The Scottish Play - Act II of V
*****
Actus Secundus.
SH: The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service, and...nerves of steel... actually, do you know what? Ignore me.
Enter a Servant.
*****
The next morning, Sherlock gathered himself for the task of breakfasting, sighed at the drudgery of it all one last time, then rapped smartly at John’s door.
“Morning.”
“Good morning.” He gestured vaguely down the hall, and led the way to breakfast.
A short time later, standing, plate in hand, he considered carefully the positions it would be best to take up. He surveyed the tables with a casual eye, but even a casual Sherlockian gaze missed nothing. Twittering Cousins Lotta, Nigel and Marigold - harmless but annoying. A trio of golden heads - the Second Cousin twice removed triplet girls finally grown to adulthood - an unknown psychological quantity. Cousin Simon and his lot - a definite threat to his sanity. Mycroft and - oh, that was interesting - he seriously considered swanning over to that table and pulling up two additional, completely unwelcome chairs - no, as much as he hated to admit it, his brother was more an ally than an enemy in his current setting - best not to antagonize unless absolutely necessary. Cousin Judy, Alistair and Sandy - a reasonable possibility - the annoyance level might be acceptable. Great Aunt Minerva and a man who was a stranger to him but works in the City - recently widowed - is contemplating killing the deceased wife’s cat - suffers from insomnia - no point, really. Uncle Richard, Aunt Mary and Peter - a distinct possibility - annoyance level minimal - Army connection to provide easy conversation. The decision made, he nudged John accordingly, steering him toward the chosen table.
“Uncle Richard, Aunt Mary, this is Doctor John Watson. John, my Aunt and Uncle Hannay, and my Cousin Peter.”
Greetings were duly exchanged.
Sherlock seated himself and promptly found a thick sheaf of sheet music thrust into his eggs on toast. “Finally got a cellist. Rehearsals nine o’clock sharp each morning in the small library.” The grizzled old man turned and marched away after making his pronouncement.
Daintily, he rescued the papers from his breakfast. They had once comprised two neatly bound examples of the first printings of Bartók’s second and fourth quartets, issued in Vienna in 1920 and 1929 respectively. Over the ensuing years, though, they had been studied and creased and written on, and now they were being held together with sellotape and their owner’s sheer force of will. They resembled nothing more closely than a stack of abused, yellowed love letters. The edges of the sheets were flaking from the daily handling their recipient lavished upon the pages; reliving an affair over and over again by running his hands along each centimetre of the pages as if they were the flesh of his lover. In answer to John’s questioning look he said, “It seems my Great-Uncle Forester has finally been gifted with a complete string quartet in residence for the Duration. He is an ardent lover of Bartók.”
“Who’s that now?”
Sherlock flicked a bit of egg from the sheaf as he elaborated, “Béla Bartók was a Hungarian composer and what we would now term ethnomusicologist.”
John stared at him blankly. “A - what now?”
Sherlock considered the best way to explain the rather mad concept. “He collected folk songs, wandering the countryside with a phonograph strapped to a pack mule. My Uncle attempted a similar activity one summer but his efforts were first discouraged by farmers with pitchforks who mistook him for a representative of the Government’s collectivization movement, and ultimately defeated by the KGB.”
“The KGB,” John stated flatly.
“Well, the AVO and the NKVD, but for all intents and purposes, yes, the KGB.” He realized that John was now grinning madly at him, for all the world as if he expected this to end with a punch line, that Sherlock was putting him on. That made him feel like laughing, for real this time, none of the hysteria-tinged laughter of the evening before, so he played it up a bit. “Yes. It was rather remarkable, actually, that he got as far as he did. We still have no idea how he acquired the phonograph, though we suspect he somehow managed to smuggle a bottle of single malt in with him. That probably would have done it,” he mused airily. “The Russians saved him from a deep disappointment, really. I’m not sure there were many villagers left to record. It must be one of the only instances in existence of a Secret Police Force doing someone a favour by taking him in for questioning.”
There was a general chuckle, and Richard said, “Poor old Forester. He almost looked cheerful.” He leaned back in his chair and pushed his plate to the side. “So, John, you’re a military man.”
John turned his gaze on this sturdy-looking older man with close-cropped brown hair. “Do all the Holmeses tend to deduct then?”
“Not at all; like recognizes like. Besides, I’m as far from a Holmes as you’ll find at this gathering.”
“Honorary uncle then?”
Mary had a bell-like laugh. “Not quite. Vi, Sherlock’s mother, is my sister.” John couldn’t quite reconcile this pretty, petite blonde who smiled at him cheerfully with the razor-edged woman who had pecked at Sherlock as if he were a cuckoo chick in her nest.
John pitched his voice for his friend’s ears alone. “Hang on, your father’s brother goes around telling people to ‘rock on’ and your mother has a cheerful sister? I have to say that when it comes to extremes on the sibling spectrum that is - well - extreme,” he finished lamely.
“Rocky and my Father are half-brothers, and Mary is my Mother’s step-sister.”
John considered that but couldn’t immediately come up with an opinion regarding nature versus nurture.
“They’re an entertaining lot to have tangentially married into. We don’t come down every year, but when we do it’s always a rousing time. Do you shoot, John? There’s good sport on Rocky’s land.”
Mary laughed and broke in helpfully, “Poor John, you must be all at sea. Sherlock’s never been one for explanations.” She looked around the room and patted her annoyed-looking husband’s knee soothingly. “Oh, there’s a good place to start. Rocky’s son Lionel has just come in with his wife Jean.” She indicated an older man with deeply creased jowls which gave him the hangdog aspect of a basset hound and a petite, trim woman sporting an attractive pixie cut of silver hair. “He spent some years as a coffee planter in Kenya and now he writes. Jean is retired.”
“And, of course, you may have noticed Rocky’s wife Madge last night; she was the elderly woman next to him wearing a red cowboy hat,” broke in Cousin Peter, who was a grinning Robert Redford look-a-like circa Out of Africa; John’s mother had loved that movie.
Ignoring the interruption, Mary went on blithely, pointing to a nearby table. “Jean’s daughter Judy is just there, sitting with her husband Alistair and their friend Sandy. Sandy’s husband doesn’t seem to be round. He’s very sporty, perhaps he runs or something in the mornings.” This table hosted an attractive brunette - Judy - an equally pretty blonde with hair cropped shorter than her friend’s - Sandy - and a tall skinny man in specs with hair going grey just a bit prematurely.
Richard finally cut in impatiently, “Now that we’ve untangled that, do you shoot, John? I’ll be getting together a party to go out tomorrow morning.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t usually do it for sport.”
“Come out with us anyway. We’ll be a jolly group and it’s sure to be better than whatever else is on this early. There hasn’t been enough time for resentment to build up yet.”
John glanced at Sherlock who shrugged and indicated the sheet music he had so recently acquired. “I will apparently be rehearsing each morning in the small library. Unless you’re planning on auditing that activity, suit yourself.” He paused thoughtfully. “Actually, do go. Bring me a bird; one of the large ones, a pheasant perhaps.”
“You want me to bring you back a dead bird,” John said flatly.
“Naturally.”
“Yes; naturally, of course.” John rolled his eyes at the sheer Sherlockian-ness of it all. “Fine. Just make sure to give me proper notice for the bit where you tutor the children in something.”
Sherlock laughed. “What do you think I want the bird for?” He waved away John’s shocked expression. “Yes, all right. You’ll be joining my science tutorial this year; duly noted. Will you also be participating in the lively debate which Mycroft will moderate wherein the gestational voting public of the Holmes family discuss transport, energy sources and digital communication as they relate to the future infrastructure of Britain?”
John blinked. “No, probably not,” he allowed.
Just then, a dour-looking woman dressed in a shapeless black dress walked into the middle of the room. She was carrying a baby and she cooed to it before she cleared her throat and announced to the room at large, “Good morning. Visibility is poor but the sea is moderate in the south North Sea and the Dover Strait. That is all.” She then walked over to the table which Mary had pointed out earlier and handed the baby off to Judy.
John grinned again, because at least portions of this were turning out to be as madly entertaining as he had expected. Ethnomusiwhatsis, indeed.
*****
Musicke, and a Song.
*****
After Claude had collected John for his sitting, Sherlock dutifully reported to the small library. He was perfectly content to have been summarily assigned this task as it saved him from being recruited for some other activity which would prove even less stimulating. At least he could easily lose himself in music despite the participation of three others. Bartók was sufficiently difficult to keep his mind occupied for the Duration.
He strode through the door but stopped dead the instant he was inside the formerly familiar room. The morning light was still suffused with jewel tones as the sun’s fire lit the magnificent stained-glass of the bay window, but that was the only element which remained from the last time he had been in the library on Boxing Day the year before he had fallen from the roof of Bart’s.
Sherlock had spent many hours of his life in this room and his mind automatically supplied what he had expected to see as an overlay to what actually met his gaze. Impatiently, he blinked it away; sentiment was useless and annoying. He surveyed the new furnishings with a bored eye and tried to work out how they would affect the acoustics which he had been used to.
There was still a thick Persian carpet covering the majority of the honey-wood floor; its pattern of twining ivy in stark national contrast to its predecessor’s interlocking fleur de lis. The heavy wooden furniture had been replaced by very similar pieces placed in almost the same orientation, but the new arrivals were all done in a slightly lighter style, giving the room an airier, feminine atmosphere. The room hadn’t been originally intended to serve as a library and so did not have the massive built-in bookcases which the library proper boasted, and the odd lot which had previously housed the overflow here had been similarly replaced; the new, matching set featured delicate scrollwork and stood on talon feet. Sherlock decided that the acoustics should prove acceptably similar.
He laid his violin’s case on the new table situated against the back of the new sofa nearest him and into his mind flashed a visual of himself situated under the old table which had once stood here; he had been six, and small enough to insert himself there and still have room to play his instrument. The sofa along one side had given the spot the feeling of a cosy fort. He had liked being able to play and remain hidden from the casual observer at the same time, imagining himself a sort of radio. He had carved his initials into the column of the table’s leg; he had carefully formed very tiny letters - SH - his secret in his hiding place. By the next year he had grown too tall to take up his spot; there had simply been too much leg to allow him to scrunch his limbs sufficiently to fit himself into the space.
He flicked the image away, but its aftereffect was to leave him feeling slightly tetchy and put out. This new table was longer, he would have fit under it for a few more years, but it wouldn’t have been as cosily snug that year he had been six.
There was a tentative knock on the open door, and a slim young woman with ash blonde hair done up in an untidy bun and a cello case strapped to her back stepped over the threshold. She pushed her glasses up her nose infinitesimally and looked up from what seemed to be a map sketched hastily on a napkin. Her gaze was questioning and she offered him a hopeful smile. When she spoke her voice proclaimed her to be American in origin. “Is this the small library? I was rather summarily ordered to report to the small library after I admitted to a familiarity with Bartók’s quartets.”
“You are in the correct place.” He didn’t admit the room its proper name, still feeling rebellious regarding its newly discovered table treachery. Almost lazily he added to American - newly married - recently honeymooned, in fact - professional musician - middle child of three, older sister, younger brother - mother drank - father died young. “Sherlock,” he offered with the extension of his hand.
“Shay,” she returned, her grip firm and sure.
“And which of my clan has recently walked you down the aisle then flown you to Tortola and back in celebration?” he drawled.
Behind her glasses, her eyes fluttered in confusion. “I - how did you know? You weren’t at the wedding. How did you know that?”
“Quite simple deductions, I assure you. Your engagement ring is familiar to you, your wedding band is not. You’re tanned though it is December and everyone goes to Tortola,” he finished with a roll of his eyes.
She eyed him sidelong. “That’s creepy, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Her mouth twitched into a half-grin. “Okay, then, as long as you’re aware.” She pulled the strap of her case over her head and lowered it to the ground. “Marshall Holmes - I’m not sure how you’re related.”
“Ah, Marsh. He and I are second cousins.”
“Béla Bartók!”
Shay jumped at the sudden barking battle cry which Forester emitted as he strode into the room, followed by another man of similar age who was smiling fondly after his long-time partner, this second man was Sherlock’s honorary Uncle Carlton. Where Forester was grizzled and shaggy-looking with a beard and hair let to run wild, Carlton was trim and neat, dressed in khaki trousers and a cardigan over a shirt in a checked pattern. Each man carried an instrument case. Carlton raised a hand in greeting to Sherlock and nodded pleasantly to Shay as Forester ploughed heedlessly into the routine which was already familiar to the other two men in the room though not, presumably, to Shay. He began by declaiming his favourite poem. As he did, his voice rang with passion and filled the room with the true joy which can only be experienced by someone who has offered himself up completely as a disciple:
(He began quite modestly, his tone mild and grave, though ringing) “a bell, sunken in a mountain lake,
which suddenly begins to ring,
the pilgrim’s staff began to bloom,
the flute that caused to sound
whole orchestras
(Here he beat his breast dramatically, and Shay turned her head to hide a giggle.)
four spirits (He waved his hands in the air dramatically.) four otherworldly figures apparitions -
violin in their hands and
they play - do you understand? (He pleaded...)
no! can you feel? (He demanded!)
maybe; your cells,
your hair, and your entrails
understand
the glass shriek of
the violins’ throttled throat,
the bloodless shadows of writhing willow trees,
the magnetic rustle of the earth’s poles,
the light signals of distant planets.
(Deep into his worship now, Forester was lost to the fact that he had any audience at all. He spoke tenderly to the ghost of Bartók.)
on their looms of glass
four Fates spin
the thread of your destiny -
the sound stops.
your life falls headlong
like a soldier
killed on a snowy peak.
blood trickles
from his invisible wound... (He crooned, no really, he managed to croon this bit. He’d had years of practice.)
the matterless matter
grows screeching, fluttering dully
it streams
it dissolves your muscles
your shinbones
your skull. (He was flushed with passion by now, and his recitation had gained new heights. One could almost feel one’s shinbones dissolving in response.)
your obsessions
have been washed away by the waves -
only your primal memories
are still alive
glittering, creeping, living blossoms:
coral thickets sprouted
underwater, on the chest of rocks,
octopuses, squids,
medusas
and electric shock-giving
stingrays, smooth as glass.”
Carlton was very carefully hiding the fond grin which this oft-repeated recitation had kindled. Sherlock reflected that few composers were capable of inspiring a single poem which contained references to both entrails and melting skulls.
Forester was still off and running, and he punctuated his enthusiasm with wild flailing of his arms. “The freshness of his melodic invention! The keen interest his rhythms provoke! The colourful qualities of his orchestration! The beauty of his compositional architecture! The deep expressiveness his music conveys! Bartók stands among the great figures of twentieth-century music!”
Sherlock decided to begin applauding politely, because that was usually the best way to stopper the flow of Bartók love. Next to him, he felt Shay shoot him a look before joining in; Carlton gave in to the laughter which had been building. In response to all this, Forester grumpily put his hands on his hips and humphed at them all emphatically, the light of worship in his eyes fading to irritation.
“Tune up!” he instructed shortly and pulled out a pitch pipe.
Each musician chose a chair then they arranged themselves into the traditional configuration. Instruments came out and settling-in rituals were performed before the actual tuning took place. Forester and Carlton had been playing together for uncounted years by now and Sherlock had joined them and occasionally others during this annual gathering. The air was easy with familiarity which Shay relaxed into easily as she proved to be quite an accomplished musician. And so, after a bit of mild fuss and just a little discordant warming up, Sherlock found himself between Forester on his right and Shay on his left as he arranged the parts for the second violin on the stand before him. Today they would be delving into Bartók’s fourth quartet.
They played through the first movement at a reduced tempo in order to allow Shay to begin to find her place in a grouping which was unfamiliar only to her. When they had finished, she nodded first thoughtfully, then more decisively to Forrester, and they began again, and this time they all focused on the music instead of fitting together as a group.
Bartók was eloquent, Sherlock thought, there was no doubt about it. The music spoke in a clear voice to those prepared to listen. The first thirteen measures plunged him back into the memory of that year he had been six and the screaming argument between his parents which had precipitated their leaving on Boxing Day.
The cello had been drunk and the maternal violin had been strung much too tightly, far beyond the instrument’s tolerance, tightly enough that its strings, running afoul of the cello’s razor-sharp disapproval were snapping, lashing painfully against anything within reach. The thirteen year-old viola had curled itself protectively around the six year-old violin and their screaming had been necessarily done inside their own heads; only adults had the privilege of giving free voice to their frustrations without consequences being visited upon them.
Sherlock forcibly jerked himself out of the memory. It was a new library, he reminded himself inanely. He felt unsettled for the rest of the rehearsal and made quite sure his mask was firmly in place to hide the inconvenient turmoil in his mind.
*****
He Descends.
*****
After Forester had released them, Sherlock went to the kitchens. “Mrs Bale. I wonder if you have any dead animals to spare.”
“I most certainly do not, Master Sherlock,” she replied in a disapproving tone. “With the house as full as this it’s all I can do to keep us in bacon without giving you a chicken to experiment on. Peter’s snares and the shoot can’t supplement any too soon!”
He resisted the urge to sigh. “Yes, I rather thought that would be the case. Never mind then.” He sulkily pushed through the door into the kitchen garden, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he followed the path onto the lawn. He was striding between the house and the potting shed when he was hailed from above.
“Sherlock! Just the man; do come up and give us a hand, this hive has been damaged.”
Looking up, he found Peter peering at him from the roof of the solarium which had been tacked onto the west wing of the house. The square, flat expanse of the roof had been utilized to house the estate’s beehives.
“The ladder is just there round the other side.”
Sherlock decided a short diversion would be of no consequence and ascended the ladder. As he did so, Mrs Bale’s words came back to him, and as he approached his cousin he asked, “Peter, have you snared any rabbits since you’ve arrived?”
“Not yet. I just need another hand - here - if you please.”
Sherlock obliged by holding the replacement board in place. “Would you hold back a handful for me once you have?”
Peter grinned at him, taking his eyes from the task at hand. “Risking the wrath of Mrs Bale so soon?”
“One of the many things I endure for the sake of science,” he replied drily.
“Of course I’ll set some aside. She’ll look at me that way she does, but I’ll just try to look daft and innocent. I don’t know how she knows these things, but she does. Right. That does it. Thanks for that. We’re lucky the weather has been mild or we may have lost this one.”
“It was no trouble.”
Peter rose from his crouch and gestured out at the grounds. “Rocky and Madge want to site a new garden, a proper walled affair, just beyond that dip,” Peter pointed into the distance. “I told them it may not be possible what with the stream; I’d run into a drainage issue straight away. I suggested they put it next to the maze instead. What do you think?”
Sherlock walked to the west edge of the roof to survey the first spot in question then proceeded to the southwest corner to view the second. Without thinking about it, he took a further half step so that his left foot rested on the parapet as he peered into the distance thoughtfully. “Yes, next to the maze would make more sense. Why had they settled on the other spot?”
“Some notion of Madge’s, something about a barbeque pit.”
On the ground, John and Claude were just cresting a hill as they made the final approach to the house. John had just remarked cheerfully that the weather was really very pleasant for December when they came into view of the house and his eyes were drawn up; to the figure of Sherlock, standing on the edge of the roof. His head reeled dizzily and his vision went grey; the bicycle sideswipes him and he goes down hard.
It plays like a black and white movie on a screen in front of him; he sees himself looking up at his friend; sees the unbridgeable space between them. Sherlock’s voice is both intimate and removed with only a digital tether connecting them; it caresses his ear while his own voice assaults with its ragged despair.
Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.
Oh God.
I ... I ... I can’t come down, so we’ll ... we’ll just have to do it like this.
A jump in the reel and John’s stomach rebels.
No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?
Sherlock’s voice doesn’t plead like this; John will do anything, anything at all, to make it annoyed and sarcastic and - just - Sherlock again.
This phone call - it’s, um ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they - leave a note?
Leave a note when?
Goodbye, John.
No. Don’t.
No. SHERLOCK!
Sherlock raises his arms and plummets forward and John screams in wordless rage and pain, but it is only in his head because he hadn’t screamed. Everything lurches again sickeningly and he is no longer watching, he is fighting; he is fighting to get to Sherlock, because he is a good doctor and none of this is true it can’t possibly be true.
No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.
Please, let me just ...
The sound that fights its way out of his body is inhuman because this is Sherlock’s blood; Sherlock’s broken body; Sherlock’s wrist being torn from his hand.
Jesus, no.
God, no.
“Sherlock!”
Startled, Sherlock looked down to see his uncle curled protectively over - christ - John was on his hands and knees on the lawn, retching, and the realization of what he had seen which had caused this slammed into Sherlock’s body as if someone had swung a cricket bat into his stomach. He was moving before he made the decision to do so and took the ladder two rungs at a time; running flat out until he flung himself down at John’s side; babbling into his ear and gripping whatever part of him was to hand in an attempt to ground him.
“John! John, it’s all right. I’m all right, John, I’m right here.” Sherlock desperately wanted to haul his friend into his lap and embrace him with every bit of strength in his body, but John needed to be able to see him as soon as his eyes were once again admitting reality instead of nightmare; so instead, he pressed his forehead to John’s, and cupped his face in his hands. He kept up a steady monologue of reassuring rubbish, not knowing what he said in between the, ‘Johns’.
It seemed a very long time before these efforts gained some ground, but finally John’s body began to respond, relaxing by degrees until his eyes abruptly registered Sherlock’s intently staring into his own. Recognition was followed by a flicker of an emotion too raw to name and then his eyes closed as he groaned and dropped his head to the ground. His gasping breaths began to steady slightly, and suddenly his hand shot up and entangled itself in the shoulder of Sherlock’s shirt. He found himself yanked forward violently and then John was hugging him tightly. He returned the embrace firmly but not crushingly since his friend’s breathing was still uneven. After a while he began to hear his own words again and realized that what had been coming before and after each ‘John’ had become an endless litany of, “I’m sorry; I am so very sorry.”
This was only interrupted when he felt a warm huff of John’s breath on his ear. “Can we agree that, from now on, I’ll be handling any rooftop projects the partnership takes on?”
Sherlock’s eyes slid closed of their own accord and his voice was rough with emotion. “Yes. Yes, we are agreed on that.”
*****
Exit Sergeant, attended.
*****
At breakfast the next morning Sherlock was still fussing and hovering to the point that John felt the need to slap his hands away from his plate to keep him from cutting up his bacon.
“Ow!”
“Keep them to yourself then.”
Sherlock sniffed, offended, but was prevented from delivering a scathing retort by the arrival of his cousin, Simon, whose distinguishing feature these days seemed to be a luxurious moustache, accompanied by a girl who looked distinctly inclined to giggle at the least provocation - dog owner - only child - addicted to Mills and Boone novels - secretary - boring.
“Shooting with us today, Sherlock?” The inquiry was presented in a tone half mocking and half bored drawl, and for a moment he was tempted to simply stand up and walk away, but then he remembered that John had agreed to go on the shoot. He smiled, and for the next moment considered accompanying the party after all for a first-hand view of the fun, but decided John telling the story later would be even more entertaining because it wouldn’t involve his being in Simon’s presence all morning.
Affecting a drawl of his own, he responded, “I’m afraid not, rehearsals in the library, you know.”
Simon, who wouldn’t recognize a violin if someone knocked him round the head with a Stradivarius, made a noise which implied anything taking place in a library was too boring to warrant an actual word in response.
“John will be, though. Simon, Doctor John Watson; John, my cousin.” He remembered too late that John might no longer be interested in being part of a shooting party so soon after yesterday’s flashback and he turned an anxious gaze on his friend. Tentatively, he extended his hand until it rested on John’s sleeve and inclined his head slightly to say into his ear, “Unless you’d rather not.”
But John just turned an irritated look his way and said, “Gunfire isn’t going to viscerally remind me that you’re an annoying git, Sherlock.”
Right, it wasn’t anything other than Sherlock himself causing flashbacks these days. He winced internally at the reminder.
Simon had turned his attention to John and remarked, “I would have missed you at Eton I think.” His tone, which Sherlock reflected was really quite versatile these days, conveyed a satisfied expectation of being corrected.
“Yes, considering I didn’t attend Eton, you very definitely would have.”
“Oh. Harrow, then?”
Oh, Sherlock thought with a grin, John’s story was going to be very good indeed.
Eventually, John was glad he hadn’t punched Simon during the course of the morning. It did, however, take him quite a while to get to that point emotionally. After Richard had collected him and he had boggled appropriately at the contents of the gun room, he had spent some additional time boggling over the beauty of the Purdey side by sides he would be firing that day.
Aside from Richard, Simon and himself, the other guns turned out to be the men who had been pointed out as Lionel and Alistair, as well as a nervous-looking man John’s own age who was introduced as Harry, Sandy’s husband. Rounding out the group was a dapper young man answering to Marshall Holmes (call me Marsh), and somewhat surprisingly, Not Anthea. It quickly became clear that Harry looked nervous because he’d never shot game before.
“You’ll be fine, Harry, just remember to keep the rifle safe when you’re not shooting it,” Richard instructed him soothingly. “It’s not as if you’ll be refused dinner if you don’t bag anything. It’s just a friendly morning out, during which we happen to shoot up into the air occasionally. Relax!”
John himself had only been in the vicinity of a shoot on one occasion, but he was comfortable with the use of a rifle and aware of the format such an activity took. It wasn’t quite as simple as: shoot birds, not people, but it came damn close.
They set off for the first drive in a flurry of activity; the loaders, pick-uppers, and dogs all clearly keen to be out and active. John found himself walking between Richard and Simon. The younger man seemed to have decided that the day could only be improved by adding the sport of ‘annoying John’ to its slate of activities. It also didn’t help that his girlfriend was tagging along and giggling a lot. He couldn’t imagine what she found funny, because it abso-bloody-lutely couldn’t be Simon.
“What Club do you belong to, Doctor?”
The Keeping-Sherlock-Alive Club, he thought to himself. Instead of voicing this truism aloud he countered with, “What on earth do you actually do at a Club?”
Simon seemed startled by the question. “Do?”
“Mycroft belongs to a mad one that doesn’t let you talk. I assume at yours you do things rather than not do things, so what do you do?”
“Well, I read the papers and have a bit of a chat over a glass of scotch.”
“Dead boring, then, is it?” On his other side, Richard shook with suppressed laughter.
Thankfully, they came up to the first set of pegs just then and John managed to manoeuvre Richard between Simon and himself. This was just to be completely safe as the pegs were far enough from each other that the tosser would have been hard pressed to continue what apparently passed for conversation in his mind.
John didn’t begin shooting straight off when the first pheasants appeared over the trees which the pegs faced. Instead he took the opportunity to study the stance and technique the other, presumably more experienced, guns were employing. Not Anthea, he noted, reliably brought down everything she aimed at. As he had expected, he was able to easily adapt his own knowledge and he was soon bringing down birds.
The drive of pheasants was actually rather relaxing. The birds were slow in the air and the repetitive aiming, tracking and firing was hypnotic without the distraction of reloading. The rifles were a thing of beauty and he felt a bit as if he was performing an act of artistry in using them for their intended purpose.
After the last of the stragglers had trailed off, perhaps twenty minutes after the stream had begun, Richard came over and clapped him on the back heartily. “You’re a damned good shot, John, it’s a pleasure to watch you in action.”
“Oh, thanks. These rifles are gorgeous, just completely bloody gorgeous.”
“Glad you’re enjoying them.” He looked like he was about to go on, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Simon, who looked fit to burst.
“How many birds did you take, Doctor?”
The giggly girl piped in, “Simon shot down at least fifteen!”
John blinked. “Sorry, I’ve got no idea.”
“Yes, and it’s not important,” Richard added tetchily. “And, Simon, put yourself at the opposite end from Harry at the next drive, you were picking off all the easy ones that he might have had a chance at.”
John hid a grin by turning away to hand the rifle to his loader. That did seem to be something Simon would do, pick off the easy targets to increase his count. Where was the sport in that?
As they walked to the next set of pegs, Not Anthea was suddenly at his side. “The next drive is partridge. They’re speedier than the pheasants. Would you like to have some fun with the tosser?”
“What? Sorry?”
“The moustachioed twat, he won’t be able to handle the partridge anyway, but do you want to see him go completely berserk?”
Catching on, John grinned again. “Love to.”
“Force him to the far left but one and we’ll flank him.”
“And then?”
She smiled sweetly. “And then we’ll shoot all the birds, of course.”
And they did. It was bloody brilliant.
Simon was so angry that he very imprudently dropped his (bloody gorgeous antique [the complete and utter tosser]) rifle in a fit of temper, then began to shriek and hop about like the proverbial March hare attempting to mate with the proverbial box of frogs. John didn’t even register the report of the gun going off until after he’d begun this bizarre and fascinating behaviour.
Oh, christ, the idiotic twat had shot himself in the foot. Without thinking past this John swung into action.
*****
Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.
*****
It wasn’t until they switched to the second quartet that Sherlock lost himself completely. His brain wrapped itself around the first movement as if it were a mystery to be solved. The decided and early development of the motive only emphasized the loss of it which came later - the complete inability to regain that exquisite progression of chords which was so thrilling and which became so completely lost to him. The music forced him to watch it mutate and become unrecognizable; forced him to chase after it with despair the only possible outcome.
As the mood turned inevitably from passionate to haunting and the harmonies took on a distinctly acidic quality, Sherlock began an accelerando which took them into a sea wrecked with agitation, surrounded by swirling, throbbing crescendos and diminuendos. Sherlock was reaching for all he was worth for that lost motive; surely if he, if all of them played the notes and chords with the greatest of precision and with the amount of passion and belief that the music demanded, that Bartók demanded, somehow the score would change and somehow the notes would dance into that elusive -that lost forever - motive.
The music was brutal in its denial of Sherlock’s need. At moments it deigned to tenderly acknowledge the bittersweet pain he could taste choking him at the back of his throat, but it didn’t hesitate to taunt him cruelly with jagged variations on the succession of notes which he needed so very much to reassemble. A grotesque variation, a simplified variation, an exaggerated variation, and none of them satisfied the pull, the desperate longing pull of desire and despair that roiled inside of him.
Suddenly, the seed of music exploded into full growth, roots and branches brutally ripping through Sherlock’s heart in the process. The tapestry of jewel tones which danced in the air around him solidified into a dizzying mosaic of the emotions which he had been burying so carefully. Rage was pulsing orange and pain was sky blue; fear was purple and despair was searing red. The colours danced and swirled around him in a kaleidoscope of hopelessness.
He had been wrenched from his home - no, had wrenched himself and had only himself to blame. He had broken John; he had smashed their home to pieces and had so far only been able to erect some sort of shaky lean-to from the resulting carnage, and John was still suffering right along with him.
Sherlock’s violin wept.
Sherlock’s brain circled in on itself.
*****
Exeunt.
Alarums continued.
*****
After he had Simon sorted and off to A&E, and after the third drive which had been delayed for him, John gleefully went to hunt up Sherlock and relate the events of what had turned out to be a thoroughly entertaining morning; also, to deliver the requested bird, which he’d had to smuggle out under his coat in a near thing when Mrs Bale had unexpectedly swept up the bounty of the day upon their arrival at the house. After startling the occupants of several rooms by popping his head in and brandishing a dead pheasant (just because it was fun, really) he succeeded in his goal and found, judging by the bookcases and music stands, that Sherlock was still occupying the small library; in fact he was still playing. His eyes were closed and he was swaying slightly as if he were a very slender young tree in a light breeze.
John slung the bird onto a table and sat down to listen. He quite liked it when the pieces Sherlock played were reasonable to the ear; this one qualified, though barely. When his friend finally played one last abrupt note and then looked as if he might put his bow down; John, because he was quite eager to tell his story, chanced interrupting. “Your cousin is a twat, but he’s extremely entertaining when he’s been shot.”
Sherlock started, and John frowned. He hadn’t taken closed eyes as an indication that Sherlock was unaware of his presence. Sherlock was preternaturally aware of his surroundings at all times; unless he had been drugged, of course. He was further surprised when his friend showed no inclination to abuse Simon - and surely he’d caught the fact that the twat had got himself shot?
“John.”
“Yes, that would be me.”
“You’re all right?”
“Well, yeah, I’m fine. It’s your tit of a cousin who’s a bit worse for wear.” John gleefully gathered himself to jump into the telling of his tale. He was going to make it really good and he’d already worked out how to convey the noise the twat had made when he’d pulled his boot off, but Sherlock immediately drifted off; he could see it in his eyes, he’d gone off into his own mind and wouldn’t be coming out to play any time soon.
“Good,” he murmured, one last concession to the outside world, before putting bow back to strings and beginning to play again.
Oh come on, John thought, this was a great story! Was he seriously being forced to wait to tell it? But it seemed he was, and when the notes issuing from the violin took a dangerous turn toward discordant John stood up with a huff and informed his unhearing friend, “Your bird is on the table,” before leaving the room.
Consequently, John wasn’t at all surprised when Sherlock did not make an appearance at dinner. He chatted happily enough with Alistair and Judy over the meal. It turned out that Alistair ran a publishing company and once he realized who John was he put into motion some serious courting action designed to get him to sign a contract. John was a little startled at this, he didn’t really think of himself as a writer as such; he was simply Sherlock’s blogger. Judy noticed right away that he was uncomfortable with the thought and after a few heavy hints from her he felt a little less like Alistair was trying to put a hand up his skirt.
After dinner, he had the bad luck of catching the eye of Viola who, apparently, was now playing the role of doting future mother-in-law.
“John! Darling!”
Upon hearing this exclamation, Alistair and Judy scattered very much as his men would have done under enemy fire. He considered the trade a piss poor one despite that lingering, amorous glint in Alistair’s eye.
He was then treated to the same aggressive darting motion which the woman had performed on her son upon her arrival, followed by the same subsequent failure to make actual physical contact. Being on the receiving end of this action was almost less pleasant than being a witness to its infliction upon his friend.
“Erm - hello - Mrs Holmes.”
“Dinner was lovely, wasn’t it? Just scrumptious.”
He wasn’t even surprised at this point that there was no mention of the fact that the last time he’d seen her she’d been verbally attacking her immediate family. All of that so very obviously belonged behind closed doors with this lot. “Yes, very nice indeed.”
She then somehow managed to flutter in such a way that he found himself being herded toward a sofa - still without the woman actually touching him. Honestly, if he hadn’t been so alarmed at the thought of her parenting a child he would have found it dead fascinating to observe how she interacted, or rather didn’t interact, with people. As it was, the thought that she had been in charge of the emotional well-being of someone he cared about a great deal was truly disturbing. This thought reminded him that he needed to get in his hug for the day before going to bed.
Now that she had him cornered, she seemed unsure what to do with him. She was simply staring at him expectantly. It occurred to John that she must have been much the same way with her sons. He imagined that she had made a habit of calling for them, thrusting sweets into their hands, and then expecting them to entertain her somehow. He did not feel inclined to entertain this appalling woman.
They were both rescued by the unexpected appearance of Not Anthea. “Mrs Holmes, your husband is requesting your presence in the solarium.”
He saw a flash of annoyance flit across her face before she rose and nodded a very cold farewell in his direction.
Not Anthea’s face shifted from bored neutrality to distinct distaste as they watched Viola leave the room. She turned to John and said, “Mycroft would like a word.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, she turned and walked toward the door. John considered not following, but decided that Sherlock’s brother might actually be just the person he needed to speak to. The PA led the way to a much smaller study than the one in which the Holmeses had done battle the night before. Here he found Mycroft ensconced in a wing chair, all his usual smug Mycroftian elegance working overtime, in front of a fire with a snifter of something honey-gold and most certainly priceless cradled in his palm.
“Thank you very much indeed. You are the very embodiment of a white knight,” he whimsically informed his assistant.
John almost asked, but then decided that if Mycroft could pinpoint his and Sherlock’s exact location within the city of London, knowing that his mother had kidnapped him when they were all attending the same house party was child’s play.
Not Anthea curled herself into the chair which stood at a slight angle to the one her boss was occupying, leaving the one facing him to John.
“Do sit, John. Pour yourself a drink if you are so inclined and tell me how you are faring in this eccentricity of Holmeses. I understand you performed quite a valuable service for young Simon this morning.”
John snorted as he poured himself a glass of liquefied wealth. “Young Simon is an irritating git and I should have let him bleed more than I did.”
“Yes, he is rather insufferable. He always has been, actually. He and Sherlock used to lie in wait for one another with loaded slingshots.”
“Now that almost makes me feel badly for Simon because Sherlock’s a crack shot.”
“Perhaps the many head injuries added to his personality deficiencies.”
John let out a soft breath of laughter and regarded his whisky. “Mycroft -,” he began but stopped uncertainly.
“If it has occurred to you to think it, it very likely took place.”
John winced, because the things which he had been thinking involved more than just the verbal abuse he had witnessed first-hand.
“As we have discussed before, you are a very accurate judge of danger.”
“Right,” he offered weakly.
There wasn’t much conversation after that. John’s mind was swirling with dark, disturbing thoughts; Mycroft and Not Anthea’s light banter barely penetrated.
The small library was the first room he checked for Sherlock on his way up to bed. As he had fully expected, he was still there and still playing, the notes he was producing gone jagged and shrieking. John walked up to him and firmly tapped him on the shoulder. The music died with an abrupt screech and startled eyes blinked a few times before he was sure his friend registered his presence even vaguely.
“Come here, then.” He embraced him firmly but Sherlock’s arms flapped awkwardly in the air, each of his hands still in possession of a musical tool. “Good night, Sherlock.” John released him and picked up the dead bird on his way up to bed. He hung it out the window since he knew if he took it down for proper refrigeration it would be confiscated.
*****
Enter Lady.
*****
Back in the study she let out a throaty laugh; the sound of it was rolling and velvety rough like a whirlpool of coarsely ground coffee beans. “In his head John calls me ‘Not Anthea’.”
His eyebrows shot up in pure amusement. “And why would he do that? Who on earth is Anthea?”
“Anthea,” she confided, “doesn’t exist; and he does it because I wanted him to, of course.”
“Your sense of humour continues to baffle me.”
“It doesn’t actually, you know. It amuses you terribly.” Thoughtfully, she noted that the Sherlock wrinkle between her boss’s eyes had deepened; in response, her tone sobered. “He’s good with a gun, almost as good as I am. He’s also good with wounds; he had it bound up instantly, and the twat didn’t make it easy for him. You don’t need to worry as much as you do.”
He relaxed infinitesimally; only she would have noticed. “Yes. Well.”
She hesitated only slightly. “You’re sad. Why?”
The answer was very slow in coming. She waited patiently. “I was his shield for a very long time.” There was another, even longer pause. “It turns out that he was much more in need of a gun.”
She answered carefully, “A shield, by its very nature, takes quite a lot of damage when it goes into battle. It is a very intimate tool; the soldier feels every blow the shield takes, and those blows bruise even if they do not kill. A gun is simpler, and much more detached from the violence it is defending against.”
“No one ever told me to protect him, isn’t that odd? Isn’t that what elder brothers are usually instructed to do?”
One corner of her mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “You took on an impossible task without anyone asking you to do so. I am utterly shocked,” she returned drily.
He got that look which meant he was playing at being all huffily offended, but she was already sorry that she had met that particular revelation with a jest, so she held up her hand to stop him setting the conversation back to banter by way of mock indignation. “No sane adult would have tasked a child, no matter how intelligent or unique, with protecting someone from your parents, Mycroft.” She grimaced darkly. “And if one had, he should at least have issued you body armour and a rocket launcher.”
He smiled at her archly. “Can you imagine my seven-year-old self with a rocket launcher? You’ve heard what I was capable of without any weaponry at all.”
“Standard weaponry,” she reminded him. “You did build yourself more than one explosive device.”
He tutted at her, mock fretfully. “Yes, but Sherlock was the one who set each of them off.”
“Just as you planned he would,” she countered.
Suddenly, Mycroft laughed; he threw his head back and laughed heartily, startling her terribly. He never laughed like that. “Did you see the look on John’s face?”
She blinked at him.
“The other night - when he tackled Sherlock to the ground,” he elaborated, his laughter trailing off, but still colouring his tone amused. “He was horrified, and Sherlock just looked bored.”
As someone who had frequently felt the urge to protectively tackle the elder Holmes brother to the ground when the Holmes parents were in the same room, she let that pass without comment.
“Tell me about the rehearsals,” he said, changing the subject.
She rather wished she didn’t know that Mycroft Holmes could be made to laugh heartily; she now wanted to make him do it again because of something she had said. She had, of course, learned long ago that a combination of witty banter, smoky eyes and the knowledge that she was good with a crossbow could get her pretty much anything she wanted, but she wondered if this mightn’t be a bit beyond that.
Actus Secundus.
SH: The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service, and...nerves of steel... actually, do you know what? Ignore me.
Enter a Servant.
*****
The next morning, Sherlock gathered himself for the task of breakfasting, sighed at the drudgery of it all one last time, then rapped smartly at John’s door.
“Morning.”
“Good morning.” He gestured vaguely down the hall, and led the way to breakfast.
A short time later, standing, plate in hand, he considered carefully the positions it would be best to take up. He surveyed the tables with a casual eye, but even a casual Sherlockian gaze missed nothing. Twittering Cousins Lotta, Nigel and Marigold - harmless but annoying. A trio of golden heads - the Second Cousin twice removed triplet girls finally grown to adulthood - an unknown psychological quantity. Cousin Simon and his lot - a definite threat to his sanity. Mycroft and - oh, that was interesting - he seriously considered swanning over to that table and pulling up two additional, completely unwelcome chairs - no, as much as he hated to admit it, his brother was more an ally than an enemy in his current setting - best not to antagonize unless absolutely necessary. Cousin Judy, Alistair and Sandy - a reasonable possibility - the annoyance level might be acceptable. Great Aunt Minerva and a man who was a stranger to him but works in the City - recently widowed - is contemplating killing the deceased wife’s cat - suffers from insomnia - no point, really. Uncle Richard, Aunt Mary and Peter - a distinct possibility - annoyance level minimal - Army connection to provide easy conversation. The decision made, he nudged John accordingly, steering him toward the chosen table.
“Uncle Richard, Aunt Mary, this is Doctor John Watson. John, my Aunt and Uncle Hannay, and my Cousin Peter.”
Greetings were duly exchanged.
Sherlock seated himself and promptly found a thick sheaf of sheet music thrust into his eggs on toast. “Finally got a cellist. Rehearsals nine o’clock sharp each morning in the small library.” The grizzled old man turned and marched away after making his pronouncement.
Daintily, he rescued the papers from his breakfast. They had once comprised two neatly bound examples of the first printings of Bartók’s second and fourth quartets, issued in Vienna in 1920 and 1929 respectively. Over the ensuing years, though, they had been studied and creased and written on, and now they were being held together with sellotape and their owner’s sheer force of will. They resembled nothing more closely than a stack of abused, yellowed love letters. The edges of the sheets were flaking from the daily handling their recipient lavished upon the pages; reliving an affair over and over again by running his hands along each centimetre of the pages as if they were the flesh of his lover. In answer to John’s questioning look he said, “It seems my Great-Uncle Forester has finally been gifted with a complete string quartet in residence for the Duration. He is an ardent lover of Bartók.”
“Who’s that now?”
Sherlock flicked a bit of egg from the sheaf as he elaborated, “Béla Bartók was a Hungarian composer and what we would now term ethnomusicologist.”
John stared at him blankly. “A - what now?”
Sherlock considered the best way to explain the rather mad concept. “He collected folk songs, wandering the countryside with a phonograph strapped to a pack mule. My Uncle attempted a similar activity one summer but his efforts were first discouraged by farmers with pitchforks who mistook him for a representative of the Government’s collectivization movement, and ultimately defeated by the KGB.”
“The KGB,” John stated flatly.
“Well, the AVO and the NKVD, but for all intents and purposes, yes, the KGB.” He realized that John was now grinning madly at him, for all the world as if he expected this to end with a punch line, that Sherlock was putting him on. That made him feel like laughing, for real this time, none of the hysteria-tinged laughter of the evening before, so he played it up a bit. “Yes. It was rather remarkable, actually, that he got as far as he did. We still have no idea how he acquired the phonograph, though we suspect he somehow managed to smuggle a bottle of single malt in with him. That probably would have done it,” he mused airily. “The Russians saved him from a deep disappointment, really. I’m not sure there were many villagers left to record. It must be one of the only instances in existence of a Secret Police Force doing someone a favour by taking him in for questioning.”
There was a general chuckle, and Richard said, “Poor old Forester. He almost looked cheerful.” He leaned back in his chair and pushed his plate to the side. “So, John, you’re a military man.”
John turned his gaze on this sturdy-looking older man with close-cropped brown hair. “Do all the Holmeses tend to deduct then?”
“Not at all; like recognizes like. Besides, I’m as far from a Holmes as you’ll find at this gathering.”
“Honorary uncle then?”
Mary had a bell-like laugh. “Not quite. Vi, Sherlock’s mother, is my sister.” John couldn’t quite reconcile this pretty, petite blonde who smiled at him cheerfully with the razor-edged woman who had pecked at Sherlock as if he were a cuckoo chick in her nest.
John pitched his voice for his friend’s ears alone. “Hang on, your father’s brother goes around telling people to ‘rock on’ and your mother has a cheerful sister? I have to say that when it comes to extremes on the sibling spectrum that is - well - extreme,” he finished lamely.
“Rocky and my Father are half-brothers, and Mary is my Mother’s step-sister.”
John considered that but couldn’t immediately come up with an opinion regarding nature versus nurture.
“They’re an entertaining lot to have tangentially married into. We don’t come down every year, but when we do it’s always a rousing time. Do you shoot, John? There’s good sport on Rocky’s land.”
Mary laughed and broke in helpfully, “Poor John, you must be all at sea. Sherlock’s never been one for explanations.” She looked around the room and patted her annoyed-looking husband’s knee soothingly. “Oh, there’s a good place to start. Rocky’s son Lionel has just come in with his wife Jean.” She indicated an older man with deeply creased jowls which gave him the hangdog aspect of a basset hound and a petite, trim woman sporting an attractive pixie cut of silver hair. “He spent some years as a coffee planter in Kenya and now he writes. Jean is retired.”
“And, of course, you may have noticed Rocky’s wife Madge last night; she was the elderly woman next to him wearing a red cowboy hat,” broke in Cousin Peter, who was a grinning Robert Redford look-a-like circa Out of Africa; John’s mother had loved that movie.
Ignoring the interruption, Mary went on blithely, pointing to a nearby table. “Jean’s daughter Judy is just there, sitting with her husband Alistair and their friend Sandy. Sandy’s husband doesn’t seem to be round. He’s very sporty, perhaps he runs or something in the mornings.” This table hosted an attractive brunette - Judy - an equally pretty blonde with hair cropped shorter than her friend’s - Sandy - and a tall skinny man in specs with hair going grey just a bit prematurely.
Richard finally cut in impatiently, “Now that we’ve untangled that, do you shoot, John? I’ll be getting together a party to go out tomorrow morning.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t usually do it for sport.”
“Come out with us anyway. We’ll be a jolly group and it’s sure to be better than whatever else is on this early. There hasn’t been enough time for resentment to build up yet.”
John glanced at Sherlock who shrugged and indicated the sheet music he had so recently acquired. “I will apparently be rehearsing each morning in the small library. Unless you’re planning on auditing that activity, suit yourself.” He paused thoughtfully. “Actually, do go. Bring me a bird; one of the large ones, a pheasant perhaps.”
“You want me to bring you back a dead bird,” John said flatly.
“Naturally.”
“Yes; naturally, of course.” John rolled his eyes at the sheer Sherlockian-ness of it all. “Fine. Just make sure to give me proper notice for the bit where you tutor the children in something.”
Sherlock laughed. “What do you think I want the bird for?” He waved away John’s shocked expression. “Yes, all right. You’ll be joining my science tutorial this year; duly noted. Will you also be participating in the lively debate which Mycroft will moderate wherein the gestational voting public of the Holmes family discuss transport, energy sources and digital communication as they relate to the future infrastructure of Britain?”
John blinked. “No, probably not,” he allowed.
Just then, a dour-looking woman dressed in a shapeless black dress walked into the middle of the room. She was carrying a baby and she cooed to it before she cleared her throat and announced to the room at large, “Good morning. Visibility is poor but the sea is moderate in the south North Sea and the Dover Strait. That is all.” She then walked over to the table which Mary had pointed out earlier and handed the baby off to Judy.
John grinned again, because at least portions of this were turning out to be as madly entertaining as he had expected. Ethnomusiwhatsis, indeed.
*****
Musicke, and a Song.
*****
After Claude had collected John for his sitting, Sherlock dutifully reported to the small library. He was perfectly content to have been summarily assigned this task as it saved him from being recruited for some other activity which would prove even less stimulating. At least he could easily lose himself in music despite the participation of three others. Bartók was sufficiently difficult to keep his mind occupied for the Duration.
He strode through the door but stopped dead the instant he was inside the formerly familiar room. The morning light was still suffused with jewel tones as the sun’s fire lit the magnificent stained-glass of the bay window, but that was the only element which remained from the last time he had been in the library on Boxing Day the year before he had fallen from the roof of Bart’s.
Sherlock had spent many hours of his life in this room and his mind automatically supplied what he had expected to see as an overlay to what actually met his gaze. Impatiently, he blinked it away; sentiment was useless and annoying. He surveyed the new furnishings with a bored eye and tried to work out how they would affect the acoustics which he had been used to.
There was still a thick Persian carpet covering the majority of the honey-wood floor; its pattern of twining ivy in stark national contrast to its predecessor’s interlocking fleur de lis. The heavy wooden furniture had been replaced by very similar pieces placed in almost the same orientation, but the new arrivals were all done in a slightly lighter style, giving the room an airier, feminine atmosphere. The room hadn’t been originally intended to serve as a library and so did not have the massive built-in bookcases which the library proper boasted, and the odd lot which had previously housed the overflow here had been similarly replaced; the new, matching set featured delicate scrollwork and stood on talon feet. Sherlock decided that the acoustics should prove acceptably similar.
He laid his violin’s case on the new table situated against the back of the new sofa nearest him and into his mind flashed a visual of himself situated under the old table which had once stood here; he had been six, and small enough to insert himself there and still have room to play his instrument. The sofa along one side had given the spot the feeling of a cosy fort. He had liked being able to play and remain hidden from the casual observer at the same time, imagining himself a sort of radio. He had carved his initials into the column of the table’s leg; he had carefully formed very tiny letters - SH - his secret in his hiding place. By the next year he had grown too tall to take up his spot; there had simply been too much leg to allow him to scrunch his limbs sufficiently to fit himself into the space.
He flicked the image away, but its aftereffect was to leave him feeling slightly tetchy and put out. This new table was longer, he would have fit under it for a few more years, but it wouldn’t have been as cosily snug that year he had been six.
There was a tentative knock on the open door, and a slim young woman with ash blonde hair done up in an untidy bun and a cello case strapped to her back stepped over the threshold. She pushed her glasses up her nose infinitesimally and looked up from what seemed to be a map sketched hastily on a napkin. Her gaze was questioning and she offered him a hopeful smile. When she spoke her voice proclaimed her to be American in origin. “Is this the small library? I was rather summarily ordered to report to the small library after I admitted to a familiarity with Bartók’s quartets.”
“You are in the correct place.” He didn’t admit the room its proper name, still feeling rebellious regarding its newly discovered table treachery. Almost lazily he added to American - newly married - recently honeymooned, in fact - professional musician - middle child of three, older sister, younger brother - mother drank - father died young. “Sherlock,” he offered with the extension of his hand.
“Shay,” she returned, her grip firm and sure.
“And which of my clan has recently walked you down the aisle then flown you to Tortola and back in celebration?” he drawled.
Behind her glasses, her eyes fluttered in confusion. “I - how did you know? You weren’t at the wedding. How did you know that?”
“Quite simple deductions, I assure you. Your engagement ring is familiar to you, your wedding band is not. You’re tanned though it is December and everyone goes to Tortola,” he finished with a roll of his eyes.
She eyed him sidelong. “That’s creepy, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Her mouth twitched into a half-grin. “Okay, then, as long as you’re aware.” She pulled the strap of her case over her head and lowered it to the ground. “Marshall Holmes - I’m not sure how you’re related.”
“Ah, Marsh. He and I are second cousins.”
“Béla Bartók!”
Shay jumped at the sudden barking battle cry which Forester emitted as he strode into the room, followed by another man of similar age who was smiling fondly after his long-time partner, this second man was Sherlock’s honorary Uncle Carlton. Where Forester was grizzled and shaggy-looking with a beard and hair let to run wild, Carlton was trim and neat, dressed in khaki trousers and a cardigan over a shirt in a checked pattern. Each man carried an instrument case. Carlton raised a hand in greeting to Sherlock and nodded pleasantly to Shay as Forester ploughed heedlessly into the routine which was already familiar to the other two men in the room though not, presumably, to Shay. He began by declaiming his favourite poem. As he did, his voice rang with passion and filled the room with the true joy which can only be experienced by someone who has offered himself up completely as a disciple:
(He began quite modestly, his tone mild and grave, though ringing) “a bell, sunken in a mountain lake,
which suddenly begins to ring,
the pilgrim’s staff began to bloom,
the flute that caused to sound
whole orchestras
(Here he beat his breast dramatically, and Shay turned her head to hide a giggle.)
four spirits (He waved his hands in the air dramatically.) four otherworldly figures apparitions -
violin in their hands and
they play - do you understand? (He pleaded...)
no! can you feel? (He demanded!)
maybe; your cells,
your hair, and your entrails
understand
the glass shriek of
the violins’ throttled throat,
the bloodless shadows of writhing willow trees,
the magnetic rustle of the earth’s poles,
the light signals of distant planets.
(Deep into his worship now, Forester was lost to the fact that he had any audience at all. He spoke tenderly to the ghost of Bartók.)
on their looms of glass
four Fates spin
the thread of your destiny -
the sound stops.
your life falls headlong
like a soldier
killed on a snowy peak.
blood trickles
from his invisible wound... (He crooned, no really, he managed to croon this bit. He’d had years of practice.)
the matterless matter
grows screeching, fluttering dully
it streams
it dissolves your muscles
your shinbones
your skull. (He was flushed with passion by now, and his recitation had gained new heights. One could almost feel one’s shinbones dissolving in response.)
your obsessions
have been washed away by the waves -
only your primal memories
are still alive
glittering, creeping, living blossoms:
coral thickets sprouted
underwater, on the chest of rocks,
octopuses, squids,
medusas
and electric shock-giving
stingrays, smooth as glass.”
Carlton was very carefully hiding the fond grin which this oft-repeated recitation had kindled. Sherlock reflected that few composers were capable of inspiring a single poem which contained references to both entrails and melting skulls.
Forester was still off and running, and he punctuated his enthusiasm with wild flailing of his arms. “The freshness of his melodic invention! The keen interest his rhythms provoke! The colourful qualities of his orchestration! The beauty of his compositional architecture! The deep expressiveness his music conveys! Bartók stands among the great figures of twentieth-century music!”
Sherlock decided to begin applauding politely, because that was usually the best way to stopper the flow of Bartók love. Next to him, he felt Shay shoot him a look before joining in; Carlton gave in to the laughter which had been building. In response to all this, Forester grumpily put his hands on his hips and humphed at them all emphatically, the light of worship in his eyes fading to irritation.
“Tune up!” he instructed shortly and pulled out a pitch pipe.
Each musician chose a chair then they arranged themselves into the traditional configuration. Instruments came out and settling-in rituals were performed before the actual tuning took place. Forester and Carlton had been playing together for uncounted years by now and Sherlock had joined them and occasionally others during this annual gathering. The air was easy with familiarity which Shay relaxed into easily as she proved to be quite an accomplished musician. And so, after a bit of mild fuss and just a little discordant warming up, Sherlock found himself between Forester on his right and Shay on his left as he arranged the parts for the second violin on the stand before him. Today they would be delving into Bartók’s fourth quartet.
They played through the first movement at a reduced tempo in order to allow Shay to begin to find her place in a grouping which was unfamiliar only to her. When they had finished, she nodded first thoughtfully, then more decisively to Forrester, and they began again, and this time they all focused on the music instead of fitting together as a group.
Bartók was eloquent, Sherlock thought, there was no doubt about it. The music spoke in a clear voice to those prepared to listen. The first thirteen measures plunged him back into the memory of that year he had been six and the screaming argument between his parents which had precipitated their leaving on Boxing Day.
The cello had been drunk and the maternal violin had been strung much too tightly, far beyond the instrument’s tolerance, tightly enough that its strings, running afoul of the cello’s razor-sharp disapproval were snapping, lashing painfully against anything within reach. The thirteen year-old viola had curled itself protectively around the six year-old violin and their screaming had been necessarily done inside their own heads; only adults had the privilege of giving free voice to their frustrations without consequences being visited upon them.
Sherlock forcibly jerked himself out of the memory. It was a new library, he reminded himself inanely. He felt unsettled for the rest of the rehearsal and made quite sure his mask was firmly in place to hide the inconvenient turmoil in his mind.
*****
He Descends.
*****
After Forester had released them, Sherlock went to the kitchens. “Mrs Bale. I wonder if you have any dead animals to spare.”
“I most certainly do not, Master Sherlock,” she replied in a disapproving tone. “With the house as full as this it’s all I can do to keep us in bacon without giving you a chicken to experiment on. Peter’s snares and the shoot can’t supplement any too soon!”
He resisted the urge to sigh. “Yes, I rather thought that would be the case. Never mind then.” He sulkily pushed through the door into the kitchen garden, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he followed the path onto the lawn. He was striding between the house and the potting shed when he was hailed from above.
“Sherlock! Just the man; do come up and give us a hand, this hive has been damaged.”
Looking up, he found Peter peering at him from the roof of the solarium which had been tacked onto the west wing of the house. The square, flat expanse of the roof had been utilized to house the estate’s beehives.
“The ladder is just there round the other side.”
Sherlock decided a short diversion would be of no consequence and ascended the ladder. As he did so, Mrs Bale’s words came back to him, and as he approached his cousin he asked, “Peter, have you snared any rabbits since you’ve arrived?”
“Not yet. I just need another hand - here - if you please.”
Sherlock obliged by holding the replacement board in place. “Would you hold back a handful for me once you have?”
Peter grinned at him, taking his eyes from the task at hand. “Risking the wrath of Mrs Bale so soon?”
“One of the many things I endure for the sake of science,” he replied drily.
“Of course I’ll set some aside. She’ll look at me that way she does, but I’ll just try to look daft and innocent. I don’t know how she knows these things, but she does. Right. That does it. Thanks for that. We’re lucky the weather has been mild or we may have lost this one.”
“It was no trouble.”
Peter rose from his crouch and gestured out at the grounds. “Rocky and Madge want to site a new garden, a proper walled affair, just beyond that dip,” Peter pointed into the distance. “I told them it may not be possible what with the stream; I’d run into a drainage issue straight away. I suggested they put it next to the maze instead. What do you think?”
Sherlock walked to the west edge of the roof to survey the first spot in question then proceeded to the southwest corner to view the second. Without thinking about it, he took a further half step so that his left foot rested on the parapet as he peered into the distance thoughtfully. “Yes, next to the maze would make more sense. Why had they settled on the other spot?”
“Some notion of Madge’s, something about a barbeque pit.”
On the ground, John and Claude were just cresting a hill as they made the final approach to the house. John had just remarked cheerfully that the weather was really very pleasant for December when they came into view of the house and his eyes were drawn up; to the figure of Sherlock, standing on the edge of the roof. His head reeled dizzily and his vision went grey; the bicycle sideswipes him and he goes down hard.
It plays like a black and white movie on a screen in front of him; he sees himself looking up at his friend; sees the unbridgeable space between them. Sherlock’s voice is both intimate and removed with only a digital tether connecting them; it caresses his ear while his own voice assaults with its ragged despair.
Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.
Oh God.
I ... I ... I can’t come down, so we’ll ... we’ll just have to do it like this.
A jump in the reel and John’s stomach rebels.
No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?
Sherlock’s voice doesn’t plead like this; John will do anything, anything at all, to make it annoyed and sarcastic and - just - Sherlock again.
This phone call - it’s, um ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they - leave a note?
Leave a note when?
Goodbye, John.
No. Don’t.
No. SHERLOCK!
Sherlock raises his arms and plummets forward and John screams in wordless rage and pain, but it is only in his head because he hadn’t screamed. Everything lurches again sickeningly and he is no longer watching, he is fighting; he is fighting to get to Sherlock, because he is a good doctor and none of this is true it can’t possibly be true.
No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.
Please, let me just ...
The sound that fights its way out of his body is inhuman because this is Sherlock’s blood; Sherlock’s broken body; Sherlock’s wrist being torn from his hand.
Jesus, no.
God, no.
“Sherlock!”
Startled, Sherlock looked down to see his uncle curled protectively over - christ - John was on his hands and knees on the lawn, retching, and the realization of what he had seen which had caused this slammed into Sherlock’s body as if someone had swung a cricket bat into his stomach. He was moving before he made the decision to do so and took the ladder two rungs at a time; running flat out until he flung himself down at John’s side; babbling into his ear and gripping whatever part of him was to hand in an attempt to ground him.
“John! John, it’s all right. I’m all right, John, I’m right here.” Sherlock desperately wanted to haul his friend into his lap and embrace him with every bit of strength in his body, but John needed to be able to see him as soon as his eyes were once again admitting reality instead of nightmare; so instead, he pressed his forehead to John’s, and cupped his face in his hands. He kept up a steady monologue of reassuring rubbish, not knowing what he said in between the, ‘Johns’.
It seemed a very long time before these efforts gained some ground, but finally John’s body began to respond, relaxing by degrees until his eyes abruptly registered Sherlock’s intently staring into his own. Recognition was followed by a flicker of an emotion too raw to name and then his eyes closed as he groaned and dropped his head to the ground. His gasping breaths began to steady slightly, and suddenly his hand shot up and entangled itself in the shoulder of Sherlock’s shirt. He found himself yanked forward violently and then John was hugging him tightly. He returned the embrace firmly but not crushingly since his friend’s breathing was still uneven. After a while he began to hear his own words again and realized that what had been coming before and after each ‘John’ had become an endless litany of, “I’m sorry; I am so very sorry.”
This was only interrupted when he felt a warm huff of John’s breath on his ear. “Can we agree that, from now on, I’ll be handling any rooftop projects the partnership takes on?”
Sherlock’s eyes slid closed of their own accord and his voice was rough with emotion. “Yes. Yes, we are agreed on that.”
*****
Exit Sergeant, attended.
*****
At breakfast the next morning Sherlock was still fussing and hovering to the point that John felt the need to slap his hands away from his plate to keep him from cutting up his bacon.
“Ow!”
“Keep them to yourself then.”
Sherlock sniffed, offended, but was prevented from delivering a scathing retort by the arrival of his cousin, Simon, whose distinguishing feature these days seemed to be a luxurious moustache, accompanied by a girl who looked distinctly inclined to giggle at the least provocation - dog owner - only child - addicted to Mills and Boone novels - secretary - boring.
“Shooting with us today, Sherlock?” The inquiry was presented in a tone half mocking and half bored drawl, and for a moment he was tempted to simply stand up and walk away, but then he remembered that John had agreed to go on the shoot. He smiled, and for the next moment considered accompanying the party after all for a first-hand view of the fun, but decided John telling the story later would be even more entertaining because it wouldn’t involve his being in Simon’s presence all morning.
Affecting a drawl of his own, he responded, “I’m afraid not, rehearsals in the library, you know.”
Simon, who wouldn’t recognize a violin if someone knocked him round the head with a Stradivarius, made a noise which implied anything taking place in a library was too boring to warrant an actual word in response.
“John will be, though. Simon, Doctor John Watson; John, my cousin.” He remembered too late that John might no longer be interested in being part of a shooting party so soon after yesterday’s flashback and he turned an anxious gaze on his friend. Tentatively, he extended his hand until it rested on John’s sleeve and inclined his head slightly to say into his ear, “Unless you’d rather not.”
But John just turned an irritated look his way and said, “Gunfire isn’t going to viscerally remind me that you’re an annoying git, Sherlock.”
Right, it wasn’t anything other than Sherlock himself causing flashbacks these days. He winced internally at the reminder.
Simon had turned his attention to John and remarked, “I would have missed you at Eton I think.” His tone, which Sherlock reflected was really quite versatile these days, conveyed a satisfied expectation of being corrected.
“Yes, considering I didn’t attend Eton, you very definitely would have.”
“Oh. Harrow, then?”
Oh, Sherlock thought with a grin, John’s story was going to be very good indeed.
Eventually, John was glad he hadn’t punched Simon during the course of the morning. It did, however, take him quite a while to get to that point emotionally. After Richard had collected him and he had boggled appropriately at the contents of the gun room, he had spent some additional time boggling over the beauty of the Purdey side by sides he would be firing that day.
Aside from Richard, Simon and himself, the other guns turned out to be the men who had been pointed out as Lionel and Alistair, as well as a nervous-looking man John’s own age who was introduced as Harry, Sandy’s husband. Rounding out the group was a dapper young man answering to Marshall Holmes (call me Marsh), and somewhat surprisingly, Not Anthea. It quickly became clear that Harry looked nervous because he’d never shot game before.
“You’ll be fine, Harry, just remember to keep the rifle safe when you’re not shooting it,” Richard instructed him soothingly. “It’s not as if you’ll be refused dinner if you don’t bag anything. It’s just a friendly morning out, during which we happen to shoot up into the air occasionally. Relax!”
John himself had only been in the vicinity of a shoot on one occasion, but he was comfortable with the use of a rifle and aware of the format such an activity took. It wasn’t quite as simple as: shoot birds, not people, but it came damn close.
They set off for the first drive in a flurry of activity; the loaders, pick-uppers, and dogs all clearly keen to be out and active. John found himself walking between Richard and Simon. The younger man seemed to have decided that the day could only be improved by adding the sport of ‘annoying John’ to its slate of activities. It also didn’t help that his girlfriend was tagging along and giggling a lot. He couldn’t imagine what she found funny, because it abso-bloody-lutely couldn’t be Simon.
“What Club do you belong to, Doctor?”
The Keeping-Sherlock-Alive Club, he thought to himself. Instead of voicing this truism aloud he countered with, “What on earth do you actually do at a Club?”
Simon seemed startled by the question. “Do?”
“Mycroft belongs to a mad one that doesn’t let you talk. I assume at yours you do things rather than not do things, so what do you do?”
“Well, I read the papers and have a bit of a chat over a glass of scotch.”
“Dead boring, then, is it?” On his other side, Richard shook with suppressed laughter.
Thankfully, they came up to the first set of pegs just then and John managed to manoeuvre Richard between Simon and himself. This was just to be completely safe as the pegs were far enough from each other that the tosser would have been hard pressed to continue what apparently passed for conversation in his mind.
John didn’t begin shooting straight off when the first pheasants appeared over the trees which the pegs faced. Instead he took the opportunity to study the stance and technique the other, presumably more experienced, guns were employing. Not Anthea, he noted, reliably brought down everything she aimed at. As he had expected, he was able to easily adapt his own knowledge and he was soon bringing down birds.
The drive of pheasants was actually rather relaxing. The birds were slow in the air and the repetitive aiming, tracking and firing was hypnotic without the distraction of reloading. The rifles were a thing of beauty and he felt a bit as if he was performing an act of artistry in using them for their intended purpose.
After the last of the stragglers had trailed off, perhaps twenty minutes after the stream had begun, Richard came over and clapped him on the back heartily. “You’re a damned good shot, John, it’s a pleasure to watch you in action.”
“Oh, thanks. These rifles are gorgeous, just completely bloody gorgeous.”
“Glad you’re enjoying them.” He looked like he was about to go on, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Simon, who looked fit to burst.
“How many birds did you take, Doctor?”
The giggly girl piped in, “Simon shot down at least fifteen!”
John blinked. “Sorry, I’ve got no idea.”
“Yes, and it’s not important,” Richard added tetchily. “And, Simon, put yourself at the opposite end from Harry at the next drive, you were picking off all the easy ones that he might have had a chance at.”
John hid a grin by turning away to hand the rifle to his loader. That did seem to be something Simon would do, pick off the easy targets to increase his count. Where was the sport in that?
As they walked to the next set of pegs, Not Anthea was suddenly at his side. “The next drive is partridge. They’re speedier than the pheasants. Would you like to have some fun with the tosser?”
“What? Sorry?”
“The moustachioed twat, he won’t be able to handle the partridge anyway, but do you want to see him go completely berserk?”
Catching on, John grinned again. “Love to.”
“Force him to the far left but one and we’ll flank him.”
“And then?”
She smiled sweetly. “And then we’ll shoot all the birds, of course.”
And they did. It was bloody brilliant.
Simon was so angry that he very imprudently dropped his (bloody gorgeous antique [the complete and utter tosser]) rifle in a fit of temper, then began to shriek and hop about like the proverbial March hare attempting to mate with the proverbial box of frogs. John didn’t even register the report of the gun going off until after he’d begun this bizarre and fascinating behaviour.
Oh, christ, the idiotic twat had shot himself in the foot. Without thinking past this John swung into action.
*****
Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.
*****
It wasn’t until they switched to the second quartet that Sherlock lost himself completely. His brain wrapped itself around the first movement as if it were a mystery to be solved. The decided and early development of the motive only emphasized the loss of it which came later - the complete inability to regain that exquisite progression of chords which was so thrilling and which became so completely lost to him. The music forced him to watch it mutate and become unrecognizable; forced him to chase after it with despair the only possible outcome.
As the mood turned inevitably from passionate to haunting and the harmonies took on a distinctly acidic quality, Sherlock began an accelerando which took them into a sea wrecked with agitation, surrounded by swirling, throbbing crescendos and diminuendos. Sherlock was reaching for all he was worth for that lost motive; surely if he, if all of them played the notes and chords with the greatest of precision and with the amount of passion and belief that the music demanded, that Bartók demanded, somehow the score would change and somehow the notes would dance into that elusive -that lost forever - motive.
The music was brutal in its denial of Sherlock’s need. At moments it deigned to tenderly acknowledge the bittersweet pain he could taste choking him at the back of his throat, but it didn’t hesitate to taunt him cruelly with jagged variations on the succession of notes which he needed so very much to reassemble. A grotesque variation, a simplified variation, an exaggerated variation, and none of them satisfied the pull, the desperate longing pull of desire and despair that roiled inside of him.
Suddenly, the seed of music exploded into full growth, roots and branches brutally ripping through Sherlock’s heart in the process. The tapestry of jewel tones which danced in the air around him solidified into a dizzying mosaic of the emotions which he had been burying so carefully. Rage was pulsing orange and pain was sky blue; fear was purple and despair was searing red. The colours danced and swirled around him in a kaleidoscope of hopelessness.
He had been wrenched from his home - no, had wrenched himself and had only himself to blame. He had broken John; he had smashed their home to pieces and had so far only been able to erect some sort of shaky lean-to from the resulting carnage, and John was still suffering right along with him.
Sherlock’s violin wept.
Sherlock’s brain circled in on itself.
*****
Exeunt.
Alarums continued.
*****
After he had Simon sorted and off to A&E, and after the third drive which had been delayed for him, John gleefully went to hunt up Sherlock and relate the events of what had turned out to be a thoroughly entertaining morning; also, to deliver the requested bird, which he’d had to smuggle out under his coat in a near thing when Mrs Bale had unexpectedly swept up the bounty of the day upon their arrival at the house. After startling the occupants of several rooms by popping his head in and brandishing a dead pheasant (just because it was fun, really) he succeeded in his goal and found, judging by the bookcases and music stands, that Sherlock was still occupying the small library; in fact he was still playing. His eyes were closed and he was swaying slightly as if he were a very slender young tree in a light breeze.
John slung the bird onto a table and sat down to listen. He quite liked it when the pieces Sherlock played were reasonable to the ear; this one qualified, though barely. When his friend finally played one last abrupt note and then looked as if he might put his bow down; John, because he was quite eager to tell his story, chanced interrupting. “Your cousin is a twat, but he’s extremely entertaining when he’s been shot.”
Sherlock started, and John frowned. He hadn’t taken closed eyes as an indication that Sherlock was unaware of his presence. Sherlock was preternaturally aware of his surroundings at all times; unless he had been drugged, of course. He was further surprised when his friend showed no inclination to abuse Simon - and surely he’d caught the fact that the twat had got himself shot?
“John.”
“Yes, that would be me.”
“You’re all right?”
“Well, yeah, I’m fine. It’s your tit of a cousin who’s a bit worse for wear.” John gleefully gathered himself to jump into the telling of his tale. He was going to make it really good and he’d already worked out how to convey the noise the twat had made when he’d pulled his boot off, but Sherlock immediately drifted off; he could see it in his eyes, he’d gone off into his own mind and wouldn’t be coming out to play any time soon.
“Good,” he murmured, one last concession to the outside world, before putting bow back to strings and beginning to play again.
Oh come on, John thought, this was a great story! Was he seriously being forced to wait to tell it? But it seemed he was, and when the notes issuing from the violin took a dangerous turn toward discordant John stood up with a huff and informed his unhearing friend, “Your bird is on the table,” before leaving the room.
Consequently, John wasn’t at all surprised when Sherlock did not make an appearance at dinner. He chatted happily enough with Alistair and Judy over the meal. It turned out that Alistair ran a publishing company and once he realized who John was he put into motion some serious courting action designed to get him to sign a contract. John was a little startled at this, he didn’t really think of himself as a writer as such; he was simply Sherlock’s blogger. Judy noticed right away that he was uncomfortable with the thought and after a few heavy hints from her he felt a little less like Alistair was trying to put a hand up his skirt.
After dinner, he had the bad luck of catching the eye of Viola who, apparently, was now playing the role of doting future mother-in-law.
“John! Darling!”
Upon hearing this exclamation, Alistair and Judy scattered very much as his men would have done under enemy fire. He considered the trade a piss poor one despite that lingering, amorous glint in Alistair’s eye.
He was then treated to the same aggressive darting motion which the woman had performed on her son upon her arrival, followed by the same subsequent failure to make actual physical contact. Being on the receiving end of this action was almost less pleasant than being a witness to its infliction upon his friend.
“Erm - hello - Mrs Holmes.”
“Dinner was lovely, wasn’t it? Just scrumptious.”
He wasn’t even surprised at this point that there was no mention of the fact that the last time he’d seen her she’d been verbally attacking her immediate family. All of that so very obviously belonged behind closed doors with this lot. “Yes, very nice indeed.”
She then somehow managed to flutter in such a way that he found himself being herded toward a sofa - still without the woman actually touching him. Honestly, if he hadn’t been so alarmed at the thought of her parenting a child he would have found it dead fascinating to observe how she interacted, or rather didn’t interact, with people. As it was, the thought that she had been in charge of the emotional well-being of someone he cared about a great deal was truly disturbing. This thought reminded him that he needed to get in his hug for the day before going to bed.
Now that she had him cornered, she seemed unsure what to do with him. She was simply staring at him expectantly. It occurred to John that she must have been much the same way with her sons. He imagined that she had made a habit of calling for them, thrusting sweets into their hands, and then expecting them to entertain her somehow. He did not feel inclined to entertain this appalling woman.
They were both rescued by the unexpected appearance of Not Anthea. “Mrs Holmes, your husband is requesting your presence in the solarium.”
He saw a flash of annoyance flit across her face before she rose and nodded a very cold farewell in his direction.
Not Anthea’s face shifted from bored neutrality to distinct distaste as they watched Viola leave the room. She turned to John and said, “Mycroft would like a word.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, she turned and walked toward the door. John considered not following, but decided that Sherlock’s brother might actually be just the person he needed to speak to. The PA led the way to a much smaller study than the one in which the Holmeses had done battle the night before. Here he found Mycroft ensconced in a wing chair, all his usual smug Mycroftian elegance working overtime, in front of a fire with a snifter of something honey-gold and most certainly priceless cradled in his palm.
“Thank you very much indeed. You are the very embodiment of a white knight,” he whimsically informed his assistant.
John almost asked, but then decided that if Mycroft could pinpoint his and Sherlock’s exact location within the city of London, knowing that his mother had kidnapped him when they were all attending the same house party was child’s play.
Not Anthea curled herself into the chair which stood at a slight angle to the one her boss was occupying, leaving the one facing him to John.
“Do sit, John. Pour yourself a drink if you are so inclined and tell me how you are faring in this eccentricity of Holmeses. I understand you performed quite a valuable service for young Simon this morning.”
John snorted as he poured himself a glass of liquefied wealth. “Young Simon is an irritating git and I should have let him bleed more than I did.”
“Yes, he is rather insufferable. He always has been, actually. He and Sherlock used to lie in wait for one another with loaded slingshots.”
“Now that almost makes me feel badly for Simon because Sherlock’s a crack shot.”
“Perhaps the many head injuries added to his personality deficiencies.”
John let out a soft breath of laughter and regarded his whisky. “Mycroft -,” he began but stopped uncertainly.
“If it has occurred to you to think it, it very likely took place.”
John winced, because the things which he had been thinking involved more than just the verbal abuse he had witnessed first-hand.
“As we have discussed before, you are a very accurate judge of danger.”
“Right,” he offered weakly.
There wasn’t much conversation after that. John’s mind was swirling with dark, disturbing thoughts; Mycroft and Not Anthea’s light banter barely penetrated.
The small library was the first room he checked for Sherlock on his way up to bed. As he had fully expected, he was still there and still playing, the notes he was producing gone jagged and shrieking. John walked up to him and firmly tapped him on the shoulder. The music died with an abrupt screech and startled eyes blinked a few times before he was sure his friend registered his presence even vaguely.
“Come here, then.” He embraced him firmly but Sherlock’s arms flapped awkwardly in the air, each of his hands still in possession of a musical tool. “Good night, Sherlock.” John released him and picked up the dead bird on his way up to bed. He hung it out the window since he knew if he took it down for proper refrigeration it would be confiscated.
*****
Enter Lady.
*****
Back in the study she let out a throaty laugh; the sound of it was rolling and velvety rough like a whirlpool of coarsely ground coffee beans. “In his head John calls me ‘Not Anthea’.”
His eyebrows shot up in pure amusement. “And why would he do that? Who on earth is Anthea?”
“Anthea,” she confided, “doesn’t exist; and he does it because I wanted him to, of course.”
“Your sense of humour continues to baffle me.”
“It doesn’t actually, you know. It amuses you terribly.” Thoughtfully, she noted that the Sherlock wrinkle between her boss’s eyes had deepened; in response, her tone sobered. “He’s good with a gun, almost as good as I am. He’s also good with wounds; he had it bound up instantly, and the twat didn’t make it easy for him. You don’t need to worry as much as you do.”
He relaxed infinitesimally; only she would have noticed. “Yes. Well.”
She hesitated only slightly. “You’re sad. Why?”
The answer was very slow in coming. She waited patiently. “I was his shield for a very long time.” There was another, even longer pause. “It turns out that he was much more in need of a gun.”
She answered carefully, “A shield, by its very nature, takes quite a lot of damage when it goes into battle. It is a very intimate tool; the soldier feels every blow the shield takes, and those blows bruise even if they do not kill. A gun is simpler, and much more detached from the violence it is defending against.”
“No one ever told me to protect him, isn’t that odd? Isn’t that what elder brothers are usually instructed to do?”
One corner of her mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “You took on an impossible task without anyone asking you to do so. I am utterly shocked,” she returned drily.
He got that look which meant he was playing at being all huffily offended, but she was already sorry that she had met that particular revelation with a jest, so she held up her hand to stop him setting the conversation back to banter by way of mock indignation. “No sane adult would have tasked a child, no matter how intelligent or unique, with protecting someone from your parents, Mycroft.” She grimaced darkly. “And if one had, he should at least have issued you body armour and a rocket launcher.”
He smiled at her archly. “Can you imagine my seven-year-old self with a rocket launcher? You’ve heard what I was capable of without any weaponry at all.”
“Standard weaponry,” she reminded him. “You did build yourself more than one explosive device.”
He tutted at her, mock fretfully. “Yes, but Sherlock was the one who set each of them off.”
“Just as you planned he would,” she countered.
Suddenly, Mycroft laughed; he threw his head back and laughed heartily, startling her terribly. He never laughed like that. “Did you see the look on John’s face?”
She blinked at him.
“The other night - when he tackled Sherlock to the ground,” he elaborated, his laughter trailing off, but still colouring his tone amused. “He was horrified, and Sherlock just looked bored.”
As someone who had frequently felt the urge to protectively tackle the elder Holmes brother to the ground when the Holmes parents were in the same room, she let that pass without comment.
“Tell me about the rehearsals,” he said, changing the subject.
She rather wished she didn’t know that Mycroft Holmes could be made to laugh heartily; she now wanted to make him do it again because of something she had said. She had, of course, learned long ago that a combination of witty banter, smoky eyes and the knowledge that she was good with a crossbow could get her pretty much anything she wanted, but she wondered if this mightn’t be a bit beyond that.