Filthy Half-Breed
9
"Here it is, then," John announced, sticking out the oar of the gondola so that it struck a stone and stopped. "The Venetian bureau. It's not much, but it's enough."
"It's perfect," Sherlock murmured, stretching his shoulders, stiff from sitting in one position for so long. "It blends in. It's nondescript, forgettable. Only notable feature is that it's built out of stone in Renaissance style. Something that tourists take pictures of, nothing more."
As Sherlock stood, John shrugged. "There's not much else to be said for it. It could be better, and there's certainly plenty to be desired."
Stepping off the boat, Sherlock looked back at him. "Like what?"
Holding part of the rope in his teeth as he tied off the gondola, it took John a moment to reply.
"The only heat comes from a fire. The water heater doesn't have that good of a capacity, the sleeping quarters are below subpar, and the floor is cold as ice."
He straightened, stepping off of the boat, then raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's expression.
"What?" he asked. "You have a different idea?"
"I consider a roof over my head to be sufficient. Whether or not it leaks is irrelevant."
Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door.
He was familiar enough with the workings of the Florentine bureau to know that before going beyond just inside the door, or before even breathing, to avoid a sudden, painful death, he had to identify himself.
He raised his left arm, forearm and bicep forming a perfect right angle as he clenched his fist, the hidden blade snapping into position.
"Sherlock Holmes, from the bloodline of the same name," he said quickly.
"Where from?" someone challenged.
"Firenze," he replied. "Originally London."
"Mother?"
"Siobhan Holmes."
"Father?"
"Kerran Holmes."
The silence following the reply was tense as Sherlock retracted his blade, lowering his arm.
"Grandfather, Edmund Holmes," he added, in an attempt to redeem himself.
That got their attention.
"Other relatives?"
"Sister, Seraphine. Brother, Mycroft; cousin, Clay Kaczmarek."
"Kaczmarek," another joined in. "I know him. We were on a mission together in Germany a few weeks back. Good man. Doesn't lag behind and let someone else do all the work, isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Fought like a rabid wolf when one of our team members was cut off from the group and was going to be killed. I've never seen a man move that since before or since."
"That would be him," Sherlock confirmed.
"Anyone else of note in your family?"
He didn't bother trying to keep himself relaxed.
"Daniel Cross. Also known as Subject Four."
The quiet that followed the name was so thick with pity that it was like having a rag shoved down his throat.
"He's no traitor," a voice came, breaking the silence. "A spy wouldn't have the guts to bring up… that. Get the boy something to eat… he looks like a stiff breeze could blow him over."
**
"It's just… hard to believe, you know?"
"I worked with him a few times back in Florence. Hard to believe you haven't, almost everyone has. Poor bastard never gets a break. His name gets thrown into every hat, it seems, and drawn every time."
John stood with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the bar. In a corner seat, Sherlock had been doing something on some sort of electronic device, but had become sufficiently distracted by the other boy- maybe four, seven years older than himself- providing background music by quietly playing a cello.
"The Florentice rafiq, the bureau manager, he's my father and I'd never even heard Sherlock's name before this."
Sherlock seemed entirely entranced by the way the other boy absently plucked the cello's strings; then, suddenly, he turned to his bag, unzipping it and pulling out a violin.
"You've never heard his name?" the woman asked. "Do you live under a rock? Everyone knows about what happened with his father-"
"He plays the violin," John murmured, ignoring the jab. "I wouldn't have thought it of him."
"-and if you think you know him, he's barely showed you anything of who he is," she added, reclaiming control of the conversation.
"What do you mean, what happened with his father?"
"He was abusive," she told him quietly, watching as Sherlock flicked his fingers over the violin's strings, then began a quick-paced accompaniment to the cello's melody. "Extremely so."
John swallowed, clenching his hand very deliberately, then releasing his grip, careful to not trigger his blade's mechanism.
"How bad?"
"There's no true line between levels of pain, is there? When the person who's supposed to be your mentor, your guardian, your protector, is your greatest enemy? If you look closely at his cheekbones, he's got deep scars from being backhanded by someone who was wearing a signet ring that had a sharp edge. The scar on his chest? He had open heart surgery when he was fucking twelve."
Despite himself, John shuddered.
"Why?"
"I managed to get into his medical records. The official ones list shattered ribs, massive internal trauma, bleeding and damage. Officially, it was an accident. I don't know what excuse they came up with, but our records say different."
As Sherlock walked over to the cello player and began a conversation, John wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to his next question.
"What do our records say?"
Her hands fisted.
"Our records show evidence and witness accounts of an attack on Seraphine Holmes by her father, with every intent to kill. Sherlock threw himself between them and tried to defend her. He couldn't or wouldn't, say if he made contact with any of his weapons. What he remembers if being thrown up against the wall, feeling his bones breaking with the force of it, and pieces digging into his lungs. When we inspected his blade, there was fresh blood on it that wasn't his, and a trail going out the door, so something else happened. His older brother said that he had to convince the girl to hand him a knife she was holding, but he didn't see much. But when Sherlock was in the hospital, they found scars everywhere on him, and not just on his skin. He was hardly a stranger to hiding wounds."
Faintly nauseated, John watched as Sherlock lifted his violin, turning it for the cellist's inspection.
It's a Stradivari- a hand-me-down that's been in my family for about a century.
His awe evident, the cellist edged closer. Which one? Does it have a name?
Sherlock smirked.
Herkules.
Isn't that the one that was stolen? Presumed destroyed? Yes, but you can't really believe what people tell you, can you?
Don't suppose you'd be willing to trade for a bit? I've always enjoying playing the cello, but I never get a chance these days.The other stared.
Pass up a chance to play a Strad? Do I look insane?
The instruments were exchanged; the cellist plucked one of the violin's strings, the walked away, clearly giddy with joy.
Sherlock brushed his hand down the cello's neck, then readied the bow in his hand.
The first two notes were low in tone, an experiment to accustom himself to the act.
And then it started, a set of rough, mournful notes that rose and fell, ending and fading into silence before starting again, and again, a bit different each time.
This continued for a while, finishing with first a lower set and then a replica of the first.
For a moment, John thought it was over, but then it started again, high and grieving.
And he understood: this was a song- no, a story of a boy forced to kill, the confused undertones a self-portrait of their composer; the mourning a brief recognition of the sorrow of stolen innocence and a shattered childhood, but the brevity of that part, the haste given to it saying that that was the only thought this notion was allowed.
The long, final notes at the end, a realization, recognition, final statement:
complete resignation to an Assassin's fate.
It sent a chill down John's spine.
He had been born into the Brotherhood, chosen to be part of it for personal reasons, but he'd always, always had a choice. And even now, if he wanted to, he could back out of it, break away and be done.
He planned, eventually, to do just that.
But here, he thought, was someone who couldn't. Who had never had a choice, and never would.
It was, after all, the only thing Sherlock knew. And the Mentor's heir was too important to let go, the bloodline too close to extinction, the family knowledge too rare. Who else had access to the information, the records, the absolute from-birth training that came with being born into that family?
Who else had experiences that had prepared them so thoroughly to be ready for that?
"I'm Sebastian, by the way," the cello's owner said suddenly. "Most people call me Seb."
"Where are you from?"
"Ireland, originally. I was born in Tulla, that'd be in County Clare. Then I moved to Dublin, then I was in England for a while, went through a few years of their school system before I headed out and eventually got transferred to Italy."
"My mother was from Tulla," Sherlock mused. "What's your last name?"
"My mother maiden name was Brody," Sebastian said evasively. "Sinead. Sinead Brody."
Sherlock stared.
"My mother had a twin named Sinead. Her name's Siobhan. Siobhan Holmes, née Brody. About a head shorter than me- maybe more by now. Long, curly red hair. Bright green eyes, pale white skin, and when she still would, a laugh like a hundred silver bells in the wind."
For a long time, Sebastian was silent.
"A small scar on the left side of her jaw, close to her neck?" he asked softly. "About an inch, maybe an inch in a half long?" "Yes." "She got it from-" "She was nine, practicing climbing trees with the more efficient style introduced to the Order by Ratonhnhaké:ton. She missed a jump, fell, and a branch caught her on the way down. I'm told the wound bled like a sieve."
"Aye," Seb corrected. "Bloody small world."
"When you're an Assassin," Sherlock corrected. "Some people fumble through their lives without ever seeing the bigger picture. Coincidence is extremely rare. When every impossible explanation has been eliminated, what remains must be the truth."
John's companion looked towards him, at someone who had just walked up to his other side.
"Don't act like he deserves pity, Renata," the new woman spat coldly. "It's not like the filthy half-breed needs it."
John only stood there, shocked; across the room, Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He stood, and the room fell silent as he walked over.
"Say that again," he dared, and for the first time, John heard a cruel edge to his voice: the Mentor's heir, an Assassin in every way possible who took lives without a second thought.
"You know it's true," the woman said, calmly looking him in the eye. "Don't lie to me, half-blood: you know it's true."
Sherlock glared at her. "So?" he challenged. "Who the fuck actually cares?"
"You know they all do. You have to know that they all talk behind your back, that nobody trusts you, and you, and we're only tolerating you because the order came from on high and you're the Mentor's grandson. You use that status every chance you get, don't you, use your bloodline for your advantage because it's the only thing you've got? That's the only reason you're still alive, you damned bastard spawn of a Templar.
John coughed suddenly. "What?"
Sherlock, subconsciously producing a furious wolflike snarl somewhere deep in his chest, gritted his teeth. "My father-"
"who was so kind as to butcher my entire family," the woman spat-
"Kerran Holmes was a Templar spy," Sherlock snarled: "And now he's the Grand Master's right hand."
**
First cello-violin duet: "Beer and Friends", from the Assassin's Creed III soundtrack. Cello solo: "Desmond Miles", from Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood soundtrack.
