Saving Sherlock Holmes (8/43)
Oct. 16th, 2012 08:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - Saving Sherlock Holmes (8/43)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - General (eventually as high as Adult, which will be adjusted on a chapter-by-chapter basis)
Characters - Mycroft, Sherlock, John, Harry
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - Sherlock Holmes, schoolboy. Yeah, that basically sums it up.
Author's Notes - Thank yous! Toflawedamythystand sensiblecatfor the Britpick; to the readers who read as this was being written, including chicklet73; and to arctacuda, who uncomplainingly betas massive amounts of fic.
Thank you for all the good thoughts! I think the interviews went well, so fingers crossed now!
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7
Chapter Eight
John had been dreading going home for the short leave. He really didn’t want to go. And then he felt guilty about that, because he knew Harry wanted to see him, and he did miss Harry, but he felt as if the past month at Eton had been rare magic, and he was afraid of someone at home pointing out to him that this life couldn’t possibly belong to him.
Sherlock had been dreading going home for the short leave, too, but Sherlock’s dread was over lost time in the solving of the Taman Shud murder. Sherlock considered any time not spent in active pursuit of a forty-four-year-old-murder culprit to be wasted time. John would say Sherlock was driving him spare with keeping mad hours in his “laboratory” working on the case, except that John had grown so used to having Sherlock constantly underfoot that he practically couldn’t imagine an entire weekend without him.
It turned out that there was little time to miss Sherlock when he was busy dealing with his mother’s never-ending litany of disapproval of his activities. His activities being, mainly, his audacity in taking himself off to Eton and absenting himself from all the work he could have been doing around the flat.
John, fixing a leaky tap in the bathroom sink, said, “Why couldn’t you just hire someone for this?”
“Oh, you think we’re just made of money now, don’t you?”
“Of course not, but there’s enough of it to hire someone every once in a while,” John replied, and his mother’s silence was telling. He paused in what he was doing and looked over at her, reading the truth of it on her face before he asked the question. “Haven’t you any of your share left?”
“Of course I have,” she said, defensively. “I just don’t want to waste it.”
But she was obviously lying, and John waited until she had passed out in an alcoholic stupor before asking Harry about it.
“I have no idea where it went,” Harry said, pouring them both generous glasses of the cheap vodka Mum had been drinking. “Booze? Gambling? Who the hell knows? But I’m pretty sure it’s gone.”
“How much have you been drinking?” John asked, noting the ease with which Harry knocked the vodka back.
Harry shrugged and grinned at him. “Come on, no wild parties at that fancy school you go to now? Or do they all drink champagne all the time?”
“Dom Perignon,” John said to her. “Endlessly. I’m slumming it here with you.” He sipped the vodka and made an overdramatic face at its quality, earning him a playful shove from Harry, and they laughed together for a second before John sobered and said, “Your money’s safe though, right?”
Harry nodded. “The trust is ironclad. Mum can’t get at it.”
John was relieved. “Good. That money’s for us.”
“Cheers to that.” Harry clinked her glass against his enthusiastically.
“And not to be wasted,” John warned her.
“Education. Got it. I’m on it.”
“Are you?” John worried about her. She hadn’t wanted to move away, and John had wanted it desperately, and she had told him to go, but John still experienced guilt over leaving her to fend for herself. “How’s school?”
“Good. It’s fine. I’m more interested in your school. I told Sarah you would be home this weekend, and she said she never wants to see your face again, and I told her she probably didn’t have to worry about that because you were probably going to fall in love with some posh git and turn gay.”
“Thanks, Harry,” John told her, dryly, “that definitely helped the Sarah situation.”
Harry shrugged, unrepentant. “Tell me how Eton’s going.”
“It’s fine, it’s…amazing. I’ve chosen my courses, you know. Sticking to London. I’m not even going near Oxbridge. University College is my first choice. I’ll need stunning results though; I’m not totally confident.”
“You’ll get them.” Harry had all the confidence for him that he lacked. “I know you will. Tell me what everyone’s like there. Are they terrible?”
“They’re…” John considered. “They’re not so very different than here, really. I mean, they’re still people, and they have stupid cliques and petty feuds, except it’s a bit worse because they’re all stuck in the same buildings all the time, so they can’t get away from each other. But the schools are fantastic, Harry. They’re really interesting. Biology is a dream. We do so much hands-on dissection, it’s amazing. I’m learning so much, seriously.” John realized he was gushing and told himself to shut up.
“And you’re playing rugby,” Harry noted. “You’re looking fit. Are the rugby chaps nice?”
“Nice enough,” John allowed.
“You’re not lonely, are you?” Harry fretted. “I worry about you.”
John went to tell her about Sherlock. It was on the tip of his tongue. No, I’m not lonely. I have this brilliant, frustrating, fascinating, amazing friend who guarantees I am never bored. But he didn’t. He had this idea she wouldn’t understand Sherlock, would mock his oddities and make light of his genius, and Sherlock was too…too…something, for John to let anyone make less of him. Sherlock belonged to him, to this life he was building where he was merely John Watson, As He Wished To Be, instead of John Watson, As Everyone Else Wished Him To Be. He wanted to be selfish about Sherlock, to keep him all to himself and not allow the fact of him to be poked and prodded and criticized and judged by the people who occupied the rest of John’s life.
So he just said, truthfully, “I’m not lonely.”
***
Sherlock was a captive audience in the car on the way back to Eton, and Mycroft was delighted about that. Not that it wasn’t clear that Sherlock still intended to ignore him as much as he could. He was curled up in the passenger seat reading a book about the early stages of the Cold War, which meant he must have finished The Rubaiyat.
Mycroft let him read. Well, if Mycroft was going to be fair, he was putting off starting the conversation. Sherlock was radiating that unusual amount of contentment that Mycroft couldn’t quite get used to. He thought it possible Sherlock was actually breathing more deeply.
Eventually, though, he ventured, “Tell me about your new tutor.”
Sherlock hmm’d without looking up from his book. “What about him?”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s tolerable. He’s the best of a bad lot, I suppose.”
Which was high praise, coming from Sherlock. “He has you working on the Taman Shud case?”
From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock look up at him suspiciously. “How do you know that?”
“You’re reading The Rubaiyat and books about the Cold War. It’s an easy deduction. Have you got anywhere?”
Sherlock hesitated, and then he launched into what turned out to be a virtual monologue about the case: his theories and conclusions and the idiotic mishandling done by the police and the fact that clearly the man had died of digitalis, there was no other option. Mycroft listened to him and tried not to let his astonishment show on his face, because Sherlock never spoke at such great length unless he was complaining, and this was definitely not a complaint. Sherlock kept talking even as Mycroft drove them straight into Eton, explaining the work he had done to crack the code that had been found in the suitcase, and then he cut himself off abruptly.
Mycroft glanced at him, wondering if Sherlock had just realized they were at their destination, that he had been talking an uncharacteristic amount, but Sherlock was looking at someone with an odd, fixed expression on his face, somewhere between joy and dread. Mycroft parked the car and followed Sherlock’s gaze, to a boy with sandy-blonde hair who had just come around the corner of Holland House. He was fairly unremarkable looking, except for the truly hideous jumper he was wearing.
Mycroft looked from him to Sherlock and needed to ask no questions. He had never seen Sherlock look at someone like that in his life. That was clearly John Watson.
Sherlock moved suddenly, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Well, it was good to see you, Mycroft. I’ll see you in a few weeks for the long leave.”
Sherlock obviously wanted to avoid an introduction, and Mycroft definitely wasn’t leaving without an introduction. Mycroft took off his own seatbelt and stepped out of the car and turned back to Sherlock and said, very loudly, “Here we are, Sherlock!”
Which, as expected, caused the blonde boy to stop walking and turn expectantly in their direction.
Sherlock gave Mycroft a look that made him grateful Sherlock didn’t have superpowers, or else Mycroft would definitely be dead. Then, resigned, he opened his door.
“Hi,” said the boy who was clearly John Watson, looking more pleased to see Sherlock Holmes than Mycroft had ever seen anyone look before. There was almost a bounce to the boy’s step as he came over to him.
“Hi,” said Sherlock, mostly sullen but with a trace of odd shyness to him. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock be shy. Mycroft thought everything about this situation was testing the limits of his belief.
John held a book up. “Got this for you. Untraceable Poisons. No one would let Sherlock Holmes sign it out, but they didn’t bat an eyelash at John Watson doing it.”
Sherlock said, “Idiots,” but he said it reverently, with a look in his eyes as if he thought it possible the sun rose and set on John Watson and his ability to sign out library books for him.
John beamed a smile at him and said, “In exchange, you have to eat a full meal tonight.”
Sod it, thought Mycroft, at that. He loved John Watson. Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly.
A frown of displeasure flickered over Sherlock’s otherwise adoring face. “You know how I told you I don’t have parents, I have a Mycroft?” he said to John. “And you said, ‘What’s a Mycroft?’”
John looked amused. “Yes.”
Sherlock nodded in Mycroft’s direction. “That’s a Mycroft.”
John looked at Mycroft, startled. “Oh,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize…but a driver came to get Sherlock on Friday, so I didn’t think…Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He rushed hastily to Mycroft’s side of the car. “I’m so sorry. I’m John Watson. I’ve heard…almost nothing at all about you.” John smiled winningly and held out his hand.
“Ah, that’s mutual,” said Mycroft, and politely shook his hand. “Surely you know by now that if you’re going to give him a book on untraceable poisons, you’d better make sure not to eat or drink anything he’s been near?”
“Yes, sir,” John agreed, gravely.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock sulked. “I would never poison John.”
“Much,” said John, grinning at him and looking fond. Mycroft felt almost dizzy with bewilderment.
Sherlock looked at him in confusion. “What?”
“You would never poison me much. I have no illusions.”
Sherlock looked deeply annoyed and even more deeply star-struck, and Mycroft, who had never seen Sherlock be impressed by anyone ever, studied John Watson carefully and tried to figure out what it was about him that had managed to snag the attention of the world’s most demanding human being. On the outside, Mycroft could see absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about him. He wished desperately that Sherlock weren’t standing right there, because he wanted to have a conversation with John Watson, he wanted to listen carefully to all his replies and figure out what made him tick and what drew Sherlock to him and whether this was going to be the making of his brother or make him worse than ever.
“You should come and stay for a bit over the long leave,” he suggested, and watched Sherlock stiffen with panic. “Sherlock would enjoy that.” He would, too, Mycroft decided, although Sherlock was too unused to the idea of enjoying anyone’s company to realize that he would. And if it just so happened that Mycroft might get a chance to corner John at some point during that week, well, all the better.
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - General (eventually as high as Adult, which will be adjusted on a chapter-by-chapter basis)
Characters - Mycroft, Sherlock, John, Harry
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - Sherlock Holmes, schoolboy. Yeah, that basically sums it up.
Author's Notes - Thank yous! To
flawedamythystand sensiblecatfor the Britpick; to the readers who read as this was being written, including chicklet73; and to arctacuda, who uncomplainingly betas massive amounts of fic. Thank you for all the good thoughts! I think the interviews went well, so fingers crossed now!
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7
Chapter Eight
John had been dreading going home for the short leave. He really didn’t want to go. And then he felt guilty about that, because he knew Harry wanted to see him, and he did miss Harry, but he felt as if the past month at Eton had been rare magic, and he was afraid of someone at home pointing out to him that this life couldn’t possibly belong to him.
Sherlock had been dreading going home for the short leave, too, but Sherlock’s dread was over lost time in the solving of the Taman Shud murder. Sherlock considered any time not spent in active pursuit of a forty-four-year-old-murder culprit to be wasted time. John would say Sherlock was driving him spare with keeping mad hours in his “laboratory” working on the case, except that John had grown so used to having Sherlock constantly underfoot that he practically couldn’t imagine an entire weekend without him.
It turned out that there was little time to miss Sherlock when he was busy dealing with his mother’s never-ending litany of disapproval of his activities. His activities being, mainly, his audacity in taking himself off to Eton and absenting himself from all the work he could have been doing around the flat.
John, fixing a leaky tap in the bathroom sink, said, “Why couldn’t you just hire someone for this?”
“Oh, you think we’re just made of money now, don’t you?”
“Of course not, but there’s enough of it to hire someone every once in a while,” John replied, and his mother’s silence was telling. He paused in what he was doing and looked over at her, reading the truth of it on her face before he asked the question. “Haven’t you any of your share left?”
“Of course I have,” she said, defensively. “I just don’t want to waste it.”
But she was obviously lying, and John waited until she had passed out in an alcoholic stupor before asking Harry about it.
“I have no idea where it went,” Harry said, pouring them both generous glasses of the cheap vodka Mum had been drinking. “Booze? Gambling? Who the hell knows? But I’m pretty sure it’s gone.”
“How much have you been drinking?” John asked, noting the ease with which Harry knocked the vodka back.
Harry shrugged and grinned at him. “Come on, no wild parties at that fancy school you go to now? Or do they all drink champagne all the time?”
“Dom Perignon,” John said to her. “Endlessly. I’m slumming it here with you.” He sipped the vodka and made an overdramatic face at its quality, earning him a playful shove from Harry, and they laughed together for a second before John sobered and said, “Your money’s safe though, right?”
Harry nodded. “The trust is ironclad. Mum can’t get at it.”
John was relieved. “Good. That money’s for us.”
“Cheers to that.” Harry clinked her glass against his enthusiastically.
“And not to be wasted,” John warned her.
“Education. Got it. I’m on it.”
“Are you?” John worried about her. She hadn’t wanted to move away, and John had wanted it desperately, and she had told him to go, but John still experienced guilt over leaving her to fend for herself. “How’s school?”
“Good. It’s fine. I’m more interested in your school. I told Sarah you would be home this weekend, and she said she never wants to see your face again, and I told her she probably didn’t have to worry about that because you were probably going to fall in love with some posh git and turn gay.”
“Thanks, Harry,” John told her, dryly, “that definitely helped the Sarah situation.”
Harry shrugged, unrepentant. “Tell me how Eton’s going.”
“It’s fine, it’s…amazing. I’ve chosen my courses, you know. Sticking to London. I’m not even going near Oxbridge. University College is my first choice. I’ll need stunning results though; I’m not totally confident.”
“You’ll get them.” Harry had all the confidence for him that he lacked. “I know you will. Tell me what everyone’s like there. Are they terrible?”
“They’re…” John considered. “They’re not so very different than here, really. I mean, they’re still people, and they have stupid cliques and petty feuds, except it’s a bit worse because they’re all stuck in the same buildings all the time, so they can’t get away from each other. But the schools are fantastic, Harry. They’re really interesting. Biology is a dream. We do so much hands-on dissection, it’s amazing. I’m learning so much, seriously.” John realized he was gushing and told himself to shut up.
“And you’re playing rugby,” Harry noted. “You’re looking fit. Are the rugby chaps nice?”
“Nice enough,” John allowed.
“You’re not lonely, are you?” Harry fretted. “I worry about you.”
John went to tell her about Sherlock. It was on the tip of his tongue. No, I’m not lonely. I have this brilliant, frustrating, fascinating, amazing friend who guarantees I am never bored. But he didn’t. He had this idea she wouldn’t understand Sherlock, would mock his oddities and make light of his genius, and Sherlock was too…too…something, for John to let anyone make less of him. Sherlock belonged to him, to this life he was building where he was merely John Watson, As He Wished To Be, instead of John Watson, As Everyone Else Wished Him To Be. He wanted to be selfish about Sherlock, to keep him all to himself and not allow the fact of him to be poked and prodded and criticized and judged by the people who occupied the rest of John’s life.
So he just said, truthfully, “I’m not lonely.”
***
Sherlock was a captive audience in the car on the way back to Eton, and Mycroft was delighted about that. Not that it wasn’t clear that Sherlock still intended to ignore him as much as he could. He was curled up in the passenger seat reading a book about the early stages of the Cold War, which meant he must have finished The Rubaiyat.
Mycroft let him read. Well, if Mycroft was going to be fair, he was putting off starting the conversation. Sherlock was radiating that unusual amount of contentment that Mycroft couldn’t quite get used to. He thought it possible Sherlock was actually breathing more deeply.
Eventually, though, he ventured, “Tell me about your new tutor.”
Sherlock hmm’d without looking up from his book. “What about him?”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s tolerable. He’s the best of a bad lot, I suppose.”
Which was high praise, coming from Sherlock. “He has you working on the Taman Shud case?”
From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock look up at him suspiciously. “How do you know that?”
“You’re reading The Rubaiyat and books about the Cold War. It’s an easy deduction. Have you got anywhere?”
Sherlock hesitated, and then he launched into what turned out to be a virtual monologue about the case: his theories and conclusions and the idiotic mishandling done by the police and the fact that clearly the man had died of digitalis, there was no other option. Mycroft listened to him and tried not to let his astonishment show on his face, because Sherlock never spoke at such great length unless he was complaining, and this was definitely not a complaint. Sherlock kept talking even as Mycroft drove them straight into Eton, explaining the work he had done to crack the code that had been found in the suitcase, and then he cut himself off abruptly.
Mycroft glanced at him, wondering if Sherlock had just realized they were at their destination, that he had been talking an uncharacteristic amount, but Sherlock was looking at someone with an odd, fixed expression on his face, somewhere between joy and dread. Mycroft parked the car and followed Sherlock’s gaze, to a boy with sandy-blonde hair who had just come around the corner of Holland House. He was fairly unremarkable looking, except for the truly hideous jumper he was wearing.
Mycroft looked from him to Sherlock and needed to ask no questions. He had never seen Sherlock look at someone like that in his life. That was clearly John Watson.
Sherlock moved suddenly, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Well, it was good to see you, Mycroft. I’ll see you in a few weeks for the long leave.”
Sherlock obviously wanted to avoid an introduction, and Mycroft definitely wasn’t leaving without an introduction. Mycroft took off his own seatbelt and stepped out of the car and turned back to Sherlock and said, very loudly, “Here we are, Sherlock!”
Which, as expected, caused the blonde boy to stop walking and turn expectantly in their direction.
Sherlock gave Mycroft a look that made him grateful Sherlock didn’t have superpowers, or else Mycroft would definitely be dead. Then, resigned, he opened his door.
“Hi,” said the boy who was clearly John Watson, looking more pleased to see Sherlock Holmes than Mycroft had ever seen anyone look before. There was almost a bounce to the boy’s step as he came over to him.
“Hi,” said Sherlock, mostly sullen but with a trace of odd shyness to him. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock be shy. Mycroft thought everything about this situation was testing the limits of his belief.
John held a book up. “Got this for you. Untraceable Poisons. No one would let Sherlock Holmes sign it out, but they didn’t bat an eyelash at John Watson doing it.”
Sherlock said, “Idiots,” but he said it reverently, with a look in his eyes as if he thought it possible the sun rose and set on John Watson and his ability to sign out library books for him.
John beamed a smile at him and said, “In exchange, you have to eat a full meal tonight.”
Sod it, thought Mycroft, at that. He loved John Watson. Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly.
A frown of displeasure flickered over Sherlock’s otherwise adoring face. “You know how I told you I don’t have parents, I have a Mycroft?” he said to John. “And you said, ‘What’s a Mycroft?’”
John looked amused. “Yes.”
Sherlock nodded in Mycroft’s direction. “That’s a Mycroft.”
John looked at Mycroft, startled. “Oh,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize…but a driver came to get Sherlock on Friday, so I didn’t think…Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He rushed hastily to Mycroft’s side of the car. “I’m so sorry. I’m John Watson. I’ve heard…almost nothing at all about you.” John smiled winningly and held out his hand.
“Ah, that’s mutual,” said Mycroft, and politely shook his hand. “Surely you know by now that if you’re going to give him a book on untraceable poisons, you’d better make sure not to eat or drink anything he’s been near?”
“Yes, sir,” John agreed, gravely.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock sulked. “I would never poison John.”
“Much,” said John, grinning at him and looking fond. Mycroft felt almost dizzy with bewilderment.
Sherlock looked at him in confusion. “What?”
“You would never poison me much. I have no illusions.”
Sherlock looked deeply annoyed and even more deeply star-struck, and Mycroft, who had never seen Sherlock be impressed by anyone ever, studied John Watson carefully and tried to figure out what it was about him that had managed to snag the attention of the world’s most demanding human being. On the outside, Mycroft could see absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about him. He wished desperately that Sherlock weren’t standing right there, because he wanted to have a conversation with John Watson, he wanted to listen carefully to all his replies and figure out what made him tick and what drew Sherlock to him and whether this was going to be the making of his brother or make him worse than ever.
“You should come and stay for a bit over the long leave,” he suggested, and watched Sherlock stiffen with panic. “Sherlock would enjoy that.” He would, too, Mycroft decided, although Sherlock was too unused to the idea of enjoying anyone’s company to realize that he would. And if it just so happened that Mycroft might get a chance to corner John at some point during that week, well, all the better.
Next Chapter
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Date: 2012-10-18 04:00 am (UTC)