Fic for Cleflink: The Thousand Threads, Part 1
Title: The Thousand Threads
Recipient: cleflink
Author: bk7brokemybrain
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock/John
Rating: Hard R
Words: ~ 12,000
Warnings: Minor character death, Post-Hiatus
Summary: “First mistake. James Moriarty isn’t a man at all - he’s a spider; a spider at the center of a web - a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.” - Sherlock Holmes, The Reichenbach Fall
A/N: Beta'd by asnowyowl. Thank you! Thank you to the mods for their kind patience. To my recipient, I tried to fill your story with as many goodies as I could. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 1
“Right.” Emily pulled away from John's kiss and stood up from the sofa. “I'm leaving. That caterwauling is giving me a headache. Again.”
“Em, don't. We can go up to my room. You can hardly hear it up there.”
She bent down and pressed a kiss to John's cheek. “Or, your flatmate could just respect your need for quiet and privacy when you're trying to get off with your date.”
“That,” John said with resignation, “will never, ever happen, I'm afraid.” He stood to see her out as she grabbed her coat. “Sure you have to leave?” He wrapped his arms around her waist, groaning ruefully as she ran her palm down his fly, then cupped him.
“I do regret leaving thisbehind tonight. I was hoping we would get to meet later. Hm.” She pushed John away gently. “Pity.” She turned toward the kitchen and waved her fingers at Sherlock who watched the proceedings with keen eyes as he scratched his bow over the strings.
As she headed down the stairs, John called over the railing, “I'm a doctor! I have paracetamol!” He sighed heavily as he heard the front door close. “And chronic... frustration. Terrific.”
He walked into the kitchen, crossed his arms, leaned a hip against the table. “What the hell are you doing?”
Sherlock lowered his bow for the first time in about an hour. “I'm trying to find a harmonic to which the common honeybee will respond. I used to play for a jar full of flies, but bees, I'm finding, are much more responsive. And more aesthetically pleasing, if one must stare at a jar of insects for hours at a time.” He shrugged slightly and sniffed. “And they're fuzzy.”
“Is the fuzziness cute, then? Are you going all soppy for warm, fuzzy things now? Shall I start texting you LOLCat links?”
“Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm sure the fuzz acts like thousands of antennae picking up the vibrations.”
“So, basically, you're pissing off a jar of angry bees on our kitchen table. Good luck. And don't forget to release them before they all die, will you?”
Sherlock looked affronted. “I would never let them die. I plan to feed them.”
John sighed and rubbed his face. He walked over to fill the kettle. He stood, leaning his hands against the counter, waiting for the boil. “Hang on. Feed them? Please tell me - just promise you will open the jar of angry bees outsidewhen you feed them. All right?”
“It's too cold for that.”
“Oh, god. I'm done. I'm for a shower.”
Sherlock played a few real notes, then trailed off. “I don't know why you bother.”
“What? Showering?”
“Dating. It's fruitless.”
“Is it? I wonder why.”
“Your fiancee left you, and yet you keep trying. That's admirable, I suppose.”
“Mary. Her name was Mary. And if I ever want to get a leg over again, I have to date, don't I?”
Sherlock shrugged, or perhaps just hitched his shoulder to welcome the violin, as he began a lovely tune.
John pulled out his phone as he entered the bathroom. He composed a plaintive text to Lestrade.
Please god, tell me you have a case.
He's driving me insane.
* * *
Lestrade took some pleasure in lording the file over Sherlock. He and John sat in the uncomfortable chairs opposite Lestrade's desk. Sherlock watched the manila folder, obviously stuffed with mysteries, move back and forth in the air with Lestrade's every gesture. Soon, the Inspector took to moving it on purpose as he spoke, and tracked the detective's gaze. He laughed.
“You want this so much, but you aren't even listening any more, are you?”
Sherlock reached out his open hand. “Just give it over.”
“Please', Detective Inspector,'” John prompted, “Thank you', Detective Inspector.'”
Sherlock tsked. “Why? He's obviously in over his head again. He ought to be thanking me.”
Lestrade pulled the folder back to himself, laid it on the desk, laced his fingers over it. “I am not in over my head. This case? Not so much a case, and not my division. The subject in here... he's trouble, but I have a hunch that he's been more trouble than we know. Oh, have it already.” He tossed the folder to Sherlock's waiting hands, who immediately flipped it open, scanning the contents.
“His name is Edgar Neap. He's an importer of goods, to put it euphemistically. Basically, anything that can be counterfeited for money, he brings in, be it DVDs, designer bags, watches, shoes, very low level stuff. Lately, I've been hearing his name come up in more serious cases of assault, drugs. I think he's moving up in the world. Before one of his crimes lands him under the purview of homicide... well, I thought I'd let you boys see if you could find something on him that the Yard could sink its teeth in. Bit of surveillance that I can't justify until he's killed someone. I'm sure it's coming.”
Sherlock pulled out a large color photo and showed it to John, who leaned in for a better look. Neap was in his thirties, thin build, dark hair, gingery beard, dark eyes, ostentatious clothing.
John flinched. “Awful suit. Any idea where he hangs his hat, where the center of the empire lies?”
“Seems he either owns a club in the East End or just spends an awful lot of time there. Big enough, with storage out the back. Enough for a smallish operation. Lots of people coming and going at all hours, suppliers, customers. Whaddaya say, Sherlock? Feel like giving him a once over for me? Might be nothing.”
“It's never nothing, Inspector. If he's getting greedy, I'll spot it. Come, John.”
Before John could even stand, Sherlock was out the door in a swirl of coat, cradling the folder to his breast. John took Lestrade's hand and shook it warmly. “Seriously. I owe you a pint. Cheers, Greg.”
* * *
John lowered the paper and checked his watch. Dinner time, for the second time since Sherlock brought that file back to the flat. The file which was now, essentially, wallpapering one side of the sitting room.
“Sherlock, have you eaten at all since breakfast yesterday?”
“Not hungry,” he murmured, his nose in his laptop.
“Not what I asked you.” John folded the paper. “I'm hungry, and you're eating with me.”
“Umm, no.”
“Right.” John stood briskly and strode to their shared desk. He pressed the screen down till it closed with a soft click. “You're taking a break.”
“John!” Sherlock spread his hands in dismay. “What are you doing?”
“As the doctor in residence, I insist that you step away from the case, eat something and perhaps sleep. You know you can't process properly when your transport is tired. Come on.” He tried to drag Sherlock from his chair to another chair, perhaps in the kitchen, close to food and water, but Sherlock engaged the hyper mass density of a toddler, and couldn't be budged. John tugged under his armpits to no avail. “Oh, come on.”
“No! I'm almost there! I think I know what Neap is up to. He's bringing in something -”
“Shut it, Holmes. Get up, you great baby. Up!” John heaved heartily until Sherlock fairly slipped off the chair.
“Ow! Fine.” Sherlock unfolded his legs and stood unsteadily. “But I'm not hungry.”
John dragged him into the kitchen, watched as he drank a glass of water. He put on the kettle, opened a can of beans and popped some bread into the Dualit. He stirred the beans in a pot, watching Sherlock continue his thoughts.
At the ding, he gingerly levered the toast out, laid it by pairs onto plates, spooned beans over, and slid a portion under Sherlock's nose. He dropped utensils loudly, thunked mugs of tea on the table, yet Sherlock barely blinked. Elbows leaning, fingers knotted under his chin, John stared him down.
“Not. Hungry.”
“Well this hardly counts as food. Works out well. Eat it anyway.” John began to dig in. He spoke without looking up. “You are not leaving this table, young man, until you have cleaned your plate.” He knew Sherlock would roll his eyes, but he picked up his fork and started stuffing beans in his mouth.
John swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He watched Sherlock eat. “I have accepted my role in this... relationship. And I'm fine with it. I wish you would, too. You solve crimes, and I help keep you in some kind of shape to do it efficiently.” John chuckled. “I am your pit crew. I fuel you, keep you in one piece, and put you back together when you've broken. At least acknowledge that much, and listen to me when I deign to intervene in your well-being. Hm?”
“You've been watching too much Top Gear.”
“Deflecting....”
“I'm eating aren't I?”
“Yes. You are. Good.” John took a swallow of tea. “And after dinner, you will take a shower and a nap.”
“No. I need to keep working.”
“Well, you could use a shower. And you know what they say.” At Sherlock's blank look, he continued, “I suppose you don't. Just do a mindless task to help you put your thoughts on the back burner for a while. Take a shower, take a walk. Do the washing up.” Sherlock made a face. “God forbid. How about you play for me after dinner?”
“I want to go back to the case.”
John leaned forward. “Please. Play for me.”
John settled in his chair as Sherlock rosined his bow. “What would you like?”
“Oh.” John was taken aback at being asked. “It's almost Halloween. Something spooky? I know! The Jonathan Creek music. That.”
“Danse Macabre? Very well.” He took a breath. “It's better with piano accompaniment.”
“Anything you play will be wonderful.”
Sherlock dipped his head shyly, pushed out his lower lip and brought bow to strings. He drew down slowly while plucking with the little finger of his left hand the first hint of melody and rhythm. A moment of silence, and he let fly the forceful, discordant, eerie opening bars of the waltz. Gooseflesh rose immediately on John's arms and head as he let the vibrations run over his skin and sink into his chest. He wanted to get up and dance around the room. Instead, he sat tight.
If there was supposed to be a piano in there somewhere, John didn't miss it. For seven or eight minutes, he reveled in being an audience of one, the only one on earth who ever got to hear the man play in such a manner. Loud and soft, sweeping then whispering, crisp and strident, Sherlock played it, swayed with it, deeply committed to the piece. John might not have been in the room for all the notice he took of his audience, but it was all for him.
Tears sprang to his eyes, and he was suddenly fighting to keep his breathing even. He was losing.
He had missedthis when Sherlock was dead. He had missed his music, his very presence, his voice. He had missed being Sherlock's only friend. He had missed this life, and who ever gets their lost ones back? Only Sherlock could have granted that miracle. John wiped his eyes surreptitiously, and blew out a soft breath. Thankfully, the piece was ending, and John hid his emotion in applause as Sherlock sketched a bow.
“Bravo! Wonderful, Sherlock! Perfect.” He stood and took the steps to Sherlock's side. He touched his shoulder. “Really. Thank you. What a privilege, to get to hear you play.” He beamed and Sherlock basked in the praise.
“You're welcome, John. But really, 'the Jonathan Creek music'?”
“Don't tease and ruin it. Not all of us know -”
Sherlock gasped. “That's it, John! Oh! You've done it again!” Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, hands full of bow and violin neck.
“What?”
Sherlock leaned down. “BONES!”
* * *
They didn't do many stakeouts. Sherlock preferred to dig electronically in databases, on CCTV feeds, or with Google Earth from the comfort of Baker Street. He'd done all that, and it hadn't been enough, so here they were making their way to a long, dark alley between Neap's dance club and an old theater in the East End near the river. It was a properly miserable night, chilly, foggy, raw. John hunched in his black donkey jacket, acting as lookout while Sherlock scoped the security system.
“John.” Sherlock beckoned him over, pressed against the brick wall under a camera. “Leg up.”
John ran over, laced his hands together and braced as Sherlock stepped into the stirrup. John hefted him up vertically. Sherlock slapped the camera, pointing it up and away from the back doors before landing lightly back on the pavement.
“Other one.” They jogged midway down and repeated the exercise. John brushed the grit off his palms, then stuck his hands in his coat. Sherlock adjusted his collar and did the same. He looked for a good vantage point. “Follow me.”
They walked to the stage door. There were three steps up along the wall to a landing surrounded by a metal railing. The door looked unused. There was a similar exit for the club across the alley, closer to the street.
“John, take a step up, and back against the wall.” He obliged. They were now of a height. Sherlock angled himself toward John to block all but John's face from view. “When anyone comes out, I want you to watch over my shoulder, tell me who you see. It will be less suspicious than having us both looking.”
“It'd be easier if you could just look, like me.”
“I could just pretend to be a smoker all evening....”
“No! No. This-- this will be fine. Perfectly innocent, couple of guys, what? Hanging out on the step of an old theater. Happens all the time. The smugglers will never suspect.”
“I'll make you smoke with me. We'll look very natural.”
“No, this is good. It's fine.” John sighed.
And they waited.
Some likely lads came and went from the door, pounding beats spilling out with the people. Some obvious clubbers, too, couples and groups who came out to smoke, who went back in quickly, laughing drunkenly. It was easy to tell who was not there for fun. And it was easy to recognize people who were unused to the chill London air. John described them all, Sherlock looking around occasionally to memorize the new faces. Some he'd seen in the few surveillance photos from the Yard, probably bouncers, but some people were obviously new in town, possibly from warmer climes.
A small group of black men walked down the alley from the street, stopping outside the door. A small Asian man stepped outside, looked up and down the alley before leaving the doorway to greet them.
“Uh, Sherlock, look at this one.”
Sherlock turned nonchalantly, registered the new face, and moved back next to John. And moved closer still. He pressed against him entirely, making John shiver as lips brushed his ear.
“That's our man. Don't move. Keep watching.”
John gasped softly. Sherlock tugged on John's earlobe with his lips. “What - ”
“Shut up, John. Go with it.”
John tried to go with it as Sherlock smoothed a palm over John's belly, hooking around his waist, snugging him to his side. He nibbled up John's neck, tugging his collar away, and back to his nape, John's knees going weak. “Oh god, oh... god. Jesus... mmm....” He barely held in a moan as Sherlock kissed his jaw, but he kept watching, even when his eyes drooped with the pleasure of having his exposed skin ravaged gently by that mouth. “Mmm-- they're looking at us,” he whispered. Sherlock braced his forearm against the flaking brick and went in for the kill. He took John's mouth in a kiss, swallowed the groan of pleasure elicited when he slid his hand lower onto John's bottom and pulled him in tighter, grinding his hip against John's fly. John's eyes fluttered, but the men were shifting uncomfortably now, some taking a step toward them, others pulling them away and inside. One lingered on the landing.
Sherlock pulled back, looked at John's face watching over his shoulder and turned around, catching the man's disgusted glare. “Piss off!” Sherlock hissed. The man spat on the ground, but went inside. Sherlock stood straight. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”
He grabbed John's sleeve and got him running. They didn't stop moving until they were in a cab.
Sherlock texted furiously as they headed back to Baker Street.
“What was that, Sherlock? Back there? The kissing?”
“Did it bother you?” He hit send.
John shifted on the seat. “Define 'bother'.”
Sherlock gave him a look. “I needed your very expressive face to convey real... arousal. And it worked. You were very convincing, even as you spied. Very good, John.”
“But why? Why that?”
“Didn't you enjoy it? I know what you like. I've watched you on the sofa with your girlfriends often enough. Didn't I do it right?”
“Of course you did it right, Sherlock.” John sighed in exasperation. One could never talk in a straight line with this man.
“Was that your first time kissing a man?” Sherlock's phone chimed. He began composing a new text.
“Was it yours?”
“I asked you first.” He hit send again. He looked up expectantly.
John cleared his throat. “Kissing? Yes.”
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “I see. Well, in any case, you did very well.” He put his phone away. “Those were Kenyan poachers and their Thai fence. Three years ago, a half ton of ivory was intercepted in Thailand. God knows how many endangered creatures were killed for their tusks. Disgusting.
“It seems there will always be a call for ivory. The ring has been active all along, and apparently London is a safer port for smuggling ivory these days. Perhaps it's such an unlikely place to find ivory, they thought it would be safer than Asia. I don't know yet. Regardless, you can imagine that the kind of men willing to kill rare animals for their tusks and horns are not the kind of people one wants to bump into in a dark alley. So, I factored in one of Britain's colonial exports: homophobia.”
“You created a defensive shield of gay PDA? Seriously?”
Sherlock shrugged. “It worked. Never discount the power of social discomfort. The Kenyans might have been disgusted and prone to attacking, but not in a foreign country, and not with such a big deal pending. They don't want trouble, and they wouldn't touch us, and they certainly wouldn't look at us too long. The Thai could have gone either way, though. Glad he went inside first.”
John looked out the window at all the dark alleys passing by. “Amazing.”
“Anyway, it's in the Yard's hands now. So,” Sherlock smirked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“What?” John asked.
“Afghanistan or Iraq. Where did you not-kiss a man for the first time?”
Chapter 2
Lestrade occupied Sherlock's armchair opposite John, as Sherlock was restless and standing. Lestrade held the cup and saucer on his knee and smiled.
“This is nice. Glad to get out the squad room for a bit, do business with a civilized air. And you broke out the good china. Better than that dreck from the machine in a paper cup. Pass me a digestive, would you, John?”
John smiled and, after a confused back and forth with Lestrade lacking enough hands to steady his tea and the biscuit plate, John laid one on his saucer.
“So? Who was arrested?” Sherlock asked impatiently from his place by the window. He fiddled with the curtains. “It's been days and days with no word from you. Did we get Neap?”
“Neap? No. Not enough to tie him to the transaction. But we recovered the crates of contraband off-site, and had enough to detain the fence and the Kenyans. Why did you suspect that group in particular?”
Sherlock peered down the street. “They were all wearing red in some form. A lucky color in their culture if they were from Kenya, a country that deals in biologicals like ivory and horn. They looked cold when it wasn't that cold a night, probably just arrived from a much warmer climate. When an Asian came out to greet them immediately, I assumed they were those whom I was after. I texted the Yard....”
“Good hunch,” Lestrade affirmed. Sherlock scoffed. “You realize you stopped a transaction worth at least a million pounds, and disrupted a long-standing international smuggling route. Well done.”
“You could see what colors they were wearing in that darkness?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. “Amazing.”
“Not really. Your eyes weren't exactly wide open, were they?”
John gave him a warning glare.
“Anyway, due to your efforts, now we know Neap is rising in the world of crime, making connections, even if we didn't nab him for this one. Much appreciated.” Lestrade bit his biscuit, pushing a large crumb in with the side of his finger. “Sherlock? You hear me?”
“Hmm.”
“What's going on, Sherlock?” John asked. “Are you expecting something?”
Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft.”
A black car pulled up in front. It was a matter of a minute before the elder Holmes made his way to the sitting room. He leaned on his umbrella and smiled softly.
“Hello, Inspector.”
“Mycroft.”
“Hello, John.”
“Hello, Mycroft. Cup of tea?”
“Always so hospitable, Doctor. Perhaps in a minute.” He turned to the third with a sombre look. “Hello, brother.”
Sherlock's brow knit slightly. “What is it?” He turned warily, braced for something.
Mycroft leaned with both hands cupped over the handle of his umbrella and looked at his shoes. “It's our mother,” he said, looking up. “She's dead.”
* * *
The limousine ride to Hampshire was quiet. Lestrade and John chatted on and off, but Sherlock was sullen, which was neither unusual nor inappropriate given the circumstances. John sat in the middle. Every now and then he'd turn to check on his friend staring out the window before returning to conversation with Lestrade. He'd seldom seen Sherlock so subdued.
They turned into the gravel drive of a stone house: solid, not too grand, but the family seat of a line of country squires, no doubt. The front door opened and the housekeeper stepped out to greet the car as it pulled up.
John and Lestrade slid out and headed for the boot, grabbing the bags. Sherlock exited and stood, inhaling deeply, casting his eyes around him.
They were welcomed into the foyer where they stood uneasily until Mycroft appeared from the front room.
“Glad to see you all. A good ride, I trust?” He reached for Lestrade's hand. “So glad you could come, Gregory.”
Lestrade gripped his hand warmly. “After all we've been through together, between the cases and your little brother, I'm glad to be here for you both. Again, my condolences.”
“Thank you. And John. Always a pleasure. Please come in and have a drink.” He ushered the two into the lofty room, Sherlock lagging behind. The housekeeper took their coats, and they sat near the mullioned windows with a soft autumn landscape beyond. Mycroft dithered over the drinks cart. “Whiskey?”
“Yes,” John and Lestrade said together. Mycroft handed out tumblers, Sherlock declined his.
“You have a lovely home,” Lestrade offered.
Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look. “Thank you. I suppose it is truly ours now, isn't it Sherlock?”
“Yours, technically,” Sherlock intoned.
A tall, wizened woman in a dark navy uniform entered. The men stood. “You remember Mummy's nurse, don't you, Sherlock? Or has it been that long since you've visited? Gentlemen, Matron Holloway. John, you will be interested to know Matron was in the RAMC before we were lucky enough to secure her services for my mother.”
John snapped upright. “Ma'am.”
“A pleasure, Captain. I've read your blog. On occasion, I used to read it aloud to your mother, as well, Mr. Holmes. I'd leave out the more dangerous escapades, of course.”
“A drink, Matron? We have some time before the service begins.”
The graveside mourners were few: the sons, their friends, the staff, a couple of old-timers from the village. Still, it was not a matter of numbers.
John glanced aside as the vicar said his final words over the coffin to the sounds of soft sniffles from a couple of the women in attendance. Sherlock had been quiet. Mycroft was reserved, but his brother seemed too flat, given the occasion. John sidled up beside him, brushed their arms together. He leaned back and caught Lestrade's eye, who stood on Mycroft's other side. John shrugged and shook his head minutely. When Greg put his arm around Mycroft's narrow shoulders and Mycroft allowed his head to droop in sorrow, John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed. He got little reaction.
The Holmes boys did not do emotion well.
* * *
John reclined in the very large and comfortable bed in the otherwise austere bedroom he was assigned, scrolling through his emails, checking the hits on his blog. He heard the door open, sensed Sherlock's presence in the doorway. He looked up.
“I'm surprised you've got such great wifi out here. Uhp - well, maybe not. I just remembered who your brother is. Of course, he's probably got a secret lair in the wine cellar that would make a Bond villain cry with envy. Good wifi is just a bonus when you can launch a nuclear attack from your country house.” Sherlock didn't move, just fiddled with the tie on his robe. John put down his tablet. “Come here.” He lifted the covers.
“I'm not tired.” He dropped his robe, climbed in next to John anyway, and lay on his back.
“Of course not.” They sat in silence for a moment in the dim light from the one lamp. “I enjoyed dinner.”
“We always had good cooks. Mycroft was always their favorite because he'd eat anything. I was more picky.”
“What a shock,” John deadpanned. Sherlock chuckled darkly. John reached over and covered Sherlock's hand, then patted it. “Come here, come closer.” He tugged on Sherlock until the man scooted over and curled up at John's side with John's arm around his shoulder and his head tucked on John's chest. John rubbed his upper arm, leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his curly head. He breathed in the sweet scent of him. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up fighting tears again, breathing that scent he'd missed when Sherlock was dead. Instead, he began to talk.
“Matron Holloway is a very interesting woman. We chatted all through dinner, traded war stories - literally. You know what they call us? The RAMC? The Linseed Lancers. I always loved that nickname.” He kissed Sherlock's head again, rubbed his arm. He wondered if Sherlock had ever had this kind of comfort in the big old house growing up. From his parents? His nanny? Mycroft? Perhaps he'd read to Sherlock before bed, sent his little brother off to sleep with sweet dreams. Perhaps not.
“The, um, your father's headstone. I understand your pseudonym, now. Siger Holmes, Sigerson. But what made you use James? James Sigerson.”
“James is the English for Hamish,” Sherlock murmured. He left it at that, and John let him. He continued chatting, his voice getting soft and gravelly with the late hour.
“You know Greg - that's Lestrade, in case you've deleted his name again - he's really chuffed to be here for you two. I'm so glad Mycroft extended the invitation when he expressed an interest in attending. I don't think you realize what a good friend he is to us. We need to spend more time with him, I think, not involving cases. He's a pretty lonely guy since he left his wife. We should do some take-away and movie nights.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock burrowed in closer and tipped his head up. “He likes the country air. We can take him for a walk after breakfast.” He smiled softly at John, enough to crinkle his eyes.
“Good idea.” John brushed the curls off Sherlock's forehead and pressed a kiss to his warm skin.
Sherlock lay back down, his hands furled at his chest. “You touch me a lot lately.”
“You need it. I'm glad to give it to you.” John slid farther down into bed. “And you like it.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. He leaned in and placed a lush kiss on John's mouth, then settled against John's side again.
“We're going to have to talk about the kissing thing. Not tonight, though.” John stretched his arm over and switched off the light. He put his tablet on the table, and returned to a Sherlock rapidly claiming more of John with an arm across his belly, and a leg over his leg. As long as it meant that Sherlock would sleep, John wasn't bothered. Not by any definition of the word.
* * *
As they finished eating, Mycroft instructed Cook to bring a tray up to Matron Holloway if she wasn't feeling like coming down to breakfast. It was certainly understandable the day after her charge's funeral.
Sherlock smoothed out his suit as he rose from the table. “Lestrade, would you care for a post-jentacular perambulation?”
John and Lestrade both snorted. John recovered first. “Okay, now you just sound like a prat. A very posh prat.”
“Yeah, sounds like you're offering me a very fancy shag or something.”
“One gets very few chances to use jentacular. It's like penultimate. Or prandial.”
“Oh. Okay. I know what this is,” John remembered. “Ta, context. Greg, he's asking if you'd like to take a walk after breakfast. That being now.”
“Oh! Absolutely. Just grab our coats and let's go. I'd love to see the place.”
As they collected their things from the closet, Cook came scurrying from the back stairs to the foyer. “Mr. Holmes!” She looked around for the elder, and settled for Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, there's something--” She froze, looking at Lestrade in particular.
“What is it?”
She gestured Sherlock to the side and whispered in his ear. He straightened, then ran for the stairs. “Come on!”
John and Lestrade looked at each other, then broke for the stairway. They ran up as fast as they could to the third story servant quarters, and found Sherlock in the only room with an open door, and a tray abandoned on the table in the hall. He was hovering just inside, trying not to touch anything. In the bed was an obviously dead woman. On the nightstand a bottle of pills, a suicide note, and a parchment letter with a red wax seal.
Part 2
Recipient: cleflink
Author: bk7brokemybrain
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock/John
Rating: Hard R
Words: ~ 12,000
Warnings: Minor character death, Post-Hiatus
Summary: “First mistake. James Moriarty isn’t a man at all - he’s a spider; a spider at the center of a web - a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.” - Sherlock Holmes, The Reichenbach Fall
A/N: Beta'd by asnowyowl. Thank you! Thank you to the mods for their kind patience. To my recipient, I tried to fill your story with as many goodies as I could. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 1
“Right.” Emily pulled away from John's kiss and stood up from the sofa. “I'm leaving. That caterwauling is giving me a headache. Again.”
“Em, don't. We can go up to my room. You can hardly hear it up there.”
She bent down and pressed a kiss to John's cheek. “Or, your flatmate could just respect your need for quiet and privacy when you're trying to get off with your date.”
“That,” John said with resignation, “will never, ever happen, I'm afraid.” He stood to see her out as she grabbed her coat. “Sure you have to leave?” He wrapped his arms around her waist, groaning ruefully as she ran her palm down his fly, then cupped him.
“I do regret leaving thisbehind tonight. I was hoping we would get to meet later. Hm.” She pushed John away gently. “Pity.” She turned toward the kitchen and waved her fingers at Sherlock who watched the proceedings with keen eyes as he scratched his bow over the strings.
As she headed down the stairs, John called over the railing, “I'm a doctor! I have paracetamol!” He sighed heavily as he heard the front door close. “And chronic... frustration. Terrific.”
He walked into the kitchen, crossed his arms, leaned a hip against the table. “What the hell are you doing?”
Sherlock lowered his bow for the first time in about an hour. “I'm trying to find a harmonic to which the common honeybee will respond. I used to play for a jar full of flies, but bees, I'm finding, are much more responsive. And more aesthetically pleasing, if one must stare at a jar of insects for hours at a time.” He shrugged slightly and sniffed. “And they're fuzzy.”
“Is the fuzziness cute, then? Are you going all soppy for warm, fuzzy things now? Shall I start texting you LOLCat links?”
“Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm sure the fuzz acts like thousands of antennae picking up the vibrations.”
“So, basically, you're pissing off a jar of angry bees on our kitchen table. Good luck. And don't forget to release them before they all die, will you?”
Sherlock looked affronted. “I would never let them die. I plan to feed them.”
John sighed and rubbed his face. He walked over to fill the kettle. He stood, leaning his hands against the counter, waiting for the boil. “Hang on. Feed them? Please tell me - just promise you will open the jar of angry bees outsidewhen you feed them. All right?”
“It's too cold for that.”
“Oh, god. I'm done. I'm for a shower.”
Sherlock played a few real notes, then trailed off. “I don't know why you bother.”
“What? Showering?”
“Dating. It's fruitless.”
“Is it? I wonder why.”
“Your fiancee left you, and yet you keep trying. That's admirable, I suppose.”
“Mary. Her name was Mary. And if I ever want to get a leg over again, I have to date, don't I?”
Sherlock shrugged, or perhaps just hitched his shoulder to welcome the violin, as he began a lovely tune.
John pulled out his phone as he entered the bathroom. He composed a plaintive text to Lestrade.
Please god, tell me you have a case.
He's driving me insane.
* * *
Lestrade took some pleasure in lording the file over Sherlock. He and John sat in the uncomfortable chairs opposite Lestrade's desk. Sherlock watched the manila folder, obviously stuffed with mysteries, move back and forth in the air with Lestrade's every gesture. Soon, the Inspector took to moving it on purpose as he spoke, and tracked the detective's gaze. He laughed.
“You want this so much, but you aren't even listening any more, are you?”
Sherlock reached out his open hand. “Just give it over.”
“Please', Detective Inspector,'” John prompted, “Thank you', Detective Inspector.'”
Sherlock tsked. “Why? He's obviously in over his head again. He ought to be thanking me.”
Lestrade pulled the folder back to himself, laid it on the desk, laced his fingers over it. “I am not in over my head. This case? Not so much a case, and not my division. The subject in here... he's trouble, but I have a hunch that he's been more trouble than we know. Oh, have it already.” He tossed the folder to Sherlock's waiting hands, who immediately flipped it open, scanning the contents.
“His name is Edgar Neap. He's an importer of goods, to put it euphemistically. Basically, anything that can be counterfeited for money, he brings in, be it DVDs, designer bags, watches, shoes, very low level stuff. Lately, I've been hearing his name come up in more serious cases of assault, drugs. I think he's moving up in the world. Before one of his crimes lands him under the purview of homicide... well, I thought I'd let you boys see if you could find something on him that the Yard could sink its teeth in. Bit of surveillance that I can't justify until he's killed someone. I'm sure it's coming.”
Sherlock pulled out a large color photo and showed it to John, who leaned in for a better look. Neap was in his thirties, thin build, dark hair, gingery beard, dark eyes, ostentatious clothing.
John flinched. “Awful suit. Any idea where he hangs his hat, where the center of the empire lies?”
“Seems he either owns a club in the East End or just spends an awful lot of time there. Big enough, with storage out the back. Enough for a smallish operation. Lots of people coming and going at all hours, suppliers, customers. Whaddaya say, Sherlock? Feel like giving him a once over for me? Might be nothing.”
“It's never nothing, Inspector. If he's getting greedy, I'll spot it. Come, John.”
Before John could even stand, Sherlock was out the door in a swirl of coat, cradling the folder to his breast. John took Lestrade's hand and shook it warmly. “Seriously. I owe you a pint. Cheers, Greg.”
* * *
John lowered the paper and checked his watch. Dinner time, for the second time since Sherlock brought that file back to the flat. The file which was now, essentially, wallpapering one side of the sitting room.
“Sherlock, have you eaten at all since breakfast yesterday?”
“Not hungry,” he murmured, his nose in his laptop.
“Not what I asked you.” John folded the paper. “I'm hungry, and you're eating with me.”
“Umm, no.”
“Right.” John stood briskly and strode to their shared desk. He pressed the screen down till it closed with a soft click. “You're taking a break.”
“John!” Sherlock spread his hands in dismay. “What are you doing?”
“As the doctor in residence, I insist that you step away from the case, eat something and perhaps sleep. You know you can't process properly when your transport is tired. Come on.” He tried to drag Sherlock from his chair to another chair, perhaps in the kitchen, close to food and water, but Sherlock engaged the hyper mass density of a toddler, and couldn't be budged. John tugged under his armpits to no avail. “Oh, come on.”
“No! I'm almost there! I think I know what Neap is up to. He's bringing in something -”
“Shut it, Holmes. Get up, you great baby. Up!” John heaved heartily until Sherlock fairly slipped off the chair.
“Ow! Fine.” Sherlock unfolded his legs and stood unsteadily. “But I'm not hungry.”
John dragged him into the kitchen, watched as he drank a glass of water. He put on the kettle, opened a can of beans and popped some bread into the Dualit. He stirred the beans in a pot, watching Sherlock continue his thoughts.
At the ding, he gingerly levered the toast out, laid it by pairs onto plates, spooned beans over, and slid a portion under Sherlock's nose. He dropped utensils loudly, thunked mugs of tea on the table, yet Sherlock barely blinked. Elbows leaning, fingers knotted under his chin, John stared him down.
“Not. Hungry.”
“Well this hardly counts as food. Works out well. Eat it anyway.” John began to dig in. He spoke without looking up. “You are not leaving this table, young man, until you have cleaned your plate.” He knew Sherlock would roll his eyes, but he picked up his fork and started stuffing beans in his mouth.
John swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He watched Sherlock eat. “I have accepted my role in this... relationship. And I'm fine with it. I wish you would, too. You solve crimes, and I help keep you in some kind of shape to do it efficiently.” John chuckled. “I am your pit crew. I fuel you, keep you in one piece, and put you back together when you've broken. At least acknowledge that much, and listen to me when I deign to intervene in your well-being. Hm?”
“You've been watching too much Top Gear.”
“Deflecting....”
“I'm eating aren't I?”
“Yes. You are. Good.” John took a swallow of tea. “And after dinner, you will take a shower and a nap.”
“No. I need to keep working.”
“Well, you could use a shower. And you know what they say.” At Sherlock's blank look, he continued, “I suppose you don't. Just do a mindless task to help you put your thoughts on the back burner for a while. Take a shower, take a walk. Do the washing up.” Sherlock made a face. “God forbid. How about you play for me after dinner?”
“I want to go back to the case.”
John leaned forward. “Please. Play for me.”
John settled in his chair as Sherlock rosined his bow. “What would you like?”
“Oh.” John was taken aback at being asked. “It's almost Halloween. Something spooky? I know! The Jonathan Creek music. That.”
“Danse Macabre? Very well.” He took a breath. “It's better with piano accompaniment.”
“Anything you play will be wonderful.”
Sherlock dipped his head shyly, pushed out his lower lip and brought bow to strings. He drew down slowly while plucking with the little finger of his left hand the first hint of melody and rhythm. A moment of silence, and he let fly the forceful, discordant, eerie opening bars of the waltz. Gooseflesh rose immediately on John's arms and head as he let the vibrations run over his skin and sink into his chest. He wanted to get up and dance around the room. Instead, he sat tight.
If there was supposed to be a piano in there somewhere, John didn't miss it. For seven or eight minutes, he reveled in being an audience of one, the only one on earth who ever got to hear the man play in such a manner. Loud and soft, sweeping then whispering, crisp and strident, Sherlock played it, swayed with it, deeply committed to the piece. John might not have been in the room for all the notice he took of his audience, but it was all for him.
Tears sprang to his eyes, and he was suddenly fighting to keep his breathing even. He was losing.
He had missedthis when Sherlock was dead. He had missed his music, his very presence, his voice. He had missed being Sherlock's only friend. He had missed this life, and who ever gets their lost ones back? Only Sherlock could have granted that miracle. John wiped his eyes surreptitiously, and blew out a soft breath. Thankfully, the piece was ending, and John hid his emotion in applause as Sherlock sketched a bow.
“Bravo! Wonderful, Sherlock! Perfect.” He stood and took the steps to Sherlock's side. He touched his shoulder. “Really. Thank you. What a privilege, to get to hear you play.” He beamed and Sherlock basked in the praise.
“You're welcome, John. But really, 'the Jonathan Creek music'?”
“Don't tease and ruin it. Not all of us know -”
Sherlock gasped. “That's it, John! Oh! You've done it again!” Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, hands full of bow and violin neck.
“What?”
Sherlock leaned down. “BONES!”
* * *
They didn't do many stakeouts. Sherlock preferred to dig electronically in databases, on CCTV feeds, or with Google Earth from the comfort of Baker Street. He'd done all that, and it hadn't been enough, so here they were making their way to a long, dark alley between Neap's dance club and an old theater in the East End near the river. It was a properly miserable night, chilly, foggy, raw. John hunched in his black donkey jacket, acting as lookout while Sherlock scoped the security system.
“John.” Sherlock beckoned him over, pressed against the brick wall under a camera. “Leg up.”
John ran over, laced his hands together and braced as Sherlock stepped into the stirrup. John hefted him up vertically. Sherlock slapped the camera, pointing it up and away from the back doors before landing lightly back on the pavement.
“Other one.” They jogged midway down and repeated the exercise. John brushed the grit off his palms, then stuck his hands in his coat. Sherlock adjusted his collar and did the same. He looked for a good vantage point. “Follow me.”
They walked to the stage door. There were three steps up along the wall to a landing surrounded by a metal railing. The door looked unused. There was a similar exit for the club across the alley, closer to the street.
“John, take a step up, and back against the wall.” He obliged. They were now of a height. Sherlock angled himself toward John to block all but John's face from view. “When anyone comes out, I want you to watch over my shoulder, tell me who you see. It will be less suspicious than having us both looking.”
“It'd be easier if you could just look, like me.”
“I could just pretend to be a smoker all evening....”
“No! No. This-- this will be fine. Perfectly innocent, couple of guys, what? Hanging out on the step of an old theater. Happens all the time. The smugglers will never suspect.”
“I'll make you smoke with me. We'll look very natural.”
“No, this is good. It's fine.” John sighed.
And they waited.
Some likely lads came and went from the door, pounding beats spilling out with the people. Some obvious clubbers, too, couples and groups who came out to smoke, who went back in quickly, laughing drunkenly. It was easy to tell who was not there for fun. And it was easy to recognize people who were unused to the chill London air. John described them all, Sherlock looking around occasionally to memorize the new faces. Some he'd seen in the few surveillance photos from the Yard, probably bouncers, but some people were obviously new in town, possibly from warmer climes.
A small group of black men walked down the alley from the street, stopping outside the door. A small Asian man stepped outside, looked up and down the alley before leaving the doorway to greet them.
“Uh, Sherlock, look at this one.”
Sherlock turned nonchalantly, registered the new face, and moved back next to John. And moved closer still. He pressed against him entirely, making John shiver as lips brushed his ear.
“That's our man. Don't move. Keep watching.”
John gasped softly. Sherlock tugged on John's earlobe with his lips. “What - ”
“Shut up, John. Go with it.”
John tried to go with it as Sherlock smoothed a palm over John's belly, hooking around his waist, snugging him to his side. He nibbled up John's neck, tugging his collar away, and back to his nape, John's knees going weak. “Oh god, oh... god. Jesus... mmm....” He barely held in a moan as Sherlock kissed his jaw, but he kept watching, even when his eyes drooped with the pleasure of having his exposed skin ravaged gently by that mouth. “Mmm-- they're looking at us,” he whispered. Sherlock braced his forearm against the flaking brick and went in for the kill. He took John's mouth in a kiss, swallowed the groan of pleasure elicited when he slid his hand lower onto John's bottom and pulled him in tighter, grinding his hip against John's fly. John's eyes fluttered, but the men were shifting uncomfortably now, some taking a step toward them, others pulling them away and inside. One lingered on the landing.
Sherlock pulled back, looked at John's face watching over his shoulder and turned around, catching the man's disgusted glare. “Piss off!” Sherlock hissed. The man spat on the ground, but went inside. Sherlock stood straight. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”
He grabbed John's sleeve and got him running. They didn't stop moving until they were in a cab.
Sherlock texted furiously as they headed back to Baker Street.
“What was that, Sherlock? Back there? The kissing?”
“Did it bother you?” He hit send.
John shifted on the seat. “Define 'bother'.”
Sherlock gave him a look. “I needed your very expressive face to convey real... arousal. And it worked. You were very convincing, even as you spied. Very good, John.”
“But why? Why that?”
“Didn't you enjoy it? I know what you like. I've watched you on the sofa with your girlfriends often enough. Didn't I do it right?”
“Of course you did it right, Sherlock.” John sighed in exasperation. One could never talk in a straight line with this man.
“Was that your first time kissing a man?” Sherlock's phone chimed. He began composing a new text.
“Was it yours?”
“I asked you first.” He hit send again. He looked up expectantly.
John cleared his throat. “Kissing? Yes.”
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “I see. Well, in any case, you did very well.” He put his phone away. “Those were Kenyan poachers and their Thai fence. Three years ago, a half ton of ivory was intercepted in Thailand. God knows how many endangered creatures were killed for their tusks. Disgusting.
“It seems there will always be a call for ivory. The ring has been active all along, and apparently London is a safer port for smuggling ivory these days. Perhaps it's such an unlikely place to find ivory, they thought it would be safer than Asia. I don't know yet. Regardless, you can imagine that the kind of men willing to kill rare animals for their tusks and horns are not the kind of people one wants to bump into in a dark alley. So, I factored in one of Britain's colonial exports: homophobia.”
“You created a defensive shield of gay PDA? Seriously?”
Sherlock shrugged. “It worked. Never discount the power of social discomfort. The Kenyans might have been disgusted and prone to attacking, but not in a foreign country, and not with such a big deal pending. They don't want trouble, and they wouldn't touch us, and they certainly wouldn't look at us too long. The Thai could have gone either way, though. Glad he went inside first.”
John looked out the window at all the dark alleys passing by. “Amazing.”
“Anyway, it's in the Yard's hands now. So,” Sherlock smirked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“What?” John asked.
“Afghanistan or Iraq. Where did you not-kiss a man for the first time?”
Chapter 2
Lestrade occupied Sherlock's armchair opposite John, as Sherlock was restless and standing. Lestrade held the cup and saucer on his knee and smiled.
“This is nice. Glad to get out the squad room for a bit, do business with a civilized air. And you broke out the good china. Better than that dreck from the machine in a paper cup. Pass me a digestive, would you, John?”
John smiled and, after a confused back and forth with Lestrade lacking enough hands to steady his tea and the biscuit plate, John laid one on his saucer.
“So? Who was arrested?” Sherlock asked impatiently from his place by the window. He fiddled with the curtains. “It's been days and days with no word from you. Did we get Neap?”
“Neap? No. Not enough to tie him to the transaction. But we recovered the crates of contraband off-site, and had enough to detain the fence and the Kenyans. Why did you suspect that group in particular?”
Sherlock peered down the street. “They were all wearing red in some form. A lucky color in their culture if they were from Kenya, a country that deals in biologicals like ivory and horn. They looked cold when it wasn't that cold a night, probably just arrived from a much warmer climate. When an Asian came out to greet them immediately, I assumed they were those whom I was after. I texted the Yard....”
“Good hunch,” Lestrade affirmed. Sherlock scoffed. “You realize you stopped a transaction worth at least a million pounds, and disrupted a long-standing international smuggling route. Well done.”
“You could see what colors they were wearing in that darkness?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. “Amazing.”
“Not really. Your eyes weren't exactly wide open, were they?”
John gave him a warning glare.
“Anyway, due to your efforts, now we know Neap is rising in the world of crime, making connections, even if we didn't nab him for this one. Much appreciated.” Lestrade bit his biscuit, pushing a large crumb in with the side of his finger. “Sherlock? You hear me?”
“Hmm.”
“What's going on, Sherlock?” John asked. “Are you expecting something?”
Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft.”
A black car pulled up in front. It was a matter of a minute before the elder Holmes made his way to the sitting room. He leaned on his umbrella and smiled softly.
“Hello, Inspector.”
“Mycroft.”
“Hello, John.”
“Hello, Mycroft. Cup of tea?”
“Always so hospitable, Doctor. Perhaps in a minute.” He turned to the third with a sombre look. “Hello, brother.”
Sherlock's brow knit slightly. “What is it?” He turned warily, braced for something.
Mycroft leaned with both hands cupped over the handle of his umbrella and looked at his shoes. “It's our mother,” he said, looking up. “She's dead.”
* * *
The limousine ride to Hampshire was quiet. Lestrade and John chatted on and off, but Sherlock was sullen, which was neither unusual nor inappropriate given the circumstances. John sat in the middle. Every now and then he'd turn to check on his friend staring out the window before returning to conversation with Lestrade. He'd seldom seen Sherlock so subdued.
They turned into the gravel drive of a stone house: solid, not too grand, but the family seat of a line of country squires, no doubt. The front door opened and the housekeeper stepped out to greet the car as it pulled up.
John and Lestrade slid out and headed for the boot, grabbing the bags. Sherlock exited and stood, inhaling deeply, casting his eyes around him.
They were welcomed into the foyer where they stood uneasily until Mycroft appeared from the front room.
“Glad to see you all. A good ride, I trust?” He reached for Lestrade's hand. “So glad you could come, Gregory.”
Lestrade gripped his hand warmly. “After all we've been through together, between the cases and your little brother, I'm glad to be here for you both. Again, my condolences.”
“Thank you. And John. Always a pleasure. Please come in and have a drink.” He ushered the two into the lofty room, Sherlock lagging behind. The housekeeper took their coats, and they sat near the mullioned windows with a soft autumn landscape beyond. Mycroft dithered over the drinks cart. “Whiskey?”
“Yes,” John and Lestrade said together. Mycroft handed out tumblers, Sherlock declined his.
“You have a lovely home,” Lestrade offered.
Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look. “Thank you. I suppose it is truly ours now, isn't it Sherlock?”
“Yours, technically,” Sherlock intoned.
A tall, wizened woman in a dark navy uniform entered. The men stood. “You remember Mummy's nurse, don't you, Sherlock? Or has it been that long since you've visited? Gentlemen, Matron Holloway. John, you will be interested to know Matron was in the RAMC before we were lucky enough to secure her services for my mother.”
John snapped upright. “Ma'am.”
“A pleasure, Captain. I've read your blog. On occasion, I used to read it aloud to your mother, as well, Mr. Holmes. I'd leave out the more dangerous escapades, of course.”
“A drink, Matron? We have some time before the service begins.”
The graveside mourners were few: the sons, their friends, the staff, a couple of old-timers from the village. Still, it was not a matter of numbers.
John glanced aside as the vicar said his final words over the coffin to the sounds of soft sniffles from a couple of the women in attendance. Sherlock had been quiet. Mycroft was reserved, but his brother seemed too flat, given the occasion. John sidled up beside him, brushed their arms together. He leaned back and caught Lestrade's eye, who stood on Mycroft's other side. John shrugged and shook his head minutely. When Greg put his arm around Mycroft's narrow shoulders and Mycroft allowed his head to droop in sorrow, John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed. He got little reaction.
The Holmes boys did not do emotion well.
* * *
John reclined in the very large and comfortable bed in the otherwise austere bedroom he was assigned, scrolling through his emails, checking the hits on his blog. He heard the door open, sensed Sherlock's presence in the doorway. He looked up.
“I'm surprised you've got such great wifi out here. Uhp - well, maybe not. I just remembered who your brother is. Of course, he's probably got a secret lair in the wine cellar that would make a Bond villain cry with envy. Good wifi is just a bonus when you can launch a nuclear attack from your country house.” Sherlock didn't move, just fiddled with the tie on his robe. John put down his tablet. “Come here.” He lifted the covers.
“I'm not tired.” He dropped his robe, climbed in next to John anyway, and lay on his back.
“Of course not.” They sat in silence for a moment in the dim light from the one lamp. “I enjoyed dinner.”
“We always had good cooks. Mycroft was always their favorite because he'd eat anything. I was more picky.”
“What a shock,” John deadpanned. Sherlock chuckled darkly. John reached over and covered Sherlock's hand, then patted it. “Come here, come closer.” He tugged on Sherlock until the man scooted over and curled up at John's side with John's arm around his shoulder and his head tucked on John's chest. John rubbed his upper arm, leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his curly head. He breathed in the sweet scent of him. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up fighting tears again, breathing that scent he'd missed when Sherlock was dead. Instead, he began to talk.
“Matron Holloway is a very interesting woman. We chatted all through dinner, traded war stories - literally. You know what they call us? The RAMC? The Linseed Lancers. I always loved that nickname.” He kissed Sherlock's head again, rubbed his arm. He wondered if Sherlock had ever had this kind of comfort in the big old house growing up. From his parents? His nanny? Mycroft? Perhaps he'd read to Sherlock before bed, sent his little brother off to sleep with sweet dreams. Perhaps not.
“The, um, your father's headstone. I understand your pseudonym, now. Siger Holmes, Sigerson. But what made you use James? James Sigerson.”
“James is the English for Hamish,” Sherlock murmured. He left it at that, and John let him. He continued chatting, his voice getting soft and gravelly with the late hour.
“You know Greg - that's Lestrade, in case you've deleted his name again - he's really chuffed to be here for you two. I'm so glad Mycroft extended the invitation when he expressed an interest in attending. I don't think you realize what a good friend he is to us. We need to spend more time with him, I think, not involving cases. He's a pretty lonely guy since he left his wife. We should do some take-away and movie nights.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock burrowed in closer and tipped his head up. “He likes the country air. We can take him for a walk after breakfast.” He smiled softly at John, enough to crinkle his eyes.
“Good idea.” John brushed the curls off Sherlock's forehead and pressed a kiss to his warm skin.
Sherlock lay back down, his hands furled at his chest. “You touch me a lot lately.”
“You need it. I'm glad to give it to you.” John slid farther down into bed. “And you like it.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. He leaned in and placed a lush kiss on John's mouth, then settled against John's side again.
“We're going to have to talk about the kissing thing. Not tonight, though.” John stretched his arm over and switched off the light. He put his tablet on the table, and returned to a Sherlock rapidly claiming more of John with an arm across his belly, and a leg over his leg. As long as it meant that Sherlock would sleep, John wasn't bothered. Not by any definition of the word.
* * *
As they finished eating, Mycroft instructed Cook to bring a tray up to Matron Holloway if she wasn't feeling like coming down to breakfast. It was certainly understandable the day after her charge's funeral.
Sherlock smoothed out his suit as he rose from the table. “Lestrade, would you care for a post-jentacular perambulation?”
John and Lestrade both snorted. John recovered first. “Okay, now you just sound like a prat. A very posh prat.”
“Yeah, sounds like you're offering me a very fancy shag or something.”
“One gets very few chances to use jentacular. It's like penultimate. Or prandial.”
“Oh. Okay. I know what this is,” John remembered. “Ta, context. Greg, he's asking if you'd like to take a walk after breakfast. That being now.”
“Oh! Absolutely. Just grab our coats and let's go. I'd love to see the place.”
As they collected their things from the closet, Cook came scurrying from the back stairs to the foyer. “Mr. Holmes!” She looked around for the elder, and settled for Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, there's something--” She froze, looking at Lestrade in particular.
“What is it?”
She gestured Sherlock to the side and whispered in his ear. He straightened, then ran for the stairs. “Come on!”
John and Lestrade looked at each other, then broke for the stairway. They ran up as fast as they could to the third story servant quarters, and found Sherlock in the only room with an open door, and a tray abandoned on the table in the hall. He was hovering just inside, trying not to touch anything. In the bed was an obviously dead woman. On the nightstand a bottle of pills, a suicide note, and a parchment letter with a red wax seal.
Part 2