Title: Tag to "Sunset's Wake"
Author: Still Waters
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
Summary: A week later, she walked into her office to find a potted plant, a neatly wrapped package, and her colleague all sitting on her desk.
Notes: A tag to my story "Sunset's Wake", inspired by chappysmom's comment on AO3: "And there's a part of me hoping that somehow Mycroft's CCTV caught some of this and she found flowers on her desk some day or some kind of anonymous thank you from Sherlock for taking care of John when he truly needed help the most." I began to think of how Mycroft's brand of creepy omniscience would translate to gratitude and how someone unfamiliar with his style would react to experiencing it for the first time. This piece was the result. Apologies to all the botanists and horticulturists out there – I'm sure I probably fudged the plant details a bit (hopefully not too badly) for the purposes of this tale. As always, I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading and thank you chappysmom for the inspiration!
A week later, the papers having shifted from "suicide of fake genius" to the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" graffiti phenomenon, she walked into her office to find a potted plant, a neatly wrapped package, and her colleague all sitting on her desk.
"Morning, dear. You've got pressies!" Diane greeted her with a bright smile.
"I see," she noted, hanging up her coat. "Well?" she cocked an eyebrow when no elaboration followed.
"Well what?"
"Well, it's not my birthday or our anniversary, so what's he up to?" she gestured at the gifts.
"Sorry, love, it wasn't that dishy husband of yours," Diane winked approvingly. "Some brunette walked in about fifteen minutes ago, dropped them off, and left without a word. Don't think she even noticed I was here, to be honest. I tried to get a name, but the way she was texting on that mobile of hers, you'd think the fate of the bloody world was at stake."
"Huh," she chuckled lightly, walking up to the gifts with growing curiosity. "Starting the day off with a proper mystery then, are we?"
Diane pushed herself off the desk and out of the way. "Let me know if I need to call Security," she said, heading for the door.
"I think my secret admirer days are over," she countered, frowning at the unaddressed envelope taped to the brightly colored package.
"Right, like you're so old and awful that nobody would want you," Diane snorted from the doorway.
"I'm fifty-two and married," she met her friend's eyes pointedly.
"Which means nothing to an obsessed or misguided creep. Best to nip the freaks in the bud, love. You know that," Diane went suddenly serious.
Ah, so that's why Diane had met her this morning: friendly concern and a reminder of the security seminar they'd all received last year after a former patient began stalking several staff members. "I'll let you know," she promised, sinking into her chair.
"Good," Diane nodded, satisfied. She lingered in the doorway for another few seconds, eyes on the gifts, until her phone rang and she hurried off to answer it, humming softly under her breath.
Once alone, she set caution aside for a moment and leaned toward the pink flowers, breathing in the light fragrance with a warm smile. She knew nothing about horticulture beyond what looked nice, but she had always preferred potted plants and gardens to cut flowers soon destined for the rubbish bin. These looked almost like double roses - a suckering shrub called Rosa spinosissima 'Andrewsii' according to the Royal Horticultural Society card attached to the wrapping. Tucking the card aside to read the rest of the description and care instructions later, she took another breath of the flowers – a welcome bit of spring in the midst of a cold, gray morning – and reached for the package.
Nostalgia blossomed deep within her chest at the purple wrapping paper – still her favorite color after all these years. Carefully removing the blank envelope from the vibrant wrapping, she opened it to find a card with a picture of a stunning sunset on the front. For a few moments she just sat quietly, memories ebbing and flowing as she traced the colors with the barest brush of her fingertip. Blinking rapidly as Diane's phone jarred her back to the present, she finally opened the card to find the blank space marked by a single line written in what appeared to be an old fountain pen; the kind of precise calligraphy reminiscent of the days of frock coats and top hats, where gentlemen never left the house without pocket watches and walking sticks.
Eo animo quidque debetur quo datur, nec quantum sit sed a quali profectum voluntate perpenditur.
She read the Latin with delight, conjuring up fond memories of musty books in uni libraries and late nights puzzling out noun declensions and verb conjugations. It was one of her favorite quotes from Seneca, the Roman philosopher and politician: "The spirit in which a thing is given determines that in which the debt is acknowledged; it's the intention, not the face-value of the gift, that's weighed." It had always reminded her of her mum; of simple kindnesses to strangers and doing the right thing.
So struck was she by memory that it took a second reading to notice that the card wasn't signed and a third to realize that the Latin was not accompanied by an English translation.
It was the latter that got her thinking.
Not many people enjoyed Latin to the point where they could translate ancient quotes as readily as she just had. In fact, there were only four people who knew of her deep love and knowledge of Latin and the note's author, whoever he – judging by the handwriting – was, certainly wasn't one of them. A flicker of uncertainty rippled through her gut. The quote was definitely purposeful rather than pretentious; the author knew that she'd be able to read it. But how did this stranger know that? And what gift was he referring to? She hadn't given anyone any presents recently, nor had she attended any funeral services as a supportive presence, so what…
Uncertainty became a distant memory as she unwrapped the package, purple paper falling to the floor as it revealed the exact same digital camera she had been looking at in the shops after returning from her weekend at the shore. Her heart leapt into her throat, mouth dry and hands shaking as she put it all together: the camera (to better photograph sunsets), the untranslated Latin (not only a reference to her uni days and continued love of the language, but an obviously significant quote to both sender and receiver), the purple wrapping paper (the same shade of Mary's dress on the funeral parlour table when she was eight years old and still her favorite color today), the sunset photo on the card (her metaphor for death, the painting in her sitting room), and finally, the one that caught her breath in her chest – Rosa spinosissima 'Andrewsii.'
Andrew.
Andrew and his sunset paintings. Memories of a black sky and smudge of red – one on canvas flanking two coffins, the second just a few days ago, thirty-eight years later, on a cold, winter beach. Images of imposing black coats, dark curly hair, and thick blood on gray pavement. Of mum's gold ring, Emily's silver watch, and a trio of hands: hers, the deceased Mr. Holmes's, and that of the dazed man in the practical black jacket, who awoke her intuitive gift to care for strangers left behind in sunset's wake.
Dr. Watson.
The thought of Mr. Holmes's friend warmed her galloping heart even as the memory of the physician's devastating grief broke it all over again. She could almost feel herself reaching for some of Dr. Watson's strength and steadiness, to ease her pounding pulse and trembling hands. She recalled the local papers' coverage of Mr. Holmes's funeral; the widely publicized photo of Dr. Watson – military bearing so crisp she couldn't help but see a full dress uniform instead of the dark suit he actually wore – acting as one of the lead pallbearers, the focused, yet distant look in his eyes a mirror of her last sight of him alone on the pavement outside St. Bart's. She thought of his repeated refusal to say a word to the reporters, of his silent blog, and not for the first time since that day, she desperately hoped he was letting other people into his grief, the way he'd briefly allowed her support.
But then the fact that Dr. Watson would not have thanked her in such a mysteriously invasive manner overrode the brief respite from fear's physiological storm and panic began to suffocate her once more; respirations escalating to the point where she dropped her head to the desk in an attempt to manage the dizziness.
Oh, God. Her stomach rolled with nausea; the impossible degree to which her privacy had been violated terrifying in its implications. It was as if this stranger got into her very memories; details only she and her mum - gone twelve years now - had ever known.
"You all right in there, love? Need me to make any calls?"
She pulled in a ragged breath at the familiar sound of Diane's voice through the wall. Of course she should call Security. These gifts and their mysterious sender were frightening, invasive and dangerous; the work of a madman who could see through her without ever meeting her, a man devoid of boundaries, who either disregarded or completely lacked foresight regarding normal human emotional response…..
She began to laugh.
That unconscious impulse, the same one that had brought her to Dr. Watson's side last week, suddenly resurfaced, bringing with it such fear-crushing understanding that terror was overtaken by sheer bloody laughter. Because that list of concerns? The ones that should have had her on the phone with Security at that very moment? Those were exact descriptions of Sherlock Holmes, given by people who had met him on cases, as seen in the papers since his death. She could imagine a man of that description choosing that particular Seneca quote – unsigned and without further elaboration - as a circuitous method of conveying gratitude; a man who rarely said 'thank you', who may not have anticipated that what she had done for Dr. Watson that day would be necessary, but recognized its importance when he saw it all the same.
Obviously, it couldn't have been Mr. Holmes. However she had seen such traits follow family lines in siblings. Another Mr. Holmes perhaps? Yes, she could picture Sherlock Holmes having a brother; one who shared the sharp eyes and unimaginable resources to put something like this together.
"Love?"
Her laughter grew louder, bubbling past any lingering vestiges of fear. She was still angry at the seemingly impossible violation of her privacy, but like Seneca advised, she could weigh its intention. Mr. Holmes's brother - as she chose to believe both existed and was responsible for the gifts - may have been dangerously connected and observant, and his approach to debt repayment creepily misguided, potentially scarring, and oblivious to normal social patterns, but its intent was honest, personal gratitude: on behalf of himself and his deceased brother.
Dr. Watson must have been a respected friend of both Holmes brothers for her actions that day to warrant such personalized attention. She teared up again at the memory of coiled muscles warring between tension and tremors under her hand, even as she smiled at the inherent steadiness and strength that had been underneath it all; qualities that would be quite necessary in dealing with two such men as she now characterized the Holmes brothers to be. She thought of the snow on her way to work, of the upcoming holiday season, and tried to imagine Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, and Mr. Holmes's brother at Christmas dinner.
She had met Dr. Watson once, at one of the worst times in his life. What she knew of Mr. Holmes came from the papers and telly and she had no idea if another Holmes brother even existed in real life. Yet she pictured the scene anyway.
And lost control.
That was how Diane found her: laughing hysterically at the mental image of two eccentric, dangerous brothers and a grounded physician all wearing Christmas jumpers around a laden table while simultaneously crying at the memory of Dr. Watson's grief and loss, of his hands and face in the wake of his friend's violent, abrupt sunset.
"Blimey, sweetheart! What's happened?! Are you all right?" Diane stood, shocked, in the doorway.
She swiped messily at her eyes and running nose with one hand, cradling the card to her chest with the other. "I'm all right, Diane. Really, I'm fine."
Tears were salty on her lips as she sniffled against a sob and choked on the chuckle it collided with, but she wasn't lying, no matter how incredulous Diane looked.
"I'm fine," she repeated, smiling as she rode out the emotional explosion.
And it was the truth. She was fine.
Absolutely fine.