CHAPTER ONE: REALITY
I could recognise him by touch alone, by smell. I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth… I would know him in death, at the end of the world.
(The Song of Achilles)
(POV: Sherlock)
Part 1: Ben
My bedclothes feel hot, rough and strange across my skin and I sigh deeply, resignedly, since I realise I am slightly untethered and entirely sleepless. I writhe left, then right, twisting an intolerably itchy sheet across my shoulder, and turning into the coolest part of my mattress. My mind twists through endless machinations (much in the manner of my bedding) as a current case spreads out sluggishly through its winding corridors.
Broadbent is slightly less than five foot seven inches, therefore his reach would do nothing to involve him in the case of the missing almonds…
I turn, I twist, I burn with indecision.
Helena Carter is slightly more than five foot eight inches and more than capable of reaching for the platter… if she could reach within a single stretch, then the case is resolved.
I turn again, facing a window lit dimly by the dawn's early light and recall the events of the previous morning, in a cluttered and overcrowded kitchen in Battersea.
"Hold him a moment please, Mr Holmes, I need to change the filter on the coffee machine ..."
(Teeth, eyes, hands, cuffs = non-coffee drinker = liar)
Helena Carter holds forth -
A baby.
"No…"
"Sure, he's just a wee baby…"
The creature's eyes bore into mine and I contemplate the infant paradigm. A child of less than seven months, with no chance to have formed barriers or judgements …
Blue, bright, glistening with curiosity and the merest hint of uncertainty (gratifying, I must admit); small, compact fingers plucking at my coat; unstable, over-large head bobbing, as he attempts both to see and to maintain certainty. I look at Broadbent`s son and see his measure of me.
He catches my eyes (since I find I must look nowhere else) and I sense a hitch within his tiny chest, and the ghost of a fidget within his legs as he realises he is in the grasp of an interloper; an ignoramus. The weight of him pulls against my hands (large, capable) and I draw him up towards my eyeline (unblinking; astonishingly encompassing).
"See," intones his mother, without sincerity, "he likes you."
She reaches for a jar from the cupboard and I see her fingers grasp the coffee easily (too easily) and the child wriggles, as if he senses his mother's (93% certain) guilt and is discomforted. He is also becoming increasingly heavy, causing me to adjust my stance slightly, tighten my grip and become silently grateful at the tardiness of New Scotland Yard (Lestrade's camera phone can be a menace at times like this).
His head twists askance, as if to question his comfort (and safety) within my arms; those cerulean blue eyes flashing in question at my own, and I find I am speaking to him (soothing him?):
"Hush, Ben, you're fine … do hold still, you're fine."
And I look up to see his mother, potential poisoner (95% sure, and increasing) staring at me oddly as she pretends to sip a (very bitter) cup of coffee and awaits the police.
"His name is Joey," she informs me, and I glance back, taking in his oddly familiar tousled dark hair and pale skin, and I ask myself the question which will later come back to haunt my conscious, sleep deprived nights, amongst twisted sheets and encroaching dawns.
So then, who on earth is Ben?
~x~
Part 2: Mary
John throws his jacket across the back of the sofa, cascading bus tickets, loose change and wrappers from two (no, three) cereal bars in a small waterfall of detritus which, for the most part, will never be seen again. I deduce his caseload to be stretched to its maximum, his diet to be challenged and his reliance on energy boosting products to be dangerously high.
"There is a new branch of Holland & Barrett opened on the Edgware Road which should be more convenient for your surgery."
He twists a fatigued glance in my direction, just as he he twists the cap from his first beer. It would, most likely, not be his last.
"Not tonight, Sherlock. Too knackered." He pulls his coat from the sofa and I catch a glimpse of left hand, just below its first knuckle. Eyebrow pencil (moderately expensive brand, mid brown), phone number with a South West London code (up and coming, but very much rented accommodation for the single semi-professional). I also recall the conversation of the previous evening over dim sum (third night in a row - John too tired to cook).
"The interviews clearly went well today. You seem to have procured a new practise nurse to help with the workload."
Despite his poor humour, a smile flickers at the corner of his mouth as if retracing a memory of the day.
"Yeah, I did that."
I cannot fail to note the singular pronoun.
"When are you taking her out?"
He is shaking his head at me, but he is smiling.
"Thursday," he grins, taking a swig. "And her name is Mary."
~x~
That night, I writhe in a half sleep, feet grazing the bedstead as I turn, waking from whirling ideas, half formed and instantly forgotten. Words, murmurs from a garrulous yet amorphous subconscious slide in and out, as do faces, and on waking for the umpteenth time I feel a dry warmth spreading from my face across my body. I also note I am not alone. A cool and adept hand rests gently but efficiently across my forehead; a dim light issues from the hall.
"You're burning up, Sherlock, you need some paracetamol to reduce this temperature."
John Watson, he always has my back.
I murmur words and he leans in, dropping the pills in my hand, pressing water to my mouth.
"You're mumbling. Take these. You've been groaning and mumbling for an hour." I dimly see his teeth glinting in the half light, relieved he isn't angry with me.
"She has no family." My words are clearly formed, despite being spoken through the powdery crunch of tablets.
"What?"
"An orphan's lot."
"Sherlock, it's so late, and I'm shattered. I'm just going to ring Greg and tell him he has to leave you alone for at least twenty-four hours until you've shaken this thing, taxidermy warehouse robbery or not."
I roll across the sweat-soaked sheets, closing my eyes, to shut it all out; to focus.
"Bakes her own bread, size 12, cat lover, disillusioned Lib-Dem voter…"
I feel the bed dip with his weight, and a cool, concerned hand gently touches my shoulder.
"What the hell is this? Who are you talking about, Sherlock? You're not making a modicum of sense, even for you. Mate, this is scaring me…"
"She has a secret tattoo, and an appendix scar…"
His breathing tells me he is impatient and slightly fearful as his grip tightens on my shoulder -
"Who? Sherlock, who are you talking about?" My eyes fly open, and I see navy-blue eyes, pupils dilated, concern, for me.
"She is clever and romantic, a linguist, John, but you must be careful." I hold his wrist as I hold his stare.
"Mary Morstan- she is also a liar."
~x~
John does not speak to me unless absolutely necessary until that Friday morning, after his first evening out with Mary Morstan, and then it is just bitten out as he lifts toast from the table I sit at, making his way to the door.
"I don't want to hear anything else you might `know` about her."
"John, I didn't deduce Mary- "
"No, of course you didn't."
"I`ve never met her. I just knew - "
Hostile, defensive, angry.
"Just keep out, Sherlock. For once, just keep out of my… stuff."
And with a slamming door, he disappears down the stairs whilst I sit at our breakfast table, staring into the middle distance, pushing down a rising, sinuous thread of fear that is snaking its way upwards and inwards. This is not indicative of having an eidetic memory, or even a fevered dream; I am seeing familiarity where there should be none - first the baby, Joey (Ben) and now John`s new practise nurse, whom I know I have never met, yet inexplicably know. My brain, a trusted and beloved instrument, so finely honed and nurtured, so calibrated and fed with only the most select and delectable of facts, should not flicker in this way (engine warning light?), should not shake loose of its moorings. I place a slightly shaking hand across the table to my (cold) tea cup, then leave go, before the rattle begins in the saucer. Without my mind, I am a mere appendix, a detritus of useless bone, flesh and cartilage. Fighting down the swell of panic, I decide that theories cannot be tailored until sufficient data is collated.
I crave more data, at the same time as fearing its discovery.
Time will tell.
~x~
Part 3: Seiga
Mycroft has a new toy, a new ornament for his fortress of solitude.
I calculate late Victorian, judging by the glue sizing used on the tiny sails and the type of sailing ship imprisoned improbably within its glass walls. Miniature golden writing, scrolled over a century ago names `SS Appledore` as my brother's latest acquisition (perched at an inappropriate angle at the edge of his ridiculous desk, no doubt that I should notice it whilst he keeps me waiting, to show who's in charge… brother mine). A ship inside a bottle is truly a most germane nick-nack for my brother to own; everything completely trapped, yet frozen in its most glorious state for his appreciation. Mycroft hates uncertainty and he hates loose ends; his standards are unfeasibly high, and doubly cruel, since he knows few who can ever aspire to them (yet how he adores to watch them dance). Thus, it is with a small affectation of surprise that I note something more than a little out of place.
"Your windows, Mycroft, are dirty." He has entered the room, in the manner of a Grand Vizier, posture ridiculously formal. He knows I`ve noticed the ship, and realigns it to a more pleasing, yet less visible position, as I knew he would.
"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. They were cleaned this morning." He unloads a sheaf of papers across his desk. Swedish Embassy. Most likely linked to the recent scandal involving a minor member of their Royal family. I am not interested, and await my opportunity to tell him so.
"Smeary," I contradict. "Blurry on every pane. Perhaps your window cleaners are offering a silent protest on account of the recent government cuts within the department…"
"Of which you know-"
"A little."
"Nothing."
We look at each other for a beat, and I smile. The light is dim in here, yet I note a tiny twitch in the corner of his set mouth. He hates that I noticed it, too. Sighing, Mycroft gestures towards the paper across his desk, coming to the heart of the matter.
"No doubt you have ascertained the nature of the assignment I wish to consult you over-"
"Jag har inget intresse av sexuella preferenser våra skandinaviska grannar, Mycroft."*
His left eyebrow rises and his head inclines as he ceases his (fake) perusal of the documents before him (he clearly knows the case inside out since he has deemed it safe enough for my involvement) and I know I have surprised him.
But I don't know why.
"Goodness, I must admit to being impressed at such sudden fluency, Sherlock. Perhaps you have been attending night classes? Doctor Watson's latest romance may perhaps be leaving you... adrift?"
I shake my head, his taunting a secondary concern, whilst my own lack of comprehension stirring a rising, familiar panic which, hatefully, allows an outbreak of sweat across my upper lip and a prickling across my forehead. Is this what it's like for them? For others? Is this what confusion feels like?
Mycroft`s Icelandic gaze has softened slightly (an appalling sign) and I find my hands gripping the mahogany arms of the Chippendale chair beneath me.
"Sherlock… are you-?" I cannot allow him to finish.
"I am fine, thank you." My heartbeat is choppy; sporadic and fluttering, and my vision is flickering (those windows weren't dirty at all, were they?)
He stands, still staring at me, then checks himself and gestures again to the papers.
"A very ancient family is at risk here, Sherlock. Blackmail is more than repugnant, as I am sure you are aware."
Mycroft knows how I abhore blackmailers and their ilk. With a smiling face and a heart of marble, they squeeze and squeeze their victims until they have drained them dry; slithery, gliding, venomous creatures - but still I resist. Opening my mouth, I say:
"Jag är ingen mellanhand för monied klasser, Mycroft. De är rika, låt dem betala och har gjort med det."*
This time, I hear it- a language I have never studied issuing forth from my mouth as if I was born and bred in Stockholm, or Uppsala. I openly stare at my brother, who's worried countenance blurs horribly as the edges of the room swim and slide across my vision. He is standing now, paperwork forgotten, superciliousness forgotten, only a fearful etching of concern across a brow unused to such recondite emotion.
"Sherlock- "
I stand, since I see and recognise her immediately.
Walking across that silent Turkish carpet towards my brother's mahogany desk, she turns and smiles at me. Tiny, impish, dark curls as unruly as my own, and blue, translucent eyes that upturn in the corners, like my own. Dark brows, sharp movements (not a wasted footfall or a superfluous gesture), a final, arrogant launch into my brother's chair and a lifting of pixie-like feet onto his precious desk.
Her boots are, I note, muddy.
"Du kommer att vara i en sådan problem min kära,"* I smile as she blows smoke rings behind my brother's back. (Is he blind, or merely ignoring what is clearly unsupportable behaviour?)
"Jag föddes i trubbel, älskling," *replies she, flicking ash carelessly across the torrid tales of a Swedish Royal for whom a gentle sauna with a lady friend was never going to be enough.
Considering her parentage, I know she is far from joking and nod in my own acquiescence. As if jarring a precious gyroscope upon its perilous journey, I find all is lost from that moment and it is only my brother's firm grip that stops my toppling into his desk, spilling his documents and trinkets as I fall.
My vision fades in and out as I lie across his beautifully crafted carpet, amongst shards of broken glass, listening to the chaos that ensues at my brother's office when he imagines I have been indulging in my favourite poison.
But I have not.
She stands above me, the only true image I may latch onto at this moment (as I feel my consciousness ebbing, like tissue paper in a dirty puddle).
"Seiga," I say, "Det har varit så länge. Jag har saknat dig fruktansvärt ."*
Her face swims into view, just before I black out, as she kneels down beside me.
"Jag kommer att se dig igen, lillebror. Jag älskar dig."
And I am gone.
~x~
A/N:
Swedish translation (apologies to any Swedish readers!):
* I am not an intermediary for the monied classes, Mycroft. They are rich. Let them pay and have done with it.
* I have no interest in the preferences of our Scandinavian neighbours, Mycroft.
* You will be in such trouble, my dear.
* I was born in trouble, darling.
* It's been so long. I missed your terribly.
* I will see you again little brother, I love you.
This story exists on several levels, and I thought long and hard about its implications before, during and after writing it. Based on a Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode of the same name, it tells of a man (Sherlock) trapped between two worlds, not knowing which one is real, and leading to some ranging and life-changing discoveries. It marks the entanglement of two of my universes, and the battle between them. I have included POV guides, since I do swap between them a fair bit and didn't want to confuse anyone more than I had to. It has been a constant worry that I would perplex and befuddle my lovely readers, so I hope this all makes enough sense for you all.
Warning: there is serious illness and a fair bit of angst herein, but I PROMISE a happy ending, since know no other way to end things. The most prevalent theme, I hope, is love, since that is always the peg I hang my hat on.
Thank you for reading, and feedback nourishes my overly dramatic soul.
Emma x