A/N
Beta'ed by Old Ping Hai, any remaining errors are my own.
Disclaimer—I do not own the rights to Sherlock.
When Death Came to Tea
The World's Only Consulting Detective sat in a defensive and unattractive hunch on the spindly and amazingly uncomfortable chair. It was surely the only uncomfortable chair in his parents' sitting room. He was quite certain that Mycroft had deliberately maneuvered him into said chair to see him suffer more than he normally would have during this tea party from hell (more commonly known a 'little gathering to introduce John to the family)'.
Sherlock had hoped that his fierce glare would keep his relatives at bay, but no. He'd been spotted by his Aunt Penelope, who sported five chins, all of which jiggled ominously over her lacy schoolgirl collar as she hobbled over.
"Dear little Sherly," she gushed. "You look so much better than the last time that I saw you."
"Really?" said Sherlock, raising one eyebrow—the better to send Aunt Penelope a death glare. "That may be because I had just gotten out of hospital after OD'ing on…"
"Aunt Penelope!" interrupted Mycroft, gliding over to Sherlock and his aunt like a vampire from a cheap horror flick. "Have you met Sherlock's young man? He's in the kitchen, I believe, demonstrating his uncanny ability to make tea." Mycroft tugged at his Aunt's large, flabby arm and sent her off toward the kitchen, where most of the party had gathered, apparently to watch John Watson make cup after cup of perfect tea.
"Behave yourself, brother!" hissed Mycroft without moving his smiling lips.
"I am," hissed Sherlock. His lips did move a tiny bit, but his smile held more teeth and looked more dangerous than his brother's. "I was only going to tell our Auntie the truth."
"You would scandalize her for no reason, ruining the party for our parents—again! This is the first family event that you have attended in four years…"
"I wouldn't be here at all, except that you manipulated, lied and finally kidnapped us…"
"Mummy and Father only wished to meet your young man…"
"He's not my young man. He's older than I."
"Mm, and how old would that be?" queried the older Holmes brother. He was fishing for information again.
"How old do you think he is?" countered Sherlock.
"I find it repugnant that my younger sibling should be partnering with a man who has no past, no records, no papers of any kind," snapped Mycroft, who had spent countless hours trying to discover John Watson's true identity, all in vain.
"He has papers, Mycroft," said Sherlock mildly, while showing his teeth like a barracuda.
"Papers which I forged for him as a favor to you," said Mycroft. "And his false identity could be destroyed as easily as it was created."
"In which case, John and I will disappear, never to be seen again," said Sherlock. He sniffed in disgust and added, "I may choose to disappear anyway if I am forced to spend much more time with our family."
"Don't attempt to distract me, Sherlock," snarled Mycroft. "I don't know a thing about this man. I doubt you know the truth about him. He's hiding his past for a reason."
"You're right about one thing," said Sherlock with a smirk. "John is hiding. He's hiding from someone who wishes him ill."
"I see. And who is after him? Did he steal from a criminal organization? Or is it worse; is he a deserter? Has he betrayed a governmental agency—perhaps the CIA?"
"Bah, you've spent too long playing spy games, Mycroft," sneered the younger brother. "Through no fault of his own, he is wanted by someone…"
"Bah, yourself, dear brother," sneered Mycroft. "They all claim that it's no fault of theirs. He's a common criminal…"
"Wrong! He's a fine man…"
"He has you bewitched!"
Sherlock paled, "What do you know of it?"
"I know what I see," said the elder brother. "I see a man besotted, who is being played for a fool by a common con man."
Sherlock sighed in relief. His brother didn't know that John actually could bewitch someone, or at least cast his glamour on them.
A half-hearted cheer and ragged applause arose from the kitchen. The two brothers looked up in consternation. The sitting room was empty; the entire party had moved into the kitchen.
"What is your con man/boyfriend up to now?" snapped the bureaucratic brother. "Surely his tea isn't so spectacular that it merits applause."
"No," muttered Sherlock, who feared that his leprechaun had forgotten himself and was performing magic. John was supposed to keep his magical abilities secret for fear that someone (i.e. Mycoft) would exploit it. Sherlock lurched up and then raced to the kitchen, nearly knocking his brother over.
"I did it. I did it!" cried Cousin Phillip. He was pudgy, twenty-seven and fancied himself a magician. There was another round of polite applause from the assembled Holmes family.
"What did you do?" growled Sherlock, looking for his missing partner. "And where is John Watson?"
"I made him disappear!" exclaimed Phillip, waving a glitter-covered magician's wand.
"Well, you best bring him back," said Mummy, ever the voice of practicality. "I'd like to serve tea now."
Phillip tapped the wand against the pantry door three times. The lights flickered mysteriously, courtesy of young Leonora, who lurked next to the light switch. Phillip grinned conspiratorially and opened the door with a flourish. The pantry remained jam-packed with tins and sundries but did not contain a short blond man.
The room was silent. Thunder rumbled ominously.
Someone tittered nervously.
"What have you done!" roared Sherlock, reaching for his plump cousin's throat. Aunt Penelope muffled a cry of distress into her hankie, as Mycroft tugged his brother in one direction and Mummy tugged Phillip in another direction.
"Oh, my golly," cried the stupidest Holmes relation, "I really made him disappear. I really am magic!"
"I'll kill him," announced Sherlock.
"I feel faint," squeaked Aunt Penelope.
"Well, I can't understand how a ten-stone man could just vanish in our cupboard," said Father, examining the pantry with his handy pocket torch.
"Don't be foolish," hissed Mycroft to everyone, especially his furious sibling. "I'm sure John is playing a childish prank. He must have snuck off...perhaps he's skulking upstairs."
"He went outside to check on a horn or something," said Cousin Avaril, twisting a stand of auburn hair between her fingers. She was twenty-three...no twenty-four and had finally given up her hopeless crush on Sherlock only to be smitten with the blond tea maker. Avaril had followed after the leprechaun all afternoon.
"But surely John wouldn't go outside now, not when it's about to storm. See, it's already raining," said Mummy. "Besides, the scones are done."
"Ha, everyone knows Phillip can't perform magic," piped in young Leonora, turning against her cousin with true Holmesian disdain. Anything to gain attention, it was a familial fault. "It's not as though everyone didn't know that I was making the lights blink."
"But why would John go out in the rain?" demanded Mummy, with a hint of iron in her voice. Her ire fell upon her youngest son. "Tell me why. And just as the scones were finishing, too."
Sherlock didn't know why, and he didn't like not knowing. He blinked and ignored his mother's question.
"All I know was that John said he heard a horn, and off he popped," said Avaril, standing in Sherlock's personal space for no good reason.
The tall detective strode over to the window, looking out into the rain.
The guests began to mutter amonst themselves. "Did you hear a horn?" "I didn't hear any horns." "I hope this doesn't delay tea time." "We never should have come here, something strange always happens whenever Sherlock is around."
"Horns…" murmured Mummy thoughtfully. "Maybe it's my sister Beatrice. She should have been here by now, and she would honk. Beatrice said that she wouldn't miss meeting anyone who'd take up with Sherlock, come hell or high water. Come to think of it, I don't know what she meant by that. Anyone would be lucky to take up with Sherlock." The Holmes matriarch pushed her son temporarily out of the way, lifting the ruflfled curtain to peer out into the murk. "Well, don't see Beatrice's car, but it is hard to see anything. That sky is black as night, and the rain's coming down in buckets! I cannot think why John would go out in the rain, even if he did hear a car horn. And just as the scones were done, too. He said several times that he was looking forward to my scones."
"Damn the scones," Sherlock muttered mutinously under his breath, as he stared out of the window. He couldn't see anything either, only wind-driven rain and lightning. What was John was out there in that blasted storm? And what was this business with a horn? The detective had a bad feeling about all this, and while he generally didn't base any of his actions on some ill-defined sentiment, he would make an exception for John. He reached for his coat but was stopped by his father, who laid a hand on his arm.
"Well, now just a moment, son. I don't see how your young man could just sneak out the back door," said Father. "I mean we were all right here. Even with Leonora playing with the lights, we would have noticed if your John stepped out. He must still be in the house."
Holmes the Eldest stuck his head in the pantry as if he expected to find John hiding behind the tins of soup.
Sherlock avoided his father's questions and shook free of his father's hand. Obviously, he couldn't reveal that John was in fact a magical being, who was more than capable of disappearing in front of everyone. Sherlock didn't give a damn what his father was saying now; the detective was too busy trying not to panic. He had deduced that John was in some sort of magical danger, and Sherlock had to find his leprechaun now.
"How long has he been out there?" demanded Sherlock, pulling on his long, dark-grey coat. Right on cue, there was a faint flash of lightning. As the detective fixed his blue scarf around his neck, the thunder grumbled long and low.
"You shouldn't go out there, Sherlock; that storm is getting worse," protested Mummy. "And the scones…"
"Never mind the scones!" snapped Sherlock, restraining his full fury only because it was Mummy. "And never mind the storm; I have to find John."
Mummy looked at Father, who nodded.
"Very well, but you will put on a hat, young man," ordered Mummy. Thunder sounded again, even louder this time.
Father stuck a faded canvas Tilley hat on his son's head. Sherlock turned toward the door but was blocked by Mummy.
"Wait! Mycroft!" called Mummy. "You will help your brother find John."
"I don't need his help." Sherlock snarled even if it was Mummy, because this was just delaying his search for John.
"But Mummy, it's raining, and I wont be able to use my umbrella in all that wind," protested Mycroft. "Besides, the scones are ready."
The British government quailed before Mummy's flinty-eyed stare.
Father sympathetically patted Mycroft's shoulder before handing his son a hideous green rain slicker and stuffing a matching hat on top of the British Government's head. Once he was appropriately attired, Father opened the door, which flew back in the wind, nearly slamming into Avaril. The two brothers stumbled out, only to be swallowed up by the gale.
The Holmes brothers fought to make headway against the rising wind and rain; within minutes their shoes and trousers were soaked.
"This is hateful," shouted Mycroft, trying not to cower as thunder cracked overhead. "Is John prone to wandering about in storms?"
"No!" shouted Sherlock. Although he really couldn't say for sure, because he and John had been together less than a month.
A flash of lightning temporarily blinded him, and then thunder rolled around him, reverberating through his very bones.
Where was John? What could he have been thinking? Another bolt of lightning struck nearby and the thunder crashed again. Sherlock bit his lip, looking in vain for clues. He despaired of finding anything in the gathering dark and heavy downpour.
His heart twisted uncomfortably in his chest. He wanted to believe that John had been driven into the storm due to the hellish inanity of the tea party; after all, Sherlock could fully sympathize with that. But there was that bit about a horn. And John had obviously risked using his ability to 'go unseen', despite the presence of all those party guests.
No, clearly the renegade leprechaun had responded to some supernatural call, and if magic was involved how was Sherlock to find his missing lover?
"John!" he shouted, although the rain and thunder swallowed his shout. The detective couldn't hear his own voice, yet he yelled again and again, "John! John, where are you? John!"
"Sherlock," Mycroft shouted into his ear, pointing to the wood lot behind the Holmes family home.
Pale blue eldritch light flickered from deep within the copse.
"Damn," muttered Sherlock. There was the proof; someone or something was wielding magic in those woods. It was risky to go on, if it wasn't John Sherlock would be helpless against a supernatural entity.
But what if John was in trouble? Sherlock was determined to carry on, but there was no reason to put Mycroft at risk too. Anyway, Sherlock didn't want his brother to learn of John's abilities. So he yelled over the storm, "Mycroft! Go back, back to the house."
"Don't be a fool! You can't..."
Whatever his brother had been about to say was lost as the storm unleashed its full fury on the two siblings. Bolts of lightning burst around them; the wind and thunder roared, sounding like a cavalcade of riders pounding towards them.
"Look out!"
The tempest overtook them, knocking the brothers to the ground. Looking up from under his hand, which shielded his eyes, Sherlock saw leaves and branches flying past. He shook his head; in the roiling clouds it almost seemed as if he saw dark warriors on black steeds; he almost thought that he heard their cries and the sound of hooves thundering past.
The elder Holmes grabbed Sherlock's neck and dragged him close, trying to shelter him from the end of the world. The storm howled and shrieked, sucking the air out of Sherlock's lungs as he tried to shout to his brother over the tidal wave of sound.
The sky had torn open, and the ensuing deluge tried to drown them. He now held his hand over his mouth too, desperately trying to breathe in spite of water sheeting down upon him. The rain struck him painfully, and he realized that it was more than rain. Mud, leaves, twigs and hail mixed with the downpour, stinging his hands and face. Miraculously, the larger branches, small trees and what seemed to be someone's roof sailed safely past. Like the lighting, the larger missiles always just missed the two brothers.
The tempest seemed to last forever, but he knew it was only several minutes before the inchoate shrieks died down. The fierce wind began to slow and the thunder and lightning began to head eastward. The worst was past; the rain still came down but in decent, more normal, properly English amounts. Sherlock could actually breathe again, and he inhaled deep draughts of ozone-tainted air.
Like terrified children, the siblings clutched one another. Then they remembered that they were stoic British men and pushed themselves off one another. They stumbled to their feet and surveyed the wrack and ruin.
"What the hell..." yelled Sherlock.
"It must have been a tornado...or, or a...or maybe a derecho," yelled Mycroft.
"John!" shouted Sherlock.
"Oh for God's sake, forget about John!" shouted Mycroft. "What about Mummy?"
Sherlock shook his head. Thunder sounded yet again, though it was more distant, and Shrelock called in vain for his lover.
TBC
A/N This is my attempt to write something a bit spooky yet, as always, a bit humorous too.
I would very much appreciate your feedback in a review.
Happy Halloween!