Chapter Text
John has been busy the whole week laying the groundwork for a date. All the signs are there. Last Saturday, coming down to a late breakfast after his monthly pub night with Lestrade, he wore a happy and dazed look all through the meal right up to the moment Sherlock started telling him about the satisfying results he had obtained the previous evening with regard to the mysterious Newcastle ballpoint accident.
“The mother didn’t fall while holding a pen, conveniently stabbing herself in the eye to cause her own death and have the insurance company transfer £250,000 into her daughter’s bank account. Even though she was found lying on the floor there’s no way she could have fallen down so fast the impact would have caused the pen to penetrate right through the eyeball into her brain. The tissue of the eyeball is after all, quite resilient. I obtained conclusive proof the pen was shot at her with the aid of a crossbow.”
“Fantastic,” John murmured, buttering his toast. “I suppose I shouldn’t be amazed you managed to smuggle a crossbow into Bart’s and persuaded Molly to let you use it in her morgue.” He added some strawberry jam to his toast and took a bite.
“Of course I did no such thing, John,” Sherlock answered him, affronted at the ridiculousness of the idea. Did John really believe him to be that irresponsible? He wasn’t going to endanger others deliberately by conducting an experiment with a deathly weapon in such a public place where anyone might enter any moment. John would tell him no doubt he could have put up a sign warning people to keep out, but then he would have to refer John to the interesting little treatise he has posted on the website three years ago, concerning the number of accidental deaths that occur each year precisely because people are idiots, and tend to ignore such warnings.
Deciding to skip the dangers of getting involved in a lengthy argument about a subject he wasn’t interested in right then, he told John: “I conducted the experiment here in the safety of the flat.”
John’s eyes opened wide. He stopped his munching, his throat working convulsively instead, before he covered his mouth with his hand and started coughing into it.
“John,” Sherlock asked but John didn’t answer, his whole body shaking, racked by the coughs, eyes bulging and the colour of his face turning into a beetroot red. Panicked, Sherlock darted around the table and started thumping him on the back until John held up his hand, grabbed his mug and started drinking his tea in long desperate gulps.
“Christ,” he muttered, replacing his mug on the table.
“Are you all right, John?” Sherlock enquired, his hand rubbing anxiously between John’s shoulder blades.
“Yeah, fine. Fine. It’s just …” John spun round to look at him. “Please tell me you didn’t take target practice at loose eyeballs with a crossbow in our kitchen.”
Sherlock pulled an ugly face. “Of course not, John. What good would that have been? The eye was still in her head when the pen was shot. Molly lent me a head to experiment upon. I promised to return it to her at around eleven at the latest so I’ll be off now. Take care while eating the rest of your meal.”
He went into the kitchen to collect the head out of the fridge. Behind his back he heard John’s mumbled: “Yeah, thanks.”
Sherlock returned to Baker Street a few hours later to find John busily texting while ensconced in his chair with the sports pages. At Sherlock’s entrance he threw his flatmate a furtive glance before settling his eyes on his phone again.
Sherlock tipped himself into his chair with a sigh.
“Women are such boring creatures, wouldn’t you agree?” he began.
“Hmm hmm.”
“They never learn,” Sherlock carried on. “Molly Hooper is a fine pathologist, among the best of her profession, and yet she insists on turning into a blushing schoolgirl whenever a man walks into her morgue. She kept offering me coffee again as if she’s some kind of servant. Really.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust at her behaviour.
John tore his gaze away from the mesmeric sight of his phone screen to settle it on Sherlock for a moment.
“Not just a man, Sherlock,” he said. “You entering her lab sends all her sense flying straight out of the window. Get it right, Sherlock. You’re usually so proud of being more exact than the rest of us.”
With those words he rose out of his chair and stalked out of their living room.
Baffled by John’s sudden urge to correct him concerning his views of Molly’s attentions, Sherlock remained seated, staring at the door through which his flatmate had disappeared.
Over the course of the next few days the situation deteriorated further. On Wednesday Sherlock sat bent over the remains of a forty-five year old woman whose body had washed up on the southern bank of the Thames near Battersea Railway Bridge, explaining to a riveted Lestrade why they weren’t looking at a suicide but a murder by the husband. He was in fine form, pointing out all the evidence that was staring them in the face, if only they would care to observe, when he halted mid-sentence, struck by the absence of John’s subtle noises of appreciation of his genius in the background.
Sherlock flicked his eyes up at his friend to discover him staring at his phone as if it held the final solution to all the world’s problems, thumbs flying over the keys.
In a huff, Sherlock settled his attention on the corpse again, ignoring Lestrade’s amused smile.
After five minutes he had had enough and rose with a grand sweep of his coattails.
“If you need any further guidance, you know where to find me,” he scoffed and strode off with John in tow, eyes still glued to the screen.
Back at the flat Sherlock collapsed on the sofa in his most dramatic manner but this elicited no response from John at all, not even a chuckle of amusement.
***
As they sit eating their takeaway that evening, John announces he’s going out tomorrow night. He bumped into a very nice girl during his pub night with Lestrade and she has agreed to go to the cinema with him and have a bite to eat after.
“So much I’d gathered,” Sherlock says and stabs his mezze quite severely with his fork.
John starts saying something when his phone buzzes with a text alert. The next two minutes he spends texting frantically with a stupid grin on his face.
“You were saying?” he asks after he has stashed his phone in the pocket of his trousers again.
“Nothing, John. Nothing at all.”
John spends the evening writing up the case of the solitary cyclist while Sherlock sits plucking the strings of his violin. Every now and then John throws him a question for further clarification over his shoulder to which he responds with grunts and snorts.
“How about ‘You’ll never bike alone’ for a title?” John enquires.
“Just do as you see fit, John,” Sherlock enjoins, “I’m off to bed.”
“Sherlock? What…”
“Good night.”
He uses the bathroom and throws the door to his bedroom shut with more force than he intended, wincing at the volume of the racket he’s creating. After struggling out of his jacket he plunges down on the bed and fumbles in the drawer of the night table for a nicotine patch.
The need for something stronger to reduce the blurry whirlwind of emotions raging through him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes makes him grit his teeth. He’d sell his kingdom for some horse right now to dull the anger and pathetic loneliness clouding his brain. Better to feel nothing, nothing at all than to feel this, this… He’s not going to, of course. He’s not stupid. But oh, this poisonous gauze he’s wrapped in, permeating through the pores of his skin to eat away at his insides. It’s hateful, this loss of control over himself.
Victor! The bells clanging furiously to announce the big society wedding to the world and he was reduced to a gawking spectator as Victor slowly ascended the steps to the cathedral with his best man beside him. In the background Mycroft was whispering to some indeterminate figure beneath his umbrella…
Sherlock presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing so hard flashes of colour spring up in front of him. He groans.
It’s wrong to compare John – what he has with John – to Victor. John’s friendship is so different, so much more precious than the affair with Victor. Affair, odious word. However, Victor chose to turn what they had, their love, into nothing but an affair. Illicit, dirty, a passing fling of no significance, to be cast aside and forgotten the moment he was ordered to do so.
Had he spared a thought to Sherlock when he promised to worship her with his body in that big cathedral packed to the rafters with the best and brightest in the land?
He’s getting sentimental. He should stop this.
With a sigh he takes off his shoes and socks and chucks them under his bed.
At least with John there’s no chance of a repetition of such profound betrayal. Good, thoroughly decent, straight bloke that he is. The disappointment keeps exploding in his chest, bright points of light shattered over the sky like the fireworks lighting up London on New Year’s Eve.
John’s stance on their friendship is obvious. They’re two blokes sharing a flat that they wouldn’t be able to afford on their own. The arrangement works perfectly for both of them. They’re great pals. John’s content to lounge around with Sherlock at Baker Street right now, but the moment he finds a woman to marry he’ll be off. Sherlock will be expected to act as best man at the wedding and he shivers with vague distaste as if he’s already milling around the throngs of wedding guests assembled in some odious semi-posh hotel, Molly’s eyes following him with a flicker of hope, because one wedding must lead to another surely?
The wife will insist on a country practice because London is no place for children to grow up. They’ll end up in a cottage in Berkshire and John will expect him to stay with them every few months and play Uncle Sherlock to the children. He hates children, nor is he particularly fond of dogs and he can already picture the great panting yellow retriever that will jump up at him and leave a trail of dog hairs all over his suit. Over the years he will be invited less and less, because what is the point in enduring company one doesn’t really enjoy and the wife will be dead-set against him anyway. Until the time comes that Sherlock will decline the invitation, having had quite enough. John will protest and cajole a bit before giving up and that will have been the end of the John Watson episode in his life.
Christ! Sherlock blinks his eyes rapidly, not wishing to acknowledge the reason for doing so, tearing off the nicotine patch and applying another instead. He snorts with impatience at his stupid weakness. Giving in to feelings of jealousy is not going to do him one bit of good. It is jealousy, he supposes, jealousy of this dull woman that will steal John’s attention from him because John’s hoping she will provide him with something Sherlock will never be able to give.
Even if John were desiring it but John is the one always stressing to everyone they’re not a couple, he’s not gay, he and Sherlock are not in a relationship… as if it matters what other people think? Sherlock couldn’t care less, but then he’s accepted most people are idiots, while John still hasn’t.
Besides, John needs the sex, much as Sherlock really craves that shot right now. His right hand trails the skin on the inside of his left forearm, pushing on a vein. John is just a man and men want to get off. Sherlock should know. So John is on the lookout constantly for someone to sleep with and one day he’ll meet a woman who’ll decide John is actually worth battling over with Sherlock. She’ll dig her claws into John who will be happily assisting her because she will shower him with sex to bind him to her until he will ask her to marry him and…well, no need to revisit those painful images again.
All because of John’s libido. Maybe Sherlock should start lacing his tea with crypoterone acetate? However that would result into John suffering from atrocious liver complaints and that wouldn’t do at all.
A vague noise enters his ear, coming from the direction of the door. Sherlock glares at it before gliding from his bed and creeping towards the door noiselessly. With a swift motion he yanks it open. John stands caught in the small passageway, hands fluttering nervously.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock barks.
John stutters. “Nothing… I was doing nothing. I was just wondering whether you’re all right?”
“Of course I’m all right,” he snaps. “Why shouldn’t I be?” He looks down his nose at John, his flatmate’s flinch proving he’s managed a look even more withering than usual. “And you have a date to prepare for, haven’t you? Please don’t let me keep you from anticipating an event that must be of such massive importance to you.”
He slams the door shut into John’s amazed face and balls his hands into fists until it feels like he’s driving his fingers straight through his palms.
Damn you, John Watson. Damn you!
***
Warburton and Pleasance have a new hobby. Every five minutes they engage in a belching competition. The winner is the one who manages to produce the loudest burp, preferably accompanied by an explosive, smelly fart. They descend into a helpless round of giggling whenever they manage to accomplish this feat, congratulating each other on the advance of their endeavours.
Sherlock has asked them repeatedly to stop but they just ignore him. He’s retaliated by insisting the window be kept open at all times but as Edward and he are closest to the window this affects them more than the perpetrators.
The sounds especially make his throat contract in a spasm of retching until he can feel his stomach heave. Several times he has to hurry to the toilet stalls to empty his stomach until nothing but green bile rises from his stomach. It’s imperative these desperate dashes should be executed in the most dignified manner, he refuses to give the atrocious pair the satisfaction of knowing they’ve found the perfect means to rile him to no end.
Sherlock endures the torment for one week, reasoning once the novelty has worn off they’re bound to become bored and find some other obnoxious occupation but it appears he’s overrated their mental ability. The time has come for stronger measures.
Mr Robinson looks rather shocked when Sherlock announces he wants to start studying Bartók’s Sonata for Solo Violin.
“I do hope you hadn’t got that piece in mind for the summer concert, Sherlock,” he starts. “I don’t think our public would enjoy it. I’d hoped you’d choose Bach. Besides, the finger settings. I’m no violinist, of course, but aren’t your hands too small yet?”
Sherlock smiles up at his teacher. “Oh, I have already decided on Bach’s first sonata for the concert. The Bartók will be a real challenge for me, but I’m convinced I’ll be able to master it, don’t you think?”
Mr Robinson laughs. “Oh, I do agree with you it will be a challenge and I’m certain you can play it. My objection would be you’re too young to understand the piece. Though that may be my own trepidation for to be honest I’ve always considered the piece a trial for the public as much as the performer. Don’t tell anyone I said that.” He puts his finger in front of his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “I suppose you discussed this with Mr Mancini.”
“Oh yes,” Sherlock lies. “He’s overjoyed. But of course…” His lets his voice falter.
“Yes?”
“With such a difficult piece I will have to study in my dorm room as well.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll speak to Mrs Norton about it. She’s got quite a soft spot for you so I’m convinced she’ll allow you to study in your room.”
A music stand with the sheet music is set up beside Sherlock’s bed the next day. Sherlock starts with the fugue of Bach’s sonata, he loves getting lost in the notes’ fanciful flight. Edward is lying on his bed reading a book but closes it to listen, rearranging himself on his side and supporting his head with his arm, clearly enjoying the music almost as much as Sherlock.
Behind them a loud belch booms through the room. Sherlock can feel his throat muscles contract in reflex. Yet he manages to change one sheet of music for another and to produce one of the most perfect collé sounds he’s ever been able to cajole out of his violin. Edward sits up abruptly and brings his hands up to his ears.
Behind them Warburton explodes: “Fuck you, Holmes! What are you doing?”
Sherlock lowers the violin and the bow and turns to smile sweetly and explain: “I’m studying.”
“You should do that with Mr Robinson in the music room.”
“Yes, but you see, this piece I’ve chosen is very difficult. I’ll have to study a lot. So I was given permission to study here as well.”
“No you aren’t, you tosser. I’ll go tell Mrs Norton.”
Warburton bounces of his bed and strides out of the room. Sherlock turns and shifts the violin into place beneath his chin to prod more violent screeches out of the instrument with his bow.
Five minutes later Warburton storms back into the room.
“Shit,” he announces. “He’s allowed to practice in here,” he explains to Pleasance.
“She must have gone totally bonkers,” Pleasance says before burping loudly.
Sherlock responds immediately by a sharp downward flow of the bow.
“Rats! Stop that, Holmes!”
Next to him Edward is starting to look uncomfortable but Sherlock plays on, his eyes flying over the notes, he’s already looking forward to… Oh, that actually hurt on the ear… Bad turn, Sherlock.
The window is a perfect mirror, reflecting Warburton’s and Pleasance’s increased agitation flawlessly. Sherlock can’t help but smirk while he plods on. The piece sends him back to the first year when he was learning to master his instrument, Mycroft’s pained looks as his clumsy hands coaxed the sounds of a shrieking tortured cat out of the violin. What he’s doing now is worse, far worse as is testified by Edward’s pained look and Warburton’s and Pleasance’s fury.
“Goddamn you, you moron! Will you stop it?” Pleasance shouts.
Sherlock spins round, violin under his chin.
“Your racket disturbs my concentration,” he informs his dorm mate coldly and whirls back to put the bow to the violin again. Edward is pleading silently with him to stop but by now Sherlock is enjoying himself too much to consider the idea. He loves both the intellectual and physical test the sonata confronts him with, requiring his fingers to attain impossible positions on the strings, while his eyes jump over the staves to prepare himself mentally for the next abrupt chord. The resulting inadvertent dissonant almost makes him laugh out loud with joy. How marvellous to have to conquer his violin again before even having to wonder what his approach to the music should be.
“Will you please, please, please stop it,” Warburton groans after ten minutes. “Practice something else?”
Another collé to mark he’s heard before Sherlock pivots on his heels with slow deliberateness.
“What will you do to make me stop?” he enquires.
“Kick you in your balls if you won’t,” Pleasance spits but Warburton shoots him a warning look. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. During the last year he’s gained an inch on Pleasance and one and a half on Warburton and Mr Wilberforce’s fencing lessons have further sharpened his reflexes. The combined forces of Warburton and Pleasance won’t be enough to overpower him.
“What will make you stop?” Warburton asks.
“Just think, Warburton,” Sherlock replies.
He swivels around again and resumes playing.
***
He only plays the Bartók at night, after having closed both doors to the hallway. The sonata is as big an encounter for him today as it was when he was an eleven-year-old. All his own doing. He can’t blame Mycroft for the numbness in his fingertips. Not directly, that is. For in the end, obviously, Mycroft is liable for everything that happened to Sherlock, all the sadness and all the badness, and everything else besides.
***
Up on the platform, Mycroft stands and Sherlock is clapping, clapping until his arms and hands ache. Mycroft beams into the hall, his eyes searching for Sherlock and Nanny and Mummy and Sherlock throws him a small wave and sees Mycroft’s eyes light up with recognition. Next to Mycroft, the Headmaster keeps droning on and on about Mycroft’s many accomplishments and the great expectations he’s raised, referencing to Daddy – the beloved Government official whose passing is still deeply mourned by any true Briton – by a circuitous route to end up at the profound belief much will be heard of Mycroft in the future.
Finally, Mycroft is allowed to walk off the podium, his departure indicating the ceremony has ended and Mycroft’s secondary education with it. After the summer he will start attending University – he will go to Daddy’s college, Christ Church, to study law and philosophy.
Everyone has risen and is mingling about. Sherlock holds onto Nanny’s hand, Mummy clutching Nanny’s other arm with a fixed smile on her face. She murmurs vague greetings to the other parents, inclining her head with demure grace every now and then. Finally, Mycroft shows up in front of them, the Headmaster at his side.
“May I introduce my brother to you?” Mycroft addresses the man. “He’s anxious to thank you for all the times you’ve allowed me to go visit him and not pay attention to my studies as I should have. Sherlock?”
Sherlock proffers his hand and finds his fingers clasped by a clammy grip. He forces himself to smile at the man and speak clearly. “Thank you very much for being so lenient for my sake.”
“Not at all, not at all. Indeed. I confess I look forward to you staying with us after all Mycroft has told me about you. You will be such an addition to both our drama and music performances.”
“Yes, very important those,” Mycroft concedes. “Nevertheless I do hope he will astonish you even more with his Latin and mathematics. Those are more useful accomplishments for the career we will both be pursuing.”
“I’m going to be a famous violinist,” Sherlock says.
“No, you won’t,” Mycroft corrects him in a tight voice. Sherlock opens his mouth but Mycroft’s glare makes him clamp it shut again. The Headmaster swivels his amused gaze between the two of them.
“Faber est suae quisque fortunae, Mycroft,” he appeases. “Indeed. I do remember your father was a very convincing Lady Macbeth in his last performance in this school. Being such an accomplished actor must have helped him greatly whenever he had to deal with some unpleasantness later on, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, excited, “did Daddy like acting? I never knew.” He eyes the Headmaster more attentively now. The man is older than his Headmaster. He has brushed his trousers for the ceremony, but the hairs of an angora cat are still clinging to the turn-ups. After dressing himself, he enjoyed a last cup of tea and managed to spill some on his tie. No doubt because he was pulling on his cigarette at the same time, the habit is in clear evidence both by the stains on the nails of his left hand, used to hold the cigarette rather than the right hand, as by the smell beneath his aftershave. The scent reminds Sherlock of Mr Talbot for a moment.
The Headmaster smiles down on him. “Indeed.” Sherlock presumes this must be the Headmaster’s favourite word. “Of course, it is a long time ago. I had just entered the staff as a junior teacher. Yet, your father’s performance was such... I can see still him up on the stage goading Macbeth on to yet another murder. He was frightening to look at, most impressive. Many boys approach the role with lots of handwringing and shouting, which can be very effective. But your father exuded a certain quiet menace and rage…” the Headmaster breaks off and his gaze wanders over the hall, searching for the words, before coming back to their little group, gliding over Nanny first, then Mummy. Suddenly his face becomes very red, perspiration beading at his temples, “…which was a far more efficient approach to inspire terror in our hearts,” he ends.
Sherlock bobs his head up and down repeatedly; wishing for his enthusiasm to guide the Headmaster into disclosing more but the man fingers the lapel of his jacket for a moment and holds out his hand to Mummy next. “Those are two very fine boys you’ve raised, Mrs Holmes. I congratulate you. You can’t be but very proud,” he tells her. “I’ll speak to you later Mycroft. Sherlock.” He inclines his head towards all of them, pivots on his heels and walks away rather fast.
“Well,” Nanny starts but Mycroft interrupts her hastily.
“I suggest we go and find us some tea and then we must leave and drop off Sherlock at school.”
“No,” Mummy decrees. “No. I don’t want to stay.” Her eyes are still following the Headmaster who’s talking to someone at the other hand of the hall now. “Of course that man knew him before I did,” she continues. “I never realised that till just now. I don’t like him. I don’t like people that knew him before I did. I’m glad you’re leaving here, Mycroft.”
“Mummy—”
“Oh, what is it? Don’t look at me like that, Mycroft.”
Nanny lays a hand on Mummy’s arm. “Valerie, my dear, let’s not do this. We’ll go and find that tea, won’t we?”
“I’d rather not. I prefer to go.” Mummy is still talking quietly but Nanny throws Mycroft an anguished look nevertheless.
Mycroft rubs his hand over his face and sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. We’ll leave.”
For a moment he rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I would have liked to show you around a bit, Sherlock. The school will be your battlefield from next year on. I’ll know you’ll do me proud. Sadly, the extended tour will have to wait a little longer.”
“It’s fine, Mycroft.”
Honestly, what is Mycroft making such a fuss about? It’s just another school, isn’t it? The thought Daddy went to this same school once doesn’t change Sherlock’s expectation of more years of boredom to live through somehow, either locked up in a classroom or lounging on a football or hockey field. Daddy loathed the school and Sherlock already knows he will hate it just as much, hate every minute of it.
***
“Christ, Mycroft. Your family must be filthy rich.”
Mycroft laughs, holding onto his friend’s upper arm. “Well, if you say so, it must be true.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve seen my place. It’s a doll’s house compared to this pile of bricks. And the grounds. Jesus, that bloody drive kept twisting and turning once we’d passed the gates.”
The voice of Mycroft’s friend, Michael, rings loudly through the hall. Upstairs, from behind the parapet, Sherlock looks down upon the two figures huddled closely together. Mycroft’s friend will stay with them for two weeks. Last night Mycroft made Sherlock promise for the umpteenth time there would be no eavesdropping and no blurting of construed facts about Michael. Inwardly Sherlock was seething while assuring Mycroft he would behave properly and only speak when addressed directly. Why should he be the one to be singled out for his behaviour? How does Mycroft think he’s going to ensure Mummy won’t be throwing a tantrum right in front of Michael?
“Oh, hello. You must be Michael. Welcome.”
As if on cue Mummy appears in the hall with an outstretched hand and a fixated smile plastered onto her face. The boy accepts her hand.
“Thank you for having me, Mrs Holmes.”
“Please. I’m delighted Mycroft has invited you. Tea will be served on the terrace in a quarter of an hour. You must come and admire the view, Michael. It’s most pleasant.”
The three of them disappear into the blue morning room, Mummy leading the way. Sherlock waits until he’s sure they must have stepped onto the terrace before stealing to the servant’s staircase. Behind the door to the kitchen, he waits until Cook’s broad back is bending over the Aga before he flits behind her to the backdoor and starts a run for his tree house.
***
“Sherlock. Where have you been all day? Michael, this is my little brother, Sherlock.”
Sherlock walks up to the boy and offers his hand.
“Hello Sherlock.” The boy’s hand is smaller than Mycroft’s but warmer. Sherlock would like to wipe his hand on his trousers after the boy has let go of it but he refrains from doing so as this would be impolite.
“Hello,” he mumbles. “Hello Mycroft, hello Mummy.”
His mother says nothing but picks up her napkin and flaps it open with a languid flick of her wrist. Sherlock seats himself on his chair and shoots her a furtive look. Her face is tranquil, a vague expression of amusement wavering on her lips.
“We’re an informal household, Michael,” she confides. “Hopefully you won’t mind dishing up yourself.”
“Not at all, Mrs Holmes,” the boy answers her. A big splash of tomato soup falls from the ladle as he wields it from the tureen to his plate. Sherlock winces but both Mummy and Mycroft pretend not to notice the bright red stain soiling the pristine white damask of the tablecloth.
“Be so good as to dish up for your little brother, Mycroft,” is all Mummy says. As if Sherlock isn’t perfectly capable of serving out for himself without dirtying the table linen.
The boy and Mycroft sit discussing what they expect of University life. Michael informs them he’s going to read history at Balliol. Mummy is all ears and plays the attentive host.
After Cook has put the vegetables on the table Sherlock tunes them all out for the remainder of the meal. Every now and then he slants a foul gaze at Mycroft’s guest who’s absorbing all his attention. Thanks to this windbag he will have to endure another forty-one never-ending meals like these. How can Mycroft wish to be a friend to such an uninteresting person? And if he must, whatever made him decide to invite the insipid bore here?
***
“Ta. I’m off.”
John stands in the doorway, putting on his coat. Sherlock looks up from the book he’s reading. He stares.
John stares back. Expectantly at first, waiting for Sherlock’s affirmation of his leave-taking, but after five seconds of silence a frown twitches above his nose.
“What?” he asks.
Sherlock’s eyes flit over the ensemble John is wearing. A bland ecru shirt with a vague tartan pattern in light greys and browns on top of a pair of jeans. The belt will do but the shoes John has put on are a lighter brown than the belt. Inwardly Sherlock sighs at yet another demonstration of John’s total lack of dress sense. Does he honestly not see the shirt disperses all his assets? The dye reduces the different shades of his hair to the uniform unattractive colour of used dishwater and dilutes the strong blue of his eyes, drawing all vivacity from his face besides. The jeans are a new pair, a loose cut, which has the effect of visually shortening John’s height, which was none too imposing to begin with. The shop assistant who did not dissuade John from buying the pair ought to be sacked on the spot.
And the hapless doctor has decided upon this outfit for his first official date with the woman he’s been flirting with by text for the past week. What was he wearing on the pub night with Lestrade? Oh yes, the red shirt and black jeans. A more fortunate choice by far. This getup on the other hand will only have her dismiss him as a fruitless endeavour the moment she sets eyes on him. Unless she’s one of those women that are on the lookout constantly for a man they can build up to their own image from scratch. Either that or she’s desperate enough to go after him, atrocious garb and all. Sherlock shudders.
“Nothing,” he waives. “Goodbye, John.”
“No.” John’s voice has risen and he takes a step into the room. “There’s something you want to tell me. What is it?”
Inwardly Sherlock groans. The last thing he wishes for is to hurt John by commenting on his tasteless apparel. Besides, if he allows John to leave the flat in his current attire, the date will definitely go pear-shaped from the beginning. The danger of John heading on a trail that will lead him away from 221B and Sherlock will have been thwarted, and Sherlock’s purposes served to a tee, by John’s own doing. – until the next date.
On the other hand, the thought of John being dismissed because of his deficiency in fashion sense pains Sherlock. The anticipation of the doctor’s downcast face at breakfast tomorrow morning puts his heart in his mouth. They’re friends and friends take care of each other. Warning John about the disaster zone he will be entering if he hits the streets in the clobber he’s slipped into would be the decent thing to do.
“It’s your clothes,” spits Sherlock. “I thought you went on these dates in the hope of getting out of your clothes. With the present outfit I’d rate your chances of having her open the top button of your shirt – let alone the buttons on any other article of clothing – at about nil.”
“Jesus, Sherlock, would you mind… And my clothes? What do you mean? I bought these jeans especially. The shop assistant told me they looked good on me.”
“Wherever did you go, John? To a store where all the personnel is visually handicapped? The man must have hid his white cane before he told you so. They don’t suit you, you should always wear more tight-fitting ones, vertically challenged as you are. The shirt is a write-off as well. The colour drains you. Did you actually pay attention during all those hours you wasted on that Connie Prince show together with Mrs Hudson?”
John stands open-mouthed, gaping like a fish. His expression doesn’t add to the attractiveness of the overall picture so Sherlock ends his instruction with a kind: “I’m only trying to help.”
John’s mouth snaps shut as suddenly as it had fallen open.
“Fine,” he grits. “Fine. Tell me then, Yves Saint Laurent, what should I be wearing?”
Sherlock sighs. “Your total ignorance regarding everything to do with presenting yourself favourably is further illustrated by that remark. Yves Saint Laurent was not interested in dressing men. You might have compared me to Hedi Slimane or Dries van Noten, though I must confess I didn’t like his clothes very much.”
“I didn’t know you were so fashion-conscious. Aren’t clothes just part of the transport?”
“Obviously. However, four years ago I was asked to deal with a rather nasty case of bribery. The victim was a bigwig in one of Paris’ leading fashion houses. The whole affair turned out to be tedious in the extreme, those couturiers are nothing but overblown narcissists, but it paid rather well and I could use the money. I had to blend in with the surroundings so I could move about freely to conduct my investigations and I proposed to disguise myself as a model. In fact, that proved to be one of my better ideas.” He works hard at keeping the smug self-congratulation out of his voice.
Now John’s eyes have doubled in size. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Well, you have the looks, I suppose.”
“Quite. I was the talk of the season. Still, I was glad to return home for I’ve never had to endure such a lot of horrendous vacuous chitchat from self-absorbed simpletons before or after. Even Anderson’s conversation is the epitome of wit compared to the colloquies I was forced to eavesdrop upon during that assignment.”
“And no one is quite as good at eavesdropping as you are,” John says. Is there a hint of bitterness in his tone?
Sherlock smirks. “Naturally. I perfected the art at a young age. However, we’re digressing. I suggest you change into that dark-blue and ecru checked shirt you were wearing two weeks ago. Any pair of jeans will do except for this one, you should chuck them in the bin straightaway. The shoes are tolerable but I happen to have noticed you do actually own a belt in the same shade, and it has a less prominent buckle, which looks better on you, wear that one. Don’t go for your black coat but that new brown one.”
“Anything else?”
“Personally I would have chosen another eau de cologne to douse you with but you’ll just have to rely on her nose not working too well. Which is highly likely seeing as to the great number of people that have succumbed to the flu recently. You’re meeting her in half an hour so you don’t have any time left for a shower. I’ll be happy to advise you next time on the right scent to wear.” He nods encouragingly.
John flexes his hands a few times, balling them up into fists and relaxing his fingers again.
“Thank you,” he manages before pivoting and trudging back upstairs.
Seven minutes later he’s back for a general inspection.
“Perfect,” Sherlock declares. John does indeed look like the good, dependable soldier-doctor that he is, and rather handsome as well. “She’ll be dutifully impressed.”
His praise lightens up his friend’s features.
“I’ll be off then.”
“Yes. Enjoy yourself, John.”
“Thank you, Sherlock. Don’t text me unless it’s really important.”
“Have I ever texted you for a trivial reason?”
“I’m not entering in that discussion now. Ta.”
“Goodbye.”
The door to the flat falls shut and John’s footsteps recede as he descends the stairs. Sherlock scoots out of his chair and lifts the curtain to watch the dapper figure disappear down the street in the direction of the Tube station. He’ll keep his promise and won’t text. All he can do is hope the woman will prove herself to be another idiot; unable to appreciate the fact she struck gold when John’s eye fell on her.
***
The rain splatters on the roof of his tree house. A gentle lulling tap tap tap in the background that emphasises he’s ensconced cosily with his introduction to neurotransmission and the Rubik’s cube John presented him with on his last birthday. It’s taken Cook a quarter of an hour to scramble the cube and Sherlock thirty seconds to solve the puzzle. He’s tried rearranging it with his eyes closed but found he remembered all the moves he’d made so he’s laid the cube aside and now sits reading his book.
As he looks up some time later he notices the rain has ceased. The water drops falling onto the roof drip down from the big branches towering over the hut. The brush of the sunrays peeking out from behind the clouds to caress the grass transforms the water clinging to the stalks into a myriad of tiny diamonds sparkling and glittering in brief abundance before vaporising into a thin veil that dissolves into nothingness.
On his belly, with his head resting on his folded hands, Sherlock lies observing the sun’s looting of the jewel hoard when he hears voices in the distance. He recognises them to be Mycroft’s and Michael’s and shifts back into the hut.
“God, My, I see now what you meant when you said you are living in a warped paradise. Has your mother always been like this? And your brother, what an eerie waif, he almost frightens me. I’ve never before met someone with such an intense gaze…”
Mycroft remains silent.
“…except for you that is,” Michael ends. “But then you… I haven’t said anything wrong have I?”
“No. What makes you think so? You’ve shared your impressions of the members of my family with me. I find those very useful.”
“I’ve hurt you.” Michael grinds to a halt almost straight in front of the tree house. He grasps Mycroft’s hand and clenches it ardently. “Please, My. I didn’t mean to, I… I didn’t think… please…”
The boy brings his other hand up to Mycroft’s face. “Forgive me,” he whispers and puckers his lips and pushes them against Mycroft’s. Mycroft stands very still for a moment. Then he raises his hands and puts them on Michael’s shoulders to shove him away.
“No,” he says in a rough voice. “Not here. Sherlock might be around somewhere. I don’t want him to see us. He’s too young and vulnerable. Only in my room, I told you.”
“Christ, yes,” Michael pouts. “You told me but the place is deserted and we’re at least a quarter of a mile from the house.” He starts shouting and flailing with his arms. “Hey, is there anyone around here? If you are, why don’t you come forward and let us see you?”
High above him Sherlock shrinks back even further into the house.
“See?” Michael states triumphantly. “There’s no one.”
“Yes,” Mycroft answers. “Thank you for your demonstration which proved exactly nothing. Really, Michael.” The smile in his voice is unmistakeable, though.
“It proved to me you’d rather go to your room than swimming.”
“Did it?”
“Yes, it did. Come on!”
Michael grasps Mycroft’s hand and starts pulling him back in the direction of the house. Mycroft laughs, a genuinely happy sound. Sherlock can’t remember the last time Mycroft’s laughter was so delighted and light-hearted.
Is this what Michael gives him then? A chance to be free of worry for a few hours, to be absolved from the eternal anguish about Mummy, about the circumstances surrounding Daddy’s death, about Sherlock?
Slowly Sherlock descends from the tree. His aversion of the boy has increased with his inadvertent overhearing of the conversation. Now he wishes even more for the boy to go away and never come back so he can have Mycroft to himself again.
***
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“How did it go?” Sherlock asks while pouring himself some tea. Not that he needs to ask. John’s slumped figure and subdued answering of his greeting have already informed him the date was a disaster. In order not to hurt his flatmate any further Sherlock does his utmost to plaster a blank look of enquiry to his face. He’s ninety-nine per cent sure he succeeds.
“Not too well,” John mumbles.
“Oh.” He aims for non-committal.
A deep sigh from the other side of the table. Sherlock reaches for a slice of toast.
“Look here. Would you mind if we don’t talk about this? It was only a first date. She’s not the only woman in the world.”
“Definitely not, John. More fish in the sea and all that.”
“Jesus, Sherlock!”
“What? I thought that was the correct expression to use.”
“Not now.”
“Oh.”
He takes a bite of his toast. Should he say something else? But what? Mrs Hudson would know. Or Molly. Though it’s more probable Molly’s friends would know what to tell her in circumstances similar to these. If she has friends. She has a cat. Maybe he should buy John a cat. His phone buzzes with a text alert and he pulls it out of the pocket of his dressing gown. It’s from Lestrade asking his assistance with a homicide on Hampstead Heath.
“What is it?” John asks.
Sherlock looks up and grins at him. “I believe we have a date, John.”
***