Vocabulary Lessons with Sherlock and John (and Mycroft!)
Series Three
1. Ejulation: n. A wailing; lamentation
Mycroft walked up the stairs to his brother's flat, his pace quickened by the pitiful moaning he heard coming from the other side of the door. He burst into the room, his umbrella trailing behind him as he crossed to Sherlock curled up on the sofa.
"What was so urgent you had Anthea cancel the rest of my afternoon?" he asked as he sat on the nearest chair. Sherlock wailed again in answer as he pulled his knees closer to his chest. "Sherlock, what did you do?"
Gingerly, Mycroft reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His brother shuddered at the contact, shrinking away from Mycroft's touch. "Sherlock, where's John?" he asked.
Sherlock moaned in response.
Mycroft pulled out his mobile. "Sherlock, tell me what happened or I'm calling Mummy and you can tell her." Sherlock finally turned to face his brother. "Where's John? Why am I here?" he asked softly.
"John left," Sherlock said in a whisper. "I've ruined it."
"How? When?" Mycroft asked. He slipped his mobile back into his pocket as he scooted to the edge of the chair and placed his hands on his knees.
"I said something stupid. Lots of stupid things. Again. We fought. He left. Last night." Sherlock drew in a long, shuddering breath as he curled his toes. Folding himself even tighter into a ball, he continued, "I thought he'd be back in the morning. John usually goes out for a night with Lestrade at the pub when we fight, and he comes home drunk around three in the morning, but he comes home." Closing his eyes to blink back tears, Sherlock sniffled; Mycroft held his blank expression stoically as he waited for his brother to finish. "He's gone, Mycroft."
"Sherlock, the man has agreed to marry you. I highly doubt one more fight is going to drive him completely from your life. John just needs time to process things." Mycroft stood, pulling his mobile from his pocket once more as he crossed to the kitchen. "Besides, nothing terrible has happened to him, so you at least don't have to worry about that." He then hit his number three speed dial.
"I know about the security detail, yes," Sherlock said as he turned again, facing the back of the sofa once more.
Mycroft spoke quickly to Anthea for more information about John's whereabouts. Peering out the kitchen window, Mycroft frowned. John had spent the night at his sister's flat before leaving for work an hour earlier than necessary. According to the schedule Anthea had on file, John would get off work in ten minutes.
Exiting the kitchen, Mycroft relayed the basics to Sherlock before asking, "What do you want me to do?"
Sherlock finally unfurled himself and pushed himself into a sitting position. His bloodshot eyes almost blended in to his reddened face. Mycroft had never seen his brother so scarlet, not even when he was wounded and bleeding; it was a sad red. "I don't know," Sherlock said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Sitting down beside his brother, Mycroft put an arm around Sherlock, something he hadn't done since Sherlock had been in primary school. After several tense moments, Sherlock leaned his head against his brother's shoulder and turned to face inward as he heaved soft, dry sobs. Discreetly, Mycroft sent a text: John, he's a mess. What happened last night?
Then he turned off the ringer. Only a minute later he received: He was a right twat. I needed to get out and Greg was busy, so I went to Harry's which I'm sure you knew.
The next one followed soon after: And I'm sure he's sorry, but he needs to learn to think before he speaks.
Then: I'm coming home now anyway. Don't tell him.
Mycroft responded immediately with a short: Why not?
I don't want him to think I've forgiven him yet.
Mycroft did not respond after that. He simply held on to his little brother for the twenty minutes it took John to get home. For the first time in many years, Mycroft heard the door open but Sherlock didn't. Slowly, he dislodged himself from the detective's grasp and strode out of the room.
He waited on the stairwell in silence until he heard bare feet pad across the room to meet the soft footfalls of shod feet.
2. Perspicacity: n. Acuteness of discernment or understanding; penetration; sagacity
John had found Sherlock's ability to put together so much about his life from a few observations astonishing. He didn't have any other words for it, and he couldn't help being impressed by the man who could tell he'd been an army doctor serving in Afghanistan, as well as all that stuff about Harry and Clara just from his phone.
Then he'd met Sherlock's archenemy, or at least the man claiming to be his archenemy and he realized how put off most people must feel about Sherlock's deductions. This man didn't need to deduce him to suss out his family life or his service record. All that information was already at his fingertips. Instead he used his powers of observation to say the one thing John had been unwilling to admit out loud since waking up in that hospital: He was bored. He needed danger. And right now that came from working with Sherlock Holmes.
3. Xiphoid: adj. Shaped like a sword
Mycroft usually showed up at 221 B when he needed Sherlock to repay a favor, or when he'd just bailed them out of any number of ridiculous situations. Or whenever Mummy sent him to collect Sherlock and John for family gatherings. He never accompanied them on cases.
Except for one particular case. Somehow Sherlock had convinced him it would be worthwhile for the three of them to go together on their own. On that day, following a markedly nasty threat from a Russian mafia organization, Mycroft, Sherlock, and John went together to a particularly seedy warehouse—where they were promptly ambushed, knocked out, and tied to chairs.
As John regained consciousness he heard the Holmes brothers bickering:
"I told you this would happen," Sherlock said, his voice thick and cloudy to John's ears.
"No, you did not; I recall you saying that they couldn't possibly get the slip on all three of us and that it would be perfectly safe. I can't believe I agreed that it was best we settle this on our own," Mycroft said.
"Mycroft, I told you they'd go after the two of us, they know who you are and they recognized me by extension, but as long as John managed to get away—"
"I'm right here, Sherlock," John said from his chair, now knowing that the others could not see him just as he could not see them; he figured they had their backs to one another with enough angle and distance to prevent any man from seeing the other two.
"Damn it, John," Sherlock moaned, "You were supposed to hang back! Then this would have worked out just fine." John could hear the look of distaste on his face. "Please say you at least still have your gun."
"Your brother told me not to bring it since he figured we'd get frisked," John said as he shifted his hand against the restraints at his wrists. The plastic of the zip-tie bit into his flesh. "Besides, there's no way I'd still have it now, I'm sure they took anything we could even imagine using as a weapon away from us the minute they had us."
"I've got my umbrella," Mycroft said.
"No you don't," Sherlock said. "There is no way they left your umbrella with you."
"Well, not quite, but I can see it over in that corner," Mycroft said, his tone more nasal than normal. "Once we manage to free ourselves I'll be able to retrieve it easily."
"Yes, because that will solve all of our problems," Sherlock said with a verbal eye roll.
"At least I have an asset to bring to the situation beyond my big mouth," Mycroft said.
John set about finding a way out of his bonds while also ignoring the bickering brothers. After a lot of wiggling and sucking in of his breath, he managed to shimmy out of the ropes that tied him to the chair, and now only had the zip-tie at his wrists. Instead of worrying about it too much, he stood on uneasy legs and made his way over to where Sherlock was sitting. He then set about untying the knots holding his partner to the chair and had them undone rather quickly for having bound hands.
"It appears I've been freed," Sherlock said as he stood, turning quickly about to see who had released him. "John, why didn't you say anything? And how did you get out?"
"I didn't want to alert our captors too soon to our attempt at escape," John said. Then he crossed over to the elder Holmes and freed Mycroft as well. Mycroft promptly went to retrieve his umbrella as soon as he could stand.
"Really, Mycroft?" Sherlock said as his brother returned with the accessory.
"Really, Sherlock," he said calmly as he pressed at a button in the handle that caused it to slide back, revealing a sharp, thin blade. He held it out to John who used it to slice through his zip-tie before taking the umbrella from Mycroft and cutting the plastic from his wrists and then releasing Sherlock. He then returned the umbrella to its owner.
"You have a sword in your brolly," John said with fascination now that he no longer had to focus on the constricting plastic strip around his wrists.
"Yes, John, I do," Mycroft answered, "Now let us get out of here before someone finds we've gone. I'll have my team finish this off for us." He walked toward the exit, his pace brisk as he slid the sword back into place before swinging his umbrella around. When he glanced back, John and Sherlock had not followed him. "Come on, chaps, we'll stop for lunch on the way home. I'm thinking Italian."
4. Famulus: n. A private secretary or attendant, especially of a magician or scholar
Few people understand what it is exactly that Anthea does for Mycroft Holmes. John Watson certainly doesn't; he thinks she is his aide or secretary, but he never sees her do much of anything. She's just on her blackberry. All the time. And as far as John can tell, that's that.
Then, when Sherlock and John find themselves in a Bulgarian prison cell, Anthea arrives, speaking in very rapid Bulgarian to the guard before lifting her phone to her ear and letting loose a stream of Italian profanities. When she comes into John's view her perfectly curled hair has frizzed out some and she has on a pair of thick-framed eyeglasses. The deadbolts slide open and John stands, ready to be out of the dank little room.
"Mr. Holmes is not pleased," she says, starring pointedly at Sherlock. "But I'm to bring you to him. The mess you've wandered into is being cleaned up as we speak."
"Good to hear," Sherlock says as he rises from the wooden bench along the far wall. "Lovely to see you, Anthea, as always." With that he strides past her and makes his way to the front door.
John nods to her as he follows after his partner, but instead of acknowledging him she is back on her phone, firing off a text before bringing it to her ear, "Yes, Sir, I have them."
She pauses a long moment and John continues to watch her. "Of course, I'm taking care of it now," she adds before she ends the call and notices John's scrutiny. "You'd better catch up with Sherlock; I'm sure he's already contemplating escape," she says to him.
"Yeah, sorry," John says as he turns and bounces as he moves to stop Sherlock from any attempts at continuing with his insane plan now that he's free.
5. Cognomen: n. Family name; surname
Holmes is a fairly common name throughout the British Isles, but John's ears always pricked up when he met one on the off chance they were related to his partner and therefore highly interesting. And quite possibly dangerous.
On one such occasion, John sat in a café, drinking tea and waiting for Sherlock to meet him. He'd received a text an hour earlier about something urgent that required the utmost secrecy. Checking his watch he saw that he still had a good ten minutes before Sherlock would arrive when he heard the woman a table over from him answer her phone. "Grace Holmes."
John looked the woman over as she spoke, trying hard to be inconspicuous about it. Her ginger hair caught the sunlight, which contrasted sharply with her pale skin. She wore oversized sunglasses and a black dress. "Yes, darling, I know. It was bound to happen eventually." Her accent was decidedly posh. She paused to drink her coffee. "Of course, I'll see you soon."
She pursed her lips as she returned her mobile to her bag. John turned his attention back to his tea cup, tapping his fingers along the sides. Then, much to his surprise a familiar black sedan pulled up to the curve and Mycroft Holmes exited, crossing over to the ginger woman. John raised a curious eyebrow as she stood and kissed him on the cheek.
Moments later Sherlock leaned down to John's ear and whispered, "Hello, love." He pulled out a chair and seated himself as he took his partner's hand.
"Sherlock," John asked, "What's going on?"
"Mycroft decided it was time you met his wife," Sherlock answered, "And by decided I mean Mummy told him that there was no reason keeping you in the dark anymore since you'll be at Christmas dinner this year."
John gaped at him in response.
"Surely you realized that he wears a wedding band, John? I was surprised you never asked about it. Most people do." Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes crossed over to John and Sherlock's table, the elder Holmes smiling openly for the first time in John's memory.
"John," Sherlock said, his tone pleasant and forced, "This is Grace. She's a law professor at Oxford, and she and Mycroft have been married, what, ten years now."
"Pleasure to finally meet you, John," Grace said as she extended her hand, "Mycroft has told me so much about you. Anyone who can handle Sherlock has got to be special." John tentatively shook her hand.
"I'm afraid I can't say the same," John said with a shy smile. Then he turned to Sherlock, "Honestly, I need to be kept in the dark about everything? We've been living together for two years, Sherlock, and the fact that your brother is married is some kind of national secret?" he hissed.
"Actually, yes," Mycroft said, "At least for the people in Sherlock's life. His work brings him into contact with too many potential threats, which when overlaid with the nature of my own position in the government becomes rather distressing. For the most part it's easier to limit the number of people who know about my connection to Grace. You're one of the first."
"Who else," John asked, arms crossing over his chest, clearly irritated.
"Obviously you pick up on that," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.
"Greg Lestrade, but only just this past year. He's known Sherlock far longer than you have, John," Mycroft said.
"Can we please stop talking about me like I'm a top secret government project and your first primary school girlfriend at the same time?" Grace said with a giggle.
"Yes, I'm sorry dear," Mycroft said. "Anyway, John, obviously we hope you'll be discreet about this, but it is almost entirely an excessive precaution."
"And most of it is for Rupert's sake," Grace added. Three pairs of eyes went wide as she spoke, two out of shock and one in confusion. Grace looked to her husband and whispered, "Sorry, forgot we were going to wait on that one."
"Well, it's too late now," Sherlock quipped. "Rupert is their son, he's seven."
"Okay, hold up," John said raising his hands in front of his chest. "You," he said, pointing to Mycroft, "Have a wife and son which you keep secret and yet somehow you also have time to run half the world."
"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "The ideas you give him about my job are quite ridiculous."
"Doesn't mean they aren't true," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "Either way, I agree with Mummy. We should have just gotten all of this out of the way when she met John last year."
"But we didn't. Now that your commitment to this relationship seems more stable it makes more sense to bring John into the family circle," Mycroft said as he spun his umbrella against the pavement. "And now Mummy gets her family Christmas."
John had no further response except to finish his tea.
