Work Text:
It is said that Queen Victoria used to consult with them, in times of need or distress. Perhaps so have other monarchs; there is no record of it.
But this is true: there have always been ravens in the Tower of London. If the ravens are lost or fly away, the Crown will fall and Britain with it.
***
John doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but neither does he want to intrude on the conversation. The Holmes brothers are speaking as cordially as he's ever heard them, and he does not want to shatter whatever fragile truce they've reached.
"I've told Mummy that you seem to be
settling down,
" Mycroft says, with curious emphasis.
"I'm not," Sherlock replies, rather less snappish than he could.
"You know the rules, Sherlock. If you've become...
attached
to this doctor of yours, he should know them, as well."
"It's not as if we'll have any
children
together. I doubt he'll even put up with me that long, even without the family... inconvenience."
"Hardly an inconvenience," Mycroft says. "We're well cared-for, once we take up our duties. And I do believe John will surprise you."
"What if I don't
want
to take up my duties." Sherlock says this sullenly, as if it's been a long refrain from childhood.
"They will assert themselves at the proper moment," Mycroft says. "You know this already. We all must do our part for Queen and Country." John hears a rustle and a sharp click, as if the elder brother has stood, shaken out his coat, and allowed the tip of his umbrella to rap against the floor. He ducks off to the side, on the shadowed landing leading upstairs, where the bulb is burnt out and no light shines.
Still, when Mycroft exits the door, he looks right at John, as if his eyes can pierce the darkness. He clicks his tongue, another sharp rap - not the umbrella, then, as it's resting on his shoulder. "Eavesdropping," he scolds lightly with a half-smile. "Well. Perhaps that will force the issue." He sets off down the stairs, calling over his shoulder, "The very best of luck to you, Doctor Watson."
John simply stares at him, watching as he disappears from view. There is the creak of the outer door, then a flapping noise as Mycroft readies his umbrella against the spring rain.
The door closes.
Sherlock is staring
daggers
at him when he enters. John sighs. "Yes, all right, I'm sorry for listening in on a private conversation."
"Oh, that," Sherlock waves one hand dismissively. "I do it all the time, why should I fault you. I'm simply preemptively disappointed in how the rest of this conversation will turn out."
"You don't trust me, with whatever this big secret is?" John settles in the armchair recently vacated by Mycroft.
"I know you won't believe me."
John smiles, reaches across, and takes one of Sherlock's elegant, fine-boned hands. "Try me."
***
He pretends he believes it, but he doesn't, not really. Not until Reichenbach, when he sees a single raven, rapping at his window after...
Well.
After.
John leaps to his feet to let it in, but it flies away, its wings beating with a familiar sound. Like a long coat, flapping in the wind.
There is an ink-dark feather stuck to the sill, and heedless of hygiene, he brings it inside, clasps it close, and hopes that the impossible is true.