The Address is 221B Baker Street - July
Jan. 18th, 2013 12:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impulsereaderIt was morning, and the sitting room of 221B was uncharacteristically both silent and flooded with sunlight. Clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, Sherlock, of course, couldn’t see himself (or rather wouldn’t seek out his reflection unless prompted) but the abundance of natural light made him look ghostly, ethereal. His pale skin glowed and his eyes were no colour at all. This apparition sat, long fingers and slim hands steepled under his chin as he contemplated the dainty, decorative bottle which he had nicked out of his family’s attic the previous December.
It was sealed.
It was sealed with lead.
He found he was a little bit frightened of what it might contain.
The fear was what made it exciting.
The little spark of anxiety over: what a Holmes could have dreamed up to seal into this tiny prison; what had been thought precious enough to warrant such a safeguard; or what had amused one of his eccentric clan so thoroughly that he had preserved it in such a manner.
The bottle itself was lovely. It had been fashioned in frosted glass, demurely obscuring the contents from even Sherlock’s discerning gaze. It was small enough that it could be slipped unobtrusively into a trouser pocket, but just - the exotically-wrought swirl of glass which topped the stopper would be visible unless obscured by a discreet hand. Aside from that touch of the artisan’s indulgence, the bottle was graceful in its simple lines; a slight belling at the base and a ring of glass to ensure it would sit evenly on a flat surface. It could almost have been a test tube. The collar of dull grey which was its lead seal should have made it ugly, but in this case it was simply a flaw which emphasized the vessel’s delicate beauty.
Sherlock’s contemplation of the bottle was distracted by the tread of early-morning-still-too-bloody-sleepy-for-this-shite-where’s-m’tea-John on the stairs, and the room was soon occupied by not only Sherlock and his Holmesian bottle, but also a yawning ex-army doctor armed with two steaming mugs of the life’s blood otherwise known as tea.
Slowly the yawning gave way to full consciousness, and Sherlock became aware that the contemplation in the room had taken on a new angle. John was contemplating Sherlock who was contemplating the bottle; he could still not be sure what, if anything, the bottle may have been contemplating. Perhaps the bottle was contemplating John; that would be pleasingly circular. The bottle’s contents could also be contemplating something else entirely, provided it was contemplating something other than the bottle which was necessarily all it could ‘see’. John, Sherlock, Bottle, Bottle’s Contents, John, SherlockBottleBottle’sContents,John,Sherlock,Bott-
Sherlock jerked himself out of this reverie with a shake of his head. He picked up the tea which was no longer steaming, but not yet gone cold.
“Morning.”
“What do you put into a bottle?”
“Yes, I slept fine, thanks for asking.”
“Why do you seal a glass bottle with lead?”
“Lovely sunny morning, isn’t it?”
“What does an unknown Holmes put into a bottle and then seal with lead?”
“How’s your tea?”
“Why lead?”
“Enough sugar?”
“It can be dissolved, but not without some finesse.”
“Catch any of Come Dine With Me last night?”
“Why take the trouble to seal something which can be smashed to bits?”
“Funny episode.”
“Why are my relatives invariably infuriating?”
“I’ve never seen a cat-themed bathroom before.”
“I despise Mycroft.”
John gave up. “Why don’t you just open it? You’ve been staring at it on and off for months now.”
Sherlock twitched. That was the very thing; he didn’t know why he hadn’t opened it yet. By all rights he should have done so long since. Even if he hadn’t wanted to fuss with dissolving the lead (and let’s be honest, this was the sort of thing Sherlock liked to fuss with very much), there was a more immediate option.
He could snap the delicate neck.
Easily.
He told himself brute force lacked subtlety, and was not an optimal plan of action for that reason.
Part of the problem was that he didn’t understand why he had picked up the bottle in the first place. But he had, and now he knew there was something in there because when he shook it vertically he could hear a kind of a swishing sound, though not of a liquid sort, and when he twirled it a bit he could hear a very soft rolling swoosh. Whatever it contained did not have much mass; aside from the clues of seal and sounds the bottle could easily have been thought empty when handled.
Clearly, it held a piece of paper.
The question was: did he want to know what had been written on it.
And he did, of course, because by his very nature Sherlock always wanted to know. At least, he wanted to learn so that he could decide if the knowledge was worth retaining.
There was something thrilling, though, in not knowing. Whilst it remained firmly sealed in its lovely bottle prison anything could be written on the paper. It could be a formula for a known chemical, or one previously unknown to all but the mysterious Holmesian writer. It could be a scrawled recipe for an explosive, or one for strudel. It could be a code which coyly did not reveal its key; he could spend the rest of his life never knowing what message had been set down. It could be a knock-knock joke or a passage copied from scripture. It could be a short treatise on the importance of sea turtles to the diversity of life in Earth’s oceans, or a sonnet celebrating the beauty of the autumn foliage in Kyoto. It could be a curse or a lie; it could be a denunciation of the writer’s enemy or an ode to a friend. It could be the score for a short tune; in fact it could be written in any language which basked in the sunshine of the Earth’s sun, including that of musical notes. It could be – Sherlock realised he was being ridiculous. Whatever had put him into this frivolous and whimsical mood?
He determined to open the bottle, and stood to go into the kitchen and make preparations to do so.
A short while later, Sherlock very carefully unsealed the bottle, meticulously eradicating all traces of the lead from the glass.
He then leant back and stared at his now naked bottle. And like a lady stripped of her knickers and denied a changing screen, it seemed to blush at him for a moment. Tentatively, he reached for the stopper, and when no hand materialized to slap his aside, he lifted it away. It slid out easily with a drawn out ‘snick’ of glass on glass.
He set the stopper on the table.
Sherlock held in a breath as he picked up the bottle, now looking even more like a test tube after being divested of its decorative crown.
He was just tipping the delicate vessel and raising his brows in curiosity as he prepared to peer down the neck and catch a glimpse of his mystery paper…
“What’s in it then?”
Sherlock started and bobbled the precious object; there was a clumsy dance of frosted glass and long delicate fingers. A strong, sturdy hand shot out and the glass landed safely within its surprisingly gentle embrace; saved from the fall and cushioned from harm.
“Sorry.” John handed the bottle back to Sherlock. “Go on, tip it out, let’s have a look.”
Sherlock looked up and back, meeting his friend’s eyes. They were crinkled at the corners with good cheer and there was a light of anticipation there; John was ready for an adventure, and suddenly Sherlock wanted to give him one.
With one elegant hand he tipped the opening toward his opposite palm.
A sheet of onionskin, rolled tightly and secured with a very fine length of thread tied into a neat bow, obediently slid out and his hand cupped it instinctively.
Very carefully, he moved to untie the thread, but the delicate fibres disintegrated at the whisper of his touch and fell away from the paper, which remained tightly furled. Even more carefully, Sherlock set the delicate object on the table, pinned the edge with one finger, and slowly eased it flat.
“It’s a map,” John said.
Sherlock took in the hand-drawn lines sketching and intersecting and running alongside one another to form the whole. It was not only a map; it was a map of his family’s estate.
In the left margin, in a neat copperplate script was written:
‘Where was the sun?
Over the oak.
Where was the shadow?
Under the elm.
How was it stepped?
North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.’
and it had been signed, ‘With the greatest affection, your loving Violet - Yuletide 1865’.
His eyes lit up and the part of him which remembered a little boy who wanted to be a pirate leapt for joy. He reached out with one impossibly elegant index finger and tapped it on a spot where John knew an ancient and handsome oak still stood because he had posed under it for Claude. “The oak is still there.” He then, slightly less confidently, tapped another spot nearby. “And here there used to stand an elm.” He looked up at his friend, eyes shining. “It’s a treasure map, John.”
It was sealed.
It was sealed with lead.
He found he was a little bit frightened of what it might contain.
The fear was what made it exciting.
The little spark of anxiety over: what a Holmes could have dreamed up to seal into this tiny prison; what had been thought precious enough to warrant such a safeguard; or what had amused one of his eccentric clan so thoroughly that he had preserved it in such a manner.
The bottle itself was lovely. It had been fashioned in frosted glass, demurely obscuring the contents from even Sherlock’s discerning gaze. It was small enough that it could be slipped unobtrusively into a trouser pocket, but just - the exotically-wrought swirl of glass which topped the stopper would be visible unless obscured by a discreet hand. Aside from that touch of the artisan’s indulgence, the bottle was graceful in its simple lines; a slight belling at the base and a ring of glass to ensure it would sit evenly on a flat surface. It could almost have been a test tube. The collar of dull grey which was its lead seal should have made it ugly, but in this case it was simply a flaw which emphasized the vessel’s delicate beauty.
Sherlock’s contemplation of the bottle was distracted by the tread of early-morning-still-too-bloody-sleepy-for-this-shite-where’s-m’tea-John on the stairs, and the room was soon occupied by not only Sherlock and his Holmesian bottle, but also a yawning ex-army doctor armed with two steaming mugs of the life’s blood otherwise known as tea.
Slowly the yawning gave way to full consciousness, and Sherlock became aware that the contemplation in the room had taken on a new angle. John was contemplating Sherlock who was contemplating the bottle; he could still not be sure what, if anything, the bottle may have been contemplating. Perhaps the bottle was contemplating John; that would be pleasingly circular. The bottle’s contents could also be contemplating something else entirely, provided it was contemplating something other than the bottle which was necessarily all it could ‘see’. John, Sherlock, Bottle, Bottle’s Contents, John, SherlockBottleBottle’sContents,John,Sherlock,Bott-
Sherlock jerked himself out of this reverie with a shake of his head. He picked up the tea which was no longer steaming, but not yet gone cold.
“Morning.”
“What do you put into a bottle?”
“Yes, I slept fine, thanks for asking.”
“Why do you seal a glass bottle with lead?”
“Lovely sunny morning, isn’t it?”
“What does an unknown Holmes put into a bottle and then seal with lead?”
“How’s your tea?”
“Why lead?”
“Enough sugar?”
“It can be dissolved, but not without some finesse.”
“Catch any of Come Dine With Me last night?”
“Why take the trouble to seal something which can be smashed to bits?”
“Funny episode.”
“Why are my relatives invariably infuriating?”
“I’ve never seen a cat-themed bathroom before.”
“I despise Mycroft.”
John gave up. “Why don’t you just open it? You’ve been staring at it on and off for months now.”
Sherlock twitched. That was the very thing; he didn’t know why he hadn’t opened it yet. By all rights he should have done so long since. Even if he hadn’t wanted to fuss with dissolving the lead (and let’s be honest, this was the sort of thing Sherlock liked to fuss with very much), there was a more immediate option.
He could snap the delicate neck.
Easily.
He told himself brute force lacked subtlety, and was not an optimal plan of action for that reason.
Part of the problem was that he didn’t understand why he had picked up the bottle in the first place. But he had, and now he knew there was something in there because when he shook it vertically he could hear a kind of a swishing sound, though not of a liquid sort, and when he twirled it a bit he could hear a very soft rolling swoosh. Whatever it contained did not have much mass; aside from the clues of seal and sounds the bottle could easily have been thought empty when handled.
Clearly, it held a piece of paper.
The question was: did he want to know what had been written on it.
And he did, of course, because by his very nature Sherlock always wanted to know. At least, he wanted to learn so that he could decide if the knowledge was worth retaining.
There was something thrilling, though, in not knowing. Whilst it remained firmly sealed in its lovely bottle prison anything could be written on the paper. It could be a formula for a known chemical, or one previously unknown to all but the mysterious Holmesian writer. It could be a scrawled recipe for an explosive, or one for strudel. It could be a code which coyly did not reveal its key; he could spend the rest of his life never knowing what message had been set down. It could be a knock-knock joke or a passage copied from scripture. It could be a short treatise on the importance of sea turtles to the diversity of life in Earth’s oceans, or a sonnet celebrating the beauty of the autumn foliage in Kyoto. It could be a curse or a lie; it could be a denunciation of the writer’s enemy or an ode to a friend. It could be the score for a short tune; in fact it could be written in any language which basked in the sunshine of the Earth’s sun, including that of musical notes. It could be – Sherlock realised he was being ridiculous. Whatever had put him into this frivolous and whimsical mood?
He determined to open the bottle, and stood to go into the kitchen and make preparations to do so.
A short while later, Sherlock very carefully unsealed the bottle, meticulously eradicating all traces of the lead from the glass.
He then leant back and stared at his now naked bottle. And like a lady stripped of her knickers and denied a changing screen, it seemed to blush at him for a moment. Tentatively, he reached for the stopper, and when no hand materialized to slap his aside, he lifted it away. It slid out easily with a drawn out ‘snick’ of glass on glass.
He set the stopper on the table.
Sherlock held in a breath as he picked up the bottle, now looking even more like a test tube after being divested of its decorative crown.
He was just tipping the delicate vessel and raising his brows in curiosity as he prepared to peer down the neck and catch a glimpse of his mystery paper…
“What’s in it then?”
Sherlock started and bobbled the precious object; there was a clumsy dance of frosted glass and long delicate fingers. A strong, sturdy hand shot out and the glass landed safely within its surprisingly gentle embrace; saved from the fall and cushioned from harm.
“Sorry.” John handed the bottle back to Sherlock. “Go on, tip it out, let’s have a look.”
Sherlock looked up and back, meeting his friend’s eyes. They were crinkled at the corners with good cheer and there was a light of anticipation there; John was ready for an adventure, and suddenly Sherlock wanted to give him one.
With one elegant hand he tipped the opening toward his opposite palm.
A sheet of onionskin, rolled tightly and secured with a very fine length of thread tied into a neat bow, obediently slid out and his hand cupped it instinctively.
Very carefully, he moved to untie the thread, but the delicate fibres disintegrated at the whisper of his touch and fell away from the paper, which remained tightly furled. Even more carefully, Sherlock set the delicate object on the table, pinned the edge with one finger, and slowly eased it flat.
“It’s a map,” John said.
Sherlock took in the hand-drawn lines sketching and intersecting and running alongside one another to form the whole. It was not only a map; it was a map of his family’s estate.
In the left margin, in a neat copperplate script was written:
‘Where was the sun?
Over the oak.
Where was the shadow?
Under the elm.
How was it stepped?
North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.’
and it had been signed, ‘With the greatest affection, your loving Violet - Yuletide 1865’.
His eyes lit up and the part of him which remembered a little boy who wanted to be a pirate leapt for joy. He reached out with one impossibly elegant index finger and tapped it on a spot where John knew an ancient and handsome oak still stood because he had posed under it for Claude. “The oak is still there.” He then, slightly less confidently, tapped another spot nearby. “And here there used to stand an elm.” He looked up at his friend, eyes shining. “It’s a treasure map, John.”
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no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 12:09 am (UTC)It strikes me that my mom may be a secret Holmes (since her mother is a secret Time Lord, after all). She decided to give my cousin his holiday wish this year, Cold Hard Cash. By which she meant fifty dollars in dollar coins, frozen into a block of ice, with a clue hunt to lead him to the freezer. My dad and my sister and I were responsible for setting up the clue hunt, and I ended up being the one to write out the rhyming clues. It was all very silly fun, but my cousin took it with good grace.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 01:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 05:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 05:19 am (UTC)