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impulsereaderThis is - so far, but fairly likely to remain - the end of the first holiday season, so if you don't want to read the ending before the rest of it - and I think my formerly single google doc containing all of it was beginning to groan under the weight - don't read under the cut.
The light meal which was served back at the house did nothing to allay John’s anxiety. Belatedly, he realized that at some point a playbill (done in glossy full colour and containing actual adverts) had been thrust at him and he dazedly made the discovery that it included a feedback form. These were collected during the meal and afterwards Sherlock gleefully (the sodding bastard) steered him into the large parlour off the dining room – and then there was a Discussion of the Production.
Anthea was praised to the heavens, and the decision to set the play in an anonymous, emo-gothic-sort-of time and place which featured a stark black backdrop was (he got the feeling not for the first time) hotly criticised and just as hotly defended. Someone pointed out that the lighting had been slightly off during one of MacBeth’s soliloquies, and someone else remarked that the costuming had been superb this year before cattily sniping, “with the exception of Hecate’s headdress, of course.” The item in question had fallen apart rather spectacularly during her second appearance on stage. The blocking of the opening scene met with approval while the same of the combat scene at the end was sharply torn apart.
All of this swirled around in John’s head, whipping up a growing whirlpool of terror. When MacBeth was called upon to defend his choice to play his character with a pronounced limp and he launched into an extemporaneous speech about historical accuracy and the code of the warrior, John abruptly stood up and practically ran from the room. He walked far enough that the ringing tones of MacBeth’s defence faded to nothing, then turned to the nearest wall in an attempt to ground himself; the cool of the plaster felt like heaven against his forehead.
After a moment, he realized someone was rubbing reassuring circles on his back. Sherlock, of course.
“You don’t have to do it.”
He sighed, taking the opportunity to pull a great deal of oxygen into his lungs. “Of course I have to do it. But I’m not bloody defending any bleeding limp!”
“John -,”
“No, don’t bother. I agreed to do it, and it’s your Great Gran for heaven’s sake. And -,” he paused, turning to look his friend in the eye. “It’s family, Sherlock. I feel connected to a family again for the first time in a very, very long time. It’s Grandmere and Claude and Richard and Peter, and I like them all. Even Mycroft bloody told me what I needed to know for once.” He snorted in disbelief. “And you know how unbelievably rare that is! We’re now apparently actually united in protecting you from your parents.”
Sherlock digested this. Thoughtfully, he responded, “How long exactly, I wonder, has it been since I gained another brother? I unfortunately failed to note the exact moment.”
John smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I did too. It seems we’ll never know for certain.”
“Do try to continue to be more useful than Mycroft.”
He sighed another deep sigh, then pushed himself away from the wall. “Let’s get back in there. I need to know what to expect.”
“You are the very bravest of men, John Watson.”
“At least when I invaded Afghanistan they gave me a gun. I don’t even know what they should issue you when you infiltrate the Holmes family.”
The light meal which was served back at the house did nothing to allay John’s anxiety. Belatedly, he realized that at some point a playbill (done in glossy full colour and containing actual adverts) had been thrust at him and he dazedly made the discovery that it included a feedback form. These were collected during the meal and afterwards Sherlock gleefully (the sodding bastard) steered him into the large parlour off the dining room – and then there was a Discussion of the Production.
Anthea was praised to the heavens, and the decision to set the play in an anonymous, emo-gothic-sort-of time and place which featured a stark black backdrop was (he got the feeling not for the first time) hotly criticised and just as hotly defended. Someone pointed out that the lighting had been slightly off during one of MacBeth’s soliloquies, and someone else remarked that the costuming had been superb this year before cattily sniping, “with the exception of Hecate’s headdress, of course.” The item in question had fallen apart rather spectacularly during her second appearance on stage. The blocking of the opening scene met with approval while the same of the combat scene at the end was sharply torn apart.
All of this swirled around in John’s head, whipping up a growing whirlpool of terror. When MacBeth was called upon to defend his choice to play his character with a pronounced limp and he launched into an extemporaneous speech about historical accuracy and the code of the warrior, John abruptly stood up and practically ran from the room. He walked far enough that the ringing tones of MacBeth’s defence faded to nothing, then turned to the nearest wall in an attempt to ground himself; the cool of the plaster felt like heaven against his forehead.
After a moment, he realized someone was rubbing reassuring circles on his back. Sherlock, of course.
“You don’t have to do it.”
He sighed, taking the opportunity to pull a great deal of oxygen into his lungs. “Of course I have to do it. But I’m not bloody defending any bleeding limp!”
“John -,”
“No, don’t bother. I agreed to do it, and it’s your Great Gran for heaven’s sake. And -,” he paused, turning to look his friend in the eye. “It’s family, Sherlock. I feel connected to a family again for the first time in a very, very long time. It’s Grandmere and Claude and Richard and Peter, and I like them all. Even Mycroft bloody told me what I needed to know for once.” He snorted in disbelief. “And you know how unbelievably rare that is! We’re now apparently actually united in protecting you from your parents.”
Sherlock digested this. Thoughtfully, he responded, “How long exactly, I wonder, has it been since I gained another brother? I unfortunately failed to note the exact moment.”
John smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I did too. It seems we’ll never know for certain.”
“Do try to continue to be more useful than Mycroft.”
He sighed another deep sigh, then pushed himself away from the wall. “Let’s get back in there. I need to know what to expect.”
“You are the very bravest of men, John Watson.”
“At least when I invaded Afghanistan they gave me a gun. I don’t even know what they should issue you when you infiltrate the Holmes family.”