Fic: The Cuckoo's Lullaby, 8/17
Jul. 13th, 2014 03:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargTitle: The Cuckoo's Lullaby
Author:
swissmarg
Beta readers:ruth0007, 
dioscureantwins
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 85K when complete
Summary: Sequel to 'Cracks in the In-Between Places'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
See Chapter One for additional notes
Read Chapter Eight on AO3
The restaurant igloo is smaller than it looked in the pictures. It's still pretty neat, especially the blue and gold lights glowing through the snow walls in the dark. Their destination is actually an entire village of igloos arranged in a cluster on a snow-covered field a short distance away from the main restaurant, again at the top of a cable car line. Tristram is beginning to wonder if there's anything to do in Switzerland that doesn't involve getting to the top of a mountain first.
When Father and Doctor Watson came out of the bedroom, Tristram was so out of sorts from Emily's pestering that he didn't even care to look for evidence of what they'd been doing. He knows it's not fair of him to be annoyed at Emily. He'd be curious too, if her mother showed up, as well as concerned about what that might mean for Father - and by extension, for himself. Not that her mother can come back, because she's dead. But just as a mental exercise, Tristram understands why Emily doesn't want to let the subject drop.
The problem is, not even Father knows what Irene wants. She could be part of a case, he'd said; or she could just be passing through and thought it would be funny to see whatever became of the baby she left behind. Neither option is very appealing to Tristram. Part of him wants her to just go back to singing and travelling and let him and Father (and Doctor Watson, now, and Emily) go back to London and forget all about her. But a very, very small part of him doesn't want to lose track of her now that he knows she's real. A really tiny part. It's not like he wants to see her every day or anything. But if he just knew where she was at any given time, it would be kind of nice. Like the pickled monkey foetus at the Hunterian. There's a certain reassurance in knowing that it's always there with its little, scrunched-up yellow face, forever dreaming its funny monkey dreams of the hot, steamy jungle it never knew.
It's certainly not a jungle up here in the dark mountain night. It's very cold, and white clouds plume out of everyone's mouths when they talk, like dragons' breath. The sky is punctured by lots and lots of tiny pricks of light. The observatory's probably open now. But, of course, that's on a different mountain altogether.
When they get to the first igloo with the check-in desk, they find that the restaurant is actually a series of igloos connected by tunnels through the snow, each one serving as a kind of dining room with three or four tables. There are also separate igloos that can be rented overnight, to sleep in, but they're not going to do that.
The igloos aren't heated - obviously, otherwise they would melt - but it's warmer inside than Tristram expected. Still, it's chilly enough that they keep their coats on. The tables are normal tables, made of metal and glass, but the seats are either benches carved out of snow or huge ice cubes piled up into stools. There are cushions to sit on, both for comfort and to stop the benches from melting where people have sat. Their table is small enough that there's only room for one person on each side, so Emily and Tristram sit on a snow bench curved around one corner, and Father and Doctor Watson perch on ice stools on the other two sides. It's cosy despite the chill of the surroundings.
The walls have some kind of shields or coats of arms carved into them. For some reason, it makes Tristram think of Durmstrang, the magical school of the far north in the Harry Potter stories. Incongruously, there are huge bells - as big as Tristram's body - standing randomly around on blocks of ice. Doctor Watson says those are cowbells, but Tristram has trouble picturing any cow wearing a bell that large. There are no windows, and Tristram thinks the whole place could do with an air-out, as there's a distinct locker-room smell.
There's no schnipo or sausages or poo-filled nuggets on the menu this time. There is only fondue. Father says that means 'melted', and sure enough, a short while later a steaming pot full of pale yellow melted cheese appears on their table. Tristram looks at the other tables, all with their steaming pots, and understands where the locker-room smell is from. The idea, Tristram quickly discovers, is to use a long fork to spear a cube of bread from the basket they are provided with, dip that into the cheese, and ferry the dripping morsel to one's mouth. It makes sense now, too, why the tables are so small - it's so that everyone can reach the cheese pot in the middle without having to stretch across someone else.
Tristram isn't particularly enamoured of the taste - it's not awful, but it has a slightly bitter undertone to it that Doctor Watson says is from the kirsch, some kind of alcoholic drink, that's mixed in with the cheese. He assures Tristram and Emily that the temperature is high enough that all the actual alcohol's evaporated, leaving only the flavour behind. Tristram wishes the flavour had evaporated as well. Doctor Watson seems to like it though, enough that he orders some kirsch separately for Father and him to drink. It comes in tiny little doll-sized glasses that Emily coos over and Tristram thinks look frankly silly, but Father gamely picks his up and clinks it against Doctor Watson's, and after they each take a sip, they look at each other for a moment and break into giggles over nothing. Tristram grins too and decides the glasses' silliness is worth it.
But the real fun is stretching the strands of cheese out of the pot as far as possible. Doctor Watson does some twisty thing with his wrist that makes the cheese on his bread separate neatly from the mass in the pot, but when Tristram tries it, it just makes his bread fall off. When he pulls his bread out slowly, though, the cheese forms long strings that keep coming and coming. It's like eating elastic, only it never contracts. It just keeps stretching further and further. Emily has the brilliant idea to stand on her seat to see if she can pull up a strand of cheese that's as long as she is. It ends up snapping at about the one-meter mark, and her father won't let her try again. Tristram presumes he's included in the edict.
Father doesn't eat much, but he's fascinated by the long, trident-like forks they've all been equipped with, each one easily as long as Tristram's forearm.
"How many ways do you think you could kill a man with one of these?" he asks Doctor Watson, holding his fork so he can sight down its length like the barrel of a gun.
Doctor Watson sputters a little, but gamely considers the question. "I don't know... three? Stab them in the neck, in the eye, and between the ribs."
"That's only one," Father scoffs. "You're using it the same way each time. Unimaginative. I've come up with six so far." He swivels to aim the fork at one of the other tables.
"Any particular reason we're plotting the bloody demise of our fellow diners?" Doctor Watson asks mildly, fishing another one of Emily's bread chunks out of the cheese for her.
"Three of the methods are virtually bloodless," Father informs him, as if affronted that Doctor Watson would have considered him so barbaric.
Doctor Watson chuckles at that, and Father looks pleased with himself - or possibly pleased that he's made Doctor Watson laugh. Tristram likes the way Doctor Watson's whole body seems to join in when he laughs. It's not just his face creasing and opening up, it's the way even his ears perk up and his shoulders shake and the sound seems to bubble up from the bottom of his toes. Tristram sneaks a peek at Doctor Watson's feet once when he's laughing at something else Father's said, and catches them shuffling against the hard-packed snow as if they can't contain their merriment either.
By the time the cheese in the pot is little more than a thick layer of goo at the bottom and all that's left in the bread basket are a few crumbs, Father and Doctor Watson have quieted, sharing confidential smiles and an occasional chuckle. They're leaning so close their shoulders are touching, talking about something that Tristram lost track of a while ago.
The food sits heavily in his stomach, which conspires with the thick air and the steady, soothing drone of his father's and Doctor Watson's voices across the table to lull Tristram into a dozey, sated state. He hasn't thought about his mother all evening, and no one's mentioned her. He has the feeling they're not done with her yet, though. Or that she's not done with them.
&&&&&&
John slides into the bed. Sherlock is already there, on his side under the covers, wearing a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. "She said something to me this morning," John says. He sits up against the head of the bed and adjusts the cover over his legs.
"She's a liar," Sherlock tells him simply, as if it were a casual fact.
"You don't even know what she said."
"It's not about what she may have told you. I'm simply telling you that is her character. She is a liar. Although she may also use the truth, when it suits her purposes. I presume she may well have done in this case, as it's equally damning."
John looks down at Sherlock. "She told me Mycroft made her leave." There's a question in there somewhere.
"Mycroft offered to pay her, but she left of her own accord." Sherlock rolls onto his back and angles one arm up behind his head.
"What does that mean?"
"My brother offered to pay her if she would have an abortion. She refused."
John takes a moment to let that settle in. "Mycroft? He wanted her to have an abortion?"
Sherlock shrugs. "It would have been the most pragmatic solution. Neither of us were in any position to raise a child. Not merely for lack of funds. Back then, I was... " He looks away, up at the ceiling. "I experimented. Pills, mostly. Whatever I could get my hands on. Godfreya ... Irene... that was an experiment too. I don't recall most of it." He closes his eyes, a slight crease between them, as if inwardly seeking the missing memory.
"But, I mean, Tristram is-"
"Oh yes, he's mine." Sherlock opens his eyes so he can glance sidelong at John. "You don't think Mycroft wouldn't have insisted on proof?"
"But Jesus, to ask her to get rid of him- How can you stand to look him in the eye?"
Sherlock looks up at the ceiling again, sounding resigned. "The worst part is, I can't entirely hate him for it. He may have even known what he was doing."
"What do you mean?"
"I think that, if he hadn't made the offer, she would really have done it. She never wanted to be a parent. She did want to be difficult. I also think she wanted to use the pregnancy to gain some advantage or privilege. She never wanted to keep Tristram, but she hoped to get an even bigger payout once he was born. Not necessarily money. Influence or ... favours."
"But she didn't?"
Sherlock smiles sardonically. "Mycroft's too clever for that. He knew she was going to leave even without his name greasing her way. She should have bargained harder over the abortion."
"You did not just say that."
"John, I told you already," Sherlock says, fluttering with his fingers. "I'm too selfish for that."
"God, so she... And she never tried to see him?"
"No."
"Why now?"
"Didn't you ask her?" Sherlock asks, looking at John with mild surprise.
"Yes, but she just looked wounded and said something about maternal instinct." John's lips twitch, halfway to a grin.
Sherlock snorts.
John lets the grin break through. "That's what I thought too. But don't you wonder? Don't you think it might be important? It's a rather massive coincidence that she's here just when we are. And don't tell me Mycroft arranged it."
"No, it wasn't Mycroft."
John pounces on that admission, all amusement suddenly gone. "You know something. Damnit, Sherlock, you-"
Sherlock turns onto his side again and puts his hand on John's knee under the cover to stop him. "John, let me have this." His voice is unusually soft. "Please. I do know something - a little, not much - but I promise, there's no danger for any of you."
"Why can't you tell me, then?"
Sherlock's hand clenches, too quickly, around John's knee. He relaxes it deliberately. "Because then it will all be over."
John frowns, irritated. "What does that mean?"
Sherlock studies John's face carefully, just a bit too long, before saying lightly, "Just that we'll have to get back to the pursuit of the people behind Tonga and Moran." He smiles and scoots himself closer so his chest is resting against John's leg. His hand disappears somewhere under the covers. "Let's enjoy the rest of our week. One week, and then we can get back to the business of tracking down that little gang."
"And you think they're just going to sit back and wait while we have snowball fights and eat fondue?" It doesn't come out quite as scathing as it might have.
"They won't touch us here," Sherlock says, as if he finds it tedious to keep going over it.
John won't be put off just yet, though. "What about Irene? She's mixed up in this too," he insists.
"It could just be a coincidence-"
"Damnit, Sherlock! I'm not an idiot!" John explodes.
They sit there staring each other down for several interminable moments. Sherlock is the first one to back down. "No," he says soberly. "You're not. Which is why I am pleading with you: let me have this. Let us have this. It won't put us at any tactical disadvantage."
"You swear you're going to tell me everything." It might have been intended to sound like a threat, but there's not much steam behind it.
"Everything I know." It might be agreement, but it might also be a counteroffer.
John groans and lets his head drop back against the wall with an audible thunk. "Remind me never to try and talk you down from something when you've got your hand on my dick."
Sherlock chuckles and leans up to nip at John's lower lip.
&&&&&&
Emily's already asleep. They didn't read together tonight. Tristram would have liked to, but Doctor Watson said it was too late when they got back from the restaurant, and Emily didn't protest. Reading together is really Doctor Watson and Emily's thing anyway, so Tristram didn't say anything either. Even though it would have been nice to have Doctor Watson sit with them a little while. And Father too, off to the side but paying more attention than it seems like. Maybe tomorrow.
Tristram scratches at his arm. Something's been bothering him there all day, like a tag on the back of a t-shirt rubbing against his skin. He supposes it's a good sign, like the itching on his back, indicating that it's healing. Doctor Watson and Father are still talking. He can't hear what they're saying through the closed door, but he can hear their voices, switching off between his father's lower register and Doctor Watson's slightly higher one. The tempo and volume remain controlled and even, so they're probably not arguing about anything. Just talking, like they were at the restaurant. Tristram wonders whether Father's ever talked as much as he has since he met Doctor Watson. Were all those words pent up inside him the whole time, waiting for someone to hear them? Or is he just finding them now, like pebbles laid out on a path that he never would have wandered down if he hadn't met Doctor Watson?
When Tristram takes his hand away from his arm, it feels wet. Did he splash water on himself when he was getting ready for bed? He touches the outside of the cast, but it feels dry. He slides his fingers just inside the top of the cast, where he was scratching, and they come away wet again. Did he somehow get water inside the cast? It's not supposed to get wet. He gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom for a towel.
As soon as he turns the light on in the bathroom, though, he realises it's not water. It's blood. Not a lot, but his fingers are all red and there's red smeared around his arm where the cast starts. His stomach swoops downward. He's supposed to be getting better, and somehow he doesn't think that blood under his cast is part of the healing process. He doesn't panic like he did when he ate the pie, though. Instead, he remembers what Doctor Watson did when Tristram got shot. First, he brought Tristram out to the hall where it was safe. Then he checked him all over to see where he was injured. Then he patched up what he could and called the ambulance for help. Tristram tries to follow those steps now.
He's not in any danger of being hurt further, so there's no need to go anywhere else. He does need to find out where the blood is coming from, though. Tristram checks his hand at the bottom end of the cast, but there's no blood there, which is at least something. He takes some toilet paper and wipes his arm until he can see where the blood's coming from. He has a scratch or a cut right inside the cast, and he can feel now that there's a sharp edge there. That must have been what was irritating him all day. And either his constant scratching and rubbing or the exposed edge itself broke the skin. Tristram already feels calmer; more in control. It's good to have a plan to follow.
The next thing Doctor Watson did, once he saw where Tristram was hurt, was to start treating him. At the same time, he called the ambulance because he couldn't take care of all of Tristram's injuries himself. Normally, Tristram would be able to take care of a minor cut like this on his own, but it's in a hard-to-reach place and he only has his left hand to work with. So he's going to need help too. Although obviously not an ambulance. Father and Doctor Watson are probably still awake.
Tristram pads back out of the bathroom. Outside the closed bedroom door, he pauses. He knows he's supposed to knock. He can't hear anything now. He leans closer, turning his head sideways so his ear is facing the door. Not touching the door, just turned towards it. He still can't hear anything. Maybe they are asleep after all. It could probably wait until tomorrow. On the other hand, Doctor Watson and Father both told him it was okay to come get them if he were sick. He's not exactly sick, but it would be unfortunate if the scratch got worse or turned into an infection overnight. He lifts his left hand and knocks, once. It doesn't come out very loud. He doesn't want to wake Emily, but even more than that he doesn't want to walk in on something like the last time. He knocks again more firmly, three times.
"Come in," Doctor Watson's voice says after a moment, muffled through the door.
Tristram pushes down on the handle and opens the door partway. Not far enough that he can see in, but far enough that he doesn't have to shout to be heard.
"Doctor Watson?" he says tentatively. He hears blankets rustling. A light is on in the room; probably one of the small lamps next to the bed, judging by the level of illumination.
"Yeah, what is it, Tris?" Doctor Watson's voice asks patiently.
"My arm's bleeding." He opens the door further, hoping that he's not about to see anything he doesn't want to. To his relief, Father and Doctor Watson are both lying half-reclined in the bed, each on his own side, and it looks like they both have all their clothes on. Well, they are both wearing t-shirts anyway. Their legs are under the covers. At Tristram's words, however, they both sit up and push the covers back. Doctor Watson, wearing black pants that leave his thick legs bare, is up first.
"Let me see," he says briskly as he comes over to where Tristram is standing. Father is right behind him in his long, striped pyjama trousers.
Tristram holds up his right arm as evidence. Doctor Watson cups one hand under the cast to support the arm and peers at the raw spot just inside the edge of the cast. Father leans in to have a look as well.
"Yeah, looks like the padding's worn through," Doctor Watson says. "Not a problem." He gives Tristram a reassuring smile and puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder. "It's really good that you told us, though. That kind of thing can get nasty very quickly. Come on, let's go into the bathroom and get it sorted."
Tristram is relieved. Not just because he didn't interrupt anything embarrassing this time, but also because it doesn't sound like there's anything seriously wrong with his arm. And because, even though it's not so serious, Doctor Watson said it was a good thing Tristram came right away, rather than waiting until tomorrow.
Doctor Watson keeps his hand on Tristram's shoulder as they go over to the bathroom.
"Thank you, John," Tristram hears Father say behind him. He stays in the bedroom, though.
"It's fine," Doctor Watson says softly, mindful not to disturb Emily, who doesn't seem to have been wakened by the goings-on.
Once in the bathroom, Doctor Watson guides Tristram to sit down on the toilet lid before getting out the travel bag with his medical supplies from under the sink. Tristram watches as he washes his hands thoroughly then takes some gauze, disinfectant, ointment, and tape from his bag.
"You know, you don't have to call me Doctor Watson," he says quietly as he crouches down in front of Tristram. "I'm not actually your doctor. I mean, this..." He starts gently cleaning the torn skin with a piece of gauze dampened with disinfectant. "I want to do this for you. It's not just because of my job back home. Do you understand?"
Tristram doesn't, not really. Doctor Watson is a doctor, so that's his name, just like Inspector Lestrade's name is like that because he's a police inspector, and Uncle Mycroft's name is like that because he's Tristram's uncle. But if Doctor Watson doesn't want him to call him that, he won't.
"What should I call you then?" Tristram asks.
"How about John?" He pauses and looks at Tristram. He almost appears to be nervous, the way his eyes dart back and forth on Tristram's face. "Not if it makes you uncomfortable. But I think we're friends, aren't we?" He really seems unsure.
Tristram is unsure too. Doctor Watson is Father's friend, certainly. Father's boyfriend now, in fact, odd as that is. Does that mean he's automatically Tristram's friend, too? 'John'. It feels weird to think of him that way. He likes him, but he doesn't know if he'd really call him a friend. On the other hand, they play games and read books together, just like Tristram and Emily do. They've talked about things he'd never talk to anyone else about. They even have secrets together. Maybe he really is Tristram's friend too, not just Father's.
Is that why he signed Tristram's cast with his first name? Tristram glances down at the cast, but Doctor Watson - John - is holding his arm so that only Emily's and Father's messages to him are visible. 'Love, Emily', it says. Father didn't write his name. But Tristram knows his handwriting, and he knows who it's from anyway.
Doc- John ... That's going to take getting used to. John turns his head to read what's on Tristram's cast, too, although certainly he's seen it before. "Angelo's," he says with a smile that seems to encourage Tristram to speak. "What's that?"
"A restaurant," Tristram says. "Father and I go there sometimes."
"Good food?" John asks.
"He makes the best lasagne," Tristram informs him.
"Your dad likes Angelo's lasagne?"
"It's his favourite."
"Then we'll all have to go together sometime. When we get back. Or," he says, straightening up as if something has just occurred to him, "is that what that means? When we get back, your dad's taking you to Angelo's?"
"When I get better," Tristram clarifies. "When my hand and my back are better."
John grins. "I think that's a fantastic idea. Just you and him, to celebrate."
"You and Emily can come too." Father said he wanted them to. Well, he said John, but surely Emily was included.
"The next time, we'd love to," John agrees. "But the first time, as soon as you get this off, that's just for you and your dad. Says so right here." John taps the cast.
Tristram grins. "Okay." That sounds fair. A weight he wasn't even aware of carrying lifts from his heart. He'd worried about losing Angelo's as a special place just for him and Father, but maybe he can have both.
John throws the used gauze away and takes out a tube of ointment. "So how about you? I never asked you what you like to be called. Emily always calls you Tris, so I assumed that was okay. But do you prefer Tristram?" he asks as he swabs some of the white cream around on Tristram's raw skin.
No one ever called him anything other than 'Tristram' before Emily, and it would be weird if, say, Father or Mrs Hudson started calling him that. But he's used to Emily and D- John calling him 'Tris' now. It would be weird if they started using his full name. So he shakes his head and says, "No, Tris is fine. For you and Emily."
John doesn't look up from what he's doing, but he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling sort of like Father's do. "That's good then. I like your name a lot. It's special, just like you."
"My mother named me," Tristram informs him. "She was going to name me Drust, but Uncle Mycroft said not even she would be that spiteful."
That does make John look at Tristram, the surprise clear on his face. "Your mother- Sorry, okay." He adjusts his expression to make it appear thoughtful instead. "Drust... That's not so bad. Although..." He leans in to speak confidentially. "I do like Tristram better, too." He sits back again and puts the ointment away. "Do you, er... have a middle name?" he asks, as if he's just making conversation, but Tristram can tell he's pretty curious.
"Harbinger."
John nods slowly, apparently taking a moment to digest that. "Okay. Your mother again?"
Tristram nods.
"Well. Mine's Hamish." He holds out his hand like he wants Tristram to shake it. "Nice to meet you, Tristram Harbinger."
Tristram giggles and puts his hand in John's. "Nice to meet you, John Hamish."
"So how was it today? Meeting your mother? You haven't really said anything about it."
Tristram looks down at his cast where Doctor Watson's holding it. His thumb is covering up the mouse that Emily drew. It looks like the mouse's speech bubble is coming out of his thumb and saying, 'Get well soon!' Tristram shrugs. There isn't really anything to say. Plus, Father already told him.
"It was fine," he repeats Father's answer.
"Really?" John asks mildly as he takes out some more gauze and cuts it to size. "Just your average first time meeting your mother kind of thing?"
Tristram has no additional data points to calculate an average from, but somehow he doesn't think that's exactly what John means.
"Because for me - just me personally now," John goes on, "I think I might be pretty confused. I mean, one day it's just me and my dad, and the next day there's this whole other parent. I think I'd have a lot of questions." He delicately manipulates the gauze in under the cast to cover the cut.
That's how Tristram feels too. He does have a lot of questions. But he knows that no one's going to answer them, so there's no point in asking.
"It doesn't matter," Tristram mumbles.
John stops what he's doing and bends his head down so he can look Tristram in the eye. "It definitely matters," he tells Tristram, almost fiercely. "My questions matter, and your questions matter. Even when there aren't any ready answers, they still matter."
Tristram considers that. An experiment always begins with a question that doesn't have an obvious answer. Those are important questions. It's like his soil experiment. There's no one who can answer the question of what the pH level is of the soil in fifteen spots around London either. That's what his experiment is for. So maybe Tristram's questions surrounding Irene are like an experiment too. He just has to figure out the proper procedure for conducting it. He decides to ask one of his questions.
"Do you know why she's here? Did she come here to find me?" Tristram asks.
"I don't know. We don't know," Doctor Watson says, which is pretty much what Tristram expected. But then he adds, "But your dad and I won't let anything happen to you, okay? No one's going to hurt you again."
That's the same thing his father told him. He said that Tristram and Emily were safe now, that there wasn't any danger for them. And that's fine and comforting and all, but it's not actually what Tristram is worried about. He's not sure what he's worried about, to be honest, but it's not getting hurt again. It's more about things changing, about the future being uncertain. Tristram's only just beginning to figure out where Doctor Watson and Emily fit into his and Father's lives, and adding Irene to the mix is like finding out someone's snuck in and added an unknown agent to his solution. She could end up being entirely nonreactive, but she could also turn out to be a catalyst for an unexpected reaction. Or the whole thing might explode quite spectacularly.
But Doctor Watson can't know what will happen. No one can. So Tristram doesn't try to explain.
Doctor Watson's finished with his arm. Tristram moves it experimentally. The cast doesn't chafe against his skin anymore. "Thanks for fixing it for me," Tristram says.
"My pleasure," John says. He squeezes Tristram's shoulder and stands up so he can wash his hands again.
John brings Tristram back to the living room and helps him get into bed without disturbing Emily.
"Good night again," John whispers, smoothing his hand over Tristram's forehead once he's tucked under the cover with his cast resting carefully on top. There was a time when Tristram might have resented the gesture - he's not a little kid, after all - but now it feels nice. Not just the gentle touch itself of warm fingers on his skin, but the way it makes Tristram feel inside. Like John likes him and wants him to be comfortable, maybe even happy.
"No yodeling," John admonishes with a twinkle in his eye.
Tristram can't help but smile. The funny, hooting call Emily did the other night is on the tip of his tongue to repeat - softly, to be sure - but at the last second he holds it in after all. It feels like overstepping. "Okay," he whispers instead.
Then John goes back into the bedroom and closes the door, leaving Tristram alone with Emily breathing gently beside him.
Chapter notes: The Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons in London houses collections which are "a fascinating mix of human and animal anatomy and pathology specimens, wax teaching models, surgical and dental instruments as well as paintings, drawings and sculpture." (Source) Think medical anomalies preserved in jars. I have no idea if there is actually a monkey foetus on display, but it would certainly fit in with the collection. As of July 2014 there was a special exhibit running on the theme of 'War, Art and Surgery', which I think would be right up John's alley.
The igloo restaurant is based on the 'Fondue-Iglu' in Engstligenalp-Adelboden.
In Swiss German, there is a saying: FIGUGEGL (say 'fee-goo-gay-gull'), which stands for 'Fondü isch guet und git e gueti Luune' and means 'Fondue is good and makes you happy.'
The decorative cowbells are huge things that are worn for the procession when the cows are driven up the mountain for the summer and down the mountain for the winter.
This is what a fondue fork looks like:
They are really pretty lethal with those barbed prongs. It's hard to see the scale in that picture, but they are usually about 9-10 inches long. I shudder to think what Sherlock's six ways of killing a man with such a fork might be.
Author:
swissmargBeta readers:
ruth0007, Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 85K when complete
Summary: Sequel to 'Cracks in the In-Between Places'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
See Chapter One for additional notes
Read Chapter Eight on AO3
Chapter Eight
The restaurant igloo is smaller than it looked in the pictures. It's still pretty neat, especially the blue and gold lights glowing through the snow walls in the dark. Their destination is actually an entire village of igloos arranged in a cluster on a snow-covered field a short distance away from the main restaurant, again at the top of a cable car line. Tristram is beginning to wonder if there's anything to do in Switzerland that doesn't involve getting to the top of a mountain first.
When Father and Doctor Watson came out of the bedroom, Tristram was so out of sorts from Emily's pestering that he didn't even care to look for evidence of what they'd been doing. He knows it's not fair of him to be annoyed at Emily. He'd be curious too, if her mother showed up, as well as concerned about what that might mean for Father - and by extension, for himself. Not that her mother can come back, because she's dead. But just as a mental exercise, Tristram understands why Emily doesn't want to let the subject drop.
The problem is, not even Father knows what Irene wants. She could be part of a case, he'd said; or she could just be passing through and thought it would be funny to see whatever became of the baby she left behind. Neither option is very appealing to Tristram. Part of him wants her to just go back to singing and travelling and let him and Father (and Doctor Watson, now, and Emily) go back to London and forget all about her. But a very, very small part of him doesn't want to lose track of her now that he knows she's real. A really tiny part. It's not like he wants to see her every day or anything. But if he just knew where she was at any given time, it would be kind of nice. Like the pickled monkey foetus at the Hunterian. There's a certain reassurance in knowing that it's always there with its little, scrunched-up yellow face, forever dreaming its funny monkey dreams of the hot, steamy jungle it never knew.
It's certainly not a jungle up here in the dark mountain night. It's very cold, and white clouds plume out of everyone's mouths when they talk, like dragons' breath. The sky is punctured by lots and lots of tiny pricks of light. The observatory's probably open now. But, of course, that's on a different mountain altogether.
When they get to the first igloo with the check-in desk, they find that the restaurant is actually a series of igloos connected by tunnels through the snow, each one serving as a kind of dining room with three or four tables. There are also separate igloos that can be rented overnight, to sleep in, but they're not going to do that.
The igloos aren't heated - obviously, otherwise they would melt - but it's warmer inside than Tristram expected. Still, it's chilly enough that they keep their coats on. The tables are normal tables, made of metal and glass, but the seats are either benches carved out of snow or huge ice cubes piled up into stools. There are cushions to sit on, both for comfort and to stop the benches from melting where people have sat. Their table is small enough that there's only room for one person on each side, so Emily and Tristram sit on a snow bench curved around one corner, and Father and Doctor Watson perch on ice stools on the other two sides. It's cosy despite the chill of the surroundings.
The walls have some kind of shields or coats of arms carved into them. For some reason, it makes Tristram think of Durmstrang, the magical school of the far north in the Harry Potter stories. Incongruously, there are huge bells - as big as Tristram's body - standing randomly around on blocks of ice. Doctor Watson says those are cowbells, but Tristram has trouble picturing any cow wearing a bell that large. There are no windows, and Tristram thinks the whole place could do with an air-out, as there's a distinct locker-room smell.
There's no schnipo or sausages or poo-filled nuggets on the menu this time. There is only fondue. Father says that means 'melted', and sure enough, a short while later a steaming pot full of pale yellow melted cheese appears on their table. Tristram looks at the other tables, all with their steaming pots, and understands where the locker-room smell is from. The idea, Tristram quickly discovers, is to use a long fork to spear a cube of bread from the basket they are provided with, dip that into the cheese, and ferry the dripping morsel to one's mouth. It makes sense now, too, why the tables are so small - it's so that everyone can reach the cheese pot in the middle without having to stretch across someone else.
Tristram isn't particularly enamoured of the taste - it's not awful, but it has a slightly bitter undertone to it that Doctor Watson says is from the kirsch, some kind of alcoholic drink, that's mixed in with the cheese. He assures Tristram and Emily that the temperature is high enough that all the actual alcohol's evaporated, leaving only the flavour behind. Tristram wishes the flavour had evaporated as well. Doctor Watson seems to like it though, enough that he orders some kirsch separately for Father and him to drink. It comes in tiny little doll-sized glasses that Emily coos over and Tristram thinks look frankly silly, but Father gamely picks his up and clinks it against Doctor Watson's, and after they each take a sip, they look at each other for a moment and break into giggles over nothing. Tristram grins too and decides the glasses' silliness is worth it.
But the real fun is stretching the strands of cheese out of the pot as far as possible. Doctor Watson does some twisty thing with his wrist that makes the cheese on his bread separate neatly from the mass in the pot, but when Tristram tries it, it just makes his bread fall off. When he pulls his bread out slowly, though, the cheese forms long strings that keep coming and coming. It's like eating elastic, only it never contracts. It just keeps stretching further and further. Emily has the brilliant idea to stand on her seat to see if she can pull up a strand of cheese that's as long as she is. It ends up snapping at about the one-meter mark, and her father won't let her try again. Tristram presumes he's included in the edict.
Father doesn't eat much, but he's fascinated by the long, trident-like forks they've all been equipped with, each one easily as long as Tristram's forearm.
"How many ways do you think you could kill a man with one of these?" he asks Doctor Watson, holding his fork so he can sight down its length like the barrel of a gun.
Doctor Watson sputters a little, but gamely considers the question. "I don't know... three? Stab them in the neck, in the eye, and between the ribs."
"That's only one," Father scoffs. "You're using it the same way each time. Unimaginative. I've come up with six so far." He swivels to aim the fork at one of the other tables.
"Any particular reason we're plotting the bloody demise of our fellow diners?" Doctor Watson asks mildly, fishing another one of Emily's bread chunks out of the cheese for her.
"Three of the methods are virtually bloodless," Father informs him, as if affronted that Doctor Watson would have considered him so barbaric.
Doctor Watson chuckles at that, and Father looks pleased with himself - or possibly pleased that he's made Doctor Watson laugh. Tristram likes the way Doctor Watson's whole body seems to join in when he laughs. It's not just his face creasing and opening up, it's the way even his ears perk up and his shoulders shake and the sound seems to bubble up from the bottom of his toes. Tristram sneaks a peek at Doctor Watson's feet once when he's laughing at something else Father's said, and catches them shuffling against the hard-packed snow as if they can't contain their merriment either.
By the time the cheese in the pot is little more than a thick layer of goo at the bottom and all that's left in the bread basket are a few crumbs, Father and Doctor Watson have quieted, sharing confidential smiles and an occasional chuckle. They're leaning so close their shoulders are touching, talking about something that Tristram lost track of a while ago.
The food sits heavily in his stomach, which conspires with the thick air and the steady, soothing drone of his father's and Doctor Watson's voices across the table to lull Tristram into a dozey, sated state. He hasn't thought about his mother all evening, and no one's mentioned her. He has the feeling they're not done with her yet, though. Or that she's not done with them.
&&&&&&
John slides into the bed. Sherlock is already there, on his side under the covers, wearing a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. "She said something to me this morning," John says. He sits up against the head of the bed and adjusts the cover over his legs.
"She's a liar," Sherlock tells him simply, as if it were a casual fact.
"You don't even know what she said."
"It's not about what she may have told you. I'm simply telling you that is her character. She is a liar. Although she may also use the truth, when it suits her purposes. I presume she may well have done in this case, as it's equally damning."
John looks down at Sherlock. "She told me Mycroft made her leave." There's a question in there somewhere.
"Mycroft offered to pay her, but she left of her own accord." Sherlock rolls onto his back and angles one arm up behind his head.
"What does that mean?"
"My brother offered to pay her if she would have an abortion. She refused."
John takes a moment to let that settle in. "Mycroft? He wanted her to have an abortion?"
Sherlock shrugs. "It would have been the most pragmatic solution. Neither of us were in any position to raise a child. Not merely for lack of funds. Back then, I was... " He looks away, up at the ceiling. "I experimented. Pills, mostly. Whatever I could get my hands on. Godfreya ... Irene... that was an experiment too. I don't recall most of it." He closes his eyes, a slight crease between them, as if inwardly seeking the missing memory.
"But, I mean, Tristram is-"
"Oh yes, he's mine." Sherlock opens his eyes so he can glance sidelong at John. "You don't think Mycroft wouldn't have insisted on proof?"
"But Jesus, to ask her to get rid of him- How can you stand to look him in the eye?"
Sherlock looks up at the ceiling again, sounding resigned. "The worst part is, I can't entirely hate him for it. He may have even known what he was doing."
"What do you mean?"
"I think that, if he hadn't made the offer, she would really have done it. She never wanted to be a parent. She did want to be difficult. I also think she wanted to use the pregnancy to gain some advantage or privilege. She never wanted to keep Tristram, but she hoped to get an even bigger payout once he was born. Not necessarily money. Influence or ... favours."
"But she didn't?"
Sherlock smiles sardonically. "Mycroft's too clever for that. He knew she was going to leave even without his name greasing her way. She should have bargained harder over the abortion."
"You did not just say that."
"John, I told you already," Sherlock says, fluttering with his fingers. "I'm too selfish for that."
"God, so she... And she never tried to see him?"
"No."
"Why now?"
"Didn't you ask her?" Sherlock asks, looking at John with mild surprise.
"Yes, but she just looked wounded and said something about maternal instinct." John's lips twitch, halfway to a grin.
Sherlock snorts.
John lets the grin break through. "That's what I thought too. But don't you wonder? Don't you think it might be important? It's a rather massive coincidence that she's here just when we are. And don't tell me Mycroft arranged it."
"No, it wasn't Mycroft."
John pounces on that admission, all amusement suddenly gone. "You know something. Damnit, Sherlock, you-"
Sherlock turns onto his side again and puts his hand on John's knee under the cover to stop him. "John, let me have this." His voice is unusually soft. "Please. I do know something - a little, not much - but I promise, there's no danger for any of you."
"Why can't you tell me, then?"
Sherlock's hand clenches, too quickly, around John's knee. He relaxes it deliberately. "Because then it will all be over."
John frowns, irritated. "What does that mean?"
Sherlock studies John's face carefully, just a bit too long, before saying lightly, "Just that we'll have to get back to the pursuit of the people behind Tonga and Moran." He smiles and scoots himself closer so his chest is resting against John's leg. His hand disappears somewhere under the covers. "Let's enjoy the rest of our week. One week, and then we can get back to the business of tracking down that little gang."
"And you think they're just going to sit back and wait while we have snowball fights and eat fondue?" It doesn't come out quite as scathing as it might have.
"They won't touch us here," Sherlock says, as if he finds it tedious to keep going over it.
John won't be put off just yet, though. "What about Irene? She's mixed up in this too," he insists.
"It could just be a coincidence-"
"Damnit, Sherlock! I'm not an idiot!" John explodes.
They sit there staring each other down for several interminable moments. Sherlock is the first one to back down. "No," he says soberly. "You're not. Which is why I am pleading with you: let me have this. Let us have this. It won't put us at any tactical disadvantage."
"You swear you're going to tell me everything." It might have been intended to sound like a threat, but there's not much steam behind it.
"Everything I know." It might be agreement, but it might also be a counteroffer.
John groans and lets his head drop back against the wall with an audible thunk. "Remind me never to try and talk you down from something when you've got your hand on my dick."
Sherlock chuckles and leans up to nip at John's lower lip.
&&&&&&
Emily's already asleep. They didn't read together tonight. Tristram would have liked to, but Doctor Watson said it was too late when they got back from the restaurant, and Emily didn't protest. Reading together is really Doctor Watson and Emily's thing anyway, so Tristram didn't say anything either. Even though it would have been nice to have Doctor Watson sit with them a little while. And Father too, off to the side but paying more attention than it seems like. Maybe tomorrow.
Tristram scratches at his arm. Something's been bothering him there all day, like a tag on the back of a t-shirt rubbing against his skin. He supposes it's a good sign, like the itching on his back, indicating that it's healing. Doctor Watson and Father are still talking. He can't hear what they're saying through the closed door, but he can hear their voices, switching off between his father's lower register and Doctor Watson's slightly higher one. The tempo and volume remain controlled and even, so they're probably not arguing about anything. Just talking, like they were at the restaurant. Tristram wonders whether Father's ever talked as much as he has since he met Doctor Watson. Were all those words pent up inside him the whole time, waiting for someone to hear them? Or is he just finding them now, like pebbles laid out on a path that he never would have wandered down if he hadn't met Doctor Watson?
When Tristram takes his hand away from his arm, it feels wet. Did he splash water on himself when he was getting ready for bed? He touches the outside of the cast, but it feels dry. He slides his fingers just inside the top of the cast, where he was scratching, and they come away wet again. Did he somehow get water inside the cast? It's not supposed to get wet. He gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom for a towel.
As soon as he turns the light on in the bathroom, though, he realises it's not water. It's blood. Not a lot, but his fingers are all red and there's red smeared around his arm where the cast starts. His stomach swoops downward. He's supposed to be getting better, and somehow he doesn't think that blood under his cast is part of the healing process. He doesn't panic like he did when he ate the pie, though. Instead, he remembers what Doctor Watson did when Tristram got shot. First, he brought Tristram out to the hall where it was safe. Then he checked him all over to see where he was injured. Then he patched up what he could and called the ambulance for help. Tristram tries to follow those steps now.
He's not in any danger of being hurt further, so there's no need to go anywhere else. He does need to find out where the blood is coming from, though. Tristram checks his hand at the bottom end of the cast, but there's no blood there, which is at least something. He takes some toilet paper and wipes his arm until he can see where the blood's coming from. He has a scratch or a cut right inside the cast, and he can feel now that there's a sharp edge there. That must have been what was irritating him all day. And either his constant scratching and rubbing or the exposed edge itself broke the skin. Tristram already feels calmer; more in control. It's good to have a plan to follow.
The next thing Doctor Watson did, once he saw where Tristram was hurt, was to start treating him. At the same time, he called the ambulance because he couldn't take care of all of Tristram's injuries himself. Normally, Tristram would be able to take care of a minor cut like this on his own, but it's in a hard-to-reach place and he only has his left hand to work with. So he's going to need help too. Although obviously not an ambulance. Father and Doctor Watson are probably still awake.
Tristram pads back out of the bathroom. Outside the closed bedroom door, he pauses. He knows he's supposed to knock. He can't hear anything now. He leans closer, turning his head sideways so his ear is facing the door. Not touching the door, just turned towards it. He still can't hear anything. Maybe they are asleep after all. It could probably wait until tomorrow. On the other hand, Doctor Watson and Father both told him it was okay to come get them if he were sick. He's not exactly sick, but it would be unfortunate if the scratch got worse or turned into an infection overnight. He lifts his left hand and knocks, once. It doesn't come out very loud. He doesn't want to wake Emily, but even more than that he doesn't want to walk in on something like the last time. He knocks again more firmly, three times.
"Come in," Doctor Watson's voice says after a moment, muffled through the door.
Tristram pushes down on the handle and opens the door partway. Not far enough that he can see in, but far enough that he doesn't have to shout to be heard.
"Doctor Watson?" he says tentatively. He hears blankets rustling. A light is on in the room; probably one of the small lamps next to the bed, judging by the level of illumination.
"Yeah, what is it, Tris?" Doctor Watson's voice asks patiently.
"My arm's bleeding." He opens the door further, hoping that he's not about to see anything he doesn't want to. To his relief, Father and Doctor Watson are both lying half-reclined in the bed, each on his own side, and it looks like they both have all their clothes on. Well, they are both wearing t-shirts anyway. Their legs are under the covers. At Tristram's words, however, they both sit up and push the covers back. Doctor Watson, wearing black pants that leave his thick legs bare, is up first.
"Let me see," he says briskly as he comes over to where Tristram is standing. Father is right behind him in his long, striped pyjama trousers.
Tristram holds up his right arm as evidence. Doctor Watson cups one hand under the cast to support the arm and peers at the raw spot just inside the edge of the cast. Father leans in to have a look as well.
"Yeah, looks like the padding's worn through," Doctor Watson says. "Not a problem." He gives Tristram a reassuring smile and puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder. "It's really good that you told us, though. That kind of thing can get nasty very quickly. Come on, let's go into the bathroom and get it sorted."
Tristram is relieved. Not just because he didn't interrupt anything embarrassing this time, but also because it doesn't sound like there's anything seriously wrong with his arm. And because, even though it's not so serious, Doctor Watson said it was a good thing Tristram came right away, rather than waiting until tomorrow.
Doctor Watson keeps his hand on Tristram's shoulder as they go over to the bathroom.
"Thank you, John," Tristram hears Father say behind him. He stays in the bedroom, though.
"It's fine," Doctor Watson says softly, mindful not to disturb Emily, who doesn't seem to have been wakened by the goings-on.
Once in the bathroom, Doctor Watson guides Tristram to sit down on the toilet lid before getting out the travel bag with his medical supplies from under the sink. Tristram watches as he washes his hands thoroughly then takes some gauze, disinfectant, ointment, and tape from his bag.
"You know, you don't have to call me Doctor Watson," he says quietly as he crouches down in front of Tristram. "I'm not actually your doctor. I mean, this..." He starts gently cleaning the torn skin with a piece of gauze dampened with disinfectant. "I want to do this for you. It's not just because of my job back home. Do you understand?"
Tristram doesn't, not really. Doctor Watson is a doctor, so that's his name, just like Inspector Lestrade's name is like that because he's a police inspector, and Uncle Mycroft's name is like that because he's Tristram's uncle. But if Doctor Watson doesn't want him to call him that, he won't.
"What should I call you then?" Tristram asks.
"How about John?" He pauses and looks at Tristram. He almost appears to be nervous, the way his eyes dart back and forth on Tristram's face. "Not if it makes you uncomfortable. But I think we're friends, aren't we?" He really seems unsure.
Tristram is unsure too. Doctor Watson is Father's friend, certainly. Father's boyfriend now, in fact, odd as that is. Does that mean he's automatically Tristram's friend, too? 'John'. It feels weird to think of him that way. He likes him, but he doesn't know if he'd really call him a friend. On the other hand, they play games and read books together, just like Tristram and Emily do. They've talked about things he'd never talk to anyone else about. They even have secrets together. Maybe he really is Tristram's friend too, not just Father's.
Is that why he signed Tristram's cast with his first name? Tristram glances down at the cast, but Doctor Watson - John - is holding his arm so that only Emily's and Father's messages to him are visible. 'Love, Emily', it says. Father didn't write his name. But Tristram knows his handwriting, and he knows who it's from anyway.
Doc- John ... That's going to take getting used to. John turns his head to read what's on Tristram's cast, too, although certainly he's seen it before. "Angelo's," he says with a smile that seems to encourage Tristram to speak. "What's that?"
"A restaurant," Tristram says. "Father and I go there sometimes."
"Good food?" John asks.
"He makes the best lasagne," Tristram informs him.
"Your dad likes Angelo's lasagne?"
"It's his favourite."
"Then we'll all have to go together sometime. When we get back. Or," he says, straightening up as if something has just occurred to him, "is that what that means? When we get back, your dad's taking you to Angelo's?"
"When I get better," Tristram clarifies. "When my hand and my back are better."
John grins. "I think that's a fantastic idea. Just you and him, to celebrate."
"You and Emily can come too." Father said he wanted them to. Well, he said John, but surely Emily was included.
"The next time, we'd love to," John agrees. "But the first time, as soon as you get this off, that's just for you and your dad. Says so right here." John taps the cast.
Tristram grins. "Okay." That sounds fair. A weight he wasn't even aware of carrying lifts from his heart. He'd worried about losing Angelo's as a special place just for him and Father, but maybe he can have both.
John throws the used gauze away and takes out a tube of ointment. "So how about you? I never asked you what you like to be called. Emily always calls you Tris, so I assumed that was okay. But do you prefer Tristram?" he asks as he swabs some of the white cream around on Tristram's raw skin.
No one ever called him anything other than 'Tristram' before Emily, and it would be weird if, say, Father or Mrs Hudson started calling him that. But he's used to Emily and D- John calling him 'Tris' now. It would be weird if they started using his full name. So he shakes his head and says, "No, Tris is fine. For you and Emily."
John doesn't look up from what he's doing, but he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling sort of like Father's do. "That's good then. I like your name a lot. It's special, just like you."
"My mother named me," Tristram informs him. "She was going to name me Drust, but Uncle Mycroft said not even she would be that spiteful."
That does make John look at Tristram, the surprise clear on his face. "Your mother- Sorry, okay." He adjusts his expression to make it appear thoughtful instead. "Drust... That's not so bad. Although..." He leans in to speak confidentially. "I do like Tristram better, too." He sits back again and puts the ointment away. "Do you, er... have a middle name?" he asks, as if he's just making conversation, but Tristram can tell he's pretty curious.
"Harbinger."
John nods slowly, apparently taking a moment to digest that. "Okay. Your mother again?"
Tristram nods.
"Well. Mine's Hamish." He holds out his hand like he wants Tristram to shake it. "Nice to meet you, Tristram Harbinger."
Tristram giggles and puts his hand in John's. "Nice to meet you, John Hamish."
"So how was it today? Meeting your mother? You haven't really said anything about it."
Tristram looks down at his cast where Doctor Watson's holding it. His thumb is covering up the mouse that Emily drew. It looks like the mouse's speech bubble is coming out of his thumb and saying, 'Get well soon!' Tristram shrugs. There isn't really anything to say. Plus, Father already told him.
"It was fine," he repeats Father's answer.
"Really?" John asks mildly as he takes out some more gauze and cuts it to size. "Just your average first time meeting your mother kind of thing?"
Tristram has no additional data points to calculate an average from, but somehow he doesn't think that's exactly what John means.
"Because for me - just me personally now," John goes on, "I think I might be pretty confused. I mean, one day it's just me and my dad, and the next day there's this whole other parent. I think I'd have a lot of questions." He delicately manipulates the gauze in under the cast to cover the cut.
That's how Tristram feels too. He does have a lot of questions. But he knows that no one's going to answer them, so there's no point in asking.
"It doesn't matter," Tristram mumbles.
John stops what he's doing and bends his head down so he can look Tristram in the eye. "It definitely matters," he tells Tristram, almost fiercely. "My questions matter, and your questions matter. Even when there aren't any ready answers, they still matter."
Tristram considers that. An experiment always begins with a question that doesn't have an obvious answer. Those are important questions. It's like his soil experiment. There's no one who can answer the question of what the pH level is of the soil in fifteen spots around London either. That's what his experiment is for. So maybe Tristram's questions surrounding Irene are like an experiment too. He just has to figure out the proper procedure for conducting it. He decides to ask one of his questions.
"Do you know why she's here? Did she come here to find me?" Tristram asks.
"I don't know. We don't know," Doctor Watson says, which is pretty much what Tristram expected. But then he adds, "But your dad and I won't let anything happen to you, okay? No one's going to hurt you again."
That's the same thing his father told him. He said that Tristram and Emily were safe now, that there wasn't any danger for them. And that's fine and comforting and all, but it's not actually what Tristram is worried about. He's not sure what he's worried about, to be honest, but it's not getting hurt again. It's more about things changing, about the future being uncertain. Tristram's only just beginning to figure out where Doctor Watson and Emily fit into his and Father's lives, and adding Irene to the mix is like finding out someone's snuck in and added an unknown agent to his solution. She could end up being entirely nonreactive, but she could also turn out to be a catalyst for an unexpected reaction. Or the whole thing might explode quite spectacularly.
But Doctor Watson can't know what will happen. No one can. So Tristram doesn't try to explain.
Doctor Watson's finished with his arm. Tristram moves it experimentally. The cast doesn't chafe against his skin anymore. "Thanks for fixing it for me," Tristram says.
"My pleasure," John says. He squeezes Tristram's shoulder and stands up so he can wash his hands again.
John brings Tristram back to the living room and helps him get into bed without disturbing Emily.
"Good night again," John whispers, smoothing his hand over Tristram's forehead once he's tucked under the cover with his cast resting carefully on top. There was a time when Tristram might have resented the gesture - he's not a little kid, after all - but now it feels nice. Not just the gentle touch itself of warm fingers on his skin, but the way it makes Tristram feel inside. Like John likes him and wants him to be comfortable, maybe even happy.
"No yodeling," John admonishes with a twinkle in his eye.
Tristram can't help but smile. The funny, hooting call Emily did the other night is on the tip of his tongue to repeat - softly, to be sure - but at the last second he holds it in after all. It feels like overstepping. "Okay," he whispers instead.
Then John goes back into the bedroom and closes the door, leaving Tristram alone with Emily breathing gently beside him.
Chapter notes: The Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons in London houses collections which are "a fascinating mix of human and animal anatomy and pathology specimens, wax teaching models, surgical and dental instruments as well as paintings, drawings and sculpture." (Source) Think medical anomalies preserved in jars. I have no idea if there is actually a monkey foetus on display, but it would certainly fit in with the collection. As of July 2014 there was a special exhibit running on the theme of 'War, Art and Surgery', which I think would be right up John's alley.
The igloo restaurant is based on the 'Fondue-Iglu' in Engstligenalp-Adelboden.
In Swiss German, there is a saying: FIGUGEGL (say 'fee-goo-gay-gull'), which stands for 'Fondü isch guet und git e gueti Luune' and means 'Fondue is good and makes you happy.'
The decorative cowbells are huge things that are worn for the procession when the cows are driven up the mountain for the summer and down the mountain for the winter.
This is what a fondue fork looks like:
They are really pretty lethal with those barbed prongs. It's hard to see the scale in that picture, but they are usually about 9-10 inches long. I shudder to think what Sherlock's six ways of killing a man with such a fork might be.
