Chapter Text
The garden of John’s manor was always a favorite place of Mrs. Hudson. The stone wall, laced with ivy and jasmine blocked out the busy Paris streets. Lilacs, roses, tulips were arranged in long lines that crisscross the grassy carpet. A tall tree - she was never quite able to recall which species - rose up out of the shrubs to tower over the two story home, almost using the building as a crutch in its old age.
Yes, Mrs. Hudson usually loved to just sit on one of the benches and relax in the quiet peace of the lawn. Today, however, she was forced comfort a sobbing Molly, rubbing her back and wiping stray tears from her face.
“Ran away,” the girl choked out. “Absconded, just like that with that musketeer, leaving me ruined. Desolate!” Molly fidgeted with her dress. “I was ready to finish things off,” she spoke in a near whisper. “Take that final step, when John came along and offered me a position: Steward.” She spat the last word out like food gone bad. Mrs. Hudson understood: Molly was a baker, not a marshal.
“How on Earth did you manage to get yourself into this condition?” the elder wondered.
Molly sighed. “Apparently Tom likes a man in uniform. As for me, well, poets are my passion...” Mrs. Hudson nodded as Molly trailed off. She saw past Molly’s statement: Sherlock was her passion. But he and John were smitten, whether John would admit it or not. She saw how the two acted: they were in love.
The light was fading; she and John had to get going to the lecture he insisted on attending. She turned to the house. “Monsieur, are you ready? We’re going to be late,” she called into the house. An exasperated reply of “I’m coming” came back. The duenna returned her attention to Molly, pushing her into a standing position. “You’d better get on with your stewarding.” The young lady nodded and slowly trudged into the house, her head hanging low on her slumping shoulders.
Mrs. Hudson only had a moment of peace before a deep baritone voice carried a song into the garden.
I praise the lilies of your skin,
But only from afar.
I long to venture in
To where your roses are.
And sipping as the bee mouth sips,
Adore them with my lips.
Monsieur de Bergerac appeared, striking as ever. He strolled up to Mrs. Hudson, his face unreadable. “Good day, Madame. Is John in?”
“Sherlock,” a voice called from behind. The man turned to see John coming out of the house to embrace him. The two melted into each other, and it warmed Mrs. Hudson’s heart. Why couldn’t John admit he was happiest with Sherlock? But now the hug had gone on too long to be friendly, and staying any longer would be impolite and awkward. “I’ll go guard the gate,” she said with a cheeky grin. John pull away immediately, his face bright red. She laughed quietly as she made her way past them. When would they learn?
-o0o-
John was always overjoyed when Sherlock came; he never seemed to see enough of his long time friend. But something was off. After the hug Sherlock became stiff, cold, not at all like the man only John would see: warm and joking and loving to the very end. The soldier gave a small cough.
“As usual,” he began, “I’ve come to see if our flawless friend’s maintaining her sublime height of flight.”
Sherlock drew out ‘flawless’ in a sarcastic drawl, but that only made John laugh. “Oh my Mary, she is beautiful, brilliant - I love her desperately.”
A flicker of dismay darkened Sherlock’s face when John praised Mary. “Brilliant?” he challenged.
“More brilliant than even you,” John countered.
Sherlock seceded with an “I agree” and flashed a devilish grin.
The doctor gave a soft sigh. “I’ve never in my life known anyone who could say those little things so beautifully that are nothing and yet, everything. She says such things-”
“Really,” Sherlock interrupted, eyebrows arched in critical disbelief.
John gave a humph. “You think, as most men think, that it is impossible for a woman to be both bright and beautiful.”
“Talks well, does she, of love and so forth,” Sherlock deflected. John took that as a victory.
He smiled at the thought of the beautiful letters he was now receiving daily. “Talk is so inadequate. It’s art, it’s eloquence. Listen: ‘The more you take my heart, the more heart I have left, dear heart, for loving you the more.’ And then: ‘This ache of emptiness, however, bids me yearn to seek your heart to return.’” John’s eyes lit up at the poetry written just for him. No one had ever done such a beautifully sweet act before. Sherlock, however, just appeared annoyed.
“First too much and then too little. She’d rhapsodize better if she’d try to learn to make her mind up. How much heart does she need?”
John just smirked at his friend. “Now you’re just teasing me. Jealousy, that’s what it is.”
“Jealous? I?” A strange expression crossed Sherlock’s face. If John didn’t know any better he would have said it was fear.
“Yes, of her talent. Listen to this: ‘Ah, in your presence, such confusion grips my heart that it grows wordless as a kiss. If kisses could but wing in winged words, Then you could read my letter with your lips.’”
“Not bad; a bit overwritten-”
“Aah,” John groaned, “but listen to this-”
“You know them all by heart?” he asked very quietly.
“All of them.” John smiled, and Sherlock returned it. But it wasn’t a mutual one of friendship; this was a quiet, private moment of joy.
Sherlock gave a strange look, eyes down cast and mouth open ready to speak, when Mrs. Hudson came bursting through the gate in a panic. “John - Monsieur Moriarty is here. Quick, Monsieur Holmes, he may may put two and two together if he sees you here.” John had nearly forgotten the bitter rivalry Moriarty had with Sherlock. The feud began as a simple refusal on his friend’s part to comply to the demands Moriarty had for Paris. But it had escalated to an all out war of sorts, and John, with the Comte as his patron and guardian of sorts - completely by his father’s wishes and not his own - was forced into the middle of the battle. Having Moriarty discover he was close to his mortal enemy would spell doom for both of them.
Sherlock made a quick bow and was ushered inside by Mrs. Hudson, not a moment before Moriarty came strolling into the garden. The pompous git walked the grounds with the full force of a will to power, completely taking the land that belonged to John and claiming ownership with his presence. It was despicable.
The man bowed low, flashing John a slow smile; he stood to give a half-hearted returning gesture. “Monsieur, I was just leaving,” he said making his way past Moriarty at the quickest pace possible that would still be accepted as polite.
Moriarty placed a firm hand on his chest, stopping John in his tracks. “Alas, I too am leaving. For the war.”
“Oh,” John replied, his voice dripping with his best imitation of concern.
“This very evening,” Moriarty continued. “We’re ordered to besiege Arras.” His eyes searched for John, who forced himself to return the look. He would not be intimidated by the detestable lord. “Tell me, does my leaving you leave you as cold as it seems to do?”
“No.”
“I find that this present prospect of leaving you leaves me quite desolate.” Moriarty’s hands began to roam down John’s sides. He flinched away from the Comte’s grasp, backing away from his reach. Moriarty’s brow seemed to furrow, but it was so quickly replaced with his usual political mask John couldn’t confirm or deny it. “Did you know you know I’d been promoted to colonel?”
“Oh? Bravo,” he said flatly.
“Yes, colonel of the Guards.”
John’s blood ran cold, and the sight of a faint grin of victory on Moriarty’s face terrified him. “The Guards?”
“The Guards: the regiment of that de Bergerac. I may, with luck, get some of my own back.”
“Ordered to Arras?”
“Under my command.”
John couldn’t feel his heart beat, couldn’t feel his blood pump at all. Every muscle seemed to be locked into place. He clenched his suddenly clammy hands as his breath began to speed up erratically on it’s own accord. Images of Sherlock and Mary lying dead in a field flooded his mind. Blood splatters covering their skin, brains blown out and organs exposed, their faces contorted in grotesque displays of pain and horror. Moriarty’s voice floated by him, but he could not make out any words. “I can’t let you die,” John whispered.
“You’ve never spoken like this before, now, when I have to leave you,” Moriarty’s words came rushing to him. He had to protect his love. There was only one way to. Luckily, he knew Moriarty and he knew Sherlock. He straightened his spine and blinked away the tears he didn’t know had formed. He let in a deep, silent breath and turned to face a Moriarty who looked possessively in love.
“You said, just then, something about revenge. Sherlock?” he asked in the calmest voice he could muster.
“Yes.” Moriarty narrowed his eyes. “Are you for him?”
“Very much against,” John said with feigned hatred, crossing his arms for emphasis. “I see him as little as I can.”
The colonel gave a hollow laugh. “I see him too much. Lately he’s keeping company with this new woman - Morrison or Morstan or something-”
“To return to matter at hand,” he interrupted, unwilling to be distracted by Mary while he was negotiating her life. “Tell me what you propose for Sherlock. Send him into the thick of the fighting?” John gave a short laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “He’ll love that.” John turned from Moriarty and began to walk to the nearby fountain. “I know what I’d do,” he cast out to the Comte.
“What?”
He took the bait.
“Leave him here, with his precious cadets, kicking his heels. That ought to make him sick, while the rest of the regiment goes off and gets medals and wounds and things. I know him. If you want to strike him, strike at his self esteem. The cadets will chew their nails, but Sherlock will eat out his heart and you’ll have your revenge.”
He didn’t hear Moriarty come up behind him, but John suddenly felt a pair of hands clamp down on his shoulders in a gesture of faux tenderness. “You love me, then - a little.” Moriarty’s lips brushed John’s ear. A shiver of fear and discomfort traveled throughout his body. “When you make my enemies your enemies I see that as a sign of love-”
John turned on him, backing out of his grip. “It could be a sign, of a sort...” he said weakly. He was sure Moriarty wouldn’t buy it.
But the colonel reached in his bag and removed a stack of documents. He searched through them. “These are the orders for the companies: signed, sealed, not yet delivered.” He pulled out one with a devilish smirk. “This is for the guards.” He slipped it into his breast pocket. “I keep it here. So much for you, Sherlock.” He turned his intense gaze on the doctor. “You like to play your games, John.”
“Sometimes,” he muttered with apprehension.
Moriarty gave a small sigh as he returned the documents to the bag. “Sometimes I say to myself that you and I are two of a kind. But always I’m mad about you. And now, to find love love within you - when I have to go - intolerable.” Moriarty caught his eye. He grasped his hands, holding him down with his lustful gaze. “Listen. Half a mile or so from here, in the rue d’Orleans, lies the order of the Capuchins. The regiment leaves for the siege tonight, but without me. One more day won’t make a difference. I will hide there and later on tonight come to you masked.”
The fear rushed upon John. The git had to leave. “But ... honor,” he stuttered out. 'Spies will be watching. If anyone should find out-”
“Please.”
“The war, your duty, your family name,” he said frantically.
“I’ve a more urgent duty, a greater good: to contrive the voluntary surrender of-” he stepped into John’s personal space. “Say yes. Say it now.”
“No.”
Moriarty leaned down and kissed John’s neck. He reflectively squirmed and tried to move away, but found he was held in place. “Say it,” Moriarty mumbled against his skin. “Whisper it.”
John broke free of the man’s grasp and pushed him away. “My duty is to make you do yours. But-”
“Bless you for that butt.”
John gave a shiver of disgust and backed away, arms up in defense. “Go, before I make you go,” he commanded in his officer voice, something he hadn’t used in years. Hopefully it was intimidating. “I must order you to be my hero.”
Moriarty gave a twisted, but amused smile. “So you can love?”
“When I tremble for one’s safety, I may talk of love,” John muttered.
“And yet you say I must go?” Moriarty took a step forward and John took a step back
“Yes,” he said quickly. “In the name of love, my dear, dear friend.” John nearly choked on his last words.
The colonel gave a sigh of resignation. “I go then. But this adieu means not an end but a beginning. Later, then. Later, John.”
Moriarty grabbed his hand to kiss it. He gave one last look that could only be describe as possessive and exited the garden. John was finally allowed to breathe. He sat down in disgust at himself: for playing his game, for the way he let him touch him, for the pain he was going to cause Sherlock. The man would be furious if he found out John stopped him from going to war.
His thoughts were broken by the sound of squealing laughter coming from the gate. “My dear, dear friend,” Mrs. Hudson mocked.
John gave her an unamused, pointed look. “Say nothing about what I did just then,” he threatened.
“Yes, yes,” she waved him away.
“Sherlock,” John called out to the man, hidden somewhere in the house. “Mrs. Hudson and I are off to the lecture. Stay if you like.” He turned to his Duenna. “We should leave.” The two hurried out of the gate, down the path winding down the hill, to the heart of Paris, John leaving his worries about Moriarty as he went to enjoy the night.
-o0o-
Mary found herself wandering the paths of Paris, desperately trying to find John's manor. Sherlock's directions were at best vague and at worst insulting to her intelligence. She had been stumbling through the city for an hour now. She finally came upon a towering gate on the hill side. It had to be John's.
"Sherlock!" she called, hoping their plan was already in action and the man was already in the manor. Mary was going to learn a poem from Sherlock and recite it to John when he returned from the lecture. Sherlock would, naturally, be close by in the case of disaster. He thought the scheme was utter perfection, but she was now having doubts about this and their entire arrangement. She was nothing more than Sherlock's puppet, and she was no longer going to stand for that.
After a few quick moments the soldier came running to the gate. "Come and have your lines thrown at you," he spoke as he opened the gate just wide enough for Mary to slip through. He was speaking at such a rapid pace she could hardly keep up with him. "I have your theme: love, of course. All you have to do is get your memory ready. This is your best chance yet to cover yourself in genius. We don't have much time." Sherlock gestured as to move into the garden, but Mary was rooted to the spot. He gave an exasperated glare and forcefully grabbed her by the arm. "Come on, try to look intelligent."
"No!" she said, recoiling from his touch.
Sherlock gave a condescending look. "Please, there's no harm in trying to look intelli-" Sherlock slowed as realization dawned on his face. "Oh."
"That's right," Mary said. "I'm tired: tired of borrowing your lines, your letters, saying what you tell me to say, dithering with stage fright." She sat down on a nearby bench. "Oh, sure, it was fun at first; it was like playing a game of sorts." She gave a wide smile. "But tonight, I'm past all fear. Tonight I feel inspired with my own ...inspiration. I no longer doubt that he loves me. My own words can crash out!"
Sherlock stared at her disdainfully. "Limp out. Trickle out."
"No, I'm not entirely stupid," she retaliated. "Thanks to you, I've learned a lot."
"As I see," he quipped with a sardonic air.
"And, though I can't yet make the verbal summits. I know enough to take, by God, a man in my arms.”
It was just then the sound of a man and woman walking up the path was heard. Mary and Sherlock turned to see John and his Duenna walking up the path. A gripping fear struck Mary; she was not ready for this.
“Don’t leave me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock only gave her a smug grin, calling “you’re on your own tonight, Mademoiselle; goodnight and good luck,” as he made his way through out of the garden through a back gate.
She was about to call out to Sherlock, to run after him when she heard the familiar cry of “Mary,” and turned to see John dismissing his Duenna as he rushed towards her. Gripping her hands he laughed quietly, almost out of shock and joy. “You came,” he said. “Now the brightest poet in all of France has come to sweeten my air.” Mary felt her cheeks grow hot. John was too good for her. He gently lead her to a stone bench near them. “We’re alone. Talk. I’ll listen.”
It took her a moment to realize he wanted her to recite a poem. Her stomach dropped and she could feel her hands becoming slick in John’s. She took a shaky breath and said the first thing that came to her mind.
“I love you.”
He gave a wide smile in response. “Embroider your theme, weave gorgeous tapestries.”
What else would John want her to say. Wasn’t that enough? “I love you. So much.”
John just stared blankly at her for a moment. “So much. Good. And then ...” he prompted.
“And then ... I would be glad if you said you loved me too,” she finished. “Please say that you love me.”
“You offer me tin when I ask for gold,” John retaliated, practically pouting. “Tell me how you love me.”
“Very much,” she tried again. John only responded by dropping his head into his hands. Mary tensed in fear. “Please John, I love you.”
“That again?” he mumbled.”
Maybe he wanted to hear it in a new way. “Oh no, I do not love you.” This got John to look at her expectantly. “I adore you,” she finished.
“Oh, this is too much,” John huffed as he rose from the bench and made his way to go inside.
Mary jumped up after him. “Forgive me, John, I’m so in love I’m growing stupid.”
He turned on her. “I agree, and it displeases me as were you growing ugly.” Mary tried to interject but spoke over her. “Retrieve your lost eloquence. Otherwise, leave.”
“But I-”
“I know. You love me. Good night.”
“I want to say-”
“That you adore me. Good, now go away.” And with that John closed the large doors of his manor on Mary, leaving her alone in the growing dark of evening. She stood shocked still for a moment, still comprehending the disaster that had just unfolded before her. She then let out an exasperated wail as she kicked the ground and a nearby flower bed in frustration and disgust. How could she have been so stupid? Why did she tell Sherlock to leave? She needed his words.
The sound of slow clapping broke her from her fit. If she was honest with herself, Mary was only slightly surprised to see Sherlock coming from his hiding place behind a hedge. At the moment, however, she was fixed only on her anger that he had been watching the entire time and had not helped her. “Felicitations,” he called. “A great success.” She resisted the urge to punch him in the face or stab him with her sword.
“For God’s sake, help me,” she cried.
“Umm, no,” he replied shortly.
She couldn’t really blame him, but at the moment she wasn’t in the mood for his obsinence. “I shall die, here and now, if here and now I find no way to make him love me again,” she said. And Mary knew she was being childish. Both were. But one of them had to be the bigger person to figure this mess out and it wasn’t going to be her.
Sherlock just rolled his eyes. “You idiot, how do you expect me to-”
A sudden light above her caught Mary’s attention. “Wait,” she said. “His window.” The light shone through the curtains that hung on the opens doors of his balcony. A large tree hung over the side, blocking much of the view of the garden. John must have gone to his room. How she longed to be there with him.
Sherlock was too staring at the window, but lost in deep thought. “It’s getting dark out,” he mumbled.
Mary gave him a hopeful look. “Yes? Will you-”
He turned on her. “To reinstate you may not be easy. Still, we have to try. Stand here in front of the balcony where he can see you.” Sherlock mover back to under the trunk, hidden by the branches. “I’ll stand underneath and whisper the words.”
“But-”
“Just trust me,” he said. And as much of a horrible plan she thought it was and that it was doomed to fail, she was forced to recall what had just previously ensued. Sherlock’s plans did seem to work out best for her.
She sighed and asked, “How do we start?”
“Call to him.” Mary cried out John’s name, but he didn’t appear. She picked up a few pebbles at her feet and threw them at the window. The large thunk grabbed John’s attention. “Who is that,” he asked as he came out onto the balcony.
“Me. I. Mary.”
“So,” he said disdainfully.
“I have to talk to you,” she pleaded.
“You have nothing to say to me. It’s clear you no longer love me.”
Sherlock’s quiet voice whispered, “Such heresies, such unjust slanders.” Mary just stared at him, confused as to what he meant. Sherlock made a frantic and irritated ‘go on’ motion, promoting her to duplicate his words.
The two fell into a sort of rhythm: Sherlock would whisper a phrase a Mary would repeat it. It was awkward and unpreferable. Mary’s delivery was overly staccato and she had no idea what she was saying, only that she was speaking of love and monsters and herculean efforts - whatever that meant. But she gave her speech as much bravado as possible. It seemed to have worked; John was smiling down at her now, and that made it worth the pain.
“Quiet excellent,” he said when she and Sherlock had stopped, “but why do your words come so - halting out? It’s as if your poetry suffered from-”
“Gout,” a voice, sounding slightly female, called from beside her. Sherlock. Above John giggled at the rhyme. While the man was distracted, Sherlock pulled Mary close to him. “This is getting difficult,” he huffed quietly as he unclasped Mary’s clock and put it around his own shoulders. Putting the hood up to cover his head, he motioned for her to stay as he made his way to Mary’s spot in view of John. She now had to put all trust in wooing the man she loved into Sherlock’s hands. Everything could go wrong.
-o0o-
Sherlock crept into John’s spotlight, sure to stay slightly in the shadows so the man wouldn't notice the height difference. As for the voice, he could only hope that raising the octave would help; John was never too observant before and he would hopefully not pick up the skill of deduction at the present moment. Sherlock looked up to see the doctor still laughing at the rhyme. He loved the easy smile on his lips.
John finally regained his confusion. “Tonight you hesitate so strangely. Why?”
“A good question,” he began slowly. How was he going to explain this. “My answer is: each word gropes through the darkness, looking for your light.” He smiled at his poetic excuse, but when he looked at John’s reaction, it was knowing disbelief.
“If that were really so my own words would limp, just like yours. Come, try a less absurd explanation.”
Sherlock sighed. “Very well. Taste this: my heart is open wide - your words can’t miss so large a target. Or, heavy with the honey of desire, zigzags to the orifice of your tiny ear and buzzes blunderingly, seeking its way in, its wings heavy with love. Or, should these not suffice, then, finally, since your words fall, they yield to gravity: mine have to rise and fight it.”
“It seems to me they fight less hard now than they had to do a moment ago.”
“Ah, but a moment or two of loosening up in gymnasium words wonders.”
John gave a look that told him he’d play along. “Am I so far above you, still?”
“So far, I fear, that one hard word could kill, crushing my heart like a stone.”
“Then I’ll come down to you.”
“No!” Sherlock cried out quickly, moving further into the safety of the branches.
The doctor slowed his movements, confusion written on his face. “Such a vehement no. What’s the matter?”
He drummed his fingers on his thigh, searching for an answer. “To hold in my hand such exquisite joy - I dare not waste this precious chance to speak to you unseen.”
“Unseen?” John asked wearily.
Sherlock gave a sad smile. “A disembodied spirit, clean of the clogs of accident and decay. You see a cloak of trailing blackness; you to me are the white of summer. I am a shadow and you the quintessence of light. How can you know what it means to roam this transitory meadow sunlight through the darkness? If ever-” He paused, unsure of how to explain himself. “If ever I was eloquent.”
“You’re very eloquent,” John said.
Sherlock shook his head. “But you have never heard till now my true heart truly speaking. Tonight, I address you for the first time.”
John nodded. “The first time, yes. Your very voice has changed.”
He froze, only now realizing how his voice was slowly dropping into its natural baritone. He cleared his throat with embarrassment. “My heart’s true essence is emboldened by this darkness to speak out, freed from the choking asthma of the fear that you might laugh at me-”
“Laugh at you?” His eyes narrowed at the ridiculousness of the thought. “Why?”
Sherlock breathed out a soft sigh. “Because of the unworthiness of a fool, an insufficiency that seeks to clothe itself in a sun set of words.”
“You've never spoken like this before,” John said.
“These tokens: stale words, stale honey. What are they worth compared to the wild urge that shouts, that beckons our bodies to plunge and drown in the wild river.”
Sherlock heard a gasp above him. “But, you can’t say that about poetry.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “Poetry, rhyme, nothing more than a game of words. A moment comes-” He paused, thinking of his relationship with John, how the man wasn't speaking to him, but Mary. “And God help those for whom it never comes - when love of such nobility possesses this shaking frame that even the sweetest word, the ultimate honey, stings like vinegar.”
“If so,” John questioned, “what, when the moment comes for both of us, what words will you say.”
Sherlock looked up to see the expectancy and hope his love’s eyes. He decided, in under the cover of the night and a false identity, he could let the truth pour out. “In that most precious instant,” he began slowly, lovingly, “I shall take all words that ever were, or weren't, or could, or couldn't be, and in mad armfuls, not bouquets, I’ll smother you in them.” John’s face revealed his surprise at the words, but also the total adoration for them. “Oh God, how I love you: I choke with love, I stumble in madness, tread a fiery region where reason is consumed, I love you beyond the limits that love sets himself! I love, I love your name, John, swings like a brazen bell, telling itself - Jawn, Jawn - in my heart’s belfry, and I tremble - Jawn, Jawn - with each bronze, gold, silver reverberation. Listen, I swing down the rope to earth’s level, to each small thing - trivial, forgettable, unforgettable by me - that ever you do or did.”
John was shaken to the core by the honest of the speech. “Yes, this is love.”
Sherlock smiled at how he had moved John with just his words. “Love. Oh, can you see this, feel it, understand? Do you sense my heart rising towards you in this intense stillness? This night I speak, you listen. Never in my most reckless, unreasonable dream have I hoped for this. Now I can gladly die, knowing it is my words that make you tremble in the blue shadow of the tree. For it is true - you do tremble, like a leaf on these branches, swaying in the night’s wind.”
“Yes, I do tremble,” John agreed, “and I weep, and I am yours.”
“Ah, to die, death is all I need now after this summit gained. I ask one thing-”
“A kiss!” a voice next to him called out. Sherlock turned on Mary in a rage. She was supposed to stay quiet and not intervene. “What?” she whispered, indignation scrawled across her face. “You got him into this state. Why shouldn't I get some benefit out of it?”
Sherlock was about to retort when John’s voice slowly and shyly came from above him. “You wish to speak of a-”
“Kiss,” he finished. Sherlock had to dig his way out of this mess. He wasn’t even sure he wanted a kiss happening tonight. No, he didn’t. Not at all. But John would be happy. “The word is sweet enough, and yet your lips are shy of saying it. If the word burns them, what is your presage of the thing itself? Fear should consume you.” The man was blushing profusely by now. “Yet after all you've glided insensibly from mockery to a smile, from a smile to a sigh, from a sign to a tear. Now slide from a tear to a kiss. It’s but a heart beat’s distance from that to this.”
“Do be quiet,” John said quietly, but his smile proved he didn’t mean it.
“Its the eternal vow, like that spring will shine through the harsh winter, who will comfort the golden fall, that ripen the buzzing summer, who will burst from the quiet spring. Like the seasons I am constant and faithful.”
“Like them you are beautiful,” he added.
Sherlock’s words caught in his throat; he was unable to speak through the lump that now hung there. He gave a small huff of a laugh to mask the pain. “So I am,” he spoke softly. “I’d forgotten.”
John leaned over the edge of the balcony, searching for the cloak that defined his lover. “Please, come up here.”
The soldier retreated into the thick of the branches and turned to Mary. Sherlock removed the cloak and gently wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders. “You heard what he said,” he whispered while he tied the front ribbons. Regretful surrender was written across his face. Mary, however, seemed frozen in place, petrified at the thought of actually kissing John. Sherlock, already heartbroken, had no energy or patience for her ridiculousness. “Get up there,” he snapped under his breath. “What in hell’s name are you waiting for?”
“I’m not really sure that this is the right time-”
“Move you animal!” he yelled softly as he put his hands around her waist and all but pushed her up into the tree. She desperately clung to one of the branches as she hoisted herself up. From there Mary could reach the railing of the balcony and ungracefully hauled herself over it.
John, startled by the intrusion, quickly shifted his gaze from one of apprehension to adoration. Mary just gave a short nervous laugh. “Ah, John,” she said, unsure of what to do. John came towards her, putting his hands on either side of her face. She instinctively reached for his chest, her hands clinging to the front of his shirt. John’s thumb stroke her cheek as he smiled at her. His eyes bore into hers, asking for permission. She gave a small nod, and John slowly pressed his lips to hers.
From the shadows Sherlock looked up upon the happy couple, filing him with emptiness, with the longing of he in Mary’s place. He still had one consolation: the knowledge that it was his words that John kissed and not hers.
With a heavy heart he went to exit John’s manor. There was nothing left for him here. But he saw a hooded figure coming up the path - a Capuchin of sorts and no doubt coming to speak with John. He composed himself as if he just arrived and called out “Ho there!”
John instantly broke away from the kiss, turning bright red. Mary was clinging to him in confusion. When he saw who it was below him he rubbed his face with his hands. “What are you doing here?”
“Is Mary up there by any chance?”
“Sherlock!” She cried with a show of surprise. “What do you need.”
“There’s a Capuchin coming your way,” he said. “It’s probably something for you. You’d best come down.”
John gave an audible sigh of frustration as broke away from Mary. Both exited the balcony as the Capuchin approached.
-o0o-
John was not pleased with Sherlock showing up out of no where to ruin a perfectly wonderful night he was having, and less so that it was being fully interrupted by some monk. He turned back to Mary, who was clutching his wrist as he lead her through his home. “I apologize for all of this.”
“Think nothing of it, “ she said. “It isn’t as if you caused it. Just be sure not to let me get lost in here.” She gestured to the massive manor.
“Hopefully you find it a more pleasant journey than climbing a tree.”
They both laughed as they opened the front doors. Outside Sherlock was having an animated conversation with an old man, hunched over in his brown robes. He heard the something mumbled by the Capuchin, something about a note.
“Letter?” he asked.
“For Monsieur Watson,” he replied.
“I am he.”
The monk handed him a folded piece of paper with his name scrawled on it. “A very noble lord gave it to me to give to you.”
John felt his blood run cold and his stomach drop. “Moriarty,” he muttered vehemently. He wished he wouldn’t know why the man would contact him so soon, but deep down he knew. He unfolded the paper slowly, the weight of its contents filling him with dread.
The drums are beating. The regiment is ready for the march. I have already sent the story about that I have gone on ahead, but infact I’m here in the convent - as I said I would be. I’m sending this by an old monk who, naturally, has not been told of its content. I must see you tonight. I must. Your smile both beckons and maddens. I hope and trust you have already forgiven my audacity and will give a welcome to him who hopefully, sincerely wishes for your love.
Your humble, loving friend,
Comte James de Moriarty
His hands were clenched around the paper, creating creases and tears. His nostrils flared in an attempt to calm himself down, but to no avail. Why didn’t Moriarty listen to him? Rationally he knew why, but it wouldn’t help the situation. Legally there were very few ways to hold off the Comte’s advances: John was his ward and therefore subject to him, and Moriarty was connected, most likely controlling, many of the aristocrats and lords. He was practically above the law. Only if he were married would he have legal standings to fight him. And if Moriarty found both Sherlock and Mary here, both would be in grave danger.
John was about to rip the apart the letter in frustration when he felt a hand gripping his shoulder. He turned his head to see Sherlock standing behind him, giving him a pitying look. No doubt he had read the letter as well. John felt his anger melt at his friends touch, and he brought his hand up to Sherlock’s in a gesture of ‘thank you.’ He looked to Mary, who was staring at him with worrying eyes.
An idea suddenly came to John’s mind. It was rash, impulsive, and best idea he had thought of all day. He got himself into a fit again, broke away from Sherlock, and hurried to the Capuchin. “Father, this letter concerns you,” he cried.
The old man squinted at him. “Does it?”
“Yes, and it’s terrible.”
“Come my child,” he said, putting his hand on John’s arm for comfort.
John took a deep breath to compose himself and began. “‘Monsieur, it seems His Eminence the Cardinal will have his way, whatever you say or do.’” John’s eyes raked the page, but read none of the words, instead weaving his own story as he went. “‘That is why I send this note to you by a very holy, intelligent, discreet Capuchin. Instruct him, please, to meet these - my instructions, which are that he is at once, in your house, to perform the ceremonies of Holy matrimony-’ This is tyrannical!”
John waved his arms in aggravation, while the Capuchin desperately tried to calm him and make him finish the letter. He stole a glance at Mary, who was confused and furious, and seemed unable to decide which emotion was more prevalent. Sherlock was trying to deduce John’s endgame, and it was obvious he didn’t like to be in the dark.
John composed himself once again to finish the letter. “‘His Grace the Cardinal demands the nuptials of you and Morstan. This is hard new, I know. But all that you can do is resign yourself to the command of His Eminence, who sends his blessing and His wishes for much happiness. I end with my own good wishes. Your humble friend, etcetera etcetera.’” John folded the letter with the quick, sharp creases of anger.
Mary was overjoyed, ecstatic although still confused as to what had just happened. Sherlock wore his mask of indifference, but John knew better - he could see it in the man’s eyes. He was upset, and John couldn’t tell why.
The Capuchin’s voice invaded his thoughts. “Cheer up my son, it is not so horrible. Who is the betrothed?” He looked to Sherlock and gave a quizzical squint. “You?”
Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth hanging open wide. Before anyone could answer, Mary said, “It’s me - I am the bride.” Something flashed across Sherlock’s face, but it was gone before John could read it.
The monk turned to her, looking her up and down in apprehension. “Are you sure.”
John quickly reopened the the letter. “‘Postscript,’” he rushed out, “‘ Give to the convent, in my name, one hundred and twenty louis. Signed: the same.’”
The Capuchin gave a wide smile at this. “A worthy lord. It’s very rare to find blue blood allied to such a generous mind. My son, resign yourself.”
“I am resigned,” he said melodramatically. John went to Sherlock. “Moriarty is coming,” he whispered. “We don’t have much time to-”
“How long will it take?” he asked the Capuchin.
“Oh ... about fifteen minutes, sir,” the monk replied.
Sherlock gave him a hard look. “You’d better make it five.”
-o0o-
The group rushed into the manor, frantic to complete the wedding. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were just coming to see what the noise was when they were swept into the proceedings. They located themselves in the hall for the ceremony, the Capuchin preparing his part while the women went to clean Mary up, removing the dirt and twigs that she acquired from her trek up the tree..
John didn’t have time to change out of his night shirt - he was lucky he was wearing breaches. Sherlock, not wanting him to feel undressed, removed his waistcoat for his friend, holding it open for him. When John understood what he was doing, the doctor smile and turn around for him. Sherlock slowly put the coat around John, savoring the touch. He smoothed out the fabric with gentle, loving strokes. John turned back towards him, fastening the buttons in the front. “How do I look?” he asked.
Sherlock just stared at the beauty that was John Hamish Watson, someone he could never have. “Perfect as ever,” he said quietly. Sherlock gave his friend a small smile to fight off the pain inside. He was going into battle.
Mary came rushing into the room, her hair swept back into place and her dress smoothed out. Her face and hands were washed and soft. She looked beautiful. John was beaming at her, and she was beaming right back. They were both so happy. The walked down the aisle made of their friends and servants, arm in arm.
The Capuchin began his slow and drawn out speech. John and Sherlock glanced at each other worriedly. John cleared his throat, trying to get the old man’s attention. The monk stopped at looked down at him. The doctor gave a smile and said, “We really your detail, monsieur, but we are in a bit of a hurry and need this to be done as soon as possible.”
The old man humphed at the slight, but picked up the pace none the less, skipping far ahead in the speech. John and Mary exchanged grins of excitement. “Now you take this man to be your lofty wedded husband?”
“I do,” Mary said, practically beaming.
The Capuchin asked the same to John. The man turned to Mary and gazed into her eyes. Sherlock couldn’t bared to look and closed his. “I do.”
“I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” The others cheered around him, and Sherlock threw in a few claps, smiling and opening his eyes, but averting his gaze away from the kissing couple. So it was only he who noticed that the front doors had opened during the wedding and that a man stood in the back of the hall.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock snarled, grabbing everyone’s attention.
The Comte gave a slow clap to John. “Clever, Monsieur.”
“Baron,” John proudly corrected.
The Capuchin hobbled to Moriarty. “My lord, the knot is tied you bade me to tie.”
Moriarty took in the room. “As I can see,” he said with narrowed eyes, which finally fell on John again. “You, Baron, bid goodbye to your paint-fresh wife.”
Both John and Sherlock blinked in confusion. “Bid good - why?” John stuttered.
The lord turned on Mary with a smirk. “Your regiment leaves tonight, Madame. Be so good as to report at once.”
“You mean for the war?” John asked, seething. He slowly approached Moriarty with fire in his eyes.
“This is what regiments usually leave for, Sir.”
“You promised the cadets were not going,” he all but shouted. John tried to leap at the man, but Mary held him back. Sherlock was frozen to his spot, unable to help or intervene.
Moriarty just gave a laugh at John’s efforts. “They are and always were.” The Comte reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded stack of documents, shoving them into Mary’s arms. “Here is the order. Pray deliver it, Madame.”
Mary’s eyes were growing red and her breath irregular. She turned to her husband to see the same had happened to him. She reached for him, burying her head underneath his chin, savoring the only time she would be able to do so. John held her close, kissing the top of Mary’s head and stroking her back. He lifted her chin up and captured her lips in one last kiss.
Moriarty came into Sherlock’s view, distraction him from the couple. “The wedding night is still a good ways off,” he sneered as he walked off. Sherlock reflected on that comment. It disturbed him less than it should have.
Sherlock slowly approached the embrace couple and pulled Mary from her husband apologetically. She tried to resist, but he forcefully yanked her away. “Come on. Enough. Let’s go.”
She snatched her arm away. “You don’t know how hard it is,” she said through a strained voice.
Sherlock looked past her at John. “Trust me, I know.”
The sounds of drum beats out on the street penetrated the hall. The vibrations shook them to the core. “We’re marching,” Moriarty shouted over the beats. He saluted the soldiers in the room sardonically and marched off in triumph.
Mary took in a long breath and composed composed herself, schooling her features and hardening her face. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders. Prepared for the fight, she slowly marched off into the night to join the guards.
Sherlock was about to follow suit when a hand wrapped itself around his arm. “Take care of her, Sherlock,” John asked.
“I’ll try, but I can’t really promise,” he said as he turned to face his friend for the final time.
“Be sure she stays warm and dry.”
“As far as is soldierly possible.”
“Keep her away from other men.”
“Not even the odd little chat,” he asked with a sly but hollow grin.
John lightly slapped his arm in response, but it wasn’t harsh by any means. “Make sure she writes to me every day,” John added.”
Sherlock stiffened at the mention of the letters, but the guilt turned into one of determination. One last gift before he dies. “Monsieur, I can certainly promise you that.”
The two stared at each other for minutes, hours, no one knew. Sherlock desperately wanted to reach out to him, cling to John for safety and solace; to hold on to his love and never let go; to kiss him until his own fears disappeared. He wanted to take every word he’d ever written and smother John in them until the man finally understood the weight of the emotions he felt. He wanted to chant John’s name like a prayer over and over until it wished away the darkness coming. He wanted to finally say the three small words that had been lodged in his throat for years, earning, desperate to break out.
Instead he held out hand, and John took it, and they shook on the bond of friendship, kinsmanship, and nothing more.
To that, Sherlock proud and mighty, stood into the moonlight, welcomed by the constant beating of the drums, to join the ranks of men and women about to die.