Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. 32/9 By Breezes Blown
Summary: Sherlock deals with his actions in an odd fashion. He travels to the home of some family friends.
Character/Relationships: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.
I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Mendacity II chapter 32/9
By Breezes Blown
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
John Keats. 1795–1821, Ode to a Nightingale
When Sherlock left Molly he knew he had been cruel. He spent the next few days insuring she would always think he was a bastard.
He knew he had treated her abominably, and he knew she would never forgive him. She would not tell on him either. She would not play the woman scorned and reveal he was alive to anyone ever again. It would probably cross her mind, and if Sherlock were the only thing betrayal would render of consequence, at this point, she might tend her bitter stew long enough to seek revenge.
But, she'd seen the havoc one slip had wrought. She had arched a blacksmith's hammer with unskilled hope and brought down ruin upon the delicate molten sword. Molly Hooper would have every justification to hurt Sherlock and even if she were not born with the blood of Satan himself, she had no need to ever be loyal to Sherlock again.
That silly notion of hers, that one day she might win his heart, by default, tenacity, favor or pity, would be a pyre of dry optimism just touched with flame. She would try to fight it, those small smoldering places in her heart labeled with all the things she thinks she sees in him, but in the end the fire would win.
She would watch the flames dance and feel the pain of all those pointless dreams. But because of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, she would watch her heart burn in silence. She would stand in the hot coals and see that she had only loved a monster. As all fires cool, so would her anger. She was practical. She'd find some way to blame herself, until one day; she would only consider Sherlock Holmes to be a hard lesson learned.
She would seek a companion more like John Watson. (Not that there were any who would ever fill his shoes.) Molly would never fool herself into loving another Sherlock Holmes. He smiled at the idea that someday she would run across some poor sap who wore jumpers and could see her beauty and look beyond her appalling taste in clothing and decorative furnishings and maybe he would be the most boring bloke to walk the earth, but if he treated her as she deserved, Sherlock would not have to kill him.
He wished he could have somehow made her understand why he had to do what he did. He had watched her big brown eyes go dull and then flash with fear. He knew he'd done the right thing, even if it makes him sick to think of her alone.
He hated the deed and himself at that moment. Of course he did, he'd sought comfort and intentionally delivered her agony for kindness, treachery for faith. John would have been cross with him for what he did to her. John would have braced himself in fury, glared at him, attempted to explain to Sherlock that he had again disappointed his blogger, and probably would have had to take several unscheduled London strolls to control his desire to toss Sherlock out of a first floor window, repeatedly, until he felt calm.
God, how Sherlock wished to see John shout at him. He bargained with the universe for one last time, as he slipped into a cab and began his penance. He was off to see Mummy and her friends. He would never again see John. He had promised his brother to become part of his stodgy old puffer world filled with the ancient steam engines of the boring and unable to change. They expect and restrict and force all the little engines to follow along on shiny tracks. It did not matter now, because he was already nothing and it would be so easy. "But here there is no light," Sherlock whispered.
The cab driver watched him and finally ventured, "You look like someone."
"I take cabs frequently. Probably met at some point," Sherlock volunteered.
The cabby shrugged, "Could be right. I was thinking you looked like that dead bloke. My mistake."
Sherlock's head rested against the frosty glass and his eyes closed against the dawn. The cabbie, unfortunately not a serial killer bent on games of destruction, was thankfully willing to provide his service silently. Sherlock's thoughts imagined John alive and the two of them like they were before.
He would eventually have made John understand. John would have ultimately sat down at some random moment of inconvenience, worn out from his many days of not speaking to Sherlock, and turned his gentle hesitant eyes toward his flat-mate and said, "Okay. Take me through it, if you don't mind, because I can't look at that face any longer."
There would have been a little side spat of Sherlock pretending not to understand what was wrong with his face and John making sarcastic insulting remarks he didn't actually mean. They would have traded the familiar witty piss-shots, had a chuckle neither of them could contain as the tension between them dissipated with infusions of tea and maybe take-away. Sherlock would have agreed to John's food selection, letting him take point for the needed discussion. It would make John feel in control and when his stomach was bulging and he snuck the top button open on his trousers, he would be ready to hear logic.
"It is very simple; a child could understand that I am a monster. You died because of that, John, and I would have done anything to save you. Do you realize how difficult it is to admit that I was wrong?"
"I imagine it must rate right up there with giving Mycroft a foot massage, while smiling and asking his opinion on tobacco ash?"
"Then you do understand. Good," Sherlock would say as if the discussion was concluded.
John would roll out his patient dealing-with-Sherlock face and carefully explain that he understood the difficulty of Sherlock admitting he was wrong but wanted a more detailed description of what he was wrong about. John might even prove he isn't dead with some small touch or gesture. A kiss would be Sherlock's wish. He could still taste John and just because he'd said no, did not mean he had not taken in each sensation like light into his secret soul.
Probably a kiss would be too much to ask and John would more likely take the monster label and turn it into some clever form of complimentary insult, as only John could pull off with such a straight face while his eyes twinkled with conviviality.
He took a deep breath of the cab-scented air as if he were about to actually speak. In his mind he explained to John and it faded the grey morning light and a non-existent place became his reality for the moment. "I harmed you because I let you love me. I should have never allowed you to think I was human."
"You are human," he would interject.
"No. I tried to be better for you but I only damaged your life for my effort. Not much cop in it for you, this wanting to fix me thing. I won't make the same mistake with Molly. If she hates me, she won't try to end it all for me or because of me or by trying to save me. This has been hard on her. It has made her fragile."
"So, let me get this correct. You know she's a beautiful, intelligent, kind woman, and she's devastated right this minute. Her fiancé died and she probably blames herself and you admit she is in a fragile state. And your solution to that is? Seriously? You shag her like a brass nail and hand her a nice tip of blame and think you played a blinder?" Ghost John would be leaning toward him, elbows on his knees, hands clasp in the center with his two index fingers meeting and all but wagging at Sherlock.
Sherlock's breathing hitches to a stop in pleasure as he looks around and reaches his finger out to feel the smooth leather of his chair. He can touch things. This picture is so clear and he is lost in the fact that his palace has finally made an important leap. He's building on to the palace so that John may live in this amalgam of the best things and somehow he'd crossed into sensation. He'd been attempting it for years with limited success. Baker Street, a present tense John, warm fires and fairy lights belong in this addition.
Sherlock doesn't realize his lips move as he answers New John, "I needed that memory and I didn't casually shag her or treat her with anything other than respect during, I will have you know."
John shakes his head and wets his lower lip and then gasps, "That? That is not respect. There is no way even you—"
" I loved her with all I could give, even if she won't look at it that way. I know that is true… and maybe one day the big picture will seep into her and she will know as well." Sherlock interrupts.
"How can you be such a selfish dick?" John shouts in frustration.
Sherlock speaks calmly, " I was not a selfish lover. I hope I wasn't. I was rather beyond desperate the first round, but it wasn't just sex, John. I have not cried in front of anyone but you since I was a child. I gave her the last tears I will ever shed. I gave her the very last of me."
"Okay, you really are thinking this was some kindness? Sherlock, you gave me the same kind of…"
" I couldn't give you anything, so I donated all the last good -bits to Molly. Forgive me, John. I know she belonged to you, but you did abandon her which allowed my prior claim to reinstate. That isn't the whole picture though." Sherlock takes several deep breaths as if he's having a small panic attack.
"I'm listening? You brought me here. Say something you mean." New John won't look at him. He stares into the fire chewing his lip.
Sherlock sits quietly until John finally turns his head back to him and gestures for Sherlock to continue. He looks into New John's eyes and leans forward, begging his best friend's replica to understand. " She was all I had left of you and I gave her the only joy I had in me to share. Yes, I manipulated her into thinking very little of me afterward. I pretended to be rather insane. I gave her my best bolt hole and Mycroft will take her into protective custody soon. I may have exaggerated his intent towards her, but in the end, she will win him over. Please comprehend John, you are not here and I have to carry on. It is a fate far worse than boredom and far crueler to me. She will never again see me as anything but ordinary, but that view will protect her. Her anger will give her all the strength she needs now."
"You should have told her the truth," New John argued.
"Did I not? This is my truth. I am nothing close to human now. I am trapped in this hateful transport and I will burn the world until I avenge what he did to me. To us. It led here, John. It all led us to this truth. You hated me so much, you left me. I was wrong. I know it. I wish I had said yes, but I didn't and I can't change that. I can't change what you did. You sentenced me to this punishment. My only reward will be when I can finally seek you again. Perhaps, by that point you…will have forgiven me."
"If that were true, why not end it? Kill Sherlock Holmes for real this time? Why bother with your useless explanations to me? I'm not here," New John asked.
"Yes you are. I feel you. I accept your judgment, John. You didn't want me to die. You wanted me to live in torture. You want me to live what I put you through and I will die insane and old if it means you are satisfied. I would follow you now if you would let me. This second. I would happily be boiled alive if physical pain would appease you. I am afraid to die, for the first time in my life, John. If I die now, I will never see you again, because you will not have forgiven me. If I die now, I go to hell. "
"You don't believe in hell, last time I checked. And if you didn't escape, you'd probably take the place over. Run all the demons out with your bloody experiments at the very least." John leaned back and smiled at Sherlock in a shy appraising way. His finger went to his lips and he looked around the room as if noticing it for the first time. "So, this? All of this. Our whole flat, and is it Christmas for some reason? Bit early don't you think?"
Sherlock watched New John and bask in his details. New John's chest rose and fell as if breathing and his hair stuck up in the back like when he'd just showered. New John's eyes were the perfect shade of a summer's twilight sky and his fingernails were short and clean befitting a doctor.
Sherlock licked his lips and spoke softly, "This is my…not-hell. I know hell exists now, John. All I have to do is open my eyes. Hell is boring. It's real and you know it is."
John snorted slightly and his focus returned to Sherlock. "Why am I here Sherlock? Why are you doing this? You left me. I told you I would do this, if you didn't take me with you. You told me I was useless. You decided my purpose was over and I gave you all the freedom of the world? Why am I in the famous 'Mind Palace?' " John raised his arms and wrote sarcastic quotation marks in the air.
Sherlock tilted his head, "I thought that would be obvious. I am taking you with me, the only way I can."
"Oh. I see. So, what do I do here, exactly?" John inquired, wrinkling his forehead.
"It's heaven, John. You can do anything you want. Read dull-plotted predictable novels, or make tea, or take naps…you always liked those things," Sherlock offered helpfully.
"Can I leave?"
"Oh," Sherlock sighed as every bit of available air escaped his lungs. His heart throbbed and pain seared him. Even his John-recreation didn't want to stay. What was to be said to that? He didn't want him to go. John was safe here, or at least some small version of him was safe. Sherlock nodded, and whispered, "If you wish to."
"Good answer," John said standing up. He stuck his bottom toward the fire and sighed in pleasure. "Just so we get this straight, Sherlock, just because I'm inside your head, doesn't mean you control me. Understand?"
Sherlock paled but nodded silently. That was a surprising attitude for a fabrication of his imaginings.
"There are rules. My rules. And…you will follow them. If you want to come back here," John said with authority.
"It is my head. You're going to make rules in my head? God, I thought Mycroft was arrogant…" Sherlock saw the look on John's face and stopped speaking.
"Choices, genius. This one is all yours," John said low and dangerous.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Go on?"
"No lies. You lie to me, and I lock that door."
"I lie to you all the time. You rarely notice," Sherlock said, unable to help rolling his eyes and sighing with disgust as he looks away from the mental apparition.
"Really? Care to test my word? Testing my word is why we're here, I believe. I do hope you remember that I don't just have access to this room, Sherlock. There is an entire Palace for me to play in now. Your palace. And you can only stop me by sending me away. This time, you have to try harder. I'm in your head. I will know if you lie. There will also be no more of your recreational pharmaceuticals. Not on my watch." John shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn't care one way or the other.
Sherlock is suddenly aware that he is somewhat afraid of New John. He chews his lip and frowns.
"You should be afraid, Sherlock, because if you keep me, you are mad as a box of frogs. Think it over; you can let me know…" John said and then he and the flat washed away and Sherlock is aware that he's being jostled.
"Hey! Mate. You're here, I say. Meters still running for as long as you want to keep mumbling, but I got an hour's drive back to London. Jeeze, I always gotta catch the freaks, don't I? "
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around. "Must have dozed on you. Apologies."
"Yeah. Bad dream then I suppose," the cabbie said in relief as he opened the boot to get the luggage.
Sherlock settled the fare, adding a generous tip because the man hadn't talked the whole time and he must have been flying to have arrived here so quickly.
The cabbie gave him a bit of a second look as he counted, raised his eyebrows in surprise and tucked his cash away. "Look, you got some place to go, mate? I mean, this is in the bloody middle of nowhere. It's a dangerous spot to be dumped out, you know. I mean, there's these stories and shite. I could take you on to town?"
Sherlock smiled, set his bag and violin down and looked back. He turned back to the man and asked, "Surely you don't believe in those old tales of crossroads, do you? Modern man like you? Sun's up, you're perfectly safe," he said spreading his hands as if to ask what there could be to fear.
The man chuckled slightly but regarded the high impenetrable hedgerows and looked back at his fare with less surety. "Yeah, I mean it is all bollocks, I'm sure. I'd just feel bad if…"
Sherlock took a step back towards the man and rubbed his hands together as if about to sit down at a feast. "You wouldn't be tempted by…shall we say an arrangement…would you? Place is only dangerous to those who are willing for it to be a place of corruption. It depends on what you want, of course, but money, fame, torture of enemies are all pretty standard. Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you've heard of me? First day on the job and I'd love to make a sale. My boss is rather a tyrant about our first sales." Sherlock smiled broadly, knowing the expression didn't fit his face in a pleasant way.
"Mad bugger…"The cabbie slammed the boot and without another word, got in the car and locked the door, a look of fear on his face. He clumsily put the car in gear, not taking his eyes off Sherlock and the engine sputtered slightly in protest of the rough treatment.
Sherlock stood in the middle of the road, watching the cabbie watch him in his mirrors. Sherlock waited until the cabbie had to look forward for a second and then quickly hastened into the secret angle cut pass-through of the hedge rows. He waited for a count of three and the satisfying sound of the cab breaking on rewarded his little prank. The car idled for a few seconds and then the driver's window rolled down.
"Hey. Hey mister? You there?"
Sherlock snickered into his sleeve but stayed put. The cab driver didn't take long to decide he was not interested in examining or solving ghost stories. He knew what he'd heard about this place and now he'd seen it with his own eyes.
Sherlock picked up his suitcase and his violin and took the short cut up to the back of the house. He'd just started over a low stone wall when a voice unexpectedly said, "I suppose you think that's funny, harassing poor hardworking cabbies like that?"
Sherlock spun around. He searched for the source of the voice. "Well, you shot one," Sherlock replied.
"That's true. It was a bit funny I suppose." His laugh began with that typical deep gasp John always took just before he bubbled into hysterics.
Sherlock joined him and added, "Bit ill-advised, but he'd already recognized me. This makes a much better story."
When the moment passed he listened carefully. "John?" Sherlock said grinning and turning. "Where are you? I can hear you."
"God, and you're brilliant. Hey Genius? In. Your. Head," the clipped reply plainly arrived through his ears, not his thoughts. "Change your mind about keeping me?"
Sherlock stood perfectly still for a moment, eyes open looking around. "No," he whispered.
"Didn't expect that? Don't worry, everything else is real, Sherlock."
Sherlock sniffs and looks in the direction from which the sound seems to originate. "You got out?"
There is a chuckle then the voice of New John said, " You know, I found my way around a bloody desert with people shooting at me just fine. Did you really think I wouldn't be able to navigate your little castle of doom and gloom? Jesus, was there anything besides tea you actually liked about me..or maybe respected?"
"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock said nothing more as he stomped across the dew-damp field, certain a shadow of some sort followed two steps behind and to his right.
He soon arrived at the back door of the stone house he'd played at as a child. The Wheatley's had long ago been quirky, but Mummy adored them. His shoes and the lower half of his trousers were soggy and the rest of him had attracted a battalion of gnats that were about to drive him insane.
He knocked. A man with very grey eyes and bushy white eyebrows peeped out the door and spent several seconds peering about randomly as if he were expecting snipers at every corner.
"Mr. Wheatley, it's me. Merletta's son? I threw up on you when I was four. You snuck me a glass of the wrong eggnog?"
"What? Blood and sand you got tall. What the hell are you doing out there?"
Sherlock's mouth dropped open and he fake smiled and said, "I am looking for my mother? Thought she might have been captured by a garden troll."
"Good God man? She's in the damned kitchen and we are not infested with gnomes. Trolls were killed off ages ago. You've got us confused with the Dorchesters up the road. Damned things crawling all over everything there. I offered to loan them my Enfield and they acted like I was the bleeding lunatic? I think they rather like the vicious things over there. Aye?" Mr. Wheatley proclaimed in confidence.
Sherlock looked off in the direction Mr. Wheatley pointed. "Perhaps they do, sir. Always were a weird lot."
"Oh, so you're the smart one then. Well that's a relief, I tell you; I thought they were sending the crazy one up to us. Can't stand that one, you know. I'll tell you this, lad, those bleeding-heart Dorchesters won't think it's such a grand thing, letting the cursed gnomes run amuck, once one bites them. Bloody things can rot your arm off, just from a little nip. " He moved his eyebrows as if everyone in the universe with any intelligence would agree with him.
"I have heard that, sir. If you could just unlock the door, perhaps you could tell me more astounding observances without the hindrance of all this glass and wood?" Sherlock said politely, though his friendliness was now crashed and he was about to strangle an old prat if he didn't get out of his way.
"Oh, yes, of course." Mr. Wheatley commenced to fiddling with the lock as if he'd never seen it before in his life. Sherlock had his hand in his pocket, clasping his lock picks when finally the lock was thrown and the door opened.
Sherlock brushed past him. " Smart one. Crazy one. Sorry to disappoint." Sherlock grumbled as he quickly strode up the hallway dropping his bags and bee-lined into the kitchen.
"Mummy?" he said as he entered the chaotic kitchen.
"There you are, dear. You remember my dead son don't you, Eloise?" she said peeking up from her tile work. The kitchen table was covered in brightly colored stepping stones, and unfinished ones and bits of tile everywhere.
"Oh it's been a long time, since you ran off to Hollywood to be a star or some such, but of course I do." She winked at his mother and added, "You could probably turn this whole resurrection thing to an advantage. Start a religion or something? Good money there."
"Mrs. Wheatley, delighted." Sherlock said kindly and bowed slightly.
"I say, Eloise, no need to worry dear, its Sherlock, not that bloody Mycroft. Oh sorry, Ducks, but your older boy is six-pence short of a shilling. Say, did you scare the taxi, like I showed you as a lad?"
Sherlock smiles up at Mr. Wheatley with genuine affection all forgiven now that Mycroft was the crazy one and says gently, "Of course, sir. You would have tanned my tatties if I had skived off." He replied using Mr. Wheatley's old phrase from when Sherlock had been here as a child.
Mr. Wheatley smiled and put his hand on Sherlock and pointed, "See what I mean? Never forgets a thing, this one. Keeps up tradition. Good man!"
Eloise Wheatley moans, "Oh God, you didn't? Do you know how hard it is to get anyone to come here for dinner? They all want to leave before the sun goes down. You and your blasted foolery, Harper. And recruiting young Sherlock – God knows what will be said now. We'll be haunted next thing you know!"
Mr. Wheatley looks about the kitchen in innocence as his wife glares at him. "Think I'm on for a spot of tea," he announced without offering it to anyone else.
"Oh, darling. I am so sorry about your poor little doctor." Mummy said, making Sherlock's exact fake frown face.
Well, Sherlock knew this would come and he stood all the pitiful comments for almost an entire minute before he aloofly stated, "Thank you for your kindness, but I prefer to focus on the task before us, if you don't mind."
Mummy beamed with sly mirth. "That's my boy. I knew you'd be just fine. I told your brother that if your own death didn't stop you, why would poor John's?"
Sherlock kept his face as still as possible, "Yes, Mummy. I will be quite alright. But, we must remember that Mycroft has been of prodigious value in this so far. He does mean well."
His mother looked impressed, "Getting on a bit better, I see. It is about time, you know. You will keep your promise to him?"
"He told you?"
Mrs. Holmes raises one eyebrow at her son, "He didn't have to. I may be old, but don't think for a second I am not still your Mother."
Sherlock smirked and said quietly, "Olive Juice."
Mummy nodded and winked at him. "Yes, I think a Bloody-Mary would make breakfast all around. Harper Wheatley? Stop pretending to drink tea and bring that vodka over here. We are celebrating."
"I don't know what you mean, Ducks. This is just my cure for the dreaded lurgy." Harper says defensively, looking to Sherlock for help.
Sherlock carefully keeps his face cloaked and yawns to hide his reaction to a comment in his ear, "Vodka at half-seven? I like your mother already."
Sherlock clears his throat and replies, "I'll have a bit of that, Mr. Wheatley. Preventative measures. Hear the lurgy is unseasonably early this year."
In case you didn't get the reference – if you say 'Olive Juice' you hear that word. If you read lips it looks the same as - I love you. It is easy to misunderstand things and that point is made several times in this chapter.
Merletta means black-bird.
Want a treat? Listen to Mr. Cumberbatch read Ode to A Nightingale on Utube – John Keats wrote words that deserve that voice.
Dreaded lurgy - Invented and popularized by Spike Milligan on the Goon Show.