Chapter 2
John opens the door with a friendly, if slightly nervous, expression, until it turns to astonishment as he spots the bottle of red wine in Sherlock's hand.
"You're making red meat," Sherlock says, as if defending himself for the obviously out-of-character gesture. John smiles.
"Yes. Thanks," he says, taking the awkwardly thrust forward bottle and stepping aside to let Sherlock in. As he does so, Sherlock spots Samson standing not far behind his father, a suspicious look on this face.
"Hello," Sherlock greets stiffly, nodding at the boy, who responds in kind. Sherlock removes his gloves and clutches at them for a moment, feeling uncharacteristically unsure. For years, Sherlock had been devoid of doubt; he had goals to meet, and in order to survive he had to follow the plans he laid before him meticulously. Everything was technical, thrilling, exhausting, with no room for hesitation, or thought beyond the multitude of plays in the chess game he had been captured within. And yet here, in this moment, Sherlock feels off balance, as if he is risking more than his life, and the fogged rules, the uncertain possibilities, cause a sort of social awkwardness he's not sure he's ever felt before, except maybe when he was a small child and still uncomprehending of the often caustic reactions of adults, or the teasing, weary attitude of his peers.
"You can leave your coat on the hanger," John suggests, and Sherlock nods, doing so. When he turns back, John has left the wine on the already set table, and is standing behind his son, a hand on his shoulder, enveloping it completely. Sherlock feels an instantaneous divide between him and them, but his expression remains neutral. For a moment, Sherlock once again analyses the face of John's son; the fair hair, the round face and button nose, the thin lips and blue eyes, all posed in a guarded expression of mistrust.
"Samson, this is Sherlock, an old friend of mine. He used to live with me when I was in London, before I met mum," John introduces.
"Pleased to meet you," Samson says, extending his hand in offering, a gesture that seems more due to conditioned learning than any emotive acceptance of Sherlock's presence, but Sherlock approaches and shakes, the boy's palm rough from games on the playground and beach, and kite flying, if Sherlock is not mistaken. The grip is sturdy, and a ghost of a smile appears on Sherlock's lips before the haunting disappears.
"I hope you're hungry," John goes on as the contact breaks. "The food is ready." Sherlock looks up at John and nods, sitting where he is ordered, and watches the pair bring in steaming food from the kitchen; as Sherlock had guessed, red meat in some kind of dark sauce, as well as sides of potatoes and other baked vegetables. A relatively simple but hardy meal, as would be expected of his John.
As the food is served and they begin to eat, an irrationally awkward silence falls, and Sherlock has to stop himself from spearing his potatoes with a little too much force at the ridiculous frustration he feels. If only everything could be as crystalline as solving puzzles, instead of the tangled mess of social interaction.
"So...what have you been up to today?" John ventures, and Sherlock glances at him, chewing on his food passively. The tastes are far too rich, his palette unaccustomed to anything beyond the simplest meals, but he eats dutifully.
"Went to the police station to see if they had any cold cases I could assist on. They weren't very receptive," Sherlock grumbles.
"Ah. I guess Lestrade was a bit of a special case," John smiles. "Speaking of, have you even gone to see him? Or any of the others, for that matter?" John asks, as if the idea had only just hit him, though Sherlock knows better.
"No."
"Why? Sherlock! They still think you've dead!" John admonishes, a tone Sherlock knows all too well. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Dull," Sherlock says, but at the stern compression of John lips, goes on. "Don't worry, my insufferable brother will send a car 'round in the next few days. I would be infinitely surprised if he did not know of my existence the moment I stepped foot on the oh-so-Great Britain," he waves off. John opens his mouth to protest, but only a sight comes out.
"Why do people think you're dead?" Samson pipes up suddenly, and Sherlock looks at the boy, who is mashing his potatoes into the sauce. Sherlock tries not to wrinkle his nose.
"I faked my death to avoid the death of my...of some people. One of which was your father," Sherlock replies without reserve. Samson stops playing with his food, looking as if he is trying to figured out if he's being fooled or not. John clears his throat.
"Sherlock was a detective about ten years ago, and I used to help him on some cases. On the last case we did together there was a bad man who wanted to harm us, and Sherlock had to fake his death to get him off our backs," John explains. Sherlock watches as an unguarded, childish fear takes over the boy's face.
"Wait...like in the movies? What happened to him? Is he going to hurt you?" he asks quickly, and John shakes his head, smiling.
"No, Samson, Sherlock got rid of him. Right, Sherlock?" John asks with a meaningful look.
"Right."
Samson frowns down at his plate, no doubt trying to decide if to believe the story or not.
"So you're like a spy or something? Do you work for the CIA?" Samson asks, and Sherlock almost chokes on his food, looking affronted.
"Certainly not! I'm a consulting detective, and let me assure you that I do not work for the government," he says, and John chuckles slightly. The boy looks at Sherlock curiously.
"So you solve crimes? Like a superhero?" Sherlock's lips thin, but John interjects before he can say anything.
"Yes. Exactly." Sherlock looks at him for a long moment and wonders, after everything that has happened, how John can possibly hold on to that sentiment. Superheroes don't even solve crimes, they merely prevent them. But he says nothing.
"Cool," Samson says, resuming his mashing, before asking his father, "And you helped him? Like, doing what?"
"Well," John says, and tells his son about Baskerville, being the most fantastical of their adventures, in his eyes. Samson listens to the tale with increasing astonishment, and shows a childish delight in the existence of glowing rabbits, and phantom dogs, and Sherlock reads much into the fact that John had not shared this part of his life with his son before. Out of grief, partly, perhaps, but mostly, Sherlock thinks, to build himself as another man, one which can live in a quiet town, and have a quiet life. When the story finishes, their meal eaten and the leftovers cooled on the table, Samson sitting in excitable wonder at his new insight into his father and the strange man sharing their food, Sherlock speaks up suddenly.
"Your limp is gone." John starts slightly, surprised out of his reverie, the aged enjoyment and echoed adrenaline rush, and looks at Sherlock.
"Yeah...well, it came back, not long after you...left. But it disappeared completely after Samson was born."
"You had a limp?" Samson asks, as Sherlock mutters, "How fortuitous." John explains his psychosomatic state to Samson, but he glances at Sherlock often in a searching manner, and probably finds too much.
The plates are cleared, John saying nothing of the food left on Sherlock's, and dessert is served, a traditional apple crumble with custard. Samson, now much more alive and engaged than at the start of the night, asks after Sherlock's own adventures during his time defeating the "bad man".
Apathetically at first, but with building enthusiasm as he sees his audience's enjoyment, he tells them about the poisonous fish trade in Japan, a story replete with assassination plots, yakuza involvement, gun fights, and a stabbing that had fortunately only been a flesh wound on Sherlock's arm, where the scar is still apparent in a silver line. Samson's eyes are wide and awed, sitting on his haunches on the chair, body leaning over the table as if proximity could melt him into the events.
"That is so cool," he says as Sherlock finishes, and the man smirks, for he chose a story that showed of both his intellectual and fighting capabilities quite well. John, too, though he has heard the story before, is smiling widely, and Sherlock experiences an odd moment of emotion, of connection, as if for the moment he is not alone, and is part of this family, of their cultivated tenderness, and he looks at John, for the first time letting the memory and reality of him melt to form something acceptable and unthreatening, for Sherlock realizes in that moment that he had been worried that this new John would be so different that the old one would be completely lost to Sherlock, and it would turn out that though it was Sherlock who fell from a great height, it was he who would have to grieve for his friend. But, in that instant, with Samson and him looking at Sherlock with almost identical expressions of delight, he feels himself relax slightly, and smiles openly, letting himself enjoy the moment.
The talk of past adventures has neared them to midnight, and John points this out to his son, who groans at the prospect of doing something as boring and common as sleep after hearing tales of such risk and action, but John has grown quite adept at donning a stern look, one Sherlock knows all-too-well,
"I should be going," Sherlock says, reading the signs, but he feels an odd warmth at Samson's disappointed expression, a sensation that grows when John says, "Don't worry, Sherlock will be back soon. Now go wash up."
"Urgh, fine," Samson mutters, but leaves obediently after saying goodbye to Sherlock, who has already wrapped his coat around him, though his gloves remain stuffed in his pocket.
"This was...nice," Sherlock says, and John, looking surprised, agrees.
"Yes...it really was. You should come back soon, or I'll never hear the end of it from Samson," John invites with a smile, and Sherlock nods once. There is an awkward moment in which they simply stand facing each other, immobile, and Sherlock feels a ridiculous want for some kind of contact, to take a step forward and at least feel the sturdiness of John's shoulder under his hand. Instead, however, he pulls on his gloves sharply, and nods again.
"Well, goodbye," he says, and John nods also, holding the door open as Sherlock steps out. He is down one step out of three when John calls out Sherlock's name, who turns around to look at the other man's silhouette.
"I..." There is a pause. "Goodnight," John says lamely, and Sherlock waits for a moment longer, before saying,
"Goodnight." Sherlock hears the door close behind him a few seconds later as he walks away, and though he feels a placeless disappointment born only from the last few minutes of the night, underneath and around that he feels warm and content, and is happy to call the meal a success.
...**...
Sherlock had not been wrong when he had predicted the appearance of his brother. The very next morning, as Sherlock lies on top of his bed like a resting paintbrush in a combination of deep thought and boredom, a knock on the door reveals two men in impeccably dull suits, and a black car waiting in the parking lot, which he gets into without protest, for he sees no point in arguing against the unavoidable.
It is not raining in London, but the city is wet, brown puddles collected on the side of the road, the brick walls of buildings saturated and damp, soaking up the dull light filtered through the thick clouds greying the sky. Sherlock does not feel much of anything as he enters the government building in which his brother awaits, having not felt particularly betrayed by his abuse of Sherlock's childhood knowledge all those years ago, for one cannot truly be let down by somebody one doesn't really trust in the first place. Sherlock has always known that, for Queen and country, Mycroft would stop just short of selling their mother on the black market. Blood, in this case, is not thicker than patriotism.
The men accompanying Sherlock stop outside a double door, one of them knocking sharply and then motioning for Sherlock to enter. He does so, and the man he finds behind a large, nondescript desk surprises him slightly. Mycroft, though impeccably dressed and groomed, looks much older than he had expected. His hair, Sherlock can tell, is dyed, but the wrinkles on his pumpkin shaped face, and the expanded girth of his middle, cannot be hidden by paint. His eyes are steady and piercing, cataloguing Sherlock in an instant, but he stands unmoving after lifting from his chair.
"Sherlock," the man says, and there are new creaks in this voice.
"Mycroft," his brother replies. For a moment they simply stand there, looking at each other, unchallenging, made from the same womb and upbringing, but in that moment separated by a vast and endless sea. Then, to Sherlock's surprise, his brother rounds the table and envelops Sherlock in a hug, his wide arms capturing Sherlock's slim frame completely. Sherlock stands stiff and unyielding for a moment, before letting himself relax, pressing his forehead against a shoulder and breathing the familiar and unchanged scent of Mycroft's characteristic soap and cologne. It has been a very long time since Sherlock has been touched by anybody, and though this has never bothered him before, the solitude of the past decade has made the absence stark and obvious and troubling. Despite his mistrusting and competitive relationship with his brother, Mycroft has been a constant in his life, and though meddling and infuriating, Sherlock knows that his brother, for whatever reason, has often had his best interest in mind, even though his methods are more often than not intrusive and dogmatic.
"I'm glad to see you alive and well, Sherlock," Mycroft says as they part, and Sherlock nods. Mycroft pours them two cups of tea in china cups as they sit down on opposite sides of the desk, and there is a pause as Sherlock leaves his untouched, whilst Mycroft sips from his own.
"I have to confess that what happened with Mr. Moriarty...I miscalculated. An apology is long overdue." A pause. "I'm sorry," Mycroft says, his voice softened by age and old grief. Sherlock tips his head slightly in acknowledgement.
"Well, don't try to take all the credit, Mycroft. And I can't say I'm displeased that I thwarted a man that outdid you," Sherlock smirks slightly. "I hope you keep that in mind the next time you think yourself more intelligent than I." Mycroft tries to look exasperated but smiles instead.
"I hope that I am correct in assuming that the little problem has been dealt with completely?" Mycroft asks. Sherlock succeeds in not rolling his eyes at the use of the phrase, "little problem".
"Quite," he responds, finally taking a drink from his cup, and Mycroft sits back, looking satisfied, but not taking his eyes off his brother.
"You have gone to see Mummy?" Mycroft asks after a pause.
"Yes."
"I expect she did not take too kindly to your little stunt."
"She set the dogs on me," Sherlock replies a little sullenly, and has the sudden urge to stick his tongue out at the amusement in Mycroft's eyes. Some habits never die.
There is a sudden knock on the door, and Mycroft sits up.
"Come in," he calls. "I'm sure you won't mind, but I've invited some old friends of yours to join us."
"I expected no less from your meddling ways," Sherlock sighs, standing up just as Greg Lestrade steps inside the room. Sherlock looks at the old Inspector, who has also aged greatly, his hair now more salt than pepper, and the lines of a stressful life etched deeply on his face. For a moment there is complete silence and stillness, before Lestrade strides forward in a burst of action.
"I should have known! I should have known!" The man growls, stopping inches from Sherlock, and though his movement are angry, there is a different, more relieved expression on his face.
"And yet you didn't. Another point lost for the London police force," Sherlock says, and Lestrade lets out a burst of air.
"I should punch you."
"Now, now," Mycroft says from behind his desk, "no need for that sort of violence here." Lestrade stands still for a moment before pulling Sherlock suddenly into a rough hug, which ends just as abruptly.
"I'm glad you're alive, you tosser. What on earth have you been up to all this time?" He says, but is interrupted by another knock and the door being once again flung open.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade steps aside to look at Molly, who the years have been kind to. Her hair is cut short, the ends skimming her jaw line, and has filled out slightly, acquiring the curves gifted by a good life and childbearing. Her face has matured out of her previously slightly childish features, and Sherlock grunts as she flings herself at him in a tight hug.
"Hello, Molly."
"I can't believe you're back! I...I wondered if...you were gone for so long..."
"You knew?" Lestrade asks incredulously, and Molly pulls back, shrugging apologetically as she sniffles slightly, her eyes bright with tears.
"I promised not to tell," she says simply.
"Married life suits you, you've put on half a stone," Sherlock says, and Molly laughs wetly, hitting Sherlock on the arm.
"I would say you haven't changed at all but..." she rests the palm of her hand lightly on Sherlock's cheek, "I can see that isn't true," she says softly, to which Sherlock has no reply.
"Well, sit down. Michael, bring in some more tea and some scones for our guests, and make sure we aren't disturbed," Mycroft orders.
"Yes, sir," the man in the suit says, closing the door as he exits.
Sherlock is once again enticed into sharing the story of his ten years abroad, though the fact doesn't displease him, and he gives them a slightly abbreviated version. Mycroft looks as if he is not surprised by anything his brother says, Lestrade looks mostly incredulous, and Molly is in turns aghast and delighted. The afternoon passes quickly, and Sherlock is told, though he has already deduced, that Lestrade remarried, and re-divorced, and that even at his age he is still on the force. Molly is happily married, with two children of her own, and still works in St. Bart's, doing what she has always done, though she is now head of her department.
It is almost tea time when Sherlock leaves, though he is driven to 221 Baker Street, where he is met by Mrs. Hudson, who slaps him on the arm before hugging him. She looks as if time has shrunk her slightly, but as healthy and active as she did ten years ago, despite the claim of almost having a heart attack when she heard the news of Sherlock's resurrection. They sit in her living room and drink tea, Mrs. Hudson sharing tale of events Sherlock is mostly uninterested in, but that are listened to dutifully, only captured once the topic turns to John.
"He was quite distraught, the poor boy. The things you get up to Sherlock, couldn't you have told him? It was very hard on him you know," she admonishes.
"I know," Sherlock says passively.
"It was very good for him when he met that girl, Mary. She was a good sort, managed to get John out of his shell...such a shame that she had to die. Cancer, you know. Everybody is getting it these days. Mrs. Turner had it, though she had an operation and was as right as rain afterwards. Funny how us old crows survive whilst you youngsters...well. No use dwelling on that. It'll be good for him that you're back," she says, patting Sherlock's hand.
"Will it?" Sherlock frowns, though there is no inflection in his voice.
"Yes, Sherlock. He's missed you terribly, even after he married. We visit, well, visited, your grave together every year, and he always looked so terribly...alone." She drifts off slightly, as if remembering exactly the expression on John's face that had caused such a conclusion.
"He wasn't alone, though," Sherlock says, and Mrs. Hudson looks at him with a knowing look.
"There are many types of loneliness, dear. You know that." Sherlock says nothing, but when he leaves with a kiss on his cheek she looks at him meaningfully and says, "Say hello to John for me, won't you?"
The drive back to the seaside is long, and as darkness falls Sherlock submerges himself in deep though, watching the lights and shadows flitter past as the moon follows the car. He feels exhausted, but a sense of determination grows inside him, nourished by the acceptance from the other people he had left behind.
There, he finds hope.
...**...
Weeks pass Sherlock by, the hours a never ending tide. The time he doesn't spend with John and Samson is occupied with long walks around the town as Sherlock memorizes every street and crossroad, which he sketches out on long, thin rolls of paper from the only supply store he finds. He starts investigating a series of robberies in one of the neighbourhoods, but the attempt is lacklustre, oftentimes failing to fully capture his distracted mind, perhaps because the mystery lacks the excitement of Moriarty's chase, or because the once natural progress of working alone leaves him now wanting. Whatever the case, the effect is of frustration and restlessness, leaving Sherlock out of sorts and aching for something not even he knows the source of.
It's an unusually sunny Saturday in early March, and Sherlock finds himself on the beach with John and Samson, who seem used to this routine. Sherlock has not spent a simple day by the seaside since he was a child, and feels like an awkward addition to the playful family of two, standing stiffly with the sun in his hair, watching the two pick seashells and run around with abandon in the sand. Sherlock distracts himself by walking closer to the dunes that stretch farther away from the sea, inspecting the feathers that lay on the ground, trembling in the soft wind.
"What are you doing?" Asks a voice behind Sherlock's crouched form, and he turns around to see Samson looking at him curiously.
"Gathering data on local bird species," Sherlock replies.
"You like birds, then?" Samson asks, walking closer.
"Not particularly." Samson watches Sherlock for a moment, before laughing slightly, but he doesn't ask why Sherlock would be gathering data on birds if he didn't like them, which Sherlock appreciates, far too used to stupid questions. Samson squats beside Sherlock, his coat puffing around him, to look at the feather being twirled by Sherlock's fingers.
"Is that a seagull feather?" The boy asks. Sherlock looks at him contemplatively for a moment before holding the object of interest up.
"Yes. A flight feather, to be precise."
"Flight feather? How do you know?" Samson says, looking up at Sherlock, who even crouching is taller than the boy.
"Well..." Sherlock begins, before standing up and looking around for a comparison. They walk around slowly for a while, Sherlock inspecting the ground carefully, ignoring John as he walks up to join them.
"Ah, here," Sherlock says, bending down. "This is a tail feather. Can you see the difference?" He hands the two dirty-white feathers to Samson, who holds them up in parallel, frowning at them in concentration.
"This is the flight feather, right?" Samson asks, holding one up. Sherlock nods. "This one has more feather stuff on one side of the bone thing, and the other- the tail feather- has the same amount on both sides," he says, looking inquisitively at Sherlock, who smiles slightly.
"Well done. Both tail and flight feathers are compact and have long vanes, which is the length of feather, but tail feathers have the rachis, the boned middle, at equidistance from the edge of the feather, whilst the flight feather does not," Sherlock clarifies. Samson looks at the feathers, inspecting the calcium spine.
"Rachis," he repeats under his breath. "Why are they different?" Samson asks, still peering at the feathers.
"The asymmetrical shape of the flight feather is better for cutting through air, causing less drag, whilst the symmetrical form of the tail feather is good for balance," Sherlock explains, finding that he is enjoying himself.
"Cool," Samson says. "I like birds, though seagulls can be really mean. One stole a sandwich once, right out of my hands!"
"They have adapted well to life in urbanized areas, yes."
"What other types of feathers are there?"
"The rest, at least on seagulls, are mainly body feathers. They tend to be smaller and lighter, so we can probably find them in the shrubbery," Sherlock says. As they set off in search of them, Sherlock glances at John, catching the bright smile on his face, and can't help but return the expression. When they had worked together in London, there was less teaching and more showing off on Sherlock's part, but the role of educator is not as taxing as Sherlock would have thought. On the contrary, Sherlock feels warmed by the engaged, interested expression of the other two. It is not long before John finds some downy feathers caught on an Acacia Baileyana, and then a semiplume fluttering at the base of an Artemesia Powis shrub, and Sherlock entertains by explaining their insulator and water resistant uses, and points out that Samson's jacket is most likely stuffed with the downy feathers of geese. John wrinkles his nose a little when Samson asks if he can take the feathers home, but acquiesces. When Samson and John go back to the shoreline to continue picking up smoothed glass and seashells, Sherlock joins them, and walks, shoulder to shoulder, with John, as Samson runs around them, flittering back every now and again to show them a particularly pretty find. The sea air has never seemed so clean and fresh to Sherlock, and as it fills his lungs it has an almost healing effect, soothing edges that have long been raw and ragged, and finds there is a content expression on his face that he can't shake off. John too, he notes, is more relaxed than Sherlock has seen him since he returned, and the sound of his laughter makes smiling easy and natural for Sherlock. It is an easy comradeship which Sherlock finds he has missed dearly, and as he looks at John he feels something he can't quite name. A warmth at the base of his lungs and tips of his fingers, and it feels as if he is cultivating something delicate and beautiful, the petals of which bloom deep in his chest. As sunset falls, a dusty colouring of pink and orange fading across the horizon, Sherlock agrees to dinner with an unhesitant heart, and even helps in the cooking process, much to Samson's delight, which has taken a quick and sudden liking to the knowledgeable Sherlock, who so obviously makes his father happy. During the meal they talk much about nothing, though Samson manages to convince Sherlock to share another one of his stories as they eat dessert, and Sherlock feels calm and content, the soft feeling inside him growing in the nourishment of John's home. Even if Sherlock wanted to try, he would not be capable of explaining the feeling of sitting down without having to check his position against windows and doors, straining his ears to make sure he doesn't miss the sound of his booby traps going off, without having to feel persecuted, or carefully analyzing the words of his companions lest they be one of Moriarty's, or rather, Moran's, men, the latter of which has taken over much of Jim's "enterprises" once he was dead, which had forced Sherlock to be exceedingly careful in how he infiltrated Moriarty's crime syndicate, lest he be found out and his friends killed. Now, he can just talk, and watch John, learning his new ways, and being comforted by his old ones, and he realizes that the warmth inside him goes beyond a physical feeling, into the deeper and more dangerous waters of emotions.
It is once again late when they finish the sweetest part of their meal, but when Samson is carted off to bed, Sherlock stays a while longer, indulging in his desire to let the evening with John last a while longer. He leans against a kitchen counter as John washes dishes in the sink, talking quietly, observing the movements of his elbows and back, the only sound their hushes voices, the clinking of plates and glasses and sloshing water, and the sea washing sand in and out in the distance. The moment seems to bubble around them, a bell jar containing just the two men, encapsulated against the wind and cold of the outside world, against passing time, even, and as a lull in conversation falls, Sherlock cannot resist the temptation of being closer to John. He walks slowly, with measured but mindless steps, towards the sink, until his chest is close to John's back, and lets his hands rest on John's shoulders, feeling the suddenly tense line of their muscles and bones. John's hands stop the cyclical movement of plate washing. Sherlock takes a step closer, until John's heat is his, a ghostly presence that has the most proficient of haunting abilities. He closes his eyes, unable to comprehend the feeling the mere stance causes in him. He is made for thought, logic; not for emotions. Not for this. As if no longer in control of his body, he feels his head tip slightly forwards until his nose is barely brushing John's hair. He exhales. John trembles beneath his hands.
"Sherlock." The voice is as soft and transparent as the heat between them. "I...Stop. It's. It's too much after too little." Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. John is so incomprehensible at times. He steps away, and the loss is instantaneous.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock is never one to leave curiosity neglected. There is a pause, and John doesn't move from his statuesque stance.
"I...when a person has been starved, malnourished, for a very long time, and then suddenly faced with a banquet, their first instinct is to eat, to devour. But after the first few bites their body, used to so little, rejects anything further. The stomach closes up. The food is rejected. They...they want. But they can't have it. It's...physiology. Biology. An uncontrollable truth." A long silence follows. Neither of them move.
"So...you want. But you can't," Sherlock asks. Only then does John turn to look at him, and the sadness there could fill the deepest of oceans.
"Yes, Sherlock. Something like that." John returns to washing, and the moment passes. The bell jar breaks.
When Sherlock leaves not long after, John's words tread footmarks across his mind, trying to comprehend the feeling of too much after too little.
...**...
"So is there murder involved?" Samson asks, trotting besides Sherlock's long strides, who unthinkingly slows down to let the kid catch up.
"Probably. We'll know more when we interview the widow," Sherlock replies, and smiles slightly as Samson reacts with an enthusiastic "cool". He hasn't exactly asked John permission to take his child to a crime scene, but in theory the investigation revolves around a robbery, with no body or blood to traumatise the boy, so Sherlock doesn't know what John could possibly have against the little excursion. Sherlock has been left in charge of Samson due to the fact that he is off school because of a local holiday that, unfortunately, John cannot take advantage of, and the babysitter had fallen through because of a sudden-onset bout of flu. John hadn't been exactly enthused with the idea of Sherlock minding the kid when he had offered, by after having his ear chewed off by Samson, had agreed, albeit reluctantly. Sherlock could see that it was partly because of Samson's enthusiasm, but also because Sherlock seemed to be actually trying, a rare thing for him to do in social situations. What had begun as a calm day inside John's house has ended up in a trip to the house of a woman whose husband was recently deceased in a hit and run, followed by a robbery at their home in which only a few, extremely valuable, first-edition books had been stolen, leaving everything else untouched.
The woman who opens the door looks tired and sallow, the bags under her eyes, the uncoordinated clothing, the unwashed hair and chipped nails all telling Sherlock about her grief over her recent loss.
"Yes?" She sighs in greeting, an arm wrapped around her middle in a protective fashion. Sherlock fakes gentleness.
"I'm here to speak to you about the robberies," Sherlock explains. "Don't mind him," he adds as the widow glances at Samson, who stays still and silent after a subdued "hello".
"I already talked to the police about that," she says, still blocking the entryway.
"I'm a consultant with them, I'm here to help," Sherlock says, holding back his impatience.
"Look," she begins, shaking her head, "I don't really want to go over it again. I talked to the police, they should have my statement. Just look at that, ok? Have a good-"
"I think your husband's death wasn't an accident," Sherlock interrupts, and the woman freezes, true attention focusing her eyes.
"What?" She whispers weakly.
"I'll explain everything," Sherlock assures, glancing meaningfully behind her and into the house. There is a long pause in which she just stares at Sherlock, before wordlessly stepping back in a clear invitation to come in, which Sherlock immediately accepts, Samson following behind. Sherlock takes stock of the layout of the house in one quick look, finding a nondescript, lived-in place, with perhaps more books stacked in bookcases and shelves than is the norm.
"Where was the safe the books were kept in?" Sherlock asks.
"Wait, about my husband-"
"The safe first," Sherlock interrupts. "Please," he adds as an afterthought. The woman stands still for a second before leading him to a hidden window in one of the bookcases, behind which is the safe. Sherlock inspects the model for an instant, Samson peering curiously into the now empty space.
"What is the boy doing here?" The woman asks suddenly. Sherlock doesn't turn to look at her, running a gloved finger on the side of the secret door.
"I'm babysitting," he says offhandedly, to which the woman bristles.
"Babysitting? Is this a joke? I swear to God-"
"I'm sorry," Samson apologises quickly, standing straight, and Sherlock turns to look at him. "I can wait outside. Sherlock was nice enough to look after me 'cause it's a holiday at school but my dad's a doctor and Cynthia, my babysitter, she's got the flu you see, but Sherlock came here anyways so that the case could be solved as quickly as possible, for your sake. To have some closure. I...I know what it's like to lose someone. My mum...she had cancer," the boy says, his voice faltering at the end, head tilting down to avoid the stares that are now focused on him. The woman presses her fingers lightly on her lips.
"I'm so sorry," she says wetly. "Here, let's sit down. I'll tell you all I can." Samson follows her to a used but presentable couch, turning down the tea the woman offers. Sherlock follows a moment later, staring at Samson intently. He is, Sherlock thinks, remarkably like his father.
True to her word, the woman answers all of Sherlock questions, growing more and more upset but managing to control herself enough to last the interview. Samson watches carefully, and Sherlock can see John there, there, in the interest and focus of his eyes, and nostalgia blooms for a second before being pushed away. When Sherlock is done, he sits pensively in silence for a few moments, before nodding and standing up.
"Thank you. The police will contact you shortly, I believe," he says, pulling his gloves on.
"Wait! You said, my husband, you said it wasn't an accident?" The widow says, also standing up.
"Yes, I believe he was murdered. As I said, the police will contact you shortly, I wouldn't worry much about the matter until all the facts can be verified."
"Not worry? You want me not to worry that my husband was murdered?" The woman asks, agitated.
"You are not in any danger-"
"That's not what I'm worried about! Who did it? Why? For the books? For God's sake say something!" She shouts, and Samson shrinks away slightly, nevertheless looking at Sherlock steadfastly.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot do so before the police talk to the suspect. Understand that though I comprehend your need for answers, in the unlikely case that I am mistaken, more harm than good will come of it. Now, you have given me all the information I need. All to be done is to question the suspect and if the books are in his possession then all will be resolved. It will be done quickly, but for your sake as well as mine, it is better for you to be kept in the dark of what right now are theories, instead of facts. Justice will be done. You needn't worry about that. Sit tight. You will have your answers, I assure you," Sherlock says without much emotion, though with understanding. The widow stands there, a hand clutched on the cloth over her heart. Samson moves to stand beside Sherlock, and looks up at the woman.
"He's a good detective, Missus. He'll make sure everything is done right. You can trust him." Samson says softly. The widow looks at him for a moment, before her shoulders slump, defeated, and she nods.
"Ok. I...understand. Thank you," she replies without force, and leads them to the door, shutting it quietly behind them.
"Couldn't you have been a bit nicer?" Samson asks as they begin walking, zipping up his coat. Sherlock glances at him, but says nothing. "So? How did it go?"
"You did well. Just like your father," Sherlock says. Samson smiles.
"Thanks. But I meant, what did you find out? Why'd you think the husband was murdered?" He asks.
"Ah. Well, it's obvious, really," Sherlock says, and explains to him about the true value of those rare books, about how the perpetrator must have known exactly where to look, as nothing else had been searched, and therefore must have been someone known, but closer to the wife, close enough to spare her life, close enough to have motive to remove the husband from the picture besides opening a window in which the house would be inhabited and insure that he did not take the books to the safe at his work, as he often did, for he was a book store owner and often had opportunity to showcase them. Coupled with the fact that the husband was pedantically careful enough for it not to be feasible that he would jaywalk with a car approaching at a speed sufficient for death, and that the robbery had happened but a day later, it all pointed to murder. As to whom the suspect was, well, the obvious choice was James Saunter, a friend of the widow's in her book club, who had been to the house, been shown the books, and knew enough about the topic to know their value without being told. In short, Sherlock was amazed the police hadn't figured it out, simply because the widow would never think of James as capable of such a thing. And, alas, there lies the defect in sentiment.
"Wow," Samson says after a moment of silence in the aftermath of Sherlock effusive explanation. "That was amazing. I was wondering why you asked about her book club." Sherlock looks at Samson, who is walking happily beside him, and smiles.
"Yes, well, to find the answer you must ask the right question," Sherlock says, and Samson nods in agreement. There is a long period of silence as they continue towards the Watson household, until Samson asks suddenly,
"Sherlock...do you believe in heaven?" Sherlock is startled out of the text conversation with the police chief, who seems unnecessarily confused as to how Sherlock obtained his number, and why he knows so much about the case.
"Of course not," he scoffs, tucking the phone away as it rings silently. He has no energy to receive a talking to now.
"What do you think happens after death, then?" Samson goes on. Sherlock sighs.
"Decomposition," he answers. Samson looks up at him.
"That's it? What about the soul?"
"What about it? The soul is an imagined construct made by the feeble minded in order to explain the complex work of neurons and to elevate humans above the status of animal. We are arrogant creatures, and people cannot seem to fathom the idea that we are simply organic matter, like anything else in this world, and that the voice inside one's head, the array of emotions and concept of time and memories, can all be eliminated by blows to the head, believing that we are made in the 'image of God'; how ridiculous! Heaven is an idea born of fear. When one dies, that is exactly what happens. You die. Your body decays, and your personality disappears," Sherlock rants carelessly. Samson tucks his hands inside his jacket pockets, puffed around his small frame.
"Right," he says slowly, looking down. Sherlock glances at him.
"Have I upset you?" He asks. Samson shakes his head slowly.
"Not really."
"Are you thinking of your mother?" Sherlock hedges. Samson looks up at him again.
"Yeah." There is a moment of silence.
"There is nothing wrong with decomposition, Samson. It is not worse than eternity. And it is a very interesting process. I can teach you about it, if you like," Sherlock says. Samson smiles slightly.
"Ok," he says quietly.
They do not speak for the rest of the walk, but though the wind pulls and whistles around them, the silence between them is calm.
...**...
"A crime scene!?" John shouts. His face is an odd combination of pallor and red splotches which, in Sherlock's experience, means he is quite upset.
"Not the scene of the murder, John. Give me some credit," Sherlock mumbles, turning his untouched tea mug on the kitchen counter it rests on, a long, pale finger pushing despondently at the handle.
"Sherlock, I trusted you with my son and you take him to a crime scene?"
"It was a house."
"A stranger's house!"
"She wasn't the criminal, John."
"It's still exposing him to-"
"Dad! Give it a rest, we just talked to a woman, she was nice," Samson interrupts, jumping up on the stool besides Sherlock and leaning over the kitchen counter towards where his dad stands in the kitchen. "And. It. Was. Awesome!" He enthuses. "You should have seen him! He inspected the safe all detective like, and then asked a bunch of questions the police hadn't even thought of and solved it in like five minutes, dad! He was like bam! It's the book club creep!" He grins at Sherlock, who straightens up, a smile at the edge of his lips.
"Oh, stop looking so smug. He'll be asking to go to all the crime scenes now," John mutters grumpily, though he is obviously appeased in the face of his son's unharmed enthusiasm.
"Can I!?"
"No!"
"Aw, man, you're such a drag," Samson complains. "Well, I'm gonna be a detective when I'm older. Do you think you could show me how to do it, Sherlock?" Samson asks, all earnest eyes. Sherlock glances at John in amusement for a second.
"Well, the science of deduction is a delicate but demanding field, but you seem bright enough, as Watson's go," he teases. John huffs, and Samson beams.
"And I can ask uncle Lestrade to teach me as well!" he says, practically crawling onto the counter in his excitement.
"Samson, get off that," John says.
"As useless policemen go, Lestrade is one of the better ones. Just make sure not to talk to Anderson," Sherlock instructs.
"Anderson? Who is that? Why?"
"One of the monkeys the police deem good enough to employ. He's got such a severe case of stupidity that I fear it may be contagious. I don't want you exposed to that if I am to teach you," Sherlock says. John sighs. Samson laughs in delight at hearing an adult insult another.
"What kind of monkey?" Samson asks.
"The lobotomized kind," Sherlock replies.
"I've got two children, now," John mumbles in resignation, but he is smiling, one Sherlock cannot help but return.
Sherlock stays for dinner, dessert, and then is somehow convinced to sit through a movie which's plot is so transparent Sherlock cannot understand the point of seeing more than the first ten minutes, but he stays silent until the credits roll. Exhausted by the day's excitement, Samson falls asleep against Sherlock, and when the movie ends and John spots Sherlock slumped on the sofa, Samson curled and pressed beside him, he pauses and stares at the picture they make. Somewhere in his expression, Sherlock can tell, is happiness. They talk quietly well into the night, about cases and experiments and memories and nothing-at-alls, until Samson stirs and is taken off to bed. John offers Sherlock a night on the couch, but he turns it down. He fears that if he stays there much longer, in that warmth and quiet, he will lose sight of what reality is actually like.
When Sherlock leaves, John takes hold of his wrist, just for a moment, and Sherlock can feel John's fingers over his pulse, the strength and warmth of them, before the contact breaks, and he is lost to the cold of the witching hours.