All Souls' Day. Part Two: Chapter Seven: Lightning Strikes the Heart
Title: All Souls' Day. Part Two: Chapter Seven: Lightning Strikes the Heart
author: ghislainem70
word count: 6,400
Summary: The final Chapter. Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock and John race to foil a terrorist conspiracy called “The Day of Wrath;” and in this chapter, a double wedding (of sorts).
Warnings: Explicit sex, graphic violence, fluff breaks out all over.
Disclaimers: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
All Souls’ Day. Part Two, Chapter Seven: Lightning Strikes The Heart.
I swear you hit me like a vision:
I wasn't expecting --
But who am I to tell fate
where it's supposed to go with it?
This is how it starts, lightning strikes the heart
It goes off like a gun, brighter than the sun --
We could be the stars, falling from the sky
Shining how we want, brighter than the sun.
I never seen it, but I found this love -
I wanna feel it:
You better believe, I'm gonna treat it
Better than anything I've ever had
'Cause you're so damn beautiful:
Read it, It's signed and delivered -
Let's seal it --
Lyrics to 'Brighter than the Sun,' all rights reserved to Colbie Caillat; title to this chapter "Lightning Strikes the Heart," from said lyrics.
December, Bilbao, Spain
The story of the discovery of the golden Ides of March coin created a sensation around the world.
Roderigo de la Pena, Ayala's attorney and executor, conducted a scrupulously correct investigation into the provenance of the coin, which, to the surprise of experts, was satisfactorily documented. The coin was verified by experts as authentic, a serious concern: one of only two extant gold examples of this infamous coin in the world had recently been adjudicated as false.
Ayala had preserved photographs and his diary from 1937. That historic year he had fought as a youth in the bloody Spanish Civil War; that year, the Basque capital of Biscay, Guernica was bombed into oblivion by Nazi Germany’s Luftwaffe, inspiring Picasso's anti-war masterpiece.
Biscay was part of the ancient Roman province of Hispania Terraconensis. In the aftermath of the bombing, Ayala discovered the collapsed remains of a Roman burial vault which, to his astonishment, contained a small horde of Roman coins, one of pure gold.
Experts agreed that the Roman dignitary buried in the vault had come into possession of the Ides of March denarius as a family heirloom. He was a descendant of the Roman general Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, who Caesar had been said to love like son. Decimus Junius Brutus had nevertheless cold-bloodedly escorted Caesar to the Senate on the Ides of March.
And then plunged in with his own knife.
Sherlock, upon learning of the coin's provenance, could not help reflecting upon the murder of Ayala himself: stabbed to death in his own shop by the beloved son of his best friend, who had been steeped in the legend of the Ides of March denarius since childhood.
Sherlock did not believe in curses.
But he did believe in the infinite suggestibility of weaker minds.
* * *
The law of Spain is strict was pertaining to the discovery of a treasure trove: all such treasures are the property of the state. But the Spanish government swiftly decided to sell it, rather than to keep in a museum where, it was feared, it might continue to inspire ETA.
The fatal coin sold at an historic auction for a record-breaking $10 million pounds to an anonymous bidder.
As swiftly as it had appeared, the golden Ides of March denarius disappeared once again from the world’s view.
* * *
December. La Bastide de Moustiers, Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, Provence.
“If you keep insisting on applying quite this much, I’ll never catch up with you,” Mycroft protested; very half-heartedly.
Greg seemed quite content to delay actual sunbathing by a pleasurably slow and thorough process of applying suntan lotion to Mycroft’s shoulders, just beginning to show a golden tint. Whereas, Mycroft noted with mild envy mixed with lust, their very first day in the pure mountain air of the Alpes-de-Haute Provence had turned Lestrade quite brown.
The mini-break had been another generous gift from Edouard. La Bastide de Moustiers was Alain Ducasse’s inn in the Gorge de Verdon, a wild and rugged valley in the mountains of Provence. It was unseasonably hot and mild for mid-December, but they had been warned that at any moment, the cold winds would come.
“I don’t want you to burn,” Greg murmured against his ear, and began the equally slow process of spreading the lotion over his chest, lingering a little in the fair hair there.
There didn’t seem to be any real reason to mention that he might reach that bit himself.
“In that case, you never should have opened the door to me that night,” Mycroft said daringly. He was never sure Greg would entirely accept his bold declarations, and tried very hard not to imagine all of the seductions that had been thrown Greg’s way in the past. A man that gorgeous, well; you just knew the list had to be long, varied, and heartbroken. He was determined never to fall in the later category.
But there was little risk of that at the moment, seemingly, while Greg was making achingly little progress toward completing his task. Whatever the task actually was.
“Give me - your hand,” he said finally, unable to endure more. He dragged Greg’s hand a little lower. And then a lot lower, until Greg could be in no doubt at all the effect that the lotion under his hands was having.
Greg smiled wickedly. “That night - I remember what happened when I tried to do the same - with your hand, in that elevator - don’t you?” Greg said, biting a little on his lower lip. “You were teasing me, then. So cruel you were. You let me go up to my room -- all alone. You were going to make me wait.”
“That . . . wasn’t it.” Everything smelled like something tropical, incongruous with the dazzling Provencal sun and olive trees outside their window. Somehow they fell back into bed, the sheets tossed to the floor, and everything was very warm, a little slippery. Since being released from his cast, Greg quite liked to climb on top, hold him down, and employ various maneuvers that made him writhe and buck underneath, but carefully so as not to hurt his leg.
Greg was doing this now, in fact, letting his warm slick hand roam under his swim briefs, teasingly, encircling but not touching.
“Then what was it? Truth now,” Greg was watching his face as the teasing quickly became intolerable, and this made him smile more, which seemed to make the teasing much worse.
“I was afraid -“ he gasped. God help him.
“Didn’t seem that way- at the time. Cocky bastard, what I thought then.” Just a little sharp tug at this, enough that if he had thought he was hard before, it was nothing to this.
“Hmmm. I was . . . afraid. That you'd -- change your mind. But then, well-- I went up to your room. . . after all. I had to.”
“I always knew you were brilliant,” Greg said. “But exactly . . . ..how long were you thinking of making me wait, before?” Now he took his hand away and wasn’t touching him anywhere terribly important any more, just rubbing a little lotion into the skin of his thighs, which all by itself was making him nearly see stars. It was impossible. He had never been susceptible, before, to anything of the kind, or ever wanted to be. This slow, gentle, and nearly unendurable pleasure. He was biting his lip to stop from sighing, begging, whatever would happen if he just let it. He pulled at Greg’s wrist, hoping to bring his hands back to his needy cock, and Greg obliged, but with a feather-like touch that made his breath come even faster.
“You aren’t answering my question,” Greg pursued idly, running a slick finger in a lazy circle.
“A day,” Mycroft gasped as Greg relented and stroked, hard and strong.
“A whole day-- you’d have left me aching, like this,” Greg said as Mycroft strained under his hand. “You’re lucky I’m not so cruel,” he said and yanked down his briefs finally, murmuring how the sight was fucking gorgeous, before taking him all the way into his mouth and then he wasn’t teasing at all, not a bit.
All Mycroft was able to manage was “God, wait - “ before he came hard under the firm wetness of tongue, into his throat to a cry that was half ecstasy, half surprise at how little he was able to control himself, control any of this.
And how little, really, he wanted to.
* * *
Mycroft decided that his lack of color was really appalling compared to Greg’s bronze, and discreetly wiped off some of the lotion before settling into a deck chair by the swimming pool, an aquamarine rectangle reflecting a brilliant blue sky. There were no other guests here, out of season.
They lounged, lazy and content. They devoured meals prepared in Ducasse’s simple little country restaurant, so different to the drama and elegance of the Jules Verne at the Eiffel Tower: here, the kitchen was quite open, and with delightful scents of Provencal cooking scenting the air. There was a leisurely and decadent lunch to be savored: roasted asparagus with olives; Charolais beef with shallot preserves, a light salad. They shared the chocolate hazelnut tart.
Mycroft was so languid that even the somewhat too-attentive ministrations of the staff to Greg, who was a media star even in the countryside, apparently, didn’t really disturb him. They sipped from sturdy little tumblers of white wine and watched clouds roll swiftly by. They were right; the cold wind would soon be here.
* * *
The wine was almost gone. He felt pleasantly fuzzy from the sun, the wine, the amazing scenery, which definitely encompassed more than just the surrounding mountains. Greg, too, seemed content to doze in his chaise lounge, occasionally dipping into the pool and splashing Mycroft just a little.
Finally Greg noticed he was turning pink and threw a towel over him. “No more sun for you, it’s stronger than it feels,” Greg scolded.
This made Mycroft smile; when had anybody ever cared enough to scold him? Well, there was Mummy -- which was of course quite, quite different -- but that led to his train of thought of a moment before, that kept intruding into his unusually disorganised mind.
“I think we need to plan a little trip north,” Mycroft said.
“You aren’t suggesting that I keep away from the Yard much longer, I’ll be sacked, and that’s a fact. This ‘media darling’ nonsense won’t take me much farther with my Super, I can tell you that. I hate to think what my case files look like.” He refused to picture his desk. It had been overflowing when he left; now . . .He decided to forget the Yard, piles of crime files cascading from his desktop. For a while longer. The real crime would be not to allow himself to luxuriate in this amazing place with My, for as long as it lasted.
“About that,” Mycroft sat up and pulled his chair under an umbrella. He had crafted a new plan concerning Greg’s future duties at the Yard that he thought might be, after all, the best of both worlds. “I’ve -- something to propose to you.”
“Propose?” Greg looked wide-eyed at this.
Mycroft realized his blunder, and then just as quickly realized it wasn’t a blunder at all.
Everything was very quiet for a moment and they both were probably holding their breaths. Well, if it was a Freudian slip of sorts, that didn’t make it any less true, any less right. All of his fears came rushing back, and for a moment he thought that it would be impossible to say it.
"Go on, it's all right," Greg said softly.
And so, he reached for Greg’s hand and took it. It felt solid, warm and strong. What would be impossible, he realized, was not to say it no matter how fundamentally terrifying the prospect was. This was crossing the Rubicon.
“The truth is," he stammered, "I --- do. I do have something -- to propose. To you. When we go home, I want you to come home. To St. John’s Wood. And - I don’t want you to leave.”
“You want me to move in with you? What - like Sherlock and John?” He was half-teasing now.
Mycroft was scandalized. “Whatever do you take me for? My intentions are, and always have been, completely honorable. I haven’t the slightest desire that you should ‘move in’ with me. I --" He didn’t know how to explain, but the remembrance of his parents, of their strong marriage, their particular joy on their wedding anniversary, came to strongly to him. It was a model of happiness he had never allowed himself to hope for, until now.
“- I don’t believe in it.”
“Don’t - believe in what?”
“‘Living together.’ Definitely. Not. I’m asking you to marry me. Formally, legally, insofar as that is possible in our nation at present. I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy, always, I swear,” he said, his heart hammering and soaring all at once.
“You’re very sure? Because when I give my word, I keep it. There’s no going back.” Greg looked very serious and determined and Mycroft realized that in this, they were alike. Whatever had come before, for each of them, it was never going to be enough now to be just lovers, an open-ended amusement with no obligation, no permanence. They could never be that.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything. When I give my word, I keep it too. And I mean to. There’s no going back. Will you?” Mycroft waited, and despite his certainty a seemingly infinite moment of doubt that he could have this stretched before him: a life that held this much richness after so long in what he only now recognized had been a cold, unfulfilled existence. He knew he couldn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve him but he also knew that he could never live without him. Impossible.
Just for a moment, the shadow of the past months flickered between them but only brought them closer, made this the more precious.
“I will,” Greg said, his heart expanding almost painfully with joy, and with that, the seriousness vanished and there wasn’t really anything more to talk about, and they were laughing in each other’s arms in the warm sun, and all darkness was banished.
* * *
Christmas Eve. Riddleston Hall, West Yorkshire.
Mycroft and Lestrade determined there was no reason at all to wait, and announced a Christmas wedding.
Mycroft's proposed ‘trip north’ was to Riddleston Hall, Lady Eugenia Holmes’ ancestral estate in West Yorkshire. As she had long hoped, this year both of her sons were united under one roof for Christmas and the house was full of happy visitors.
And so it was that late that Christmas Eve, Mycroft and Greg sat quietly in the library. Sherlock and John were here, completing Lady Holmes' happiness. Mrs Blessing, Riddleston Hall’s cook, brought mulled wine and gingerbread, and even Sherlock had his fair share. Sherlock was shooting billiards; John keeping up less well than he remembered, but wasn’t really trying. The sooner Sherlock got bored, the sooner they could retreat to their cottage.
There was a new television here, which Lady Holmes had finally installed at Mycroft’s behest. He was a serious movie buff: until finding Lestrade, Mycroft had whiled away long hours in the library watching his favourite films. And while it was turned down low, there were flashing headlines of the upcoming treason and terrorism trial of former MI6 operative Sanjay Singh. Singh looked at the cameras with an expression both sorrowful and aggreived.
His solicitor was saying something about an entrapment defense.
Lestrade looked at the screen thoughtfully. Mycroft was looking too, with a poorly-concealed expression of worry. Mycroft was a champion worrier. In his eyes Lestrade saw the lingering remnants of guilt over having, as he felt, put Lestrade through an unacceptable physical and moral ordeal in the Day of Wrath affair.
“My,” Greg said. “Stop now. It’s over. It’s done.”
Mycroft shook his head. He didn’t know how to explain. While they had captured many of the Day of Wrath terrorists, he knew it was impossible to know that they had caught them all. And while any remained, some might seek vengeance.
And as long as Singh lived, Aguirre lived, they might still wield power. Even from prison.
As though he could read his thoughts, Lestrade was at his side.
“You did right,” he said. “My, you did right. There’s to be a trial. It will all come out right. He’ll never get out of prison. Nor will Aguirre.”
Mycroft crushed him in a hard embrace. He could not believe how close death had come, how narrowly he had escaped never having any of this, having lost everything. No punishment he could imagine for Singh seemed adequate.
“Entrapment,” he spat contemptuously. “You know what the lawyers will do.”
Greg took his hand. “Everyone will see what Singh is, My. A traitor. A terrorist. You did that. You brought him to justice. I know-- it could have been different. I’m so proud of you. Of what you did. What you are.”
Mycroft gulped. He realized that perhaps not since his father had he ever craved anyone’s approval, but now he needed it. “You’re proud?” He turned away a little because he knew, he just knew, that there were tears in there about to spring out, and he wouldn’t, just wouldn’t, be an emotional ninny on the eve of their wedding. Not about this.
“I am. And I always will be. Now we’ve a big day tomorrow, love. I hope your traditional ideas don’t involve not seeing me till our wedding day,” Greg said with one of those brilliant smiles that always made his heart turn somersaults. Mycroft took another gingerbread slice and resolved to forget everything about Singh, Aguirre, and the Day of Wrath.
For now.
“I may be a traditionalist, and for that, I make no apologies. But I’m not a fool,” he said.
* * *
They fell into bed, exhausted and happy, but too excited to sleep. Mycroft practiced their poem for the ceremony, declaiming like a Shakespearean actor to applause and kisses from Lestrade.
When they finally slept, a snowstorm blew against the windows and blanketed the Hall with clean white new snow for Christmas Day.
* * *
John and Sherlock settled themselves onto the worn sofa in front of a roaring fire. Smith’s Cottage, the former blacksmith’s cottage, had been Sherlock’s private retreat at Riddleston Hall since his days at uni. Somehow, they never seemed to sleep in the bed but by cherished habit, liked to huddle on the sofas before the fire.
Sherlock was watching John, studying his face, his hair, his eyes, the faint evidences that he was not yet completely restored to health. This made him feel fiercely protective, and he planted a fervent kiss on John’s temple.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it,” John said.
“Hmmmm.”
“I mean Lestrade and Mycroft. I’m hoping they stay at their desks for a while. We all need to stay close to home now,” John said, and just a touch of rough weariness confirmed his suspicion.
“We’ll stay as close to home as you like,” he murmured against his ear. “We won’t leave the cottage at all until you say,” he said, and he meant it.
John smiled, mentally calculating whether Sherlock would break this promise in twenty-four, or forty-eight hours. “Except to go to the wedding tomorrow, of course,” he said.
“Well, naturally,” Sherlock said firmly. “We can’t miss that.”
“Not a bit.”
“Ready for sleep, John? Shall we move to the bed after all?”
“No. But move that knee.”
A long leg was insinuated firmly between his legs with rather more pressure than was strictly necessary and everything got warmer. John turned his face up to Sherlock’s just in time for their lips to meet, sweetly, gently, as Sherlock had been ever since his horrible illness.
“Don’t worry,” Sherlock whispered, “I’ll only kiss you.”
And he did. But between kisses, there were still things that needed saying, apparently.
“I’m not worried.” John whispered. “I’m fine.”
“Let me decide. Anyway, I’m returning a favor.”
“How’s that?”
“You once took pains to show me how to take things. . . a great deal slower.”
“I thought it . . . might be useful. Someday.”
“Oh, I agree. Let me show you.”
Sherlock proceeded to demonstrate, with great patience and restraint, how very well he had learned his lesson.
* * *
Christmas Day. Riddleston Hall.
After the necesssary exchange of promises connected with their civil partnership, Mycroft read out the poem he had chosen for them, Shakespeare's Sonnet 116:
"Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."
Everyone clapped as they kissed, long and thoroughly, and gazed into each other's eyes with such joy and love that nearly everyone had a tear in their eye -- and those that didn't were merely pretending, fooling no one.
"Nothing like a Christmas wedding, ma'am," MacLeod whispered to Lady Holmes, who was unrestrainedly wiping tears away with a handkerchief.
The reception was in the Great Hall, a Christmas fantasy of boughs, wreaths, twinkling lights and accents of red and gold that Lady Holmes managed despite Mycroft having given her just two week's notice of their plans. The first champagne was handed around, and Greg stood up, serious and handsome in his tuxedo, and asked everyone to quiet down.
"I have something to say. Everyone will know that of the two of us, Mycroft is the brilliant one. Runs in the family. But I'm wishing some of his brother Sherlock's brains rubbed had off on me sooner. God knows he's given me enough opportunity! But if I had been more “observant,” as Sherlock says, I wouldn't have to say what I'm proud and happy to say today. My, I should have been looking closer. How I missed those gorgeous eyes - it's a crime: I ought to know! But today, and every day, I thank God I woke up and did look closer.
"And because of the promises we've made one another here today, in front of all you lovely friends, I get to say that I won't be missing anything. Ever again. I love you, My."
* * *
A bit later, Lestrade allowed his somewhat tipsy happiness to get away from him, and he raised his glass to Sherlock and John, and said: "Lads, don't let the grass grow under your feet! It's high time you made honest men of one another. Anybody can see -- you'll never be parted."
Sherlock and John looked sheepish at this but then with a happy glance at each other, Sherlock stood up and said, "I'm happy to say, gentlemen, that we've beat you to it."
Lady Eugenia nearly dropped her champagne glass. "Sherlock -- John, you didn't-- elope!"
John looked chagrined, but Sherlock said, "We couldn't wait. I think you all know what John went through --"
"What we went through," John interrupted.
"And so, I'd had the papers -- handled specially. We had it all done, legal and binding, as soon as we came home."
At this there was much cheering, hugging, and a flood of more happy tears from Lady Holmes, who was swept up in a dizzying embrace by all four men.
* * *
Of the numerous friends in attendance at Mycroft and Greg’s wedding, were a few old friends from the West Yorkshire Constabulary: Detective Superintendent Charlie Weller, and his subordinate Detective Inspector Elenor Prentiss. Lady Holmes hastened forward to greet them with.
“Detective Superintendent! How happy I am to be able at last to offer you that glass of champagne,” she teased gently, remembering the day more than a year ago that Weller had broken in on a small champagne celebration of John’s recovery from amnesia, only to arrest him for suspicion of murder.** Now that Weller, under Sherlock’s guidance, had solved the murder without further trouble to her family, all ill feelings were long buried.
Weller, wearing his best Sunday suit against which his heavyweight boxer’s frame appeared to strain uncomfortably, and his puglist’s face to match, accepted the glass gratefully and swallowed it down in two gulps. Lady Holmes laughingly handed him another glass.
“Weller!” Sherlock shouted from across the room. “I trust you’re not here on business! I case you haven’t noticed, this is my brother’s wedding. I’ll thank you not to arrest anyone without going over the evidence with me first,” he said fiercely, shielding John behind him as though Weller were about to take John from him a second time. It was very clear Weller would have a much harder time, now, attempting such a transgression.
“Nay, lad, we come in peace! Your dear mother invited me!” Weller shouted back. No man in England had vocals exceeding Weller’s for sheer volume and penetration. The windows shook.
“Sherlock, Detective Superintendent Weller kindly called on me last Christmas, when you were . . .gone, and he was a very great comfort,” Lady Holmes said gently, reminding Sherlock of his kidnapping by the serial killer Jack Ramsay, which had caused everyone dear to him to pretty well ignore Christmas last year. All the more reason the celebrate this one, he knew. And so he strode across the room and gave a polite, even warm, handshake to Weller in gratitude.
Gratitude. That was what that feeling was. He knew that one very well now, too, and today of all days he felt almost overcome with it.
And that was going to be all right.
* * *
Elenor Prentiss was tall, as tall as a Holmes, and possessed of smashing Nordic blonde looks. She serenely ignored various male leers at her well-cut wine-colored sheath as she crossed the room to find Sally Donovan by a huge window, looking out at the snowfall.
“DI Elenor Prentiss. I’m with the local force. I know all of your London blokes here. We worked on the Rexworth murder - did you know? You’re Sargeant Donovan, aren’t you? Lestrade told me about you. Bloody gorgeous, they all are. Especially that Lestrade. Where did he get that tan in December?”
Donovan nodded and sighed. “You see how it is. Hopeless,” she shrugged meaningfully.
“Too right! All taken, or gay. I love your dress. Smashing.”
“Love your shoes. We’re too fine for this establishment, I’d say.”
“That Sherlock Holmes,” Prentiss said thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised he and John Watson made things legal. You should have heard him give Doctor Watson’s alibi! I thought Weller’d have a stroke.”
“What’d Sherlock say, then?”
Prentiss whispered in Donovan’s ear, with the result that she sprayed a quantity of champagne through snorting giggles.
“We thought he was a bit mad - but he solved the case.”
Donovan frowned, then smiled just a little. Sherlock and John were deep in some private conversation by the fireplace, oblivious to everyone else, dark hair bending down close to fair.
“Solved your case,” she said with exasperation that might even be fond. Perhaps. “He keeps doing that.”
A tanned man with blonde hair and a chiseled jaw insinuated himself up to them.
“How do you do, Detective Inspector Prentiss,” he said archly. “You’re looking brilliant out of uniform, if I can say so without fear of breaking any laws.”
“Sally Donovan, may I present the Earl of Rexworth -“
“Please call me Richard,” he said warmly.
“Richard, then, owns Rexworth Park, the estate next over to Riddleston Hall,” Prentiss tactfully refrained from mentioning that Rexworth’s stepmother had been unveiled as the murderer in the infamous Rexworth case in which John had been wrongly arrested.
She noticed that he seemed free of the cloud of excessive drink that had been spoiling his looks and his temper, the last time she had seen him. In fact, he was looking rather well, she thought.
“I’ve known Lady Holmes and her sons my whole life So happy for them both,” Rexworth said with every sign of sincerity. “I say, no room for handcuffs in that little dress then, Detective,” he said jokingly. It should have been rude, but he was so charming, it was hard to be offended.
There was a brief silence while Rexworth waited. Donovan grinned at Prentiss and gave her a tiny nudge with her elbow.
“The night is young,” Prentiss said.
* * *
Donovan drifted over to admire the Christmas tree. There was a light tap at her shoulder. A tall, dark, and rather intense-looking man stared down at her. He pointed up. She had failed to notice the mistletoe. He smiled uncertainly.
“It’s customary,” he said, a little tipsy. His voice was burred with a mild Scots accent. His eyes were very blue. Donovan blinked.
“It is,” she said, and tipped her head back a little, he was so tall. His lips were very soft and he took no liberties at all.
She decided to rectify that.
“Who are you, then?”
“Colin MacAllister. Don’t worry, I’m quite safe - I’m a local constable. Here in Cawton. You can ask DI Prentiss.”
“Sargeant Sally Donovan. I’m quite safe, too. London copper. Scotland Yard.”
MacAllister smiled broadly, and this made his eyes crinkle around the edges. This, Sally decided, was something she might not mind seeing repeated. “I believe,” McAllister said boldly, “that Lady Holmes has a quite fine collection of -“ he stumbled, unable to recall what he had meant to say here. He’d had a few too many, and that was a fact. Well, it was a Christmas wedding. To be expected.
Sally took his arm. “Lead the way, constable,” she said.
“You outrank me,” McAllister observed. “Perhaps . . . I ought to follow you.” London women were rather terrifying. This one, especially; particularly as she was so - beautiful, he decided. No lesser word would do.
“Now that’s what I call promising,” she said.
* * *
Boxing Day. Riddleston Hall
The morning after the wedding dawned clear and bright, the sun brilliant on glittering snowbanks.
Everyone was gathered in the great Victorian kitchen of Riddleston Hall, eating vast quantities of a freshly prepared breakfast, and nibbles of what was left of the reception too. Lestrade caught Mycroft eyeing a chocolate-covered strawberry and handed it over without remark. Only because Sherlock and John were watching did he not pin Mycroft down right there and feed it to him.
Sherlock snorted, clearly observing all. “I believe it is customary for newlyweds to go on a honeymoon,” Sherlock said. "You might go now and spare us, Mycroft."
Mycroft was eyeing his mobile seriously and didn’t immediately answer. Lestrade’s heart fell. He had hoped for a short stay in Yorkshire at the very least. Apparently, duty called.
Mycroft looked up, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
“You anticipate me, dear brother. Yes. A honeymoon! Well, perhaps it would be better to say, a working vacation.”
Lestrade laughed ruefully. “While you’re working, I suppose I can get caught up on my reading.”
Mycroft smiled smugly. “Whatever made you suppose I was talking about me? Well, I was, but I did not exclude you.”
Lestrade was mystified. “Unless it’s a staycation in London, there’s no vacation to be had working at the Yard,” he said. He pushed back for the millionth time the mental image of his overflowing desk, Donovan’s killing looks at having carried his load for these past months.
“I don’t mean the Yard, Greg. I meant to talk to you about this in Provence,” he said, “but then we ended talking of more important things.”
“Ah.” Lestrade recalled the pool, the proposal. “Well then, no time like the present. What’s the plan?”
“You’re to be transferred,” Mycroft said. “How do you feel about the Greek Isles?”
Lestrade was laughing now. “You’re having me on!”
“I could take that a number of ways; but no, I’m quite serious. You’re to be transferred, on temporary assignment, to the Yard's Art and Antiquities Squad.”
“What!”
“You’ve worked counterfeiting cases, Greg. And fraud cases. This isn’t so different.”
“What’s the case?”
“Suffice it to say that one of the world’s greatest antiquities has been stolen. Apparently it has been -- smuggled -- the Greeks would say, repatriated -- into Greece. Stolen, allegedly, from one of the richest and noblest men in England, I might add. So much so, that a Certain Person felt bound to offer the devoted services of yours truly. And I, naturally, feel that the services of Scotland Yard’s best and brightest detective would be indispensable.
"The rest, dear husband, we can discuss while we pack.”
* * *
A week later, they were holding hands on a balcony overlooking the timeless geometry of a whitewashed Greek island village. The classic sight was healing, uniting their souls.
"I've caught up to you, love, all the way," Greg said as the sun set over the vivid blue of the Aegean Sea, the distant whisper of which brought them nothing but peace.
The End.
Listen to Lightning Strikes the Heart: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=477Zz_eSPC8&feature=related
Readers who enjoyed the playlist to All Souls Day can find it here:
http://www.youtube.com/playlist?feature=edit_ok&list=PLpHDEpZAuY1-yY3Xl0A1Co999RxbJLSPq
**Readers curious about Detective Superintendent Charlie Weller, Detective Inspector Elenor Prentiss, Richard Rexworth, Earl of Rexworth, and the case in which John Watson was a murder suspect, may like to read 'The Irresistibility of Orbits: The Forgetting of Things Past,' No. 6 of The Indestructible series.
Thanks to everyone who kept me company on this adventure. As always, comments are so very appreciated at the end of this story, lurkers now is your chance:).Special thanks to maggie_conagherfor constant inspiration and cheerleading to the end<3
On to the next adventure: A Negative Perfection: A Mystrade Adventure: Chapter One: This Is Not A Test. ( Read more... )
Author's afterword:
This is, obviously, a work of fiction and no resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is intended: except where historical personages and events are mentioned, in which case I have made clear notes about that, especially in the chapter "The Ghosts of Sandakan".
The characters of Aguirre aka Phillipe Abbouet, Sanjay "Sammy" Singh, Ranjit Singh, ALec Mortimer, Elorza, Dr. Julio Echavarri, Yussuf, Senor Ayala, Roderigo de la Pena, Dr. Gerard Carre, Sandrine Abbouet, Rene Plessy, Edouard Lestrade, DS Charlie Weller, DI Elenor Prentiss, Sir Gordon Quaintance aka "C", Allardyce, Agent Rennett, Lady Eugenia Holmes, Lord Anthony Delamere Holmes, Captain Reginald Holmes, Richard Rexworth, Earl of Rexworth, and Constable Colin MacAllister, all mentioned in this story are entirely my own creation and entirely fictional.
This story started two years ago, when I traveled with my dear Mom (all the hearts, Mom!) to Bilbao to visit the Guggenheim Museum, where Greg and Mycroft had their rendezvous in Chapter One. I clumsily broke my foot on the way to Spain, and as such, our trip was somewhat curtailed; however, we were intrepid as possible under the circumstances. Bilbao was inspiring, the people cosmopolitan and friendly, their city ancient and modern at once, and the cuisine spectacular. No offense to that beautiful culture is meant by telling the story of a few fictional misguided ETA terrorists in this fic.
The French and Spanish authorities have entered into cease-fires as of October 2011 with ETA and other Basque paramilitary groups who have long sought an independent Basque state. There remains distrust on both sides, and the awareness that not every former freedom fighter (or, as the authorities would say, terrorist) agrees to abide by the cease-fire.
ETA claimed 829 terrorist deaths since it began around 1968. For decades ETA killed in Spain, but hid in France. The French considered them separatists, not terrorists. But after years of negotiations, France changed its mind. The French began cracking down, sharing intelligence, making arrests, most recently in the almost unknown village of Willencourt in March 2011, when ETA's chief Alejandro Zobaran Arriola was arrested in a hail of gunfire by a joint French and Spanish SWAT-type operation:
* * *
Why Borneo? I have been writing of the disappearance of Lord Anthony Holmes on an expedition to Borneo for several fics. Firstly, Borneo is one of the wildest and most botanically and zoologically diverse places on the planet, also possessed of a rich heritage of ethnic and tribal populations, an entirely suitable place for an eminient ethnobotanist to conduct explorations. Additionally, my family has a history of soldiers having fought in the Pacific Theatre during World War II, and it has been a topic of study for me over the years. The Sandakan Death Marches are far too little known among many tragedies of WWII.
I read as background portions of Churchill's memoirs of this part of the war, as well as two contemporary accounts of life in Borneo immediately before WWII and of life in the prison camps of Sandakan under Japanese occupation:
Land Below the Wind, Agnes Newton Keith, 1940
Three Came Home, Agnes Newton Keith, 1946
Agnes Keith's husband was the Conservator of Forests and Director of Agriculture for North Boreno, a British protectorate operated by one of the vestigal "Companies" that had built the Empire.
Borneo, specifically the coastal region of Sabah, has become the subject of terror warnings for attacks on British tourists in Sabah, by the Al-Quada-linked Islamic Abu Sayyaf terror group. Tourists have been kidnapped for ransom. Some have been beheaded. Abu Sayyaf is based in the Philippines, and seeks a separate Muslim state there, but has used Borneo as a base for operations, looting, and kidnappings for years.
Borneo is argued by its own people and adventure tourists who have visited Sabah to be as safe, or safer, than anywhere else and that the risk of terror attacks has been overstated.
* * *
In July 2011 it was announced that a rare and very good example of the famous Ides of March denarius coin would be sold at auction in California. It was sold in September 2011 for $546,000.00 USD in Long Beach, California (not far from where I live). Of the two existing gold examples of the Ides of March denarius, one was recently adjudicated to be a fake. Curious readers may read more here: EID MAR coin
* * *
The nuclear threats described throughout this story are real and of great concern. Greenpeace has demostrated against France's AREVA nuclear facility at La Hague, discussed in this story, and has tried very hard to stop the shipment of MOX fuels by nuclear transports.
The paint flecks by which Sherlock detects that the terrorist had been on board a nuclear cargo ship, and Sherlock's statements pertaining thereto, are about a real ship, the Pacific Heron, operated by a real company, the British-based Pacific Nuclear Transport Limited.
It is scary (and darkly amusing) to see that PNTL has a position paper on its website, purporting to reassure its "clients" of the impossibility that terrorists could ever hijack or make use of nuclear materials transported on its specialized fleet.
The poisoning of John Watson by the radioactive contaminant cesium-137 was taken in part from one of the largest documented cases of nuclear contamination outside of a nuclear bomb or nuclear plant: The release of cesium-137 by innocent citizens who mistakenly dismantled an abandoned nuclear medicine machine from a defunct medical facility in 1987 in Goiania, Brazil. Hundreds were contaminated, several persons died from contact with cesium-137, and many were made very ill. I read many articles about this accident, and other radiation accidents.
The infamous "demon core" experiments at Los Alamos in 1945 resulted in the death of two of the nuclear physicists responsible for mishandling the plutonium core.
Another physicist surivived with serious health effects, only to have the US Government deny him any damages and try to bury his claim althogether. Only recently have the facts come to light. There are many good articles about the demon core experiments.
Finally, the poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko by persons as yet uncharged, but suspected to be Russian agents, has been reopened as of November 2011 by the Coroner of St Pancras, London. Litvinenko was poisoned by the rare radioactive element polonium-210, undetected until just two hours after his agonizing death. Officially, there is no antidote to polonium-210, thousands of times more deadly than, for example, cyanide. Unofficially, in the aftermath of the Litvinenko poisoning, the Pentagon and other military agencies around the world commissioned drug companies to find a cure, and the three "experimental" treatments given to Sherlock and John are from my researches into what is publicly available about this topic. My personal suspicion is that a secret antidote now exists but has not been made public.
Read about the reopening of the Litvinenko inquiry, including the opening of alleged MI5 and MI6 "death files," here: Litvinenko
The AREVA Hospital for Nuclear Medicine in Querqueville, France is the author's invention. The author hopes that AREVA, which operates the massive La Hague plant, will recogize that Dr. Carre was adjudicated insane in his poisoning of Sherlock and John, and as such no blame can be placed on AREVA:
The Jules Verne restaurant in the Eiffel Tower and La Bastide de Moustiers, in Provence, are operated by world-renowned chef Alain Ducasse, as described. It is also true that Alain Ducasse had to abandon his investment in restaurant/hotel in the Basque country after bombings and threats by ETA. The statement read by Mycroft to Lestrade in Chapter Two was taken from true events: Ducasse and ETA
I hope you enjoyed All Souls' Day.
ghislaine xxxooo