Fic for alafaye: Tea and Cakes
Title: Tea and Cakes
Author: methylviolet10b
Recipient: alafaye
Rating: PG
Universe: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: approximately 3,600
Summary: The curious theft of a simnel cake stirs up more than just memories of a cold case.
Notes: Grateful thanks to my wonderful beta.
John had been to many, many places when accompanying Sherlock on cases. Alleys and warehouses were relatively common, as were seedy pubs and sterile office buildings. Dark and dank featured prominently in many locales, followed closely by industrial and impersonal.
A warm, cosy, sweet-smelling cake shop was definitely a first.
“A break-in, Lestrade? Dull! I do hope you’ve called us out for something more interesting than that.” In contrast to his disinterested words, Sherlock’s eyes darted about eagerly, already taking in details of the scene.
“Hullo, John.” Lestrade nodded at him before turning to the detective. “If this was a simple break-in, I wouldn’t be here, much less you.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth briefly before consulting his notebook. “Clare Simms, 35, assistant baker. She had the late shift last night, decorating cakes. When the owner came in this morning, she found everything as usual - alarm set, doors locked, shutters closed - except that Clara was lying behind the counter, unconscious and bleeding from a significant head wound. She’s been taken to hospital; we haven’t heard anything yet, but things didn’t look good. There was no sign of a break-in, nothing missing from her purse or from the safe. Nothing seems touched, except that there’s a gap in one of the shelves in the display case.”
Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Missing cakes?”
“Looks like it. The owner claims there should be at least three in that particular gap.”
“The Shoreham murders,” Sherlock breathed. John hadn’t seen Sherlock this visibly excited by a case since an actual locked-room murder two months ago.
“We have to consider the possibility, yes.”
“What murders?” John asked, not wanting to be left in the dark.
Sherlock was clearly anxious to get started investigating the scene, but he paused long enough to answer John’s question. “It was before your time. An innocuous theft of four cakes from a cake shop, or so everyone thought - until each of the stolen cakes turned up at a subsequent murder scene.”
“Each murder related to the theme of the cake,” Lestrade added. “I wasn’t on the case, officially, but eventually I managed to convince the Inspector in charge to let me bring in Sherlock to look over the evidence. Unfortunately, by then the murders had stopped, and the case had gone cold.” Lestrade looked disgruntled at the memory.
“And any useful evidence missed by the forensics team - of which I’m sure there was a great deal - had been trampled over, cleaned up, and otherwise lost. If I’d only had a chance to see even one of the crime scenes in situ, I’m sure I could have solved it.”
“If the murderer is starting up again, you’ve got your chance,” Lestrade pointed out.
“Just so long as Anderson hasn’t already managed to make a hash of things.” Sherlock spun on his heel and strode towards the display case.
John, trailing in his wake, was the only one to notice Sherlock’s sudden stillness as he looked at the label below the empty shelf. When he spoke, his voice sounded perfectly normal, but John could see a slight crease between his eyebrows. “If this is the same person, we’ll want to be on the lookout for mothers as potential victims.”
Lestrade started. “How do you know that?”
Sherlock pointed at the handwritten label affixed to the empty shelf. Squinting, John made out the letters. “Simnel cake?”
“Traditional to give to mothers on Mothering Sunday, although I suppose we should also consider priests a target, in case the killer focuses on the Easter connotation instead.”
John had been with Sherlock a long time, at his side over dozens of cases. He could have said many things in response to that.
He chose to say nothing at all. Not then.
And then he was too busy to say anything, although that did not stop him from noticing things.
There was no time to say anything about Sherlock’s knowledge of the traditional decorations for simnel cakes, particularly not when one fallen “egg,” found in the corner of the bakery, proved to be full of pure-grade cocaine.
It was not the place to mention the curious fact that Sherlock knew the cakes were covered in marzipan, or that marzipan was stable at room temperature and could be moulded and tinted into remarkably realistic shapes, when the assistant baker’s brother (also a baker, or as he arrogantly termed it, a ‘sugar artist’) had a very interesting collection of false fruit in his flat.
These were mysteries, but ones that must wait.
Seventy-six hours later, the brother was under guard in hospital, four more people were behind bars, a minor drug-smuggling ring had been smashed wide open, Clare Simms was awake and likely to recover, Lestrade had a minor contusion and a not-so-minor set of arrests to his growing credit, and John and Sherlock had shared an epic Indian dinner and nine hours of uninterrupted sleep. There was no serial killer this time. The assault and cake-theft had been related to the drug-filled cake decorations, not the cold case, but Sherlock seemed content with the criminals they did manage to catch. Only after all that, and only then, did John say something.
“I’m surprised you knew what a simnel cake was,” he said carefully over their morning cups of tea. (Actually, it was mid-afternoon, but the first cup of tea was always the morning cuppa to John, no matter the actual time.) “It seems like the sort of knowledge you’d delete.”
Sherlock paused, his cup halfway to his lips. His hair stood out in all directions in an epic case of bed-head. In contrast, his face went preternaturally still. “What day is it?” he asked abruptly.
“Uh.” John had to consider that for a moment, recent events rendering his mental calendar a blur. “Um. Thursday, I think.”
“Good.” Sherlock’s voice was crisp. “We can go down tomorrow, then. There won’t be any chance of running into Mycroft; he won’t be able to go down until the week-end.”
John set down his half-finished cuppa. “Go where?”
“To see Mummy. It’s past time you were introduced. And we can bring her a cake.”
The words were perfectly calm. Sherlock appeared utterly unemotional, as if he’d announced they were going out to fetch a newspaper. But John, while no detective, had learned a great deal about how to read Sherlock. Might even be the world’s foremost expert on the world’s only consulting detective. He rose from his chair and moved to sit on the armrest of the sofa where Sherlock sprawled with deceptive casualness.
“I’d like that very much,” John said with perfect honesty. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Sherlock said nothing in reply, merely hummed a noncommittal noise. But his careful sprawl slowly dissolved into actual relaxation, with his head winding up against John’s knee.
*****
Sherlock did not leave the flat that day, but the next morning, John wasn’t fussed to find that he’d hired a car. It arrived in front of their flat, a cake-box in a carrier safely stowed in the boot. Sherlock gave John’s attire a swift, critical glance before nodding once, signalling his approval. “Come on, John. It’s a bit of a drive, and we don’t want to get caught in traffic.”
The drive was mostly silent. Sherlock was in one of his uncommunicative moods, and John knew better than to press. London traffic and industry gradually gave way to greener, more open landscape. They only stopped twice, once for takeaway sandwiches from a shop, and once to gas the car. John nodded to himself once when he saw that they were headed east. Nor was he surprised when Sherlock turned the car into what looked like an old, private drive.
“She probably won’t remember your name,” Sherlock said abruptly as they pulled into a circular drive in front of a Georgian-style house bordered by tall hedges, all immaculately kept. Everything about the place spoke of money, old money. The kind of money that went with thousand-pound suits and an apparent obliviousness to the necessity of paying monthly bills, or keeping a regularly-paying job. “You mustn’t take offense if she does forget, or even appear to notice.”
That was the first real clue. John noted it, but set it mentally aside for the time being in favour of the more urgent priority sitting tensely behind the wheel. “I won’t, Sherlock. I won’t mind.”
In response, Sherlock drummed long fingers against the steering wheel once, twice, and a third time before turning the key and shutting off the engine. “Right. Let’s go in.”
A man met them at the door. He was casually dressed, which surprised John, but acted entirely like a long-time servant, which didn’t. He divested them of their coats and took careful charge of the cake-box during the process. “Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson. Did you have a pleasant drive down?”
John blinked, slightly unnerved that this stranger knew his name.
“Yes, thank you Jacobs. Has Mummy been told of my visit?”
“Last night, and again this morning, and it was mentioned at luncheon several times. She asked what time you might arrive.”
Some of the tension eased from Sherlock’s face. “Where is she?”
“In the conservatory.”
“Of course.” Sherlock took the cake-box back from Jacobs and strode off. John followed in his wake.
The conservatory was warm and humid enough to make John glad of his high heat tolerance and his decision to wear a button-down shirt instead of one of his usual jumpers. Sherlock’s normally pale complexion took on a pink tint within a minute of entering the glassed-in room, but he kept his suit jacket on. The earthy, humid smell of the place told John why the temperature was as high as it was, even as he saw them. The place was filled with orchids, a riot of colour and texture in neatly organized rows on shelves and tables.
“Mummy breeds orchids,” Sherlock said unnecessarily. “She’s won prizes for them every year for as long as I can remember.”
An electronic whirr started up and grew louder as Sherlock finished his sentence. “Don’t you dare say how long that is,” a well-cultured voice told him. The speaker rolled into view with a casually-dressed young man following a short distance behind her. She brought her high-end motorized wheelchair to a jerky stop a few feet away from where they stood. John could see the resemblance between the woman in the chair and both her sons. She must have been tall; even seated in the chair, she radiated height and presence. Mycroft had inherited her eyes. Sherlock’s unruly dark curls were an echo of the still-thick, immaculately coiffed, white-streaked hair that crowned this woman’s head. She’d clearly been beautiful once, and was handsome still, in a well-aged, slim, and well-kept way that spoke of posh bloodlines as well as money. John noted the faint scars and other tell-tale signs of plastic surgery at some time in her past, perhaps a face lift, perhaps something else, but time had been allowed to have its way since, wrinkles adding character around her eyes and mouth. Her seamed face was wreathed in a smile, but there was an uneasy wariness in her eyes. “Sherlock. You’re looking well.”
Sherlock stooped and placed a kiss on her cheek. “Mummy. You’re radiant, as always.” He straightened and held out the box. “I’ve brought you a cake.” His shoulders twitched slightly as his mother sat the box on her lap and lifted the lid. “It won’t be as good as yours, I’m sure, but I thought we might enjoy it together for tea.”
“A simnel cake!” Her smile softened into something more genuine as she looked at the carefully decorated cake with its marzipan eggs. “Oh, I remember when you and Mycroft used to coax our cook into helping you make one for me for Mothering Sunday. You always took such care with the decorations, even on the ones I made for the parish.”
“And Mycroft always tried to sneak some of the marzipan.” Sherlock, too, softened, and the grin he gave his mother was one of the rare real ones, full of mischief and fondness.
“You were both such good boys.” She looked up at her son, and the remembered happiness fell away from her face. “Oh, Sherlock. How could you - ”
Almost unnoticeably Sherlock flinched, but before his mother could finish her sentence, the young man who’d been hovering in the background spoke up. “Shall I take the cake, Mrs. Holmes?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Holmes looked up and seemed only then to remember that she had an audience aside from her child. “Yes, yes, of course. Please take it to the kitchen and have it plated up for tea.” She handed over the cake-box with care. “Ask Cook to hurry the tea service; you’ve come all this way, you must be famished, and I haven’t offered you a bite or a sip. And gracious, where are my manners? I’ve completely overlooked your friend.” She smiled, a perfect hostess smile with nothing behind it, and then looked at Sherlock expectantly.
Sherlock took his cue as if nothing had happened. “Mummy, this is my friend, Doctor John Watson. John, this is my mother, Elizabeth Holmes.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”
“Very nice to meet you, too, Doctor Watson.” Her hand twitched, as if she wanted to reach for something, and then her eyes narrowed, evaluating him in a way that reminded him strongly of both Holmes brothers. “Doctor, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She fixed her gaze on Sherlock. “Oh, my dear boy. Have you gone into a programme, then?”
John instinctively looked to Sherlock, ready to follow his lead. But his friend seemed frozen, so after a tension-filled moment, John stepped bravely into the gap. He had no idea what Sherlock had told his mother about them, so he chose the safest option to start. “We work together on cases. He helps a great many people, you know.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Holmes sounded both sceptical and confused, but gave him an uncertain smile. “Well, that’s wonderful. You must tell me all about it over tea.”
“Would you prefer we take tea in the library, or in the sitting-room?” Sherlock asked quietly.
“Oh, I think the library.” Mrs. Holmes tilted her head. “I know how you love it.”
John saw Sherlock almost-flinch again.
*****
The library was everything a library should be: gorgeous old wooden bookcases, immaculately polished. Their shelves were filled with books both old (and probably rare, and some quite possibly worth more than a month’s rent of 221B) and modern, a bewildering array of titles and subjects, all visibly well-read. There were comfortable leather chairs, velvet drapes framing the windows, plush Persian carpets on the floors, and an immense old desk in one corner. There was also a huge fireplace with a crackling fire blazing merrily away between the andirons, and before it, an exquisitely-laid-out tea table, set for three. Two of the places had chairs; the third had ample room for Mrs. Holmes’ wheelchair to fit. A brown leather album sat next to her place-setting.
John was an expert in Sherlock. He knew that his friend would rather be in jail than sitting down to tea in this particular room. The signs were clear, at least to him. But the taller man allowed none of his feelings to show on his face or in his voice as he escorted his mother to her place at the table. He kept up a light flow of chatter, even when his mother faltered in her responses, or meandered back into a subject they’d already touched on.
Her hesitations were brief, both then, and at the table throughout tea. If John hadn’t already been alerted, he might not have noticed that she never actually used his name. In almost every other way, she seemed to be a perfect hostess, well-read, extremely intelligent, and able to carry a conversation with ease over a variety of subjects. It didn’t add up, not yet.
The servants, or attendants, or whatever they were (John hadn’t enough experience to know for sure) had carried away the sandwich-tray, brought fresh plates and cutlery, and a new pot of tea along with the cake, now sliced into generous pieces and resting on a silver platter. “My, that cake certainly looks delicious. Such a surprise, a simnel cake at this time of year. I wonder what Cook was thinking, but it makes a nice treat. I’m not quite ready for a sweet yet, but would you like the first slice?”
“Thank you, Mummy, but I can wait. I brought the cake for you, after all. You should have the first piece.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Mrs. Holmes blinked, then smiled with a bit more force. “Silly me.”
A pause ensued, a silence that threatened to quickly grow dreadful. Once more, John went forward into the breach. “I notice you have an album there, Mrs. Holmes. Is it a picture album? Baby pictures of Sherlock, perhaps?” Personally, John couldn’t imagine what Sherlock must have looked like as an infant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, either, but better Sherlock’s startled indignation at the idea than the stiff blankness he’d shown moments before.
“Oh! No, no.” Mrs. Holmes looked over at the album as if she’d had no idea it was there. She opened the cover, glanced at the handwritten notes on the first page, and then looked up with a quizzical expression. “Nothing quite that old, although I’m sure I could show you a few snaps later, if you like. No, this is something rather more modern. I’ve started scrapbooking, keeping a record now that I have a son who regularly makes the newspapers.” Mrs. Holmes’ voice lost some of its confident tone as she said the last words. She turned a few pages, her eyes rapidly skimming over the headlines, running down the few handwritten notes on the sides of each page. John thought he recognized a printout of two of his blog entries on one of the pages. She looked up at last, a soft, unreadable expression on her face. “There’s a great deal of material here. I’ll need to start a new book soon, I think.”
Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “Oh.”
“In fact, maybe I should go look for a blank album now. This one seems to be in danger of losing some of its contents.” Mrs. Holmes pushed the scrapbook a few inches in Sherlock’s direction. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, gentlemen.”
“Of course.” John reflexively rose to his feet as Mrs. Holmes reversed her wheelchair, pulled away from the table, and then rolled out of the room. He caught a glimpse of movement from the doorway out of the corner of his eye - one of the staff, evidently following Mrs. Holmes. Most of his attention, however, remained fixed on the man sitting motionless at the tea-table. “Sherlock?” he asked quietly, not pushing.
“She won’t remember this when she returns.” Sherlock’s voice was wooden. “I might need to introduce you again.”
John cocked his head, possibilities racing through his mind. “That’s fine. I’m not fussed.”
A log popped and settled in the fireplace.
“Partial anterograde amnesia. Some minor retrograde loss as well, mostly from the two months prior to the incident.” The words fell from Sherlock’s lips, clinical, detached. “Perhaps it was fortunate that her rheumatoid arthritis had already progressed to the point where she was using the chair at least half the time. She couldn’t learn how to use one now. It keeps Mycroft busy every few years, finding a replacement model that has similar-enough controls to the one she knew then.”
The pieces all fell into place. Mrs. Holmes’ inability to remember his name, her occasional lapses in a conversational thread, the strange half-statements she’d made. What had caused the damage remained a mystery, but one outcome was clear enough to John. To Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock was the person he’d been then, whenever the damage had happened. No matter how Sherlock had changed, no matter what good he’d done, no matter how great a man he’d become (or would ever become), to her he would always remain as she knew him then, as her half-spoken words and hints suggested: her addict son. A disappointment, someone she loved but did not trust, and a personal tragedy.
And yet…
John picked up the album Mrs. Holmes had left behind - deliberately - before the thought finished. One quick glance inside told him his guess was right. “She might not remember any of this when she comes back,” John said softly. “But Sherlock, she knew what she was reading when she commented on the things in this scrapbook.” He placed the leather-bound volume in front of Sherlock, open to the first page. Open to the printed title card: “Sherlock’s Cases” and subtitled in old-fashioned, faintly shaky script: “My remarkable son.”
John could not read Sherlock’s face, but he heard the low, choked-off sound he made. Long-fingered hands reached out and turned the pages eagerly, one after the other, occasionally pausing to touch one handwritten annotation, then another. His eyes darted back and forth, devouring each page. Once he laughed, a soft, huffing noise. Once, he drew in a quick, audible breath.
He never said a word, not then, not later. John stood by his side, doing his best as a warm, supporting presence while his Holmes witnessed how another had found a solution to a seemingly impossible problem, one that had been left unresolved and bleeding for years. Stood witness as Sherlock continued to turn the pages, as his mother reached out across time and injury to address the coldest case of all.