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swissmargTitle: 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 4,345 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 9 on AO3
Chapter Nine
Grandmother isn't around when they get back, but Mrs Bowen has laid out tea for them in the green parlour. Tris doesn't even really taste the biscuits as he swallows them. His father and Doctor Watson are sitting on the couch, talking, with Emily curled up on her father's lap. Tristram is slouched in one of the armchairs. He knows it shouldn't bother him as much as it does that his father and Doctor Watson are, apparently, friends now. Kissing aside, which Tristram doesn't want to think about at the moment. People have friends. It's 'healthy', as Mrs Hudson would say.
Tristram overheard her once, talking to his father out in the hall one night when they thought he was asleep in his room. She said it wasn't healthy that Tristram never had any friends over to play. In Tristram's experience, getting close to other children is more like asking for the sniffles or a sore throat, so in actual fact it is healthier not to play with them. Of course, that isn't the reason he doesn't generally interact socially with other children; he has a strong constitution - he has to, with the microbes, moulds, necrotic flesh, and other sources of contagion sharing breathing space with him at home. It's more the fact that the other children are generally too busy making fun of the way Tristram looks, or walks, or fails to kick the ball properly, to find out what interests they might share.
But Emily is different: she's the first real, true friend he's ever had, and that fact alone makes him feel a little bubble of happiness in his chest, even now, when she's clinging to her father and all but ignoring Tristram. Why shouldn't his father enjoy the same? He does want his father to be happy. It's just that he'd rather his father be happy just with him.
It takes a while for him to realise that the conversation has fallen silent and everyone is looking at him.
"Everything okay, Tris?" Doctor Watson asks.
Tristram looks at his father. He's observing Tristram in a way that Tristram knows means he can see everything that Tristram's thinking. Tristram nods and eats the rest of the biscuit in his hand. Not even Emily looks convinced.
Doctor Watson suggests that Emily and Tristram might have more fun if they go find something to play, rather than sitting around in the parlour for the rest of the afternoon, but Emily staunchly refuses to leave, even going so far as to threaten tears. Tristram recognises that his father and Doctor Watson want to discuss something not meant for children's ears, but this time Tristram doesn't throw his weight behind Doctor Watson and offer Emily an enticing distraction.
It ends up with Tristram's father walking out, muttering something about needing to think, and Doctor Watson making Emily and Tristram help him bring the remains of the tea things down to the kitchen. Mrs Bowen is there, making dinner, but even her offer to let Emily and Tristram help with the baking doesn't weaken Emily's resolve, and Doctor Watson ends up playing card games with Tristram and Emily upstairs until it's time to eat. That makes it even harder for Tristram to hold onto his grudge against Doctor Watson, but he manages. Mostly.
Grandmother shows up for dinner and spends nearly the whole time talking to Doctor Watson. Tristram doesn't even bother trying to listen. He watches his father instead, who goes from bored to irritated to smouldering until he finally snorts and rolls his eyes at something Grandmother has said.
"Of course, we know how you feel about it, Sherlock," she says, sounding exactly like Uncle Mycroft at that moment. She then resumes the thread of her conversation as if there had been no interruption.
Doctor Watson holds up a hand to stop her. "No, wait. Jeanne, excuse me," he says, so politely that even Tristram can see it's no longer polite. "I'd like to hear what Sherlock thinks."
Grandmother snaps her mouth shut and picks up her wine glass. "He doesn't agree, of course, because it's not something he would have thought of." She says this calmly, but Tristram hears the disapproval. He also hears another echo of Uncle Mycroft in the calmness.
"I don't agree because it's an asinine-" Father begins, but Grandmother doesn't let him get any further.
"Insults aren't arguments," she says, her words clipped. She turns to Doctor Watson. "I'm sorry, John," she says, more graciously this time, "but it's simply not worth rehashing."
Normally, when someone talks to Father the way Grandmother just has, you can be sure they will be in for a devastatingly thorough enumeration of their faults, weaknesses, and unhappy secrets. In fact, Tristram has heard Father give Grandmother a dressing-down before, and he expects another one now. He can even see Father's eyes flashing dangerously in Grandmother's direction. But before he can open his mouth to begin speaking, Doctor Watson does.
"No. Well." Doctor Watson takes his serviette from his lap and lays it on his plate, which is still half-full. "We'll take it somewhere else then." He looks across the table at Emily. "Are you finished?"
Emily nods, even though she's barely touched her croquettes.
"Tris?"
Tristram is startled, not having expected Doctor Watson to include him. He looks at his father for a cue, but his father is watching Doctor Watson with the oddest look on his face. Tristram is wary of giving Doctor Watson any more leverage, but he is more fascinated by what is going to happen next, so he says, "Yes," and quickly gulps down the rest of his water.
Doctor Watson pushes his chair back. "Thank you for dinner," he says to Grandmother as he stands. "I appreciate your hospitality, especially given all the-" He waves his hand vaguely toward the French windows, which Tristram finds puzzling; does he mean the weather? "- and I know this is all a very big imposition. But your son is the most incredible, most interesting person I've ever met, and if not even his opinions count, then I'm afraid the rest of us haven't a chance."
Grandmother laughs, which makes her appear charming and young. "Oh, John, really, it's nothing to spoil dinner over. I only meant-"
Father finally moves, standing as well. The flash in his eyes has moved from Grandmother to John, only it looks different now. Still dangerous, but... without the darkness underneath. "No, John's right,” Father says. “The sooner we can put this entire situation to rest, the best for everyone. We'll hopefully be out of your way by tomorrow."
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, you know that, Sherlock. You and your friend." Grandmother looks concerned and sincere. If Father put on that face, Tristram would know he was pretending, but on Grandmother it looks believable.
Father frowns, like he doesn't know what she means by that, then walks out without responding. Doctor Watson offers a curt 'Good night' before following. Emily hurries after him. Tristram is left hovering a bit uncertainly, but finally decides he was meant to be included in the exodus, and slowly gets up.
"You too, Tristram?" Grandmother sighs. "Come here then, at least say good night properly. I shouldn't be surprised if he sweeps you all out of here in the middle of the night again." She holds out a hand to him and offers her cheek.
Tristram gives her a quick kiss and says, "Good night."
He steps back, but Grandmother doesn't let go of his hand yet. "What do you think of John?" she asks, giving him the same keen look his father does when he's trying to figure out the answer before he hears it.
Tristram doesn't know what to say to that. Rather than examining his own feelings too closely, he tries to divine what he thinks his grandmother wants him to say. Despite the little scene he just witnessed - which he still doesn't quite understand - he thinks that she actually likes Doctor Watson; she did spend a lot of time talking to him, and tried to get him to stay at the end.
Tristram finally settles on, "He's nice," because it's bland and inoffensive and objectively true. Doctor Watson is nice to pretty much everyone.
Grandmother snorts a little. "Not the word I would have chosen. But it's probably best that you think so," she says, which is strange, because of course it's best to think people are nice. Doesn't she think Doctor Watson is nice? And if not, why does she like him? Or has Tristram misunderstood something again? "Go on now," she says and lets go of his hand. "Before they think I'm filling your brain with ideas."
Tristram, more confused than ever, goes upstairs. Looking for Emily, he finds Doctor Watson alone in their room, sitting on the bed with his phone in his hand. He looks up and smiles when Tristram appears in the doorway. He looks tired, but... nice. Tristram can't dredge up any of the resentment he wants to feel. Just then, he's glad Doctor Watson is here with them at Grandmother's.
Doctor Watson puts his phone in his pocket. "Em's in the bath," he says, nodding toward the closed bathroom door. "Why don't you go get cleaned up too, and then maybe we can play a game or something."
"Where's my father?" Tristram asks.
"Checking on something." The answer is probably meant to be reassuring in its vagueness, the same way Mrs Hudson sometimes says Father 'just popped out for a bit' when he comes home from school to an empty flat. It doesn't stop Tristram from thinking of guns and knives; nor does it stop Father from re-appearing, sometimes not until the next day (or even longer) with tender ribs and black eyes and clothes that don't look like his and smell like sick or worse.
Tristram goes back across the hall to clean up and put on his pyjamas. He takes his phone out of his trousers and looks around for someplace to put it for the night, as his pyjamas don't have any pockets. He doesn't want to put it into his school bag or a drawer, where it would be too hard to get at in the dark. He settles for sliding it underneath his pillow. He'll just have to wake up enough to grab it if they leave in the middle of the night again.
Doctor Watson said they might still play a game together, but Tristram would honestly rather be alone. He's actually feeling a bit sleepy, even though it isn't very late, after being outside most of the day. He gets his Harry Potter book out of his school bag and climbs into bed.
He's only read about half a chapter when there is a knock at his door. "Tris?" It's Emily's father.
"Come in," Tris says, letting the book flop down onto the duvet.
Doctor Watson opens the door. Emily is with him. Her hair is damp, and she's wearing a yellow striped t-shirt that hangs down to the middle of her thighs, with a pair of flowered leggings underneath. At first, Tristram thinks the t-shirt must be one of Doctor Watson's, but then he notices the cut of the neckline and realises it was probably her mother's. Tristram doesn't have anything of his mother's. There isn't even a picture. He's never wondered about that, but now he does. Did she not leave anything behind? Or did his father destroy everything? Not that he has any particular need for a memento of a woman he never knew. He's just curious.
"Everything all right?" Doctor Watson asks.
Tristram nods. "Fine."
"You up for another round of Snap?" He holds up the pack of cards in his hand.
Tristram shakes his head. "No thanks."
Emily comes in and crawls over the bed to put her hand against Tristram's forehead. Tristram minds a bit that she's encroaching on his space without so much as a by-your-leave. On the other hand, it's a weird kind of nice that she doesn't hesitate to do so. Like she belongs there or something.
"Are you sure you're not sick?" she asks, staring into his eyes as if she could see a diagnosis written there. "You've been acting kind of funny."
Tristram shakes his head again and pulls away. "No. Just tired." It's probably even true. He has too many thoughts about what's happened over the past two days to divert any energy toward social interaction. He's not used to having people around all the time, especially people who want to talk to him and do things with him. Also, he feels inexplicably guilty about keeping the fact of their fathers kissing from Emily. If it were the other way round, he'd want her to tell him. Not that he'd be happy about it, but he'd want to know. He doesn't even think she'll be unhappy about it. Probably just the opposite, in fact, judging by how excited and interested she was when it was merely unfounded speculation on her part. Maybe that's the problem. He doesn't want to have to explain to her why he's not quite as enthusiastic as she is. He doesn't even know the answer to that himself.
Doctor Watson sits down on the bottom corner of the bed. "Maybe I could read to the two of you, then," he suggests. "Em and I usually read together before bed, but we didn't bring any of her books." Tristram is a bit surprised to hear that. There was a time when Tristram's father used to read to him, but that was before Tristram learned to read himself. Emily can read. Why would she need her father to read to her? It's not like when Tristram read the Harry Potter book to Emily at Uncle Mycroft's house. That was just a trick so she wouldn't get in trouble.
"What do you have there?" Doctor Watson nods at the book lying open in front of Tristram.
Tristram could beg off and say he wants to go to sleep directly, but despite his mixed feelings about Doctor Watson, he doesn't want to be rude to Emily. And it won't take any effort on his part if Doctor Watson is doing the reading. He doesn't even really have to listen. The only problem is... Tristram shoots a glance at Emily. He doesn't want her to get in trouble. But Doctor Watson won't know that he and Emily started reading the book together earlier. Emily, still crouched next to him, just raises her eyebrows at him as if to say, 'It's your call.'
Tristram lifts the book so Doctor Watson can see the cover. He expects him to say something disapproving, but he just widens his eyes and says, "Oh." And then, after a moment, "Right. You've read the first three then?"
Tristram nods. It would be kind of dumb to start reading in the middle of the series.
"All by yourself?"
Tristram nods again, feeling a flash of irritation. Honestly, he's nearly nine!
"And it's..." Doctor Watson frowns, like he's trying to figure out how to say something. Then his face straightens out and he sighs. "Right, okay. We can..." He holds out his hand, asking for permission. "May I?"
Tristram folds down the corner of the page he's on so he won't lose his place and hands the book over.
Doctor Watson flips through the book a bit. "Em wanted to read this next, but I thought it might be a bit too intense. But you're okay with it?" He looks at Tristram.
Tristram shrugs, both proud that Doctor Watson values his opinion and apprehensive about him possibly not agreeing with it. "There are some kind of scary parts," Tristram says, "but I just remember that it's not real and then it's okay."
"All right, we'll give it a try then. If it's all right with you, that is?" Doctor Watson checks with Tristram. "Maybe you can run through what's happened so far and we'll keep going where you left off." He pages forward to the place Tristram marked.
"You can start at the beginning. I don't mind," Tristram says, as he thinks that would be more polite. Also, he won't have to pay attention this way, as it will be the third time he's read - or now, heard - the first chapter.
"All right," Doctor Watson agrees and flips back to the beginning. "You comfortable there, Em?"
Emily scoots back against the headboard so she's sitting next to Tristram. She's on top of the duvet and he's underneath it, but her upper arm rests against his. It's nice and cosy, and Tristram finds he doesn't mind the intrusion on his privacy that much after all.
"Can you start at chapter three? Tris actually started reading it to me yesterday," Emily confides in a guilty whisper.
Tristram is surprised by the confession. He cringes a bit in anticipation of Doctor Watson's reaction.
Doctor Watson looks at her in surprise, then at Tristram, then back at Emily. "Oh really?" He sounds more amused than angry.
Tristram relaxes minutely, but says, "I'm sorry," anyway.
"No, you-" Doctor Watson shakes his head, then continues more gently, "It's all right, Tris. I'm not upset. I suppose Emily told you I was iffy about it. But I trust your judgment. Chapter three, you say?"
Emily squeezes Tristram's arm. Tristram turns to her. She is nodding at him happily. Tristram smiles back, and the little ball of happiness in his stomach re-asserts itself. Then Doctor Watson begins reading.
&&&&&&
"John?" Sherlock calls once the water turns off in the shared bath between his room and Mycroft's old one.
John opens the door from the bathroom and leans in. "Just finished putting the kids to bed." He speaks in a low voice, nodding behind him toward the room he shares with Emily.
Sherlock is standing by the window. He holds up his phone and waggles it. "I got a message. Well, a series of messages, but together they can only mean one thing."
John wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans and enters the room. "What is it?"
There is a sparkle in Sherlock's eye, threatening to tip over into an expression of genuine excitement. "Moran's dead."
John stops where he is, halfway between the bathroom and Sherlock. He clenches his fists at his sides. "Are you sure this time?"
"As sure as I can be without seeing the body and running a DNA analysis on it myself."
John's breaths have become heavier, his nostrils flaring with the effort. He appears to be frozen, unable to look away.
"Do you need to sit down?" Sherlock asks. He doesn't sound so much concerned as curious; possibly even with a hint of incredulity.
John blinks and shakes his head. "No, just..." He puts a hand over his mouth, then scrubs it up over his face into his hair. He sucks on his lip and looks up at the ceiling as if he could find an appropriate response there. "Well, that's good, right?" he says finally, his briskness belying the underlying quaver in his voice. "I mean, that's what we wanted. He's - He was the one behind Mary's death. Not that it was about revenge," he says, pointing at Sherlock emphatically. "You put me in an untenable position."
"There's no point in going over all of that again," Sherlock says testily and brushes past John toward the desk. "You disagree with my methods, despite the fact that they resulted in exactly the outcome both of us wanted."
"You weren't so certain of that last night."
"And now I am. The ends justify the means, John. You only needed that little extra incentive." He flips his phone in the air, catches it, and slides it into the front pocket of his trousers.
"Incen- You call that a little extra incentive?" He catches himself before he starts shouting and continues in an intense whisper. "Your life - Your life, Sherlock, is not a little extra incentive!"
Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "If he'd really wanted to kill me, he could have done so immediately. He had me on my knees for at least a minute, posturing and gloating, before you shot him."
"I'll remember that for next time, shall I?" John says, a bit manically. "Maybe pop in myself, just to hear what he has to say. We still don't know, for example, who Mary's actual killer was."
Sherlock flicks his fingers again. "Unimportant." At the look of outraged disbelief on John's face, he clicks his tongue impatiently and says, "I mean, important, yes, he'll be brought to justice, etcetera, but at this point it's just details. Clean-up. It's practically something the police could handle." He flops down into the armchair at the desk.
John raises his eyebrows. "Speaking of."
"Hm?"
"The police. I assume someone's identified Moran's body? That's how you're so certain he's dead? The police will be involved now. Looking for Moran's killer. Looking for me, not to put too fine a point on it."
"No."
"No?"
"No. There's no body."
"Then how-"
"John, please, think for once. A criminal of Moran's calibre, killed by what is obviously a professional hit. His organisation would never allow the police to become involved in investigating his death. They've disposed of the body quietly. Officially, he'll simply disappear."
John lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, facing Sherlock. "What do you mean, his organisation? I thought Moran was it, that everything would fall apart without him."
"Clearly not everything," Sherlock says, as if this were a point he'd been belabouring for some time, but there is a slight furrow between his eyebrows that hints at something else. "Someone's going to take advantage of the confusion and try to fill the power vacuum. We have a window of a week, by my estimation, during which they'll be more interested in trying to outmanoeuvre each other than in dealing with whoever killed their former boss. If we're very lucky, they won't bother with us at all. But we can't rely on that. Someone's bound to try and be clever eventually. It would certainly solidify their position within the ranks if they were to best the ones who bested Moran."
"A week," John repeats flatly. "And what exactly are we doing during that time? Do we even have a clear objective any more, or has this all become some sort of game for you, seeing how much trouble you can stir up?"
"The objective is the same as ever: exposing your wife's -"
"Mary's," John interrupts.
Sherlock pauses and gives John a curious look. "Were you married more than once?"
"No, but her name's Mary. You never say her name. It was Mary."
Sherlock stares at John for a moment, then says slowly, "Exposing Mary's killer." The name comes out of his mouth oddly, an incongruity, as if he'd started talking in thees and thous. He then resumes his enumeration: "Discovering the reason for the methylfentanyl device. And making sure that neither my son nor your - Emily," he corrects himself before John can open his mouth, the name again sounding as if it's a word in an unfamiliar language, "is threatened with harm again."
"And you can do all of that from here?" John asks, scepticism mixing with genuine admiration at the extent of Sherlock's skills.
But Sherlock scowls. "Obviously not, I can't do anything from here." He throws his arms up in frustration. "I have no signal most of the time, no access to my contacts, no access to anything-"
"So you go back, and I stay here with the kids."
Sherlock looks away, fiddling with one of the pens lying on the desk blotter. "I'd feel safer having Tristram with me," he says, as if it were a painful admission. "If something were to happen here while I'm in London-"
John sighs. "Yeah, I get it. I'd feel the same way. But don't you think taking them back is asking for another attempt?"
Sherlock frowns. "As I said, by my estimation-"
"A week, yeah, I got it," John says wearily.
"I'd rather go back tonight, but -"
"No, those kids need at least one good night's sleep," John insists. "A few more hours won't make that much difference. We can leave first thing. You and I could probably do with a kip too, come to it. You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?"
Sherlock shakes his head, not so much a negation as brushing off the question. "Immaterial."
"It's material, but it's up to you." John slaps his thighs with both hands. "I'm going to try and get some anyway." He makes as if to stand, but Sherlock speaks first.
"Stay."
John freezes, halfway off the mattress. Sherlock is still looking at the pen, rolling it back and forth on the desk with his long fingers. John drops back down onto the bed, but leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He presses his palms together in front of his mouth and watches Sherlock. After a while, when nothing further is forthcoming, he drops his hands between his knees and hangs his head.
"Sherlock, we can't," he says in a low voice, but it's more than half a question.
Sherlock swallows heavily but doesn't say anything. He stops moving the pen. He also doesn't look at John.
John leans further forward until he can put his hand on Sherlock's knee. Sherlock closes his eyes. His breath catches. John slides his hand up the inside of Sherlock's leg, stopping halfway up his thigh. His arm is stretched as far as it can go without him getting up. Sherlock's hands are now gripping the arms of his chair.
"You should go," Sherlock says in a low voice, without opening his eyes.
John lifts himself off the bed and slides his hand the rest of the way up.
&&&&&&
Author:
Beta readers:
ruth0007, billiethepoetRating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 4,345 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 9 on AO3
Chapter Nine
Grandmother isn't around when they get back, but Mrs Bowen has laid out tea for them in the green parlour. Tris doesn't even really taste the biscuits as he swallows them. His father and Doctor Watson are sitting on the couch, talking, with Emily curled up on her father's lap. Tristram is slouched in one of the armchairs. He knows it shouldn't bother him as much as it does that his father and Doctor Watson are, apparently, friends now. Kissing aside, which Tristram doesn't want to think about at the moment. People have friends. It's 'healthy', as Mrs Hudson would say.
Tristram overheard her once, talking to his father out in the hall one night when they thought he was asleep in his room. She said it wasn't healthy that Tristram never had any friends over to play. In Tristram's experience, getting close to other children is more like asking for the sniffles or a sore throat, so in actual fact it is healthier not to play with them. Of course, that isn't the reason he doesn't generally interact socially with other children; he has a strong constitution - he has to, with the microbes, moulds, necrotic flesh, and other sources of contagion sharing breathing space with him at home. It's more the fact that the other children are generally too busy making fun of the way Tristram looks, or walks, or fails to kick the ball properly, to find out what interests they might share.
But Emily is different: she's the first real, true friend he's ever had, and that fact alone makes him feel a little bubble of happiness in his chest, even now, when she's clinging to her father and all but ignoring Tristram. Why shouldn't his father enjoy the same? He does want his father to be happy. It's just that he'd rather his father be happy just with him.
It takes a while for him to realise that the conversation has fallen silent and everyone is looking at him.
"Everything okay, Tris?" Doctor Watson asks.
Tristram looks at his father. He's observing Tristram in a way that Tristram knows means he can see everything that Tristram's thinking. Tristram nods and eats the rest of the biscuit in his hand. Not even Emily looks convinced.
Doctor Watson suggests that Emily and Tristram might have more fun if they go find something to play, rather than sitting around in the parlour for the rest of the afternoon, but Emily staunchly refuses to leave, even going so far as to threaten tears. Tristram recognises that his father and Doctor Watson want to discuss something not meant for children's ears, but this time Tristram doesn't throw his weight behind Doctor Watson and offer Emily an enticing distraction.
It ends up with Tristram's father walking out, muttering something about needing to think, and Doctor Watson making Emily and Tristram help him bring the remains of the tea things down to the kitchen. Mrs Bowen is there, making dinner, but even her offer to let Emily and Tristram help with the baking doesn't weaken Emily's resolve, and Doctor Watson ends up playing card games with Tristram and Emily upstairs until it's time to eat. That makes it even harder for Tristram to hold onto his grudge against Doctor Watson, but he manages. Mostly.
Grandmother shows up for dinner and spends nearly the whole time talking to Doctor Watson. Tristram doesn't even bother trying to listen. He watches his father instead, who goes from bored to irritated to smouldering until he finally snorts and rolls his eyes at something Grandmother has said.
"Of course, we know how you feel about it, Sherlock," she says, sounding exactly like Uncle Mycroft at that moment. She then resumes the thread of her conversation as if there had been no interruption.
Doctor Watson holds up a hand to stop her. "No, wait. Jeanne, excuse me," he says, so politely that even Tristram can see it's no longer polite. "I'd like to hear what Sherlock thinks."
Grandmother snaps her mouth shut and picks up her wine glass. "He doesn't agree, of course, because it's not something he would have thought of." She says this calmly, but Tristram hears the disapproval. He also hears another echo of Uncle Mycroft in the calmness.
"I don't agree because it's an asinine-" Father begins, but Grandmother doesn't let him get any further.
"Insults aren't arguments," she says, her words clipped. She turns to Doctor Watson. "I'm sorry, John," she says, more graciously this time, "but it's simply not worth rehashing."
Normally, when someone talks to Father the way Grandmother just has, you can be sure they will be in for a devastatingly thorough enumeration of their faults, weaknesses, and unhappy secrets. In fact, Tristram has heard Father give Grandmother a dressing-down before, and he expects another one now. He can even see Father's eyes flashing dangerously in Grandmother's direction. But before he can open his mouth to begin speaking, Doctor Watson does.
"No. Well." Doctor Watson takes his serviette from his lap and lays it on his plate, which is still half-full. "We'll take it somewhere else then." He looks across the table at Emily. "Are you finished?"
Emily nods, even though she's barely touched her croquettes.
"Tris?"
Tristram is startled, not having expected Doctor Watson to include him. He looks at his father for a cue, but his father is watching Doctor Watson with the oddest look on his face. Tristram is wary of giving Doctor Watson any more leverage, but he is more fascinated by what is going to happen next, so he says, "Yes," and quickly gulps down the rest of his water.
Doctor Watson pushes his chair back. "Thank you for dinner," he says to Grandmother as he stands. "I appreciate your hospitality, especially given all the-" He waves his hand vaguely toward the French windows, which Tristram finds puzzling; does he mean the weather? "- and I know this is all a very big imposition. But your son is the most incredible, most interesting person I've ever met, and if not even his opinions count, then I'm afraid the rest of us haven't a chance."
Grandmother laughs, which makes her appear charming and young. "Oh, John, really, it's nothing to spoil dinner over. I only meant-"
Father finally moves, standing as well. The flash in his eyes has moved from Grandmother to John, only it looks different now. Still dangerous, but... without the darkness underneath. "No, John's right,” Father says. “The sooner we can put this entire situation to rest, the best for everyone. We'll hopefully be out of your way by tomorrow."
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, you know that, Sherlock. You and your friend." Grandmother looks concerned and sincere. If Father put on that face, Tristram would know he was pretending, but on Grandmother it looks believable.
Father frowns, like he doesn't know what she means by that, then walks out without responding. Doctor Watson offers a curt 'Good night' before following. Emily hurries after him. Tristram is left hovering a bit uncertainly, but finally decides he was meant to be included in the exodus, and slowly gets up.
"You too, Tristram?" Grandmother sighs. "Come here then, at least say good night properly. I shouldn't be surprised if he sweeps you all out of here in the middle of the night again." She holds out a hand to him and offers her cheek.
Tristram gives her a quick kiss and says, "Good night."
He steps back, but Grandmother doesn't let go of his hand yet. "What do you think of John?" she asks, giving him the same keen look his father does when he's trying to figure out the answer before he hears it.
Tristram doesn't know what to say to that. Rather than examining his own feelings too closely, he tries to divine what he thinks his grandmother wants him to say. Despite the little scene he just witnessed - which he still doesn't quite understand - he thinks that she actually likes Doctor Watson; she did spend a lot of time talking to him, and tried to get him to stay at the end.
Tristram finally settles on, "He's nice," because it's bland and inoffensive and objectively true. Doctor Watson is nice to pretty much everyone.
Grandmother snorts a little. "Not the word I would have chosen. But it's probably best that you think so," she says, which is strange, because of course it's best to think people are nice. Doesn't she think Doctor Watson is nice? And if not, why does she like him? Or has Tristram misunderstood something again? "Go on now," she says and lets go of his hand. "Before they think I'm filling your brain with ideas."
Tristram, more confused than ever, goes upstairs. Looking for Emily, he finds Doctor Watson alone in their room, sitting on the bed with his phone in his hand. He looks up and smiles when Tristram appears in the doorway. He looks tired, but... nice. Tristram can't dredge up any of the resentment he wants to feel. Just then, he's glad Doctor Watson is here with them at Grandmother's.
Doctor Watson puts his phone in his pocket. "Em's in the bath," he says, nodding toward the closed bathroom door. "Why don't you go get cleaned up too, and then maybe we can play a game or something."
"Where's my father?" Tristram asks.
"Checking on something." The answer is probably meant to be reassuring in its vagueness, the same way Mrs Hudson sometimes says Father 'just popped out for a bit' when he comes home from school to an empty flat. It doesn't stop Tristram from thinking of guns and knives; nor does it stop Father from re-appearing, sometimes not until the next day (or even longer) with tender ribs and black eyes and clothes that don't look like his and smell like sick or worse.
Tristram goes back across the hall to clean up and put on his pyjamas. He takes his phone out of his trousers and looks around for someplace to put it for the night, as his pyjamas don't have any pockets. He doesn't want to put it into his school bag or a drawer, where it would be too hard to get at in the dark. He settles for sliding it underneath his pillow. He'll just have to wake up enough to grab it if they leave in the middle of the night again.
Doctor Watson said they might still play a game together, but Tristram would honestly rather be alone. He's actually feeling a bit sleepy, even though it isn't very late, after being outside most of the day. He gets his Harry Potter book out of his school bag and climbs into bed.
He's only read about half a chapter when there is a knock at his door. "Tris?" It's Emily's father.
"Come in," Tris says, letting the book flop down onto the duvet.
Doctor Watson opens the door. Emily is with him. Her hair is damp, and she's wearing a yellow striped t-shirt that hangs down to the middle of her thighs, with a pair of flowered leggings underneath. At first, Tristram thinks the t-shirt must be one of Doctor Watson's, but then he notices the cut of the neckline and realises it was probably her mother's. Tristram doesn't have anything of his mother's. There isn't even a picture. He's never wondered about that, but now he does. Did she not leave anything behind? Or did his father destroy everything? Not that he has any particular need for a memento of a woman he never knew. He's just curious.
"Everything all right?" Doctor Watson asks.
Tristram nods. "Fine."
"You up for another round of Snap?" He holds up the pack of cards in his hand.
Tristram shakes his head. "No thanks."
Emily comes in and crawls over the bed to put her hand against Tristram's forehead. Tristram minds a bit that she's encroaching on his space without so much as a by-your-leave. On the other hand, it's a weird kind of nice that she doesn't hesitate to do so. Like she belongs there or something.
"Are you sure you're not sick?" she asks, staring into his eyes as if she could see a diagnosis written there. "You've been acting kind of funny."
Tristram shakes his head again and pulls away. "No. Just tired." It's probably even true. He has too many thoughts about what's happened over the past two days to divert any energy toward social interaction. He's not used to having people around all the time, especially people who want to talk to him and do things with him. Also, he feels inexplicably guilty about keeping the fact of their fathers kissing from Emily. If it were the other way round, he'd want her to tell him. Not that he'd be happy about it, but he'd want to know. He doesn't even think she'll be unhappy about it. Probably just the opposite, in fact, judging by how excited and interested she was when it was merely unfounded speculation on her part. Maybe that's the problem. He doesn't want to have to explain to her why he's not quite as enthusiastic as she is. He doesn't even know the answer to that himself.
Doctor Watson sits down on the bottom corner of the bed. "Maybe I could read to the two of you, then," he suggests. "Em and I usually read together before bed, but we didn't bring any of her books." Tristram is a bit surprised to hear that. There was a time when Tristram's father used to read to him, but that was before Tristram learned to read himself. Emily can read. Why would she need her father to read to her? It's not like when Tristram read the Harry Potter book to Emily at Uncle Mycroft's house. That was just a trick so she wouldn't get in trouble.
"What do you have there?" Doctor Watson nods at the book lying open in front of Tristram.
Tristram could beg off and say he wants to go to sleep directly, but despite his mixed feelings about Doctor Watson, he doesn't want to be rude to Emily. And it won't take any effort on his part if Doctor Watson is doing the reading. He doesn't even really have to listen. The only problem is... Tristram shoots a glance at Emily. He doesn't want her to get in trouble. But Doctor Watson won't know that he and Emily started reading the book together earlier. Emily, still crouched next to him, just raises her eyebrows at him as if to say, 'It's your call.'
Tristram lifts the book so Doctor Watson can see the cover. He expects him to say something disapproving, but he just widens his eyes and says, "Oh." And then, after a moment, "Right. You've read the first three then?"
Tristram nods. It would be kind of dumb to start reading in the middle of the series.
"All by yourself?"
Tristram nods again, feeling a flash of irritation. Honestly, he's nearly nine!
"And it's..." Doctor Watson frowns, like he's trying to figure out how to say something. Then his face straightens out and he sighs. "Right, okay. We can..." He holds out his hand, asking for permission. "May I?"
Tristram folds down the corner of the page he's on so he won't lose his place and hands the book over.
Doctor Watson flips through the book a bit. "Em wanted to read this next, but I thought it might be a bit too intense. But you're okay with it?" He looks at Tristram.
Tristram shrugs, both proud that Doctor Watson values his opinion and apprehensive about him possibly not agreeing with it. "There are some kind of scary parts," Tristram says, "but I just remember that it's not real and then it's okay."
"All right, we'll give it a try then. If it's all right with you, that is?" Doctor Watson checks with Tristram. "Maybe you can run through what's happened so far and we'll keep going where you left off." He pages forward to the place Tristram marked.
"You can start at the beginning. I don't mind," Tristram says, as he thinks that would be more polite. Also, he won't have to pay attention this way, as it will be the third time he's read - or now, heard - the first chapter.
"All right," Doctor Watson agrees and flips back to the beginning. "You comfortable there, Em?"
Emily scoots back against the headboard so she's sitting next to Tristram. She's on top of the duvet and he's underneath it, but her upper arm rests against his. It's nice and cosy, and Tristram finds he doesn't mind the intrusion on his privacy that much after all.
"Can you start at chapter three? Tris actually started reading it to me yesterday," Emily confides in a guilty whisper.
Tristram is surprised by the confession. He cringes a bit in anticipation of Doctor Watson's reaction.
Doctor Watson looks at her in surprise, then at Tristram, then back at Emily. "Oh really?" He sounds more amused than angry.
Tristram relaxes minutely, but says, "I'm sorry," anyway.
"No, you-" Doctor Watson shakes his head, then continues more gently, "It's all right, Tris. I'm not upset. I suppose Emily told you I was iffy about it. But I trust your judgment. Chapter three, you say?"
Emily squeezes Tristram's arm. Tristram turns to her. She is nodding at him happily. Tristram smiles back, and the little ball of happiness in his stomach re-asserts itself. Then Doctor Watson begins reading.
&&&&&&
"John?" Sherlock calls once the water turns off in the shared bath between his room and Mycroft's old one.
John opens the door from the bathroom and leans in. "Just finished putting the kids to bed." He speaks in a low voice, nodding behind him toward the room he shares with Emily.
Sherlock is standing by the window. He holds up his phone and waggles it. "I got a message. Well, a series of messages, but together they can only mean one thing."
John wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans and enters the room. "What is it?"
There is a sparkle in Sherlock's eye, threatening to tip over into an expression of genuine excitement. "Moran's dead."
John stops where he is, halfway between the bathroom and Sherlock. He clenches his fists at his sides. "Are you sure this time?"
"As sure as I can be without seeing the body and running a DNA analysis on it myself."
John's breaths have become heavier, his nostrils flaring with the effort. He appears to be frozen, unable to look away.
"Do you need to sit down?" Sherlock asks. He doesn't sound so much concerned as curious; possibly even with a hint of incredulity.
John blinks and shakes his head. "No, just..." He puts a hand over his mouth, then scrubs it up over his face into his hair. He sucks on his lip and looks up at the ceiling as if he could find an appropriate response there. "Well, that's good, right?" he says finally, his briskness belying the underlying quaver in his voice. "I mean, that's what we wanted. He's - He was the one behind Mary's death. Not that it was about revenge," he says, pointing at Sherlock emphatically. "You put me in an untenable position."
"There's no point in going over all of that again," Sherlock says testily and brushes past John toward the desk. "You disagree with my methods, despite the fact that they resulted in exactly the outcome both of us wanted."
"You weren't so certain of that last night."
"And now I am. The ends justify the means, John. You only needed that little extra incentive." He flips his phone in the air, catches it, and slides it into the front pocket of his trousers.
"Incen- You call that a little extra incentive?" He catches himself before he starts shouting and continues in an intense whisper. "Your life - Your life, Sherlock, is not a little extra incentive!"
Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "If he'd really wanted to kill me, he could have done so immediately. He had me on my knees for at least a minute, posturing and gloating, before you shot him."
"I'll remember that for next time, shall I?" John says, a bit manically. "Maybe pop in myself, just to hear what he has to say. We still don't know, for example, who Mary's actual killer was."
Sherlock flicks his fingers again. "Unimportant." At the look of outraged disbelief on John's face, he clicks his tongue impatiently and says, "I mean, important, yes, he'll be brought to justice, etcetera, but at this point it's just details. Clean-up. It's practically something the police could handle." He flops down into the armchair at the desk.
John raises his eyebrows. "Speaking of."
"Hm?"
"The police. I assume someone's identified Moran's body? That's how you're so certain he's dead? The police will be involved now. Looking for Moran's killer. Looking for me, not to put too fine a point on it."
"No."
"No?"
"No. There's no body."
"Then how-"
"John, please, think for once. A criminal of Moran's calibre, killed by what is obviously a professional hit. His organisation would never allow the police to become involved in investigating his death. They've disposed of the body quietly. Officially, he'll simply disappear."
John lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, facing Sherlock. "What do you mean, his organisation? I thought Moran was it, that everything would fall apart without him."
"Clearly not everything," Sherlock says, as if this were a point he'd been belabouring for some time, but there is a slight furrow between his eyebrows that hints at something else. "Someone's going to take advantage of the confusion and try to fill the power vacuum. We have a window of a week, by my estimation, during which they'll be more interested in trying to outmanoeuvre each other than in dealing with whoever killed their former boss. If we're very lucky, they won't bother with us at all. But we can't rely on that. Someone's bound to try and be clever eventually. It would certainly solidify their position within the ranks if they were to best the ones who bested Moran."
"A week," John repeats flatly. "And what exactly are we doing during that time? Do we even have a clear objective any more, or has this all become some sort of game for you, seeing how much trouble you can stir up?"
"The objective is the same as ever: exposing your wife's -"
"Mary's," John interrupts.
Sherlock pauses and gives John a curious look. "Were you married more than once?"
"No, but her name's Mary. You never say her name. It was Mary."
Sherlock stares at John for a moment, then says slowly, "Exposing Mary's killer." The name comes out of his mouth oddly, an incongruity, as if he'd started talking in thees and thous. He then resumes his enumeration: "Discovering the reason for the methylfentanyl device. And making sure that neither my son nor your - Emily," he corrects himself before John can open his mouth, the name again sounding as if it's a word in an unfamiliar language, "is threatened with harm again."
"And you can do all of that from here?" John asks, scepticism mixing with genuine admiration at the extent of Sherlock's skills.
But Sherlock scowls. "Obviously not, I can't do anything from here." He throws his arms up in frustration. "I have no signal most of the time, no access to my contacts, no access to anything-"
"So you go back, and I stay here with the kids."
Sherlock looks away, fiddling with one of the pens lying on the desk blotter. "I'd feel safer having Tristram with me," he says, as if it were a painful admission. "If something were to happen here while I'm in London-"
John sighs. "Yeah, I get it. I'd feel the same way. But don't you think taking them back is asking for another attempt?"
Sherlock frowns. "As I said, by my estimation-"
"A week, yeah, I got it," John says wearily.
"I'd rather go back tonight, but -"
"No, those kids need at least one good night's sleep," John insists. "A few more hours won't make that much difference. We can leave first thing. You and I could probably do with a kip too, come to it. You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?"
Sherlock shakes his head, not so much a negation as brushing off the question. "Immaterial."
"It's material, but it's up to you." John slaps his thighs with both hands. "I'm going to try and get some anyway." He makes as if to stand, but Sherlock speaks first.
"Stay."
John freezes, halfway off the mattress. Sherlock is still looking at the pen, rolling it back and forth on the desk with his long fingers. John drops back down onto the bed, but leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He presses his palms together in front of his mouth and watches Sherlock. After a while, when nothing further is forthcoming, he drops his hands between his knees and hangs his head.
"Sherlock, we can't," he says in a low voice, but it's more than half a question.
Sherlock swallows heavily but doesn't say anything. He stops moving the pen. He also doesn't look at John.
John leans further forward until he can put his hand on Sherlock's knee. Sherlock closes his eyes. His breath catches. John slides his hand up the inside of Sherlock's leg, stopping halfway up his thigh. His arm is stretched as far as it can go without him getting up. Sherlock's hands are now gripping the arms of his chair.
"You should go," Sherlock says in a low voice, without opening his eyes.
John lifts himself off the bed and slides his hand the rest of the way up.
&&&&&&
