Chapter Text
The remainder of the holiday flew; the apiary kept Sherlock enthralled for the entire day, and the trio went home with four jars of honey. Sherlock had assisted with decanting some of the newly acquired honey, with great enthusiasm. The military museum kept John likewise captivated, and Greg had to resort to drastic measures to convince him to leave the gift shop after an hour.
The drastic measures kept them entertained for the rest of the day, and it was a very good thing roast dinners made good leftovers, because none of them were up for much activity after that.
There was rain the last day, so much of it that they didn’t think twice about staying in and putting the downstairs shower through its paces. Greg spent most of the afternoon restoring the kitchen to its proper order, and Sherlock climbed the stairs up to the attic one last time to put everything back into Cecily’s trunk where he’d found it. John stretched out on the couch in front of the television and shouted abuse at the football match.
It was a good day, and just before dinner, as the sun was setting, the rain abated enough that John was willing to don a coat and step out onto the porch leading to the sea.
“You’re not thinking about another skinny dip, are you?” Greg asked, opening the door.
“I’m not entirely stupid,” said John.
“Good, because dinner’s almost ready.”
“D’you remember the ghost story about Cecily?”
Greg opened the door a little more. “And here I thought you said you weren’t entirely stupid.”
“Just having a look, that’s all.”
Greg leaned against the doorframe. “And?”
“And nothing, it’s dark and pouring rain. For all I know Cecily Kinton is out there dancing a fandango with the Four Horsemen and Queen Victoria.”
Greg laughed. “Come on in, then. You can pull Sherlock out of the attic before he discovers another murder.”
Greg went back into the house, but John didn’t follow just yet. He stepped out to the end of the porch, waited for the motion sensor light to flick off, and then squinted into the rain. It was nearly impossible to see anything, and certainly living with Sherlock had a tendency to either make one immune to flights of fancy – or maybe exactly the opposite.
“Hey,” said John, under his breath. “Ah…rest in peace. If you’re out there, anyway.”
The rain seemed to let up for just a moment, and the air smelled of salt and lavender.
Just a fancy, thought John, and turned to go back inside.
*
The drive home was much the same as the drive down. Greg packed the car, careful to keep the leftovers on ice. John put his laptop in the boot, and Sherlock created incessant delays by conveniently forgetting they were meant to be going home in the first place.
“You know, for someone who resisted leaving Baker Street at all, you’re doing a remarkable job of not wanting to go home,” John said, leaning into the attic.
“Something doesn’t fit,” said Sherlock, still sitting by the open trunk, and John groaned.
“Of course it doesn’t,” he sighed. “What now?”
“Why Gerald still staged his return two days after Cecily’s death.”
“Maybe he felt guilty,” said John. “Maybe he had other friends to see. Maybe he’d travelled all that way and didn’t want to go without at least saying goodbye. Christ, Sherlock, maybe he was the one who shot Cecily in the melee.”
“It would explain reports of his ghost at her gravesite,” said Sherlock thoughtfully.
“Believe in ghosts now, do you?”
“You’re the one who communed with Cecily on the porch last night.”
“I – how did you know that? No, never mind. My jumper was damp and you could smell the rain on my skin.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I looked out the window and saw you.”
John stared at him, and then began to laugh. “Finish putting that away, we need to get on the road or we’re going to hit traffic getting into London.”
“There’s always traffic into London. And the trunk was open when I found it.”
John frowned. “What? I thought everything was meant to be put away up here.”
Sherlock shrugged and moved the newspaper clippings back into the trunk. “It was open, in the middle of the attic.” He looked up thoughtfully. “A bit like someone wanted me to find it, and solve the mystery. Never did find Thomas’s ghost.”
John shivered, a little like a cold draft had just snuck right down the back of his neck. “Right, well, put it away anyway.”
“John, the attic is not haunted. You’ve been here all week and not once have you been the least bit squeamish, and now that I mention the merest hint of a ghost, you can barely look over your shoulder for fear.”
“Sod off,” said John automatically.
Sherlock made a small, amused noise in the back of his throat, and slammed the trunk shut. “There was meant to be a history of Thomas Kinton in the welcome packet; perhaps he hid that from us when he pulled out the trunk?”
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock was the epitome of innocence. “Did you pack my honey?”
“Yes, and we wrapped the jars so there’s no danger of them breaking open. And before you ask, your violin’s packed as well. Any other crises? Because I think Greg is itching to get on the road before it gets too late.”
“No,” said Sherlock, and followed John down the stairs.
Greg was waiting at the car, not looking terribly impatient, though clearly ready to be gone. Sherlock paused before climbing into the back seat, and looked back at the house.
“It was a good murder,” he said.
Greg rolled his eyes. “If that’s your way of saying Thanks Greg, Nice Holiday, Let’s Do This Again, then I agree with you.”
“Except maybe without the hundred year old murder next time, yeah?” said John.
“A fresh murder would be much more interesting, thank you, John,” said Sherlock, and got into the car.
“Yeah, thank you, John,” said Greg, and John glared.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“John! I need your laptop.”
“It’s in the boot. Close the door, Sherlock.”
“Greg hasn’t started the car yet.”
Greg started the car. “Homeward bound.”
“What precisely am I meant to do for the next two hours?”
“Why don’t you complain and behave like a stroppy teenager? That worked so well for you on the way down.”
“John, sarcasm does not become you.”
“Yes, it does. Sarcasm becomes me extremely well. You love me because of my sarcasm.”
“Where is your phone?”
“Mycroft is already tracking my laptop, leave my phone out of it.”
Sherlock remained silent.
“Christ,” swore John, and put his head in his hands.
The car rumbled down the gravel path, away from the house and on its way back to London. Its three passengers bickered and complained and resisted the urge to throttle each other for most of the journey. Greg swore at traffic, John groaned and wished for cups of tea that never materialized, and Sherlock played with his pirate eyepatch, said that it didn’t fit properly, and made plans to melt it into a better shape for his face.
And if they stopped talking long enough to smile at each other out of the corner of their mouths every so often, amused and grateful and feeling particularly blessed…well, then. That was only to be expected.