Fic: Full Fathom Five, or, the Torment. No. 2 of Indestructibe Series. Chapter One

[ghislainem70]

Title: Full Fathom Five, Or, the Torment. Chapter One
No. 2 of the Indestructible Series.
Author: ghislainem70
Word count: 988
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: graphic depictions of violence (entire work), explicit sex (entire work)
Disclaimer:  I own nothing.  All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Summary: Sherlock and John are called to solve mysterious disappearances from a Scottish lighthouse.  BAMF! John.
Note: The poem quoted by Sherlock is from "Flannan Isle," by Wilfred Wilson Gibson.  This fic was inspired by a tweet from Mark Gatiss noting his love for the film "I Know Where I'm Going!", also a fave of the author's.


Full Fathom Five, or, the Torment. Chapter One.

Mycroft attempted to find a clear spot in the sitting room of 221B, but after surveying the faintly smoking chemical beakers, piles of obscure forensic journals (in ten languages), and castoff lab gloves bearing peculiar stains, he simply leaned against the mantle with a moue of distaste.  He brushed away a film of greenish ash.
"We have a very urgent summons. I am to assemble a special team. I will be going myself," here Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, "and I am required to be seconded by Scotland Yard.  And your presence is especially requested, Sherlock, as well as Doctor Watson.  A Certain Person was very gratified with the outcome of the Hargrave affair."

Mycroft intoned the word "request" with a reverence that left little doubt as to its source.  Mycroft’s next words left no doubt.

"You may have seen in the press the stories concerning Her Majesty's hiring a private yacht for a family holiday tour of the Hebrides. This is has been a cherished family tradition of the Queen's.  I fear this will most certainly be her last."

Sherlock sighed tragically.  Mycroft understood from the tenor of this particular sigh, which he was able to comprehend as almost a shorthand language, that Sherlock was deeply bored with the public fascination concerning the daily lives of the Royals.

"This is not known outside the Queen's most trusted inner circle, and of course Number Ten.  Last night, the Queen’s yacht went aground on the rocks off the Isle of Mull.  The Royal Family had to be evacuated.  The young Princes of Wales, I am informed, acquitted themselves heroically and no lives were lost. The Royal Family are all in Tobermory.  Tomorrow, they leave for Balmoral."

"Sounds like a job for the Royal Navy," John said.

"Not quite. You see, there was a storm."

"And?"

"And although the Queen’s itinerary was rigorously planned and vetted by her advance security, there was no warning from the lighthouse."

Here, Sherlock grew alert and still.  Not looking up from his violin, he declaimed in his rich baritone:

"But, as we neared the lonely Isle;
And looked up at the naked height;
And saw the lighthouse towering white,
With blinded lantern, that all night
Had never shot a spark . . .
We seemed to stand for an endless while,
Though still no word was said,
Three men alive on Flannan Isle,
Who thought, on three men dead."

John was astonished. Poetry? Sherlock?  "I thought you deleted that area altogether," John mocked fondly.

Sherlock had a fine dramatic voice, and John knew Sherlock could well have been a very great actor, if he was any judge.  This thought gave him a tiny almost subconscious disquiet that he preferred not to analyze, how very good Sherlock was at pretending. Which is another way of lying.

"The Flannan Isle mystery is one of the most famous missing persons cases in history," Sherlock said.

"Indeed," agreed Mycroft. "You anticipate me. So good to see your little sojourn in the sun -- Sardinia, was it-"

"-- You know perfectly well it was Corsica, Mycroft -"

" -- has not softened your brain cells."

"So, I presume a search was made of the lighthouse to ascertain the cause?" Sherlock asked.

"As soon as the storm broke."

"And they found the lighthouse quite abandoned, am I right?" Sherlock put his violin aside and was pressing his fingertips together under his chin.

"Quite. The three men stationed there have disappeared. And there is nowhere for them to have gone. The lighthouse is on an isolated island of rock. Their boat is not missing."

"Couldn't they have been swept away into the sea?" John asked.

"I’m afraid not. But there is no time to explain now. We are to report to Tobermory before the Queen departs for Balmoral. My car is waiting."

"We can’t take a car to the Hebrides," John put in. "We’re not," said Mycroft.  There was a brief knock on the door and Lestrade was there, shaking Mycroft’s hand. "Ah Lestrade, you got my message." Mycroft was heading out the door. "No time to pack, whatever we need will be supplied."

"Hang on a bit, said John, "Scotland, the Hebrides, the North Sea!  We’re bloody well taking our coats and boots." John went upstairs to rummage for warm clothing because he was a soldier as well as a doctor, and understood the value of proper gear for extreme environments.  Also, he knew Sherlock would pay no attention whatsoever to the weather until he froze to death.

"Don't keep me waiting," Mycroft said severely.

Sherlock, alone with Lestrade, began rummaging through a pile of antique ordinance maps.

"Leave him, let him stay." Lestrade said.

Sherlock gave no sign of having heard Lestrade. But Lestrade knew Sherlock rather well and knew he was listening.

"Damn you, Sherlock. You're not good enough for him, you do know that? He's going to kill himself over you, in the end. He very nearly did. Why don't you just leave him be, leave him in peace, here in London."

"And where will you be?" Said Sherlock quietly, not looking up. "Will you stay with John? Keep him safe?"

"Better than you, Sherlock, better than you. God knows I would if he would just let me try. I bloody well would. But you've made certain that he won't think of himself, no, nothing but the great Sherlock Holmes is important. Nothing else matters."

Now they glared at each other.

John came pounding downstairs with his old duffle bag crammed with warm gear. "We're off now, then," he said briskly, not noticing Lestrade and Sherlock's intense expressions. Sherlock's phone rang insistently.

"Yes we are going now," said Sherlock, and he swept out the door. John followed.  Lestrade waited until he heard the door to Baker Street close, punched the wall with a suppressed howl of frustration, then followed after John.

To be continued . . .

Next Chapter (Two):