MirabileLectu

It was a miracle, or at least it seemed that way to the people of London who had feared that they would never escape the constant threat of bombardment that had hung over their city for the last four years. For many, they had forgotten what it was like to live in a city that was not reduced to rubble, to sleep through a night without the fear of air raids, to not constantly be checking the sky to see whether or not a German plane had slipped through the lines to rain death and destruction down upon them. Terror had become the watchword of London throughout the war, and now that it was over and life could slowly be patched back together once more, the people as one could breathe out the sigh of relief they had been holding in for far too long.

But first, before normality could begin to work its way back into the streets of London, there was a bit of celebrating to do. They had won, they had beaten back the Nazi menace that had seemed so sure to sweep over the entire world with its unstoppable might and unthinking hatred. For so long it had appeared as though even Britain, even the shining beacon of hope and strength that they all had thought never to fall, would be brought down by the German war machine and crumble into nothingness. But all of the struggle, all of the sacrifice, all of the countless loss and death and destruction had all been worth it for this victory. And so, before the tedious business of rebuilding and restarting could truly get underway, the survivors and the victors could indulge themselves in some well-earned revelry.

The crack of an exploding firework echoes through the stillness of the black night that is shattered with blinding light. Shadows of towering trees are thrown in sharp relief against the surrounding fields, colors dance across the dark sky, peaceful quiet is broken by the whistles and sizzles of the descending sparks. For one brief, brilliant moment, the sky is alive. And then it all goes still once more.

Down below, far underneath the explosion, two men huddle together in the darkness. Where before they had been intent on their mission, searching out clues and evidence with fierce determination, they are now bent over on the ground in startled stillness, frozen by the sound of the explosion overhead. They had forgotten of course that there would be fireworks set off by the small village they were staying in while they worked on a missing person’s case, or perhaps more accurately they had simply never bothered to learn, focusing instead on the string of clues that had lead them here and then out into a field as darkness fell around them. When Sherlock Holmes is hot on a trail such as this one, there is no distracting him. Especially not for something so trivial as a local festival and fireworks display. 

BOOM

But for the man who is still crouched on the ground with his arms thrown defensively over his head, this is no trivial matter. For John, the explosions pealing out into the night are not a simple outpouring of celebration and joy. For John, out in the pitch-black wilderness with no warning of what was to come, the sudden boom and following hiss of sparks and flame is an echo of a time long past, a time of death and blood and misery in the desert sun. The crack of an exploding firework shell, so similar to the rupture of the mortars that had taken so many lives, send him to his knees as the memories wash over him in unstoppable waves.

BOOM

A friend gunned down in front of him.

BOOM

A young man, gasping and bleeding and dying under his useless hands.

BOOM

Four men, blown to pieces before his eyes. Four men torn apart by an explosion. Four men that he cannot save.

“John?”

A voice breaks through the onslaught of memory and sensation, concerned and confused and far closer than it has any right to be. The voice is familiar, comforting even, but this is all strange, too strange. That voice has no place here in the desert, here surrounded by death and destruction. That voice belongs to London streets in the twilight, to quiet murmurs in the warmth of a flat, to the happiness of home. It is not a voice that should sound this worried about anything, and it is not a voice that should be worried about him of all people. This makes no sense. The world no longer makes any sense.

BOOM

John groans against the wave of memory that washes over him, pressing himself further into the ground so that the enemy will not find him here, defenseless. He nearly jumps out of his skin in fear and surprise when a hand is laid on his shoulder, hesitant and unsure and yet so steady that it does not pull away even in the face of his reaction. The hand remains, the only solid thing in a world overcome by phantoms of the past, the only anchor to hold him in a present that will not hurt him.

“Breathe, John. It’s alright, you’re fine, just breathe.”

He does. Slowly, painfully, and with agonizing effort, he breathes. One breath, then two. Through the memories, through the past, through the shadow of death, he breathes in and out and finally, his vision clears. He is not in the desert, he is not surrounded by the dead and dying, he is in a pitch-black field crouched on the ground in the dirt as fireworks explode overhead. He is safe. And he is with Sherlock, who is kneeling down with him, hand resting gently on his shoulder and face contorted by more concern and worry than it has ever worn before. Lights flicker quickly across his face in dancing blue-red-green, illuminating impossible eyes and shining on pale skin as they flame into life and die just as brilliantly. Sherlock, safe and whole and here for him. Sherlock, worried about him.

John looks at Sherlock, eyes wide and pleading with wordless questions locking in the darkness. He needs more than just a hand of comfort now, and he needs more than simple words of reassurance and the presence of a friend. No matter how it galls him to be this weak, he must ask for a help that he does not want and yet needs more than he could ever admit. He needs Sherlock.

Thankfully, even in the darkness, the message somehow gets across. Sherlock’s eyes widen in shock as he understands, clearly taken aback for a brief moment before he schools his face back into stillness. Silently, without the words of judgment or biting cynicism that John had so feared, he settles himself gently onto the ground and reaches over to pull John over to him. John goes willingly, collapsing bonelessly into the embrace that is waiting for him. Sherlock folds his arms around him as he pulls John into this chest, wrapping him in a hug warmer and more tender than anything John could have ever imagined of him. They sit there in silence for many long minutes as John’s breathing returns to normal, his heartbeat calming, his brain breaking free of the panicked spiral it had been reduced to. The fireworks continue to burst above them, showering them in brilliant blue-red-green, bathing them in light that flickers over the discoveries that wash away all traces of fear.

Closeness and warmth like they have never known, shared in the evening gloom.

Breath, washing over sensitive skin.

A kiss, gentle and tender.

Pain, forgotten.

 “Alright, careful now, there’s a bit of a step here.”

A soft giggle echoed through the darkened house, quickly muffled by a hand clapped over the offending mouth of the indistinct figure that had uttered it. The two figures froze in the middle of the sitting room, hands clasped together and bodies held in absolute concentration as they listened intently for signs that they had been discovered. Thankfully they were answered only by silence, and after a moment of tense alertness they both relaxed slightly and began to creep towards the stairs once more. The taller figure was leading the way, guiding the smaller through the darkness by the hand and relying on memory alone to get them to safety. The house was nearly pitch black at this time of the night, the occupants either sound asleep or safely ensconced in their rooms, and the man picking his way with utmost care through the room had absolutely no desire to disturb them.

“Ok, we’re just about to the stairs now” Martin whispered as quietly as he could manage in Molly’s ear, hoping that she would be able to contain her giggles this time. They had stayed out at the pub for far longer than he had intended, caught up in talk and laughter and the joy of finally seeing each other again after three long weeks apart. It was Molly’s first time in Fitton, and she had managed to scrape together enough vacation days to come and stay for nearly an entire week. Now, with the buzz of just enough alcohol to make them delightfully tipsy and the electric promise of what was to come singing in their veins, Martin felt at once both wonderfully alive and absolutely terrified of being caught.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want his housemates to meet Molly - well, not exactly. He certainly wasn’t ashamed of her or anything ridiculous like that. Most days he could hardly believe how lucky he was to have found a woman as beautiful and brilliant and kind as Molly, and at almost all times he found himself so bursting with happiness that he wanted to shout it out to the world. But not tonight. Tonight was the first time that Molly was going to see where he lived, and the first time that they would spend the night together anywhere that was not her flat. In fact, this week would be the longest time that they spent together so far, and the very last thing that Martin wanted was for it to be ruined at the start by one of the nosy and overly chatty students to interfere in any way. The very thought of one of the students telling Molly an embarrassing story about him, or even talking about his life at all was enough to make him cringe in horror and it was certainly not what he wanted tonight. No, introductions could be saved for later. Much later.

But, just as they were creeping down the hallway of the second floor and Martin thought that they were in the clear, the worst occurred. Having forgotten all about the unnaturally creaky floorboard that was smack in the middle of the hallway, Martin managed to step directly on it and set off a groan that was loud enough to sound like the house was going to shake itself apart. He froze, but it was too late. The sound of startled college student came through the bedroom door next to them, and before he could do anything but turn and stare the door was jerked open to spill light into the hallway around Colin in a rumpled t-shirt and pajama pants, scratching his head and looking extremely confused. 

“Martin?” he asked with a sleepy yawn, squinting into the darkness. “Is that you mate?”

Repressing a sigh, Martin turned to face the young man and prayed that he could get through this conversation quickly and get on with more pressing matters. “Yeah Colin, it’s me. Sorry to wake you, I’m just getting in a bit late.”

Unfortunately, Colin seemed to have caught sight of Molly standing behind him in the dark hallway. “No worries, I was studying for an exam anyway. Who’s that with you?” As if on a cue, sounds of life starting coming from the other bedrooms surrounding them, and one by one curious faces in various stages of tiredness began to poke out of their doors to see what was going on. In a matter of moments the hall was flooded with light as he was put under the intense scrutiny of not only Colin but Seth and his girlfriend Kathy, Olivia, Rupert, Lizzie and her sometimes-boyfriend/sometimes-not Darren, and the poor sod Fitzwilliam whose parents had been far too enthusiastic about Jane Austen for his good. Every eye was turned on them, every eye taking in their clasped hands and jumping to the obvious and inevitable conclusion.

Martin could feel his face turning bright red as the silence grew to astoundingly uncomfortable proportions, and when he heard a giggle escape from one of the girls he was fairly certain that he was going to melt into a puddle of shame right then and there. But before he could stammer out an explanation or excuse to aid their escape up the stairs, Molly stepped forward into the light and said brightly “Hello there everyone, I’m Molly.” Every single face swiveled to look at Molly in surprise, Martin’s included. “It’s nice to meet you all finally.”

The tension broken, students surged out of their rooms to come and meet the newest addition to their household. The girls flocked around Molly, jostling to meet and greet and say hello, while the boys hung back slightly and looked her up and down in what they assuredly thought was a subtle manner that could not have been more obvious. Molly handled it all with grace that was likely born of the several glasses of wine she had drunk with dinner, laughing and shaking hands and sending Martin a quick smile to reassure him that yes, this was alright. Seth gave Martin a quick nudge and a thumbs up, winking with a lascivious grin and sending another flush blooming across his cheeks at the implication. Any hope of privacy or secrecy was long gone, but somehow with each smile and happy pat on the back that he received, Martin found that he cared less and less about propriety as a glow of camaraderie and previously unknown friendship spread through him. The fact that Olivia leaned over to Molly to whisper “Make sure you take good care of him, he deserves it” in a voice so loud that everyone was sure to hear didn’t hurt either.

At last everyone was satisfied that Molly was in fact a decent human being, and that she was indeed welcome in their home. Several more knowing grins and winks were sent Martin’s way as they made their way towards the staircase, and Martin was even able to send a wink or two back they way they had come. But just when he was sure that they were in the clear and would finally be able to get some privacy for the evening, the cluster of students was disturbed by the sudden arrival of the last member of their assembled family. Dennis, ever the standard for laziness and slobbery in the house, wandered up the stairs sleepily from the kitchen clad only in a bathrobe that had been left wide open for anyone who cared to look. He took in the scene before him with a yawn and a disinterested stare, only raising an eyebrow in slight curiosity as he looked over at where Martin and Molly were standing together on the stairs. With another yawn, he turned towards his room and mumbled “You know, ‘s just not fair really. Why should you get the hot one when you don’t even try?” With another yawn, he muttered over his shoulder as he disappeared into his room “Good on ya, mate.”

As Martin fled up the stairs towards his room, a helplessly giggling Molly trailing behind him, he was not sure whether or not to be insulted or pleased at Dennis’s comment. But when Molly pushed him up against the wall with an enthusiastic kiss the moment they entered his flat, that question disappeared entirely to be replaced with matters of a far more pressing and entertaining nature.

Douglas, the man who had introduced his unlucky-in-love captain to the niece who seemed to suffer the exact same maladies as he, had feared that her nearly instant attraction to Martin had been the product of misplaced attraction. The startling resemblance the two men bore to each other had not occurred to Douglas until he had seen them in a room together, but even despite the miles of intangible distance between their personalities and the staggeringly obvious difference in their heights, there was no denying the fact that there was some similarity that they shared. Was it really so unbelievable that Molly would see that as well? That she would settle for Martin as the lesser but more easily attainable alternative to the man she truly desired? Douglas hoped not. For all the teasing, for all the needling, for all the endless barbs that he sent in Martin's direction he did wish the best for him, and it was for that reason that he worried. He worried that Martin would be hurt, that his one attempt at a successful relationship would end in disaster. He could only pray that he would not be proved correct.

The moment Carolyn had first seen a picture of the infamous Sherlock Holmes on the internet after hearing oh so much about him and his escapades, her eyebrows had shot directly into her hairline and years of hard-won experience and bitter lessons whispered a warning in her ear. She could not say exactly what it was about the imperious man who should look nothing like her stammering and awkward Captain that reminded her so strongly of Martin, but the resemblance was uncanny. And if Carolyn had learned anything from two failed marriages and more disappointments and betrayals than she cared to remember, it was just how terribly wrong a promising relationship could turn. She hoped that Martin would not face the same heartbreak at the hands of a less-than-honest lover that she had, but cynicism was a hard habit to break. They would have to wait and see.

Even John, kind, honest, trusting John, had doubted for just a moment. It was not a thought that he was proud of himself for, not something he liked to realize about himself, that he had thought Molly capable of such a thing. Molly had been nothing but kind and helpful to him, and here he was assuming that the only reason she had started dating her new boyfriend was that he looked so very like a certain flatmate of his that she had fancied. It was incredibly uncharitable, and yet as he shook Martin's hand and privately marveled at how very similar two incredibly dissimilar men could look had come the tiny whisper of "Oh, so that's why she likes him." The thought had been quashed nearly as soon as it had occurred, but it had still existed. John had doubted Martin and Molly as a couple.

The only person who never had any doubts whatsoever that Molly Hooper loved Martin Crieff for himself, and not for any resemblance he bore to Sherlock Holmes, was Sherlock Holmes himself. After their first meeting with the much-discussed airline captain, John had waited for the biting and unthinkingly cruel comment from Sherlock about Molly finding a poor substitute for himself, but it had never come. In fact, Sherlock had said nothing about Martin during or after the encounter, something that shocked John to his very core. He kept listening for the snide assessment of Martin’s height, the callous deduction of all of his flaws, the flat statement of just how Molly felt about her new boyfriend with no heed paid to how anyone else might feel about it. But after Sherlock had simply greeted Martin with a quiet hello and a cordial nod of his head, and when he continued to remain silent on the matter, John could bear it no longer.

“So, Martin then…” he began uncertainly, unreasonably curious about Sherlock’s assessment of the couple and yet unsure how to bring the topic up delicately.

Sherlock looked over at him with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing look on his face. “Before you ask, yes I did indeed see the resemblance between the two of us.” A quick smirk flicked across his face, there and gone again in an instant. “And frankly I’m insulted that you think I missed it.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes slightly. “Yes Sherlock, this entire conversation is about you of course. No, what I was wondering is –“

Sherlock cut him off, once again racing to the answer of his question before John could even complete it. “She loves him. It’s obvious, really, pathetically obvious even. The two of them are practically shouting it out for everyone to hear, I’m appalled that you missed it.” John’s face must have shown the confusion he felt, if Sherlock’s sigh and eye roll were anything to go by. He raised his hand to tick off his fingers one by one as he spoke. “Firstly, and most obviously, the two of them cannot keep their hands off of each other. They held hands as they entered the room, they stood shoulder to shoulder the entire time, and whenever they were not in contact Molly would seek him out for reassurance. Second, the way she looks at him. Her eyes, to use a fanciful expression, light up when he is speaking. She smiles every time their gazes meet. And the way she looks at him when she thinks no one is looking…”

Sherlock trailed off, face thoughtful. John had no idea what had made him appear so distant, but the moment was gone nearly as soon as it had begun. Sherlock shook himself back to reality and looked over at John, an expression like John had never seen before on his face. “Molly Hooper loves Martin Crieff, completely. And she is well loved in return.”

John never doubted them again.