Exposition: The First of the Three Spirits
After Mycroft left, Sherlock could not sleep. This was hardly unusual, so he went about his usual activities of making himself tea, doing online research and generally feeling superior to the rest of mankind for his increased productivity through the night.
He was skimming through a rather mediocre article on the finer points of GPS tracking via biomagnetic fields when his computer froze. He cursed it and tried to force quit. Then he attempted to shut down and reboot the system. The computer responded with the Blue Screen of Death.
"What? What is this, the early '90s?" Sherlock fumed. He yanked the power cord out of the wall socket with more force than was strictly necessary, then held down the power button for the requisite five seconds.
Nothing.
Then on the blue screen an old-fashioned emoticon appeared. It was a happy face, which winked at him and then returned to being a happy face.
Sherlock slowly seated himself again in front of the computer and typed "Are you the Spirit I was told to expect?"
Word! ;) Sherlock FTW!
Sherlock was rather taken aback by the Spirit's style of communication. It sounded more like a teenage hacker than a dead spirit sent for his enlightenment.
"Who are you?"
BRB.
Be Right Back? What did that have to do with anything? Then Sherlock yelped and yanked his fingers out of the way as the computer was slammed shut right in front of his face.
An Irish voice with surprising flexibility and a rather sinister undercurrent suddenly said "Hi! I thought this would be quicker. Like most old guys you are soooo slooooow on the keys and write everything out in full, I can't stand it. Get with the abbrevs, old man. Do you need some I.T. support? I know a guy you can call."
Sherlock folded his arms in pique and told the oddly young-looking Jim Moriarty in front of him, "You didn't answer my question, and you know I hate repeating myself."
The spirit spread his arms and twirled around, "Don't you recognise the uniform? I thought for sure you wouldn't have forgotten it. I'm here to take you on a little tour down Nostalgia Lane." He straightened the cuffs and brushed off the lapels of the blazer exactly as if it were a fine suit. When Sherlock said nothing he pretended to pout, then suddenly smiled again when he saw Sherlock had made the connection.
"It's a Harrow uniform from the 1980s, yes I'm aware. You weren't at my school then, I would have remembered such an arrogant little snot."
The ghost of Moriarty (Sherlock could see straight through his tie and blazer) shrugged and lifted one eyebrow. "Look who's talking, mister. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past. Your past, to be precise. I thought the shirt and tie would add a bit of formality to the proceedings, that's all. You can call me Jim, if you prefer it more casual though."
Sherlock ignored the name from what was indeed, his own past. "If there are proceedings, then by all means proceed. Mycroft told me you were coming and that you were going to teach me to do good, or some such rubbish. I don't think it will work, but you might as well get on with it."
"Sure. Take my hand then, and let's get to it."
"You're a homicidal maniac, why should I trust you? I remember what happened the last time we shook hands," said Sherlock without moving.
The Spirit rolled his eyes and sighed in his exaggerated theatrical style. "I'll be good, I promise. I just need you to take my hand so that I can tune you into the bit stream and upload you."
Sherlock took a step backwards, away from the outstretched hand. "That sounds rather disturbing. I have no desire to be converted into a digital format, especially not one of such outdated technology."
Jim smiled with false brightness, "There's no Wi-Fi where we're going." He lunged forward and snatched Sherlock's hand, holding on tightly. He dragged Sherlock across the room towards the computer. Before Sherlock could do more than gasp, they were diving directly into and through the blue screen.
The moment of dizziness passed, and Sherlock found himself standing on snow-covered grass. He glanced around, recognising the setting immediately. He was standing on the top of Harrow on the Hill, looking down at his old boarding school. Good old, blue chip, all boys, full-boarding school Harrow.
"Do you remember the way?" Jim asked quietly.
"Remember? I could walk it blindfolded. Often did, in fact."
"Yes, you passed many years here, often being bullied, I know. Would you care to walk down to the school grounds? They are not quite empty, even though it is Christmas holidays now."
Side by side, Sherlock and spirit walked down through the snow to the main school buildings. Neither left footprints.
As they entered the dining hall, Sherlock breathed in deeply and with the smell of ancient boiled cabbage came rushing back all the memories of his school days. It had not all been bad, he had loved drama and acting even then, and with his willowy grace he had usually been given the lead female roles in the end of term concerts. He had loved meeting Shakespeare, Marlowe and Wilde in these halls, and had been taken out of himself for a little while.
But the Christmas holidays had been hard. He walked through the dining hall to one of the last classrooms, already knowing what he would see there. One last boy, tall for his age, with dark curls falling forward into his eyes, sat reading alone. The voices which had first called him "Freak!" were all gone and he was left alone, in silence. It was in those days that he had first learned that being alone was his best protection from the taunts of others.
"Shall we see another Christmas?" asked Jim.
"Why?" returned Sherlock. "They were all the same. Harrow was a full-boarding school, and if my parents paid, they had to keep me and feed me all year 'round. It was a convenient arrangement for everyone. My parents had Mycroft, the heir, to show off his accomplishments and the 'spare' was safely tucked away."
"But they weren't all the same, were they?"
The scene around them changed. The room grew shabbier and older, the boy at the desk stretched his legs further under the table. One of the windows was cracked and the bookshelves sagged lower. Sherlock nodded to himself, this was exactly how it had been, year after year.
Then the door suddenly flew open and a second figure strode into the room. It was another young man, even taller than the teenaged Sherlock but with auburn curls instead of dark. He swept up to Sherlock and seized his hand, hauling him to his feet and catching him into a full-bodied hug.
"I've come to bring you home, Sherlock! Home for the holidays - and never to come back here!"
Young Sherlock's face lit up with the smile that older Sherlock knew his face had not showed for years. "Home, Mycroft? Really?"
"Yes. I'm part of the British Government now, and I've just received a letter from Cambridge - they've accepted you into their accelerated stream for chemistry and you can start there after the holidays. I always knew you were a genius little brother, and this is only the first step to showing the whole world what the Holmes brothers can do!"
Mycroft strode out of the room, and they could hear his voice in the hall, calling for Mr Holmes' suitcase to be brought down. Young Sherlock was feverishly packing up his books and papers, gathering them into a messy bundle. Mycroft bounded back into the room and relieved him of half the load and the two young men walked out together. Sherlock could hear his younger self outside exclaiming over Mycroft's new car and driver.
"You got on well in those days," said the spirit quietly.
"Yes, I idolised Mycroft then and had a ridiculous idea about setting up a detective agency together. But he went away and got caught up in the endless webs of power - that was actually the last of the happy Christmases we spent together. He gave me work, but the dream of a joint agency never came to pass. Our Mother always wanted us to work more closely together, but we drifted apart faster because of her interference, I think. Mycroft never approved of the drugs, and once I became an embarrassment and liability to him, he washed his hands of me except when I could make myself of use."
"Did he never try to heal the breach?"
"I suppose he did," admitted Sherlock, "but I was fiercely independent too, and would never let him see that his abandonment had hurt. The only way I had to strike back at him was to deny him the music that he loved. I refused to play violin with him, even when he went to the trouble of learning the piano parts for my favourite pieces. It was spiteful and childish, but then he lost interest in playing completely and it never seemed to matter. I used to make the violin scream at him when he was around, just because I could. He always had very sensitive ears. Perhaps I should not have done that." Sherlock stood in silent reflection for a moment. "But he's dead now. These days you are showing me are dead and gone, so what is the point?" The last word was spoken quietly, but with a bitter intensity.
"If you've had enough of Harrow, let's walk just a little further into London," replied Jim.
They took a step forward, and were suddenly in central London, standing outside a building Sherlock knew very well. "New Scotland Yard! The building where I first worked, before it was bombed by terrorists in 2019. This is where I worked with Lestrade, and John…" he drifted off into silent memories.
"Shall we go in?" asked the spirit, already walking towards the main doors.
They stepped out of the lift and into chaos. Most of the partitions in the open plan office space were being cleared to make room for a trestle table groaning with party food and an enormous bowl of punch. John was in one corner trying to reach up high enough to hang decorations on a Christmas tree, while a Sherlock in his mid-thirties was twitting him about his height. The two men engaged in a friendly mock-tussle which ended with Sherlock confiscating the gold star and placing it himself at the top of the tree. Sally Donovan was hanging up mistletoe and making notes about where to stand. Anderson was quietly spiking the punch bowl with rum, while everyone pretended not to notice.
"John. John Watson," mused Sherlock as he stood near the door, watching all the activity. "John and I were… well, he was very attracted to me. Poor John."
Jim looked up at him coyly, "So did you two ever…?"
"No! It wasn't like that. I mean, I did wonder at one point, but no. After I came back from… being away, it was never the same. John had Mary by then and even though they lost that first baby they always hoped for more. John might have looked at me a certain way sometimes, but no. Nothing ever came of it."
A loud voice with an Estuary accent interrupted their talk, as a silver-haired Detective Inspector burst out of the inner office making a large "T" shape with his hands. "That's seventeen-hundred everyone! Knock it off and come join the party! All criminals are advised that NSY is off-duty for the next twenty-four hours so they better be good or Santa will put them in the slammer as soon as the hangover lifts!"
"Ah, good old Lestrade!" murmured Sherlock. "In those days he was cheerful and encouraged the team to work together brilliantly. He even managed to get some decent work out of Anderson, and God knows that's a minor miracle in itself."
As they watched, the last of the partitions was removed and the desks shoved aside. Papers were stuffed into filing cabinets and party hats were distributed. Partners and associates drifted in, laying their contributions on the long trestle table and taking up a plastic cup of punch.
"There's Molly! Looking better than I had remembered her. That red lipstick really suits her - it's such a shame she doesn't wear lipstick now. And Dimmock, and oh, goodness, is that Lestrade's wife? It is! This must be the year before they separated."
A short, round woman with a bouncy walk and jingle bell earrings grabbed Lestrade's hand and dragged him over to the side table. "Now, Greg, show me how to operate the CD player and we'll get some music going! It's not a party without music!"
In a few minutes the room was filled with the bright tinkle of "Jingle Bell Rock" and Greg was guided, still protesting, onto the makeshift dance floor. Everyone soon piled onto the floor and someone switched off the fluorescent lights, leaving the room lit with only the red and green flickers of the fairy lights on the tree and around the window frames.
The night progressed smoothly, easily into camaraderie and shared jokes. There was a lot of shop talk, but the partners mostly tolerated it and told ridiculous and improbable stories from their own workplaces. The food was shared around, and noise level rose as the contents of the punch bowl were steadily emptied.
Finally, everyone made noises about going home and what a great party it had been. Lestrade and his wife took up a position by the door, and presented all the staff with a little Christmas bonus as they headed out into the night.
"Ah, Lestrade. He was so good to all of us."
"Why do you say that?" asked Jim. "He organised an office party. What's so special about that? He didn't even supply the food, he made everyone bring a plate. Those bonuses he's getting credit for handing out? You all earned them. They're part of your pay packet and he can't withhold them. What's so special about D.I. Lestrade?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Sherlock restlessly. "He could have made all our lives so much more difficult. He brought me in as a consultant in the first place, and he helped me to integrate with his team, even making Anderson turn away when his face was bothering me. He had so much power over us but he held the reins lightly most of the time. He made us into a smoothly working machine. No, not a machine. We were…" Sherlock groped after an appropriate simile.
"You were like a body, weren't you?" suggested Jim. "You all had your function and you worked together to accomplish what you could never have done each alone. Lestrade was the head, you were the eyes, John was the hands."
"And Anderson was the arsehole?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. The spirit shrugged in silent agreement.
John and Sherlock were the last to leave, shaking Lestrade's hand and walking out together, their shoulders almost touching. They stood outside the NSY building waiting for a cab.
John was speaking in a low voice, "Sherlock, this has been the best Christmas of my life. I wanted you to know that. Last year I was in Afghanistan, recovering from my shoulder wound and wondering what to do with my life. This year, I have a job, a purpose and a flat that I share with you. I owe you so much." He leaned toward Sherlock, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed with the cold night air, or the potent punch, or perhaps something else…
"John, you know I'm married to my work."
John rocked back on his heels. "Yes, you've mentioned that," he said quietly. "But aren't I a part of the Work now? Aren't I… important to you? You are to me," he added, so low that Sherlock wasn't sure if he heard or just remembered the words.
"The Work is more important that anything. Clear thinking, John, that's all that matters. The rest is just…"
"Transport. I know." John sighed. "Very well. If that's really your choice, I respect that. I'll still be your best friend, and I… I hope the Work makes you happy."
Sherlock winced in anticipation of his own next speech.
"I'm a sociopath, John. The Work will have a better chance of making me happy than any human relationship."
"Mmm," John made a sceptical murmur and seemed about to say more, but just then the taxi arrived and the rest of the conversation was cut off as the two of them climbed into it.
"Spirit, that's enough! Don't torture me any more with visions of what might have been," groaned Sherlock, watching his younger self reject John's humanising touch and throw away his best chance of happiness.
"Just one last scene, bear with me, you'll want to see this," Jim assured him. "Don't you want to see how it worked out for John?"
"I know, I know what happened!" Sherlock almost wailed. "He married Mary! I was there! Do you think I don't know? Do you think I don't think about it?"
Jim bared his teeth, suddenly threatening despite his boyish face. He grabbed Sherlock in a headlock and dragged him around in a circle. "But I want you to see. Look!"
Before his unwilling eyes, Sherlock watched a new scene unfold.
It was a domestic evening at home, in a small flat, nothing remarkable. Just a small fire in the grate and two stockings hanging over the hearth. Some kind of Christmas music was playing in the background, by a chamber choir and strings. It was probably one of those free CDs that came with the newspapers at this time of year. A small tree sat on the table-top as there was not enough room for a full-size one. John was handing Mary a glass of something that looked like mulled wine, but probably wasn't. As soon as she took the cup, freeing his hand, he rubbed her rounded belly tenderly. She laughed and covered his hand with her own.
Taking a sip of the drink she made a face and said, "John, this is awful! What on earth is it?"
In the low light Sherlock couldn't be sure if John was blushing or not. "It's mulled orange juice and Ribena, with cinnamon and spices. Closest thing I could manage without alcohol."
Mary tipped her head back and laughed uproariously. "Oh my God, warm Ribena! Didn't you ever think of getting some non-alcoholic red wine?"
At John's discomfited glance she reached out for his hand and pulled him in for an awkward hug. She squinted down at her stomach which was getting in the way. "Never mind. By next Christmas the little sprog will be crawling around on the floor and I'll be able to have a real drink."
"Unless you are too knackered from changing nappies and fall asleep straight after dinner!" John joked in return.
Mary sighed and kissed the back of John's hand before releasing it. She sat up with a new thought, "Oh, by the way, I saw Himself today, I meant to tell you."
"Who? Oh, you mean Sherlock. How did you come to see him? I hear he hardly ever leaves Baker Street now, except to go down to Mycroft's club. Doesn't even take many private clients any more, though I understand Lestrade still calls him in to help on MET cases."
"Well, that's it exactly. He was leaving Baker Street in a dreadful hurry. Looking at him I noticed…" she broke off and looked away from John for a moment, clearly uncomfortable with referring to her espionage skills.
"Go on," he encouraged her.
"He looked concerned. Distressed, even. If it had been anyone else I would have thought something bad had happened to someone he knew, but Sherlock doesn't have any friends, does he?"
"Not that I know of," mused John. "Are you sure it wasn't just a thoughtful look from thinking about a case?"
Mary scowled at him. "I may not be a spy any more, but I'm not that out of practice! I know a concerned look when I see one - even if I've never seen it on that face before."
John shrugged, "Maybe Mrs Hudson was unwell, or maybe Mycroft. That's the only thing I can think of, and anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll look into it in the New Year if you really want to know. At the moment I just want you to concentrate on growing our baby into a strong and healthy boy for me to take to the football."
"Girl, for me to take to the ballet," shot back Mary immediately.
"Boy, and he likes getting muddy and climbing trees," John teased.
"Girl, with long blonde hair that curls into ringlets like mine did when I was little."
John's eye filled with a soft emotion that Sherlock had never seen on his face before. "All right then," he whispered. "You win. Make us the prettiest, smartest, most amazing little girl ever seen," he kissed Mary lightly on the forehead, then added with a grin, "and I'll still take her to the football and teach her to climb trees!"
Mary laughed and pretended to slap him. John kissed her deeply and passionately, until the scene blurred as water filled Sherlock's eyes.
"Moriarty! Stop torturing me! I know how it ends - they lose the baby and Mary almost bleeds to death. To save her life, John agrees to radical surgery but they can never have children after that. John never smiles that way again in his life and I… I can't watch! I wish you had never shown me this!"
Moriarty shrugged coldly. "These are the shadows of your past. They are what they are, don't blame me."
"But I don't want to see it! Take me home, right now!" Sherlock's fists were clenched and he almost stamped his foot on the ground.
Moriarty inspected his fingernails, "Aww, don't be like that! Don't you want to see the Christmas party where you humiliated Molly? Or the one where you destroyed Lestrade's marriage? Or the one where you insulted Mrs Hudson's sister and caused a breach between them so that they still haven't spoken over ten years later? That was a good one, I don't think I've seen anyone spit that far for a long time, or…"
The ghost was suddenly unable to speak as Sherlock had both hands around his neck and was choking off his breath. He growled as he throttled Moriarty, "You may be a dead spirit, but if you speak you must need an air supply! So choke, die and leave me alone!"
He squeezed harder and harder, but Moriarty just grinned wider and wider showing more and more teeth… until Sherlock suddenly found himself back in his apartment, squeezing his own mantlepiece and staring into the empty eye sockets of the skull over his fireplace.
Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall and groaned, panting with the unusual excess of emotion. Moriarty! He had never thought to see that face again since purging his Mind Dungeon of the madman after he had ceased to be of use.
Sherlock shuddered. This was only the first of three spirits! How could he bear to see more? He made his way into the kitchen, deciding to soothe his shattered nerves with a cup of tea. He avoided looking at his laptop with its innocently blank screen. Tea first, then he would think of something else to do. Not on the computer, though. If the next spirit was going to hack into his life, he wasn't going to make it easy.
He made himself a cup of tea and took it into the living room, sitting down on the sofa and staring at the empty fireplace. He set the mug on the side table and let it grow cold as he closed his eyes and folded his hands, seeing his past life flicker behind his eyelids. His past, the past he wished he had been brave enough to grasp, the man he was, the man others saw in him, the man he wished he had been. The visions flashed and changed before his mind's eye and he was not even aware of when his memories drifted into dreams, and then into sleep.