Sherlock Fic: Away from the Undying Lands
PAIRING: Sherlock/John, Mycroft
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
WORD COUNT: 3900
DISCLAIMER: Sherlock belongs to BBC, Moffat, Gatiss and co. LOTR belongs to the Tolkien estate. Just playing with the characters and such...
SUMMARY: Lord of the Rings AU. Sherlock is an elf who never returned to Valinor. Living amongst humans for thousands of years, he has adopted an unhealthy lifestyle that does not bode well for him. Mycroft, his descendant, is very worried.
NOTES: Written for THIS prompt at the sherlockbbc_fic Kink Meme. It's been YEARS since I've been this "involved" with the Lord of the Rings fandom. I can blame this venture on Martin Freeman's casting in the Hobbit. Thanks to tehomet for the beta!!!
O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore
And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.
But if of ships I now should sing, what song would come to me,
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?
Galadriel's Lament - The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Mycroft was eight, his father introduced him to his new brother.
The room was dark, filthy, and smelt like mud and rotting leaves. And there, right in the middle of the mess, a tall, slender and very naked figure sat crosslegged upon the dusty floorboards.
"Sherlock," his father cooed softly. "I want you to meet my son, Mycroft."
"Hello, sir-" Mycroft had whispered, intimidated and a little awed. "Are you really an elf?"
There was no answer. Dead grey eyes stared into empty space.
His father had tried to make small talk, asking Sherlock about his job, his landlady and his violin playing. However one-sided conversation does get a bit awkward and after a few minutes of fruitlessly trying to snap the elf out of his stupor, they left.
But before walking out the hinge-less door, the senior Holmes had placed the cartons of Chinese food he’d brought with him onto the cleanest surface.
“Will he eat it?” Mycroft asked.
“No,” sighed his father. “No, he won’t.”
“So why get it for him, father?”
His father had stopped in the street and bent down so they were on the same level, a confused young face staring at a lined, weary version of itself. “Because no matter how futile it seems,” his father had said, grasping his shoulders tightly, “that’s what I must do, son. And one day, it will be your turn. Do you understand, boy?”
Mycroft had nodded solemnly and they resumed their walk down the street.
It would be fifteen years before Mycroft saw him again, and after father died and he got the government job, Sherlock became a daily preoccupation. Still the damage had already been done. Mycroft was unable to look at his 'brother' without being reminded of the drugged and dirty creature he saw that day, and the great responsibility that his parents had thrust upon his shoulders
***
Sherlock is the worst kept secret within the Holmes family.
Everyone knew the story of the Noldorin elf who had refused to take the last ship to Valinor because the prospect of returning to a peaceful life in the undying lands was dull. It was said that he wanted, even relished the experience of living amongst men - basking in the violence and fragility of that race.
There was an element of supreme egotism to it as well. He was the last of his kind on Middle Earth and he revelled in his superior intelligence, his ability to wheedle his way into the courts of Kings and Emperors and Lords, to play the human race like a puppeteer and shine in the light of their admiration.
They say that every major event in the history of human progress had his dirty fingerprints all over it. He was in Avignon during the Papal Schism... Samuel Pepys made several passing references to him in his journals... several figures on the walls of tombs in the Valley of the Kings look suspiciously like a tale pale figure with curly black hair...
But even elves get bored of living alone the lifetimes of thousands of generations of humans. He could not afford to make friends or form any strong attachments. What a lifetime is to humans is for elves nothing more than a passing season that waxes and wanes and then is lost forever. A once caring and compassionate being is thusly eroded into a shapeless husk of his former self. Passion and empathy is focused into serving a purpose, rather than being an all-encompassing, fundamental part of his being. Logic and reason survives, because that is how he hangs on, tenuously, to reality.
There are occasions, however, when that mask slips and something a little brighter than a shadow of his former self emerges.
The tale of Irene Tolkien's seduction is notoriously raunchy - most Holmes parents do not tell the story to their children until their eighteenth birthday. The details may have been exaggerated somewhat over the years. After all, everyone enjoys tales of tempestuous affairs and of unrequited love.
Irene was a beautiful, intelligent and vivacious young woman who lived in Paris before the French Revolution. She was engaged to be married to a minor English aristocrat but couldn't help being attracted to the mysterious, dark-haired young man who occasionally visited her father. Her motivations were clear enough, but his still remained a mystery. Elves were not promiscuous. They did not fall in love lightly and premarital affairs such as this were frowned upon. To them, loyalty and fidelity are paramount virtues.
Perhaps he just relished the opportunity to spar with someone with an intellect that was comparable to his own.
But things between them ended almost as soon as they began. Irene had married Baron Holmes shortly after, who was also darkhaired and had grey eyes and never suspected that their firstborn child was not his.
She only saw her dark-haired lover once more after that. Fleeing from the Terror in 1791, she was being slung onboard an English frigate in the Bay of Biscay when she caught sight of him upon the quarterdeck, conversing with the officer of the watch. He gave no sign that he recognised her, and her own enquires were cut short by seasickness and grief over the death of her parents. When she felt well enough again, she was informed that he had gone onboard the Admiral's flagship a few hours after her arrival, and was probably in Plymouth by now.
Within five years she was dead, one of the countless victims of the scourge of tuberculosis.
It was not until the end of the Napoleonic wars, and the death of the elder Baron Holmes, that the father made contact with his son and the whole story came out. Sherlock, the name the elf had gone by for the past three centuries, wanted nothing to do with what he considered his "unforgivable moment of weakness and error." But after much cajoling by his son, he reluctantly agreed to stay in contact and keep an eye on the family. He took up the Holmes surname and travelled around the world, acting for various governments and making a nuisance out of himself. Occasionally he would return to England to see how his dynasty was getting on.
And that was how it went - except that for the past hundred years, the roles have been somewhat reversed.
Elves don't have mid-life crises, but there’s no term more suited in the human tongue to describe what happened to Sherlock. He started taking opium and other 'recreational' drugs. Smoking, normally looked upon by elves as a filthy and degrading activity, became a habit for him. He was also convinced that sleep and food deprivation were the only way to keep his nine-millennia-old body and mind going. His set down roots in London, and his travels were most limited to the UK - though occasionally he would make a trip to continental Europe.
And then a young soldier called John found some antique journals stashed away at the old family home in Paris. They belonged to his great-great-great-great grand-aunt and, being interested in literature and languages, it wasn't too long before he turned their contents into internationally bestselling novels.
Mycroft's father had told him, to his profound amusement, that Sherlock's rage and anguish when he found out could literally be heard on the other side of Britain. Sherlock had somehow hijacked a national radio station to disparage his poor relative’s writing on the airwaves. The movies in the early 2000s had a similar effect, but the novels triggered a frightening change in his behaviour, a depression that went deeper than his initial mid-life crisis. It was one he never really recovered from to this day and it had worried Mycroft's father to the extent of being a case of his premature death at the age of 55.
It was now worrying Mycroft. Constantly.
"I don't see why I have to listen to you," was a common sulky retort to Mycroft's weekly expressions of concern. "You're nothing but a puny infant compared to me. What gives you the right to lecture me about my behaviour?"
When Mycroft pointed out that Sherlock could only be treated as an immortal with thousands of years of experience under his belt if he starting acting like one, Sherlock would tighten his jaw and scratch out one of those horrendous tunes on his Stradivarius. Mycroft had always suspected that Sherlock’s animosity was nothing more than annoyance that his descendant could somehow be smarter than himself.
Even introducing Sherlock to Lestrade only helped to improve matters slightly. Sherlock stopped drinking. Stopped smoking except on very rare occasions. Most importantly, he stopped his regular practice of taking cocaine, heroin, ecstasy and god knows what other drugs he had been on since the First World War. The cases Lestrade put his way were mostly fascinating enough to keep the elf mentally occupied and distracted from his other concerns. But it only alleviated the symptoms. It was not enough to be a cure.
Sherlock was dying.
The legends say that there are only three ways elves can die - weariness, a broken heart, or from mortal wounds sustained during battle. Sherlock seemed determined to die from something else altogether - a chronic, ruinous lifestyle with copious amounts of guilt and despair thrown in.
Still, thousands of years living alongside humans - it was surprising that he had managed to stay sane so long. And though he would never admit it, it hurt Mycroft to see his ancestor like this- so human, so vulnerable, and wasting away with each passing season.
And then, John Watson showed up.
When Mycroft spoke to John Watson for the first time in the warehouse that night, he knew at once that this man was something different. He felt the man's palm, tense and steady beneath his hands, and realised that perhaps there was a reason Sherlock had stayed alive for so long. Perhaps the Valar weren't so cruel after all - or perhaps they had forgiven Sherlock for his transgressions and sent along this man as a token of their regard for his persistence and longevity. Maybe it was a coincidence - Sherlock may sneer at them, but Mycroft always treats them with all the seriousness that they deserve. In this case, a certain army doctor who happened to come along when Mycroft was just about to give up hope on his immortal brother.
John Watson. Such an unassuming name.
It was that mortal, who had, in the space of a day, made a friend of Sherlock. The man who had, with a warm smile, broken through the barriers in the elf's mind very much like Irene Tolkien had, except that this time - it was a genuine regard and not a passing attraction.
This was the man who stuck with Sherlock, despite his shortcomings, and even found amusement in the elf's erratic habits. He was the man who looked after and protected Sherlock, who ensured that Sherlock ate and slept because he was genuinely concerned about his friend's health.
It was incredible. It was miraculous.
But was it enough?
The question posed itself one June afternoon, a few months after the Moriarty affair. John was at his clinic so Mycroft paid an unannounced visit to Baker Street. Sherlock was playing about in the kitchen with a few fingers. It was startlingly quiet.
"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock had snarled the moment he entered the living room.
"Just paying my dear great-great-great-great grandfather a visit."
Sherlock snorted.
"How's the good doctor?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"
"Oh, I intend to, in my own time."
"Then piss off, Mycroft."
"Sherlock, Sherlock, you know I have your best interests at heart."
"You'll excuse me if I don't believe you."
"I'm trying to understand why you two haven't been intimate yet."
"You know bloody well why I can't, Mycroft, and mind your own business."
"It didn't stop you last time. The fact that I exist is clear evidence of that. And surely a commitment with John won't have the same consequences, if consequences are what you're afraid of."
"You flatter yourself, Mycroft, by overestimating your own importance."
"Perhaps. And I think you're underestimating John, Sherlock."
Sherlock responded by swearing and throwing the fingers at him - flesh, tendons and all. It was a rather childish way of saying 'fuck off' but his Saville Row jacket was rather expensive even for him. He stood, smiled, picked up his umbrella and left Sherlock to his experiments.
On his way back to the office, he pondered the problem of how to get John and Sherlock together - in every conceivable sense of the word. It was the only way he could ensure that Sherlock would walk no further down that pathway to self-destruction; something that, to his everlasting regret, he and his forbearers had failed to prevent.
Yes, it was definitely time for a little chat with John.
***
“This is really getting tedious, Mycroft. The answer is still a no, I absolutely refuse to spy on my flatmate for a few quick bucks. It hasn’t changed in the twenty-four times since you first asked me.”
“You’ve got a suspicious mind, John. I was not planning on asking anything of the sort.”
“Right. Right. Then what am I here for?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You have feelings for Sherlock, John. Do you ever plan to act upon them?”
“I’m sorry? Is that any of your business?”
“Actually, it is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Sherlock feels the same way-”
“Then why-”
“You know emotions don’t come easily to him. Have you ever thought about why that might be the case?”
“I’ve just assumed it was part of his nature, perhaps some defence mechanism-”
“You’re closer to the truth than you realise.”
“And that is?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Do you think me capable of such a joke, John?”
“But-but Sherlock can’t be - it’s fiction, for heaven’s sake. There’s no such thing as elves and dragons and dwarves and hobbits and evil lords and magical rings-”
“Not anymore.”
“I played Bilbo Baggins in a prep school play! Oh this is ridiculous.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Fuck!”
“You understand then why I chose to tell you about it, instead of letting Sherlock-”
“Yes, yes. I- I can’t believe it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Can I go home now?”
“Yes. Anthea will take you back to Baker Street.”
“What do I say-?”
“To Sherlock? Tell him you know. He’ll be able to deduce that I’ve told you anyway.”
“But-”
“The time for caution and holding back has passed, John.”
“Yes. I... I suppose I should thank you, Mycroft.”
“We’ll see.”
***
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:00PM
JOHN. REQUIRE YOUR ASSISTANCE AT ONCE.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:10PM
HAVE YOU LEFT THE CLINIC?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:20PM
JOHN, WHERE ARE YOU?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:34PM
YES. COMING HOME NOW.
JW
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:35PM
DID MYCROFT KIDNAP YOU AGAIN?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:42PM
YES. SHERLOCK - WE NEED TO TALK.
JW
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:42PM
YOU KNOW.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:43PM
THAT BASTARD TOLD YOU DIDN’T HE?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:45PM
JOHN?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:48PM
YES TO BOTH. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO PICK UP SOMETHING TO EAT?
JW
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:49PM
JUST COME BACK.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:49PM
PLEASE.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:53PM
ALL RIGHT. BE THERE IN 10.
JW
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:54PM
THANK YOU.
SH
***
The door downstairs slams closed. A key turns in the lock.
Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs. The speed of ascent indicated hesitation and nervousness, and perhaps an unwillingness to open the door they now stopped outside.
A few minutes ago, such little observations, inferences, would have been satisfying. It was barely a conscious thing he did, this collation and making sense of minute details, and he had become so used to it - it was almost like breathing.
Now, they sickened him. Made his trachea swell tight with emotion because he knew exactly what was going to happen the moment that door opened and John stepped inside. Anger and recriminations and accusations - he was so sick of it all. Damn Mycroft! Everything was fine until he had to stick his fat nose in.
The doorknob turned. Hinges squeaked - he must remember to oil them later - and his hands dug into the armrest so hard he could feel the fabric split beneath his fingernails.
“Sherlock?”
He tried to smile at the concerned face peering down at him, but what resulted probably resembled a sneer more than anything else. “You brought food,” he said, his voice sounding horridly false and forced. “Chinese.”
“Yes. It was only a quick stopover -”
“I don’t want to eat anything.”
John placed the bag of takeaway on the table before him.
“Is it just you, Sherlock, or do all elves like Asian cooking?“
He made a choking noise that was something between laughter and a sob. Typical, typical John. It was his unique, unassuming way of saying that everything was going to be all right. That nothing had changed because of his new found knowledge. That he’s not disgusted by Sherlock not being human, that he’s not going to move out tomorrow and leave Sherlock to the horrible, miserable life he had before John. It’s funny how much more pleasure he had got out of the past six months than he ever did in nine thousand years.
It felt as if an oliphaunt had been lifted off his chest.
“Just me,” Sherlock responded lightly. John smiled - a genuine, relieved smile. “That’s the problem with associating with your race - one picks up the strangest habits.”
“Hmm. Shove over.” Sherlock accepted the chopsticks as John settled down next to him, a warm, comforting weight against his side.
“So, you don’t mind -”
John grabbed the chow mein from the bag. “No, of course not. I admit it was a bit of a shock at first-”
“I can imagine.” Sherlock murmured around a mouthful of rice.
“But seriously, Sherlock. Why should I mind? How is your being an elf going to change how we live, what we do, our partnership?”
“I can think of several -”
“It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
Such an innocent phrase, yet it was a declaration of something else. Sherlock looked at John, at the inquisitive turn of his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. He could choose to ignore it - shrug it off, laugh it off with some witticism and things would go back to how they were yesterday.
Coward.
“John, I don’t know how much Mycroft told you about the circumstances that led to his family’s existence -”
John placed his food on the table. “Enough to know that you felt strongly for her, and that you regretted what was a perfectly normal emotion and desire-”
“Perfectly normal for humans perhaps. But do you understand WHY, John? If you were proposing what I think you’re proposing -”
John’s hand settled on his forearm. “I was.”
“I - I have no aversion to the suggestion - what I mean to say is that I find myself caring about you, a lot. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone.”
“Right. I’ll take that as a compliment, then.” John licked his lips. Sherlock knew it was an unconscious action on John’s part - something he tended to do whenever he was nervous, or anticipatory. Yet its seductive overtones sent a shiver up his spine.
“You have to understand that my people did not view sex and relationships in the same way you humans do. Relationships, John, are always monogamous. When I say monogamous, I mean one partner. Forever.”
“I - I think I’m following you.”
“Even amongst my race I was considered a bit strange.” He laughed, remembering the less kind words used by his people to describe him, and the rebukes of Lady Galadriel and Lord Gil-galad and many other Noldorin elders. “I didn’t see the need for marriage or sex or any of that stuff. I was my own creature, beholden to no one. That was partly why I didn’t go with the rest of my people to Valinor.”
John nodded. “So what changed?”
“With Irene? I think - maybe I was frustrated with my situation - spending so long without emotional attachment. Up to then, she was the only person I’d met whose intellect approached that of my own. Even so, my actions were less than noble. Everyday I am consumed with guilt over what I did, and how I abandoned her afterwards. Even though we had only one night together - it hurt when she died. It hurt physically in a way humans cannot understand. And now, I find I cannot go through it again. To be with a mortal, to suffer the pain of separation and death.”
Disappointment and confusion flickered across John’s face. “But Mycroft seems to think-”
“I know what Mycroft thinks,” Sherlock snapped.
John reached up to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands. Sherlock marvelled at how such a rough and calloused palm could touch him so tenderly. “Sherlock - are you afraid that I might leave you?”
“Everyone leaves me.”
“Death is unavoidable, for us.”
“I know.”
“I can’t become immortal, Sherlock, but if it’s lifelong commitment you’re looking for, then I promise, I swear that I will not abandon you. If you don’t want to take it to the physical level, I understand. But I am yours, Sherlock, for the rest of my life.”
What could he say to that? John Watson, the most incredible man he’d ever meet. The most incredible being he’d ever known. He’d meet great kings and ladies, elvish and human alike. But their lights paled in comparison to this man sitting beside him, whose eyes were sparkling with loving devotion.
How could he refuse a declaration like that?
“It’s like Beren and Lúthien,” Sherlock murmured.
“Who are they?”
“You didn’t read the books in detail, did you?”
John smiled. “Nope.”
“Good. They’re full of nonsense.”
“I thought that they were based on what you told Irene about your life, so you can hardly call that nonsense -”
Sherlock snaked an arm around John’s waist and pulled him close. His friend’s, his partner’s, body was solid and warm and melted into his embrace.
“John.”
“Yes, Sherlock?” His voice was husky and shaking with desire.
“You're about to get your first experience of kissing an elf. I suggest you shut up now.”
***
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 12:12AM
I SUPPOSE CONGRATULATIONS ARE IN ORDER?
MYCROFT HOLMES
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 2:40AM
OH SHUT UP AND STOP GLOATING.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 2:55AM
SAW JOHN GET THE RINGS. SET DATE OF WEDDING YET?
MYCROFT HOLMES
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 2:58AM
NO WE HAVEN’T.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:12AM
HONEYMOON CRUISE IN THE CARIBBEAN? LEAST I COULD DO.
MYCROFT HOLMES
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:20AM
AUSTRALIA. HAVEN’T BEEN SINCE 1771 WITH COOK.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:25AM
CONSIDER IT DONE.
MYCROFT HOLMES
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:33AM
THANK YOU MYCROFT. FOR EVERYTHING.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:34AM
YOU’RE STILL AN ANNOYING, MEDDLING BRAT THOUGH.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:45AM
OF COURSE.
MYCROFT HOLMES
Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless
The Tale of Tinúviel by JRR Tolkien
- The Fellowship of the Rings
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
WORD COUNT: 3900
DISCLAIMER: Sherlock belongs to BBC, Moffat, Gatiss and co. LOTR belongs to the Tolkien estate. Just playing with the characters and such...
SUMMARY: Lord of the Rings AU. Sherlock is an elf who never returned to Valinor. Living amongst humans for thousands of years, he has adopted an unhealthy lifestyle that does not bode well for him. Mycroft, his descendant, is very worried.
NOTES: Written for THIS prompt at the sherlockbbc_fic Kink Meme. It's been YEARS since I've been this "involved" with the Lord of the Rings fandom. I can blame this venture on Martin Freeman's casting in the Hobbit. Thanks to tehomet for the beta!!!
O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore
And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.
But if of ships I now should sing, what song would come to me,
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?
Galadriel's Lament - The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Mycroft was eight, his father introduced him to his new brother.
The room was dark, filthy, and smelt like mud and rotting leaves. And there, right in the middle of the mess, a tall, slender and very naked figure sat crosslegged upon the dusty floorboards.
"Sherlock," his father cooed softly. "I want you to meet my son, Mycroft."
"Hello, sir-" Mycroft had whispered, intimidated and a little awed. "Are you really an elf?"
There was no answer. Dead grey eyes stared into empty space.
His father had tried to make small talk, asking Sherlock about his job, his landlady and his violin playing. However one-sided conversation does get a bit awkward and after a few minutes of fruitlessly trying to snap the elf out of his stupor, they left.
But before walking out the hinge-less door, the senior Holmes had placed the cartons of Chinese food he’d brought with him onto the cleanest surface.
“Will he eat it?” Mycroft asked.
“No,” sighed his father. “No, he won’t.”
“So why get it for him, father?”
His father had stopped in the street and bent down so they were on the same level, a confused young face staring at a lined, weary version of itself. “Because no matter how futile it seems,” his father had said, grasping his shoulders tightly, “that’s what I must do, son. And one day, it will be your turn. Do you understand, boy?”
Mycroft had nodded solemnly and they resumed their walk down the street.
It would be fifteen years before Mycroft saw him again, and after father died and he got the government job, Sherlock became a daily preoccupation. Still the damage had already been done. Mycroft was unable to look at his 'brother' without being reminded of the drugged and dirty creature he saw that day, and the great responsibility that his parents had thrust upon his shoulders
***
Sherlock is the worst kept secret within the Holmes family.
Everyone knew the story of the Noldorin elf who had refused to take the last ship to Valinor because the prospect of returning to a peaceful life in the undying lands was dull. It was said that he wanted, even relished the experience of living amongst men - basking in the violence and fragility of that race.
There was an element of supreme egotism to it as well. He was the last of his kind on Middle Earth and he revelled in his superior intelligence, his ability to wheedle his way into the courts of Kings and Emperors and Lords, to play the human race like a puppeteer and shine in the light of their admiration.
They say that every major event in the history of human progress had his dirty fingerprints all over it. He was in Avignon during the Papal Schism... Samuel Pepys made several passing references to him in his journals... several figures on the walls of tombs in the Valley of the Kings look suspiciously like a tale pale figure with curly black hair...
But even elves get bored of living alone the lifetimes of thousands of generations of humans. He could not afford to make friends or form any strong attachments. What a lifetime is to humans is for elves nothing more than a passing season that waxes and wanes and then is lost forever. A once caring and compassionate being is thusly eroded into a shapeless husk of his former self. Passion and empathy is focused into serving a purpose, rather than being an all-encompassing, fundamental part of his being. Logic and reason survives, because that is how he hangs on, tenuously, to reality.
There are occasions, however, when that mask slips and something a little brighter than a shadow of his former self emerges.
The tale of Irene Tolkien's seduction is notoriously raunchy - most Holmes parents do not tell the story to their children until their eighteenth birthday. The details may have been exaggerated somewhat over the years. After all, everyone enjoys tales of tempestuous affairs and of unrequited love.
Irene was a beautiful, intelligent and vivacious young woman who lived in Paris before the French Revolution. She was engaged to be married to a minor English aristocrat but couldn't help being attracted to the mysterious, dark-haired young man who occasionally visited her father. Her motivations were clear enough, but his still remained a mystery. Elves were not promiscuous. They did not fall in love lightly and premarital affairs such as this were frowned upon. To them, loyalty and fidelity are paramount virtues.
Perhaps he just relished the opportunity to spar with someone with an intellect that was comparable to his own.
But things between them ended almost as soon as they began. Irene had married Baron Holmes shortly after, who was also darkhaired and had grey eyes and never suspected that their firstborn child was not his.
She only saw her dark-haired lover once more after that. Fleeing from the Terror in 1791, she was being slung onboard an English frigate in the Bay of Biscay when she caught sight of him upon the quarterdeck, conversing with the officer of the watch. He gave no sign that he recognised her, and her own enquires were cut short by seasickness and grief over the death of her parents. When she felt well enough again, she was informed that he had gone onboard the Admiral's flagship a few hours after her arrival, and was probably in Plymouth by now.
Within five years she was dead, one of the countless victims of the scourge of tuberculosis.
It was not until the end of the Napoleonic wars, and the death of the elder Baron Holmes, that the father made contact with his son and the whole story came out. Sherlock, the name the elf had gone by for the past three centuries, wanted nothing to do with what he considered his "unforgivable moment of weakness and error." But after much cajoling by his son, he reluctantly agreed to stay in contact and keep an eye on the family. He took up the Holmes surname and travelled around the world, acting for various governments and making a nuisance out of himself. Occasionally he would return to England to see how his dynasty was getting on.
And that was how it went - except that for the past hundred years, the roles have been somewhat reversed.
Elves don't have mid-life crises, but there’s no term more suited in the human tongue to describe what happened to Sherlock. He started taking opium and other 'recreational' drugs. Smoking, normally looked upon by elves as a filthy and degrading activity, became a habit for him. He was also convinced that sleep and food deprivation were the only way to keep his nine-millennia-old body and mind going. His set down roots in London, and his travels were most limited to the UK - though occasionally he would make a trip to continental Europe.
And then a young soldier called John found some antique journals stashed away at the old family home in Paris. They belonged to his great-great-great-great grand-aunt and, being interested in literature and languages, it wasn't too long before he turned their contents into internationally bestselling novels.
Mycroft's father had told him, to his profound amusement, that Sherlock's rage and anguish when he found out could literally be heard on the other side of Britain. Sherlock had somehow hijacked a national radio station to disparage his poor relative’s writing on the airwaves. The movies in the early 2000s had a similar effect, but the novels triggered a frightening change in his behaviour, a depression that went deeper than his initial mid-life crisis. It was one he never really recovered from to this day and it had worried Mycroft's father to the extent of being a case of his premature death at the age of 55.
It was now worrying Mycroft. Constantly.
"I don't see why I have to listen to you," was a common sulky retort to Mycroft's weekly expressions of concern. "You're nothing but a puny infant compared to me. What gives you the right to lecture me about my behaviour?"
When Mycroft pointed out that Sherlock could only be treated as an immortal with thousands of years of experience under his belt if he starting acting like one, Sherlock would tighten his jaw and scratch out one of those horrendous tunes on his Stradivarius. Mycroft had always suspected that Sherlock’s animosity was nothing more than annoyance that his descendant could somehow be smarter than himself.
Even introducing Sherlock to Lestrade only helped to improve matters slightly. Sherlock stopped drinking. Stopped smoking except on very rare occasions. Most importantly, he stopped his regular practice of taking cocaine, heroin, ecstasy and god knows what other drugs he had been on since the First World War. The cases Lestrade put his way were mostly fascinating enough to keep the elf mentally occupied and distracted from his other concerns. But it only alleviated the symptoms. It was not enough to be a cure.
Sherlock was dying.
The legends say that there are only three ways elves can die - weariness, a broken heart, or from mortal wounds sustained during battle. Sherlock seemed determined to die from something else altogether - a chronic, ruinous lifestyle with copious amounts of guilt and despair thrown in.
Still, thousands of years living alongside humans - it was surprising that he had managed to stay sane so long. And though he would never admit it, it hurt Mycroft to see his ancestor like this- so human, so vulnerable, and wasting away with each passing season.
And then, John Watson showed up.
When Mycroft spoke to John Watson for the first time in the warehouse that night, he knew at once that this man was something different. He felt the man's palm, tense and steady beneath his hands, and realised that perhaps there was a reason Sherlock had stayed alive for so long. Perhaps the Valar weren't so cruel after all - or perhaps they had forgiven Sherlock for his transgressions and sent along this man as a token of their regard for his persistence and longevity. Maybe it was a coincidence - Sherlock may sneer at them, but Mycroft always treats them with all the seriousness that they deserve. In this case, a certain army doctor who happened to come along when Mycroft was just about to give up hope on his immortal brother.
John Watson. Such an unassuming name.
It was that mortal, who had, in the space of a day, made a friend of Sherlock. The man who had, with a warm smile, broken through the barriers in the elf's mind very much like Irene Tolkien had, except that this time - it was a genuine regard and not a passing attraction.
This was the man who stuck with Sherlock, despite his shortcomings, and even found amusement in the elf's erratic habits. He was the man who looked after and protected Sherlock, who ensured that Sherlock ate and slept because he was genuinely concerned about his friend's health.
It was incredible. It was miraculous.
But was it enough?
The question posed itself one June afternoon, a few months after the Moriarty affair. John was at his clinic so Mycroft paid an unannounced visit to Baker Street. Sherlock was playing about in the kitchen with a few fingers. It was startlingly quiet.
"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock had snarled the moment he entered the living room.
"Just paying my dear great-great-great-great grandfather a visit."
Sherlock snorted.
"How's the good doctor?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"
"Oh, I intend to, in my own time."
"Then piss off, Mycroft."
"Sherlock, Sherlock, you know I have your best interests at heart."
"You'll excuse me if I don't believe you."
"I'm trying to understand why you two haven't been intimate yet."
"You know bloody well why I can't, Mycroft, and mind your own business."
"It didn't stop you last time. The fact that I exist is clear evidence of that. And surely a commitment with John won't have the same consequences, if consequences are what you're afraid of."
"You flatter yourself, Mycroft, by overestimating your own importance."
"Perhaps. And I think you're underestimating John, Sherlock."
Sherlock responded by swearing and throwing the fingers at him - flesh, tendons and all. It was a rather childish way of saying 'fuck off' but his Saville Row jacket was rather expensive even for him. He stood, smiled, picked up his umbrella and left Sherlock to his experiments.
On his way back to the office, he pondered the problem of how to get John and Sherlock together - in every conceivable sense of the word. It was the only way he could ensure that Sherlock would walk no further down that pathway to self-destruction; something that, to his everlasting regret, he and his forbearers had failed to prevent.
Yes, it was definitely time for a little chat with John.
***
“This is really getting tedious, Mycroft. The answer is still a no, I absolutely refuse to spy on my flatmate for a few quick bucks. It hasn’t changed in the twenty-four times since you first asked me.”
“You’ve got a suspicious mind, John. I was not planning on asking anything of the sort.”
“Right. Right. Then what am I here for?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You have feelings for Sherlock, John. Do you ever plan to act upon them?”
“I’m sorry? Is that any of your business?”
“Actually, it is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Sherlock feels the same way-”
“Then why-”
“You know emotions don’t come easily to him. Have you ever thought about why that might be the case?”
“I’ve just assumed it was part of his nature, perhaps some defence mechanism-”
“You’re closer to the truth than you realise.”
“And that is?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Do you think me capable of such a joke, John?”
“But-but Sherlock can’t be - it’s fiction, for heaven’s sake. There’s no such thing as elves and dragons and dwarves and hobbits and evil lords and magical rings-”
“Not anymore.”
“I played Bilbo Baggins in a prep school play! Oh this is ridiculous.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Fuck!”
“You understand then why I chose to tell you about it, instead of letting Sherlock-”
“Yes, yes. I- I can’t believe it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Can I go home now?”
“Yes. Anthea will take you back to Baker Street.”
“What do I say-?”
“To Sherlock? Tell him you know. He’ll be able to deduce that I’ve told you anyway.”
“But-”
“The time for caution and holding back has passed, John.”
“Yes. I... I suppose I should thank you, Mycroft.”
“We’ll see.”
***
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:00PM
JOHN. REQUIRE YOUR ASSISTANCE AT ONCE.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:10PM
HAVE YOU LEFT THE CLINIC?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:20PM
JOHN, WHERE ARE YOU?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:34PM
YES. COMING HOME NOW.
JW
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:35PM
DID MYCROFT KIDNAP YOU AGAIN?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:42PM
YES. SHERLOCK - WE NEED TO TALK.
JW
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:42PM
YOU KNOW.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:43PM
THAT BASTARD TOLD YOU DIDN’T HE?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:45PM
JOHN?
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:48PM
YES TO BOTH. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO PICK UP SOMETHING TO EAT?
JW
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:49PM
JUST COME BACK.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:49PM
PLEASE.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:53PM
ALL RIGHT. BE THERE IN 10.
JW
TEXT RECEIVED: 24/7/10 8:54PM
THANK YOU.
SH
***
The door downstairs slams closed. A key turns in the lock.
Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs. The speed of ascent indicated hesitation and nervousness, and perhaps an unwillingness to open the door they now stopped outside.
A few minutes ago, such little observations, inferences, would have been satisfying. It was barely a conscious thing he did, this collation and making sense of minute details, and he had become so used to it - it was almost like breathing.
Now, they sickened him. Made his trachea swell tight with emotion because he knew exactly what was going to happen the moment that door opened and John stepped inside. Anger and recriminations and accusations - he was so sick of it all. Damn Mycroft! Everything was fine until he had to stick his fat nose in.
The doorknob turned. Hinges squeaked - he must remember to oil them later - and his hands dug into the armrest so hard he could feel the fabric split beneath his fingernails.
“Sherlock?”
He tried to smile at the concerned face peering down at him, but what resulted probably resembled a sneer more than anything else. “You brought food,” he said, his voice sounding horridly false and forced. “Chinese.”
“Yes. It was only a quick stopover -”
“I don’t want to eat anything.”
John placed the bag of takeaway on the table before him.
“Is it just you, Sherlock, or do all elves like Asian cooking?“
He made a choking noise that was something between laughter and a sob. Typical, typical John. It was his unique, unassuming way of saying that everything was going to be all right. That nothing had changed because of his new found knowledge. That he’s not disgusted by Sherlock not being human, that he’s not going to move out tomorrow and leave Sherlock to the horrible, miserable life he had before John. It’s funny how much more pleasure he had got out of the past six months than he ever did in nine thousand years.
It felt as if an oliphaunt had been lifted off his chest.
“Just me,” Sherlock responded lightly. John smiled - a genuine, relieved smile. “That’s the problem with associating with your race - one picks up the strangest habits.”
“Hmm. Shove over.” Sherlock accepted the chopsticks as John settled down next to him, a warm, comforting weight against his side.
“So, you don’t mind -”
John grabbed the chow mein from the bag. “No, of course not. I admit it was a bit of a shock at first-”
“I can imagine.” Sherlock murmured around a mouthful of rice.
“But seriously, Sherlock. Why should I mind? How is your being an elf going to change how we live, what we do, our partnership?”
“I can think of several -”
“It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
Such an innocent phrase, yet it was a declaration of something else. Sherlock looked at John, at the inquisitive turn of his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. He could choose to ignore it - shrug it off, laugh it off with some witticism and things would go back to how they were yesterday.
Coward.
“John, I don’t know how much Mycroft told you about the circumstances that led to his family’s existence -”
John placed his food on the table. “Enough to know that you felt strongly for her, and that you regretted what was a perfectly normal emotion and desire-”
“Perfectly normal for humans perhaps. But do you understand WHY, John? If you were proposing what I think you’re proposing -”
John’s hand settled on his forearm. “I was.”
“I - I have no aversion to the suggestion - what I mean to say is that I find myself caring about you, a lot. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone.”
“Right. I’ll take that as a compliment, then.” John licked his lips. Sherlock knew it was an unconscious action on John’s part - something he tended to do whenever he was nervous, or anticipatory. Yet its seductive overtones sent a shiver up his spine.
“You have to understand that my people did not view sex and relationships in the same way you humans do. Relationships, John, are always monogamous. When I say monogamous, I mean one partner. Forever.”
“I - I think I’m following you.”
“Even amongst my race I was considered a bit strange.” He laughed, remembering the less kind words used by his people to describe him, and the rebukes of Lady Galadriel and Lord Gil-galad and many other Noldorin elders. “I didn’t see the need for marriage or sex or any of that stuff. I was my own creature, beholden to no one. That was partly why I didn’t go with the rest of my people to Valinor.”
John nodded. “So what changed?”
“With Irene? I think - maybe I was frustrated with my situation - spending so long without emotional attachment. Up to then, she was the only person I’d met whose intellect approached that of my own. Even so, my actions were less than noble. Everyday I am consumed with guilt over what I did, and how I abandoned her afterwards. Even though we had only one night together - it hurt when she died. It hurt physically in a way humans cannot understand. And now, I find I cannot go through it again. To be with a mortal, to suffer the pain of separation and death.”
Disappointment and confusion flickered across John’s face. “But Mycroft seems to think-”
“I know what Mycroft thinks,” Sherlock snapped.
John reached up to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands. Sherlock marvelled at how such a rough and calloused palm could touch him so tenderly. “Sherlock - are you afraid that I might leave you?”
“Everyone leaves me.”
“Death is unavoidable, for us.”
“I know.”
“I can’t become immortal, Sherlock, but if it’s lifelong commitment you’re looking for, then I promise, I swear that I will not abandon you. If you don’t want to take it to the physical level, I understand. But I am yours, Sherlock, for the rest of my life.”
What could he say to that? John Watson, the most incredible man he’d ever meet. The most incredible being he’d ever known. He’d meet great kings and ladies, elvish and human alike. But their lights paled in comparison to this man sitting beside him, whose eyes were sparkling with loving devotion.
How could he refuse a declaration like that?
“It’s like Beren and Lúthien,” Sherlock murmured.
“Who are they?”
“You didn’t read the books in detail, did you?”
John smiled. “Nope.”
“Good. They’re full of nonsense.”
“I thought that they were based on what you told Irene about your life, so you can hardly call that nonsense -”
Sherlock snaked an arm around John’s waist and pulled him close. His friend’s, his partner’s, body was solid and warm and melted into his embrace.
“John.”
“Yes, Sherlock?” His voice was husky and shaking with desire.
“You're about to get your first experience of kissing an elf. I suggest you shut up now.”
***
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 12:12AM
I SUPPOSE CONGRATULATIONS ARE IN ORDER?
MYCROFT HOLMES
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 2:40AM
OH SHUT UP AND STOP GLOATING.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 2:55AM
SAW JOHN GET THE RINGS. SET DATE OF WEDDING YET?
MYCROFT HOLMES
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 2:58AM
NO WE HAVEN’T.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:12AM
HONEYMOON CRUISE IN THE CARIBBEAN? LEAST I COULD DO.
MYCROFT HOLMES
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:20AM
AUSTRALIA. HAVEN’T BEEN SINCE 1771 WITH COOK.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:25AM
CONSIDER IT DONE.
MYCROFT HOLMES
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:33AM
THANK YOU MYCROFT. FOR EVERYTHING.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:34AM
YOU’RE STILL AN ANNOYING, MEDDLING BRAT THOUGH.
SH
TEXT RECEIVED: 12/10/10 3:45AM
OF COURSE.
MYCROFT HOLMES
Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless
The Tale of Tinúviel by JRR Tolkien
- The Fellowship of the Rings