Fic for theanglophile: The Cuttleknowle Curse, 2/4

[holmesticemods]

Outside Old Street glowed and glittered in a freak burst of golden sunlight that bounced off the glitzy Bezier apartments and the glass walls of the new high-rises that had mushroomed along the dingy old thoroughfare.

John and Iorwerth shook hands, Iorwerth cradling John’s between his slender fingers.

“Goodbye, John.” It was obvious he was contemplating adding a host of beseeching entreaties but decided to stifle them instead. He spun on his heels rather briskly and headed off in the direction of the Tube station. John was about to hoof it to the clinic when an all too familiar black sedan sidled up to the kerb. Its back door opened.

“No,” John informed the car’s shiny roof. “I’m due at the clinic…,” here he pretended to check his watch, “…three minutes ago in fact, so sadly I have to do without a friendly chat. Maybe next time, bye.”

“Get into the car, John,” Mycroft commanded in his customary clipped tones from inside the vehicle. “The clinic situation is resolved. Your replacement’s credentials were deemed fully satisfactory, naturally, and your former colleagues will text you the details for the farewell drinks.”

“What?”

A waspish sigh that neatly matched any of Sherlock’s for sheer petulance rose from the back seat.

“You heard me perfectly fine, John. There was nothing wrong with your ears last time I checked. Please cut the dramatics and get into the car. Do you really believe I would concern myself with finding a temporary stand-in for your job if there were an alternative solution for the conundrum?”

Acceding Mycroft did have a point there John huffed a crusty sigh of his own – noticing his was a less accomplished affair than those of either Holmes sibling – and wedged his backside onto the smooth fawn leather of the back seat.

“There you are.” Mycroft graced John with his friendliest smile, which never failed to remind John of a nature documentary on the feeding habits of the king cobra he’d once watched. The unavoidable David Attenborough had waxed lyrical on nature’s ingenuity but John had felt slightly nauseated by the time he aimed the control at the telly.

“Yes, here I am,” John affirmed. “Now what’s this conundrum you’re going on about?”

“221B Baker Street, Anthony. And some privacy.” Despite its bulk the vehicle fused effortlessly into the perpetual gridlock that comprised London’s major thoroughfares, congestion charge or no. Undoubtedly Mycroft had the sedan rigged with an invisible force field that pushed aside any car recklessly taunting the British government with its presence.

“Please be so kind as to check your phone,” Mycroft demanded once the glass partition had slotted into place.

“Why?” John demanded in turn. Where the Holmes brothers had picked up the notion John Hamish Watson, ex RAMC, was theirs to order around as they saw fit, would likely remain the biggest mystery of John’s life. “It’s on silent mode but I put it in my pocket so I would feel…”

Reaching behind him John extracted the mobile from his jeans to shove the final proof that he was nothing but a vexatious meddling busybody straight under Mycroft’s obnoxiously prying nose.

36 missed text messages
23 missed calls, the screen read.

“You were saying?” Mycroft enquired politely. As a surviving witness of the verbal trench warfare that overtook the flat like clockwork five minutes after Mycroft’s entry into their living room John acknowledged Mycroft was currently doing an excellent job of reining in the smugness.

“I don’t understand,” John said. “I put it on silent but it was supposed…”

“Allow me?” Mycroft extended his hand, palm upwards.

“Look,” he edified, holding the mobile at such an angle John had a good view of the screen and Mycroft’s hands, which proved to be as adept at handling the device as his PA’s and his brother’s. “In switching it to silent mode you inadvertently de-activated vibrate mode as well. A common occurrence, it happens to thousands of users on a daily basis.” Demonstration over, he dropped the phone into John’s limp hand. As usual when dealing with Mycroft, John wavered between open admiration for the man’s suavity and equally serious aggravation at the supercilious git’s maddening air of superiority.

“You’ll find most of those messages and calls are from Detective Inspector Lestrade. A perplexing case in Mayfair, rather high profile according to the Detective Inspector. He contacted me after an hour of trying to reach either you or Sherlock. He didn’t want to ring Mrs Hudson for fear of alarming her.”

“There’s nothing…” John began.

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed pleasantly, twirling his brolly that was planted firmly between his legs to underscore he was aware John hadn’t been negligent in looking after his younger sibling. “I’ve been acquainted with Mrs Hudson for a few more years than the good DI and consider myself a connoisseur of the human race and its various quirks and oddities. Mrs Hudson is as constant as the rock of Gibraltar. Of course I never hesitated phoning her, only to have my suspicions confirmed that my dear brother was sulking on your sofa, too busy enjoying one of his wearisome strops to answer his phone.”

“He did have…”

“Of course the resemblance is indeed remarkable.” Mycroft plonked his own phone not quite into John’s face, then lowered the instrument to afford John a good view of its screen.

“But that’s… that’s…” John gasped, staring at the projected image of a younger Sherlock, a Sherlock in his early twenties with his arm around Iorwerth Leighmore’s narrow waist and gracing the younger Iorwerth with an expression so full of open adoration and wonder that his face shone like a candle-lit icon. If asked, John would have sworn Sherlock’s repertoire lacked such a countenance – too much sentiment. The closest came that moment when, after a long afternoon bent over the microscope staring at slides covered with vile green mucus that stank to high heaven, Sherlock had suddenly slapped his palms on the kitchen table and shouted: “Obviously. I’m an idiot for not having seen it straightaway.” John had forgotten what the commotion was about but he remembered the air of beatific bliss on Sherlock’s face.

And here it was again, intensified perhaps by the loving look the object of Sherlock’s... desire (John’s thoughts leapt back to the amalgam of expressions flitting over Sherlock’s face yesterday) returned, which matched the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze with such fervour that John felt compelled to avert his eyes as the heat radiating from the screen warmed his face.

“Identical twins, John. That’s Iorwerth Leighmore’s twin brother, Wickliffe Leighmore. I declare I’ve never heard of another family so intent on burdening their offspring with the curse of a bizarre first name. Only imagine what those two must have lived through at Harrow. The cruelty of schoolboys.”

“Yes.” John’s eyes had swerved back and he was busy studying the photograph again.

“There’s more, lots in fact, nothing unseemly though. They must have ended up at some party where someone had a camera handy – hard to envisage Sherlock voluntarily mixing with society, but he was younger then, and very much in love. I found the pictures clearing out Sherlock’s room.”

“Why?” The word dropped from John’s mouth automatically as Mycroft’s meticulously manicured finger swiped through photograph after photograph of Sherlock and the boy. It was like flicking through a catalogue of peerless Arabian colts – one as black as the starry night, the other glowing pale as the lustrous moon – prancing around each other on long legs and pressing their heads close in an elaborate courting ritual.

“My parents were still reeling from the shock and the college needed Sherlock’s room cleared as soon as possible as it was in a prime location.”

“Yes.” John tore his gaze away from the screen to settle it directly on Mycroft. “But why?”

Air escaped from Mycroft’s mouth in one of his singular, small sighs, as if he’d adopted John as another – equally exasperating and eventually disappointing – brother. “You already know the answer, John. Sherlock’s reaction yesterday told you. He never knew Wickliffe had a brother, he never even knew Wickliffe’s real name. Sherlock first met and soon fell in love with a boy who told him his name was Victor Trevor.”

Obviously he decided John had seen enough for he chose that moment to slide the phone into one of his numerous jacket pockets. “Sibling enmity is a much more common occurrence than most people seem to believe. How’s Harry these days?”

“Just come to the point, Mycroft,” John growled. Staring at those photographs had resurrected his subliminal concerns for Sherlock’s mental health and Mycroft’s show of specious nonchalance only served to fuel these worries. He wished the car were outfitted with some high-whizz conversion technology that, at the press of a tiny button, would transform the vehicle into a helicopter that would fly them to Baker Street in a line as straight as the crow’s path, and without half of London’s motorised conveyances blocking their path.

“I was, John.” Mycroft’s mouth curled into the overbearing smile he reserved for those inane people trying his patience particularly hard. “You’ve talked with the brother. Do you believe Sherlock would have suffered such a person gladly at any stage in his life? The pomp and circumstance of an existence that circles around tradition and pride in the family name? Cambridge University’s predominant asset in Sherlock’s view was the fact it isn’t Oxford, which is my alma mater. Wickliffe – Victor – decided upon Oxford for the same fickle reason, saying he’d prefer to hitch his wagon to his own star. His character must have fitted Sherlock’s to a T. Fiercely independent, some would say, though I think obdurate a more fitting description. The father told me he only returned for two days the Christmas before his demise. Naturally, the brothers had fallen out much earlier, during their last school term, I believe.”

“Demise?” echoed John.

“I still don’t know how they first met. Perhaps Victor was less of a recluse than Sherlock,” Mycroft mused, ignoring John’s indirect request for enlightenment and choosing to gallop ahead along an independent route. “Once he’d calmed down enough Sherlock solved the puzzle of course, but for a short instant he must have imagined Victor had walked up the stairs with you. Naturally Sherlock never breathed a word about the affair to either our parents or myself. Not that he spoke much to any of us. We only found out after a call from the Slovenian embassy. Apparently Sherlock and another young man had hired a guide to explore some caves. All the embassy could tell me was that the young man was dead, Sherlock was in hospital and the guide was in prison. I boarded the first flight to Ljubljana. It turned out Victor’s father was seated two rows down from me. But we only discovered that later, of course.”

All traces of its habitual condescension had left Mycroft’s voice. He’d angled his upper body away from John and tightened his hands around his umbrella handle in what looked suspiciously like a toddler searching comfort from its favourite plush toy. His reflection in the car’s window was a study in grief. Since that first uncomfortable encounter in a non-descript warehouse John had caught brief glimpses of Mycroft’s true affection regarding Sherlock. For all his addiction to cloak and dagger staging the man was pitifully transparent when it came to his younger brother. In this Sherlock was much better at hoarding his secrets. At the mere mention of Mycroft’s name his expression would invariably sour, as if he’d bitten an unripe lemon.

“My initial relief at finding Sherlock unharmed soon turned to worry. Sherlock lay with his back to the room, refusing to speak, refusing to eat. Shock, the doctors said. A taciturn Sherlock was nothing new but this silence was and it frightened me. He just lay there with his eyes open and a single tear glistening on his cheek. All they could give me at the hotel was the check-in date. The luggage yielded no information when I searched it, even regarding the dead boy’s identity for the name in his passport differed from the one he’d used on various bills and receipts.”

“I don’t understand. You’re saying this Victor kept his real name hidden from Sherlock. From Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate, who can tell what that woman…” John pointed at a woman waiting for a traffic light they were gliding past, “… had for breakfast this morning and when she had her last pay rise. Go take someone else for a ride.”

Mycroft sighed. “You’re a good man, John, but sometimes I’m anxious for the state of the wiring between your brain and your eyes. Didn’t you look at those photographs, John? Really look. When I found them all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I realised what Sherlock had lost and, given Sherlock’s character, why he’d fallen back on the drugs. Never mind his righteous lectures about cocaine’s brainwork-improving propensities. Like any addict you’ll meet he first began shooting up in order to forget. My brother has a Byronic nature, had he lived in another age he would have been an alchemist. Victor was his philosopher’s stone. Friend, lover, the alpha to Sherlock’s omega, together they squared the circle. Why concern yourself... if your world consists of nothing but a counterpart like unto yourself.”

“Jesus, Mycroft.” Mycroft’s words tempted John to pinch his arm so he would wake up. It was inconceivable he was sitting here listening to the man John had dubbed ‘a computer in a ritzy suit’ explaining his flatmate, the most rational human being John had ever met, was a soppy poet at heart.

“The dead don’t speak either so I paid a visit to the guide instead. There I encountered Wickliffe’s father, who was working his way through the quagmire from the other end. We found the guide helpful enough. The Slovenian detention system leaves quite a few things to be desired. Apparently Sherlock and Victor had wished to explore a particular system of caves that have a subterranean river running through them. Victor convinced the guide of his experience, assuring the man he’d only have to look after Sherlock. The guide went first on the descent, followed by Sherlock and Victor at the back. Going up Sherlock and the guide switched places but Victor was the last man again. Thus they proceeded for four days. The guide swore there was nothing he could teach Victor and Sherlock adapted to the sport like a fledgling sparrow to the air. Victor’s father confirmed his son had spent much of his youth exploring the caves that riddle their land. On the fourth day however, as they were ascending again the guide heard a great splash and that was when he realised the rope connecting him to Victor had gone slack.”

“What happened?”

“Sherlock went berserk for starters but I surmise that’s not the answer to your question. No one knows, John. The guide kept repeating the knots were sound, assuring Victor’s father over and over he always checked them. A post was set up at the point where the river emerges from the ground, a search party explored the cave but Victor’s body was never found. I confiscated the rope to have it examined by the realm’s best forensics experts but they found no proof it had been tampered with. Victor’s death is likely to remain the sole mystery my brother will never solve.”

John shook his head, unsure whether he did so in disbelief, or in a serious attempt at wrapping his mind around the fantastic narration. “Come on,” he said. “Here you’re telling me this man was the love of Sherlock’s life and Sherlock did nothing when he disappeared. Sherlock? Are you kidding me?”

“This boy, John,” corrected Mycroft. “They were twenty-two.”

“Still…”

“And you forget the guilt. Guilt renders even the most active mind impotent. What did it imply, this untampered rope? How could that knot have slipped so smoothly? Thankfully Victor’s father was reasonable throughout and agreed not to probe Sherlock for information he couldn’t supply anyway. We worked together to ensure the guide was acquitted and had his license restored. Robbing the man of his livelihood wouldn’t bring back Victor or help my brother. Back in England Sherlock appeared to be adapting until that fateful phone call from the dean. You can guess the rest.” Mycroft slackened his grip on the umbrella. “I’d prefer to skip the sordid details if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes,” John ventured hastily. What he’d heard, first from Iorwerth Leighmore and just now from Mycroft, sufficed for one harrowing afternoon.

At this reply Mycroft seemed to perk up considerably. No doubt his suit padding prevented the man’s shoulders from slumping but John would have sworn he saw them straightening and Mycroft’s shiny bespoke dress shoes (‘Oxford brogues’ Sherlock’s voice supplied unhelpfully) were planted firmer into the plush carpet lining the vehicle’s floor.

“Excellent. There’s no need for you to go into the details concerning Iorwerth’s visit either. Your task is to ensure Sherlock accepts the case.”

“How do you know…” Out of the millions of words he could have used at the beginning of a sentence John’s pick fell on the four guaranteed to sprout the most patronising smile in Mycroft’s repertoire.

“Not only will it provide my brother with a distraction but it will give him a chance at redemption. In helping Victor’s family he will be helping himself. Ah, here we are on Marylebone Road already. I suggest we take our leave here, John. There’s no need to flaunt our little conversation.”

“He’ll know about it anyway,” John said, defending his friend’s ability to dissect John’s whole day with just one look.

“Naturally,” Mycroft tutted, rapping the partition with his umbrella. “But you know how he loves the work. Anything for my dear brother.”

Out on the pavement John stood looking after the sedan until a city worker intent on his phone bumped into him and began hurling abuse at the world in general and John in particular. John shrugged and began the short trek to 221, grateful to Mycroft for the small time frame in which to order the jumble of thoughts tumbling through his head. By the time he inserted his key into the lock he’d determined his strategy, which would consist of ‘wait and see’.

“You’re home early,” came Sherlock’s greeting. He was lying in state on the sofa, fingers flying over his phone and a mug of cold tea on the coffee table. “What little brain Lestrade has seems to be deteriorating even faster than that of the average Creutzfeldt-Jakob patient. This was hardly a three.”

“Did Mrs Hudson tell you to help out Greg? You didn’t even move, did you?”

“What for?” Sherlock scoffed. “It was obvious the murderer was a dog-lover, Welsh springer spaniels in particular. Check the neighbourhood, simple process of elimination. If only Lestrade would listen to me and fire Anderson.”

“I take it that’s not for Greg to decide.” John emptied his jacket’s pockets of his phone and wallet before hanging the jacket on the hook and aiming for the kitchen. “Care for a cuppa?”

“And did you have an interesting talk with my annoying brother?” Sherlock called. Luckily John had already turned the corner so, unless Sherlock had acquired a pair of laser-eyes over the course of the day, he couldn’t observe the sudden stiffening of John’s gait.

“Tea or no?” he shouted back over the noise of filling the kettle.

“You heard me perfectly fine, John.” Possibly Sherlock had spent the day creating a private wormhole for all of a sudden he was looming over John, right in John’s personal space. “Did you find the tale enlightening, or merely amusing? Sentimental Sherlock, now there’s a catchy title for your blog.”

Life with his mercurial flatmate had taught John offence was Sherlock’s preferred mode of defence so he gently skimmed around his friend towards the fridge.

“I was shocked,” he replied. “And I feel sorry for you. It was a dreadful accident and I wish it had never happened.”

“Well, thank you, John,” Sherlock said, voice dripping with sarcasm and draping his right hand across his heart. “Your commiseration makes it feel so much better.” He pivoted on his heel and swanned out of the kitchen, dressing gown flaring dramatically.

“Look,” John told Sherlock’s back three minutes later, replacing the mug of stale tea with a fresh brew. “It’s what people say, all right? Of course it doesn’t help, it’s your loss, your grief, your sorrow. Now drink your tea.”

From his chair he watched, sipping his tea and munching another of Mrs Hudson’s rock cakes. As always it improved with age.

“Leighmore you said?” floated up at last from the sofa.

“Yes,” John confirmed. “Iorwerth Leighmore.”

Sherlock snorted and after scooting upright drew in his knees so he could rest his chin on top of them. “So that was Victor’s brother. Twin brother, obviously. I knew early on Victor Trevor was an alias, I’d have done the same if the Leighmores had been my family. How perfectly dreadful.”

Flabbergasted, John almost spurted his tea. “But Mycroft said…”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “You’d better spend your time reading ‘Who’s Who’ rather than that atrocious nonsense you insist on filling your head with. The length of the Viscount’s entry is a close second to that of some flimsy female novelist, a Barbara Cartland. No doubt you have partaken of her fare as well.”

“Not really,” John said. “I did have a girlfriend once who…”

“Spare me the details of your sex life,” Sherlock butted in, acute pain knitting his eyebrows together. “What did Leighmore want? You had lunch with him today.”

“How do you know…” John began his familiar chorus, automatically checking his cuffs and shirtfront for revealing stains.

“The receipt.” Sherlock pointed to the slip of paper protruding from John’s wallet on the coffee table. “Combined with the fact you didn’t finish your shift at the clinic and came in here smelling like an advertisement for the revolting eau de cologne Mycroft sprays himself with every morning in a vain effort at camouflaging his smelly feet.”

“Okay,” John said, deciding outward concession offered the best means to halting this verbal avalanche. “Yes, I invited Leighmore to lunch. I felt sorry for him and well… I’ll admit I was intrigued.”

“You must have been soooo disappointed.” Sherlock’s head wiggled comically on top of his knees, as if he was putting on a Punch and Judy show for John’s enjoyment.

“Well, yes,” John admitted, “but he never mentioned a brother and he’d obviously never seen you before. He only knew about you through the blog.” Sherlock’s eyes engaged in an elaborate study of the ceiling but John plodded on regardless. “We must go and help him, Sherlock. His father has gone missing and their butler is lying dead in the cellar. The man is beside himself with worry.”

“Obviously, only think of the family name.” Sherlock’s sneer could have cut granite. However he planted his feet on the floor and gestured for John to proceed.

“The Cuttleknowle Curse, eh?” he commented when John finished ten minutes later. “It only fits. No doubt they host a ghost as well. Which would it be, the Leighmore revenant, the Cuttleknowle wraith, or perhaps they sport a whole range.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” John replied in a peeved tone. “Iorwerth didn’t mention them.”

“Iorwerth?” Sherlock’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Best pals already, John? Was it nice, hobnobbing with the upper crust? I always reckoned snobbery to be Mycroft’s specialty.”

“That’s enough,” John said, putting down his cup a little more forcefully than he intended. Even his patience had its limits and any comparison with Mycroft meant Sherlock came dangerously close to crossing that line. “If you’ve solved the case from the comfort of our sofa I’ll be happy to text Iorwerth the outcome. If not, I’d like to text him we’ll be on the first train tomorrow. A murder and a kidnapping to boot. If it had been anyone else you’d be leaping about shouting Christmas had come early.”

“I don’t leap,” Sherlock huffed. “And we don’t know whether it was a kidnapping. You’re the one leaping ahead, John, as usual, to a possible explanation of some of the facts delivered by a probably unreliable witness.”

“Unreliable? The man’s own father is missing!”

“Statistics show most crimes are committed by either family or close acquaintances,” Sherlock declaimed, leaping to his feet at the chance of a discourse on the elemental components of the science of deduction. In his haste to place himself centre stage the tea mug was nearly swept from the coffee table by the swirling tail of his robe. “We haven’t spoken to the wife yet for a confirmation of his alibi. Besides, you say he was alone when he found the housekeeper – Knowles you said, what’s a Knowles doing in Cuttleknowle, that’s what I’d like to know – a job for forensics, not Anderson, thank God, but better not get our hopes up the Devon police force will supply us with someone who’s actually competent. And every witness is unreliable as a rule, John, even the honest, well-intentioned ones. People don’t know how to observe and their memory is misled by smells, sounds, the taste of the tea they had for breakfast.”

“Fine,” John amended. “So you’ll accept the case?”

“I’ve already accepted it. Come on, John, what are you waiting for? Here’s my credit card. You book us seats on the six o’ clock Great Western to Ivybridge while I go and dress. We’ll need to change trains at Plymouth but that can’t be helped.”

***

The minute they boarded the train Sherlock’s phone showed up in his hands and he dedicated his attention to the screen with the intensity of a hound chasing a hare. A ‘do not disturb’ sign hung around his neck wouldn’t have topped this means of conveying the message he wanted to be left alone. For all the airs and exhibition of ennui earlier that afternoon John comprehended yesterday’s rendezvous had left Sherlock badly shaken. Rather than commenting on boorish behaviour he stowed away their luggage and retired to the corridor to inform Iorwerth Sherlock had not only accepted the case but thrown himself into the investigation with his customary exuberant zeal.

“Thank heavens.” The other man’s voice was thick with relief. “Please accept my sincere thanks, John. I’ll send a car to collect you and will arrange a suite at the hotel for you. A family suite will serve, I suppose. They’re very nicely appointed with a living space and two bedrooms. Normally I would have stayed for your train but I’m exhausted so I’ll try and catch some sleep. I expect Mr Holmes will want to examine the tower straightaway.”

“Absolutely, yes,” John confirmed, only that moment realising he was probably in for a long night. At least he now knew he had a comfortable bed awaiting him at the end, whenever that might be. Thanks to the implicit assumption Sherlock and he wanted separate bedrooms John’s esteem for Iorwerth Leighmore had increased by a factor of twenty at least. Task completed John went in quest of the buffet car. As a mere three ingredients sufficed to prepare a half-decent cup of tea he reckoned the stuff couldn’t be much worse than the brew they served at St Bart’s canteen.

It certainly smelled better, almost like the real thing. The accompanying biscuits were an altogether different matter. His long trek back to their carriage afforded John plenty of time to wince on behalf of the manufacturer as he imagined Gordon Ramsey’s verdict on composition and presentation of what to John’s inexpert eyes looked like two pieces of cello-wrapped, highly toxic Play-Doh. Dreading the effects of what amounted to the equivalent of a sugar neutron bomb on Sherlock’s metabolism John chucked years of motherly admonition on irresponsible waste of precious food and the biscuits in the nearest bin.

Sherlock accepted the paper cup with barely a glance, briefly unlocking his left hand from the mobile to wiggle his fingers imperiously and deposit the cup straight onto the window table.

“You’re welcome,” John emphasised but he may as well have addressed an empty seat for all the attention this garnered him. Mentally sighing John put his own tea next to Sherlock’s, searched his travel bag for his book and installed himself for a good two hours of uninterrupted reading.

However, after Leighmore’s real-life horror tale and Mycroft’s astonishing revelations regarding his brother’s past the master’s weird and macabre fantasies held little appeal and John caught himself staring openly at the lower half of his flatmate’s features peeking out from beneath the wild thatch of curls tumbling over his brow. Had he looked up from whatever he was doing when Victor brought him his tea? An unbidden image sprang up of a sleep-addled Sherlock lifting his head from his pillow and snaking a long naked arm from between sheets that smelled of sex and bodies closely entwined throughout the night’s long hours, lip’s corners lifting in that blinding smile John had first seen in a picture that afternoon.

Running at Sherlock’s side inevitably meant running into people dazzled by the man’s extraordinary exterior rather than the extraordinary mind hidden behind the finely sculpted cheekbones and it fell to John to deal with the often ugly aftermath of those confrontations. Since that first meal at Angelo’s when Sherlock had brushed off his attempt at general conversation John had wondered occasionally whether there had been a time in Sherlock’s life when either (or both) of the sexes had been his area. The sniping at Buckingham Palace had chiefly muddied the already murky waters and during the subsequent showdown with The Woman John had felt like he was treading water in quicksand. Yet, whatever had occurred (was still occurring for all John knew) between Sherlock and Irene Adler, sex hadn’t come into it.

And now, contrary to Mycroft’s snooty smirk about sex alarming Sherlock, it turned out Sherlock did know about sex after all. Or had Victor served Sherlock in a different capacity and rendered those qualities then fortuitously rediscovered in Irene Adler? A corresponding wit and flexibility of mind, a zealous dedication to uncover the base truths behind people’s motivations? No, if such had been the case, John – for all that Sherlock stated John was as blind as a bat when it came to seeing what was right in front of his eyes – had been in their presence often enough to have glimpsed that smile saturated with the tender intimacy particular to lovers who had yet to tire of ceaselessly exploring those soul-twining bodily delights.

Something dark and ugly flared in John’s soul, emitting a green phosphorescent glow, weak at first but steadily increasing as he recalled the exchange he’d witnessed in those photographs he’d swiped through that afternoon. Despite their silence each picture had spoken loudly, declaring a single-minded affection that John, for all his practice across three continents, had never tasted. With each passing day the chances of John ever experiencing such fierce devotion decreased. As unobtrusively as possible, given that Sherlock noticed everything, John shot his flatmate a glance over the rim of his cup. Sherlock’s fingers flew furiously over his mobile’s screen while he muttered something under his breath. Love, obviously, couldn’t have been farther from the man’s mind. And yet… The green flame shot up high again.

Of course! That was it. At last John had solved part of the Palace squabble. Oh, this was cracking. John’s nose almost drowned in his tea from trying to hide his grin. Mycroft’s childish remarks were easily explained by that most primitive of emotions, despicable envy. Only imagine, high and mighty Mycroft Holmes begrudging his little brother’s love affair. It was too good to be true. Next time they met…

What that happy occasion would reveal John was unlikely to discover for Sherlock chose that moment to raise his gaze from his phone and settle it on John, who promptly choked on his tea.

“Care to share the lark?” Sherlock enquired innocently.

“What? No. What lark?” spluttered John, dabbing a paper handkerchief futilely at his mouth and the spray stains spoiling his jumper.

“Good. That’s good,” replied Sherlock. “It was a long time ago, John. I was a different person then.”

“Yes, yes, you made yourself,” John retorted. That jumper was brand-new, damn it, and several women – the fit new waitress at Speedy’s John was seriously considering asking for a date amongst them – had commented how well the light blue colour (“periwinkle” according to Sherlock) complemented his eyes. He fervently prayed Mrs Hudson kept another Big Bad Dom in her closet, one specialised in obliterating stains. Oblivious.

***

Find part three of the fic here

Comments

[theanglophile.livejournal.com]

I have to compliment the opening sentence, in particular, here. Delightful rhythm and alliteration!

Dear Mycroft, always so preoccupied with his little brother. I enjoyed his scene a lot. I would love to see those photographs he showed John.

Charging onward!