Fic for goldvermilion87: When Snow Falls in London
Title: When Snow Falls In London
Recipient: goldvermilion87
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Victor Trevor
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7,057
Warnings: Depictions of drug use, allusions to character death - though there are technically no actual character deaths. Honestly. Cross my heart. As many shameless nods to ACD!Canon as I was able to insert, and liberties taken with a Charles Dickens classic.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past…
A/N: A million thanks are due to my incredible Beta [redacted], without whose painstaking help this fic would make no sense whatsoever. All the good parts are credited to her, the dodgy bits are entirely my own.
To my recipient: Writing this was a harrowing ride, but a fun one all the same. It was originally meant to be a case fic, but this one definitely got away from me. I hope you enjoy!
When Snow Falls in London
Victor Trevor was dead, to begin with. He’d gone on to take some asinine job in a tea manufacturing plant in India, and, as a consequence, was struck down not much later during an outbreak of the dreaded Tapanuli fever. The body was transported to Bart’s, as the funeral was to be held in London. There could be no doubts the bloated corpse unveiled to Sherlock Holmes on the autopsy table was anyone other than Victor - the distinguishing marks and small tattoo on his left shoulder vehemently proclaimed the dead man’s identity.
That, and his skull now resided on Sherlock’s mantel.
But to return to my point: Victor Trevor was dead as a door-nail, and Sherlock had no doubts whatsoever about the fact. This must be distinctly understood. For if you did not know this, you would never understand half of what is so wonderful and magical about the story I am about to relate…
It was snowing. Not that there is anything so extraordinary about molecules of H20 freezing into crystallized hexagons - it was well into winter, even in the heart of London, where White Christmases are nothing but a fond reminiscence of bygone days. Even Dr John Watson could have told you the frosty precipitation was the expected occurrence when the temperature dipped below zero degrees Celsius, and he’s not particularly well versed in scientific theorem.
What I in fact meant by way of mentioning the unforeseen blizzard sweeping in tumultuous drifts and, in short order, incapacitated the city, was to elucidate on precisely what made that particular Christmas so exceedingly magical.
You don’t believe me. I can tell these things, you know. One is not an - well, who or what I am has no bearing upon this tale, so we’ll simply forget I ever mentioned it, shall we? Very good. Then trust me when I say magic does exist, though most assuredly not in the incarnation of witches and wizards or objects endowed with great powers. There is nothing quite so magical as the mundane - a word spoken with genuine kindness, a kiss stolen under the mistletoe, or the company of friends and family to shine light in a corner that once festered in darkness and gloom. So you see, that is the sort of thing I refer to by magic, and when you think on the matter, it really is not such an inexplicable thing after all.
On certain days, however, when just the right conditions align harmoniously, there are ripples in the fabric of what Sherlock Holmes would dismiss as the dull routine of existence. Ripples that tear for a fleeting instant, should an array of remarkable prerequisites be met. Some of these special conditions have to do with the recipient of the magic, the one who comes to find his or herself in the position of having inadvertently slipped into one of these tears. Yet other essential elements are veiled even from myself, though if I am allowed to speculate, I wonder if some mortals do not have some lesson that, by any means necessary, must be instilled.
What comes of the knowledge gained depends entirely on the character of he who is assigned to travel through the tear. You must not delude yourself into believing the outcome, by default, takes an agreeable turn. Everything is dependent upon the man or woman involved, and their worthiness to receive the gift being offered. For some, the sun breaks through the murk shielding their well concealed hearts, though others come out as raving madmen, staring off into oblivion for the sad remainder of their days.
Though he hardly knew it - and would have laughed the idea to scorn if he did - Sherlock Holmes was about to be the recipient of such a lesson.
It can be argued he was a lonely man, familiar with none of those mundane comforts sought out by commonplace, small minded mortals with whom he only grudgingly interacted, and only then to prevent his mind from collapsing in on itself from the sheer centrifugal force of tedium. He had convinced himself and those around him that he wanted nothing to do with anything outside the cold and narrow light of reason. Emotional displays, to him, were frivolous and destructive to the logical faculties. He had no requirement for such maudlin indulgences.
Perhaps that was why on the evening in question, at seven minutes past eight , to be precise, Sherlock, clad in his dressing gown and pyjamas, lay sprawled on his friend’s bed, not unlike some woebegone maiden whose knight errant has lately been roasted by a fire breathing dragon. All he needed to accentuate the dramatic effect to its fullest extent was the back of a hand draped over his brow. Outside the window, a light dusting of flurries swirled in the blustering winds while beads of ice hanging diamond-like from the boughs of the plane tree behind 221B scratched against the panes. John had been enjoying the rare and pristine view, that is, until his exasperating friend slipped into the room and flopped backwards onto his bed, declaring the extent of his boredom.
This led to the seemingly innocent question as to why Sherlock was not yet dressed for the small Christmas Eve gathering Lestrade had invited them to weeks ago, which in turn led to an impressive row over how Sherlock’s non-committal replies are not akin to actual promises. No amount of pleading, cajoling or threats of sabotaging the experiment looming in the microwave for the past three weeks - which is now, John suspects, beginning to grow tentacles - succeeded in convincing him the “dreadful affair” was anything but a useless waste of time.
Agitated, John tossed aside his familiar oatmeal coloured jumper in favour of a more festive one in forest green. He hadn’t imagined their mutual invite to something so uncomplicated as a night out with a few mates from the Yard to celebrate the season would be so earth shattering an ordeal, but the spectacular migraine forming informed him otherwise. And it wasn’t that John particularly desired to go sans Sherlock, but it was the principle of the thing, and possibly also how the world weary detective idly noted the night would be better spent if the doctor remained home and made him tea, that caused him to storm out of the bedroom without uttering another word. Sherlock heard him fumbling with his unlaced shoes on the stairs, and two minutes twenty seconds later, the slamming of the front door disturbed the eerie silence that had already settled over the flat. For reasons that defy all logic, it gets like that when John leaves. Like something in Baker Street has shifted out of place.
A further 13.3 seconds elapsed before the oppressive weight of boredom compelled Sherlock to bestir himself in search of some form of mental stimulation.
Downstairs, in the sitting room, Sherlock huffed an exhalation of disgust at the gaudy tinsel his sentimentalist flat-mate has conspired with their landlady to suspend from nearly every available surface. His chemical table has not escaped this insidious Yuletide infiltration - the complete set of vintage retorts, Bunsen burners and (bloody difficult to come by) vials of swamp adder venom have been cleared away to make room for the scrawny Christmas tree adorned with more fairy lights than branches. There was some sort of holly-berried monstrosity perched atop the mantle, rife with red candles and artificially scented leaves. It was rather nice, mind you, but in a fit of petulance, Sherlock binned it all the same.
The crowning jewel of this indoor winter wonderland, however, was the very conspicuous sprig of mistletoe dangling from the kitchen doorway. Mrs Hudson’s doing, obviously. He offered the glorified piece of shrubbery a sideways sneer as he passed. He does have a mind to bin that, too, though he’s already in his chair by the fire, settled upon the lower dorsal vertebrae with one leg hanging over the armrests, and getting up to do away with that little weed is too dull a prospect to follow through with.
Without a case, his chemical analyses, or John to entertain him, Sherlock’s eyes darted to the massive leather bound edition of ‘Poe’s Complete Works’, the one which contains the hidden compartment. He stared at the bookshelf before satisfying himself the effort is worth rising for, and for many minutes stands in silent contemplation. It has been so long since he’s been given reason to consider that particular distraction, a layer of dust had accumulated on the span of shelf in front of it, and his long fingers grazed the spine almost hesitantly, when a knock sounded from downstairs.
“Oh, go away,” he hissed at the poorly timed and most unwelcome intrusion. Not a case, otherwise the late night caller would be a bit more forceful in their handling of the knocker to have ventured out in this tempest. He shouted for Mrs Hudson, though she’d made some mention of visiting her sister in Surrey, and her notable absence made it readily apparent she has left earlier than scheduled.
Taking the steps one at a time, Sherlock took pains to properly stomp down each. His foul mood was not in the least improved when he swung open the door to be greeted by the vision of Mycroft, leaning patiently on his umbrella, ankles crossed, a sickeningly cheerful smile on his face despite the weather and the fact his younger sibling regarded him with the same expression he reserves for Molly’s awful coffee.
“Bah!” Sherlock growled in prelude to forcibly slamming the door. His attempt was thwarted by a craftily placed umbrella wedged into the frame.
Uninvited, his elder brother entered, brushing snowflakes off the shoulders of his designer suit.
“What brings you here? Run out of hapless foreign countries to invade?”
Ignoring Sherlock’s rudeness, a skill the elder Holmes has perfected to an exact science, he offered a nod by way of greeting and wordlessly made his way up the stairs. His snow drenched umbrella remained in hand, being as after the last incident involving rancid pig lard in the brolly stand - well, Mycroft acquired a natural distrust of apparently innocent objects within the confines of his brother’s flat.
Quite understandable, really.
It’s not until both are settled in their respective armchairs, engaged in what might be called a silent standoff, but passes for peaceable interaction between the Holmes brothers, that either of them uttered a word.
“I see you’re back to old habits,” Mycroft noted with a nod towards the book shelf to his immediate left. “You haven’t indulged yet, obviously, but those footprints entrenched so deeply in the carpet do make it clear you have plans to.”
“Piss off.”
“Where’s John?” At this question, the elder sibling crossed his legs in a very self-satisfied sort of way. You wouldn’t think smugness could be conveyed in the crossing of one’s legs, buy Mycroft Holmes has a flair for exuding how pleased he is with himself in his minutest gestures.
Silence ensued, telling Mycroft all he needs to know.
“Such a pity. I was so hoping your little friend would be home when I proposed you and he come down to Pall Mall for Christmas dinner tomorrow evening. Think how terribly it would upset Mummy if you weren’t there.”
“Mummy’s gone, Mycroft. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“It should still please her to have family spend the day together. May I remind you, it is tradition. And I dare say your doctor should very much like to attend. The past three years, Sherlock, were quite a hardship on him, and a family affair such as this would, I suspect, ease the pain of having celebrated the season alone for so long.”
“How altruistic of you. All the same, you can count on me to not be there.”
“Very well,” Mycroft said, rising. “Do let me know if you change your mind. I’ll have a place set for you and the doctor in the event you decide to stop by. Oh, and Sherlock, please do make an effort not to poison yourself after I leave.”
With that, Mycroft saw himself out, much to the delight of his younger sibling.
***
I feel an obligation to mention that Sherlock Holmes’ treatment of classic literature is nothing short of an abomination.
The vintage leather-bound edition of Poe’s collected writings lay carelessly flung to the floor, cast to the wayside like so much detritus once its morbid purpose has been served. An unforgivable frivolousness in so well educated a man, if you’ll pardon the intrusion of my humble opinings. And all so he could access the cache where he stored one disposable hypodermic needle and a few vials of injectable cocaine.
As the majority of the dusty old tomes on that shelf belong to him, and John, who unlike his flat-mate is not prone to rummaging through the possessions of others, the simplest of hiding places becomes secure as a sealed vault.
Rolling back the sleeve of his dressing gown, Sherlock’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the sinewy forearm all dotted with the scars of innumerable track marks marring otherwise flawlessly smooth, pale skin. He thrusts the sharp point into sensitive flesh, injected the liquefied toxin into his veins, and sank back into his armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction. The needle fell idly from his twitching fingers as the sweetly dulcet notes of “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…” waxed through the flat, until the harmonized voices encroached upon the haze of his artificial euphoria. He could not imagine what carolers were doing out on a tempestuous night such as this, or who even goes caroling anymore. It’s an inane pastime if ever there was one, and that stupid, discordant yowling chiseled away at his nerves. Possibly, it’s the most hateful thing he can imagine, and he vowed to put a swift end to that miserable cantillation he wouldn’t so much as wish on the likes of Moriarity.
Well, maybe him, the tosser.
Granted, chasing off those miserable whingers involves stirring himself from the warmth and comfort of his drug induced torpor, but one does what they must in times of desperation. Without so much as bothering, or more like is the case given his present state, remembering to put on a pair of slippers, Sherlock headed outside to send those abrasive holiday do-gooders scattering. He was somewhat dizzy upon rising, and the further downstairs he descended, the closer the air became. It was thick and gritty in his lungs, a side effect which has never been attributable to his usage (or abuse) of illegal narcotics. If it wasn’t so unaccountably draughty, he would accuse their estimable landlady of having set the heater too high. Although, the air was decidedly not this stale or the hallway so chilly when Mycroft intruded half an hour ago.
Curious.
Though not nearly so unnerving as the sight which greeted him when he wrenched open the door.
Whorls of fog the colour and consistency of rotten pea soup have so thoroughly permeated Baker Street that to make out more than the sooty rooftops of the houses across the street would be a feat of Herculean proportions. Through this palpable bleakness shone the dim glow of gas lamps, under which a group of carolers stood nestled in fur trimmed cloaks. The world’s only consulting detective backed away, his neurons firing with such unfettered rapidity, his brain was in danger of imminent overload.
While the foremost mind of his century gaped in the manner of a dead halibut, a man, his face partially obscured by the layers of his muffler coiled round his face to protect himself from the biting nip in the air, pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door to 221B, which is promptly clicked shut behind him.
Turning, Sherlock was confronted by the familiar numerals gracing his front door, and stared at them just a moment longer than necessary, for good measure. Unless Mrs Hudson had let out the heretofore empty mouldy basement rooms, no one but he and John should be in possession of a key. Stranger still, while he was undoubtedly fixed in front of the flat he’s called home for years, it was not the place he lived in. The door, for one, was no longer painted, but was a deep shade of mahogany - the tarnished brass handle and deep scratches around the keyhole suggested the wood is weathered and timeworn, and that this was not his brother’s tasteless idea of a joke. Even the British government, he is certain, can’t control the environment so thoroughly and in such short order.
Pulling at the handle, Sherlock found the door was quite firmly locked. It’s then his heart stuttered, for the strained notes sounding from a tortured violin resonated from the first floor flat as the carolers delved into a particularly shrill rendition of The Holly and the Ivy. The combined effect may have found a useful purpose in afflicting severe mental anguish on politicians and other loathsome forms of life.
A slightly maniacal chuckle escaped Sherlock’s lips as he calculated the only two plausible conclusions to this scenario are either that he’s dosed himself with a batch of cocaine that’s gone off, or he’s gone utterly mental.
Because instantly upon hearing the harrowing melody, if one may indeed refer to the careless scrapings as such, he realized that’s his violin being murdered up there, as the unique sound of a Stradivarius cannot be replicated, never mind how well the instrument may be crafted. The thought spurred him into a renewed burst of action, and he pulled furiously at the unrelenting door handle. He needed the solidity of his and John’s shared rooms like never before, but the forsaken thing was bolted tight. Before Sherlock’s formidable brain caught up to his mouth, he shouted a string of obscenities that would have caused the carolers to rush off in no little indignation, the ears of the children present to be covered firmly by their mother’s hands - that is, if they had heard him. That they were so oblivious to his tirade only took the situation into a new level of strangeness. It prompted him to yank the door with such force that he slipped backwards on a patch of ice, landing in a heap upon the ground.
“Need a hand up?” Offered a solicitous voice from above, followed soon thereafter by the friendly appendage.
Sherlock scoffed insolently; nonetheless, the obliging Samaritan remained with fingers dangling mere centimeters from the ungrateful detective’s nose in an unspoken invite, until such time as he deigned to accept the help. The wait turned out to be not such a long one after all, seeing how Sherlock did have his pride, and the unsightly wet spot forming in an embarrassing hind region of his dressing gown was incentive enough for him to take the proffered hand.
It’s only after he’s on his feet again that Sherlock made out the very distinctly featured face of the man who came to his aid. If you strained your ears, you might possibly have heard his brain grind to a screeching halt. In fact, a full 67.9 seconds elapsed before it slowly rendered itself back into some semblance of functionality, and even then, all Sherlock could do is suspire from the shock.
“How is this possible?” he finally managed.
“I was informed my presence here was required,” the man said with a shrug.
“But… my god. Victor Trevor. You’ve been dead for seven years!”
***
If ever there was a man besides John Watson who willingly breathed in the same air with Sherlock Holmes and even saw, albeit dimly, that there was more to him than an overly self-assured genius masked in an untouchable exterior, then that man was one Victor Trevor, who attended Uni with him for a few short months before his father’s unexpected death. He never referred to Sherlock’s deductions as parlour tricks, though of course, there was still the odd eye roll at his inferences, but all things considered, the two got on relatively well. Aside from the fact that Victor’s terrier had a relish for the taste of Sherlock’s ankles.
But all was all inconsequential, being that the man who was gripping his hand and grinning stupidly was dead as the aforementioned door-nail.
“Stunning deduction, that,” Victor said, glancing at his watch. “But we’re on a tight schedule, you know. I’m to get you back home by Christmas, and that’s barely three hours away, so if you’re ready, what’s say we get started, eh?”
“Do you realize,” said Sherlock after withdrawing his hand, “that your presence in my subconscious mind is the most illogical development of the evening? I find your appearance rather disconcerting, and therefore must take the course of permanently banishing you from my hard drive if you do not instantly take your leave. Run along now, like a good apparition.”
“I’m not a figment of your imagination,” Victor protested.
“You can be nothing else,” he rationalized. “You’re dead.”
“Of course I’m dead, you idiot! How else do you think I got to be a ghost?”
“A ghost, you say?”
The man who really ought to have remained dead nodded in grim affirmation. “The ghost of Christmas past, actually. Now, if you don’t mind, I do have my orders, and if I haven’t got you back by midnight, well, I’m afraid you’ll be stuck here indefinitely. And neither one of us wants to deal with the paperwork involved with that fiasco, trust me.”
“Yes, quite.” Sherlock smiled placatingly. “I’ll just see myself home and save you the trouble, shall I?” he continued, heading for the door.
“You’re about as close to home as I am to life, mate,” Victor laughed mirthlessly, before stepping in front of his erstwhile friend to place one palm on the entryway while simultaneously, tugging at the dangling belt of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “I’ve always said that one distinct advantage of being incorporeal -” he mused, yanking the bemused consulting detective through several centimeters of solid wood, “is the ease of movement bestowed upon the spirit. Well, come on then, there’s nothing to see in the hallway but sopping coats and a wilted aspidistra.”
Following the entity who bore a striking resemblance to Victor was not compliance, the detective told himself as he sets foot atop the first of what he’s already counted to be a total of seventeen steps. Nonetheless, he continued forward, bare feet creaking on the carpeted stairs and the ninth step never creaked before. The wallpaper was but a shadow of the pattern gracing the walls before, yet could not be more different - a halo of light emanated from a gas sconce on the landing… It was too much for him to take in, yet the impossibility of it all was a compelling motivator that Sherlock was helpless to resist.
Of its own volition, the sitting room door creaked open to allow him entrance as Victor whispered something about them only having a moment to spare, what with interdimensional wayfaring being enough of a nuisance, though when compounded with travelling along the space time continuum, well. It was passing through those wormholes that wrought havoc with Earth’s time.
“Wormholes are wholly hypothetical and the most recent scientific evidence suggests the particles of quantum foam in which they are believed to exist are too small to admit passage of the tiniest atom, much less a human being,” Sherlock scoffed impulsively, before realizing he was engaging in intellectual discourse with a nonexistent spectre contrived by his drug induced state. And that there are two intruders making themselves comfortable in what should be his and John’s shared flat, though somehow isn’t. One man, whose features were obscured as he was draped over an armchair. The other was a husky, fair haired, moustached man pouring himself a drink at the sideboard.
This is indeed the first floor flat in 221B Baker Street, yet somehow, it’s so far removed from his home as to be unrecognizable in nearly every facet. Everything was wrong, turned upside-down. “Fascinating,” he breathed, far too intrigued by the impossibility of the situation to give any credence to his initial hesitations.
“Can either of you tell me where I am?”
“Don’t bother wasting your voice, mate. They’re oblivious to our presence,” Victor said, holding him back. “We’re only here to observe, Sherlock. You’re being gifted the chance to understand those past errors of the quintessence of our being, manifestations of the psyche, the soul - call it by any name you will, but here is the opportunity to set right the many wrongs you have, in the recesses of your heart, committed repeatedly.”
“That is utterly absurd.”
“Knew you’d say that. You always were too obstinate -”
“Logical.”
“For your own good,” Victor concluded stubbornly, herding the detective over to the fireplace, where the scene playing out before them could be viewed in its entirety.
“Must you carry on with that infernal racket?” The fair-haired man spoke in a much aggrieved voice. “Really, my dear fellow. Can you not play a piece with some semblance of a melody? Mendelssohn, perhaps,” he said, collapsing into the chair opposite the disgruntled violinist with a restorative brandy in hand.
In response, the instrument was laid aside with a huff by the broody, emaciated looking individual. “My apologies for disturbing you. Though oughtn’t you be home partaking of Christmas dinner with the lovely Mrs Watson instead of revisiting your old bachelor digs out of some misplaced sense of charity for its lone inhabitant?”
“It is nothing of the kind. Mary and I would like nothing better than to have you with us for our Christmas festivities. You are family to us, Holmes.”
Victor laid a warning hand on his elbow as Sherlock made to lunge forward at the mention of his and John’s names. “Let this play out as it will. Interference is an impossibility, anyway.”
“I’ve no use for such frivolities, Doctor. There is naught in this stale existence which matters to me more than my work, for all else is extraneous and corrosive to the logical faculties, to the mental exultation which I crave.”
“I see it is the cocaine to-day,” the doctor remarked, setting down his emptied glass and running a hand over his brow in the fashion of a man who has been tried to his limits. “All the same, our invitation stands. It pains me very much to see you alone during Christmastime, and if you for a moment think our celebrations will be the same without you, for once, then, Sherlock Holmes is sorely mistaken.”
Without further ado, the doctor rose and took his leave in a state of considerable agitation.
“Bah!” the other man - the other Holmes - expostulated ungratefully.
When he was once again alone, the man bounded off his chair in a fit of energy, he practically walked through Sherlock as he rummaged through a pile of assorted litter on the mantel, until his long, questing fingers emerge victorious with a dark Moroccan case that springs open to reveal a glass hypodermic needle and three vials of a substance Sherlock is intimately familiar with.
Once more reclining in his chair, the man, shirtsleeve left absently rolled up, drifted off into oblivion. In the interim, the hallucination that has taken the form of Victor Trevor turned his attention to the mantel clock, pulled back the glass case and wound the hands forward, methodically at first, until his pace quickened into a blur of movements too rapid to catalogue, and the room around them swirled into an indistinct whirl of colour and motion.
“That should do it,” he heard Victor through the buzzing in his ears, and as his vertigo subsided, his surroundings once more took shape. The soft light of morning pooled on the carpet between a chink in the drapes, illuminating the gaunt figure curled up in the same relative position where he’d been before the clock was turned. Yet there was several days growth of stubble shadowing his features, and his eyes, unblinking, are fixated upon a desk in the corner, or more accurately, the writing instruments laid out upon it.
“Did he… overdose?” Sherlock inquired stupidly, despite observing a dozen different bits of minutiae which proclaimed otherwise.
“No, there’s life in the poor sod, unfortunately.” Responding to Sherlock’s askance look, he continued. “He shouldn’t have let him go off alone,” Victor said sadly. “Doctor Watson was his friend, and kept trying to be his friend, no matter how much Holmes kept pushing him away. Too bad that got one killed. And the other sentenced to a life imprisonment, of sorts.”
Sherlock froze, a chill settling deep in his soul. “What, this Watson’s continual attempts at meaningless gestures of friendship got Holmes killed?” he asked carefully, hoping in some bizarre way it was true.
“No, you idiot.” Victor rolled his eyes in the old, familiar gesture. “Holmes got Watson killed. Sent him out into the cold, snowy night, alone and upset, on Christmas of all days. Too distracted by his dearest friend’s bitter words to take care when crossing the icy street, too saddened by Holmes’ self-destructive behaviour to notice the approaching omnibus - until it was too late. And Holmes was too damned drugged with cocaine to hear the commotion, or even know of the accident until the following morning, when it was all too late. Just like you’re going to be.”
“What do you mean, ‘like I‘m going to be’?” he said, eyes narrowing.
Victor glared at Sherlock, his eyes glowing strangely. “Don’t see any parallels here? Do I need to draw you a Venn diagram to get the point across to your logical, fact-driven brain?”
The detective spoke after a moment, his voice gone quiet. “Couldn’t we have warned him?”
“Not here to meddle, remember? We’re here as spectators and even the slightest interference is strictly forbidden. Besides, some things, Sherlock, can’t be resolved with reason. Where would it have got us if we explained to this scientific mind how there are things in this world of more importance than brainwork? Now he’s been shown, I’m betting he appreciates that intangible fact. But we’ve dawdled here far too long already. If we hurry, we’ll be just in time for the funeral.”
“Watson’s?”
“No, John’s.” The ghost said, coldly, before turning back to the clock again.
***
Sherlock headed him off, clasping him by the shoulders in a grip that might have left bruises were he comprised of actual flesh. Which did account for why he found himself shaking tufts of air and hurling a torrent of curses at nothing but empty space.
“Don’t be daft. You can’t murder a dead man.” Sherlock’s more lucid cogitations having dissipated like so much vapour, he lashed out, intending to attack this drug induced demon for all he’s worth, though he succeeded only in toppling over the towering pile of unopened correspondence affixed to the mantel with a jackknife. The hands of the clock were already being wound forwards, so much quicker than before, and the room was spinning him into dizziness, the meagre lunch John coaxed him into eating threatened to rebel in his stomach.
It seemed that an interminable span had passed, but when everything finally did go still again, Sherlock found himself standing in a patch of grass in a patch of garden, the sky overhead grey and overcast. As his vision cleared, it was apparent this was no ordinary plot of earth, but another sort of plot altogether - Highgate Cemetery, where Mummy was buried. Victor stood the end of the narrow walkway lined with hanging vines of ivy and moss laden statues of angels, their countenance, though chiseled from stone, somehow accusing as he made the daunting journey to catch up with his dead college friend. In silence, Victor led him, always several paces ahead, until they came to a lightly attended burial, the heartsickness of those few mourners palpable in the air. Someone was moaning as the coffin was lowered and the priest consecrated the ground, an exhalation of grief so pure it sent a cold shiver down Sherlock’s spine. It’s the cry of a man so stricken with despair, he might as well be lowered into the ground along with the departed, for all his own life has come to an end.
They watch from a distance until the crowd disperses, leaving the place empty save for a solitary mourner, whose head hung low and appeared to be having a difficult time of standing in place without collapsing.
“He looks to be the loneliest man in Creation, doesn’t he?” Victor asked expecting no response and getting none, in turn. “Not even a shoulder to lean on in his darkest hour. It’s his own doing though, since he pushed away everyone who ever cared about him. Knows it’s his fault they’re dead.”
It is at this point Sherlock observed there was not one, but two freshly dug graves. Flurries began to fall, compelling two gravediggers to hurry about their arduous task before the ground froze over. The man lingering at the graves turned to leaves as Sherlock stepped forward, and though their paths do not directly cross, the fleeting glimpse of him lumbering down the path strikes him with such an intense jolt of fear that he gasped.
“Why the hell have you brought me here?” He demanded of the ghost at his side. In answer, Victor nodded towards the graves.
The inscriptions on the cold slabs turned Sherlock’s blood to ice.
“No! No, it’s not true! Victor,” He turned, desperately snatching at the ghost’s lapels. “Tell me they’re not dead!”
“Oh, Mycroft and John haven’t met their ultimate fates - yet. They both will pass from this world at the stroke of midnight, tonight, so I figure they still have a good twenty-five minutes left.”
“What… what happens to them?”
“In precisely seven minutes, your brother will see John leave the pub via his CCTV feed. You rejected his offer to dine with him for Christmas, and so he decides that one of his rendezvous with your doctor may be in order, since he stands a better chance of convincing him to talk you into attending. However, he’s underestimated John’s state of inebriation and distractedness, both caused because you not only refused to accompany him, but with your acidic tone, made him believe his friendship was of no worth to you. The roads are slick with ice, and as the blizzard creates a veritable white-out, neither party sees the other until it is too late. The driver attempts to swerve and miss John, but panics and hits the accelerator instead of the brake. It all results in John getting sideswiped as the car careens out of control into a wall at high speed. Everyone involved is killed on impact.”
Sherlock’s brain felt like it was on fire, and there was something wrong with his chest; it felt heavy, constricted. “It’s just a dream, none of this is real!”
“If that’s all you’ve learnt, then your future is well deserved.” The ghost pointed a finger in the direction the lone mourner - his future self if this apparition is to be believed - has walked off into. Trailing behind him can be seen the shadowy silhouette of a figure cloaked entirely in black, who places a hand on the man’s - his - shoulder. As he does so, his sleeve falls back, revealing the limb to be comprised entirely of bone. “You don’t last very long, Sherlock, not long at all, and you’re not going to enjoy what’s in store for you, not with the blood of two good men on your hands.”
“But… but… I never meant… please, Victor, take me back! I don’t care what happens to me, but they don’t deserve to die, not even Mycroft! Please, just let me wake up!”
To his great shock, Sherlock found himself alone in the cemetery. When did that happen? He couldn’t think anymore. Falling to his knees, he called out for the ghost to return, but there’s no response, nothing but the tombstones to hear his pleas. Strangely enough, though, though the storm had picked up fiercely, he finds himself too warm, dry; and for that matter, why did the winds sound so far-off when he was in the centre of it?
He looked up to find not the grim sight of men piling earth atop his friend’s coffin which greets him, but the familiar, comforting interior of his and John’s shared flat in 221B. He hadn’t moved from the exact position he passed out in hours before, though a quick glance at his phone revealed it was ten to midnight.
John!
The only man he would even want to call friend, had, if this night terror he just woke from is to be believed, only minutes to live. Incredulous as he might have been as to the verisimilitude of the experience, he slipped on a pair of shoes and threw his coat on without so much as bothering to dress. He launched himself out the door and was running through the increasing snowstorm before his brain registered the act. John mentioned the pub being along St John’s Wood Road, but he hadn’t paid heed to much else, and could only call to mind one possible public house in that vicinity which would fit the budget of the Met, a little place with inferior cuisine on Ordnance Hill. One that he’ll never make it to before midnight, not with such scant time on his side, and there were no cabbies insane enough to venture out into this mess. London is, in fact, more deserted than he’s ever seen it.
Desperately, Sherlock pulled out his phone, nearly colliding with a car himself as he carelessly sprints off the kerb. There’s a very, very slim chance John will see the message, or more likely, will be arsed to check it when he sees the number, but all the same he typed the message, fingers flying frantically across the keypad.
REMAIN PRECISELY WHERE YOU ARE.
MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH.
- SH
I MEAN IT, JOHN!
- SH
YOU PICK THE WORST TIMES FOR DEFIANCE.
- SH
I AM WILLING TO OVERLOOK THIS STUBBORN STREAK
IF YOU RESPOND.
-SH
ANSWER ME, JOHN!!!
- SH
JOHN???
- SH
I’M SORRY. PLEASE DON’T MOVE IF YOU L
FORGIVE ME.
- SH
Panic rose in his chest like a cold steel blade, cutting away the organ that was never supposed to have existed there. He reached the corner of Ordnance Hill and St John’s Wood Terrace, where a lone black car barely visible to his keen perception through the barrage of snow - and only then because he was looking specifically for it - turned the corner. The very instant it did so, the figure of a man, head held low, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, appeared across the street. Sherlock calculates that it’s only a matter of a few steps before he starts to cross the street, inadvertently placing himself in the vehicle’s path.
It did him no good to call out; his voice was drowned by the shrieking winds.
John was no more than mere centimeters away from being struck, and if the Fates are out for blood, Sherlock made up his mind that they can have his own. With a fraction of a second to spare, he flung himself over the bonnet. The satisfying thump the action created was enough to spur the attention of the driver, whose foot slammed down onto the brake (thankfully, not the accelerator). They skidded into a parked car, setting off an alarm that rang out shrilly in the heavy silence, and Sherlock went tumbling into a snow bank.
While Sherlock was by no means a nervous man, there was something terrifying about the prospect of getting up from where he rolled off upon impact. The sound of John’s voice, high and panicked (not to mention hurling a colourful assortment of expletives acquired in the Queen‘s Army), drew from him the last traces of horror imparted on him by the night’s remarkable experience.
Sherlock stood up on shaking legs that were barely able to hold him upright with any dignity, and his friend instantly sobered. Whereupon he proceeded to subject him to a dressing down that could only ever be pulled off so flawlessly by an ex-military man.
“God, Sherlock,” he finishes off the tirade, more from breathlessness than any great desire to not be admonishing the detective. “What possessed you to do something so incredibly stupid!”
“Yes that was, of a certainty, one of your more asinine displays,” his brother concurs while his assistant, who pries neither fingers nor gaze from her blackberry, advances upon the scene.
Undeterred by the overwhelming lack of enthusiasm in regards to his untimely entrance, Sherlock only reached into his dressing gown pocket. “I forgot to give you something,” he said to his flat mate with a mischievous twinkle. He extended a closed hand towards his friend, who took the proffered gift with a sharply drawn breath. “Merry Christmas, John. I won’t be needing this anymore.”
He then turned to his brother, who stood pale and gobsmacked - there really is no other word for it - standing on the snow-covered street and staring at him. “Oh, and Mycroft. This has no bearing whatsoever on the fact that I despise you, but at what time can we expect to be abducted by your personnel for dinner?”
For perhaps the first instance in his existence, Mycroft Holmes was at a loss for what to say, though he did make an admirable effort at regaining his composure before informing the woman occasionally known as Anthea to stop by Baker Street around four.
Up the street come the glowing lights of the police cruisers Mycroft’s PA has dutifully summoned, and John, who took one last disbelieving look at Sherlock Holmes before letting the syringe fall from his palm, joined his friend as they started home. They walked in companionable silence for the most part, save for the satisfying crunch of the hypodermic under John’s boot heel.
Recipient: goldvermilion87
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Victor Trevor
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7,057
Warnings: Depictions of drug use, allusions to character death - though there are technically no actual character deaths. Honestly. Cross my heart. As many shameless nods to ACD!Canon as I was able to insert, and liberties taken with a Charles Dickens classic.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past…
A/N: A million thanks are due to my incredible Beta [redacted], without whose painstaking help this fic would make no sense whatsoever. All the good parts are credited to her, the dodgy bits are entirely my own.
To my recipient: Writing this was a harrowing ride, but a fun one all the same. It was originally meant to be a case fic, but this one definitely got away from me. I hope you enjoy!
When Snow Falls in London
Victor Trevor was dead, to begin with. He’d gone on to take some asinine job in a tea manufacturing plant in India, and, as a consequence, was struck down not much later during an outbreak of the dreaded Tapanuli fever. The body was transported to Bart’s, as the funeral was to be held in London. There could be no doubts the bloated corpse unveiled to Sherlock Holmes on the autopsy table was anyone other than Victor - the distinguishing marks and small tattoo on his left shoulder vehemently proclaimed the dead man’s identity.
That, and his skull now resided on Sherlock’s mantel.
But to return to my point: Victor Trevor was dead as a door-nail, and Sherlock had no doubts whatsoever about the fact. This must be distinctly understood. For if you did not know this, you would never understand half of what is so wonderful and magical about the story I am about to relate…
It was snowing. Not that there is anything so extraordinary about molecules of H20 freezing into crystallized hexagons - it was well into winter, even in the heart of London, where White Christmases are nothing but a fond reminiscence of bygone days. Even Dr John Watson could have told you the frosty precipitation was the expected occurrence when the temperature dipped below zero degrees Celsius, and he’s not particularly well versed in scientific theorem.
What I in fact meant by way of mentioning the unforeseen blizzard sweeping in tumultuous drifts and, in short order, incapacitated the city, was to elucidate on precisely what made that particular Christmas so exceedingly magical.
You don’t believe me. I can tell these things, you know. One is not an - well, who or what I am has no bearing upon this tale, so we’ll simply forget I ever mentioned it, shall we? Very good. Then trust me when I say magic does exist, though most assuredly not in the incarnation of witches and wizards or objects endowed with great powers. There is nothing quite so magical as the mundane - a word spoken with genuine kindness, a kiss stolen under the mistletoe, or the company of friends and family to shine light in a corner that once festered in darkness and gloom. So you see, that is the sort of thing I refer to by magic, and when you think on the matter, it really is not such an inexplicable thing after all.
On certain days, however, when just the right conditions align harmoniously, there are ripples in the fabric of what Sherlock Holmes would dismiss as the dull routine of existence. Ripples that tear for a fleeting instant, should an array of remarkable prerequisites be met. Some of these special conditions have to do with the recipient of the magic, the one who comes to find his or herself in the position of having inadvertently slipped into one of these tears. Yet other essential elements are veiled even from myself, though if I am allowed to speculate, I wonder if some mortals do not have some lesson that, by any means necessary, must be instilled.
What comes of the knowledge gained depends entirely on the character of he who is assigned to travel through the tear. You must not delude yourself into believing the outcome, by default, takes an agreeable turn. Everything is dependent upon the man or woman involved, and their worthiness to receive the gift being offered. For some, the sun breaks through the murk shielding their well concealed hearts, though others come out as raving madmen, staring off into oblivion for the sad remainder of their days.
Though he hardly knew it - and would have laughed the idea to scorn if he did - Sherlock Holmes was about to be the recipient of such a lesson.
It can be argued he was a lonely man, familiar with none of those mundane comforts sought out by commonplace, small minded mortals with whom he only grudgingly interacted, and only then to prevent his mind from collapsing in on itself from the sheer centrifugal force of tedium. He had convinced himself and those around him that he wanted nothing to do with anything outside the cold and narrow light of reason. Emotional displays, to him, were frivolous and destructive to the logical faculties. He had no requirement for such maudlin indulgences.
Perhaps that was why on the evening in question, at seven minutes past eight , to be precise, Sherlock, clad in his dressing gown and pyjamas, lay sprawled on his friend’s bed, not unlike some woebegone maiden whose knight errant has lately been roasted by a fire breathing dragon. All he needed to accentuate the dramatic effect to its fullest extent was the back of a hand draped over his brow. Outside the window, a light dusting of flurries swirled in the blustering winds while beads of ice hanging diamond-like from the boughs of the plane tree behind 221B scratched against the panes. John had been enjoying the rare and pristine view, that is, until his exasperating friend slipped into the room and flopped backwards onto his bed, declaring the extent of his boredom.
This led to the seemingly innocent question as to why Sherlock was not yet dressed for the small Christmas Eve gathering Lestrade had invited them to weeks ago, which in turn led to an impressive row over how Sherlock’s non-committal replies are not akin to actual promises. No amount of pleading, cajoling or threats of sabotaging the experiment looming in the microwave for the past three weeks - which is now, John suspects, beginning to grow tentacles - succeeded in convincing him the “dreadful affair” was anything but a useless waste of time.
Agitated, John tossed aside his familiar oatmeal coloured jumper in favour of a more festive one in forest green. He hadn’t imagined their mutual invite to something so uncomplicated as a night out with a few mates from the Yard to celebrate the season would be so earth shattering an ordeal, but the spectacular migraine forming informed him otherwise. And it wasn’t that John particularly desired to go sans Sherlock, but it was the principle of the thing, and possibly also how the world weary detective idly noted the night would be better spent if the doctor remained home and made him tea, that caused him to storm out of the bedroom without uttering another word. Sherlock heard him fumbling with his unlaced shoes on the stairs, and two minutes twenty seconds later, the slamming of the front door disturbed the eerie silence that had already settled over the flat. For reasons that defy all logic, it gets like that when John leaves. Like something in Baker Street has shifted out of place.
A further 13.3 seconds elapsed before the oppressive weight of boredom compelled Sherlock to bestir himself in search of some form of mental stimulation.
Downstairs, in the sitting room, Sherlock huffed an exhalation of disgust at the gaudy tinsel his sentimentalist flat-mate has conspired with their landlady to suspend from nearly every available surface. His chemical table has not escaped this insidious Yuletide infiltration - the complete set of vintage retorts, Bunsen burners and (bloody difficult to come by) vials of swamp adder venom have been cleared away to make room for the scrawny Christmas tree adorned with more fairy lights than branches. There was some sort of holly-berried monstrosity perched atop the mantle, rife with red candles and artificially scented leaves. It was rather nice, mind you, but in a fit of petulance, Sherlock binned it all the same.
The crowning jewel of this indoor winter wonderland, however, was the very conspicuous sprig of mistletoe dangling from the kitchen doorway. Mrs Hudson’s doing, obviously. He offered the glorified piece of shrubbery a sideways sneer as he passed. He does have a mind to bin that, too, though he’s already in his chair by the fire, settled upon the lower dorsal vertebrae with one leg hanging over the armrests, and getting up to do away with that little weed is too dull a prospect to follow through with.
Without a case, his chemical analyses, or John to entertain him, Sherlock’s eyes darted to the massive leather bound edition of ‘Poe’s Complete Works’, the one which contains the hidden compartment. He stared at the bookshelf before satisfying himself the effort is worth rising for, and for many minutes stands in silent contemplation. It has been so long since he’s been given reason to consider that particular distraction, a layer of dust had accumulated on the span of shelf in front of it, and his long fingers grazed the spine almost hesitantly, when a knock sounded from downstairs.
“Oh, go away,” he hissed at the poorly timed and most unwelcome intrusion. Not a case, otherwise the late night caller would be a bit more forceful in their handling of the knocker to have ventured out in this tempest. He shouted for Mrs Hudson, though she’d made some mention of visiting her sister in Surrey, and her notable absence made it readily apparent she has left earlier than scheduled.
Taking the steps one at a time, Sherlock took pains to properly stomp down each. His foul mood was not in the least improved when he swung open the door to be greeted by the vision of Mycroft, leaning patiently on his umbrella, ankles crossed, a sickeningly cheerful smile on his face despite the weather and the fact his younger sibling regarded him with the same expression he reserves for Molly’s awful coffee.
“Bah!” Sherlock growled in prelude to forcibly slamming the door. His attempt was thwarted by a craftily placed umbrella wedged into the frame.
Uninvited, his elder brother entered, brushing snowflakes off the shoulders of his designer suit.
“What brings you here? Run out of hapless foreign countries to invade?”
Ignoring Sherlock’s rudeness, a skill the elder Holmes has perfected to an exact science, he offered a nod by way of greeting and wordlessly made his way up the stairs. His snow drenched umbrella remained in hand, being as after the last incident involving rancid pig lard in the brolly stand - well, Mycroft acquired a natural distrust of apparently innocent objects within the confines of his brother’s flat.
Quite understandable, really.
It’s not until both are settled in their respective armchairs, engaged in what might be called a silent standoff, but passes for peaceable interaction between the Holmes brothers, that either of them uttered a word.
“I see you’re back to old habits,” Mycroft noted with a nod towards the book shelf to his immediate left. “You haven’t indulged yet, obviously, but those footprints entrenched so deeply in the carpet do make it clear you have plans to.”
“Piss off.”
“Where’s John?” At this question, the elder sibling crossed his legs in a very self-satisfied sort of way. You wouldn’t think smugness could be conveyed in the crossing of one’s legs, buy Mycroft Holmes has a flair for exuding how pleased he is with himself in his minutest gestures.
Silence ensued, telling Mycroft all he needs to know.
“Such a pity. I was so hoping your little friend would be home when I proposed you and he come down to Pall Mall for Christmas dinner tomorrow evening. Think how terribly it would upset Mummy if you weren’t there.”
“Mummy’s gone, Mycroft. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“It should still please her to have family spend the day together. May I remind you, it is tradition. And I dare say your doctor should very much like to attend. The past three years, Sherlock, were quite a hardship on him, and a family affair such as this would, I suspect, ease the pain of having celebrated the season alone for so long.”
“How altruistic of you. All the same, you can count on me to not be there.”
“Very well,” Mycroft said, rising. “Do let me know if you change your mind. I’ll have a place set for you and the doctor in the event you decide to stop by. Oh, and Sherlock, please do make an effort not to poison yourself after I leave.”
With that, Mycroft saw himself out, much to the delight of his younger sibling.
***
I feel an obligation to mention that Sherlock Holmes’ treatment of classic literature is nothing short of an abomination.
The vintage leather-bound edition of Poe’s collected writings lay carelessly flung to the floor, cast to the wayside like so much detritus once its morbid purpose has been served. An unforgivable frivolousness in so well educated a man, if you’ll pardon the intrusion of my humble opinings. And all so he could access the cache where he stored one disposable hypodermic needle and a few vials of injectable cocaine.
As the majority of the dusty old tomes on that shelf belong to him, and John, who unlike his flat-mate is not prone to rummaging through the possessions of others, the simplest of hiding places becomes secure as a sealed vault.
Rolling back the sleeve of his dressing gown, Sherlock’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the sinewy forearm all dotted with the scars of innumerable track marks marring otherwise flawlessly smooth, pale skin. He thrusts the sharp point into sensitive flesh, injected the liquefied toxin into his veins, and sank back into his armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction. The needle fell idly from his twitching fingers as the sweetly dulcet notes of “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…” waxed through the flat, until the harmonized voices encroached upon the haze of his artificial euphoria. He could not imagine what carolers were doing out on a tempestuous night such as this, or who even goes caroling anymore. It’s an inane pastime if ever there was one, and that stupid, discordant yowling chiseled away at his nerves. Possibly, it’s the most hateful thing he can imagine, and he vowed to put a swift end to that miserable cantillation he wouldn’t so much as wish on the likes of Moriarity.
Well, maybe him, the tosser.
Granted, chasing off those miserable whingers involves stirring himself from the warmth and comfort of his drug induced torpor, but one does what they must in times of desperation. Without so much as bothering, or more like is the case given his present state, remembering to put on a pair of slippers, Sherlock headed outside to send those abrasive holiday do-gooders scattering. He was somewhat dizzy upon rising, and the further downstairs he descended, the closer the air became. It was thick and gritty in his lungs, a side effect which has never been attributable to his usage (or abuse) of illegal narcotics. If it wasn’t so unaccountably draughty, he would accuse their estimable landlady of having set the heater too high. Although, the air was decidedly not this stale or the hallway so chilly when Mycroft intruded half an hour ago.
Curious.
Though not nearly so unnerving as the sight which greeted him when he wrenched open the door.
Whorls of fog the colour and consistency of rotten pea soup have so thoroughly permeated Baker Street that to make out more than the sooty rooftops of the houses across the street would be a feat of Herculean proportions. Through this palpable bleakness shone the dim glow of gas lamps, under which a group of carolers stood nestled in fur trimmed cloaks. The world’s only consulting detective backed away, his neurons firing with such unfettered rapidity, his brain was in danger of imminent overload.
While the foremost mind of his century gaped in the manner of a dead halibut, a man, his face partially obscured by the layers of his muffler coiled round his face to protect himself from the biting nip in the air, pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door to 221B, which is promptly clicked shut behind him.
Turning, Sherlock was confronted by the familiar numerals gracing his front door, and stared at them just a moment longer than necessary, for good measure. Unless Mrs Hudson had let out the heretofore empty mouldy basement rooms, no one but he and John should be in possession of a key. Stranger still, while he was undoubtedly fixed in front of the flat he’s called home for years, it was not the place he lived in. The door, for one, was no longer painted, but was a deep shade of mahogany - the tarnished brass handle and deep scratches around the keyhole suggested the wood is weathered and timeworn, and that this was not his brother’s tasteless idea of a joke. Even the British government, he is certain, can’t control the environment so thoroughly and in such short order.
Pulling at the handle, Sherlock found the door was quite firmly locked. It’s then his heart stuttered, for the strained notes sounding from a tortured violin resonated from the first floor flat as the carolers delved into a particularly shrill rendition of The Holly and the Ivy. The combined effect may have found a useful purpose in afflicting severe mental anguish on politicians and other loathsome forms of life.
A slightly maniacal chuckle escaped Sherlock’s lips as he calculated the only two plausible conclusions to this scenario are either that he’s dosed himself with a batch of cocaine that’s gone off, or he’s gone utterly mental.
Because instantly upon hearing the harrowing melody, if one may indeed refer to the careless scrapings as such, he realized that’s his violin being murdered up there, as the unique sound of a Stradivarius cannot be replicated, never mind how well the instrument may be crafted. The thought spurred him into a renewed burst of action, and he pulled furiously at the unrelenting door handle. He needed the solidity of his and John’s shared rooms like never before, but the forsaken thing was bolted tight. Before Sherlock’s formidable brain caught up to his mouth, he shouted a string of obscenities that would have caused the carolers to rush off in no little indignation, the ears of the children present to be covered firmly by their mother’s hands - that is, if they had heard him. That they were so oblivious to his tirade only took the situation into a new level of strangeness. It prompted him to yank the door with such force that he slipped backwards on a patch of ice, landing in a heap upon the ground.
“Need a hand up?” Offered a solicitous voice from above, followed soon thereafter by the friendly appendage.
Sherlock scoffed insolently; nonetheless, the obliging Samaritan remained with fingers dangling mere centimeters from the ungrateful detective’s nose in an unspoken invite, until such time as he deigned to accept the help. The wait turned out to be not such a long one after all, seeing how Sherlock did have his pride, and the unsightly wet spot forming in an embarrassing hind region of his dressing gown was incentive enough for him to take the proffered hand.
It’s only after he’s on his feet again that Sherlock made out the very distinctly featured face of the man who came to his aid. If you strained your ears, you might possibly have heard his brain grind to a screeching halt. In fact, a full 67.9 seconds elapsed before it slowly rendered itself back into some semblance of functionality, and even then, all Sherlock could do is suspire from the shock.
“How is this possible?” he finally managed.
“I was informed my presence here was required,” the man said with a shrug.
“But… my god. Victor Trevor. You’ve been dead for seven years!”
***
If ever there was a man besides John Watson who willingly breathed in the same air with Sherlock Holmes and even saw, albeit dimly, that there was more to him than an overly self-assured genius masked in an untouchable exterior, then that man was one Victor Trevor, who attended Uni with him for a few short months before his father’s unexpected death. He never referred to Sherlock’s deductions as parlour tricks, though of course, there was still the odd eye roll at his inferences, but all things considered, the two got on relatively well. Aside from the fact that Victor’s terrier had a relish for the taste of Sherlock’s ankles.
But all was all inconsequential, being that the man who was gripping his hand and grinning stupidly was dead as the aforementioned door-nail.
“Stunning deduction, that,” Victor said, glancing at his watch. “But we’re on a tight schedule, you know. I’m to get you back home by Christmas, and that’s barely three hours away, so if you’re ready, what’s say we get started, eh?”
“Do you realize,” said Sherlock after withdrawing his hand, “that your presence in my subconscious mind is the most illogical development of the evening? I find your appearance rather disconcerting, and therefore must take the course of permanently banishing you from my hard drive if you do not instantly take your leave. Run along now, like a good apparition.”
“I’m not a figment of your imagination,” Victor protested.
“You can be nothing else,” he rationalized. “You’re dead.”
“Of course I’m dead, you idiot! How else do you think I got to be a ghost?”
“A ghost, you say?”
The man who really ought to have remained dead nodded in grim affirmation. “The ghost of Christmas past, actually. Now, if you don’t mind, I do have my orders, and if I haven’t got you back by midnight, well, I’m afraid you’ll be stuck here indefinitely. And neither one of us wants to deal with the paperwork involved with that fiasco, trust me.”
“Yes, quite.” Sherlock smiled placatingly. “I’ll just see myself home and save you the trouble, shall I?” he continued, heading for the door.
“You’re about as close to home as I am to life, mate,” Victor laughed mirthlessly, before stepping in front of his erstwhile friend to place one palm on the entryway while simultaneously, tugging at the dangling belt of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “I’ve always said that one distinct advantage of being incorporeal -” he mused, yanking the bemused consulting detective through several centimeters of solid wood, “is the ease of movement bestowed upon the spirit. Well, come on then, there’s nothing to see in the hallway but sopping coats and a wilted aspidistra.”
Following the entity who bore a striking resemblance to Victor was not compliance, the detective told himself as he sets foot atop the first of what he’s already counted to be a total of seventeen steps. Nonetheless, he continued forward, bare feet creaking on the carpeted stairs and the ninth step never creaked before. The wallpaper was but a shadow of the pattern gracing the walls before, yet could not be more different - a halo of light emanated from a gas sconce on the landing… It was too much for him to take in, yet the impossibility of it all was a compelling motivator that Sherlock was helpless to resist.
Of its own volition, the sitting room door creaked open to allow him entrance as Victor whispered something about them only having a moment to spare, what with interdimensional wayfaring being enough of a nuisance, though when compounded with travelling along the space time continuum, well. It was passing through those wormholes that wrought havoc with Earth’s time.
“Wormholes are wholly hypothetical and the most recent scientific evidence suggests the particles of quantum foam in which they are believed to exist are too small to admit passage of the tiniest atom, much less a human being,” Sherlock scoffed impulsively, before realizing he was engaging in intellectual discourse with a nonexistent spectre contrived by his drug induced state. And that there are two intruders making themselves comfortable in what should be his and John’s shared flat, though somehow isn’t. One man, whose features were obscured as he was draped over an armchair. The other was a husky, fair haired, moustached man pouring himself a drink at the sideboard.
This is indeed the first floor flat in 221B Baker Street, yet somehow, it’s so far removed from his home as to be unrecognizable in nearly every facet. Everything was wrong, turned upside-down. “Fascinating,” he breathed, far too intrigued by the impossibility of the situation to give any credence to his initial hesitations.
“Can either of you tell me where I am?”
“Don’t bother wasting your voice, mate. They’re oblivious to our presence,” Victor said, holding him back. “We’re only here to observe, Sherlock. You’re being gifted the chance to understand those past errors of the quintessence of our being, manifestations of the psyche, the soul - call it by any name you will, but here is the opportunity to set right the many wrongs you have, in the recesses of your heart, committed repeatedly.”
“That is utterly absurd.”
“Knew you’d say that. You always were too obstinate -”
“Logical.”
“For your own good,” Victor concluded stubbornly, herding the detective over to the fireplace, where the scene playing out before them could be viewed in its entirety.
“Must you carry on with that infernal racket?” The fair-haired man spoke in a much aggrieved voice. “Really, my dear fellow. Can you not play a piece with some semblance of a melody? Mendelssohn, perhaps,” he said, collapsing into the chair opposite the disgruntled violinist with a restorative brandy in hand.
In response, the instrument was laid aside with a huff by the broody, emaciated looking individual. “My apologies for disturbing you. Though oughtn’t you be home partaking of Christmas dinner with the lovely Mrs Watson instead of revisiting your old bachelor digs out of some misplaced sense of charity for its lone inhabitant?”
“It is nothing of the kind. Mary and I would like nothing better than to have you with us for our Christmas festivities. You are family to us, Holmes.”
Victor laid a warning hand on his elbow as Sherlock made to lunge forward at the mention of his and John’s names. “Let this play out as it will. Interference is an impossibility, anyway.”
“I’ve no use for such frivolities, Doctor. There is naught in this stale existence which matters to me more than my work, for all else is extraneous and corrosive to the logical faculties, to the mental exultation which I crave.”
“I see it is the cocaine to-day,” the doctor remarked, setting down his emptied glass and running a hand over his brow in the fashion of a man who has been tried to his limits. “All the same, our invitation stands. It pains me very much to see you alone during Christmastime, and if you for a moment think our celebrations will be the same without you, for once, then, Sherlock Holmes is sorely mistaken.”
Without further ado, the doctor rose and took his leave in a state of considerable agitation.
“Bah!” the other man - the other Holmes - expostulated ungratefully.
When he was once again alone, the man bounded off his chair in a fit of energy, he practically walked through Sherlock as he rummaged through a pile of assorted litter on the mantel, until his long, questing fingers emerge victorious with a dark Moroccan case that springs open to reveal a glass hypodermic needle and three vials of a substance Sherlock is intimately familiar with.
Once more reclining in his chair, the man, shirtsleeve left absently rolled up, drifted off into oblivion. In the interim, the hallucination that has taken the form of Victor Trevor turned his attention to the mantel clock, pulled back the glass case and wound the hands forward, methodically at first, until his pace quickened into a blur of movements too rapid to catalogue, and the room around them swirled into an indistinct whirl of colour and motion.
“That should do it,” he heard Victor through the buzzing in his ears, and as his vertigo subsided, his surroundings once more took shape. The soft light of morning pooled on the carpet between a chink in the drapes, illuminating the gaunt figure curled up in the same relative position where he’d been before the clock was turned. Yet there was several days growth of stubble shadowing his features, and his eyes, unblinking, are fixated upon a desk in the corner, or more accurately, the writing instruments laid out upon it.
“Did he… overdose?” Sherlock inquired stupidly, despite observing a dozen different bits of minutiae which proclaimed otherwise.
“No, there’s life in the poor sod, unfortunately.” Responding to Sherlock’s askance look, he continued. “He shouldn’t have let him go off alone,” Victor said sadly. “Doctor Watson was his friend, and kept trying to be his friend, no matter how much Holmes kept pushing him away. Too bad that got one killed. And the other sentenced to a life imprisonment, of sorts.”
Sherlock froze, a chill settling deep in his soul. “What, this Watson’s continual attempts at meaningless gestures of friendship got Holmes killed?” he asked carefully, hoping in some bizarre way it was true.
“No, you idiot.” Victor rolled his eyes in the old, familiar gesture. “Holmes got Watson killed. Sent him out into the cold, snowy night, alone and upset, on Christmas of all days. Too distracted by his dearest friend’s bitter words to take care when crossing the icy street, too saddened by Holmes’ self-destructive behaviour to notice the approaching omnibus - until it was too late. And Holmes was too damned drugged with cocaine to hear the commotion, or even know of the accident until the following morning, when it was all too late. Just like you’re going to be.”
“What do you mean, ‘like I‘m going to be’?” he said, eyes narrowing.
Victor glared at Sherlock, his eyes glowing strangely. “Don’t see any parallels here? Do I need to draw you a Venn diagram to get the point across to your logical, fact-driven brain?”
The detective spoke after a moment, his voice gone quiet. “Couldn’t we have warned him?”
“Not here to meddle, remember? We’re here as spectators and even the slightest interference is strictly forbidden. Besides, some things, Sherlock, can’t be resolved with reason. Where would it have got us if we explained to this scientific mind how there are things in this world of more importance than brainwork? Now he’s been shown, I’m betting he appreciates that intangible fact. But we’ve dawdled here far too long already. If we hurry, we’ll be just in time for the funeral.”
“Watson’s?”
“No, John’s.” The ghost said, coldly, before turning back to the clock again.
***
Sherlock headed him off, clasping him by the shoulders in a grip that might have left bruises were he comprised of actual flesh. Which did account for why he found himself shaking tufts of air and hurling a torrent of curses at nothing but empty space.
“Don’t be daft. You can’t murder a dead man.” Sherlock’s more lucid cogitations having dissipated like so much vapour, he lashed out, intending to attack this drug induced demon for all he’s worth, though he succeeded only in toppling over the towering pile of unopened correspondence affixed to the mantel with a jackknife. The hands of the clock were already being wound forwards, so much quicker than before, and the room was spinning him into dizziness, the meagre lunch John coaxed him into eating threatened to rebel in his stomach.
It seemed that an interminable span had passed, but when everything finally did go still again, Sherlock found himself standing in a patch of grass in a patch of garden, the sky overhead grey and overcast. As his vision cleared, it was apparent this was no ordinary plot of earth, but another sort of plot altogether - Highgate Cemetery, where Mummy was buried. Victor stood the end of the narrow walkway lined with hanging vines of ivy and moss laden statues of angels, their countenance, though chiseled from stone, somehow accusing as he made the daunting journey to catch up with his dead college friend. In silence, Victor led him, always several paces ahead, until they came to a lightly attended burial, the heartsickness of those few mourners palpable in the air. Someone was moaning as the coffin was lowered and the priest consecrated the ground, an exhalation of grief so pure it sent a cold shiver down Sherlock’s spine. It’s the cry of a man so stricken with despair, he might as well be lowered into the ground along with the departed, for all his own life has come to an end.
They watch from a distance until the crowd disperses, leaving the place empty save for a solitary mourner, whose head hung low and appeared to be having a difficult time of standing in place without collapsing.
“He looks to be the loneliest man in Creation, doesn’t he?” Victor asked expecting no response and getting none, in turn. “Not even a shoulder to lean on in his darkest hour. It’s his own doing though, since he pushed away everyone who ever cared about him. Knows it’s his fault they’re dead.”
It is at this point Sherlock observed there was not one, but two freshly dug graves. Flurries began to fall, compelling two gravediggers to hurry about their arduous task before the ground froze over. The man lingering at the graves turned to leaves as Sherlock stepped forward, and though their paths do not directly cross, the fleeting glimpse of him lumbering down the path strikes him with such an intense jolt of fear that he gasped.
“Why the hell have you brought me here?” He demanded of the ghost at his side. In answer, Victor nodded towards the graves.
The inscriptions on the cold slabs turned Sherlock’s blood to ice.
“No! No, it’s not true! Victor,” He turned, desperately snatching at the ghost’s lapels. “Tell me they’re not dead!”
“Oh, Mycroft and John haven’t met their ultimate fates - yet. They both will pass from this world at the stroke of midnight, tonight, so I figure they still have a good twenty-five minutes left.”
“What… what happens to them?”
“In precisely seven minutes, your brother will see John leave the pub via his CCTV feed. You rejected his offer to dine with him for Christmas, and so he decides that one of his rendezvous with your doctor may be in order, since he stands a better chance of convincing him to talk you into attending. However, he’s underestimated John’s state of inebriation and distractedness, both caused because you not only refused to accompany him, but with your acidic tone, made him believe his friendship was of no worth to you. The roads are slick with ice, and as the blizzard creates a veritable white-out, neither party sees the other until it is too late. The driver attempts to swerve and miss John, but panics and hits the accelerator instead of the brake. It all results in John getting sideswiped as the car careens out of control into a wall at high speed. Everyone involved is killed on impact.”
Sherlock’s brain felt like it was on fire, and there was something wrong with his chest; it felt heavy, constricted. “It’s just a dream, none of this is real!”
“If that’s all you’ve learnt, then your future is well deserved.” The ghost pointed a finger in the direction the lone mourner - his future self if this apparition is to be believed - has walked off into. Trailing behind him can be seen the shadowy silhouette of a figure cloaked entirely in black, who places a hand on the man’s - his - shoulder. As he does so, his sleeve falls back, revealing the limb to be comprised entirely of bone. “You don’t last very long, Sherlock, not long at all, and you’re not going to enjoy what’s in store for you, not with the blood of two good men on your hands.”
“But… but… I never meant… please, Victor, take me back! I don’t care what happens to me, but they don’t deserve to die, not even Mycroft! Please, just let me wake up!”
To his great shock, Sherlock found himself alone in the cemetery. When did that happen? He couldn’t think anymore. Falling to his knees, he called out for the ghost to return, but there’s no response, nothing but the tombstones to hear his pleas. Strangely enough, though, though the storm had picked up fiercely, he finds himself too warm, dry; and for that matter, why did the winds sound so far-off when he was in the centre of it?
He looked up to find not the grim sight of men piling earth atop his friend’s coffin which greets him, but the familiar, comforting interior of his and John’s shared flat in 221B. He hadn’t moved from the exact position he passed out in hours before, though a quick glance at his phone revealed it was ten to midnight.
John!
The only man he would even want to call friend, had, if this night terror he just woke from is to be believed, only minutes to live. Incredulous as he might have been as to the verisimilitude of the experience, he slipped on a pair of shoes and threw his coat on without so much as bothering to dress. He launched himself out the door and was running through the increasing snowstorm before his brain registered the act. John mentioned the pub being along St John’s Wood Road, but he hadn’t paid heed to much else, and could only call to mind one possible public house in that vicinity which would fit the budget of the Met, a little place with inferior cuisine on Ordnance Hill. One that he’ll never make it to before midnight, not with such scant time on his side, and there were no cabbies insane enough to venture out into this mess. London is, in fact, more deserted than he’s ever seen it.
Desperately, Sherlock pulled out his phone, nearly colliding with a car himself as he carelessly sprints off the kerb. There’s a very, very slim chance John will see the message, or more likely, will be arsed to check it when he sees the number, but all the same he typed the message, fingers flying frantically across the keypad.
REMAIN PRECISELY WHERE YOU ARE.
MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH.
- SH
I MEAN IT, JOHN!
- SH
YOU PICK THE WORST TIMES FOR DEFIANCE.
- SH
I AM WILLING TO OVERLOOK THIS STUBBORN STREAK
IF YOU RESPOND.
-SH
ANSWER ME, JOHN!!!
- SH
JOHN???
- SH
I’M SORRY. PLEASE DON’T MOVE IF YOU L
FORGIVE ME.
- SH
Panic rose in his chest like a cold steel blade, cutting away the organ that was never supposed to have existed there. He reached the corner of Ordnance Hill and St John’s Wood Terrace, where a lone black car barely visible to his keen perception through the barrage of snow - and only then because he was looking specifically for it - turned the corner. The very instant it did so, the figure of a man, head held low, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, appeared across the street. Sherlock calculates that it’s only a matter of a few steps before he starts to cross the street, inadvertently placing himself in the vehicle’s path.
It did him no good to call out; his voice was drowned by the shrieking winds.
John was no more than mere centimeters away from being struck, and if the Fates are out for blood, Sherlock made up his mind that they can have his own. With a fraction of a second to spare, he flung himself over the bonnet. The satisfying thump the action created was enough to spur the attention of the driver, whose foot slammed down onto the brake (thankfully, not the accelerator). They skidded into a parked car, setting off an alarm that rang out shrilly in the heavy silence, and Sherlock went tumbling into a snow bank.
While Sherlock was by no means a nervous man, there was something terrifying about the prospect of getting up from where he rolled off upon impact. The sound of John’s voice, high and panicked (not to mention hurling a colourful assortment of expletives acquired in the Queen‘s Army), drew from him the last traces of horror imparted on him by the night’s remarkable experience.
Sherlock stood up on shaking legs that were barely able to hold him upright with any dignity, and his friend instantly sobered. Whereupon he proceeded to subject him to a dressing down that could only ever be pulled off so flawlessly by an ex-military man.
“God, Sherlock,” he finishes off the tirade, more from breathlessness than any great desire to not be admonishing the detective. “What possessed you to do something so incredibly stupid!”
“Yes that was, of a certainty, one of your more asinine displays,” his brother concurs while his assistant, who pries neither fingers nor gaze from her blackberry, advances upon the scene.
Undeterred by the overwhelming lack of enthusiasm in regards to his untimely entrance, Sherlock only reached into his dressing gown pocket. “I forgot to give you something,” he said to his flat mate with a mischievous twinkle. He extended a closed hand towards his friend, who took the proffered gift with a sharply drawn breath. “Merry Christmas, John. I won’t be needing this anymore.”
He then turned to his brother, who stood pale and gobsmacked - there really is no other word for it - standing on the snow-covered street and staring at him. “Oh, and Mycroft. This has no bearing whatsoever on the fact that I despise you, but at what time can we expect to be abducted by your personnel for dinner?”
For perhaps the first instance in his existence, Mycroft Holmes was at a loss for what to say, though he did make an admirable effort at regaining his composure before informing the woman occasionally known as Anthea to stop by Baker Street around four.
Up the street come the glowing lights of the police cruisers Mycroft’s PA has dutifully summoned, and John, who took one last disbelieving look at Sherlock Holmes before letting the syringe fall from his palm, joined his friend as they started home. They walked in companionable silence for the most part, save for the satisfying crunch of the hypodermic under John’s boot heel.