor was Sherlock’s partner.”
John gives a little huff of surprise.
“What, you’re telling me he used to have someone else to fetch his phone for him and -“
John freezes, the expression on Mycroft’s face making it clear he’s got it very wrong, “Oh. Oh. Not that kind of partner.”
“No.”
John’s head is spinning with this sudden - unexpected - revelation but before he can ask any of the many questions he suddenly has, Mycroft speaks up.
“I have to go,” Mycroft says, “John, please, keep an eye on him.”
This is the first time John has actually heard Mycroft sound like an older brother who is genuinely concerned for his little brother and it stills him, forces him to nod silently in answer to Mycroft’s plea.
Mycroft throws one last torn look towards Sherlock’s bedroom and turns and leaves. John stands there in silence, the letter still clutched in his hand, his eyes fixed in bewilderment on Sherlock’s closed door. He doesn’t know what to do with the information at hand, too much - too unreal - for him to deal with. His feet draw him forward and he lingers outside Sherlock’s bedroom door, hand raised to knock - and then falling to his side once more as he lets out a sigh, turns and heads into the kitchen to make tea.
On the other side of the door, Sherlock sits on his bed, a small metal box thrown open in front of him, its contents spilling over his sheets. He hasn’t looked at these pictures for two years. He has been so strong. And all for nothing, because Victor is gone. He doesn’t even notice the tears that fall from his eyes, trailing over his cheeks and dripping onto the picture he is clutching in his hand desperately. Victor is gone.
Chapter Two
He has experienced a number of different silences in his months in Baker Street, all of them subtly different. There is the silence that signals a strop of catastrophic proportions from his temperamental flatmate; this is occasionally brought on by a visit from Mycroft, but more often than not follows several days without a case. In this situation, he knows he will find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, looking petulant and refusing to speak and he knows by now that there is nothing he can do but wait for Sherlock to bring himself out of these black moods. This silence hangs over the flat for days on end and John escapes as often as he can until the storm passes.
Then there is the silence that usually accompanies a case: a different kind of silence - much less malign than the kind that fills Baker Street when there is nothing to occupy Sherlock’s brilliant mind. With this kind of silence, John will find Sherlock standing by the bulletin board, hands pressed together, eyes flicking over the evidence - perfectly still as his mind races at a million miles an hour, searching for the one clue which will reveal everything. This is the kind of silence that it is safe to break and John will gently prod, question, theorise - and it will finally be broken by loud exclamations from Sherlock, often followed soon after by a whirlwind exit from the flat.
Finally, the flat will descend into silence when Sherlock is completely focussed on some experiment or another and John will find him hunched over the table, beakers bubbling with god-only-knows-what or some part of the human anatomy on the table: the scientist in his element. These silences are only dangerous when Sherlock gets his hands on slightly more flammable - or even explosive - substances and John will stand at a safe distance, prepared for the worst. In Sherlock’s defence, only two experiments to date have led to an explosion, but John has learnt that caution pays when it comes to Sherlock.
John is familiar with all of these silences (intimately) but the silence he finds when he returns home that evening is something new. He sees Sherlock’s coat hanging on the banister, so it’s not that other (peaceful) silence which means Sherlock is out. Everything in Baker Street seems to have come to a stop and all he can hear is his own breathing. It is unsettling enough that as soon as he has thrown off his coat, he races up the stairs, wondering what new, awful thing he will find today. John throws open the door to the living room of their flat - and comes to a startled stop. Sherlock is sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace, his attention absorbed in a single sheet of paper - what looks like a letter. John would think this was a new twist on the silence accompanying a case - if not for the look on Sherlock’s face. He looks absolutely devastated.
“Sherlock?” he calls.
Sherlock makes no sign that he has even noticed John’s presence and John takes a step forward. His mind is running through all the horrible things that would cause this look on Sherlock’s face. Has Mycroft done something? No. Maybe something has happened to Mrs. Hudson? That can’t be it.
“Sherlock, what is it?” he finally asks, concern flooding his voice, “Moriarty?” It is the only thing he can think of that might have this effect on Sherlock.
Sherlock looks up finally and there is something awful in his eyes as he shakes his head.
“What is it then?”
John’s gaze is drawn to the sheet of paper which must be the cause of Sherlock’s strange mood and as soon as Sherlock notices his gaze, he hands it to him silently. John takes it with a frown, not missing the fact that Sherlock’s hand is trembling. John turns the paper over and recognises the letter instantly - at least, the type of letter. He’s seen enough of these to know what he will find in the formal phrases of the letter: We regret to inform you that so-and-so was killed in action. He was a brave soldier, fought for his country, our thoughts are with you at this time etc.etc. Cold, empty sentiment. The symbol at the top of the paper is not military though and it takes John a moment to recognise it: Secret Service.
His curiosity sufficiently peaked, John scans through the first few words and finds the name of the poor sod who’s been killed. Victor Trevor. It’s not a name he knows and he looks to Sherlock once more. Sherlock is staring at the floor, his fingers twisted together tightly.
“Is this for a case?” John asks in confusion.
Sherlock shakes his head again and John frowns.
“Who’s Victor Trevor then?”
Sherlock raises his head and there’s a twitch in his expression but before John can get his answer, he hears footsteps on the stairs behind him and Sherlock’s gaze narrows on the door. John turns just in time to see Mycroft reaching the door, but his attention is instantly drawn back to Sherlock, who rises to his feet and pushes past Mycroft before he is barely in the room.
“I don’t want to see you,” Sherlock gets out, “Not now.”
The door to Sherlock’s bedroom slams a moment later and John stares at it in astonishment for several long moments before turning his confused gaze on Mycroft.
“Am I missing something?”
Mycroft’s face is twisted with something like sympathy - it doesn’t sit quite right on him - and his eyes flick to the paper still in John’s hand.
“Is that about Victor?”
“Yes,” John answers. Of course Mycroft would know what was going on.
“I just heard,” Mycroft explains, his forehead creasing into a frown as he looks towards Sherlock’s room, “I came as soon as I could.”
“Okay, wait, who on earth is Victor Trevor?” John asks impatiently.
Mycroft eyes him for a few moments before speaking up in reply.
“If Sherlock hasn’t told you himself, it’s not really my place to say,” he murmurs, pausing in consideration before he continues, “Saying that, he may need you now more than ever.”
Mycroft considers for another moment, leaving John hanging in anticipation, before he finally speaks up, his eyes flicking briefly towards Sherlock’s bedroom.
“Victor Trevor was Sherlock’s partner.”
John gives a little huff of surprise.
“What, you’re telling me he used to have someone else to fetch his phone for him and -“
John freezes, the expression on Mycroft’s face making it clear he’s got it very wrong, “Oh. Oh. Not that kind of partner.”
“No.”
John’s head is spinning with this sudden - unexpected - revelation but before he can ask any of the many questions he suddenly has, Mycroft speaks up.
“I have to go,” Mycroft says, “John, please, keep an eye on him.”
This is the first time John has actually heard Mycroft sound like an older brother who is genuinely concerned for his little brother and it stills him, forces him to nod silently in answer to Mycroft’s plea.
Mycroft throws one last torn look towards Sherlock’s bedroom and turns and leaves. John stands there in silence, the letter still clutched in his hand, his eyes fixed in bewilderment on Sherlock’s closed door. He doesn’t know what to do with the information at hand, too much - too unreal - for him to deal with. His feet draw him forward and he lingers outside Sherlock’s bedroom door, hand raised to knock - and then falling to his side once more as he lets out a sigh, turns and heads into the kitchen to make tea.
On the other side of the door, Sherlock sits on his bed, a small metal box thrown open in front of him, its contents spilling over his sheets. He hasn’t looked at these pictures for two years. He has been so strong. And all for nothing, because Victor is gone. He doesn’t even notice the tears that fall from his eyes, trailing over his cheeks and dripping onto the picture he is clutching in his hand desperately. Victor is gone.
Chapter Two