The Irresistibility of Orbits, Part Two: The Forgetting of Things Past. Chapter Six
Title: The Irresisitibility of Orbits, Part Two: The Forgetting of Things Past. Chapter Six. Lord Holmes' Skeleton
author: ghislainem70
Word count: 2950
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns from Afghanistan.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Moffat, Gatiss, BBC et al.
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to mental illnes, reference to non-con, massive dose of angst and hurt/comfort.
Chapter Six. Lord Holmes' Skeleton
We were in heaven, you & I --
When I lay with you
and close my eyes,
Our fïngers touch the sky.
I'm sorry baby,
You were the sun & moon to me --
I'll never get over you.
You'll never get over me.
Lyrics to Sun and Moon, All Rights Reserved Above & Beyond
The next morning McLeod opened the door to the billiard room to give it an airing, and was surprised to find Sherlock sitting upon one of the great leather Knole sofas, wide awake. John was there too, sleeping peacefully across the sofa cushions, his head resting in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock was sitting still as a statue so as not to wake him. He was watching John's sleeping face, and gave the impression that he probably hadn't moved a muscle for hours.
He frowned severely at McLeod and jerked his head in the direction of the door to indicate that she should withdraw. And she did, a pleased smile wreathing her strong, kind features.
Several hours later, John finally stirred. The throbbing in his head was nearly gone. Just a little ache behind his eyes reminded him of the agony of yesterday. But when he opened his eyes he forgot all about pain and instead felt the rush of joy upon seeing Sherlock's serious face bent watchfully over his.
"I'm not dreaming, am I?" He was only half-joking.
Sherlock shook his head. "Not unless I am, too." Sherlock took John's hand. "You need to eat something. You haven't since breakfast yesterday. It's not good for you, John, you need to get stronger."
John grinned a little, remembering what he had said last night.
"You, too, Sherlock. I haven't seen you take a bite since you had that amazing chocolate cake."
"So you were watching me eat chocolate, were you? I shall bear that in mind."
John laughed. "Well you should. It brings very interesting thoughts to my mind."
Sherlock looked both wicked and smug. "Promises, promises, John. Hardly fair, under the circumstances. Come, let's go plague Blessing."
John was very puzzled. Plague blessing? Was his disordered mind even more disordered than he supposed? Was this some arcane Yorkshire religious practice? Was he supposed to know what to do? Sherlock watched the various expressions of puzzlement and mystification pass over John's features. He sighed contentedly.
"Blessing, John, is Riddleston's cook. Finest in the county."
John grinned. " Lead the way, then. I'm famished.". He kissed Sherlock hungrily. "And never fear, if this Blessing made that dinner our first night, I'll be back to fighting strength in no time."
* * *
They padded down seemingly endless halls until they came to the kitchen, a vast, dark Victorian space with long white marble counters, row after row of polished copper pans of every size and shape, and a huge plate cabinet displaying an immense collection of red and white patterned plates. In its day, the kitchen had routinely turned out breakfast, supper, teas, and dinner for the family, its regular retinue of houseguests, and staff of thirty.
Mrs. Blessing was resting with a cup of tea at the scarred old rectory table, having provided a hearty breakfast for the household. A covered bowl of bread dough rising was at Mrs. Blessing's elbow. She was in fact McLeod's cousin, surprisingly tall and angular for a cook; rather than stout like her cousin. But her eyes had the same cheerful, energetic twinkle and she burst into a lovely if toothy smile upon seeing Sherlock and John.
"Mister Sherlock, look at you!". Sherlock embraced her warmly. "You've shrunk to nothing but bones, lad. And who is this handsome gentleman? Is this Captain Watson, then? My husband was a soldier, you know. It's an honor and a pleasure, I'm sure," she said. "Now, you didn't come down just to chat. McLeod told me as you both missed breakfast. London ways, I suppose, although your dear mother is always so particular about a proper breakfast. Now, you must take something, lads."
John was sure she could hear his stomach rumbling. In a flash Mrs. Blessing brought forth hearty slices of ham and egg pie, crispy bacon, fresh scones with jam and clotted cream, a wedge of cheese and a plate of fresh fruit, all washed down with mugs of fragrant hot tea. While she worked she paused to punch down the lump of dough.
"This will be for this afternoon's tea. Lady Holmes is a bit downcast, if you don't mind my saying so, Mister Sherlock. This bread is her favorite, I wanted to do my bit to cheer her up. We heard about poor Fredericka's lass. A terrible shock, no one knows what to think,". She said. "I heard she may have come up early, and got lost on the way to the Hall. And here was a hunting accident, wasn't there?"
"Possibly," Sherlock said. "It appears that may be the explanation. Mrs. Blessing, did Fredericka ever speak to you about her daughter? About Henrietta?"
Mrs. Blessing nodded. "That she did. She made me swear never to tell a soul, she were that ashamed. Not on the lass, you understand. She sent every spare penny of her wages to her Scots aunt who took in the wee lass as a babe. Would have been a tidy sum, Lady Holmes' so generous, you know. Fredericka always said though she were a lady's maid, her own daughter were to be a lady."
"Did you ever meet Henrietta? Do you know anything about her circumstances? Where was she living? Is she married?"
"No, that I didn't. I don't know such things, sir; maybe Lady Holmes might, seeing as the poor lass were to be visiting the Hall. I don't mind saying, Mister Sherlock, that I'm glad now that I never did meet her. It would make it worse, somehow. I hope you don't take that wrong."
They were now comfortably full, even Sherlock had eaten what was, for him, a truly vast quantity of the delicious fare. He turned to John.
"It's time for you to meet Figaro, John," he announced. John almost protested, feeling that riding a horse with Sherlock, such an expert horseman, would just be another opportunity to look weak, foolish or both. But he had loved riding as a lad, and getting out into the countryside sounded wonderful. He was afraid if he stayed in the Hall he would just lounge about, eating and drinking, and generally becoming a useless sloth. And he was more motivated now than ever to recover his strength.
" Let's go, then," he agreed. They thanked Mrs Blessing for breakfast and accepted a satchel of morsels to take out on their ride.
* * *
Sherlock chose another mount for their ride, Sir Tristan, a tall but sedate bay gelding. He stopped to pay his respects to the mighty Mephisto, though, which Mephisto accepted with the regal bearing of the lord of Lady Holmes' stables. Figaro was a grey cobby gelding, who placidly tolerated John's struggle to mount, finally requiring a leg up from the stableboy, without any fuss. They set off across fields that were starting to turn golden after the dry, warm summer. John was exhilarated. His body remembered what to do, although the strain on his weakened abdominal muscles was painful. But he needed this. He wasn't going to get better without pushing himself.
"You have a natural seat, John," Sherlock remarked. John assumed it was true; Sherlock did not flatter. They came to a gate which Sherlock opened. "Riddleston and Rexworth have mutual easements," he explained. "That is why the hunt was able to cross Rexworth Park.". They climbed a small hill and were looking down upon stables and fenced rings.
"Let's pay a visit to Rexworth Stables," Sherlock said.
A stableboy watered Sir Tristan and Figaro and the head groom came out to greet Sherlock. "Mr Holmes, it's good to see you," he said. Sherlock introduced John, and said that Lady Holmes had asked him to take a look at Fascination, Rexworth Park's new stud. "I'm sorry Lady Holmes didn't come herself, sir," the head groom, Walter, said. "No better judge of horseflesh, no offense, sir."
Walter was a muscular, weathered Australian who had been a polo player in his youth, but had a natural way with hunter jumpers. He had his choice of offers from stables around the world, but Rexworth Park's stables were among the world's finest, and Reginald, Lord Rexworth had been putting a renewed effort into improving the lines upon inheriting the estate twelve months earlier upon the demise of his father, ascending to the hereditary title of Marquess of Rexworth and £120 million.
"Thank you, I'll tell her. She's not well, I'm afraid, since the - accident - yesterday. No doubt you heard that I found the body."
"That I did. And I understand the dead lady was the daughter of Mrs. Holmes' maid,". Walter said.
"Did people generally know that Fredericka had a daughter?"
"I'm sure I never did, sir, but the women do get to gossiping. Can't abide gossip, meself, sir," Walter said bluntly, then turned to bring Fascination out. The chestnut hunter's coat gleamed. "That's four hundred thousand pounds' worth of warmblood flesh, Mr Holmes. If Lady Holmes wants to stand him to one of her mares, I''d say Mystery. But she knows her business, as I said. Please give Lady Holmes my compliments," He said politely, clearly not wishing to prolong the interview. "Please forgive me, I must be about my business. I can call up to the house sir, I'm sure Lady Rexworth would never forgive me if she missed an opportunity to give you your tea, sir."
"Thank you, Walter. Another time. I have neglected Lady Holmes quite enough of late, and she will be expecting us."
Sherlock and John remounted. As they left Sherlock asked, "Walter, how are the pheasants this season? Captain Watson is keen. Any chance for a place at the next drive?".
"Dead mens' shoes, Mr Holmes, dead mens' shoes. ". Walter was referring to the fact that prized places for driven shoots at Rexworth Park were privately held, and only became available upon a member's death. "But for you and Captain Watson, of course, there would always be a place. First drive is in a week, sir. See Roger Pitt, the estate manager, and I'm sure he'll set you up."
"Any geese yet?"
"You are eager, aren't you, Mr Holmes? No, it's not time yet. A full month yet, maybe more."
They rode back to Riddleston Hall, enjoying the sunshine and gorgeous countryside. Stone cottages of sheep farmers dotted the landscape. John felt a well being that he credited to his happiness as well as wholesome country air. But as they passed by the woods of Rexworth Park, he felt a shadow. What had happened to the poor woman whose body Sherlock had found? Why had she been roaming the wood?
He was about to ask Sherlock what he thought had happened, when they approached the road crossing. A gleaming black Bentley passed, slowed, but disappeared down the road. He heard Sherlock swearing under his breath.
"What is it, Sherlock?"
"It's someone I would prefer to avoid."
"Well, what should we do? Back to Rexworth Park, then?". He wasn't serious, he was starting to look forward to getting down from Figaro.
"No, there's no avoiding this, I'm afraid."
"Come on, Sherlock, it can't be as bad as that.". He wondered if he knew this person. He wanted to ask Sherlock to just tell him everything, now, but his happiness was so perfect that he feared to do so, as though it would break a spell.
"Believe me, John, it is."
"Come on, Sherlock, tell me what's in store. I hate surprises. Speaking of surprises, why did you tell that man I was keen to shoot? I don't you know - well I mean. . . for sport." He pushed all thought of Afghanistan - the blood, the bullets, the landmines, the thrum of the helicopters, the screams of dying men - from his mind. His left hand started shaking and he pain behind his eyes came roaring back. Deep breaths. You're safe, John. "Excepting clay pigeons,". He said. He hoped Sherlock did not notice his attack of nerves. If he did, he concealed it well.
They were at the Hall now. Stubbins took Figaro and Sir Tristan back to the stable. The Bentley they had seen pass on the lane was parked in the drive. Sherlock sighed tragically. "It's my older brother. Mycroft. You knew him, rather you know him, John, but I don't blame you for putting that out of your mind. I wish I could."
* * *
When they entered the Hall, Sherlock heard distant voices. The library. "John, you don't have to see Mycroft. You don't have to see anybody. Go have a shower, rest.".
He recalled Dr Nazimi lecturing him about his possessiveness toward John. What did she know? He huffed inwardly. He's getting better, every day. Well, he was trying to protect John, keep him safe now. Keep John to himself until he was well, and strong. And when he was, he fully intended to keep John to himself altogether, probably pretty much forever.
John shook his head firmly. "I won't be discourteous to Lady Holmes, and I need to face things. Let's go see your brother. It will be all right, Sherlock."
Lady Holmes was serving tea in the library. There was a tall, somewhat sardonic looking gentleman sitting to her side, wearing a very serious-looking suit and tie, devouring Mrs Blessing's fresh bread and scones as though it was his last meal. A silver-haired man, in a much less expensively tailored suit, was restlessly pacing and appeared to have been watching out the windows. Sherlock gritted his teeth.
John observed this with tolerant amusement. Sherlock really seemed to be terribly antisocial unless he wanted something from someone. At least he seems to want something from me.
Sherlock stood in front of John as though to shield him. "Mycroft. Lestrade, what are you doing here?". Sherlock was outraged. "We agreed one month."
Lestrade took a step towards John, his face expectant, even hopeful. John was puzzled. He didn't know these men. Then Lestrade's face fell, and he looked almost as stricken as Sherlock had, in the beginning. What did it mean?
"John," the silver-haired man said, his voice breaking a bit "-- you don't know me? John?"
This was very awkward. He supposed he would have to get used to it. Was there a behavior code for amnesiacs? "Look, I'm sorry. I truly don't. I seem to have an empty space where the last year used to be. Please just ignore me, I'll catch up eventually.". He smiled uncertainly.
Sherlock now took John's hand, very firmly. John noticed everyone noticing this, and their varying reactions: Lady Holmes, quietly pleased; this Lestrade, actually furious; and the other man, who must be Sherlock's brother, possibly skeptical. His face was phlegmatic; John couldn't read him.
"John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Sherlock spat. "I feel sure he has an explanation as to how his jurisdiction has suddenly expanded to include Yorkshire. And this is my brother Mycroft. I feel sure he is also somehow responsible for Lestrade's. . .presence."
Lady Holmes calmly poured out two more cups of tea. "Now Sherlock. Must you always be so unkind. Your brother brought Detective Inspector Letrade because I asked him to."
Sherlock looked even more outraged. John tried to keep his head down and stay out of the crossfire.
"Mother! How could you? Don't you have any confidence in me? Respect for my work? Have you any idea how many crimes I've solved because Lestrade and his men couldn't?"
Lady Holmes ignored the outburst. "I'm sure that's true, Sherlock, but Yorkshire police won't work with you. I know it. And I owe it to dear Fredericka to see that we find out how her daughter died. And so I asked Mycroft to send the best from Scotland Yard. And besides, you have other responsibilities at the moment. I'm glad to see you looking so well, Captain Watson.". She noted the rising tempers between Sherlock, Letrade and even Mycroft. She firmly set down her cup.
"Detective Superintendent Weller telephoned. He will be here in an hour. In the meantime, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'll show you around to a few of our most interesting rooms, as promised. Come along, Captain Watson. , Mycroft, Sherlock, it doesn't hurt you to take an interest in the Hall's history, you know. It won't be mine forever."
* * *
The last room on Lady Holmes' tour was the former laboratory of the late Anthony Delamere Holmes, containing numerous glass specimen cases of rare preserved plants and insects from his travels. But John's attention was attracted by the human skeleton, propped erect by a stand. It was wearing one of Lord Holmes' old hats. The skull grinned at John and he grinned back.
Suddenly his own skull was pierced with the most excruciating pain yet. His vision clouded as a kaleidoscope of disjointed images filled his aching brain. A skull. 221b. "A friend of mine . . ." Stamford. Barts. A Scottish lighthouse. "I’m flattered by your interest but I consider myself married to my work. . ." Hamlet. Ophelia. A blue silk robe. Sherlock in a fencing costume. A poison pill. Love, in love with Sherlock. A crystal -filled cave. Moriarty. Corsica. Graffiti. A ski chalet. Blades cutting palms. Blood brothers. A riding crop. Passion. A lady in pink. An underground chamber. Holding his breath. Tuxedoes. Sherlock in his arms. A swimming pool. Mrs. Moriarty.
Afghanistan.
Spartan.
George Forsyte.
Head exploding in pink mist.
And his last clear thought as he faced down the Spartans' guns in that warlord's compound, guns meant for him: Sherlock was dead.
They had gone after Sherlock, too.
It was why they had separated them. That last day.
Sherlock was dead.
Lord Holmes' skeleton danced before his eyes. "Sherlock," he cried, as he went down like a stone.
To be continued. . .
back: Five next: Seven
author: ghislainem70
Word count: 2950
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns from Afghanistan.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Moffat, Gatiss, BBC et al.
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to mental illnes, reference to non-con, massive dose of angst and hurt/comfort.
Chapter Six. Lord Holmes' Skeleton
We were in heaven, you & I --
When I lay with you
and close my eyes,
Our fïngers touch the sky.
I'm sorry baby,
You were the sun & moon to me --
I'll never get over you.
You'll never get over me.
Lyrics to Sun and Moon, All Rights Reserved Above & Beyond
The next morning McLeod opened the door to the billiard room to give it an airing, and was surprised to find Sherlock sitting upon one of the great leather Knole sofas, wide awake. John was there too, sleeping peacefully across the sofa cushions, his head resting in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock was sitting still as a statue so as not to wake him. He was watching John's sleeping face, and gave the impression that he probably hadn't moved a muscle for hours.
He frowned severely at McLeod and jerked his head in the direction of the door to indicate that she should withdraw. And she did, a pleased smile wreathing her strong, kind features.
Several hours later, John finally stirred. The throbbing in his head was nearly gone. Just a little ache behind his eyes reminded him of the agony of yesterday. But when he opened his eyes he forgot all about pain and instead felt the rush of joy upon seeing Sherlock's serious face bent watchfully over his.
"I'm not dreaming, am I?" He was only half-joking.
Sherlock shook his head. "Not unless I am, too." Sherlock took John's hand. "You need to eat something. You haven't since breakfast yesterday. It's not good for you, John, you need to get stronger."
John grinned a little, remembering what he had said last night.
"You, too, Sherlock. I haven't seen you take a bite since you had that amazing chocolate cake."
"So you were watching me eat chocolate, were you? I shall bear that in mind."
John laughed. "Well you should. It brings very interesting thoughts to my mind."
Sherlock looked both wicked and smug. "Promises, promises, John. Hardly fair, under the circumstances. Come, let's go plague Blessing."
John was very puzzled. Plague blessing? Was his disordered mind even more disordered than he supposed? Was this some arcane Yorkshire religious practice? Was he supposed to know what to do? Sherlock watched the various expressions of puzzlement and mystification pass over John's features. He sighed contentedly.
"Blessing, John, is Riddleston's cook. Finest in the county."
John grinned. " Lead the way, then. I'm famished.". He kissed Sherlock hungrily. "And never fear, if this Blessing made that dinner our first night, I'll be back to fighting strength in no time."
* * *
They padded down seemingly endless halls until they came to the kitchen, a vast, dark Victorian space with long white marble counters, row after row of polished copper pans of every size and shape, and a huge plate cabinet displaying an immense collection of red and white patterned plates. In its day, the kitchen had routinely turned out breakfast, supper, teas, and dinner for the family, its regular retinue of houseguests, and staff of thirty.
Mrs. Blessing was resting with a cup of tea at the scarred old rectory table, having provided a hearty breakfast for the household. A covered bowl of bread dough rising was at Mrs. Blessing's elbow. She was in fact McLeod's cousin, surprisingly tall and angular for a cook; rather than stout like her cousin. But her eyes had the same cheerful, energetic twinkle and she burst into a lovely if toothy smile upon seeing Sherlock and John.
"Mister Sherlock, look at you!". Sherlock embraced her warmly. "You've shrunk to nothing but bones, lad. And who is this handsome gentleman? Is this Captain Watson, then? My husband was a soldier, you know. It's an honor and a pleasure, I'm sure," she said. "Now, you didn't come down just to chat. McLeod told me as you both missed breakfast. London ways, I suppose, although your dear mother is always so particular about a proper breakfast. Now, you must take something, lads."
John was sure she could hear his stomach rumbling. In a flash Mrs. Blessing brought forth hearty slices of ham and egg pie, crispy bacon, fresh scones with jam and clotted cream, a wedge of cheese and a plate of fresh fruit, all washed down with mugs of fragrant hot tea. While she worked she paused to punch down the lump of dough.
"This will be for this afternoon's tea. Lady Holmes is a bit downcast, if you don't mind my saying so, Mister Sherlock. This bread is her favorite, I wanted to do my bit to cheer her up. We heard about poor Fredericka's lass. A terrible shock, no one knows what to think,". She said. "I heard she may have come up early, and got lost on the way to the Hall. And here was a hunting accident, wasn't there?"
"Possibly," Sherlock said. "It appears that may be the explanation. Mrs. Blessing, did Fredericka ever speak to you about her daughter? About Henrietta?"
Mrs. Blessing nodded. "That she did. She made me swear never to tell a soul, she were that ashamed. Not on the lass, you understand. She sent every spare penny of her wages to her Scots aunt who took in the wee lass as a babe. Would have been a tidy sum, Lady Holmes' so generous, you know. Fredericka always said though she were a lady's maid, her own daughter were to be a lady."
"Did you ever meet Henrietta? Do you know anything about her circumstances? Where was she living? Is she married?"
"No, that I didn't. I don't know such things, sir; maybe Lady Holmes might, seeing as the poor lass were to be visiting the Hall. I don't mind saying, Mister Sherlock, that I'm glad now that I never did meet her. It would make it worse, somehow. I hope you don't take that wrong."
They were now comfortably full, even Sherlock had eaten what was, for him, a truly vast quantity of the delicious fare. He turned to John.
"It's time for you to meet Figaro, John," he announced. John almost protested, feeling that riding a horse with Sherlock, such an expert horseman, would just be another opportunity to look weak, foolish or both. But he had loved riding as a lad, and getting out into the countryside sounded wonderful. He was afraid if he stayed in the Hall he would just lounge about, eating and drinking, and generally becoming a useless sloth. And he was more motivated now than ever to recover his strength.
" Let's go, then," he agreed. They thanked Mrs Blessing for breakfast and accepted a satchel of morsels to take out on their ride.
* * *
Sherlock chose another mount for their ride, Sir Tristan, a tall but sedate bay gelding. He stopped to pay his respects to the mighty Mephisto, though, which Mephisto accepted with the regal bearing of the lord of Lady Holmes' stables. Figaro was a grey cobby gelding, who placidly tolerated John's struggle to mount, finally requiring a leg up from the stableboy, without any fuss. They set off across fields that were starting to turn golden after the dry, warm summer. John was exhilarated. His body remembered what to do, although the strain on his weakened abdominal muscles was painful. But he needed this. He wasn't going to get better without pushing himself.
"You have a natural seat, John," Sherlock remarked. John assumed it was true; Sherlock did not flatter. They came to a gate which Sherlock opened. "Riddleston and Rexworth have mutual easements," he explained. "That is why the hunt was able to cross Rexworth Park.". They climbed a small hill and were looking down upon stables and fenced rings.
"Let's pay a visit to Rexworth Stables," Sherlock said.
A stableboy watered Sir Tristan and Figaro and the head groom came out to greet Sherlock. "Mr Holmes, it's good to see you," he said. Sherlock introduced John, and said that Lady Holmes had asked him to take a look at Fascination, Rexworth Park's new stud. "I'm sorry Lady Holmes didn't come herself, sir," the head groom, Walter, said. "No better judge of horseflesh, no offense, sir."
Walter was a muscular, weathered Australian who had been a polo player in his youth, but had a natural way with hunter jumpers. He had his choice of offers from stables around the world, but Rexworth Park's stables were among the world's finest, and Reginald, Lord Rexworth had been putting a renewed effort into improving the lines upon inheriting the estate twelve months earlier upon the demise of his father, ascending to the hereditary title of Marquess of Rexworth and £120 million.
"Thank you, I'll tell her. She's not well, I'm afraid, since the - accident - yesterday. No doubt you heard that I found the body."
"That I did. And I understand the dead lady was the daughter of Mrs. Holmes' maid,". Walter said.
"Did people generally know that Fredericka had a daughter?"
"I'm sure I never did, sir, but the women do get to gossiping. Can't abide gossip, meself, sir," Walter said bluntly, then turned to bring Fascination out. The chestnut hunter's coat gleamed. "That's four hundred thousand pounds' worth of warmblood flesh, Mr Holmes. If Lady Holmes wants to stand him to one of her mares, I''d say Mystery. But she knows her business, as I said. Please give Lady Holmes my compliments," He said politely, clearly not wishing to prolong the interview. "Please forgive me, I must be about my business. I can call up to the house sir, I'm sure Lady Rexworth would never forgive me if she missed an opportunity to give you your tea, sir."
"Thank you, Walter. Another time. I have neglected Lady Holmes quite enough of late, and she will be expecting us."
Sherlock and John remounted. As they left Sherlock asked, "Walter, how are the pheasants this season? Captain Watson is keen. Any chance for a place at the next drive?".
"Dead mens' shoes, Mr Holmes, dead mens' shoes. ". Walter was referring to the fact that prized places for driven shoots at Rexworth Park were privately held, and only became available upon a member's death. "But for you and Captain Watson, of course, there would always be a place. First drive is in a week, sir. See Roger Pitt, the estate manager, and I'm sure he'll set you up."
"Any geese yet?"
"You are eager, aren't you, Mr Holmes? No, it's not time yet. A full month yet, maybe more."
They rode back to Riddleston Hall, enjoying the sunshine and gorgeous countryside. Stone cottages of sheep farmers dotted the landscape. John felt a well being that he credited to his happiness as well as wholesome country air. But as they passed by the woods of Rexworth Park, he felt a shadow. What had happened to the poor woman whose body Sherlock had found? Why had she been roaming the wood?
He was about to ask Sherlock what he thought had happened, when they approached the road crossing. A gleaming black Bentley passed, slowed, but disappeared down the road. He heard Sherlock swearing under his breath.
"What is it, Sherlock?"
"It's someone I would prefer to avoid."
"Well, what should we do? Back to Rexworth Park, then?". He wasn't serious, he was starting to look forward to getting down from Figaro.
"No, there's no avoiding this, I'm afraid."
"Come on, Sherlock, it can't be as bad as that.". He wondered if he knew this person. He wanted to ask Sherlock to just tell him everything, now, but his happiness was so perfect that he feared to do so, as though it would break a spell.
"Believe me, John, it is."
"Come on, Sherlock, tell me what's in store. I hate surprises. Speaking of surprises, why did you tell that man I was keen to shoot? I don't you know - well I mean. . . for sport." He pushed all thought of Afghanistan - the blood, the bullets, the landmines, the thrum of the helicopters, the screams of dying men - from his mind. His left hand started shaking and he pain behind his eyes came roaring back. Deep breaths. You're safe, John. "Excepting clay pigeons,". He said. He hoped Sherlock did not notice his attack of nerves. If he did, he concealed it well.
They were at the Hall now. Stubbins took Figaro and Sir Tristan back to the stable. The Bentley they had seen pass on the lane was parked in the drive. Sherlock sighed tragically. "It's my older brother. Mycroft. You knew him, rather you know him, John, but I don't blame you for putting that out of your mind. I wish I could."
* * *
When they entered the Hall, Sherlock heard distant voices. The library. "John, you don't have to see Mycroft. You don't have to see anybody. Go have a shower, rest.".
He recalled Dr Nazimi lecturing him about his possessiveness toward John. What did she know? He huffed inwardly. He's getting better, every day. Well, he was trying to protect John, keep him safe now. Keep John to himself until he was well, and strong. And when he was, he fully intended to keep John to himself altogether, probably pretty much forever.
John shook his head firmly. "I won't be discourteous to Lady Holmes, and I need to face things. Let's go see your brother. It will be all right, Sherlock."
Lady Holmes was serving tea in the library. There was a tall, somewhat sardonic looking gentleman sitting to her side, wearing a very serious-looking suit and tie, devouring Mrs Blessing's fresh bread and scones as though it was his last meal. A silver-haired man, in a much less expensively tailored suit, was restlessly pacing and appeared to have been watching out the windows. Sherlock gritted his teeth.
John observed this with tolerant amusement. Sherlock really seemed to be terribly antisocial unless he wanted something from someone. At least he seems to want something from me.
Sherlock stood in front of John as though to shield him. "Mycroft. Lestrade, what are you doing here?". Sherlock was outraged. "We agreed one month."
Lestrade took a step towards John, his face expectant, even hopeful. John was puzzled. He didn't know these men. Then Lestrade's face fell, and he looked almost as stricken as Sherlock had, in the beginning. What did it mean?
"John," the silver-haired man said, his voice breaking a bit "-- you don't know me? John?"
This was very awkward. He supposed he would have to get used to it. Was there a behavior code for amnesiacs? "Look, I'm sorry. I truly don't. I seem to have an empty space where the last year used to be. Please just ignore me, I'll catch up eventually.". He smiled uncertainly.
Sherlock now took John's hand, very firmly. John noticed everyone noticing this, and their varying reactions: Lady Holmes, quietly pleased; this Lestrade, actually furious; and the other man, who must be Sherlock's brother, possibly skeptical. His face was phlegmatic; John couldn't read him.
"John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Sherlock spat. "I feel sure he has an explanation as to how his jurisdiction has suddenly expanded to include Yorkshire. And this is my brother Mycroft. I feel sure he is also somehow responsible for Lestrade's. . .presence."
Lady Holmes calmly poured out two more cups of tea. "Now Sherlock. Must you always be so unkind. Your brother brought Detective Inspector Letrade because I asked him to."
Sherlock looked even more outraged. John tried to keep his head down and stay out of the crossfire.
"Mother! How could you? Don't you have any confidence in me? Respect for my work? Have you any idea how many crimes I've solved because Lestrade and his men couldn't?"
Lady Holmes ignored the outburst. "I'm sure that's true, Sherlock, but Yorkshire police won't work with you. I know it. And I owe it to dear Fredericka to see that we find out how her daughter died. And so I asked Mycroft to send the best from Scotland Yard. And besides, you have other responsibilities at the moment. I'm glad to see you looking so well, Captain Watson.". She noted the rising tempers between Sherlock, Letrade and even Mycroft. She firmly set down her cup.
"Detective Superintendent Weller telephoned. He will be here in an hour. In the meantime, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'll show you around to a few of our most interesting rooms, as promised. Come along, Captain Watson. , Mycroft, Sherlock, it doesn't hurt you to take an interest in the Hall's history, you know. It won't be mine forever."
* * *
The last room on Lady Holmes' tour was the former laboratory of the late Anthony Delamere Holmes, containing numerous glass specimen cases of rare preserved plants and insects from his travels. But John's attention was attracted by the human skeleton, propped erect by a stand. It was wearing one of Lord Holmes' old hats. The skull grinned at John and he grinned back.
Suddenly his own skull was pierced with the most excruciating pain yet. His vision clouded as a kaleidoscope of disjointed images filled his aching brain. A skull. 221b. "A friend of mine . . ." Stamford. Barts. A Scottish lighthouse. "I’m flattered by your interest but I consider myself married to my work. . ." Hamlet. Ophelia. A blue silk robe. Sherlock in a fencing costume. A poison pill. Love, in love with Sherlock. A crystal -filled cave. Moriarty. Corsica. Graffiti. A ski chalet. Blades cutting palms. Blood brothers. A riding crop. Passion. A lady in pink. An underground chamber. Holding his breath. Tuxedoes. Sherlock in his arms. A swimming pool. Mrs. Moriarty.
Afghanistan.
Spartan.
George Forsyte.
Head exploding in pink mist.
And his last clear thought as he faced down the Spartans' guns in that warlord's compound, guns meant for him: Sherlock was dead.
They had gone after Sherlock, too.
It was why they had separated them. That last day.
Sherlock was dead.
Lord Holmes' skeleton danced before his eyes. "Sherlock," he cried, as he went down like a stone.
To be continued. . .
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