Chapter Text
Okay, how do I look?” John walks into the living room and doesn’t halt until he’s right in front of Sherlock. This requires Sherlock to lower his magazine and move his head up and down in order to assess John’s figure properly.
His friend clearly has put quite a lot of effort into readying himself for his date. Apart from washing his hair he has also put some product into it – Sherlock sniffs the air and corrects himself, not just some product but Sherlock’s own twenty-six quid a teeny-weeny container pomade – and dabbed himself behind the ears with some – Sherlock’s again – eau de toilette.
The unavoidable jeans are combined with what is actually a quite elegant dark-blue V-neck jumper, and a plain light-blue shirt, the top-button left undone in a careful imitation of Sherlock’s own inimitable style, but a nice try nevertheless. The jumper’s colour enhances the blue of John’s eyes, turning him into a slightly younger version of himself.
John’s shoes are the most pleasant surprise however. They’re a casual pair, made of sleek leather in different tones of blue, a dashing diversion from the more mundane models John usually comes home with.
Overall, Sherlock has to admit Connie Prince herself would have been hard put to mould the raw material into the finished article standing at attention to hear his verdict. John looks – even smells – like a smartened version of his usual self. Undeniably, the clothes are very John – plain, homely, safe – but he has obviously chosen the ensemble with some care and Sherlock would be the last person in the world to deny he wears it well.
“Socks,” he orders, and John hitches up his trouser legs obediently so Sherlock can check whether the socks are high enough to cover his shins when he sits down.
“Excellent,” Sherlock confirms and smiles inwardly at the relief fleeting over John’s face upon hearing the judgment. “If you don’t impress this one she doesn’t deserve you, John. What was her name again?”
As John is still pleased with having passed Sherlock’s high standards, he doesn’t roll his eyes.
“Mandy,” he says.
“Ah yes, Mandy. I hadn’t thought you’d be going for the over-achieving type but it appears even I can be wrong,” sniffs Sherlock preparing to immerse himself in his book once more. John’s squawk prevents him.
“What…”
Sherlock is sincerely disappointed John hasn’t noticed this aspect of the woman’s personality yet. He must be really desperate for a date. The last one was how long… five weeks ago? With a woman named Angie. He’d read the name as a sure recipe for disaster, and, sadly, been proven right.
“Do keep up, John. If your mother had named you after a song that set a new all-time low for one’s expectations of the collective intelligence of worldwide audiences, you’d feel you had something to prove as well.”
“What, I… Jesus.” John might as well have recited his thoughts out loud, they were so clearly written on his face.
Deleted the fact that the Earth revolves around the sun, any reference to any subject in popular culture draws a blank but does know who Barry Manilow is. Could probably play the goddamned, sickening tune on his violin.
Which Sherlock, indeed, can do, except he loves his Guarneri and the memory of Mr Mancini too much to force the sounds of such drivel from his beloved instrument. And really, Sherlock’s knowledge of squishy entertainers wouldn’t have been a surprise to John if he’d read Sherlock’s treatise on the website about the correlations between various acts of crime and the given names of the perpetrators, more specifically those crimes where the offenders had been wronged from the start by being saddled with a squeeing fangirl for a mother. Instead he says, “Have fun, John.”
“Thanks to you suddenly I’m not so sure anymore. Could you stop doing that? And oh, should anything happen ask Greg first whether he thinks you ought to text me.”
“I asked Lestrade the last time. It’s hardly reasonable to blame me for the fact he didn’t answer.”
“He explained to me afterwards. He was on his phone, receiving a ragging from his Superintendent, when you asked him.”
“Really John, I can’t help it if Lestrade has never learned to prioritise.”
“Sherlock, how… Oh, never mind. Just, don’t text, all right?”
“Not even for a triple homicide?”
“What? Jesus, Sherlock, behave, would you?”
“Bye, John.”
“Yes. Okay. Just. Oh goddamn it, goodbye!”
John stalks out of the room, slamming the door to behind him. Sighing, Sherlock raises the magazine and resumes his reading on the latest developments in CCTV technology. So far it hasn’t given him any new data to use in the on-going war he’s waging with Mycroft, but he’s never been one to be discouraged easily.
***
“Sherlock! Oh dear, oh my dear. My poor, poor boy. Come here.” The moment Sherlock steps out of Mycroft’s car Nanny hurries down the stairs to throw her thin arms around his neck. Behind them Mycroft lifts the suitcases out of the boot of the car and ducks into the vehicle again to park it in the coach house.
“Hello Nanny,” Sherlock mumbles, patting her shoulder. She appears to have shrunk some more over the last few months, the top of her head doesn’t quite reach up to his chin.
“Sherlock, oh… I just can’t believe… I’ve got no words.” Her eyes swim up at him out of the folds of soft, wrinkled skin surrounding them. No doubt she means well, naturally she means well, she loves him after all, but her misguided commiseration sets his teeth on edge.
Her whole demeanour shows she believes him to be a victim, just like Mummy. Another victim for Nanny to pamper and fuss about – it’s probably wicked to think that and he pushes the idea aside, at least for now – but he refuses to be treated like one. Thanks to Mr Talbot’s advice and to Matron’s handy white pills he’s feeling much better, and he would be very grateful if they could all talk about something else, thank you very much.
“I’m fine, Nanny,” he tells her. “I really am. It happened but it’s past now.”
“Yes, oh my poor boy but you must have been so…” she sniffles, determined to have him in tears so she can treat him like her helpless little boy.
“Nanny, stop it,” Sherlock scolds her. His tone is a little too harsh, maybe, but he really can’t help it.
Instantly her whole body tenses and her arms fall to her side, as feeble as a cloth doll’s limbs.
“Sherlock?”
The reproach in her voice is the quintessence of gentle exasperation; stabbing a knife right down to the bone. Understanding flashes through him, the light switch in his brain flicked to cast the concept of his old Nanny in a new light.
She was twenty-three when Mummy’s parents hired her to look after their baby daughter. Fresh from the Yorkshire farm that she’d never liked and where she wasn’t needed, determined she wasn’t going to end up as a farmer’s wife working the skin off her hands to scrape a meagre existence out of the stone-ridden soil.
She must have felt like she’d leapt through the looking-glass. In the old photographs she poses with Mummy on her arm in front of the French castle where Mummy spent the first eighteen years of her life. There are others that show them in the castle’s enormous drawing rooms, in the huge nursery, on board yachts bobbing on the waves of various Mediterranean ports. Pictures taken at the Surrey hunting lodge used to occupy the album’s empty spaces but Mummy had ripped out those and burned them after her father died there.
All in all, the humble farm girl had come a long way, and it must have been increasingly unappealing to say goodbye to a life of ease and comfort, eating good food and sleeping between soft sheets, loved by her little charge. So, indubitably, money never being an object, she’d stayed on with the family when the apple of her eye went up to Oxford for her studies, and she’d followed her darling girl to this estate, into which so much money had been sunk to turn it into a home worthy to receive her fairy princess. Soon enough Mycroft appeared on the scene to fuss over, and, then there was that whole dreadful business, and by the time Mycroft was really too big for Nanny’s attentions, Sherlock entered this world to be looked after.
A whole life dedicated to serving others. Their needs and wishes must be the focus of her attention, always coming before her own. She’s living in a cage. The bars may be forged out of gold and provide a more exciting view than a farm nestling in the Yorkshire dales, but they’re bars nevertheless, a daily reminder she is not free to live her own life.
Body and soul, she’s bound to an addict, who now depends on her as much as she once depended on the family for providing her with a living. Together, they’ve grown into a inherently destructive dichotomy of victimhood, the one can’t exist without the other, and they’re the banes of each other’s lives. How Nanny would love to broaden her powerbase, by sheltering Sherlock beneath her wings.
Too bad for her but Sherlock won’t accommodate her. Currently he may not be able to sleep without Matron’s little white pills – she’s dispensed him ten just in case, telling him that he’ll find he won’t need them once he’s back home again. But then she doesn’t know he has a whole drawer at his disposal should he be in need of them – but that doesn’t mean he’s prepared to let Nanny victimise him.
To the right Mycroft’s figure rounds the corner of the house. His summer coat hangs neatly arranged from his bended left arm, while his right arm is engaged with a jaunty wielding of the umbrella. God, when did Mycroft decide to start accessorising with umbrellas? Doesn’t he realise they make him look grumpy and old before his time?
“Shall we go inside?” he asks. She stoops to pick up his luggage but he tells her not to be ridiculous. He is bigger and stronger than she is and doesn’t need her to carry his suitcase.
***
“Hello, John.”
“Sherlock! Oh, I hadn’t heard you.” John holds out the strawberry he’s just picked for Sherlock to pop into his mouth, and scrambles up to his feet.
“You’re still as stealthy and quiet as a mouse,” John laughs. “Also, me going deaf in my ear helps too. Look.” He turns and uses a blackened hand to lift the greying strands of hair behind his ear to show the hearing aid. “The doctor said I already needed one of those three years ago. Finally got the hang of it. All it did in the beginning was fill my ear with the most hideous screeching. Don’t you want it?”
He nods in the direction of the strawberry Sherlock is still holding. Sherlock shakes his head.
“Give it to me, then,” is all John says, holding up his hand. Sherlock lets the fruit fall in the soft patch of flesh hidden among the calluses of the palm.
“We cleaned the lakes this spring,” John says, depositing the strawberry into his basket. “Old Jem helped me. I hope you’ll value the work.”
“I’ll go swimming every day, John. I look forward to it.”
“Good.”
With the use of his hands John struggles to his feet. Sherlock bends to hand him the basket. John doesn’t reach any higher than Sherlock’s fringe; he has to tip his head back to look Sherlock in the eye.
“You withstood Nanny’s sympathy?” he asks.
Sherlock can feel the right corner of his lips quirk in approval of John’s acuity. “Yes.”
“Good boy.” A quick pat on Sherlock’s shoulder and a wink. “Mostly, she means well. She loves you all very much, you should always remember that.”
Not a word about Sherlock’s ordeal. Yet John knows and understands, better than Nanny, better than Matron and the Housemaster, better even than Mycroft.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice is a croak.
“Yes?”
“Do you think… will you be able… let’s swim together tomorrow.”
John smiles. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”
“I’d like that, John. I’d like that very much.”
***
They eat in silence. Michael, obviously, has received instructions. Mummy, equally obviously, hasn’t been told. She’s on her feet the moment Mycroft has finished his second helping of Eton mess.
“I’ll be up in my room,” she informs them in quivering tones. Her attempt to rest her napkin on the table ends in it fluttering down to the floor. “Oh.” A sob of frustration and she’s stalking out of the room next. “Nanny, where are you?” they hear her shouting up the stairs. Michael throws Mycroft a worried look.
All Mycroft does is sigh and shrug his shoulders. After a quick glance in Sherlock’s direction Michael reaches over the table to grasp Mycroft’s hand.
“My, I’m so sorry.” His eyes are locked on Mycroft’s. The knuckles of his balled fist stand out white against the skin of his hand. To Sherlock’s disgust Mycroft lays his other hand on top of Michael’s. A shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine, he feels his stomach heave, threatening to bring up the two bites of Eton mess he managed to swallow earlier.
“My.” Mycroft tolerates that blockhead calling him “My.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft breathes.
Oh, for crying out loud.
With an abrupt gesture Sherlock pushes back his chair. “I’ll go tell Cook we’ll have coffee on the terrace.”
“Yes please, Sherlock.”
When he comes back on the terrace Mycroft and Michael are side by side, smoking, while holding hands, their fingers entwined.
Resolutely averting his eyes Sherlock strides off to the chair closest to the edge of the terrace and flings himself into it, staring out at the garden with blind eyes.
Behind him Mycroft and Michael break apart and seat themselves at opposite sides of the table.
Good.
Michael’s stare bores into the back of his head and Sherlock is convinced he can hear him thinking aloud, ‘you nasty, spoiled little brat’.
Well, let him think.
***
A brief knock on his door. He closes the book he was reading and pushes himself up to a sitting position.
“Enter.”
Mycroft opens the door. “Do you mind if I come in?”
“No.” Sherlock moves his arm in a gesture of welcome. “No, of course not.”
“Thank you.” Mycroft walks over to the window and perches down on the window seat. After a brief hesitation Sherlock places himself next to him. His arm rubs against Mycroft’s. Mycroft continues sitting, easy and relaxed, and Sherlock lets his arm rest there, in Mycroft’s warmth.
“Are you glad to be home?” Mycroft makes his opening move.
“Yes.” Sherlock rejoins. “I went swimming together with John this morning and we visited Daddy’s grave after.”
“Good, that’s good. I haven’t been there for far too long but I understand John is keeping everything shipshape.”
“It’s the best maintained grave in the cemetery.”
“Ah well.” Discreetly, Mycroft scrapes his throat behind the screen of his hand. “There’s no better man in the realm to devote himself to the sad task.”
“No, I guess not.”
“No. Tell me, Sherlock, are you sleeping better? Now you’re back home.” His innocuous question is another demonstration of Mycroft’s uncanny ability to lay his finger on the sore spot. Sherlock gulps.
“Not really,” he confesses.
Mycroft turns to look at him, his gaze slowly travelling up and down Sherlock’s form. “And you’re eating less well than I’d hoped you would. Cook is none too happy.”
“I explained to her…” Mycroft’s arm around his shoulder silences him. Suddenly he’s crying. Huge, racking sobs ripple through his body, one undulating wave after another, set rolling by an earthquake that stirred the bottom of the sea, deep inside his chest.
“There,” Mycroft murmurs. “There, there. Just cry, Sherlock. Let it all come out.” His fingers trail through Sherlock’s hair, scratching his scalp soothingly. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
Mute, Sherlock nods, Mycroft’s finger pads hitting the strands of his hair like piano hammers.
“Apologies,” he sniffles. “I try to fight it, this self-pity, I know it’s stupid.”
“No,” Mycroft says. “I forbid you to think that way. You’re making progress, Sherlock. I just wonder, maybe you’re too harsh on yourself. Also, are you certain you want to stay at that school? My offer to find you a tutor and come live with me still stands.”
“No!” Sherlock is astonished by his own vehemence. “I’m not a coward nor am I the one that should be ashamed. Fleeing that school would be the easy way out, not for me, but for them. Let them look at me, I don’t care. I don’t have friends anyway.” His hand flashes up to signal his dismissal of the notion.
“This sounds more like self-pity to me.” Mycroft’s voice is soft, a gentle reproach but still it’s too much. Instantly, it kindles a fire of hot anger in Sherlock’s chest and the next moment he has wrung himself free from Mycroft’s comforting arm.
“They’re all idiots,” Sherlock shouts. “I refuse to give them the satisfaction.”
“Sherlock, you talk as if your fellow pupils, the masters themselves, are your enemies. They’re not. At least, I made sure the school got rid of the ones that were.”
“You had Mr Harrow sacked. I liked him.”
“He should have informed the Headmaster what happened during those rehearsals. He should have informed me. If he had done so I could have prevented… what you had to endure.” The combination of pompousness and sincerity on Mycroft’s face would be laughable in any other situation. Now, it’s almost an invitation to resort to violence.
Instead, Sherlock settles with gritting his teeth. “You’re not God himself, Mycroft, though I think you like to consider yourself so. That school is nothing but a hive of sex-crazed morons. No matter how hard you try, I won’t see it differently. But at least I’ve got one advantage now. No more team sports, no more acting and no more playing in the school orchestra. I’ll continue my studies there but I don’t want to interact with anyone.”
“Sherlock. What’s the difference with being tutored at home then?” Mycroft’s genuine puzzlement is what hurts the most.
“Can’t you see that, Mycroft?” he screams, suddenly unable to keep his temper. “Do you really not understand? Once I had it all, I had the best tutor of all the possible tutors in the world. And then you decided I had to go to that horrid school. You were the one that chucked me out of paradise, straight into hell. Now you come and want to rescue your poor little brother that got himself raped, to clear your conscience. I won’t let you, Mycroft. It’s my hell and I’ll wallow in it!”
His accusations are not wholly justified, he would have been sent to school at the age of twelve, even if Daddy had still been alive he would have had to say goodbye to Mr Talbot anyhow. Even while he’s raging his frustration at Mycroft a voice in his head tells him so but he blithely ignores it, for it feels good to be angry and Mycroft is blanching most gratifyingly under the onslaught of his outrageous words.
He must be hitting some nerves then. Emboldened, he overrides the surging instinct to quit his shouting and attempt a return to the more tranquil atmosphere of goodwill that reigned in the room until just a few minutes ago.
There’s always time to do that – later – but for now he’ll enjoy the pandemonium. Enjoy it for the time it lasts.
***
He hates the snivelling, whimpering sounds that float down the corridor from behind the door of his mother’s room. He hates his mother for being so weak, so stupid. Allowing herself to become nothing but an addict, desperate for her pills. Christ, he won’t ever let that happen, even though he’s very glad right now with the leftover stock from his raid last Christmas. All he has to do is to avail himself of some more before the holiday ends – it would be bad form to ask Matron for some more and besides, he likes Mummy’s little blue ones far better. If only she would get out of that room so he could sneak in and lay his hand on a few strips.
***
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Ah, hello, Sherlock? What a coincidence to have you answering the phone.”
Sherlock cocks his eyebrows. “Well, it’s the summer holidays, where else would I be? How are you, Mr Whitall?”
“Oh, yes. This is me of course. How did you know?” Mr Whitall’s tone is all gratifying, genuine amazement.
“I have absolute pitch and tonal memory,” Sherlock informs the violinist.
Mr Whitall laughs. “I could’ve expected that answer. How are you, Sherlock? I’d love to see you again. That’s why I called, to invite you to tea and to make a proposition.”
“A proposition? How intriguing. Where do you want to meet? I can cycle into the village and we can have tea in the tea shop over there. I don’t have any money, though.”
“Oh no.” Mr Whitall laughs again. “No Sherlock, I’d like to invite you to tea to an address that will be very familiar to you. For you see, I’ve decided to settle in England once more, and… well… I’ve always loved the house and I thought it would be fitting to continue the musical tradition– ”
“You bought Mr Mancini’s house,” Sherlock rounds up the convoluted explanation.
“Yes.”
“And you’re offering to take over from Mr Mancini,” continues Sherlock.
“Well, yes, Sherlock,” Mr Whitall confirms, sounding nervous all of a sudden. “That is, if you haven’t found yourself another teacher of course, because, you with your obvious talent. Christ, just listen to me, or don’t rather. I’ve never had pupils, so, maybe I’m being presumptuous.” His voice trails off.
“Not at all,” Sherlock assures him. “When would you like to meet?”
“This afternoon, around four-ish?”
“Fine. I’ll ask my brother to drop me off. Goodbye.”
“Sherlock, no, please. I can come over and collect you,” Mr Whitall interjects before Sherlock can replace the receiver.
Sherlock smirks. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr Whitall,” he replies. “My brother will love to be of service.”
***
The house is just the same as Sherlock remembers it, except for the garden – which shows that plenty of time and well-directed effort will make even the most deprived earth in the whole of England blossom into flowery abundance – and the harpsichord that stands in the great bow window.
“I’m not a very good player but I love the sound,” Mr Whitall explains. “It helps me to wind down after a long concert tour.”
They’re sitting in the small back garden, drinking their tea. It doesn’t taste too bad, considering the way it was prepared. Sherlock watched with growing astonishment how Mr Whitall plunked two bags into each mug, added boiling water, topped the concoction off with a liberal splash of milk straight out of the fridge and after three minutes started fishing around with a spoon to whip out the teabags. Sherlock hadn’t even known tea was available in these bags. It does seem a way more handy way to brew the stuff though the taste leaves something to be desired.
No doubt Cook would suffer a fatal stroke if she knew the apricot cherry cake she imposed upon Sherlock was to accompany such a barbaric draught.
“Nothing like the true brew,” Mr Whitall sighs contentedly after another sip. “That’s what I miss the most whenever I’m not in England, a good cuppa.”
Dutifully, Sherlock nods.
“Now, what did you play during the last school concert?” Mr Whitall asks.
A searching glance proves that he doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t know. Why should he? It’s not as if the whole world should be cognisant of Sherlock’s ordeal. In fact, he’d rather prefer nobody was aware of it.
“I was indisposed,” Sherlock informs Mr Whitall.
“Oh, what a pity.”
“Not really. They’re all second-rate players anyway, not a shred of talent among them.”
Mr Whitall does look rather taken aback, both at the judgment and at the speed with which it is being delivered. He cocks his eyebrows. “Ahem, don’t you think you’re a bit harsh?”
“No, I’m not,” Sherlock answers decisively. “In my primary school there was a boy who played the cello and he was a proper musician. I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of playing with you and Mr Mancini, and I’ve been to Glyndebourne and the Royal Albert Hall a few times. I know what an orchestra is supposed to sound like. Those inept morons wouldn’t know how to perform anything by John Philip Sousa.” He accompanies his estimate with a depreciating gesture of his hand.
Mr Whitall smiles around his bite of apricot cherry cake. “Are they that bad? Surely you’re exaggerating. At least, I hope so. Never mind. Look Sherlock. I honestly don’t understand why you haven’t started looking for another teacher after Mr Mancini’s death. And, like I told you, I’ve never had pupils, and besides, I don’t think there is much I can teach you. And I’m definitely not flattering you with that remark. Your talent is clearly bigger than mine ever was But…” He looks down at his hands, flexing and stretching his fingers. “You need someone to play with. I thought I could accompany you on the harpsichord. See whether I can direct you.”
“I’d like that, Mr Whitall. I’d like that very much. I didn’t want another teacher, not after Mr Manicini. I realise I’d have to start looking for one, obviously, if I want to improve my playing. I can’t teach myself, I understand that.”
“No.” Mr Whitall stands and wanders over to the Constance Spry rose that has been valiantly trailing the garden wall through aeons of neglect. Now, it’s in full bloom, the big pink flowers swaying elegantly in the gentle breeze. “Whatever Mr Mancini was, and well, you’ll agree with me he was the best teacher one could wish for, he wasn’t much of an enthusiastic gardener, shame on him. Such a lovely rose, and he let it run to waste.” Bending over, he sniffs deeply. “Delicious. Well, shall we go inside? I’ve found us the music of Bach’s sonata in C minor. Let’s just start working from that. And you should also think about a piece of your own to play in the next school concert. Give the poor audience just one thing that’s actually worth listening to.”
***
Swiftly, he counts the number of strips with the little blue pills. There are twenty-one of them. He tries to warp his mind around the information. Their GP, that quiet, unobtrusive man, cloaked in a genteel light-grey summer raincoat of respectability that Sherlock encountered in the hall only two days ago, is in fact nothing but a drug dealer.
Does Mycroft even know? Sherlock runs the question in his mind before concluding that, indubitably, he must do. After all, he’s the one signing the bills. The steeply rising bills, for the drawer contains even more goodies than the last time he went through it. So, between the two of them they must have decided a subdued Mummy whiling away her time at home, is far preferable to a deranged Mummy screaming her head off in an asylum. Well, Sherlock can’t detect any flaw in that logic. Especially not when he’s the one to reap the beneficial side effects of the arrangement.
It’s a relief he doesn’t have to take his own dealer responsibilities into account anymore as those idiots won’t return the next term, having gone off to indulge their nasty habits at some university. All he has to consider are his own needs and those are simple enough. His sole aim is to keep the nightmares at bay. All he needs is anything, anything to repress them.
***
The school. It’s a journey he has to fulfil, apparently, even though he does not see the point of it. Nothing but a journey. How fitting it would be if the school gates were embellished with those dreadful words, Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'entrate.
Each day grinds on, lacklustre and dull, and virtually endless. His refusal to partake any longer in the lessons and activities of all the dreadful, infuriating bores gives him, briefly, a minor thrill. Mr Dickson expresses his serious disappointment when Sherlock tells him he won’t play in the school orchestra any longer. Mr Harrow’s successor invites him for a serious talk, bewailing the school’s loss of two of their best actors, but Sherlock just smiles and remains mute throughout the whole interview.
“Of course I understand you lived through a horrid experience.”
No, you don’t, you stupid twat! You understand fuck-all. How could you? Hell, your eyes are practically eating me, you slimy pervert. You’d better stop your arguing now, or I’ll go to the Headmaster right this minute and tell him he’s hired himself a pederast.
His message is all too clear. A colour creeps up the cheeks of Mr Harrow’s successor, he falters, wipes his hands on a kerchief he fishes out of his jacket pocket, and suddenly stands to announce the decision is, naturally, Sherlock’s to make and he doesn’t want to impose on his time any longer.
Even stupid, insufferable Coach looks dejected when Sherlock informs him sweetly he’s been granted absence from any team sports until he should want to participate again. Which is, frankly, never, but the fool doesn’t need to know that. Sherlock’s long legs and physical agility have served the school very well, withstanding Coaches bellowed protestations to the contrary. To casually conclude his dealings with the unspeakable boor is one of the most exhilarating things Sherlock has ever undertaken in his life.
Indulging these random raids of churlish behaviour, sanctified by his suffering, is gratifying while they last but their exhilarating effect has already worn off after a few hours. He continues his experiments under the benevolent eye of Mr Beckett, perusing the newspapers for interesting puzzles that baffle the police, and takes to playing his violin during the night as a means to ward off the nightmares, and infuriate his housemates both. Sadly, as Christmas draws nearer the brief effect of blissful liberation the blue pills provided him with starts wearing off.
For a while he contemplates taking two, but Mummy’s condition serves as a severe warning. That is something he will simply never allow to happen. Instead, he succumbs to the equally satisfying but far less dangerous ecstasy of cigarettes. The habit brings the advantage of the kick of nicking them out of the most unlikely places. The high he experiences when near the end of the last term he manages to extract a packet out of his neighbour’s trouser pocket during yet another excruciating Sunday service, nearly surpasses the gratification he feels when he sits puffing one of his prizes in his hideout in the copse later that afternoon.
***
“All right,” David says. “I must be off again, Sherlock. We’ve got loads of work at the garage and I could barely spare the time.”
“My apologies for the inconvenience, David. And Mycroft’s as well. He kept repeating I must tell you we owe you and to send him a massive bill.”
“He needn’t worry,” David winks, and hops into the car. “See you, Sherlock.”
With screeching wheels he turns on the gravel and drives off, his hand emerging from the window to wave. Sherlock waves after him, before bending and picking up his suitcase.
He frowns at the state of the terrace stairs. Weeds are growing in the cracks between the steps. The terrace itself is in an equally bad condition. A shiver of alarm ripples down Sherlock’s spine. John would never allow for the terrace to deteriorate to its present condition. Something must be wrong…
Inside, he catches sight of Nanny hurrying up the stairs on her way to an impending crisis. She doesn’t even look back, so he surmises she hasn’t heard him enter. He puts his suitcase next to the vestibule and makes straight for the door to the servant stairs.
Downstairs in the kitchen Brenda is just coming in through the backdoor carrying an untidy bunch of carrots, an inexpertly cut off crop of salad and a wicker basket filled with bruised raspberries.
“Dear God,” Cook chokes. “Is there nothing you can do right, you stupid girl?”
“Sherlock?” Brenda breathes. Cook spins round on her heels to comical effect. For a moment she resembles nothing so much as a fluffy white ball.
“Sherlock,” she cries and bounces over to stand on tiptoe and kiss him on his cheek. “My dear boy. David was quick about it, then. You’ll be desperate for some tea. Nanny has just gone up to your Mum, she’s not at all well, the poor woman, and we were just about to have some. I just needed me some raspberries to decorate the chocolate cake and now this…”
“Where’s John?” Sherlock cuts in on her litany of grievances, whether imagined or justified, the difference being of no consequence to him.
Cook sighs. “Well, you’d better sit down, Sherlock, and have yourself a cuppa and a slice… it will taste nice enough, even without the raspberries.” The last words are accompanied with an accusing glance in the direction of Brenda’s fleeing form.
“No,” Sherlock says. “Where’s John?”
“Sit down, Sherlock.” Cook presses him into a seat with a firm hand. “There’s a good boy. Here’s your tea. John is at home, probably. He’s not been well these last few weeks. Didn’t say a word, silly man, but last week after we’d had our tea he suddenly winced and it was obvious he was in a lot of pain.”
During her explanation she provides him with the tea, pouring it out of the pot and adding a splash of lemon and two spoons of sugar, just the way he likes it. “I told him to visit the doctor, but well, you know him, he’s nothing if not stubborn. Hopefully Mycroft will have a word with him. He won’t be too pleased once he sees what the place looks like. Not that John hasn’t tried, mind you. Sherlock, where are you going?”
Sherlock is already near the back door.
“I’m off to see John,” he says and then he’s out the door and running to the gatehouse. It’s close to a mile, around the big pond, but he manages to cover the distance in just under seven minutes nevertheless. Once he grinds to a stop near the front door he hesitates. It seems a bit formal to ring the bell. Instead, he rounds the house and knocks on one of the backdoor’s windowpanes before lowering the door handle.
“John?” he calls out as he enters what’s obviously the main corridor. It’s strange to think in all the sixteen years of his life he’s passed the gatehouse numerous times but never actually been inside. For him, John’s domain has always been the shed, not this unfamiliar building.
“John!” He tries again, but there’s no answer. The door on his left opens onto the kitchen, obviously, and the one lying next to it must lead to the guardroom, so he raps his knuckles on the door to his right and opens it as he gets no answer.
His breath catches in his throat at the sight of the quiet form draped over the couch but suddenly the figure splutters and coughs and jolts upwards, causing the cushion and the photo album that were resting on its stomach to crash onto the floor.
“John!” Sherlock is nearly shouting with relief, even though John’s wasted appearance has given him a profound shock.
“John.” The next instant finds him on his knees beside his beloved friend, reaching for the cushion, his lips curl involuntarily as he descries its Union Jack pattern, stashing it behind John’s back.
“John,” he says again, his voice thick with relief.
John smiles up weakly at him. “Hello, Sherlock. What are you doing here?”
“I noticed the state of the terrace, and Brenda was gathering the veggies – doing it all wrong – and Cook told me you’re sick and refuse to go to the doctor, and… you must go to the doctor, John,” Sherlock babbles wildly. Before he realises his intent he has extended his hand and clasped John’s fingers in his, pressing them hard. He doesn’t let go until John winces.
“I’m sorry. I was so worried,” he whispers, letting go of John’s fingers and sitting back on his haunches.
“It’s fine, Sherlock,” says John. “It’s my fault really. I should be up and about instead of lying here, wasting your brother’s time.” Valiantly attempting to hide the grimace on his face he pushes himself up.
“No, John, stay.” Sherlock pushes John down on the sofa. “I’ll go and make us some tea.”
“Sherlock, no, I can’t allow you.”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Please, John, I insist.”
Five minutes later he carries the tea tray into the living room to catch John in the act of stashing something into the sideboard. Upon his entry John turns around and the object falls from his trembling grasp.
“Sherlock,” he whimpers. His eyes are filled with the trepidation of a child that’s aware it’s incurred its parents’ wrath.
Hastily, Sherlock places the tray on a side table and walks up to John.
“You’d better lie down,” he says, bringing up his hand to steady John and then his gaze follows John’s and he gasps.
“Oh.” He sinks down to the floor and picks up the perfect small portrait bust, his fingers clamping themselves around the carved whorls and curls of his hair, as he looks down on the lines and planes of his face. Or no, not his face, Daddy’s face. He recognises the quiet laughter in the wooden dead eyes. His eyes never smile like that.
“Daddy?” he asks, but it’s not really a question and suddenly he understands. John nods and now he’s the one that has to help Sherlock leverage himself up from the bare floorboards and onto the sofa where they end up sitting next to each other, the bust nestled in John’s callused hands, cradled more tenderly than a babe in its mother’s arms.
“There’s more of them upstairs.” John lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “This one was nearly finished, only the collar left to be done. Somehow, that’s always difficult, to show how his throat rose from the collar, but then… Christ, he had such a beautiful throat. So long… and… oh.”
The bust drops into John’s lap and his hands fly up to cover his face.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. To you, with what happened, and well, you’re not like… oh damn… oh, damn it all.”
“Perhaps you should have some tea, John,” Sherlock says, astonished at the steadiness of his own voice. But then, he finds, he already knows what John is going to tell him. Has in fact been aware for as long as he can remember. The way they looked at each other while they were busy in the apiary, John’s reddened eyes when Daddy died. And the next moment Sherlock is back in the blue morning room, on his knees next to the sofa studying Daddy’s nails through his magnifier, and he hears Daddy’s voice, which – he realises with a sudden start – is so much like his own, “I do hope you will find a John of your own one day Sherlock, because we all need a John. Just promise me one thing, if you do find him make sure you treat him better than I did mine.”
“Yes, be calm and drink tea,” John sniffs. “The great British solution to end all misery. Oh God, Sherlock. I miss him, I miss him every day of my life.”
“John… I –”
“He was my one true love. And I his. God, the plans we made. He was going to be a famous violinist, and I would be his chauffeur and general busybody, and together we were going to conquer the world. Here…” His face contorted with pain, he reaches down next to him to retrieve the, now closed, photo album, and positions it in Sherlock’s lap.
“There, that’s us. Young and madly in love with each other. You don’t have to look if you think it’s disgusting. You… real love, to truly love another person is the most wonderful thing that can ever happen to you, Sherlock. I… well, we grew up together of course, to me, at first, he was nothing but that annoying toddler that followed me everywhere, and then he became the kid I taught to swim and how to make a fire, and all the other mischief boys get into…” The afternoon light that falls through the window panes lights up his face, throwing its aging lines in stark relief with the misty softness of his eyes.
“Are you sure you don’t want the tea, John?” Sherlock interrupts him. “It will give your hands something to hold onto.” He himself is in desperate need of some tea. For he’s still not quite sure whether he wants to listen to this, whether he will be able to stomach what John is telling him. But John is his friend, and – Sherlock realises – aching to tell his story to sympathetic ears. Most of all, John is the person that, after Sherlock, must love Daddy, the remembrance of Daddy, the most. More than Mycroft, more than Mummy, decidedly more than Mummy ever could. Even the thought that they must have engaged in… that isn’t as repulsive as he’d have reckoned it to be, had he ever considered the notion.
“No, John. You must kiss me first. After ‘I take’.”
“What? No! I can’t do that.”
“What? Why ever not?” Now he knows why, doesn’t he? If he hadn’t been blind he would have known then. Everyone else must know.
“Oh yes,” John sighs. “Mycroft knows. Your mother took care to start poisoning him early enough. You were your father’s boy, always, she knew she wouldn’t have a chance, not with you… And Mr Talbot saw it, of course, but all he did was pity me. Perhaps… but no, once Sherlock had decided he was duty-bound to love your mother he managed it. She was… when he first brought her here, oh, she was besotted with him. Oh God, I could have killed her, killed her with the jealousy… for she had stolen what was mine. Or well, that’s what it felt like. There was no other way, I understood that. If he hadn’t made the choice himself, I would have forced him to. Selling the estate that had been his family’s since… since… I believe it was his great-great-grandfather that bought it.”
John shakes his head and caresses the wooden cheek resting in his lap. “Your mother found out about us three months into the marriage. She caught us looking at each other, just a look, but it was enough. She was sharp, and jealous, always jealous. We… Sherlock, you must believe me, the night he came down from Oxford to tell me he’d found your mother and asked for her hand, was the last night we spent together. He hasn’t been unfaithful to your mother, not once, not so much as a kiss, even though I was half-mad with longing sometimes. Once, working together in the orchard his arm accidentally brushed mine and it felt like fireworks had erupted all over my arm and he was the boy I’d once been free to make love to, to hold… he had been mine, body and soul.”
“Oh God,” John shudders. “I’m but a simple man, Sherlock. Of course I considered going away, I wasn’t that old, only thirty-one, but all I could do was garden work and besides, the thought of never seeing him again. Christ no, never. If I had to live in hell I’d rather do it where I could at least rest my eyes on him every now and then. And then you were born and it was like I was hurled back in time for even as a babe you were the spitting image of him, and then you grew bigger and I had to love you, love you so much for in you I saw him and…” Suddenly he clasps his hand in front of his mouth, “Not like that, Sherlock, never like that. I know you are his child, I would never…”
“Hush, John,” Sherlock shushes. “I understand.” He laughs, short and panicked. “God, John. I… I don’t know what to make of all this. I should have known, should have observed better, suddenly so much is clear to me. Nanny’s attitude. Mummy’s hatred of you. Christ, she must loathe the thought of someone having loved her precious Sherlock even better than she was capable of.”
“No, Sherlock. That’s wrong. Your mother loved your Daddy,” John protests.
“As she demonstrates so well by the devoted care she bestows upon the upkeep of his grave,” snarls Sherlock. “Christ, John. How could he do this to you? To you of all men?”
“He had no choice, Sherlock. He had less freedom than I had. I could have gone away but he had to save the estate.”
“Really? I don’t see why.”
“Oh,” John waves his hand impatiently. “That’s just stupid and you know it, Sherlock. Or you should ask Mycroft if you don’t. He could explain it well enough. In the real world one doesn’t choose the gardener over the estate. Those fairy stories only happen in novels.”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows questioningly and John sighs. “Lady Chatterley’s lover. We all read it because it was forbidden and for the racy sex. Not that it was to my taste exactly, but well…” His voice trails off and he rubs his hands over his face again. “Your Daddy made the right decision,” he concludes.
His hands brush the bust again while Sherlock takes another sip of his tea. What John is saying has a ring of truth to it for if Daddy had decided otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting here next to John. But then, if Daddy had made that other choice – the one that feels so much like the right choice – he himself would still be alive, and now…
“Look, Sherlock,” John interrupts his thoughts. “After what that boy did to you, and well, you’re different from anyone your age I’ve ever known, I beg your pardon for speaking so freely to you. So I hope hearing this old man confess that, yes, he fell madly in love with your Daddy when your Daddy was but fourteen years old, and yes, he kissed your Daddy with your Daddy’s consent when your Daddy was all but sixteen, doesn’t revolt you too much. I loved him, Sherlock, loved him with all my heart. Every day I wish it had been me that was blown to bits that day and, oh God, the thought they did that to him, to his beautiful body, to my darling love… Oh, my love…”
To Sherlock’s dismay he starts to cry, vehemently, his shoulders heaving with the effort.
“John, please,” Sherlock says, but he’s lost him, at least for now and perhaps letting go of his tears will help John. Briefly, Sherlock considers stroking John’s arm before deciding John would probably prefer not being touched. Instead, Sherlock opens the album on his lap. It’s mostly photographs of Daddy and, except for the cut of the clothes, it’s like looking at himself in a mirror. There are some photographs of Daddy and John together, posing for a camera that’s set up on a tree stump or other flat surface. The look they throw each other is the look Mycroft and Michael share sometimes, or the looks he remembers from Daddy and Mummy, but this one is more intense, more profound. Sherlock drags up his memories of Daddy and wonders, has he ever seen Daddy look this carefree and completely, genuinely happy? He can’t remember.
Twisting his mouth he closes the album with a loud thud.
“John,” he says. “Thank you for telling me, John. I must think about this. It’s… well… it’s all been a bit much, to be honest. I came to see how you’re doing. Are you… is there anything you want me to do for you?”
John lifts his head out of his hands, eyes red from crying. He sniffs. “No, no, it’s best you go now, Sherlock. You can come back, tomorrow if you’d like to. Don’t worry about me, it’s nothing, just stomach pains. It will pass.”
“Fine. I mean, if you think it’s fine. I… I’m so sorry John. I’m so sorry for everything that happened. And for not grasping it, earlier. Please, I’ve never wanted to hurt you. You must believe me.”
He’s gibbering again, unsure what to so with himself. Somehow, it feels wrong to leave John in his present state. On the other hand, he really doesn’t know what to say, how to comfort his friend. He needs to be by himself now, to make sense of what he’s heard.
He turns back but John intercepts him with a shooing motion of his hand and a brave attempt at a smile. Momentarily, Sherlock wavers only to find himself on the doorstep all of a sudden. “I’ll be off then,” he says. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and… John, thank you. Thank you for loving Daddy so much.”
End of Book III.