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Angst, Arrogance, and Assumptions	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 5368 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 1-Watson
- 2-Holmes
- 3-Watson
- 4-Lestrade
- 5-Mycroft
- 6-Watson
- 7-Holmes
- 8-Watson
- 9-Bradstreet
- 10-Holmes
- 11-Lestrade
- 12-Watson
- 5
- 6
- 7
“Please wait here,” the maid tells me, showing me into the surprisingly large rooftop conservatory.

I have been to Mycroft’s Pall Mall lodgings only once before, and then we stayed in the sitting room, though Holmes mentioned the greenhouse, almost in passing. At the time, I imagined some small shed kept to grow the vegetables required to satisfy Mycroft’s gourmand palate.

Now, looking in some surprise at the greenery surrounding me, I can readily imagine myself in the conservatory garden of a proper country manor; potted palms and hanging baskets accent the rows of exotic orchids and rare succulents, while eucalyptus and palm trees stretch to the elaborately worked ceiling of tinted glass high overhead. In one corner, a cluster of white wicker furniture is arranged in a pool of dappled sunlight, with a small fountain murmuring nearby.

“Hello, hello,” a strange croaking voice behind me makes me jump, and I spin around to see a large grey parrot perched upon a small eucalyptus tree. “Hello, hello,” it repeats, bobbing its head.

“Well, hello,” I say, relaxing a bit. “You’re a handsome fellow.”

“His name is Charlie,” a woman says behind me.

I turn once more, and am surprised to see Gabrielle Vernet sitting primly upon one of the wicker chairs. I step forward, my mouth open and about to ask Lestrade exactly what the devil he is playing at, when I realize that I have never seen this woman before in my life. For one thing, she is much younger, perhaps twenty years of age, and although the lines of her face and her build are that of my friend Lestrade, her eyes –

Sweet lord, her eyes are the same ones I see every morning at the breakfast table. There is no mistaking that particular shade of slate-grey that has held my heart in sway for thirteen years; combined with Lestrade’s cheekbones and chin, the effect is disconcertingly handsome.

“Who the … excuse me, madam, I haven’t …”

With a gentle laugh, the young woman rises and extends a hand. “My name is Cordelia Lestrade Holmes. I am Mycroft Holmes’ daughter.”

“I didn’t know he ever married.”

“He didn’t,” she says simply. “I’m quite illegitimate, I assure you.”

“Oh,” I say, not sure how to answer this; apparently, she has the family sense of humour. Fortunately, my already addled brain has already stumbled over the next confusing bit. “Erm, I don’t mean to be rude, but did I hear you say ‘Cordelia Lestrade Holmes?’”

She smiles at my hesitancy. “Gabriel Lestrade is my uncle,” she says. “His sister Miranda was engaged to my father. You no doubt knew there was a connexion between the two families?”

“I had heard something of the kind, but I gathered there was some bad blood, and so I never pressed for information. All I know is that they come from the same village in Sussex.”

“Neighbouring villages, in fact; and as for the bad blood, that would be me,” she chuckles. “My mother and my father had a … passionate relationship, and both sets of parents disapproved strongly to the match. Of her family, only my uncle Gabriel approved of their relationship. He was the go-between, in fact, when their parents made it impossible to communicate. Then, one July, my grandfather decided to send my father away for a year to Australia, so my parents decided to elope.”

“Then they did marry.”

Cordelia shakes her head, smiling at my naïveté. “Whatever they might have initially decided, they never procured any licence, nor made it to any house of worship, nor met with any clergy to solemnize their union. Instead, they camped out upon the Downs, each returning to their parents’ house the next morning. It’s not clear what happened that night, but the next morning, my father left for Australia, and my mother died giving birth to me nine months later.” This entire recitation is delivered in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, as if she were telling me about the events in some distant country, favouring me with a lightning-quick flash of a smile at the end. “But I’m sure you don’t wish to hear my life story, Doctor Watson.”

I barely stop myself from expressing my surprise at her knowing my name, but she, of course, divines my unspoken question. “My father shall be a little while yet – there is an unavoidable crisis in Belgrade – and I have wanted to make your acquaintance for quite some time. Please, Doctor, sit.”

I take the seat she indicates with a rising level of impatience; under any other circumstances, I should be fascinated with the woman, not only for her own obvious intelligence and wit, but also for the wealth of information she represents. However, her very existence, and the fact that I knew nothing about her (despite my long-standing intimacy with two of her uncles and her father), only highlights how little I know about the man I love.

Of course, she is possessed of more than the family sense of humour. “Uncle Sherlock did not mention me to you,” she tells me, breaking effortlessly into my thoughts, “because neither he nor my father is comfortable talking about such things.”

I only briefly entertain the thought that in a family of such keen observers, no one need talk about anything; then I remember what agony remaining silent has brought me. “You will forgive me for saying so,” I answer a little uneasily, “but I can hardly imagine your father having any kind of romance, passionate or otherwise.”

“Neither could I imagine my uncle having a romance with you.”

For some reason, I am not surprised at her knowledge; doubtless she has read the entire affair upon the sleeve of my jacket. I sink my head into my hands.

“Don’t worry, Doctor, I am not shocked at the idea of two men having a romance,” she tells me. “I am, however, shocked that he doesn’t know how you feel about him; it’s perfectly clear to me.”

“I am well used to Holmes knowing everything while I am left in the dark,” I sigh. “But as observant and intelligent as he is, he is astonishingly ignorant when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“Once again, you find the source of the trouble sitting next to you. The whole scandal surrounding my birth, my mother’s death and my father’s subsequent return occurred just as Uncle Sherlock was fourteen. He came into manhood believing that love – sexual love in particular – was a dangerous morass of emotions that could lead to ruin or even death. He had been fond of my mother, I’m told; she was rather like an older sister to him. Father says that she is the last woman he ever trusted.”

“But you are –”

“I am the child that ended Miranda Lestrade’s life. He may be fond of me, in his own way, but he can never forget how my own life began. Women are not to be trusted, and love is a dangerous poison to be avoided. Those words might be engraved into Uncle Sherlock’s heart.”

“You almost make it sound as if he’s –”

“— as unfeeling as the brain without a heart which you portray so well in the Strand? In a way, Doctor, he is that unfeeling. Or, rather, he never learned how to deal with his feelings, and so chose to ignore them instead, leaving him ill-suited to any emotional entanglements. My father may be more optimistic, but I think you would both be better served if you left right now, and tried to forget that you ever loved Sherlock Holmes.”

I look sharply up at the young woman with some surprise. “If you know anything at all about me,” I tell her, “you would know that that is impossible.”

Cordelia shrugs noncommittally. “Perhaps it is the sangfroid of my family talking, but impossible or not, such a feat would be easier to realize than the patent impossibility of teaching the Great Detective to love. Besides, he has already quite resolved himself to a life without love, and without you. He told my father it would be a cold day in –”

“I should rather hear him tell me this himself,” I say rather shortly.

“Oh, I doubt you shall get to see Uncle Sherlock. He has already said that he does not want to see you ever again, and I don’t think I have to tell you how he is once he makes up his mind.”

“You seem rather sure of your facts, young lady, but I must insist –”

“Oh, I know I shan’t sway you in your intention to wait; no doubt you will spend a long, fruitless time pining away for my uncle. That is your business, of course; I merely thought to warn you beforehand that you shall not succeed.”

“Surely that is for me to determine,” I answer with no little coolness.

The woman eyes me dispassionately. “And do you not wish to know where Uncle Sherlock is now?”

“That is why I have come here,” say I. “Doubtless if you wished to share that information, you already would have.”

“In fact, I have no intention of telling you where he is, and even if I were inclined to tell you, I would be hard pressed to locate him. He’s rather difficult to find when he doesn’t wish to be found, as well you know. Father and I are both quite worried about him; you did an inestimable job of breaking his heart.”

“I say –”

“Just what were your intentions toward Uncle Sherlock? Did you come back to finish your task?” she asks sternly, her eyes glittering with a sudden harshness.

I bite back the ungentlemanly reply that wells up like bile in my throat, crossing my arms tightly against my chest. “I hardly think that is any of your business, Miss Holmes.”

She nods with grim satisfaction. “As you wish. Father thinks that you are Uncle Sherlock’s ideal mate, and that all this – drama, shall we call it? – is simply a temporary setback.”

“You do not agree, I take it.”

Cordelia smiles coldly. “Father is almost as shockingly naïve as Uncle Sherlock. Frankly, I do not see how you can heal a wound you yourself created through your unfeeling behaviour.”

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that I have lived for too long with Holmes to allow myself to react to such a blatant provocation. “From what you tell me,” I answer evenly, “he was wounded long before I ever appeared on the scene.”

“He was made vulnerable,” she replies with a definite sting of venom, “and whether or not you knew precisely how vulnerable he was, Doctor, you did know, all the same, that he had never known love. Just as he was finally able to open himself to the possibility of such a relationship, you took advantage of his trust. Do not think of contradicting me; I can see the guilt written upon your face. What I cannot comprehend is why you would use him so. It cannot have been love; had you truly loved him, you would have confessed your feelings to him rather than marrying that woman – do you know how he looked when he came to us on your wedding night? Do you know what a broken man you produced as you paraded your emotions before him, never once considering –”

“What do you know of it?” I cry, leaping to my feet. “Perhaps you are just like the rest of your blasted family, able to read the every act of a man from a spot upon his lapel, but I shall tell you, Miss Cordelia Lestrade Holmes, that for all your cold, rational intellect and stinging observation, you have quite missed the entire point of this whole ghastly chain of events. I neither know nor care what false conclusions you have drawn from the crease in my trousers or the stain upon my collar; I only know that I love that man, that I have loved him for longer than I care to remember, and that my heart beats for him and for no one else: not Lestrade, not Mary, not anyone. And whether or not you believe –”

“Watson.”

At the sound of that voice, every nerve in my body seems to burst into flame as I slowly turn to find Sherlock Holmes standing at the door.
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Angst, Arrogance, and Assumptions