Fic: The Adventure of the Resurrected Lover (2/6+epilogue)
Title: The Adventure of the Resurrected Lover (2/6+epilogue)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship: OT3 Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Warning: None, really.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It was supposed to be a relaxing, romantic holiday by the sea. And then Sherlock discovered a murder. So much for relaxing…
A/N: Just to note that the Watergeus really did exist, and really did sink off Shanghai in November 1892. God Bless Wikipedia. The fate of its crew, however, is my own invention.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Sherlock spent the most of the afternoon on the internet, breaking into various confidential files to determine exactly which bits of the house were original to the late 1890s and which bits had been tacked on after the fact. He checked up on John's architectural investigations frequently, and late in the afternoon, interrupted John and Greg's rather enthusiastic experimentations regarding a bed in the corner room.
"Oh, now, really," Sherlock scoffed as John lay on the mattress groaning, and Greg straightened his shirt with an impish grin on his face. "There's been a murder, and if I can't giggle at a crime scene, you certainly can't be doing this."
"A murder a hundred years ago," Greg pointed out. "And I suspect we aren't the first to get up to anything in this room since."
"Besides, this wasn't Cecily's room," said John, who sounded oddly strained. Or not so odd, considering what Greg had been doing. “There's one window and the article mentioned at least two."
"Even so. I have further proof it wasn't the husband, gentlemen. He was apparently quite an important figure in the local constabulary, and had spent the previous week in London while working on a case of some sort."
"So he hired someone," said John.
"Copper hires someone to kill his wife?" Greg made a face. "Too messy, too many witnesses, too much potential for exposure. He might have the connections to get it done, but he wouldn't chance his reputation."
"Remind me never to get on your bad side," said John, eyeing him.
Greg patted John's leg reassuringly.
"I'm going to start dinner," said Greg. "Pasta sound all right?"
"Yes, ta," said John.
"If you've determined that this was not Cecily's room, then have you at least determined which one was?" demanded Sherlock. Greg rolled his eyes and kissed him lightly on the side of the head as he left the room; Sherlock ignored him.
"There’s only three rooms which could have been Cecily’s, and my money's on the room with the king-size bed. First, because it's the largest and most likely would have been reserved for the man and woman of the house. Second, because the attached lavatory wasn't always a lavatory - it's clearly been there a while but the room is older than the fixtures, so I suspect it was an antechamber of some sort, a dressing room or wardrobe. And third because it has a fireplace."
John grinned at him, hoping to spark some kind of reaction to the idea of a king-size bed and a fireplace, but Sherlock merely rubbed his hands together in delight and grinned in a way that had nothing to do with the delights of a king-size bed and a fireplace.
"Excellent, let's go examine it for clues."
"What clues? She died a hundred years ago." John swung his legs off the bed and followed Sherlock. "You don't honestly expect to find anything, do you?"
"John, you place entirely too much credence on linear time."
John paused, trying to wrap his head around that particular insult.
"I give up," he said. "Fine. Let's examine a century-old crime scene, that's exactly what I wanted to do on my romantic holiday."
The master suite was a large and airy room, with four windows looking out onto the sea. The walls were painted a pale yellow color with white trim and a thick cream-colored rug lay on the hard-wood floor. The fireplace was off to the side, red brick with a black screen, and though it was clean, it was clearly used with some frequency, given the deep ash stains on the interior. The room was plain and simple, and John had trouble imagining anyone from the Victorian era actually living in it. Cecily Kinton would likely have been more at home at 221B with the fantastic wallpapers and skull on the mantelpiece.
Sherlock was already at the fireplace, testing the flue and twisting his head to look up the chimney.
"Clean," he pronounced, pleased. "And in perfect working order. I believe the fixtures have been replaced - oh, twice at least, since Cecily's murder."
"Only ever heard of one bloke who went down chimneys," said John. "Don't suppose you see any bits of red velvet worked into the brickwork, do you?"
"There's no need to be snide, John."
"Oh, of course not, my apologies." John crossed the room to the windows, and worked one open. It was cold and crisp outside, faintly damp even though the rain had long since stopped. He leaned outside and took a deep breath of sea air. "Gorgeous," he said.
"Hmm?"
"The view," John explained, coming back in. "There's a trellis along the wall just here, but I doubt it's forty years old, let alone a hundred."
Sherlock stood back from the fireplace and frowned. "This room has been redecorated."
"Yes, most modern day people don't want to live with overly floral and dark wallpapers in their living spaces."
Sherlock glanced at John. "Never heard you complain before."
John sat down on the bed. "I think the bed's been replaced too. Should we give it a closer inspection?"
"If you aren't going to take this investigation seriously-"
"Sherlock, you have to admit, it's a little hard to take this seriously. It happened a hundred years ago - for all we know, the owners of the house don't have a clue that Cecily even existed."
"The trunk was open when I found it," said Sherlock stubbornly. "Clearly someone had been looking through it before I went into the attic. Someone is still interested in how Cecily Kinton died."
"That doesn't mean you need to solve it," said John gently. He stood up and wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him close. “You’re avoiding Greg."
"I'm not," said Sherlock, but the stubborn note was still in his tone.
“Yes, you are. You spent the entire trip down here in a strop, you haven’t said one word to us that wasn’t about a hundred-year-old murder since we arrived, and you’re pulling away from me even now. Christ, Sherlock, you couldn’t even sit in the car while we waited for the ferry.”
“I’m not avoiding Greg.”
“Sherlock.” John put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, and forced the taller man to look at him. “You and Greg have to talk about it.”
“No, we. Don’t.”
John sighed.
“Not now,” said Sherlock under his breath. “We’ll talk. I promise. Just…not now.”
John nodded. "All right. I'm going to help Greg get dinner on the table, and then we're all going to sit and eat it. You and I will do the washing up, and then we're going to bed. This bed, all three of us, by the way, so if you want to sit up here and imagine some entertaining ways of occupying it, that would be appreciated."
Sherlock glanced at the bed, and his mouth quirked.
"I suppose the mystery can wait until morning."
"I don't think Cecily will mind the delay," said John dryly. He kissed Sherlock gently, twice, and then moved away. "You are going to eat dinner."
"If you insist."
"Greg," John called as he went down the hall. "Do we have the stuff for a salad?"
Sherlock didn't hear Greg's answer, and didn't particularly care either way. He looked around the room, frowning.
"Cecily Kinton," he said aloud. "Cecily Kinton...who killed you?"
*
"Excellent choice in houses," said John as he came into the kitchen.
Greg groaned. "I swear, I had no idea."
"It's all right," said John, peering in the fridge. "At least he's entertaining himself."
"He'll probably do it, too," said Greg as he stirred the sauce. "Solve the murder, I mean."
"Yeah," said John with a grin. He kicked the fridge shut and dropped lettuce, cucumber, radishes, and peppers on the counter. "He probably will." He frowned. "So who do you think murdered Cecily?"
"I doubt it was a burglar. But if anyone's going to figure it out...." Greg shrugged. "Well, it'd be the mad bastard upstairs, wouldn't it?"
John sighed. "I just...I was hoping for a holiday without a body involved." He grinned half-heartedly at Greg. "Well, not a dead one, anyway."
Greg laughed, and left the sauce to give John a hug. They stood quietly, listening to the sauce bubble gently on the stove-top. “I think he needs a holiday.”
“Course he does. Do we?”
“He’s still waiting for the shoe to drop.”
John closed his eyes, and sighed. “Christ. He doesn’t think that he’s the shoe, does he?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
John pulled away. “What I said in the car earlier - I’m sure about you, Greg. I’m sure about Sherlock.”
“You’re just not sure about us,” Greg finished for him.
“It’s more than that.”
“I know. But you and I - we’ve got the history. Sherlock doesn’t.”
“You’ve known Sherlock longer than I have.”
“But you’ve known Sherlock longer than I have,” Greg pointed out. “I might have known Sherlock as a person longest, but as a lover? That’s still new. And it came nearly right on top of his relationship with you. He’s still trying to figure out where he fits.”
John sighed. “And he won’t talk to either of us about anything but this bloody murder. Christ.”
“Let him. You know Sherlock, he'll have it solved by morning. We’ll talk then."
"Yeah," said John, resting his head on Greg's shoulder, but he didn't sound convinced. "Yeah. Fine."
*
But Sherlock hadn't solved the mystery by morning; Greg knew the moment he woke in the king-size bed to find John asleep on one side, and the other side empty, the sheets cool. Greg blinked in the morning sun, and listened to John snore softly beside him. He woke slowly, and it was a few minutes before he sat up, resting his arms on his knees, and looked around the room.
No evidence of Sherlock anywhere, but Greg was fairly sure he'd at least been in the bed with them last night. The pleasant soreness in his muscles was testament to that, and Greg carefully slipped out of the bed, in order to let John continue sleeping. He pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of pajama trousers, and went in search of his missing lover.
The house was cold, and Greg almost regretted not grabbing a blanket before leaving the comfortable bedroom. He went into the kitchen first to check that the automatic coffee-maker had actually snapped on, and once he ensured it had, started to poke his head in the various rooms, looking for Sherlock.
He found Sherlock in the library overlooking the beach, curled up on the armchair in his pajamas and dressing gown. Greg leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment. Sherlock was deeply engrossed in a leather-bound book, hadn't even noticed Greg’s presence, and he turned a page with long, nimble fingers. Greg smiled. Leave it to Sherlock to research through the night, even when the case was so cold it couldn't be rightly considered a case anymore.
"Morning," said Greg, and Sherlock's head snapped up. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Sherlock looked back down to his book, shoulders hunching in just a bit.
"Morning," said Sherlock, and he turned a page in the book.
"How's the mystery?"
"Unsolved."
Greg nodded, and wondered when Sherlock would start giving him responses that involved more than one word at a time. "Looks like it's going to be a beauty of a day."
"Mmm."
Greg sighed, and walked over to the windows. He couldn't see the sunrise, not from the angle of the house, but he could see the blue-grey water stretch to the horizon, and the faint bit of morning haze still clinging to the waves. Behind him, Sherlock sulked on the couch, his own shining example of annoyance, and all at once, Greg was tired.
"What are you reading?"
"A book."
Two words, that was improvement. Greg left the window and leaned over the couch behind Sherlock. He pressed his forehead onto Sherlock's shoulder, nuzzling his neck, before turning his head and pressing a kiss on Sherlock's ear. Sherlock made a low sigh in the base of his throat, not of exasperation, but of contentment, and Greg felt better, a little.
"Hey," he said into Sherlock's skin.
Sherlock's head tilted to the other side, exposing his long neck, and Greg kissed the base of his throat.
"Budge over," said Greg, and after a moment of wiggling and rearranging, he sat behind Sherlock, the man's back resting against his chest. He wasn't sulking anymore, but Greg could feel the tension in him, the way Sherlock wanted both the closeness and the distance, and vacillated back and forth between the two every moment. "Ghost stories? Didn't think you were one for ghost stories."
"No," said Sherlock, and paused. The words spilled out of him in a tumble. "There's a grain of truth in every fable. Apparently Cecily Kinton still haunts the beach near here."
Greg thought of the mist creeping up from the water, and chuckled, partially from relief. "I can believe that."
"If you go out on the beach at dusk when it rains, you can see the figure of a woman wearing a long dress and bonnet, staring out at the sea. She doesn't respond to anyone calling her, and if you approach her, she disappears just as you're within arm's length."
"Not much of a story," said Greg. "No accusations via a pointed finger, no bloody garments dragging in the sand but leaving no trace? Just a woman looking out to the sea?"
"Yes." Sherlock pressed his head back against Greg's chest. "A dozen people have reported seeing her, though of course the book says she's most likely appeared to far more who had the sense not to admit it."
"Somehow I doubt the book put it that way."
"No," said Sherlock disdainfully. He twisted his head to look up at Greg. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
Greg rolled his eyes. "Demon dogs on the moor ring a bell?"
"That was different, we were all under the influence of hallucinatory drugs at the time."
"You can't see what you don't believe in," said Greg.
"Believing is seeing, is that it?"
"In a way. You said yourself, the drugs took a pre-existing belief and compounded it. I thought I'd see a demon dog, so I did. And I thought I'd see a demon dog, not only because you had seen it, but because maybe I'm willing to admit that such things might exist."
Sherlock huffed softly, and turned back to his book. "Illogical to believe in ghosts."
"Illogical not to, I think. And what does it hurt, if Cecily Kinton shows up on the beach every once in a while?"
Sherlock stayed quiet, staring at the book but not turning the pages. Greg kissed the top of his head.
"Come back to bed with me."
"I'm reading."
"Come back anyway."
Sherlock sighed, and turned his head to press his cheek to Greg's shirt. "I don't want to talk."
"I'm not asking you to talk."
"That's what this week is about, isn't it? To talk."
"Not entirely. Right now, I just want to go upstairs and find John before he wakes up, and lie on that bed with you in my arms, and the blankets covering us, and John beside us, and close my eyes and rest a little longer. We can talk later."
Sherlock closed his eyes, and let the book fall to his chest. "There's a rug on the back of the couch. We don't have to move."
Greg pressed his lips into Sherlock's curls and closed his eyes. Upstairs, with John, and the three of them close for warmth and comfort. Huddled together, drawing strength from each other's breathing.
But the couch was comfortable, and the longer Greg went without moving, the more Sherlock's muscles relaxed against him. For the first time in over a week, Sherlock didn't seem inclined to shy away or hide behind anything more substantial than a ghost story. And ghosts were transparent already.
"All right," said Greg, and he pulled the rug off the back of the couch over them. Sherlock helped kick it into place, covering their bare feet. Greg caught one of his hands in his, letting their fingers entwine together.
This was all right. It wasn't talking, but it was the two of them, together, and for now, it was enough.
*
Greg voted for the maritime museum first, as the forecast predicted rain before the morning was over. “It’s all indoors, we’ll be safe from the storm.”
“What a pity, Greg wanted to talk to a ghost,” said Sherlock, and Greg had to explain the story to John, who chuckled.
“Sherlock will keep watch for her, and invite her in to dinner,” said Greg, teasing.
“What about the pub?” asked John, and Sherlock looked up from his book.
“Pub?”
“There’s a pub in Ventnor that has a good band,” said Greg casually. Too casually, really. “I thought we’d go one night, take in some of the local scenery. But the band doesn’t play for a few days, and I doubt we’ll manage to drag you more than the once, so it’ll keep.”
Sherlock made a non-committal sound that might have been agreeing with Greg’s assessment, and John grinned into his tea. Greg kicked him under the table, and John kicked back, and after the kicking knocked the table and rattled the china, Sherlock sighed with what might have been barely disguised impatience.
“You do realize I know you are plotting something.”
“What, us?” asked Greg innocently.
“We don’t plot,” said John.
Sherlock snorted, and he didn’t look up from the book - nor did his eyes move as he read. He remained completely still.
“All right, we plot,” acknowledged John.
“This is why I don’t tell you secrets,” Greg told John.
“He can read it in the way I’ve buttoned my shirt, anyway,” said John. “And I’m not going to tell him what we’re plotting.”
Sherlock swallowed. “What…what do you want to tell me?”
“Sherlock,” said Greg firmly. “I’m going to ask you one favor - just one favor on this holiday.”
“Hmm?” asked Sherlock, looking up at Greg, expectant.
“Let your surprise stay a surprise, yeah? I know you can’t turn it off, but no active deducing what we’ve got planned based on how we tie our shoelaces or what we eat for lunch or anything else, got it?”
“Or looking it up on the internet,” added John, and Greg glared at him.
Sherlock held himself still, and then his entire body began the slow process of relaxing. Hands, arms, shoulders, neck; he seemed to deflate as he sat, though whether it was relief or thoughtful contemplation was difficult to tell.
“If it’s that important to you,” said Sherlock, casual, off-hand, unconcerned, and he turned a page in his book.
Greg reached over and took his hand, lowering the book. “It is,” he said softly, and Sherlock glanced at both John and Greg, and nodded slightly.
“All right,” he said at last. “I promise to be surprised.”
“Good,” said Greg, and began to clear the table. “Ready to go in twenty minutes?”
“Where are we going, again?” asked Sherlock, ever-suffering.
“It’s a museum all about shipwrecks,” John told him. “Apparently there’s an entire section on pirates.”
Sherlock didn’t make a sound, but John caught his eyebrows lifting, and considered that reward enough.
*
The section on pirates wasn’t terribly large, but it kept Sherlock’s interest because he enjoyed picking it apart for historical inaccuracy. John was about to rescue the museum proprietor when he realized that the proprietor was actually taking notes. Instead, he went and elbowed Greg.
“Look,” he said, nodding his head at Sherlock, and the two men watched as Sherlock lectured a growing number of people about the actual history, motivations, customs, and culture of pirates.
“Whaddya know,” said Greg with a delighted grin. “I almost want to go and stand in the back and make smart-arse comments.”
“You were up early.”
Greg glanced at John. “We didn’t talk, if that’s what you’re asking. We just…had some time to ourselves.”
“Good?”
“Yeah,” said Greg, watching Sherlock again. “For now.”
“Did you get the idea that he thought we were going to say something else at breakfast?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you asked him for the favor. He - I don’t know. He tensed. Like you were going to ask him to do something he wasn’t going to want to do.”
Greg didn’t answer. John glanced at him again, and saw the tension in Greg’s jaw. Greg wasn’t going to answer; not then, anyway.
“Go on, then,” said John finally, and watched as Greg made his way over to the group. But once there, Greg didn’t seem so inclined to interrupt, particularly when the conversation became dominated by a small boy who seemed just as interested in pirates as Sherlock was in correcting everyone’s assumptions about them, and the two carried on a question-and-answer rally that went on for fifteen minutes straight, with Sherlock patiently listening to the boy’s questions, and answering them in both a thoughtful and nearly respectful manner, never once talking down to him, but clearly at a level the boy was capable of understanding.
John watched from halfway across the room, unable to stop smiling at Sherlock’s enthusiasm, even while his eyes glanced worriedly at Greg, standing on the sidelines.
“Quite an expert on pirates, your friend,” said a voice behind him, and John turned to the older woman who was also watching the lecture.
“He wanted to be one when he was a kid,” John explained. “I suppose he never bothered to delete the information.”
“Your brother?”
“No, my boyfriend.”
“Ah, I didn’t think there was much family resemblance. Bit late for tourists, isn’t it?”
“Hard to coordinate schedules,” explained John. “We don’t mind a bit of weather.”
“Should clear up in a day or two, it nearly always does. Will you be staying long?”
“A week.”
“Oh, good, then you’ll have a sunny day or two at least.”
“Hope so, there’s apparently a ghost that haunts the beach near the house we’re renting, but only on rainy days,” said John with a grin.
“There’s ghosts all over the island,” said the woman cheerfully. “D’you like a good ghost story? My favorite is Gerald Mortimer, have you heard of him?”
“No, not yet.”
The woman beckoned John over to a display. “He haunts one of the cemeteries outside Ventnor, where his childhood love was buried while he was at sea. Quite a sad story. I caught a glimpse of him once, when I was very very young. Ah, here it is.”
The woman pointed at the picture of a young man dressed in a too-small sailor’s uniform, tight around the chest, a bit short in the leg. He looked young and excited, nearly at attention with his cap at a jaunty angle, a bit like he was waiting for the photographer to finish the picture before he ran off to join his crew.
Gerald Mortimer was the lone survivor of the Watergeus, which sunk in November 1892 near Shanghai. There were thought to be no survivors, but Mortimer returned to his home town of Ventnor three years later, fully expecting to marry his childhood sweetheart, Cecily Middlemass. When he arrived, he discovered that Cecily had died two days previously. Gerald returned to sea, never married, and never returned to the Isle of Wight, but his ghost is said to haunt Cecily’s grave on the outskirts of Ventnor, appearing on rainy nights near dusk.
John felt his blood run a little bit cold.
“Romantic, don’t you think?” asked the woman.
“I suppose. So what happened to him, after he came back?”
“No one really knows, except he went out to sea and never returned. People started to see the ghost sometime after the First World War, so most people assume he died in the fighting. He wouldn’t have been too old to join up, or maybe he caught the influenza.”
“And you saw him?”
The woman laughed. “I was young, and stupid, and in love, and a bit tipsy, if I have to be honest. I thought I saw him, standing in the rain, and when I called to him, because I was young and stupid, he just disappeared.”
A phone started ringing, and the woman glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, that’s the babysitter. I’m sorry, I have to answer that.”
“Of course, cheers,” said John absently. “Oh - don’t suppose there’s a picture of him for sale in the gift shop?”
“I think so,” said the woman. “I’ll check once I’m finished with my phone call.”
John studied the display for a few minutes. A quick glance showed that Sherlock was still in deep conversation with the child, but Greg had moved away and was peering at a display of coins salvaged from various shipwrecks. John took the opportunity to slip into the nearby gift shop. It was full of the kitschy things one found in small gift shops, and John grinned when he saw the pirate corner. Acting on impulse, he picked up the eyepatch and the flag. Not that Sherlock would display either, but it’d be good for a laugh. He saw the postcard of Gerald Mortimer by the register.
“Oh, you found one,” said the woman, finished with her phone call. She rang up John’s purchases, and threw it all in a small paper bag. “Have a lovely holiday.”
“Cheers,” said John, and took the items back into the museum.
“Where’d you go?” asked Greg, wandering over.
“Research,” said John, and took him over to the display. Greg read and frowned.
“You’ve been hanging around Sherlock too long, love,” he said finally.
John shook his head. “I don’t think so. Look at the ghost stories. They’re just too similar - two ghosts who only appear on rainy nights at dusk, disappear if anyone tries to talk to them? And a woman named Cecily who dies in the middle of the night.”
“Cecily wasn’t that uncommon a name at the time,” Greg said. “Both of my grandmothers were named Cecily.”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
“And Gerald’s Cecily wasn’t married - Cecily Kinton had a husband.”
“Okay, fine, it’s a stretch. But I don’t know. There’s just something about this story-“
Greg sighed. “Look, let’s go and rescue Sherlock and grab a bite to eat somewhere. I have to get some shopping and then we’ll head back to the house, okay?”
“Okay,” said John, and went to wait for Greg and Sherlock in the car park, unable to put Gerald out of his mind.
Chapter Three
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship: OT3 Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Warning: None, really.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It was supposed to be a relaxing, romantic holiday by the sea. And then Sherlock discovered a murder. So much for relaxing…
A/N: Just to note that the Watergeus really did exist, and really did sink off Shanghai in November 1892. God Bless Wikipedia. The fate of its crew, however, is my own invention.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Sherlock spent the most of the afternoon on the internet, breaking into various confidential files to determine exactly which bits of the house were original to the late 1890s and which bits had been tacked on after the fact. He checked up on John's architectural investigations frequently, and late in the afternoon, interrupted John and Greg's rather enthusiastic experimentations regarding a bed in the corner room.
"Oh, now, really," Sherlock scoffed as John lay on the mattress groaning, and Greg straightened his shirt with an impish grin on his face. "There's been a murder, and if I can't giggle at a crime scene, you certainly can't be doing this."
"A murder a hundred years ago," Greg pointed out. "And I suspect we aren't the first to get up to anything in this room since."
"Besides, this wasn't Cecily's room," said John, who sounded oddly strained. Or not so odd, considering what Greg had been doing. “There's one window and the article mentioned at least two."
"Even so. I have further proof it wasn't the husband, gentlemen. He was apparently quite an important figure in the local constabulary, and had spent the previous week in London while working on a case of some sort."
"So he hired someone," said John.
"Copper hires someone to kill his wife?" Greg made a face. "Too messy, too many witnesses, too much potential for exposure. He might have the connections to get it done, but he wouldn't chance his reputation."
"Remind me never to get on your bad side," said John, eyeing him.
Greg patted John's leg reassuringly.
"I'm going to start dinner," said Greg. "Pasta sound all right?"
"Yes, ta," said John.
"If you've determined that this was not Cecily's room, then have you at least determined which one was?" demanded Sherlock. Greg rolled his eyes and kissed him lightly on the side of the head as he left the room; Sherlock ignored him.
"There’s only three rooms which could have been Cecily’s, and my money's on the room with the king-size bed. First, because it's the largest and most likely would have been reserved for the man and woman of the house. Second, because the attached lavatory wasn't always a lavatory - it's clearly been there a while but the room is older than the fixtures, so I suspect it was an antechamber of some sort, a dressing room or wardrobe. And third because it has a fireplace."
John grinned at him, hoping to spark some kind of reaction to the idea of a king-size bed and a fireplace, but Sherlock merely rubbed his hands together in delight and grinned in a way that had nothing to do with the delights of a king-size bed and a fireplace.
"Excellent, let's go examine it for clues."
"What clues? She died a hundred years ago." John swung his legs off the bed and followed Sherlock. "You don't honestly expect to find anything, do you?"
"John, you place entirely too much credence on linear time."
John paused, trying to wrap his head around that particular insult.
"I give up," he said. "Fine. Let's examine a century-old crime scene, that's exactly what I wanted to do on my romantic holiday."
The master suite was a large and airy room, with four windows looking out onto the sea. The walls were painted a pale yellow color with white trim and a thick cream-colored rug lay on the hard-wood floor. The fireplace was off to the side, red brick with a black screen, and though it was clean, it was clearly used with some frequency, given the deep ash stains on the interior. The room was plain and simple, and John had trouble imagining anyone from the Victorian era actually living in it. Cecily Kinton would likely have been more at home at 221B with the fantastic wallpapers and skull on the mantelpiece.
Sherlock was already at the fireplace, testing the flue and twisting his head to look up the chimney.
"Clean," he pronounced, pleased. "And in perfect working order. I believe the fixtures have been replaced - oh, twice at least, since Cecily's murder."
"Only ever heard of one bloke who went down chimneys," said John. "Don't suppose you see any bits of red velvet worked into the brickwork, do you?"
"There's no need to be snide, John."
"Oh, of course not, my apologies." John crossed the room to the windows, and worked one open. It was cold and crisp outside, faintly damp even though the rain had long since stopped. He leaned outside and took a deep breath of sea air. "Gorgeous," he said.
"Hmm?"
"The view," John explained, coming back in. "There's a trellis along the wall just here, but I doubt it's forty years old, let alone a hundred."
Sherlock stood back from the fireplace and frowned. "This room has been redecorated."
"Yes, most modern day people don't want to live with overly floral and dark wallpapers in their living spaces."
Sherlock glanced at John. "Never heard you complain before."
John sat down on the bed. "I think the bed's been replaced too. Should we give it a closer inspection?"
"If you aren't going to take this investigation seriously-"
"Sherlock, you have to admit, it's a little hard to take this seriously. It happened a hundred years ago - for all we know, the owners of the house don't have a clue that Cecily even existed."
"The trunk was open when I found it," said Sherlock stubbornly. "Clearly someone had been looking through it before I went into the attic. Someone is still interested in how Cecily Kinton died."
"That doesn't mean you need to solve it," said John gently. He stood up and wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him close. “You’re avoiding Greg."
"I'm not," said Sherlock, but the stubborn note was still in his tone.
“Yes, you are. You spent the entire trip down here in a strop, you haven’t said one word to us that wasn’t about a hundred-year-old murder since we arrived, and you’re pulling away from me even now. Christ, Sherlock, you couldn’t even sit in the car while we waited for the ferry.”
“I’m not avoiding Greg.”
“Sherlock.” John put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, and forced the taller man to look at him. “You and Greg have to talk about it.”
“No, we. Don’t.”
John sighed.
“Not now,” said Sherlock under his breath. “We’ll talk. I promise. Just…not now.”
John nodded. "All right. I'm going to help Greg get dinner on the table, and then we're all going to sit and eat it. You and I will do the washing up, and then we're going to bed. This bed, all three of us, by the way, so if you want to sit up here and imagine some entertaining ways of occupying it, that would be appreciated."
Sherlock glanced at the bed, and his mouth quirked.
"I suppose the mystery can wait until morning."
"I don't think Cecily will mind the delay," said John dryly. He kissed Sherlock gently, twice, and then moved away. "You are going to eat dinner."
"If you insist."
"Greg," John called as he went down the hall. "Do we have the stuff for a salad?"
Sherlock didn't hear Greg's answer, and didn't particularly care either way. He looked around the room, frowning.
"Cecily Kinton," he said aloud. "Cecily Kinton...who killed you?"
*
"Excellent choice in houses," said John as he came into the kitchen.
Greg groaned. "I swear, I had no idea."
"It's all right," said John, peering in the fridge. "At least he's entertaining himself."
"He'll probably do it, too," said Greg as he stirred the sauce. "Solve the murder, I mean."
"Yeah," said John with a grin. He kicked the fridge shut and dropped lettuce, cucumber, radishes, and peppers on the counter. "He probably will." He frowned. "So who do you think murdered Cecily?"
"I doubt it was a burglar. But if anyone's going to figure it out...." Greg shrugged. "Well, it'd be the mad bastard upstairs, wouldn't it?"
John sighed. "I just...I was hoping for a holiday without a body involved." He grinned half-heartedly at Greg. "Well, not a dead one, anyway."
Greg laughed, and left the sauce to give John a hug. They stood quietly, listening to the sauce bubble gently on the stove-top. “I think he needs a holiday.”
“Course he does. Do we?”
“He’s still waiting for the shoe to drop.”
John closed his eyes, and sighed. “Christ. He doesn’t think that he’s the shoe, does he?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
John pulled away. “What I said in the car earlier - I’m sure about you, Greg. I’m sure about Sherlock.”
“You’re just not sure about us,” Greg finished for him.
“It’s more than that.”
“I know. But you and I - we’ve got the history. Sherlock doesn’t.”
“You’ve known Sherlock longer than I have.”
“But you’ve known Sherlock longer than I have,” Greg pointed out. “I might have known Sherlock as a person longest, but as a lover? That’s still new. And it came nearly right on top of his relationship with you. He’s still trying to figure out where he fits.”
John sighed. “And he won’t talk to either of us about anything but this bloody murder. Christ.”
“Let him. You know Sherlock, he'll have it solved by morning. We’ll talk then."
"Yeah," said John, resting his head on Greg's shoulder, but he didn't sound convinced. "Yeah. Fine."
*
But Sherlock hadn't solved the mystery by morning; Greg knew the moment he woke in the king-size bed to find John asleep on one side, and the other side empty, the sheets cool. Greg blinked in the morning sun, and listened to John snore softly beside him. He woke slowly, and it was a few minutes before he sat up, resting his arms on his knees, and looked around the room.
No evidence of Sherlock anywhere, but Greg was fairly sure he'd at least been in the bed with them last night. The pleasant soreness in his muscles was testament to that, and Greg carefully slipped out of the bed, in order to let John continue sleeping. He pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of pajama trousers, and went in search of his missing lover.
The house was cold, and Greg almost regretted not grabbing a blanket before leaving the comfortable bedroom. He went into the kitchen first to check that the automatic coffee-maker had actually snapped on, and once he ensured it had, started to poke his head in the various rooms, looking for Sherlock.
He found Sherlock in the library overlooking the beach, curled up on the armchair in his pajamas and dressing gown. Greg leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment. Sherlock was deeply engrossed in a leather-bound book, hadn't even noticed Greg’s presence, and he turned a page with long, nimble fingers. Greg smiled. Leave it to Sherlock to research through the night, even when the case was so cold it couldn't be rightly considered a case anymore.
"Morning," said Greg, and Sherlock's head snapped up. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Sherlock looked back down to his book, shoulders hunching in just a bit.
"Morning," said Sherlock, and he turned a page in the book.
"How's the mystery?"
"Unsolved."
Greg nodded, and wondered when Sherlock would start giving him responses that involved more than one word at a time. "Looks like it's going to be a beauty of a day."
"Mmm."
Greg sighed, and walked over to the windows. He couldn't see the sunrise, not from the angle of the house, but he could see the blue-grey water stretch to the horizon, and the faint bit of morning haze still clinging to the waves. Behind him, Sherlock sulked on the couch, his own shining example of annoyance, and all at once, Greg was tired.
"What are you reading?"
"A book."
Two words, that was improvement. Greg left the window and leaned over the couch behind Sherlock. He pressed his forehead onto Sherlock's shoulder, nuzzling his neck, before turning his head and pressing a kiss on Sherlock's ear. Sherlock made a low sigh in the base of his throat, not of exasperation, but of contentment, and Greg felt better, a little.
"Hey," he said into Sherlock's skin.
Sherlock's head tilted to the other side, exposing his long neck, and Greg kissed the base of his throat.
"Budge over," said Greg, and after a moment of wiggling and rearranging, he sat behind Sherlock, the man's back resting against his chest. He wasn't sulking anymore, but Greg could feel the tension in him, the way Sherlock wanted both the closeness and the distance, and vacillated back and forth between the two every moment. "Ghost stories? Didn't think you were one for ghost stories."
"No," said Sherlock, and paused. The words spilled out of him in a tumble. "There's a grain of truth in every fable. Apparently Cecily Kinton still haunts the beach near here."
Greg thought of the mist creeping up from the water, and chuckled, partially from relief. "I can believe that."
"If you go out on the beach at dusk when it rains, you can see the figure of a woman wearing a long dress and bonnet, staring out at the sea. She doesn't respond to anyone calling her, and if you approach her, she disappears just as you're within arm's length."
"Not much of a story," said Greg. "No accusations via a pointed finger, no bloody garments dragging in the sand but leaving no trace? Just a woman looking out to the sea?"
"Yes." Sherlock pressed his head back against Greg's chest. "A dozen people have reported seeing her, though of course the book says she's most likely appeared to far more who had the sense not to admit it."
"Somehow I doubt the book put it that way."
"No," said Sherlock disdainfully. He twisted his head to look up at Greg. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
Greg rolled his eyes. "Demon dogs on the moor ring a bell?"
"That was different, we were all under the influence of hallucinatory drugs at the time."
"You can't see what you don't believe in," said Greg.
"Believing is seeing, is that it?"
"In a way. You said yourself, the drugs took a pre-existing belief and compounded it. I thought I'd see a demon dog, so I did. And I thought I'd see a demon dog, not only because you had seen it, but because maybe I'm willing to admit that such things might exist."
Sherlock huffed softly, and turned back to his book. "Illogical to believe in ghosts."
"Illogical not to, I think. And what does it hurt, if Cecily Kinton shows up on the beach every once in a while?"
Sherlock stayed quiet, staring at the book but not turning the pages. Greg kissed the top of his head.
"Come back to bed with me."
"I'm reading."
"Come back anyway."
Sherlock sighed, and turned his head to press his cheek to Greg's shirt. "I don't want to talk."
"I'm not asking you to talk."
"That's what this week is about, isn't it? To talk."
"Not entirely. Right now, I just want to go upstairs and find John before he wakes up, and lie on that bed with you in my arms, and the blankets covering us, and John beside us, and close my eyes and rest a little longer. We can talk later."
Sherlock closed his eyes, and let the book fall to his chest. "There's a rug on the back of the couch. We don't have to move."
Greg pressed his lips into Sherlock's curls and closed his eyes. Upstairs, with John, and the three of them close for warmth and comfort. Huddled together, drawing strength from each other's breathing.
But the couch was comfortable, and the longer Greg went without moving, the more Sherlock's muscles relaxed against him. For the first time in over a week, Sherlock didn't seem inclined to shy away or hide behind anything more substantial than a ghost story. And ghosts were transparent already.
"All right," said Greg, and he pulled the rug off the back of the couch over them. Sherlock helped kick it into place, covering their bare feet. Greg caught one of his hands in his, letting their fingers entwine together.
This was all right. It wasn't talking, but it was the two of them, together, and for now, it was enough.
*
Greg voted for the maritime museum first, as the forecast predicted rain before the morning was over. “It’s all indoors, we’ll be safe from the storm.”
“What a pity, Greg wanted to talk to a ghost,” said Sherlock, and Greg had to explain the story to John, who chuckled.
“Sherlock will keep watch for her, and invite her in to dinner,” said Greg, teasing.
“What about the pub?” asked John, and Sherlock looked up from his book.
“Pub?”
“There’s a pub in Ventnor that has a good band,” said Greg casually. Too casually, really. “I thought we’d go one night, take in some of the local scenery. But the band doesn’t play for a few days, and I doubt we’ll manage to drag you more than the once, so it’ll keep.”
Sherlock made a non-committal sound that might have been agreeing with Greg’s assessment, and John grinned into his tea. Greg kicked him under the table, and John kicked back, and after the kicking knocked the table and rattled the china, Sherlock sighed with what might have been barely disguised impatience.
“You do realize I know you are plotting something.”
“What, us?” asked Greg innocently.
“We don’t plot,” said John.
Sherlock snorted, and he didn’t look up from the book - nor did his eyes move as he read. He remained completely still.
“All right, we plot,” acknowledged John.
“This is why I don’t tell you secrets,” Greg told John.
“He can read it in the way I’ve buttoned my shirt, anyway,” said John. “And I’m not going to tell him what we’re plotting.”
Sherlock swallowed. “What…what do you want to tell me?”
“Sherlock,” said Greg firmly. “I’m going to ask you one favor - just one favor on this holiday.”
“Hmm?” asked Sherlock, looking up at Greg, expectant.
“Let your surprise stay a surprise, yeah? I know you can’t turn it off, but no active deducing what we’ve got planned based on how we tie our shoelaces or what we eat for lunch or anything else, got it?”
“Or looking it up on the internet,” added John, and Greg glared at him.
Sherlock held himself still, and then his entire body began the slow process of relaxing. Hands, arms, shoulders, neck; he seemed to deflate as he sat, though whether it was relief or thoughtful contemplation was difficult to tell.
“If it’s that important to you,” said Sherlock, casual, off-hand, unconcerned, and he turned a page in his book.
Greg reached over and took his hand, lowering the book. “It is,” he said softly, and Sherlock glanced at both John and Greg, and nodded slightly.
“All right,” he said at last. “I promise to be surprised.”
“Good,” said Greg, and began to clear the table. “Ready to go in twenty minutes?”
“Where are we going, again?” asked Sherlock, ever-suffering.
“It’s a museum all about shipwrecks,” John told him. “Apparently there’s an entire section on pirates.”
Sherlock didn’t make a sound, but John caught his eyebrows lifting, and considered that reward enough.
*
The section on pirates wasn’t terribly large, but it kept Sherlock’s interest because he enjoyed picking it apart for historical inaccuracy. John was about to rescue the museum proprietor when he realized that the proprietor was actually taking notes. Instead, he went and elbowed Greg.
“Look,” he said, nodding his head at Sherlock, and the two men watched as Sherlock lectured a growing number of people about the actual history, motivations, customs, and culture of pirates.
“Whaddya know,” said Greg with a delighted grin. “I almost want to go and stand in the back and make smart-arse comments.”
“You were up early.”
Greg glanced at John. “We didn’t talk, if that’s what you’re asking. We just…had some time to ourselves.”
“Good?”
“Yeah,” said Greg, watching Sherlock again. “For now.”
“Did you get the idea that he thought we were going to say something else at breakfast?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you asked him for the favor. He - I don’t know. He tensed. Like you were going to ask him to do something he wasn’t going to want to do.”
Greg didn’t answer. John glanced at him again, and saw the tension in Greg’s jaw. Greg wasn’t going to answer; not then, anyway.
“Go on, then,” said John finally, and watched as Greg made his way over to the group. But once there, Greg didn’t seem so inclined to interrupt, particularly when the conversation became dominated by a small boy who seemed just as interested in pirates as Sherlock was in correcting everyone’s assumptions about them, and the two carried on a question-and-answer rally that went on for fifteen minutes straight, with Sherlock patiently listening to the boy’s questions, and answering them in both a thoughtful and nearly respectful manner, never once talking down to him, but clearly at a level the boy was capable of understanding.
John watched from halfway across the room, unable to stop smiling at Sherlock’s enthusiasm, even while his eyes glanced worriedly at Greg, standing on the sidelines.
“Quite an expert on pirates, your friend,” said a voice behind him, and John turned to the older woman who was also watching the lecture.
“He wanted to be one when he was a kid,” John explained. “I suppose he never bothered to delete the information.”
“Your brother?”
“No, my boyfriend.”
“Ah, I didn’t think there was much family resemblance. Bit late for tourists, isn’t it?”
“Hard to coordinate schedules,” explained John. “We don’t mind a bit of weather.”
“Should clear up in a day or two, it nearly always does. Will you be staying long?”
“A week.”
“Oh, good, then you’ll have a sunny day or two at least.”
“Hope so, there’s apparently a ghost that haunts the beach near the house we’re renting, but only on rainy days,” said John with a grin.
“There’s ghosts all over the island,” said the woman cheerfully. “D’you like a good ghost story? My favorite is Gerald Mortimer, have you heard of him?”
“No, not yet.”
The woman beckoned John over to a display. “He haunts one of the cemeteries outside Ventnor, where his childhood love was buried while he was at sea. Quite a sad story. I caught a glimpse of him once, when I was very very young. Ah, here it is.”
The woman pointed at the picture of a young man dressed in a too-small sailor’s uniform, tight around the chest, a bit short in the leg. He looked young and excited, nearly at attention with his cap at a jaunty angle, a bit like he was waiting for the photographer to finish the picture before he ran off to join his crew.
Gerald Mortimer was the lone survivor of the Watergeus, which sunk in November 1892 near Shanghai. There were thought to be no survivors, but Mortimer returned to his home town of Ventnor three years later, fully expecting to marry his childhood sweetheart, Cecily Middlemass. When he arrived, he discovered that Cecily had died two days previously. Gerald returned to sea, never married, and never returned to the Isle of Wight, but his ghost is said to haunt Cecily’s grave on the outskirts of Ventnor, appearing on rainy nights near dusk.
John felt his blood run a little bit cold.
“Romantic, don’t you think?” asked the woman.
“I suppose. So what happened to him, after he came back?”
“No one really knows, except he went out to sea and never returned. People started to see the ghost sometime after the First World War, so most people assume he died in the fighting. He wouldn’t have been too old to join up, or maybe he caught the influenza.”
“And you saw him?”
The woman laughed. “I was young, and stupid, and in love, and a bit tipsy, if I have to be honest. I thought I saw him, standing in the rain, and when I called to him, because I was young and stupid, he just disappeared.”
A phone started ringing, and the woman glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, that’s the babysitter. I’m sorry, I have to answer that.”
“Of course, cheers,” said John absently. “Oh - don’t suppose there’s a picture of him for sale in the gift shop?”
“I think so,” said the woman. “I’ll check once I’m finished with my phone call.”
John studied the display for a few minutes. A quick glance showed that Sherlock was still in deep conversation with the child, but Greg had moved away and was peering at a display of coins salvaged from various shipwrecks. John took the opportunity to slip into the nearby gift shop. It was full of the kitschy things one found in small gift shops, and John grinned when he saw the pirate corner. Acting on impulse, he picked up the eyepatch and the flag. Not that Sherlock would display either, but it’d be good for a laugh. He saw the postcard of Gerald Mortimer by the register.
“Oh, you found one,” said the woman, finished with her phone call. She rang up John’s purchases, and threw it all in a small paper bag. “Have a lovely holiday.”
“Cheers,” said John, and took the items back into the museum.
“Where’d you go?” asked Greg, wandering over.
“Research,” said John, and took him over to the display. Greg read and frowned.
“You’ve been hanging around Sherlock too long, love,” he said finally.
John shook his head. “I don’t think so. Look at the ghost stories. They’re just too similar - two ghosts who only appear on rainy nights at dusk, disappear if anyone tries to talk to them? And a woman named Cecily who dies in the middle of the night.”
“Cecily wasn’t that uncommon a name at the time,” Greg said. “Both of my grandmothers were named Cecily.”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
“And Gerald’s Cecily wasn’t married - Cecily Kinton had a husband.”
“Okay, fine, it’s a stretch. But I don’t know. There’s just something about this story-“
Greg sighed. “Look, let’s go and rescue Sherlock and grab a bite to eat somewhere. I have to get some shopping and then we’ll head back to the house, okay?”
“Okay,” said John, and went to wait for Greg and Sherlock in the car park, unable to put Gerald out of his mind.
Chapter Three