Work Text:
Lieutenant Holmes sat in the stuffy office awaiting Reynolds, the commissary for the British garrison in Fort Amherstburg. He sighed in boredom and ran a finger under his collar. It was intolerably hot in Upper Canada in August, not at all what he'd expected when he'd been banished here. 'May as well be in the West Indies,' he thought, 'except there I would die of yellow jack, whereas here I will die from the scourge of mosquitoes.' He could hear Reynolds outside, arguing with a sergeant about black powder allotments. It sounded as if he would be arguing for some time. Sherlock shifted on the hard chair.
His eyes lit upon a sheaf of papers on Reynold's table, the top-most a blank sheet. He could pen a letter while he waited. Sherlock took it - he'd repay Reynolds for the small theft later. In vain he looked for quill and ink, and settled for the prosaic pencil Reynolds had been using instead. He sharpened it with a few strokes of a pen-knife and brushed curls of wood from the table. Sherlock set the tip to the surface, and paused. What to write? His grinding misery at being far from the action on the other side of the Atlantic? His resentment at his long-delayed promotion? His self-pity and lonely state with no companion of the mind to talk with?
Sherlock found his hand moving without thought, the pencil scratching on the paper. Irritated with himself - he'd have to find something to erase the lines! - he looked down. A familiar exasperated smile and eyes crinkled with laughter looked back at him. Sherlock blinked, a similar expression crossing his lean face before fading. John. He swallowed and pressed his eyes closed a moment. A memory came to mind - the rocky shore outside Portsmouth, cheese, bread and a flagon of water carried in a linen square. Sun and the susurration of the surf moving across a pebbled beach. And a small man in a rusty black coat and buckled shoes, absorbed in a book.
The pencil moved in deft flicks, outlining the crossed leg, the absurd wig John had worn in spite of the warmth of the day. In his head he heard the echo of a soft Scots burr - 'What now, man, surely there's a moment to spare! I've only just started this book!' On that brilliant day Sherlock had laughed and replied that John was prevaricating, that he knew for a fact John had read that book before, and wouldn't he come for a swim?
His hand slowed, then stopped. It was unbearable to Sherlock all of a sudden, seeing this facsimile of his dearest friend and knowing the distance which parted them. He contemplated tearing the sketch up - it was no good to torment himself this way.
"Who's that?" A feminine voice intruded on his thoughts and Sherlock jolted. Miss Catherine Reynolds stood at his elbow, looking at the sketch with curiosity. He stood in haste and bowed. She dipped a curtsy in return.
"Miss Reynolds. A pleasure to see you again." It wasn't, but Sherlock kept his distaste from his face. Catherine Reynolds had been making eyes at him ever since she'd first met him, undeterred by his icy formality. Every time he turned around while he was on shore, there she seemed to be.
"Lieutenant Holmes," she said. "I was just bringing a note to my father and wanted to wait inside away from the heat of the sun." He said nothing, only inclining his head again and pulling the chair out for her. She picked up the sketch and Sherlock wished to pull it from her hand. "This must be a friend of yours. You've caught such an expression on his face! I had no idea your talents extended beyond sailing ships about."
She looked up from under her lashes and Sherlock felt impelled to say, "It's no one. Just a man I saw once while at the sea side in England." John was much more, but it was private.
"Oh! Well, it's prodigiously well done. Are you going to finish it?"
"No." The reply was terse and she looked up in surprise. Sherlock softened his tone. "I was only passing time until your father finished his business."
"It could use a touch of colour. Oh, I know! I've a set of watercolours, as you know. May I take this and practise my tinting?" Catherine asked, all lively eagerness.
"By all means," Sherlock said, his heart clenching. "It's yours to enjoy."
She tilted the sketch this way and that, considering. "Flesh tones are so hard to do well. Do you remember what colour his waistcoat was, this stranger's?"
"Sky-blue," Sherlock said. "Like his eyes."
Something in his tone caught her attention again and she gazed at him in confusion. Sherlock forced a polite smile to his lips and changed the topic. "How are your mother and your sister? Are they well? This heat must be very distressing for gentle ladies."
Catherine brightened and began to chatter away, something about wild strawberries and the kitchen garden. Sherlock listened with half an ear and nodded, eyes on her face.
He did not look at the sketch again.
