Disclaimers: Characters (excepting Pascal and Jade, who are very much mine) belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the lovely boys at BBC, and the ever-brilliant Moffat and Gatiss. Also, BEWARE of obnoxious OOC's and mild language. Any critiques/corrections/advice is greatly appreciated!
Sherlock could not stop thinking. Facts and phrases collected over the past week were bubbling and shivering through his cerebellum, words pouring out of his mouth like water. This was not unusual—Sherlock was constantly thinking, his thought processes arranging themselves in neat, orderly columns—but this chaotic, lyrical hurricane of scenes and noise was frighteningly out of his control.
The part of his brain that was somehow above all this frantic burbling was feeling very sorry for John, sitting across from the detective with his cheek to his palm. The blond man's elbow was propped up on the kitchen table, his back sloped and leaning, his free hand wrapped around a cup of that tea that he always insisted on consuming.
He didn't seem to be following much of Sherlock's dialogue, but it was wearing on him nonetheless. His eyelids drooping, he would take a deep, shuddering breath every couple of seconds, stroking the smooth ceramic of his mug with lazy enervation. The coherent section of Sherlock's brain was strangely drawn to John's hand, examining the tanned skin and the sturdy fingers, the blocky knuckles and the rivulets of veins slithering up his arm, the curve of his elbow and the pale, silky hairs of his forearm.
Oh no, Sherlock's mind whispered to itself, we cannot succumb completely. I will not allow myself to submerge any further into this pit of confusion.
Temporarily constrained, the detective forced his eyes up to John's face, only to see the man's lips forming words of his own, his china blue eyes clouded with fatigue. The cranial clutter began to fade from a frenzied roar to a muted thunder, superseded by a familiar voice bellowing his name.
"Sherlock!" John shouted for the third time, struggling to sit up straight, "We've been sitting here for over an hour and I can't even pretend to know what you're talking about anymore. Can we please go to bed now?"
Ignoring John's curious use of the word 'we', Sherlock glanced over at the wall clock nestled in the sink. "It's three in the morning, John," he rumbled, feeling his mental faculties beginning to rearrange themselves into an organized flow, "Eight hours of sleep is already too highly esteemed; sacrificing valuable moments of thought for three is practically wasteful."
John sighed, his head dropping dangerously close to his cup of tea. Feeling very much empowered by this flash of normality, Sherlock rose to his feet, John following. "Sherlock," he sighed, trying to make amends with his rumpled hair, "You need to go to bed. As your friend, probably your best and perhaps only friend, I am telling you to go to bed. Are we clear?"
The words 'best', 'only', and 'friend' ringing through his head, Sherlock shivered, his mind running at lightning speed. He was not sure he would able to handle John's concern in his present state and made up his mind to escape as quickly as possible.
"Coffee," he finally managed to stutter, "I need coffee."
John, caught in mid-yawn, threw him a confused glance. "Coffee? We don't have any—where are you going to get coffee at three in the morning?" he protested, fumbling for his tea. Sherlock, desperation bleeding up from his belly into his chest, ignored him, snatching his coat and scarf from the stack of books they were lying on and almost leaping down the stairs.
His phone was out of his pocket by the time he had hit the landing and he had started a new message on his way out the door. The fresh air, sharp and metallic, did little to subdue his nerves and only slightly more to curb the fire behind his ribs.
Need your help. Are you in? SH
He summoned a cab, his heart rate a good fifty points above average. This madness, this jumble of emotions flittering in his stomach was foreign to him; or, perhaps, so forgotten that it seemed new. It would've been an understatement to say that the detective was curious, the thirst for explanations parching his throat like the dryness of the desert, but he was comfortable broaching such subjects as this with only three people. One was dead, another was romancing a baron in Abyssinia, and the last seemed to be refusing to text him back.
Five minutes into the cab ride, however, the phone vibrated in Sherlock's gloved hands, sending a shivering jolt of some unnamed feeling into his jaw. There was a press of the button, the screen lit up white—
Come on over, coffee's hot. AJ
John was woken by a pounding in his head. Or maybe it was the door. He wasn't quite sure. Either way, he was outright refusing to get up.
"John, dear—you up?"
It was Mrs. Hudson, pounding away at the door of their flat. Exhausted and imminently cranky, John was very comfortable where he was—namely, lying in his bed and enjoying the furry-mouthed silence of the early morning—and did not want to leave, much less speak. So instead of answering his landlady like a proper, upstanding English tenant, he rolled over and shoved his tawny head under his pillow.
"Jo-hn," her voice came again, bright and frighteningly sunny, "Sherlock has a visitor, would you mind sending him down?"
John groaned. "He's out for coffee," he mumbled, knowing full well that Mrs. Hudson had no chance of hearing him through the cushion. He didn't much care. If the sun, coming in white-hot and obnoxious through his window, was any indicator of the time, he was still about ninety minutes short of the three hours sleep he was promised and he was in no mind to skimp on slumber today.
As if she had heard his rebellious declaration of obstinacy, there was no further word from Mrs. H. As for Sherlock, John was too tired to be any more than slightly concerned for the detective's wellbeing, but the gnawing of his conscience forced him to at least attempt a quick text. He groped on the nightstand for his phone, knocking over an empty glass, a John Grisham novel, and a saucer of M&M's in the process.
Visitor to see you, come back soon. JW
Due diligence completed, John was verging on sleep when a series of echoing bangs on his bedroom door shocked him into lucidity. "John, dear, do you know where Sherlock went, he's not in his bedroom and he hasn't left a note; d'you think he's alright?"
Virgin Mary mother of God, Mrs. Hudson was knocking on his door—his bedroom door—and John was in nothing but his skivvies. Buried under piles of comforter, yes, but still practically naked. Unadulterated panic propelled him across the room to his dresser, hands flying amongst a storm of neutral-tone jumpers and slightly-worn jeans— "Hold on a minute!"
"If you could hurry up, love, I really hate to keep this young man waiting—"
John thought himself very prepared to shoot Mrs. Hudson if she came through his door a second too soon, tossing a olive green V-neck over his head while struggling into a pair of dark denims. He was also in the mind to shoot Sherlock, if he ever got back, for neglecting to inform him of this unannounced caller. The doctor was used to surprises by now, having been kidnapped by a group of Chinese smugglers and a murderous maniac in the space of a month, but he had not been in only his underwear at the time.
Running a hand through his wildly rumpled hair, John tossed the spare clothing into the closet, threw his bed into some semblance of order and was finally ready to open the door when a saccharine-looking Mrs. Hudson opened it for him. "Lovely to see you up and dressed, love!" she clipped.
You better thank your lucky stars I'm up and dressed, John thought crossly, 'cause if I hadn't been, I would've kicked you down the damn stairs. Heaven forbid he say this aloud, however; he was both relieved and a bit miffed to hear "Oh, yes—quite lovely," come docilely out of his mouth. Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Good. Now let me introduce you to Pascal—come on over, love, and meet Dr. Watson—he's Sherlock's cousin."
"Nephew," said this mysterious Pascal from the stairs, and John's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I didn't know Mycroft had any children."
Mrs. Hudson shook her head at him knowingly. "Not Mycroft, dear, Cuthbert. Right between him and Sherlock, the poor boy. Lives in Oxford, I believe—isn't that right, Pascal?"
Pascal appeared from around the stairwell, looking not at all put off by Mrs. Hudson's elaborations, and nodded. "Yeah; and hullo," he grinned, addressing the last part of the sentence towards John. Feeling very much the idiot, the blond man stood in open-mouthed astonishment and stared, wondering if Mrs. Hudson had been lured into a particularly clever prank, or perhaps, a precarious trap (thought the sliver of John that was still strapped to a semtex vest), since there was almost no way this boy was a Holmes.
He was too short, for starters. Sherlock and Mycroft towered over John, while this Pascal fellow was about John's height, if a little taller. His coloring was another anomaly—he was much fairer than either of the Holmes brothers John knew with a head of thick, bone-straight hair that, to the extent of John's knowledge, was naturally a brilliant white blond. He was also possessed of a healthier complexion; his skin freckled and lightly tanned.
Among the copious contradictions John could pinpoint in Pascal's appearance, it was his eyes that persuaded him that this boy might just be Pascal Holmes and not Pascal Smith, or Pascal Brown, or Pascal Moriarty, (oh lord, there he went again). They were almost identical to Sherlock's—a liquid, opalescent blue-gray tinged with a honey jade; smooth and serene, so lucid it was uncomfortable, yet so impenetrable it was unsettling. Those eyes defied all incongruities in this mysterious visitor, including his up-to-the-minute, casual clothing, sharp, silvery piercings, and bold, upward-sweeping hairdo, prompting John to step out of his bedroom, smile pleasantly and offer both the new Holmes and his landlady a cup of tea.
I can run faster than this, Sherlock thought erroneously, frustration nipping at the stem of his brain with annoying persistence. He was tired, and he did not want to admit it, but impatience and ill-thought, plebian comments were giving him away.
The hotel was only a twenty minute drive; he reminded himself, a leather-clad thumb rubbing broad strokes across the screen of his phone; it would not kill him to endure twenty minutes in a cab. With the night at the pool still shuddering in the back of his mind, however, he wasn't quite sure what he could handle anymore.
It was none too soon that the pale, ornamented face of the Queen's Hotel loomed up out of the darkness. Sherlock paid the cabbie in silence, shoving his phone is his pocket and tightening his scarf. Anxiety was beginning to fester in the pit of his stomach, and he needed to remedy that as soon as possible.
"Floor thirteen, room seven-twelve, please," he informed the lady at the front desk, a slim, dark-skinned woman with short, tightly-curled hair. She looked up at him, curiosity glimmering in her dark eyes. "And what name should I give, sir?"
Sherlock threw her a cursory glance—African descent but never been, single but only recently, compulsive exerciser—and spoke in a rich baritone. "Sherlock Holmes."
The lady nodded, picking up the phone and tapping out a quick succession of numbers. "Sherlock Holmes for room seven-one-two, please," she intoned, hesitating for a moment before cupping the speaker and turning to Sherlock, "You can go ahead and go up, sir. Ms. Simmons will meet you in the hallway."
He took the lobby in leaps and bounds and would've thrown the elevator door open if he could. The closeness of answers, unpretentious friendship, and hot coffee was exacerbating the ache in his chest and he was drumming an anxious pattern with his left foot all the way up to floor thirteen.
There was a quiet ding, and the elevator shuddered to a stop. Sherlock burst through the doors before they were completely open and his heart fell. Of course, he thought, Jade is Jade, and a very significant person. You don't become the head executive of a syndicate by doing everything yourself; obviously she is not going to meet me in the hallway.
"Morning, Sherlock," said Hollister, a tall brawny blond man with a ten-gallon Stetson perched on top of his celadon curls. Sherlock nodded curtly in reply, the urgency beginning to resurge in his throat. Silently, he followed the blond down the hallway, passing several glossy black doors before reaching one emblazoned with 712. "E. Hollister and guest," he spoke into the peephole, placing on large-palmed hand on the slick wood below the numbers. Sherlock could hear the buzzing of machinery, a soft click, and then an oddly musical beep.
Hollister gestured towards the doorknob. "Go on in," he encouraged, stepping out of the darker man's way. Sherlock gave another swift nod, and opened the door.
"I'm in the kitchen," a voice—honeyed and velvet, and most definitely American—floated from the room to the left. The door led into the living room; a wide area with a wall of window, set with a sable leather sofa and chairs, and bright steel furnishings. Sherlock trod carefully, almost reverently, over the slick hardwood, heading towards the sound of the voice.
Last-minute hesitation was catching in his throat. Perhaps Jade did not have time to talk to him, perhaps she had changed her mind—
No, Sherlock told himself, do not back down. You need this. Go get it.
He slipped through the archway with bated breath, his fingers clutched around his phone—
"Ey, Sherlock," Jade murmured, standing over the stove and stirring something chocolaty in a large silver pot. She was wearing her pyjamas—a pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt—which surprised Sherlock. He had expected to see her dressed as per usual, in slick black heels and a short black dress, her hair a long river of ebony down her back.
"You never told me your hair was curly," he breathed, leaning against the doorjamb. Jade laughed, deep and throaty. "I thought you would've guessed by now," she admitted, setting her spoon down on a napkin and padding over to where Sherlock stood, "Good to see you."
She enveloped him a warm, relaxed embrace, the pervasive smell of vanilla and caramel and chocolate ganache flooding his senses. It got him every time, to borrow the colloquialism—he was not used to hugs from anyone, much less Mafiosas who stomped around in five-inch heels, toting ak-47s with ease. "Erm, hullo again," he murmured.
"Hey," Jade grinned, releasing him and returning to her cooking, "Coffee's in the pot. Oh, and turn on the lights while you're there, will you?"
Sherlock knew the location of the switch without even having to think about it. Light flooded the kitchen, illuminating the silver countertops, ebony cupboards, and sleek island covered with pots and pans. Jade was no longer veiled in shadow, her form clearly highlighted. She had not changed, with the exception of her hair, and the loose curls pinned at the back of her head suited her.
"So, you text me at three in the morning, and twenty minutes later, you're here," she murmured, scooping a ladleful of whatever it was in the pot and pouring it into a rasberry pink mug, "How'd you know I was in town?"
Sherlock walked over to the island and slid onto it, unbuttoning his coat and loosening his scarf. "To be completely honest," he clarified, "I didn't."
Jade looked lazily surprised, placing her hands on wided hips. "Oh really? This is really a desperate, faith-based appel a l'aide. I see."
She grinned at him, interest shimmering in her honey-gold eyes. Switching the stove-top off, she grasped her mug and made to join Sherlock on the island counter. "Continue," she urged.
Sherlock took a deep, rough breath—
"This tea is really fantastic," Pascal was saying, slumped in Sherlock's chair. His hands were wrapped around a fragrant mug of Lapsang Suchong, and John was quite pleased that he was not the only one who liked its unusual smoky, barbequed flavor. "Thanks. Have all you want."
Pascal smiled, his eyes glowing cerulean. John was beginning to see all sorts of similarities in the younger Holmes and his flatmate, more physical than personality-wise. The way the boy moved—quick and sharp, yet fluid—was a vibrant imitation of his uncle, and the sprawling attitude he had assumed in Sherlock's chair was a perfect mimicry of the man's careless posture.
"So, um," John began, deciding to take advantage of Pascal's emergent good nature and probe for some answers, "I would ask if Mycroft sent you, but since you're not his son—"
Pascal laughed, bright and energetic. "Well, actually, he kind of did. Talked to my dad and finagled him into sending me down for a visit. That whole bit about learning what real life is like, or something equally parental. Probably thought seeing an honest-to-goodness flat share would turn me off moving out any sooner than twenty-two."
Amused by the combination of normal 'teenager-speak' and Holmesian verbosity, John grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, I—oh lord," he yelped and then flushed, fishing in his back pocket for his cell phone. Pascal raised a unusually dark brow as John slid the phone open and checked his messages.
On my way, bringing a friend. SH
"Is that Sherlock?" Pascal inquired, sipping at his tea. John, rather miffed at the prospect of another visitor, nodded in ascent. "Yeah. He's on his way back and I guess he's bringing a friend," he informed, shoving the phone back in his pocket; lack of sleep and too many surprises were grating on his nerves and Sherlock's unpredictability was not helping, "He leaves for coffee at three in the morning and is just now coming back, the wanker."
Pascal laughed again, banishing John's belated compunction at insulting the boy's uncle. "He's always been like that;" he revealed, his eyes clouded with a fond recollection that John rarely saw in Sherlock's eyes, "I remember one day he showed up in the middle of my biology class with a couple of train tickets and whisked me away to see an autopsy in Scotland. Mum wasn't very happy, obviously, but I thought it was pretty cool."
"So, I'm assuming Sherlock's the favorite uncle, then," John joked, feeling very chummy and a bit self-satisfied gleaning Sherlock stories from the younger Holmes. It was like he had one-upped the detective by discovering this peephole into his family life. Pascal grinned. "Yeah. I mean, Mycroft's alright, but he can be a bit of a prick sometimes. Of course, so can Sherlock, but he's a fun prick and Myc's just a snob. And don't even get me started on Great-Aunt Hypanthia—"
John frowned. "Hypanthia?" he questioned, and Pascal nodded. "Gran's half-sister. A complete psycho, that one, crazier than Sherlock by spades."
Trying to imagine someone crazier than Sherlock I'm-so-smart-it's-ridiculous Holmes would fry his brain, John was sure, but he did leave himself a mental note to watch out for this Hypanthia Holmes at the Christmas dinners Sherlock had threatened to subject him to. "I guess craziness runs in the family, then," John snorted, "no offense, or anything."
Pascal smiled, his eternal agreeableness pleasing John to no end. "None taken," he drawled, "you learn to live with it, and Dad and Mum aren't so bad. I think once you settle down, it gets better. If Mycroft would just find himself a girlfriend and get on with it, he'd be a lot nicer, I think."
To be continued, If it strikes my fancy. Or, perhaps, if the plot fairy comes to visit.