Chapter Text
The rain clouds have darkened the sky above Fenton House so that it is now almost black. No light can be seen inside the house, except the small gathering of candles in the kitchen where the servants are huddled together, discussing with low murmurs about what they are to do. They fear their master’s wrath. He has shown what he is ready to do and none of them dare to leave the house.
They discuss the events of the morning over and over again, each adding their own condiments to the story as is the habit of servants when they talk gossip, colouring it with events even more gruesome than the ones that have actually taken place so that if any of them had enough courage to go and call for help, they would all have had a different story to tell. But all agree that their master has gone mad. They saw his eyes when he carried Master John inside, the small body covered in mud and blood, lying still like a dead man.
Outside, the wind continues to howl and the rain to beat against the windows with a terrible force, making the large trees outside creak dangerously. Upstairs, James has locked himself in the bedroom with John, who is huddled in bed, his right hand wrapped in bandages, fever making him moan and gasp into the pillows.
James is pacing the room, glancing at the form under the blankets every so often, listening to the wind gaining speed outside, howling and moaning in the chimneys and rattling the windows.
“You cannot do that,” he gasps. “You cannot send love to him, you cannot.”
A whimper from the bed draws him closer.
“You are supposed to give it to me.”
He touches John’s hair.
“Why don’t you want to give it to me? (Oh, darling, you are too hot.) I meant to… I was meant to love you.”
Dragging his fingers against John’s temple, down his cheek and to his jaw, he searches for the string of the tin box of paper John always has round his neck to write sweet little notes for him. He doesn’t remember having taken the box away from him when he had stripped John down to his undershirt. Below the shirt, the skin between John’s thighs is soft and warm as always, even hot now that he is sweaty with fever.
James leans in to kiss a drop of sweat away.
“You know,” he murmurs into the skin, “I could do this. I could be this to you. If only you let me.”
John swallows and thrashes at something with his healthy hand. James slips his fingers under him.
“Is this how he does it to you?”
John feels boiling inside. James thinks fleetingly about the ice in the pantry and how he should fill the bathtub with it if John becomes worse.
“Does he even prepare you, or just take you? As if you were his,” he hisses, crawling over John, kneeling in front of him and lifting John’s thighs over his knees.
John’s eyes flutter open and he stares up at James. There is such a mixture of kindness and understanding in them that James’ fingers go to hover over his lips.
He can hear him, John’s voice is inside him, silent but distinct.
“What?” he asks quietly.
John’s mouth opens slightly and James bends his head lower.
“What?”
\\
They can do nothing, Lestrade had said, before they hear what James wants.
“He has John there,” he had whispered to Sherlock after Harriet had been put to bed. “He is a hostage now, James has means of keeping him inside, hurting him if he feels threatened. You might never have been in a situation like this but I have. And one thing we must not be is rash.”
The storm howling outside and Harriet’s clothes and his own shoes drying by the hearth keep dripping water on the floor in a patter make Sherlock’s thoughts drop like clumps of wet clay from the walls of his skull. They all take the form of small man, hunched down, covered in blood.
Fortunately Lestrade had taken the finger with him to Scotland Yard. Sherlock could not bear to see it again and after Harriet had woken up twice to a nightmare, he was thankful that the bloody parcel was as far away from her as possible.
Sitting by the fire, listening to any sounds from the bedroom and the dripping of the wet clothes, he buries his face in his hands. He cannot concentrate.
A creak from the door rouses him. So deeply has he been lost inside his head that though he has not been able to form a coherent thought, he has missed every sound but the dripping of drying clothes, the rain outside and the occasional whimper from the bedroom. He has not heard the door downstairs open and close, he has not heard the stairs, and now James stands in front of him, shoes muddy from the rain, eyes gleaming.
He has a rifle in his hand.
Sherlock glances quickly at the bedroom where the light still shines. Harriet had insisted on it, afraid of the shadows in the corners of the strange house.
Please, God, don’t let her wake up.
“Don’t worry,” James whispers. “I have not come to hurt the child. Nor you for that matter.”
He places the barrel under Sherlock’s chin.
“Look at me.”
They stare at each other in silence, James’ eyes roaming over Sherlock’s face, his head turning from side to side.
“Oh, look at you,” he finally breathes out. “It’s your face. I have had that face in my head, hating it. But now I’m here seeing it, it’s nothing. You look at me through your eyes, yes. Those eyes... You’re even afraid of me.”
Clearly Sherlock wishes to argue, for anger, more towards the insult of him ever being afraid of someone else, someone like James, flashes in his eyes. James presses the gun deeper into his throat.
“You are afraid. If not for yourself, then for the child. Or for John.”
The light of anger goes out in Sherlock’s eyes and is replaced with a flash of horror.
“Oh, yes,” James whispers. “You don’t have to worry, though. He is unharmed.”
“You chopped his finger off with an axe,” Sherlock snarls.
“Merely clipped his wing.”
The gun lowers and Sherlock can breathe properly once more. There is a slight creak from the bedroom, Harriet turning in her sleep. Sherlock hears her snuffling into the pillows, hopefully dreaming of something other than the events of the day. He glances at the gun now hanging loose in James’ hand.
“Sherlock…”
His eyes are met by a maniac’s stare.
“Has John ever spoken to you?”
“You mean in signs?” Sherlock asks, confused.
“No, words. Actual words.”
“No, not words,” his answer lingers. He does not like where this is going.
“You never thought you heard words?”
He shakes his head.
“I heard him here,” James taps his forehead. “I heard his voice. There in my head. I watched his lips, I had my fingers on them, my own lips on them, they weren’t moving, they didn’t make the words.”
“You punished him wrongly,” Sherlock says, eyes full of disgust. “It was me, my fault. You know how good I am at manipulating others.”
James looks as if he does not hear him or that his voice and words are not important to him. The manic glint in his eyes grows more alive the longer he speaks.
“He said, ‘I am afraid of my will, James. Of what it might do, it is so strange and strong. I have to go, let me go. Let Sherlock take me away, let him try and save me.’”
The gun is still hanging weakly in James’ grasp but now there is a slight tremor in his hand and the gun rattles slightly with each shake. Thus far, Sherlock has not been calculating any means of escaping the possible change in James’ mood and the gun perhaps suddenly being directed at his head again, ready to fire. He has not dared to contemplate on a plan and now it is farthest of his thoughts. Now he sees James wants nothing but to be rid of it all.
“I wish to leave,” James says quietly to the floor. “I can’t stay there, I don’t want to stay there. He can have the house, I don’t care. I only want to get away from there.”
He draws in a shaky breath and looks at Sherlock once more.
“Take him, he is yours. He always has been, I think. At least he was never mine.”
\\
It has been raining constantly for weeks and it is the first beautiful day for a long time as John steps out of Fenton House, his arm in a sling, movements slow and groggy, eyes staring under drooping eyelids at the end of the path where a coach is waiting.
Mrs Hudson and Miss Hooper are there to close the doors after them. Mrs Hudson is tutting and repeating what a terrible shock it has been, Miss Hooper sniffs in her handkerchief, eyes red and puffy. She nods at everything Mrs Hudson says, not hearing a word as she follows John’s slow descend down the steps to where Sherlock and Harriet are waiting on the sunny road.
Harriet is standing as close to Sherlock as possible, Sherlock’s arm draped over her shoulders, his fingers caressing her cheek as she sees John and sniffs.
The servants carry John and Harriet’s trunks into the awaiting coach while Sherlock speaks to Mrs Hudson, turning round every once in a while to instruct with the loading. John stands by the wall, resting against the warm bricks, Harriet waiting and fidgeting slightly by his side. With a last nod, Mrs Hudson takes her leave with Miss Hooper and Sherlock turns his full attention to the two waiting for him. John looks exhausted, bending slightly over his bandaged hand. Harriet stares at the ground, afraid to look at her brother. Sherlock walks to them briskly and stops in front of John who looks at him like he is surprised to see him.
Safe on the street, away from the house and its gaping windows, Sherlock pulls John against himself and stares into his eyes. People are walking past them, undisturbed by the two and Harriet standing with the puppy in her arms. It senses the intensity hanging above the three and whimpers. Harriet hugs it tighter, fighting the urge to grab John’s unharmed hand and seek comfort from her brother. She knows something important is being decided between the two.
Sherlock looks at John, eyes glued to his, trying to read from them what John wants.
He feels it is no use, he has to ask.
So he takes off his hat and with an air of complete submission he peers deeper into the face hiding under a tuft of unruly hair constantly being tossed round by the wind. He sees something warm glint there, in the bottom of John’s eyes, and when John does nothing to protest, he kisses him. John kisses back, not fervently but still like he never wants to let go. They pull away, the warmth still there, a clear confirmation of John’s reciprocity. Sherlock feels he can breathe again.
He turns to the coachman waiting by the door, takes John’s healthy hand to his right and leads him and Harriet to the coach, climbs in and the driver bangs the door closed behind them. Through the window, Sherlock instructs him to drive to the harbour fast as he can. The man nods, jumps on his seat and flicks the reins.
“We are not going home?” Harriet asks, squeezing Redbeard to her chest.
Sherlock glances at John sitting quietly next to him on the carriage seat. Clearly homesick and exhausted, wishing nothing more than to be back in her father’s house in Scotland, Harriet seems to echo his emotions once again. The months spent at Fenton are suddenly washed away, and the house is just a house, home once again their birthplace in the moors.
“I have sent Mycroft ahead to take care of the estate for now. We are going away for a while, just so that your brother has time to recover.”
Harriet strokes Redbeard’s back.
“Are we going far?”
“Only across the bay. I want to show Paris to you. I will tell you about all the murders that have happened there and you can try and deduce who committed the crimes.”
Something akin to a smile flashes across Harriet’s face and she turns her full attention to Redbeard, cooing and kissing its face. Sherlock takes John’s hand and leans to say low in his ear,
“We will return the minute you want us to but let me take care of you for now. You are not ready to face your father’s death.”
John closes his eyes at his voice and leans in to have Sherlock’s mouth brush a kiss against his temple.
“We will take the piano with us. I do not want you to be separated from it again.”
\\
John and Harriet watch Sherlock march back and forth on the cobblestone streets, talking to people and waving his hands in the air, accompanied by angry shouts. Redbeard, still securely in Harriet’s arms, sniffs the fresh sea air excitedly, tail tapping against Harriet’s dress at the sight of so much at once.
The harbour is in complete disarray. The weeks and weeks of storms have severely harmed the breakwaters and several of the boats used to deliver passengers through St Katharine’s docks to the open sea and the awaiting ships. There are people standing everywhere, waiting anxiously for a journey they have waited for a month to finally begin and all round the harbour they are fighting over boats, tickets, luggage, amount of passengers a boat can carry.
Sherlock stomps back to them, cheeks red with anger.
“Our ship won’t leave without us, that’s for sure. But they don’t have enough boats to carry the passengers through the docks. We have to take a lighter one and I’m afraid it won’t hold the piano.”
He looks at the monstrous instrument standing next to the rest of their luggage. John stares ahead to the distance and says nothing.
After an hour, a sailor approaches, informing them that a boat is ready to take them to the ship. He grows pale at the sight of the piano but Sherlock insists it come with them. He will not hear of the piano going on a separate boat. It travels with them or not at all. The sailor clearly would be more than glad to tell him where the piano can go but says nothing, grabs a hold of a trunk and begins to carry the luggage to the boat swaying gently in the ripples.
Lestrade has come to see them off. He shakes Sherlock’s hand, wishing him all the best and promising to keep London safe until he returns. Sherlock scoffs at this but keeps a hold of his hand until Lestrade grasps him by the shoulders and embraces him tightly. Next he goes to Harriet, kneels down on the ground and taking hold of her hands whispers something in her ear. She glances at John and nods solemnly.
Last he goes to John. He waits for John to look at him before he grasps his healthy hand in both of his and gives him the same heartfelt handshake he did the first time they met. He does not embrace him but keeps his hand in his for a long time before nodding and releasing it with a final squeeze.
The sailor and Sherlock help John to step into the boat and Lestrade lowers Harriet and Redbeard (that has suddenly decided it is not liking this after all) in Sherlock’s waiting arms. She retreats to the back of the boat with the puppy and stares eagerly as the sailor loosens the rope and takes the oar to push them clear from the quay. He begins to row towards the open sea, Harriet singing quietly to herself, Redbeard whimpering, Sherlock and John sitting in the bow, separated from the rest by the piano tied to the sides with ropes.
They watch Lestrade stand in position until he disappears behind the boats attempting to squeeze through from the dock and row out to the sea. Their boat, heavy with the weight of the piano, is soon left behind by the small vessel carrying the rest of their luggage. The ropes supporting the piano squeak loudly. Sherlock squints at the ship still far away in the distance and frowns.
“Idiots. They didn’t have to stay so far. Do they think the rest of the breakwaters are just going to fall on them?”
He looks to John who is staring at the swaying piano, eyes dreamy and distant. Sherlock grasps his hand and squeezes. John squeezes back lightly before letting go and beginning to sign to Harriet who signs back with a look of surprise.
“What does he say?” Sherlock asks her eagerly.
“He says to throw the piano over-board.”
Sherlock glances at John before answering.
“It is quite safe.”
John begins to shake his head and Harriet raises her voice,
“He doesn’t want it. He says it’s spoiled.”
A big wave makes their boat jump. Harriet sways and falls down.
“I have the key, we can have it mended,” Sherlock pleads John, pulling the key from his pocket.
John pushes it away and signs rapidly, eyes full of panic.
“It reminds you of them, doesn’t it? James and the other.”
The hand stops.
He has seen the engraving, John can see it in his eyes, from the stern look he gives him, like he can finally read his thoughts and does not like what he sees.
“It reminds you of them and as long as you have the piano you are chained to it. And to them.”
John’s expression is suddenly that of deep hate and Sherlock gasps, reaching his hand out towards him. John stands up and begins to tug the ropes holding the piano fast on the boat. The sailor shouts at him, but Sherlock merely stares for a second. He never wants to see that look again, so he takes a hold of John and says,
“Fine, we’ll throw it over.”
John flops back down next to him, and the sailor and Sherlock begin to loosen the ropes. The sudden movement makes the water splash over the sides, wetting John’s trousers and the sling holding his hand. The coolness of the sea feels so comforting suddenly and he lowers his hand to brush his fingers over the surface.
How nice it must be, to be a fish.
Several of the other boats, having delivered their passengers on the ship, are now returning to the dock. People are standing on the deck, leaning against the railings leisurely, waving at the retreating boats and the new ones moving slowly towards them. John looks at them and then at Harriet who is trying to sit up, grunting to herself and cursing the boat.
They have now untied the ropes and are lowering the piano into the sea. The water almost surges over the side when the boat tilts, John’s whole arm now under water. It is like an invisible power is pulling him towards the lapping tides, suddenly almost touching his nose when the boat tips for the final time and the piano falls with a great splash.
The rope that has been holding it is still in a coil on the bottom of the boat, and the weight of the piano is fast dragging it towards the water as well. Thinking nothing, John places his foot in the loop just when the piano pulls the rope tight and with a sharp guttural gasp he is torn loose from Sherlock’s fingers and pulled under.
He falls down, on and on, towards the bottom that lurks surprisingly far away in the darkness. His hair, long that it is now with his weeks of recovery and no chance to have it cut, sways in front of his eyes and above his head like seaweed. The bandage comes loose round his finger and a fish, unafraid of his sudden plunge into its home, nips at it, loses interest and swims away. A low hum seems to rise from the darkness where the rest of the ocean kingdom is awaiting him, waiting for the piano to come down with a silent boom, waiting for him to sit down before it and play and play and play.
Down and down he goes. His eyes get used to the dark and the water fogging his view. He can see the blue, green and white shades of the ocean, the cool and calm of the water. Releasing the last lungful of air, he suddenly feels heavier and the cool water is a painful pressure over his chest. He looks round in rising worry, blinks at the inviting emptiness of the ocean, reaching away beyond his sight.
No.
He bends down to try and loosen the knot round his shoe. The coil has wrung itself round his foot, like it has no other task but to drag him under with the piano to play for the fish.
(He knows just the song for them. The quadrille David taught him how to play. They will like that.)
The knot sits tight, chewing on the bones of his ankle. He can feel the fibres of it biting to his skin, determined to keep a hold of him. Not like he has the need to fight it, or the strength. The water is beginning to fill his lungs with its cool grip and suddenly he feels the surge of panic that rises when one is about to drown. He has experienced it once, as a boy, when he fell into the well in the garden of his father’s house.
But with panic comes realisation. He is about to die, has longed to die for so long, but suddenly it is out of the question. Looking up at the sun that is barely visible through the masses of deep blue water, he thinks of Sherlock and Harriet and the life he will have with them on Baker Street. He wants to keep living or without him Sherlock will surely choose death as well.
There is no obligation, only the desire to see Sherlock again. He begins to kick his shoe loose, the rope biting deeper into his ankle even through the leather (surely it is drawing blood?) but he hates it now, does not trust it to drag him down into coolness and peace but to misery and loneliness.
He kicks once, twice and his foot comes loose. He does not stop to look as his shoe drifts down, still attached to the rope, and is soon swallowed by the darkness. He begins to pull towards the light, clothes heavy with salt water, the coldness of it bristling on his skin he pulls and pulls.
The sun draws closer and closer, he reaches it with a final pull, breaks through the surface and draws in a shaking breath. Suddenly, there is movement all round him, shouting and people jumping into the water to help pull him back to the boat. He lets them drag him, feeling the light of the blessed sun on his face.
Fingers grasp his wrist, fingers so familiar, hands so warm and firm round his waist.
Sherlock, he greets with an exhausted smile. What a death! What a chance! What a surprise! Can you believe it? My will has chosen life?
“Yes, my love,” he hears Sherlock whisper in his ear. Harriet’s hands are on his face, her hot tears wetting his eyelids and cheeks all over again while the sun shines over them, peaking in turn behind both of their heads as they sway with the movements of the boat. No need for warmth, there is light instead of darkness and there is Sherlock, speaking against his temple,
“You had me spooked, but now you are back.”
+
We never went back to Fenton House. After we returned to London, Harriet and I moved to Baker Street. I teach piano now in a studio Sherlock arranged for me in central London only a short walk away from home. We have had a metal fingertip fashioned for me. I’m quite the town freak, which satisfies.
James never divorced me, and I guess it was his final revenge. We have not heard from him since and perhaps in time, when he is assumed dead, Sherlock and I can marry. But in the eyes of the society I still belong to another, and in the beginning most of my students were more interested in seeing the prosthetic finger and the man who lives in sin outside his marriage. In time, they grew bored when they understood my muteness was not in fact a charade and they left having gotten nothing out of me. Some have stayed and they are genuinely interested in music instead of horrid gossip.
But I am learning to speak. My voice is still so bad I feel ashamed. I practice only when I’m alone and it is dark.
\\
He is there again, walking in the garden, supporting himself against the wall, a cloth over his head so that he can pretend no one can hear him practice . He is afraid of the harshness of his own voice. Compared to his piano he finds it so horrible he has to cover himself and pretend no one is there to hear him.
It is too easy to go through the back door, lean against the wall so that when he reaches me, his fingertips will brush against my chest instead of the bricks, making him slow down momentarily before continuing in normal pace. I won’t let him get far but grasp his arms and spin him round against the wall. Kissing down his face over the cloth I peak under it to see his eyes are closed, but he is smiling.
I would like to pull the cloth over my head as well, to hide us both in the darkness and kiss him under it, like in secret. But it is his world under there, his safe haven is still the pretence that no one can see or hear him under there, not until his voice is tuned to perfection and he can emerge with a new sound that will surely resemble that of his music.
And then again, there is nothing to hide anymore. I can pull him out to the sunlight and kiss him in plain sight in our garden until he is breathless.
\\
Though the ever-increasing smog of central London makes it hard to see and seems to surround everything with strange echoes, the nights here are somehow clearer. Summer has arrived again and I am finally able to hear the voice of my will clearly inside my head . I prefer this to the deafening silence I have come to associate with the bad memories that still fill my mind from time to time. Harriet has her room upstairs and sometimes I can hear her whimpering. She has nightmares. They appear less frequently than they used to but sometimes they are so vivid she wakes up screaming. Then I run to her and rock her in my arms until she falls asleep again. She is happy now but I don’t think she will ever completely forgive herself.
In our bed, I sometimes lie awake, watch Sherlock sleep and count his breaths. I slide my metal finger over his bare back, making him chuckle gently and slide closer to me. He never shudders at the coldness of the steel, he knows it is me, a part of me at any rate. Even through the cobwebs of dreams he will know my finger is brushing over his spine and he will smile and drape his arm over me.
Like Harriet, I have nightmares but they are bittersweet and comforting. Sometimes I wake up, feeling for a second like the dreams in which my piano lies buried in its ocean grave and I myself am floating above it are preferable to the reality. Then I turn to my side to see Sherlock’s dark form lying next to me and I remember.
But the images of the dream follow me into the sunny garden in the morning and as I watch Sherlock and Harriet busy themselves with the many flowers they have planted together in the small garden we have I remember my dreams again and let myself drift off to them. I close my eyes and see the piano and my weightless corpse over it, hovering like a ghost. Down there everything is so still and silent that it lulls me to sleep. It is a weird lullaby, and so it is; it is mine.
I have not been able to capture it myself, the tune, not on the piano. Sometimes when Sherlock plays his violin I hear a note or two that so closely resemble the song of the ocean that I stop to listen. It passes fast, only a second or two, and then it’s Bach again or Vivaldi, all those composers Sherlock loves and who give him comfort.
Surprisingly, while music has been inadequate in describing my feelings about this matter, I have found comfort in words. I have read nearly every book Sherlock has in his shelves and these words in particular have caught my attention:
There is a silence, where hath been no sound.
There is a silence, where no sound may be.
In the cold grave -- under the deep, deep sea.