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splixTitle: If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday. Fate has other plans.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
There is definitely going to be dubious consent in the story - how dubious I'm not yet sure, but I will change the warnings if need be. If this poses a difficulty with triggers, please be warned now that the warnings may change.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
Sherlock’s phone chirped, but he ignored it. Much more interesting to continue his veiled examination of the woman across the aisle and three seats down. She was a florist, likely working in an outdoor market due to her pale face (wide-brimmed hat against the sun) and her weathered hands (sensible, blunt nails, sun-damaged, dry from continuous exposure to water, tiny cuts and scrapes from thorns and prickly plants). White stripe of skin on third finger of left hand – wedding ring, recently removed. Clothes more stiff and confining than her customary garb, judging from the way she tugged at the collar of her suit now and then, and though the suit itself was in nearly pristine condition, the style and colour were dated, unfashionable. She’d taken some trouble to get herself up, though – she wore earrings (no stretch at the lobes, so the pendants dangling were a rare occurrence) and lipstick (red, a bit dry because she’d clearly bought it years ago and used it perhaps twice a month, if that). Her demeanour had become more and more agitated as they drew closer to their destination, and Sherlock wondered who she was meeting. A lover? A solicitor? A private investigator?
His gaze slid to her handbag. Ah. Lover. It was expensive, butter-soft leather, in a brilliant cobalt blue – not the sort of handbag someone accustomed to austerity would buy for herself, nor would a husband who didn’t merit significance purchase for her. A lover it was, then.
The phone chirped again. Sherlock scowled, reached into his pocket, and took it out.
Where are you?
Sherlock’s mouth twisted to one side as he typed. None of your business. SH
You’re in Italy.
If you’re trying to prove your own omniscience, you need to step it up. SH
I seem to recall asking you to work on the Voorman problem.
Yes, I seem to recall that too. SH
When can I expect your return? His brother’s impatient sigh was nearly audible in the text. Sherlock decided he needed to record it somehow and use it as Mycroft’s ringtone.
I really couldn’t say. SH
Do me the courtesy of informing me when you return to London.
If you like. SH Doubtless Mycroft would know almost as soon as Sherlock stepped on the train for home, but he was bored with the sparring. He muted his phone and stuck it back in his pocket.
Seeking stimulation, he glanced at the woman who was now visibly excited, wringing her hands and staring eagerly out the window, but the novelty of picking her apart had faded. He let his gaze wander and finally settle on John, who was sleeping in the seat next to him. John, who performed all tasks with quiet economy, even slept neatly; his hands were folded together in his lap over a copy of The Lancet, his feet were planted firmly on the floor, no more than a hand’s width apart, and his head was tilted back on the seat rest. His posture looked as if he might jump to his feet at the least noise, but in the late afternoon sunlight his face in repose was peaceful and still. His eyelashes, Sherlock noticed, were gold and quite long.
Suddenly and quite unaccountably annoyed with himself, Sherlock turned and stared out the window at the passing countryside, at the blue sky and lush spread of conifers bookending sharp, jagged peaks of mountain, snow-capped even in high summer and now, in early spring, swathed in white. The train was slowing, allowing a clear view of the picturesque landscape and the tidy houses and shops they passed, more German in character than Italian. It was quite pretty; even a dedicated city rat like Sherlock admitted that to himself.
“John,” he said quietly. “Wake up.”
John blinked and peered round as if he were a chick fresh from the egg. “Hm? What?”
“We’re here. Get your things.”
“Oh, right, right.” John stretched and yawned, then leant forward to peer out the window. “Wow. Look at that, Sherlock. Gorgeous!”
“I suppose so,” Sherlock returned, all indifference. “It certainly won’t be as warm as Cornwall would have been. At the cottage.” He felt in his pockets for his gloves and slid them on, smoothing the fingers one by one.
John didn’t rise to the bait; he was still gaping out the window. “No, I reckon it won’t be.” A gentle smile creased his cheeks, and his voice was positively dreamy.
Sherlock looked askance at John. “Is this your first sight of a mountain, John?”
“My first sight of these mountains. Sort of romantic, aren’t they?”
“Romantic,” Sherlock mused.
“Yeah, like The Sound of Music.” John caught Sherlock’s eye, blushed, and cleared his throat. “Or, you know, Where Eagles Dare. With, ah…Nazis.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said. John gave voice to the oddest non sequiturs at times. “Come on, don’t dawdle, we’re here.”
They retrieved their bags and disembarked onto a flagstone platform attached to a long, low stone station with a cloister-like arched walkway. Sherlock looked for the woman he’d been watching on the train and saw her embracing another woman, petite and chicly dressed. They walked away arm in arm, and their intimate posture indicated they were more than sisters, likely more than best friends. Sherlock gave himself a tiny mental pat on the back and turned to John. “Trevor said we’d be met here.”
“Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock turned to see a man dressed in a long white habit with a black cape. Ah. “Yes.”
The man – monk, or friar, Sherlock supposed – broke into a grin, showing even white teeth in a craggy, sun-tanned face. “Knew it was you. Father Simon said I should look for a tall, skinny bloke with dark hair and a bit of a scowl.” He stuck out a weathered hand. “Brother Edward. Welcome.”
“Simon always did know how to give a compliment,” Sherlock remarked dryly, shaking the monk’s hand. “And he always was suspicious of anyone who didn’t go about with an idiot grin pasted to his features. I was surprised when he didn’t go into public relations. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson.”
“Doctor,” Brother Edward said, inclining his head politely. His voice was deep and held traces of Yorkshire. “Welcome, both of you. I’ll be driving you up to San Stefano. Have you got more baggage?”
John shook his head. “No, this is it.”
“Ah, that’s good,” Brother Edward said with approval. “Anyone who needs more than one bag is a tourist, not a traveller. I’ll take them.”
“No, it’s fine –“ John began.
“No trouble,” the monk said cheerfully, and divested John and Sherlock of their bags. He tilted his head westward. “Come on,” he said, and loped toward a small car park.
“Sorry to take you from your gardening,” Sherlock said.
“Eh?” Brother Edward looked over his shoulder. “How’d you know that?”
“Cracks in your hands as well as embedded dirt,” Sherlock said. “You scrub them meticulously, but you can’t get quite all the dirt out despite your diligent efforts. Doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t wear gloves at any rate because you can’t bear not to feel the plants and dirt under your fingertips – you’re incredibly tactile, going by the way your thumb is caressing the leather handle of my bag. Faint grass and dirt stains on the lower portion of your habit, fresh as well as aged, and the habit’s quite worn, so you’ve been at it for a long time, years, most likely. Your work boots are likewise stained with years of dirt and grass. Sun-weathered face and hands, incipient arthritis from the way you’re walking, and a soft but distinct intermittent pop in your knees, clear sign of someone who’s up and down frequently. Also, you smell of early lavender plants, a common natural pesticide. Conclusion: if you’re not a professional gardener, you’re an extraordinarily keen amateur.” Sherlock nodded toward an elderly Volvo wagon. “Is this your car?”
The monk had stopped walking and was staring at Sherlock. His gaze slid toward John. “Chuffin’ heck,” he said softly.
John smiled. “Yeah. He’s always like that.”
Brother Edward blinked, then shook his head. Greying wheat-blond hair fell in his eyes. “I can see why Father Simon asked you to come. Right, hop in.” He opened the rear of the wagon and put their bags inside.
The car was old, but newly tuned and in excellent condition, and Brother Edward negotiated it with smooth surety on the curving mountain road leading to the monastery. The road rose steeply through a forest of tall pine trees, black-stemmed with thick green branches weighted with dazzling lashings of silvery white. The road had been cindered, and great banks of black-speckled frozen snow lined it on either side.
“This is breathtakingly beautiful,” John said, swivelling his head from side to side so as not to miss a thing. “You’re lucky to live in such an astounding landscape.”
“Don’t I know it,” Brother Edward said. “Not that I don’t miss Leeds now and then, but I visit my family every so often, and I’m always grateful to come back.”
“Can you shed any light on what’s been happening at the monastery, Brother Edward?” Sherlock inquired, unwilling to listen to any more rhapsodic waxing about scenery and the sound of Nazi eagles or whatever the hell John had been banging on about.
“Not sure I can,” the monk replied. “And to be quite honest, Mr. Holmes, I’m not certain how much I should say without Father Simon’s permission.”
“Surely you have your own thoughts on the matter,” Sherlock said.
“Aye, I do, and if Father Simon gives the word, I’ll be happy to offer them.” Brother Edward bit his lip, seeming to consider, and then said, “But I’ll tell you this. It’s a strange thing, three deaths in two weeks.”
“And none of them appear to be connected,” John prompted gently, and glanced back at Sherlock. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgment of John’s soft touch.
“No,” Brother Edward said. “Not so you’d notice.”
“You thought there was something unusual about them?” Sherlock asked. “If it’s a question of confidentiality that disturbs you, Brother Edward, I assure you that nothing you say to me or Dr. Watson will be repeated in any fashion.”
“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” Brother Edward said hesitantly. “There were three deaths, like I said – the choirmaster, Father Bernard, Brother Matthias, the head librarian, and the assistant librarian, Brother Adelmo. Father Bernard died of a lingering illness – trouble with his kidneys, God rest him. The others – they didn’t go as peacefully, I’m afraid. Brother Matthias died in a fall – broke his neck – and Brother Adelmo….” The monk gave a mournful sigh. “Suicide. Christ have mercy on his sweet soul.”
Sherlock sat up. This was marginally more interesting than he’d anticipated. “And the codex was stolen – when, exactly?”
“Exactly? Oh, I couldn’t say exactly. All those deaths have been a turn-up. They’ve cast a pall over the community, I can tell you. Three weeks ago, now, I should guess.”
“And the librarian and the assistant librarian both died within a few…days of each other, was it? Under suspicious circumstances. And the police haven’t been able to make connections?” Sherlock gave a scornful little laugh. “Pathetic.”
John looked over his shoulder and shook his head almost imperceptibly, folding his lips tightly together.
Sherlock noted the silent reproof but didn’t quite know how to redeem his remark. It was pathetic that the police hadn’t discovered anything, after all. “I suppose they’ve been tramping in and out of the place.”
“Father Simon’s kept it to a minimum,” Brother Edward said.
“One of the perquisites of organised religion.”
John’s head snapped round, and he shot Sherlock a glare that telegraphed the order shut your gob quite clearly.
“Well,” Brother Edward gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Maybe so.”
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John. Ha.
John folded his arms. Oh, shut up.
It really was remarkable that they managed to communicate so much without words lately. Sherlock had never done that with anyone except Mycroft, and with Mycroft it wasn’t so much communication as it was lobbing sarcasm.
There was no more time to reflect on the nature of flatmate telepathy, though, as the car rounded a final curve and glided beneath a stone arch that was, Sherlock saw, actually a gate house with the arch cut out of its centre, its massive iron gates hanging open. Beyond that, on a sort of plateau higher than the conifers, stood the monastery of San Stefano.
It was not in the low, sprawling Mediterranean style he’d expected. Surrounded by a high wall, the buildings were pale quarried stone, grouped closely together, like a tiny self-contained city. The eye was drawn to the central structure, what must have been the church, also of the same stone, with a tall steeple jutting into the clear blue sky. The monastery itself abutted a limestone cliff, so that the cliff appeared to have grown from the monastery.
“Here we are,” Brother Edward said cheerfully, driving toward the foremost structure, a buttressed tower that soared perhaps six storeys high, ornamented with small, narrow arched windows. They drove not to the massive double doors ornamenting the wall at the base of the tower, but to a side portal cut into the wall, with a sign that read Tradesmen’s Entrance in Italian, German, and French. So not entirely self-sustaining any longer, but then even monks liked indoor plumbing and telly nowadays, and indeed, as Sherlock examined the graceful structures, he was tickled to see a satellite dish atop an ornately decorated building, as incongruous as a tyre jack on a wedding cake.
Brother Edward pulled into a stone courtyard and cut the engine. “Father Simon’s in that building there, just to the left of the church,” he said. “He’s expecting you, so I’ll have your bags brought to your rooms. Someone will show you to them after your conference.”
“Thank you,” John said, shaking the man’s hand.
“And where can I find you if I need to speak with you again, Brother Edward?” Sherlock asked.
“Ah, I’m always in the botanical garden – but then you probably knew that, eh?” He got out of the car, and Sherlock and John followed suit. He pointed vaguely east. “It’s up there – there’s a greenhouse attached, so you can’t miss it. Come by any time.” He saluted them with a wave and moved up a winding stone path, falling into conversation with a passing monk.
“Well,” Sherlock said, “here we are. The sanctum sanctorum.”
John smiled faintly. “So you know this Father Simon well?”
“I knew him as Trevor’s brother, before he became a priest. I wouldn’t have thought him the type.”
“Ladies’ man?”
“Now what makes you say that, John?” Sherlock said, amused. “No – I think he might have fancied himself as such, but the reality came as a rather crushing blow as compared to the fantasy.”
“Maybe that’s why he became a priest.”
“Maybe. Wouldn’t surprise me. Anyhow, he was a self-important fool then and I’ve no reason to believe he’s changed appreciably. Come on, might as well get on with it.”
They walked toward the church, a really beautiful structure, with tall arched windows and what looked like astounding examples of medieval stained glass. Compared to the mountain pathway, there wasn’t much snow, and beds of brave violet and white croci decorated the stone walkway on either side. Sherlock looked up at the steeple, then twisted to examine the stone tower at the entrance to the monastery. All the other buildings were no more than three storeys each, and most were two. He wondered where Brother Matthias, the head librarian, had fallen and broken his neck. And the assistant had committed suicide shortly thereafter. Interesting….
“…a place like this,” John was saying.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said try not to insult the man too much, especially in a place like this.”
“Well, be sure to stand clear of me if I do,” Sherlock returned. “Maybe the lightning bolt won’t smite you when it hits me.”
“That’s not what I mean, you eejit,” John said, hurrying to keep up with Sherlock’s longer stride. “Just…be nice, all right? Try not to alienate him right away.”
“Right. I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow, shall I?”
John laughed. “Yeah, ‘til tomorrow at least. It’s gorgeous here, and I’d like to have a look around before they boot us out into the snow.”
“No promises,” Sherlock warned, grasping the heavy iron handle of the door and gesturing for John to precede him. “After you.”
They found themselves in a large, square hall or foyer, sparsely decorated with a threadbare sofa along one wall and a desk and chair tucked in a corner. A wall niche held a statue of a male saint clutching a palm frond in one hand, his face turned up to heaven. “Cosy,” Sherlock remarked quietly.
“Shh.”
A door opened, and a youngish bearded and bespectacled monk advanced into the room. “Good afternoon.” His voice was hushed, German-accented. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?”
“That’s correct,” Sherlock said.
“Welcome. Father Simon is waiting for you. If you’ll follow me, please….” He went back to the door and opened it, holding it wide so Sherlock and John could pass through. They went into a small antechamber and then into another room where a lean, balding monk sat at a desk.
Upon seeing them, the monk rose to his feet. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, extending a hand. He spoke without much evident pleasure, and his mouth contracted into a pucker.
Sherlock shook the smooth, limp hand. “Simon. So lovely to see you too, after so long.” He heard John’s sigh and gave a mental shrug. He hadn’t expected a warm embrace, but honestly –
“And this must be Dr. Watson. Welcome, Doctor.” Simon shook John’s hand and indicated the two chairs in front of his desk with a languid wave of his hand. “Please sit. Can I offer you some coffee? Tea?”
“Tea would be very nice. John?”
John smiled politely. “Oh, yes – thanks, that’d be lovely.”
“Brother Wilfred, some tea, if you please,” Simon said, sounding rather persecuted, and sank into his chair as the young monk bustled out. He folded his hands atop the leather blotter on his desk and regarded Sherlock with a jaundiced eye. “How have you been, Sherlock?”
“Fine.” Sherlock saw three long blond hairs on the black capelet of Simon’s habit and smelled a very feminine aroma of lilies of the valley pervading the room. There were no flowers in evidence, and he very much doubted that any of the monks cultivated hair quite that long. He bit his lower lip hard enough to hurt. Perhaps John had been right about not alienating Simon right away. And perhaps being a priest had improved Simon’s chances with the ladies rather than diminishing them. There was always some romance attached to an unattainable figure, and with his dull wits, Simon needed all the help he could get, vows of celibacy notwithstanding. Still, he should have been a bit less obvious with the evidence. Sherlock wondered if the other monks knew about their spiritual director’s proclivities. “And you?”
“I’ve been better, in all honesty. Perhaps we’d better dispense with the pleasantries and get right to it. Vicki told you why I’ve asked you here?”
“Stolen codex,” Sherlock replied. “Three monks dead in a two-week span.” He mentally reviewed the details Brother Edward had confided, just to see if they lined up with what Simon had to say.
“Yes.” Simon sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.
“Why don’t you tell me about the deaths and the missing codex, in that order?”
“Very well. The first death was Father Bernard, two and a half weeks ago. He was our choirmaster. We have a very fine choir,” Simon said with a hint of pride. “Not famous, for they neither tour nor record, but exquisite nonetheless and certainly well-known in this part of the country. Father Bernard died of a long illness – the doctor who treated him said it was kidney failure. He wasn’t diabetic, but he was elderly, and who knows what might have caused it.”
“No reason to believe it was foul play at all?” John asked. “Poisoning, for instance?”
“He hadn’t an enemy in the world, Dr. Watson. Everyone adored him. No, the only reason I mention it at all is because I believe the codex was taken from the library during his funeral.”
“And the other two deaths?” Sherlock inquired.
“Well, this is troubling, frankly. The other two deaths were the chief librarian and his assistant.” Simon looked uncomfortable. “And a stolen book. You can imagine how it would stain our reputation if –“
“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted. “How did each death happen?”
“Brother Matthias was the chief librarian. He fell down a flight of stairs in the library four days after the codex was stolen. His neck was broken in the fall, and I’m afraid by the time he was found, it was far too late to get help.”
“And his assistant?”
“Ah.” Simon shook his head. “Brother Adelmo regrettably took his own life.”
“How?”
Simon shook his head. “I think the details are not relevant.”
“Simon,” Sherlock said with exaggerated patience, “I’m not a psychic. If I’m to be of any assistance with your problem, I need data. How did he kill himself?”
“He…he was found in the bath. His neck…there was a cord about his neck, attached to a heavy stone.”
“But?”
Simon frowned. “But….”
“You obviously think there’s something amiss. Your fingers had been perfectly still – now you’re tracing figure-eights on your blotter in a rather compulsive fashion.”
A deep frown laddered Simon’s brow. “Yes, there was something amiss. There was an autopsy, you see – we tried to prevent it, but it was impossible. The coroner insisted upon it. It was discovered that there was no water in Brother Adelmo’s lungs.”
Sherlock nodded in satisfaction. “Therefore he was dead –“
“Before he was submerged,” John finished. “Christ.” He blushed violently. “I mean – sorry.”
Simon seemed not to notice John’s mild faux pas. He exhaled softly. “The cause of death was a broken neck. I’ve spent a great deal of money keeping the coroner silent on the matter. I haven’t told Vicki all the details. Not even the other monks are aware of this. We cannot afford a scandal.”
“No, I expect not. Tell me about the codex.”
“You’re familiar with the classification,” Simon said, and then looked at John. “A codex, for our purposes, is a hand-written book dating from late antiquity to the Middle Ages. Our library contains nearly a score of such books, and their value is…incalculable. The one that was stolen contained the writings of Saint Jerome. It was an exquisite piece, roughly dating from the year 900 A.D. and full of the most extraordinary illustrations.”
“And someone just happened to make off with it,” Sherlock said.
“It would have been a difficult thing to conceal. It weighs about thirty kilos and is fifty centimetres tall, twenty-two centimetres wide, and ten centimetres thick. It’s a sturdy piece, relatively of course, but the pages are terribly fragile. They can’t be exposed to direct light, and I fear that whoever might have taken it knows little about the necessity of preserving such a treasure.”
“Did you keep it locked up?” John asked.
Simon looked offended. “There has been no need, Dr. Watson. Until now, there has never been a single theft or misdeed within the walls of this monastery –“
“Oh, I doubt that,” Sherlock snorted.
“Of this magnitude,” Simon said, gritting his teeth together. “The library is open and attended during the day, and locked at night. Only the chief librarian has…had the key.”
“And now he’s pushing up daisies, and so is his assistant. Is there an assistant to the assistant? I’d tell him to watch his back if I were you.”
“No, there is not. In fact, I possess the key now.” Simon’s face was turning an interesting shade of lavender.
“Then you’d better watch your back. In any case, I’ll be needing it for the duration of my stay.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Simon folded his hands atop his desk.
Sherlock gaped at the calm, weaselly face. “Not possible? Why not?”
“If you require access to the library, I will turn the key over to Brother Wilfred and he will let you in. The library is only open intermittently now, and that includes guests.”
“Guests,” John said. “You have other guests?”
“Yes, of course. We accept paying guests throughout the year. They come for one of two reasons: spiritual renewal, or scholarly study. At present we have two guests beside yourselves – one is on pilgrimage, travelling from monastery to monastery, and the other is a Latin scholar. Both arrived very recently. You may have an opportunity to meet them at dinner, which is at six o’clock, by the way. I hope living according to the monastic schedule won’t discommode you unduly.”
“It shouldn’t, not unduly,” Sherlock replied with a touch of acid in his voice. “I do hope you’ll permit me access when I request it, though.”
“Within reason, yes.”
“As I said before, I need data, Simon. Did you bring me here to solve this case, or to be brought up short at every turn? Or are there other troubling secrets here you’d rather not have revealed? The Church certainly sits on quite a nest of them, or so I’ve heard.”
Simon’s knuckles turned white as he clenched his hands together. “Let’s get one thing quite clear, Sherlock. I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. You were an unpleasant, arrogant boy and now you’re an unpleasant, arrogant man. What Vicki saw in you I’m sure I’ll never understand, but she tells me that you’ve developed a reputation for solving difficult cases. You can find the most obscure clues in the twist of a discarded cigarette, she says, or the torn corner of a photograph, or a handful of tattered cloth. She tells me you’re extraordinary and brilliant, and so you might be, but I tell you there is a limit to my patience. I am willing to grant you more access to this abbey than any layperson has ever enjoyed, but I will not have the community here badgered, nor the walls of this sacred place belittled in any fashion. Vicki is paying for your accommodations here, and I assure you I have no compunction about asking you to leave if it comes to that.”
Sherlock smiled. “Touched a nerve, did I?”
“All right –“
“Look, Father,” John said, placing a warning and restraining hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I promise you that we’ll treat you and your community with respect –“
“Can you make that promise?” Simon sniffed.
“Yes,” John said with a firm nod. “But in order to help you, Sherlock – we – need to know that if the investigation requires some concession on your part that’s slightly out of the ordinary, that you’ll at least meet us halfway. Can we agree to that?”
Sherlock held Simon’s gaze, but a little jab of warmth made his mouth twitch. Dear John, such a diplomat.
“I suppose so,” Simon returned grudgingly, rising to his feet. “Brother Wilfred will show you to your rooms now. You have carte blanche to wander the grounds, and at dinner this evening I will let the community know that you’ll be conducting an investigation and that they’re to answer your questions. You’ll find them agreeable, I believe, and most if not all of them speak excellent English.” He picked up a bell on his desk, rang it, and set it down again. “I hope you’ll forgive my outburst,” he said stiffly.
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Your cooperation is appreciated.” He and John bade Simon farewell and followed the bearded monk out of the building and up a gently sloped path lined with bare trees.
“Well, that went better than I’d anticipated,” John said in a low voice.
“Did it?”
“Well, all things considered. He’s not really fond of you, I noticed.”
“No,” Sherlock said. “No, he’s not.”
John bit his lip. “There’s a story there, I bet.”
Sherlock smiled. “Another time. You were remarkably gracious.”
“I thought you were going to make some smart-arse comment about monks diddling altar boys. I was ready to slap my hand over your mouth. But you didn’t – well done.” John reached up and tugged at a branch with tender pale-green buds as he walked.
“I don’t think monastic communities have altar boys.”
“Is that the only thing that stopped you?”
Sherlock shrugged and stole a glance at John, who was smiling. “Anyway, altar boys aren’t the problem here. Two dead librarians with broken necks, that’s the problem.” He rubbed his gloved hands together gleefully and when Brother Wilfred, walking a few metres in front of them, peered at him curiously, stuck his hands in his pockets. “The first place I want to see is the bath where the assistant died,” he said to the monk. “Can you tell us where that is?”
“Why, yes. That’s the balneary. Brother Adelmo was in one of the indoor baths.”
“Indoor?” John asked.
“Yes,” the monk said. “We have a hot spring around which the balneary was built. It’s one of the only structures that hasn’t been extensively modernised. There are indoor baths, and an outdoor bath. I recommend you avail yourselves of the outdoor bath. It is a refreshing and rather lovely experience, I think, particularly on cold, clear nights.”
John made a noncommittal noise.
“And the indoor baths are ordinary, but also refreshing. Your rooms have showers, but I have always preferred the baths. ‘Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep, a bath and a glass of wine.’ Thomas Aquinas.”
“Sounds like a bloke after my own heart,” John said.
“Of course,” the monk went on, “no-one has used the bath where Brother Adelmo lost his life. So if you need to investigate it, you will find it untouched since that day.”
“Excellent. Let’s go there now,” Sherlock said. He looked at John. “You’re not tired, are you?”
“No,” John said. “Let’s have at it.”
The monk led them to a low building with arched windows of plain glass. “It is a beautiful structure,” Brother Wilfred said. “The monastery is built in the Cistercian style, for the most part, but as it was constructed toward the end of that era, there are touches of Gothic architecture here and there. There’s a sort of whimsy to it, if such stately design can be called whimsical. The balneary, however, is almost purely Cistercian. Come.” He opened a door and led them inside.
The structure was a long room, flooded with light from the windows, and lined from one end to the other with oval wooden tubs. There was a small stone fountain in the centre of the room, and the water, Sherlock surmised, came from a hand pump in the corner. The buttressed walls were unadorned except for a plain wooden cross at one end.
“This is the bathing room,” Brother Wilfred said. “Brother Adelmo perished in one of the larger soaking tubs, across the courtyard.” He opened another door onto a square courtyard, bordered on all sides by a cloister walk. In the middle of the yard was what looked for all the world like an ancient hot tub, a rock structure rising out of the ground like the topmost turret of a castle buried beneath the monastery. Sherlock saw a long, bare arm flung over the side of the tub, and steam rising from the surface of the water and disappearing into the air. Someone was enjoying a late-afternoon soak.
As they drew closer, the arm withdrew, and there was a faint splash as the tub’s occupant rose to his feet. He was tall and slender, with a lean, chiselled face and curling dark-blond hair. He turned to the newcomers, evidently careless of his nakedness, the cold weather, or the water streaming down his body, and smiled.
“Why, hello. You must be Sherlock Holmes.”
*
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday. Fate has other plans.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
There is definitely going to be dubious consent in the story - how dubious I'm not yet sure, but I will change the warnings if need be. If this poses a difficulty with triggers, please be warned now that the warnings may change.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
Sherlock’s phone chirped, but he ignored it. Much more interesting to continue his veiled examination of the woman across the aisle and three seats down. She was a florist, likely working in an outdoor market due to her pale face (wide-brimmed hat against the sun) and her weathered hands (sensible, blunt nails, sun-damaged, dry from continuous exposure to water, tiny cuts and scrapes from thorns and prickly plants). White stripe of skin on third finger of left hand – wedding ring, recently removed. Clothes more stiff and confining than her customary garb, judging from the way she tugged at the collar of her suit now and then, and though the suit itself was in nearly pristine condition, the style and colour were dated, unfashionable. She’d taken some trouble to get herself up, though – she wore earrings (no stretch at the lobes, so the pendants dangling were a rare occurrence) and lipstick (red, a bit dry because she’d clearly bought it years ago and used it perhaps twice a month, if that). Her demeanour had become more and more agitated as they drew closer to their destination, and Sherlock wondered who she was meeting. A lover? A solicitor? A private investigator?
His gaze slid to her handbag. Ah. Lover. It was expensive, butter-soft leather, in a brilliant cobalt blue – not the sort of handbag someone accustomed to austerity would buy for herself, nor would a husband who didn’t merit significance purchase for her. A lover it was, then.
The phone chirped again. Sherlock scowled, reached into his pocket, and took it out.
Where are you?
Sherlock’s mouth twisted to one side as he typed. None of your business. SH
You’re in Italy.
If you’re trying to prove your own omniscience, you need to step it up. SH
I seem to recall asking you to work on the Voorman problem.
Yes, I seem to recall that too. SH
When can I expect your return? His brother’s impatient sigh was nearly audible in the text. Sherlock decided he needed to record it somehow and use it as Mycroft’s ringtone.
I really couldn’t say. SH
Do me the courtesy of informing me when you return to London.
If you like. SH Doubtless Mycroft would know almost as soon as Sherlock stepped on the train for home, but he was bored with the sparring. He muted his phone and stuck it back in his pocket.
Seeking stimulation, he glanced at the woman who was now visibly excited, wringing her hands and staring eagerly out the window, but the novelty of picking her apart had faded. He let his gaze wander and finally settle on John, who was sleeping in the seat next to him. John, who performed all tasks with quiet economy, even slept neatly; his hands were folded together in his lap over a copy of The Lancet, his feet were planted firmly on the floor, no more than a hand’s width apart, and his head was tilted back on the seat rest. His posture looked as if he might jump to his feet at the least noise, but in the late afternoon sunlight his face in repose was peaceful and still. His eyelashes, Sherlock noticed, were gold and quite long.
Suddenly and quite unaccountably annoyed with himself, Sherlock turned and stared out the window at the passing countryside, at the blue sky and lush spread of conifers bookending sharp, jagged peaks of mountain, snow-capped even in high summer and now, in early spring, swathed in white. The train was slowing, allowing a clear view of the picturesque landscape and the tidy houses and shops they passed, more German in character than Italian. It was quite pretty; even a dedicated city rat like Sherlock admitted that to himself.
“John,” he said quietly. “Wake up.”
John blinked and peered round as if he were a chick fresh from the egg. “Hm? What?”
“We’re here. Get your things.”
“Oh, right, right.” John stretched and yawned, then leant forward to peer out the window. “Wow. Look at that, Sherlock. Gorgeous!”
“I suppose so,” Sherlock returned, all indifference. “It certainly won’t be as warm as Cornwall would have been. At the cottage.” He felt in his pockets for his gloves and slid them on, smoothing the fingers one by one.
John didn’t rise to the bait; he was still gaping out the window. “No, I reckon it won’t be.” A gentle smile creased his cheeks, and his voice was positively dreamy.
Sherlock looked askance at John. “Is this your first sight of a mountain, John?”
“My first sight of these mountains. Sort of romantic, aren’t they?”
“Romantic,” Sherlock mused.
“Yeah, like The Sound of Music.” John caught Sherlock’s eye, blushed, and cleared his throat. “Or, you know, Where Eagles Dare. With, ah…Nazis.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said. John gave voice to the oddest non sequiturs at times. “Come on, don’t dawdle, we’re here.”
They retrieved their bags and disembarked onto a flagstone platform attached to a long, low stone station with a cloister-like arched walkway. Sherlock looked for the woman he’d been watching on the train and saw her embracing another woman, petite and chicly dressed. They walked away arm in arm, and their intimate posture indicated they were more than sisters, likely more than best friends. Sherlock gave himself a tiny mental pat on the back and turned to John. “Trevor said we’d be met here.”
“Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock turned to see a man dressed in a long white habit with a black cape. Ah. “Yes.”
The man – monk, or friar, Sherlock supposed – broke into a grin, showing even white teeth in a craggy, sun-tanned face. “Knew it was you. Father Simon said I should look for a tall, skinny bloke with dark hair and a bit of a scowl.” He stuck out a weathered hand. “Brother Edward. Welcome.”
“Simon always did know how to give a compliment,” Sherlock remarked dryly, shaking the monk’s hand. “And he always was suspicious of anyone who didn’t go about with an idiot grin pasted to his features. I was surprised when he didn’t go into public relations. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson.”
“Doctor,” Brother Edward said, inclining his head politely. His voice was deep and held traces of Yorkshire. “Welcome, both of you. I’ll be driving you up to San Stefano. Have you got more baggage?”
John shook his head. “No, this is it.”
“Ah, that’s good,” Brother Edward said with approval. “Anyone who needs more than one bag is a tourist, not a traveller. I’ll take them.”
“No, it’s fine –“ John began.
“No trouble,” the monk said cheerfully, and divested John and Sherlock of their bags. He tilted his head westward. “Come on,” he said, and loped toward a small car park.
“Sorry to take you from your gardening,” Sherlock said.
“Eh?” Brother Edward looked over his shoulder. “How’d you know that?”
“Cracks in your hands as well as embedded dirt,” Sherlock said. “You scrub them meticulously, but you can’t get quite all the dirt out despite your diligent efforts. Doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t wear gloves at any rate because you can’t bear not to feel the plants and dirt under your fingertips – you’re incredibly tactile, going by the way your thumb is caressing the leather handle of my bag. Faint grass and dirt stains on the lower portion of your habit, fresh as well as aged, and the habit’s quite worn, so you’ve been at it for a long time, years, most likely. Your work boots are likewise stained with years of dirt and grass. Sun-weathered face and hands, incipient arthritis from the way you’re walking, and a soft but distinct intermittent pop in your knees, clear sign of someone who’s up and down frequently. Also, you smell of early lavender plants, a common natural pesticide. Conclusion: if you’re not a professional gardener, you’re an extraordinarily keen amateur.” Sherlock nodded toward an elderly Volvo wagon. “Is this your car?”
The monk had stopped walking and was staring at Sherlock. His gaze slid toward John. “Chuffin’ heck,” he said softly.
John smiled. “Yeah. He’s always like that.”
Brother Edward blinked, then shook his head. Greying wheat-blond hair fell in his eyes. “I can see why Father Simon asked you to come. Right, hop in.” He opened the rear of the wagon and put their bags inside.
The car was old, but newly tuned and in excellent condition, and Brother Edward negotiated it with smooth surety on the curving mountain road leading to the monastery. The road rose steeply through a forest of tall pine trees, black-stemmed with thick green branches weighted with dazzling lashings of silvery white. The road had been cindered, and great banks of black-speckled frozen snow lined it on either side.
“This is breathtakingly beautiful,” John said, swivelling his head from side to side so as not to miss a thing. “You’re lucky to live in such an astounding landscape.”
“Don’t I know it,” Brother Edward said. “Not that I don’t miss Leeds now and then, but I visit my family every so often, and I’m always grateful to come back.”
“Can you shed any light on what’s been happening at the monastery, Brother Edward?” Sherlock inquired, unwilling to listen to any more rhapsodic waxing about scenery and the sound of Nazi eagles or whatever the hell John had been banging on about.
“Not sure I can,” the monk replied. “And to be quite honest, Mr. Holmes, I’m not certain how much I should say without Father Simon’s permission.”
“Surely you have your own thoughts on the matter,” Sherlock said.
“Aye, I do, and if Father Simon gives the word, I’ll be happy to offer them.” Brother Edward bit his lip, seeming to consider, and then said, “But I’ll tell you this. It’s a strange thing, three deaths in two weeks.”
“And none of them appear to be connected,” John prompted gently, and glanced back at Sherlock. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgment of John’s soft touch.
“No,” Brother Edward said. “Not so you’d notice.”
“You thought there was something unusual about them?” Sherlock asked. “If it’s a question of confidentiality that disturbs you, Brother Edward, I assure you that nothing you say to me or Dr. Watson will be repeated in any fashion.”
“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” Brother Edward said hesitantly. “There were three deaths, like I said – the choirmaster, Father Bernard, Brother Matthias, the head librarian, and the assistant librarian, Brother Adelmo. Father Bernard died of a lingering illness – trouble with his kidneys, God rest him. The others – they didn’t go as peacefully, I’m afraid. Brother Matthias died in a fall – broke his neck – and Brother Adelmo….” The monk gave a mournful sigh. “Suicide. Christ have mercy on his sweet soul.”
Sherlock sat up. This was marginally more interesting than he’d anticipated. “And the codex was stolen – when, exactly?”
“Exactly? Oh, I couldn’t say exactly. All those deaths have been a turn-up. They’ve cast a pall over the community, I can tell you. Three weeks ago, now, I should guess.”
“And the librarian and the assistant librarian both died within a few…days of each other, was it? Under suspicious circumstances. And the police haven’t been able to make connections?” Sherlock gave a scornful little laugh. “Pathetic.”
John looked over his shoulder and shook his head almost imperceptibly, folding his lips tightly together.
Sherlock noted the silent reproof but didn’t quite know how to redeem his remark. It was pathetic that the police hadn’t discovered anything, after all. “I suppose they’ve been tramping in and out of the place.”
“Father Simon’s kept it to a minimum,” Brother Edward said.
“One of the perquisites of organised religion.”
John’s head snapped round, and he shot Sherlock a glare that telegraphed the order shut your gob quite clearly.
“Well,” Brother Edward gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Maybe so.”
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John. Ha.
John folded his arms. Oh, shut up.
It really was remarkable that they managed to communicate so much without words lately. Sherlock had never done that with anyone except Mycroft, and with Mycroft it wasn’t so much communication as it was lobbing sarcasm.
There was no more time to reflect on the nature of flatmate telepathy, though, as the car rounded a final curve and glided beneath a stone arch that was, Sherlock saw, actually a gate house with the arch cut out of its centre, its massive iron gates hanging open. Beyond that, on a sort of plateau higher than the conifers, stood the monastery of San Stefano.
It was not in the low, sprawling Mediterranean style he’d expected. Surrounded by a high wall, the buildings were pale quarried stone, grouped closely together, like a tiny self-contained city. The eye was drawn to the central structure, what must have been the church, also of the same stone, with a tall steeple jutting into the clear blue sky. The monastery itself abutted a limestone cliff, so that the cliff appeared to have grown from the monastery.
“Here we are,” Brother Edward said cheerfully, driving toward the foremost structure, a buttressed tower that soared perhaps six storeys high, ornamented with small, narrow arched windows. They drove not to the massive double doors ornamenting the wall at the base of the tower, but to a side portal cut into the wall, with a sign that read Tradesmen’s Entrance in Italian, German, and French. So not entirely self-sustaining any longer, but then even monks liked indoor plumbing and telly nowadays, and indeed, as Sherlock examined the graceful structures, he was tickled to see a satellite dish atop an ornately decorated building, as incongruous as a tyre jack on a wedding cake.
Brother Edward pulled into a stone courtyard and cut the engine. “Father Simon’s in that building there, just to the left of the church,” he said. “He’s expecting you, so I’ll have your bags brought to your rooms. Someone will show you to them after your conference.”
“Thank you,” John said, shaking the man’s hand.
“And where can I find you if I need to speak with you again, Brother Edward?” Sherlock asked.
“Ah, I’m always in the botanical garden – but then you probably knew that, eh?” He got out of the car, and Sherlock and John followed suit. He pointed vaguely east. “It’s up there – there’s a greenhouse attached, so you can’t miss it. Come by any time.” He saluted them with a wave and moved up a winding stone path, falling into conversation with a passing monk.
“Well,” Sherlock said, “here we are. The sanctum sanctorum.”
John smiled faintly. “So you know this Father Simon well?”
“I knew him as Trevor’s brother, before he became a priest. I wouldn’t have thought him the type.”
“Ladies’ man?”
“Now what makes you say that, John?” Sherlock said, amused. “No – I think he might have fancied himself as such, but the reality came as a rather crushing blow as compared to the fantasy.”
“Maybe that’s why he became a priest.”
“Maybe. Wouldn’t surprise me. Anyhow, he was a self-important fool then and I’ve no reason to believe he’s changed appreciably. Come on, might as well get on with it.”
They walked toward the church, a really beautiful structure, with tall arched windows and what looked like astounding examples of medieval stained glass. Compared to the mountain pathway, there wasn’t much snow, and beds of brave violet and white croci decorated the stone walkway on either side. Sherlock looked up at the steeple, then twisted to examine the stone tower at the entrance to the monastery. All the other buildings were no more than three storeys each, and most were two. He wondered where Brother Matthias, the head librarian, had fallen and broken his neck. And the assistant had committed suicide shortly thereafter. Interesting….
“…a place like this,” John was saying.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said try not to insult the man too much, especially in a place like this.”
“Well, be sure to stand clear of me if I do,” Sherlock returned. “Maybe the lightning bolt won’t smite you when it hits me.”
“That’s not what I mean, you eejit,” John said, hurrying to keep up with Sherlock’s longer stride. “Just…be nice, all right? Try not to alienate him right away.”
“Right. I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow, shall I?”
John laughed. “Yeah, ‘til tomorrow at least. It’s gorgeous here, and I’d like to have a look around before they boot us out into the snow.”
“No promises,” Sherlock warned, grasping the heavy iron handle of the door and gesturing for John to precede him. “After you.”
They found themselves in a large, square hall or foyer, sparsely decorated with a threadbare sofa along one wall and a desk and chair tucked in a corner. A wall niche held a statue of a male saint clutching a palm frond in one hand, his face turned up to heaven. “Cosy,” Sherlock remarked quietly.
“Shh.”
A door opened, and a youngish bearded and bespectacled monk advanced into the room. “Good afternoon.” His voice was hushed, German-accented. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?”
“That’s correct,” Sherlock said.
“Welcome. Father Simon is waiting for you. If you’ll follow me, please….” He went back to the door and opened it, holding it wide so Sherlock and John could pass through. They went into a small antechamber and then into another room where a lean, balding monk sat at a desk.
Upon seeing them, the monk rose to his feet. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, extending a hand. He spoke without much evident pleasure, and his mouth contracted into a pucker.
Sherlock shook the smooth, limp hand. “Simon. So lovely to see you too, after so long.” He heard John’s sigh and gave a mental shrug. He hadn’t expected a warm embrace, but honestly –
“And this must be Dr. Watson. Welcome, Doctor.” Simon shook John’s hand and indicated the two chairs in front of his desk with a languid wave of his hand. “Please sit. Can I offer you some coffee? Tea?”
“Tea would be very nice. John?”
John smiled politely. “Oh, yes – thanks, that’d be lovely.”
“Brother Wilfred, some tea, if you please,” Simon said, sounding rather persecuted, and sank into his chair as the young monk bustled out. He folded his hands atop the leather blotter on his desk and regarded Sherlock with a jaundiced eye. “How have you been, Sherlock?”
“Fine.” Sherlock saw three long blond hairs on the black capelet of Simon’s habit and smelled a very feminine aroma of lilies of the valley pervading the room. There were no flowers in evidence, and he very much doubted that any of the monks cultivated hair quite that long. He bit his lower lip hard enough to hurt. Perhaps John had been right about not alienating Simon right away. And perhaps being a priest had improved Simon’s chances with the ladies rather than diminishing them. There was always some romance attached to an unattainable figure, and with his dull wits, Simon needed all the help he could get, vows of celibacy notwithstanding. Still, he should have been a bit less obvious with the evidence. Sherlock wondered if the other monks knew about their spiritual director’s proclivities. “And you?”
“I’ve been better, in all honesty. Perhaps we’d better dispense with the pleasantries and get right to it. Vicki told you why I’ve asked you here?”
“Stolen codex,” Sherlock replied. “Three monks dead in a two-week span.” He mentally reviewed the details Brother Edward had confided, just to see if they lined up with what Simon had to say.
“Yes.” Simon sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.
“Why don’t you tell me about the deaths and the missing codex, in that order?”
“Very well. The first death was Father Bernard, two and a half weeks ago. He was our choirmaster. We have a very fine choir,” Simon said with a hint of pride. “Not famous, for they neither tour nor record, but exquisite nonetheless and certainly well-known in this part of the country. Father Bernard died of a long illness – the doctor who treated him said it was kidney failure. He wasn’t diabetic, but he was elderly, and who knows what might have caused it.”
“No reason to believe it was foul play at all?” John asked. “Poisoning, for instance?”
“He hadn’t an enemy in the world, Dr. Watson. Everyone adored him. No, the only reason I mention it at all is because I believe the codex was taken from the library during his funeral.”
“And the other two deaths?” Sherlock inquired.
“Well, this is troubling, frankly. The other two deaths were the chief librarian and his assistant.” Simon looked uncomfortable. “And a stolen book. You can imagine how it would stain our reputation if –“
“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted. “How did each death happen?”
“Brother Matthias was the chief librarian. He fell down a flight of stairs in the library four days after the codex was stolen. His neck was broken in the fall, and I’m afraid by the time he was found, it was far too late to get help.”
“And his assistant?”
“Ah.” Simon shook his head. “Brother Adelmo regrettably took his own life.”
“How?”
Simon shook his head. “I think the details are not relevant.”
“Simon,” Sherlock said with exaggerated patience, “I’m not a psychic. If I’m to be of any assistance with your problem, I need data. How did he kill himself?”
“He…he was found in the bath. His neck…there was a cord about his neck, attached to a heavy stone.”
“But?”
Simon frowned. “But….”
“You obviously think there’s something amiss. Your fingers had been perfectly still – now you’re tracing figure-eights on your blotter in a rather compulsive fashion.”
A deep frown laddered Simon’s brow. “Yes, there was something amiss. There was an autopsy, you see – we tried to prevent it, but it was impossible. The coroner insisted upon it. It was discovered that there was no water in Brother Adelmo’s lungs.”
Sherlock nodded in satisfaction. “Therefore he was dead –“
“Before he was submerged,” John finished. “Christ.” He blushed violently. “I mean – sorry.”
Simon seemed not to notice John’s mild faux pas. He exhaled softly. “The cause of death was a broken neck. I’ve spent a great deal of money keeping the coroner silent on the matter. I haven’t told Vicki all the details. Not even the other monks are aware of this. We cannot afford a scandal.”
“No, I expect not. Tell me about the codex.”
“You’re familiar with the classification,” Simon said, and then looked at John. “A codex, for our purposes, is a hand-written book dating from late antiquity to the Middle Ages. Our library contains nearly a score of such books, and their value is…incalculable. The one that was stolen contained the writings of Saint Jerome. It was an exquisite piece, roughly dating from the year 900 A.D. and full of the most extraordinary illustrations.”
“And someone just happened to make off with it,” Sherlock said.
“It would have been a difficult thing to conceal. It weighs about thirty kilos and is fifty centimetres tall, twenty-two centimetres wide, and ten centimetres thick. It’s a sturdy piece, relatively of course, but the pages are terribly fragile. They can’t be exposed to direct light, and I fear that whoever might have taken it knows little about the necessity of preserving such a treasure.”
“Did you keep it locked up?” John asked.
Simon looked offended. “There has been no need, Dr. Watson. Until now, there has never been a single theft or misdeed within the walls of this monastery –“
“Oh, I doubt that,” Sherlock snorted.
“Of this magnitude,” Simon said, gritting his teeth together. “The library is open and attended during the day, and locked at night. Only the chief librarian has…had the key.”
“And now he’s pushing up daisies, and so is his assistant. Is there an assistant to the assistant? I’d tell him to watch his back if I were you.”
“No, there is not. In fact, I possess the key now.” Simon’s face was turning an interesting shade of lavender.
“Then you’d better watch your back. In any case, I’ll be needing it for the duration of my stay.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Simon folded his hands atop his desk.
Sherlock gaped at the calm, weaselly face. “Not possible? Why not?”
“If you require access to the library, I will turn the key over to Brother Wilfred and he will let you in. The library is only open intermittently now, and that includes guests.”
“Guests,” John said. “You have other guests?”
“Yes, of course. We accept paying guests throughout the year. They come for one of two reasons: spiritual renewal, or scholarly study. At present we have two guests beside yourselves – one is on pilgrimage, travelling from monastery to monastery, and the other is a Latin scholar. Both arrived very recently. You may have an opportunity to meet them at dinner, which is at six o’clock, by the way. I hope living according to the monastic schedule won’t discommode you unduly.”
“It shouldn’t, not unduly,” Sherlock replied with a touch of acid in his voice. “I do hope you’ll permit me access when I request it, though.”
“Within reason, yes.”
“As I said before, I need data, Simon. Did you bring me here to solve this case, or to be brought up short at every turn? Or are there other troubling secrets here you’d rather not have revealed? The Church certainly sits on quite a nest of them, or so I’ve heard.”
Simon’s knuckles turned white as he clenched his hands together. “Let’s get one thing quite clear, Sherlock. I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. You were an unpleasant, arrogant boy and now you’re an unpleasant, arrogant man. What Vicki saw in you I’m sure I’ll never understand, but she tells me that you’ve developed a reputation for solving difficult cases. You can find the most obscure clues in the twist of a discarded cigarette, she says, or the torn corner of a photograph, or a handful of tattered cloth. She tells me you’re extraordinary and brilliant, and so you might be, but I tell you there is a limit to my patience. I am willing to grant you more access to this abbey than any layperson has ever enjoyed, but I will not have the community here badgered, nor the walls of this sacred place belittled in any fashion. Vicki is paying for your accommodations here, and I assure you I have no compunction about asking you to leave if it comes to that.”
Sherlock smiled. “Touched a nerve, did I?”
“All right –“
“Look, Father,” John said, placing a warning and restraining hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I promise you that we’ll treat you and your community with respect –“
“Can you make that promise?” Simon sniffed.
“Yes,” John said with a firm nod. “But in order to help you, Sherlock – we – need to know that if the investigation requires some concession on your part that’s slightly out of the ordinary, that you’ll at least meet us halfway. Can we agree to that?”
Sherlock held Simon’s gaze, but a little jab of warmth made his mouth twitch. Dear John, such a diplomat.
“I suppose so,” Simon returned grudgingly, rising to his feet. “Brother Wilfred will show you to your rooms now. You have carte blanche to wander the grounds, and at dinner this evening I will let the community know that you’ll be conducting an investigation and that they’re to answer your questions. You’ll find them agreeable, I believe, and most if not all of them speak excellent English.” He picked up a bell on his desk, rang it, and set it down again. “I hope you’ll forgive my outburst,” he said stiffly.
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Your cooperation is appreciated.” He and John bade Simon farewell and followed the bearded monk out of the building and up a gently sloped path lined with bare trees.
“Well, that went better than I’d anticipated,” John said in a low voice.
“Did it?”
“Well, all things considered. He’s not really fond of you, I noticed.”
“No,” Sherlock said. “No, he’s not.”
John bit his lip. “There’s a story there, I bet.”
Sherlock smiled. “Another time. You were remarkably gracious.”
“I thought you were going to make some smart-arse comment about monks diddling altar boys. I was ready to slap my hand over your mouth. But you didn’t – well done.” John reached up and tugged at a branch with tender pale-green buds as he walked.
“I don’t think monastic communities have altar boys.”
“Is that the only thing that stopped you?”
Sherlock shrugged and stole a glance at John, who was smiling. “Anyway, altar boys aren’t the problem here. Two dead librarians with broken necks, that’s the problem.” He rubbed his gloved hands together gleefully and when Brother Wilfred, walking a few metres in front of them, peered at him curiously, stuck his hands in his pockets. “The first place I want to see is the bath where the assistant died,” he said to the monk. “Can you tell us where that is?”
“Why, yes. That’s the balneary. Brother Adelmo was in one of the indoor baths.”
“Indoor?” John asked.
“Yes,” the monk said. “We have a hot spring around which the balneary was built. It’s one of the only structures that hasn’t been extensively modernised. There are indoor baths, and an outdoor bath. I recommend you avail yourselves of the outdoor bath. It is a refreshing and rather lovely experience, I think, particularly on cold, clear nights.”
John made a noncommittal noise.
“And the indoor baths are ordinary, but also refreshing. Your rooms have showers, but I have always preferred the baths. ‘Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep, a bath and a glass of wine.’ Thomas Aquinas.”
“Sounds like a bloke after my own heart,” John said.
“Of course,” the monk went on, “no-one has used the bath where Brother Adelmo lost his life. So if you need to investigate it, you will find it untouched since that day.”
“Excellent. Let’s go there now,” Sherlock said. He looked at John. “You’re not tired, are you?”
“No,” John said. “Let’s have at it.”
The monk led them to a low building with arched windows of plain glass. “It is a beautiful structure,” Brother Wilfred said. “The monastery is built in the Cistercian style, for the most part, but as it was constructed toward the end of that era, there are touches of Gothic architecture here and there. There’s a sort of whimsy to it, if such stately design can be called whimsical. The balneary, however, is almost purely Cistercian. Come.” He opened a door and led them inside.
The structure was a long room, flooded with light from the windows, and lined from one end to the other with oval wooden tubs. There was a small stone fountain in the centre of the room, and the water, Sherlock surmised, came from a hand pump in the corner. The buttressed walls were unadorned except for a plain wooden cross at one end.
“This is the bathing room,” Brother Wilfred said. “Brother Adelmo perished in one of the larger soaking tubs, across the courtyard.” He opened another door onto a square courtyard, bordered on all sides by a cloister walk. In the middle of the yard was what looked for all the world like an ancient hot tub, a rock structure rising out of the ground like the topmost turret of a castle buried beneath the monastery. Sherlock saw a long, bare arm flung over the side of the tub, and steam rising from the surface of the water and disappearing into the air. Someone was enjoying a late-afternoon soak.
As they drew closer, the arm withdrew, and there was a faint splash as the tub’s occupant rose to his feet. He was tall and slender, with a lean, chiselled face and curling dark-blond hair. He turned to the newcomers, evidently careless of his nakedness, the cold weather, or the water streaming down his body, and smiled.
“Why, hello. You must be Sherlock Holmes.”
*
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Date: 2012-09-10 03:49 pm (UTC)His brother’s impatient sigh was nearly audible in the text. Sherlock decided he needed to record it somehow and use it as Mycroft’s ringtone. Heehee; love that!
Oh, I am definitely in for Bother Edward and you know why. You're so generous!
“I thought you were going to make some smart-arse comment about monks diddling altar boys.. As I'd rather hoped he would, but Sherlock behaved for once. *grins*
“Why, hello. You must be Sherlock Holmes.” And hello.. who rises from the bath,uh? I love this fic dear, it's making me greedy for more, much more. Great job!
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Date: 2012-09-10 05:45 pm (UTC)Oh, I am definitely in for Bother Edward and you know why.
*tips hat* ;)
Sherlock was really very well behaved, all things considered! And there's more to come - thank you again! :D