Ruse snippet #17
Trying to get back in the writing groove with a tiny snippet (1000 words). In the last bit I posted (when knighthood was in flower), Sherlock drugged John so he could hare off on his own.
There was no response; John was finally asleep. Breathing a sigh of relief, Sherlock slipped his arms beneath John's shoulders and knees and lifted him. Ignoring Jeanne-Louise's narrow-eyed gaze, he carried John across the sitting room and deposited him gently on the sofa. He then relieved John of Hopkins' weapon and strode back to the table to examine John's teacup. Over half a cup remained. Sherlock grimaced. "He didn't drink enough. He won't be asleep for more than an hour."
"Sherlock." Jeanne-Louise's voice sliced through the air. "This is a betrayal of trust."
Sherlock snatched up his coat and slid the gun into a pocket. "This is a well-reasoned course of action designed to resolve the case and prevent John from indulging in his misguided and unnecessary heroics."
"This was John's decision to make. Not yours."
Sherlock scowled as he knelt and started rolling up the small rug in front of the sofa. "John has a history with Hopkins that would prove extremely inconvenient if something untoward were to happen."
"So I am John's alibi. You will kill Hopkins in the church, then?" Jeanne-Louise asked coolly.
Sherlock snorted as he opened the trap door, grateful that Jeanne-Louise still valued the sensible if archaic tradition of the bolt-hole. "I scarcely think that will be necessary." He peered down the wooden steps into the small, dark room below. "Food, water, weapons. Still prepared for all contingencies, I see."
"For all contingencies but the mulish constitution of my grandson. I wonder if you will be of the same opinion when John follows your example. When he incapacitates you and leaves you behind to deal with Moriarty on his own."
Sherlock turned to her, startled into momentary silence.
Jeanne-Louise regarded him with a grave expression. "During the first months of the Occupation-"
"Grand-maman, I have no time for nostalgia at the moment." Sherlock seized as many of the library books as he could carry and hurriedly descended the stairs into the bolt-hole. The sharp rap of Jeanne-Louise's cane brought him up short with a sigh. Turning, he saw his grandmother standing above, regarding him with her most lethal glare.
"You will listen. During the first months of the occupation, many of the Resistance were betrayed to the Gestapo. Your grandpapa was among them. Our friends told him that he must leave Paris immediately. He refused. They thought he was mad. I thought he was mad. I asked him why. And he told me that he would not leave me. That I needed him, that without his protection I would not survive the struggle. Can you imagine the effrontery?"
Sherlock grimaced, placing the books in the far corner of the small room. "Did you shoot him or stab him?" He ascended the stairs, wondering if she would stand aside for him or trap him there until she had spoken her piece. Rather predictably, it was the latter.
"I told him that he was not mad, he was stupid, and if he ever said such a thing again I would box his ears." Jeanne-Louise smiled triumphantly, but her gaze was no less fierce. "He proposed on the spot. We were married that evening, by our friend Father Darius at St. Julien le Pauvre, and by dawn we were in the countryside. I was seventeen. I was a long time fighting at his side before I understood that each of us needed the other."
Sherlock sighed impatiently.
Jeanne-Louise pulled the braided silver chain she always wore from beneath her blouse. "Do you remember this?"
"Of course," Sherlock said in as polite a tone as he could manage, his eyes fixed on the simple silver band hanging on the chain. "Your wedding ring."
"We had no ring, of course. We had nothing. Our friend Duncan gave us this as a wedding gift. It is a man's ring, and never fit me, but even after the war I could not bring myself to have it altered in any way. I would not erase the struggle." Jeanne-Louise drew the chain over her head. "The struggle is what elevates life from mere existence."
Sherlock climbed the last few steps, annoyed that his height was of no advantage. "Excuse me."
Jeanne-Louise stepped aside with a grim expression. "It is impossible that you do not understand me."
Sherlock scooped up the last of the books and descended the stairs again. "Perfectly. You think I should allow John within proximity of a man who constitutes an existential threat to him."
"I might well ask whether John should allow you within proximity of Moriarty."
Sherlock slammed the books to the floor and climbed the stairs again. "Grand-maman, I appreciate your concern, but it is entirely unwarranted." He closed the trap door and replaced the rug.
"You are an obstinate fool. You are your grandfather all over again. Do you hear nothing that I say? You are both stronger together than apart, and John is quite capable of making this decision for himself. As are you." Jeanne-Louise lifted the chain again. "You will take this."
"Grand-maman," Sherlock protested, bewildered. "I appreciate the gesture, but-"
"Gesture? Stupid boy." Jeanne-Louise's eyes flashed. "It is not a gesture. It is a reprimand, and a remembrance, and you will accept it."
Sherlock grimaced and bowed his head, allowing her to slip the chain around his neck. "Will you accept this?" He pulled the copy of his will from his pocket.
Jeanne-Louise snatched the folded paper from his hand and turned away. "You have not heard a word I have said."
"Grand-maman-"
"You have not heard a word John has said. I am done talking." She turned with startling alacrity and, despite age, cane and fury, stormed away toward the kitchen.
As if on cue, Sherlock's phone chimed.
HE'S HERE.
Sherlock set his shoulders and typed his response. I'M ON MY WAY.
Sherlock snatched up his coat and turned toward the door, glancing at John, who was moving restlessly in his sleep. He was fighting the sedative even now. Sherlock fought an absurd hesitation. "I'll be back soon, John. Trust me." He turned and strode down the hall, his fingers curling around the gun in his coat pocket.
Coming up: Sherlock should learn his lesson, but he probably won't.
There was no response; John was finally asleep. Breathing a sigh of relief, Sherlock slipped his arms beneath John's shoulders and knees and lifted him. Ignoring Jeanne-Louise's narrow-eyed gaze, he carried John across the sitting room and deposited him gently on the sofa. He then relieved John of Hopkins' weapon and strode back to the table to examine John's teacup. Over half a cup remained. Sherlock grimaced. "He didn't drink enough. He won't be asleep for more than an hour."
"Sherlock." Jeanne-Louise's voice sliced through the air. "This is a betrayal of trust."
Sherlock snatched up his coat and slid the gun into a pocket. "This is a well-reasoned course of action designed to resolve the case and prevent John from indulging in his misguided and unnecessary heroics."
"This was John's decision to make. Not yours."
Sherlock scowled as he knelt and started rolling up the small rug in front of the sofa. "John has a history with Hopkins that would prove extremely inconvenient if something untoward were to happen."
"So I am John's alibi. You will kill Hopkins in the church, then?" Jeanne-Louise asked coolly.
Sherlock snorted as he opened the trap door, grateful that Jeanne-Louise still valued the sensible if archaic tradition of the bolt-hole. "I scarcely think that will be necessary." He peered down the wooden steps into the small, dark room below. "Food, water, weapons. Still prepared for all contingencies, I see."
"For all contingencies but the mulish constitution of my grandson. I wonder if you will be of the same opinion when John follows your example. When he incapacitates you and leaves you behind to deal with Moriarty on his own."
Sherlock turned to her, startled into momentary silence.
Jeanne-Louise regarded him with a grave expression. "During the first months of the Occupation-"
"Grand-maman, I have no time for nostalgia at the moment." Sherlock seized as many of the library books as he could carry and hurriedly descended the stairs into the bolt-hole. The sharp rap of Jeanne-Louise's cane brought him up short with a sigh. Turning, he saw his grandmother standing above, regarding him with her most lethal glare.
"You will listen. During the first months of the occupation, many of the Resistance were betrayed to the Gestapo. Your grandpapa was among them. Our friends told him that he must leave Paris immediately. He refused. They thought he was mad. I thought he was mad. I asked him why. And he told me that he would not leave me. That I needed him, that without his protection I would not survive the struggle. Can you imagine the effrontery?"
Sherlock grimaced, placing the books in the far corner of the small room. "Did you shoot him or stab him?" He ascended the stairs, wondering if she would stand aside for him or trap him there until she had spoken her piece. Rather predictably, it was the latter.
"I told him that he was not mad, he was stupid, and if he ever said such a thing again I would box his ears." Jeanne-Louise smiled triumphantly, but her gaze was no less fierce. "He proposed on the spot. We were married that evening, by our friend Father Darius at St. Julien le Pauvre, and by dawn we were in the countryside. I was seventeen. I was a long time fighting at his side before I understood that each of us needed the other."
Sherlock sighed impatiently.
Jeanne-Louise pulled the braided silver chain she always wore from beneath her blouse. "Do you remember this?"
"Of course," Sherlock said in as polite a tone as he could manage, his eyes fixed on the simple silver band hanging on the chain. "Your wedding ring."
"We had no ring, of course. We had nothing. Our friend Duncan gave us this as a wedding gift. It is a man's ring, and never fit me, but even after the war I could not bring myself to have it altered in any way. I would not erase the struggle." Jeanne-Louise drew the chain over her head. "The struggle is what elevates life from mere existence."
Sherlock climbed the last few steps, annoyed that his height was of no advantage. "Excuse me."
Jeanne-Louise stepped aside with a grim expression. "It is impossible that you do not understand me."
Sherlock scooped up the last of the books and descended the stairs again. "Perfectly. You think I should allow John within proximity of a man who constitutes an existential threat to him."
"I might well ask whether John should allow you within proximity of Moriarty."
Sherlock slammed the books to the floor and climbed the stairs again. "Grand-maman, I appreciate your concern, but it is entirely unwarranted." He closed the trap door and replaced the rug.
"You are an obstinate fool. You are your grandfather all over again. Do you hear nothing that I say? You are both stronger together than apart, and John is quite capable of making this decision for himself. As are you." Jeanne-Louise lifted the chain again. "You will take this."
"Grand-maman," Sherlock protested, bewildered. "I appreciate the gesture, but-"
"Gesture? Stupid boy." Jeanne-Louise's eyes flashed. "It is not a gesture. It is a reprimand, and a remembrance, and you will accept it."
Sherlock grimaced and bowed his head, allowing her to slip the chain around his neck. "Will you accept this?" He pulled the copy of his will from his pocket.
Jeanne-Louise snatched the folded paper from his hand and turned away. "You have not heard a word I have said."
"Grand-maman-"
"You have not heard a word John has said. I am done talking." She turned with startling alacrity and, despite age, cane and fury, stormed away toward the kitchen.
As if on cue, Sherlock's phone chimed.
HE'S HERE.
Sherlock set his shoulders and typed his response. I'M ON MY WAY.
Sherlock snatched up his coat and turned toward the door, glancing at John, who was moving restlessly in his sleep. He was fighting the sedative even now. Sherlock fought an absurd hesitation. "I'll be back soon, John. Trust me." He turned and strode down the hall, his fingers curling around the gun in his coat pocket.
Coming up: Sherlock should learn his lesson, but he probably won't.