Always the sun
By Rose de Sharon
Disclaimer: written for fun, not for money. Recognizable characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Author's notes:
- There should be a law against evil cliff-hangers! Oh well, *sigh*, while waiting for "Sherlock" Season 2 we can always read fan-fictions! ;-)
- This story's title comes from the song by British group The Stranglers, from their 1986 album "Dreamtime".
- Victor Trevor is a character mentioned in "The Gloria Scott", Jefferson Hope is the name of the killer in "A study in scarlet", both stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Chapter 1: There's always the sun
The night had fallen hours ago and Baker Street was asleep, wrapped in a blanket of tranquillity. No cars were disturbing the peace with loud motor engines; no drunks were yelling or puking their guts on the sidewalks in a vain attempt to forget their woes. The winter sky was cloudless, letting a myriad of stars shine on the black velvet dome, and the silvery first quarter of the moon looked like a smile from the heavens.
All the habitants of Baker Street were enjoying a peaceful night... All but one: its most turbulent habitant, Sherlock Holmes.
The young man was staring at nothing, his full lips firmly pressed together. He was dressed in grey silk pyjamas and a deep blue bathrobe, as if he had wanted to settle down for the night but he was sitting straight in his bed, on top of the covers, his eyes as hard as stones. All his posture betrayed the tension within his body, and his mental clogs were turning furiously at the risk of giving him a colossal headache but, for the time being, Sherlock couldn't possibly care less about it. He was too furious at both the world and himself to do anything but mulling thoughts, over and over again, with the frenzy of a rat trapped inside a labyrinth and going crazy from disorientation. Even the silence of Baker Street grated on his nerves: it was quiet, calm, peaceful... God, wasn't it hateful, after what had happened a few weeks ago?
The Pool.
That goddamned swimming pool.
It was definitively an accursed place. In 1989, a schoolboy named Carl Powers had drowned in it, victim of a seizure provoked by deliberate poisoning.
Twenty-one years later, a man named John Watson had been forced to wear a bomb jacket while standing at the pool's side.
And in both cases, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes had been unable to bring the perpetrator of those crimes to justice.
The consulting detective gritted his teeth furiously and a flash of pure hate shone in his eyes. He had often been told their colour was "unnerving" (steel-grey, circled with blue) because they looked ice-like, enhancing Sherlock's reputation as a cold man and he had adopted this opinion freely: being invulnerable to emotions had allowed him to keep his powerful brains clear and always ready, gathering data more quickly and thus, solving mysteries at an incredible speed. Since his childhood, all what had mattered for him had been the criminal cases and his caring side had been buried deep down within him, under piles of files. Apart from his mother and his brother Mycroft, no one had ever seen Sherlock's soft side in public – not even Detective Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade, his unofficial supplier of cases – and it had suited him well. Better be a walking computer than one of those bumbling idiots of Scotland Yard, so entangled in their pettiness and rivalry they would recognize a criminal only if he bit them on the leg.
In the meantime, solving murders had been a great source of "food" for his permanently working brains, avoiding him to fall again into the trap of drugs that had almost killed him a few years ago. Not that he liked using drugs, he was too aware of the ravages those substances did on their wretched victims, but alas it had been the only way for him – at the time – to escape from the ultimate boredom that was rotting his massive intellect. Lestrade had found him after a drug bust and, amazed by the deductions the young man had made about him in less than a minute, simply by "reading" the D.I.'s crumpled suit and mud-caked shoes, he had decided to ask Sherlock's input every time a strange case would occur. Discreetly at first, since Scotland Yard frowned upon asking for private detectives' advice, and then more and more frequently, in spite of the general disapprobation of Lestrade's subordinates. After all, Sherlock never asked to be paid for his deductions and, as long as there wasn't any paperwork involved, Lestrade had been content with gaining important clues that had helped him to catch criminals in record time, even if it meant having to endure the detective's tedious lack in social skills.
The young man had settled for an existence of solitude and puzzles, the only way to live with a personality like his. Touching no-one and with nobody touching him, his life had been filed only with cases, cases and more cases, barely taking the time to archive them in his former, cluttered, too-small flat. People slandering him, the harsh nicknames said to his face – in the lines of "Freak", "Iceman", "Heartless bastard" - nothing had mattered, for he was a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath focused only on work.
Sherlock had often thought his life was similar to his appearance: ice with his clear eyes and pale features, and dark like his raven-wings hair. He was an ice-covered planet circling around the sombre star of crime, with nothing to make it leave its orbit; only a few meteors had crossed his jet-black sky (Mummy, Victor Trevor – the only valuable acquaintance he had made at the university –, Mrs. Hudson his new landlady) but their lights had been too small to even try and warm up his cold universe.
But all of a sudden... The sun had appeared.
And Sherlock's world had been lit, changed forever.
The young man swung his long legs over his bed and stood up. The injuries he had sustained from the explosion at the pool had been reduced to a dull ache, thanks to the medications he had taken for two weeks now. The doctors at the hospital had told him many times how lucky he had been to have survived such a violent blast with only cuts and bruises all over his body, a burned hand and the beginning of a bacterial pneumonia - apparently, the pool's water had been low on chlorine. But the worse had been their strict orders to rest for a month, confining the world's unique consulting detective to his address at 221 B, Baker Street. The simple mention of staying home had infuriated Sherlock and it had needed the joined efforts of Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson to make him obey such an absurd notion. Mycroft's so-called worry about him, Lestrade swearing there weren't any interesting cases recently, Mrs. Hudson's constant fussing, all this wouldn't have been enough to keep the young man in. But those three had played a dirty trick.
They had mentioned the sun needing him.
Thus, Sherlock Holmes had stayed home.
The detective sighed heavily while running his fingers through his thick, dark curly hair. It was about two o'clock in the morning and he hadn't slept a wink. Not that it mattered really, he had often said that sleeping was boring but at least, it had its utility: it was a good way to make time pass quicker. But right now, he couldn't do anything apart from re-thinking about the pool and its disastrous end. He had experienced failures in the past but this was the hardest blow of his career. How in the world had he been so stupid? He was supposed to be a genius, for God's sake, and he had fallen headlong into a trap!
Out of the blue, a song started playing inside his brilliant brains:
How many times have you woken up and prayed for the rain?
How many times have you seen the papers apportion the blame?
Ah, the Stranglers. A British group founded in 1974 and still active – a rarity in the world of rock music. Sherlock was just a kid when this song was released and even though he hadn't been interested in the least by the whole "Top of the Pops" business during his teenage years, an attitude that had angered his classmates, but he had never forgotten this tune.
Indeed, Sherlock would have prayed for rain: counting the droplets on a window pane was also a way to pass the time. The morning papers weren't even printed yet. And his right arm – the one who had held a gun against his nemesis – wasn't completely healed, thus preventing him to play music on his beloved Stradivarius violin. Injuries, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson... Were they in a conspiracy to prevent him from working?
Who gets to say, who gets to work and who gets to play?
Annoyed by this intrusion in his mind, the younger Holmes tried to shut down the music by thinking about the millionth time about the Pool Disaster. A criminal mastermind had played an infernal game of wits with Sherlock, a game involving terrified hostages wearing Semtex-laden vests, Greenwich pips, laconic messages and a chronometer. Three times, Sherlock had successfully managed to solve the riddles, thus saving the hostages' lives (a woman, a young man and a little boy) while retrieving a memory stick containing the top-secret Bruce-Partington missile plans for his spy brother on the sideline. On the fourth time, alas, the hostage had been executed – a blind old lady who had started to describe her aggressor's voice and a sniper had killed her on the spot.
I was always told at school, everybody should get the same.
Angered and resolute to put a definitive end to this horror, Sherlock had defied the puppet-master to collect the memory stick at the same pool where Carl Powers had drowned. He had been so sure it would work: he had both the perfect bait and a Browning L9A1 in his pockets, and he knew his enemy wouldn't resist the challenge. Sherlock had been resolute to stop the murderer and he hadn't given a damn about accomplices – unlike the victims, he wouldn't have remained a sitting duck during the confrontation.
But Sherlock's plan had all gone to Hell, because the fifth hostage had been the sun.
His sharp ears perceived a soft murmur, coming from the upstairs bedroom. Instantly alarmed, Sherlock climbed the stairs to investigate what was the matter. In his mind's radio, the Stranglers kept on playing:
How many times have you been told, if you don't ask you don't get?
How many liars have taken your money, your mother said you shouldn't bet?
"Shut up, Hugh Cornwell!" grumbled Sherlock, even though he knew it was futile to curse the Stranglers' former lead vocalist.
His long strides transported him quickly and he reached the room's door, which had been left ajar. It wasn't the first time he would go up and take a peek inside the upstairs' bedroom; just to be sure everything was all right. During his forced convalescence, Sherlock had stood a lonely vigil at nights, staying awake in case revengeful intruders would invade 221 B Baker Street and attack its lodgers. It was a ridiculous idea, since he knew he was under constant surveillance by Mycroft's CCTV cameras and Lestrade's men, but the detective couldn't bring himself to lay down his guard – not for a minute, not after what had happened. There was a priceless treasure under Mrs. Hudson's roof and Sherlock had almost lost it by overconfidence, a mistake he wouldn't repeat again.
The sun had emerged in Sherlock's life, changing his universe forever so the least he could do was to watch over the sun, day and night.
The detective would have laughed at this statement a few months ago, since he was a loner with more arrogance than all the City boys of London and more brains than the Royal College of Sciences' alumni put together. People usually avoided him, as he acted too strange, too bizarre ("Too freakish") to blend in the everyday life; Sherlock, from his part, considered normal people as being dull and boorish, finding them much more interesting dead than alive. But then he had encountered an exception to this rule; a living, breathing, sunny exception which had barged into his life simply by pushing a laboratory's door at St. Bartholomew's hospital, where the detective was working on an analysis.
This memory made Sherlock apply a brief pressure with his hand on the wood panel of the bedroom's door, making it open wider. Only a dim light coming from the street illuminated the room, and yet Sherlock's keen eyes had no trouble discerning the contours of the furniture. Unlike the rest of the flat, this bedroom was tidy. The books – mostly about medicine, classic literature and a few bestsellers novels thrown in for good measure – were in perfect order on the shelves. The small desk supported only a laptop computer, a cell phone plugged on its charger and a Royal Army Medical Corps mug used as a pencil tin. Clothes had been folded on a chair, ready for the morning and the walls were decorated with framed photos. This room was too neat and clean for Sherlock's tastes, but since it wasn't his it didn't matter. It was John's.
John Watson. Retired Army Doctor, war hero, flatmate, colleague... And, most important of all, friend.
The only real friend Sherlock had made in his entire life.
John Watson... Sherlock's sun.
The door opened completely and he looked at the huddled mass under the covers. John was blissfully asleep between earth-toned sheets, unaware of the tension plaguing the detective, and for that Sherlock was grateful. No need to disturb his flatmate's slumber with his problems since John already had his full share of them recently, far too much actually.
For years, Sherlock had carefully cultivated his power to see in the dark. It took less than ten seconds for his eyes to adjust and focus on John's face. Regular breathing, relaxed features, tiny movements under the closed lids... Apparently, his friend was dreaming so what had been the cause of the murmur he had heard earlier?
Who has the fun, is it always the man with the gun?
Sherlock's lips pressed again one another tightly, as this line from the Stranglers' song reminded him too much of Moriarty and his would-be superior attitude.
James Moriarty, his archenemy, the puppet-master who had organized this horrible game of hide-and-seek involving press-ganged suicide bombers. A woman, a man, an old lady, a little boy... Those poor persons had been picked up at random, but not for the last hostage: he had been chosen because of his direct connection with Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty had kidnapped John, forced him to wear a bomb jacket, and then had sent him to the pool where Sherlock had set up his trap, just before revealing himself as being the one responsible for the bombs and the murder of Carl Powers. Moriarty had sniggered about not liking to dirty his hands, thus the reason why he employed minions aiming red laser-sight rifles at both Sherlock and John. The world's only consulting detective had then sworn to destroy Moriarty but the criminal had sneered he would kill Sherlock first, starting by "burning the heart out of him". The younger Holmes had tried to brush off this threat by affirming he didn't have a heart, but Moriarty knew better.
Someone must have told him, if you work too hard you could sweat, whispered the Stranglers in Sherlock's brains.
John, still deep in his dreams, slightly shifted his head on the pillows, giving Sherlock a better look at his face. The doctor had suffered injuries from the explosion as well and he was sporting butterfly bandages over his cut eyebrows' arch, a cast on his right wrist and the blankets were hiding the multiple cuts his body was sporting, not to forget a bruised kidney after Moriarty's men had punched him in the back during his kidnapping – a simple, efficient way to subdue reluctant victims. John had tried to laugh at his wounds, stating they would simply add new scars to the ones he had earned in Afghanistan, but Sherlock hadn't say a word during this attempt of humour. He appreciated the fact that John was trying to reassure him, alas lame jokes weren't to his liking. In fact, he still had trouble realizing the fact they were both still living and breathing had been entirely due to his flatmate's quick thinking and even quicker acting.
There's always the sun.
Mmm, there's always the sun.
Sherlock had been resolute to put an end to Moriarty's actions, and the only available mean at the time had been to fire a bullet at the bomb-vest lying nearby the swimming pool after John had been released from it. Moriarty would be torn to shreds – but the violence of the deflagration would very likely kill the formidable duo also, not to forget snipers shooting at them in retribution for their leader's death. And yet, Sherlock hadn't hesitated for a second, not after receiving an approving nod from John.
He had fired.
The bomb-vest had exploded.
And, at the same second, the detective had found himself plunged into the water: John had tackled him in a swift rugby-like movement and they had both fallen into the pool.
Always, always, always the sun.
They had drown in a maelstrom of bubbles, the temperature of the liquid heightening at a dramatic pace while the shockwave of the explosion destroyed the room; the walls, the ceiling collapsed in a roaring fury of flames and falling debris. The lazy pool waters changed into a mad tsunami in less than a second. Sherlock had also seen tiny missiles zooming past him – bullets shot by the snipers, slowed down by the H2O, making it easier to dodge. Still, those bullets presented a terrible risk and the detective had felt panic invading his heart at the sight of John floating weightlessly, in slow motion, towards the dangerous surface, making him look like a lost angel in an apocalyptic sky.
Sherlock had grabbed John in an iron-like grip, making him dive back to the safety of the pool's bottom (not deep enough, alas, they had fallen into the shallow end) before swimming underwater as long as they could, in spite of the terrible feeling of being boiled alive. Then, Sherlock had gotten a hold on the red-hot pool's ladder and had hauled John upwards in spite of the scalding pain in his hand. Panting, coughing, dizzy from the shock, the two men had barely the time to get out of the smoke-filled pool, their movements slowed down by the waterlogged clothing. Sherlock had pulled John out of the room before another blast had blown the revolving doors out of their hinges, knocking them both to the ground. The last thing the younger Holmes remembered was shielding his friend's body with his own before everything had gone black.
The doors' weight had crushed them but, at the same time, they had also protected Sherlock and John from flames and debris. When Lestrade had finally managed to enter the destroyed building, the firemen had told him that, if for not this impromptu protection, the two men wouldn't have gotten out of the blast alive.
"Huhn," whispered John, his brow furrowing. Sherlock's pale eyes locked on the sleeping man, fearing another bad dream was plaguing the doctor's mind. Since John had moved in, his war dreams had recessed but they hadn't fully disappeared. Images of dying soldiers, civilians, chaos, blood and pain would haunt him for the rest of his life but since he had associated himself with Sherlock and his murder cases, John had paradoxically found a new sense in life.
There's always the sun,
Mmm, there's always the sun.
Sherlock would always remember the first time he had met John Watson, when the man had followed Dr. Michael Stamford in the laboratory. Holmes' laser-like sight had spotted a multitude of details in less than a second about this short, limping stranger, sending an important amount of data to his brains:
- Blond hair cut short, attentive dark blue eyes, standing-to-attention posture and neat clothing: military training.
- Tanned face, no tan above the wrists: the man went abroad but not for a holiday.
- His exclamation: "Ah, bit different from my day" when he had entered the lab, said trained at Bart's: a medical doctor.
- A bad limp when walking, but no demands for a chair when standing up: partly psychosomatic limp, meaning an injury in traumatic circumstances.
- Tan + military + medical doctor + traumatic injuries = went to war zones.
- Conclusion: army doctor recently invalidated home from Afghanistan or Iraq; decorated war hero, small pension, London life expensive: financial distress.
Mike Stamford had found someone desperate enough to accept sharing a rent with the difficult detective, which was a small miracle in itself. Then, Sherlock had tried an experience: giving the excuse of needing to send a text urgently, he had asked for Mike's phone while perfectly knowing the jovial, round-bellied man always kept it in his coat's pocket. As on cue, the stranger had offered to use his own phone while Mike introduced him as "An old friend of mine, John Watson". The loan, plus the revelation of the name, had given Sherlock another load of data:
- Phone: expensive model, barely six months old, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, and yet not John Watson's. Engraving at the back: "Harry Watson, from Clara, XXX".
- A wealthy relative gave Watson his old phone, and yet he won't ask said wealthy relative for assistance: disagreements between them. A drinking problem, too: Harry, the previous owner of this phone, had shaking hands, betrayed by tiny scuffs visible around the power socket; hard to recharge a phone while too drunk to plug the socket in correctly.
- Phone's model too elaborated for a senior: Harry could be a cousin, but the doctor didn't strike him as having an extended family willing to help a war hero out with lodgings or money. Most probably a brother.
- Harry had a wife (Clara) but he recently walked out on her (got rid of Clara's present by giving it to his brother in a hypocritical gesture of concern): intelligent but spoiled character, throwing away his talents with booze. Careless, too: tell-tales scratches on the luxury phone revealed it had been kept in the same pocket with coins or keys.
- So: Doctor Watson was broke, lonely, recovering from terrible war experiences and with a troublesome family.
While typing his text, Sherlock had nonchalantly asked his potential flatmate: "Afghanistan or Iraq?" as an introduction. Before Watson could had a chance to bombard him with questions, Sherlock had settled their next appointment together at 7:00 p.m. next evening for a glimpse of the apartment he had on sight, a prime spot in the heart of London. The doctor, utterly floored by Holmes' take-charge attitude, had objected they didn't know a thing about each other. Sherlock had given his first conclusions about Watson's military career and family life, his name ("Sherlock Holmes"), their future address (221 B, Baker Street) and he had winked at Doctor Watson just before dashing off. As the laboratory's door closed behind him, Sherlock had gathered a few extra data:
- Watson had endured Sherlock's brusqueness, even though he had been obviously taken aback by his attitude: polite.
- In spite of past and present hardships, there wasn't a hint of bitterness in his voice: courageous.
- Offered the use of his phone, even if money was an issue: generous.
- He had voiced his opinion about the lack of information: can stand his ground.
- No angry, fearful or outraged reactions at the wink: open-minded.
- All in one: John had a glowing personality gifted with patience (medical practice), quick adaptation (army) and curiosity (he wanted to know more about the detective).
That last point had attracted Sherlock's attention towards John; the younger Holmes would usually get insults or nervous laughter after he had "read" personal details on other people's clothing or bearings. But Doctor Watson had wanted to know more about those mind-blowing methods of deduction and it had been a long time, indeed, since the detective had gotten a participating audience. Truth to be told, Sherlock had never had one so he wasn't keen on losing it!
So John had passed through the doorway of 221 B Baker Street, and it had felt like a ray of sunshine entering the already cluttered flat on the first floor. Sherlock hadn't showed it but the doctor's kindness had been an extraordinary event in his life. John's aura was similar of a springtime sun, warming the earth slowly but efficiently: no matter how much the frost wanted to stay, it stood no chance against this gentle star igniting the rebirth of Nature. John had then been caught in a whirlwind of events – meeting Mrs. Hudson, being involved in the serial suicides case which were in truth murders, confronting Mycroft Holmes, curing his psychosomatic limp by running after a cab – without blinking an eye, and it had culminated in the former army doctor killing Jefferson Hope, the cabbie turned serial killer, to save Sherlock's life.
Always, always, always the sun.
Sherlock hadn't known at first who the shooter was; he had been too angry at the dying cabbie by his refusal to give away that diabolical "sponsor" of his, who apparently was also a fan of the detective. It had taken a bit of cruelty to get this name, but in the end Hope had screamed it ("Moriarty!") before passing away. Afterwards, when Lestrade was questioning him about his confrontation with the cabbie, Sherlock had started to give his deductions about the mysterious shooter: crack shot, a fighter, military past, strong moral principles and nerves of steel… Just before realizing those clues were making a perfect description of John! One look at the doctor calmly waiting behind the police line had confirmed his theory in a flash, as John looked like the sun coming out of a thick fog. Then the younger Holmes had rambled nonsense about being in shock, praying Lestrade for the first time in his life to not pay any attention to what he was saying. The DI had relented to let them go but Sherlock was positive he had heard him quietly chuckling in the background; maybe Lestrade was more perceptive than he looked!
TBC…