Virtual pat on the back to any readers of the last chapter who realised that Mycroft is being "enigmatic" at Bletchley Park. The mention of the name Alan was, admittedly, a darned big hint. ;)

We turn now back to Sherlock and John. If this chapter seems familiar, it is because, lazy as I am, I have borrowed chunks of it from a chapter of my story The First Year.


The Christmas holidays began on one of those days on the edge of winter when the bare trees begin to sway erratically in the breezes that will later bring snow, and everyone shivers and wishes they had a scarf. Sherlock insisted on wearing a scarf whenever he was out of his school uniform, which looked a bit stupid sometimes, but which actually was quite a good idea with this unpredictable British weather. Most of the other boys found themselves rather envying his strange fashion sense.

The term never closed without a dreary sort of Christmas service in the chapel, and Mr and Mrs Holmes never failed to come, finding it rather more enjoyable than the boys did. Anyway, they had received a letter from John insisting that they come, because Sherlock was in the orchestra, and John wanted his parents to see him perform. This letter touched the Holmes parents, and though they would have come anyway, they were doubly persuaded.

Sherlock was furthermore a remarkable violinist. John had heard snippets of his playing – he mostly played in the practice-rooms, but when they were full he would practise in the dormitory, which wasn't technically allowed, but for some reason Mrs Hudson seemed to turn a blind eye (or rather, a deaf ear) to this – and knew that the orchestra truly were lucky to have him. And also it had been hinted by people other than Sherlock that the boy would be playing a solo. Not that he would ever mention it to anyone. He was probably embarrassed about it.

There he was. The orchestra had been set up in an awkward corner of the chapel, and the music-stands were all pressed up against each other, with the boys arranged little better. Sherlock was on the front row, his fringe drawn low over his eyes, and his brow furrowed as he pretended to scrutinise closely the music in front of him. His violin was in his lap and occasionally he made movements towards the bow, as if going to play it, before realising what he was doing and stopping.

The carol-service began at length: it was a fairly dull sort of service, containing carols interspersed with readings and an address from the headmaster. The orchestra provided an excellent backdrop for the carols, though it was a slightly odd one, as they didn't quite have the right proportion of instruments. It seemed very brassy with the occasional soaring violin – this was usually Sherlock, who seemed bored by some carols, but entirely swept away by the music of others, putting his entire self into his playing.

But near to the end of the service came his solo, and perhaps the boys were more than a little surprised when Sherlock came forth and stood rather nervously before the altar.

Then the music-master stepped forth, coughed once, and said:

'We will now hear a solo piece by the principal first violinist in the orchestra, Sherlock Holmes. It is called simply Winter, and I am sure Sherlock is proud to be able to say that he composed it himself.'

A stunned silence met his words. The boys all knew that Sherlock was a remarkable musician. None of them knew that he composed as well. Some looked to John, as if wondering whether he had known about this: he, too, was astonished, and immensely curious as to whether Sherlock was any good at composing.

And it turned out he was.

There was more than a touch of Vaughan Williams in this piece that was filled with deep emotion, far more than Sherlock had ever expressed outside of music. Behind a dreamy, thoughtful façade there lingered a deep and mournful nostalgia; his violin seemed to sob on his behalf at points, and his hand trembled at his bow, as if he could scarcely eke out the notes. The piece perhaps lacked structure, and if there was a definite melody it was wispy and intangible – but there was no doubting the immense power of it. A couple of the parents found themselves in tears. The boys all stared in amazement. John was stunned.

He scurried off almost as soon as he had finished, and was in his seat even before the applause rang out. John searched for his friend over the heads that obscured his vision; he caught but a glimpse of flushed red cheeks hiding behind the sheet music for the carols that were to follow. It would be hard, though, to follow this melancholic performance with light-hearted Christmas carols, and the congregation launched only half-heartedly, it seemed, into Hark the Herald.

At last the service was over; the congregation moved as one to the dining-hall for mince pies and mulled wine, and only the Holmeses and a couple of other families were left waiting for the musicians to pack away their instruments.

They saw Sherlock carefully put his violin in its case, and then exchange a brief word with the music-master, who shook his hand warmly, and received only a small smile in return. Then Sherlock straightened, seemingly unaffected by the gazes that turned towards him, and came over to greet his parents.

'You were excellent, Sherlock,' Mrs Holmes said with a smile, going to hug him but then remembering that he really didn't do hugs.

'Thank you, Mummy,' said Sherlock in a distracted sort of voice. 'Are we going to the dining-hall?'

'Sherlock, you were so good!' cried John then, who had just disentangled himself from his pew and run over. Mrs Holmes threw her arms around him, but his eyes were still on Sherlock. 'I didn't know you composed.'

'I don't. Not often,' Sherlock shrugged.

'Only when you need to let stuff out,' John guessed, and his guess struck home in a remarkable manner. Sherlock did not reply, nor even blink; at last he tore his eyes away from John and blushed a little.

In truth, Sherlock had put everything into his piece. He may as well have broadcast his thoughts to the entire chapel. He had combined the mutual fear of being at war with those strange feelings that Mycroft's absence gave him – he had not, furthermore, received any letters from Mycroft since late November, and was becoming worried – and mixed with these emotions all of the contempt he felt for himself, all of his struggles, all of his very being. And then on top of that he had called it the pathetic Winter, as if that could even begin to describe what he had taken a term to write.

He had known that someone might guess the real meanings of his composition. He had perhaps guessed that it would be John. Despite his faults, John was incredibly perceptive sometimes.

'Are we going to the dining-hall?' he said again, more quietly this time, indicating the door at the back of the chapel.

There was little more to say, and so they all headed off to the dining-hall for the promised refreshments. The mulled wine was non-alcoholic, and the mince pies mediocre, but most of the people seemed to be getting into the Christmas spirit, and with the hall decorated as it was, it all felt very festive. Chatter filled the air; the only table that was quiet was the Holmes's.

After a long few minutes of this awkward silence, Mrs Holmes said:

'Sherlock dear, what's wrong?'

'Mycroft's not coming home for Christmas, is he?' Sherlock said, avoiding her question somewhat.

Mrs Holmes sighed and shook her head. 'He's permanently occupied these days. I'm sure he's told you that.'

'But Christmas,' John piped up.

Mrs Holmes just smiled sadly at him.

Perhaps she didn't realised that it wasn't just that Mycroft wouldn't be home for Christmas that was worrying Sherlock. No, Sherlock feared, not without reason, that Mycroft was cutting ties with his family, little by little. Not turning up for Christmas Day was going a bit far though, so early on into this vile plot.

The name of Mycroft was not however mentioned again, and a conversation was suddenly struck up that seemed somewhat fake, but lightened the mood.

It was interrupted only by Mrs Hudson, who was coming round to make sure all of the boys had prepared their bags ready to go, and to say goodbye to those whom she wouldn't get chance to see later. A beaming smile was on her face as she approached their table; she patted both Sherlock and John on the shoulder before greeting the Holmes parents, who conversed with her briefly and cheerfully.

'Merry Christmas, Mr and Mrs Holmes,' said Mrs Hudson then. And, turning towards Sherlock and John: 'Merry Christmas, boys.'

'Merry Christmas, Mrs H,' said John and Sherlock as one.

Mrs Hudson smiled and moved on to the next table.

'Dear Mrs Hudson,' Mrs Holmes smiled. 'She's getting a little old, I think, and a little –'

She was astonished to be cut short by both Sherlock and John, who both at once cried: 'Don't insult Mrs H!'

And everyone around the table then grinned, not least the two boys. And Sherlock looked at John, and John looked at Sherlock, and each of them felt all of a sudden a new and vivid respect for the other, united at an unexpected moment by a common ally and a common feeling, where before they had never once agreed with each other. Perhaps they could get on after all...