Chapter Text
In the city of Varanasi on the banks of the Ganges, two pyres were constructed side by side.
An elderly Indian man circled the pyres three times carrying a clay water pot on his left shoulder. The unforgiving winter sun beat down upon his back as he walked, causing pearlescent beads of sweat to bloom and trace their way down the knobby buttons of his spine. He scrubbed the sleeve of his stained white robe across the back of his neck before dropping the pot in between the pyres.
Traditionally this ritual was performed by the family of the deceased. Family members would gather together and cremate their dead before returning home for a grand shared feast. But the deceased couple no longer had any living relations, at least on this continent, so this stranger had been tasked with releasing their souls into the ether. He had never met the people on the pyre before; he did not know their names nor the unfortunate circumstances that had led them here. He simply knew that this was his job, and that he would be able to go home for supper shortly. He completed his final pass around the pyres and turned his back to them.
After he had turned around, a child came forward from the shadows to hand him a lit torch. With a simple murmured prayer the man moved the torch behind his back and touched the torch to each pyre in turn. The flame slowly passed from the head of the torch to the wood and kindling draping the bodies. It licked and slithered its way along its fresh territory, digging fingers of heat and smoke deep through the gaps in the wood in order to find its special treat.
Within fifteen minutes, the bodies of James and Annora Watson had become completely engulfed in flames.
*****
Five thousand miles away, in the moors outside Yorkshire, ten year-old John Watson looked up at the manor house that was to be his new home.
Holmescroft was a massive yet wholly unmemorable house. The grey stone building front was simple, with a half-dozen chimneys showing just over the roof and cream-colored marble steps leading up to the front door. Rows upon rows of uniform single-pane windows spoke of the dozens of rooms inside, each as dull and lifeless as the last. It was a house that had clearly not sheltered guests, heard the sound of laughter, or seen the first sparks of a tender love affair in a very long time. Its hulking frame loomed over the moor like an enormous tombstone, casting black shadows across the wuthering fields of heather.
It was nothing like John's home in India.
“I'm cold,” he said sullenly, wrapping his arms around his thin frame.
“Yes, certainly colder here than in the far east, I'd expect,” Mrs. Hudson agreed as she stepped down from the carriage. “But don't you worry dear, I popped into town last week and bought you several lovely wool jumpers to keep you warm. They're in the wardrobe of your new bedroom.”
Mrs. Hudson was the housekeeper who'd been tasked with fetching John from the train station. She was pleasant enough, John supposed, but she talked too much and seemed to think he was much younger than he actually was. When they had first been introduced she had actually pinched his cheeks.
“Will I have an ayah here?” John asked. He'd had an ayah back in India whom he had loved very dearly, but she was dead now. Just about everyone John had ever known had died.
Mrs. Hudson furrowed her brow. “I'm not sure what that is dear, but I'm sure your uncle would be happy to buy you one. Speaking of which, we'd best get you inside to meet your uncle now.”
She ushered John up the front steps into the massive stone foyer where a petite woman with dark hair greeted them.
“Ah, there she is. John, this is Molly, the chamber maid.”
Molly curtsied. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master John.”
John awkwardly bowed to her and she laughed. “Such a gentleman, this one!” she said with a warm smile. John liked her instantly.
“Is Mister Holmes available?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “I thought he would be here to meet his nephew.”
Molly shook her head. “Mister Holmes is in his study and wishes to not be disturbed. He said he had serious business to attend to.”
Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. “And I suppose meeting his ward for the first time isn't serious business?”
Molly pursed her lips tightly and gestured towards John, who was still in earshot.
Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Very well. Molly, take the boy upstairs and show him to his quarters. I'll bring him up some supper in a moment.”
Molly nodded. “Follow me,” she told John. “I'll expect you'll be wanting to change after your long journey.”
John's new room was large and spartan. A four-poster feather bed stood in the center of the room dressed in stark white sheets. To the left of it was a dark wood nightstand with a porcelain pitcher and washbowl atop it. Across from the bed stood a massive armoire, made of the same kind of dark wood as the nightstand. Apart from these items, the room was completely empty. Even the sunlight that streamed through the small window seemed cold and dim as it fell across the bare floor.
“I'll leave you to get settled,” Molly said after a moment, turning and closing the door behind herself.
John took several deep breaths before barreling towards the bed and throwing himself upon it. He buried his face in one of the goosedown pillows and began to cry.
*****
Mycroft Holmes was an imposing man in both stature and countenance.
He carried his tall, slender frame with impeccable posture. This was intentional. He had known early on that he was destined to be a great man, and as a result he had spent his childhood studying paintings and biographies of other great men in order to study their mannerisms. The posture was adopted from Admiral Lord Nelson. His back stayed straight and his arms hung perfectly parallel to his torso as he walked, keeping his chest from puffing out like an overcompensating dictator. His laugh, when it made a rare appearance, was Kaiser Wilhelm II's, whom Mycroft had once met a dinner party. Brief, low in the throat, and with only the smallest upturn of the corners of the mouth.
His attention to his clothing (though not his fashion itself) was Oscar Wilde's. Each of his three-piece suits was handmade and expertly tailored to each and every curve of his body. The pocket squares were all imported silk and could be folded in a multitude of ways, depending on the cut of the suit it was to accent. The only item on his person that could ever be considered less than perfect was the gold pocket watch whose chain hung just above his middle. It had been his grandfather's, and though it was a plain working man's timepiece Mycroft treasured it above all his material possessions.
He was by no means a handsome man, though he was certainly interesting to look at. He was the kind of man who'd catch your eye in a crowd and hold it up until he completely passed from frame of view. His face was wide with a beakish nose, and though he was scarcely thirty years old, his auburn hair had already begun to recede. His painfully blue eyes were striking and framed with spidery premature lines. When at rest his thin lips were held just short of a perpetual sneer, and when displeased he had a way of pursing them which could strike fear into the hearts of the bravest of men.
He stood in the window of his study with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the coachman steer the carriage back to the stables.
“Anthea, take this down,” he said after a moment.
His secretary pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the desk and balanced her fountain pen above it. “Ready sir,” she said, sounding bored.
“Dear Prime Minister,” he began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. “So sorry to bother you sir, but I was just wondering if you might have a moment to come round and meet the boy.”
Mycroft glared at her. “I believe I made it clear that I was not to be disturbed this evening.”
“Yes sir,” she said slowly. “But the boy has arrived.”
“I am well aware of this. And I believe you are well aware that I am to never be disturbed during my work.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded. “I am aware, but I thought-”
“Yes you did, and that was your first mistake,” Mycroft said icily.
Anthea covered her mouth with her palm to stifle a snicker.
Mrs. Hudson's gaze dropped to the study's scarlet carpets. “My apologies, sir. It appears I was mistaken.” She quietly left the room.
Anthea glanced at the door as it closed. “You know you could always fire her, sir.”
Mycroft shook his head. “No, Mrs. Hudson is to stay. You know how fond of her my mother was.”
Mycroft Holmes was a harsh man, but never needlessly cruel. He held his staff to a high standard, but he understood that he was responsible for them and their well-being. He was also a terribly sentimental man underneath the Ice Man bravado, especially when it came to Holmescroft. Anyone and anything that had been important to his mother was in turn important to him. Mrs. Hudson had been there since before he was born, and as far as Mycroft was concerned she was untouchable.
Mycroft turned back to the window. The coachman was gone now, and in his place stood a familiar figure. Mycroft watched as the man stooped to examine the base of the privet hedge. He felt around the gnarled roots of the shrubbery and brought a small handful of the earth up close to his face for closer examination. Mycroft watched in fascination as the man let the soil fall between his fingers before straightening up and wiping his hands on his trousers.
“Sir?” Anthea asked.
Mycroft started and cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dear Prime Minister,” she prompted.
“Of course,” Mycroft said, shaking his head slightly. “Dear Prime Minister...”
*****
That night John dreamed he was back in India.
He was in the street in front of his parents' home playing cricket with the boys from down the road. John was at bat, and Avi and Abeer were taunting him.
“Pucchi!” they called. “Pucchi!”
John flipped them two fingers and tapped the red earth with the tip of his bat.
Avi wound his arm back and threw the ball towards him, but it was no longer a cricket ball. It was a ball of fire, coming directly for John. He threw himself to the ground and the ball of fire sailed overhead, only to collide with the rough wood fence behind him. The fence ignited immediately, turning into a roaring inferno in a second, throwing sparks and billowing towers of smoke high into the air above the boys. John jumped up from the ground and began running. His friends were no longer with him. No one was with him; the streets of Jaipur were devoid of any signs of life.
John ran as fast as he could down the worn dirt road but the wall of fire was close behind him. He could not outrun it forever, and he knew he had only precious seconds before it caught him and burned him down to nothing.
Up ahead, he saw a vine-covered fence with a heavy wooden door in it. He knew that if he could just get through the door to the other side he would be safe. He ran faster than he ever had before, so fast that his legs were a blur beneath him. But just as he got within arm's reach of the door, the fire behind him let out an almighty roar and swallowed him whole.
*****
John awoke in a cold sweat, tangled in the fresh sheets of the unfamiliar bed. His breath came out in short, squeaking pants, and his heartbeat felt like one long continuous vibration. As he lay on his back staring at the blank ceiling overhead, trying to slow his breathing, a noise from somewhere down the hall caught his attention.
He lifted his head and cocked an ear in the direction of the sound. It was faint, to the point where he could almost believe it was his imagination. But no, the volume rose slightly just then and John recognized the sound, as it was one he had become intimately familiar with in the days since his parents' death.
Someone in the house was crying.