holmestice | Fic for saki101: The Mystery of Ill Opinions, Part 3/3

Walking the streets at night in London was a dangerous proposition, and John was glad that Lestrade caught him strapping on a rapier and insisted on saddling a wholly unremarkable-looking cob with dappled hindquarters for him.

As Lestrade helped him to mount, his hand fell upon the crossbow that John had hidden beneath his cloak. John nodded his permission for Lestrade to shift the cloak aside and Lestrade whistled as he beheld its gleaming works.

“Can you fire it with one hand?” he asked.

“Sir Francis gave it me for that express purpose,” said John. “See, I need but depress the trigger here.”

“I do not envy any thief who should steal upon you thus armed.”

“Those of us with only one arm must be doubly so,” said John, grinning.

Lestrade returned his smile as he tightened the girth and adjusted the length of John's stirrups.

The night was cold, and John followed Watling Street to where it met Lombard, the cobbles ringing dully under his horse's hooves. There were few on the streets, many visiting taverns and seeking company for the night. There were a number of men on horseback, all guarded and wishing not to call attention to himself, and a few carriages, but John made his way to Leadenhall unaccosted and without speaking a word to anyone. Thankfully, there was a streetlight opposite the church, and John had no trouble finding the gate to the garden alongside and a post to which to hitch his horse.

When his eyes had adjusted to the dark, John was able to make out the shape of a man bent over a bed of herbs.

“Good eve, my good sir!” he said cheerfully. “What service may I render thee?”

“I bear a letter to thee from my master,” said John.

There was a flash of light as the man lit a lantern and approached. He was an elderly man in the skullcap and rough cassock of a religious order. John handed him Sherlock's list, and the man held it close to the lantern, and as he read, his expression darkened. “Do you know what your master asks of me?”

“No,” said John.

“He asks me to create a vile poison.”

John blinked in surprise. “Is it so dangerous?”

“One who would partake of both blessed in milk thistle should find himself in terrible distress,” said the friar. “And with the addition of mistletoe, he should fall into a deathlike sleep from which he might never recover.”

John scowled as the unknown parts of Sherlock's plan fell into place. He wished for Moriarty and Lady Holmes to think him dead of poison, and his stratagem was to poison himself.

“Could it not be taken safely to give the appearance of death?” asked John.

The friar frowned at him. “It would have to be measured to the very grain. Is there anyone to administer it who hath a steady hand?”

“Yes,” said John. “Me.”

The friar sighed. “If I knew not this hand,” he said, waving the paper at John, “I should not prepare this mixture. But your master hath done me good service, and I trust his judgment,” he said, leading John to a small shed in the corner of the garden.

The friar pushed open the wooden door and welcomed John into the small space whose ceiling was filled with bunches of drying herbs while jars and bottles of mysterious substances lined the shelves.

“Good brother,” said John, unsure of how to address the holy man, “I thank you for your pains.”

“I am Lawrence,” he said, “and your master's friend. This recipe bears ill tidings, for I know he would not ask it were it not for his own use.”

John nodded.

Friar Lawrence's expression hardened and he began to throw ingredients into his mortar. “The thistles, sure,” he muttered to himself. “Lobelia, I think, and burdock- no! Yellow dock and dandelion root. And charcoal, sure, to draw off the worst.”

He hummed tunelessly as he worked, and after a few minutes work, he poured a grey powder into a brown paper bag, upon which he wrote several words before rolling it into a cylinder and tying with string.

“Tell your master that he must follow the measurements precisely, or he should risk his very life,” he said, handing the cylinder to John.

John held out the money that Sherlock had given him, but the friar waved it away. “Save it to put in your master's mouth for St. Peter,” he said. “Should such a toll be unnecessary, I shall accept it with thanks.”

It was with a heavy heart that John bade the friar a good night and rode back through the squalid city streets.

He found Sherlock in his chamber scribbling on a sheet of paper. His master did not acknowledge his knock, nor did he speak when John placed the cylinder on his desk.

“What is it you write?” asked John.

“My last will and testament, of course,” said Sherlock, not looking up. “I have stipulated that Lady Holmes wear a memento mori for me for all her days, and my brother will hold her to it,” he said with relish.

John said nothing.

“I have not much by way of possessions,” said Sherlock, “but my finer clothes I shall leave to Anders, for he is one of the few men in the household who would take pleasure in them. My sword I leave to Lestrade, for the love he gives my brother. And my instruments and writings to Queen's College. I should like to leave Moriarty a gold sovereign located somewhere on my person, but given the necessary effects of Friar Lawrence's herbs, I should be hard pressed to keep it where I should most like to secret it.”

“Sherlock,” said John, speaking aloud his master's name for the first time.

John was gratified to see his master's hand still. He looked up from his writing and fixed his pale eyes on John and waited for him to speak.

“Do you wish to die?” asked John.

“Of course I do not wish it,” said Sherlock. “I should think that obvious.”

“You send me for deadly herbs that you obviously intend to take yourself,” said John. “I find you writing your will. These do not seem the actions of a man who wishes to live.”

“I have entrusted the preparation of these herbs to the one man in London capable of creating a state to mimic death well enough to fool a physician,” said Sherlock. “Should I err in administering these herbs to myself, I have set my affairs in order.” He frowned. “I fail to see why this should vex you so. It's not as if I were to you as Francis Drake.”

“I would rather the devil take Francis Drake than lose such a man as you,” said John hotly.

Sherlock sat back in his chair with a stunned expression on his face. Though John felt his own cheeks stain red, he fixed his eyes on the floor and spoke.

“In the three days since I joined your household, I have seen wonders to rival any in all the wide world. You read a man's life in his clothes and see a man's intentions from his mein. This is a miracle as sure as any learning that would navigate me safely around the world. I need not understand it to know its worth. That you would fain use this learning to save one such as Mrs. Hudson or assist a pair of disreputable actors rather than use it as your brother has done, to aid those who can reward him, that is a treasure beyond reckoning. You are the rarest man I have ever laid eyes on, and I should sooner do myself harm than see any come to you.”

Sherlock's pen fell from his fingers to the floor. “John,” he said in a broken voice, his lips trembling.

“Find some other way,” said John. “Do not deprive those who cannot speak for themselves the voice that you can give them. Take not this dagger unto your breast when you could use it on your mortal enemy.”

“I cannot!” shouted Sherlock, slamming his palm upon the writing desk. “You would have me bring scandal upon my brother's house by dispatching the villain before his villainy be known? You would have me kill Lestrade, for Moriarty should surely press suit. You would have me leave my brother unaware of the viper in his house? This is the only way, John. I have thought it out innumerable times. This is the only way. Do not press me further, for should you continue to do so, I might relent.”

“You credit me with such powers of persuasion?” asked John with a bitter laugh. “I would that I had them. I should have been able to convince Sir Francis to forego human cargo.”

His statement hung in the air.

Sherlock stared at John as though he had never seen him before, and then a radiant smile spread across his face. “Thank you.”

“What?” asked John, uncomfortably aware that he had said more than he ought.

“Thank you for confiding in me the true reason you no longer wish to sail with Drake,” said Sherlock, rising. “Thank you for having the courage to speak your mind, even when you knew it would be dismissed. Thank you for remaining a good man despite having seen the worst of mankind. And most of all, thank you for seeing the good in whatever lies before you. It's a gift that Drake was foolish to scorn. Do not think me the same sort of fool.”

“No,” said John, unsure of Sherlock's meaning, but certain that it was a compliment. “I know you to be an entirely different fool from Sir Francis.”

“Steadfast fellow,” said Sherlock in tones of wonder. “Give me thy hand if we be friends.”

John extended his good arm. “By this hand, I do love thee,” he whispered.

Sherlock let out a cry, taking John's hand in his own. “And let any man die who swears I love not thee.”

John knew not the fire that roared in his ears as Sherlock turned his palm to the heavens and pressed his lips to it. His master's lips sent a thousand shocks through him. His breath caught in his throat as Sherlock's eyes met his, and he let out a rough sound as he shook his hand free and pulled his master's body against his own.

Sherlock's lips on his were like sunlight, like honey, like words that had not yet been invented. His hands were pressed against John's face, fingers pressed against his jaw. When they had kissed one another into breathlessness, Sherlock withdrew, his eyes unfocused and his lips pink and swollen from John's nipping and laving.

“Lie with me,” he said in a strangled voice. “For if I am to die on the morrow, let my last night be with him whom I love.”

“I shall lie with thee,” said John, unbuttoning his master's doublet, “but only to remind thee why thou must live, and live a long life at my side.”

Sherlock gasped as John drew his body against his and he lowered his mouth to John's.

They spoke no more words.

Death came to both, and both were reborn in one another.

The next day, John was late to rise, and by the time he reached his master's chambers, Shakespeare was already there, scribbling on a sheet of paper with the Holinshed open before him.

Sherlock let out an impatient sigh. “We have been waiting for you,” he said. “I had thought Shakespeare would compose an entire play before you should arrive.”

“I have,” said Shakespeare, making a flourish with his pen. “Behold: my first play on the life of Henry VI.”

“The first play?” asked John.

“The first of at least two parts,” said Shakespeare. “The history is too complex to confine it to one. After these two parts shall be the story of that great villain, Richard III. I shall introduce him in the second part of Henry VI.”

“Why Henry VI?” asked John, searching his memory for any heroic deeds done by that king and finding none. “Why not a king of known legend?”

“This is my first play, good doctor, and as I know not how to proceed, I should much rather have a mediocre monarch at the centre of the action, for there will be fewer critics apt to decry my work for love of the king.”

Sherlock frowned. “This isn't a play.”

“Not yet,” said Shakespeare. “But from these notes, I shall wring speeches to break the heart and to seduce the minds of the audience until they know not for whom they cheer.”

“Act I:” read Sherlock.

”[Suffolk and Queen Margaret kiss]

Henry VI: I see not that! Tra la la! How goeth the war in France?

Gloucester: Very ill.

Cardinal Beaufort: Pray, whose fault may that be, Gloucester?

Gloucester: Whoreson!

York: [Plots in soliloquy.]

Peasants: Foreshadowing that York intends harm to the king.

Duchess Gloucester: [Abuseth Queen Margaret] O demons and other naughty spirits, will my husband be king?

Beaufort: WITCH!

Duchess Gloucester: God's bollocks!

[Duchess Gloucester is banished]

Beaufort: Ha ha ha!

Gloucester: Fie.”

John couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing.

Sherlock's expression was stormy. “Is this what you suggest I present the men who asked me to find England's next great playwright?”

“Of course not!” said Shakespeare. “This is but the frame on which I shall hang noble verses and lofty sentiments.”

“Lord,” said Sherlock. “I hope thy acting be more subtle than thy frame.”

“Do not concern yourself,” said Shakespeare, “for my frame is loved of all ladies, and my words are cunning and subtle.”

Sherlock sighed noisily. “Gentlemen, we have more important roles to discuss.”

“I agree,” said Shakespeare. “Queen Margaret, for example.”

“Hang Queen Margaret,” said Sherlock impatiently.

“Holinshed says nothing of the kind,” said Shakespeare. “She shall curse Richard III ere she depart my play.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “We return to the present day,” he said. “One of the queen's valued advisors has married a foul witch who wishes her husband to be king, and it's up to the advisor's brother to expose the witch and her accomplice as villains.”

Shakespeare, who had been counterfeiting disinterest, sat up. “This is a good plot, though it demands meaner witches. And perhaps an exotic setting so as to avoid beheading.”

“The advisor's brother has devoted himself to exposing their villainy.”

“Why is it villainy?” asked Shakespeare.

“Because obviously, the wife intends her husband to have a position that should rightfully be someone else's.”

“That seems an unfair interpretation,” said Shakespeare. “What if the husband had a problem that prevented his complete engagement with the government? Would not the wife be seen as a national hero for removing that impediment?”

“Not if the impediment is a person,” said John.

“Why should that impediment be immovable?” asked Shakespeare. “Surely the good of the state should outweigh the good of a single man.”

“You assume that the husband's involvement with the government would be a positive thing,” said Sherlock. “But in this case, the husband's wisdom is that of a wholly impractical nature. Though he may be wise, his wisdom is not for all markets, and the queen would be better advised by those of more years and more politic dispositions.”

Shakespeare shrugged. “If it please your lordship. Though I can tell you that such a plot would make it difficult to bring people in to the theatre.”

“I shall remember that,” said Sherlock sourly.

“You realize that Master Sherlock is not speaking in parables,” said John.

“Naturally,” said Shakespeare, laying down his pen. “It would have been far more direct to have described it thus from the start, but modern audiences only appreciate showmanship. Perhaps a ghost in addition to the prologue? Groundlings love a ghost.”

“This is no jesting matter,” said John. “Master Sherlock's life hangs in the balance.”

“If I do not jest, our play has the makings of a tragedy,” said Shakespeare. “And surely death is not a consummation to be wished.”

“But I shall rise again like the phoenix,” said Sherlock, with far more confidence than John possessed.

“Then let us see your true plumage,” said Shakespeare, “for I know you do not show it to entertain.”

“My true plumage is not for all markets,” said Sherlock. “I have performed the role of brother, of friend, and of soothsayer, yet my brother has failed to note my warning.”

“You are a protagonist of an entirely different sort,” said Shakespeare thoughtfully, scribbling a note in the margin of his paper. “Perhaps our villain is as well.”

“God's light,” said Sherlock, laughing, “I seek only to reveal an adder in our midst. What is done with the adder is none of my concern. Now, are you engaged to play a part?”

Shakespeare's writing stilled. “I am engaged,” he said.

“Good,” said Sherlock. “Take this letter to Masters Hoddleston and Wishart.”

“Hoddleston and Wishart?” asked Shakespeare scornfully. “Those effeminate popinjays? Those counterfeit knaves? Those boys who tempt the greater lords? What use has your lordship for them?”

"They are the men who have asked me to find a playwright to write them great roles,” said Sherlock. “It was on their errand that you were summoned thither.”

“Ah,” said Shakespeare, clearing his throat. “Hoddleston might make an Henry V someday, provided I introduce him in a preivious work to prevent Burbage from stealing his speeches. And Wishart, someone of tragedy, like Richard II, for he hath the eyes for it.”

“Enough!” said John. “It is needful that you understand your part in this trap.”

“I need only understand my role,” said Shakespeare.

“Your role is that of the clown,” said Sherlock.

“It is always thus, for the role of the clown is to speak the truth,” said Shakespeare. “What is to happen?”

“Firstly,” said Sherlock, “I shall die.”

Shakespeare blinked in surprise. “It's rather unusual to kill the hero in the first act. And will it not prove difficult for you to give testimony when thou art dead? Unless you are to play the ghost as well.”

“I have here a potion that will make Master Sherlock appear to be ill unto death,” said John.

“And when I am seeming dead,” said Sherlock, “you are charged with ensuring that Lady Holmes and Doctor Moriarty are never to be in the same room together unless it is my brother's study, which is the room at the end of the hall.”

Shakespeare frowned. “But what if your death be not counterfeit?”

“Then your part is all the more important,” said Sherlock. “For your actions and John's shall reveal the true cause.”

Shakespeare nodded. “What of Hoddleston and Wishart?”

“The details are here,” said Sherlock, brandishing the letter. “They have asked me to provide them with men's roles, and here are their first assignments.”

“I wouldn't have thought those two so hard up for male parts,” said Shakespeare, making a rude gesture.

“Make haste, Master Shakespeare,” said Sherlock, ignoring the pun. “The hour grows late. I should lend you a horse, but Lestrade can know nothing of our conspiracy. Here's half a crown. Hire a coach to bear you three. Wait at the alehouse two streets down until someone is sent to fetch you. Above all things, remember that Masters Hoddleston and Wishart must not be seen when you hide them in my brother's chamber.”

“I'll go on your lordship's errand,” he said, clearly dubious of the plan.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, handing him the letter and pressing the coin into Shakespeare's palm.

Shakespeare bowed and departed.

“There's a merry fellow, to be sure,” said John.

Sherlock sat down on the bed. “I am all out of humour,” he said.

“Not surprising, given how much Moriarty took out of you yesterday,” said John. “Your colour is better today. Have you eaten?”

“As much as I could stand,” said Sherlock. “I must have food inside me in order to have the signs and outward shows of the poison Moriarty believes I have taken.”

John nodded, his worst fears confirmed. “When do you need to take the friar's herbs?”

“Presently,” said Sherlock, though he made no move to remove the herbs from inside his boot where he had hidden them the night before. “I do not relish this,” he said at last in a small voice.

“Nor do I,” said John. “But a great man tells me that it is necessary, and I believe him.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “You are too credulous by half,” he said, as his face became serious. “Will you stay with me until it is over? I should be glad of your company, though it is cowardly of me to ask it. It will not be pleasant.”

“Nothing could draw me from your side,” said John. “Is there any service I can do to make the herbs less bitter?”

“No,” said Sherlock, “but I thank you. Bring them me?”

John did as he was bid and handed Sherlock the packet of herbs, which he upended in a cup of ale. Sherlock looked at the cup and raised wide, frightened eyes to John's. “A kiss,” he whispered. “Give me a kiss, good friend, so that I may gain some of the bravery with which you have in such ready supply.”

John sat on the bed and kissed the pale lips with great tenderness. When he opened his eyes he found Sherlock's cheeks stained with red. “Oh,” said John, stroking his cheek. “I feel powerful fear. You have drawn off too much of my courage.”

“How thoughtless of me,” said Sherlock, a ghost of a smile trembling in the corner of his mouth. “Here, have some of it back again.”

Their lips met once more, and this time John felt a promise pass between his mouth and his master's: that this would not be their final embrace.

Sherlock raised the cup in salute. “Here's to my health,” he said. “May it return in full once these dark days are behind us.”

“Amen,” said John, sending a prayer of hope heavenward.

Sherlock raised the cup to his lips and emptied it, his face twisting into a grimace as he swallowed the draught. John took the cup from him and hid it in the wardrobe.

“Bring the close stool from the store-room,” said Sherlock. “I shall have use of it soon. And give me the chamber pot in the corner.”

“Both at once?” asked John, feeling a frisson of fear for what his master was about to endure.

“Let us hope not,” said Sherlock grimly. “But we should be prepared. Though we cannot, of course, appear too prepared.”

“How long until the herbs have their effect?” asked John.

“Not long,” said Sherlock. “What words are you to tell my brother to guarantee that he will come with you? Tell me.”

“Norbury,” said John.

“Good,” he said. John could already detect a roughness in his master's breath that indicated discomfort.

“Tell me of the day you lost your arm,” said Sherlock.

John pursed his lips in distaste. “You know the story of that great victory. Why do you wish to hear my account when all I saw of the action was blood and injury?”

“It does not matter why,” said Sherlock. “I wish to hear it.”

John sighed. “I was in the cockpit. I knew only when we changed directions and when the enemy's guns struck true, for the whole ship trembled. I was tending to the first wave of casualties when another volley struck the ship near the water-line. It struck the table where I was conducting an extraction, and the good English oak shattered into a hundred pieces. A large quantity of it stuck into the arm I used to shield myself.”

“How did you do it?” asked Sherlock, closing his eyes.

John knew what he was asking. “I had seen enough injuries to know the arm couldn't be saved, and that knowledge made what was to come another procedure, no different than those I had performed on a hundred men before. When we had taken account of all the casualties, I had my loblolly boy hold down the arm while I applied the saw. The brazier with the cauterizing irons was still upright, thank God, and that is the end of the story.”

Sherlock was silent, and John took his master's cold hand, stroking it with his thumb. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Knowing that something must happen does give one the strength to begin, but how did you see it through?”

John grimaced. “Once the task is undertaken, you can't stop. You just have to keep going and trust that the end will be better than the present.”

Sherlock let out a moan, and John wiped away the perspiration that was beading on Sherlock's brow.

“The close stool,” Sherlock whispered, wrapping his arms around his stomach. “It will not be long now.”

John made haste to the store-room, where he found the sturdy chair with a cut-out in the seat. A clean chamber pot sat within its opening, and he dragged the chair to Sherlock's chamber as quickly as he could, since it was too heavy to lift. He found his master wiping his mouth and a small pool of vomit on the floor next to the bed.

“I think that shall be sufficient to convince them that the spell came on suddenly,” said Sherlock. “Put the close stool there,” he said, pointing to a small patch of floor near the writing desk, groaning. “I feel my insides rebel. Please, John, don't leave me.”

“Never,” said John, relieved that the sound of moving furniture had summoned one of the pages. “Send for the doctor,” he told the boy. “Master Sherlock is unwell.”

Sherlock chose this moment to break foul wind. “God in heaven!” he moaned, hitching up his bedgown and sitting upon the close stool.

Though the smell was unholy, John did not release his master's hand, except to fetch the chamber pot to catch another spew of vomit.

Time slowed, and he had no conception of how much time passed between fits of violent puking and shitting. His focus was on his master. He was vaguely aware of servants entering and bringing water to help with the futile task of keeping Sherlock clean and offering whispered assurances that the doctor was on his way.

With every fit that came upon Sherlock, John noticed him growing weaker to the point that he called for ale and all but forced Sherlock to drink it.

It wasn't until the mid-day sun struck the book on the writing desk that John realized that nearly an hour had passed since Sherlock first began to be ill, and there was no sign of Doctor Moriarty. It was then that ice settled in John's stomach. What if Moriarty didn't come? The entire plan would be ruined, and John would likely be held responsible for his master's death. Fortunately, Sherlock's resurrection would lay charges of negligence to rest, but the conspiracy that his master fervently believed existed would remain uncovered, and Sherlock would still be in danger.

This black mood lasted through Sherlock vomiting up the ale he had just consumed.

“How now!” came a loathsome voice that John had never been happier to hear. “Have you forgotten to give Master Sherlock his medicine?”

John turned to find Moriarty in his plague doctor clothes once more, and he allowed himself to shudder obviously.

“I gave him two spoonfuls this morning,” said John, relying on the words Sherlock had given him.

Moriarty glanced into the chamber pot on Sherlock's lap and lifted one of his pale thighs to see the contents of the chamber pot below, and he nodded to himself.

“It is as I feared,” he said. “The illness has returned despite my best treatment.”

“What's to be done?” asked John, not having to feign the desperation in his voice.

Moriarty turned to the footman hovering in the doorway. “Fetch Lord Holmes,” he said.

“Oh God,” whispered John, clasping Sherlock's hand. He felt a feeble squeeze in return.

There was a buzz of conversation from the corridor, as the bad news travelled through the household staff. John fancied it passed down a line of servants leading all the way down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson would receive the message and go running for Shakespeare, Hoddleston, and Wishart. At least, that was Sherlock's plan. It was nearly as infuriating to be unable to check on the plan's progress as it was not to be able to ease his master's suffering.

“There, there,” said Moriarty, pressing a gloved hand on John's shoulder. “You have done everything you could. You may leave me with him now. I may be able to ease his passing.”

“I promised him I would stay,” said John.

“He clearly drew this promise from you when he was ill,” said Moriarty. “I relieve you of it. Go, fetch Lord Holmes.”

“Anders has gone for him already,” said John. “I should very much like to stay, if not only to say goodbye.”

Though John could not see Moriarty's face through the hideous beaked mask, he could tell that the man was trying to think of a reason to get rid of him. “I fear that the miasma which passeth from the body upon the moment of death should cling to you,” said Moriarty.

“Then I shall open the window,” said John, doing so and relieving some of the noisome atmosphere of the sick room.

“Very well,” said Moriarty. “Though you do no good here.”

“If my master is dying, then I shall not make matters worse,” said John.

“Surely you overstate the matter,” said a cold voice from the doorway.

“Though his words be rough, they are true,” said Moriarty, bowing to Lord and Lady Holmes. “I would not that it were so.”

“What has happened?” asked the earl, his mouth tight.

“Master Sherlock has failed to respond to my most potent treatment,” said Moriarty. “There is nothing to be done.”

“May God grant him peace,” said Lady Holmes, raising a handkerchief to her face.

John felt Sherlock's grip tighten around his hand. “I live yet!” he shouted in a rough, hissing voice.

“Try to rest, brother,” said Lord Holmes, stepping into the sick room and taking Sherlock's other hand. “Doctor Moriarty's medicine may yet return you to health.”

“I feel my life drain from me,” said Sherlock, coughing feebly. “Do not pray for the restoration of my body,” he said to his brother. “Pray instead for my soul.”

John was surprised to see tears in Lord Holmes's eyes, and he turned away from his brother so that he might not see.

There was a commotion out in the hallway, and John could hear raised voices, though he could not tell what was being said.

“Are you there, John?” whispered Sherlock. “I am going. I fear I may already be gone.”

“I am here,” said John.

“Unhand me!” said a familiar voice, and Friar Lawrence stepped into the room. “Will you deny a dying man his last rites?”

Lord Holmes frowned. “How do you know my brother?”

“I have heard his confessions weekly,” said Friar Lawrence. “It is with a heavy heart that I come to perform this final office.”

“Leave us,” snapped Lord Holmes to the numerous servants who were gathered in the corridor. He closed the door. He seized Sherlock's arm and drew it around his neck. John followed his lead, and the two of them moved Sherlock from the close stool to the bed.

Sherlock's skin was grey, and his breathing was rapid and shallow.

John's eyes never left Sherlock's face as the friar spoke comforting absolutions, and he saw his master grimace as the friar delivered his final communion.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” whispered the friar.

Sherlock's grip tightened around John's, and his eyes widened. He met John's gaze as his body seized up, and then fell back on the bed.

“Hold him down,” said Moriarty, and though Sherlock was all skin and bones, it took John, Lord Holmes, the doctor and the friar to restrain him until his body stopped twitching and fell slack upon the bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Sudden stillness echoed through the chamber.

“It is finished,” said Friar Lawrence softly, reaching over to close Sherlock's vacant eyes.

The household servants stood on either side of the corridor as John passed through them, seeking the servants’ stair. The thought that he had to find Mrs. Hudson was foremost in his mind, but he had quite forgot what he was supposed to tell her. Fortunately, the admirable lady knew her role, and as soon as John staggered into the kitchen, she pressed a measure of her strongest ale into his hand and ascended the stair to wash and wrap the body.

John felt numbness descend, which allowed him badly needed focus on his next task. Once he had finished the ale, he went looking for Lestrade, who wasn't in the courtyard or the stables. This wasn't according to Sherlock's plan, but John supposed it wasn't so terribly important.

He mounted the stairs once more and found Moriarty and Lord and Lady Holmes in Sherlock's sick room speaking with Mrs. Hudson, whose arms were filled with sweet-smelling herbs and branches.

“My lord Holmes,” said John, bowing. “A word in your ear.”

Mrs. Hudson gave a little cough, and John realised that he'd made an error. He wasn't to leave Moriarty and Lady Holmes alone. Where on God's green earth was Shakespeare?

Unfortunately, Lord Holmes nodded gravely. “I would hear of my brother's final hours, and I suspect such things are unfit for a lady's ears.”

“Oh, Doctor Moriarty!” cried Mrs. Hudson, holding her hands aloft. “How am I to prevent carrying Master Sherlock's affliction to the wide world? Can you tell me which of these good herbs may stave off this awful sickness?”

Moriarty appeared nettled to be detained thus, and Lady Holmes even more so, but he began to invent an explanation to calm the old woman's nerves.

John blessed the lady a thousand times in his thoughts and followed Lord Holmes down the corridor. At first, John feared that he would choose the study for their interview, but after a moment's pause, he thought better of it and continued to his chambers.

John held his breath as he passed the outer and inner doors, not knowing what he would find. To his surprise, the room was dark, despite it being mid-day, and he could make out the figures of two men lying on the earl's bed.

“What in blazes?” shouted Lord Holmes, pulling back the curtain at the window to reveal Lestrade lying atop Shakespeare.

Lestrade sprang off Shakespeare as if he were made of fire. “My lord!” he exclaimed. “I took him for you!”

“So I see,” said Lord Holmes, trembling with anger.

“No!” said Lestrade. “I came here seeking you and found the room darkened and a man the size of your lordship with the same beard. I made to give you, uh, succour in your time of need.”

Lord Holmes drew his sword and pointed it at Shakespeare. “What excuse can you give, villain?”

Shakespeare gulped. “Would you believe I came looking for Master Sherlock and took a wrong turn?”

“Norbury!” shouted John.

The earl froze mid-step and turned to face John. “What did you say?” he asked, face paling.

“Norbury. And if that word means to you what Sherlock felt it did, then you and Lestrade will join me in your study, for what I have to say concerns you both.”

Lord Holmes's eyes narrowed at his easy use of Sherlock's Christian name, and John cursed himself for a sentimental fool. After what felt like an eternity, Lord Holmes nodded. “I shall come,” he said. “But Lestrade shall stay with this naughty fellow to have what revenge he would for the trick visited on him.”

Shakespeare raised his hands. “It was no trick!” he said. “I came here in error and made to find the exit when this man entered and began to kiss me as I have never been kissed before! Hercules himself would have been arrested in his tasks had he been thus accosted!”

“Save your lies,” said Lestrade, whose ears had turned red. “I shall have the truth from thee though it take all night.”

“Have I thy promise?” asked Shakespeare saucily.

As the earl closed his chamber door behind him, John caught sight of the two actors, hiding under the bed. He hoped fervently that Shakespeare would be able to talk Lestrade into letting the actors perform their necessary role.

The earl made to close the door to his study behind him, but John stayed his hand.

“There isn't time to explain fully,” said John, “but we must conceal ourselves in the alcove. There is villainy afoot, and I would your lordship hear it with your own ears. If you ever loved your brother, please hide with me now.”

Lord Holmes's face was perfectly still. “For love of my brother, I will go with thee,” he said softly, pulling back the corner of the tapestry to reveal an alcove just wide enough to conceal two men. Lord Holmes drew his sword once more and gestured for John to enter first. Lestrade should have been the second man in the alcove, for John had no weapon, but he tucked himself into the far corner of the alcove so as to make room for the earl and his rapier.

The alcove was plunged into darkness as the earl lowered the tapestry, but when John's eyes adjusted, he found several small moth-holes in the tapestry through which he could see the study door and the hallway beyond.

John smiled as he heard Mrs. Hudson bleating over the general hubbub in the corridor. He spied Moriarty and Lady Holmes walk past the study door in the direction of Lord Holmes's chambers, but they returned a moment later in great haste and shut the door behind him.

The earl breathed in his surprise but remained silent.

“Will we be disturbed in here?” asked Moriarty.

“No, I heard my husband's hobby horse in his chamber with him,” said Lady Holmes. “He will be engaged for some time.”

John felt the earl stiffen next to him at the casual insult from his wife, but he remained silent.

“We take what comfort we can in such times,” said Moriarty, his tone impertinent, and he removed his mask and gloves.

“So much the better,” she said, “for my husband leaves me in peace.”

“He is a fool, then,” said Moriarty, raising his hand to Lady Holmes's face.

She slapped it away. “You dare touch me after this?”

“You did not let me touch you before,” said Moriarty, removing his heavy black gown, “and now that the job is done, I thought to receive your gratitude.”

She let out a harsh laugh. “You are too bold, dear doctor, and you prize your service too high.”

“Has not the impediment to your husband's political ambitions been removed?” asked Moriarty.

John felt Lord Holmes stiffen at his side.

“That remains to be seen,” said Lady Holmes, sweeping over to her husband's desk and collapsing in the chair. “If I were never to look upon such a sight again, it should be too soon.”

“You were a pillar of Christian strength and mercy,” said Moriarty.

“I should not have had to look at it,” said Lady Holmes. “It was vile and my gorge rises to think on it.”

“Heaven forefend your ladyship should look on the consequences of her wishes,” said Moriarty. “Had you but warned me you were coming, I should not have given that fool of a ship's doctor the medicine,” said Moriarty. “All simple seamen believe that if one dose is salutary, two doses are doubly so. And I would not have needed to give it to him at all had your own attempt to remove the impediment not been so inept that even that simpleton saw it coming.”

“Loyal men who are also persuadable are difficult to find,” said Lady Holmes archly. “Even in Rutland, where they have greater freedom and less work than on most estates.”

“What a shame that loyalty and persuasion do not result in competence,” said Moriarty.

“I shouldn't have needed to send a man at all had I any confidence in your ability to bring about our shared aim,” said Lady Holmes. “But my husband wrote me that my brother made a miraculous recovery from his fever.”

“You were always too hasty,” said Moriarty. “That was but a feint. For what confidence would Lord Holmes continue to have in my skill if Master Sherlock died of his first serious illness under my care?”

Lady Holmes sighed. “But it's true, the deed is done. What payment will thou ask?”

“Nothing that you would not freely give,” said Moriarty. “I should most like to remain as your family physician. Dear little Mary would miss me so if it were otherwise. And now and then I may ask you to deliver the odd word in your husband's ear on trivial matters that are of import to me, assuming he should remain in the Queen's favour.”

“Now that my husband need no longer play nursemaid to his brother, his star shall be in its ascendancy,” said Lady Holmes, her eyes bright.

The earl made a choked sound, and Moriarty's head snapped toward the tapestry. “How now!” he said, drawing a short sword. “Do I detect a rat?”

Lord Holmes reached upward and pulled the tapestry from its mount on the wall, and it fell to the floor with a thump. “The only vermin in this room I see before me,” said Lord Holmes, his face incandescent with rage.

Lady Holmes's hand flew to her mouth. “Husband!” she said. “You misunderstand me!”

“I would that I did,” said Lord Holmes. “I would that your blush be modesty and not shame for the part you have played in my brother's death, but it cannot be so.” He turned to Moriarty and raised his rapier. “I shall have your life for my brother's death, villain.”

Moriarty made a flippant gesture with his sword. “If you try, you shall lose your favourite toy, for if I die today, he dies upon my lawyer's pleasure.”

“Lord Holmes,” said John. “I know of what he speaks. Lestrade made an imprudent investment, and this spider hath caught him in his web.”

“I can pay whatever monies he owe,” said Lord Holmes pointing his weapon at Moriarty's face.

“The deed demands his flesh in payment,” said John.

“Then the deed is forfeit,” rang a voice from the doorway. John turned to find Shakespeare clad in what had to be Lord Holmes's clothes, for he was bedecked with gold embroidery, fur, chains, and the largest, laciest ruff John had ever seen.

Moriarty scowled at him. “Who are you meant to be?”

“I am Master Barnard, Lord Holmes's lawyer,” said Shakespeare, and I have seen the agreement of which you speak. My client's friend is to repay you with his flesh to be cut off from whatever part it please the debt-holder, is this not so?”

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. “It is. And my lawyer assures me that there is no impediment to collecting it.”

“No impediment on paper,” said Shakespeare, “but in practice, I do not see how you can collect it without taking more than you are allowed.”

“The deed does not specify,” said Moriarty. “I can take as much flesh as it please me.”

“The deed says that you must cut the flesh, but with flesh cometh blood, and thou art not entitled to that unless the debtor enlists your professional service.”

“Thank you, Master Barnard,” said Lord Holmes. “I shall double your retainer.”

Shakespeare gave him a wry smile. “Your lordship is too kind.”

Moriarty made an infuriated sound and sprang at Lord Holmes, who parried his thrust, though both men were knocked to the ground with the force of Moriarty's attack. John, who had no weapon, seized the candelabra near Lord Holmes's desk, but he found himself fighting Lady Holmes for it, and he dropped it in surprise. Shakespeare, who was also unarmed, leapt into the hallway, and Lestrade, Hoddleston, and Wishart joined the fray.

“Beware his weapon!” shouted Shakespeare, “for the man hath poison in his very being.”

Lord Holmes had managed to kick Moriarty's sword out of his hands, but Moriarty seized Wishart's wrist and twisted, which made the man cry out and drop the dagger he brandished. Lady Holmes brought the iron candelabra down on Lestrade's head as Moriarty made a desperate leap at Shakespeare, and to John's horror, Moriarty sank the knife neatly between Shakespeare's ribs as he shoved him out of the way and ran out into the corridor.

Shakespeare's eyes went wide and his hands flew to his side as his legs gave way and he fell to the ground.

“Tend to him!” John shouted at the actors, whose faces were ashen with horror, and he took off after Moriarty down the servant's stair. John could hear Moriarty's heavy boots on the landing below, and suddenly there was a woman's scream, followed by a dull thump.

John rounded the stair and found Sally standing at the foot of the stairs with an iron in her hand and Moriarty lying at her feet, motionless.

“God in heaven,” she whispered. “I've killed the doctor.” She looked at John. “I was bringing the iron to Mrs. Hudson and he ran into me. I thought he meant me mischief, so I hit him, but now he's dead and I'm going to be hanged for it!”

John looked at her horrified face and he couldn't help himself. He began to laugh.

At this, Shakespeare and Lestrade came tearing down the stairs.

They took one look at Sally and Moriarty, and they too began to whoop with laughter.

Sally put her hands on her hips. “What are you wags laughing at? And what are you doing in Lord Holmes's clothes, you thieving beast?”

“Peace, Sally,” said John, frowning at Shakespeare. “I thought the villain stabbed you.”

“That he did,” said Shakespeare, grinning, “with the very dagger that hath slain a great many tragic characters on our fair stage.”

“Come,” said Lestrade, nudging Moriarty with his foot. “Let us take him to Lord Holmes. He shall hear of your part in this, Sally,” he said, smiling. “And for my part, I'm in your debt.”

“Speak no more of debts, Lestrade,” said Shakespeare, hoisting Moriarty over his shoulder. “We shall find some other way to repay the lady. A sonnet in her praise, perhaps? My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun,” he said in his player's voice. “Coral is far more red than her lips' red. If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow- ow!”

“There'll be more of that if I hear you speak of my breasts again, you fork-tongued knave,” said Sally, brandishing the iron.

When Moriarty had been dispatched to prison with great haste and numerous Holmes men-at-arms, Lady Holmes banished to the solarium, and Shakespeare returned to his own clothes, Lord Holmes gathered the company together in his study to interrogate each man.

He began with Hoddleston and Wishart, who knew only their roles in the adventure and no more, and then moved on to Shakespeare, who gave witty, if incomplete replies to his lordship's questions, and he made no reference to the poison Sherlock had taken in an attempt to survive Moriarty's attempt on his life. He also gave a spirited account of the conversation between Lestrade and Moriarty that he and John had overheard, which led to the discovery of the infamous deed.

Lord Holmes sat back in his chair. “But how did you manage to think of such a way out of the bond?”

Shakespeare smiled. “Your lordship ought not depend on my argument, for though it have sense, I do not know the law. But seeing the doctor treat Master Sherlock yesterday put me in a sanguine frame of mind. And I did deliver the verdict very well, did I not? And my death was wonderfully lifelike. Even Doctor Watson believed me to be grievously injured.”

“Indeed,” came a voice from the doorway. “I daresay your death was the second most convincing this house has seen today.”

John turned to see Sherlock, wrapped in a linen sheath, standing in the doorway looking pale, but determined. John's knees buckled, and his eyes filled with tears of relief.

Lord Holmes let out a cry and ran to his brother, embracing him as tears rolled freely down his face.

“How is this possible?” he asked, shaking Sherlock gently, as though convincing himself that his brother was not a ghost.

“Forgive us the tragedy we have had to perform for your benefit,” said Sherlock. “But I knew of no other way to expose the conspiracy and save the lives of all involved if Moriarty and his accomplice did not believe me dead by his poison. With the help of the good friar who ministered my last rites, I was able to mimic the symptoms, and these good, loyal men have played their parts admirably.”

Lord Holmes clapped his hands to summon Anders. “I shall have the whole story later. For now, you must rest and eat and drink, if you have stomach. Friends, I would have you join us at supper. Anders, see that—“ he stopped and sighed as Anders blanched at the sight of Sherlock and fainted.

“It seems that I must insist on your presence, Sherlock. Otherwise, we shall have a rash of fainting footmen. And please resist the temptation to terrify the servants by appearing at supper in your burial shroud. Good day. I shall see you all at supper.”

Lord Holmes bade Lestrade drag Anders out in to the corridor and followed them. John took the opportunity to position himself next to Sherlock, not daring to touch him, but merely to see with his own eyes that his master was truly alive and well.

Sherlock made room for John next to him as he smiled at Wishart, Hoddleston, and Shakespeare. “Thank you all for the parts you have played today. And it is with great pleasure that I tell you that you shall have a series of three plays to start on the lives of English monarchs, the first to be delivered in a month's time.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Hoddleston. “William has told us that he shall be the author.”

“I shouldn't mind if a horse were writing the plays, provided there were male roles for us,” said Wishart.

“There are to be so many male roles that even the boys shall have to play farmers and rebels,” said Shakespeare. “And though both of you must also play Queen Margaret and the Duchess Gloucester, neither lady shall be lacking in spirit. I might even write a fourth play set before the first two if one of you should desire to play Joan of Arc.”

“You have not yet finished one play yet, and you speak of a sequence of four,” said Sherlock, leaning upon his brother's desk. “This is either your fated path or a magnificent show of hubris.”

“My time in your lordship's presence has been most educational,” said Shakespeare.

“Let it not be too educational,” said Sherlock. “Neither I nor my brother would appreciate appearing onstage, no matter how skilled the men portraying us.”

“The Most Lamentable Tragedy of Sherlock, the Melancholy Gentleman,” said Shakespeare. “I should have to make you a prince in order to interest the public in your interminable observations and eventual death. And perhaps add a ghost. The groundlings love a ghost.”

A page appeared, beckoning them to come to the hall for an early supper, and Sherlock bade the actors precede them.

Sherlock let his shroud fall and wrapped his arms around John.

John finally let the tears that had been brimming in his eyes fall as the joy he felt in his master's embrace filled him to overflowing.

“Here now,” said Sherlock, brushing a tear from John's cheek. “Are you sad?”

“No,” said John, his voice rough.

“Sick?”

“Not that,” said John.

“You are neither sad, nor sick, but neither merry, nor well.”

“None of those words are accurate,” said John. “Although perhaps all together.”

“Perhaps silence is the most eloquent expression?” asked Sherlock, lowering his lips to John's.

John tightened his arm around Sherlock and deepened the kiss.

They stood there in Lord Holmes's study, conversing in timeless language until they heard a throat being cleared.

Sherlock and John parted breathlessly and found Shakespeare leaning against the doorway, tutting. “The course of true love never did run smooth,” he said, “for I must interrupt this pretty scene with rude words from Lord Holmes strenuously requesting your presence at supper.”

“Very well,” said Sherlock. “At my brother's command, I shall follow.”

“Sherlock,” said John. “You might have noticed that you're not wearing anything apart from the sprigs of rosemary Mrs. Hudson left when washing and anointing you when you were thought dead.”

“My brother ordered me not to appear at supper in the burial shroud,” said Sherlock airily. “I strive to follow his commands to the letter. Besides, I have never been cleaner in all my life. T'would be a shame for Mrs. Hudson's excellent work to go to waste.”

He strode off down the corridor as naked as the day he entered earth and descended the main stairway.

“Don't worry,” said John quietly. “It won't.”

“Come, good doctor,” said Shakespeare, gesturing towards the servant's stair. “Shall we watch the great player make his entrance from the gallery?”

John clapped him on the shoulder. “I wouldn't miss it for all the world.”

London, March, 1589

Six months later, John and Sherlock sat in their usual room at The Theatre while the company below took their bows. Even Sherlock, whose habit was to look bored until the theatre patrons began to leave, clapped his hands together several times, though John knew he would claim it was because of the cold, damp air.

“You must admit, the play was better than you thought it would be,” said John, unwrapping the blanket from his master's legs.

“I was myself disappointed that the Duchess of Gloucester did not exclaim 'God's bollocks!' upon being caught at witchcraft,” said Sherlock.

“You're only saying that because that has become your favoured response when someone accuses you of witchcraft,” said John.

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps Shakespeare has some talent for memorable phrases after all.”

As Sherlock stood and drew his cloak around him, John marvelled at the difference the months had made in his master. He was still thin, but his skin had taken on a healthier hue, and his hair had grown out so much that it had begun to curl about his collar. John knew he should cut it, but the abundance, after such privation, pleased him.

But the largest difference between the invalid he had met in the solarium of Holmes house and the man he was proud to call his lord and master was the confidence of his place in the world, and it made John's heart swell with pride every time his brilliant, clever master solved a thorny problem or shed light on a mystery, though Sherlock's tongue remained as tart as ever.

“Now,” said Sherlock, “we have before us two irksome options: endure the boisterous company of actors whilst supping at the inn tonight, or returning to the tedium of Baker Street, where no interesting problems arrive after nightfall.”

“Mrs. Hudson expects us to sup in town,” said John, who knew how restless Sherlock would grow in their new suburban lodgings without some problem to engage him. “And Shakespeare wishes to tell us of a comedy he wishes to write.”

“Heaven preserve us from men happy in their work as they are in their marriages,” grumbled Sherlock. “If I have to listen to one more sonnet written about his wife, I shall embed his quill in a tender part of his anatomy.”

“I'm afraid we are engaged,” said John, smiling. “Unless you can see some mystery unfolding before us that wants solving.”

Sherlock glanced out over the packed theatre, where the applause was still going strong. “This theatre holds no mystery for me,” he complained. “Merely a blackmailer, a handful of cut-purses, a thief spending his ill-gotten gains on cushions and sweetmeats, and an adulterous nobleman in flagrante delicto with his orange-seller mistress in the tiring room below. There is nothing here worthy of my talents.”

“What about those two apronmen?” said John, pointing at a pair of labourers in the pit who were shoving one another and appeared to be about to come to blows.

“Disagreement over a doxy's affections,” said Sherlock dismissively. “See, there she stands, looking amused by the fracas. There's her apple-squire looking for a way to gain twice her usual price from them.”

John was about to bring Sherlock's attention to the singular appearance of a man with bright red hair when a cry of “Help! Thief!” rang out from the gallery, where a nobleman sat, his fingers clenched in his jerkin, across which a jewelled collar had previously hung. The nobleman's man-at-arms was slumped against the wall of the room, having been struck insentient by the assailant.

John felt a thrill go through him as Sherlock seized his hand.

“Come, John,” said Sherlock, his eyes alight. “The game's afoot!”

The End

Notes: Enormous thanks to the

holmestice mods who assigned me to a recipient who loves Sherlock and Shakespeare as much as I do.

saki101 requested a “historical AU and/or a work inspired by or featuring a piece of instrumental music, a poem, a building, a painting, statue or other artefact,” and I reckoned the works of Shakespeare would be sufficient inspiration.

Apart from ACD’s “The Dying Detective,” I’ve stolen most liberally from 2 Henry VI, Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Taming of the Shrew, Much Ado About Nothing, and The Merchant of Venice, though there are other small bits stolen from countless other plays and poems, the most notable being the final line, which ACD himself appropriated from I Henry IV.

My eternal thanks and love to my (redacted) for beta-reading, (redacted) for Brit-picking and beta-reading, and (redacted), who held my hand and cheered me on through this writing marathon.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

tiltedsyllogism.livejournal.com

oh, bravissimo/a, mystery author. I was thoroughly delighted even after just the first part, and that was BEFORE I knew what you were really up to. What an absolute joyous tour de force this was. I loved the way you drew on your various canons in ways both large-scale and small; I only wish I knew the histories as well as I know Hamlet and Much Ado and the other works of Shakespeare on which you drew. I am in thoroughgoing awe.

ETA (since nobody else has yet mentioned it) that I am still in paroxysms of delight over the genius of Sherlock's post-death reappearance. Showing up at such a moment still wrapped in his burial shroud makes for a wonderfully dramatic and striking (both Shakespearean and Sherlockian) moment all on its own, but fold in the reference to the (delightfully disjunctive) early scenes on aSiB and it's just utter genius. Looking back, that's my favorite moment in the whole thing, because it encapsulates in one intense oversaturated moment what you're doing all throughout. I continue to be fullof gratitude and delight.

Edited Date: 2013-12-13 05:25 pm (UTC)

From:

because holiday exchanges are fun

Fic for saki101: The Mystery of Ill Opinions, Part 3/3

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