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swissmargTitle: The Cuckoo's Lullaby
Author:
swissmarg
Beta readers:ruth0007, 
dioscureantwins
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 87.5K total
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 17 on AO3
Tristram is nervous. Terribly so. His heart is beating nineteen to the dozen, as Mrs Hudson would say, and his palms are actually sweaty, a phenomenon he's read about but never experienced in person. It's a shame he's not at home because there's nothing in the plane he can use to take a sample for analysis. If Father were here, he'd have a swab and an evidence bag at least, but it's just Irene in the seat beside him. She's reading a book and doesn't look nervous at all. It's not a panic attack he's having; he can tell the difference. He hasn't had one of those since Switzerland. Hopefully he's over them now. Although he thinks he'll still go see Mrs Daniels, partly out of curiosity but also because he told John he would.
Irene told him she saw John, that night she went out to 'put an end to this entire thing', and that he was in fine spirits. Father was there too, even though Irene said she wasn't going to see him. Tristram almost expected to hear something like that, but the little sting of betrayal or mistrust or whatever you want to call it still pricks a bit. Not only because it means that if Tristram had stayed with John, he would have got to see Father a whole lot sooner, but also because it means Irene lied to him again. Well, not lied exactly... It was one of those tricky ways of saying something so that it sounded like one thing but meant another. Uncle Mycroft does the same thing sometimes. Tristram can't always tell. He's going to have to get better at it.
Because Irene might not have gone wherever it was she went for the purpose of seeing Father, but Tristram's pretty sure now that she knew or at least expected he'd be there. She wouldn't tell Tristram anything more, though, not even whether anyone else was there. Although there must have been, because if she wasn't going to see Father, who then? John? All she'd say was that it all worked out and they were safe now. He and Father and John and Emily, and she and Kate too. Tristram didn't even know Irene and Kate were in danger. Tristram asked what about Uncle Mycroft, but Irene just laughed and said the day Uncle Mycroft was in danger would be the day England fell. Which isn't exactly a straight answer, but since England is still standing - he can see it below them now, the land motionless next to the sparkling water, the contours more irregular than any map would lead you to believe - he expects that means Uncle Mycroft's not in danger either.
The point is, though, that Father was there last night, and Irene said that Tristram was the very first thing he asked about. That made Tristram miss his father even more, and he already missed him a nearly unbearable amount. Father hasn't even seen that he's got all the bandages off his back. But he's fine, Irene said, and she told Father and John that Tristram was fine and now that the danger is over, she's bringing him back to them. Although she wouldn't say how it's over, whether the bad guys are in jail or ... well, dead is the only other possibility that Tristram can think of. Maybe Irene thinks Tristram is squeamish about dead bodies, because he can't imagine why she wouldn't want to tell him if they were in jail.
So no, this isn't a panic attack, this is excitement and wondering and hoping all mixed up. And a little bit of uncertainty too, because maybe Irene isn't really taking him to Father. He wants to believe her. Not just because he wants - desperately, so hard that he almost can't think about it - to see Father again, but because he wants to be able to believe Irene. It's exhausting always having to stop and think about whether what she's saying is the truth or not. Maybe she meant she's going to take Tristram to Father eventually. Some day. If so, he intends to figure out how to get back to Father on his own, or at least contact him or John or Uncle Mycroft. Now that he doesn't have to worry about getting shot the second he sets foot outside the house. She can't keep him away from them forever, even if she is his mother.
By the time the plane lands, Tristram has steeled himself - for the moment, anyway, until he can get his bearings - for another car ride into the unknown, another safe house, another day of not knowing what's going on.
They have to go claim Irene's suitcase from the carousel. Tristram doesn't have any luggage. He left behind all the clothes they found in the cottage that just happened to fit him, even though Irene said he could feel free to take them. They aren't his (even though he suspects, really, they were supposed to be). No matter, he can't imagine ever wanting to wear any of them again. They would only make him think of worrying about Father and John and Emily and the endless rain and waiting and waiting. So when Irene said they were leaving, he put back on the clothes he'd left Switzerland in, even though they hadn't been laundered. Irene wore a pair of black trousers and a black turtleneck that must have been in Kate's suitcase too.
Tristram forces himself not to look at the wall of glass separating the baggage claim area from the other side where people are waiting to meet their friends and family, even though he really, really wants to look and see if - maybe, possibly - Father is there. But Irene said she was taking him to Father, not that Father was coming to meet them. They've landed in London so maybe she really is taking him this time.
But the main reason he doesn't want to look is that all that glass, all that exposure, makes him anxious. He recognises that now, and he remembers what John said: that part of avoiding a panic attack is staying away from things that set it off. He does not want to have a panic attack here in the middle of the airport. Airports, strangers, and windows: all things that his brain has bad associations with. He managed it the last time they flew, just barely, and he's going to do even better this time by not looking at any of the windows.
So he keeps his head down and takes Irene's hand as they head to the exit. All he has to do is look at the floor and make sure he doesn't bump into anyone. They go through the sliding glass doors, and then Irene slows as she navigates around the groups of bystanders waiting for other arrivals. People are laughing and hugging and shaking hands and dropping their luggage in inconvenient places. Tristram steps instinctively closer to Irene, narrowly avoiding running into a woman who stops abruptly just in front of him.
And then Irene stops too, and before Tristram can look to see why, there are arms around him, pulling at him, drawing him in, and a scratchy woollen coat that smells like stale cigarettes and cold air and formaldehyde is rubbing his nose and cheek. It's Father, Tristram knows it even before he hears his voice or gets a glimpse of the black curls that flip out over Father's ear just like Tristram's.
"Tristram." Father's voice sounds funny, kind of high and whispery, but that doesn't matter. Father is here, and he's picking Tristram up, hugging him tight, his chin pressing against Tristram's head.
"Father!" he says into Father's shoulder. It should be embarrassing to be picked up like a little kid with his feet off the floor but it isn't. It's glorious, and Tristram never, ever wants Father to put him down. He's so happy he wants to jump and shout, but he also wants to burrow in closer, so that's what he does, somehow working his left arm in under Father's arm so he can grip his coat there. Father came to get him, he's really here, and nothing else in the world matters at this moment.
But then he's hit by a rush of something - maybe guilt - that makes him need to explain what happened. Because Father didn't know, he didn't know that Irene was going to sneak off with him, and she didn't even send him a message, and the way he's clinging to Tristram now, Tristram suspects he may have been upset about it. Possibly even as upset as Tristram was.
"I didn't have my phone. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone with her," Tristram mumbles against the coat.
Father inhales sharply and gives Tristram one more good, hard squeeze before he starts to loosen his grip. Tristram prepares for the separation even though he's not nearly ready to let go yet, but Father is just adjusting his grip, locking his hands under Tristram's seat so he can hold him at the right height to look him in the eye.
"This was not your fault, Tristram." Father's eyes are doing that piercing, insistent thing they do that means he wants to put something directly into Tristram's brain. Tristram is so happy to have that look directed at him again that a shiver goes up the back of his neck. "None of it was," Father tells him. "You must never, ever think that."
Tristram doesn't know what to say to that. Of course he knows that someone else was behind all the big things - him getting shot, and the body parts, and Moran, and possibly Aunt Claire, and maybe even as far back as Emily's mother's murder. But he also made mistakes, like talking to Mister Tonga (and going out of Grandmother's house in the first place) and eating that pie. He made extra work and trouble for both Father and John with his panic attacks. And he did forget to put his phone in his pocket, and he made Father worry - and probably John, too - by going with Irene.
But Father doesn't want him to think about those things, so he tries hard now to package them up and put them far away. He knows Father has compartments in his brain where he can lock up things he doesn't want cluttering his mind. Tristram hasn't figured out how to do that in any kind of organised way, but there's a cloudy, dark corner in his imagining where he buries all the unpleasant things. There aren't any walls, and a lot of times those things come oozing back out, but he tries now to stuff all the bad parts of the past few weeks in there. It's not quite a clean job - he can still feel some sharp bits poking at him uncomfortably - but it's enough that he can manage a smile. A pretty big one. It must be convincing because Father's face does the same thing back at him.
And then he catches sight of someone else over Father's shoulder. Two someone elses: Emily and John. They're both beaming at him, and as soon as Tristram makes eye contact, Emily leaps away from her father and shouts, "Tris!" John must have been holding her back all this time, because she shoots toward Tristram like a taut rubber band that's been let fly.
Father turns toward the sound and lets Tristram slide down toward the floor. Tristram's not nearly ready to let go yet, but he has no choice other than to put his feet under him if he doesn't want to end up deposited on his rear. Emily's there to hold him up, though, with her arms around him, kind of jostling him up and down. Her smile is giddy, and she's saying something about Baker Street and Mrs Hudson and eyeballs. Tristram doesn't really catch it all, but that's okay. Everything's okay; more than that, it's spectacular.
John is there too, now, bending down to put his arms around both Tristram and Emily together. It feels good, almost as good as being hugged by Father. Tristram hugs him back and lets himself enjoy the little pats John adds on his back. His voice sounds a little funny too when he tells Tristram he's brave, and that they missed him, and that he's very, very glad he's back. The last time John told Tristram he was brave, he didn't really feel like he was. Now, though, he thinks maybe he has been. And he's very, very glad to be back too.
He looks around for Father, missing his presence behind him. He finds him standing a couple of metres away with Irene. He has his hands in his coat, but now he takes one out and holds it out to her.
"Thank you," Tristram hears him say. He supposes Father means to thank her for bringing Tristram back, which doesn't quite make sense to him: if she hadn't taken Tristram away in the first place, she wouldn't have needed to bring him back.
Irene looks like she's weighing the consequences of shaking Father's hand, but after a few seconds she lifts her hand and puts it in his. "You're welcome," she says, like she's a little surprised about it herself.
They stand there holding hands and watching each other, the way Father and John used to. Only it's not really like that. When Father and John used to shake hands for so long, it was like holding your breath until you feel like your lungs are going to burst and then holding it for ten seconds more. This is more like seeing who can hold their breath longer but both of them are cheating by breathing through their nose. Like they both think they're better at it but aren't quite sure and are trying to figure out how the other one's doing it. Finally, they let go.
Then Irene walks over to Tristram. John lets go of him, and Tristram feels him pulling Emily away as well. Tristram's first instinct is to go with them, but he can tell Irene has something to say to him so he stays where he is.
"Well, Tristram." She puts both hands on his shoulders. He's not sure whether she's holding him in place or steadying herself. Her eyes are suspiciously bright. When she speaks, though, her voice is clear and calm. "I'd say your father and John can handle things from here, wouldn't you?"
Of course. Father can handle anything. That was never a question. But Tristram supposes what she means is that her part is done in whatever it was they were all mixed up in, and that she's going to be moving on again. He knew she would eventually, but now that the moment's come, it seems sudden. It's not that he's going to miss her terribly or anything, but he's only just started to get used to the idea of having a mother - of having Irene as his mother. It's like she's leaving in the middle of an experiment, before they've done much more than set out the equipment.
"Where are you going?" he asks. Somehow it's important that he can place her on his mental map when she's not here. It would be even better if he had a clock like the Weasleys' that shows where every member of the family is at any given time. There would be a hand for Father, one for Tristram, and one for Irene... and one for Uncle Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson even though she's not really related to them. And if Mrs Hudson gets to be on there, then so do John and Emily. The clock face would be a little crowded with that many hands, but then the Weasleys' family - Tristram counts them up quickly in his head - is even bigger so it should work.
Tristram expects Irene will say she's off someplace like the Bahamas or Iceland, but instead her face brightens and she tells him, "I'm going to stay with Kate for a while. She has a house right here in London. I told you: no more disappearing acts. I'd like it very much if you'd come visit us." It's not just a tossed-out invitation. Something about the quiet way she says it tells Tristram it's important to her. Then she adds, with a bit more jolliness, "I can't promise anything quite as exciting as the past couple of weeks, but I'm sure we can find something to do."
Tristram's not sure whether by 'exciting' she means the fun things like going up and down mountains, or all the other things like running away from bad guys and getting shot. He could certainly do without the latter, and as for the former... he's not sure he can picture Irene on a toboggan or rolling in the snow. Although, to be fair, he couldn't have pictured his father doing those things before their trip either. He imagines her house (well, Kate's house) will be more like Emily's aunts' house than his and Father's flat. And he does have fun when he goes to the Watsons'. Although, mostly, that's because Emily's there.
"Can Emily come too?" It slips out of him unexpectedly, before he's really thought it through. He realises too late that Irene might not want Emily there - even though she did say she liked her, and that she wanted to be friends.
But Irene just laughs, to Tristram's relief. "If she wants, and it's all right with John."
"Do you want to?" Tristram asks Emily. He really hopes she does. Not just because then he won't be embarrassed for having brought it up, but because that will mean she doesn't dislike Irene quite as much as she did at the beginning. He knows it doesn't really matter whether Emily likes Irene or not, and it won't change his opinion of either of them, but it would just be nice if his friend and his mother got along.
Emily gives Irene a hard stare. "Do you have any severed feet?" she asks, as if that's an important criterion.
Irene looks a bit startled, her eyes flickering to Sherlock and John and back. "I should hope not." Then her expression turns sly. "But I do have a sapphire necklace that's supposed to have a curse on it."
Tristram's eyes go round. An actual curse! Like in the Harry Potter stories!
"There's no such thing as curses," Emily states, like she's made a grand study of the subject. "But I guess we could look at it," she acquiesces as if she's doing Irene a big favour.
"John?" Irene checks with him.
"Yeah, um..." John clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. "We'll see."
"It might give you a chance to do it properly, Doctor Watson." Irene gives him a funny look, half stern and half teasing. "Call me if you need any tips." She picks up the handle of her suitcase and adjusts the strap of her handbag over her shoulder.
"I think I can handle it, yeah," John grumbles, but he almost looks like he's amused too. Or embarrassed. Maybe both. Maybe he doesn't dislike her so much anymore, now that she brought Tristram back. Maybe he and Irene are even starting to be friends.
"I'm sure you will," she says. It almost sounds sad, but she's smiling. Wistful, Tristram supposes, might be a good way to describe it.
She steps back and looks them all over - Tristram, Father, John, and Emily. John has his arm around Emily's shoulder, and Father is standing just behind John so their shoulders overlap. It's possible that Father's hand is resting on John's back, although Tristram can't see from where he's standing.
Irene sighs briskly. "I never would have thought that you of all people would manage it, Sherlock. Look at you, a proper family man."
"Don't you have a cow to harrass, or something?" It almost sounds like the kind of jab Father would take at Uncle Mycroft - Tristram doesn't understand those half the time either - but Father isn't looking at her. He's looking at the side of John's head, with a little furrow between his eyebrows.
Irene chuckles and says, "I have a couple of leads," but Tristram doesn't think Father's paying attention to her anymore, because John turns toward him just then, amused by Father's quip, and their eyes catch and hold. And there - there's that holding-your-breath moment that seems to go on forever. Tristram expects it's going to end in a kiss this time, to be honest, and all of a sudden, Tristram aches to be home. To curl up on the couch and listen to Father's violin. To sit at the kitchen table sorting his soil samples while Father counts mould colonies under his microscope. To pull the sheet shut around his and Emily's beds and tell each other jokes in the dark. To see John lean in behind Father at breakfast and kiss him on the cheek, followed by Father's pleased, almost self-conscious smile. That last one hasn't happened yet, but Tristram can see it in his mind as clearly as any memory.
They don't end up kissing here, although maybe that's only because of Irene's pointed throat-clearing to get their attention. They turn to look at her, John a bit pink in the face and Father a bit irritated.
Irene gives them a knowing smile. "I'll be in touch."
Father's lips form a ghost of a smirk. "No doubt," he says.
They watch her walk away, her back straight and her steps quick and light, until she's swallowed up in the crowd.
Father puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder and steps up close behind him. "Come on. Let's go home."
"Here you are." John's whispered words cause Sherlock to turn his head. John slips into Tristram's darkened bedroom and slides down the wall to sit next to Sherlock on the floor. "They okay?" he asks.
A short distance away, the dim light of the street lamps filtering in through the curtains reveal the gentle humps of two small bodies lying under the covers. The sheet hanging from the ceiling - a makeshift tent at one point - has been pulled aside to give an unimpeded view of Tristram's bed and the old field bed beside it where Emily is sleeping.
Sherlock makes an affirmative sound and returns to watching the children. His knees are drawn up with his arms resting on them. The two men sit there in silence for several minutes, listening to the soft, steady breathing from the beds. John leans his head back against the wall, his hands folded in his lap with his legs stretched out in front of him.
Finally, John speaks in a low voice: "We used to watch Emily sleep for hours, when she was a baby. Me and Mary," he clarifies. "It was like we couldn't believe this little bundle was really alive, and that she'd wake up again all on her own."
The wail of an ambulance siren drifts in faintly from outside, several streets away by the sound of it. Once it's faded completely and the sound of children breathing once again dominates the tableau, Sherlock confides, "I did the same with Tristram. Not just hours. Days. I was terrified to fall asleep at first. I had the irrational thought that if I stopped watching him he'd cease to exist. That the whole thing would turn out to be a dream or a hallucination. Mrs Hudson finally forced me to turn him over to her for a few hours, before I actually did start hallucinating."
John chuckles a little.
"I still do, you know," Sherlock continues in a hushed tone. "Watch him sleep. Even before the whole..." He waves his hand at nothing in particular. "It doesn't seem real, sometimes... that he's mine, a part of me in him; that he's healthy and clever and ... a whole person."
John smiles fondly. "Yeah." He presses his shoulder against Sherlock's, and Sherlock settles against him. After a moment, he gropes for John's hand. John lets him slot their fingers together, then lifts their joined hands and kisses Sherlock's knuckles. Then he lowers their hands again and lets them rest on his thigh, still interlaced. They sit like that for quite a while until John's head starts to droop forward.
Sherlock touches him on the arm. "John," he says.
John's head pops up and he makes an inquisitive, if sleepy, sound.
"Go to bed," Sherlock says.
John inhales sharply and lets it out again. "Yeah okay," he agrees. He shifts a bit and lets go of Sherlock's hand in preparation for getting up. Before he does, though, he pauses. "Is it all right if I use your bed?"
"I think we're beyond the point of being proprietary about beds, don't you?" Sherlock remarks.
John grins. "Yeah." He tilts his head to the side, prompting for a kiss. Sherlock obliges. The quick reassurance turns into a lingering touch of lips. "Will you come down later?" John asks. Even through his sleepiness, his interest is clear.
Sherlock hesitates a beat before answering. "I don't know yet."
"Okay. L-" John starts to say something but ends up clearing his throat instead. "Later then. Tomorrow. See you tomorrow." He squeezes Sherlock's arm and pushes himself to his feet. "Good night," he whispers.
Sherlock grunts an acknowledgment. John lets himself out, leaving the door open behind him.
Tristram waits to the count of a hundred and twenty. Is Father still here? He only heard John going down the stairs, but it's so quiet now he thinks Father might have left as well. He allows himself to crack his eyes open. It's normal for a person's eyelids to open or flutter a bit while they're in REM sleep. Plus it's dark. Father won't see. He has to shift his head a bit - carefully, carefully, keeping his breathing nice and slow - but then he can see Father's shape - pale skin and white shirt - down low between the dresser and the door.
It turns out Irene was telling the truth about keeping him safe while Father and John were busy setting a trap for the man who was doing all the bad things. Even Emily had to go stay with Uncle Mycroft. Tristram has a brief, ridiculous vision of Uncle Mycroft playing Super Mario Kart with her. On the other hand, he never would have dreamed that Father would enjoy reading the Harry Potter books out loud to him. And if anyone could get Uncle Mycroft to play video games, it would be Emily.
Tristram knows this wasn't a typical case. Obviously. It's not just the strange and scary things that happened, though. Something shifted during the course of it. Maybe because Father was actually working with someone - with John, and possibly with Irene as well. Not the way he works with the police, which is generally less 'working with' than 'working next to' or 'working around' or even 'working behind their backs'. Tristram knows that John and Father disagreed a lot about what they should be doing, but in the end they did it together.
"Father?" Tristram whispers, he hopes not loud enough to wake Emily up. He can tell she's not faking.
He hears a soft rustle of clothing as his father stirs. He watches the pale shape detach from the wall and move toward the bed.
"I thought you were asleep," Father says, his voice pitched low.
Tristram feels a little burst of triumph at that, because he finally fooled Father. Granted, it's dark; he might not have fooled him if Father had been able to see him clearly. Still, it counts, Tristram thinks. But that's not why he wanted to talk to Father.
"Tell John to stay," Tristram tells him. "I want him and Emily to stay. She can share my room."
"It's not that simple."
"Do you want them to stay?"
Father doesn't answer for a pretty long time. Tristram thinks he's not going to at all when he hears the faint "Yes."
A warm lump of happiness blooms in Tristram's stomach. "Good. Me too. Tell him."
"I can't promise he'll want to," Father hedges.
Of course he wants to. Obvious. Tristram has no doubt about that. "Just tell him," he repeats, even though he knows he's won the argument. Father may take a while to get around to it, but he'll do it eventually.
They've apparently reached Father's limit for such things tonight, though, as he now says, "Good night." He puts his hand on Tristram's forehead and smooths his hair back. It's a rare gesture, but not entirely unprecedented. Usually he only does it when he's checking Tristram's eyes for signs of infection or illness. But this time it's simply for the sake of touching him, and maybe even a reassurance that he's taking Tristram's petition seriously.
Then Father stands up and does something that's entirely unprecedented. He reaches over Tristram and touches the top of Emily's head too, letting his hand rest there just for a moment before withdrawing it again.
Tristram is still trying to figure out what that was about when Father slips quietly out of the room.
Sherlock lifts the covers and slides into the warmth beside John. John doesn't react until Sherlock turns onto his side and draws his knees up, brushing against John's leg. Then he stirs and makes a sleepy questioning sound.
Sherlock sighs and rests a hand on John's shoulder. John rolls onto his side so he's facing Sherlock. Their knees bump. John's limbs are still heavy with sleep and Sherlock's unused to fitting in around someone else, but they shift and adjust until their legs are intertwined and they each have one arm slung over the other. John bumps his face clumsily against Sherlock's, hitting his chin rather than his mouth with his lips. Sherlock tilts his head to make up for it, and they spend a few minutes exchanging lazy, gentle kisses. The mood is comfortable and easy, neither one of them angling for anything else. It's more of an affirmation and agreement, acceptance and answer. After a while, they let their lips separate, although they stay where they are, sharing air and gently stroking each other's backs and arms.
"It's not always like this," Sherlock says, hushed, into the rarefied atmosphere.
"Hm?" John's voice is low and sated, his fingers tracing the lines of Sherlock's bones.
"My life," Sherlock explains. "It's not always kidnappings and shootings and running away from unstable criminal masterminds."
John's hand stops moving. "You're not trying to scare me off, are you?" The question is posed teasingly, and Sherlock chuckles.
"No." Sherlock's smile is audible in the word. Then he crowds John closer against his body and repeats the answer, more solemn and fierce. "No." He kisses John again, and this time there's more lingering, more depth of meaning. When they part, both are panting slightly.
"Good," John says. "I draw the line at a minivan, though."
"God forbid," Sherlock agrees.
"I'd rather boil my eyeballs in acid."
"They disintegrate sixteen times faster than in acid at room-temperature," Sherlock informs him, quite sincerely.
John bursts out in giggles. "Oh Jesus." His body shakes with mirth and he presses his face into Sherlock's neck. As his laughter fades, he tightens his grip on Sherlock. There's already no space between them, but he tries to press them even closer together. "Jesus, Sherlock," he says, his lips just brushing Sherlock's skin. His voice comes out gravelly. "I think I'm ruined."
Sherlock swallows, the sound loud in the sudden silence. "Me too. John Watson."
John lifts his head so he can see Sherlock's eyes in the faint, grey light of the room. It may even be approaching dawn. John puts his hand on the side of Sherlock's face, grazing his thumb over the slight roughness. "Sherlock," he says, soft and aching, and lowers his mouth to Sherlock's once again.
End notes: A great big thank you once again to my beta readers,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dioscureantwins and ruth0007 for their invaluable insights, advice, and general good sportsmanship.
Thanks to all of you readers for being patient through my forays into the Swiss countryside as well as your comments and encouragement.
And most of all, thanks tonox_candida for creating this universe and these characters and for indulging my little obsession with them. None of this would have been possible without her, and I am very grateful.
Author:
swissmargBeta readers:
ruth0007, Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 87.5K total
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 17 on AO3
Chapter Seventeen
Tristram is nervous. Terribly so. His heart is beating nineteen to the dozen, as Mrs Hudson would say, and his palms are actually sweaty, a phenomenon he's read about but never experienced in person. It's a shame he's not at home because there's nothing in the plane he can use to take a sample for analysis. If Father were here, he'd have a swab and an evidence bag at least, but it's just Irene in the seat beside him. She's reading a book and doesn't look nervous at all. It's not a panic attack he's having; he can tell the difference. He hasn't had one of those since Switzerland. Hopefully he's over them now. Although he thinks he'll still go see Mrs Daniels, partly out of curiosity but also because he told John he would.
Irene told him she saw John, that night she went out to 'put an end to this entire thing', and that he was in fine spirits. Father was there too, even though Irene said she wasn't going to see him. Tristram almost expected to hear something like that, but the little sting of betrayal or mistrust or whatever you want to call it still pricks a bit. Not only because it means that if Tristram had stayed with John, he would have got to see Father a whole lot sooner, but also because it means Irene lied to him again. Well, not lied exactly... It was one of those tricky ways of saying something so that it sounded like one thing but meant another. Uncle Mycroft does the same thing sometimes. Tristram can't always tell. He's going to have to get better at it.
Because Irene might not have gone wherever it was she went for the purpose of seeing Father, but Tristram's pretty sure now that she knew or at least expected he'd be there. She wouldn't tell Tristram anything more, though, not even whether anyone else was there. Although there must have been, because if she wasn't going to see Father, who then? John? All she'd say was that it all worked out and they were safe now. He and Father and John and Emily, and she and Kate too. Tristram didn't even know Irene and Kate were in danger. Tristram asked what about Uncle Mycroft, but Irene just laughed and said the day Uncle Mycroft was in danger would be the day England fell. Which isn't exactly a straight answer, but since England is still standing - he can see it below them now, the land motionless next to the sparkling water, the contours more irregular than any map would lead you to believe - he expects that means Uncle Mycroft's not in danger either.
The point is, though, that Father was there last night, and Irene said that Tristram was the very first thing he asked about. That made Tristram miss his father even more, and he already missed him a nearly unbearable amount. Father hasn't even seen that he's got all the bandages off his back. But he's fine, Irene said, and she told Father and John that Tristram was fine and now that the danger is over, she's bringing him back to them. Although she wouldn't say how it's over, whether the bad guys are in jail or ... well, dead is the only other possibility that Tristram can think of. Maybe Irene thinks Tristram is squeamish about dead bodies, because he can't imagine why she wouldn't want to tell him if they were in jail.
So no, this isn't a panic attack, this is excitement and wondering and hoping all mixed up. And a little bit of uncertainty too, because maybe Irene isn't really taking him to Father. He wants to believe her. Not just because he wants - desperately, so hard that he almost can't think about it - to see Father again, but because he wants to be able to believe Irene. It's exhausting always having to stop and think about whether what she's saying is the truth or not. Maybe she meant she's going to take Tristram to Father eventually. Some day. If so, he intends to figure out how to get back to Father on his own, or at least contact him or John or Uncle Mycroft. Now that he doesn't have to worry about getting shot the second he sets foot outside the house. She can't keep him away from them forever, even if she is his mother.
By the time the plane lands, Tristram has steeled himself - for the moment, anyway, until he can get his bearings - for another car ride into the unknown, another safe house, another day of not knowing what's going on.
They have to go claim Irene's suitcase from the carousel. Tristram doesn't have any luggage. He left behind all the clothes they found in the cottage that just happened to fit him, even though Irene said he could feel free to take them. They aren't his (even though he suspects, really, they were supposed to be). No matter, he can't imagine ever wanting to wear any of them again. They would only make him think of worrying about Father and John and Emily and the endless rain and waiting and waiting. So when Irene said they were leaving, he put back on the clothes he'd left Switzerland in, even though they hadn't been laundered. Irene wore a pair of black trousers and a black turtleneck that must have been in Kate's suitcase too.
Tristram forces himself not to look at the wall of glass separating the baggage claim area from the other side where people are waiting to meet their friends and family, even though he really, really wants to look and see if - maybe, possibly - Father is there. But Irene said she was taking him to Father, not that Father was coming to meet them. They've landed in London so maybe she really is taking him this time.
But the main reason he doesn't want to look is that all that glass, all that exposure, makes him anxious. He recognises that now, and he remembers what John said: that part of avoiding a panic attack is staying away from things that set it off. He does not want to have a panic attack here in the middle of the airport. Airports, strangers, and windows: all things that his brain has bad associations with. He managed it the last time they flew, just barely, and he's going to do even better this time by not looking at any of the windows.
So he keeps his head down and takes Irene's hand as they head to the exit. All he has to do is look at the floor and make sure he doesn't bump into anyone. They go through the sliding glass doors, and then Irene slows as she navigates around the groups of bystanders waiting for other arrivals. People are laughing and hugging and shaking hands and dropping their luggage in inconvenient places. Tristram steps instinctively closer to Irene, narrowly avoiding running into a woman who stops abruptly just in front of him.
And then Irene stops too, and before Tristram can look to see why, there are arms around him, pulling at him, drawing him in, and a scratchy woollen coat that smells like stale cigarettes and cold air and formaldehyde is rubbing his nose and cheek. It's Father, Tristram knows it even before he hears his voice or gets a glimpse of the black curls that flip out over Father's ear just like Tristram's.
"Tristram." Father's voice sounds funny, kind of high and whispery, but that doesn't matter. Father is here, and he's picking Tristram up, hugging him tight, his chin pressing against Tristram's head.
"Father!" he says into Father's shoulder. It should be embarrassing to be picked up like a little kid with his feet off the floor but it isn't. It's glorious, and Tristram never, ever wants Father to put him down. He's so happy he wants to jump and shout, but he also wants to burrow in closer, so that's what he does, somehow working his left arm in under Father's arm so he can grip his coat there. Father came to get him, he's really here, and nothing else in the world matters at this moment.
But then he's hit by a rush of something - maybe guilt - that makes him need to explain what happened. Because Father didn't know, he didn't know that Irene was going to sneak off with him, and she didn't even send him a message, and the way he's clinging to Tristram now, Tristram suspects he may have been upset about it. Possibly even as upset as Tristram was.
"I didn't have my phone. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone with her," Tristram mumbles against the coat.
Father inhales sharply and gives Tristram one more good, hard squeeze before he starts to loosen his grip. Tristram prepares for the separation even though he's not nearly ready to let go yet, but Father is just adjusting his grip, locking his hands under Tristram's seat so he can hold him at the right height to look him in the eye.
"This was not your fault, Tristram." Father's eyes are doing that piercing, insistent thing they do that means he wants to put something directly into Tristram's brain. Tristram is so happy to have that look directed at him again that a shiver goes up the back of his neck. "None of it was," Father tells him. "You must never, ever think that."
Tristram doesn't know what to say to that. Of course he knows that someone else was behind all the big things - him getting shot, and the body parts, and Moran, and possibly Aunt Claire, and maybe even as far back as Emily's mother's murder. But he also made mistakes, like talking to Mister Tonga (and going out of Grandmother's house in the first place) and eating that pie. He made extra work and trouble for both Father and John with his panic attacks. And he did forget to put his phone in his pocket, and he made Father worry - and probably John, too - by going with Irene.
But Father doesn't want him to think about those things, so he tries hard now to package them up and put them far away. He knows Father has compartments in his brain where he can lock up things he doesn't want cluttering his mind. Tristram hasn't figured out how to do that in any kind of organised way, but there's a cloudy, dark corner in his imagining where he buries all the unpleasant things. There aren't any walls, and a lot of times those things come oozing back out, but he tries now to stuff all the bad parts of the past few weeks in there. It's not quite a clean job - he can still feel some sharp bits poking at him uncomfortably - but it's enough that he can manage a smile. A pretty big one. It must be convincing because Father's face does the same thing back at him.
And then he catches sight of someone else over Father's shoulder. Two someone elses: Emily and John. They're both beaming at him, and as soon as Tristram makes eye contact, Emily leaps away from her father and shouts, "Tris!" John must have been holding her back all this time, because she shoots toward Tristram like a taut rubber band that's been let fly.
Father turns toward the sound and lets Tristram slide down toward the floor. Tristram's not nearly ready to let go yet, but he has no choice other than to put his feet under him if he doesn't want to end up deposited on his rear. Emily's there to hold him up, though, with her arms around him, kind of jostling him up and down. Her smile is giddy, and she's saying something about Baker Street and Mrs Hudson and eyeballs. Tristram doesn't really catch it all, but that's okay. Everything's okay; more than that, it's spectacular.
John is there too, now, bending down to put his arms around both Tristram and Emily together. It feels good, almost as good as being hugged by Father. Tristram hugs him back and lets himself enjoy the little pats John adds on his back. His voice sounds a little funny too when he tells Tristram he's brave, and that they missed him, and that he's very, very glad he's back. The last time John told Tristram he was brave, he didn't really feel like he was. Now, though, he thinks maybe he has been. And he's very, very glad to be back too.
He looks around for Father, missing his presence behind him. He finds him standing a couple of metres away with Irene. He has his hands in his coat, but now he takes one out and holds it out to her.
"Thank you," Tristram hears him say. He supposes Father means to thank her for bringing Tristram back, which doesn't quite make sense to him: if she hadn't taken Tristram away in the first place, she wouldn't have needed to bring him back.
Irene looks like she's weighing the consequences of shaking Father's hand, but after a few seconds she lifts her hand and puts it in his. "You're welcome," she says, like she's a little surprised about it herself.
They stand there holding hands and watching each other, the way Father and John used to. Only it's not really like that. When Father and John used to shake hands for so long, it was like holding your breath until you feel like your lungs are going to burst and then holding it for ten seconds more. This is more like seeing who can hold their breath longer but both of them are cheating by breathing through their nose. Like they both think they're better at it but aren't quite sure and are trying to figure out how the other one's doing it. Finally, they let go.
Then Irene walks over to Tristram. John lets go of him, and Tristram feels him pulling Emily away as well. Tristram's first instinct is to go with them, but he can tell Irene has something to say to him so he stays where he is.
"Well, Tristram." She puts both hands on his shoulders. He's not sure whether she's holding him in place or steadying herself. Her eyes are suspiciously bright. When she speaks, though, her voice is clear and calm. "I'd say your father and John can handle things from here, wouldn't you?"
Of course. Father can handle anything. That was never a question. But Tristram supposes what she means is that her part is done in whatever it was they were all mixed up in, and that she's going to be moving on again. He knew she would eventually, but now that the moment's come, it seems sudden. It's not that he's going to miss her terribly or anything, but he's only just started to get used to the idea of having a mother - of having Irene as his mother. It's like she's leaving in the middle of an experiment, before they've done much more than set out the equipment.
"Where are you going?" he asks. Somehow it's important that he can place her on his mental map when she's not here. It would be even better if he had a clock like the Weasleys' that shows where every member of the family is at any given time. There would be a hand for Father, one for Tristram, and one for Irene... and one for Uncle Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson even though she's not really related to them. And if Mrs Hudson gets to be on there, then so do John and Emily. The clock face would be a little crowded with that many hands, but then the Weasleys' family - Tristram counts them up quickly in his head - is even bigger so it should work.
Tristram expects Irene will say she's off someplace like the Bahamas or Iceland, but instead her face brightens and she tells him, "I'm going to stay with Kate for a while. She has a house right here in London. I told you: no more disappearing acts. I'd like it very much if you'd come visit us." It's not just a tossed-out invitation. Something about the quiet way she says it tells Tristram it's important to her. Then she adds, with a bit more jolliness, "I can't promise anything quite as exciting as the past couple of weeks, but I'm sure we can find something to do."
Tristram's not sure whether by 'exciting' she means the fun things like going up and down mountains, or all the other things like running away from bad guys and getting shot. He could certainly do without the latter, and as for the former... he's not sure he can picture Irene on a toboggan or rolling in the snow. Although, to be fair, he couldn't have pictured his father doing those things before their trip either. He imagines her house (well, Kate's house) will be more like Emily's aunts' house than his and Father's flat. And he does have fun when he goes to the Watsons'. Although, mostly, that's because Emily's there.
"Can Emily come too?" It slips out of him unexpectedly, before he's really thought it through. He realises too late that Irene might not want Emily there - even though she did say she liked her, and that she wanted to be friends.
But Irene just laughs, to Tristram's relief. "If she wants, and it's all right with John."
"Do you want to?" Tristram asks Emily. He really hopes she does. Not just because then he won't be embarrassed for having brought it up, but because that will mean she doesn't dislike Irene quite as much as she did at the beginning. He knows it doesn't really matter whether Emily likes Irene or not, and it won't change his opinion of either of them, but it would just be nice if his friend and his mother got along.
Emily gives Irene a hard stare. "Do you have any severed feet?" she asks, as if that's an important criterion.
Irene looks a bit startled, her eyes flickering to Sherlock and John and back. "I should hope not." Then her expression turns sly. "But I do have a sapphire necklace that's supposed to have a curse on it."
Tristram's eyes go round. An actual curse! Like in the Harry Potter stories!
"There's no such thing as curses," Emily states, like she's made a grand study of the subject. "But I guess we could look at it," she acquiesces as if she's doing Irene a big favour.
"John?" Irene checks with him.
"Yeah, um..." John clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. "We'll see."
"It might give you a chance to do it properly, Doctor Watson." Irene gives him a funny look, half stern and half teasing. "Call me if you need any tips." She picks up the handle of her suitcase and adjusts the strap of her handbag over her shoulder.
"I think I can handle it, yeah," John grumbles, but he almost looks like he's amused too. Or embarrassed. Maybe both. Maybe he doesn't dislike her so much anymore, now that she brought Tristram back. Maybe he and Irene are even starting to be friends.
"I'm sure you will," she says. It almost sounds sad, but she's smiling. Wistful, Tristram supposes, might be a good way to describe it.
She steps back and looks them all over - Tristram, Father, John, and Emily. John has his arm around Emily's shoulder, and Father is standing just behind John so their shoulders overlap. It's possible that Father's hand is resting on John's back, although Tristram can't see from where he's standing.
Irene sighs briskly. "I never would have thought that you of all people would manage it, Sherlock. Look at you, a proper family man."
"Don't you have a cow to harrass, or something?" It almost sounds like the kind of jab Father would take at Uncle Mycroft - Tristram doesn't understand those half the time either - but Father isn't looking at her. He's looking at the side of John's head, with a little furrow between his eyebrows.
Irene chuckles and says, "I have a couple of leads," but Tristram doesn't think Father's paying attention to her anymore, because John turns toward him just then, amused by Father's quip, and their eyes catch and hold. And there - there's that holding-your-breath moment that seems to go on forever. Tristram expects it's going to end in a kiss this time, to be honest, and all of a sudden, Tristram aches to be home. To curl up on the couch and listen to Father's violin. To sit at the kitchen table sorting his soil samples while Father counts mould colonies under his microscope. To pull the sheet shut around his and Emily's beds and tell each other jokes in the dark. To see John lean in behind Father at breakfast and kiss him on the cheek, followed by Father's pleased, almost self-conscious smile. That last one hasn't happened yet, but Tristram can see it in his mind as clearly as any memory.
They don't end up kissing here, although maybe that's only because of Irene's pointed throat-clearing to get their attention. They turn to look at her, John a bit pink in the face and Father a bit irritated.
Irene gives them a knowing smile. "I'll be in touch."
Father's lips form a ghost of a smirk. "No doubt," he says.
They watch her walk away, her back straight and her steps quick and light, until she's swallowed up in the crowd.
Father puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder and steps up close behind him. "Come on. Let's go home."
&&&&&&
"Here you are." John's whispered words cause Sherlock to turn his head. John slips into Tristram's darkened bedroom and slides down the wall to sit next to Sherlock on the floor. "They okay?" he asks.
A short distance away, the dim light of the street lamps filtering in through the curtains reveal the gentle humps of two small bodies lying under the covers. The sheet hanging from the ceiling - a makeshift tent at one point - has been pulled aside to give an unimpeded view of Tristram's bed and the old field bed beside it where Emily is sleeping.
Sherlock makes an affirmative sound and returns to watching the children. His knees are drawn up with his arms resting on them. The two men sit there in silence for several minutes, listening to the soft, steady breathing from the beds. John leans his head back against the wall, his hands folded in his lap with his legs stretched out in front of him.
Finally, John speaks in a low voice: "We used to watch Emily sleep for hours, when she was a baby. Me and Mary," he clarifies. "It was like we couldn't believe this little bundle was really alive, and that she'd wake up again all on her own."
The wail of an ambulance siren drifts in faintly from outside, several streets away by the sound of it. Once it's faded completely and the sound of children breathing once again dominates the tableau, Sherlock confides, "I did the same with Tristram. Not just hours. Days. I was terrified to fall asleep at first. I had the irrational thought that if I stopped watching him he'd cease to exist. That the whole thing would turn out to be a dream or a hallucination. Mrs Hudson finally forced me to turn him over to her for a few hours, before I actually did start hallucinating."
John chuckles a little.
"I still do, you know," Sherlock continues in a hushed tone. "Watch him sleep. Even before the whole..." He waves his hand at nothing in particular. "It doesn't seem real, sometimes... that he's mine, a part of me in him; that he's healthy and clever and ... a whole person."
John smiles fondly. "Yeah." He presses his shoulder against Sherlock's, and Sherlock settles against him. After a moment, he gropes for John's hand. John lets him slot their fingers together, then lifts their joined hands and kisses Sherlock's knuckles. Then he lowers their hands again and lets them rest on his thigh, still interlaced. They sit like that for quite a while until John's head starts to droop forward.
Sherlock touches him on the arm. "John," he says.
John's head pops up and he makes an inquisitive, if sleepy, sound.
"Go to bed," Sherlock says.
John inhales sharply and lets it out again. "Yeah okay," he agrees. He shifts a bit and lets go of Sherlock's hand in preparation for getting up. Before he does, though, he pauses. "Is it all right if I use your bed?"
"I think we're beyond the point of being proprietary about beds, don't you?" Sherlock remarks.
John grins. "Yeah." He tilts his head to the side, prompting for a kiss. Sherlock obliges. The quick reassurance turns into a lingering touch of lips. "Will you come down later?" John asks. Even through his sleepiness, his interest is clear.
Sherlock hesitates a beat before answering. "I don't know yet."
"Okay. L-" John starts to say something but ends up clearing his throat instead. "Later then. Tomorrow. See you tomorrow." He squeezes Sherlock's arm and pushes himself to his feet. "Good night," he whispers.
Sherlock grunts an acknowledgment. John lets himself out, leaving the door open behind him.
&&&&&&
Tristram waits to the count of a hundred and twenty. Is Father still here? He only heard John going down the stairs, but it's so quiet now he thinks Father might have left as well. He allows himself to crack his eyes open. It's normal for a person's eyelids to open or flutter a bit while they're in REM sleep. Plus it's dark. Father won't see. He has to shift his head a bit - carefully, carefully, keeping his breathing nice and slow - but then he can see Father's shape - pale skin and white shirt - down low between the dresser and the door.
It turns out Irene was telling the truth about keeping him safe while Father and John were busy setting a trap for the man who was doing all the bad things. Even Emily had to go stay with Uncle Mycroft. Tristram has a brief, ridiculous vision of Uncle Mycroft playing Super Mario Kart with her. On the other hand, he never would have dreamed that Father would enjoy reading the Harry Potter books out loud to him. And if anyone could get Uncle Mycroft to play video games, it would be Emily.
Tristram knows this wasn't a typical case. Obviously. It's not just the strange and scary things that happened, though. Something shifted during the course of it. Maybe because Father was actually working with someone - with John, and possibly with Irene as well. Not the way he works with the police, which is generally less 'working with' than 'working next to' or 'working around' or even 'working behind their backs'. Tristram knows that John and Father disagreed a lot about what they should be doing, but in the end they did it together.
"Father?" Tristram whispers, he hopes not loud enough to wake Emily up. He can tell she's not faking.
He hears a soft rustle of clothing as his father stirs. He watches the pale shape detach from the wall and move toward the bed.
"I thought you were asleep," Father says, his voice pitched low.
Tristram feels a little burst of triumph at that, because he finally fooled Father. Granted, it's dark; he might not have fooled him if Father had been able to see him clearly. Still, it counts, Tristram thinks. But that's not why he wanted to talk to Father.
"Tell John to stay," Tristram tells him. "I want him and Emily to stay. She can share my room."
"It's not that simple."
"Do you want them to stay?"
Father doesn't answer for a pretty long time. Tristram thinks he's not going to at all when he hears the faint "Yes."
A warm lump of happiness blooms in Tristram's stomach. "Good. Me too. Tell him."
"I can't promise he'll want to," Father hedges.
Of course he wants to. Obvious. Tristram has no doubt about that. "Just tell him," he repeats, even though he knows he's won the argument. Father may take a while to get around to it, but he'll do it eventually.
They've apparently reached Father's limit for such things tonight, though, as he now says, "Good night." He puts his hand on Tristram's forehead and smooths his hair back. It's a rare gesture, but not entirely unprecedented. Usually he only does it when he's checking Tristram's eyes for signs of infection or illness. But this time it's simply for the sake of touching him, and maybe even a reassurance that he's taking Tristram's petition seriously.
Then Father stands up and does something that's entirely unprecedented. He reaches over Tristram and touches the top of Emily's head too, letting his hand rest there just for a moment before withdrawing it again.
Tristram is still trying to figure out what that was about when Father slips quietly out of the room.
&&&&&&
Sherlock lifts the covers and slides into the warmth beside John. John doesn't react until Sherlock turns onto his side and draws his knees up, brushing against John's leg. Then he stirs and makes a sleepy questioning sound.
Sherlock sighs and rests a hand on John's shoulder. John rolls onto his side so he's facing Sherlock. Their knees bump. John's limbs are still heavy with sleep and Sherlock's unused to fitting in around someone else, but they shift and adjust until their legs are intertwined and they each have one arm slung over the other. John bumps his face clumsily against Sherlock's, hitting his chin rather than his mouth with his lips. Sherlock tilts his head to make up for it, and they spend a few minutes exchanging lazy, gentle kisses. The mood is comfortable and easy, neither one of them angling for anything else. It's more of an affirmation and agreement, acceptance and answer. After a while, they let their lips separate, although they stay where they are, sharing air and gently stroking each other's backs and arms.
"It's not always like this," Sherlock says, hushed, into the rarefied atmosphere.
"Hm?" John's voice is low and sated, his fingers tracing the lines of Sherlock's bones.
"My life," Sherlock explains. "It's not always kidnappings and shootings and running away from unstable criminal masterminds."
John's hand stops moving. "You're not trying to scare me off, are you?" The question is posed teasingly, and Sherlock chuckles.
"No." Sherlock's smile is audible in the word. Then he crowds John closer against his body and repeats the answer, more solemn and fierce. "No." He kisses John again, and this time there's more lingering, more depth of meaning. When they part, both are panting slightly.
"Good," John says. "I draw the line at a minivan, though."
"God forbid," Sherlock agrees.
"I'd rather boil my eyeballs in acid."
"They disintegrate sixteen times faster than in acid at room-temperature," Sherlock informs him, quite sincerely.
John bursts out in giggles. "Oh Jesus." His body shakes with mirth and he presses his face into Sherlock's neck. As his laughter fades, he tightens his grip on Sherlock. There's already no space between them, but he tries to press them even closer together. "Jesus, Sherlock," he says, his lips just brushing Sherlock's skin. His voice comes out gravelly. "I think I'm ruined."
Sherlock swallows, the sound loud in the sudden silence. "Me too. John Watson."
John lifts his head so he can see Sherlock's eyes in the faint, grey light of the room. It may even be approaching dawn. John puts his hand on the side of Sherlock's face, grazing his thumb over the slight roughness. "Sherlock," he says, soft and aching, and lowers his mouth to Sherlock's once again.
&&& THE END &&&
End notes: A great big thank you once again to my beta readers,
dioscureantwins and ruth0007 for their invaluable insights, advice, and general good sportsmanship.Thanks to all of you readers for being patient through my forays into the Swiss countryside as well as your comments and encouragement.
And most of all, thanks to
nox_candida for creating this universe and these characters and for indulging my little obsession with them. None of this would have been possible without her, and I am very grateful.
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no subject
Date: 2014-08-28 04:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-28 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-29 03:21 pm (UTC)What a glorious re-union; I had tears in my eyes (in a nice way, of course!).
And then ~
”Father's eyes are doing that piercing, insistent thing they do that means he wants to put something directly into Tristram's brain.”
~ what a lovely, shared and very special moment just between the two of them. Which then becomes the four of them – and a lovely way to get back together, even in a public place. So Tristram goes from fearing a panic attack and avoiding windows to the deepest joy in a heartbeat – that was so lovely to read.
”Emily gives Irene a hard stare. "Do you have any severed feet?" she asks, as if that's an important criterion.”
Oh dear, she’s caught the ‘Sherlock Holmes’ bug in being interested in “body parts” – I’m sure there’ll be many more instances in the future!!
”"Tell John to stay," Tristram tells him. "I want him and Emily to stay. She can share my room."
"It's not that simple."
"Do you want them to stay?"
Father doesn't answer for a pretty long time. Tristram thinks he's not going to at all when he hears the faint "Yes."
A warm lump of happiness blooms in Tristram's stomach. "Good. Me too. Tell him."”
What a lovely midnight exchange between them (and well done to Tristram in fooling Sherlock!) – at least they know now how each other is thinking. A ready-made family will be a wonderful thing.
”"They disintegrate sixteen times faster than in acid at room-temperature," Sherlock informs him, quite sincerely.
John bursts out in giggles.”
Me too!! Sherlock has a lot to learn about romance . . .
But they’ll figure it out in the end, I’m sure – thank you for such a wonderful treat visiting this universe again. And no apologies necessary – it was fascinating visiting other countries, especially when written with passion about something you know more of than we do!
I hope we’ll meet them all again in the future, and see how they’re finding life together – it do wonder about them; it’s great that the live on after the end of the chapter – the mark of some wonderful writing.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-29 06:06 pm (UTC)I really wanted to bring them all to a safe, loving place.
I'm sure they'll have some ups and downs still - Tristram's anxieties haven't magically disappeared, of course - but I think the four of them are solid enough that they're going to stick together.
Once again, I've greatly enjoyed all of your comments. Thank you!