The Three Students (Variations on a Classic Theme)
Author's note:
Originally written for the Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2014 on the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum, to Silverblaze's prompt of „Christmas, snow, cosiness, Holmes brothers, violin". Silverblaze also said that she likes casefic, that she prefers friendship to romance, and that her favourite character is Mycroft.
The story starts during the winter of „A Scandal in Belgravia".
As this is a story about music, listen to the pieces they play, if you like. There are several versions of both on Youtube. A musical term that I think needs explaining is a „sectional" – that's the sort of rehearsal where the members of the same instrument group of an orchestra (such as, only the violins) practise their parts together without their conductor, in preparation for the full rehearsal.
Rated M for referenced/implied adult themes.
Please note that the story is complete, not a WIP. I'm posting it in several chapters merely for the sake of readability.
Baker Street, London, outside No. 221B. A late afternoon in December, just greying into dusk. Thick wet snow is falling, the kind that immediately turns into muddy slush on the streets. There are few people about. All pedestrians passing by on the sidewalks either carry umbrellas or have the hoods of their coats or jackets up. Nobody lingers. The cars in the road forge ahead through the gloom with their headlights on, water spraying from their tyres. A large black car approaches, pulls over and comes to a halt at the kerb just outside No. 221B. The rear door opens, and Mycroft Holmes gets out, in a winter coat but bareheaded. He closes the car door, glances up at the lit first floor windows of No. 221B, hurries over to the front door and rings the bell. His hair is wet and his shoulders are dark with moisture by the time the door – only moments later - opens to admit him.
Inside No. 221B. A view of the staircase. We see Mycroft walking up the stairs, head down, rather more slowly than usual, and approach the open door of Sherlock and John's living room. John's voice floats out towards him.
JOHN (off-screen): It's not working, Sherlock! I need that extension cord!
SHERLOCK (off-screen, from further away, probably somewhere in the kitchen): And I told you there was one in the cupboard under the sink, but it's gone now!
There is a bang and a clattering sound of something being dropped or knocked over, and a muted curse. Mycroft hesitates and grimaces, then steps into the living room, knocking on the jamb as he passes through. No reply. The room is bathed in cosy golden light from the reading lamps by the fireplace, but seems to be deserted. It has also subtly changed its appearance from what we usually see. There is a garland of fake pine branches and – as yet unlit - fairy lights around the mirror above the fireplace, and red Christmas baubles sit here and there on tables and shelves. We follow Mycroft's disbelieving eyes as they travel across the room, fixing for a moment on a ridiculous miniature figurine of a grinning reindeer on the side table next to John's armchair. By the time his eyes reach the opposite corner with Sherlock's chair, something seems to be stirring there, and a moment later John's back – clad in a nondescript navy blue cardigan - rises into view from behind the chair. He straightens up with a groan and turns round, another string of – also unlit – fairy lights in his hands, the plug dangling from one end.
JOHN (impatiently): Got it? (He notices Mycroft standing just inside the open door.) Oh. Hello.
Mycroft seems frozen to the spot, his face a study in bewilderment. Sherlock, in his customary dark suit, chooses this moment to come walking out of the kitchen, a rolled-up electric cable in his hand and a look of triumph on his face.
SHERLOCK (to John): Got it. (To Mycroft) And you can help hang up the mistletoe, while you're here.
A range of expressions passes across Mycroft's face, from intense indignation via a kind of exasperated resignation to simple exhaustion. He does look rather the worse for wear with his wet coat and hair, and his face is a bit drawn and grey, too, dark shadows under his eyes.
SHERLOCK: Well, don't just stand there dripping on the carpet. It's going to moulder and stink and Mrs Hudson's going to put a huge dry-cleaning bill on my rent.
John weaves out of his corner, looking Mycroft up and down enquiringly.
JOHN: Have you lost your umbrella?
MYCROFT (distractedly): I must have left it at the office.
Sherlock snorts, but John is now regarding Mycroft with an expression of only half-mocking concern.
JOHN (after a moment, in a kindly tone): Well, come on in. Sit down for a minute. Let me take your coat.
MYCROFT (sincerely): Thank you, John.
He unbuttons his coat and begins to take it off. John approaches to relieve him of it. Sherlock gives John an appalled look and moves forward as if to physically stop him being nice to Mycroft.
SHERLOCK: What? No! What are you doing?
MYCROFT (to Sherlock, recovering his spirits): I believe it's called hospitality. A variant of common decency. Look it up, one of these days. It's supposed to be one of the principal themes of the season.
He smiles sourly at his brother, then gratefully hands his coat and paisley scarf over to John, who proceeds to hang both on the hook at the back of the living room door and then invites Mycroft with a gesture of his hand to sit down in his own armchair. Mycroft accepts the offer with a polite nod and sits down, unable to suppress a sigh. John, noticing this, walks over into the kitchen. Sherlock, who is glaring at both of them alternately, is being ignored.
JOHN (over his shoulder): Tea, or something stronger?
MYCROFT (a little haphazardly): Yes, thank you, that would be most welcome.
Sherlock grimaces at his brother in mock-amazement.
SHERLOCK: I'd say you were seriously overworked, if I weren't talking to a civil servant.
MYCROFT (already almost back to his usual self): And I'd say you're seriously underworked. (He gestures around the room.) Doctor Watson's blog falls silent for close on three months, and then I catch you at putting up Christmas decorations, of all things.
JOHN (walking back out of the kitchen with a tumbler of whisky in either hand): Well, we have done other things since my last post.
MYCROFT: I'm relieved to hear it.
John hands one of the glasses to Mycroft, who accepts it with a nod of thanks. Sherlock, by tacit consent of all those present, isn't offered any, and doesn't complain.
SHERLOCK (to Mycroft): Well, last time you were here, you made quite a point of telling me not to work on a certain case. This has to be the first time ever that you're telling me off for actually doing what you want.
MYCROFT (smiling urbanely): And are you?
SHERLOCK: Have you seen any evidence to the contrary?
MYCROFT: No. (His smile assumes a slightly disquieting, ominous quality.) Make sure it stays that way. (Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to reply. Mycroft points a commanding finger at him.) Oh, no no no. You be a good little boy, or you won't get your Christmas present.
SHERLOCK (in a flat tone, feigning indifference): What present?
MYCROFT: You didn't think I came here just to dry my coat and deplete your flatmate's supply of scotch, did you? (He looks up at John and raises his glass to him. In a different tone, approvingly) Which is excellent, by the way.
John nods in acknowledgment. Mycroft digs into the inner pocket of his jacket, fishes out a memory stick and holds it up.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock): Just something to cheer you up and keep you occupied over the holidays.
SHERLOCK: What is it?
MYCROFT: A little puzzle.
SHERLOCK: And how many tens of thousands of lives depend on me solving it before Big Ben strikes the next quarter?
MYCROFT: None at all. It's a mental exercise, nothing more.
SHERLOCK: Not interested.
He walks over to his own armchair and flops down in it. John remains standing where he is, next to his own chair, his glass in his hand. His eyes travel back and forth between the two brothers, as yet undecided between amusement and annoyance.
MYCROFT (holding the memory stick out to Sherlock): You'll like it. Have a look. It's the latest little brainwave from our cryptography department. Just a small sample. We've been looking to renew some of our non-digital communication modes for a while now, but so far nothing has proved satisfactory. When they turned up with this, I thought it worth running it by you.
SHERLOCK: You did?
MYCROFT: Yes.
SHERLOCK: Why me?
MYCROFT (smoothly): Because I'd like to be able to tell them that it is unbreakable.
SHERLOCK: There is no such thing as an unbreakable code.
MYCROFT: See, I knew you'd like it.
Sherlock smiles humourlessly. After a moment's pause, he crosses his arms.
SHERLOCK: Alright. Where's the catch?
Mycroft leans back in his chair with a slightly exaggerated sigh.
SHERLOCK (to John): There's always a catch, with him.
The expression on John's face visibly tilts towards annoyance.
MYCROFT (sarcastically): Yes, of course there's a catch. The moment you insert this into your computer, it will blow up the entire building, leaving nothing but a fifty foot crater on Baker Street as a monument to your gullibility, and as a warning to future generations.
Sherlock's lips distort in a sneer. John, deciding that he has had quite enough of this, comes to life and walks across the room to the dining table. There is a small stack of unopened letters on it. He puts down his glass, picks up the envelope on top, rummages through the clutter on the table for the paper knife, finds it, slits open the envelope and takes out a Christmas card. He reads it and smiles. He then picks up all the rest and carries them and the paper knife over to the fireplace. The Holmes brothers in their chairs are still engaged in a staring contest, both of them emanating resentment in equal measure. John walks between them, deliberately breaking their eye contact, puts his stack of mail onto a corner of the mantelpiece and sets the first card up in display, straightening it carefully.
JOHN (conversationally): You do realise you're being ever so slightly ridiculous, don't you?
No reaction. John slits open the second envelope, takes out the card – a colourful, perfectly harmless-looking winter wonderland landscape – and flips it open. A photograph falls out of it onto the floor. In close-up on the card, we – and John - read a pre-printed "Season's Greetings" message, and below it, in handwriting:
Dear Sherlock, I hope you're as happy as I am. Best wishes, Violet x
John looks up, his mouth open in astonishment. Then he turns on his heel towards his flatmate. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him.
JOHN (stammering in embarrassment): I – I – I think I just - (He blushes furiously.) Sorry, I – I didn't mean – Mrs Hudson must've put it - and I didn't look -
He trails off and holds out the card to Sherlock, looking apologetic. Sherlock, unruffled, takes it, reads it, and shrugs. Meanwhile, Mycroft has picked up the photograph from the carpet and is studying it with interest.
MYCROFT: Violet Westbury sends you a Christmas card?
SHERLOCK: It would seem so.
He puts the card down on the arm of his chair, the case closed as far as he is concerned. John looks both relieved and intrigued.
JOHN (tentatively, his eyes moving from Sherlock to Mycroft and back): So – who is Violet Westbury?
SHERLOCK (in a bored voice): Violet Westbury's a part-time music teacher at a comprehensive school in her native Newcastle, and a mother of two lovely little children.
MYCROFT (handing Sherlock the photograph): Three now, apparently.
In close-up, the photograph shows a smiling woman of roughly Sherlock's own age, with a round, soft face and her blonde hair done up in a ponytail, sitting on a sofa with a baby on her lap and a boy and a girl of primary school age snuggled up comfortably against her on either side. All three children wear silly red Father Christmas hats, and all four people in the picture are beaming with festive spirit, perfect harmony and radiant happiness.
JOHN (on the verge of a smirk): Seriously, now.
SHERLOCK: Yes, seriously. (He looks down pensively at the photograph.) I do admire her.
JOHN (bewildered): Why in the name of heaven would you admire a part-time music teacher from a Newcastle comprehensive with three young children?
SHERLOCK: For knowing her limits. (He raises his head to meet John's eyes.) It's a rare quality, but useful on occasion. (He glances at Mycroft, who gives an unconvinced shrug, then hands John the photograph and the card.) Put it up with the others, if you like.
John automatically takes them, still puzzled. Mycroft, seeing his expression, swirls the contents of his glass, then takes another sip of his drink.
MYCROFT: Why don't you tell him the whole story, Sherlock? It would make a nice little addition to the collection on John's blog, don't you think? I'm sure the general public are desperately hungry for a new instalment, after such a long pause. Especially one with a bit of human touch. (He forces out the final two words with a grimace of distaste.)
JOHN: Hang on. Violet Westbury was a case?
Mycroft and Sherlock, for once in accord, look at him with exactly identical expressions of impatient condescension.
SHERLOCK: Of course she was.
MYCROFT (simultaneously): What did you think?
JOHN (slightly sheepishly): I – oh, never mind. Well – (clearing his throat) – yeah, why not? A – a case with a human touch, yeah. (He smiles.) I'm all ears. (He walks back to the dining table to pick up his glass and get a chair for himself. He returns with both, sits down and looks expectantly at Sherlock, who doesn't react.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock): Come on. Doctor Watson is well known for his tact and reticence. And I already know it all, anyway.
SHERLOCK: I doubt that. It's not like you were there.
MYCROFT: It was I who provided the central piece of the puzzle, if I remember correctly.
Sherlock still refuses to speak.
MYCROFT (maliciously): Fine. If you're not going to do it, I will. (Holding up the memory stick again) And you can go and play with this until the grown-ups have finished.
Sherlock gives him a dirty look. Mycroft, ignoring it ostentatiously, turns towards John.
MYCROFT (conversationally): Well, John. Cast your mind back ten years or so. Imagine Sherlock Holmes, barely out of his nappies, a chubby little Natural Science undergraduate in his -
SHERLOCK (seriously annoyed): Mycroft, stop it.
MYCROFT (smoothly): Why should I? I'll tell you something. You take this – (offering Sherlock the memory stick again) – and the moment you either crack it or admit defeat, I'll stop. But not a moment before.
Sherlock looks at his brother with narrowed eyes. Then he stands up, snatches the memory stick out of Mycroft's hand and walks over to his computer on the dining table. John looks slightly uncomfortable. Mycroft, noticing John's expression, takes another sip of his drink.
MYCROFT: He works better under pressure, you know.
John grimaces unhappily, obviously remembering several not very amusing incidents from the recent past in which he witnessed the truth of this statement.
JOHN: No need to overdo it, Mycroft.
Sherlock, now at the table, in the chair closest to the left hand window, has started his computer, inserts the stick - which, needless to say, does not cause an explosion - and opens whatever data is on it. He frowns at the screen (which we can't see).
SHERLOCK: Hmm. Not altogether unpromising.
MYCROFT (to John, smugly): See, he's happy. Alright, where was I? Oh yes, Sherlock, a Natural Science undergraduate in his second year at one of our great old universities, discretion barring me from being more specific than that.
SHERLOCK (without looking up from the computer): Don't be silly, Mycroft. It wouldn't take even John more than a quick Google search to find out that they don't run a Natural Science course at Oxford.
JOHN (in a conciliatory tone): Maybe they did, ten years ago?
SHERLOCK: Then Mycroft certainly wouldn't have known about it.
MYCROFT: Well, I've always been of the opinion that one science geek in the family was quite enough.
JOHN (conversationally): So what sort of geek were you at uni, Mycroft?
Mycroft, surprisingly, doesn't reply. Sherlock looks up and smirks.
JOHN (to Mycroft): You're drinking my scotch, I think I'm entitled to an answer.
Mycroft now looks as if he'd rather give his glass back than answer the question.
SHERLOCK (to John): You'll be surprised. Make a guess.
JOHN (wagging his head, his eyes narrowed): Hmm... (obviously joking) Classics and History of Art?
Mycroft's jaw drops. Sherlock glances at John with an expression of approval, almost pride.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock, accusingly): You told him!
SHERLOCK (mortally offended): Never!
JOHN (incredulously): What?
Sherlock doubles over in his chair, snorting with laughter. John promptly cracks up, too. They giggle for a considerable time. Mycroft is not amused.
MYCROFT (annoyed): Careful. (No effect whatsoever. Mycroft drums his fingers on the arm of his chair.) Alright, the clock's running again.
John clears his throat, shifts in his chair and composes his face into a look of gravity. Sherlock returns to his computer, still giggling occasionally.
MYCROFT: As I said, Sherlock was in his second year, and had managed, at that point, to make exactly one friend, thanks to being run over by a racing bike on Queen's Road when he was crossing with his nose in a book. He and that friend -
JOHN: Sorry, how do you make friends by -
SHERLOCK (his eyes fixed on the screen): Depends on the cyclist, doesn't it?
JOHN: No, but how?
SHERLOCK (multi-tasking, typing away on the computer while speaking): He happened to be from my own college and my own year. He was fine, but I was on crutches for two weeks. He kept coming to my room to apologise, although I told him repeatedly that he didn't have to pretend to care. But after a couple of days, we got talking.
MYCROFT: Anyway, this other student, whose name was Vincent Trevor -
SHERLOCK: Victor. Victor Trevor. (He stops typing and hits a single key with a flourish. His face falls in disappointment, and he groans.) Oh, please not.
Mycroft glances at him with barely disguised triumph. When there is no further reaction from Sherlock, he turns back to John.
MYCROFT: So, Victor Trevor was doing Computer Science or something of the sort, and if you thought that Sherlock was a bit of a (indicating quotation marks with his fingers) nerd, let me tell you that he must have paled utterly in comparison to this new -
SHERLOCK (looking up, annoyed): What's that got to do with the story?
MYCROFT: Well, if you'd rather tell it yourself -
JOHN: Yes, I think I'd actually prefer that, too. (With a sidelong, not very kind glance at Mycroft) I'm kind of missing the human touch, so far.
Sherlock stands up abruptly, abandoning his computer, and straightens his jacket with an air of one rising to a challenge.
SHERLOCK (to Mycroft): You know, I might.
John smiles, and the scene dissolves to -