A/N: Not much action just yet, sorry. There's a ghost of a plot in my mind.

Still not British (English is not my native language), a writer (no formal training other than reading lots of books and making up lots of stories as a child) or getting closer to being either. -csf


2.

Sherlock Holmes can see the minute stiffening in his faithful friend's shoulders at the frankly nauseating display of old money and grandeur inside Howell Manor. Sherlock knows grandeur done tastefully as part of his childhood memories, but this is a spectacle put on to impress feebler minds. The detective can barely wait for the appropriate time to tell John that the 9 feet high painting of some bucolic Victoriana scene is a knock-off, the silk wallpaper has been patched-up five times due to the unrelenting moths, the Ming dynasty vases are only twenty years old, and the crystal candelabra hanging from the ceiling at the impressive marble floors foyer is just frankly ghastly. Even the butler is a twice divorced former boxer. No, wait, that's actually interesting.

'Mr Holmes, I've been expecting you earlier,' the client comments.

'John was dithering', Sherlock answers immediately.

John nearly chokes on his own spit. Clearly he's impressed by the stuffy foyer and the marble statue of some coy maiden that forgone her clothes to sit on a cold marble pedestal as a paid muse. The overbearing sensorial inputs of useless decor is grating on Sherlock. He already misses the soothing clutter of 221B.

'I wasn't dithering, Sherlock, I was working!'

'Same thing.'

John seems to gather enough self-control not to jut his tongue out at Sherlock, a distraction the genius would welcome eagerly. Instead, they are shepherded to a morning room. It's a small room padded with mythology inspired paintings and statuettes, and populated with salmon coloured satin settees (hardly sofas, clearly antiquity before comfort). Sherlock has been sat right next to John, and opposite the home owner. He hates the itchiness of the sofa through his trouser fabric and the fact that he's been forced to sit with all the light in the room, from a veiled stained glass window, straight on his face. A bit like a home-made interrogation room.

'You've got a lovely house, Mr Chandlerforth,' John politely says, as the butler arrives with the tea tray. Sherlock raises a doubtful eyebrow and bounces experimentally on the sofa cushion, bouncing John along with him, who quickly stabilises himself by grabbing on to the fraying armrest, three shades paler than the rest of the fabric.

'Indeed,' the lord of the manor dismisses the compliment at once. Sherlock fancies the man knows about the subsidence at the East ward wall.

'And you need Sherlock Holmes' help with something,' John doesn't mince his words, but softens the blow with a quick open smile to the host.

Sherlock glances at John, admiring the ease with which his flatmate blunders socially. Chandlerforth is not your fellow punter at the pub. Sherlock wonders if John is impatient or just decided to skip the unspoken rule of bringing up social acquaintances for some half hour before really getting to the nitty-gritty of the invite.

John is as deadly with a shotgun as he is with clients.

But this time he may have missed the mark.

Chandlerforth readjusts in his seat, dismissing the butler who has come in rattling expensive china, gold rimmed and gaudy as they come, and poured everyone bland tea.

John's tea is much nicer, Sherlock misses it at once.

As soon as the hired help leaves the room, presumably to eavesdrop behind the door, the host changes his demeanour.

'We don't know how it was done, Mr Holmes. The intruders were very specific. They must have been on to the letters already.'

'Where were those letters?'

'In a nineteenth century bureau's drawer in my office. I keep the only key with me at all times.'

'Easily broken into.'

'Perhaps, but there were no signs of a forced lock.'

'The best don't leave signs unless they plan a calling card style of offense. Vulgar, don't you think?'

'And my office is locked, and so were the windows.'

'Ground floor?'

'Naturally. It is a Georgian era National Heritage home, after all.'

'My landlady keeps a hot tub in the cellar, nothing is sacred anymore, Mr Chandlerforth.'

John frowns and splutters: 'No, she doesn't!'

'Don't be naïve, John. Where do you assume the damp comes from?'

The client interrupts brusquely: 'Mr Holmes, it was my understanding that your brother had impressed on you the importance of this case and the sensitive nature of these papers.'

'Mycroft stopped short only of promising me a murder – although I still keep my hopes up.'

'Mr Holmes, if the content of these papers is made public by our enemies, it will cause deep civil unrest.'

'So you smuggled these papers from the House of Lords.'

'It's my work, you must understand I thought they were safe in my own home.'

Sherlock puts down the porcelain cup and saucer, looking wistful at the pair. Mycroft promised him a good case. How tiresome of his older brother to resort to infantile deception to lure Sherlock to a cesspit of boredom. And in front of John too?

'Tell me about the local legend, the one you think is involved in this document's disappearance.' A shot in the dark. The hope of rescuing this case from a 2 to a 4 (still hardly bearable). An old manor like this? Bound to have ghosts, demons and doomed maidens.

Lord Chandlerforth's countenance drops at that. Bingo. 'It's just rumours,' he minimises, already inching forward to tell.

'You've dismissed your butler to tell this story. Pray, go right ahead.'

The man blink and ostensibly looks at John.

John stands up straighter, a flash of hurt in his eyes. He felt it, the accusation that he's the butler to Sherlock's old family line. These two are communicating in unspoken ways.

'John is my partner, we are a unit,' Sherlock dismisses, getting up, setting his jacket lapel straight. John looks stunned, and follows the cue a second later, getting up too. 'John is the bravest and most principled man you'll have the pleasure of meeting, and both Mycroft and I vouch for John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and currently one of the NHS finest by vocation and merit.'

'Are we leaving?' John whispers tightly. Confused.

'Clearly you're not trusted here, John. I will not waste my time.'

John looks at the host as if he's about to burst into a fit of temper. Sherlock would let him, but this is not the time. The lanky detective weaves a hand around John's bicep and John's blue eyes immediately trail towards his friend's face. John finds something there, something he trusts implicitly. He sees this for what it is, a bluff. And John plays along, his tight muscles relaxing somewhat. Sherlock seemed to be waiting for this cue, because he turns to the host, petulantly now. Exaggerated acting. John knows it. John knows Sherlock to be precise and lethal in his attacks to defend him, not this show-off act of offense.

'We'll be going now. The tea was... passable.'

'Mr Holmes, Mycroft assured me that—' he stops himself, again glancing at John.

'My brother is a prick, I should know.'

'Mr Holmes, those papers are... apt to cause grave civil unrest.'

'Have you ever heard of invisible ink? A bit late now, I suppose. Come along, John.'

'Wait! Please, wait. I'm sure Doctor Watson can be trusted. I was keen to keep his to a minimum number of people. I will not have the police blundering around. Mycroft assured me that you knew about a family's honour and reputation, Mr Holmes. I will be prepared to believe Doctor Watson can be trusted too. Very well, I will show you the room and tell you the dreadful legend surrounding that room.'

'Oh, neat!'

'Sherlock.' John clears his throat.

Sherlock adds: 'No need for you to come along. John and I will have 30 minutes to explore the room. We work alone.'

A deep purple vein throbs in the man's head, but he acquiesces, as if, having relented once, it's now too impolite to try again.

They are summarily shown into a small crowded room at the back of the house.

.

'Half-an-hour, Sherlock? And all the touchy-feely and all the admiration declarations for your "partner"? You know he's out there wondering what exactly we're up to in his office, don't you?'

'Naturally,' Sherlock smirks for me. 'He deserved it for dissing you,' he adds, for good measure.

I find myself chuckling along softly.

'I still can't believe you would be okay with letting him think we're that sort of "partners", Sherlock.'

Surely, he must know what I mean, Sherlock can be both oblivious and cunning, and always go from one extreme to the other, no middle ground. Like a silly teenager that just discovered grown-up humour or a sinful fallen angel that clings to a gentleman's code to embarrass others. No middle ground.

The detective is already fingering every crevice between the wood panels covering the walls, studying them for hidden passages or compartments.

'What sort of partners would that be, John? The kind that save each other's lives? The type that shares a home, eats the same meal, falls asleep together on the sofa? The sort that shares inside jokes, reads each other's minds and finishes each other's sentences? We share a lot of intimacy, John. You know about my past addictions and I know about your war trauma. I've known couples to marry that knew each other far less than we do.'

Sherlock drops to his knees to study the ash in the grate.

I start looking around, thinking I should be contributing somehow, but I'm still a bit discomfited by Sherlock's words.

'Who are you, and what have you done with the real Sherlock?' I mutter under my breath, as I move on to study the stately desk from where the papers will have disappeared. Surely Sherlock can't have studied it from a glance across the room? The detective seems more concerned about how the letters got taken out of the room than in finding a culprit.

'Gloves, John!' Sherlock demands, cuttingly.

Good, so the git is still himself, still an abrasive jerk.

'Err...' I pat my pockets hopelessly.

'Here, use mine,' Sherlock removes his black leather gloves and hands them over his shoulder, without even looking. Sherlock always seems to know where I am in the room, sort of a sixth sense of his.

I take the gloves, still warm and flexible, and put them on, noting this is another of those shared intimacies others wouldn't quite understand.

I stop overanalysing as I notice my stocky fingers are much shorter than Sherlock's. It's going to be hard to have any sensitivity when the gloves' fingers prolong an inch beyond my own. Miss the squeaky intimacy of latex straight away.

A loud crack from behind me makes me turn suddenly. Sherlock's staring at me, manically energised, a dangerous smile ripping his face. 'Coming?' he asks, his voice deep and alluring.

There's a hole at the back if the fireplace, from where he's dislodged the fireproof material as a door swung open. We'll need to crawl through and it's pitch dark beyond, barely visible through veils of cobwebs.

I roll my eyes at him. He couldn't stop me if he tried.

'I better go first to make sure it's safe for you, mate.'

I return him the gloves and down the rabbit hole I go first. He follows me as a faithful shadow.

.

TBC