Silhouettes Chapter 1

Fandom: Sherlock

Rating : T

DISCLAIMER: Sherlock isn't mine. Sadly.

A few things to note: This takes place between the end of series two and start of series three, when I imagine Sherlock is hiding out. In my head canon, he's in the Sussex countryside, near the beaches, painfully bored.

It's been a fair while since I've published, so please bear with me.

-XXX-

A deep voice, dripping with distain and pride, beckons me inside. The note of annoyance isn't hidden in the least. Taking the hint, I enter, then remain, hesitant, just inside the threshold, waiting to be addressed.

"Ah. You must be the housekeeper." The silhouette by the window doesn't look up from his violin. Though no music comes from the strings, he caresses the instrument, musing gently.

Taken aback, I hesitate before shutting the cottage door behind me. It takes a moment – old building, old door, it's warped to not-quite-fit into the threshold with ease. After my brief struggle I turn back to the silhouette. The overcast light coming in from the small square window isn't enough to illuminate many features, especially with his back turned. The fire, just to the left, doesn't provide much more to be discerned.

I am in the presence of a half-man.

Lots come to our cottages. Half-people. Folks in mourning. Those who have been lost, somehow. While our typical customers are families on holiday or professors taking research sabbaticals, the shadows find our cozy little country cottages appealing. The hills and the sea seem to be peaceful – I wouldn't go so far as to say "healing," but certainly secluded enough to encourage relaxation.

We stay out of their business, for the most part. It isn't our part to socialize. We clean, maintain, pick up the rent, and occasionally make deliveries – just as I am today.

"No, actually," I correct lightly.

The silhouette half-turns. If he'd been a cat, his ears would have been pricked and at the ready. "No?"

From what I can see of his eyes, they narrow. A few seconds pass of evaluation. "Landlord's daughter," he says shortly, turning back to his violin.

Impressed, I move further into the cottage, stopping just before the edge of the carpet. "Right."

"Landlord's daughter…" he repeats slowly, fingers dancing along the neck of the instrument, stopping to fiddle with the pegs briefly. "Home from university for the summer. Studies some kind of a fine art, likely literature, and history. Plays piano, and a few other instruments, if the state of your fingers is any indication. Just turned twenty last month. Lives in your own house, away from your parents, manages upkeep of the business when they're on holiday. One of those little tasks you take upon yourself is to make rounds on all of the cottages, while walking your – " Here he sniffs. " – Labrador. Brown Labrador, a docile creature, he doesn't tend to jump much, but he is quite a fan of leaning against your right leg, he leaves quite a lot of hair behind. You walk him very often, 'round the hills I'd say, looking at those boots. Yet, you usually do not grace tenants with your presence, perhaps offering little more than a wave as you pass, as you don't consider them to be particularly warm people worth you or your dog's time, which makes it curious that you would choose to…make this intrusion."

"I did knock."

"I would conclude," he continues. "That word of my unusual…abilities…have reached the village, and you, being a rather curious person by nature, besides bored out of your mind by those on holiday and the town's natives, decided to poke into this mysterious character."

"You'd be right," I say breezily. "Except I'm not too terribly bored, and I've not heard a thing about you, Mr. Holly. There is only speculation on a man no one knows anything about. But that's not why I'm here." Stepping closer, I dig into my cardigan pocket. The dusty rose pink woolly thing has fantastic pockets, deep and secure for storing things. I removed a small bundle of letters.

They're simple, boring envelops. Plain, starched white paper – just the kind you buy by the hundreds from the stationary store, no seal or printed return address. The address is written in a neat and slightly-curly hand. A woman's, maybe. A red Machin stamp, marked by black ink, sits on the top right corner.

Tucking the bundle against my wrist, I balance my weight between knees, considering. "I came because this oh-so mysterious-tenant who fails to ever check his mail. And my father asked that I deliver them, and remind you that the post is delivered every day except Sunday."

The silhouette pauses. Slowly, he turns away from a window.

It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, as the boldest of the light is coming from behind him. Soon enough, though, I can make out distinct features.

To my great surprise, he is young. Older than me, but still considerably youthful. Probably not much older than 30 or so. Cutting cheeks, thin lips, dark, curling hair that falls floppishly around the pale and drawn face. Crystal-coloured eyes flash. They're incredible. Soap-opera-worthy intense. In seconds he sizes me up in return, gaze flickering over my form, lingering on my shoes and the hand holding the letters. I'm a little taken aback. The spell is broken, however, as he lowers the violin, and blinks those deadly eyes.

"Mail?" he utters lowly.

"Yeah." I offer forth the bundle. He snatches it, drops the violin on the nearest table, turning towards the fire. The twine is rolled off, discarded into the flames. From the mantle, Mr. Holly takes up a letter opener – dagger-like, thin, silver – and savagely slices open the first envelope. One letter is read, then another, and another, and I assume so on. I realize that, while I haven't been dismissed, it's probably time to go. Quietly, I make to leave, only to be halted by the deep voice of the cottage's tenant.

"You needn't leave so soon."

Mouth open, I look back. "Oh, well I thought…you might want to…."

He waves in a "Oh, do what you will" kind of way, not looking up from the paper. The light cast through by the fire suggests more feminine handwriting, though I can't make out any specific words.

Taking this as the closest thing to an invitation I'm likely to receive, I cross to tentatively sink into one of the overstuffed winged armchairs. They're of a brownish plaid, almost tweedy, and ancient. I suspect them to be of the cottage's own furnishings. My father doesn't exactly have an eye for interior design.

All of the cottages have a dated look to them, despite my dad's best attempts at a simple, old-country English feel. They're not so bad. I have been in all of them twelve at some point to clean or paint or garden. Tenants can bring in their own furniture, but most find it convenient to use ours, the functional and old-fashioned. Looking around, I would guess Holly did exactly that. The front room is rather barren, aside from stacks of books and piles of papers scattered throughout. I scan the room. It's a conjoined to the kitchen, which is a more cramped affair. The front room acts as parlor, a round and cozy space built of native white stone. All original wood floors, covered by less-than-original and inexpensive mall rugs. A stone fireplace dominates the back wall. Overall, it's a comfortable sort of place, great for a small family on holiday.

Or, apparently, mysterious individuals with "unusual abilities."

He tosses the papers upon the mantle, brooding into the flame. I rearrange myself, adjusting the throw pillow behind me. In my scan of the room, I had discovered a yellowed skull resting upon the left of the mantle place, next to where Mr. Holly now rests his elbow. A few teeth are missing and the bridge of the nose chipped, as though someone smashed upwards, trying to break the poor bloke's face. I stare at this while I speak.

"It's funny that someone on holiday, so far from home, wouldn't check the post more often," I say casually. "You must have very low expectations of your friends and family. Or, at the very least, whatever companies might have bills for you."

"Yes, curious, isn't it?" Mr. Holly doesn't even spare me a glance. The orange light of the fire highlights his sharp features. His expression is something akin to grim.

"Definitely." Elbows on my knees, I let my chin rest on folded hands. "You know, we haven't really been introduced."

He snorts. "Viola Carters. You go to school in Devon. Father's pride and joy. When checking in, any guest caught looking at the photo he has prominently displayed upon his desk will soon be assaulted with tales of your academic victories."

If I blushed, I'd be fighting off urges right now. "That sounds like Dad," I sigh.

"Which is why it's startling to find that you resent him."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

Mr. Holly turns sharply. He takes the seat across from me, folding long limbs into the chair, eyes glistening. Leaning forward, he examines me. "Malice. You exhaled briefly at the mention of your dear papa, exhaled with frustration. He annoys you."

"Doesn't everyone's father annoy them?"

Another snort. "Fair enough." Even so, he tilts his head. "But yours virtually worships you. You practically have to beg to be allowed to work here. Why?"

"Why do you care?"

"Indulge me. I've been cooped up for sometime, allow a man his…deductions."

I raise a brow. "Then deduce."

He hisses lightly, but not out of any kind of dislike. Rather, he's encouraged. Without any pause, he launches into an ambling observation. "Class ring, left hand, it's turned so that your last name, not your first, is in your eyeline. That suggests some kind of disgust or dislike of your family name, family legacy. And, judging from the smudges and caked on makeup from that side, likely from touching your face, you've worn it like that for some time, since you got it, probably. It's an intentional way you put the ring one, so as to see your name. You've not been a fan for sometime. Family name comes from your father, your father who has lived in Sussex his entire life. You're going to school across the country, ages away, coming home only on holiday. He openly mourns that loss, and I distinctly recall a welcoming party a fortnight ago to celebrate your long-awaited return. You've been desperate to get away, hence the selection of university league away. It's probably why you worked so hard to complete your A-Levels within two years. From this, I would believe that your father's love of the county and desire for you to stay within the community has given you a feeling of being trapped for sometime now. This has blossomed into resentment, and is why you go on so many walks with your dog. Especially at late hours."

"It's midday," I interject.

"Yes, but I've seen you out on the hills far past the witching hour."

"That's not a tad creepy."

Holly smiles. It's the first time since I've entered the cottage, and I am stunned by the change. Despite the smallness of the smile, his features soften remarkably. The sharpness decreases. He's not approachable, by any means, but at least a little more…human. Less of a silhouette.

"It isn't my fault your flashlight is noticeable. So, did I get it right?"

"Pretty much spot-on," I admit. "Impressive. Is this your 'unusual ability?'"

Straightening his collar, the tenant contends that yes, his neat little deduction trick is that ability.

"You still haven't told me your name."

"I haven't?" he replies archly. "Surely you've checked your registration logs? The address on my letters?"

I purse my lips, restraining a smile. "You know they were simply addressed 'B Holly.' There is no fun in that. I prefer proper introductions."

"I do nothing proper."

It's warning, but not one I take seriously.

"Benjamin Arthur Holly."

Inclining my head, I accept this. "Thank you, Mr. Holly." I start to rise. "You can pick up any further correspondence at our offices. I assume you recall the house where you were checked in?"

He's not really registering what I am saying, though. Instead, Holly's gaze has turned back to the fire. "You do deliveries, yes? Groceries and such?"

"Um…." Confused, I hesitate before answering. "Yes, for a small fee. None of the grocer's in the area do, or the restaurants. The hardware store might…." I drift off.

Holly nods shortly. "Very well." Reaching into his dressing gown pocket, he removes a checkbook. "I've been here three weeks and have yet to find time to visit the grocer's. If you can purchase me some general food items, I will compensate you appropriately."

I stare. "You want me to shop for you?"

"Yes." He's found a pen someplace, and it filling a check out.

"But, aren't you worried that I'll – I mean, can't you –"

"No," Holly says shortly. Tearing out the check, he brandishes it. "This ought to be enough for a few week's food, and some for your compensation."

I glance at the number. "It's more than enough."

"I've already written the check."

"Write another."

"Oh, just take it."

"It's too much."

"You're wasting my time."

"What has kept you so busy that you can't walk to the grocer's? Seems to me you're do little more than playing violin and generally making a mess."

Unperturbed, Holly inches the check just a bit closer. Gods, he's got unnaturally long arms. I'm at the edge of the carpet, at least eight feet away, and I'd have to lean forward only a few feet to reach the slip of paper. "Ms. Carters. It's fair."

Sighing heavily. Taking a few steps forward, I snag the check. "Okay. I'll see you – "

"Thursday." The day after tomorrow.

"Okay."

He stands again, passing by the side table to take up the instrument again. Resuming his position by the window, the silhouette of a man begins turning pegs and plucking strings.

Taking this as my dismissal, I tuck the check into my pocket and head for the door.

"Thursday," he calls back briefly.

"Thursday," I agree.

-XXX-

"Did you manage to get Holly his mail?" my father asks when I return home. Hugo, who has followed me indoors, paces around the kitchen before settling with a groan into his pillowy bed in the corner, next to the old stove.

"Yes. He was in." I cross to the fridge, pulling out the orange juice carton. Dad, who sits at the island bar, sips his tea from behind his paper pensively.

"That's a surprise. I swear, it seems like the bloke is never in. The place is a tomb."

"Oh?" I lean against the counter, tapping my glass against my teeth. "I would say he never leaves."

Dad grunts. "Perhaps. You were gone some time, Viola, did you manage to open him up?"

"Uh, yeah, a fair bit. He's a nice man. Asked me to pick up some groceries for him."

My father is surprised. "Oh? I'd wondered. Marge said he'd not been by the store. I'd thought he'd have them delivered, perhaps, before now. Been here nearly a month, hasn't he?"

I shrug. "He must've brought in quite a stock. I'm supposed to deliver Thursday. I'll drive out to the store early."

Dad has turned back to his paper. "Nice of you. He's paying, right?"

"Of course."

There is a pause as we occupy ourselves with our beverages.

"So," I start abruptly. "I've been looking into that exchange program. For NYU. Their coordinator gave me a call, and it sounds really positive, a good chance I can get in and get some great scholarships. If I auditioned with a piano recital I could get even more."

The paper is adjusted, making a quick snapping noise. Dad doesn't even look up. Though he is frowning.

"I don't know about that, Vi," he says quietly. "New York is a little far. I reckon you'd be a mite homesick, eh?"

"No," I reply firmly. "I mean, I might be at first. But I'll adjust. It's a great opportunity," I add.

A sigh. "You like it in Devon well enough. Isn't that plenty far? I know you want to get away from your old man, but…." He gives me a lopsided smile. "New York?"

"Yeah," I say eagerly, setting my orange juice down, coming forward to lean against the island. "New York City. Oh, I'd get a job and come home over summers. Dad, it's all I've ever wanted."

He doesn't look happy. "I'll think about it. Maybe not this fall, but…maybe this winter. We'll have to discuss it. But not right now." The paper is folded. "I've got to go check out the Murphys. They're on their way back to Cardiff for the summer. And poor Mrs. Murphy broke her ankle last weekend…." He tuts, then continues his rambling. I sigh, sink against the counter once again, and finish my orange juice.

"Oh, that's a pity." He's still looking into his paper. "They're still not sure who killed the McLarney girl. The last suspect didn't turn out."

Over a year and a half ago a dead tourist from up North was found on our beach. The case has run stale since then, the gossip dry, but the papers still haven't dropped the matter. "Who could do such a monstrous thing?" the journalist crow.

Last month a new suspect came into the police's spotlight. But apparently it'd been a dead end. No other leads have be coming in, according to the Post.

"Yeah, that's a pity," I agree, thinking that if I were to be found dead as a doornail on anyone's beach, I'd not wish to be found here.

-XXX-

How awesome am I? So awesome I did research on the current stamps being sold by Royal Mail. Along with the genealogy behind the Holmes name. Apparently it derives from something medieval meaning "lives by a holly tree."

I know, I know, another OC. But I don't like Molly and Irene is terrifyingly beautiful and impossible to imagine capturing, and this isn't really about romance anyways.

So…yeah. Read and review?