Chapter 6: Invitation to a Haunting
"Sherlock, Mycroft will be here in a moment." Ophelia warns her brother from her favorite perch atop the back of the sofa. All she receives in reply to her effort, however, is a pointedly unsatisfying grunt.
Sherlock is stretched out the opposite direction on the cushions below her, one forearm draped dramatically over his eyes and the other resting languidly over the violin lying on his chest. With his hair a messy halo around his head, he looks for all the world as if he were sculpted there and has no intention of moving for the next fifteen years or so.
"Sure lock!" Ophelia fake whines, reaching down with one bare foot to poke at his shoulder, forcing him to move one of his hands.
Sherlock uncovers his eyes and glares up at her. Ophelia laughs and continues to poke him with her big toe until he swats at her and she rolls off the back of the sofa right onto to him. Only for a second, though, then she disappears, only to reappear in Sherlock's chair with his bow in her hand. It makes a soft whooshing noise as she waves it back and forth.
Mycroft chooses that very fraction of time to make an appearance in the sitting area. He halts two paces from Sherlock's chair, staring at the violin bow as it seemingly bounces in midair. "That's her, isn't it?" he asks in an uncharacteristically small voice, visibly restraining himself to keep from pointing in the direction of the now twirling bow.
Sherlock sighs and sits up, glances towards his sister who rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him. Turning to Mycroft, he states simply, "Yes," not giving Ophelia the satisfaction of knowing she's getting on his nerves.
The half-awed expression does not fall from Mycroft's face. "Why can I not see her?"
Sherlock frowns at the odd tone. For an instant there, he would almost swear it sounded like wistfulness. A deeply buried memory accosts him in full force: a much younger version of himself trying desperately to see through their late uncle's closed casket. The memory of saying words that weren't his own is as vivid now as it was when it happened, apparently important secrets their uncle needed to tell his wife and wondering why he could hear but not see the dead man. Sherlock couldn't understand anything that was happening to him. Mummy and Mycroft had both looked at him in shock, but while Mummy's expression quickly changed to fear, Mycroft's teenaged self seemed much more understanding. He can still feel the pressure of his brother's palm on his shoulder even as the memory grows hazy and fades back into the ether where it belongs.
Now Ophelia is staring at him, holding the bow as if it's a giant pointing finger, though Mycroft seems to have either missed Sherlock's tiny lapse in attention or is choosing not to acknowledge it. Whatever the case, Sherlock returns to himself and takes a moment to cover his eyes with his hands in a bid to hide whatever emotions must surely be playing out on his face.
Sherlock moves the violin to its case and Ophelia follows him to set the bow down carefully beside it. Ignoring Mycroft for the time being, he makes his way to the loo and then to the kitchen. He'd rather not know what his brother has just inferred because some things are better left alone.
"I'd ask for tea, though I'm certain there's not a single leaf of it in this house."
"Nope." Sherlock calls from behind the refrigerator door, popping the last 'p' in the word. He stares at the almost-bare appliance in an effort to figure out what he could do to irritate Mycroft the most. There's never anything particularly gross in the crisper when he really needs it.
"Sherlock, could I have your attention for a scant instant, please?"
Sherlock doesn't think Mycroft sounds nearly irritated enough. "Not interested!" he shouts much louder than is absolutely necessary. The barking at the back of the house starts up in earnest, though he soon hears Ophelia taking care of that particular problem. Eagerly, he awaits the sound of Mycroft's retreating footsteps so he can return to being busy doing not much of anything and pretending to not wonder what John Watson is up to right now. By some mistake on his part, they haven't seen each other in almost a week. Why did the spirit world decide to become dormant right now?
Muttering under his breath, he peeks around the edge of the door to see Mycroft comfortably seated on his sofa. Dammit. Well, there's no getting around it this time. He sighs again, deeper and much more dramatically than the first time as he stomps back into the sitting room, being sure to raise enough ruckus that Mycroft will understand how much he's put Sherlock out by just talking to him. Plopping down in his chair so hard it rocks on its antique legs, Sherlock glares at his brother from beneath his messy fringe.
"It would have been hilarious if you fell backwards on your arse with all that territory marking you're doing." Ophelia says. Since only Sherlock can hear her, he figures his silence speaks for him loud enough.
"Thank you," Mycroft tries for politeness, though he does frown and turn his head slightly to the left when Ophelia settles next to him. "I have a case for you."
"How many times do I have to tell you I am not interested in James or Janey, Mycroft? I had those Americans, Whichever you call its from North Carolina or West Carolina or one of those states. There's fifty of them, choose one."
"Sherlock, there is no such place as West Carolina." Mycroft raises his left eyebrow a fraction of an inch.
"Dull." Sherlock snaps. Ophelia giggles and rolls her eyes.
Mycroft, completely oblivious to his youngest female sibling's taunt, continues. "About ten years ago, a serial murderer was convicted and sentenced to death in Florida. That's one of the fifty states, I do believe."
Ophelia chuckles. Sherlock glares and begins chewing on the edge of his thumbnail. Mycroft raises the eyebrow a teeny bit higher and plunges on before Sherlock can say anything else.
"My team helped convict Daniel Hudson by providing the local police force plenty of evidence for said conviction. That being the case, I am on relatively friendly terms with the murder's widow, Mrs. Martha Hudson."
"Don't care." Sherlock intones, now miraculously folding and draping all six feet of himself over the chair so that his feet hang off one arm, his shoulders against the other, and one hand over the back off the chair, the fingers on the other resting against the carpet.
"Aw, Sherlock, this one sounds interesting." Ophelia tries before very carefully reaching out to touch the back of Mycroft's right hand where it is resting on his thigh. It is a long-standing tradition between the three of them to test both how far Ophelia can go and how much Mycroft can sense.
Mycroft startles ever so slightly and his fingers seem to reach out of their own accord. "I felt that this time. Is she near?"
Sherlock snorts. "Near enough." Ophelia flips him the bird and does her best impression of Mycroft's weary expression at the same time.
"Fine. May I continue?" Mycroft's eyebrow is now trying to scoot into his hairline.
"No," Sherlock drawls, "but I obviously can't stop you anymore than I can stop you from eating anything with the word 'cake' in its name when it is presented to you." He taps his fingertips on the worn carpet as if timing a melody only he can hear.
The melody, though, happens to be Ophelia doing the same thing on the arm of the couch. "Stop it." She admonishes.
"Fine," Sherlock huffs, finally raising his eyes to Mycroft and taking in the fact that Mycroft's hand is now turned palm up. Neither sibling knows exactly who the comment is directed to, so neither answer him. Ophelia's hand is resting in Mycroft's. "Is it cold to you?" he queries, raising his eyes to his brother's.
"Yes. There is a bit of weight to it." Mycroft says carefully, his eyes wider than usual. "Ophelia, hello."
Beside him, Ophelia nods, her blue eyes the size and color of a fine Wedgwood plate. Sherlock wants to ask her what she is experiencing, though if he does so, he'll have to share her answer with Mycroft and he's not about to do that after being interrupted so rudely in the middle of the day. This small thing is too momentous to share with someone who's just going to take all the credit for it.
"Get on with it." Sherlock demands, watching Mycroft intently as he oozes to the floor to sit on his behind with his back against the chair.
"Sherlock," he says again, his voice much softer than normal. Ophelia flashes her best Cheshire Cat grin at him and winks before fading out, though the happy expression is almost ruined by the tears falling down her cheeks.
"She's gone," Mycroft states.
"Yes. It is hard for her to stay on this plane in daylight."
For a brief time, there's a relaxed mutual understanding between the brothers, both respecting what they've lost. Finally, Mycroft clears his throat and stretches his fingers as if trying to warm his hand. Sherlock gives him a single nod of understanding.
"To cut to the chase, Mrs. Hudson is claiming that she is being haunted by the spirits of her dead husband's victims."
"If he was executed in America, why would the spirits be here?" Sherlock asks, curiosity finally piqued.
"That is exactly why I need you on this case, Sherlock. He had six victims in total, four in Florida and two here in London. She is offering quite a substantial fee for your help."
Now it is Sherlock's turn to frown. "Why aren't you getting your pet psychics in on this one?"
"Because she wants the best." Mycroft voices bluntly before exiting the room as quickly as he entered it.
"Did he just compliment you?" Ophelia asks from the shadows of the hallway. She is only a shadow herself and would appear to those only a few perceptive people as little more than a glimmer.
Before he can turn over that particularly vexing question, Sherlock's mobile vibrates on the kitchen table. He fetches it to find two text messages, one from Mycroft with Mrs. Hudson's information and the other from John Watson.