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2nd January
Harriet sleeps under the blankets stretched between the two of the firmest sticks, a half-eaten apple clutched in her hand. The lantern burns quietly next to her, giving way to the approaching dawn arriving from the east.
John is standing some distance away, arms relaxed by his sides, looking at the whitening horizon, the gold and red the sun brings with it and fills the sky gradually with the most magnificent spectrum of colours. There are still a few stars visible, twinkling peacefully, readying themselves for bed after a long night.
It is very cold but he is only wearing his shirt, his coat spread over Harriet’s hunched form along with the rest of the blankets. He does not feel the chill, but listens to the receding night around him, waits for the ghost of movement to come, cold fingers to wrap around his hand where the wedding ring is gleaming on his finger in the dim light, or around his middle where he was touched most often, strong arms embracing him from behind, blaring opposite to Harriet’s four-year-old’s arms wrapping themselves around him, her eyes staring into his, her laugh bubbling out so sharp and clear it always made him laugh as well.
He stands in the whitening darkness, the light from the lantern flickering behind him, almost going out with a sudden gush of wind, flickering and burning steadily again.
He stands in the dark dead country and waits.
\\
20th January
Returning to his office, Mr Anderson sees a familiar face in the small crowd by the tailor’s shop window. Sally’s brown hair gleams in the cold sunlight and she is leaning towards a friend who is clearly intrigued by what she has to tell.
Mr Anderson does not dare to go and greet them but bends his head down and hurries his steps down the street.
The office is quiet, his partner Mr Donovan having returned from his trip to one of the wealthier houses in London, where he has been invited to tune the piano forte of a young lady who has received the instrument as her 16th birthday present from an admirer. Mr Anderson slams his case on his desk and throws his coat and hat over the chair.
“Went to Holmes’?” Mr Donovan asks behind him.
Angry at both his partner for having insisted going to tune the piano forte, leaving only him in charge when the note from Holmes had come, and also at himself for believing Holmes’ tale about Sally being proposed to by the same man. There is no golden ring on the man’s finger yet and he had not seen one on Sally’s either.
There is no proof, no reason to be so furious.
He sighs deeply to breathe in a calming breath of air as well as to signal to his partner his feelings about having to have gone to Baker Street.
“He has acquired a Broadwood,” he replies, opening his case and taking out his book to mark down the completed errand.
“A beautiful piece! Old, but in perfect condition. And he doesn’t even play! Only scratches at his violin, while the piano sits there, unused. Tuned, but silent.”
\\
March 22nd
He had never been one to pray. He attended the church, enjoyed the quiet light pouring in through the glass windows, enjoyed the silent humming of the congregation as they sang the hymn, enjoyed the powerful voice of their priest as he spoke from the pulpit, his vowels round and soft, blaring opposite to his consonants. He was a country priest, born and raised in a little farm outside the town, only coming to the city after his family had died. John had liked him and the feeling was reciprocated. The priest lent him books and asked him to come to his house to play the small piano forte he had brought with him. Outside the church, the priest loved to hear earthly music. Though a pious man of God, he was moved to tears every time John played the music he loved, his own private praise to God.
He did not pray, but he believed. He attended the church, later for the memory of his mother, fingering her rosary at her funeral and several times after until the sorrow passed and he was able to kneel by the altar without seeing his mother kneeling next to him.
He does not see her now either, but thinks of her. In the strange country where he only knows a handful of people, is familiar with only a few places he can go to without being observed, the church is one of the last ones that can offer him any kind of quiet haven between Fenton House and Baker Street. He has been married here and he will be buried in the graveyard outside but this gives him no pleasure. Instead, he thinks of his mother in a similar church hundreds of miles away, buried in a similar graveyard, wishing he could be buried next to her like his father will be. Now he is to lie down next to his husband, buried by strange soil, another nameless Englishman after enough time has passed and the gravestones have begun to crumble.
The church deserted, he sits down in one of the middle pews, to the very end behind one of the pillars in case Father Henry in his own solitude would suddenly come in and decide to inflict his pastoral duties on him. He crosses his hands on his lap and bents his head, in case the priest would not wish to disturb a praying man, even a lonely priest like poor Father Henry.
Inspecting his fingers, the tips still tingling (partly from the excitement of being able to play, partly from exhaustion for having played so long again) his thoughts change from his mother to Sherlock. They often do now. He cannot think anymore without being reminded of the man somehow, by the way the light suddenly changes, or by the way someone laughs, or by the way his fingers itch like being pricked with needles after playing for hours with Sherlock’s hands roaming over him, stopping to inspect certain crooks of his body, old scars and small dents and freckles on his skin. The tingling grows stronger as he remembers how Sherlock had spent longer on the exposed top of his spine than on any other part of his body. Thumb pressing on the top column, fingers of his right hand caressing the skin on his shoulders, stopping on the left to press his fingernails in ---
“I want more lessons.”
His fingers feel like they are suddenly on fire. He jumps around to see Sherlock staring at him, sitting in the pew behind his, coat pulled on him in a hurry, hair in tangles like he has clutched it and then left it to stand up and let the wind take care of the rest.
John shrinks against the column at the words.
“I want more lessons,” Sherlock repeats.
John edges slowly towards the end of the pew, hand clutching the woodwork, the other one going protectively over the tin box around his neck.
Sherlock has risen to his feet and makes his way towards him, his open coat billowing behind him.
John stands up, tries run towards the further end of the pew but Sherlock’s hands catch his jacket, pull him back and push him against the column. The marble pillar covers what little light there is in the church, the candles flickering around them and casting long shadows to their left, their own the longest of them all, pressed close together as if coming from only one person.
Sherlock leans in.
“I want to see you more often,” he whispers. “Three times a week. James can spare you.”
John suddenly finds his courage that has fled him at the surprise of the manic man suddenly appearing behind him, wind-swept and eyes gleaming. He attempts to free his hands, wind his legs around Sherlock’s to make him lose his balance, but Sherlock cannot be moved. He stands tall and menacing, glaring down at John from his height, eyes going to his lips.
Behind the altar, somewhere in the church, a door clangs open. Brisk footsteps approach the nave, echoing from the walls, making the lights flicker as another door is opened closer and a small breeze sweeps through the corridors.
Not daring to breathe, John flinches against the column, attempting to crouch against it so that no one can see them from the altar or if they decide to walk down the nave to the church door. Sherlock, eyes sweeping around them frantically, notices the confessional and drags John in by the hand.
John is pressed fast against Sherlock’s chest in the darkness of the small wooden room, back of his knees pushing against the chair, attempting to maintain his balance only with his feet for his arms are held tightly against his sides by Sherlock’s iron grip. He has most likely trained himself to be able to pass unheard for John cannot even catch the sound of his breathing. He, however, seems to be making too much noise for Sherlock’s liking. A hand is clapped against his mouth and nose, smothering both a whimper and a desperate attempt to draw in air. Sherlock presses his hand firmer against his face and hisses in his ear for him to be quiet.
The steps have reached the altar now and are making their way down the nave, moving slowly, stopping every once in a while for a moment before continuing again. Over Sherlock’s shoulder, John can see in the light streaming through between the gap in the curtain Father Henry moving down the nave, inspecting every pew as he passes them, making sure that everything is in order.
The stuffiness in the box is becoming unbearable. John attempts to squirm against Sherlock’s hold, only making him clutch his arms firmer, hissing again in his ear. The dust they disturbed when entering is settling down again and John thinks for a moment the horrid irony of it all if he is to sneeze and expose them both. He tries to move again and Sherlock presses closer, pushing him against the back wall, digging his legs into the chair. His mouth moves from John’s ear to his temple as he turns his head to hear better.
The steps move away until they can hear a sharp clang from the entrance hall, then Father Henry returns, briskly this time, walks past the altar and through the door he has come from, closing it behind himself.
Sherlock does not move yet, listening to any change in the receding pattern of Father Henry’s steps, his feet taking him further and further away, until he dares to breathe again and to look down at John who is slumped against the wall like a ragdoll, only held in place by Sherlock’s body.
Sherlock loosens his grip and John’s fingers go up to clutch the grille. He is staring down at his feet, his breathing erratic, his heartbeat pounding in his neck as Sherlock places his fingers over it, clutching at his throat lightly.
“Three times a week.”
John closes his eyes, shaking his head. He does not have the time, James will find out, he will be suspicious of so many lessons and no progress in the pupil’s performance…
“Make. Time.”
Finally, Sherlock releases him, turns round and barges out of the confessional without a look back.
//
April 10th
It is going to end soon. The tallies are increasing daily while the amount of keys keeps on decreasing. Soon there will be neither black nor white ones to offer and he will be free to go, take his piano and never to return to Baker Street.
John slides his fingers over the few remaining keys, making sure that Sherlock sees the movement of his hand as he flicks his wrist at the end and begins to brush over the piano with his palm. Behind him, standing ready, waiting for John to begin, Sherlock’s eyes follow the hand until it comes back to the beginning, only to turn around again and continue towards the other end.
He grits his teeth and chews his cheek.
He could offer less each time John does not control himself but chooses to torment him. He could reduce the price of each of his touches, make sure John knows that each lesson is worth one key, no matter what Sherlock does.
John is so used to his touch by now and his need to get his piano back has only increased after every lesson that he seems not to notice it anymore.
He wants to be rid of me.
John’s hand reaches the end and he flicks his wrist to start again.
Sherlock marches to him, grasps the slowly moving hand and forces John’s eyes on him.
“Sit.”
John does.
“Play.”
John does, his right hand still held above his head, Sherlock’s finger squeezing the wrist.
“Playing with only one hand should be worth less,” Sherlock growls. “Half a key for half the hands.”
John attempts to pull his hand free but Sherlock holds on fast, buries his face in John’s palm and kisses it.
John tears his hand free and crouches away on his stool, wrapping his left hand round his wrist like it hurts.
He does not look assured anymore. He looks angry and tormented and shies away when Sherlock leans in closer to peer at his eyes.
“So the price stays the same and we keep this strictly business-like?”
John nods.
He wants to hit the man in front of him, to physically hurt him but does not dare to imagine how many keys that would cost him. Rubbing his wrist he begins another tune, clearly favouring his left hand but accompanying with his right now and then.
//
May 3rd
Staring out of the window, inspecting the crowd on the street - always walking, always going, always taking a chariot or a brougham and riding on - Sherlock smiles.
He lets the bow hang loose from his fingertips, his violin abandoned on the table. The other instrument in the middle of the room gleams and sparkles in the light, its lid still open like it has been for days. He should close it to protect the keys.
But he is not thinking about the piano. His thoughts are on the player. John’s hands, John’s fingers wrapping around the tin box like it were some kind of a talisman that can protect him. John on the field, cheeks flushed and smiling. John’s arms, John’s back.
And now, finally, John kissing him. John sighing in pleasure as he touches him. John moaning under him, trying to form words, at last in reality and not just in his fantasies.
He will come back. He will return tomorrow, proving that he means it, loves Sherlock and will leave James. He hates him. There is nothing to keep him there.
Except his respect for his father.
Sherlock has seen it early, how John looks up to his father and is ready to do as he asks in everything. Of course James has told Sherlock who had in fact arranged the marriage. It had been dealt with like any other business transaction and the price had been a large house in London and five thousand a year, small part of which would be more than helpful for the old man as well.
Sherlock clutches the bow in his fist, almost breaking it in two.
John will come. He will be there in the morning or, if Mrs Hudson and Molly appear, later in the day.
There is no reason he would not.
Steps on the stairs disturb him. Angry at not having heard the door open, Sherlock turns around to see Lestrade who is flushed and out of breath and desperately in need of Sherlock right at this moment.
Sherlock agrees to accompany him to whatever it is that the Scotland Yard cannot manage themselves but he has to and will be back by morning. And Lestrade can stop pestering him for a reason as to why because it is none of his concern.
\\
May 5th
Sherlock’s fingers roaming over him in the ecstasy of having him back make John whimper quietly into the pillow, nuzzle at the mattress gently as Sherlock wraps his arms around him and presses his face against John’s shoulder, breathes him in. The closeness is unbearable, the warmth intoxicating and John rolls onto his belly to allow Sherlock to drape himself completely over his back.
He turns his head and opens his eyes to see Sherlock better. Harriet’s long and unruly hair tickles his face and he sits up bolt upright. Harriet sighs in her sleep, clutching at her doll with her small hand and squeezes at the toy’s dress.
John looks at her in the flickering candlelight, lying quietly in the large bed in the master bedroom, the sheets in a pile by her feet. He strokes her cheek, pulls the blankets up to cover her better and makes his way slowly out of the bed and to the secret door in the wall, the only one that is not bolted.
At the creak of the hinges, James stirs slightly but does not awaken.
He has left his candle alight as well, the shadows dancing around them slowly and menacingly as John moves towards the bed, disturbing the air around the sleeper and his only source of light. He looks down at James, glances at the small flame now flickering peacefully next to him on the small table.
It would not take much, he thinks. Just another flick of his wrist, the candle falling down on the carpet, the bedclothes catching fire. It would be over in a matter of minutes.
He climbs on the bed on his knees and inches towards James, still fast asleep, face calm in repose. When John’s hand comes to hover over his brow, his eyes snap open. He stares at John in surprise, breathing erratic like he has woken up from a nightmare.
John’s hand moves over his forehead, to his ear and cheek and continues to his jaw. His eyes look steadily into James’ so that he sees when the panic finally dissolves and his reserve breaks, making way for pleasure. He does not close his eyes but keeps them on John’s, who has now moved to the open collar of James’ shirt and is pulling down the fabric to touch his clavicles.
James reaches out his hand but John pulls away from the touch and crouches by the foot of the bed, pulling his knees against his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Whispering softly, James says his name, tries to call him back but John does not move. James lies back down on the pillows, waiting still and quiet.
The fingers return, inspecting James’ shoulders and neck, drawing invisible lines between the small imperfections on his skin. He looks removed from the place and time, like he has no interest in James himself but merely wishes to play with his body with a childlike curiosity.
He comes back the next night, having spent the day in the bedroom staring out of the window at the grey sky.
They are due for some rain.
James is lying waiting on his stomach when he comes in, staying still while John strokes his back, moving his hand slowly down, down, down. When his hands reach his undergarment and pull them down, exposing James’ lower half to the cool night air, James tries to turn around and John pulls back abruptly.
Slowly, James lies back down, clutching at the pillow and John’s hands return, exposing him fully and caressing the prickling skin. James’ hand moves fast, snatches John’s hand and traps it against the mattress. John pulls back towards the foot of the bed, his wrist in James’ grasp, James’ lower half still exposed as he crawls fast to where John is crouching. He leans in and with every movement John pulls further and further away from him until his back is pushing against the foot of the bed. James inspects him through the film over his eyes, waiting if John will raise his free hand to touch his face, but he does not move.
“I want to touch you.”
John turns his head, avoiding the gleaming lips.
“Why don’t you let me touch you?”
The lips come to hover over John’s cheekbone.
“Don’t you like me?”