As the land rover drew nearer to Ravensdale, John was aware of the darkening of the skies. He rounded the first corner, the tyres rumbling over the packed earth, the beaten tracks of the long treelined drive to the gate.
It wasn't so much that the skies changed, John realised. They were still cloudless. The sun beat down, catching glittering flecks of pollen in the air. It was more indefinite than that, a subtle change in the quality of light. Around Ravensdale, the sun took on a sepia tint, as though all was being seen through an old lens. The House was sinking deeper into itself, taking the grounds with it, the light with it, and anybody in the place too. The past was swallowing it all.
John pulled in beside the fountain and turned off the engine. Looking up at the house through the coolly tinted windows, he felt panic beat twice in his chest before dropping like a dead weight to his stomach, settling into that familiar sensation of perpetual unease.
The fasten seatbelt alarm brought him back to his senses. He pulled the keys from the ignition and took a breath before opening the car door.
John knew before his feet hit the gravel that his limp would return, but his heart still sank as he registered it.
Weak, weak, stupid, he mentally chided himself as he limped around to the boot to retrieve the shopping. A bird sang far off to his left, keeping its distance. The bags seemed heavier than they had been at the village. John steeled himself, glancing up once more at the blind windows.
"Honey," he muttered ruefully, "I'm home."
777
His eyes adjusting to the gloomy hallway, John noticed the door to the drawing room hanging ajar. Struggling with the bags and his limp, he shouldered the door open and staggered in.
Sherlock and Molly were sitting as far away from each other as possible in the vast room. Sherlock had dragged an armchair into the corner furthest from the window and sat facing the wall, deep in thought. Molly had taken the slightly less extreme approach of turning the fireside armchair around so that its back faced into the room, hiding her almost entirely from view. They both looked up as John entered.
"John!" Molly clambered out of the armchair, exuding palpable relief. Sherlock stood abruptly. They both made towards John before making eye contact with each other and looking away. Molly dithered, then turned back and busied herself in turning the armchair back around.
"Here, let me help you with those," Sherlock uttered crisply, bounding over to take the bags off John. Taken aback, John held onto them. After a moment of awkward bewilderment he surrendered them to Sherlock, who disappeared quickly out the door.
"Did you... Did that just happen?" John cocked a thumb towards the door.
"Did Sherlock just volunteer to help me with something... domestic?"
Molly concentrated fiercely on her book. She shrugged. John looked even more baffled.
Sherlock stuck his head around the door.
"Don't go to the hallway on the fourth floor." He said darkly. "Just... don't."
He disappeared again. John turned back to Molly.
"Did something happen?"
Molly looked up abruptly.
"Absolutely nothing happened at all I was here reading this whole time." She said firmly, without punctuation.
John took a careful step backwards. "Okay. I'm just going to help Sherlock with the shopping. Last time I made him put things away I found gherkins in the dishwasher."
He left, shaking his head. Perhaps those two had always been this odd, and it had taken a brief sojourn away from them to highlight the fact.
777
Dinner was excruciating.
Sitting at the head of the dining room table with Sherlock and Molly at either side, John was aware of an atmosphere comparable only to that present on the long, awkward evening when Harriet brought her first girlfriend to his parents house for dinner. The air was thick with things unsaid.
At least Sherlock was eating, John noted, after a few abortive attempts at starting a conversation. Whenever Sherlock put his fork down Molly would give him a particular look, and Sherlock would compliantly take a few more bites.
"Extraordinary." John murmured. There was a clatter of cutlery as his dining companions looked at him.
"What is?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Nothing. Nothing. Just a thought."
Molly reached for the water jug as Sherlock, still glaring at John, did the same. Their hands touched. There was a high octane moment of delicate energy. The jolt of electricity that passed between their eyes as they met for the millisecond before they pulled their hands away was almost visible, flashing in the air between them.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Cigarettes," he muttered, and stalked out of the room.
Of course, John thought, fighting the urge to grin. Those dreams he's been having. He doesn't know how to deal with them.
John felt pleasingly wise. He looked at Molly, who was biting her lip and staring down at her plate in silence.
"Don't worry." He reassured her. "You know how he gets. It's not you."
"Of course," Molly said carefully. "I know. Excuse me."
She got up and pushed her chair back neatly under the table. Giving John a sweet, sad smile she picked up her plate and left. John finished his meal alone at the huge dining table in slightly unnerving silence. Later, when he passed the drawing room on his way upstairs, he saw Molly curled back in her chair; her small fingers tracing the text of her spellbook, her lips moving rapidly as she mouthed the strange syllables to nobody at all.
777
"Come in."
John looked around the doorframe.
"I hadn't knocked."
"I know."
Sherlock glanced up at him impatiently. He had made an unholy mess of his lab table again, which, John considered hopefully, sometimes meant that he was onto something. Or on something.
"It's well and truly back. Your limp, I mean." Sherlock turned back to his microscope. "I heard you coming a mile away. It was intermittent for a while, but now…" He lost interest in the exchange and squinted into the eyepiece.
"Yes. It's back," John muttered ruefully, sitting down heavily on Sherlock's unmade bed.
"What's back?"
John looked incredulous.
"My limp. Good god, can't you keep your attention on one thing for more than a millisecond?"
"Of course," Sherlock drawled, one slim fingertip minutely adjusting the focus. "Provided it's interesting."
"Yes, well. Don't know why I expect any level of humanity from you anymore. It is a bit upsetting , you know. The limp."
Behind the microscope, Sherlock looked amused.
"Psychosomatic, stress related," he murmured, "Here you are doing your best to distract me from solving the cause of the stress."
"And what about you?" John settled back against the headboard. "How are your stress levels?"
"Fine."
"What about those… ahm… dreams?"
Sherlock pushed the microscope away and turned his attention to the bunsen burner.
"No. Nope. No more dreams."
"It's just that, you and Molly-"
The bunsen burner ignited suddenly with a burst of flame. Sherlock flinched.
"Over dinner," John continued, "There just seemed to be a bit of an atmosphere. You know. And I thought I'd come to talk to you about it because we need to stick together now, we really do, and if your feelings are affecting-"
"Feelings," Sherlock grimaced. "Best not pay that any mind."
"Right." John leaned heavily on the bedside locker as he stood. "Just thought I'd mention it."
"Actually," Sherlock said blithely as John turned to leave, "There was a thing. Earlier, in the hallway. We kissed."
Sherlock looked away quickly as John turned back around as though pivoting from a central axis, his jaw practically on the carpet.
"You… what?"
"Kissed. An effect of the variable phenomena in the House, doubtless. Very… confusing."
John shook his head incredulously.
"All this time… and I've never once seen you show the slightest bit of attention to anyone. Well, anyone who didn't have the professional capacity to cane you to within an inch of your-"
"This is different," Sherlock interrupted. "It's the House."
"You're not confusing actual lust for supernatural activity, are you? I mean... That does seem like something that only you would do."
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said contemptuously, holding a cuvette up to the light. "I do have some experience in that area."
"The supernatural?"
Sherlock shot him a disdainful look.
"Sex."
John let out an embarrassed guffaw. The word sounded alien in Sherlock's voice.
"Why did Mycroft say that thing then? Hinted at you being frightened of sex?"
"It may have escaped your meticulous observation, John," Sherlock selected a slide from the disordered box of samples on the table and slotted it into the microscope. "But Mycroft is an utter, utter bastard."
"So, who then?" Even John was surprised at the eagerness of his own voice. One hint of Sherlock's humanity and he had transformed into a sewing-circle matron. "Anyone I know?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Why are people so obsessed with scandal?" He muttered. "I blame the tabloids."
777
It was almost nightfall when the hellish jangling of the ancient brass doorbell echoed through the house. Molly and John, both reading in reverent silence in the drawing room, jolted upright in fright. Molly looked at John with wide, dark eyes, her mouth turning down at the corners.
"Who could it be?" She said, her voice shaking. John reached down and carefully intertwined his fingers with hers.
"It's probably just somebody from the village. Come on."
Hand in hand, they tip toed out into the entrance hall just as Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Very sweet," he sneered as they turned their pale, scared faces up at him. "Reminds me of a fairytale. Go on then."
Sauntering languidly down the staircase, Sherlock looked as though he owned the place. Something in his silhouette, in his patrician, cadaverous profile made him look absolutely at home against the stark shadows and disintegrating tapestries of the hall.
His poise embarrassed John and he let go of Molly's hand. The jangling came again and John took two limping strides to the door and threw it open.
"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! I've found a clue!"
Sherlock raised a tremulous hand to his eyes and gently pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Oh… God."
It was Mr. Coulter.
777
"I knew there was something not right soon as I saw the door off its hinges, I just knew."
John led the towering groundskeeper into the drawing room. Mr. Coulter was practically vibrating with excitement. Taking a degree of comfort in a familiar routine, John led him to sit in the armchair by the fireplace and took the seat opposite him, just like with their cases in Baker Street. John smiled encouragingly, and Sherlock leaned against the back of his chair with a sigh.
"From the start if you will, Mr. Coulter," said John.
"Well, you know I have a hut over by the trees there, not much of a thing mind you but it's a place to keep my bits and that for work…" Mr. Coulter paused for breath and to take the glass of water Molly had returned with from the kitchen.
"Thank you miss. So I get to the old place tonight, not more than ten minutes ago I would say, give or take, and I see that someone's gone and broken the door down. Right off its hinges it were too."
"Oh. Oh my, Sherlock, that sounds very interesting-" John looked up at Sherlock, who refused to meet his eye. Mr. Coulter leaned forward with an air of mystery.
"Not a thing missing, see, " He murmured, "Not my trophies, that were my first thought, that it were Chris Pentreath who'd done it out of envy, my wife won't have them in the house and he knows full well that I keep them there. Nothing missing… But the bottle of whiskey that was my last gift from Sir Mortimus."
Sherlock cleared his throat. John turned to look at him again, his mouth set in a thin, disapproving line.
"Well, I mean," Mr. Coulter mused, "The bottle were still there, but there wasn't a drop of whiskey left in it. Someone broke in and downed the whole bloody lot. Now, I weren't sure if it were something to do with your case or just some reprobate-"
"Thank you for your input Mr. Coulter but I'm afraid that this information is irrelevant to our investigation." Sherlock stalked abruptly to the door and stood tapping his index finger on the doorknob as John stood to usher Mr. Coulter out. He paused to give Sherlock a meaningful look. Sherlock studied the carpet.
"I wouldn't have minded, only it were the last one I ever got from Sir Mortimus," Mr. Coulter pondered as he shuffled past Sherlock. "I know it's daft really, but I got on well with him, usually. He knew his whiskey, too. Some men have golf, I suppose, I know a few who go shooting, and I've got my darts. You know, as you get older, a hobby does a man good. Mort - Sir Mortimus had his whiskey."
"He was a big drinker? An alcoholic?" John paused in the doorway.
"Oh nothing much like that I'm sure. He had a love for it alright, but it were more about the art of it. He owned a distillery, you know, for making it. Put out a small batch every year but I think if he'd lived, God rest him, he would have gone into it full time."
"Whiskey…" Sherlock said quietly. John turned to see Sherlock's eyes widen, an expression of brilliant ecstasy lighting his features. John knew that face, and he felt his own heart beat faster with the joy of it. Sherlock had it. He'd cracked it.
"Sherlock? What is it?"
"Whiskey!" Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him. "Whiskey!"
"I'm alright thanks," John muttered.
Sherlock caught his lower lip in his teeth, visibly jittery with excitement.
"Nothing?" He said imploringly.
"He… was… drinking a lot?" John disengaged and straightened his jumper. "In his… disoriented state the ghost saw him as, I don't know, a weaker target, wanted to… make an example of him?"
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.
"Astoundingly off the mark, John, but thanks for playing."
He spun on his heel and pointed a finger at Molly. She shrank, worried that he would quiz her next, but instead he fixed her with a wild, bright eyed look and uttered triumphantly: "Blueprints!"
He looked around, excited, only to be met with blank faces. His own face fell.
"No? Good lord…"
He ran his fingers through his hair, looking almost wounded by their lack of comprehension, then he came back to life and his dark coat whipped around the doorframe as he made for the stairs, leaving Mr. Coulter and Molly staring after him in stunned silence. John almost tripped as he followed.
"Where are we going?" He called after him.
"The study!"
777
Chasing Sherlock through the long hallways, John felt the tightness in his bad leg ease by the step. Breathless, he grinned. I suppose this is my life now, isn't it? He thought wryly. Trying to keep up with this madman.
The exhilaration of knowing that Sherlock was on the edge of solving this thing made John buzz with anticipation. He loved this bit. Sherlock was a terrible flatmate and an insufferable bastard but at times like this, the cusp, the quickening, he was incendiary, contagious in his brilliance.
John was still ten foot behind him when Sherlock reached the study. John stopped outside to catch his breath, one hand on the wall. Sherlock made straight for the desk.
"What are you looking for?" John panted. "You've figured it out, haven't you?"
Sherlock ignored him, tapping the underside of the desk and listening closely to the sound.
John shook his head.
"Oh you love doing this, don't you? You love the suspense. Don't think I haven't noticed your flair for theatre."
Sherlock raised his head to flash a sly, triumphant smile at his friend. No more than three metres away, John saw his expression change in an instant. Sherlock dropped the sheaf of papers he was holding and stumbled towards John, reaching out to him. The last thing John registered was the pure panic in Sherlock's eyes, then the heavy mahogany door creaked on its hinges and slammed in his face.
"Sherlock."
John tried the handle desperately, then threw his shoulder to the door.
"Sherlock!" His voice was edging towards hysteria. The silence inside the room made the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
"Say something, Sherlock. Answer me."
John pressed his forehead to the door, fear rising like bile in his throat. Then, finally, a sound.
"Oh no. Oh no, no, no..."
Soft, insidious, the syrupy trickle of water began creeping out from beneath the door.