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Entry tags:
Fic: Cracks in the In-Between Places, 4/21
Title: Cracks in the In-Between Places
Author:
swissmarg
Beta readers:
ruth0007, billiethepoet
Rating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 4,753 words
Summary: AU set in the universe ofnox_candida's Getting Better. John and Sherlock work together to flush out Mary's killers, and Tristram has to come to terms with what his father's new friend means for him. No series 3 spoilers (or series 1 or 2, for that matter).
See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.
Chapter 4 on AO3
Chapter Four
Tristram tells Emily about Goblet of Fire while they cut up toilet paper rolls to fashion the gauges for their time machine. She agrees that what he's read so far isn't any scarier than the final confrontation with Voldemort in the first book, or the part where Ginny was abducted and almost bled to death in the second book, for that matter. Tristram tells her that if her father still won't read the book with her, he'll read it and tell her what happens.
"Your dad is so cool," she says wistfully. "I can't wait to come to your house and see the frozen foot."
"I think he's done with that one," Tristram says. In fact, his father hasn't been doing any experiments at all the past few days. "But I'm sure he'll have another experiment soon," he's quick to assure her. He certainly never sits idle for long. (And thinking isn't being idle!)
They have the time machine nearly finished - all it needs is a power source - by the time the doorbell rings downstairs.
"That's my dad!" Tristram exclaims and jumps to his feet. He's out the door in a flash, excited to show off his phone and tell how he won the guessing game, with Emily close on his heels.
As they clatter down the stairs, Tristram's heart leaps at the sight of his father's lean figure standing in the entryway with Doctor Watson.
"Father!" he cries happily.
His father turns to look up at him, his eyes crinkling up in quiet pleasure. "Tristram," he says warmly. "I take it you had a good time."
Tristram pulls out his phone and waves it. "Look, I got a phone. Can I try to call you now?"
His father looks at Doctor Watson. "You could at least have got them a proper phone," he huffs.
"It is a proper phone, Sherlock. I didn't think they really needed video capture, voice recognition, and HD streaming."
Tristram's father snorts.
"It's easy to use and they won't be tempted to take it out and play with it," Emily's father says firmly. "Right?" he prompts Tristram and Emily.
"Emergencies only," Tristram says, to show that he understands it's not a toy. "May I please call you now?" he asks his father.
"Why would you want to do that?" he replies, as if that were a ridiculous idea. "I'm right here. Get your coat on." He doesn't say it in an angry way. He just wants to be efficient. He probably left the cab waiting outside.
"Actually," Doctor Watson says, "I'd like to borrow your dad for a bit." He reaches up to take his own coat down, keeping his eyes on Tristram's father. "There's something I need to talk to him about."
Tristram's father watches him warily, trying to deduce what Doctor Watson wants.
"Come on," he says, inclining his head toward the door. "I'll buy you a coffee. I'm sure you haven't had dinner yet."
Tristram takes a step closer. What about him? His father came to pick him up, not to go have coffee with Doctor Watson.
"Tris, you don't mind staying with Emily a little longer, do you?" Doctor Watson asks, as if he's read Tristram's mind. He already has his coat on. It doesn't matter whether Tristram minds or not. "The two of you can ask Aunt Clara to put in a DVD for you. Nothing too wild, it's a school night," he says with a smile.
"When will you be back?" Emily asks in a thin voice, and Tristram realises she's as unhappy about this change in plans as he is.
"We won't be long," Doctor Watson assures her. "Now I want you ready for bed - pyjamas on and teeth brushed - by the time I get back. I've already told Aunt Clara to make sure you do." He leans down and gives her a hug and a kiss. "I'll come up to tuck you in as soon as I'm back."
He straightens up and gives Tristram's father a meaningful look. "Sherlock, perhaps you'd like to say good-bye to your son and tell him you'll be back to collect him soon."
"Of course," he says impatiently, glancing at Tristram, "this won't take long. I don't even want any coffee," he adds pointedly to Doctor Watson. But he still opens the door and holds it for the other man.
"Come on then, you two," a voice says from the living room. Tristram didn't even realise that Emily's Aunt Clara was standing there. By the time he looks back where his father was standing, the door is clicking shut.
"Boys trying to be men," Aunt Clara says cryptically, coming over and putting an arm around both Tristram's and Emily's shoulders. "As thick as tree stumps and only about half as useful. Now come and help me pick out a DVD."
"Where's Aunt Harry?" Emily asks as they go into the living room and find no one else there.
"She went to bed, honey," Clara says tiredly. "She wasn't feeling well."
&&&&&&
"Jesus Christ, could you at least pretend to be interested in your son, Sherlock?" John says tightly as they start down the walk. "I know you're good at pretending, when you want to be."
"What are you talking about? Wait, I just need to pay the cab," he says as he walks ahead.
"He's starving for love and attention," John says, following Sherlock to the car idling at the kerb. "He saw me cuddling Emily, and he just about fell apart. Broke my heart."
"Well, we can't have your heart broken, now can we?" Sherlock sneers as he pays the cabbie.
"That's not the point and you know it!" John snaps. "This is your son. You're his everything. He idolises you."
Sherlock steps back onto the pavement once the cab's driven off. "Maybe he should grow up then. Goodness knows I'm a poor role model."
"You could be an excellent role model, if you'd take two seconds to give a damn."
"You don't know me, John. Don't pretend you do just because we've had a cosy family dinner and I'm letting you help me with this."
"Don't patronise me! This isn't about-" John presses his hand to his forehead. "Can we just- can we walk, or something? They might be watching us from the window."
"They're not," Sherlock says shortly, but he sets off down the street. John settles into a brisk pace to catch up. "Is that what this little chat is for?" Sherlock continues. "To tell me once again what a terrible parent I am? Because frankly, Tristram's only choices for a parent outside of foster care are myself or Mycroft, and if I tell you that Mycroft basically raised me from the age of seven, and this is how I turned out, will you grant that I may in fact be the wiser choice?"
"He- What happened when you were seven?"
"My father died, obviously," Sherlock snarls. "Mycroft was fourteen. My mother was worse than useless. Multiple suicide attempts."
"Christ, Sherlock, I had no idea, I'm so s-"
"Don't apologise!"
"It's not an apology, it's an expression of sympathy! If you'd actually let people talk for once, maybe you'd find we aren't all such complete idiots."
"Doubtful," Sherlock mutters.
"Look, this isn't-" John sighs. "This isn't why I wanted to talk to you. I actually wanted to know what you found out today. How do things look?"
"Tenuous." Sherlock relaxes as the topic moves onto less emotional fare. "His office is on the thirty-second floor. It's airtight all the way up. No chance of getting in from the inside, unless you want to go full frontal, but you'd need an entire battalion."
"And from the outside?"
"Do you want to play window washer thirty-two stories up?"
"Could be done," John says stolidly.
"If you want to be a sitting duck it could."
"But you've come up with something, haven't you?"
"It's a long shot. Both literally and figuratively."
"What do you mean?"
"And we'd need to get you something better than that SIG. How are you with a rifle?"
"Decent."
"Thirty-two stories up you feel pretty safe, don't you?"
"Unless there's a jumbo jet headed for my inbox."
"Yes, we'll leave that as a last resort, shall we?"
"I still need a couple more flight hours before I'm granted a pilot's license anyway," John says, straight-faced, sliding Sherlock a sideways look.
Sherlock laughs. "You don't consider - other than the window washers, of course, and those will be handpicked and scheduled for a time when no one's in the building anyway - that someone might try and get at you from the outside. Don't consider lines of sight, bulletproof glass, that sort of thing."
John grins. "You've found a way."
"There's another highrise, about half a kilometre away."
His grin falls away. "No way."
"Just listen."
"The winds at that altitude, the trajectory. There's no way. I'd end up hitting someone else."
"I said half a kilometre. It's less, maybe four hundred metres," Sherlock wheedles.
"Even Harrison'd be hard pressed."
"Who's he?"
"Forget it, he's out of the question. And he's still in Afghanistan. Corporal Craig Harrison, holds the world record for the longest distance sniper kill, nearly two and half kilometres. But that was from higher ground with a slight tailwind. No comparison."
"At least we can get whatever weapon he used."
"I'd need to be familiar with it, train with it. Sherlock-"
"Well, help me out here, Captain!" He rounds on John and stands in front of him, glaring down at him with something approaching desperation.
John presses his lips together, locking eyes with Sherlock in a battle of wills. Finally, he says, reluctantly, "Get me a Rockwell Ranger. It's not what Harrison used, but it's what I'm used to."
Sherlock smiles and takes out his phone. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?" He starts typing out a message.
"I'm still not comfortable with it. This isn't a war zone."
Sherlock fixes John with a hard stare. "Just what do you imagine it is, then? He's killed your sister-in-law, likely your wife as well, and kidnapped both of our children. God only knows what he had planned for Tristram. If I could have him arrested tomorrow, I would, but we need evidence and that's rather thin on the ground." He finishes his message and sends it.
John presses his lips together and clenches his fists at his sides as he walks. "I know. We've been through it."
"Then stop it. If this doesn't work, we'll all have to go to ground. I haven't any other choice. If it were just me, there would be alternatives, but having a child - two children - to consider complicates things significantly." He snaps his mobile shut and says, evenly, "Unless you want to walk away, of course. I don't think they'd come after you if you disavow any further contact with me and don't pursue what happened with your wife and her sister." Sherlock keeps walking, looking straight ahead.
"I'm not going to do that and you know it," John says.
Sherlock glances at him sideways, his opinion betrayed only by a small crinkling around his eyes.
"I'll need to practise. It's been a long time," John says.
"I'll get you into the Met's range tomorrow night. I'll have to text you the details later."
John nods, then looks around, suddenly becoming aware of their surroundings. "Sherlock, where are we?"
Sherlock stops and looks up. They are standing in the middle of an expansive paved area in front of a large red and white stadium. "Looks to be a sporting arena of some kind. You're the football fan, I believe." He finishes his text and sends it.
"Yes, this is the Arsenal arena. What I mean is, did we come here on purpose?"
"What do you think?" Sherlock grins mischievously and, pocketing his mobile, sets off for the base of the structure. John follows.
Sherlock leads them to one of the unmarked metal doors in the concrete side of the structure. Thirty seconds later, he has the door open and disappears inside with John on his heels.
"I assume we don't have an invitation," John says as he follows Sherlock up the bare metal stairs. The unpainted concrete walls are lined with exposed ducts and pipes.
"'Invitation' is such a vague term," Sherlock says, already half a floor above him. "I did a favour for the club owner once, and in return he did say he would put my name on the VIP list to attend any match for free."
"There's no match on tonight," John points out.
"We're a bit early is all," Sherlock replies, flashing a grin down at John before he bolts up another flight.
At the top of the stairs is another metal door, but this one is unlocked from their side. They emerge in the top deck of seating. Illuminated only by emergency lights, Sherlock leads the way through the silent rows, climbing higher until they are in the last row, at a point where the roof curves down to touch the outer wall.
"Nice view," John mentions, glancing out the window at the glittering lights of nighttime London.
"It'll get better in a moment," Sherlock says. He stands up on the back of the fold-out seats and pulls a ring spanner out of his coat. Stretching his long arms up, he unlocks an access hatch in the ceiling and pulls down a narrow, extendable ladder, then climbs up through the hole.
"I'm to come up as well, I assume?" John calls up.
"Quick as you like," Sherlock answers, his voice sounding strangely far away.
John steps onto the chairs and clambers up the ladder. He emerges on the roof of the stadium. The wind is a steady flow of cold and damp on his face. Sherlock is standing a few metres away, leaning on one of the thick white struts that criss-cross each other around the circumference of the roof, and looking out at the cityscape.
He turns around to beam at John. "What do you think?"
"I think you're a fucking lunatic is what I think," John says, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind, and being careful not to lose his footing on the gently sloping surface.
"Yes, but what do you think?" Sherlock throws his arms wide and turns in a slow circle to encompass the entire panorama.
"I think if we get arrested for trespassing tonight, you can forget about your plans for Moran."
Sherlock clicks his tongue. "They wouldn't even hold us overnight; in and out."
John sighs indulgently and comes over to stand next to Sherlock. He looks out at the city: the mostly dark patches near them dotted with street lamps that look like fairy lights from this height; the more distant bands of white and yellow marking floors in highrises, topped by flickering spots of red and white warning away aircraft.
Sherlock draws closer and points, his arm reaching through the bars that are keeping them safe. "That one, with what looks like a diagonal line running up its side."
John tries to follow the line of his arm. "Which, the one to the right of the pointy roof?"
"Yes, but not immediately. There, just-" He stoops down so his head is at the same level as John's and their shoulders are touching. "There."
John tilts his head over so that his eye is lined up with the end of Sherlock's finger. All of a sudden, he can feel Sherlock's breath on his ear. "The one-" John clears his throat. "The one with the three white lights along the top?"
He turns his head to look at Sherlock. Sherlock is watching him closely, his lips slightly parted. John doesn't miss the fact that Sherlock's eyes flick down to his mouth.
"Yes, that's his," Sherlock agrees, his eyes not leaving John's face. They both stand there, breathing and watching, teetering on the edge of something. Sherlock breaks the moment then, directing his sight back out to the city. "And that one-" He shifts his arm slightly to the right. "-is the one that I can get access to."
"Okay," John says, still watching Sherlock.
"You're not even looking," Sherlock says.
"It's okay, I said I'd do it," John says quickly. "Sherlock, look at me."
Sherlock drops his arm and straightens up, tilting his face down toward John. "John..." he says in a low voice, something between a warning and a plea.
"Just do it." John runs his tongue quickly over his lower lip. "For God's sake, we've been dancing around this for weeks now."
"I don't know-"
"I don't know either, but we won't get an answer any other way."
Sherlock leans marginally closer, his eyes darting over John's face, his hair, his mouth.
John whispers, low and tight, "Please. I don't-"
Sherlock closes the gap, brushing skin against skin, sharing air for a moment. Then John cocks his head to one side and leans in, sealing their connection before coming up again for quick intake of breath, enough to sustain them before pressing his mouth against Sherlock's again.
Sherlock grasps John's arms, pulling him closer, holding him in place so he can nudge John's lips open farther, nuzzle against his cheek, lean his forehead against John's and suck the breathless gasps out of his mouth.
They kiss slowly, small unwitting sounds from both of their throats mingling and encouraging, pleading and confirming, circling them before being blown away by the wind.
After, John butts his head against Sherlock's shoulder. His hands grip the pockets of Sherlock's coat. "Jesus... Jesus..." he murmurs.
Sherlock slides his hands around until they are resting on John's back, and pulls him closer.
John turns his head to put his lips against Sherlock's neck, up into the soft flesh hidden under the corner of his jaw, where his life pulses hot and thick and fast. He makes a muffled sound, and Sherlock answers with a low rumble in his throat.
Sherlock moves his leg closer, insinuating it between John's. John draws in a sharp breath, and pushes back, takes a step away, and Sherlock drops his hands.
"My God, that was-" John says, soft and shocked, directing his words somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock's breastbone.
"Yes," Sherlock says with round eyes, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides. "I think that's normal," he adds after a moment, uncertainly.
John looks up at Sherlock, trying to gauge whether he's arsing him or not. "Yeah, that's-" He takes in Sherlock's expression, and laughter bubbles up out of his throat. "Yes, it's normal, Christ, we're both completely normal." He smiles and presses one more kiss to Sherlock's lips.
"Normal's boring," Sherlock says against John's mouth, and John can feel his smile in return.
"You're right," John agrees, separating himself from Sherlock but looking at him fondly. "Maybe we are a bit unhinged at that."
One side of Sherlock's mouth hitches up. "'Fucking lunatic', I believe were your exact words."
John points at Sherlock. "I only meant you." But it's clear he's teasing. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks around, then lets out a long breath. "We should go back. The kids."
Sherlock nods and brushes past John toward the access hatch. John pauses to look back at the two buildings he pointed out, then hunches his shoulders against the wind and follows Sherlock.
&&&&&&
It's been over an hour. Seventy-three minutes. They're watching Wallace & Gromit. Emily wanted to show Tristram the cartoon about the coyote and the road runner, but they don't have that on DVD. Tristram doesn't mind. The funny man with the big teeth and his clever dog are brilliant. They even solve a mystery, like his father, although Tristram's pretty sure his father never had to deal with a were-rabbit.
Emily's Aunt Clara sent her up to get ready for bed at eight forty-five. Now Emily's curled up in an armchair with a crocheted throw over her, staring at the telly.
Her aunt keeps checking her watch. Her forehead and the corners of her mouth are pulling lower and lower.
Tristram wonders what Doctor Watson had to discuss with his father that they couldn't do here, or over the phone. It couldn't take that long to ask him if it's okay to program his phone number into Emily's phone.
Seventy-four minutes.
The sound of a key in the front door startles everyone into action. Emily and Tristram jump up and run toward the front hall. Tristram doesn't even care that the DVD isn't done yet. He already knows that the were-rabbit is actually Wallace. Obvious.
Emily's aunt follows.
"Daddy!" Emily cries happily as her father enters. His cheeks and the tops of his ears are red from the fresh air. She throws herself around him, not even waiting for him to take off his jacket.
Behind him, Tristram's father comes in, his keen eyes seeking out Tristram but not saying anything. There is also colour in his cheeks; more, Tristram thinks, than is explicable by the weather. Maybe he and Doctor Watson had words again. Tristram stands where he is uncertainly.
"Hi, Ems," Doctor Watson says, cradling the back of her head with one hand. "Did you have a good time?"
"You're late," she complains.
"It's only-" He looks at his watch and grimaces. "Yes, I guess we are a bit. Sorry." He glances at Emily's aunt, who is standing back in the doorway to the living room with her arms crossed over her chest, looking from Doctor Watson to Tristram's father.
"Thanks, Clara," Doctor Watson says.
"It's time for her to be getting to bed," she says, eyebrows raised.
"Yes, it is," he agrees. He puts both hands on Emily's shoulders. "Say good-bye to Tris. You'll see him in school tomorrow."
Emily turns around and waves at him. "Bye, Tris."
"Bye, see you tomorrow." Tristram reaches up and pulls on his jacket where it is hanging, but it won't come down. Doctor Watson starts to reach for it, then drops his hand and looks at Tristram's father.
He makes an annoyed sound, but unhooks the jacket. "If you installed a coat rack at an appropriate height, that wouldn't happen." At their flat, Tristram has his own row of hooks that he can easily reach.
Doctor Watson grins. "You're not so pants at this whole fatherhood thing after all."
Tristram's father rolls his eyes, but Tristram can tell he's trying not to look pleased. Perhaps they didn't argue after all.
"Well, Tris," Doctor Watson says. "We've very much enjoyed having you. You're welcome to come over any time at all, if it's okay with your father." He looks up at Tristram's father.
Tristram looks at him too, hoping it is okay. A blanket invitation to come over any time he likes!
But Tristram's father gets all stiff. "I'm perfectly capable of arranging child care for my son," he says coolly.
Doctor Watson takes a step so he is closer to Tristram's father - really close - and lays a hand on his arm and says quietly, "Emily and Tris are friends. They like to play together. That's all." Tristram sees Doctor Watson's hand squeeze his father's arm, and his thumb rubs over the coat sleeve a couple of times.
Then they stand there and stare at each other for pretty long, until Emily's aunt clears her throat pointedly.
Tristram's father looks away from Doctor Watson to glare at her, but he nods. "All right."
Tristram and Emily share a gleeful smile.
"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Tristram says dutifully, holding out his hand to shake Emily's father's hand.
"You're welcome," he says with a kind smile.
Tristram thanks Emily's aunt and shakes her hand, too. It's soft and he barely feels like he's touching anything at all before she withdraws.
From outside, a car horn sounds.
"Come, Tristram," his father says. "That will be our cab." He tucks his scarf in around his neck more tightly.
Doctor Watson reaches around to open the door for them. "Good night, Sherlock," he says.
"John."
Tristram hopes they don't do one of those interminable handshakes like they did last time. They don't. In fact, they don't shake hands at all. They just stare at each other some more. Doctor Watson licks his lips and opens his mouth a bit, and Tristram thinks he's going to say something, but then he just looks down and steps back so that Tristram and his father can go out.
In the cab, Tristram's father immediately takes out his phone and starts texting. He looks annoyed at first, but soon he has a small smile on his face, and then he actually chuckles out loud at the small, glowing screen.
Tristram likes it when his father is happy, even if it has nothing to do with Tristram. He's feeling cosy and safe, and he has the promise that he can go to Emily's house any time they want now, so he's pretty happy himself. The rumbling of the car engine is making him drowsy when he hears his father say, "Why don't you try calling me now, Tristram. I don't trust that John programmed that thing correctly."
Tristram sits up and takes his phone out. He can't properly see the buttons in the intermittent stripes of light that fall into the cab from the street lamps, but of course he knows where everything is by touch. He pushes '1' and then the call button. The phone buzzes in his ear, and then the chime for an incoming call sounds on his father's phone.
He taps the screen to accept the call. "Yes," he says into it.
Tristram hears his father's voice in stereo. "It works!" he says, still holding the phone to his ear. "Can I try calling Uncle Mycroft too?"
Tristram's father disconnects the call and re-pockets his phone. "You may ask him on Thursday, when you see him. By the way, you and Emily will be spending the night at Mycroft's, but you are not to tell anyone."
Tristram's not sure what to do with that information. It's surprising, to say the least. Of course he'd like to have a sleepover with Emily, but he never told his father that. And why at Uncle Mycroft's? Uncle Mycroft and Emily didn't seem to like each other very much when they met that one time on the way home from school. Wouldn't it make more sense for them to sleep at either Tristram's or Emily's house? Unless his father is worried they might disturb one of his experiments, or Emily's Aunt Harry is really sick. But why does it have to be a secret? And finally, not that Tristram has much experience with these things, but aren't sleepovers usually done on a night when there's no school the next day?
He knows his father doesn't like to be bombarded with questions, though, so he rolls everything into one: "Why?"
"John is helping me with a case. It may get quite late."
"Will Mrs Hudson be gone?" Tristram's stayed at home alone lots of times when his father's been out working late, or even all night. As long as Mrs Hudson is downstairs, it's always been fine before. But even if Mrs Hudson is out, that doesn't explain why Emily has to come too, unless her aunts will also be gone. Tristram hardly thinks this arrangement is simply to give him and Emily a treat.
But Tristram's father says, "No. We would simply feel better with the two of you at Mycroft's."
Tristram recognises from his father's tone of voice that he's not to ask any more. Not about that topic, anyway. But he thinks it might be all right to ask, "Did Doctor Watson tell you about the guessing game we played this afternoon?"
"No, I don't believe he did."
Tristram happily relates the clues, and how he considered and deduced and finally guessed the right answer on the first try.
"Well, of course you did," his father says. "The answer was obvious. He might have made it a little more challenging. But I suppose he geared the game toward his daughter."
Tristram is left feeling slightly deflated. He's not sure whether that means his father thinks he's clever, or the game was too easy, or maybe both. It feels disloyal, but he thinks he liked Doctor Watson's reaction better.
Chapter notes: Corporal Craig Harrison is a real person and holds the record cited. All other details are fictional.
Go to chapter 5
Author:
Beta readers:
ruth0007, billiethepoetRating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 4,753 words
Summary: AU set in the universe of
nox_candida's Getting Better. John and Sherlock work together to flush out Mary's killers, and Tristram has to come to terms with what his father's new friend means for him. No series 3 spoilers (or series 1 or 2, for that matter).See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.
Chapter 4 on AO3
Chapter Four
Tristram tells Emily about Goblet of Fire while they cut up toilet paper rolls to fashion the gauges for their time machine. She agrees that what he's read so far isn't any scarier than the final confrontation with Voldemort in the first book, or the part where Ginny was abducted and almost bled to death in the second book, for that matter. Tristram tells her that if her father still won't read the book with her, he'll read it and tell her what happens.
"Your dad is so cool," she says wistfully. "I can't wait to come to your house and see the frozen foot."
"I think he's done with that one," Tristram says. In fact, his father hasn't been doing any experiments at all the past few days. "But I'm sure he'll have another experiment soon," he's quick to assure her. He certainly never sits idle for long. (And thinking isn't being idle!)
They have the time machine nearly finished - all it needs is a power source - by the time the doorbell rings downstairs.
"That's my dad!" Tristram exclaims and jumps to his feet. He's out the door in a flash, excited to show off his phone and tell how he won the guessing game, with Emily close on his heels.
As they clatter down the stairs, Tristram's heart leaps at the sight of his father's lean figure standing in the entryway with Doctor Watson.
"Father!" he cries happily.
His father turns to look up at him, his eyes crinkling up in quiet pleasure. "Tristram," he says warmly. "I take it you had a good time."
Tristram pulls out his phone and waves it. "Look, I got a phone. Can I try to call you now?"
His father looks at Doctor Watson. "You could at least have got them a proper phone," he huffs.
"It is a proper phone, Sherlock. I didn't think they really needed video capture, voice recognition, and HD streaming."
Tristram's father snorts.
"It's easy to use and they won't be tempted to take it out and play with it," Emily's father says firmly. "Right?" he prompts Tristram and Emily.
"Emergencies only," Tristram says, to show that he understands it's not a toy. "May I please call you now?" he asks his father.
"Why would you want to do that?" he replies, as if that were a ridiculous idea. "I'm right here. Get your coat on." He doesn't say it in an angry way. He just wants to be efficient. He probably left the cab waiting outside.
"Actually," Doctor Watson says, "I'd like to borrow your dad for a bit." He reaches up to take his own coat down, keeping his eyes on Tristram's father. "There's something I need to talk to him about."
Tristram's father watches him warily, trying to deduce what Doctor Watson wants.
"Come on," he says, inclining his head toward the door. "I'll buy you a coffee. I'm sure you haven't had dinner yet."
Tristram takes a step closer. What about him? His father came to pick him up, not to go have coffee with Doctor Watson.
"Tris, you don't mind staying with Emily a little longer, do you?" Doctor Watson asks, as if he's read Tristram's mind. He already has his coat on. It doesn't matter whether Tristram minds or not. "The two of you can ask Aunt Clara to put in a DVD for you. Nothing too wild, it's a school night," he says with a smile.
"When will you be back?" Emily asks in a thin voice, and Tristram realises she's as unhappy about this change in plans as he is.
"We won't be long," Doctor Watson assures her. "Now I want you ready for bed - pyjamas on and teeth brushed - by the time I get back. I've already told Aunt Clara to make sure you do." He leans down and gives her a hug and a kiss. "I'll come up to tuck you in as soon as I'm back."
He straightens up and gives Tristram's father a meaningful look. "Sherlock, perhaps you'd like to say good-bye to your son and tell him you'll be back to collect him soon."
"Of course," he says impatiently, glancing at Tristram, "this won't take long. I don't even want any coffee," he adds pointedly to Doctor Watson. But he still opens the door and holds it for the other man.
"Come on then, you two," a voice says from the living room. Tristram didn't even realise that Emily's Aunt Clara was standing there. By the time he looks back where his father was standing, the door is clicking shut.
"Boys trying to be men," Aunt Clara says cryptically, coming over and putting an arm around both Tristram's and Emily's shoulders. "As thick as tree stumps and only about half as useful. Now come and help me pick out a DVD."
"Where's Aunt Harry?" Emily asks as they go into the living room and find no one else there.
"She went to bed, honey," Clara says tiredly. "She wasn't feeling well."
&&&&&&
"Jesus Christ, could you at least pretend to be interested in your son, Sherlock?" John says tightly as they start down the walk. "I know you're good at pretending, when you want to be."
"What are you talking about? Wait, I just need to pay the cab," he says as he walks ahead.
"He's starving for love and attention," John says, following Sherlock to the car idling at the kerb. "He saw me cuddling Emily, and he just about fell apart. Broke my heart."
"Well, we can't have your heart broken, now can we?" Sherlock sneers as he pays the cabbie.
"That's not the point and you know it!" John snaps. "This is your son. You're his everything. He idolises you."
Sherlock steps back onto the pavement once the cab's driven off. "Maybe he should grow up then. Goodness knows I'm a poor role model."
"You could be an excellent role model, if you'd take two seconds to give a damn."
"You don't know me, John. Don't pretend you do just because we've had a cosy family dinner and I'm letting you help me with this."
"Don't patronise me! This isn't about-" John presses his hand to his forehead. "Can we just- can we walk, or something? They might be watching us from the window."
"They're not," Sherlock says shortly, but he sets off down the street. John settles into a brisk pace to catch up. "Is that what this little chat is for?" Sherlock continues. "To tell me once again what a terrible parent I am? Because frankly, Tristram's only choices for a parent outside of foster care are myself or Mycroft, and if I tell you that Mycroft basically raised me from the age of seven, and this is how I turned out, will you grant that I may in fact be the wiser choice?"
"He- What happened when you were seven?"
"My father died, obviously," Sherlock snarls. "Mycroft was fourteen. My mother was worse than useless. Multiple suicide attempts."
"Christ, Sherlock, I had no idea, I'm so s-"
"Don't apologise!"
"It's not an apology, it's an expression of sympathy! If you'd actually let people talk for once, maybe you'd find we aren't all such complete idiots."
"Doubtful," Sherlock mutters.
"Look, this isn't-" John sighs. "This isn't why I wanted to talk to you. I actually wanted to know what you found out today. How do things look?"
"Tenuous." Sherlock relaxes as the topic moves onto less emotional fare. "His office is on the thirty-second floor. It's airtight all the way up. No chance of getting in from the inside, unless you want to go full frontal, but you'd need an entire battalion."
"And from the outside?"
"Do you want to play window washer thirty-two stories up?"
"Could be done," John says stolidly.
"If you want to be a sitting duck it could."
"But you've come up with something, haven't you?"
"It's a long shot. Both literally and figuratively."
"What do you mean?"
"And we'd need to get you something better than that SIG. How are you with a rifle?"
"Decent."
"Thirty-two stories up you feel pretty safe, don't you?"
"Unless there's a jumbo jet headed for my inbox."
"Yes, we'll leave that as a last resort, shall we?"
"I still need a couple more flight hours before I'm granted a pilot's license anyway," John says, straight-faced, sliding Sherlock a sideways look.
Sherlock laughs. "You don't consider - other than the window washers, of course, and those will be handpicked and scheduled for a time when no one's in the building anyway - that someone might try and get at you from the outside. Don't consider lines of sight, bulletproof glass, that sort of thing."
John grins. "You've found a way."
"There's another highrise, about half a kilometre away."
His grin falls away. "No way."
"Just listen."
"The winds at that altitude, the trajectory. There's no way. I'd end up hitting someone else."
"I said half a kilometre. It's less, maybe four hundred metres," Sherlock wheedles.
"Even Harrison'd be hard pressed."
"Who's he?"
"Forget it, he's out of the question. And he's still in Afghanistan. Corporal Craig Harrison, holds the world record for the longest distance sniper kill, nearly two and half kilometres. But that was from higher ground with a slight tailwind. No comparison."
"At least we can get whatever weapon he used."
"I'd need to be familiar with it, train with it. Sherlock-"
"Well, help me out here, Captain!" He rounds on John and stands in front of him, glaring down at him with something approaching desperation.
John presses his lips together, locking eyes with Sherlock in a battle of wills. Finally, he says, reluctantly, "Get me a Rockwell Ranger. It's not what Harrison used, but it's what I'm used to."
Sherlock smiles and takes out his phone. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?" He starts typing out a message.
"I'm still not comfortable with it. This isn't a war zone."
Sherlock fixes John with a hard stare. "Just what do you imagine it is, then? He's killed your sister-in-law, likely your wife as well, and kidnapped both of our children. God only knows what he had planned for Tristram. If I could have him arrested tomorrow, I would, but we need evidence and that's rather thin on the ground." He finishes his message and sends it.
John presses his lips together and clenches his fists at his sides as he walks. "I know. We've been through it."
"Then stop it. If this doesn't work, we'll all have to go to ground. I haven't any other choice. If it were just me, there would be alternatives, but having a child - two children - to consider complicates things significantly." He snaps his mobile shut and says, evenly, "Unless you want to walk away, of course. I don't think they'd come after you if you disavow any further contact with me and don't pursue what happened with your wife and her sister." Sherlock keeps walking, looking straight ahead.
"I'm not going to do that and you know it," John says.
Sherlock glances at him sideways, his opinion betrayed only by a small crinkling around his eyes.
"I'll need to practise. It's been a long time," John says.
"I'll get you into the Met's range tomorrow night. I'll have to text you the details later."
John nods, then looks around, suddenly becoming aware of their surroundings. "Sherlock, where are we?"
Sherlock stops and looks up. They are standing in the middle of an expansive paved area in front of a large red and white stadium. "Looks to be a sporting arena of some kind. You're the football fan, I believe." He finishes his text and sends it.
"Yes, this is the Arsenal arena. What I mean is, did we come here on purpose?"
"What do you think?" Sherlock grins mischievously and, pocketing his mobile, sets off for the base of the structure. John follows.
Sherlock leads them to one of the unmarked metal doors in the concrete side of the structure. Thirty seconds later, he has the door open and disappears inside with John on his heels.
"I assume we don't have an invitation," John says as he follows Sherlock up the bare metal stairs. The unpainted concrete walls are lined with exposed ducts and pipes.
"'Invitation' is such a vague term," Sherlock says, already half a floor above him. "I did a favour for the club owner once, and in return he did say he would put my name on the VIP list to attend any match for free."
"There's no match on tonight," John points out.
"We're a bit early is all," Sherlock replies, flashing a grin down at John before he bolts up another flight.
At the top of the stairs is another metal door, but this one is unlocked from their side. They emerge in the top deck of seating. Illuminated only by emergency lights, Sherlock leads the way through the silent rows, climbing higher until they are in the last row, at a point where the roof curves down to touch the outer wall.
"Nice view," John mentions, glancing out the window at the glittering lights of nighttime London.
"It'll get better in a moment," Sherlock says. He stands up on the back of the fold-out seats and pulls a ring spanner out of his coat. Stretching his long arms up, he unlocks an access hatch in the ceiling and pulls down a narrow, extendable ladder, then climbs up through the hole.
"I'm to come up as well, I assume?" John calls up.
"Quick as you like," Sherlock answers, his voice sounding strangely far away.
John steps onto the chairs and clambers up the ladder. He emerges on the roof of the stadium. The wind is a steady flow of cold and damp on his face. Sherlock is standing a few metres away, leaning on one of the thick white struts that criss-cross each other around the circumference of the roof, and looking out at the cityscape.
He turns around to beam at John. "What do you think?"
"I think you're a fucking lunatic is what I think," John says, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind, and being careful not to lose his footing on the gently sloping surface.
"Yes, but what do you think?" Sherlock throws his arms wide and turns in a slow circle to encompass the entire panorama.
"I think if we get arrested for trespassing tonight, you can forget about your plans for Moran."
Sherlock clicks his tongue. "They wouldn't even hold us overnight; in and out."
John sighs indulgently and comes over to stand next to Sherlock. He looks out at the city: the mostly dark patches near them dotted with street lamps that look like fairy lights from this height; the more distant bands of white and yellow marking floors in highrises, topped by flickering spots of red and white warning away aircraft.
Sherlock draws closer and points, his arm reaching through the bars that are keeping them safe. "That one, with what looks like a diagonal line running up its side."
John tries to follow the line of his arm. "Which, the one to the right of the pointy roof?"
"Yes, but not immediately. There, just-" He stoops down so his head is at the same level as John's and their shoulders are touching. "There."
John tilts his head over so that his eye is lined up with the end of Sherlock's finger. All of a sudden, he can feel Sherlock's breath on his ear. "The one-" John clears his throat. "The one with the three white lights along the top?"
He turns his head to look at Sherlock. Sherlock is watching him closely, his lips slightly parted. John doesn't miss the fact that Sherlock's eyes flick down to his mouth.
"Yes, that's his," Sherlock agrees, his eyes not leaving John's face. They both stand there, breathing and watching, teetering on the edge of something. Sherlock breaks the moment then, directing his sight back out to the city. "And that one-" He shifts his arm slightly to the right. "-is the one that I can get access to."
"Okay," John says, still watching Sherlock.
"You're not even looking," Sherlock says.
"It's okay, I said I'd do it," John says quickly. "Sherlock, look at me."
Sherlock drops his arm and straightens up, tilting his face down toward John. "John..." he says in a low voice, something between a warning and a plea.
"Just do it." John runs his tongue quickly over his lower lip. "For God's sake, we've been dancing around this for weeks now."
"I don't know-"
"I don't know either, but we won't get an answer any other way."
Sherlock leans marginally closer, his eyes darting over John's face, his hair, his mouth.
John whispers, low and tight, "Please. I don't-"
Sherlock closes the gap, brushing skin against skin, sharing air for a moment. Then John cocks his head to one side and leans in, sealing their connection before coming up again for quick intake of breath, enough to sustain them before pressing his mouth against Sherlock's again.
Sherlock grasps John's arms, pulling him closer, holding him in place so he can nudge John's lips open farther, nuzzle against his cheek, lean his forehead against John's and suck the breathless gasps out of his mouth.
They kiss slowly, small unwitting sounds from both of their throats mingling and encouraging, pleading and confirming, circling them before being blown away by the wind.
After, John butts his head against Sherlock's shoulder. His hands grip the pockets of Sherlock's coat. "Jesus... Jesus..." he murmurs.
Sherlock slides his hands around until they are resting on John's back, and pulls him closer.
John turns his head to put his lips against Sherlock's neck, up into the soft flesh hidden under the corner of his jaw, where his life pulses hot and thick and fast. He makes a muffled sound, and Sherlock answers with a low rumble in his throat.
Sherlock moves his leg closer, insinuating it between John's. John draws in a sharp breath, and pushes back, takes a step away, and Sherlock drops his hands.
"My God, that was-" John says, soft and shocked, directing his words somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock's breastbone.
"Yes," Sherlock says with round eyes, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides. "I think that's normal," he adds after a moment, uncertainly.
John looks up at Sherlock, trying to gauge whether he's arsing him or not. "Yeah, that's-" He takes in Sherlock's expression, and laughter bubbles up out of his throat. "Yes, it's normal, Christ, we're both completely normal." He smiles and presses one more kiss to Sherlock's lips.
"Normal's boring," Sherlock says against John's mouth, and John can feel his smile in return.
"You're right," John agrees, separating himself from Sherlock but looking at him fondly. "Maybe we are a bit unhinged at that."
One side of Sherlock's mouth hitches up. "'Fucking lunatic', I believe were your exact words."
John points at Sherlock. "I only meant you." But it's clear he's teasing. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks around, then lets out a long breath. "We should go back. The kids."
Sherlock nods and brushes past John toward the access hatch. John pauses to look back at the two buildings he pointed out, then hunches his shoulders against the wind and follows Sherlock.
&&&&&&
It's been over an hour. Seventy-three minutes. They're watching Wallace & Gromit. Emily wanted to show Tristram the cartoon about the coyote and the road runner, but they don't have that on DVD. Tristram doesn't mind. The funny man with the big teeth and his clever dog are brilliant. They even solve a mystery, like his father, although Tristram's pretty sure his father never had to deal with a were-rabbit.
Emily's Aunt Clara sent her up to get ready for bed at eight forty-five. Now Emily's curled up in an armchair with a crocheted throw over her, staring at the telly.
Her aunt keeps checking her watch. Her forehead and the corners of her mouth are pulling lower and lower.
Tristram wonders what Doctor Watson had to discuss with his father that they couldn't do here, or over the phone. It couldn't take that long to ask him if it's okay to program his phone number into Emily's phone.
Seventy-four minutes.
The sound of a key in the front door startles everyone into action. Emily and Tristram jump up and run toward the front hall. Tristram doesn't even care that the DVD isn't done yet. He already knows that the were-rabbit is actually Wallace. Obvious.
Emily's aunt follows.
"Daddy!" Emily cries happily as her father enters. His cheeks and the tops of his ears are red from the fresh air. She throws herself around him, not even waiting for him to take off his jacket.
Behind him, Tristram's father comes in, his keen eyes seeking out Tristram but not saying anything. There is also colour in his cheeks; more, Tristram thinks, than is explicable by the weather. Maybe he and Doctor Watson had words again. Tristram stands where he is uncertainly.
"Hi, Ems," Doctor Watson says, cradling the back of her head with one hand. "Did you have a good time?"
"You're late," she complains.
"It's only-" He looks at his watch and grimaces. "Yes, I guess we are a bit. Sorry." He glances at Emily's aunt, who is standing back in the doorway to the living room with her arms crossed over her chest, looking from Doctor Watson to Tristram's father.
"Thanks, Clara," Doctor Watson says.
"It's time for her to be getting to bed," she says, eyebrows raised.
"Yes, it is," he agrees. He puts both hands on Emily's shoulders. "Say good-bye to Tris. You'll see him in school tomorrow."
Emily turns around and waves at him. "Bye, Tris."
"Bye, see you tomorrow." Tristram reaches up and pulls on his jacket where it is hanging, but it won't come down. Doctor Watson starts to reach for it, then drops his hand and looks at Tristram's father.
He makes an annoyed sound, but unhooks the jacket. "If you installed a coat rack at an appropriate height, that wouldn't happen." At their flat, Tristram has his own row of hooks that he can easily reach.
Doctor Watson grins. "You're not so pants at this whole fatherhood thing after all."
Tristram's father rolls his eyes, but Tristram can tell he's trying not to look pleased. Perhaps they didn't argue after all.
"Well, Tris," Doctor Watson says. "We've very much enjoyed having you. You're welcome to come over any time at all, if it's okay with your father." He looks up at Tristram's father.
Tristram looks at him too, hoping it is okay. A blanket invitation to come over any time he likes!
But Tristram's father gets all stiff. "I'm perfectly capable of arranging child care for my son," he says coolly.
Doctor Watson takes a step so he is closer to Tristram's father - really close - and lays a hand on his arm and says quietly, "Emily and Tris are friends. They like to play together. That's all." Tristram sees Doctor Watson's hand squeeze his father's arm, and his thumb rubs over the coat sleeve a couple of times.
Then they stand there and stare at each other for pretty long, until Emily's aunt clears her throat pointedly.
Tristram's father looks away from Doctor Watson to glare at her, but he nods. "All right."
Tristram and Emily share a gleeful smile.
"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Tristram says dutifully, holding out his hand to shake Emily's father's hand.
"You're welcome," he says with a kind smile.
Tristram thanks Emily's aunt and shakes her hand, too. It's soft and he barely feels like he's touching anything at all before she withdraws.
From outside, a car horn sounds.
"Come, Tristram," his father says. "That will be our cab." He tucks his scarf in around his neck more tightly.
Doctor Watson reaches around to open the door for them. "Good night, Sherlock," he says.
"John."
Tristram hopes they don't do one of those interminable handshakes like they did last time. They don't. In fact, they don't shake hands at all. They just stare at each other some more. Doctor Watson licks his lips and opens his mouth a bit, and Tristram thinks he's going to say something, but then he just looks down and steps back so that Tristram and his father can go out.
In the cab, Tristram's father immediately takes out his phone and starts texting. He looks annoyed at first, but soon he has a small smile on his face, and then he actually chuckles out loud at the small, glowing screen.
Tristram likes it when his father is happy, even if it has nothing to do with Tristram. He's feeling cosy and safe, and he has the promise that he can go to Emily's house any time they want now, so he's pretty happy himself. The rumbling of the car engine is making him drowsy when he hears his father say, "Why don't you try calling me now, Tristram. I don't trust that John programmed that thing correctly."
Tristram sits up and takes his phone out. He can't properly see the buttons in the intermittent stripes of light that fall into the cab from the street lamps, but of course he knows where everything is by touch. He pushes '1' and then the call button. The phone buzzes in his ear, and then the chime for an incoming call sounds on his father's phone.
He taps the screen to accept the call. "Yes," he says into it.
Tristram hears his father's voice in stereo. "It works!" he says, still holding the phone to his ear. "Can I try calling Uncle Mycroft too?"
Tristram's father disconnects the call and re-pockets his phone. "You may ask him on Thursday, when you see him. By the way, you and Emily will be spending the night at Mycroft's, but you are not to tell anyone."
Tristram's not sure what to do with that information. It's surprising, to say the least. Of course he'd like to have a sleepover with Emily, but he never told his father that. And why at Uncle Mycroft's? Uncle Mycroft and Emily didn't seem to like each other very much when they met that one time on the way home from school. Wouldn't it make more sense for them to sleep at either Tristram's or Emily's house? Unless his father is worried they might disturb one of his experiments, or Emily's Aunt Harry is really sick. But why does it have to be a secret? And finally, not that Tristram has much experience with these things, but aren't sleepovers usually done on a night when there's no school the next day?
He knows his father doesn't like to be bombarded with questions, though, so he rolls everything into one: "Why?"
"John is helping me with a case. It may get quite late."
"Will Mrs Hudson be gone?" Tristram's stayed at home alone lots of times when his father's been out working late, or even all night. As long as Mrs Hudson is downstairs, it's always been fine before. But even if Mrs Hudson is out, that doesn't explain why Emily has to come too, unless her aunts will also be gone. Tristram hardly thinks this arrangement is simply to give him and Emily a treat.
But Tristram's father says, "No. We would simply feel better with the two of you at Mycroft's."
Tristram recognises from his father's tone of voice that he's not to ask any more. Not about that topic, anyway. But he thinks it might be all right to ask, "Did Doctor Watson tell you about the guessing game we played this afternoon?"
"No, I don't believe he did."
Tristram happily relates the clues, and how he considered and deduced and finally guessed the right answer on the first try.
"Well, of course you did," his father says. "The answer was obvious. He might have made it a little more challenging. But I suppose he geared the game toward his daughter."
Tristram is left feeling slightly deflated. He's not sure whether that means his father thinks he's clever, or the game was too easy, or maybe both. It feels disloyal, but he thinks he liked Doctor Watson's reaction better.
&&&&&&
Chapter notes: Corporal Craig Harrison is a real person and holds the record cited. All other details are fictional.
Go to chapter 5
no subject
Oh that made my heart clench a little – what a beautiful scene.
Thanks for the little tribute to Rupert with the Arsenal stadium.
I work for an architect’s practice and we design football stadia (though sadly not that one) and I never realised they were so easy for
criminalswould-be-loversConsulting Detectives to break into!! Must check the designs . . . *grin*It’s wonderful seeing all the events from the eyes of the adults and the eyes of the children; seeing how they come to different conclusions, and also have as many questions as each other.
Great idea about the mobile phone though – a little more safety for Tristram to feel.
I love it that he’s always questioning, always wondering, and he has a great way of rationalising things in his own head!
I wonder if Mycroft knows what he’s getting into . . . or perhaps Sherlock hasn’t thought to enlighten him yet?!!
no subject
no subject
Yes, they did indeed - Highbury.
Oh the roof accesses do, indeed, exist - and those stadia that are built upwards rather than outwards can be really high into the sky. Some of our architects get vertigo, and won't go out 'on the ledge', but really it's quite exhilarating!!
You're most welcome!
no subject
And ahahahhaha, "I think that's normal"... :) Oh, Sherlock was so great in this - all prickly hedgehog and mad genius and funny, too! I loved that they ended up on that roof of the stadium.
Also, I really loved how the case progresses - very very interesting about the long shot, the kind of weapon needed etc. And yay for Tristram and Emily being allowed to play. :)
Thank you!! Wonderful chapter!
no subject
Thanks for the lovely comment, I do appreciate it!