A/N: This story was commissioned by oneofthoselunatics on tumblr for the Sherlock Committee Fic Auction. She asked me to write a Sugarverse story using "The Musgrave Ritual" as inspiration, in which she specified a casefic in the country and a derelict castle. I used that as my starting point, and this is the end result.
Although it's set in Sugarverse, it's not necessary to have read the entire series to read this. It's set in 2028, which puts Sherlock at 50 and John at 55 if I did the internal math for the series properly.
This is a slightly different type of casefic than I normally write. I wanted to keep it closer to the original style of story - shorter and almost more introspective. Enjoy!
"Explain to me again why this was a good idea."
John took his eyes from the road for a brief moment, lips pulling into a smile at the irritated and affronted look on Sherlock's features.
"It was your idea," he pointed out. "Are you admitting to having a bad one?"
"I never have bad ideas," Sherlock retorted. "The weather, on the other hand, does."
"You could ask Mycroft to do something about it," John joked, grinning at Sherlock's derisive scoff. "Or wait for it to clear up overnight, which it's meant to. And anyway, it's not that bad."
The faint squeak of the wipers on the glass was intermittent, and John was privately glad for the light rain. It would freshen everything, strengthen the greens of the grasses and leaves, and he wanted to see the potential properties in all their splendour. Sherlock would be able to imagine them perfectly even if they weren't at their peak, but John preferred to see the real thing.
He followed the sat nav's instructions and pulled into a drive, killing the humming engine. Sherlock clambered out, not deigning to help with their overnight bags, flipping the collar of his coat up and subjecting the house and the small grounds to a penetrating glare. John let him, rescuing their bags from the boot, and didn't wait for his husband to follow toward the door. Sherlock's long strides caught him up as the bell was chiming distantly inside the house.
A smiling woman whom John pegged as closer to Sherlock's age than his own greeted them, ushering them into the warmth and out of the rain. He took the instruction to put their bags down in the hall, taking in what he could as their jackets were hung in the closet. The cottage was larger than he'd imagined, and the colours and smells made it seem cozier and more homey than he'd expected from the pictures online. He'd picked it in part because it hadn't seemed overstuffed with kitschy decorations, and the single small table with a simple vase of flowers in the entry way reassured him he'd chosen well.
"I'm Sarah, of course," their host said as John reclaimed their bags, following her down the narrow corridor. "Andrew's just out in the garden, which is round back – feel free to use it once the rain lets up. Breakfast is six-thirty to eight-thirty, but if you need anything before then, just give a shout. I'll put on a kettle once I've shown you your room. Through there," she nodded at a set of curtained French windows opened wide to reveal a small room lined with bookcases and lit by small fire behind an ornate grate, "is the guest sitting room. The dining room is just off to your right. You're the only ones here this weekend, so you've got the run of the place. Here we are."
The bedroom was at the end of the corridor, looking out into the rain-dampened garden behind the house. It was smaller than theirs at Baker Street but – John admitted privately – much neater and better decorated. An antique trunk rested against the foot of a large bed that was bracketed on either side by lamps whose warm yellow light glowed off the dark polished wood of the bedside tables.
The trunk resounded quietly with a hollow thunk-thunk as he set the bags down, glad to be free of their weight. He considered putting Sherlock in charge of unpacking, but re-evaluated the decision – the detective would simply wait it out until John lost patience and did it himself.
Opposite the bed was an open door leading to the ensuite, pale tile separated from the carpeted floor by a thin strip of marble. He wondered if there was a bathtub and poked his head in to check, a smile crossing his lips. The idea of settling into a hot bath with Sherlock on a rainy day held a lot of appeal.
"There are more blankets in the trunk if you need them," Sarah said. "And two more sets of towels in the wardrobe. I'll get started on the tea. Biscuits?"
"Chocolate HobNobs if you've got them," John replied, not missing the faint smirk that crossed Sherlock's lips.
"We do," Sarah replied. "Andrew's a big fan. Shall I bring it up?"
"In the sitting room would be fine," Sherlock said before John could answer. Grey eyes flickered to him, impassive except the barest hint of a question, and John gave a slight shrug. He wasn't surprised Sherlock wanted to examine the library. A quiet cuppa next to the fire was almost as good as long soak with his husband. There would be plenty of time for that after dinner.
"It'll be ready in a jiff," Sarah promised.
"We'll be down in a few minutes," John replied. She flashed him a smile and was gone, the bedroom door clicking shut quietly behind her.
John settled on something quickly and made himself comfortable in an oversized armchair next to the fire as Sherlock browsed the shelves, fingertips roaming over paper spines, pulling a book out here and there to give it a cursory investigation.
John left him to it; Sherlock was clearly more interested in examining the room but the doctor intended to enjoy the country weekend as fully as he could. The tea was hot and perfectly sweetened, and it was no great chore to convince Sherlock to take a cup with a few HobNobs. The silence of the room only accented by the crackling of the fire and the occasional clink as Sherlock picked something up or set it down.
John glanced up at the sound of the writing desk in the corner being uncovered, giving Sherlock a look over the tops of his glasses that was completely ignored. His husband perused the drawers and flicked through the books on the desk; John rolled his eyes but with a fond smile and went back to his book.
It was the sudden absence of noise and movement that made him look up again. A frown of concentration creased Sherlock's features, eyes narrowed as he studied a yellowed page through his half-moon glasses. John marked his page with a finger, clearing his throat lightly.
"If they meant for it to be private, it wouldn't be in the common sitting room," Sherlock replied without looking up. John sighed quietly but conceded the point.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I have absolutely no idea," Sherlock murmured. John raised his eyebrows in surprise – that wasn't a phrase he was used to hearing from his husband's lips. He awaited an explanation that obviously wasn't forthcoming; after a minute, he put his book and side and joined Sherlock, peering over the detective's shoulder.
The yellowed page turned out to be two, filled by a neat but utterly incomprehensible scrawl. Where John's mind tried to find familiar words or patterns there was none, just a very well organized mess of letters, initials, and symbols. Sherlock flipped the first page over, and more of the same greeted them on the reserve.
"Shorthand?" John asked.
"Not a standardized one," Sherlock replied.
"Could be a code."
"Obviously," his husband murmured, shuffling the second page to the front. "A coded letter?"
"No date," John observed.
"Not that we can discern. Nor an addressee or author. Old, too – early part of the last century judging from the condition of the paper and the penmanship. What is this?"
The last was to Sarah, who had appeared in the doorway, looking slightly startled by the abrupt question. She took the sheets from Sherlock extended, features relaxing into a smile again.
"Andy's been at it again," she commented, a note of fondness slipping into her voice. "You know, my family's had this since the late thirties and no one's been able to decipher it, but he does love to tinker with it. He swears one day he'll get it. I can't imagine anyone ever will."
John didn't miss the cocked eyebrow or the sudden interested piqued in Sherlock's expression.
"A letter?" Sherlock asked.
"Well we think so," Sarah replied. "It belonged to my grandmother's brother, as far as we know."
"I take it there's a good reason no one asked him?" John enquired.
"Very good," Sarah said, giving him a smile. "He ran off in nineteen thirty-seven, when he was oh – seventeen or eighteen if I remember right. Left almost everything behind, including this. We've no idea what it means."
"Ran off?" John asked. "Why?"
"We're not entirely sure about that, either. He left a letter – a legible one – but it's vague on the details. I've got it upstairs, unless Andy moved it. Won't be a moment."
By the time Sarah returned, Sherlock had rearranged some of the furniture to his liking, sitting across from John with the low coffee table between them. Sarah made no comment on the reorganization but passed Sherlock the new letter to spread out on the table next to the coded one.
It was much shorter, only a handful of lines, and from what John could see with it upside down, seemed to have been written much more hastily, as though the author had been pressed for time. Sherlock's eyes flickered over it quickly before he spun it toward John.
My dearest Elizabeth, he read, squinting faintly at the faded writing, It pains me to have to leave like this, but this is the only way I may say good-bye. What I've done cannot be forgiven and if I stay, it will bring nothing but shame to our family. I cannot do that – not to Father and Mother, and certainly not to you. I'll not have you living in the shadow of my crime. Please know that I am sorry and I love you, all of you. Do not worry about me; I know where I'm going, and I will be well. Although it does not seem it, this is for the best.
Your loving brother, Henry
John reread it quickly, frowning as he looked at Sarah.
"What did he do?"
"I did say it was vague on the details," she replied with a slight smile. "That was the last my grandmother ever heard from him. There was an investigation, of course, but with the constabulary of a small village…" She trailed off with a shrug. "My grandmother did hire a private detective in the fifties, hoping for some news of him after the war, but nothing ever came of it."
"How lucky for you that you have a consulting detective now," Sherlock murmured.
"Sherlock," John sighed. "We have appointments with the realtor."
"A ninety year old crime, John! Examining a few cottages can wait – this is much more interesting. Look here," he said to Sarah before John could even draw a breath to voice further protest, "these weren't written by the same person. This one is similar, but more confident with the pen."
"I always wondered about that," Sarah said, sinking into a chair to examine what Sherlock was indicating. "I thought it might be because Henry's letter was written so quickly."
"Yes on first glance it might appear that way," Sherlock agreed. "But look here, the way he or she loops the o's – your great uncle doesn't do that. This is someone who was more comfortable with writing, either better educated or relied on it professionally. Possibly both."
"You can't tell if it's a man or a woman?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "You've said female handwriting is quite distinctive."
"It is if it's typically female," Sherlock agreed. "This… could be either. Very precise, very neat despite the code and the fact that we can't read it. An unrecognizable shorthand might mean a personal one, and who used shorthand back then?"
"Secretaries, I should think," Sarah replied.
"Exactly. Almost guaranteed to be a woman in that case, but no need to jump to conclusions. Did anyone else leave the village at the time your great uncle did? Particularly anyone female around the same age?"
"Give me some credit for my age," Sarah said with a chuckle. "I don't know. My grandmother never mentioned it. I'm sure if Henry ran off with a local girl, that would have been the talk of the town. And it's hardly a crime, even if she were pregnant or older."
"If she was married, it would have been a scandal," Sherlock mused, "Although hardly enough of one to warrant being called a crime. Theft? Murder?"
"I don't know," Sarah repeated. "But there are some people you could talk to tomorrow. No one who remembers, of course, but older than me and might know more from their parents or grandparents. There are community records, too." She shrugged lightly. "Might be worth a look."
"I need a map of the area," Sherlock said. "Preferably not a tourist one."
"Andy's got some," Sarah replied. "I'll fetch them."
"And him," Sherlock added. "If he's made any progress with the coded letter, I need to know what it is. See his notes."
"Anything else?" Sarah asked, catching John's eye, the smile offsetting the dry note in her voice. Sherlock hesitated, glancing at John, who sat back in his chair and spread his hands with silent acquiescence. If he really pushed it, Sherlock would drop the case and stick to their original plans – and he'd be sulking, distracted, and unbearable the entire weekend.
Besides, John had to admit to himself, there was something about the coded letter that was far more intriguing than examining foundations and evaluating living spaces.
"Dinner," Sherlock said. "We'll pay, of course."
"You'll have to be happy with what we're having," Sarah replied, folding her arms loosely. Sherlock made a dismissive noise – it didn't matter at all to him, so John nodded.
"That'll be fine. Thank you."
"I'll go get Andy. He'll be thrilled – give him half the chance, he'll talk your ear off about that letter. If you manage to solve that, you'll be a hero in his books."