This Man's Heart - Chapter 5
Jul. 4th, 2011 04:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellie_hellTitle: This Man's Heart - Chapter 5
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John.
Word count: 2383
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured in a war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Beta: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
albalark who was not only a beta, but a teacher of precious English lessons (in so many pretty colours) and to disassembly_rsn whose history knowledge I envy, and who helped me revise a lot of the backstory. You two made this insanely better, I hope you know how much I appreciate your help. I also thank the lovely anarion who, once again, helped me deal with my inability to write a mistake-free header.
Back to the first chapter
Previous chapter
Chapter 5
On a beautiful September morning, Sherlock woke up feeling antsy and when he saw the beautiful sun shining outside, he decided to skip breakfast. His plan was to head to the Salty Swamp and see if he could find a few dead toads to cut open and examine. He ran to the shore, untied his small boat and was about to get into it when his eyes caught something that made his heart skip a beat. Far away in West Birches Bay, what looked like a red flag was floating between the trees. Sherlock knew at once what it was: John Watson’s scarf. All thoughts of dead toads and swamps forgotten, he started rowing towards the signal.
On a clear day, Sailboat Bay was approximately 30 minutes away from the shore of West Birches Bay, but on that day the journey seemed much longer. When he finally berthed, John Watson was waiting for him. He had untied his scarf from the branch and was once again wearing it around his neck. At first, they just stared at each other; it was the first time they could get a good look, their last meeting had been brief and had happened at night. Neither knew what to say or how to start and for a moment Sherlock wished he had a piece of paper and a pencil; it had been much easier without John’s piercing eyes fixed on him. Thinking of their last meeting made his lips twitch upwards; this was different. He wasn’t sneaking around trying to catch a glimpse of the masked man, the meeting had been planned, John had remembered and had signalled for Sherlock to come.
“Good morning, neighbour,” Sherlock said in an almost solemn tone.
John was surprised. His sister had left for one of her trips a few days ago and as soon as the door had been shut behind her, he had thought about Sherlock and the signal. However, as much as he wanted to properly meet the tall man from Sailboat Bay, he had doubts. What if he was only interested in gathering wild stories about The Beast to spread around the village? What if he was curious about the injury and wanted to see what was under the mask?
After two days, John had made up his mind and tied his scarf to a tree close to the shore, but the doubts hadn’t ceased; only gotten worse. What if someone had talked Sherlock out of it? What if he didn’t see the scarf? What if he saw it and didn’t care? What if their first conversation had convinced him that The Beast wasn’t worth meeting? As a defense mechanism, he had tried preparing himself for all possible outcomes and reactions, but he had never let himself hope for such a quick response. Also, Sherlock’s timid smile made him forget every single apprehension he had had. He smiled tentatively back and extended his hand.
“Good morning. I’m John Watson, nice to meet you. Properly.”
Of course, Sherlock caught the pause before the other man’s last word - a reminder of their late night conversation - and he shook John’s hand, aware that he was grinning, but somehow incapable of stopping. Now that John wasn’t hiding his face behind his arms and speaking more than one word at a time, Sherlock could fully appreciate his voice. Often during the past weeks, he had tried holding on to what he had heard, trying to imagine what it would sound like in full sentences, but he couldn’t have prepared for this. John’s voice was the perfect pitch and he sounded like he was both about to laugh and shout. He also had a very mellifluous accent that had nothing to do with the English sailors he had heard previously.
“Sherlock Holmes. Very glad to meet you. Properly.”
He was staring at John, delighted by the turn his day had taken. John’s eyes, Sherlock thought, were gorgeous. Right now, as he was standing in the shadows cast by the trees, they looked almost as black as a moonless night, but still struck by lights and shadows. They were very unsettling. His mouth was almost intact, but there was a small mark, like a bite in the left corner of his upper lip. It was impossible to stare at the mask – to see the thin leather fitting tightly over damaged skin – without imagining monstrous sights.
John must have guessed what he was thinking because he hissed, “Stop it!” causing Sherlock to avert his eyes.
“Not knowing is troubling,” Sherlock explained, “I imagine… the worst.”
John’s gaze hardened and his lips got thinner, he seemed gripped by something that looked a lot like sadness and Sherlock was reminded of that night when he had seen John distressed and unmasked on his grounds. Later that night, while laying under his covers and waiting for sleep to come, Sherlock would not be able to shake away the memory of those sad eyes. John didn’t say anything, but his eyes screamed that the worst Sherlock could imagine was correct.
“But your eyes are beautiful,” Sherlock added, shocked by his own boldness.
John stood motionless for a moment, dumbfounded and with his mouth agape. Then, he shook his head, as if to erase Sherlock’s last words.
“Come,” he said gruffly, “I want to show you something.”
They walked along the shore of West Birches Bay, John making wide strides that Sherlock had no difficulty following. They crossed the Watsons’ grounds and didn’t stop until they were facing Lover’s Island. The arrow of sand leading to the island was still unobstructed, but the sea was rapidly getting higher and soon the path would be impassable.
“If you follow me to the island, we’ll have to wait until the tide withdraws before we can come back,” John stated, unaware of how stubborn and curious his companion was. Nothing could have stopped him from going forward.
A few cormorants abandoned their refuges on the sun-bathed rocks as Sherlock and his guide followed the sand path until they reached the island’s beach. From there, they followed a narrow winding path between the trees and their coloured leaves. After a while, they reached a clearing surrounded by silver birches. There was a small hut there, built by John, and Sherlock suddenly knew why some of the villagers had reported seeing a string of smoke raising above Lover’s Island.
The hut was small, but solidly built. Inside, there was a stove, a wooden table and a single chair. Upon crossing the doorway, Sherlock held his breath. The room was sufficiently illuminated for him to see the small pile of bones close to the small wood stove. After seeing Sherlock’s expression, John felt like he had to explain.
“They’re not human bones.”
“Obviously,” Sherlock stated, but he was still curious.
“When I find a dead animal, I keep the carcass to boil the bones and once they’re dry, I reconstruct the skeleton. It helps me understand how the paws of foxes or hares bend and how the Ruffed Grouse flies. Then, it’s easier to immobilize a wing or fix a splint when I find a wounded animal.”
“Still a doctor….” Sherlock said before spotting what looked like part of a porcupine skeleton on the small table, the bones held together with resin. John was obviously in the process of putting it back together, most of the work had already been done and the remaining bones were scattered on the table. He got closer to examine the macabre puzzle.
“There’s a bone missing,” he said while gesturing towards the table.
“Impossible,” John replied, “the fisher had just killed the porcupine when I found it and I brought it back here immediately.”
“There are only 66 bones, so either you dropped one somehow or… Oh!” His eyes widened as the answer hit him. “Look at the size of the skeleton, it’s obvious it was still a baby when it died. I counted the bones again and the one missing is from his right back leg. The bone isn’t lost, the animal was born without it, and therefore he moved slower and was easy prey.”
“Magnificent!” John exclaimed, his blue eyes shining and his mouth twisting in an almost smile. “I hadn’t realized one of the bones was missing. How do you even know how many bones are in the skeleton of a porcupine?”
“You are not the only one examining animal carcasses, although my motives are not as noble as yours.”
“What are your motives then?” John asked curiously.
“Most people have called it morbid curiosity, but I keep insisting it’s scientific inquisitiveness.”
John nodded before kneeling in front of a brown leather bag, plunging his hand in it and extirpating the corpse of a rodent. Then, he put on an elbow-high glove and gestured for Sherlock to follow him outside. Once they were both out of the hut, John stood straight in the middle of the clearing, his gloved hand extended towards the horizon.
“It could take a while,” he told Sherlock.
Pigeons and a flock of seagulls flew over the island while John was waiting. Sherlock didn’t know what he was supposed to be waiting for, so he concentrated on John. The mask was stretching on his cheeks and Sherlock realized his companion was smiling – grinning in fact – and it was the first genuine smile he had seen on John’s face. The change was radical; he looked much younger, almost carefree. It suited him.
Eventually, Sherlock detected the ruffle of feathers and he looked up. A bird of prey was gliding in large circles over them in the clear sky, inspecting its surroundings. Instinctively, Sherlock took a step forward when the bird swept down on John, trying to protect him from the attack. However, the bird landed gracefully on John’s gloved hand. It was a Great Horned Owl, a magnificent creature, but still too small to be mature. Sherlock gazed at the long sharp and pointy claws, the formidable beak ready to crush its prey, and the liquid yellow eyes. He had never seen one from that close before; owls usually flew away when they were approached.
John was watching the bird with tender eyes. He brought the hand on which it was perched closer to him and slowly, the leather mask approached the feather coat of the animal until it creased softly. The bird tilted its head and its beak disappeared into John’s hair. Sherlock didn’t dare breathe, the sight was magnificent and he had never seen an owl behave like that. John and the bird stayed motionless for a long time, until John offered it the small rodent. The owl swallowed it at once, but it didn’t flee; it waited until John lifted his arm to push it towards the sky. Only then, did it open its wings and fly away.
“That’s it,” John said simply while turning to face Sherlock.
The young Holmes was riveted. He was stricken and he didn’t really understand why. Maybe it was because of the instant when the thin leather of the mask had touched the dark plumage, or the moment the crooked beak had buried itself in the fawn mane. The sight seemed infinitely serious and beautiful, like something that belonged in another world completely.
The tide was still high and they strolled around the island while waiting for it to descend. Then, they made their way to the shore where the sea was slowly deserting the beach and they managed to dig up some clams. John heated them up on a small fire until they opened and they ate in comfortable silence before lying down in the sand.
“I can spend hours looking at the sky while trying to recognize shapes in the clouds,” John said before pointing at a white shape above them. “Like that, over there, it looks like a lion.”
Sherlock turned to look at his companion. He could see the threads holding the mask had loosened up and the leather had shifted a little bit, revealing what looked like a small crater in his left cheek. He swiftly averted his gaze.
The sky was turning pink when they made their way back to West Birches Bay. They didn’t exchange a word after leaving the beach of Lover’s Island, but it wasn’t an awkward silence, it was comfortable and neither felt the urge to break it.
“I could explain. About the rats, I mean. To the villagers,” Sherlock suggested once they were back at the meeting spot.
“Don’t you dare!” John exclaimed, horrified by the prospect.
“They talk a lot about you in the village, they call you The Beast. I don’t mind telling people what you do with the dead rats, I’m sure they would understand. Most would be impressed.”
John got closer, his blue eyes filled with anger, but despite his companion’s quick change of mood, Sherlock didn’t take a step back, he was ready for a confrontation.
“Fine, I won’t say anything.”
He couldn’t understand. Everyone he knew craved the proximity of others, surely John was feeling lonely, stuck on his side of town with his bitter sister. At the thought of Harry Watson, Sherlock started talking again.
“I bet it’s all your sister’s fault. In fact, she’s not a sister but a prison guard. She’s been keeping you hidden since you came back from the war, hasn’t she? I could help you get out, I’m not fond of most villagers, but I could introduce you to some of them, I have this friend named Gregory and he’s nice–”
“Leave!” John interrupted, his voice dripping with fury.
His eyes shot daggers at Sherlock and Sherlock glared back. Unknowingly, he had entered a forbidden corridor, pushed open a secret door. He didn’t look like John anymore; he was The Beast. A worrying creature. Closed. Inaccessible.
Sherlock pushed his small boat back into the sea, jumped in and started rowing furiously. Only once, he looked up to watch the shore and John was still there, standing on the beach swarming with seagulls. Sherlock wished he would’ve left, but he seemed rooted to the spot.
Sherlock growled something that may or may not have been “Why don’t you stay hidden, you infuriating Beast” and continued to row towards Sailboat Bay.
Next chapter
:::
Click here for the timeline.
Click here for the map.
:::
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John.
Word count: 2383
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured in a war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Beta: Thanks to
albalark who was not only a beta, but a teacher of precious English lessons (in so many pretty colours) and to disassembly_rsn whose history knowledge I envy, and who helped me revise a lot of the backstory. You two made this insanely better, I hope you know how much I appreciate your help. I also thank the lovely anarion who, once again, helped me deal with my inability to write a mistake-free header.Back to the first chapter
Previous chapter
Chapter 5
On a beautiful September morning, Sherlock woke up feeling antsy and when he saw the beautiful sun shining outside, he decided to skip breakfast. His plan was to head to the Salty Swamp and see if he could find a few dead toads to cut open and examine. He ran to the shore, untied his small boat and was about to get into it when his eyes caught something that made his heart skip a beat. Far away in West Birches Bay, what looked like a red flag was floating between the trees. Sherlock knew at once what it was: John Watson’s scarf. All thoughts of dead toads and swamps forgotten, he started rowing towards the signal.
On a clear day, Sailboat Bay was approximately 30 minutes away from the shore of West Birches Bay, but on that day the journey seemed much longer. When he finally berthed, John Watson was waiting for him. He had untied his scarf from the branch and was once again wearing it around his neck. At first, they just stared at each other; it was the first time they could get a good look, their last meeting had been brief and had happened at night. Neither knew what to say or how to start and for a moment Sherlock wished he had a piece of paper and a pencil; it had been much easier without John’s piercing eyes fixed on him. Thinking of their last meeting made his lips twitch upwards; this was different. He wasn’t sneaking around trying to catch a glimpse of the masked man, the meeting had been planned, John had remembered and had signalled for Sherlock to come.
“Good morning, neighbour,” Sherlock said in an almost solemn tone.
John was surprised. His sister had left for one of her trips a few days ago and as soon as the door had been shut behind her, he had thought about Sherlock and the signal. However, as much as he wanted to properly meet the tall man from Sailboat Bay, he had doubts. What if he was only interested in gathering wild stories about The Beast to spread around the village? What if he was curious about the injury and wanted to see what was under the mask?
After two days, John had made up his mind and tied his scarf to a tree close to the shore, but the doubts hadn’t ceased; only gotten worse. What if someone had talked Sherlock out of it? What if he didn’t see the scarf? What if he saw it and didn’t care? What if their first conversation had convinced him that The Beast wasn’t worth meeting? As a defense mechanism, he had tried preparing himself for all possible outcomes and reactions, but he had never let himself hope for such a quick response. Also, Sherlock’s timid smile made him forget every single apprehension he had had. He smiled tentatively back and extended his hand.
“Good morning. I’m John Watson, nice to meet you. Properly.”
Of course, Sherlock caught the pause before the other man’s last word - a reminder of their late night conversation - and he shook John’s hand, aware that he was grinning, but somehow incapable of stopping. Now that John wasn’t hiding his face behind his arms and speaking more than one word at a time, Sherlock could fully appreciate his voice. Often during the past weeks, he had tried holding on to what he had heard, trying to imagine what it would sound like in full sentences, but he couldn’t have prepared for this. John’s voice was the perfect pitch and he sounded like he was both about to laugh and shout. He also had a very mellifluous accent that had nothing to do with the English sailors he had heard previously.
“Sherlock Holmes. Very glad to meet you. Properly.”
He was staring at John, delighted by the turn his day had taken. John’s eyes, Sherlock thought, were gorgeous. Right now, as he was standing in the shadows cast by the trees, they looked almost as black as a moonless night, but still struck by lights and shadows. They were very unsettling. His mouth was almost intact, but there was a small mark, like a bite in the left corner of his upper lip. It was impossible to stare at the mask – to see the thin leather fitting tightly over damaged skin – without imagining monstrous sights.
John must have guessed what he was thinking because he hissed, “Stop it!” causing Sherlock to avert his eyes.
“Not knowing is troubling,” Sherlock explained, “I imagine… the worst.”
John’s gaze hardened and his lips got thinner, he seemed gripped by something that looked a lot like sadness and Sherlock was reminded of that night when he had seen John distressed and unmasked on his grounds. Later that night, while laying under his covers and waiting for sleep to come, Sherlock would not be able to shake away the memory of those sad eyes. John didn’t say anything, but his eyes screamed that the worst Sherlock could imagine was correct.
“But your eyes are beautiful,” Sherlock added, shocked by his own boldness.
John stood motionless for a moment, dumbfounded and with his mouth agape. Then, he shook his head, as if to erase Sherlock’s last words.
“Come,” he said gruffly, “I want to show you something.”
They walked along the shore of West Birches Bay, John making wide strides that Sherlock had no difficulty following. They crossed the Watsons’ grounds and didn’t stop until they were facing Lover’s Island. The arrow of sand leading to the island was still unobstructed, but the sea was rapidly getting higher and soon the path would be impassable.
“If you follow me to the island, we’ll have to wait until the tide withdraws before we can come back,” John stated, unaware of how stubborn and curious his companion was. Nothing could have stopped him from going forward.
A few cormorants abandoned their refuges on the sun-bathed rocks as Sherlock and his guide followed the sand path until they reached the island’s beach. From there, they followed a narrow winding path between the trees and their coloured leaves. After a while, they reached a clearing surrounded by silver birches. There was a small hut there, built by John, and Sherlock suddenly knew why some of the villagers had reported seeing a string of smoke raising above Lover’s Island.
The hut was small, but solidly built. Inside, there was a stove, a wooden table and a single chair. Upon crossing the doorway, Sherlock held his breath. The room was sufficiently illuminated for him to see the small pile of bones close to the small wood stove. After seeing Sherlock’s expression, John felt like he had to explain.
“They’re not human bones.”
“Obviously,” Sherlock stated, but he was still curious.
“When I find a dead animal, I keep the carcass to boil the bones and once they’re dry, I reconstruct the skeleton. It helps me understand how the paws of foxes or hares bend and how the Ruffed Grouse flies. Then, it’s easier to immobilize a wing or fix a splint when I find a wounded animal.”
“Still a doctor….” Sherlock said before spotting what looked like part of a porcupine skeleton on the small table, the bones held together with resin. John was obviously in the process of putting it back together, most of the work had already been done and the remaining bones were scattered on the table. He got closer to examine the macabre puzzle.
“There’s a bone missing,” he said while gesturing towards the table.
“Impossible,” John replied, “the fisher had just killed the porcupine when I found it and I brought it back here immediately.”
“There are only 66 bones, so either you dropped one somehow or… Oh!” His eyes widened as the answer hit him. “Look at the size of the skeleton, it’s obvious it was still a baby when it died. I counted the bones again and the one missing is from his right back leg. The bone isn’t lost, the animal was born without it, and therefore he moved slower and was easy prey.”
“Magnificent!” John exclaimed, his blue eyes shining and his mouth twisting in an almost smile. “I hadn’t realized one of the bones was missing. How do you even know how many bones are in the skeleton of a porcupine?”
“You are not the only one examining animal carcasses, although my motives are not as noble as yours.”
“What are your motives then?” John asked curiously.
“Most people have called it morbid curiosity, but I keep insisting it’s scientific inquisitiveness.”
John nodded before kneeling in front of a brown leather bag, plunging his hand in it and extirpating the corpse of a rodent. Then, he put on an elbow-high glove and gestured for Sherlock to follow him outside. Once they were both out of the hut, John stood straight in the middle of the clearing, his gloved hand extended towards the horizon.
“It could take a while,” he told Sherlock.
Pigeons and a flock of seagulls flew over the island while John was waiting. Sherlock didn’t know what he was supposed to be waiting for, so he concentrated on John. The mask was stretching on his cheeks and Sherlock realized his companion was smiling – grinning in fact – and it was the first genuine smile he had seen on John’s face. The change was radical; he looked much younger, almost carefree. It suited him.
Eventually, Sherlock detected the ruffle of feathers and he looked up. A bird of prey was gliding in large circles over them in the clear sky, inspecting its surroundings. Instinctively, Sherlock took a step forward when the bird swept down on John, trying to protect him from the attack. However, the bird landed gracefully on John’s gloved hand. It was a Great Horned Owl, a magnificent creature, but still too small to be mature. Sherlock gazed at the long sharp and pointy claws, the formidable beak ready to crush its prey, and the liquid yellow eyes. He had never seen one from that close before; owls usually flew away when they were approached.
John was watching the bird with tender eyes. He brought the hand on which it was perched closer to him and slowly, the leather mask approached the feather coat of the animal until it creased softly. The bird tilted its head and its beak disappeared into John’s hair. Sherlock didn’t dare breathe, the sight was magnificent and he had never seen an owl behave like that. John and the bird stayed motionless for a long time, until John offered it the small rodent. The owl swallowed it at once, but it didn’t flee; it waited until John lifted his arm to push it towards the sky. Only then, did it open its wings and fly away.
“That’s it,” John said simply while turning to face Sherlock.
The young Holmes was riveted. He was stricken and he didn’t really understand why. Maybe it was because of the instant when the thin leather of the mask had touched the dark plumage, or the moment the crooked beak had buried itself in the fawn mane. The sight seemed infinitely serious and beautiful, like something that belonged in another world completely.
The tide was still high and they strolled around the island while waiting for it to descend. Then, they made their way to the shore where the sea was slowly deserting the beach and they managed to dig up some clams. John heated them up on a small fire until they opened and they ate in comfortable silence before lying down in the sand.
“I can spend hours looking at the sky while trying to recognize shapes in the clouds,” John said before pointing at a white shape above them. “Like that, over there, it looks like a lion.”
Sherlock turned to look at his companion. He could see the threads holding the mask had loosened up and the leather had shifted a little bit, revealing what looked like a small crater in his left cheek. He swiftly averted his gaze.
The sky was turning pink when they made their way back to West Birches Bay. They didn’t exchange a word after leaving the beach of Lover’s Island, but it wasn’t an awkward silence, it was comfortable and neither felt the urge to break it.
“I could explain. About the rats, I mean. To the villagers,” Sherlock suggested once they were back at the meeting spot.
“Don’t you dare!” John exclaimed, horrified by the prospect.
“They talk a lot about you in the village, they call you The Beast. I don’t mind telling people what you do with the dead rats, I’m sure they would understand. Most would be impressed.”
John got closer, his blue eyes filled with anger, but despite his companion’s quick change of mood, Sherlock didn’t take a step back, he was ready for a confrontation.
“Fine, I won’t say anything.”
He couldn’t understand. Everyone he knew craved the proximity of others, surely John was feeling lonely, stuck on his side of town with his bitter sister. At the thought of Harry Watson, Sherlock started talking again.
“I bet it’s all your sister’s fault. In fact, she’s not a sister but a prison guard. She’s been keeping you hidden since you came back from the war, hasn’t she? I could help you get out, I’m not fond of most villagers, but I could introduce you to some of them, I have this friend named Gregory and he’s nice–”
“Leave!” John interrupted, his voice dripping with fury.
His eyes shot daggers at Sherlock and Sherlock glared back. Unknowingly, he had entered a forbidden corridor, pushed open a secret door. He didn’t look like John anymore; he was The Beast. A worrying creature. Closed. Inaccessible.
Sherlock pushed his small boat back into the sea, jumped in and started rowing furiously. Only once, he looked up to watch the shore and John was still there, standing on the beach swarming with seagulls. Sherlock wished he would’ve left, but he seemed rooted to the spot.
Sherlock growled something that may or may not have been “Why don’t you stay hidden, you infuriating Beast” and continued to row towards Sailboat Bay.
Next chapter
:::
Click here for the timeline.
Click here for the map.
:::
