SwissMiss' Creativity Outlet

Title: Cracks in the In-Between Places
Author: swissmarg
Beta readers: ruth0007, billiethepoet
Rating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 7,308 words
Summary: AU set in the universe of nox_candida's Getting Better. John and Sherlock work together to flush out Mary's killers, and Tristram has to come to terms with what his father's new friend means for him. No series 3 spoilers (or series 1 or 2, for that matter).

See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.

Chapter 13 on AO3





Chapter Thirteen

When Tristram wakes up, his heart gives a little jolt when he can't see anything but a vague grey veil, like a fog, hovering around him. Is he still at Llanbroc? He feels under his pillow. His phone isn't there. He sits bolt upright and throws his bedclothes around looking for it.

Something moans slightly next to him. Emily. He hears the antique joints of the field bed creak as she turns over. "Daddy?" she says in a sleepy voice.

Tristram's heart is still racing, but he knows where he is now. The grey veil is their tent. They're in his room at home. And he can't find his phone because he didn't put it under his pillow last night. He left it on the desk to charge.

Tristram hears Emily moving around some more. He can't really see her, but he fancies the darker shape silhouetted against the sheet is her sitting up.

"Sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"What time is it?" she asks. Her voice sounds creaky, like her bed.

Tristram checks the digital clock on his nightstand. "Five fifty-three."

"Okay." Emily lifts the sheet on her side. Tristram can see his desk and part of the window in the light coming in from the street lamps outside, which is comforting. Emily ducks under the sheet and gets out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Tristram asks, still whispering.

"Downstairs."

"To do what?"

"See where my dad is." Tristram hears her walk across the room.

He crawls to the foot of the bed and lifts the sheet. Emily is already standing by the door. He gives up the pretense of trying to keep his voice down. "He's probably asleep," he points out. Although where, is an interesting question. One that Tristram isn't sure he wants to know the answer to.

It doesn't seem to be any sort of disincentive to Emily to follow through on her plan, at any rate. She opens the door and goes out. Tristram sighs and scrambles to follow her, not even taking time to put on socks. The floor is freezing. He catches up with her on the stairs. She's taking them slowly, maybe because she's trying to be quiet or maybe just because she's not familiar with them in the dark.

The door to the living room is closed, but the one leading into the kitchen is open, and they can see that the lights are off. They go through that one, Tristram taking the lead. There's enough light coming in from the street for them to orient themselves. A quick glance to the left shows the door to Father's room is open, so he's probably not in there. Ergo, Doctor Watson is also probably not in there. Tristram begins to breathe easier. Also, now he can hear the sound of snoring coming from the living room.

"He's in there," Tristram says to Emily in a low voice.

From where he's standing in the kitchen, he can see Father's computer standing open on the desk, but Father isn't sitting in front of it. He must be out. That's nothing new. He's often out when Tristram wakes up. He always leaves a note, though, so that Tristram knows he left on purpose and of his own free will. Tristram turns on the kitchen light and checks the table. There's no note, which is a bit disquieting, but maybe Father figured as long as Doctor Watson was here, he didn't need to let Tristram know where he was. Doctor Watson certainly wouldn't have let Father be incapacitated or kidnapped right under his nose while he slept on. Probably not. Tristram is suddenly in rather a hurry to have Doctor Watson wake up so he can ask him. He goes into the living room, Emily on his heels, and freezes.

In the light spilling into the room from the kitchen, the tableau is all too clear. Doctor Watson is curled up on his side, sound asleep under a quilt on the couch. Father is sitting on the floor next to him, his upper body resting on the couch in the space in front of Doctor Watson's chest, his head cushioned on his arms. He also appears to be asleep. One of Doctor Watson's hands is curved around Father's shoulder. Tristram immediately feels that they are intruding on something, and that it would be best for them to go back upstairs.

It's not like when he walked in on them at Llanbroc, though. This time, it's more that there's a sense of quiet and peace, of comfort and acceptance, and Tristram feels momentarily and deeply guilty that he didn't want his father to have this. Although Tristram knows for a fact the narrow couch isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, and he imagines Father's feet must be freezing and his back stiff the way he's slumped over with nothing more than his dressing gown covering him, they both look as if there's no place else they'd rather be, nor any other place they belong.

Emily doesn't appear affected by the scene one way or the other, though, which is a bit odd, since she was the one who was so enthusiastically speculating about their relationship earlier. She goes straight over to the couch, reaches over Father, and shakes her own father's shoulder. "Daddy?"

Doctor Watson stirs and turns a bit. His hand slips off Father's shoulder. Father lifts his head.

"Hey Em?" Doctor Watson says softly. "Everything all right?"

"I couldn't sleep anymore," she tells him, trying to insinuate herself into the space where Father is.

Father slides away and stands up. Emily snuggles up to her father.

"Sherlock?" Doctor Watson sounds surprised, as if he didn't notice him there before. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, keeping one arm around Emily. "What were you doing down there? Did you sleep there?"

Father goes down the hall to his room and closes the door.

Doctor Watson stares after him, then looks at Tristram, who is still hovering in the middle of the room. "Was he sleeping on the floor?" he asks.

"He was lying on the couch next to you," Emily tells him matter-of-factly.

"Why didn't he just go to bed, the idiot?" Doctor Watson grumbles. Tristram knows that's what's called a rhetorical question and he's not actually meant to come up with a response. However, he does because he thinks he might actually know the answer.

"He prefers sleeping on the couch," Tristram tells him.

"He could have had the couch, I wouldn't-" Doctor Watson squeezes his eyes shut. "Oh my God, no, I'm the idiot. He did, he tried to make me take his bed, and I thought it was because-" He stops speaking abruptly and cracks his eyes open, keeping one carefully on Tristram. "Sherlock!" he shouts down the hall. "You could have said you wanted to sleep on the couch!"

There is no response. Doctor Watson yawns heavily, then blinks down at Emily. "I guess we're up."


&&&&&&

The three of them are already tucking into the breakfast Doctor Watson makes for them - toast, scrambled eggs, rashers, and orange juice - by the time Tristram's father finally comes out, showered and dressed. He reaches around Tristram to grab a piece of toast from what's left of the pile on the serving plate.

"There's still some hot water, if you'd like tea," Doctor Watson offers. "Tris and I weren't sure about the coffee maker. He said you'd used it to do something with industrial sewage?"

"Mm, interesting case, actually." Father crams the toast into his mouth, takes another, and goes to the desk in the living room.

Doctor Watson gets up and follows him. "What's the plan for today, then?"

"Mycroft," Father says bitterly, "is holding my coat hostage. I'm to pick it up in person. No doubt he'll want a full report."

"I think that's only fair," Doctor Watson says. "I have to be at the hospital for the afternoon shift. It shouldn't take all morning to fill your brother in, though. When do you want to go?"

"Now. There are some other people I need to talk to as well." Father picks up some notes that are lying on the desk and stuffs them into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.

"Hold on, at least let the kids finish their breakfast."

"Why? They're staying here with you."

"Oh. Right. Because I wouldn't have anything useful to add to the report." Doctor Watson says it in a way that means he thinks the exact opposite.

Father, though, seems to take the statement at face value and agrees: "No, you wouldn't. And would you have Tristram and your daughter come along as well? Maybe they'd like to hear what Moran's people are doing to track his killer?"

Tristram and Emily look at each other, eyes wide. A killer! But it doesn't sound like it has anything to do with Emily's Aunt Claire. Tristram has never heard the name Moran mentioned before. It must be a new case.

"What the hell are you playing at!" Doctor Watson growls. He sounds genuinely angry. Tristram's stomach twists unpleasantly. He puts down his fork.

"Exactly," Father says archly. "I'm glad to see we're in agreement then. You'll probably want to cancel your shift this afternoon as well."

"That's my job, Sherlock. I already called in pleading a family emergency the past three days."

"Tell them it's not done yet. Or quit. I don't really care." He walks past Doctor Watson to the door, where Tristram can't see him anymore.

Doctor Watson's mouth goes flat. "No, I'll just... I'll take Emily and Tris to my sister's if you're not back." He's not speaking as loud now, although his voice is still tense.

Tristram's father steps back into the middle of the living room. He stands very close to Doctor Watson, all but looming over him. "John," he says in a very intense voice, but quiet; so quiet Tristram almost doesn't hear him. He does hear him, though. "I don't think I need to remind you the calibre of criminals we are dealing with. Two middle-aged women armed with a red pen and a bottle of Merlot are hardly going to put them off. If in fact they haven't been compromised already. Your sisters-in-law do seem to have rather loose moral standards." He steps back again.

Doctor Watson's whole body is rigid, and his face has that terrible look that makes Tristram want to slink away and hide. "That was so far over the line-"

"I'll text you any new developments," Father says crisply. Tristram hears him open the door, then go quickly down the stairs.

Tristram stares down at the remains of his sausage lying in a puddle of congealing yellow grease.

"Who's Moran?" Emily pipes up into the ringing silence. "Is he dead?"

"He wasn't a very nice man, and yes," Doctor Watson says, still staring after Tristram's father. "Yes, I'm afraid he is."


&&&&&&

Doctor Watson says he needs to get out, even though it's raining and so cold you can see your breath, so they all bundle up against the weather and go to the playground in Regent's Park. On top of the rain, it's Sunday, and barely eight o'clock, so there's no one there aside from a couple of hardy dog walkers passing briskly by with their heads down and their collars turned up. Mrs Hudson used to take Tristram to the playground a lot when he was little, but there's something awkward and lonely about going to the park at his age without another child to play with, so they haven't been in a long time. In fact, it's been so long that he's interested to see it's been completely refurbished, with new climbing frames and landscapes.

Doctor Watson sits out of the rain under the shelter of one of the play structures and keeps an eye on Tristram and Emily as they explore the tunnels and rocks and climbing nets. After a while, they run back to Emily's father and ask him to play a game with them. Well, Emily does. It would never have occurred to Tristram, but apparently, like hugs and reading books together at bedtime, playing together is something the Watsons do. So Doctor Watson gathers himself up and leads Tristram and Emily out on missions like extracting a wounded soldier from behind enemy lines or patrolling the perimeter or retrieving an airdropped delivery that's caught halfway up a tree. Instead of guns, they have wands. Tristram finds a rather nice stick to use that actually looks like a wand, nice and smooth and straight.

When their hands are finally numb and the knees and hems of their trousers are soaked through, Doctor Watson takes them to the nearby cafe, which is open now, and buys them each a bun and a hot chocolate. Doctor Watson sets his phone on the table next to him and spends nearly the entire time staring at it balefully, as if he could will it to ring by the sheer force of his gaze. When Tristram and Emily finish their snack, it's still raining, and Emily wants to change her wet socks, so they go back home.

Tristram follows Emily up to his room. He wants to get some dry clothes, too. Emily takes her bag under the tent on the beds to change, while Tristram quickly pulls on a clean pair of trousers and some socks.

"Is your dad going to be back soon?" she asks from behind the sheet.

"I don't know," Tristram tells her.

She pulls the sheet back. She has a thoughtful, worried look on her face. "I don't think he should have gone out alone to find those killers."

"He always goes alone. Usually, anyway. Sometimes he goes with the police." Tristram climbs up onto the bed next to her. "But he always comes back." He was going to say, 'He always comes back fine,' but that's not true. He's not sure why he wants to reassure her. It's not her father, after all.

"My dad went with him the last time," she says, as if this is a counter-argument.

Tristram thinks back to what Uncle Mycroft said when they asked him what their fathers were doing that night. "My Uncle Mycroft said it wasn't exactly a case," he recalls. "Just some business." He wonders now what exactly Uncle Mycroft meant with 'business'. Monkey business. Funny business. Tricky business. He's learned that his uncle has a way of using words that allow him to say one thing while meaning quite another. None of your business.

"They went together... that time, too," she presses on.

Tristram knows what time she means. Friday Afternoon. He remembers Doctor Watson's hands on his shoulders, firm and calm, while Father worked to free him from the ropes binding him to the chair. He doesn't know what might have happened if Emily's father hadn't been there. He likes to think his father would still have got him out safely, but maybe Tristram would have done or said something to distract him, or squirmed so much he tightened the ropes further, or even set off the … device.

It wasn't a bomb, he reminds himself. They'd only wanted to scare Tristram, not kill him. The man who tied him up wanted him to tell his father to do something else with his life, meaning not to investigate crimes. Obviously his father's not about to stop working on cases. Tristram wonders if it's all somehow connected to the Moran his father mentioned this morning. But then it would also be connected to Emily's Aunt Claire, and her mother's murder.

"And this weekend." Emily breaks into Tristram's thoughts. "He took my dad along this weekend too, to help keep us safe. And I think that's why we're staying with you here."

This would be the perfect time to let Emily in on the secret he's been carrying around about their fathers, but on the other hand, what she's saying makes sense, too. More sense than all that getting married nonsense Tristram somehow concocted. But it would mean that whatever was going on Thursday night, whatever made his father feel threatened enough to flee to the countryside with bodyguards, wasn't past. On the other hand, they're back here now, so whatever danger there was - or is - can't be all that acute.

"Your dad couldn't go with him this time," Tristram points out, having decided there's no need to mention the kissing after all. "He had to stay with us."

"Then your dad shouldn't have gone out either," Emily insists stubbornly.

Tristram's flattered, somehow, that Emily wants his father to be safe. At the same time, even though he's aware there are dangers and uncertainties, and that his life is affected too, he would never ask his father to stop doing what he does. There are very bad people out there who hurt other people, and the work his father does helps keep not just them, but everyone safe.

"We can't hide for the rest of our lives," Tristram tells her quietly.

She looks at him unhappily. "I know. How do you stand it, though?"

"I don't think about it, mostly," he says with an attempt at a smile. Mostly. Which means he never explicitly dwells on it, but it's always there, a yawning, shadowy nebula surrounding his entire mind space, like whatever it is that extends beyond the furthest reaches of what Tristram imagines when he tries to picture the infinity of the universe.


&&&&&&

After lunch - fish fingers and mash - Tristram and Emily are about to go upstairs to work some more on their time machine, which Emily brought with her, when they hear the door open downstairs. Doctor Watson goes out into the hall, but Tristram knows even before he says anything that it's his father. His footfalls are unmistakable, and they are firm and quick on the stairs, which makes Tristram feel better right away.

"I thought you'd be out all day," Doctor Watson says with some surprise, but also with some caution.

"Useless," Father says as he breezes in, pulling his gloves off. He has his old coat back, and he leaves it on as he drops down onto one of the armchairs, scowling.

"Things not go well with Mycroft, then?" Doctor Watson sits down in the armchair opposite him, tentative but persistent.

Father shakes his head sharply. "He was tedious but quickly dispatched. I spent most of the morning trying to track down a witness I wanted to talk to. Turns out she had a bit of an accident."

Doctor Watson sits up a bit straighter. "An accident?"

Father makes a lazy, dismissive gesture. "Not related. Simply the risks of sleeping rough. It was rather nasty, though, I gather. She's in hospital somewhere... I'll find out where this afternoon, then go pay her a visit tonight after you're back."

"After I'm back? Where am I going?" Doctor Watson sounds both curious and suspicious.

"I thought you had a job to be at," Father drawls. "Something about being fired if you didn't show up."

Doctor Watson's eyebrows jump up. "Oh! I've already called in. They weren't happy, but it's not my third strike, so... But if you don't mind..." He sits forward on the chair, about to stand up.

Father flaps at him with the gloves he's still holding in one hand. "Go on. She'll probably be in surgery or something dull all day anyway."

Doctor Watson is already reaching for his jacket. "I won't be back until after ten. Visiting hours will be over by then."

Father gives him a look that means he can't be bothered with things like visiting hours.

Doctor Watson grins. "All right, then. Thank you. Um... There are some chicken nuggets and chips in the freezer you can make for dinner," he says as he puts on his jacket, "and we were already out this morning, so-"

"John, surprisingly, this won't be the first time I've been on my own with a child."

"Right, no, I didn't mean-"

"Good-bye," Father says pointedly, but he sounds amused.

Doctor Watson darts over to the couch and gives Emily a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. "I'm just going to the hospital. I'll pop up and check on you when I get home, but you'd better be in bed." Tristram can tell he means it, but he doesn't say it in a threatening way. More like a comforting promise. Then, although he hesitates a moment, he smiles and hugs Tristram too. "Bye, Tris."

"Bye," Tristram responds automatically, startled into immobility. At least Doctor Watson didn't kiss him.

"Is he always like that?" Father asks the room at large once the downstairs door has closed behind Doctor Watson. He sounds bemused.

"Yes," Emily answers frankly. She gets off the couch and goes over to plant herself in front of Father. "Do you have any severed feet?"

There aren't any in the house at the moment, but to Tristram's surprise and delight, Father sets up his microscope on the kitchen table and gets out a box of empty slides. Tristram's allowed to use Father's microscope whenever he wants, of course, as long as Father isn't using it, but today, Father doesn't just get the equipment out and leave them to it. He helps them mount samples of their hair, saliva, snot (Emily's idea), epithelial cells from the inside of their cheeks, even blood from finger pricks, and view them at various magnifications. Tristram has the idea to get out a notebook and write everything down, noting the differences between their samples, and Emily makes some quite decent drawings to illustrate the notes.

Father wanders off at some point, but comes back after not too long with a set of slides in a slotted box. He tells them they are cross-sections of a mouse brain. Emily is delightfully disgusted. Tristram is deeply grateful. He doesn't know if his father is actually trying to make a good impression or balance the games that Doctor Watson played with them that morning (can he somehow tell where they went and what they did?), or if he's taken a genuine interest in the activity. Either way, Tristram can tell that Emily is thoroughly taken with him, which makes Tristram feel like reveling in a bit of reflected glory.

Mrs Hudson drops by later on with a plate of fresh-baked scones. She is duly introduced to Emily, whom she fawns over thoroughly. While Tristram and Emily sit in the kitchen slathering the pastries with what's left of the jam, Father speaks to Mrs Hudson in the living room. Tristram hears him mention that Doctor Watson may be coming in late tonight, and she shouldn't worry if she hears the door go.

"If I were to worry every time that door opens in the dead of night, I'd worry myself into an early grave," she assures him. "But now, you didn't tell me you had a gentleman friend," she teases him. "You sly man. And with a little girl too, that will be good for Tristram."

"He's just helping me with a case."

That is a blatant misrepresentation. It might have started out that way, but even Tristram knows it's gone far beyond that now. He wonders why his father denies it. He and Doctor Watson haven't been particularly careful about hiding their... affection, Tristram thinks the word shyly to himself, as if by acknowledging that's what it is somehow makes it more real.

"What a shame," Mrs Hudson tuts. "Well, you know what they say: great oaks from little acorns. It's still lovely that Tristram has someone to play with now." She turns and beams at the children. "You two feel free to come downstairs any time. We can play Snap. I have a feeling it will be much more fun with three than it is with two."

"Mrs Hudson's the one who taught me to play," Tristram informs Emily.

She smiles at Mrs Hudson with jam-smeared lips. "Okay."

"Mind the two of you wash your fingers before you come down. We wouldn't want the cards sticking together."

They do go downstairs a short while later - hands and faces duly washed - and Mrs Hudson's right: it is more fun with three. After they've played several rounds, Emily asks her if she knows any more card games. Mrs Hudson thinks for a moment, shuffling the cards as she does. Tristram is fascinated by the way she riffles them over and through each other in a way that looks like a falling bridge. She's tried to show him how to do it, but he can never get his hands to cooperate. The cards invariably end up splattering all over the table.

She finally settles on a game whose real name, she says, is a word she shouldn't be repeating to them, but they'll call it 'Not Likely'. The idea is that all the cards are distributed amongst the players, and the first person lays down up to four cards, face-down on the table, and announces that they are aces. You don't get to turn them over to check. The next person lays down between one and four cards, face-down, and says they are kings. The next person has queens, and so on. The other players have to decide whether they are bluffing or not. If they think the person is lying, they say, 'Not likely', and they turn over the cards to check what they really were. If the person was telling the truth, whoever spoke up has to take all the cards on the table. If the person who laid the cards was lying, then they have to take the pile. The first person to get rid of all their cards wins.

It's not as fast and physical as Snap, but Tristram finds it more exciting. Emily is a stunningly poor liar but very good at catching Tristram's bluffs. Mrs Hudson is next to impossible to read, but rarely doubts Emily or Tristram. In the end, they are fairly evenly matched, and it's only due to an extreme stroke of luck that Tristram is able to play out his last card, a five, when it really is his turn to lay fives. Emily bites her lip, obviously loath to let it go without speaking up, but not sure whether Tristram is lying or not. Before she can say anything, though, Mrs Hudson says, 'Not likely,' and then they all laugh when she turns the card over and it turns out Tristram was telling the truth.

Mrs Hudson offers to make dinner for them, but Emily wants the chicken nuggets that are waiting upstairs, so they are sent back up with two more scones wrapped up in plastic for Emily's father when he gets home later.

Father is snarling at something on his phone when they come in and doesn't even look up, but Tristram didn't expect he'd prepare dinner for them anyway. Chicken nuggets and oven chips are well within Tristram's capabilities.

After they've eaten and put their dishes in the sink - Tristram hoping guiltily that Mrs Hudson will come up later to wash up for them - they settle on the couch and turn on the television. Father has moved to one of the armchairs, where he's sprawled out behind a newspaper. He lowers one corner of the paper to glance at the screen as Tristram flicks through the channels, snorts, and buries himself in his reading again.

"Does your dad let you watch whatever you want?" Emily whispers in Tristram's ear.

Tristram shrugs. "Sure." Not that Tristram generally has much interest in watching telly. He's outgrown the kiddy series and cartoons, and most of the rest is boring. He tried, for a couple of months last year, to cultivate an enthusiasm for football matches, as that seemed to be a favourite topic amongst the other boys in his year, but he never really caught the fever.

Tristram pauses on a show about dredging for treasure in the Thames that looks halfway interesting, but Emily makes him keep going until he gets to a dance competition. Tristram doesn't really see the point, but he likes some of the music, and he'd rather Emily be happy than kick up a fuss. It's just telly, and like she said, he can watch it any time he wants.

When it's over, they go upstairs to get ready for bed. When Tristram returns from the bathroom, Emily is sitting on her bed with the tent sheets folded back, holding the Harry Potter book.

"Can you ask your dad to read to us?" she asks, holding the book out to him.

"I'll read," he says as he crawls onto his bed. It's not worth going downstairs to ask, as he knows what the answer will be. He's not resentful, it's simply not something his father does. Just like Doctor Watson doesn't help them take blood samples and smear their nasal discharge on microscope slides.

"I bet he'd do the voices really well," Emily says, somewhat wistfully. "Especially Snape."

Tristram imagines that's probably true. He fancies Snape has a deep, resounding voice like his father. He'd also make a good Dumbledore.

"He doesn't like this kind of book," Tristram says, rather than try and explain why his father, on principle, wouldn't read to them. Mostly because he doesn't know exactly what that principle is, only that it's true.

"My dad also didn't think he'd like this book, and he read it," Emily argues stubbornly.

"Your father's different." Although it's really Tristram's father that's different, but again, that's harder to explain.

"If you're not going to ask him, I will," Emily says resolutely and climbs out of bed.

"I don't think you should bother him," Tristram tries. "He's working."

"He's not working," Emily scoffs, "he's sitting there reading the newspaper."

"That's working, for him. He's thinking. That's mostly what his work is, thinking."

"He's been doing that all day," she says, although that isn't really true. He was out all morning - working, granted - and then he spent a large chunk of the afternoon with Tristram and Emily at the microscope. And Tristram has the feeling that he hasn't really been occupied with anything important since dinner. He's just waiting for Doctor Watson to come back so he can go out and interview that witness, like he said. So there's really no reason for him not to read the book.

"Anyway, it won't take long," Emily continues. "And if he's really busy, he can just say so." With that, she is out the door and down the stairs, the book clutched firmly in front of her chest.

Tristram isn't sure whether to go after her or not. Partly, he's worried his father will get annoyed at the intrusion and say or do something to make Emily feel bad, and maybe he should intervene before it gets that far. But he's also interested to see whether Father will respond the way he did when she asked him to do something with them that afternoon. He perks his ears for some clue either way.

He doesn't hear any voices, but it doesn't take long before there are footsteps coming up the stairs. Two sets. Emily comes into the room, smiling, and Father is right behind her, looking intently at the book in his hand. Tristram goggles a bit. Somehow he doesn't think that Father would have agreed to come up if Tristram had been the one to ask. On the other hand, he's never tried.

Father used to read to him, when Tristram was little. Dorling Kindersley, David Macaulay, David M. Schwartz. But when Tristram figured out how to make the letters coalesce into meanings, they stopped. It was faster and easier to read for himself. He'd sometimes ask for help with a word here and there, but it would have felt silly for Father to do something for him that he was perfectly capable of doing himself. Just like he never asks his father to tie his shoes for him, or make him breakfast, or titrate his soil samples.

But he's beginning to think that Doctor Watson reads to Emily at bedtime for another reason. Not because she can't read herself, but because it's pleasant to be doing something together. Sitting together in a safe, intimate space, sharing in the enjoyment of the story, the quiet, steady sound of her father's voice... it's not entirely unappealing.

"Emily says you'd like it if I read a chapter of this to you," Father says. It sounds like he finds the notion foreign but not entirely unappealing, like Tristram felt the first time he ate raw fish. He hadn't been opposed to trying it, and the colors and shapes made him curious, but it had taken a bit of convincing on Uncle Mycroft's part. In the end, he'd enjoyed it very much. Tristram wishes he'd gone downstairs with Emily so he could have heard what she said.

"You don't have to," Tristram allows, even as he slides back onto the bed to make room. "Not if you're busy."

"No, it's fine. I'm just waiting for John to come back." His father sits down on the foot of Tristram's bed, while Emily forgoes the field bed to fit herself in next to Tristram up against the headboard, the way they were last night when Doctor Watson read to them. Her shoulder presses against Tristram's, and he presses back, just a little, not to defend his space but to share it.

Father looks up at the sheets hanging from the ceiling. "Did John help you do this?" he asks.

Tristram nods, bracing for the next comment. He's not worried that his father will be angry about the holes in the sheets, or in the ceiling, but he does expect some remark on how it's not the right shape for a real tent, or how impractical it is for getting in and out of the bed.

"Isn't it cool?" Emily says.

Father smiles a bit and opens the book. "Yes, I suppose it is."

Tristram is almost disappointed. That's it? Now he really wonders what Emily said to his father downstairs. Not that he's complaining. Father thinks their tent is cool. And he's sitting here, on the foot of Tristram's bed, about to read to them.

"Where should I start?" Father asks.

"Chapter five," Emily tells him, and squeezes in a little closer to Tristram.

Afterwards, when Father turns out the light and goes back downstairs, Tristram snuggles under his blankets and hears Emily in the bed beside his doing the same thing. It strikes him that, even with whatever threats are still out there, and these new killers his father is after, this is the first time since Friday Afternoon that he's felt good, and safe, and happy.


&&&&&&

"Everything go all right?"

"You've already been upstairs and seen they're tucked up snug in their beds while visions of sugarplums dance through their heads," Sherlock says with more than a hint of sarcasm.

John sighs and hangs up his jacket. "Bit early for Father Christmas."

Sherlock snorts and logs off his computer. John drops wearily onto the armchair facing him.

"I'm sorry about this morning."

"I did get your text." Sherlock starts sorting through the things on the desk.

"Yeah, well I wanted to tell you in person too." John rubs his forehead. "I was frustrated and I thought you were shutting me out. But you were right, one of us needed to stay here. And I couldn't have told Mycroft anything that you couldn't. Much less, probably."

Sherlock leans back and runs his hands through his hair. "No," he agrees. "Although I'm not sure I would have taken you along anyway. The contacts I was after today are wary of strangers."

"Homeless?"

Sherlock makes an affirmative noise.

"Might still have been good to let someone know where you were going, in case you ran into trouble," John says a bit tightly.

"I didn't."

"No, but you might have."

They stare at each other, a battle of wills. Sherlock drops his eyes first. "I've told you, I'm not-"

"I get it, Sherlock. I know you're used to working alone. And I understand about today. I suppose I was oversensitive, what with all the-" He waves his hand helplessly toward the couch.

Sherlock frowns and looks away.

"What you said about Clara was unacceptable, though," he says firmly. "Especially in front of Emily and Tris."

Sherlock scoffs. "They didn't understand-"

"They understand more than you think. Especially Tris. He's you, Sherlock. Would you have understood when you were his age? How much did you pick up on that the adults around you didn't want you to know?"

Sherlock rubs his eyes. "I can't protect him from everything." He sounds weary.

"He doesn't need protection from Clara and Harry," John says flatly.

"Fine." Sherlock stands. "I'm going to the hospital."

"Did you track down that witness after all?"

"Yes. In fact, it turns out she's at Bart's. You won't have seen her, though. You're not mentioned on her chart."

"How did you- No, never mind, I don't want to know. Just out of curiosity, what's her name?"

"Princess." Sherlock goes to get his coat from the hook.

John laughs. "No, I think I would remember that. But hold on." He turns halfway around in the chair so he can look at Sherlock. "Homeless woman? Attacked with a knife?"

Sherlock pauses in wrapping his scarf around his neck. "Yes. Did you hear something about her?"

"It might not be her. I don't recall the name-"

"Princess isn't her real name. Abigail McCarthy," Sherlock says, his eyes now flashing with interest.

"Could be, I don't know. But Sherlock, the woman I heard about wasn't involved in an accident. It didn't appear to be a random mugging, either. She was-" John steels himself. "Someone deliberately cut one of her eyes out. Cleanly too, or as cleanly as could be done outside of an OP. One of her teeth was extracted as well. Not knocked out. Extracted. Those weren't accidental injuries."

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asks sharply.

"Absolutely. The surgeon who worked on her was talking about it because the case was so unusual."

"Then it's urgent I speak with her right away." Sherlock finishes putting on his outerwear and takes his gloves out of his coat pocket.

John stands up as well. "She's still going to be groggy from the anaesthetic, I imagine."

"I'll wait."

"Sherlock, if you think this is somehow connected-"

"It has to be," Sherlock says, speaking very quickly now. "The warehouse where Claire brought Tristram and Emily is in Princess' territory. The day after I get back from Llanbroc and go out to talk to her, I find out she's been the victim of a targeted attack the night before. That can't possibly be a coincidence. Someone's trying to stop her from talking. But then why didn't they kill her? She must know something, something they want her to tell me. So which is it? Do they want her to keep quiet, or tell me something? You see the problem."

"It might not have to do with you at all," John says mildly. "Rival gangs, revenge for a drug deal gone wrong, hell, maybe she stole someone's shoes," he suggests.

"I'll look into all of that," Sherlock says, but it sounds more like lip service.

"I understand this is something you'd best do alone," John says, "but I'll be honest: I don't like it. What if someone goes after her at the hospital to finish the job, and you just happen to be there?"

"I just told you, weren't you listening? They didn't want to kill her. This is a message of some kind. I only hope she knows what the message is, and whom it's meant for."

"So let me get this straight: you hope a woman was maimed and disfigured to send you a message?" John says as if he very much hopes that isn't the case.

"I hope," Sherlock says, speaking crisply as he buttons up his coat, "that whoever is behind all this is leaving more clues so that I can track them down more quickly."

"Right."

"It won't make any difference if I feel sorry for her."

"Might make a difference to her."

"All she cares about is how much money I pay for her information."

"Well, have at it then, I guess." John goes into the kitchen, where he heads for the tea kettle.

Sherlock goes out the door from the living room, but a moment later re-appears in the entrance to the kitchen from the outer hall.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is quieter now, more hesitant.

John looks up from filling the kettle.

"I believe I was wrong."

"About Princess?" John says, still irritated over their previous exchange.

"No, not-" Sherlock stops, frustrated, and tries again. "It's not casual."

John shuts off the water, looking bewildered. "Pardon?"

"It's not... What you said the other night." Sherlock squeezes his gloves with both hands. "It's not casual for me, either. In fact, I may..." Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I may, quite without noticing, have become involved."

"Oh." John sets the kettle on the counter and goes over to Sherlock. He stands in front of him with his hands in his pockets. "Well, that's..." He clears his throat. "Kind of out of left field, but um... It sort of dovetails with my experience too."

Sherlock frowns, unsure. "I'm not sure what to do about it at this point."

"Do you want to do anything?" John asks carefully. "One way or the other?"

"Um... yes, actually. Quite desperately, in fact."

He leans closer, lowering his head in increments. John tilts his face up to meet him. The kiss is slow and sweet and followed by several more.

Finally, Sherlock says, "I have to go." They are both breathing heavily.

John takes a step back. "I know, it's fine." He looks at Sherlock with a glint of humour in his eye. "I probably don't want to know how you're going to get into Princess' room."

Sherlock smiles. "Probably not." He takes a step backward into the hall.

"Be careful," John admonishes him.

Sherlock nods and runs lightly down the stairs.

After John's had his tea and cleaned up in the kitchen, he goes to the living room and gathers up the bedding from the couch. He takes it into Sherlock's room, then comes back out, carrying the pillow and duvet from Sherlock's bed, and spreads them on the couch. He then picks up his duffel bag from where it was stowed behind the couch, turns off the lights, and goes down the hall to Sherlock's room.


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John half wakes up when the mattress moves in the middle of the night. "Em?" he croaks, turning over groggily.

"Ssh, it's just me," Sherlock says in a low voice. He adjusts the quilt so it's over both of them. "Why did you exchange the bedding?"

"Thought you wanted the couch..." John mumbles. He lies there for a few seconds, trying to decide whether to wake up more or fall back asleep. Finally, he pushes the quilt away and starts to get up.

"It's all right, John." Sherlock puts a hand on his arm, gently pulling him back down and tucking them in again. "Go back to sleep."

"You can have the couch," John says, but his words are slurred and indistinct. His muscle tone is already going slack again.

Sherlock curls on his side so his knees are pressed against John's leg and one hand is resting on his upper arm.


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Go to chapter fourteen