Work Text:
Huffing and puffing, dressed in the warmest climbing clothes
How many chances would be taken in my
Hopeless pursuit of the Schnee-Mädel-Edelweiß
- Moondog (1978)
Martha Hudson smoothed the crumpled pages of lined paper. She felt uneasy about reading them, and yet one never knew with those boys. What with thumbs in the refrigerator or cigarettes stuffed in a slipper, how was a person to know what was trash and what wasn’t? And the time Sherlock shouted abuse because she’d dusted the fireplace mantle! The fireplace was exactly where she’d found these pages, balled up and tossed behind the fender like kindling. Maybe if it were December, she could trust that someone meant to burn the pages, but it was hardly September and weather had been fine. No need for a fire, not even first thing in the morning.
Having talked herself into it, Martha began to read the tight, block printed words:
Wednesdays are usually a quieter day at the surgery. The weekend emergencies that held on until Monday have been sorted and the panicked “it might be nothing but I hate to get sick over the weekend” twinges and pains of Thursdays and Fridays haven’t yet struck. A lot of routine checks and follow-ups, nothing more dramatic than the occasional rectal exam or throat swab. Still, I was weary as I trudged up the stairs to our flat on Baker Street. Sherlock had made vague noises about being out most of the day—heaven forbid he actually tell me what he was up to—and I expected to come home to an empty flat. No greeting, no tea, not even a piece of leftover breakfast toast would wait for me on the other side of the door.
And why should I care? Who wouldn’t want to kick back in a peaceful flat and catch a bit of telly with a finger or two of scotch after a day of working for the National Health Service? Not me. It’s hard to explain but our rooms always seem shabbier, more desolate when Sherlock is away. It’s paradoxical, as much as I complain about body parts in the kitchen or him sawing on his violin all night, but I really do prefer the chaos of his presence to the emptiness of my own thoughts. No wonder I was trudging up the stairs; there would be nothing worth seeing or doing on the other side of our door.
How wrong I was!
When I entered the lounge, there was Sherlock’s sister, Enola, sprawled on the couch with an open bag of popcorn next to a carton leaking viscous fluid all over the end table.
“Hullo, John,” she said.
“Hullo. Sherlock in?” I asked, looking into the kitchen for my flatmate.
“Nope. Just me,” she answered before stuffing a handful of popcorn into her mouth. She held the bag out to me, “Want some?”
“So you’re here alone?” I asked like an idiot. “Erm, no thank you. What are you doing here?”
She scraped the spoon I hadn’t noticed a moment ago around the inside of the carton before holding the whole thing up to her mouth and slurping up whatever it was. “My ice cream was melting and your place was closer than mine.” She licked milky film from her lips. “And I was simply famished.”
“Popcorn and ice cream? If you were famished, why didn’t you pick up a nice take-away?”
“This is my nice take-away. Pad Thai flavoured popcorn and lychee ice cream—it’s Asian fusion! Sure you don’t want any?”
“Erm, no, thank you, of course, I’m…I’m just gonna, erm, I mean, would you like a cup of tea or anything?” I’m certain my words trailed off ridiculously as I edged my way into the kitchen. “It’s no bother, was going to make one for myself anyway,” I continued, trying to sound nonchalant.
“That would be lovely, thank you. Say, when do you expect Sherlock?”
I busied myself filling the kettle and raised my voice to be heard over the water, “I’ve no idea. He said he had a meeting or something this afternoon.”
“Right,” she replied from the doorway. “That Gruner business. The Alpine divorce.”
I fiddled about in the cupboard to hid my face and the dismay I was sure was writ large there. Why did she know more about Sherlock than I did? I mean besides being his actual blood kin. I was just his flatmate. An arrangement meant to help both of our finances. Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? It had quickly become evident that he didn’t really need my assistance with his rent. No. It was me who was dependent on him for a choice flat in Central London. But I’d started to think, or at least hope, that perhaps I was more than just—ha!—a rent boy. Not that we’d ever—I wanted—but he’d declared he was ‘married to his work’ despite girlfriends not being ‘his area’ which implied that boyfriends—but of course that was ridiculous since I’d only ever had girlfriends before this, well except for—
Enola cleared her throat and said, “I said kettle’s boiling.“
I pulled my head out of the cupboard. I’d been lost in thought and suspected it wasn’t nearly as endearing as it was when Sherlock did it.
“Ta,” I managed as I pulled out two mugs and a box of tea.
We had just settled ourselves back in the lounge when the door flew open revealing my favourite consulting detective, dark curls falling across his forehead and into his eyes, cheeks flushed with excitement.
“Ah, John! You’re here! Splendid. We have a case! And Enola. Unexpected.”
Enola looked up from her tea and fluttered her eyelashes. “Brother dear. Do tell—a case?”
Sherlock strode past his chair to the fireplace. Leaning against it, he focused his attention on me. I hardly heard him over the pounding of my heart.
“You’ve heard of Baron Adelbert Gruner?”
I hesitated, “Yes? I think so?”
“His second wife was it, died a couple of years ago?”
“First wife,” Sherlock replied. “Many women have been associated with the Baron, but he’s only married the one. So far. Who knows how many women he’s killed, though.”
“Killed? A serial killer?”
“Suspected. Alleged. A hiking accident in the Alps. Surely you remember coverage of the trial in Vienna. It made the news worldwide.”
When I didn’t answer, Sherlock continued on, “As I was saying, the unfortunate death of Baroness Gruner and her husband’s trial had their time in the news cycle. However, his non-existent sentence overshadowed the testimony that he had attempted an Alpine divorce before.”
“Alpine divorce? I’m unfamiliar.”
Enola spoke up from her spot on the sofa. “It’s when one partner, usually a man, abandons the other, usually a woman, during a hike or mountaineering adventure.”
Realisation dawned. “And the woman, if she’s lucky, survives but takes the hint,” I said.
Sherlock nodded. “And the unlucky ones, like the Baroness, perish.”
“But you said the Baron’s sentence was—”
“A fine and a suspended sentence.”
“Money,” I began.
“Talks,” Sherlock concluded.
I was still not convinced, “But if this is a known phenomenon, how could the judge have, I mean—”
“The judge did not believe Gruner acted wilfully. Apparently his grief at the loss of his wife was convincing.” In one graceful movement, Sherlock retrieved my laptop from the table and settled himself cross-legged into his armchair. “Meanwhile, we have a life to save.”
Enola sat up and, despite a mouthful of popcorn, asked,”A life? Whose life?”
“Violet de Merville, Gruner’s next victim. Look, here she is with that man.”
Enola was next to his side in a movement as quick if not quite as graceful as his own. “She’s gorgeous. Is she wearing Stella McCartney?” Receiving no answer she continued, “Does she know about his wife?”
“Apparently so. It seems the Baron has managed to convince her that he is to be pitied in this instance and every other tragedy that has befallen him.”
“So our case is to stop Ms de Merville from marrying her fiancé?” I asked. “What about her—”
“Agency? Free will?”
“Well, yes. She’s a grown woman, isn’t she? Are we now telling people how to live their life?” Of course I was horrified by the prospect that Gruner might abuse another young woman but I was equally horrified that we would dictate another’s life for money.
“Oh so noble, Doctor. I didn’t realise that your expertise extended to the exercise of free will. I believe General de Merville retired before Kandahar, but perhaps you are familiar?”
“Well, yes, of course. Iraq was his last campaign.”
“There, then. Surely you would prevent a decorated hero of the Empire from dying of a broken heart?” I had the urge to wipe that smug look off Sherlock’s face with a kiss. Show him I didn’t give a damn about agency; at least not his.
Mrs Hudson paused her reading.
“Oh dear!” she said to herself.
This would call for reinforcements. Poor John! And Sherlock without a clue. How could he be so smart and so oblivious? She made a quick phone call and a cup of tea before she went back to reading:
The next morning at breakfast, Sherlock had an odd request. “Here,” he said, placing a large book in front of me. Chinese Ceramics: A New Comprehensive Survey from the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco by He Li, read the cover.
“What’s this?” I asked, flipping through the glossy pages.
“I need you spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study of Chinese pottery.”
My first thought was to be thankful that I was not scheduled at the surgery but what I said was, “Excuse me?”
“Do you want to help or not?” he said and placed a hand on the books as if to swipe it away.
“Yes, of course I do. Is this to do with the Alpine divorce bloke?”
Sherlock’s annoyed shiver at my idiocy hurt. Of course it was Gruner, the one who'd murdered his wife in the Alps.
His voice was cold and dull when he answered, “Yes, Adelbert Gruner, or the “Alpine divorce bloke,” here his voice grew sharper, a stiletto in my spleen, “is an expert collector of Chinese pottery. You will pose as a fellow enthusiast in order to enter his house and obtain his little leather scrapbook.”
My brain finally kicked into gear, “The book Kitty Winter told us about? And by obtain, you mean for me to steal it?”
He waved his long, graceful fingers in the air. “Steal, obtain, it’s all semantics. Do you want to help me prevent another murder or not?”
“Yes, yes of course I do.” I would’ve ground up my own teacup and re-fired it into a facsimile of Ming pottery or whatever at that moment to win a smile from my flatmate. I longed to see a twinkle in his eyes, to see the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly in that subtle grin of approval. I’d learnt that his smallest gestures were often the most authentic if also the most rare. Use me, I thought. I am here to help. Help you. Always.
And so I spent the next day poring over He Li’s book, absorbing the marks of the Hung-wu and the beauties of the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories of the primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan much as I had pored over the bones of the hand or the finer points of the coagulation cascade when studying for exams at Bart’s so many years ago.
Mrs Hudson opened her door to Mrs Turner and her new tenant, the married ones having moved to Surrey.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I just don’t know what to do. Those poor boys!”
**********************************************************************
Monday the eighth of September was a typical Monday at the surgery; John Watson saw three cases of rhinitis, one case of otitis media, one case of thrush, and one rampant case of crabs. He wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot shower and sip two fingers of whiskey when he got home. The adrenaline rush of his encounter with Baron Gruner followed by the horror of Kitty Winter’s revenge had long worn off. Sherlock had been absent most of the weekend, off dealing with the general and his daughter, no doubt. John had not been invited and he had not wanted to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted or needed. Not that Sherlock hadn’t been appreciative; he crowed over the little scrapbook as if it had been a long-lost scroll from the Library of Alexandria.
Holding the overstuffed book aloft he cried, “This! This, John will be that man’s undoing. One’s character is one’s fate and Gruner’s character is deadly poison.”
John’s heart leapt, or at least skipped a beat, at these words although he wondered if the Baron’s ruined face was truly the best fate that could’ve befallen him. Certainly Gruner had the money for the extensive reconstructive surgery needed to salvage his acid-burned skin. Would that pain make up for all the damage the Baron had done?And what of Kitty Winter? She would be tried for assault, surely. Did she deserve a prison term? Was it always wrong to mete out the punishment that the law neglected to provide? Of course, Kitty hadn’t been seeking revenge for the murdered Baroness, only for herself and her ruined reputation. Were a face and a reputation equal currency?
By the time he reached the door to 221B, John had decided that he didn’t care. Gruner and Violet de Merville and Kitty Winter could, and would, determine their own fates. He could only control his own destiny. Perhaps it was time to look for new digs. Sherlock would always be an interesting chapter in his life, but John didn’t know if he could continue like this much longer. He didn’t want to be, had never wanted to be, unattached. He knew now that he wanted more than a flatmate. He wanted a life where he could take his best friend to bed, to touch their bare skin, to feel their warmth against his own body. He wanted the assurance of knowing that despite petty squabbles and indignities, he loved and was loved by the best and wisest person. If that person wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, then he had best get to work finding out who it was. And he would never look past the leather armchair in their lounge for his heart’s desire as long he lived at 221B Baker Street. He’d start looking at listings tonight. As soon as he got that shower.
The lounge was empty and quiet. No, that wasn’t quite true. Something was different, new. A plant sat on the mantelpiece, white, star-shaped flowers on spindly stems with delicate green leaves. The pot was wrapped with florist’s paper and a little tag fluttered in the breeze from the open window. John fingered the tag carefully. It was typewritten—did anyone do that anymore—or printed from a computer and read “Edelweiss, edelweiss/Every morning you greet me/Small and white, clean and bright/You look happy to meet me.” John chuckled. How did Sherlock know lyrics from The Sound of Music? The man didn’t know that the earth revolved around the sun or who James Bond was, but he knew the lyrics from a song written over sixty years ago?
“Leontopodium alpinum,” said a deep voice behind him. “Commonly known as edelweiss. The national flower of Austria, among others. Unassuming, plain even, a hardy perennial sometimes known as the ‘immortal flower’. Like you.”
John felt Sherlock move closer to him until their bodies just brushed against each other. Long fingers traced the hair at the nape of John’s neck and sent shivers down his spine.
“The perfect representation of an unassuming Army doctor, ever-present, ever ready to leap into action,” Sherlock’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. John could feel Sherlock’s breath and lips on his ear as the detective leant close.
John turned to face Sherlock, surprised and confused, and Sherlock leant forward to kiss him. Soft lips on his own, gentle at first, but gaining intensity. The pressure made John woozy; the edge of the mantelpiece dug into his shoulders and he had to grasp Sherlock to keep his balance. He threaded his own fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pressed his own lips tighter against Sherlock’s mouth. He let his eyes close as he took in the silkiness of the curls under the lightest crunch of some kind of hair product. He tightened his grip there, not too hard, just enough to elicit a moan from Sherlock and a waft of a clean, citrusy scent.
Sherlock’s tongue tapped at John’s lips, requesting entrance. Well-bred git! Sherlock could have manners when it suited him. John opened his mouth, inviting that clever tongue in. It explored the roof of his mouth, searching until John’s own tongue met it, greeted it, offered itself hungrily. Finally Sherlock pulled away.
“Come to bed,” he whispered.
“I thought you were married to your work,” John replied.
“You are my work,” Sherlock replied before kissing him again.
Later, naked and tangled in Sherlock’s incredibly crisp sheets, John twisted individual curls around his finger, lost in thought and satisfaction. Sherlock’s head rested on his stomach and he was aware of its warmth and weight with every inhalation of breath.
“Why did you do it?” Sherlock asked.
“Hmmmm?” replied John, rousing himself from his revery.
“The edelweiss. Some believe it symbolises everlasting love. I thought after I’d turned you down that first night and then you were dating, erm, women, I mean, I didn’t think…. A perfect specimen, the perfect way to get my attention…” Sherlock snuggled closer, burying his face in John’s ribs.
John carefully extracted himself from Sherlock’s embrace, sliding down the bed until they faced one another. “But I didn’t bring the edelweiss, I thought you did!”
Sherlock laughed then, a full, rich sound that filled John’s core.
“Another mystery to solve?” John asked, grinning and flicking his tongue over his lips.
Sherlock shook his head. “Later,” he chuckled and enveloped John with his long, lithe body.
**********************************************************************
In her new flat in Mrs Turner’s building, Enola Eudora Hadassah Holmes smiled to herself. Boys are nincompoops. Thank goodness for Tewkesbury’s connections in Columbia Road. Edelweiss was nearly out of season.