![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: I Stand at the Door and Watch for You
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
flecalicious
Author:sc010f
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Amanda (VanCoon's PA) John, Sebastian Wilkes, Mycroft, Lestrade
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Some sexual content, language, implied character death: canon compliant through the end of TGG
Summary: Amanda Jane Carlton is truly unremarkable: PA to Eddie VanCoon and then to Sebastian Wilkes. But she has a secret that only she and Sherlock Holmes share. And now she's taking the biggest risk of her life.
You are standing at the back – you had missed your first bus and had to wait, so you were late. Sebastian could take a cab, but you had to sneak out and grab a bus.
And it's started raining. Naturally. You fold your tiny umbrella back into its sheath and tuck it into your bag. Not that it did you much good. Your shoulders are soaked and your hair is damp and disheveled from the punishing wind.
It's sheeting against the grubby windows of the chapel, running down in rivulets, and you can hear, somewhere from the back of the sacristy, the constant drip-drip-drip of water. The room smells musty – of flowers, incense, people, and mildew. You let the door shut silently behind you and creep into the last row of pews.
You've missed the processional, the bearing of the body into the church, but that's fine with you, honestly, because you'd be perfectly happy not being seen. Especially by Sebastian. And you're not sure you should be here at all.
You can see the back of Sebastian's head, bent slightly as the vicar reads the prayer. He's sitting next to another man, a man you don't know, solemn and still. You see Sherlock's sandy-haired associate, John, is in the aisle, to one side, in a wheelchair. You stifle a gasp when you realize the extent of the damage, remembering what you read; the details in the newspaper were sketchy at best: fire, explosion, one survivor. You notice that John's hands are shaking. The old lady beside him covers his hands with hers. She's weeping. There's a woman sitting a bit back from them, sandy-haired, like John. You wonder if he has a sister. She looks terribly alone. Like you.
You shift uncomfortably – you shouldn't be here at all.
***
"Amanda, I'm taking the afternoon off tomorrow. Cancel my appointments. Funeral. Sad business."
"Yes, Mr Wilkes. I'm sorry for your loss," you reply, looking up from the travel file, clicking it closed. He doesn't need to see what you are working on. His smile is brief, brittle.
"Oh, he wasn't a friend of mine. A classmate from uni. That strange man that was involved with Eddie's business. Holmes. Right prat he was, but you know, that's how it goes."
He says more but you hardly hear him. Because the room seems to be spinning out of control: the floor is falling away from you, and you grasp the desk as if it's your only lifeline. Sebastian's voice seems to be coming from far away as you hear the words "explosion," "criminal," and "his sort of stupidity."
Your palms are sweating, leaving marks on the polished surface of your desk. There doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room.
"Amanda?" Sebastian asks you. "All right?"
"What? Sorry. Yes. Erm… allergies, low blood sugar, something…" you manage to blurt out.
He gives you a long look and says, "Well, I'll be gone tomorrow afternoon – funeral's at one, so I'll be leaving at twelve thirty."
"Yes, Mr Wilkes," you whisper.
***
You are thankful for the shadows at the back of the chapel.
The vicar finishes the prayer and the man beside Sebastian stands up. He is leaning on an umbrella as if it was a cane. His face is grey. He looks… angry? Sad? It is hard to tell. There's an air about him, though. He turns to face the congregation and you see it. He's not angry, he's furious. You wonder if it's just you that notices that, or if other people do as well.
"Sherlock Holmes was my brother," he begins, interrupting your thoughts. And you cannot help the tears that well up in your eyes. You'd never known he had a brother. "And he was…" The man pauses. "Well, if you're here, you know exactly who and what my brother was."
There is a rustle in the chapel – one of agreement and wry amusement. John grimaces briefly, his bandaged grasp tightening on the hand of the woman beside him. She nods and smiles, the nod that says "I know dear. I understand." You know that nod – your gran used that very same gesture when you would come to her, weeping because the other girls in school were mean, or because your mother was … you brush the thought from your mind. Not now, you remind yourself. This is not the time to remember.
But you do anyway.
You remember Sherlock.
And that's why you're here. Slinking into the back of a chapel – you haven't been to church since the last funeral you attended, your mum's, and you never thought you'd be back in one.
But here you are.
Remembering a man you apparently only barely understood.
But one that you knew so well.
***
You loathed your job after Eddie died. No, before that. You hated your job from the moment you realized that Eddie was taking advantage of you, not only as a PA, but also as, well, you: a warm willing body. Expensive gifts aside, they were just there to make you ignore the fact that it wasn't really about you. Only about him.
So you decided to break it off. Decided that you were worth more than that. And of course, now you're bored. Although recently, your job's been not quite so boring, since you've been meeting Sherlock for lunch.
You remember that Sherlock once called you clever, told you that you had an talent for analysis, that you should try to do something else – something more interesting than shoveling papers around a desk and smiling at Sebastian.
You'd smiled and asked him what he had in mind.
But he'd lost interest by then, or so you'd thought, until he was paying the bill and said, "You can do something more interesting, actually. A favor for me."
"What's that?" you'd asked.
"You can watch Seb for me."
"Oh." Your heart fell. Taken advantage of. Again. You sighed, wishing you felt more angry than surprised and disappointed. Typical. Although you'd thought that he and John… at least from the way Sebastian always acted… But you'd hoped. He was handsome, and his smile…
"It's not just that, of course," Sherlock continued, helping you into your jacket. "Not just your impressions and your information that I find attractive."
You paused, turning to stare at him. Now, you felt the flash of anger.
"I'm just a pretty face," you snapped. "Of course."
"You are quite attractive, yes," he agreed. "But you're also not as boring as I thought you were at first. And your reaction to my revelation of just how much that hairpin was worth indicates to me that you are also not without a sense of humor. Our conversation now indicates that … you could be an intelligent companion. But not necessarily a date. Unless…" He raised his eyebrows, opened his hands.
"I thought you and your associate…" you said, before you could stop yourself.
"Hopelessly straight at the moment," he sighed. "And anyway, I'm not interested in a boyfriend."
You frowned – trying to suss out the subtext.
"So, you're not interested in a boyfriend," you said. "But you also said 'hopelessly straight'. Which would indicate that you are gay or… at least bisexual. On the other hand," and this was what you knew you were really good at, "you've just told me that you find me attractive and want to take me out on a date, but not date me, although with a heavy subtext of wanting to have sex with me. Which means that you are also interested in women. So… bisexual?"
His smile was delighted. Open. Eager.
"You are good," he said. "Wasted as a PA to a prick like Seb."
You've always known that. The fact that Sebastian assumed that just because you'd slept with Eddie you'd sleep with him is galling. Eddie had been different. Or so you'd thought. And at any rate, you had learned your lesson. As if Sebastian pinching your arse every chance he got was an enticement to further intimacies.
"As it happens," Sherlock continued, "I'm conventionally known as bisexual. It's a bit more complicated than that, but it will do."
You raised your eyebrow at this point. You'd received worse offers, true, but…
"Your job is boring," Sherlock insisted, opening the door for you and hailing a cab. Around you the city thrums with life – you love London, can't imagine living elsewhere. Or maybe it was the man beside you – offering you something. You weren't sure what yet, but you knew it was too good an opportunity to pass up. "You crave the excitement of doing something important – not shuffling papers in a dull bank." Not that international currency was boring, but… Sherlock's lips were practically on your ear and you shivered.
"What do you want to know?" you asked, moving away into the cab. Eddie never hailed you cabs, you remembered irrelevantly.
"I'll send you a text – you might want to get used to that," Sherlock said, slamming the door.
You certainly did.
***
The brother finishes his speech and practically falls from the lectern. You get the impression that perhaps he's not… that he expected this, but he had hoped he'd never have to do it. A gray haired man stands, practically catches him. The brother nods at him, and the two exchange a moment.
Yes, definitely neither of them had ever hoped to be doing this.
Didn't we all, though? you think.
You realize that the fact that Sherlock never mentioned that he has a brother, not even after the two of you… not even after you shagged each other (there, put a slightly cruder face on it, don't make it into something it wasn't. Don't make the same mistake you did with Eddie) means that their relationship was much more complex than just brotherly rivalry.
No wonder. Sherlock is – was – a force of nature. For there to be two of them… You have to smile. Especially when you notice Sebastian shy away from him. He's dangerous, then. The brother, not Sebastian. Although from what you've seen so far, Sebastian's not exactly good news, either.
***
When was the last time Seb visited Prague?
SH
It's the first text you received, and it surprises you more than a little.
He's never been, you reply. You check the travel file just to be safe, and it's true. He's never been to Prague.
What about Central America?
SH
Yes, you text back. Three times in the last four months
The reply is instantaneous.
Interesting. Meet me for dinner at 27 Spital Square – seven thirty
SH
A quick bout with Google gives you what you need to know regarding attire and punctuality. You are impressed and flattered when you see just where he's taking you.
But you're not fooled. You are determined to enter into this arrangement with your eyes open.
Sherlock lets spill a bit more over dinner about his relationship with Sebastian. What he was like at uni, how much they'd hated each other. Or at least how much Sebastian had hated Sherlock.
It matches with what you know – it doesn't seem that Sebastian's changed much. Sherlock then asks more specific questions about Argentina and how long Sebastian stayed there. And where. And why. He tells you all sorts of interesting things about art theft and forgery.
You tell him that you studied Art History at university. That you always meant to be an auctioneer. But that the job at Shad Sanderson had come up and you'd found yourself stuck.
Sherlock starts to ask you questions about authentication, some of which you can answer and some that you can't.
You find yourself arguing with him about relative and absolute truth. And about what you can learn by observing the style of dress of a person. It's a trick you learned when you were younger and struggling to regain your equilibrium after the car accident that nearly killed you and left you in a coma for several weeks. When you awoke, you found you could barely remember your own name, much less the names and faces of those who had once been so close to you.
Dinner stretches into dessert and you share your pasts, your stories of childhood. You find yourself telling him about your mum and your dad, your gran. Even about the accident and your memory loss – something you've never told any of your colleagues or bosses at the bank.
He kisses you outside the restaurant as you huddle beneath the awning as the rain buckets down. He tastes of chocolate and coffee and the wine that you drank with dinner.
"We don’t have to, of course," he says. "John says that I should at least ask before I barge in. But judging from the dilation of your pupils, the flush in your cheeks, and the way you're standing much too close to me to have it mean anything else, I'd be willing to guess you want to go to bed with me."
It's certainly not the most conventional offer you've received.
"Is that an offer?" you ask, pretending to be coy. If he's going to deduce your emotional state from the flush on your cheeks, you can, too. You can feel his heart pounding as you press your hand to his chest, feel the heat radiating from his skin. You know if you pressed against him more fully, you'd feel his hardness.
In the darkness of the street, he smiles and bends to kiss you again. More thoroughly this time.
And later, in your flat (which is conveniently close to the restaurant – a bit too convenient, you think later), when his mouth is on your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, his hand teasing your nipple and you are moaning, it occurs to you that even if he is using you, it's worth it.
Because you come to work with a whacking great mark on your neck, and it's worth it to observe Sebastian's look of unease when he sees it.
You know he wants to ask you where you got it.
And part of you wants to tell him.
But you know better.
***
The next man to the lectern is almost as battered as John is.
"I'm, erm… well, if you're here, you know who I am." He smiles awkwardly.
"I once told John that Sherlock Holmes was a great man and that one day, if we were very lucky, he'd be a good man. I was wrong. Sherlock Holmes was a good man. He was a good man who helped people, even if we couldn't follow him all the time. Even if we couldn't see what he was doing.
"I… Sherlock and I… we'll… sorry…" The man's voice breaks and he steps down from the lectern, his face a stiff mask. You watch as Sherlock's brother rises and reaches out to him. You watch as they embrace as strangers bound by a single tragic moment.
You try to muffle a sob. If his brother's tribute was understated, this one was… it's almost too much, but you're determined to see it to the end. You who knew so little, yet discovered so much.
It's John's turn. John, who once, you remember, stood so proud – so quick to defend his friend. John, who had bristled at Sebastian's jibes. John, who had laughed with Sherlock at your shrieked reaction to the price of the jade pin.
You press your lips together, clasp your hands before you, twisting the tissue you dug from your handbag. You wait with the rest of the assembly, mostly police officers, mostly men (although you spy a few women beside the old lady sitting with John – the one whom you think is his sister is sobbing openly, another is staring at John with a strange intensity – a girlfriend?) for John to wheel himself to the front of the chapel.
The silence that falls is thick.
John clears his throat. His wheelchair squeaks – an obscenely loud sound.
"I, erm… Greg was right," John begins. "And everything that's been said so far has been just… right. Sherlock was a great man. And he was a good man.
"I think I'm one of the people he saved. Quite honestly – him and Mike. If I hadn't gone to the park that day. If I hadn't gone with Mike to Bart's…
"Sherlock could look at you and know everything about you. If you're here, you know that. If you're here, you know how amazing it was.
"I wanted to give some kind of testimony to how special Sherlock is. Was. But I think… if you're here you already know.
"So, I guess, the best thing I can do isn't talk to you. But, erm… to him."
You watch, fascinated, as John wheels to face the casket.
"Mate, the last thing you ever said to me was that what I'd done, offered to do, was … good. Erm... And the last thing I said to you wasn't with words. I think that you're better with words. Funny that I should have been the blogger.
"You said you'd be lost without your blogger." John laughs. A horrible, broken sound.
"You were kidding – I knew that. I know that. But dammit, Sherlock, I think we're all a bit lost without… without you."
If the silence in the chapel was heavy before, it's a fucking black hole now, you think. You wish you hadn't come. You know you couldn't have stayed away. You did your research before you came, after Sebastian told you – read about the explosion at the pool, wept hopelessly in the ladies, clutching the newspaper to your chest.
You didn't know. You hadn't known.
***
"What do you do?" It is late afternoon, and the wintry sunlight is slanting through your curtains. Sherlock's holding you. You hadn't expected him to be tender, absently playing with your hair, brushing it across your still sensitive nipple with one hand, while he smokes a cigarette.
You should probably object – you quit years ago, when your mum died of lung cancer – but you don't. You watch the smoke curl and try not to remember. Instead, you ask him the question.
"I'm a consulting detective," he replies as he takes another drag on the cigarette.
Smoke trails and loops through the weak sunlight.
You want to laugh. What the hell is a consulting detective?
"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call me," he explains.
"Or when people like Sebastian need you to find things. Like the pin. After what happened to Eddie," you finish. "You found the … you found him, didn't you?"
"Yes, exactly. You're quick," he says with a smile.
"So, you and John… you solve problems."
"Yes." He turns and stubs out the cigarette in the saucer you left on the bedside table. You trace your hands down his pale back; you could count the vertebrae if you wanted to. He's got that sort of pale, wan, ethereal beauty that would lead you to think he's not exactly interested in sex. But in truth, he's a fantastic lover.
He rolls back and captures your mouth with a searing kiss, rolling atop you, pressing his body upon yours, letting you feel his hardness. You gasp against the onslaught as he grasps your arms, raising them over your head.
"You're very quick," he says, dipping down to lick the curve of your neck. You giggle helplessly. "And you taste so" – lick – "fucking" – lick– "good." From anyone else, the line would have sounded horrible and clichéd. From him… you shudder as his mouth moves lower, and you forget to ask him why he's so interested in Sebastian's trips to Argentina and Prague.
***
The squeaking of John's wheelchair jerks you back to the present. You feel the blush suffusing your face when you realize what you'd been thinking of. At a funeral, for Christ's sake.
Your gran would be furious.
But your gran never shagged Sherlock Holmes.
It occurs to you then, in that instant, that the only people who knew what you and Sherlock were doing were you and Sherlock.
You're crying openly now; you can't help it. You thought you had no more tears to shed, but there you sit, sobbing quietly in the back of a mildewed chapel while the rest of the congregation stands to witness as Sherlock's brother, the Detective Inspector, Sebastian (oddly enough), and a few others rise and take their positions by the casket.
You hide your face as they pass, hoping that Sebastian doesn't see you, but you're almost too far gone now to care. Not quite. Almost.
John brings up the rear, wheeling himself behind the casket. Through your tears, you can see the pressure gloves more clearly, the angry red marks on his face and hands where he's lost his hair from the heat of the fire, the new skin, still shiny and fragile. You can see the set of his jaw, the barely contained grief and fury.
If this is his loss, then yours, you realize, yours is paltry compared to his.
Men and women file past you as you sink back to the pew. The sister pauses – yes, it must be John's sister – the sister pauses for a moment to stare at you. But before you can say anything, a dark-haired woman steps back and takes her by the arm, leading her out into the rain.
You are late to return to work.
Sebastian will notice.
You don't care.
More and more tears flow down your face.
In the part of your mind that is still rational, sensible, you realize you are making a fool of yourself. You think maybe you might be hysterical.
You don't care.
There are not enough tears in the world for this grief. Not when you saw the look on John's face.
Belatedly, as your sobs subside to undignified hiccups, you realize that you are not alone.
A man is sitting beside you, wrapped in a shabby greatcoat.
"Hankie?" he asks, holding out a folded white cloth.
You grasp at it and blow your nose – a horrid, unlovely, rattling sound.
"Thank you," you manage to stutter.
"It's a rare thing," the man observes. "To be able to attend your own funeral and enjoy it. Mycroft did an admirable job presenting himself as a mourning and conflicted sibling."
You let out an undignified shriek and hurl yourself from the pew. You bash your knee on the armrest, something you won't notice until much later, and flatten yourself against the wall of the chapel.
He's there. He's fucking sitting there, wrapped up in a tatty greatcoat, hair askew, hands bandaged, one arm in a sling, a crutch leaning against the pew behind him – but he's there. He's alive. He's laughing.
And you're laughing and crying, and sobbing, and shrieking, and you know you're hysterical now, but you can't help it.
Because he's there.
He's right fucking in front of you.
And he's alive.
Your knees buckle and you sag to the floor.
"Oops, none of that," he says, and dimly you see him lurch from the pew towards you. His leg gives way and he winds up on the floor beside you.
You're both giggling now and it feels like you'll never be able to stop.
***
"What happens now?" you ask when you finally manage to stop laughing or crying or whatever it was you were doing. It's later – hours? Minutes? Days? You have no idea.
"Now," Sherlock says, struggling to rise, "we catch a taxi." You scramble to your feet and hoist him up.
In the street, huddled together beneath your ridiculous tiny umbrella, you press against him. He smells of disinfectant and hospitals and flowers and mildew.
"Mycroft said he'd find me a place to stay for a while, but at the moment, I am a bit short of places to kip. And if I'm not mistaken, your flat is a short distance in that direction."
"Shall I hail a cab?" you ask, not certain whether to be insulted – used again – or amused.
"By all means do," Sherlock replies with a grin. "And don't fret, Mycroft will reward you handsomely for your inconvenience."
You flag down a taxi and begin to make the usual excuses about it not being an inconvenience when it occurs to you just how bloody inconvenient it is, especially as you help Sherlock into the cab.
As if reading your mind, Sherlock chuckles.
"Although you might find yourself more and more inconvenienced as time goes on. I would suggest that whatever Mycroft offers you to work for him, you make him double it. My brother is ever one not to do his own dirty work. And I think you may find that the offer he makes you is going to be much more attractive than anything Seb could."
"And what offer is that?" you ask, a deep suspicion growing in your mind.
"Mycroft will tell you that he occupies a minor position in the British Government. He's lying, of course," Sherlock says, staring out the window as London splashes by. "He's going to meet us at your flat later this afternoon, after the reception, where he will offer you something a trifle more exciting than being a PA at Shad Sanderson."
"That is…?" you prompt. That this should be the question you ask your until-recently-dead boyfriend (no, shag, no, lover) crosses your mind as somewhat odd. But then, the whole day has been nothing if not extraordinary.
Sherlock turns and practically leers at you.
"Mycroft is the most dangerous man you'll ever meet. I've told him about you. About your cleverness. He's interested. I think he plans to make you into the most dangerous woman you'll ever meet. It'll be boring, of course, I mean… really, working with Mycroft all the time would drive me round the twist completely, but I think you might enjoy it quite a bit. Travel, intrigue, serving your country. Or just not being sexually harassed by Seb. Whichever you prefer. I’ll let him fill you in on the details."
"As his PA? What's the catch?" you ask with a frown. From funeral to job opportunity in the space of, what, an hour? It's unbelievable.
"No catch," Sherlock replies as the cab splashes to a halt outside your flat. You help him out and up the steps. "And not as his PA – he's already got one of those. More of a mentoring relationship. Although if you were to accept this position, there is a good chance that he'll use you to interact with me while I'm officially dead – it'll keep his blood pressure lower, for one thing." Sherlock sinks to your sofa with a grunt. "Especially as the game, Amanda, is really on. And when you find out what the game is, what the stakes are, I think you'll want to play."
"Sebastian," you say. You are standing awkwardly in your sitting room. Outside, the day is beginning to darken. It seems later than your watch tells you it is.
"In part. He's part of something much bigger, though. Much, much bigger." Sherlock nods. All indications of good humor and amusement are gone as he seems to sink into himself – concentrating.
"What about John?" you ask.
"John?" he asks. "Oh, John will be let in on the secret soon enough. But not yet." His indifference would be galling, but at that moment, when he glances at you and then looks away, you know it's something more than just indifference. It catches at your heart when you remember how alone John looked in his wheelchair in the chapel – compression bandages and wounds, grief and pain.
"He's in love with you," you point out, and – there couldn't really be anything more obvious to say – you want to kick yourself. Because it occurs to you that, given your reactions this afternoon, you might possibly be in love with him yourself. Sherlock may think you're clever, but you feel a right idiot now.
"Is that a problem?" Sherlock asks, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Well, considering he just delivered your eulogy and you're still alive, maybe a little!" you bluster. You can't believe you're having this conversation. You turn to the kitchen to make tea. Just as your gran would have done.
"That's not what I meant," Sherlock calls after you. "And besides, I'd rather have sex with you."
Well, that's one way of putting it.
Your head is spinning as you fill the kettle and excavate two mugs from the drying rack.
You're not sure what to do – you're standing on a precipice. Behind you is the world of Shad Sanderson, Sebastian Wilkes, leering bankers and mind-numbing boredom. Before you is… you glance towards the sitting room. Sherlock is still on the sofa, texting and scowling at his phone as he tries to operate it with only one hand.
He throws the phone aside and rests his head on the back of the sofa, closing his eyes. Only now do you see how grey he looks, how exhausted. How vulnerable. His jeans are muddy and damp at the cuffs, the tatty greatcoat hangs off of him as if he were a scarecrow – whatever he's been through in the days since the explosion, you think, it must have been… well, you can't imagine it.
The teakettle shuts off with a click.
"Well?" Sherlock asks. "I need you, Amanda."
There's a knock at the door, and you start.
"Ah, that will be Mycroft." There's also shouting outside the door – it sounds like John, actually. If you had any kind of precognition, you'd realize that the next few moments are probably going to be the most exciting (or at least the noisiest) ones of your life.
Sometimes plunging into the unknown, your gran once said, is the only sane thing to do.
"Amanda?" Sherlock asks.
You take a deep breath. And make a decision.
As you open the door to allow the chaos to flow into your flat, you think that it may, just possibly, be the best decision of your life.
Recipient:
flecaliciousAuthor:
sc010f Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Amanda (VanCoon's PA) John, Sebastian Wilkes, Mycroft, Lestrade
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Some sexual content, language, implied character death: canon compliant through the end of TGG
Summary: Amanda Jane Carlton is truly unremarkable: PA to Eddie VanCoon and then to Sebastian Wilkes. But she has a secret that only she and Sherlock Holmes share. And now she's taking the biggest risk of her life.
You are standing at the back – you had missed your first bus and had to wait, so you were late. Sebastian could take a cab, but you had to sneak out and grab a bus.
And it's started raining. Naturally. You fold your tiny umbrella back into its sheath and tuck it into your bag. Not that it did you much good. Your shoulders are soaked and your hair is damp and disheveled from the punishing wind.
It's sheeting against the grubby windows of the chapel, running down in rivulets, and you can hear, somewhere from the back of the sacristy, the constant drip-drip-drip of water. The room smells musty – of flowers, incense, people, and mildew. You let the door shut silently behind you and creep into the last row of pews.
You've missed the processional, the bearing of the body into the church, but that's fine with you, honestly, because you'd be perfectly happy not being seen. Especially by Sebastian. And you're not sure you should be here at all.
You can see the back of Sebastian's head, bent slightly as the vicar reads the prayer. He's sitting next to another man, a man you don't know, solemn and still. You see Sherlock's sandy-haired associate, John, is in the aisle, to one side, in a wheelchair. You stifle a gasp when you realize the extent of the damage, remembering what you read; the details in the newspaper were sketchy at best: fire, explosion, one survivor. You notice that John's hands are shaking. The old lady beside him covers his hands with hers. She's weeping. There's a woman sitting a bit back from them, sandy-haired, like John. You wonder if he has a sister. She looks terribly alone. Like you.
You shift uncomfortably – you shouldn't be here at all.
"Amanda, I'm taking the afternoon off tomorrow. Cancel my appointments. Funeral. Sad business."
"Yes, Mr Wilkes. I'm sorry for your loss," you reply, looking up from the travel file, clicking it closed. He doesn't need to see what you are working on. His smile is brief, brittle.
"Oh, he wasn't a friend of mine. A classmate from uni. That strange man that was involved with Eddie's business. Holmes. Right prat he was, but you know, that's how it goes."
He says more but you hardly hear him. Because the room seems to be spinning out of control: the floor is falling away from you, and you grasp the desk as if it's your only lifeline. Sebastian's voice seems to be coming from far away as you hear the words "explosion," "criminal," and "his sort of stupidity."
Your palms are sweating, leaving marks on the polished surface of your desk. There doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room.
"Amanda?" Sebastian asks you. "All right?"
"What? Sorry. Yes. Erm… allergies, low blood sugar, something…" you manage to blurt out.
He gives you a long look and says, "Well, I'll be gone tomorrow afternoon – funeral's at one, so I'll be leaving at twelve thirty."
"Yes, Mr Wilkes," you whisper.
You are thankful for the shadows at the back of the chapel.
The vicar finishes the prayer and the man beside Sebastian stands up. He is leaning on an umbrella as if it was a cane. His face is grey. He looks… angry? Sad? It is hard to tell. There's an air about him, though. He turns to face the congregation and you see it. He's not angry, he's furious. You wonder if it's just you that notices that, or if other people do as well.
"Sherlock Holmes was my brother," he begins, interrupting your thoughts. And you cannot help the tears that well up in your eyes. You'd never known he had a brother. "And he was…" The man pauses. "Well, if you're here, you know exactly who and what my brother was."
There is a rustle in the chapel – one of agreement and wry amusement. John grimaces briefly, his bandaged grasp tightening on the hand of the woman beside him. She nods and smiles, the nod that says "I know dear. I understand." You know that nod – your gran used that very same gesture when you would come to her, weeping because the other girls in school were mean, or because your mother was … you brush the thought from your mind. Not now, you remind yourself. This is not the time to remember.
But you do anyway.
You remember Sherlock.
And that's why you're here. Slinking into the back of a chapel – you haven't been to church since the last funeral you attended, your mum's, and you never thought you'd be back in one.
But here you are.
Remembering a man you apparently only barely understood.
But one that you knew so well.
You loathed your job after Eddie died. No, before that. You hated your job from the moment you realized that Eddie was taking advantage of you, not only as a PA, but also as, well, you: a warm willing body. Expensive gifts aside, they were just there to make you ignore the fact that it wasn't really about you. Only about him.
So you decided to break it off. Decided that you were worth more than that. And of course, now you're bored. Although recently, your job's been not quite so boring, since you've been meeting Sherlock for lunch.
You remember that Sherlock once called you clever, told you that you had an talent for analysis, that you should try to do something else – something more interesting than shoveling papers around a desk and smiling at Sebastian.
You'd smiled and asked him what he had in mind.
But he'd lost interest by then, or so you'd thought, until he was paying the bill and said, "You can do something more interesting, actually. A favor for me."
"What's that?" you'd asked.
"You can watch Seb for me."
"Oh." Your heart fell. Taken advantage of. Again. You sighed, wishing you felt more angry than surprised and disappointed. Typical. Although you'd thought that he and John… at least from the way Sebastian always acted… But you'd hoped. He was handsome, and his smile…
"It's not just that, of course," Sherlock continued, helping you into your jacket. "Not just your impressions and your information that I find attractive."
You paused, turning to stare at him. Now, you felt the flash of anger.
"I'm just a pretty face," you snapped. "Of course."
"You are quite attractive, yes," he agreed. "But you're also not as boring as I thought you were at first. And your reaction to my revelation of just how much that hairpin was worth indicates to me that you are also not without a sense of humor. Our conversation now indicates that … you could be an intelligent companion. But not necessarily a date. Unless…" He raised his eyebrows, opened his hands.
"I thought you and your associate…" you said, before you could stop yourself.
"Hopelessly straight at the moment," he sighed. "And anyway, I'm not interested in a boyfriend."
You frowned – trying to suss out the subtext.
"So, you're not interested in a boyfriend," you said. "But you also said 'hopelessly straight'. Which would indicate that you are gay or… at least bisexual. On the other hand," and this was what you knew you were really good at, "you've just told me that you find me attractive and want to take me out on a date, but not date me, although with a heavy subtext of wanting to have sex with me. Which means that you are also interested in women. So… bisexual?"
His smile was delighted. Open. Eager.
"You are good," he said. "Wasted as a PA to a prick like Seb."
You've always known that. The fact that Sebastian assumed that just because you'd slept with Eddie you'd sleep with him is galling. Eddie had been different. Or so you'd thought. And at any rate, you had learned your lesson. As if Sebastian pinching your arse every chance he got was an enticement to further intimacies.
"As it happens," Sherlock continued, "I'm conventionally known as bisexual. It's a bit more complicated than that, but it will do."
You raised your eyebrow at this point. You'd received worse offers, true, but…
"Your job is boring," Sherlock insisted, opening the door for you and hailing a cab. Around you the city thrums with life – you love London, can't imagine living elsewhere. Or maybe it was the man beside you – offering you something. You weren't sure what yet, but you knew it was too good an opportunity to pass up. "You crave the excitement of doing something important – not shuffling papers in a dull bank." Not that international currency was boring, but… Sherlock's lips were practically on your ear and you shivered.
"What do you want to know?" you asked, moving away into the cab. Eddie never hailed you cabs, you remembered irrelevantly.
"I'll send you a text – you might want to get used to that," Sherlock said, slamming the door.
You certainly did.
The brother finishes his speech and practically falls from the lectern. You get the impression that perhaps he's not… that he expected this, but he had hoped he'd never have to do it. A gray haired man stands, practically catches him. The brother nods at him, and the two exchange a moment.
Yes, definitely neither of them had ever hoped to be doing this.
Didn't we all, though? you think.
You realize that the fact that Sherlock never mentioned that he has a brother, not even after the two of you… not even after you shagged each other (there, put a slightly cruder face on it, don't make it into something it wasn't. Don't make the same mistake you did with Eddie) means that their relationship was much more complex than just brotherly rivalry.
No wonder. Sherlock is – was – a force of nature. For there to be two of them… You have to smile. Especially when you notice Sebastian shy away from him. He's dangerous, then. The brother, not Sebastian. Although from what you've seen so far, Sebastian's not exactly good news, either.
When was the last time Seb visited Prague?
SH
It's the first text you received, and it surprises you more than a little.
He's never been, you reply. You check the travel file just to be safe, and it's true. He's never been to Prague.
What about Central America?
SH
Yes, you text back. Three times in the last four months
The reply is instantaneous.
Interesting. Meet me for dinner at 27 Spital Square – seven thirty
SH
A quick bout with Google gives you what you need to know regarding attire and punctuality. You are impressed and flattered when you see just where he's taking you.
But you're not fooled. You are determined to enter into this arrangement with your eyes open.
Sherlock lets spill a bit more over dinner about his relationship with Sebastian. What he was like at uni, how much they'd hated each other. Or at least how much Sebastian had hated Sherlock.
It matches with what you know – it doesn't seem that Sebastian's changed much. Sherlock then asks more specific questions about Argentina and how long Sebastian stayed there. And where. And why. He tells you all sorts of interesting things about art theft and forgery.
You tell him that you studied Art History at university. That you always meant to be an auctioneer. But that the job at Shad Sanderson had come up and you'd found yourself stuck.
Sherlock starts to ask you questions about authentication, some of which you can answer and some that you can't.
You find yourself arguing with him about relative and absolute truth. And about what you can learn by observing the style of dress of a person. It's a trick you learned when you were younger and struggling to regain your equilibrium after the car accident that nearly killed you and left you in a coma for several weeks. When you awoke, you found you could barely remember your own name, much less the names and faces of those who had once been so close to you.
Dinner stretches into dessert and you share your pasts, your stories of childhood. You find yourself telling him about your mum and your dad, your gran. Even about the accident and your memory loss – something you've never told any of your colleagues or bosses at the bank.
He kisses you outside the restaurant as you huddle beneath the awning as the rain buckets down. He tastes of chocolate and coffee and the wine that you drank with dinner.
"We don’t have to, of course," he says. "John says that I should at least ask before I barge in. But judging from the dilation of your pupils, the flush in your cheeks, and the way you're standing much too close to me to have it mean anything else, I'd be willing to guess you want to go to bed with me."
It's certainly not the most conventional offer you've received.
"Is that an offer?" you ask, pretending to be coy. If he's going to deduce your emotional state from the flush on your cheeks, you can, too. You can feel his heart pounding as you press your hand to his chest, feel the heat radiating from his skin. You know if you pressed against him more fully, you'd feel his hardness.
In the darkness of the street, he smiles and bends to kiss you again. More thoroughly this time.
And later, in your flat (which is conveniently close to the restaurant – a bit too convenient, you think later), when his mouth is on your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, his hand teasing your nipple and you are moaning, it occurs to you that even if he is using you, it's worth it.
Because you come to work with a whacking great mark on your neck, and it's worth it to observe Sebastian's look of unease when he sees it.
You know he wants to ask you where you got it.
And part of you wants to tell him.
But you know better.
The next man to the lectern is almost as battered as John is.
"I'm, erm… well, if you're here, you know who I am." He smiles awkwardly.
"I once told John that Sherlock Holmes was a great man and that one day, if we were very lucky, he'd be a good man. I was wrong. Sherlock Holmes was a good man. He was a good man who helped people, even if we couldn't follow him all the time. Even if we couldn't see what he was doing.
"I… Sherlock and I… we'll… sorry…" The man's voice breaks and he steps down from the lectern, his face a stiff mask. You watch as Sherlock's brother rises and reaches out to him. You watch as they embrace as strangers bound by a single tragic moment.
You try to muffle a sob. If his brother's tribute was understated, this one was… it's almost too much, but you're determined to see it to the end. You who knew so little, yet discovered so much.
It's John's turn. John, who once, you remember, stood so proud – so quick to defend his friend. John, who had bristled at Sebastian's jibes. John, who had laughed with Sherlock at your shrieked reaction to the price of the jade pin.
You press your lips together, clasp your hands before you, twisting the tissue you dug from your handbag. You wait with the rest of the assembly, mostly police officers, mostly men (although you spy a few women beside the old lady sitting with John – the one whom you think is his sister is sobbing openly, another is staring at John with a strange intensity – a girlfriend?) for John to wheel himself to the front of the chapel.
The silence that falls is thick.
John clears his throat. His wheelchair squeaks – an obscenely loud sound.
"I, erm… Greg was right," John begins. "And everything that's been said so far has been just… right. Sherlock was a great man. And he was a good man.
"I think I'm one of the people he saved. Quite honestly – him and Mike. If I hadn't gone to the park that day. If I hadn't gone with Mike to Bart's…
"Sherlock could look at you and know everything about you. If you're here, you know that. If you're here, you know how amazing it was.
"I wanted to give some kind of testimony to how special Sherlock is. Was. But I think… if you're here you already know.
"So, I guess, the best thing I can do isn't talk to you. But, erm… to him."
You watch, fascinated, as John wheels to face the casket.
"Mate, the last thing you ever said to me was that what I'd done, offered to do, was … good. Erm... And the last thing I said to you wasn't with words. I think that you're better with words. Funny that I should have been the blogger.
"You said you'd be lost without your blogger." John laughs. A horrible, broken sound.
"You were kidding – I knew that. I know that. But dammit, Sherlock, I think we're all a bit lost without… without you."
If the silence in the chapel was heavy before, it's a fucking black hole now, you think. You wish you hadn't come. You know you couldn't have stayed away. You did your research before you came, after Sebastian told you – read about the explosion at the pool, wept hopelessly in the ladies, clutching the newspaper to your chest.
You didn't know. You hadn't known.
"What do you do?" It is late afternoon, and the wintry sunlight is slanting through your curtains. Sherlock's holding you. You hadn't expected him to be tender, absently playing with your hair, brushing it across your still sensitive nipple with one hand, while he smokes a cigarette.
You should probably object – you quit years ago, when your mum died of lung cancer – but you don't. You watch the smoke curl and try not to remember. Instead, you ask him the question.
"I'm a consulting detective," he replies as he takes another drag on the cigarette.
Smoke trails and loops through the weak sunlight.
You want to laugh. What the hell is a consulting detective?
"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call me," he explains.
"Or when people like Sebastian need you to find things. Like the pin. After what happened to Eddie," you finish. "You found the … you found him, didn't you?"
"Yes, exactly. You're quick," he says with a smile.
"So, you and John… you solve problems."
"Yes." He turns and stubs out the cigarette in the saucer you left on the bedside table. You trace your hands down his pale back; you could count the vertebrae if you wanted to. He's got that sort of pale, wan, ethereal beauty that would lead you to think he's not exactly interested in sex. But in truth, he's a fantastic lover.
He rolls back and captures your mouth with a searing kiss, rolling atop you, pressing his body upon yours, letting you feel his hardness. You gasp against the onslaught as he grasps your arms, raising them over your head.
"You're very quick," he says, dipping down to lick the curve of your neck. You giggle helplessly. "And you taste so" – lick – "fucking" – lick– "good." From anyone else, the line would have sounded horrible and clichéd. From him… you shudder as his mouth moves lower, and you forget to ask him why he's so interested in Sebastian's trips to Argentina and Prague.
The squeaking of John's wheelchair jerks you back to the present. You feel the blush suffusing your face when you realize what you'd been thinking of. At a funeral, for Christ's sake.
Your gran would be furious.
But your gran never shagged Sherlock Holmes.
It occurs to you then, in that instant, that the only people who knew what you and Sherlock were doing were you and Sherlock.
You're crying openly now; you can't help it. You thought you had no more tears to shed, but there you sit, sobbing quietly in the back of a mildewed chapel while the rest of the congregation stands to witness as Sherlock's brother, the Detective Inspector, Sebastian (oddly enough), and a few others rise and take their positions by the casket.
You hide your face as they pass, hoping that Sebastian doesn't see you, but you're almost too far gone now to care. Not quite. Almost.
John brings up the rear, wheeling himself behind the casket. Through your tears, you can see the pressure gloves more clearly, the angry red marks on his face and hands where he's lost his hair from the heat of the fire, the new skin, still shiny and fragile. You can see the set of his jaw, the barely contained grief and fury.
If this is his loss, then yours, you realize, yours is paltry compared to his.
Men and women file past you as you sink back to the pew. The sister pauses – yes, it must be John's sister – the sister pauses for a moment to stare at you. But before you can say anything, a dark-haired woman steps back and takes her by the arm, leading her out into the rain.
You are late to return to work.
Sebastian will notice.
You don't care.
More and more tears flow down your face.
In the part of your mind that is still rational, sensible, you realize you are making a fool of yourself. You think maybe you might be hysterical.
You don't care.
There are not enough tears in the world for this grief. Not when you saw the look on John's face.
Belatedly, as your sobs subside to undignified hiccups, you realize that you are not alone.
A man is sitting beside you, wrapped in a shabby greatcoat.
"Hankie?" he asks, holding out a folded white cloth.
You grasp at it and blow your nose – a horrid, unlovely, rattling sound.
"Thank you," you manage to stutter.
"It's a rare thing," the man observes. "To be able to attend your own funeral and enjoy it. Mycroft did an admirable job presenting himself as a mourning and conflicted sibling."
You let out an undignified shriek and hurl yourself from the pew. You bash your knee on the armrest, something you won't notice until much later, and flatten yourself against the wall of the chapel.
He's there. He's fucking sitting there, wrapped up in a tatty greatcoat, hair askew, hands bandaged, one arm in a sling, a crutch leaning against the pew behind him – but he's there. He's alive. He's laughing.
And you're laughing and crying, and sobbing, and shrieking, and you know you're hysterical now, but you can't help it.
Because he's there.
He's right fucking in front of you.
And he's alive.
Your knees buckle and you sag to the floor.
"Oops, none of that," he says, and dimly you see him lurch from the pew towards you. His leg gives way and he winds up on the floor beside you.
You're both giggling now and it feels like you'll never be able to stop.
"What happens now?" you ask when you finally manage to stop laughing or crying or whatever it was you were doing. It's later – hours? Minutes? Days? You have no idea.
"Now," Sherlock says, struggling to rise, "we catch a taxi." You scramble to your feet and hoist him up.
In the street, huddled together beneath your ridiculous tiny umbrella, you press against him. He smells of disinfectant and hospitals and flowers and mildew.
"Mycroft said he'd find me a place to stay for a while, but at the moment, I am a bit short of places to kip. And if I'm not mistaken, your flat is a short distance in that direction."
"Shall I hail a cab?" you ask, not certain whether to be insulted – used again – or amused.
"By all means do," Sherlock replies with a grin. "And don't fret, Mycroft will reward you handsomely for your inconvenience."
You flag down a taxi and begin to make the usual excuses about it not being an inconvenience when it occurs to you just how bloody inconvenient it is, especially as you help Sherlock into the cab.
As if reading your mind, Sherlock chuckles.
"Although you might find yourself more and more inconvenienced as time goes on. I would suggest that whatever Mycroft offers you to work for him, you make him double it. My brother is ever one not to do his own dirty work. And I think you may find that the offer he makes you is going to be much more attractive than anything Seb could."
"And what offer is that?" you ask, a deep suspicion growing in your mind.
"Mycroft will tell you that he occupies a minor position in the British Government. He's lying, of course," Sherlock says, staring out the window as London splashes by. "He's going to meet us at your flat later this afternoon, after the reception, where he will offer you something a trifle more exciting than being a PA at Shad Sanderson."
"That is…?" you prompt. That this should be the question you ask your until-recently-dead boyfriend (no, shag, no, lover) crosses your mind as somewhat odd. But then, the whole day has been nothing if not extraordinary.
Sherlock turns and practically leers at you.
"Mycroft is the most dangerous man you'll ever meet. I've told him about you. About your cleverness. He's interested. I think he plans to make you into the most dangerous woman you'll ever meet. It'll be boring, of course, I mean… really, working with Mycroft all the time would drive me round the twist completely, but I think you might enjoy it quite a bit. Travel, intrigue, serving your country. Or just not being sexually harassed by Seb. Whichever you prefer. I’ll let him fill you in on the details."
"As his PA? What's the catch?" you ask with a frown. From funeral to job opportunity in the space of, what, an hour? It's unbelievable.
"No catch," Sherlock replies as the cab splashes to a halt outside your flat. You help him out and up the steps. "And not as his PA – he's already got one of those. More of a mentoring relationship. Although if you were to accept this position, there is a good chance that he'll use you to interact with me while I'm officially dead – it'll keep his blood pressure lower, for one thing." Sherlock sinks to your sofa with a grunt. "Especially as the game, Amanda, is really on. And when you find out what the game is, what the stakes are, I think you'll want to play."
"Sebastian," you say. You are standing awkwardly in your sitting room. Outside, the day is beginning to darken. It seems later than your watch tells you it is.
"In part. He's part of something much bigger, though. Much, much bigger." Sherlock nods. All indications of good humor and amusement are gone as he seems to sink into himself – concentrating.
"What about John?" you ask.
"John?" he asks. "Oh, John will be let in on the secret soon enough. But not yet." His indifference would be galling, but at that moment, when he glances at you and then looks away, you know it's something more than just indifference. It catches at your heart when you remember how alone John looked in his wheelchair in the chapel – compression bandages and wounds, grief and pain.
"He's in love with you," you point out, and – there couldn't really be anything more obvious to say – you want to kick yourself. Because it occurs to you that, given your reactions this afternoon, you might possibly be in love with him yourself. Sherlock may think you're clever, but you feel a right idiot now.
"Is that a problem?" Sherlock asks, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Well, considering he just delivered your eulogy and you're still alive, maybe a little!" you bluster. You can't believe you're having this conversation. You turn to the kitchen to make tea. Just as your gran would have done.
"That's not what I meant," Sherlock calls after you. "And besides, I'd rather have sex with you."
Well, that's one way of putting it.
Your head is spinning as you fill the kettle and excavate two mugs from the drying rack.
You're not sure what to do – you're standing on a precipice. Behind you is the world of Shad Sanderson, Sebastian Wilkes, leering bankers and mind-numbing boredom. Before you is… you glance towards the sitting room. Sherlock is still on the sofa, texting and scowling at his phone as he tries to operate it with only one hand.
He throws the phone aside and rests his head on the back of the sofa, closing his eyes. Only now do you see how grey he looks, how exhausted. How vulnerable. His jeans are muddy and damp at the cuffs, the tatty greatcoat hangs off of him as if he were a scarecrow – whatever he's been through in the days since the explosion, you think, it must have been… well, you can't imagine it.
The teakettle shuts off with a click.
"Well?" Sherlock asks. "I need you, Amanda."
There's a knock at the door, and you start.
"Ah, that will be Mycroft." There's also shouting outside the door – it sounds like John, actually. If you had any kind of precognition, you'd realize that the next few moments are probably going to be the most exciting (or at least the noisiest) ones of your life.
Sometimes plunging into the unknown, your gran once said, is the only sane thing to do.
"Amanda?" Sherlock asks.
You take a deep breath. And make a decision.
As you open the door to allow the chaos to flow into your flat, you think that it may, just possibly, be the best decision of your life.
