Sherlock's room in the college. Late afternoon on the same day. It's a very small room with a single window, a narrow bed, a desk, a number of bookshelves and a washbasin in a corner, and it looks even smaller than it is for being so cluttered. The shelves are crammed full to overflowing, and there are books and papers and scientific journals and sheet music on every available surface, including the floor and the foot of the bed. Even the recess of the boarded-up fireplace is filled with stacks of books. The only decorations on the walls – apart from a large pin board covered with schedules and timetables and data sheets and notes three deep - are the periodic table of the elements that Sherlock will still have on his bedroom wall ten years later, and a framed reproduction of a portrait of Johann Sebastian Bach. Flopped down on his stomach diagonally across Sherlock's bed is Victor Trevor, his head and shoulders hanging over the edge, one arm stretched out towards a chessboard that has been set up on Sherlock's old school trunk, which appears to double (or rather triple) as bedside cabinet, coffee table and laundry basket all at once, since there are – among a dozen other things - an alarm clock and two mugs of tea on it, and a sock hanging out from under the closed lid. On the other side of the trunk, Sherlock is sitting on the floor with his back against the side of his desk and his knees drawn up so as to fit into the narrow space at all.
VICTOR (moving a black chess piece): And - ?
Sherlock frowns at the board, on which there are few pieces left standing, more black than white. All the others are littered around the edges of the board like dead soldiers on a battlefield. Sherlock reaches out and moves a white piece. Only a split second later, he claps his hand to his forehead and grimaces. With a humourless grin, Victor moves another black piece and with the tip of his index finger very gently topples Sherlock's king over. Then he pushes himself up into a sitting position on the bed, legs crossed.
VICTOR: Right. I want to know what the hell we're doing here.
SHERLOCK: Playing chess?
VICTOR (testily): You said you needed to talk to me, and now all we do is sit here and play a bloody game?
Sherlock shrugs and takes a sip of his tea.
VICTOR: Why do you keep playing chess with me anyway? You never win. Never. And you never learn, which is worse. (Didactically) I'll tell you something. You'll never be more than just ordinarily decent at this game if you don't learn to look to your own defences. (Sherlock opens his mouth to disagree, but Victor cuts him off.) It's all very noble and valiant how you rush for the opposing king with everything you command, but you're never going to protect your own with barely any of your pieces left standing.(He picks up one of the captured white pieces – a knight – and turns it in his hand.) Some of these are not expendable.
SHERLOCK (coolly): Some are.
VICTOR: And you trust yourself to know the difference?
SHERLOCK (after a moment's pause): On a chessboard, or elsewhere?
VICTOR: Both.
There is a tense silence while they look at each other intently.
SHERLOCK: Do you trust me to know it?
Victor stands his ground for quite a while, then folds his hands in his lap and looks down.
VICTOR (unhappily): I wish I could.
Sherlock exhales impatiently and shakes his head.
SHERLOCK: Victor, it's not like -
VICTOR (twisting his hands in his lap, desperately): Just tell me that I can, will you?
There is another silence. Then Sherlock pushes himself forward onto his knees. With his elbows propped on the trunk between them, he leans towards his friend, and from that level looks up into Victor's face, waiting patiently until Victor is ready to meet his eyes again. When he does -
SHERLOCK (quietly): You can. So help me God, you can.
A view of a back wall of one of the college buildings, lit in mild, warm evening light. On the top floor, just below the tiled roof, a window opening has been enlarged into a doorway with an ugly white-painted metal door in it and a fire escape built onto it, the iron staircase zig-zagging down to ground level. On the slope of the roof above the fire exit, Sherlock and Victor are sitting side by side in companionable silence, passing a hand-rolled cigarette back and forth and looking out westwards over the river and The Backs, the bulk of the University Library tower visible in the distance.
SHERLOCK (exhaling a long plume of smoke and looking down at the cigarette between his fingers): This is quite extraordinary. Where did you get it? (He glances at Victor, who raises his eyebrows.) Alright. I never asked.
VICTOR: Special blend for medicinal purposes.
SHERLOCK (handing him the joint): Really?
VICTOR (taking a drag): No. But I figured you could do with it. (Sherlock frowns at him.) You climbed up here like an old man, my friend. Don't tell me it isn't helping.
Sherlock grimaces.
VICTOR: So. Now that he's out, does that mean you're back in?
SHERLOCK: No idea.
VICTOR (in a tone of surprise): Meaning you don't care?
SHERLOCK (with a wry smile): Meaning I don't suppose I'll be greatly missed.
VICTOR: Got a point there. I would, though. Care, I mean.
SHERLOCK (drily): Don't bother.
Victor shrugs. Sherlock leans back against the roof – more slowly and carefully than he normally would – and looks up at the sky with one hand behind his head. After a moment, he abruptly turns his face back towards his friend.
SHERLOCK: Did you mean what you just said?
VICTOR (with exasperated affection): Of course, you idiot.
SHERLOCK (with a sudden smile): Alright.
Victor smiles back at him, the first true smile we've seen from him since this whole affair blew up in their faces. They pass the joint back and forth again.
VICTOR: By the way. There's one more thing I'd still like to know.
SHERLOCK: Yes?
VICTOR: How the fuck did you know that someone had been on his computer at all?
SHERLOCK: Consider it a friendly greeting from the Classics and History of Art department over at The Other Place.
VICTOR: The Other Place? (He frowns.) Been sleeping with the enemy, have you?
Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and screws up his face in a grimace of disgust.
SHERLOCK: Unsay that, please.
Victor just looks amused. Sherlock struggles back into a sitting position and holds out his hand.
SHERLOCK: Give it here, quick.
Victor obliges, still grinning. Sherlock takes a deep drag and shudders. Victor laughs.
VICTOR: Sorry.
They both look out again over the city and into the setting sun. The evening light, reflected on the facades of the surrounding buildings in a warm glow, makes the river sparkle, and the fresh spring leafage in the park-like gardens across the water lights up like a green-gold fire. Victor receives the joint back from Sherlock, takes a pull and sighs.
VICTOR: I'm gonna miss this place.
SHERLOCK: Going away for the holidays?
VICTOR: Yep.
SHERLOCK: Summer job?
VICTOR: Kaspersky Lab.
Sherlock looks impressed.
VICTOR: Hong Kong.
SHERLOCK: Nice.
VICTOR (with a sidelong glance at his friend): And I have a feeling that I might not be coming back.
SHERLOCK (after a moment, rather stupidly): What?
VICTOR (with a shrug): Well, you know. It's what I like to do best. And the pay is princely. What do I need a degree for if I can have it all now?
Sherlock doesn't reply. He turns back towards the setting sun, his face bathed in the golden glow, his bruises burning dark red, his eyes fixed on some point in the far distance, beyond the roofs and towers of the city. After a moment, Victor touches him gently on the elbow with the back of his hand.
VICTOR: Here. The rest is yours.
Sherlock takes the joint from him, their fingers brushing against each other. He takes a couple of drags, blowing out smoke, his eyes still fixed on something that only he can see, hardly blinking. Victor is watching him silently, looking slightly guilty. After a while, Sherlock looks down pensively at the stub of the joint in his hand.
SHERLOCK (quietly): You were right. It does help.
West Road Concert Hall, Cambridge.A long shot of the light brown wood-and-brick interior with its rows upon rows of red seats, brightly and festively lit for the end of term concert, every last seat occupied, the orchestra on the stage in the full swing of the final movement of Mozart's Flute Concerto No. 2 in D major. On the rostrum, an extremely competent-looking middle-aged lady, short spiky hair dyed deep red, square black glasses, is conducting the orchestra with great verve, translating her energy and enthusiasm effortlessly to the musicians. Next to her, an Asian girl in an evening dress is in the soloist's place, her fingers flying up and down the keys and tone holes of her flute with dizzying speed and flawless accuracy. And at the third desk in the second violins, Sherlock and Victor – in smart black suits and bow ties, like all the other players – are happily embracing their mediocrity, sweeping through their parts with exuberant, almost contagious joie de vivre, all the more because they know it is the last time for both of them. Their bows rise and fall in perfect unison as we watch them wind their way to the climax of the finale and the very satisfying final chord. When all the players, at a sign of their stand-in conductor, rise as one to acknowledge the thunderous applause, Sherlock and Victor, standing side by side with their instruments in their hands, exchange a look, and first Victor and then Sherlock breaks into a smile of the sort that one rarely sees except on the faces of children. The image freezes on that shared smile, and the noise of the audience's applause slowly fades to the background.
JOHN (voice-over, very gently): So, what became of him?
The image dissolves to -
The present. 221B Baker Street. The living room. Outside, night has fallen, snow still swirling past the windows. Sherlock has walked over to the right hand window to look out into the darkness, and John has turned sideways in his chair to follow him with his eyes, his chin resting on his hand.
JOHN: You never mention him.
Sherlock glances very briefly at his friend, then turns back towards the window, and his expression becomes rather fixed.
SHERLOCK: Lost touch.
John opens his mouth as if to enquire further, but, seeing Sherlock's face, thinks better of it. The silence threatens to stretch uncomfortably between them when suddenly, there is a loud clanking noise from the direction of John's armchair, and we see Mycroft's glass on the floor, rolling across the carpet and soaking it with the remainder of its contents. John and Sherlock both whirl around to look at Mycroft in alarm. He is sitting utterly still, with his hand dangling limply over the armrest, his head tilted back and his mouth slightly open, obviously asleep. John exhales sharply in relief.
SHERLOCK: Aw, how sweet is that. I've bored him to sleep with all the human touch.
John gets up and approaches their guest, raising his hand as if to lay it on Mycroft's arm. Before he can do so -
SHERLOCK (very loudly): Mycroft! Wakey-wakey! Aliens have landed in St. James's Park, Father Christmas has been arrested at Heathrow with a sack full of Semtex, and you're asleep in Doctor Watson's chair!
Mycroft gives a start, opens his eyes and shudders, looking completely befuddled.
SHERLOCK (at a more appropriate volume): Well, actually, it's just that we'd like to go on putting up the fairy lights now, and your presence seems to be somewhat prejudicial to activities of that sort.
MYCROFT (slowly recovering his senses): I truly appreciate the compliment, Sherlock, but it's really not necessary. (He blinks repeatedly.)
John bends down to pick up the empty glass. Mycroft braces himself, checks the time on his pocket watch and stands up.
MYCROFT: Well – (squaring his shoulders) – time to go. Thank you for the drink, John. (To Sherlock) And for a very instructive story.
Sherlock sketches an ironic little bow. John's eyes go back and forth between the brothers, slightly puzzled by Mycroft's choice of words. Mycroft takes a few steps towards the living room door, then stops again as if he's just remembered something. He gestures towards Sherlock's computer.
MYCROFT: Would you like to keep trying, or shall I take it back with me now?
SHERLOCK: What? Oh. No, you take it. (He walks over and disconnects the memory stick.) Catch. (He tosses it to Mycroft, who catches it, but only just.) The solution is on there. Tell your cryptography friends Merry Christmas from me, and next time let them decide what to run by me or not. (With a smirk) Anyone with a Maths A level and a pocket calculator could have worked that one out in two or three hours, Mycroft. Unbreakable, indeed. (To John, pointing a finger at his thunderstruck brother and rolling his eyes) Classics and History of Art.
John politely tries but fails to suppress a grin.
MYCROFT (with a grudging smile): Oh yes, the benefits of knowing one's limits. (Once more, his smile assumes a sinister quality.) But I'm glad you don't see me as a calculating person. That would never do. (He walks forward, takes his coat and scarf from the hook behind the door and nods to his hosts.) Good evening to you both.
He exits the room, glancing upwards critically as he passes through the door. Sherlock and John, standing side by side, watch him out of the room in silence, Sherlock with his lips curled in a sneer, John frowning up at the door lintel. When Mycroft can be heard hurrying down the stairs -
JOHN: Please tell me there was never going to be any mistletoe.
SHERLOCK (pulling a face): Oh, of course not. Mrs Hudson seemed rather fond of the idea, but I confiscated it.
JOHN: Then where is it now?
SHERLOCK: In a jar in the kitchen. I'm trying to extract the viscotoxins. Might come in handy one of these days.
JOHN (slightly alarmed): Like when?
SHERLOCK: Mycroft's next visit?
Sherlock smiles down at his friend, and after a second or two, John glances up and smiles back. For a moment, we see something of an echo of that other shared smile, ten years earlier - not quite as innocent any more, nor quite as untroubled, but also not as fragile.
THE END
November 2014
Endnotes:
I would like to thank my fantastic beta reader Cooklet, to whom I am greatly indebted for everything from medical advice to helping me tweak and clarify major plot points. We spent more than a fortnight together in a virtual Cambridge, exchanging more words about this story than the actual story contains, and I'll always remember those weeks with the greatest pleasure!
Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Three Students" has been a major inspiration for this story. The concept of Victor Trevor is, of course, from "The Gloria Scott", while Violet Westbury was Conan Doyle's name for Westie's fiancee in "The Bruce-Partington Plans". Since she became Lucy Harrison in the show, I felt free to use her original name for my own character.
Sincere apologies to all classicists and art historians - the world needs you, no matter what some people in charge of university funding may say. But you probably know how snobbish scientists and medical doctors can get when it comes to the relative value of their own subjects compared to the Humanities. I'm afraid Sherlock and John wouldn't be an exception.
The college at Cambridge that I imagine to have been Sherlock's is definitely Clare. It has the lovely riverside location, it has a great musical tradition, and it's also known for being comparatively liberal and progressive, and would therefore be more likely to admit and tolerate someone like Sherlock than the more conservative colleges. And it has a safety notice on its website advising students not to climb onto the roof (it really has!). But the actual "geography" of its interior is totally a product of artistic licence on my part.
Another product of artistic licence is the idea that it's the actual tutors who submit the exam questions. In reality, it is of course an anonymous, centralised process, or else incidents like this case would be commonplace, which they fortunately aren't.
If you liked this and are maybe wondering about the same thing that John is wondering about in the final scene, check out the sequel, "Under the Radar", also on this site.