"A Man Lost In The Desert" - Part 1
A Man Lost In The Desert
Part 1
Sherlock lounges in his armchair, loose and lazy as he lies back, his legs splayed apart in front of him. His violin, sitting in his lap, is plucked almost absently by his slender fingers while he stares into the fireplace. He’s bored, and quite obviously so, John thinks. He’s glad, at least, that Sherlock hasn’t got the gun this time.
Across the room from where he sits, Sherlock’s phone rings. He pays no mind to it at first- John wonders whether he hasn’t noticed or he simply doesn’t care, but soon, without taking his eyes of the hearth or stopping the steady plucking of his violin strings, Sherlock asks, though it’s clearly more of a demand than a question, “John, would you get my phone?”
John sighs, bothered though he’d never expect anything else from Sherlock. He knows fairly well that arguing with Sherlock will get him nowhere, and the call may be about a case to keep Sherlock busy, so he complies, rising from his spot on the couch and taking the few steps that Sherlock apparently couldn’t to reach the phone. He answers it, placing one hand flat on the table to lean against it as he speaks. “Hello?”
“John?” It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade, and sounding quite distressed, John notes.
“Yes, what is it?” asks John, interested. “Is there a case?”
“Well, yes, maybe. I need to speak to Sherlock. Can you put him on?”
“Er, yes, just a moment.” John covers the phone with one hand so to not bother Lestrade with the inevitable banter that he’s sure will follow. “Sherlock,” he calls, “Lestrade needs to speak with you.”
“Ask him what he wants,” comes Sherlock’s reply from the slack body that hasn’t moved an inch.
John groans as he returns to the phone. “He’d like you to tell me what you’re calling about.”
“I think I should tell him personally.” Lestrade’s voice is laden with uncertainty, and John begins to wonder if he should be concerned.
“He’d really like to speak with you,” John says to Sherlock, but Sherlock only groans, throwing his head back against the chair.
“This is pointless, John, just find out what he wants.”
John sighs once again, rubbing both his eyes with one hand. “Look,” he says into the phone, “he’s not letting up. Just tell me what it is, alright?” Sherlock begins to tap his foot impatiently to the rhythm of the melody he plays on his violin.
There’s an audible gulp from Lestrade, and John begins to grow curious of what the reason for it could possibly be. A deep breath, next, and John’s beginning to grow impatient as well, but still, just a bit anxious. Lestrade’s voice finally comes like water breaking through a dam. “Mycroft Holmes is dead.” Definitely concerned, now. So, very, definitely.
“Oh,” John utters, and it’s barely a whisper. “Oh… Oh, wow…”
“Will you tell him?” John notices, finally, the pained tone of Lestrade’s voice. “It’s probably better that he hear it from you.”
“Yes, of course, I… thank you.”
John doesn’t hang up the phone, but holds it limply by his side. As a doctor, he knows well how to break this sort of news, though he never in a lifetime would have thought that it be Sherlock to whom he breaks it. He can’t help but be a bit nervous; Sherlock won’t react like his patients, can’t possibly handle it anywhere near well, will very likely wring John’s neck, if John is assuming correctly. He gulps. “Sherlock.” John is much too aware, now, of every little waver and quirk in his voice as he calls out the name. Sherlock tips his head back further to better view John, albeit upside down. John takes several steps toward the chair and inhales slowly. “Sherlock, Mycroft’s passed away.”
John thinks for a moment that he’s hears Sherlock give a small gasp, though if he had it had barely been audible. The violin’s melody ceases the instant the sentence is said and Sherlock’s tapping foot stills as well. He no longer holds his violin, leaving it teetering haphazardly across his thighs where it can slip off and onto the floor at any moment. Sherlock says not a thing.
“Sherlock,” John says, standing now right next to Sherlock in his chair. “Oh, Sherlock,” he breathes, and he lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder because he isn’t quite sure what else he can do.
Sherlock jerks away violently the instant John’s fingers touch the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, and John’s almost terrified. Oh, Sherlock, the perfect picture of mental health; this is just what he needed.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s eyes are fixed once again on the hearth and his jaw is clenches tighter than John’s ever seen it. “Is that all he called about?” he asks, alternating between relaxing his fingers and digging them into the arms of his chair. His voice isn’t sad or disappointed, but harsh and quick and urgent for more information, and really not very different from his usual tone.
John doesn’t move from his spot mere inches from Sherlock. "Are you still there?” he asks into the phone, having raised it hesitantly to his face once again.
“Yes, hello…” Lestrade is still hesitant, with every right to be. “How did he take it?”
John ignores the question, as he has no answer. “You said there might be a case?”
“Oh… well…” Lestrade pauses and it’s almost as if John can hear him weighing his options on what he should say. “Well, there’s… there’s a case, yes. It’s Mycroft. I don’t want to ask this of him, I hope you know that, but, well… there are officers who think he won’t even care and some who think he’d like a case, I… John, what do you think?”
John doesn’t even realize at first that he’s begun to raise his voice. “Well of course he cares, he-“
“John.” It’s Sherlock speaking, this time, cutting John off with a sharp bark of his name.
“No.” John says to Lestrade. “No.” He’s adamant, he can’t let Sherlock, he can’t possibly, But Sherlock cuts in again.
“A case?” It’s a question but it doesn’t sound it in Sherlock’s near expressionless voice.
“Sherlock, no!” John’s aware that he sounds much more aggravated than he should, though it’s mostly worry. “The case is Mycroft, Sherlock, you can’t possibly-“
“I’ll take it.”
“Sherlock!”
“Let me be, I’ll take the case.” Sherlock is snarling again, baring his teeth, almost; If John can’t argue with Sherlock on trivial, day-to-day matters, why had he ever thought Sherlock would subside now? When his brother’s just died, for God’s sake! Every ounce of John’s consciousness is screaming at him, questioning him: what kind of a colleague, what kind of a friend, what kind of a doctor, even, would he be if he allowed Sherlock to investigate the death, or murder, it seems, of his own brother?
Sherlock isn’t the common person, he doesn’t think in common ways and he certainly doesn’t deal with his problems in common ways. John’s beginning to wonder if Sherlock would be better off dealing with this devastation in his own way, which may actually involve taking it on as a case.
Sherlock stands, letting his violin clatter to the floor and snatching the phone harshly from John’s hand. “It’ll take it, where are you? … Yes, of course, I know the address, I’ll be right there.” There’s a beep as he hands up the phone.
John is utterly speechless as he stands, gaping, at Sherlock’s stone cold face. Sherlock’s called himself a sociopath, but John’s never paid much mind to it- John wonders if it, possibly, could be true. Certainly Sherlock must feel something more for his brother than John, who hasn’t met the man more than a few times. He seems to feel something, definitely, but it seems to be anger, which isn’t unusual for Sherlock, though he hasn’t quite specified at what. He doesn’t seem sad and he doesn’t seem grievous, and John doesn’t know whether he should try to help with something, anything, or whether he should let Sherlock simply be Sherlock.
Part 1
Sherlock lounges in his armchair, loose and lazy as he lies back, his legs splayed apart in front of him. His violin, sitting in his lap, is plucked almost absently by his slender fingers while he stares into the fireplace. He’s bored, and quite obviously so, John thinks. He’s glad, at least, that Sherlock hasn’t got the gun this time.
Across the room from where he sits, Sherlock’s phone rings. He pays no mind to it at first- John wonders whether he hasn’t noticed or he simply doesn’t care, but soon, without taking his eyes of the hearth or stopping the steady plucking of his violin strings, Sherlock asks, though it’s clearly more of a demand than a question, “John, would you get my phone?”
John sighs, bothered though he’d never expect anything else from Sherlock. He knows fairly well that arguing with Sherlock will get him nowhere, and the call may be about a case to keep Sherlock busy, so he complies, rising from his spot on the couch and taking the few steps that Sherlock apparently couldn’t to reach the phone. He answers it, placing one hand flat on the table to lean against it as he speaks. “Hello?”
“John?” It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade, and sounding quite distressed, John notes.
“Yes, what is it?” asks John, interested. “Is there a case?”
“Well, yes, maybe. I need to speak to Sherlock. Can you put him on?”
“Er, yes, just a moment.” John covers the phone with one hand so to not bother Lestrade with the inevitable banter that he’s sure will follow. “Sherlock,” he calls, “Lestrade needs to speak with you.”
“Ask him what he wants,” comes Sherlock’s reply from the slack body that hasn’t moved an inch.
John groans as he returns to the phone. “He’d like you to tell me what you’re calling about.”
“I think I should tell him personally.” Lestrade’s voice is laden with uncertainty, and John begins to wonder if he should be concerned.
“He’d really like to speak with you,” John says to Sherlock, but Sherlock only groans, throwing his head back against the chair.
“This is pointless, John, just find out what he wants.”
John sighs once again, rubbing both his eyes with one hand. “Look,” he says into the phone, “he’s not letting up. Just tell me what it is, alright?” Sherlock begins to tap his foot impatiently to the rhythm of the melody he plays on his violin.
There’s an audible gulp from Lestrade, and John begins to grow curious of what the reason for it could possibly be. A deep breath, next, and John’s beginning to grow impatient as well, but still, just a bit anxious. Lestrade’s voice finally comes like water breaking through a dam. “Mycroft Holmes is dead.” Definitely concerned, now. So, very, definitely.
“Oh,” John utters, and it’s barely a whisper. “Oh… Oh, wow…”
“Will you tell him?” John notices, finally, the pained tone of Lestrade’s voice. “It’s probably better that he hear it from you.”
“Yes, of course, I… thank you.”
John doesn’t hang up the phone, but holds it limply by his side. As a doctor, he knows well how to break this sort of news, though he never in a lifetime would have thought that it be Sherlock to whom he breaks it. He can’t help but be a bit nervous; Sherlock won’t react like his patients, can’t possibly handle it anywhere near well, will very likely wring John’s neck, if John is assuming correctly. He gulps. “Sherlock.” John is much too aware, now, of every little waver and quirk in his voice as he calls out the name. Sherlock tips his head back further to better view John, albeit upside down. John takes several steps toward the chair and inhales slowly. “Sherlock, Mycroft’s passed away.”
John thinks for a moment that he’s hears Sherlock give a small gasp, though if he had it had barely been audible. The violin’s melody ceases the instant the sentence is said and Sherlock’s tapping foot stills as well. He no longer holds his violin, leaving it teetering haphazardly across his thighs where it can slip off and onto the floor at any moment. Sherlock says not a thing.
“Sherlock,” John says, standing now right next to Sherlock in his chair. “Oh, Sherlock,” he breathes, and he lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder because he isn’t quite sure what else he can do.
Sherlock jerks away violently the instant John’s fingers touch the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, and John’s almost terrified. Oh, Sherlock, the perfect picture of mental health; this is just what he needed.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s eyes are fixed once again on the hearth and his jaw is clenches tighter than John’s ever seen it. “Is that all he called about?” he asks, alternating between relaxing his fingers and digging them into the arms of his chair. His voice isn’t sad or disappointed, but harsh and quick and urgent for more information, and really not very different from his usual tone.
John doesn’t move from his spot mere inches from Sherlock. "Are you still there?” he asks into the phone, having raised it hesitantly to his face once again.
“Yes, hello…” Lestrade is still hesitant, with every right to be. “How did he take it?”
John ignores the question, as he has no answer. “You said there might be a case?”
“Oh… well…” Lestrade pauses and it’s almost as if John can hear him weighing his options on what he should say. “Well, there’s… there’s a case, yes. It’s Mycroft. I don’t want to ask this of him, I hope you know that, but, well… there are officers who think he won’t even care and some who think he’d like a case, I… John, what do you think?”
John doesn’t even realize at first that he’s begun to raise his voice. “Well of course he cares, he-“
“John.” It’s Sherlock speaking, this time, cutting John off with a sharp bark of his name.
“No.” John says to Lestrade. “No.” He’s adamant, he can’t let Sherlock, he can’t possibly, But Sherlock cuts in again.
“A case?” It’s a question but it doesn’t sound it in Sherlock’s near expressionless voice.
“Sherlock, no!” John’s aware that he sounds much more aggravated than he should, though it’s mostly worry. “The case is Mycroft, Sherlock, you can’t possibly-“
“I’ll take it.”
“Sherlock!”
“Let me be, I’ll take the case.” Sherlock is snarling again, baring his teeth, almost; If John can’t argue with Sherlock on trivial, day-to-day matters, why had he ever thought Sherlock would subside now? When his brother’s just died, for God’s sake! Every ounce of John’s consciousness is screaming at him, questioning him: what kind of a colleague, what kind of a friend, what kind of a doctor, even, would he be if he allowed Sherlock to investigate the death, or murder, it seems, of his own brother?
Sherlock isn’t the common person, he doesn’t think in common ways and he certainly doesn’t deal with his problems in common ways. John’s beginning to wonder if Sherlock would be better off dealing with this devastation in his own way, which may actually involve taking it on as a case.
Sherlock stands, letting his violin clatter to the floor and snatching the phone harshly from John’s hand. “It’ll take it, where are you? … Yes, of course, I know the address, I’ll be right there.” There’s a beep as he hands up the phone.
John is utterly speechless as he stands, gaping, at Sherlock’s stone cold face. Sherlock’s called himself a sociopath, but John’s never paid much mind to it- John wonders if it, possibly, could be true. Certainly Sherlock must feel something more for his brother than John, who hasn’t met the man more than a few times. He seems to feel something, definitely, but it seems to be anger, which isn’t unusual for Sherlock, though he hasn’t quite specified at what. He doesn’t seem sad and he doesn’t seem grievous, and John doesn’t know whether he should try to help with something, anything, or whether he should let Sherlock simply be Sherlock.