The House pt. 1
In which there is fear, a house and a pregnancy test
Henry Knight was 30 years old and nervous.
But then, Henry was always nervous. Ever since the incidents at Baskervilles, he had never been the same. He had lost his fear of the place, the events that had occurred there, and the absolute terror of dogs; but still, the memories kept creeping back into his brain, igniting new phobias and nervous ticks. Now, Henry drummed his fingers against his leg as the car door shut and the engine gunned. He fought to stay focused, and tried to convince himself this was silly. I am not afraid of tiny spaces, I am not afraid of tiny spaces, he mentally chanted.
As usual, his therapist's (now his fiancée's) methods did nothing to settle his nerves as the car sped down the road. Henry closed his eyes and tried not to think about the walls and ceiling of metal and upholstery that were encasing him, sealing him from the outside world. Calm down, he thought in earnest, wrestling with himself, it's only a ten minute drive. Ten minutes and then it's all over.
The car turned right and began it's steep climb up the main road. Henry bounced in his seat, keeping time with every stone and rut the car hit as it sped up the drive, and tried his best to relax. I am not afraid of tiny spaces, I am not afraid of tiny spaces, I am not-
Bang.
If Henry hadn't been so worried about the car, he might have noticed that his driver, after spending his last two hours of free time in the local pub, was rip-roaring drunk. Henry should have been at least a bit more careful; he had left Peter to his own devices in town, so he should have known he would go and try to drink himself stupid. Peter had drifted into the other lane, slamming the Volvo into the oncoming car.
Henry heard the screeching scream of tearing metal and felt his head slam into the ceiling as the Volvo rolled over. He saw the crushing darkness as the car folded in on itself and fell off the road into the steep ravine beside it.
Henry closed his eyes.
….
John pulled his hood up over his head and went to get the mail. True to form, it was raining, and the wind wasn't improving his mood either. He dodged the other idiots rushing home to get out of cold and opened the mailbox, stuffing the letters and bills under his jacket and dashing back inside.
"John," Sherlock called from up the stairs. "You're finally back."
"He's only been gone about 30 seconds," Lana pointed out. "Pass me the forceps."
"If you're not careful, you'll rip it," came Sherlock's reply.
"You ARE ripping it! Hand them over."
"I'm not trusting you with these."
"Oh, for the love of God."
John reached the second floor landing and pushed his way into the kitchen. Lana and Sherlock were right where he left them; on opposite sides of the table, staring with extreme focus at the dissected sheep lying on their kitchen table. There were intestines hanging in strips across the kitchen like some twisted streamers, and a bucket of blood and stomach acid sat beside Sherlock's left foot. Lana was glaring at Sherlock, who was stubbornly holding a pair of forceps out of her reach. Love at first specimen John thought as he watched them bicker. They fought like an old married couple, and yet they had only been officially dating for about a month.
Lana stuck one hand in the sheep's lungs as she made a lunge for the dissection tool across the table.
"Stop being anal and give me the stupid forceps."
"After the last specimen? Not a chance," Sherlock responded, as he pulled her arm out of the sheep innards and handed the forceps to John. John set them back on the table and proceeded to sort the mail as Sherlock pulled Lana in and kissed her on the mouth.
"You're stubbornly attractive, even when covered in sheep gore," he murmured.
Lana, slightly woozy from the kiss, leaned against the table and faced John, who was trying his best to ignore the two of them.
"Anything interesting?"
"Bills, coupons, case letters and… something else." John frowned as he produced a stiff white envelope and held it up for the others to see.
Sherlock, not even bothering to wipe his hands, snatched it out of John's grip, carrying it over the microscope sitting next to the toaster. He turned it over and over in his hands, leaving delicate bloody fingerprints across its white surface, then reached into a nearby drawer, pulled out a steak knife, and slit the envelope open. Holding it at arm's length, Sherlock turned it over.
And out fell…a letter.
It was neatly folded, made out of the same stiff stationary as the envelope and had a message written on it in black ink. Sherlock handled it with the same precision as the envelope, again leaving a trail of sheep gore as he read, his eyes darting across the page so fast, they appeared blurred.
At once, Sherlock refolded the letter and thrust it at John before striding out of the room and flopping onto the living room couch.
"What?" asked John, not bothering to open the letter when he knew Sherlock would repeat it back to him anyway. "Who's it from?"
Sherlock looked up with a sad little grimace.
"Henry Knight is dead."
John's face fell into lines of misery as he thought back to the man they had known for the past several months. He had been awkward, but kind, and John had hoped that he was doing well after the Baskervilles case that had called them to Henry's home months before. "Poor sod," he said, opening the letter anyway and scanning its contents. "How did he…I mean, did he?"
"Suicide? No. Car wreck." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"So why contact you two?" asked Lana as she reached over and plucked the letter from john's grip.
"Apparently, we've been left something in Henry's will." Sherlock answered before John could open his mouth. "Just as long as it's not another worthless item we have to keep to seem polite."
"It was a gift, Sherlock. And the old woman was 90 years old and thought you might like the sweaters."
"We don't need incentives any more than we need knitted clothing. You'll have to tell me how the funeral goes."
"You're coming with us, Sherlock. Whether you want to or not. It's not an option," John said as he walked into the living room with Lana trailing after him. She looked up from the letter to nod grimly.
"John's right- we're all going. I never even met the man and I'm coming."
"What for?" asked Sherlock, picking up a stray book on beekeeping and perusing the pages. "it's not as though a funeral will bring Henry Knight back to life. Thousands of people die every day. Why don't you go to all of their funerals and see what good it does them."
Lana stepped forward and pulled the book from Sherlock's hands, fixing him with her iciest glare and speaking with a voice of utmost calm. "Sherlock, you're coming."
"Make me." he replied coolly.
….
Sherlock pulled at his suit jacket and looked around the room awkwardly. The room was large and echoing, which made the small group of people whisper and move as silently as possible to avoid drawing attention to themselves.
It had been a tiny funeral, with only fourteen people present to say goodbye to Henry. Fourteen people, and eight of them were the friends of Henry's fiancée. Add Sherlock, Lana, John, two gravediggers and a preacher, and the sad little funeral party had broken up and returned to Henry's house for the will reading. It hadn't taken long to process, and they wanted to get everything out of the way quickly, so they had ushered the mourners in like sheep and got down to business.
"If I could have your attention, please," said the mousey old man at the head of the room, his high, reedy voice bouncing off the walls and drawing everyone to attention. Slowly, the chatter died and the mourners all faced the speaker as he unfolded the sheet of paper and gave a small dry cough.
"Last will and testament of Henry Angelo Knight. Let's see… to my beloved fiancée, Sasha Mortimer, I leave my fortunes, ownership of my—"
Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. He was too busy analyzing each of the mourners in turn and deciding on the total cost of their clothing, along with their habits, family life, and food preference. It was much more interesting than hearing what Henry had left behind now that he was so dearly departed. It was mundane and boring, and Sherlock was starting to feel like this had been a waste of time.
"To Mister Sherlock Holmes-" John elbowed him in the ribs, and Sherlock came back down to earth.
"I leave you my home here in Dartmoor, as I think you will come to use and enjoy it as you see fit."
Sherlock knew he wasn't hearing things, but the instinctive side of his brain told him to review what he had just heard. He went over it three times, each time listening to every syllable, every word break.
Henry had left him his house.
This was worse than the sweaters.
At once, Sherlock stood up, slipped on his coat, threw on his scarf, and walked deliberately out of the room. The slam of the door was followed by ringing silence for about three seconds before John and Lana finally stood up and walked out after him.
"Why are we following him, again?" asked Lana as she cringed under the combined glare of a dozen mourners.
"He'll do something stupid if we don't keep an eye on him," John replied.
"Like?"
"I'm not sure." They broke through the front doors of the house and into the squinting sunlight. Blinking white spots out of her eyes, Lana made her way over to the idling black land rover they had driven up from London. She hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, and then knocked against the glass.
Sherlock sat behind the wheel, looking moody and drained and slapped two nicotine patches onto his arm. Lana tried to open the door, but Sherlock had locked himself in the Land Rover's dark interior. Her patience wearing thin, Lana knocked harder, and then shouted at him through the glass.
"What? What happened in there? There's no need to act like you're above all this."
"Who's acting?" came the muffled reply. "Now go away. I need to think."
Lana turned to look at John and gestured for the car keys, hoping to knock some sense into her stubbornly sociopathic boyfriend. However, after about a minute's frantic searching, John shook his head in defeat; Sherlock had snatched them off of him.
"He did it again."
Lana smacked her hand on the hood of the land rover, sending an echoing bang into the cold air around them, and Sherlock had the grace to look up.
John spoke up now, getting closer to the car and praying that Sherlock wouldn't floor it and potentially run them over. "Come on, Sherlock. You're acting like a kid."
"You're acting like my brother. Go away."
"I rented the car. Either let us in or get out."
Two minutes of silence and glaring, and finally Sherlock unlocked the door. "What's the point of funerals anyway? Yes, let's all stand around and cry over a slowly decaying body."
"Sherlock, behave. You were left Henry's home. Be happy about it."
"What am I supposed to do with a house, anyway?"
"I don't know, live in it?" Lana suggested sarcastically as she climbed into the backseat.
"We should sell it and buy some new lab equipment. There's some fantastic new products on the market I'd love to get my hands on, and-"
"We aren't selling Henry's house for lab equipment," said John, not even bothering to listen to the rest of Sherlock's sentence. "I agree with Lana; having a safe house is probably a good idea if you're going to be doing something stupid. Besides, it'll give you a chance to disappear should the need ever arise."
"Why would I need a safe house?" asked Sherlock innocently.
"So you don't have to spend two weeks camped out in a hotel so Lestrade won't find you. Like what happened last time."
"I don't see why he was so angry."
"Liar." John held out his hand. "Keys, now. I'll drive us home and we can talk about the house on the way."
Sherlock sighed dramatically and handed over the keys to the land rover, and then walked suddenly back into the house behind them.
"Where are you going?" asked Lana from her seat inside the car.
Sherlock didn't respond. However, he returned about four minutes later, holding another set of keys.
"What was that about?" asked John.
"My new house keys." He explained with a grimace.
John rolled his eyes and gunned the engine. "Someday, you'll thank Henry for this."
"I doubt it." Sherlock replied as he slapped on another nicotine patch.
….
Two weeks later
Lana threw some clothes into a duffel bag and tossed in her converse for good measure, zipped it shut and loped back up the steps. John was already on the landing, slipping on a pair of shoes and checking his laptop at the same time.
"Need a hand?"
"No, I'm fine. Got everything?"
"Definitely." Lana pushed some hair from her face and sighed. "Remind me again what he did this time?"
"I don't fully know myself, but I think it has something to do with Mycroft, CCTV cameras and two cans of spray paint."
Lana stared. "Let's just get in the car."
Sherlock was already behind the wheel when they ran outside, searching for any signs of Scotland Yard or Mycroft's cronies. The streets were empty; though that didn't mean much. Lana dashed onto the sidewalk and threw herself into the land rover; John followed quickly, and Sherlock immediately hit the gas.
"Are you planning on telling us what you did?" asked Lana to the back of Sherlock's head.
"No."
She sighed and watched the cars and shops rush past.
This was going to be a long weekend.
Up next- the house, part 2
In which there is (still) fear, a house, and a pregnancy test.
Hello everyone.
Sorry this took so long, I've been alternating between dancing around like an idiot and procrastinating all week.
The results are in from the auditions, and YAY! I GOT A PART! I'm also a chicken. Which makes me feel kind of bad about the chicken sandwich I had for lunch today. I didn't expect to turn into a cannibal so soon.
My lovely editor Pond got the lead role! YAY FOR POND!
Anyway, back to the Flatmates.
Our lovely little trio has gotten themselves into a spot of trouble, but, as you can guess from the subtitle, this is just the start of their worries. I'm not planning on going overboard, but I hope you can bear with me for a little bit. I'll try to update soon.
Yes, I know cutting this chapter into three parts is a sign of me turning into a huge troll. I'm sorry advance. BTW, does anyone know when season is coming to the US? Because I need to get it on DVD soon or my brain will explode.
Still dancing like an idiot, and praying for your patience,
Jay