The Curse of Rollrock Island
By: Lysi Nothuna
Author's Note: This is based upon the novel, Sea Hearts, or in the US, The Brides of Rollrock Island by Margo Lanagan. It's okay if you have never read the book to understand the story because I will explain a bit of the plot of Sea Hearts as my story goes on. I have the Holmes brothers come from Rollrock because both brothers fit the description of the sons of the selkies and men from Rollrock. The only thing I really tweaked from Sea Hearts is the time setting, i.e. I modernized it. Otherwise it is more or less canonically the same. This story is set after Reichenbach. Apologies in advance if any of the characters are a little OOC. Now enjoy!
Chapter 1
Light tore through the mirror above, cutting a ray through the dark green waters. The mass of black teardrops stayed together, calling to one another in their seal-song. The seals had no thoughts like a human did, they only had instinct. And their instinct told them to swim away from the bottoms of the human boats that floated above.
But they didn't swim fast enough. The nets came down into the sea and took the seal pups. The ray of light became much brighter as they were pulled out of the sea. Human shouts, male ones, barraged the pups' ear drums and one by one each felt horrible pain as a knife cut through their skin, pulling the human out of them…
Blues eyes flashed open in shock, pupils dilated in fear before adjusting to their normal size once more. A pale hand clutched at its owner's chest as the body tried to slow its massive heaves of breath. Then, those hands roamed to the body's head of curly black hair and ran through it as thought processes going at light speed ran through the person's mind.
"Sherlock? Are you alright in there? I heard you shout," a male voice said. It was muffled by the wooden door that blocked the two men from one another. The voice, Sherlock registered, belonged to none other than his best friend and flat mate John Watson. The fact that Watson had heard him shout from his upstairs bedroom said that he must have had quite the nightmare.
"F-fine. Just fine," Sherlock responded, his voice a little shaky.
"Was it about…you know…," John's voice trailed off. He couldn't bring himself to say St. Bart's. Even though it had been some time since Sherlock jumped and convinced the world he had died it still hurt John to bring it up.
"No. I don't think so. I don't remember it, really. Just go back to bed," Sherlock lied. He didn't dream about the fall, but he did remember it. And he honestly would have rather he dreamt about the fall than what he did dream about.
There was a silence, as if John was trying to decide if Sherlock was telling the truth. Then there was a weary sigh as he said, "Alright. Goodnight, Sherlock. Try not to have any more nightmares, yeah?" The sound of muffled footsteps going up stairs told the detective that his flat mate had retreated to his room.
Why did I dream of that? Sherlock thought, collapsing back onto the mattress. I swear I deleted those memories. They are of no use to me anymore.
Too tired to bother deleting the memories again, which was an exhausting process in itself, he decided to go back to bed and deal with it in the morning. But just as he went to close his eyes to go to sleep his cell thrummed and lit up on the nightstand next to him.
He checked the cell and went to go throw to the other side of the room. But then again, Mycroft wasn't the type to call in the middle of the night unless something nasty was up. And he hadn't had a good case in quite a while…
"What is it, brother dearest?" Sherlock asked dryly.
"Well first, it's Anthea," Mycroft's personal assistant corrected. "And second, he needs you to come in to the office."
"Why now? Can't it wait until a more reasonable hour?" Sherlock wondered. In all honesty, there wasn't such thing as a reasonable hour when it came to Sherlock due to his odd sleeping habits, but still.
"He said no. He would talk to you personally, but he's rather busy at the moment," she replied.
"Busy? At this late hour? What would keep him up of all people at this hour?"
"If you come you'll find out," Anthea replied simply.
He groaned. "Fine. I'll be there in fifteen."
"Don't bring Dr. Watson, Mycroft's orders," she ordered before hanging up.
Snapping his phone shut, he gave a long and loud string of curses at his brother. Best to get it out now before he finds a way to arrest me for it later. After his little rant, Sherlock dressed in his signature outfit including the trench coat, scarf, and leather gloves. While spring was readily approaching the nation it was still cold enough to wear all three articles of clothing.
Just as Sherlock was about to quietly leave the apartment there was a slight commotion as his roommate clambered down the stairs. "Where are you going?" John asked, his voice garbled from sleep.
"Out," Sherlock curtly replied, halfway through the door. Before he completely exited he whipped around. "I was quiet. How did I wake you?"
"You're never quiet when you curse out your brother," John smirked. "And I'm coming with you."
"You can't. Mycroft's orders," Sherlock protested weakly. He knew John's loyalty to him would not take that answer but it was worth a shot.
"To hell with Mycroft!" John argued. "I'm already dressed anyway. When I heard you shout I assumed you were going out and got ready. Looks like I was right."
Sherlock groaned. "Fine." With that he swept away into the London pre-dawn morning, John in tow. The two hailed a cab, one of the very few on the streets, and took it to Mycroft's office.
"I said that Dr. Watson wasn't wanted," Anthea told Sherlock icily as the duo entered the building. She didn't even bother to look him in the eye as she texted away on her phone.
"Too bad. He's here. If Mycroft wants me he can also have John," Sherlock snapped. "Now where is he?"
"His office. He's expecting you. And a fair warning, though I don't think you deserve it, he isn't in one of his best moods."
"When is he?" Sherlock muttered to himself as the two marched deeper into the building to Mycroft's office.
"Do you have any idea what this is about?" John asked, struggling to keep up with his friend per usual.
"No clue. Most likely stolen missile plans again," Sherlock replied. They were in front of Mycroft's office now.
"You should probably…," John began before Sherlock turned the knob and opened the door, "knock."
"Greetings, dear brother," Sherlock said dryly. His brother was sitting at his desk, umbrella leaning against it. His face was lined in distress and Sherlock noticed something had hit Mycroft hard. This wasn't going to be a government case. It was going to be personal.
"Please, sit down. Dr. Watson, I must ask you to leave. This is a personal matter between us," Mycroft said, his voice tight.
"He stays," Sherlock said firmly, looking over to John who had begun to leave.
"Not this time, Sherlock," Mycroft replied coldly. "This time, it's just you I want. And you'll want it that way too, once I've explained to you everything."
John still hadn't moved and wasn't planning on it unless Sherlock said so. That's why it was slightly disappointing to hear Sherlock say, "Just wait with Anthea. I'll fill you in later." Looking dejected, he exited the office to go and wait with the assistant in question.
"What is this about, brother?" Sherlock spat. He didn't appreciate having to be in the same room alone with him, and the hour of the day wasn't helping.
"There's been a series of crimes I want you to investigate. A personal favor for me seeing I can't look into it myself," Mycroft began, not quite meeting his brother's eyes.
"I don't owe you any favors."
"One word, Sherlock: Reichenbach."
He rolled his eyes. "What crimes and where?"
Mycroft twiddled with his thumbs. "That's where things get…tricky. I can't tell you for sure exactly what's going on, that's why I called you in to investigate. But I do know where the crimes are."
"And that is?"
The elder Holmes took a long, suffering, breath. "Rollrock."
Sherlock's eyes went wide for a millisecond as the memories of his dream flashed through his mind once more. "No. You can give me any case you want but that one. I'm not going back. Ever."
"Please. They need you," Mycroft pleaded.
"No, they don't. They showed that to me quite clearly when I was there last. I had to delete those memories, did you know that? Only a dream from last night made me capable of remembering. In fact, it's quite coincidental that I remember when you need me to go there, is it not?" Sherlock accused, his temper flaring.
"Like I had to do with your dreams," Mycroft laughed. Then he sobered. "But in all seriousness, you are the only one for the job. I would go, but I don't have what you have." His voice almost sounded wistful and the consulting detective noticed.
"What I have? You want what I have?" Sherlock asked, his voice rising. "I wish I could bloody well give it to you but I can't! I would give it to anybody, anybody if I could! But I can't!"
"You and I both know that's not the only reason why you need to go," Mycroft began.
Sherlock was far too gone to listen to reason. "Need to go?! No, I don't need to go. You want me to go. Well I'm sorry brother, but I won't be taking this case." He went to get up to leave but Mycroft suddenly struck out, grabbing his little brother's arm and holding it in place.
"Yes you will. You can't resist it. You can't resist this chance to go home. I know you say you want nothing to do with Rollrock but your heart and mind both say 'go'. Don't deny it," he told him, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.
Sherlock yanked his arm out of his brother's grasp. "I can deny it and I will. Good day!" With that, he stormed out of Mycroft's office to find John and leave the place.
"So you come here often?" John began lamely after a few minutes of silence. Anthea looked up briefly from her phone, an amused smile on her face.
"I work here, remember?" she replied, looking back down at her phone.
"Oh, right," John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I guess I'll just wait for Sherlock to come get me." Damn! That made him sound like a teenage girl waiting on her father to pick her up from the school game! He groaned and put his head in his hands.
Anthea briefly looked up over phone once more before continuing to text. "Has it not been the same since St. Bart's?"
"Please don't bring that up," John moaned.
"Well?"
"No, it hasn't," he snapped at her after a moment of seething quietly.
"Thought so. You can't stop following him around like a puppy. I mean, you used to do that anyways, but now it's like you two are joined at the hip or something. I'm surprised you don't go in the bathroom with him when he goes to take a piss."
Fire-filled eyes made mental holes in her. "I do not follow him around all the damn time!" John hissed venomously.
"Yes you do," a different voice said. That voice belonged to none other than Sherlock Holmes. Not stopping to wait for his friend he said, "Come on, we're done here." With that he exited the building, the glass door slamming shut behind him.
Anthea raised an eyebrow at John as he stood up to follow. "This means nothing," he told her through gritted teeth. As he exited, she smirked successfully at her phone.
"So what happened?" John asked his friend once they got back to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock hadn't uttered a word the whole cab ride back and from the mild deduction skills he had picked up through his adventures could tell that something had shaken the detective. In fact, John had seen that look in Sherlock's eye only one other time before, during their Baskerville case. And that fact scared John too.
"Nothing. Family talk," Sherlock replied, plopping on the couch. He curled into a fetal position, his back to the world as he faced the cushion. He was in his pouting mode.
"I don't think family talk can get that bad, can it?" John question uncertainly, pouring him and Sherlock a cup of tea each.
"Apparently it can. I don't want the tea, by the way. Not thirsty."
John raised an eyebrow. "How about breakfast then?"
"Not hungry." Then Sherlock lapsed into silence as John ate breakfast.
"I'm going to work, Sherlock. Don't run off and do something stupid without me, okay?" Insufferable silence was the response. John just rolled his eyes, grabbed his coat, and left.
A few minutes later Sherlock snapped his eyes open. He hopped off the couch and made a beeline for his bedroom closet. Five minutes later he had packed enough clothes to last him two weeks before a wash was needed. Zipping his suitcase up, Sherlock wrote a quick note for John and left it on the coffee table for him to find.
John,
I was serious when I said it was family matters. Unfortunately, my brother was right when he said I had no choice but to go. I'll hopefully be back soon. Don't come for me. Don't try to figure out where I went. Sorry.
Sherlock
When John came home for work he didn't find it odd at first when he met deafening silence. He had just assumed that Sherlock was still pouting about whatever Mycroft had told him. But he did find it odd that he wasn't on the couch, or on the armchair, or in the kitchen or his room. He did find it even more eerie when Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson said that they hadn't seen or heard from him all day. He didn't even bother calling Mycroft as the elder had a tendency to change phone numbers on him. And he did find it downright spooky when he found the note waiting patiently on the coffee table telling him not to come for him or look for him.
"Like hell I won't," John muttered angrily, crumpling up the note and tossing it in the rubbish bin. After doing a quick search for clues in Sherlock's room (as mentioned earlier, he had picked up a trick or two from his adventures with Sherlock) he discovered that Sherlock had packed for a fairly lengthy trip. His passport wasn't missing, so that meant that it wasn't out of the country. But, like always, he missed the most important deduction. And that was the little seal carved out of stone that normally rested on Sherlock's dresser was missing.
