A/N: Hi everyone! I'm fairly new to the BBC Sherlock fandom but let me tell you have FREAKING HAPPY I am that I've found it. Here's my first go at a Sherlock fic, and I've decided to go with one of my favorite pairings. The game is on!
3/18/12 - Just edited some errors :D
Against the Wind
Chapter 1
The winds by the bay were soft and quiet, and the sea was calm. Montpellier City had found a moment of tranquility amid its usual madness. Sherlock hated it.
He slid open the sole window of the room to stare out towards the waves. The sun had begun to rise. The view of it was clear and free of smoke; there were no strong winds mixing salt into the air. He knew it meant that the breeze would be light for the day. It was unusually cool for a summer morning: eighteen-point-two degrees Celsius. There was nothing to analyze but the weather. Sherlock slumped back down into the sole chair of the room.
It had been exactly four months since his death. He wasn't doing well.
He'd been declared dead by two inept doctors in Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, and then hastily wheeled down to the morgue, where Molly kindly replaced his very-much-alive body with a corpse made to look very much like him with the aid of a mortician's tools. He easily escaped the building in a surgeon's outfit, complete with a cap, mask and Dr Sigerson nametag. Sherlock then fled to the seaside, where a small, shady boat service that demanded no ticket or passport – just the right amount of money – could take him easily to a bay in France. He left England with only his life and a few changes of clothes.
But of course, this was Sherlock Holmes – now homeless, nameless, and possibly friendless – at his most vulnerable. Before meeting with Moriarty on the rooftop, he found enough desperation within himself to swallow his pride and ask Mycroft – yes, that Mycroft – for some assistance. So as soon as he placed his foot on French ground, the papers Sherlock Holmes clutched helped him become William Campbell, a British chemist come to study coal tar in the bustling city of Montpellier.
But that was still on the other end of France. It took "Mr. Campbell" a month of walking, riding buses, walking and riding buses again to reach Montpellier. He couldn't risk flying.
Sherlock found a modest little apartment building next to the sea. It doubled as an inn for sailors and boat workers stopping at the bay for the night. It was perfect that way; nobody stayed long enough to become familiar with his face.
His new home was tiny but decent. The door opened into a white-tiled kitchen with a table and only one chair that Sherlock liked to move around the apartment. Beyond that was a one-person bed with rusting steel and a small desk to its left. Underneath the desk he kept his neatly folded piles of clothes; there was no closet to keep them in. Above the desk was the sole window of the apartment, a small screen window with several holes, but with an adequate view of the bay. To the left of that was the door to the bathroom. It had a sink with no mirror and no lever for hot water, a toilet, and a shower that broke frequently, but he learned how to repair it on his own.
Mycroft sent him money once a month. It was only enough for food and rent, and afforded Sherlock no luxuries (such as cigarettes or even nicotine patches). He could tell his brother was incredibly cross with him and his whole faked death scheme. Regardless, he was grateful. Even then, he couldn't send Mycroft any word of thanks – he found that too risky as well.
Sherlock put his feet up on the desk as he sat in his sole chair, and tilted his head back to look at the stained ceiling. In exchange for this quiet safety, he had lost everything else. He lost John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He lost 221B Baker Street.
And, of course, he'd lost a way not to feel bored.
And bored he was. For the next several weeks after settling in, Sherlock had nothing to do but walk both the old, narrow streets of Montpellier and the newer, paved ones. He guessed pedestrians' occupations and hobbies as they passed him, until it became too redundant. Then he spent entire days in the libraries he could find, flipping through magazines and textbooks and trying to understand. He eventually learned to speak a decent amount of French.
When the urge would come around again, he would simply stand in the pier, pretending to watch the sunset, while inhaling the cigarette smoke that the workers puffed out around him. It was nothing compared to the real thing, but it was enough to get him by.
And that was it. He had nothing and did nothing.
On this particular day, after moping about what he'd seen outside his window, Sherlock decided to buy himself a new scarf. His old one was still stained in "blood" from his "suicide". An effort of twisting and folding it the right way concealed the stain, but it was probably time to move on. Wearing it still gave him flashes from the day he died, something he didn't want to remember. It reminded him of 221B Baker Street and John.
Purchasing a new one meant sacrificing a fraction of his food budget, but he realized he didn't mind. He never finished the amount of food he would buy for himself anyway. He wrapped himself in the usual coat and set off.
He came back an hour and a half later wearing a maroon scarf. He'd rolled his old one into a ball and tucked it into a pocket, not having the heart to dispose of it. He walked down the road towards the bay. It was summer, so it was odd to have a scarf on, but he would never get used to the perpetual blowing of the sea breeze.
Sherlock stepped into the apartment building. There was no one there, save for the receptionist-slash-landlady sitting behind her desk, lit by single, weak light bulb hanging above her. She was a plump and quiet woman; Sherlock had figured it out before that she was the wife of a boat owner.
"Monsieur Campbell, Monsieur," she called, standing up from her chair. "Vous avezun visiteur, Monsieur."
A visitor? An alarm went off in Sherlock's head. But he had no friends here. Who would want to visit?
The most obvious possibilities entered his mind first. Mycroft! He was coming to check up on his little brother. But why now? What was the point?
He looked at his other choices. John? Maybe he'd forced a confession out of Mycroft because he just knew Sherlock wasn't actually dead. He caught the first plane to France and spent weeks searching for his best friend. But would John go through all that trouble? Would he abandon his life just to find him?
One of the possibilities scrolling through his mind made him panic slightly. Moriarty? Maybe he'd faked his death, too. He was somewhat of a genius too; he might have fonud a way. Maybe he knew he was alive, and he wanted to finish his job. He had to leave, and he had to leave immediately. Montpellier might no longer be safe.
"Monsieur Campbell," the woman started again. "Il est de votresœur."
Sherlock's train of thought screeched to a halt.
He stared at her, speechless, his eyes wide.
His… "sister" was here?