Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence
Thank you for following my story and to everybody who favd and alerted or even favd me as an author!
It means a lot to know you are reading and paying attention. Love to hear from you!
Heartfelt thanks to all my lovely reviewers so far: SusanneHolmes, Zacha, Impractical Beekeeping, hjohn302, Howlynn, papergirl101, Skyfullofstars, Tetriano, Jenna Yemowa, Nos, Erindors, Maddi Paige, ShiverandShamy, Queen Morgan la Fay, Eldar-Melda, Puky2012, House Calls, eight of hearts and bringloid fiodior and to the anonymous ones.
Thank you, as always to Impractical Beekeeping for beta-ing! There´s bees for you ;)
A Dream of Bees
"Just sign it, and we´ll be on the safe side again," Mycroft demands. He points at the document which lies inconspicuously on the coffee table. Impatient and eager to leave, he traces the outlines of the rug´s pattern with the tip of his umbrella. John watches the elder Holmes´s display of restrained impatience with amusement from behind his newspaper. He calls himself to order and tries not to interfere with the brother´s quarrel, but he is greatly tempted to pound some sense into Sherlock´s stubborn skull.
The document in question which Sherlock has so far refused to sign is an exclusive agreement with Robert Mulech´s media trust. It obligates the detective to appear on several television shows Mulech´s empire broadcasts, to a home story and an exclusive interview with Selena Charkee, one of Mulech´s most popular reporters. As a reward, the media mogul offers one million pounds, which will go to a trust dedicated to homeless London teenagers. Sherlock was adamant on this arrangement, as he cares deeply for his homeless network, and, John believes, has spent some time sleeping rough himself. He had agreed to all terms unconditionally when he read the first draft of the contract, but in this specific moment he is less than compliant to sign the document.
"Surely your superior intellect tells you that there is nothing like a 'safe side' with Moran and the web," Sherlock replies sarcastically, looking sternly at his brother.
Mycroft rolls his eyes and sighs. "Sign it," he answers.
Sherlock lets his pen drop and turns to face his annoying sibling.
"It says on page four that I am expected to wear the death frisbee whenever required. This passage needs to be rephrased."
John stifles a smile. Obviously his friend has found a way back to his old self again, at least partly. He would not likely use his energy to throw a tantrum if he had none to spare. The doctor regards the sling on Sherlock´s arm, and his gaze travels towards his friend´s shoulder and to his face. He is pale, yes, but he doesn´t show signs of severe distress, and he has slept soundly for nearly twelve hours straight after returning from custody. He woke with a slight fever, and John silently included extreme exertion on the list of ailments his friend had suffered in the past weeks. When Lestrade came to question John about his missing weapon later in the afternoon, Sherlock listened, perched in his favourite chair, quiet and obviously chastised. Lestrade left them with a fair warning not to stretch the boundaries of British Law too much the next time they investigated a case. He assured John that his Browning was to remain in the evidence vault for as long as the investigation on Sergej Renko´s death would take.
Great, John thinks. We are protected by bulletproof vests and Mycroft´s security guards, but we are no longer armed.
Mycroft. The elder Holmes showed an alarmingly high level of concern when he arrived shortly after Lestrade left, reporting that Moran, according to the Coast Guard, had left the country. Sherlock, not convinced, started an argument on the abilities and the motivation of Mycroft´s men, until the secret British government accepted defeat and eventually took his leave.
And right now, the two probably cleverest men in London, perhaps in all of Britain, argue over a simple signature.
Mycroft stops tracing the pattern of the rug, and raises the umbrella´s tip accusingly towards the neutral piece of paper on the desk, pointing it at the bottom of the page.
"Sign it. Madison and Miller will be arriving in one hour to accompany you to your first meeting with Chris Carter."
"No, Mycroft. I´ll attend the meeting, but Mulech must have this passage altered."
"The public loves you in a deerstalker," Mycroft replies. "Carter´s number of viewers will rise drastically if he can present you as a proper hero."
Only John sees the flicker of desperation in Sherlock´s eyes. And he understands. The detective has lived through enough humiliation. He has even sunken to the point of considering using again due to his despair. He feels not the slightest desire to present himself as an eccentric to the public. Sherlock loathes this hat and how the media hype of his person has made it his trademark.
The doctor smiles, pleased, as the detective pushes the papers together, coils them up and points them toward Mycroft´s chest with finality. "Take this back," Sherlock says. "And I would quite appreciate your leaving. I need to think."
Mycroft cocks an eyebrow, his mouth twitching into his trademark sarcastic half-smile. "Do you really assume pure inspiration will reveal an infallible plan to keep your loved ones safe?" he asks sarcastically.
Sherlock, who has been staring out of the window, jerks his head back and sends his brother an exasperated glance. "You know it´s not only inspiration. It´s re-evaluating facts. That´s what generals do during a cease-fire. They reconsider their strategy," he shoots back.
"You are still convinced that Moran will not tackle you or anyone close to you in public?" Mycroft asks, more softly. "Do you really think you can protect John effectively? Haven´t you recently been witness to Moran´s attempt at cold-blooded murder of our dear doctor?"
Johns grasp on the newspaper he is holding tightens. He and Sherlock have not yet spoken about the incident at Milverton´s house, but he has picked up signs that the detective is still fairly rattled. He has felt Sherlock´s eyes follow his every movement more than once in the past two days, and a steaming mug of tea was waiting for him in the kitchen this morning.
The telling gaze Sherlock flicks first at him then at Mycroft speaks clearly of self-blame and anguish. But it is gone as fast as it appeared, and Sherlock leans back in his chair, his voice as calm and reasonable as ever. "That was a run-in and completely unexpected both by me and the colonel. As I said, Moran would not attempt to tackle me, or anyone connected to me, in the open," he says.
"Believe what you must," Mycroft replies, massaging his temple. "I am sure you do have a plan." He leans on his umbrella, heavily. "My offer of protective custody still stands. For you, John, Dr. Morstan, and Mrs. Hudson. Let my men take care of the criminal."
Silence. Then Sherlock´s lips curl in an ironic smile. "Weren´t you the one convinced he left for the continent?"
"We both know he will be back – if he has even started his journey," Mycroft replies. "Sherlock, when I am finished with Moran´s secret informant, I will again be able to protect you. I don´t think you should be further pursuing Moran´s tracks in your current state. Let my people do what they have been trained for."
Silence again. Sherlock´s hands twitch and he presses his lips together in a tight line. John senses that he is actually tempted to take Mycroft up on his offer. But finally the detective heaves a sigh. "I can´t speak for the others, but I will not go into custody again, be it protective or not," he replies softly. "Moran takes pleasure in the hunt. And it´s solely me he is hunting. If I can stop him I´ll gladly be bait." He looks up to meet his brother´s eyes. "Perhaps your people could help act as beaters. Let me think about it. For now, as I told you before, your leaving would be much appreciated."
Mycroft, who knows when he is dismissed by his younger brother, straightens and rearranges his jacket with his left hand, lifting the tip of the umbrella out of the rug´s strands with his right. "Very well," he agrees and John detects unease in his usual stern tone. "I will come back to you once the business with the illegal arms deal is settled."
Sherlock nod is nearly imperceptible, and with a nod of his own towards John, Mycroft leaves.
John lets his newspaper drop and regards the frown on his flatmate´s face, the way his eyes search the lamp-posts outside and the windows of the opposite building. "No returning to custody anymore, hum?" he asks, and Sherlock´s eyes travel back towards John´s.
"No, John. Not as far as I can avoid it." Sherlock unconsciously starts to tap a rhythm on the armrest of his chair. "You can go of course, if you want. It would be rather advisable, in fact…" His voice trails off, and only the tapping fills the silence.
John shakes his head. "I won´t give Moran the satisfaction of knowing he chased me into hiding. Besides, who would look after you?"
Sherlock smirks, but stops his tapping, growing serious again. "What if it were not me who was attacked? What if it was Mary? Or Mrs. Hudson?"
John stares back, suddenly filled with horror, a tight knot forming in his stomach. Could he ever forgive Sherlock if something happened to Mary? He honestly doesn´t know. Sherlock, who, as usual, has read John´s thoughts by interpreting the tiniest signs of confusion on the doctor´s features, nods and gets up. "Think about it, John," he says. "Tell Mary about Mycroft´s idea." He turns and looks down on the doctor, brows knitted. "You can´t help me in this. Neither can Mycroft. I must face Moran alone – as I did with Moriarty."
Again, John feels desperation and the urgent need to protect, to save. It´s irrational, and he wants to fight the image, but Sherlock´s blood-streaked face on the pavement in front of St. Bart´s appears in his inner vision, and his heart fills with horror just as it did at the sight of his fatally injured friend.
"Planning to die again?" he asks, deliberately attempting to keep his voice light. Still, it trembles with restrained fear.
Sherlock sends him one of his intense blue gazes, and his mouth quirks into a wan smile. "Not really. But if I intend to, I will let you know this time," he replies. "In the meantime, let´s cherish the peace and quiet while it lasts."
Both men stare at each other. None of them wants the quiet. Danger is so much more interesting, after all. But a threat on their lives falls into a completely different category. John wonders whether Sherlock will be lucky enough to escape a second one. He shifts in his seat on their sofa, rolling the mug full of cold leftover tea in his hands. "What would you do if you had only peace and quiet left?" he asks.
Sherlock, startled, scrutinises John´s face for signs of being teased, and when he finds none, smirks. "I´d be bored out of my skull." He leans back and trails the outlines of their living room windows with his eyes again. "Or I would go to the country. Yes, I think I would like to keep bees," he says dreamily.
Surprised and amused, John feels a grin spread on his face. He is sorely tempted to a light remark when he remembers he packed several books on apiculture into the boxes holding Sherlock´s belongings. And the serious expression on his friend´s face stops him from teasing the detective about this unexpected and frankly rather ridiculous idea.
"Not as ridiculous as you might think, John," Sherlock tells him, reading his unspoken thoughts, still slouching in his chair, eyes closed. "I´ve been dreaming of keeping bees for years." He opens his eyes and sends John a serious look. "It´s that kind of dream which helps you to continue, Dr. Morstan would say."
A dream of bees. A constant in hard times, leading towards an aim, a purpose, even when everything else falls apart. Is that what Sherlock is implying? That the image of a peaceful, humming hive has continually been a beacon through the turmoil of his life and mind?
John has never known Sherlock not to be serious when revealing personal matters. He will do what he can to help him reach contentment. Peace, he cannot promise. But he will do anything in his power to avert Moran´s attack on his friend.
In Regent´s Park, Dr. Mary Morstan stops under her favourite meadow, still panting from her daily jog. She always stops here to stretch and do some breathing exercises before she continues on her way home. Back where she lived before London, taking a jog was nearly impossible on most days. Either the surroundings were far from suitable, the weather conditions too bad or, in the case of the African country she visited with "Doctors without Borders" a civil war was going on. Or probably she wasn´t motivated enough because she didn´t feel the same elation she is experiencing now every time she passes the doorstep to 221 Baker Street – mainly on returning, that is.
Mary thinks of John, who has accompanied her whenever he found the time. She smiles, for he was genuinely surprised that she could match his pace easily. She has always been a keen and fast runner, and running with John has grown into a playful contest between them to see who will reach the meadow first and in good shape. She touches the tree affectionately, balancing on one leg while stretching the other, when a voice startles her and she nearly loses her balance.
"Dr. Morstan?" A man regards her, observant blue eyes boring into hers. He wears jeans and a black fleece jacket. His short, fair hair stands in stark contrast to the black. He teeters nervously on the balls of his feet, and Mary has the impression that there is more to him than his unobtrusive appearance indicates.
She cocks her head and takes a step back to stand next to the tree rather than in front of it. Stupid, she chides herself. Who would attempt to assault her in daylight after approaching her by calling her name? Still, the man´s presence makes her uneasy, and she takes another half-step back.
"Have we met?" she asks coldly.
"Oh, I´m sorry. Brian Jones from the "Daily Mirror". I thought you could answer some questions about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."
Mary looks back at the false smile the man displays and crosses her arms on her chest. "Don´t you think it would be far more advisable to ask them personally?"
Jones shrugs. "Oh, you know. Personal matters. Touchy subjects. Things people won´t talk about. That´s where we media people need to apply refined research methods."
"Which consist of spying on people and trying to leach information on your victims from them?" Mary asks. The man already repels her, even more so as a spark of amusement appears in his eyes.
"I wouldn´t call it spying," he says. "Come on, surely you do know what´s going in at 221B. Are they really a couple?"
Mary´s eyes blaze. How dare this revolting guy try to use her to confirm the most ridiculous yet steadily persistent rumour about Sherlock and John´s acquaintance? "I don´t think we should continue this conversation," she says coldly.
The stranger looks at her, and his unappealing smile widens. "I see," he says. "Dr. Watson is a very lucky man. And Mr. Holmes might be a very unlucky one. Goodbye, Dr. Morstan. You helped me a lot."
He walks away, leaving a puzzled and, if she is honest with herself, slightly apprehensive Mary behind. Finally, she shrugs. She has had her fair share of conversations with media people in the past days, and most of them were weird, asking all kinds of questions. Jones is just another one of them.
She´d better return quickly, if she doesn´t want to be the one who misses Sherlock´s therapy session today.