Sherlock Fanfiction: Ransom
Title: Ransom
Recipient: rhuia
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Lestrade/Mycroft (slightly)
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: ~9.5K
Warnings: None (although not Series 3-compliant)
Summary: A rather mundane case brings John and Sherlock to a castle. John finds the atmosphere stimulates his imagination. Sherlock takes note.
Prompts: Included: “…would prefer something leaning towards the fluffier/crackier end in this 'verse” and “feel free to ignore the season altogether and/or go with future fic” and “fluff, hurt/comfort, schmoop…magical realism…” Being thus liberated, I may have gone a bit wild.
A/N: Written for rhuia for the June 2014 Holmestice Exchange. Many thanks to her for the great prompts and many thanks to my beta who wishes to remain anonymous. There is a prequel to this story, entitled Moats. (Please see end notes for photo source.)
Also posted on AO3.
Ransom
The sun had sunk. The grey light muted the sandy hue of the castle walls. From the taxi window, John could see the massive wooden gates standing open, the spiked palings of the portcullis hanging suspended over the outer archway. The cab dropped them closer than the one had in the morning. The sharp calls of the birds in the park punctuated the low growl of the taxi driving away, syncopated with the ring of footsteps on the cobbles of the passageway and the courtyard beyond. On the far side, a young man stood holding a smaller door open. Sherlock strode forward. John looked back, gaze roving from the narrow view remaining of the park, past dark diamond-paned windows to the jagged outline of the crenellations. After a moment, he followed.
Mr Griffin hurried towards Sherlock as he crossed the threshold into the panelled reception area, a glance taking in that neither of them had a case in need of being carried. “Mr Holmes,” he began and leaned to the side to include John as he caught up, “Dr Watson, we are delighted you could return. We hope this is but the first of many visits.” His arm extended towards the stairs. “All has been readied, dinner awaits you.” He frowned slightly. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like some hot dishes to complement your selection?”
Sherlock shook his head minutely.
“Very well. I did take the liberty of adding champagne to your choice of wines.” Mr Griffin paused a fraction of a second. Sherlock nodded and Mr Griffin rushed on. They had reached the stairs. A young woman stood at attention on the first landing. “Your delivery arrived a quarter of an hour ago. It has been taken to your rooms.” Sherlock mounted the first step. “I do hope the conference guests will not disturb you. Their reception is on the other side of the grounds, but sound does travel through the gardens.” Sherlock took another step. “Please do not hesitate to call for anything you might need and...”
Mr Griffin’s voice dropped on the last word. Sherlock turned and looked at Mr Griffin. A manila envelope was being drawn from inside his jacket. “The other information you requested,” he added, his voice even quieter. “I preferred to give it to you directly rather than leave it in your rooms.”
Sherlock took the envelope, made it disappear inside his coat.
Mr Griffin took a deep breath, let it out as he curved his hand upwards. “Ms Lionel will see you up. It’s a bit of a labyrinth,” he finished in a conversational tone.
Sherlock smiled very slightly. “Thank you,” he said and headed up.
John gave Mr Griffin a fuller smile and a nod before he turned away.
As they ascended the stairs and threaded through increasingly narrow corridors, John decided what he would say once he and Sherlock were alone again.
***
At the top of the tower, the first door on the right stood ajar. Once inside, Ms Lionel handed John a set of ornate, brass keys and indicated, with practiced gestures, what lay beyond the doors leading off the antechamber. Another member of staff emerged from an adjoining room as she spoke. Behind him, John could see richly-coloured cloth draped over the side of a massive, canopied bed. A third staff member finished lighting tall candles standing near a small table set for a meal. He asked whether he should uncork the champagne. Sherlock looked to John.
“Sure, yeah,” John replied, wondering whether the worth of what Sherlock had located in the morning had been professionally appraised in the meantime. At the server’s side, silver goblets and platters rather than crystal and china reflected the flames.
The man observed John considering the table. “We’ve provided forks,” he said. “There was much French and Italian influence at the Castle.” He filled both goblets and set the champagne bottle in a bucket of ice. “The ice, of course, is anachronous. Would you prefer we removed it?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, walking over to a suit of armour displayed near a window. John’s attention shifted. The armour was for a tall man. John’s eyes flicked back and forth between Sherlock and the armour.
“It was one of the items I had delivered,” Sherlock explained. “Tall ancestors,” he added. “There is another.” He pointed.
John peered into the shadows beyond the candles, saw the gleam of a more typical suit of armour. Would that actually fit me? The idea shifted his vague impressions into a more concrete realm. Would we have jousted? Met in battle? Been comrades or combatants? The image of Sherlock plumed and resplendent on a sunlit field, his form encased in chased steel made John stand straighter. “Right,” he said and something in his tone made everyone take it as a cue.
The man at the table moved towards the door with the ice bucket. “If you need anything else, please call down to the desk,” Ms Lionel said as her colleague edged past her to the hallway.
“No page waiting outside the door?” Sherlock asked and smiled one of his lips-only smiles at her.
She shook her head, a little laugh escaping. “Even though the mobile reception is spotty inside the castle,” she replied, reaching out to tap the stone wall. “But there are landlines in the bedroom and the bath.” Sherlock scowled. “They’re both in little cupboards. Shall I show you?” Her other colleague slipped by her into the corridor.
“No need. I’m sure we can find them,” Sherlock said.
Ms Lionel’s eyes widened at her gaff. “Oh, of course you could, sir,” she said.
John turned towards her. “Everything’s sorted, then,” he concluded.
“Yes,” Ms Lionel replied and stepped closer to the doorway. “Bon appétit,” she added and took herself away, shutting the door behind her.
John considered the keys in his hand, selected the longest and strode to the door. His first choice turned in the lock. John drew the key out, pivoted with the ring dangling from his hand. Sherlock watched. “You might attempt an escape, sir, and you are far too precious to chance that,” John explained, his tone cordial, his posture commanding.
Sherlock drew himself up, in response. “I have given you my word. The ransom will not be long coming.” Sherlock walked to the table, raised one of the goblets and took a sip. “Unusual,” he said, pressing his lips together. “I drink to our brief association.” He raised the goblet higher.
John joined him by the table, grasped the other goblet, held it up before he drank. “It may be a longer association than you foresee.”
Sherlock studied him over the rim of his cup. “Have you not dispatched the demand?”
John took another long drink. “Oh, I have wasted no time in that regard and my horsemen are fleet. Your family will have it by midday tomorrow.”
“A day or two after, then, I shall be at liberty,” Sherlock concluded and drained his cup. He banged it down, shrugged off his coat and flung it over a chair.
“By all means, be at your ease,” John said and poured more champagne into Sherlock’s cup. “There are robes in the bed chamber. Fine silks from the shores of the Bosphorus and beyond to suit your status. Rich colours to suit your complexion. I intend to make your stay as comfortable as possible. All my hospitality is at your disposal.” He inclined his head towards the bedroom. “You may wish to wash away the soil of battle before we dine,” he said. “I apologise that the convenience was not provided for you sooner.” John offered Sherlock the cup.
“I had not even engaged before the ground gave way,” Sherlock waved dismissively at the goblet and paced the length of the room, peered into the bed chamber, turned back to John. “You would not have taken me in battle, sir,” Sherlock said, his pacing bringing him closer again.
His lean lines made Sherlock seem even taller than he was, John thought, and the sneer curling his upper lip accentuated its beautiful contours. Sherlock looked John up and down.
“Perhaps, not,” John remarked. “Your reputation is well-earned. I was hoping to test my mettle against your powers.” There was a slight emphasis on the last word. He held the cup out again, with both hands like a votive offering.
Possibly because it was offered thus, Sherlock took it, tilted his head to the side, kept John firmly in focus.
“It was a stroke of luck when the embankment crumbled under your horse’s hooves,” John said, leaning against the table. “I am a man to seize good fortune.”
Sherlock was concentrating on John fully, eyes narrowed. “The weather has been clear for days. A dozen knights preceded me along the path. A mud slide was most unexpected.”
John reached behind him to seize the neck of the bottle, switched hands and reached back for his cup. He re-filled it without seeming to look down, the wine forming a frothing arc, not a drop spilling. John saw Sherlock take note. “I grant it was a very precise stroke of fortune,” John said.
Sherlock took a drink from his cup, stepped nearer. “You’ve had time to bathe and dress. The battle did not last long.”
“It wouldn’t without you, would it?” John said, setting the bottle down without turning his eyes away from Sherlock.
“I’m not their commander.”
“No, they depend on you in other ways,” John said, his gaze steady. “You could have helped them from here, if you chose, but the need was not pressing.” John took a drink. “There couldn’t have been a clearer sky when your horse slipped and you hit the ground.” He pointed at Sherlock. “If you hadn’t been stunned from the fall, I would not have succeeded in getting you here.”
A ghost of a smile moved Sherlock’s lips.
“We’d just gained these walls when you came to and from nowhere, the clouds gathered. You heard the whinnying of the other horses, saw them rear. Only yours remained calm.” John stood. “I had trouble controlling Bucephalas and I am a very good rider. Others were not so fortunate. I have several knights nursing their pride as well as their bruises tonight.”
“And you think this is because of me?” Sherlock asked, his expression a study in neutrality.
“It was golden afternoon when I took you not far from these walls and yet it was dark as night when you entered this tower. The sky opened as the doors closed behind you. The field would have been awash in mud. I know the rest of the horse and the foot soldiers were when they returned. No surprise the commanders disengaged.” John took a step closer to Sherlock.
“A summer storm,” Sherlock said, a flutter of fingers flinging the idea away.
John shook his head. “My scouts report neither side held an advantage at the end, except for my capturing you, of course. You were the prize of the day.”
Sherlock sniffed.
“Of a lifetime,” John amended. His eyes fell to his cup, he drank again, looked up at Sherlock and set a hand on his shoulder. “I will serve as your squire and when you are bathed and dressed, we can dine and discuss my terms. I’m sure you are curious to know what I wrote to your family.”
Sherlock held John’s gaze. It felt palpable to John. Finally, Sherlock spoke. “I am curious.”
John let his hand slide away. “It’s as renowned as your skill at arms,” he said and drained his cup. “I was counting on your curiosity.”
***
John left Sherlock in the steam of the bath. Among the silks on the bed, John found the peacock robe. He smiled as he smoothed in out over the coverlet, the touch of the fabric full of memories.
From among the other garments, he chose a black brocade for himself. Lions hunted across its pattern. John had never seen it before. The dressing gown had no label, fit him exactly. He thought he recognised the craftsmanship of Mr Hastings and wondered if the garment had been delivered straight from the tailor or hidden somewhere in the flat. There was a trunk by the bed. Within, John found an old, carved cross-bow. Next to it, a hemp string lay coiled upon a bundle of soft wool. He unwrapped it, revealed the barb-tipped bolts inside. The bow was heavy in his hands as he hefted it. He strung it, sighted along the groove where the bolt would rest.
Sherlock emerged from the bath, only the tang of aftershave about him. “Are you planning to execute me secretly here?” he asked, walking towards the bed.
John swivelled slowly, tracking the pale form with the cross-bow. “I would never risk pointing a loaded weapon at you,” he replied and felt foolish. Even in role, surely Sherlock would have noticed the bolt’s absence.
Sherlock’s gaze dropped below the bow, lingering a moment before he looked away to pick up the dressing gown. John felt his face heat. Sir John would have needed all his willpower to be chivalrous. Sherlock let the silk fan out as he lifted it, swirling it behind him with a deliberate theatricality, holding it open as it settled on his shoulders. The display had its desired effect. John knew that was clear on his face from the satisfied look on Sherlock’s. Slowly, Sherlock wrapped the brocade around him; hid the beauty of his form beneath the splendour of the cloth. It always made John want to fall to his knees in an act of worship.
He doubted Sir John could last much longer, but John tried to maintain his composure. He lowered the cross-bow and spoke. “I know when I am in possession of a treasure.”
“Possession? No,” Sherlock corrected, slipping his hands into either sleeve, head erect, the golden threads woven into the silk glimmering.
John noted that there was no objection to being deemed a treasure. "Until the ransom is paid, as much as one person can possess another, I shall possess you.” Like possessing a thundercloud. John set the bow back in the trunk, extended his arm towards the door when he stood. “Shall we discuss the terms I proposed over dinner?”
From a silver flagon on the sideboard, John poured red wine into a fresh goblet for Sherlock. The cup was more of a chalice, silver engraved with hunting scenes with a gold band around the rim and four polished stones set into the stem. John held it out to Sherlock.
“I suppose it isn’t poisoned,” he remarked, not moving.
“Why this and not the oth…ah, it wasn’t sealed,” John said and swallowed a good mouthful, rotating the bowl so the spot from which he had drunk faced away from Sherlock and proffered the cup once more. “I could have added something when I poured.” He sat.
“No,” Sherlock said. “Your signet ring is solid and you’re wearing no others.” Sherlock accepted the cup with a lifted eyebrow and turned the bowl back before drinking from it. He murmured his approval. “But there could be others here who wish me ill, even if you do not.” Sherlock brought the goblet nearer the candle. “Carnelian, turquoise, lapis lazuli and smoky quartz,” he recited before drinking again. “The four humours, Sir John.”
John raised an eyebrow back and Sherlock smiled. He stared at the stones. “I’d rather see it in daylight, but I believe it was originally set with pearls. You had them changed.” He turned the bowl. “The engraving is Florentine.” Sherlock looked across at John. “You acquired it there yourself before you travelled to Constantinople and Damascus.”
“How?” John asked, in perfect imitation of his earlier self.
“You held it proprietarily when you drank. There are many items in these rooms of distant origin, as disparate as they are, there is a unifying aesthetic amongst them. You are both well-travelled and acquisitive.” Sherlock stated, sitting back in his chair and cradling the goblet of wine. “And you value them for reasons other than the precious materials from which they are made or the artistry of their fashioning. Interesting.”
“I had heard you could do that,” John said, his voice hushed.
“Will you order kindling gathered for a burning now?” Sherlock asked, his nose wrinkling.
“One doesn’t burn treasures,” John said.
“The idiots of the world do,” Sherlock replied.
“I don’t,” John affirmed. He removed the silver cover from a dish, carved a slice from the cold pheasant that sat there. He took a bite from it before he set the rest on Sherlock’s plate.
Sherlock leaned forward, eyes alight as he scrutinised John’s expression. “Your visor was down today. I didn’t get to see your face in the sunlight.” He folded the slice of fowl on his plate and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He nodded and swallowed. “Well-spiced,” he said and dipped his fingers in the small bowl by his plate, waved them under his nose and inhaled. “Not just rose petals floating on it, but rose water in it. Do you seek to impress me, Sir John?”
John thought he should have been amused at the exchange since Sherlock had obviously ordered the meal when he had been tapping away at his phone in the cab or on the train, but the delicate way Sherlock touched his fingertips to the corners of his mouth made that detail quite irrelevant. John decided that in the world they were creating, the sumptuous meal was one more enticement Sir John was deploying to seduce his discerning hostage. John was sure Sherlock knew what he was thinking.
“Yes,” John admitted, his gaze straying from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth. There was a drop of water on the lower lip. The urge to lean across the table and dab it away was strong, but it wasn’t time for such familiarities yet. John cut more pheasant and took a bite of it before serving Sherlock. He was willing to endure the torment of repeated performances from those long fingertips.
“Not as well-travelled as you,” John said and added a roasted parsnip and a carrot to Sherlock’s plate, one bite missing from each. He considered cutting the food into pieces and eating a piece of each, but he rejected it.
Sherlock touched each vegetable to his lips before he opened them and ate. They were becoming glossy from the pheasant’s drippings.
John realised he was holding his knife suspended above his plate and set to slicing more pheasant.
“You have been gathering intelligence on me,” Sherlock said and the idea seemed to please him. “How long?”
“Since before you left for Spain,” John said.
Sherlock smiled and folded another slice of pheasant between his fingers. “That’s several years ago now,” he replied. He put the meat in his mouth and then his fingertips in the bowl.
John followed each motion, remembered his first impression of that hand stretching out towards him. Sherlock reached for the goblet and added some wine to the pheasant in his mouth before he swallowed. John followed those motions, too, lingering at the crossing of the turquoise silk that hid the rest of Sherlock’s pale, pale skin from his eyes. John licked his lips.
“Re-considering the whispers of witchcraft?” Sherlock taunted, setting the goblet down and nudging it towards John. John’s eyes slowly lifted from the hollow of that white throat to the shining lips and finally reached the amused eyes. His hand closed around the flagon and he filled the bowl of Sherlock’s cup without moving his gaze away from the laughter in them.
“You, too, have a gift,” Sherlock said. “You are usually very cautious and hide it, but you are not hiding it from me.” Sherlock took a parsnip from his plate and ate it. “Why is that, Sir John? What have you discovered?”
John took a slice of quince from around the pheasant, took his obligatory bite and set it on Sherlock’s plate, used the moment to gather his wits. “It is reported that you were reading from learnéd tomes when you were barely out of swaddling clothes.” John speared another piece of quince and ate it whole.
Sherlock set his elbows on the table, pressed his fingers together and rested his chin against them.
John stared at the nearest candle, hoped its flare would erase the image of Sherlock’s index fingers indenting his lower lip. “It is said this is not unusual in your family and that your older brother did the same; that your cradle games were ones of logic and instead of rhymes your childish voices lisped the quotes of the ancient philosophers,” John continued. He turned and jabbed blindly at another piece of quince, nipped a little off the end of what he finally caught and held it out to Sherlock. He folded his hands beneath his chin and opened his mouth. John held his breath and slid the fruit in. Sherlock eased his teeth into the fruit and drew it off the knife. John shifted in his chair.
“You must have been at court before I left with my brother and…” Sherlock leaned back. “You made friends with Madame Hudson,” Sherlock concluded. “How did you do it? She appears to chatter, but she is very discreet when it comes to matters of consequence.”
“She saw me apprehend someone who was trying to break into your rooms, a young fellow about your age with mad, dark eyes. Madame Hudson gave him a scolding, asked me to let him go and not to speak of it. I didn’t. I suppose she appreciated that,” John explained.
“She told me someone had caught Jim prowling about, but didn’t say who,” Sherlock said. “But that happened on the ship.”
John nodded. “In return, I asked her not to mention my involvement. We disembarked a day later in Calais,” John said, slicing a beetroot and nipping some off the end of each half.
“We?” Sherlock asked.
“My sister, Harriet, and I,” John replied. “I was bringing her to visit our cousins there.”
“How could I have overlooked you both?” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.
“Harriet was little more than a child and I was a fourth son, less than nothing I’m afraid. I didn’t seek introductions,” John said.
“I still shouldn’t have missed you.” Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips. “It’s another of your talents...and it even worked on me.”
John stopped cutting pheasant, looked straight at Sherlock and smiled. “You already had a reputation for not missing much.” John looked down at his plate. “I heard you play the lute. I saw you dance. If we had been introduced, you would have seen…and I had nothing to offer.”
Sherlock surveyed the tapestries, the silken carpets, the carved chests and the silver plate before them. “And yet they trained you in the art of war rather than giving you to the church. Not so typical for a fourth son,” Sherlock said.
“My eldest brother was never strong,” John replied. “My parents married him young, but he died without an heir, possibly without knowing his bride. Such anyway was the story when they married her to me.”
Sherlock straightened in his chair, pressed his lips together. “You are not married,” he stated.
John sighed. It had been such a pointless detour in his life. “No. But I was for a year. I got her great with child, she gave birth to a boy and died a week later. The child only survived a few more days after that.”
“Long enough for you to inherit from him though,” Sherlock concluded.
“That satisfied my parents sufficiently that they forbore forcing anyone else on me during my period of mourning,” John said.
“You…cared…for her,” Sherlock said quietly.
John glanced up and away. “She had been kind to me when she came to marry my brother. She told me stories of Florence and Venice and Rome. She liked strawberries. I used to save the best of mine for her.” John took a drink of his wine. “She bemoaned their short season. Her season was very short.”
Sherlock’s head drooped. John saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. “No,” he said and Sherlock looked up. John resumed speaking at a faster pace. “My father died before the year was out. I invested part of my inheritance in a corsair. Both my older brothers married and were relieved at my plan to go to sea.”
Sherlock’s countenance brightened. “You’ve been a pirate.”
“A privateer,” John corrected. “I didn’t always sail with them. When fancy dictated, I’d go ashore and rendezvous with the ship in half a year or so.”
Sherlock leaned forward again.
“Our system wasn’t very precise. Sometimes I spent a month or more waiting for them.”
“And saw a bit of trouble along the docks,” Sherlock said.
John shrugged. “Enough.”
Sherlock looked at John’s hands. “You became very skilful with a knife at close quarters. And between adventures, you collected things,” Sherlock continued, nodding as he watched John. “Cargo arriving by sea or destined to leave by sea.” Sherlock glanced round the room again, stared at some of the empty spaces on the walls, apparently hanging them with more things than were actually there. “But what brought you home with your treasures?” he murmured as he rose from the table and began to circle the room, touching items as he went. “There was an outbreak of the pox while we were gone,” Sherlock said after a moment. “Your servants are wearing black. Your brothers?” Sherlock picked up a grey rock, the two halves came apart in his hands. The crystals inside twinkled.
“The younger and the wife and son of the elder,” John replied.
Sherlock fit the two parts together again, set it back on the table. “He was leading your men today?”
John murmured assent and watched. The movement of Sherlock’s limbs was obscured by the folds of the robe. It gave the illusion of gliding to his progress.
“Rarity,” Sherlock pronounced, stroking his fingers along an arras depicting an injured unicorn impaling one hunter with his horn while pinning another to the ground by a hoof on his neck, their bloodied weapons just beyond their outstretched arms. “Definitely rarity,” he added, holding up a bottle carved of amber, the oval handle of its stopper encasing a dragonfly.
John realised these, like the goblet, must have been among the items Sherlock had had delivered. John had never seen any of them at Baker Street, wondered if they were from Mycroft’s house or…John smoothed a hand along the silk of his robe, wondered if they were items accumulated while Sherlock was gone, when he was stuck waiting for a development, a connection, items Johannes could have amassed and set aside. John got up and stood by Sherlock, reached out to touch the bottle he held. Sherlock handed it to him, observed him as he examined it. John stroked over the perfectly preserved insect. He had told Sherlock once that amber had fascinated him as a boy. Sherlock forgot the configuration of the solar system and remembered this.
“Yes,” John said and looked at the floor. He understood. Sherlock had never stopped thinking of him; it hadn’t only been when he came back through London. John took a deep breath. Sir John would have been thinking of Sherlock throughout his travels, gathering things to offer. He shoved his hands in his pockets. The keys he’d tied to the end of the sash jangled. He undid the knot, eased three heavily gilt keys off and handed them to Sherlock. “Mysteries, secrets, knowledge,” he said. “I gathered books and manuscripts. From some I was able to learn, others were in languages I couldn’t read. One was in a script no one recognised that I asked.”
Sherlock’s eyes brightened. He seemed to like John’s extemporising.
“The smallest key opens the book. I heard you liked puzzles. Perhaps you can solve the cypher,” John suggested.
“Where is it?” Sherlock asked as though keen to begin.
John gestured at the table. “Let us finish our meal and our other business.”
Sherlock looked to balk and then went and sat, the keys disappearing into different parts of his dressing gown.
John took a pear and began to slice it. Sherlock took another from the bowl, turned it by the stem, sniffed it, rubbed his fingers over the skin and bit into it. “No longer worried about poison?” John asked.
“You want me for something,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of fruit.
“I’ve wanted to ransom you from the outset,” John argued.
“No, you haven’t. You’ve wanted me to solve a puzzle for you,” Sherlock said. “You could have simply requested my services. I agree when the mystery is interesting enough.” Sherlock swallowed. “And the fruit hasn’t been poisoned. I checked.
“Good to know,” John said, chewing. “We’re on opposite sides of a conflict,” John pointed out. “I don’t think a request would have been favourably received.”
“Point,” Sherlock said. “You are less of an idiot than most.” He took a larger bite of the pear. “Is the book in these rooms? We shouldn’t waste time, my family will send the ransom promptly.”
John tapped his lips. “They might not,” he said.
Sherlock lifted his chin. “You made it very high because you thought I’d need extra time.” He pressed his lips together. “You doubt my abilities.”
“No, no,” John protested. “I actually have a mystery. The code book is a gift for you, because you like puzzles.”
Sherlock sat back in his chair. “Oh,” he said and his gaze was intent on John.
John savoured it. It was a wonderful sensation when Sherlock did that.
“Other mystery. I’m waiting, Sir John.”
“Yes, so.” John waved a finger at Sherlock, pointing vaguely. “The other keys. They are said to unlock a door, or doors, it’s not clear, to a room somewhere in the castle where valuables…or possibly valuable people…the story has splintered into several variations over the generations…were hidden in a time of danger.”
“The secret kept so closely that it, or they, could no longer be located,” Sherlock said, nodding. “It’s not unusual. How long ago?”
“It was an old story when my grandfather told it to me,” John said.
“And possibly not about this castle. Such stories get transplanted with marriages or travels, and if someone hasn’t quietly found the secret out in the meantime, you may only have old bones for your troubles,” Sherlock said. He reached out for his wine and finished it, considering John once more. “You’ve learned something more about it recently.”
“The keys were found a month ago,” John said. “Wrapped in vellum, with some words still legible upon it, tucked behind a stone in a window casement dislodged during a repair.”
Sherlock’s head whipped around. “It was in here,” He didn’t wait for John to answer, pointed to the draperies behind the shorter coat of armour. “There,” he said.
“The drapes are closed,” John said. “How?”
Sherlock smiled. “It’s the north side of the tower. That wall takes the brunt of the wind and rain and you are detaining me here because you think whatever the keys unlock is nearby.” He dipped his fingers in the bowl as he stood, flicked the water off them as he strode to the window. “Very well. I shan’t be offended that you thought the two mysteries might require some time. How high did you make the ransom to gain it?”
John named a figure.
Sherlock stopped, pivoted back to face John, the hem of the robe expanding in a bell with the movement. “That’s far too high.” Sherlock cocked his head. “Even for me.”
John studied the high colour in Sherlock’s cheeks, the candle flames reflected in his eyes. “I don’t want them to be able to pay it,” John said.
Sherlock walked closer, stood over John. “You might have tried persuasion,” he said, staring down. “The mysteries are enticing and your wine is good.”
John thought of sorcery as he looked up and felt the truth rise to his lips. “You’ll solve them and go or lose interest in solving them and go.” The fragrance of the scented oils from the bath sweetened the air between them. “I wanted an excuse to keep you here.”
“Ah, Sir John, it isn’t only your mysteries that are twofold,” Sherlock said. He set his hand on John’s shoulder. John felt the flush rise in his face as Sherlock watched him. “You desire my person as well as my help,” Sherlock concluded, his fingers sliding along John’s shoulder and coming to rest under his jaw. John’s blood surged and Sherlock smiled. “We need to countermand your message,” he declared and strode across the room.
“How?” John said aloud as Sherlock drew forth paper from a small drawer, forgetting for a moment the provisions Sherlock had sent.
“Small cupboards, shallow drawers, perfect for writing implements,” Sherlock said. “Do you have a strong rider left?”
Sherlock was folding back his sleeves and John was distracted.
“Do you?” Sherlock insisted, cutting a quill.
“Yes, an excellent one,” John replied.
“How long ago did your messengers leave?” Sherlock asked. He was bending over the table, writing and John was distracted.
“Sir John!”
“Two hours at most,” John replied.
“He will do exactly as you say, this excellent rider?”
“Yes. Billy’s loyal to a fault and he rides like he is part of the horse,” John replied. “He can manage Bucephalas and no one other than I can do that.”
“Is he loyal to you?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock held a stick of red wax to a candle flame, let it drip onto the folded paper in his hand. “Good, give him this,” Sherlock said and pushed his signet ring into the wax.
John stepped closer. “What did you write?”
“’Ignore ransom demand. If you have already sought help to raise funds, rescind.’” Sherlock recited. “I certainly hope they haven’t contacted James or that he hasn’t gotten wind of my situation and gone to my family to offer assistance. It would be just like him to be on hand at such a time.”
“Wait,” John said, laying a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Why do I think ‘James’ is skulking Jim from the ship?”
Sherlock smiled. “Instinct,” he replied. “You recognise now what kind of threat he is. Hopefully, his efforts to secure his crown will keep him otherwise engaged. He fancies himself in a crown. Told me once how well he looks in one.”
John’s fingers tightened on Sherlock’s arm. “What else is in your message?”
“’I will negotiate my release, may settle border dispute as well, will take at least several weeks. Send my skull back with the rider and Charon. Release other messengers,” Sherlock recited.
“Charon?”
“Interesting choice of questions,” Sherlock said. “And yes, the boy must take my horse, he knows the way and can probably arrive before your other messengers. Your Billy must do as you say and give the horse rein to go as he lists,” Sherlock explained. “And you must introduce yourself and Billy to Charon with the message in your hand. Let him smell the paper and your hand.”
“What?” John said.
“Just put your cloak and boots on over your robe and don’t wash your hand. If we act quickly Charon will arrive first,” Sherlock said and held his arms out to either side.
John looked from one outstretched hand to the other and back to Sherlock’s face. “I don’t understand,” John said.
“Unfasten my gown, Sir John. You’ve been thinking of doing little else since I put it on.”
“That’s not true,” John said, eyes wandering over Sherlock’s face and down to the sash of the robe. There weren’t enough hours in the day for him to contemplate all the aspects of Sherlock he wished to consider. Nevertheless, he untied the sash, drew one side of the robe away.
“Open it fully, Sir John,” Sherlock urged. “You said your riders are fleet.”
John nodded and pulled the other side of the garment away. His pulse thumped in his throat.
“Now open yours,” Sherlock said and took John’s hand in his when he had. “Step closer.” John did. Sherlock’s free arm curved around John’s back, bent him slightly as he leaned over him and guided his hand down and between. John’s hand cupped the weight in his palm as Sherlock’s lips closed over his mouth.
***
The stone walls exuded a chill. John paced from one end of the short corridor to the other, saw only doors that appeared to be additional entrances to their rooms. He peered into the gloom of the stairwell for a while, gathered his dressing gown around him and sat on the top step, elbow on thigh, chin in hand. He inhaled and wondered how long it would have taken Sir John to reach the stables and return. It wouldn’t have been easy to walk fast, but the cold might have solved that problem for him. John decided that Sir John would be planning ways to eliminate James on the way back. He needed to be eradicated from all their worlds. Whatever country he might rule would be the better for it.
Behind John, the door unlatched. The aroma of cloves and cinnamon escaped into the hall. John leapt up. Sir John was meant to have returned.
A small copper pot hanging over the fire was the source of the fragrance. John closed and locked the door, went and stood by the hearth. A two-handled goblet stood empty on the stone. Would Sir John be so foolhardy as to drink from that?
“Would you?” Sherlock asked from the doorway of the bedchamber. There was a vial and a small packet in one of his hands, the flagon of wine in the other. He dropped the sachet in his pocket and walked towards John. The robe wasn’t properly fastened, only loosely held in place with the sash. It gaped at the chest when he set down the flagon and leaned over the pot to add a pinch of dried leaf, a drop of something dark from the vial.
John heard himself say yes. He realised it should always have been yes, that the mistakes he’d made had been when he had said no. There wouldn’t be any noes from him in this little world. He would see where that took them.
The liquid bubbled higher in the pot; its fragrance growing richer. Sherlock sprawled in one of the chairs by the fire, one leg bare from above the knee. “Pour for us,” Sherlock said and John swung the iron arm away from the flames with the hook of the poker, used the wooden ladle in the pot to serve it. “Stop,” Sherlock said when it was about half-full. “Some wine to cool it,” he directed and John wondered what might have been added to that. The aroma was heady. He overfilled the cup, spilt some of the liquid into the fire. The flames died away. The hot wood sizzled.
“Drink,” Sherlock said and John took a sip. His mouth tingled back to his ears and up into his cheeks. “More,” Sherlock said and John took a deeper draft. Blue-green flames danced along the surface of the wet wood. A jet of white hissed into being from a fissure in the log. The blue fire circled it. “Drink more,” Sherlock said and John did. The blue flames turned green at their tips, coalesced into one and curled around the white jet. It changed to gold. “Will you not share?” Sherlock asked and John pulled his eyes away from the flames to look down into the goblet. There was a froth on the wine, swirling. There were images in the bubbles. He glanced back at the fire. There were images in the flames, twining.
John didn’t stand. Wasn’t certain he could stand. He traversed the few paces to Sherlock’s chair on his knees and held the cup up. Sherlock covered John’s hands with his, leaned forward to drink. John tilted the cup or perhaps Sherlock did. He drank until the goblet was dry. He met John’s eyes over the top of it, lips moist, colour high, then he leaned back in the chair. “Set the cup aside, Sir John. Demonstrate what you mean by possession.”
The cup caught the edge of the hearthstone. John heard a distant clatter. In the hearth, green and gold flames undulated, fragrant and blue. “Where to begin?” John whispered and turned back to Sherlock. The room spun. John grasped Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock sighed. “Here,” John concluded, sitting back on his heels. He lifted his fingers one by one and kissed where they had gripped, touching his tongue to the larger imprint left by his thumb. Another low exhalation followed the caress. “Soft, softly, here,” John murmured and lifted the leg to kiss behind the knee, tender skin drawn gently between his teeth. The gesture met with a hiss. John stared along the slope of a thigh and met Sherlock’s look. It should have been like this. John’s head cleared. He gained his feet and held out his hand for Sherlock. “I need more room for this.”
Decanters of water and wine stood next to the bed, jars of oil and creams beside them. John pulled the covers aside, slipped the robe from Sherlock’s shoulders, shrugged off his own. “Lie thee down,” John said. “I waited far too long.” Cool air and cool linen raised bumps on Sherlock's skin. He rested his head against his folded arms and John poured oil in the small of Sherlock’s back, rubbed it with vigorous strokes up and down before covering Sherlock with his body. “I shouldn’t have waited so long,” John whispered and slipped down until his feet slid past Sherlock’s and up again so he could murmur in Sherlock’s ear. “Puzzles solved and deeds done, if you like me well enough, we could set out to sea.”
Sherlock turned his head more to look at John. “Will your partners like that?” he asked.
“I can buy them out and they can retire if they do not like it, but Stamford and Hooper are easy-going sorts. I doubt they’d object.”
Sherlock began to turn and John raised himself on his arms to let him. Sherlock grasped John’s hips, eased him slowly forward and back, staring at him. John closed his eyes. “You’re trying to hide, Sir John. Here in this bed, in my arms, you are trying to hide.” Forward and back, Sherlock increased the rhythm. “What is it? I wish to see it.”
“I didn’t dare to lose. It was such a gamble,” John said.
Sherlock lifted John’s hips, pulled his own knees to his chest. “You have thrown the dice, Sir John. They are rolling,” Sherlock said and hooked his calves over John’s shoulders. “Dare.” Sherlock’s back arched off the bed as John did.
***
He heard splashing. The bunk rolled with a wave. The air was dank. Water sprayed across his face. The porthole must have been left open.
“Sir John!”
More droplets landed on his cheeks. John rubbed a hand across his face. He opened an eye. Sherlock stood in an ellipsis of candlelight, goblet in hand, ruffled white shirt half open, dark breeches and possibly boots hinted at in the shadow. John bolted upright, pointed at Sherlock, eyes darting about the room.
“Not at sea,” he said, waving his finger. “Dreaming? You were sprinkling water on me?”
“Yes, possibly, yes. Get up, Sir John, I have a lead or rather you’ve provided me with one,” Sherlock said and offered John the cup of water.
John drank some, dabbed more on his face. “I what?”
“The wardrobe door.” Sherlock waved behind him. “You didn’t close it completely when you put our clothes away. There’s a draft.”
John threw the covers off and shivered. He looked down. No vest, nothing. “Right,” he said, looked back up at Sherlock and smiled. He sniffed, nose wrinkling.
“That’s a whiff of moat you’re smelling,” Sherlock said. “Your clothes are in the bath. Hurry.”
The floor was cold when he stepped off the carpet. He did a little more than dress, but not much. “These are like yours,” John said, stepping back into the bedroom. He noticed the heap of clothing on the bed.
“You could hardly go down into the dungeon in your dressing gown.” Sherlock gave John an appraising look. “Those suit you.”
“Truly, a dungeon?” John asked, fishing a long coat from the pile.
“That would be the right level to access the moat,” Sherlock said.
John walked to the door by the wardrobe and tried the handle. “You re-locked it?”
“That leads to the corridor. The doorway we want is this way.” Sherlock gestured towards the wardrobe.
“Through the wardrobe? You’re kidding.”
“No. I do not jest about cases,” Sherlock replied.
“The papers Mr Griffin gave you,” John said.
Sherlock nodded. “Several sets of blueprints.”
“Rather sloppy to leave their door unsecured like that,” John observed, peering past Sherlock to the stairway at the back of the wardrobe.
“I think the preparations for our un-booked stay caught them by surprise, stranding them there,” Sherlock said. “Rather good that you made up a similar mystery for Sir John.”
“Balance of probability,” John said.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“Well, you say it often enough,” John retorted.
“So does Mycroft. I don’t like hearing other people saying it; it reminds me of him.”
“Fine. Good guess on my part, then,” John amended. “Popular in mystery novels.”
“Find something to use as a weapon,” Sherlock directed. “The cross-bow won’t suit.”
John blew out the candle on the night table, hefted the metal candlestick. He disappeared into the other room and brought back the poker. “These’ll do,” he said.
Sherlock held a hand out behind him and John put the poker in it. “Hmm. Good choice,” he said. “A gun wouldn’t have been useful in here either. We are going to use modern torches though. Yours is on the bed.”
“I’d rather not set my ruffles on fire,” John agreed, locating the torch. “What else do I need to know?”
“Just follow me,” Sherlock said and ducked through the opening at the back of the wardrobe.
Nothing new there, John thought and stepped into the wardrobe.
***
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked when Lestrade walked through the door with Mr Griffin and someone John was certain was the local DI.
“Hello to you, too.” Lestrade said, taking a quick look at John and Sherlock. “I could ask the same.”
“I am solving a crime,” Sherlock said. “Several, if we want to be technical.”
John tried not to notice the appreciative expression on the other detective’s face as Sherlock turned, eyes on his phone. John held out his hand to the man, “I’m John Watson,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes,” he added, tilting his head towards Sherlock. ‘He’s mine, mate,’ was implied.
“Don MacKenzie,” the detective replied, shaking John’s hand and taking a step back when he let go. He looked around the room. “Where’s the suspect?”
“Two suspects and they’re in the dungeon,” Sherlock supplied. “With several very keen security guards.”
Mac Kenzie looked confused. Mr Griffin showed him into the bedroom.
Sherlock handed his phone and another mobile to Lestrade. “Jean-Pierre’s arrested their accomplice at Gare du Nord. Our friends down below didn’t get to use their Eurostar tickets this morning and their associate sent several concerned texts. Two while Jean-Pierre’s officers were monitoring.”
“Good work,” Lestrade said. Sherlock looked startled for a moment and then smiled. “On the way up, Mr Griffin told us about all the loot you recovered yesterday. He hadn’t got around to filing a police report on it yet.” Lestrade eyed Sherlock.
Sherlock shrugged. “Private client.”
“No one’s dead. How come they dragged you down here?” John asked, pouring a cup of steaming coffee from a silver urn on the table. He handed it to Greg.
“Ta,” Greg said and inhaled the steam. “God that smells good.” He took a sip. “Needed that.”
“Considering the hour, I’m not surprised,” John said. “Was it the Interpol connection?”
“Other detectives have Interpol connections, Ss..” Sherlock stabbed a few buttons on his phone.
John looked over at him. Greg walked to the tall suit of armour, took a few steps around it. “There’s one just like that at Myc…”
John looked at Greg from beneath lowered brows.
“Mycroft sent him, John. Afraid I might scare the local police. Remember Baskerville?” Sherlock said.
“Mycroft’s been somewhere incommunicado for the last week. Mac was up in London and he called me,” Greg explained, wandering over to the breakfast table and selecting a pastry. “We started out in the City of London Police together, meet up for a pint now and then. He knew I worked with you two and was a little intimidated by getting a call at six in the morning to come out to the castle and meet Sherlock Holmes in person.” He took a big bite of the pastry and rolled his eyes. “This is bloody marvellous.” John smiled and poured himself a cup of tea. “Of course, considering what you recovered for them yesterday, I’d understand if they were feeding you gold dust.” He gestured at Sherlock and John with his pastry. “Was there a fancy dress do here last night? I thought it’s just a business conference.”
“It is just a business conference,” Sherlock said. “John’s branching out into historical fiction and we thought it would make a good cover for taking Mr Griffin up on his offer of hospitality at remarkably short notice.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed. “Yes, he’s here trying to convince us you didn’t send him and no I haven’t traumatized the local constabulary…yet. You expect me to believe that? Fine.” Sherlock walked over to Greg. “Where’s your phone?” he asked.
Greg patted his pockets. “Damn. I left it in the car.”
“Fine,” Sherlock said into his phone again and held it out to Greg. “Mycroft wishes to speak to you now, here, after being incommunicado for a week.”
Greg took the phone and listened. “Oh,” he said and looked at his watch. “Less than an hour.” Greg nodded. “See you there.” He handed the mobile back to Sherlock. “Off to Greenwich, guys.” He leaned closer to Sherlock. “Give Mac a break, he’s a decent bloke. Might have an interesting case someday.”
“In Kent?” Sherlock scoffed.
“It’s possible,” Greg said, already at the door.
“I concede it’s possible, just not probable,” Sherlock replied. “Rather like your being here this morning.”
“Tell Mac I had to go,” Lestrade called from the stairs.
“We will,” John called back.
Sherlock put the phone up to his ear. “You heard, I’m sure. He’s on his way.” Sherlock listened and frowned. “Mycroft, is someone holding a gun to your head and making you read a script written by an individual who has never met you before?”
John’s head snapped to the right.
“Just remember, he’s an exceptional goldfish.” Sherlock squinted. “Yes, good-bye, Mycroft.” Sherlock put his phone in his pocket.
“What’s the matter with Mycroft?” John asked. He handed Sherlock a pastry.
“He said he was taking my advice,” Sherlock said.
John drew back. “Is that code? Is he in trouble?”
Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips. “Possibly, but not the kind with which we can help.”
***
The suspects were gone with two of MacKenzie’s officers. John had been cordial and Sherlock had voluntarily signed two autographs on castle stationary for the detective’s children. “Lestrade’s a good friend,” Sherlock had said after he delivered the message about Greg’s departure. MacKenzie had seemed awed for a moment before he smiled and agreed.
Mr Griffin had looked more than a bit wilted, but very pleased nonetheless, when he delivered another cheque to John. “In addition to apprehending the likely perpetrators,” he had said, “the jewels they had on their persons, although few in number, were the pick of their take.” His glance lingered on some of the decorations Sherlock had had delivered. “You went to such trouble and didn’t get to enjoy your visit at all. We hope you can stay on and experience the rest and relaxation we usually offer our guests.”
Sherlock turned to John and John managed to suppress the surprise he felt. He consulted his phone, tapped on it a bit. “We are free today and tomorrow,” he pronounced slowly, tapping a few more times, “and for two days at the end of next month.” He looked at Sherlock. “I have several cases to write up. It would be pleasant to do it here, if you can spare the time.”
Sherlock had smiled at Mr Griffin. “We would be delighted to remain two more days, barring other unforeseen circumstances.”
Mr Griffin had departed content and hopefully for a rest.
John got up to lock the door after him, as well as the door to the wardrobe and the doors from the bedroom and the bathroom to the hall.
“Do you think one secret passage is sufficient for a suite of rooms?” John asked.
“There’s no rule about these things, Sir John,” Sherlock said.
John’s temperature flared. Perhaps it wasn’t only his imagination that was fired by the place. “Do you have any more of whatever you were boiling up in that little pot?” John asked.
“I do,” Sherlock said, “and some variations upon it.”
“I saw images in the flames,” John said. “And in the foam of the wine.”
“You are so suggestible,” Sherlock replied, glancing up and then quickly down at his hand. He smoothed it along his thigh.
John pulled a stool in front of Sherlock’s chair, eased off one of Sherlock’s boots and then the other. He bent down to examine the buckle that held the breeches snug below the knee. “It is rather intriguing the way these are fastened,” he said. “One would need some practice I imagine to be proficient at doing and undoing them.” He flicked the buckle open, walked his fingers along the inseam.
Sherlock spread his legs, leaned back in the chair, let his arms dangle over the sides. “I believe we’re supposed to be negotiating, Sir John.”
“I am,” John replied, locating the drawstring at the waist of the breeches.
Sherlock slouched further down, curled one leg around John’s back. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll enchant you?”
John loosened the bow, tugged the white tails of the shirt out and ran his hands over the warm skin beneath. “Happened long ago,” he said. “It’s why I can’t ever let you leave.” John wedged one knee besides Sherlock’s hip and leaned over him, watched the crescent creases form on one side of his mouth.
“Ever?” Sherlock said.
John brushed over the crescents with his lips. “Ever.”
“Then our negotiations are over,” Sherlock said and turned his head enough to catch John’s lips.
John pulled back a little. “Not at all,” he said. “I have to convince you to not even want to go.”
“I never wanted to go.”
John got his other knee onto the chair by Sherlock’s waist, curled over Sherlock. “We have to be cleverer than all of them.” John brushed a curl away, held Sherlock’s face between his hands. “We have to use every power, every potion, every skill, every scrap of knowledge, so they can’t drive a wedge between us again. Not any of them.”
“No one?”
John’s arms slid down to Sherlock’s shoulders; he burrowed his face against Sherlock’s neck. “No one. Not even you,” he replied.
Sherlock settled one arm over John’s back, held him there.
John felt Sherlock stretch. He looked across Sherlock’s chest, saw his other arm extended towards the hearth. His wrist flicked. The fire roared up the chimney, green and blue and gold.
“All our powers, Sir John.”
John watched the flames dance. “All,” he echoed, “all.”
***
Photo source: Hever Castle L6566. The front gate of Hever Castle seen from within the courtyard. Pub Orig CL 12/10/1907. Image Number: 527813
Recipient: rhuia
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Lestrade/Mycroft (slightly)
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: ~9.5K
Warnings: None (although not Series 3-compliant)
Summary: A rather mundane case brings John and Sherlock to a castle. John finds the atmosphere stimulates his imagination. Sherlock takes note.
Prompts: Included: “…would prefer something leaning towards the fluffier/crackier end in this 'verse” and “feel free to ignore the season altogether and/or go with future fic” and “fluff, hurt/comfort, schmoop…magical realism…” Being thus liberated, I may have gone a bit wild.
A/N: Written for rhuia for the June 2014 Holmestice Exchange. Many thanks to her for the great prompts and many thanks to my beta who wishes to remain anonymous. There is a prequel to this story, entitled Moats. (Please see end notes for photo source.)
Also posted on AO3.
Ransom
The sun had sunk. The grey light muted the sandy hue of the castle walls. From the taxi window, John could see the massive wooden gates standing open, the spiked palings of the portcullis hanging suspended over the outer archway. The cab dropped them closer than the one had in the morning. The sharp calls of the birds in the park punctuated the low growl of the taxi driving away, syncopated with the ring of footsteps on the cobbles of the passageway and the courtyard beyond. On the far side, a young man stood holding a smaller door open. Sherlock strode forward. John looked back, gaze roving from the narrow view remaining of the park, past dark diamond-paned windows to the jagged outline of the crenellations. After a moment, he followed.
Mr Griffin hurried towards Sherlock as he crossed the threshold into the panelled reception area, a glance taking in that neither of them had a case in need of being carried. “Mr Holmes,” he began and leaned to the side to include John as he caught up, “Dr Watson, we are delighted you could return. We hope this is but the first of many visits.” His arm extended towards the stairs. “All has been readied, dinner awaits you.” He frowned slightly. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like some hot dishes to complement your selection?”
Sherlock shook his head minutely.
“Very well. I did take the liberty of adding champagne to your choice of wines.” Mr Griffin paused a fraction of a second. Sherlock nodded and Mr Griffin rushed on. They had reached the stairs. A young woman stood at attention on the first landing. “Your delivery arrived a quarter of an hour ago. It has been taken to your rooms.” Sherlock mounted the first step. “I do hope the conference guests will not disturb you. Their reception is on the other side of the grounds, but sound does travel through the gardens.” Sherlock took another step. “Please do not hesitate to call for anything you might need and...”
Mr Griffin’s voice dropped on the last word. Sherlock turned and looked at Mr Griffin. A manila envelope was being drawn from inside his jacket. “The other information you requested,” he added, his voice even quieter. “I preferred to give it to you directly rather than leave it in your rooms.”
Sherlock took the envelope, made it disappear inside his coat.
Mr Griffin took a deep breath, let it out as he curved his hand upwards. “Ms Lionel will see you up. It’s a bit of a labyrinth,” he finished in a conversational tone.
Sherlock smiled very slightly. “Thank you,” he said and headed up.
John gave Mr Griffin a fuller smile and a nod before he turned away.
As they ascended the stairs and threaded through increasingly narrow corridors, John decided what he would say once he and Sherlock were alone again.
***
At the top of the tower, the first door on the right stood ajar. Once inside, Ms Lionel handed John a set of ornate, brass keys and indicated, with practiced gestures, what lay beyond the doors leading off the antechamber. Another member of staff emerged from an adjoining room as she spoke. Behind him, John could see richly-coloured cloth draped over the side of a massive, canopied bed. A third staff member finished lighting tall candles standing near a small table set for a meal. He asked whether he should uncork the champagne. Sherlock looked to John.
“Sure, yeah,” John replied, wondering whether the worth of what Sherlock had located in the morning had been professionally appraised in the meantime. At the server’s side, silver goblets and platters rather than crystal and china reflected the flames.
The man observed John considering the table. “We’ve provided forks,” he said. “There was much French and Italian influence at the Castle.” He filled both goblets and set the champagne bottle in a bucket of ice. “The ice, of course, is anachronous. Would you prefer we removed it?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, walking over to a suit of armour displayed near a window. John’s attention shifted. The armour was for a tall man. John’s eyes flicked back and forth between Sherlock and the armour.
“It was one of the items I had delivered,” Sherlock explained. “Tall ancestors,” he added. “There is another.” He pointed.
John peered into the shadows beyond the candles, saw the gleam of a more typical suit of armour. Would that actually fit me? The idea shifted his vague impressions into a more concrete realm. Would we have jousted? Met in battle? Been comrades or combatants? The image of Sherlock plumed and resplendent on a sunlit field, his form encased in chased steel made John stand straighter. “Right,” he said and something in his tone made everyone take it as a cue.
The man at the table moved towards the door with the ice bucket. “If you need anything else, please call down to the desk,” Ms Lionel said as her colleague edged past her to the hallway.
“No page waiting outside the door?” Sherlock asked and smiled one of his lips-only smiles at her.
She shook her head, a little laugh escaping. “Even though the mobile reception is spotty inside the castle,” she replied, reaching out to tap the stone wall. “But there are landlines in the bedroom and the bath.” Sherlock scowled. “They’re both in little cupboards. Shall I show you?” Her other colleague slipped by her into the corridor.
“No need. I’m sure we can find them,” Sherlock said.
Ms Lionel’s eyes widened at her gaff. “Oh, of course you could, sir,” she said.
John turned towards her. “Everything’s sorted, then,” he concluded.
“Yes,” Ms Lionel replied and stepped closer to the doorway. “Bon appétit,” she added and took herself away, shutting the door behind her.
John considered the keys in his hand, selected the longest and strode to the door. His first choice turned in the lock. John drew the key out, pivoted with the ring dangling from his hand. Sherlock watched. “You might attempt an escape, sir, and you are far too precious to chance that,” John explained, his tone cordial, his posture commanding.
Sherlock drew himself up, in response. “I have given you my word. The ransom will not be long coming.” Sherlock walked to the table, raised one of the goblets and took a sip. “Unusual,” he said, pressing his lips together. “I drink to our brief association.” He raised the goblet higher.
John joined him by the table, grasped the other goblet, held it up before he drank. “It may be a longer association than you foresee.”
Sherlock studied him over the rim of his cup. “Have you not dispatched the demand?”
John took another long drink. “Oh, I have wasted no time in that regard and my horsemen are fleet. Your family will have it by midday tomorrow.”
“A day or two after, then, I shall be at liberty,” Sherlock concluded and drained his cup. He banged it down, shrugged off his coat and flung it over a chair.
“By all means, be at your ease,” John said and poured more champagne into Sherlock’s cup. “There are robes in the bed chamber. Fine silks from the shores of the Bosphorus and beyond to suit your status. Rich colours to suit your complexion. I intend to make your stay as comfortable as possible. All my hospitality is at your disposal.” He inclined his head towards the bedroom. “You may wish to wash away the soil of battle before we dine,” he said. “I apologise that the convenience was not provided for you sooner.” John offered Sherlock the cup.
“I had not even engaged before the ground gave way,” Sherlock waved dismissively at the goblet and paced the length of the room, peered into the bed chamber, turned back to John. “You would not have taken me in battle, sir,” Sherlock said, his pacing bringing him closer again.
His lean lines made Sherlock seem even taller than he was, John thought, and the sneer curling his upper lip accentuated its beautiful contours. Sherlock looked John up and down.
“Perhaps, not,” John remarked. “Your reputation is well-earned. I was hoping to test my mettle against your powers.” There was a slight emphasis on the last word. He held the cup out again, with both hands like a votive offering.
Possibly because it was offered thus, Sherlock took it, tilted his head to the side, kept John firmly in focus.
“It was a stroke of luck when the embankment crumbled under your horse’s hooves,” John said, leaning against the table. “I am a man to seize good fortune.”
Sherlock was concentrating on John fully, eyes narrowed. “The weather has been clear for days. A dozen knights preceded me along the path. A mud slide was most unexpected.”
John reached behind him to seize the neck of the bottle, switched hands and reached back for his cup. He re-filled it without seeming to look down, the wine forming a frothing arc, not a drop spilling. John saw Sherlock take note. “I grant it was a very precise stroke of fortune,” John said.
Sherlock took a drink from his cup, stepped nearer. “You’ve had time to bathe and dress. The battle did not last long.”
“It wouldn’t without you, would it?” John said, setting the bottle down without turning his eyes away from Sherlock.
“I’m not their commander.”
“No, they depend on you in other ways,” John said, his gaze steady. “You could have helped them from here, if you chose, but the need was not pressing.” John took a drink. “There couldn’t have been a clearer sky when your horse slipped and you hit the ground.” He pointed at Sherlock. “If you hadn’t been stunned from the fall, I would not have succeeded in getting you here.”
A ghost of a smile moved Sherlock’s lips.
“We’d just gained these walls when you came to and from nowhere, the clouds gathered. You heard the whinnying of the other horses, saw them rear. Only yours remained calm.” John stood. “I had trouble controlling Bucephalas and I am a very good rider. Others were not so fortunate. I have several knights nursing their pride as well as their bruises tonight.”
“And you think this is because of me?” Sherlock asked, his expression a study in neutrality.
“It was golden afternoon when I took you not far from these walls and yet it was dark as night when you entered this tower. The sky opened as the doors closed behind you. The field would have been awash in mud. I know the rest of the horse and the foot soldiers were when they returned. No surprise the commanders disengaged.” John took a step closer to Sherlock.
“A summer storm,” Sherlock said, a flutter of fingers flinging the idea away.
John shook his head. “My scouts report neither side held an advantage at the end, except for my capturing you, of course. You were the prize of the day.”
Sherlock sniffed.
“Of a lifetime,” John amended. His eyes fell to his cup, he drank again, looked up at Sherlock and set a hand on his shoulder. “I will serve as your squire and when you are bathed and dressed, we can dine and discuss my terms. I’m sure you are curious to know what I wrote to your family.”
Sherlock held John’s gaze. It felt palpable to John. Finally, Sherlock spoke. “I am curious.”
John let his hand slide away. “It’s as renowned as your skill at arms,” he said and drained his cup. “I was counting on your curiosity.”
***
John left Sherlock in the steam of the bath. Among the silks on the bed, John found the peacock robe. He smiled as he smoothed in out over the coverlet, the touch of the fabric full of memories.
From among the other garments, he chose a black brocade for himself. Lions hunted across its pattern. John had never seen it before. The dressing gown had no label, fit him exactly. He thought he recognised the craftsmanship of Mr Hastings and wondered if the garment had been delivered straight from the tailor or hidden somewhere in the flat. There was a trunk by the bed. Within, John found an old, carved cross-bow. Next to it, a hemp string lay coiled upon a bundle of soft wool. He unwrapped it, revealed the barb-tipped bolts inside. The bow was heavy in his hands as he hefted it. He strung it, sighted along the groove where the bolt would rest.
Sherlock emerged from the bath, only the tang of aftershave about him. “Are you planning to execute me secretly here?” he asked, walking towards the bed.
John swivelled slowly, tracking the pale form with the cross-bow. “I would never risk pointing a loaded weapon at you,” he replied and felt foolish. Even in role, surely Sherlock would have noticed the bolt’s absence.
Sherlock’s gaze dropped below the bow, lingering a moment before he looked away to pick up the dressing gown. John felt his face heat. Sir John would have needed all his willpower to be chivalrous. Sherlock let the silk fan out as he lifted it, swirling it behind him with a deliberate theatricality, holding it open as it settled on his shoulders. The display had its desired effect. John knew that was clear on his face from the satisfied look on Sherlock’s. Slowly, Sherlock wrapped the brocade around him; hid the beauty of his form beneath the splendour of the cloth. It always made John want to fall to his knees in an act of worship.
He doubted Sir John could last much longer, but John tried to maintain his composure. He lowered the cross-bow and spoke. “I know when I am in possession of a treasure.”
“Possession? No,” Sherlock corrected, slipping his hands into either sleeve, head erect, the golden threads woven into the silk glimmering.
John noted that there was no objection to being deemed a treasure. "Until the ransom is paid, as much as one person can possess another, I shall possess you.” Like possessing a thundercloud. John set the bow back in the trunk, extended his arm towards the door when he stood. “Shall we discuss the terms I proposed over dinner?”
From a silver flagon on the sideboard, John poured red wine into a fresh goblet for Sherlock. The cup was more of a chalice, silver engraved with hunting scenes with a gold band around the rim and four polished stones set into the stem. John held it out to Sherlock.
“I suppose it isn’t poisoned,” he remarked, not moving.
“Why this and not the oth…ah, it wasn’t sealed,” John said and swallowed a good mouthful, rotating the bowl so the spot from which he had drunk faced away from Sherlock and proffered the cup once more. “I could have added something when I poured.” He sat.
“No,” Sherlock said. “Your signet ring is solid and you’re wearing no others.” Sherlock accepted the cup with a lifted eyebrow and turned the bowl back before drinking from it. He murmured his approval. “But there could be others here who wish me ill, even if you do not.” Sherlock brought the goblet nearer the candle. “Carnelian, turquoise, lapis lazuli and smoky quartz,” he recited before drinking again. “The four humours, Sir John.”
John raised an eyebrow back and Sherlock smiled. He stared at the stones. “I’d rather see it in daylight, but I believe it was originally set with pearls. You had them changed.” He turned the bowl. “The engraving is Florentine.” Sherlock looked across at John. “You acquired it there yourself before you travelled to Constantinople and Damascus.”
“How?” John asked, in perfect imitation of his earlier self.
“You held it proprietarily when you drank. There are many items in these rooms of distant origin, as disparate as they are, there is a unifying aesthetic amongst them. You are both well-travelled and acquisitive.” Sherlock stated, sitting back in his chair and cradling the goblet of wine. “And you value them for reasons other than the precious materials from which they are made or the artistry of their fashioning. Interesting.”
“I had heard you could do that,” John said, his voice hushed.
“Will you order kindling gathered for a burning now?” Sherlock asked, his nose wrinkling.
“One doesn’t burn treasures,” John said.
“The idiots of the world do,” Sherlock replied.
“I don’t,” John affirmed. He removed the silver cover from a dish, carved a slice from the cold pheasant that sat there. He took a bite from it before he set the rest on Sherlock’s plate.
Sherlock leaned forward, eyes alight as he scrutinised John’s expression. “Your visor was down today. I didn’t get to see your face in the sunlight.” He folded the slice of fowl on his plate and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He nodded and swallowed. “Well-spiced,” he said and dipped his fingers in the small bowl by his plate, waved them under his nose and inhaled. “Not just rose petals floating on it, but rose water in it. Do you seek to impress me, Sir John?”
John thought he should have been amused at the exchange since Sherlock had obviously ordered the meal when he had been tapping away at his phone in the cab or on the train, but the delicate way Sherlock touched his fingertips to the corners of his mouth made that detail quite irrelevant. John decided that in the world they were creating, the sumptuous meal was one more enticement Sir John was deploying to seduce his discerning hostage. John was sure Sherlock knew what he was thinking.
“Yes,” John admitted, his gaze straying from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth. There was a drop of water on the lower lip. The urge to lean across the table and dab it away was strong, but it wasn’t time for such familiarities yet. John cut more pheasant and took a bite of it before serving Sherlock. He was willing to endure the torment of repeated performances from those long fingertips.
“Not as well-travelled as you,” John said and added a roasted parsnip and a carrot to Sherlock’s plate, one bite missing from each. He considered cutting the food into pieces and eating a piece of each, but he rejected it.
Sherlock touched each vegetable to his lips before he opened them and ate. They were becoming glossy from the pheasant’s drippings.
John realised he was holding his knife suspended above his plate and set to slicing more pheasant.
“You have been gathering intelligence on me,” Sherlock said and the idea seemed to please him. “How long?”
“Since before you left for Spain,” John said.
Sherlock smiled and folded another slice of pheasant between his fingers. “That’s several years ago now,” he replied. He put the meat in his mouth and then his fingertips in the bowl.
John followed each motion, remembered his first impression of that hand stretching out towards him. Sherlock reached for the goblet and added some wine to the pheasant in his mouth before he swallowed. John followed those motions, too, lingering at the crossing of the turquoise silk that hid the rest of Sherlock’s pale, pale skin from his eyes. John licked his lips.
“Re-considering the whispers of witchcraft?” Sherlock taunted, setting the goblet down and nudging it towards John. John’s eyes slowly lifted from the hollow of that white throat to the shining lips and finally reached the amused eyes. His hand closed around the flagon and he filled the bowl of Sherlock’s cup without moving his gaze away from the laughter in them.
“You, too, have a gift,” Sherlock said. “You are usually very cautious and hide it, but you are not hiding it from me.” Sherlock took a parsnip from his plate and ate it. “Why is that, Sir John? What have you discovered?”
John took a slice of quince from around the pheasant, took his obligatory bite and set it on Sherlock’s plate, used the moment to gather his wits. “It is reported that you were reading from learnéd tomes when you were barely out of swaddling clothes.” John speared another piece of quince and ate it whole.
Sherlock set his elbows on the table, pressed his fingers together and rested his chin against them.
John stared at the nearest candle, hoped its flare would erase the image of Sherlock’s index fingers indenting his lower lip. “It is said this is not unusual in your family and that your older brother did the same; that your cradle games were ones of logic and instead of rhymes your childish voices lisped the quotes of the ancient philosophers,” John continued. He turned and jabbed blindly at another piece of quince, nipped a little off the end of what he finally caught and held it out to Sherlock. He folded his hands beneath his chin and opened his mouth. John held his breath and slid the fruit in. Sherlock eased his teeth into the fruit and drew it off the knife. John shifted in his chair.
“You must have been at court before I left with my brother and…” Sherlock leaned back. “You made friends with Madame Hudson,” Sherlock concluded. “How did you do it? She appears to chatter, but she is very discreet when it comes to matters of consequence.”
“She saw me apprehend someone who was trying to break into your rooms, a young fellow about your age with mad, dark eyes. Madame Hudson gave him a scolding, asked me to let him go and not to speak of it. I didn’t. I suppose she appreciated that,” John explained.
“She told me someone had caught Jim prowling about, but didn’t say who,” Sherlock said. “But that happened on the ship.”
John nodded. “In return, I asked her not to mention my involvement. We disembarked a day later in Calais,” John said, slicing a beetroot and nipping some off the end of each half.
“We?” Sherlock asked.
“My sister, Harriet, and I,” John replied. “I was bringing her to visit our cousins there.”
“How could I have overlooked you both?” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.
“Harriet was little more than a child and I was a fourth son, less than nothing I’m afraid. I didn’t seek introductions,” John said.
“I still shouldn’t have missed you.” Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips. “It’s another of your talents...and it even worked on me.”
John stopped cutting pheasant, looked straight at Sherlock and smiled. “You already had a reputation for not missing much.” John looked down at his plate. “I heard you play the lute. I saw you dance. If we had been introduced, you would have seen…and I had nothing to offer.”
Sherlock surveyed the tapestries, the silken carpets, the carved chests and the silver plate before them. “And yet they trained you in the art of war rather than giving you to the church. Not so typical for a fourth son,” Sherlock said.
“My eldest brother was never strong,” John replied. “My parents married him young, but he died without an heir, possibly without knowing his bride. Such anyway was the story when they married her to me.”
Sherlock straightened in his chair, pressed his lips together. “You are not married,” he stated.
John sighed. It had been such a pointless detour in his life. “No. But I was for a year. I got her great with child, she gave birth to a boy and died a week later. The child only survived a few more days after that.”
“Long enough for you to inherit from him though,” Sherlock concluded.
“That satisfied my parents sufficiently that they forbore forcing anyone else on me during my period of mourning,” John said.
“You…cared…for her,” Sherlock said quietly.
John glanced up and away. “She had been kind to me when she came to marry my brother. She told me stories of Florence and Venice and Rome. She liked strawberries. I used to save the best of mine for her.” John took a drink of his wine. “She bemoaned their short season. Her season was very short.”
Sherlock’s head drooped. John saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. “No,” he said and Sherlock looked up. John resumed speaking at a faster pace. “My father died before the year was out. I invested part of my inheritance in a corsair. Both my older brothers married and were relieved at my plan to go to sea.”
Sherlock’s countenance brightened. “You’ve been a pirate.”
“A privateer,” John corrected. “I didn’t always sail with them. When fancy dictated, I’d go ashore and rendezvous with the ship in half a year or so.”
Sherlock leaned forward again.
“Our system wasn’t very precise. Sometimes I spent a month or more waiting for them.”
“And saw a bit of trouble along the docks,” Sherlock said.
John shrugged. “Enough.”
Sherlock looked at John’s hands. “You became very skilful with a knife at close quarters. And between adventures, you collected things,” Sherlock continued, nodding as he watched John. “Cargo arriving by sea or destined to leave by sea.” Sherlock glanced round the room again, stared at some of the empty spaces on the walls, apparently hanging them with more things than were actually there. “But what brought you home with your treasures?” he murmured as he rose from the table and began to circle the room, touching items as he went. “There was an outbreak of the pox while we were gone,” Sherlock said after a moment. “Your servants are wearing black. Your brothers?” Sherlock picked up a grey rock, the two halves came apart in his hands. The crystals inside twinkled.
“The younger and the wife and son of the elder,” John replied.
Sherlock fit the two parts together again, set it back on the table. “He was leading your men today?”
John murmured assent and watched. The movement of Sherlock’s limbs was obscured by the folds of the robe. It gave the illusion of gliding to his progress.
“Rarity,” Sherlock pronounced, stroking his fingers along an arras depicting an injured unicorn impaling one hunter with his horn while pinning another to the ground by a hoof on his neck, their bloodied weapons just beyond their outstretched arms. “Definitely rarity,” he added, holding up a bottle carved of amber, the oval handle of its stopper encasing a dragonfly.
John realised these, like the goblet, must have been among the items Sherlock had had delivered. John had never seen any of them at Baker Street, wondered if they were from Mycroft’s house or…John smoothed a hand along the silk of his robe, wondered if they were items accumulated while Sherlock was gone, when he was stuck waiting for a development, a connection, items Johannes could have amassed and set aside. John got up and stood by Sherlock, reached out to touch the bottle he held. Sherlock handed it to him, observed him as he examined it. John stroked over the perfectly preserved insect. He had told Sherlock once that amber had fascinated him as a boy. Sherlock forgot the configuration of the solar system and remembered this.
“Yes,” John said and looked at the floor. He understood. Sherlock had never stopped thinking of him; it hadn’t only been when he came back through London. John took a deep breath. Sir John would have been thinking of Sherlock throughout his travels, gathering things to offer. He shoved his hands in his pockets. The keys he’d tied to the end of the sash jangled. He undid the knot, eased three heavily gilt keys off and handed them to Sherlock. “Mysteries, secrets, knowledge,” he said. “I gathered books and manuscripts. From some I was able to learn, others were in languages I couldn’t read. One was in a script no one recognised that I asked.”
Sherlock’s eyes brightened. He seemed to like John’s extemporising.
“The smallest key opens the book. I heard you liked puzzles. Perhaps you can solve the cypher,” John suggested.
“Where is it?” Sherlock asked as though keen to begin.
John gestured at the table. “Let us finish our meal and our other business.”
Sherlock looked to balk and then went and sat, the keys disappearing into different parts of his dressing gown.
John took a pear and began to slice it. Sherlock took another from the bowl, turned it by the stem, sniffed it, rubbed his fingers over the skin and bit into it. “No longer worried about poison?” John asked.
“You want me for something,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of fruit.
“I’ve wanted to ransom you from the outset,” John argued.
“No, you haven’t. You’ve wanted me to solve a puzzle for you,” Sherlock said. “You could have simply requested my services. I agree when the mystery is interesting enough.” Sherlock swallowed. “And the fruit hasn’t been poisoned. I checked.
“Good to know,” John said, chewing. “We’re on opposite sides of a conflict,” John pointed out. “I don’t think a request would have been favourably received.”
“Point,” Sherlock said. “You are less of an idiot than most.” He took a larger bite of the pear. “Is the book in these rooms? We shouldn’t waste time, my family will send the ransom promptly.”
John tapped his lips. “They might not,” he said.
Sherlock lifted his chin. “You made it very high because you thought I’d need extra time.” He pressed his lips together. “You doubt my abilities.”
“No, no,” John protested. “I actually have a mystery. The code book is a gift for you, because you like puzzles.”
Sherlock sat back in his chair. “Oh,” he said and his gaze was intent on John.
John savoured it. It was a wonderful sensation when Sherlock did that.
“Other mystery. I’m waiting, Sir John.”
“Yes, so.” John waved a finger at Sherlock, pointing vaguely. “The other keys. They are said to unlock a door, or doors, it’s not clear, to a room somewhere in the castle where valuables…or possibly valuable people…the story has splintered into several variations over the generations…were hidden in a time of danger.”
“The secret kept so closely that it, or they, could no longer be located,” Sherlock said, nodding. “It’s not unusual. How long ago?”
“It was an old story when my grandfather told it to me,” John said.
“And possibly not about this castle. Such stories get transplanted with marriages or travels, and if someone hasn’t quietly found the secret out in the meantime, you may only have old bones for your troubles,” Sherlock said. He reached out for his wine and finished it, considering John once more. “You’ve learned something more about it recently.”
“The keys were found a month ago,” John said. “Wrapped in vellum, with some words still legible upon it, tucked behind a stone in a window casement dislodged during a repair.”
Sherlock’s head whipped around. “It was in here,” He didn’t wait for John to answer, pointed to the draperies behind the shorter coat of armour. “There,” he said.
“The drapes are closed,” John said. “How?”
Sherlock smiled. “It’s the north side of the tower. That wall takes the brunt of the wind and rain and you are detaining me here because you think whatever the keys unlock is nearby.” He dipped his fingers in the bowl as he stood, flicked the water off them as he strode to the window. “Very well. I shan’t be offended that you thought the two mysteries might require some time. How high did you make the ransom to gain it?”
John named a figure.
Sherlock stopped, pivoted back to face John, the hem of the robe expanding in a bell with the movement. “That’s far too high.” Sherlock cocked his head. “Even for me.”
John studied the high colour in Sherlock’s cheeks, the candle flames reflected in his eyes. “I don’t want them to be able to pay it,” John said.
Sherlock walked closer, stood over John. “You might have tried persuasion,” he said, staring down. “The mysteries are enticing and your wine is good.”
John thought of sorcery as he looked up and felt the truth rise to his lips. “You’ll solve them and go or lose interest in solving them and go.” The fragrance of the scented oils from the bath sweetened the air between them. “I wanted an excuse to keep you here.”
“Ah, Sir John, it isn’t only your mysteries that are twofold,” Sherlock said. He set his hand on John’s shoulder. John felt the flush rise in his face as Sherlock watched him. “You desire my person as well as my help,” Sherlock concluded, his fingers sliding along John’s shoulder and coming to rest under his jaw. John’s blood surged and Sherlock smiled. “We need to countermand your message,” he declared and strode across the room.
“How?” John said aloud as Sherlock drew forth paper from a small drawer, forgetting for a moment the provisions Sherlock had sent.
“Small cupboards, shallow drawers, perfect for writing implements,” Sherlock said. “Do you have a strong rider left?”
Sherlock was folding back his sleeves and John was distracted.
“Do you?” Sherlock insisted, cutting a quill.
“Yes, an excellent one,” John replied.
“How long ago did your messengers leave?” Sherlock asked. He was bending over the table, writing and John was distracted.
“Sir John!”
“Two hours at most,” John replied.
“He will do exactly as you say, this excellent rider?”
“Yes. Billy’s loyal to a fault and he rides like he is part of the horse,” John replied. “He can manage Bucephalas and no one other than I can do that.”
“Is he loyal to you?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock held a stick of red wax to a candle flame, let it drip onto the folded paper in his hand. “Good, give him this,” Sherlock said and pushed his signet ring into the wax.
John stepped closer. “What did you write?”
“’Ignore ransom demand. If you have already sought help to raise funds, rescind.’” Sherlock recited. “I certainly hope they haven’t contacted James or that he hasn’t gotten wind of my situation and gone to my family to offer assistance. It would be just like him to be on hand at such a time.”
“Wait,” John said, laying a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Why do I think ‘James’ is skulking Jim from the ship?”
Sherlock smiled. “Instinct,” he replied. “You recognise now what kind of threat he is. Hopefully, his efforts to secure his crown will keep him otherwise engaged. He fancies himself in a crown. Told me once how well he looks in one.”
John’s fingers tightened on Sherlock’s arm. “What else is in your message?”
“’I will negotiate my release, may settle border dispute as well, will take at least several weeks. Send my skull back with the rider and Charon. Release other messengers,” Sherlock recited.
“Charon?”
“Interesting choice of questions,” Sherlock said. “And yes, the boy must take my horse, he knows the way and can probably arrive before your other messengers. Your Billy must do as you say and give the horse rein to go as he lists,” Sherlock explained. “And you must introduce yourself and Billy to Charon with the message in your hand. Let him smell the paper and your hand.”
“What?” John said.
“Just put your cloak and boots on over your robe and don’t wash your hand. If we act quickly Charon will arrive first,” Sherlock said and held his arms out to either side.
John looked from one outstretched hand to the other and back to Sherlock’s face. “I don’t understand,” John said.
“Unfasten my gown, Sir John. You’ve been thinking of doing little else since I put it on.”
“That’s not true,” John said, eyes wandering over Sherlock’s face and down to the sash of the robe. There weren’t enough hours in the day for him to contemplate all the aspects of Sherlock he wished to consider. Nevertheless, he untied the sash, drew one side of the robe away.
“Open it fully, Sir John,” Sherlock urged. “You said your riders are fleet.”
John nodded and pulled the other side of the garment away. His pulse thumped in his throat.
“Now open yours,” Sherlock said and took John’s hand in his when he had. “Step closer.” John did. Sherlock’s free arm curved around John’s back, bent him slightly as he leaned over him and guided his hand down and between. John’s hand cupped the weight in his palm as Sherlock’s lips closed over his mouth.
***
The stone walls exuded a chill. John paced from one end of the short corridor to the other, saw only doors that appeared to be additional entrances to their rooms. He peered into the gloom of the stairwell for a while, gathered his dressing gown around him and sat on the top step, elbow on thigh, chin in hand. He inhaled and wondered how long it would have taken Sir John to reach the stables and return. It wouldn’t have been easy to walk fast, but the cold might have solved that problem for him. John decided that Sir John would be planning ways to eliminate James on the way back. He needed to be eradicated from all their worlds. Whatever country he might rule would be the better for it.
Behind John, the door unlatched. The aroma of cloves and cinnamon escaped into the hall. John leapt up. Sir John was meant to have returned.
A small copper pot hanging over the fire was the source of the fragrance. John closed and locked the door, went and stood by the hearth. A two-handled goblet stood empty on the stone. Would Sir John be so foolhardy as to drink from that?
“Would you?” Sherlock asked from the doorway of the bedchamber. There was a vial and a small packet in one of his hands, the flagon of wine in the other. He dropped the sachet in his pocket and walked towards John. The robe wasn’t properly fastened, only loosely held in place with the sash. It gaped at the chest when he set down the flagon and leaned over the pot to add a pinch of dried leaf, a drop of something dark from the vial.
John heard himself say yes. He realised it should always have been yes, that the mistakes he’d made had been when he had said no. There wouldn’t be any noes from him in this little world. He would see where that took them.
The liquid bubbled higher in the pot; its fragrance growing richer. Sherlock sprawled in one of the chairs by the fire, one leg bare from above the knee. “Pour for us,” Sherlock said and John swung the iron arm away from the flames with the hook of the poker, used the wooden ladle in the pot to serve it. “Stop,” Sherlock said when it was about half-full. “Some wine to cool it,” he directed and John wondered what might have been added to that. The aroma was heady. He overfilled the cup, spilt some of the liquid into the fire. The flames died away. The hot wood sizzled.
“Drink,” Sherlock said and John took a sip. His mouth tingled back to his ears and up into his cheeks. “More,” Sherlock said and John took a deeper draft. Blue-green flames danced along the surface of the wet wood. A jet of white hissed into being from a fissure in the log. The blue fire circled it. “Drink more,” Sherlock said and John did. The blue flames turned green at their tips, coalesced into one and curled around the white jet. It changed to gold. “Will you not share?” Sherlock asked and John pulled his eyes away from the flames to look down into the goblet. There was a froth on the wine, swirling. There were images in the bubbles. He glanced back at the fire. There were images in the flames, twining.
John didn’t stand. Wasn’t certain he could stand. He traversed the few paces to Sherlock’s chair on his knees and held the cup up. Sherlock covered John’s hands with his, leaned forward to drink. John tilted the cup or perhaps Sherlock did. He drank until the goblet was dry. He met John’s eyes over the top of it, lips moist, colour high, then he leaned back in the chair. “Set the cup aside, Sir John. Demonstrate what you mean by possession.”
The cup caught the edge of the hearthstone. John heard a distant clatter. In the hearth, green and gold flames undulated, fragrant and blue. “Where to begin?” John whispered and turned back to Sherlock. The room spun. John grasped Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock sighed. “Here,” John concluded, sitting back on his heels. He lifted his fingers one by one and kissed where they had gripped, touching his tongue to the larger imprint left by his thumb. Another low exhalation followed the caress. “Soft, softly, here,” John murmured and lifted the leg to kiss behind the knee, tender skin drawn gently between his teeth. The gesture met with a hiss. John stared along the slope of a thigh and met Sherlock’s look. It should have been like this. John’s head cleared. He gained his feet and held out his hand for Sherlock. “I need more room for this.”
Decanters of water and wine stood next to the bed, jars of oil and creams beside them. John pulled the covers aside, slipped the robe from Sherlock’s shoulders, shrugged off his own. “Lie thee down,” John said. “I waited far too long.” Cool air and cool linen raised bumps on Sherlock's skin. He rested his head against his folded arms and John poured oil in the small of Sherlock’s back, rubbed it with vigorous strokes up and down before covering Sherlock with his body. “I shouldn’t have waited so long,” John whispered and slipped down until his feet slid past Sherlock’s and up again so he could murmur in Sherlock’s ear. “Puzzles solved and deeds done, if you like me well enough, we could set out to sea.”
Sherlock turned his head more to look at John. “Will your partners like that?” he asked.
“I can buy them out and they can retire if they do not like it, but Stamford and Hooper are easy-going sorts. I doubt they’d object.”
Sherlock began to turn and John raised himself on his arms to let him. Sherlock grasped John’s hips, eased him slowly forward and back, staring at him. John closed his eyes. “You’re trying to hide, Sir John. Here in this bed, in my arms, you are trying to hide.” Forward and back, Sherlock increased the rhythm. “What is it? I wish to see it.”
“I didn’t dare to lose. It was such a gamble,” John said.
Sherlock lifted John’s hips, pulled his own knees to his chest. “You have thrown the dice, Sir John. They are rolling,” Sherlock said and hooked his calves over John’s shoulders. “Dare.” Sherlock’s back arched off the bed as John did.
***
He heard splashing. The bunk rolled with a wave. The air was dank. Water sprayed across his face. The porthole must have been left open.
“Sir John!”
More droplets landed on his cheeks. John rubbed a hand across his face. He opened an eye. Sherlock stood in an ellipsis of candlelight, goblet in hand, ruffled white shirt half open, dark breeches and possibly boots hinted at in the shadow. John bolted upright, pointed at Sherlock, eyes darting about the room.
“Not at sea,” he said, waving his finger. “Dreaming? You were sprinkling water on me?”
“Yes, possibly, yes. Get up, Sir John, I have a lead or rather you’ve provided me with one,” Sherlock said and offered John the cup of water.
John drank some, dabbed more on his face. “I what?”
“The wardrobe door.” Sherlock waved behind him. “You didn’t close it completely when you put our clothes away. There’s a draft.”
John threw the covers off and shivered. He looked down. No vest, nothing. “Right,” he said, looked back up at Sherlock and smiled. He sniffed, nose wrinkling.
“That’s a whiff of moat you’re smelling,” Sherlock said. “Your clothes are in the bath. Hurry.”
The floor was cold when he stepped off the carpet. He did a little more than dress, but not much. “These are like yours,” John said, stepping back into the bedroom. He noticed the heap of clothing on the bed.
“You could hardly go down into the dungeon in your dressing gown.” Sherlock gave John an appraising look. “Those suit you.”
“Truly, a dungeon?” John asked, fishing a long coat from the pile.
“That would be the right level to access the moat,” Sherlock said.
John walked to the door by the wardrobe and tried the handle. “You re-locked it?”
“That leads to the corridor. The doorway we want is this way.” Sherlock gestured towards the wardrobe.
“Through the wardrobe? You’re kidding.”
“No. I do not jest about cases,” Sherlock replied.
“The papers Mr Griffin gave you,” John said.
Sherlock nodded. “Several sets of blueprints.”
“Rather sloppy to leave their door unsecured like that,” John observed, peering past Sherlock to the stairway at the back of the wardrobe.
“I think the preparations for our un-booked stay caught them by surprise, stranding them there,” Sherlock said. “Rather good that you made up a similar mystery for Sir John.”
“Balance of probability,” John said.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“Well, you say it often enough,” John retorted.
“So does Mycroft. I don’t like hearing other people saying it; it reminds me of him.”
“Fine. Good guess on my part, then,” John amended. “Popular in mystery novels.”
“Find something to use as a weapon,” Sherlock directed. “The cross-bow won’t suit.”
John blew out the candle on the night table, hefted the metal candlestick. He disappeared into the other room and brought back the poker. “These’ll do,” he said.
Sherlock held a hand out behind him and John put the poker in it. “Hmm. Good choice,” he said. “A gun wouldn’t have been useful in here either. We are going to use modern torches though. Yours is on the bed.”
“I’d rather not set my ruffles on fire,” John agreed, locating the torch. “What else do I need to know?”
“Just follow me,” Sherlock said and ducked through the opening at the back of the wardrobe.
Nothing new there, John thought and stepped into the wardrobe.
***
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked when Lestrade walked through the door with Mr Griffin and someone John was certain was the local DI.
“Hello to you, too.” Lestrade said, taking a quick look at John and Sherlock. “I could ask the same.”
“I am solving a crime,” Sherlock said. “Several, if we want to be technical.”
John tried not to notice the appreciative expression on the other detective’s face as Sherlock turned, eyes on his phone. John held out his hand to the man, “I’m John Watson,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes,” he added, tilting his head towards Sherlock. ‘He’s mine, mate,’ was implied.
“Don MacKenzie,” the detective replied, shaking John’s hand and taking a step back when he let go. He looked around the room. “Where’s the suspect?”
“Two suspects and they’re in the dungeon,” Sherlock supplied. “With several very keen security guards.”
Mac Kenzie looked confused. Mr Griffin showed him into the bedroom.
Sherlock handed his phone and another mobile to Lestrade. “Jean-Pierre’s arrested their accomplice at Gare du Nord. Our friends down below didn’t get to use their Eurostar tickets this morning and their associate sent several concerned texts. Two while Jean-Pierre’s officers were monitoring.”
“Good work,” Lestrade said. Sherlock looked startled for a moment and then smiled. “On the way up, Mr Griffin told us about all the loot you recovered yesterday. He hadn’t got around to filing a police report on it yet.” Lestrade eyed Sherlock.
Sherlock shrugged. “Private client.”
“No one’s dead. How come they dragged you down here?” John asked, pouring a cup of steaming coffee from a silver urn on the table. He handed it to Greg.
“Ta,” Greg said and inhaled the steam. “God that smells good.” He took a sip. “Needed that.”
“Considering the hour, I’m not surprised,” John said. “Was it the Interpol connection?”
“Other detectives have Interpol connections, Ss..” Sherlock stabbed a few buttons on his phone.
John looked over at him. Greg walked to the tall suit of armour, took a few steps around it. “There’s one just like that at Myc…”
John looked at Greg from beneath lowered brows.
“Mycroft sent him, John. Afraid I might scare the local police. Remember Baskerville?” Sherlock said.
“Mycroft’s been somewhere incommunicado for the last week. Mac was up in London and he called me,” Greg explained, wandering over to the breakfast table and selecting a pastry. “We started out in the City of London Police together, meet up for a pint now and then. He knew I worked with you two and was a little intimidated by getting a call at six in the morning to come out to the castle and meet Sherlock Holmes in person.” He took a big bite of the pastry and rolled his eyes. “This is bloody marvellous.” John smiled and poured himself a cup of tea. “Of course, considering what you recovered for them yesterday, I’d understand if they were feeding you gold dust.” He gestured at Sherlock and John with his pastry. “Was there a fancy dress do here last night? I thought it’s just a business conference.”
“It is just a business conference,” Sherlock said. “John’s branching out into historical fiction and we thought it would make a good cover for taking Mr Griffin up on his offer of hospitality at remarkably short notice.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed. “Yes, he’s here trying to convince us you didn’t send him and no I haven’t traumatized the local constabulary…yet. You expect me to believe that? Fine.” Sherlock walked over to Greg. “Where’s your phone?” he asked.
Greg patted his pockets. “Damn. I left it in the car.”
“Fine,” Sherlock said into his phone again and held it out to Greg. “Mycroft wishes to speak to you now, here, after being incommunicado for a week.”
Greg took the phone and listened. “Oh,” he said and looked at his watch. “Less than an hour.” Greg nodded. “See you there.” He handed the mobile back to Sherlock. “Off to Greenwich, guys.” He leaned closer to Sherlock. “Give Mac a break, he’s a decent bloke. Might have an interesting case someday.”
“In Kent?” Sherlock scoffed.
“It’s possible,” Greg said, already at the door.
“I concede it’s possible, just not probable,” Sherlock replied. “Rather like your being here this morning.”
“Tell Mac I had to go,” Lestrade called from the stairs.
“We will,” John called back.
Sherlock put the phone up to his ear. “You heard, I’m sure. He’s on his way.” Sherlock listened and frowned. “Mycroft, is someone holding a gun to your head and making you read a script written by an individual who has never met you before?”
John’s head snapped to the right.
“Just remember, he’s an exceptional goldfish.” Sherlock squinted. “Yes, good-bye, Mycroft.” Sherlock put his phone in his pocket.
“What’s the matter with Mycroft?” John asked. He handed Sherlock a pastry.
“He said he was taking my advice,” Sherlock said.
John drew back. “Is that code? Is he in trouble?”
Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips. “Possibly, but not the kind with which we can help.”
***
The suspects were gone with two of MacKenzie’s officers. John had been cordial and Sherlock had voluntarily signed two autographs on castle stationary for the detective’s children. “Lestrade’s a good friend,” Sherlock had said after he delivered the message about Greg’s departure. MacKenzie had seemed awed for a moment before he smiled and agreed.
Mr Griffin had looked more than a bit wilted, but very pleased nonetheless, when he delivered another cheque to John. “In addition to apprehending the likely perpetrators,” he had said, “the jewels they had on their persons, although few in number, were the pick of their take.” His glance lingered on some of the decorations Sherlock had had delivered. “You went to such trouble and didn’t get to enjoy your visit at all. We hope you can stay on and experience the rest and relaxation we usually offer our guests.”
Sherlock turned to John and John managed to suppress the surprise he felt. He consulted his phone, tapped on it a bit. “We are free today and tomorrow,” he pronounced slowly, tapping a few more times, “and for two days at the end of next month.” He looked at Sherlock. “I have several cases to write up. It would be pleasant to do it here, if you can spare the time.”
Sherlock had smiled at Mr Griffin. “We would be delighted to remain two more days, barring other unforeseen circumstances.”
Mr Griffin had departed content and hopefully for a rest.
John got up to lock the door after him, as well as the door to the wardrobe and the doors from the bedroom and the bathroom to the hall.
“Do you think one secret passage is sufficient for a suite of rooms?” John asked.
“There’s no rule about these things, Sir John,” Sherlock said.
John’s temperature flared. Perhaps it wasn’t only his imagination that was fired by the place. “Do you have any more of whatever you were boiling up in that little pot?” John asked.
“I do,” Sherlock said, “and some variations upon it.”
“I saw images in the flames,” John said. “And in the foam of the wine.”
“You are so suggestible,” Sherlock replied, glancing up and then quickly down at his hand. He smoothed it along his thigh.
John pulled a stool in front of Sherlock’s chair, eased off one of Sherlock’s boots and then the other. He bent down to examine the buckle that held the breeches snug below the knee. “It is rather intriguing the way these are fastened,” he said. “One would need some practice I imagine to be proficient at doing and undoing them.” He flicked the buckle open, walked his fingers along the inseam.
Sherlock spread his legs, leaned back in the chair, let his arms dangle over the sides. “I believe we’re supposed to be negotiating, Sir John.”
“I am,” John replied, locating the drawstring at the waist of the breeches.
Sherlock slouched further down, curled one leg around John’s back. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll enchant you?”
John loosened the bow, tugged the white tails of the shirt out and ran his hands over the warm skin beneath. “Happened long ago,” he said. “It’s why I can’t ever let you leave.” John wedged one knee besides Sherlock’s hip and leaned over him, watched the crescent creases form on one side of his mouth.
“Ever?” Sherlock said.
John brushed over the crescents with his lips. “Ever.”
“Then our negotiations are over,” Sherlock said and turned his head enough to catch John’s lips.
John pulled back a little. “Not at all,” he said. “I have to convince you to not even want to go.”
“I never wanted to go.”
John got his other knee onto the chair by Sherlock’s waist, curled over Sherlock. “We have to be cleverer than all of them.” John brushed a curl away, held Sherlock’s face between his hands. “We have to use every power, every potion, every skill, every scrap of knowledge, so they can’t drive a wedge between us again. Not any of them.”
“No one?”
John’s arms slid down to Sherlock’s shoulders; he burrowed his face against Sherlock’s neck. “No one. Not even you,” he replied.
Sherlock settled one arm over John’s back, held him there.
John felt Sherlock stretch. He looked across Sherlock’s chest, saw his other arm extended towards the hearth. His wrist flicked. The fire roared up the chimney, green and blue and gold.
“All our powers, Sir John.”
John watched the flames dance. “All,” he echoed, “all.”
***
Photo source: Hever Castle L6566. The front gate of Hever Castle seen from within the courtyard. Pub Orig CL 12/10/1907. Image Number: 527813