Work Text:
John slid into the passenger seat of the rented Land Rover and remembered, as Sherlock peeled out from the curb, exactly why he kept meaning to learn to drive. Sherlock drove the way he did most things in life: very precisely and intelligently, but seemingly according to a set of rules he thought applied to him and him alone.
“Oh, this is going to be brilliant, John,” Sherlock enthused as they headed out of London. “A double murder, and not just that, but one that happened on a gated ashram! It’s like a locked room mystery but better,” he said with satisfaction. “Absolutely worth going all the way to Cornwall. It’s been an age since we’ve had a job out of London.”
“Yeah, about that,” John said. “Before we get there, I think we need to set some ground rules to avoid a repeat of last time.”
“A repeat of what? Whatever are you on about?” Sherlock asked absently, already clearly driving with half his brain on the road and half in his mind palace.
“Um, Dartmoor?” John said testily. “Rule number one, no drugging me. Not even for the case.”
“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said absently.
John sighed in defeat, resigned to having lost Sherlock’s attention. “Great. I’m sure this is going to be just as much fun as Baskerville.”
***
Upon pulling into the small, rough parking area just inside the ashram gates, the two exited the car, and John looked around appreciatively. “Now this is something,” he said, looking around at the modest buildings clustered on a hillside overlooking the shore. A group of yogis was practicing sun salutations facing the ocean, moving silently but in unison against the spectacular backdrop.
Sherlock was already shaking the hand of a Buddhist monk who had introduced himself as the leader of the ashram. “If you are ready to begin your investigation, Mr. Holmes, please come this way. We have closed off the room where the unfortunate events occurred, and no one has been inside since the police and coroner did their work. You understand that we are most interested in solving this mystery and putting it behind our little community.”
“Yes,” John said sympathetically. “I’m sure it was quite a shock, especially in a place of peace.”
“Just so,” the monk said sadly. “And, you can imagine the strain this is putting on our social media manager. How do you contend with having your name linked with the hashtag #ashram_assassination?”
John cocked an eyebrow as he and Sherlock were led into the room. “So, a brother and sister, was it?” he asked, taking out his notebook. “And, no one was allowed in or out of this building at the time of the murders.”
“Yes,” the leader agreed. “As you know, our ashram welcomes visitors for holidays focused on yoga and meditation, but we enforce a strict 9:00 p.m. curfew to facilitate our practice of asanas at dawn. The pair of siblings were our guests, but they were seen right before curfew. Nothing was heard, but the ashram asks for visitors and resident monks alike to respect our practice of silence between dusk and dawn. Whoever did this was accustomed to working quietly.”
Sherlock was already crouching down by the floor, occasionally wiping a fingertip delicately across its bamboo surface and holding it up to the light. He did this at several spots around the room, including inspecting the window sills and the door thresholds, before straightening and asking the monk, “The victims, both ginger?”
“Yes, they both had auburn hair,” he said, clearly confused. “But I don’t see what…”
“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted. “You’re looking for one of your resident monks, clearly someone who has been here for a time so that he’s accustomed to your schedule and knows when rooms will be empty. The pattern of dusty footprints on the floor, although nearly hopelessly marred by the clumsy footsteps of the police and coroner, shows the assailant walked with closely-spaced steps, indicating a reticence to engage that has become habitual, so likely he is a sufferer from social anxiety. And, the lack of hairs from any other than the victims, even though there was likely a struggle, indicates that your assailant suffered from alopecia. Find this man, and you’ve found your murderer,” Sherlock said with triumph.
“That, I will say once again, was amazing,” John said as the monk hurried from the room, muttering to himself. Sherlock preened.
“Good heavens, Sherlock, isn’t it enough that you have Doctor Watson stroking your ego all over London? Do you have to drag him all the way to Cornwall to have him do it here as well?” an oily voice said from the doorway.
John and Sherlock whirled around, taking in the barefoot man wearing casual linen pants turned up to bare his ankles and a linen shirt unbuttoned enough to create a slight V across his chest. In spite of the casual attire, each item of clothing was carefully pressed, and the man carried himself with a formality bordering on regal.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock spat. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”
“Certainly not, brother mine,” Mycroft said easily. “When I want you followed, I am far more circumspect and far less personally involved. I am here on my annual holiday to participate in a yoga retreat.”
John looked over at Sherlock, who was taking in the sight of his brother, dressed more casually than either of them had ever seen and seemingly admitting to a spiritual practice. Sherlock was clearly having trouble with this; John watched those multi-colored eyes seem to turn for a second into rotating rainbow pinwheels of failure to process.
“Your annual holiday,” Sherlock said with confusion. “And you? And this place? And yoga?” He struggled to find a concept he had been presented with in the last several minutes he could wrap his mind around, and he finally settled on Mycroft’s appearance.
“Your attire. I’ve done a blog post comparing the tendency of 117 different clothing fibers and blends to form and hold a crease. It’s impossible for you to be wearing linen that is unwrinkled,” he said doubtfully.
“It is if one buys really good linen, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a hint of triumph. “As for the other questions you are struggling to form, is it really so difficult to imagine that I, who seeks respite from the tensions of the day in the silence of the Diogenes Club, would relish an extended period of quiet and introspection?” he asked as he circled Sherlock, who stood with his mouth gaping.
“Oh, fine,” another voice suddenly said from the doorway. “It’s bad enough he has to stick his nose into every case in London, but now he’s taking his show on the road.”
John and Sherlock again swung around to take in the figure who had entered the room, clad in workout trousers and a faded t-shirt emblazoned with an “om.”
“Anderson!” Sherlock bellowed. “How dare you! This is not a case within your jurisdiction, and you have no right to be sticking your nose in….”
“Actually,” Mycroft interrupted, “he’s with me.”
“What?” Sherlock asked weakly.
“Philip and I have been taking our summer holiday here for quite some number of years,” Mycroft said smoothly. “We find that there are certain, how shall we say, ‘stressors’ in both of our lives that become wearing after a time. Since discovering our common source of anxiety, we have joined forces in taking time to let go of the concerns of daily life so that we can return in, let’s say, a better frame of mind. Certainly,” he added, looking down his nose at Sherlock, “it seems folly to expect our common irritant to magically disappear.”
Anderson walked to Mycroft’s side and stood facing Sherlock, crossing his arms in front of him. Sherlock’s eyes darted rapidly from one to the other before finally turning to settle on John. He shook his head as if to clear it and headed for the door, barging past the lead monk who had returned to the room and continuing on in a billow of Belstaff.
“If you have any further questions about your suspect, you know where to find me,” Sherlock said without slowing down. John shrugged at Mycroft and Anderson and hurried to follow Sherlock to the car, where Sherlock was already starting the engine.
They drove all the way back to London without a word, and they never spoke of what they saw at the ashram in Cornwall.