Chapter Text
Mike Stamford was my closest friend when I was 14.
From a far wealthier background than myself but never posh or condescending about it, we found each other quite incidentally as the two newcomers to Bramblefield during the autumn of a cold and unforgiving year that had forced me not only to abandon my mother’s home but also my sister, to go to this wretched facility called a boarding school. There I was far inferior than most, in both rank and finance, but also physically, as Mike and I were among the shortest of the bunch and he also had the misfortune to be rather plump, to the great joy of all bullies assembled there during our first schoolyear.
This was the starting point of our acquaintance, but it soon developed into a genuine friendship and by the time spring burst into summer and our first schoolyear was at an end, it was decided that I should join him for the holiday to a place in Norfolk where relatives of his were residing.
The place was called Donnithorpe, an ancestral manor in the depths of the area, and even if he had described the place beforehand, nothing could prepare me for the amazement I felt when I first saw its silhouette ascend behind the threes on our way there. It was magnificent and far grander than I could have ever anticipated. I could hardly fathom that I was going to spend my whole summer there, in this mansion sprung right out of a fairytale, complete with towers, a maze in the garden, luscious trees and an enormous fountain in front of it.
Mike’s parents lived in India and had sent their only son to England for a proper education. Instead of transferring him back home when summer came, and the monsoon season ravaged their residence outside Bombay, Mike was to spend his holiday with relatives in Norfolk, in the care of the Holmes family, a couple by the name of Vernet, as well as some other acquaintances.
They in turn rented the house from a Mr Charles Augustus Magnussen who was the real owner of the estate. It had once belonged to the Holmes family, but some sort of financial crisis and bad luck had forced them to sell it to Mr Magnussen a couple of years ago. The man himself had not been in England at the time of the purchase but abroad, fighting in the Boer war, therefore he had accepted that the family continued living there as long as he remained out of the country.
“It’s the grandest estate in all of Norfolk my father says. Mrs. Holmes was quite heartbroken when forced to give it up, even if the family was allowed to stay on for a couple of years,” Mike told me as we sat in the carriage, taking us from the train station to our new home for the next couple of weeks.
Mr and Mrs Holmes died two years ago, leaving behind two sons who now lived on the estate but really had nowhere to go after summer was over, as the real owner, Mr Magnussen, finally had returned to England and was eager to settle down. He had been most generous and even allowed the brothers to stay during the whole summer, but time was swiftly running out and even if no one talked about it publicly, it was a great mystery where they would end up when autumn came.
Mycroft Holmes was the older son. 24 years of age but looking slightly older. Tall and somewhat plump, with a stern and serious face, adorned with an unfortunate beak of a nose and a weak chin, black receding hair, hinting of auburn and a faint spatter of freckles, he still managed to look quite regal despite his appearance. His bearing saved him from falling prey to looks that easily could have made him seem ridiculous. Instead he carried himself with an air bordering on pompousness and fully managed an expression that made the people around him cower in respect if he demanded it.
Mike, who had met him several times over the years, said that he was a man of former glory that unfortunately had a hard time accepting his fate, despite otherwise being a very intelligent man, and he often lamented the fact that he had nothing in this world but himself, his younger brother and the small collection of heirlooms their parents had managed to save from the economical ruination.
It was a lot to take in and Mike didn’t even manage to scratch the surface of the whole story during the ride over, since two boys of 14 naturally had other things to talk about too.
Mycroft Holmes was the first person I saw when we arrived in front of the entrance. I recognized him immediately after the way Mike had described him, all the way down to the prominent nose and the way he carried himself, it could be no one else.
He stood on top of the stairs, immaculately dressed, and when I looked up at him, while handing my suitcase from school to the butler, I felt his scrutinizing stare as he observed us. He managed to disappear inside the house before we got a chance to introduce me though, so I got the feeling that he wasn’t too happy about our presence.
“Are you sure that it’s alright that I came with you here to spend the summer?” I asked, a little nervously, but Mike just beamed at me and nodded.
“Of course! We are the only children here and the grown-ups are glad if they are unburdened with the chore of entertaining me all summer. I wasn’t here last year, but two summers ago it was dreadfully boring without anyone to play with. Sherlock was only 15 back then but he had no interest in hanging around with me all day long. Besides, Mr and Mrs Holmes died that spring so the whole house was still in mourning during my visit.”
“Sherlock?”
“Mycroft’s younger brother. Although they don’t look like brothers at all. You’ll see when you meet him. He’s quite...special.”
The other residents of the house consisted of a Mr Gregory Lestrade, Mr Philip Anderson and his sister Anthea, two older cousins from the maternal side of the Holmes family by the name of Vernet and then of course the owner himself, Mr Charles Augustus Magnussen. He hadn’t really moved in yet and temporarily resided in a smaller house on the other side of the forest, Beecham Cottage, but he was free to come and go as he pleased while giving the two Holmes brothers time to prepare for their evacuation. Right now, he was apparently in London, conducting some business, but he was expected to arrive any day.
Mike and I were given shared accommodations in one of the towers and after taking a compulsory jump upon the enormous bed (at 14 we were a bit too old for that, but Mike insisted on it being a ritual he indulged in whenever he came to visit) he took me out to the roof terrace to show me the landscape that stretched far and wide. It was up there that he told me about the other residents of the household, including the members of staff that he was surprisingly familiar with despite only being an occasional summer guest.
It was on the way down again, through one of the enormous windows, that I first spotted him.
I didn’t know who he was then of course, but years later I would still remember that first sight I caught of him, languidly gliding down the stairs outside, towards a group of people gathered in the garden.
He was the most beautiful person I had ever laid eyes on and like no one I had ever seen before. Tall and willowy, with a slender frame and graceful movements, he descended the stairs, more like a cat than a human really. The hair was a cascade of curls the color of ebony, a stark contrast to his very fair skin with it’s delicate features consisting of high cheekbones, a pouty mouth and the most mesmerizing set of eyes I had ever seen. The sun made his hair shimmer in the light and the white shirt he was wearing showed off some pale skin at the collar, as he hadn’t bothered to button up properly. Beside the shirt he wore a pair of linen trousers with a belt that casually showed of his slim waist and he had both hands nonchalantly in his pockets as he loitered down the final steps and reached the lawn.
Considering the clothing of all the other men, including me and Mike who were still in our school uniforms, his outfit seemed almost improper in its casualness. Mycroft with his tweed outfit and the other men in waistcoats and jackets, seemed overdressed in comparison, although they were the ones with the correct attire.
“Who is that?” I whispered in awe.
I couldn’t help how my voice sounded full of admiration at the sight of him, but Mike didn’t comment on it, just cast a look outside the window to see what I was staring at.
“Oh, that’s Sherlock.”
“That’s Sherlock?”
Mike hadn’t been wrong when mentioning that the brothers looked nothing alike. They almost seemed like different species.
“Told you he was special,” Mike said. “But what I actually meant was his personality. “
“What about it?”
“You’ll see eventually. My mother says he’s the combination of a fox and a Tasmanian devil.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Mike shrugged, as if never contemplating the rather strange comparison his mother had made.” He’s almost as smart as his brother, but in a different way, more sly perhaps, so maybe that’s the fox part. He’s a bit sneaky too, can’t be trusted really. And he can be brutal sometimes. Does not suffer fools gladly and isn’t afraid to show it either.”
I looked out the window again and tried to piece together this information with the stunning creature gliding like a feline among the other guests in the garden. He didn’t look brutal at all, but I guess you had to experience him first hand to be the judge of that.
“Now, let’s go out and introduce you to everyone,” Mike beckoned, and I turned away from the window to follow him outside.
As we came down and joined the others out on the lawn, I could see Sherlock brushing past his brother, who was sitting down by a small table with a glass of something sparkling in front of him. I had never tasted alcohol before and briefly wondered if this might be the first time for me. It felt like the right place to indulge in novelties of all sorts.
“Sherlock! How nice of you to finally join us,” Mycroft said, as his younger brother didn’t stop or acknowledge him when passing. “Did you know that Charles is coming on Saturday? I’m sure he would be pleased to see you, as he managed to miss you the last time he was here.”
“Yes, how unfortunate,” I heard Sherlock mumble, as he continued away from his brother, toward a man with short brown hair who stood further apart from the others, cigarette in hand and a friendly face.
“I’m sure you’ll be willing to compensate for that mishap, won’t you?” Mycroft tried but Sherlock ignored him in favor of the other man and Mycroft gave up his attempt at getting his brother’s attention and instead turned toward Mike and myself.
“It’s rather stuffy outside today, even if the true summer heat hasn’t arrived yet. Go ask for some lemonade, Mike. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson could provide some from the kitchen.” Then he turned his attention to me. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, as I’m sure Mike has already informed you.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes. My name is John Watson,” I said and began to put forward my hand, but Mycroft had already turned his attention back to Mike again. He patted him firmly on the back in a gesture that could have been described as a show of affection if he didn’t make it look so opposite of that, more in line with a physical reprimand of sorts, even though Mike hardly would have had the time to do something to be reprimanded for. Then he swiveled his eyes back to me again.
“So, Mike here has told us you are a magician, John.”
I felt a heat creeping up my cheeks.
I hadn’t counted on information going both ways and this particular detail I would have preferred to keep between me and Mike. It was one thing mucking about in school with a bunch of tarot cards and a book of spells I had bought from an old curiosity shop at home. It was quite a different matter acknowledging it in front of this crowd, with their fancy clothes, impeccable manners and stretched-out vowels, that I dabbled in magic and read books about old folklore. It felt stupid and childish and I wished Mike hadn’t said anything about it.
“Oh, no. it’s nothing really...,” I tried, but Mike would have none of that.
“Don’t be so modest, John. He’s really good! He put a curse on Stapleton and Smith for bullying us and the next day they fell down a roof. “
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sherlock walking towards us now, hands still in his pockets, but curiosity obviously peaked.
“Well, I hope you won’t be putting any curses on us while you’re here, John,” Mycroft said wryly. I wasn’t sure if he was pulling my leg or if he was seriously worried that I would start waving a wand around the house, casting spells all over the place.
“Don’t worry. Only at school,” I assured him and shot my friend a stern look, willing him to shut up, but Mike was on a roll now, eager to share all the details, oblivious to my wish to drop the subject.
“He could have killed them if he had wanted to. In fact, he was rather generous for not doing so, they were horrible bullies, wouldn’t you agree, John?”
I wished Mike would just shut his mouth. It didn’t feel right that the first impression these people got of me was as some sort of vengeful child magician with a penchant for torturing bullies, even if at the time, it had felt quite pleasing seeing two of the most obnoxious boys at school limping around on crutches.
I hadn’t nearly as much magical powers as Mike believed I had, it was probably purely accidental that Stapleton and Smith happened to fall off the roof the day after I tried out a spell on them. Hearing about it now, outside the very limited world of our boarding school, it all sounded extremely silly.
“Well, you must be very powerful,” I heard a baritone voice behind me. As I turned around, there he was, right behind me. The tantalizing Sherlock Holmes.
My discomfort increased even more under his scrutinizing gaze, but he looked intrigued by Mike’s boasting of my powers.
“I wish you had been at my school. There were some boys who definitely deserved a curse or two while I was a pupil. Idiots of course, but still. Would have been satisfying to witness.”
“Sherlock, don’t talk such nonsense,” Mycroft chided but Sherlock ignored him.
“You must teach me some time. Maybe put a spell on the weather?” Sherlock gazed pointedly to the sky.” It would be lovely to have a hot summer for once. This place is awfully drafty and damp when it’s raining. Wouldn’t like to spend my last summer here cooped up inside all the time.”
Something resembling a fleeting look of pain crossed Mycroft’s features at Sherlock’s words, but it was gone in a second and replaced by his usual aloofness once more.
Sherlock looked down on me and I felt pinned to the ground by the intensity in his eyes. It was almost a bit dizzying.
“Could you do that for me, John?”
Everything he said sounded like purring, the deep voice resonating between his vocal chords in a way resembling a snake charmer mesmerizing his pet with a flute.
My tongue got stuck in my mouth and my mind went totally blank as I watched his eyes seemingly change color right in front of me. They were a strange mix of blue, green and grey with flecks of golden amber in them, one second intensely blue, the next a calming green. I had never seen anyone like him before.
“I could try,” I finally managed to say, and he smiled at me, causing me to bite my tongue to prevent me from grinning like a fool in return. Pathetic...
At that precise moment I felt as if I would do anything Sherlock Holmes asked of me. I had never felt anything like it before, almost as if standing in a tidal wave, or as I imagined standing in a tidal wave would feel like. It was overwhelming, I didn’t know what had come over me and it made me mentally gasp for air afterwards, when he moved on and left me standing alone with Mike and Mycroft.
Mycroft gave me a frowning look before rising from his seat and also walking away.
As I later that evening lay in the bed I shared with Mike and thought about the look Sherlock gave me as he said my name, it suddenly hit me that I might have fallen in love, for the very first time.
I didn’t know what loving someone for real felt like, because I hadn’t loved anyone but my mother and sister before, and that feeling was indeed very different from this.
But what else could it be?
The thought of Sherlock made my stomach feel a flutter inside and I grinned stupidly to myself as I lay there in the dark with his face emblazed in my mind. He was three years older than me and while that didn’t feel like a lot, at our age it did make quite a difference. 17 and 14, the difference between the last remains of being a child and the near beginning of adulthood lay between us with just those few years.
So even if I somehow had fallen for him, head over heels, it didn’t mean that I could do anything about those feelings. Strangely enough, that thought was somehow comforting. It meant I had to endure loving him in secret, but it also meant that I didn’t have to risk anything by pursuing him. He was simply too unattainable. I would be fully content with just being in his presence during the next couple of weeks and maybe fantasize about him in a very innocent schoolboy type of way until I found someone I could love for real.
I rose and went over to my suitcase that still was half unpacked on the floor by the wardrobe. In it were my magic cards and the book of spells. With the presence of Sherlock running through my veins like a raging fever that first night at Donnithorpe, I lighted a candle and procured the necessary spell to grant his wish coming true.
“Make this the hottest summer ever.” I whispered as I pricked the skin on my finger with a sharp pin and let the blood, oozing out, drop on to the lighted candle.