Chapter Four: Family Ties
Two nights later and it's once again well after midnight. John is perched on the top step of a staircase leading up to an attic of yet another old house in the suburbs. He's tired and about fed up with everything in general, but more specifically with this whole business. Maybe it's time to find something else. Surely there's a surgery out there that would hire him to sign off on absence slips or something. He stretches his legs and crosses them at the ankle, perturbed. Both Mike and Dale swore that there was activity here last night, so where are the spirits now?
John stares daggers at Dale's outrageously expensive EMF meter lying on the step beside him. He hasn't touched it since he sat down up here. It's been pinging and bleeping at him, letting him know that it's picking up the occasional change in the magnetic and electronic fields inside the house, but for all he knows the damned thing could only be reading his own life signals. It isn't his favorite instrument, but Mike insisted that he bring it out here at least this once. He does his best to ignore its silence.
Sighing wearily, John tugs the EVP machine he usually has with him out of his front pocket. He's starting to think it's broken because it hasn't worked properly for him since that morning at Edwina Norton's house. The idea of the Norton residence only causes further irritation in his mind.
The way Sherlock Holmes sent him away! Just bloody well dismissed him! As if he were an outsider, someone who knows nothing about the 'other' worlds that exist alongside…
John lets his thoughts spiral off. Perhaps Sherlock's right. Maybe he really is useless, unable to tell a corporeal spirit from one that seems to only exist in the realm of thought. What about those three children from the Norton house? He tries hard to remember what they appeared to be wearing. He couldn't see James or Janey's feet, but the baby was dressed in a white cottony looking dressy-like thing and her little feet were bare. Strange now that's he's remembering it, all three of them were definitely not dressed in modern clothing. He casts about his memory in an effort to place their outfits, but comes up empty handed.
"I wonder when they died?" he asks the presumably empty house, voice echoing slightly as it bounces off the bare walls. Instantly, as if conjured up by some unknown magic, Ophelia Holmes appears beside him, causing the EVP reader in his hand to vibrate like a hot tea kettle. John has to grab the EMF meter before it falls down to the floor below.
"I could tell you that, if you really want the answer," she says as if she's been sitting beside him all night.
John opens his mouth to reply but nothing happens. He stares at her for a moment and she stares right back, haughty know-it-all expression painted over her features and left eyebrow cocked at him as if daring him to question her expertise.
"You don't need to ask me what I'm doing here. I'll tell you that. My brother is deep in the corridors of his Mind Palace as a last-ditch effort at finding out Edward Norton's deep, dark secret." She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling.
"Apparently you don't believe he had a secret, then?" John asks, not looking at her but staring at the two devices in his hands, the EVP reader in his right and the EMF meter in his left. Lines and squiggles are dancing over both screens. "How is this possible?"
"That?" Ophelia asks, pointing at the EVP reader.
John nods, eyes still on the little screen, following her index finger, her voice right beside his ear. "Well, that one, there, see? That's me. Now say something," she commands.
"Hi Ophelia," he says quietly, noting that the orange and yellow spikes only barely register his voice. "Wow. This thing must really work then," he turns towards her only to feel a bit unsettled when he realizes he can see the horrid mauve wallpaper on the wall beside them through her striped blouse.
"Oh get over it," she snipes as she leans back on her elbows. "I'm dead. Can we move on now? After all, you're the ghost hunter." The last word drips like black licorice off her tongue.
"I take it you don't respect me any more than that Sherlock bloke, then?" John wonders.
"Actually, for someone with so much psychic talent, sometimes my brother's an idiot. He's really terrible with the living." Ophelia tells John sagely as her fingertips tap against her leg.
It takes three heartbeats, but it finally connects in John's brain. "Sherlock, he's your brother, then?"
Ophelia nods.
"Right." John agrees, setting the instruments back down beside him, pushing them away from the edge of the steps. "Where is he, then?"
"Oh," she starts, looking around as if someone else could hear them. "Around." She shrugs her shoulders and does not look at him again.
John frowns, knowing the girl has completely blocked his question. "Okay, well, you're here. Make yourself useful and show me some ghosts."
Ophelia laughs, shakes her head and stands up, beckoning him to follow her further into the attic.
ooo
Sherlock strides pointedly along a long, brightly lit astral projected corridor populated on either side with doors of various makes and sizes. He turns his head, studying each until he finds the one he's looking for.
The brass knob turns easily at his touch, swinging open to allow him to take in what is happening in the huge dining area complete with heavily laden tables, chairs and a crowd of people milling about. Men and women of all ages greet him with soft smiles or a brisk wave of a hand.
Sherlock acknowledges them all, one by one, taking note of the name badges his subconscious has chosen to add to their clothing, the styles of which span decades. He weaves between them, finally stopping in front of a stately, elegantly attired white haired woman. Her name badge has two sets of numbers written on it: her birthdate and the day she died. Two important times Sherlock knows so well he doesn't really need to see them.
"Sherlock," the woman says, her green eyes lighting up with joy as she turns her face up to his.
"Mummy," he states softly, reaching out and catching her hands in his.
"What brings you here, son? You aren't…" she tightens her mouth against the words she refuses to say, instead pulling one hand from his grip in order to rest it against the side of his face and pull it down so she can see him more clearly.
After a moment, she nods. "No, you aren't. I'm more proud when you stay away from that stuff, Sherlock, than when you have to fight to get yourself out of its clutches."
"Yes, Mummy."
Mummy Holmes studies her youngest son closely for a moment, knowing very well she isn't going to get any more out of him on that subject. "Well, come on then, let's have a chat."
Sherlock stays on her heels so as not to lose sight of her in the room suddenly densely populated with figures. She sits down in a white chair next to a small round table and Sherlock takes the other one. Mummy snaps her fingers. Before she's finished the motion, however, she seems to have conjured up a small pot of tea and two cups.
"There, that's better." She nimbly holds her cup in long, graceful fingers. "Ask me."
"Mummy…" Sherlock tries.
"Don't you 'Mummy' me, Sherlock. I know you're only here seeking knowledge. So go on, ask away."
Sherlock rests his palms flat on the table and studies them for a few seconds. "I gather you are doing well. And Daddy?"
Mummy nods, her eyes flashing as if hurrying him along.
"Have you met Edward Norton in your astral travels?"
"Edward Norton?" Mummy asks, rhetorically. She taps at her tea cup with a long, well-manicured fingernail. "Could you be referring to Eddie?" Tilting her chin, she indicates a tall, frail looking gentleman over in the corner. He is dressed in a WWII uniform, though Sherlock cannot make out the details.
"No," he shakes his head. "Wrong Eddie. I will have to keep looking."
Sherlock stands to leave but Mummy grips his arm with amazing strength. "Are you well, my son, besides…"
Sherlock hears the left out part of her sentence but does not acknowledge it. He tucks his chin towards his chest. "I am." A large part of him wants to blurt out that he's found someone rather interesting, though it is easier to say nothing.
"Your siblings? Are they alright?" Mummy's expression is relaxed now, openly curious, caring.
"Yes, Mummy. I will send them your love."
"Thank you, son." Mummy squeezes his forearm briefly.
ooo
Sherlock opens his eyes. He can see clearly where the sun is beginning to warm the horizon. For a few minutes, he stares out the window blearily, slightly irritated at himself for falling asleep, but then again, astral projection is draining on anyone with the ability to walk between the worlds. The way they always look to him, filled with the tiniest details and all the color, even more so. This morning, however, his sober mind is slow, like a machine carefully grinding to a start.
Stretches, he's glad to find that he didn't tip over and fall out of the chair this time. Frowning at the window then the front door of the small house his parents lived in prior to their deaths, it suddenly occurs to him that he's alone. One day they're going to have to do an experiment and find out just how far Ophelia can travel without him.
Sherlock starts to call Ophelia, then thinks not. Instead, he closes his eyes again and leans back into the chair. Very carefully he pushes all other thoughts aside until he can only see her face in his mind. The instant the calling works, the atmosphere in the old house changes and he opens his eyes to see his little sister standing in the center of the room, arms down at her sides, and an expression of pure amazement on her face.
"Wow," she grins. "It worked this time."
Sherlock smiles back at her, a bit weary still.
"It took a lot out of you, though." Ophelia crosses the floor to drop down on the sofa. She's solid enough right now that she raises a small cloud of dust.
Sherlock nods as he draws his legs up beneath himself in the chair. "It did. I spoke to Mummy, she sends her love."
Ophelia blinks up at him, eyes suddenly gone watery. "I wish I could have known her better."
Sherlock's insides scream at him to fix whatever he's managed to break this time. He casts about for the right thing to say and blurts out, "Where've you been all night?"
Ophelia is taken off guard, but the tactic works. "With John Watson."
"What?"
It's her turn to smirk at his surprised expression now. "Stamford has a case at the house next door." She points in the direction of the brown brick house neither of them can physically see from where they sit.
Sherlock scoffs. "I'd have thought that place would finally be left to crumble to bits alone by now."
"I know," Ophelia agrees, "but once in a while one of the spirits gets up to knocking about and all the ghost hunters come out of the woodwork." She curls up in much the same manner as her brother after kicking off her shoes. "I did show him the boxes in the attic, though."
Sherlock doesn't say anything, just rolls his eyes. Ophelia yawns. "Go on, we'll stay her for a bit. I'm going to try again to find someone who knew Edward Norton." He watches her as her whole being shifts until she's almost transparent. Sleeping like the dead, he thinks then wonders if John found anything interesting among the worn out belongings of a traveling illusionist. That leads him to thoughts about having Ophelia go over there and cause a bit of mischief so that maybe he can observe John a little closer, maybe learn about him.
A flash of insight so bright it threatens to burst out of him forces Sherlock to his feet. It seems as if John may be useless when it comes to seeing spirits, but the man certainly has courage by the ton.
Sherlock returns to his former position, thinking that if he can keep this fellow away from the Norton case, perhaps they can find common ground elsewhere. First point: obviously John does not like his job and is probably only putting up with it because he and Stamford are old friends. Second point: when Sherlock is astrally projecting, he cannot move and therefore is stuck only working on a single case a time. Ophelia can only go so far…
The idea that finally occurs to him is absolutely ridiculous, but then again, he wouldn't be who he is if he didn't entertain every possibility all the time. Satisfied he's made arrangements that will work to benefit them both, Sherlock lets his eyes fall on his sister then settles back to again search for someone with answers beyond the tangible world.