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Entry tags:
Fic: Cracks in the In-Between Places (16/21)
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 4,707 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).
**Chapter Note: Okay, people. Darlings. It's beginning. Take a look at the tags and warnings. The ones that haven't been covered yet are coming now. The next several chapters are going to be traumatic. You might want to hold hands...
I owe a special debt of gratitude to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladyprydian and thissalsify for their saint-like patience in going through several drafts of this chapter and the next one, giving me tons of expert medical advice, looking up references, finding pictures to help me understand what should be happening, and being extremely good sports when I found I wasn't able to incorporate optimal medical procedures after all in some cases.**
See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.
Chapter 16 on AO3
Chapter Sixteen
When they get home, Father stops at Mrs Hudson's to ask if there have been any deliveries, while Tristram goes upstairs. In the kitchen, he sees that Mrs Hudson has left not one but three pies for them on the table: some kind of custard, mince, and one with a top crust that he can't see inside. Tristram, always a fan of Mrs Hudson's pies and having left before they had time for pudding at the Watsons', gets down a plate and cuts himself a piece of the custard one. It turns out to be lemon, he discovers at the first bite. It's quite good, although Mrs Hudson's crusts are usually thicker than this. Maybe she's trying a new recipe. He scoops up another big forkful and lets the sweet, creamy smooth filling roll around on his tongue.
As he slides the pie plate to the side to make more room for himself at the table, he catches sight of a brownish spot in the open angle of the pie he cut open. At first he thinks it's a pocket of jam or chocolate, or possibly a piece of fruit, but when he pokes at it with his fork, he finds it altogether solid. Curious, he digs it out, as it seems to be a singular item, the rest of the pie appearing smooth and evenly coloured. Maybe Mrs Hudson has hidden something in the pie, like the bean and pea in a Twelfth-Night Cake.
It turns out to be neither a bean nor a pea, however, unless it is a very thick and burnt bean. It's not until Tristram moves it to his plate and wipes more of the custard off that he sees the fingernail and realises that the item is, in fact, a finger. Whether of flesh or a very life-like replica, he isn't certain, but something tells him this is one of those out-of-the-ordinary things that he should inform his father of. Immediately.
"Father!" His voice comes out higher and more panicked-sounding than he would perhaps have liked. "Father!" he tries again, even shriller, when there is no response to his first cry.
Quick, heavy steps on the stairs precede his father's entrance, his eyes alert and taking in every detail. "What is it?" He darts over to the table, hones in on the finger on Tristram's plate, sniffs, fumbles in his pocket for surgical gloves, which he snaps on, and a plastic coffee stirrer, which he then uses to roll the finger over.
"They're not from Mrs Hudson, are they?" Tristram ventures.
"No," his father confirms. He looks again at Tristram's plate with one eyebrow cocked, seeming to notice for the first time the partially eaten piece of pie there. "Did you eat this?"
Tristram nods. His stomach feels queer now with the knowledge that he almost ate that finger.
"No," his father says, as if he could negate the event with the word. He pokes the coffee stirrer into the remains of the piece of pie as if he's looking for something. He then grabs Tristram's face, forcing his mouth open with his thumb so he can peer inside. "How do you feel?" he asks urgently. "Pain, nausea, cramps-"
"I feel a bit sick," Tristram admits. Has the finger made him sick? His stomach roils.
Father hurtles to one of the drawers and practically tears it apart until he finds what he wants, the flat plastic box containing pH test strips. Tristram used them for his soil experiment. Father takes one out and sticks the end into the part of the pie Tristram ate from. It doesn't take long for the coloured squares to react and turn the dull dun-olive combination that Tristram knows means a pH of 6.5. Is that normal for a custard pie? Father tosses the test strip aside and crouches down, grabbing Tristram by the shoulders. Hard.
"Tell me what you mean by you feel 'sick'," he says, not letting Tristram look away.
"Like I'm going to throw up." Tristram's lips start to quiver. He's not going to cry. Father doesn't like it when he cries. His chest feels tight, and he can taste sourness in the back of his throat.
"Does it hurt anywhere?"
"My chest..." Tristram's nose is prickling with the start of tears. Is he going to die?
"Where? Inside where you swallowed, your heart, your lungs, your throat? Where?"
Tristram shakes his head, unable to speak. If he tries to say anything he's going to cry. He can't tell anyway. Everything just feels wobbly and tight all at the same time.
"Tristram, you have to tell me!" Father orders, harsher, and shakes him by the shoulders. His voice is more on edge and urgent than Tristram can recall ever hearing it, and that scares him even more than being poisoned or choked.
"I don't know," Tristram bursts out, and with the words come the tears. He's sorry he ate the pie, so sorry. Now that he's started crying, he can't stop. He cries in great, heaving gasps, tears and snot running down his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," he sobs. There's viscous stuff in the back of his throat, probably from his nose running backwards, making him cough. He coughs so hard he has to bend over, and he gags at the end.
He doesn't notice Father let go, but now he's back, saying, "If you're going to vomit, do it into here." Blearily, Tristram registers some kind of bowl being thrust in front of his face.
Is he going to vomit? He thinks about his stomach, about the thick yellow pie filling sitting there like a huge lump of the stuff that ends up in the tissue when he blows his nose when he's sick; about the bits of dirt and germs that might be in there from the finger; and especially about there possibly being part of the finger in there too, some pieces of meat come off the bones like tender, greasy chicken, and yes. He is going to vomit.
There's a lot. It's all the spaghetti from dinner too, not just the bit of pie. He forgot about that.
He doesn't remember moving, but somehow he's kneeling on the floor with Father supporting him. He can feel lumpy bits in his mouth and there are long strings of viscous liquid hanging from his lips. He heaves again. He hears it hitting the metal of the bowl this time. He's pleased about that, on top of the misery. At least he got it where Father wanted it.
"Any more?" Father asks after he's sat there trying to catch his breath for several seconds.
Tristram considers. He feels better, actually. He shakes his head. He spits out what's left in his mouth.
"Wait," Father says. Tristram has his eyes closed, but he can hear that Father doesn't go far. He's back within moments, wiping Tristram's mouth with what feels like towel.
He's only half aware of Father stripping his clothes off him right there in the kitchen and piloting him to the bathroom. He is set on the toilet lid and a moment later a wet flannel is wiping his face. At the same time, he vaguely registers his father talking. It takes him a few moments to realise he's on the phone, and that it must be Doctor Watson on the other end.
Then his father is talking to him, asking him how he feels. He's sore and stuffed up and his throat feels raw, but his stomach is much less unsettled now, so he murmurs that he's okay. Father makes him rinse his mouth out with water from the tap and then half-carries him out to the living room and deposits him on the couch. He's only wearing his pants and he's starting to feel chilly now, but Father's duvet is still there from that morning, so he topples over onto it and Father tucks him up in it.
"Don't go to sleep," his father admonishes him. "John's coming." He goes back to the kitchen, where Tristram can hear him moving things around. "Whatever possessed you to eat a pie with a finger in it?" he asks, raising his voice enough to be heard over the clatter he's making.
"Didn't see the finger 'til after," Tristram says, mumbling into the duvet. The whole thing makes him feel sheepish, now. Father would certainly never have made that mistake.
After a few minutes, Tristram is feeling a bit better. He pushes himself up so his head is resting on the armrest closest to the door. From this vantage point, he can see his father's reflection in the window, bending and dancing back and forth. Every so often, he will call out to check that Tristram's still awake and alert.
"How do you feel now?" Father calls out to him.
"Thirsty," Tristram says. Plus, his mouth tastes foul.
Father ducks his head around the divider between the kitchen and the living room. "I'd rather wait until John's checked you over before you eat or drink anything else. No blood or foreign matter so far in your stomach contents, though, that's good. But spaghetti again?" he asks in mild reproach. "For a doctor, John does tend toward a rather monotonous menu."
Tristram grins and twists his head around. If his father's joking, that means he doesn't need to be quite so worried. "Do you remember when we had lasagne for two weeks in a row?" he asks. His voice comes out all scratchy.
"Yes, bloody Angelo," his father mutters, retreating back into the kitchen. "I don't recall you complaining, though," he says, a bit louder.
"I like lasagne!" Tristram says back.
"We should take John next time we go."
Tristram falls silent, because Angelo's is for him and Father. His first reaction is that he doesn't want to share it with Doctor Watson. Not even if Emily is there too (although Father didn't mention her, he assumes she would come along). But then he remembers that he told his father it was okay with him, if he wanted to … do whatever it is that he wants to do with Doctor Watson. And that doesn't just mean kissing him, it means going out on cases together, and having him here at their flat, and sitting on the couch together and laughing, and eating dinner together. Not that Father ate with them during the two days that Doctor Watson and Emily were here, but he did at the Watsons', once with Emily's Aunt Claire, once with her other aunts, and once with just the four of them. So that means he'll have to share Angelo's too.
"Okay," Tristram says weakly. He doesn't know if his father heard him. Not that it matters. Father will do what he wants to either way. He pulls the blanket up to his nose and burrows down under it. It smells like his father, the same way his coat does, but sweeter, without the sour tobacco smell. He watches his father's reflection again in the gap between the curtains, but now he's sitting down and all Tristram can see in the window is the top of his head.
And then right there, right in the middle of his father's head, a little yellow light flares up. It takes Tristram a moment to understand that it's not a reflection of something inside the flat, but something coming from outside. He sits up straight and unfocuses his eyes to force them to see through the glass rather than on the surface. There, again, only this time the glow is orange. It's coming from one of the windows of the building directly across from them. He immediately knows what that is. It's the bodyguard, the one Uncle Mycroft sent to watch them at Grandmother's. It doesn't look like he took Tristram's advice about the nicotine patches. He hopes he's at least where he's supposed to be this time, even if he is smoking on duty. He wouldn't want the man to get in trouble. But he won't tell. It makes Tristram feel safer after all the upset with the near poisoning, knowing that there's someone out there who's protecting him and his father.
After about half an hour, the door downstairs opens and Doctor Watson's voice calls loudly, "Sherlock?" as he runs up the stairs. Tristram realises he must still have the house key that Father gave him. He wonders if Doctor Watson simply forgot to give it back, or if Father refused to take it, or if they agreed that Doctor Watson should keep it.
Father comes into the living room from the kitchen at the same time as Doctor Watson does from the stairs. Doctor Watson's eyes are wide and he's breathing heavily. He is carrying a squarish, blue case. "Report," he says shortly as he makes a beeline for Tristram.
"Three pies, each with a finger inside, presumably from Henry. A finger in every pie, obviously," Father says, dogging Doctor Watson's steps and looming over his back. "I assume they're letting us know that they are involved in all of the current incidents, including your wife, which we already knew. There must be something else, but what? Lemon custard, mince, and -"
"Tell me your theories later, Sherlock," Doctor Watson snaps as he sets his case on the low table next to the couch and opens the latches. "I need to know about Tris! Any shortness of breath, loss of consciousness, cramping, numbness or tingling-"
"No, no, nothing aside from the vomiting, and he's been fine since," Father mutters dismissively. "Lemon: what do they mean? When life gives you lemons, make lemonade; oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement's... Yes, St Clement's," he repeats and dashes to his computer, continuing to ramble on.
Doctor Watson, meanwhile, has taken an instrument with a light on the end of it out of his case, which Tristram is intrigued to note has several interesting fold-out shelves and compartments, and is chock full of tools and ampules and vials and bottles. He has Tristram open his mouth and shines the light in there and up his nose.
"That's going to have to wait, Sherlock," Doctor Watson says over his shoulder in response to something Father is saying. He presses his lips together into a thin line as he shines the light into Tristram's eyes. "Just look straight ahead, Tris, I'm checking if your eyes are reacting the way they're supposed to." Tristram tries to hold still and follow all of Doctor Watson's instructions.
After he's done with the light, Doctor Watson lifts Tristram's hand, pinches his fingers, and takes his pulse. Then he gets out his stethoscope and listens to Tristram's chest and belly. He shakes his head as he presses his fingers carefully into Tristram's abdomen. "You should have called for an ambulance, Sherlock."
"There was no time!" Father says, still busy at his computer. "And I did what they would have done anyway."
"There are three hospitals with casualties within spitting distance, so don't give me that. A few seconds as soon as you realised what had happened really wouldn't have been too much to ask. What if he'd needed respiratory support or had a seizure?" Doctor Watson sighs and drops his stethoscope into his case. "I don't see any signs of impaired nerve function, haemorrhaging or cyanosis, but still. He needs to be checked out. He'll need cultures done, a check of his liver and kidney function. You said you preserved the stomach contents?"
"There's nothing there," Father says, almost as if he's disappointed.
"That's good if so. I'm going to give him some charcoal to be absolutely sure." Doctor Watson switches his focus to Tristram. "Tris, everything looks okay as far as I can see right now, but I'm going to give you some medicine to hopefully take care of anything you didn't get out before." He smiles reassuringly and pats Tristram's leg through the duvet. Then he reaches over to pluck a little bottle out of his case, gets up and goes to the kitchen.
Tristram relaxes back against the couch. He's relieved that Doctor Watson didn't find anything wrong with him. He must have thrown up all the bad stuff.
"I'm giving him fifty grams now," Doctor Watson tells Father. "It might cause some constipation in the next couple of days, and his stool will be black, but that's all perfectly normal. Make sure you tell them at the hospital anyway, they'll be able to give you a laxative for him if you're concerned."
Father joins Doctor Watson in the kitchen, leaving Tristram alone. He pulls the blanket up around himself again. He can hear them continue talking, as well as the tinkling of glassware and metal.
"It needs to be diluted with water," Doctor Watson says, "and he has to drink the whole thing. And I'm serious, take him to the hospital, the sooner the better."
"Can't you do those tests here?" Father asks. Although Tristram recognises that it's more of a demand. "You can use my microscope, I have a wide range of reagents-"
"Sherlock, I'm not- No," Doctor Watson says flatly. "I'm a trauma surgeon, moonlighting in emergency medicine. I'm not a lab technician. I do not have the expertise, and you certainly do not have the necessary equipment." He lowers his voice, but Tristram can still hear him. "This is your son, Sherlock," he says fiercely. "Why are you refusing proper medical treatment?"
"I have ensured he received proper medical treatment," Father snarls. "Thus your presence. Additionally, however, it may have escaped your narrow field of attention that someone has actually been inside our flat. Someone planted these here, knowing we were out. Conclusion: we are being watched. If there is something in there, rushing out to the hospital is exactly what they expect, thus playing right into their hands. They could come back, remove the evidence while we were gone, the message delivered and received but removing any possibility of gleaning additional information from it."
Tristram didn't think of that. If the pies aren't from Mrs Hudson, obviously they are from someone else. And that someone must have come inside and left them on the table. Tristram looks out the window, hoping to see the reassuring glow of the bodyguard's cigarette, but there is nothing.
"So you're pretty much saying you endangered your son's life in order to protect - what, a couple of pies?" Doctor Watson says. He sounds angry.
"Evidence, John!" Father barks back. "Evidence that they may not want me to have."
Doctor Watson comes back into the living room, carrying two mugs. His face looks thunderous, but it relaxes slightly as he sits down on the edge of the couch next to Tristram again. Tristram can hear his father in the kitchen, banging things.
"Here, can you sit up, Tris?" he asks. He sets the mugs down and puts an arm under Tristram's shoulders through the blanket to help him. It's nice, and Tristram leans into him more than he actually needs to. Doctor Watson picks up one of the mugs and holds it in front of Tristram. The liquid in it is thick and black, as if someone dumped one of his soil samples into a cup of water.
"I know it looks funny, but you need to drink the whole thing," Doctor Watson tells him. "You can rinse your mouth with some plain water afterwards." He nods at the other cup on the table.
Tristram lifts the mug to his mouth. Doctor Watson keeps hold of it as well, helping him. It tastes a bit like something burnt, and leaves a gritty residue in his mouth. It takes him several swallows to get it all down, and there is still black stuff all over the inside of the cup. Tristram hopes he's not meant to get that out too.
But Doctor Watson just takes the mug and says, "Good job," then hands Tristram the other one. He still has his arm around Tristram. Tristram doesn't move away either while he swishes the clean water around in his mouth, then swallows that too. It helps a bit.
"At least give me your opinion on these while you're here," Father says, stalking back into the living room and shoving a plate with three fingers under Doctor Watson's nose. They've been cleaned. The skin on all of them is dark, although Tristram doesn't know if that's from being cooked, or because the person they came from has dark skin.
"Jesus, Sherlock, really not the time," Doctor Watson says, tightening his arm around Tristram's shoulder. He does take a second look, though. "Clean amputation, fits with your theory of the perpetrators knowing their way around these things and having proper equipment. Middle-aged, poor nutrition. Look," he says suddenly, sounding irritated and pushing the plate away. "I have to get back. I don't like leaving Emily alone with Harry and Clara."
"You could have brought her along. In fact, I still think you should have stayed-"
"We've been through this," Doctor Watson says tightly, then stops and looks down, shaking his head. He squeezes Tristram, then relaxes his grip and lets his hand slide away. He sighs and looks up at Father. "Have you at least let Mycroft know?" he asks, more gently. "I don't like the idea of you and Tris alone here if someone's watching the flat."
"Mycroft; what can he do?" Father scoffs.
"He could post a watch, like he did at your mother's. I know it's not much, but-"
"I think one of his bodyguards is already here," Tristram blurts out in an attempt to smooth things over.
Father and Doctor Watson both freeze and turn to him as if they'd forgot Tristram was still there.
"What do you mean?" Father asks. There's something breathless and expectant about the way he says it.
"The one at Grandmother's, who wasn't supposed to be smoking," Tristram explains. "I think he's here."
Father is knelt down on the floor beside Tristram in an instant, his hands gripping Tristram's shoulders. "Where? In London? In the flat? Where did you see him?" His eyes are wide and his manner is urgent, much more so than when Tristram told him about seeing the man smoking under his window at Grandmother's.
Tristram is unsettled. He knows Father often rails against the measures Uncle Mycroft undertakes - considering them interference - but he honestly thought Father would be pleased to hear about the bodyguard, as it would mollify Doctor Watson to know that someone was looking out for them.
"Not him exactly... " Tristram qualifies his statement. "The light from his cigarette. It looked the same as-" He stops. He's not supposed to tell that he saw him in the stable. Although it won't really matter now, will it? It's not as if anything bad happened because he was sitting in there smoking rather than standing somewhere outside in the rain during his shift. Still, Tristram hedges and says, "The same as at Grandmother's. In the building across the street." He nods at the window overlooking the street.
Father leaps over, standing at the side of the window and carefully nudging the curtain aside so he can look out. "Lights, John," he says in a low voice that's thrumming with excitement. Doctor Watson silently flips the light switch by the door, then goes out into the hall and turns the light off there. Finally, he must move into the kitchen, although Tristram can't hear anything, because the light goes off there too, leaving them in the dark.
"Where exactly, Tristram?" Father presses him.
Doctor Watson has joined Father, standing right up behind him with one hand on Father's shoulder so he can see out the window too.
"In one of the windows," Tristram says. He's not sure anymore it was such a good idea to say anything.
"Which one?" Father demands impatiently.
Tristram can still see the window from where he's lying. It's all dark now, of course. He points anyway. "That one, right there."
Doctor Watson comes over and crouches down next to Tristram, his head pressed right up next to Tristram's so that he can follow the line of his finger. He smells different than Father, but nice, too.
"Third floor, looks like second from the right," Doctor Watson says. He looks back and forth between Tristram and the window, then slides his arm under Tristram's shoulders again and says calmly, "Come on, over next to the wall with me."
Tristram clutches the blanket around himself and goes with Doctor Watson to stand on the right side of the window, opposite Father. Doctor Watson gently pushes Tristram down behind him. "I want you to sit right there with your back to the wall, Tris, okay? Don't move." He's still speaking calmly, but there's an iron edge to his voice that tells Tristram something is very, very wrong.
Tristram's heart is beating fast now. He tucks Father's duvet over his bare feet and looks up at the two men, but they are focused on each other and whatever is outside. Whatever is going on, Father will take care of it. He said no more kidnappings and no more bombs. Uncle Mycroft's bodyguard is there to help, too. Or is it the bodyguard that Father and Doctor Watson are worried about?
"What do you think?" Doctor Watson murmurs. He lifts the edge of the curtain with one finger so he can see out into the street.
"They're just watching," Father says. "If they'd wanted to do anything, they could have done when we came home earlier."
"Unless they were following you and weren't in position yet."
"No, they've been coming and going from here freely. They've had us under surveillance for days now. Stupid!" Father chastises himself. "Why didn't I notice earlier!" He flings the curtain away and takes long, fast strides to the door.
"Sherlock, where the hell are you going?" Doctor Watson says.
"I'm going to pay our friend a little visit," Father says grimly, but it doesn't sound like he finds it a hardship at all. He takes his coat from the hook and puts it on.
"The hell you are, you-" Doctor Watson has stepped away from the window, too, but he doesn't go far. With one hand, he points behind him at Tristram. "Your son has just nearly been poisoned - possibly been poisoned, in fact," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "He needs medical attention, you have no idea what is waiting for you out there-"
Doctor Watson isn't paying attention to the window now and is standing with his back to it, but half in front it. Both he and Father were being so careful just moments ago, not to stand in front of the window. Doctor Watson made Tristram move to the wall so that he wouldn't be in front of the window either. Tristram remembers Father pulling him back from the window in his room at Grandmother's, when they were looking for the man with the cigarette. He said, 'Never put yourself in the direct line of fire'.
Tristram is about to remind Doctor Watson of that, when he sees something funny on Doctor Watson's jacket, which he never took off. At first, Tristram thinks it's an insect, but it's moving too jerkily. Then it resolves into a light, just a little pinprick that dances erratically around on the black material covering Doctor Watson's back. And suddenly, Tristram knows with sickening certainty what that is. He tries to say something, to cry out, but his voice is stuck in his throat. Doctor Watson is still standing there, railing at Father, but Tristram doesn't hear him anymore. He has to do something!
It turns out his body is quicker at thinking than his brain, because he sees his hand reaching up to grab Doctor Watson's jacket, to pull him back, at the same time as his legs are lifting him so he can reach. He's off-balance, though, or wobbly from the vomiting and the excitement, and he ends up sort of half-falling onto Doctor Watson, pushing him forward.
And then the window explodes.
&&&&&&
End note: This web page informs me that the pH value of custard is 6.5 - 7.5: That has to be one of the weirdest things I've ever looked up for a fic.
Go to chapter 17
Author:
Beta readers:
ruth0007, billiethepoetRating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 4,707 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).**Chapter Note: Okay, people. Darlings. It's beginning. Take a look at the tags and warnings. The ones that haven't been covered yet are coming now. The next several chapters are going to be traumatic. You might want to hold hands...
I owe a special debt of gratitude to
ladyprydian and thissalsify for their saint-like patience in going through several drafts of this chapter and the next one, giving me tons of expert medical advice, looking up references, finding pictures to help me understand what should be happening, and being extremely good sports when I found I wasn't able to incorporate optimal medical procedures after all in some cases.**See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.
Chapter 16 on AO3
Chapter Sixteen
When they get home, Father stops at Mrs Hudson's to ask if there have been any deliveries, while Tristram goes upstairs. In the kitchen, he sees that Mrs Hudson has left not one but three pies for them on the table: some kind of custard, mince, and one with a top crust that he can't see inside. Tristram, always a fan of Mrs Hudson's pies and having left before they had time for pudding at the Watsons', gets down a plate and cuts himself a piece of the custard one. It turns out to be lemon, he discovers at the first bite. It's quite good, although Mrs Hudson's crusts are usually thicker than this. Maybe she's trying a new recipe. He scoops up another big forkful and lets the sweet, creamy smooth filling roll around on his tongue.
As he slides the pie plate to the side to make more room for himself at the table, he catches sight of a brownish spot in the open angle of the pie he cut open. At first he thinks it's a pocket of jam or chocolate, or possibly a piece of fruit, but when he pokes at it with his fork, he finds it altogether solid. Curious, he digs it out, as it seems to be a singular item, the rest of the pie appearing smooth and evenly coloured. Maybe Mrs Hudson has hidden something in the pie, like the bean and pea in a Twelfth-Night Cake.
It turns out to be neither a bean nor a pea, however, unless it is a very thick and burnt bean. It's not until Tristram moves it to his plate and wipes more of the custard off that he sees the fingernail and realises that the item is, in fact, a finger. Whether of flesh or a very life-like replica, he isn't certain, but something tells him this is one of those out-of-the-ordinary things that he should inform his father of. Immediately.
"Father!" His voice comes out higher and more panicked-sounding than he would perhaps have liked. "Father!" he tries again, even shriller, when there is no response to his first cry.
Quick, heavy steps on the stairs precede his father's entrance, his eyes alert and taking in every detail. "What is it?" He darts over to the table, hones in on the finger on Tristram's plate, sniffs, fumbles in his pocket for surgical gloves, which he snaps on, and a plastic coffee stirrer, which he then uses to roll the finger over.
"They're not from Mrs Hudson, are they?" Tristram ventures.
"No," his father confirms. He looks again at Tristram's plate with one eyebrow cocked, seeming to notice for the first time the partially eaten piece of pie there. "Did you eat this?"
Tristram nods. His stomach feels queer now with the knowledge that he almost ate that finger.
"No," his father says, as if he could negate the event with the word. He pokes the coffee stirrer into the remains of the piece of pie as if he's looking for something. He then grabs Tristram's face, forcing his mouth open with his thumb so he can peer inside. "How do you feel?" he asks urgently. "Pain, nausea, cramps-"
"I feel a bit sick," Tristram admits. Has the finger made him sick? His stomach roils.
Father hurtles to one of the drawers and practically tears it apart until he finds what he wants, the flat plastic box containing pH test strips. Tristram used them for his soil experiment. Father takes one out and sticks the end into the part of the pie Tristram ate from. It doesn't take long for the coloured squares to react and turn the dull dun-olive combination that Tristram knows means a pH of 6.5. Is that normal for a custard pie? Father tosses the test strip aside and crouches down, grabbing Tristram by the shoulders. Hard.
"Tell me what you mean by you feel 'sick'," he says, not letting Tristram look away.
"Like I'm going to throw up." Tristram's lips start to quiver. He's not going to cry. Father doesn't like it when he cries. His chest feels tight, and he can taste sourness in the back of his throat.
"Does it hurt anywhere?"
"My chest..." Tristram's nose is prickling with the start of tears. Is he going to die?
"Where? Inside where you swallowed, your heart, your lungs, your throat? Where?"
Tristram shakes his head, unable to speak. If he tries to say anything he's going to cry. He can't tell anyway. Everything just feels wobbly and tight all at the same time.
"Tristram, you have to tell me!" Father orders, harsher, and shakes him by the shoulders. His voice is more on edge and urgent than Tristram can recall ever hearing it, and that scares him even more than being poisoned or choked.
"I don't know," Tristram bursts out, and with the words come the tears. He's sorry he ate the pie, so sorry. Now that he's started crying, he can't stop. He cries in great, heaving gasps, tears and snot running down his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," he sobs. There's viscous stuff in the back of his throat, probably from his nose running backwards, making him cough. He coughs so hard he has to bend over, and he gags at the end.
He doesn't notice Father let go, but now he's back, saying, "If you're going to vomit, do it into here." Blearily, Tristram registers some kind of bowl being thrust in front of his face.
Is he going to vomit? He thinks about his stomach, about the thick yellow pie filling sitting there like a huge lump of the stuff that ends up in the tissue when he blows his nose when he's sick; about the bits of dirt and germs that might be in there from the finger; and especially about there possibly being part of the finger in there too, some pieces of meat come off the bones like tender, greasy chicken, and yes. He is going to vomit.
There's a lot. It's all the spaghetti from dinner too, not just the bit of pie. He forgot about that.
He doesn't remember moving, but somehow he's kneeling on the floor with Father supporting him. He can feel lumpy bits in his mouth and there are long strings of viscous liquid hanging from his lips. He heaves again. He hears it hitting the metal of the bowl this time. He's pleased about that, on top of the misery. At least he got it where Father wanted it.
"Any more?" Father asks after he's sat there trying to catch his breath for several seconds.
Tristram considers. He feels better, actually. He shakes his head. He spits out what's left in his mouth.
"Wait," Father says. Tristram has his eyes closed, but he can hear that Father doesn't go far. He's back within moments, wiping Tristram's mouth with what feels like towel.
He's only half aware of Father stripping his clothes off him right there in the kitchen and piloting him to the bathroom. He is set on the toilet lid and a moment later a wet flannel is wiping his face. At the same time, he vaguely registers his father talking. It takes him a few moments to realise he's on the phone, and that it must be Doctor Watson on the other end.
Then his father is talking to him, asking him how he feels. He's sore and stuffed up and his throat feels raw, but his stomach is much less unsettled now, so he murmurs that he's okay. Father makes him rinse his mouth out with water from the tap and then half-carries him out to the living room and deposits him on the couch. He's only wearing his pants and he's starting to feel chilly now, but Father's duvet is still there from that morning, so he topples over onto it and Father tucks him up in it.
"Don't go to sleep," his father admonishes him. "John's coming." He goes back to the kitchen, where Tristram can hear him moving things around. "Whatever possessed you to eat a pie with a finger in it?" he asks, raising his voice enough to be heard over the clatter he's making.
"Didn't see the finger 'til after," Tristram says, mumbling into the duvet. The whole thing makes him feel sheepish, now. Father would certainly never have made that mistake.
After a few minutes, Tristram is feeling a bit better. He pushes himself up so his head is resting on the armrest closest to the door. From this vantage point, he can see his father's reflection in the window, bending and dancing back and forth. Every so often, he will call out to check that Tristram's still awake and alert.
"How do you feel now?" Father calls out to him.
"Thirsty," Tristram says. Plus, his mouth tastes foul.
Father ducks his head around the divider between the kitchen and the living room. "I'd rather wait until John's checked you over before you eat or drink anything else. No blood or foreign matter so far in your stomach contents, though, that's good. But spaghetti again?" he asks in mild reproach. "For a doctor, John does tend toward a rather monotonous menu."
Tristram grins and twists his head around. If his father's joking, that means he doesn't need to be quite so worried. "Do you remember when we had lasagne for two weeks in a row?" he asks. His voice comes out all scratchy.
"Yes, bloody Angelo," his father mutters, retreating back into the kitchen. "I don't recall you complaining, though," he says, a bit louder.
"I like lasagne!" Tristram says back.
"We should take John next time we go."
Tristram falls silent, because Angelo's is for him and Father. His first reaction is that he doesn't want to share it with Doctor Watson. Not even if Emily is there too (although Father didn't mention her, he assumes she would come along). But then he remembers that he told his father it was okay with him, if he wanted to … do whatever it is that he wants to do with Doctor Watson. And that doesn't just mean kissing him, it means going out on cases together, and having him here at their flat, and sitting on the couch together and laughing, and eating dinner together. Not that Father ate with them during the two days that Doctor Watson and Emily were here, but he did at the Watsons', once with Emily's Aunt Claire, once with her other aunts, and once with just the four of them. So that means he'll have to share Angelo's too.
"Okay," Tristram says weakly. He doesn't know if his father heard him. Not that it matters. Father will do what he wants to either way. He pulls the blanket up to his nose and burrows down under it. It smells like his father, the same way his coat does, but sweeter, without the sour tobacco smell. He watches his father's reflection again in the gap between the curtains, but now he's sitting down and all Tristram can see in the window is the top of his head.
And then right there, right in the middle of his father's head, a little yellow light flares up. It takes Tristram a moment to understand that it's not a reflection of something inside the flat, but something coming from outside. He sits up straight and unfocuses his eyes to force them to see through the glass rather than on the surface. There, again, only this time the glow is orange. It's coming from one of the windows of the building directly across from them. He immediately knows what that is. It's the bodyguard, the one Uncle Mycroft sent to watch them at Grandmother's. It doesn't look like he took Tristram's advice about the nicotine patches. He hopes he's at least where he's supposed to be this time, even if he is smoking on duty. He wouldn't want the man to get in trouble. But he won't tell. It makes Tristram feel safer after all the upset with the near poisoning, knowing that there's someone out there who's protecting him and his father.
After about half an hour, the door downstairs opens and Doctor Watson's voice calls loudly, "Sherlock?" as he runs up the stairs. Tristram realises he must still have the house key that Father gave him. He wonders if Doctor Watson simply forgot to give it back, or if Father refused to take it, or if they agreed that Doctor Watson should keep it.
Father comes into the living room from the kitchen at the same time as Doctor Watson does from the stairs. Doctor Watson's eyes are wide and he's breathing heavily. He is carrying a squarish, blue case. "Report," he says shortly as he makes a beeline for Tristram.
"Three pies, each with a finger inside, presumably from Henry. A finger in every pie, obviously," Father says, dogging Doctor Watson's steps and looming over his back. "I assume they're letting us know that they are involved in all of the current incidents, including your wife, which we already knew. There must be something else, but what? Lemon custard, mince, and -"
"Tell me your theories later, Sherlock," Doctor Watson snaps as he sets his case on the low table next to the couch and opens the latches. "I need to know about Tris! Any shortness of breath, loss of consciousness, cramping, numbness or tingling-"
"No, no, nothing aside from the vomiting, and he's been fine since," Father mutters dismissively. "Lemon: what do they mean? When life gives you lemons, make lemonade; oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement's... Yes, St Clement's," he repeats and dashes to his computer, continuing to ramble on.
Doctor Watson, meanwhile, has taken an instrument with a light on the end of it out of his case, which Tristram is intrigued to note has several interesting fold-out shelves and compartments, and is chock full of tools and ampules and vials and bottles. He has Tristram open his mouth and shines the light in there and up his nose.
"That's going to have to wait, Sherlock," Doctor Watson says over his shoulder in response to something Father is saying. He presses his lips together into a thin line as he shines the light into Tristram's eyes. "Just look straight ahead, Tris, I'm checking if your eyes are reacting the way they're supposed to." Tristram tries to hold still and follow all of Doctor Watson's instructions.
After he's done with the light, Doctor Watson lifts Tristram's hand, pinches his fingers, and takes his pulse. Then he gets out his stethoscope and listens to Tristram's chest and belly. He shakes his head as he presses his fingers carefully into Tristram's abdomen. "You should have called for an ambulance, Sherlock."
"There was no time!" Father says, still busy at his computer. "And I did what they would have done anyway."
"There are three hospitals with casualties within spitting distance, so don't give me that. A few seconds as soon as you realised what had happened really wouldn't have been too much to ask. What if he'd needed respiratory support or had a seizure?" Doctor Watson sighs and drops his stethoscope into his case. "I don't see any signs of impaired nerve function, haemorrhaging or cyanosis, but still. He needs to be checked out. He'll need cultures done, a check of his liver and kidney function. You said you preserved the stomach contents?"
"There's nothing there," Father says, almost as if he's disappointed.
"That's good if so. I'm going to give him some charcoal to be absolutely sure." Doctor Watson switches his focus to Tristram. "Tris, everything looks okay as far as I can see right now, but I'm going to give you some medicine to hopefully take care of anything you didn't get out before." He smiles reassuringly and pats Tristram's leg through the duvet. Then he reaches over to pluck a little bottle out of his case, gets up and goes to the kitchen.
Tristram relaxes back against the couch. He's relieved that Doctor Watson didn't find anything wrong with him. He must have thrown up all the bad stuff.
"I'm giving him fifty grams now," Doctor Watson tells Father. "It might cause some constipation in the next couple of days, and his stool will be black, but that's all perfectly normal. Make sure you tell them at the hospital anyway, they'll be able to give you a laxative for him if you're concerned."
Father joins Doctor Watson in the kitchen, leaving Tristram alone. He pulls the blanket up around himself again. He can hear them continue talking, as well as the tinkling of glassware and metal.
"It needs to be diluted with water," Doctor Watson says, "and he has to drink the whole thing. And I'm serious, take him to the hospital, the sooner the better."
"Can't you do those tests here?" Father asks. Although Tristram recognises that it's more of a demand. "You can use my microscope, I have a wide range of reagents-"
"Sherlock, I'm not- No," Doctor Watson says flatly. "I'm a trauma surgeon, moonlighting in emergency medicine. I'm not a lab technician. I do not have the expertise, and you certainly do not have the necessary equipment." He lowers his voice, but Tristram can still hear him. "This is your son, Sherlock," he says fiercely. "Why are you refusing proper medical treatment?"
"I have ensured he received proper medical treatment," Father snarls. "Thus your presence. Additionally, however, it may have escaped your narrow field of attention that someone has actually been inside our flat. Someone planted these here, knowing we were out. Conclusion: we are being watched. If there is something in there, rushing out to the hospital is exactly what they expect, thus playing right into their hands. They could come back, remove the evidence while we were gone, the message delivered and received but removing any possibility of gleaning additional information from it."
Tristram didn't think of that. If the pies aren't from Mrs Hudson, obviously they are from someone else. And that someone must have come inside and left them on the table. Tristram looks out the window, hoping to see the reassuring glow of the bodyguard's cigarette, but there is nothing.
"So you're pretty much saying you endangered your son's life in order to protect - what, a couple of pies?" Doctor Watson says. He sounds angry.
"Evidence, John!" Father barks back. "Evidence that they may not want me to have."
Doctor Watson comes back into the living room, carrying two mugs. His face looks thunderous, but it relaxes slightly as he sits down on the edge of the couch next to Tristram again. Tristram can hear his father in the kitchen, banging things.
"Here, can you sit up, Tris?" he asks. He sets the mugs down and puts an arm under Tristram's shoulders through the blanket to help him. It's nice, and Tristram leans into him more than he actually needs to. Doctor Watson picks up one of the mugs and holds it in front of Tristram. The liquid in it is thick and black, as if someone dumped one of his soil samples into a cup of water.
"I know it looks funny, but you need to drink the whole thing," Doctor Watson tells him. "You can rinse your mouth with some plain water afterwards." He nods at the other cup on the table.
Tristram lifts the mug to his mouth. Doctor Watson keeps hold of it as well, helping him. It tastes a bit like something burnt, and leaves a gritty residue in his mouth. It takes him several swallows to get it all down, and there is still black stuff all over the inside of the cup. Tristram hopes he's not meant to get that out too.
But Doctor Watson just takes the mug and says, "Good job," then hands Tristram the other one. He still has his arm around Tristram. Tristram doesn't move away either while he swishes the clean water around in his mouth, then swallows that too. It helps a bit.
"At least give me your opinion on these while you're here," Father says, stalking back into the living room and shoving a plate with three fingers under Doctor Watson's nose. They've been cleaned. The skin on all of them is dark, although Tristram doesn't know if that's from being cooked, or because the person they came from has dark skin.
"Jesus, Sherlock, really not the time," Doctor Watson says, tightening his arm around Tristram's shoulder. He does take a second look, though. "Clean amputation, fits with your theory of the perpetrators knowing their way around these things and having proper equipment. Middle-aged, poor nutrition. Look," he says suddenly, sounding irritated and pushing the plate away. "I have to get back. I don't like leaving Emily alone with Harry and Clara."
"You could have brought her along. In fact, I still think you should have stayed-"
"We've been through this," Doctor Watson says tightly, then stops and looks down, shaking his head. He squeezes Tristram, then relaxes his grip and lets his hand slide away. He sighs and looks up at Father. "Have you at least let Mycroft know?" he asks, more gently. "I don't like the idea of you and Tris alone here if someone's watching the flat."
"Mycroft; what can he do?" Father scoffs.
"He could post a watch, like he did at your mother's. I know it's not much, but-"
"I think one of his bodyguards is already here," Tristram blurts out in an attempt to smooth things over.
Father and Doctor Watson both freeze and turn to him as if they'd forgot Tristram was still there.
"What do you mean?" Father asks. There's something breathless and expectant about the way he says it.
"The one at Grandmother's, who wasn't supposed to be smoking," Tristram explains. "I think he's here."
Father is knelt down on the floor beside Tristram in an instant, his hands gripping Tristram's shoulders. "Where? In London? In the flat? Where did you see him?" His eyes are wide and his manner is urgent, much more so than when Tristram told him about seeing the man smoking under his window at Grandmother's.
Tristram is unsettled. He knows Father often rails against the measures Uncle Mycroft undertakes - considering them interference - but he honestly thought Father would be pleased to hear about the bodyguard, as it would mollify Doctor Watson to know that someone was looking out for them.
"Not him exactly... " Tristram qualifies his statement. "The light from his cigarette. It looked the same as-" He stops. He's not supposed to tell that he saw him in the stable. Although it won't really matter now, will it? It's not as if anything bad happened because he was sitting in there smoking rather than standing somewhere outside in the rain during his shift. Still, Tristram hedges and says, "The same as at Grandmother's. In the building across the street." He nods at the window overlooking the street.
Father leaps over, standing at the side of the window and carefully nudging the curtain aside so he can look out. "Lights, John," he says in a low voice that's thrumming with excitement. Doctor Watson silently flips the light switch by the door, then goes out into the hall and turns the light off there. Finally, he must move into the kitchen, although Tristram can't hear anything, because the light goes off there too, leaving them in the dark.
"Where exactly, Tristram?" Father presses him.
Doctor Watson has joined Father, standing right up behind him with one hand on Father's shoulder so he can see out the window too.
"In one of the windows," Tristram says. He's not sure anymore it was such a good idea to say anything.
"Which one?" Father demands impatiently.
Tristram can still see the window from where he's lying. It's all dark now, of course. He points anyway. "That one, right there."
Doctor Watson comes over and crouches down next to Tristram, his head pressed right up next to Tristram's so that he can follow the line of his finger. He smells different than Father, but nice, too.
"Third floor, looks like second from the right," Doctor Watson says. He looks back and forth between Tristram and the window, then slides his arm under Tristram's shoulders again and says calmly, "Come on, over next to the wall with me."
Tristram clutches the blanket around himself and goes with Doctor Watson to stand on the right side of the window, opposite Father. Doctor Watson gently pushes Tristram down behind him. "I want you to sit right there with your back to the wall, Tris, okay? Don't move." He's still speaking calmly, but there's an iron edge to his voice that tells Tristram something is very, very wrong.
Tristram's heart is beating fast now. He tucks Father's duvet over his bare feet and looks up at the two men, but they are focused on each other and whatever is outside. Whatever is going on, Father will take care of it. He said no more kidnappings and no more bombs. Uncle Mycroft's bodyguard is there to help, too. Or is it the bodyguard that Father and Doctor Watson are worried about?
"What do you think?" Doctor Watson murmurs. He lifts the edge of the curtain with one finger so he can see out into the street.
"They're just watching," Father says. "If they'd wanted to do anything, they could have done when we came home earlier."
"Unless they were following you and weren't in position yet."
"No, they've been coming and going from here freely. They've had us under surveillance for days now. Stupid!" Father chastises himself. "Why didn't I notice earlier!" He flings the curtain away and takes long, fast strides to the door.
"Sherlock, where the hell are you going?" Doctor Watson says.
"I'm going to pay our friend a little visit," Father says grimly, but it doesn't sound like he finds it a hardship at all. He takes his coat from the hook and puts it on.
"The hell you are, you-" Doctor Watson has stepped away from the window, too, but he doesn't go far. With one hand, he points behind him at Tristram. "Your son has just nearly been poisoned - possibly been poisoned, in fact," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "He needs medical attention, you have no idea what is waiting for you out there-"
Doctor Watson isn't paying attention to the window now and is standing with his back to it, but half in front it. Both he and Father were being so careful just moments ago, not to stand in front of the window. Doctor Watson made Tristram move to the wall so that he wouldn't be in front of the window either. Tristram remembers Father pulling him back from the window in his room at Grandmother's, when they were looking for the man with the cigarette. He said, 'Never put yourself in the direct line of fire'.
Tristram is about to remind Doctor Watson of that, when he sees something funny on Doctor Watson's jacket, which he never took off. At first, Tristram thinks it's an insect, but it's moving too jerkily. Then it resolves into a light, just a little pinprick that dances erratically around on the black material covering Doctor Watson's back. And suddenly, Tristram knows with sickening certainty what that is. He tries to say something, to cry out, but his voice is stuck in his throat. Doctor Watson is still standing there, railing at Father, but Tristram doesn't hear him anymore. He has to do something!
It turns out his body is quicker at thinking than his brain, because he sees his hand reaching up to grab Doctor Watson's jacket, to pull him back, at the same time as his legs are lifting him so he can reach. He's off-balance, though, or wobbly from the vomiting and the excitement, and he ends up sort of half-falling onto Doctor Watson, pushing him forward.
And then the window explodes.
&&&&&&
End note: This web page informs me that the pH value of custard is 6.5 - 7.5: That has to be one of the weirdest things I've ever looked up for a fic.
Go to chapter 17