Chapter Text
Last night, he dreamt he went to Manderley again.
But it wasn't the house he first saw, nor was it the tenderly-curated assortment of flower gardens behind it; nor the gargantuan swell of the waves, the height of the sea-spray as they broke against the cliffs. No; it was the long dirt road flanked by birch trees, at the end of which lay a towering wrought-iron gate. John's fingers became the breeze in his hair, his arm became the hug of a seatbelt across his hips and the movement of the mattress beside him became the jostle of the car as it careened him towards that gate, towards his new life. He saw it all, plain as day, and it would never leave him.
He saw, quite plainly, the young man he once was; without prospects, name or future, always in another's shadow, mocked and disrespected. Freak. Of course, he was still mocked and disrespected, up until the denouement. Not even John Watson's love could protect him from it. But what had transpired since was far bigger than Sherlock's own pride, and so it lingered, clung to him, like the stain of red wine on a white tablecloth, watered-down with time but never gone. Or the stain of blood on a white kerchief, monogrammed so beautifully with a large, swooping M.
I wish you could bottle up memories, like scent. You could stopper them up and store them and revisit them whenever you liked, clear as the day on which they were formed.
What a fool he'd been back then.
A police siren sounded outside in the dead of night. It was a long, steady stream of noise that rumbled in the back of his head, like the rattle of a steam train on the tracks, followed by a whistle as it ground to a halt on that fresh summer's day in Monte Carlo, 1893.
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The last thing Sherlock carried out of the cab was his little leather valise and cloth sack out of which stuck the handle of his tennis racket; at a rather awkward angle, too, for it kept poking him in the armpit as he (aided, thankfully, by the driver), lugged the majority of Wilkes' suitcases up the front stairs of Le Majestique. After a long day spent inside the cramped quarters of a train car which stank of a mixture of Parisian cigarettes and merde, the cool, large entryway of Le Majestique was a welcome change. Then again, the same could be said for anyone entering a five-star hotel, no matter how pleasant or unpleasant the journey there has been. A gargantuan palm frond, lush and green, brushed Sherlock's cheeks like a flutter of fingers as he somewhat gracelessly ambled towards the concierge's desk. He was distinctly aware of the sharp, uneven clack of his scuffed shoes against the polished marble floors. Despite the soles being dry and reasonably clean, he had the feeling he was leaving a trail of dirt behind himself. One certainly could've thought so, given the look Wilkes was giving him. Bored, disappointed, and with a sneering undertone. Sherlock was quite used to it- and for ninety pounds a year, it seemed a reasonable cross to bear. A bellhop in a well-tailored uniform came to his rescue before he could dwell on it for too long, and relieved Sherlock of his charges to move them all onto a golden trolley which would find its way up to their rooms in no time.
With Wilkes preoccupied with their passports at the check-in, Sherlock set his little cloth bag at his feet and turned his head upwards. The ceiling was domed, and covered in gold leaf, and the light that streamed in through the windows above scattered into bright flecks as it bounced to and fro between the enormous centrepiece chandelier and the polished gold framework. It seemed to all conglomerate on the ground floor, bathing the hall of the hotel and the guests within it in a pale, radiant glow, such that everything seemed to possess a slightly ethereal quality. Perhaps what it highlighted, most of all, was the mosaic tile pattern upon which Sherlock stood; a golden rendition of the hotel's logo.
"Stop dawdling, and get moving. I don't pay you to simply stand there."
In characteristic brusque fashion, Wilkes was snapping his fingers in front of Sherlock's face and instructing him to do something. Hastily, Sherlock grabbed his things and scarpered after his employer, who was taking great strides towards the elevator which would bring them to the fourth floor. The Queen Suite was to be Wilkes' home for the next however many weeks, and Sherlock was to sleep (as he was informed the moment he stepped into the antechamber) in the maid's room at the back. It was small, with a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Sherlock felt it was more of a broom closet than a bedroom, but he had made do in worse places. The bed was made, he had space to hang his clothes up, and a little vanity to make himself presentable in the mornings. Not that Wilkes wouldn't find something to criticise either way.
With a sigh, Sherlock sank down onto his bed, and a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Monte-Carlo. A new adventure.
No sooner had his head hit the pillow than Wilkes' shrill voice sounded through the door. "Sherlock! Sher-lock! Come help me unpack!"
Wilkes kept him so busy that afternoon that by the time dinner rolled around Sherlock had sweated twice through the clothes he'd worn on the journey to the south, which earned him a reprimand and strict instructions to get changed before going downstairs to have the maître-d' seat them on the terrace. By the time Wilkes had finished his second course, washed down with a fourth helping of red, he seemed to be in good humour. And so they fell into their usual routine. Sherlock slowly paced his way through his Salade Niçoise and sliced baguette and offered conversational 'hms' and 'ahs' in response to Wilkes' steady monologue about this and that in Monte-Carlo, and his nephew's wedding photographs, and 'oh goodness, I do hope he knows we're no longer in Paris now,' and so on and so forth. The one blessing of Wilkes' self-absorbed character was that he believed that staff like Sherlock had nothing of interest to say, and so Sherlock could sit through long dinners with him and focus not only on the food but also on the ambiance, which tonight was nothing short of wonderful. A salty sea breeze wafted through his hair and ruffled his shirt collar, lifting the eau de parfum he'd hastily dabbed on from his skin and replacing it with something richer, more grounded; deep notes of wet sand and sediment, earthy but fresh, warmed by the fading sun, topped with coarse sea-salt and the pots of verbena hanging from the banister in a tumble of lilac. He turned his head to gaze at the sun's reflection on the waves. As he did so he noticed a man, dressed handsomely in navy and with a worn-out look in the eyes, being seated at the table with the best view.
He reclined in his seat, and Sherlock pictured him waiting for someone. Perhaps a wife? There was no place more romantic on this earth than where they were sat right now, Sherlock believed.
Wilkes let out an audible gasp. A rare sound of surprise, coming from him. Sherlock whipped his head away from the stranger and back to Sebastian, expecting to hear a complaint about how his fondant au chocolat wasn't fondant enough, when out came a hushed string of words that meant nothing to the young man.
"Oh. Oh, Mon Dieu. It's John Watson."
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"Who?"
"Good lord, Child. Dr. John H Watson. Have I taught you nothing?" Sherlock was considering clarifying if the question was meant rhetorically when Wilkes continued. "The owner of Manderley! Beautiful estate." By now, Wilkes seemed to have overcome the exhilaration of his realisation and had resumed digging into his dessert. He waggled his fork at Sherlock, who watched as a pellet of liquid chocolate flew in an arc from the tines and collided with the side of his empty wine-glass. Clearly the fondant was sufficiently fondant, then. "Not far from where you grew up, you know," Sebastian said, the piece of warm chocolate cake now residing in his cheek.
Sherlock's eyes lowered to the solitary smear of hard-boiled egg yolk on his plate, the remnants of his salad. "Right." Thinking about his childhood was not a particularly welcome pastime for the young man, and talking about it much less so, because it inevitably led to Sebastian discussing his heroics in 'saving' Sherlock at a time when his family did not want him.
If Wilkes had noticed the effect of his comment on Sherlock, he made it unknown to others, his eyes fixated on John, a point past Sherlock's shoulder. His young ward was beginning to feel rather embarrassed by his fawning. "Chap looks ghastly," he said off-handedly, which Sherlock found quite uncalled for. "Not unexpected, of course, after losing his Mary. Terrible, terrible." He punctuated this with a loud sigh, then tossed his napkin on the table. "We'll dine with him tomorrow morning. He'll remember me."
What's so memorable about you? Sherlock wondered, watching Sebastian rise with a smear of chocolate at the corner of his lip.
Not all that much, apparently.