Hello and Happy Post Christmas/Post Regeneration of Eleven/Getting very close to Season 3! Sorry this took so long to post; it just wasn't turning out the way I wanted it to but I think I got it now.
On the season 3 note, I DO NOT plan to finish this by the airdate (January 1st or January 19th here in the states). I have read that a few stories that have O.C.s and or Reichenbach-esque timelines have said that they will end by Season 3's airdate but that's not the case for me. Just wanted to put that out there.
Any who, on with the story! Thanks as always for reading and please, reviews are welcome (Lady Schmetterling: you rock, girl! Xoxo)
I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.
Much love and many thanks
Chapter 9: Taking it In
After a few more minutes, we head back downstairs and meet back up with Violet and Hamish in the backyard. She is seated at the table on the simply stone patio that faces out to the yard while Hamish is running about on the grass, playing some sort of game. A small cobblestone path leads starts at the end of the patio and ends at a beautiful flower garden. To the sides of the path are adorned with various other shrubs and a few large trees just to make the scene even more beautiful to look at.
"Elfie, do stop gaping at everything." Sherlock says, taking a seat at the table opposite his mother, "You're acting like you've never seen a yard before."
"Well, I certainly have never seen one like this." I reply, sitting beside him, "This place is beautiful, truly."
"So glad that you like it, dear," Violet says, gingerly sipping her tea, "As I said before, the house has been in the family for ages. I grew up here and had hoped to raise my own children here one day."
"Father wouldn't have let you, even if the option was given." Sherlock states rather matter of factly, leaning back in the chair, "We had to live in that dusty old estate: no questions asks."
"Yes, I won't argue with you on that point," she replies, "Your father was a…stubborn man."
"To put it lightly." Sherlock grumbles, looking out to the yard, "I see you've kept my old room in tact."
"Oh you went in there did you?" Violet asks with a sweet laugh, "Goodness, can you even remember the last summer you spent in that room? When I would bring him and Mycroft up here, Elfie, Sherlock would never leave his room. He was always having some sort of adventure in there; we had to coax him out just to come to meals."
"I can imagine that," I say, placing a hand on Sherlock's thigh, "Hamish is the same way."
"Curious name by the way: Hamish." Violet says, "Though I can't really comment seeing that I named my boys Sherlock and Mycroft. Where did you come up with it?"
"It's John's middle name." I reply, "Sherlock had suggested it early on in my pregnancy and it just sort of stuck."
"And his middle name?"
"Arthur. I picked it because I just like the name."
"Mother, as exciting as this small talk is I do believe that I came up here to do a job and I don't wish to waste another moment without officially getting started." Sherlock says, sitting up straight and steepling his hands under his chin just like he does when he's addressing a client. I give him a small elbow jab to the side as if to tell him to be polite, but it's no good. Once Sherlock is in case mode, there is no room for manners.
"Yes, yes, of course." Violet says, setting down her cup, "Where will you begin? I've told you all that I know and I'm assuming you'll be making your way up the house."
"In due time, yes." Sherlock replies, "But I need details; I can not make bricks without clay, as it were. Now, tell me about the local residents. Anyone who has paid particular interest in the family fortune?"
"No, no one here really takes much notice to it." Violet replies, "It's more of common knowledge around here that the Holmes' family has money so no one takes special interest in it."
"Who are the more dominate figures in town? Any characters that may stand out in a crowd?"
"No not really. There are of course the regulars."
"The regulars?" I ask, trying my best to participate in this interrogation.
"Those who have lived and thrived in this part of the world for many years." Violet says, "Oh! The Trevor's still live around here. You remember them don't you, little one? They have a boy just around your age."
Sherlock suddenly stiffens up and I notice the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. If I didn't know any better, I would say that he's nervous. But, Sherlock Holmes doesn't get nervous. Sure, on our wedding day he was a bit on edge but not nervous like he is right now. This is the kind of nervous people get when something that they never wished to see the light of day suddenly becomes a topic of conversation. Based on the look of sheer panic behind his normally stone gaze right now, I'm guessing that Sherlock and this Trevor family has a history, a history he doesn't want to be told.
"Yes, I remember them." He says in a rather dark tone, "I…I was an acquaintance of their son's."
Acquaintance? Interesting. Why have I never heard of him?
"I thought the two of you got along?" she asks, "From what Mycroft has told me, you even went to the same university."
"I fail to see how that is relevant to the case at hand." Sherlock suddenly snaps, "Shall we get back on topic?" Violet and I exchange a quick look of confusion but then nod to him. "Excellent," he says, relaxing again, "Now, of these local residents, do you know of any who would have or gained access to the house?"
"Possibly via one of the housekeepers or valets, but they don't have access to upstairs." Violet replies, "No one besides Mycroft and myself can get into those rooms which is why they are in such a state. I do hope those hotel people clean it out thoroughly."
Sherlock ponders for a moment and taps his fingers together. I turn my gaze out to the yard to see what Hamish is up to. It seems he's found interest in a particular section of grass and is sitting down examining it; I can't help but smile.
Breaking me from my thoughts, Sherlock suddenly stands up and adjust the collar of his coat: "It seems that I'll need to assess the room for myself." He announces, "Mother, watch over Hamish won't you?"
"Oh! Why…yes of course." She says, "But your heading up there so soon? You've only just arrived."
"Time is a delicate thing when on a case such as this, Mother." Sherlock replies, "After all, our lovely messenger has been so kind as to give us a deadline; You've invited me up here to work so that is what I must do. Elfie will be accompanying me to the scene and then we are going to head into town, see if there are any questionable residents and perhaps make connections to the household workers. Hamish!"
Our son immediately jumps up to his feet at the sound of his father's voice and scurries over to us. His khaki trousers are covered in grass stains and his black sweatshirt has patches of dirt all over it; I can't help but giggle.
Sherlock kneels down to the boy's level and takes his hands into his: "Hamish," he says, "Mum and I have work to do so you will be staying here with your Grandmother, is that understood?"
"Mhm," Hamish replies with a nod, "When come back?"
"Not until this evening," Sherlock replies, running a hand through Hamish's curls.
"Why?"
"Because there is a lot of work we need to do."
"Why I not come?"
"Because you are too small and you could get hurt."
"I no get hurt. I big and brave juss like you, Dad."
"Yes, of course you are," Sherlock coos, kissing the boy's cheek, "One day you'll come with me to work, alright?"
"Oh-tay." Hamish grumbles.
"Come here," Sherlock chuckles, lifting Hamish up then swinging the boy around in his arms, immediately bighting Hamish's mood. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Violet start to tear up and a bright smile grow across her lips. She must be so proud of her youngest son, the one who was put up against so many obstacles as a child but rose above them to be the great man he is today. I wonder if she ever imagined him as a father?
"We'll be back before you know it." Sherlock whispers when he brings Hamish back in close, nuzzling their foreheads together, "You be well behaved for Grandmother while we're gone."
"Mhm." Hamish says with a giggle, "I love you, Dad."
"And I love you, Hamish Arthur Holmes." Sherlock replies, kissing the top of his son's head, "Now, tell Mum good-bye. I'll be out front when you're done." Sherlock then hands Hamish over to me as I stand up. He then turns to his mother and gently places his hands on her shoulders: "Don't worry about me. I can solve this." He whispers to her.
"I know that you can," she replies, softly patting his cheek, "My genius son." Sherlock places a kiss on her cheek and heads back into the house while I say good-bye to Hamish.
"Oh, I'll miss you sweetheart." I say, kissing the top of his head, "Be good for Grandma, alright. Don't go running about the house all alone, okay? I know this place is new and exciting but I don't want you getting hurt."
"I be oh-tay," Hamish says with an affirmative nod, "I be right here when get back, Mummy, I pah-miss."
I nuzzle my forehead against his and give him a quick kiss; "I love you, Hamish."
"I love you too. Take care o' Dad."
"I will, sweetheart," I chuckle, kissing his cheek again. Reluctantly, I set him down and then go over to Violet: "Thank you," I tell her, "for everything really. Sherlock needed a case like this."
"He does seem rather excited doesn't he?" Violet chuckles, "Most people would be utterly terrified to find out they've been threatened."
"Well, you and I both know that he is not 'most people'" I point out and Violet nods.
"He is the best at what he does, and mind you I'm not just saying that as his mother. He will solve this, I know it, and I'm glad that he has you with him."
"Really?"
"Of course. You, very much like that Doctor Watson, bring out the best in my son. Have you ever noticed the way he looks at you, dear? As if you were the most precious thing in this universe. He loves you and that boy so deeply and truly, I can tell."
My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and I have to look away. To my surprise, Violet takes my hands into hers and holds onto them tightly: "May…May I ask something of you?" she asks
"Of course," I say, raising my eyebrow in confusion, "What is it?"
Violet sighs heavily and looks about for a moment. "He's-he's not well is he?" she asks in a worried whisper, "I know that I haven't seen him in many, many years but I can see that something is amiss. He's so thin and pale. I tried asking Mycroft about it, but he wouldn't tell me. He said that I was just being worrisome, but I can't help feeling that I'm not. Won't-won't you tell me Elfie? What's going on with my son?"
I open my mouth to speak but I can't find the right words to say. Should I tell her? Tell her about the drugs, the depression, the god-awful mood swings? What if Sherlock doesn't want her to know? Is it really my place to tell her these things? After all, she is his mother and I am just the daughter-in-law. I truly feel like he should be having this conversation with her, not me.
"When he came home, after three years of letting everyone believe he was, well, gone for good, Sherlock was…different." I decide to go with, "I can't really explain it only because I don't think it's my place to say, but you are right; He's not well."
"What is it?" she asks, "Is it a sickness or something else? Mycroft has told me that Sherlock forgets to eat or sleep at times."
"No, it's not that." I reply, "It's something he…he needs to figure out on his own. I've tried to help him as has John, but it's really in his hands."
"Is there something I can do?" she asks, "Please, tell me. Anything at all."
"Trust me, Violet, giving him this case is helping him." I assure her, "I want to go into detail with you, honestly I do, but Sherlock should tell you about it."
"Elfie Marie! Are you coming or not?" I hear my husband shout from inside the house. I turn to look in the direction of the voice and then back at Violet, who simply nods and places a hand on my cheek.
"Go on," she says, "and look out for him. I know that you will."
I give her a nod back and then head out to meet up with Sherlock, thoughts about our short conversation just buzzing through my mind. She could see he was sick. Does he really look that ill? I guess I've just become accustom to his appearance that I've become immune to how pale and sickly he really is. Maybe it's just a mother's instinct that she noticed something was amiss. You can't hide everything from your mother, not even if you're Sherlock Holmes. No matter the case, it seems that Sherlock and Violet need to talk about his health; he can't keep it a secret forever.
I meet Sherlock out front; he's standing in the middle of the front yard, looking off into the distance as if he were trying to memorize all the different details of his surroundings. Careful not to break his concentration, I cautiously come up next to him and intertwine my fingers with his. He does look very pale; I guess I really didn't notice this morning. Maybe he should stay and rest…then again I don't want to take him away from this case. This will be good for him I know it.
"We can walk to my father's home from here," he says, holding my hand but still looking out ahead, "It's about a 20 minute walk, if you don't mind."
"No, not at all." I reply, "Is…is that one of the reasons you came here when you ran away? Because it was so close?"
"Perhaps," he says, "I was looking for my mother and I had hoped she'd be here, but other than that I don't really know why I ran away to this place. Maybe it was because the few good moments of my childhood took place at this house." Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment then shakes his head: "We should get going." He says, beginning to walk, "Come along."
I just simply nod and walk beside him.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
"How are we going to get inside?" I ask after about 15 minutes of walking in silence, "You wouldn't happen to still have a key, do you?"
"No, I don't." Sherlock replies, "I through it out when I ran away. I highly doubt any of the individuals who are working will recognize me so they won't let us in. Besides, as my mother said, they don't have access to the rooms upstairs. We'll have to make our way to my father's study without being noticed."
"Then how do you plan we get in?"
"The same way I got out." Sherlock says with a smirk, "Come on."
He squeezes my hand a bit tighter and we take off into a slight sprint to the side of his childhood home. It is an immense building. To call it just a large home would be putting it lightly; this is house is almost like a manor. In fact, I think it is a manor! It appears to be empty but then again that's just the outside. Who knows if people are inside? Still, Sherlock and I sneak around the corner until we are at the very back of the house.
"Why do I feel like I've just walked onto the set of Downton Abbey?" I tease as we approach a large white trellis that is decorated with various vines.
"Oh honestly, Elfie, don't be so dramatic." Sherlock scoffs, examining the trellis, "It's nothing."
"Nothing? Really?" I ask, "Just like you being rich is nothing?"
"I told you, I'm not rich." He says, stepping back a bit from the wall, "Now, get on my back."
"Sorry?" I chuckle
"Get on my back." He says again, sounding a tad annoyed, "We're going to climb in through that top window."
I furrow my brow in confusion and look up at the window Sherlock is talking about. It's a third story window and its not exactly ideal for climbing through. There is no way that two people, let alone two adults, would be able to fit. However, we need to get in the house and if Sherlock says this is the only way in…then so be it. With a heavy sigh, I jump up on my husbands back. He grunts a bit as he situates his hold on me then makes his way to the trellis.
"Are you sure you can carry me?" I ask, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
"Don't be silly, darling, of course I can." He replies, finding his footing, "Besides, I've climbed this hundreds of times in my youth. How do you think I managed to run away without Father noticing?"
I close my eyes tight and cling onto him for dear life as Sherlock starts to climb. It's not the height that bothers me, it's the nagging fear that my husband's strength will give out and he won't be able to make it to the window; His strength just isn't what it use to be. Never the less, we make it to the window and Sherlock adjust his hold on me while he nudges his shoulder against it so that it will open. After a few violent tries, the window folds open to the inside and Sherlock practically tosses me off his back and into the room.
I land under the windowsill and immediately start to cough due to the amount of dust that's in the air. Adjusting my eyes to the dim light, I look around the room. It's a bedroom, a young student's bedroom judging by the little affects that are around (a couple of textbooks, a chemistry set on the desk, etc.). The bed in the middle of the room is rather large and is stripped to just a mattress with a raggedy blankets folded up at the edge along with a yellowish white pillow. Besides the college supplies, there really isn't much to this room. As I rise up, dusting off my pants, the realization clicks in my brain. If that was the window Sherlock used to escape out from then that means…oh.
"Bit different than that young boy's room you saw earlier, isn't it?" Sherlock says, climbing through the window.
"This…this is your room?" I ask, hoping just a tad that while he still lived here the room was a bit more welcoming.
"Yes, and it looks just as I left it." He replies, "Yes…just as I left it."
I turn around and take in the expression on his face. He looks hurt, as if an old wound has just been reopened. He just stares at the empty bed and I can see the painful memories are flooding back in. This is the first time he's been in here since leaving so his mind must be full of mixed emotions right now. An attempt to comfort him, I place a hand on his cheek and turn his gaze to me. Sherlock blinks a few times as if to emerge from his trance then gives me a small smile.
"Come along," he whispers, "There's work to be done."
I nod and follow him to the door. We exit out into the hallway. The carpet is a dark red color and the walls are a beautiful dark oak; of course the inside would be just as beautiful as the outside. There doesn't appear to be anyone coming but we tip toe out of the room anyway. Sherlock takes a sharp left and briskly walks down the hall with me right at his heels. I don't really have time to take in the décor of the house, but I can tell that this is indeed an old house. No one lives in manor likes this anymore and I can't see why they would; too big and too empty.
Sherlock halts at the double doors at the very end of the hall and takes in a deep breath. So this must be it: his father's study. "Last time I saw this room, I was 15," he says, his voice cold and icy, "I never suspected that I would be working in here just like he once did. I hate it."
"Sherlock," I say, setting a hand on his shoulder, "You don't have to…"
"Of course I do, Elfie, this is my job." He replies, "My emotions don't matter when I'm working. Now, step back. The doors are locked."
I do as I'm told then Sherlock violently slams his body against the doors and they burst open. We step inside and I have to blink a few times just to make sure that what I'm seeing is correct. The walls are adorned with floor to ceiling bookshelves but there is a long strip of yellow spray paint going across them. The desk in the center of the room is in complete disarray what with newspapers strewn all over it as well as on the floor. A few books were thrown about along with the papers.
"Goodness," I breathe out, stepping into the room fully, "whoever this vandal was really went to town on this." Sherlock doesn't hear me; he's already deep in his mind palace, taking in every detail of the room, kneeling down to examine each of the papers and mumbling notes to himself. Well, he won't be talking for a while then. Feeling a bit out of place, I decide to take a closer look at the paint. I want to appear like I'm doing something to help? Is this how John feels, like he's just standing around waiting for Sherlock to make some big revelation? I've been around Sherlock when he's working before, but for some reason this feels different. Maybe it is because John's not here.
"Curious, isn't it?" Sherlock suddenly says after what's felt like an eternity of silence.
"What is?" I ask, turning away from the section of paint I was studying.
"That the vandal didn't specify the amount of money he or she demanded to be given in 4 weeks time." He says, walking over to me, "My mother only assumed that they meant the family fortune hence this is in my family's home. It's a reasonable assumption, of course, but there are no other indications that this individual wants a share, or quite possibly the whole, of the Holmes fortune."
"Well, they obviously targeted you for some reason." I add in, "These papers are all reprints of the article breaking the news of your death and you said that the picture the note was left was indeed of you, or your dead body at least. And then there's the paint."
"Yes?" Sherlock cocks his head a bit and presses me to go on with that piercing gaze of his. I love it when he's in work mode; he looks so handsome and his eyes seem to sparkle differently then normal. 'Focus, Elfie,' I tell myself, 'Kiss him later when your not a crime scene.'
"The paint," I go on, clearing my throat, "It's spray paint, you can tell by the splash pattern against the wood and books. Then, there's the very fact that it's yellow spray paint. I remember all that time ago when Soo Lin quit the museum, we had a break in and someone had left a message for her in yellow spray paint on one of the statues. You remember, yes? That was the investigation we met on. The Chinese smugglers used yellow spray paint very similar to this."
Sherlock chuckles slightly and smiles: "Very good, Mrs. Holmes." He says, stepping closer so that he is beside me, "John had made the same connection when my mother told us about how the room looked. You are correct in that the paint is similar, but there is no connection to the Black Lotus. No, our vandal has gone through some trouble to make it seem that way, but it's not the case."
"So, the vandal used yellow spray paint to distract you?"
"In a way. They wanted to put me on the wrong track. Stupid really. If they wanted to throw me off, they would've thought that through a bit better." However, they knew to use yellow paint which means they know about my former cases."
"Well, sure tons of people do. John's blog is pretty popular."
"Yes, so we can assume our vandal is a avid reader. Then there's the element of a demand for money. They assume I have a large amount but they fail to place a price point."
"Maybe they just wanted your attention," I suggest, "They knew a threat against your life would bring you here. But then that begs the question as to why they want your attention that badly."
"Your skills for deduction have improved," Sherlock says, smiling proudly at me, "Your asking the right questions now, my darling."
I can't help but blush: "Thank you."
Sherlock nods but then immediately snaps back into case mood, facing the bookshelf again: "So, we can assume they are a reader of John's blog thus familiar with my cases and they are also aware of the family fortune." He monologues, "A local then, obviously: no one outside of here knows about my past let alone where my family comes from. And they picked this room, a room that is located in a section of the house that only Mycroft and my mother have access to, a room that played a dominate and dislikable role in my childhood. Mycroft never comes up here and neither does Mother. So our vandal knew how to get in without a key. Interesting."
Sherlock starts to mumble unintelligibly to himself again as he runs his long, pale fingers across the paint stain in front of us. His eyes twitch back and forth but he is completely focused on what is at hand. He then cocks his head left and right a few times before a small smirk grows across his lips. Before I can even ask as to what he's discovered, Sherlock dashes off down the hall and back to his old bedroom. I take off after him, closing the doors behind me. When I reach the room, Sherlock is adjusting the window we had climbed through.
"We'll stop back at the country home to change and then we'll be on our way," he says, opening the window a bit wider.
"To change?" I ask, "And are we about to climb through that window again?"
"Yes, but not to worry, the way down is much easier." He replies, motioning for me to get on his back again. Reluctantly, I roll my eyes and do so. In a matter of a couple of minutes, we are safely on the ground. Sherlock takes me by the hand and we head back the way we came but this time walking much faster.
"Where are we going now?" I ask, trying my best to keep up.
"Back to my mother's house to change, I told you that." Sherlock replies. "Can't be walking around dressed like this. Did you pack a dress like I asked?"
"Um, yes I did, but why?"
"Because, my darling, we're going out for a drink."
