H
[Independent blog of Sherrinford Holmes
NSFW, Paras only
Please read the 'Know' page before RPing.
Tag as: brilliancesquared.]
![negative-perfection:
“[Email:Subject: RE; None]
Yes.
H”
Theo clicked his tongue and gently shook his head. Sickening. Simply sickening. As he had expected, and as was gathered from his information, this was a man of little words, a man who did not reply if he was not passionate or interested in the situation. If there was no Lust and if there was no Wrath, he wouldn’t have replied at all, he wouldn’t acknowledge the message, no matter it’s means of entry to his computer. Just as calculated. The pain was apparent in this, a simple word.Yes.
Yes, I still love him. Yes, I still miss him. Yes, I wish it were me to have gotten cancer and died in his place rather than him. Yes, I am weakened.
Love, itself, was horrific enough. But this… this emotional attachment to another man Mr. Holmes suffered from was terrible. The man had met his death. He was burning in hell now. Here left was the other half of a sinful duo. Sherrinford and Giovanni. To be part of such prestige, the both of them, and be involved in such evil. They promoted evil.
His fingers twitched as he considered his next move. Like a chess game, he had to manipulate his prey into a compromising position and then strike. He would not keep the attention of the older Holmes for long if he did not plan perfectly. And he would, of course. Perfection was his game, after all.
Another glance at the file, the photo of the white-haired sinner sitting on top, looking off into the distance in that park. The glazed over look in his eyes gave the impression that he was distracted, not looking at anything in particular, but anyone who was there knew just what he was looking at.
Theo looked back at the screen. He had kept Sherrinford waiting long enough. It was entertaining to think how much he related to this quiet, brilliant man. Then, it was horrible. He was not like this man. He would never want to be like this man. He typed calmly, not showing his anger, for he had none. No. He was as calm as he appeared.
He looked to the small, old camera buy his computer and then tapped the enter key to the end beat of “Pop Goes The Weasel”, sending the message five times. The amount of decryption already included within the messages would likely cause Sherrinford’s computer to crash. It was important to have the Holmes’ full attention.
The tendrils of smoke rising caught the morning light and framed his hair in a light, orange halo. Acrid smoke fled from his lungs on a slow exhale –irritation. The push of breath temporarily disbanded the ring. Through the open window, rain cascaded to the earth causing the natives to scowl at the weather. For this time of the year, the rain was too heavy and the wind negated the use of umbrellas. It was dreadful.
But he was safe, shrouded, in warmth and grey walls. His leaned against one, legs pulled up onto the window seat, with his head tilted back and eyes shut behind his glasses. Lines of contemplation furrowed his brow. In his mind, the white letters repeatedly typed against black.
We? No, I do know.
The couple at the park, nearly ten years past, were female. This voice had a distinct male tone. It had to be someone who knew Giovanni, possibly indirectly. A friend of a friend who obtained a photo that existed in three places; on his desk, in Rosa’s family album and the gallery’s art logs. Sherrinford wryly smiled, doubtful that the man travelled to Italy for a single photograph. Not that Giovanni’s mother would willingly part with it. Evidently, he stole the photo or, at least, copied it already knowing its history.
What is the reason behind the lie? Most likely to garner interest.
The flash of a lighter lit the room.
During the evening before, Ormond removed the fried computer with distaste. Saying that whoever did this is obviously a hostile. Don’t do what he wants, boss. Sherrinford nearly scoffed. He knew this. This could very well be the first steps to his death. That did not dissuade him. The only thing that might-
His eyes drifted to a small chest resting innocuously on a vibrant chair. Contained inside were a series of letters, written on Italian stationery. A few were faded from overused and others entirely unread. Read or not, the words still invoked hesitation. In five hours, he needed to decide on a course of action.
Pro tem, he smoked and waited for a report from MI6 to see if back-hacking was possible.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/fd02729111a6fcccf58ab41e90db36bb/tumblr_mmkdrzC1Jf1s1vd5io1_500.gif)
“[Email:
Subject: RE; None]Yes.
H”
Theo clicked his tongue and gently shook his head. Sickening. Simply sickening. As he had expected, and as was gathered from his information, this was a man of little words, a man who did not reply if he was not passionate or interested in the situation. If there was no Lust and if there was no Wrath, he wouldn’t have replied at all, he wouldn’t acknowledge the message, no matter it’s means of entry to his computer. Just as calculated. The pain was apparent in this, a simple word.Yes.
Yes, I still love him. Yes, I still miss him. Yes, I wish it were me to have gotten cancer and died in his place rather than him. Yes, I am weakened.
Love, itself, was horrific enough. But this… this emotional attachment to another man Mr. Holmes suffered from was terrible. The man had met his death. He was burning in hell now. Here left was the other half of a sinful duo. Sherrinford and Giovanni. To be part of such prestige, the both of them, and be involved in such evil. They promoted evil.
His fingers twitched as he considered his next move. Like a chess game, he had to manipulate his prey into a compromising position and then strike. He would not keep the attention of the older Holmes for long if he did not plan perfectly. And he would, of course. Perfection was his game, after all.
Another glance at the file, the photo of the white-haired sinner sitting on top, looking off into the distance in that park. The glazed over look in his eyes gave the impression that he was distracted, not looking at anything in particular, but anyone who was there knew just what he was looking at.
Theo looked back at the screen. He had kept Sherrinford waiting long enough. It was entertaining to think how much he related to this quiet, brilliant man. Then, it was horrible. He was not like this man. He would never want to be like this man. He typed calmly, not showing his anger, for he had none. No. He was as calm as he appeared.
He looked to the small, old camera buy his computer and then tapped the enter key to the end beat of “Pop Goes The Weasel”, sending the message five times. The amount of decryption already included within the messages would likely cause Sherrinford’s computer to crash. It was important to have the Holmes’ full attention.
The tendrils of smoke rising caught the morning light and framed his hair in a light, orange halo. Acrid smoke fled from his lungs on a slow exhale –irritation. The push of breath temporarily disbanded the ring. Through the open window, rain cascaded to the earth causing the natives to scowl at the weather. For this time of the year, the rain was too heavy and the wind negated the use of umbrellas. It was dreadful.
But he was safe, shrouded, in warmth and grey walls. His leaned against one, legs pulled up onto the window seat, with his head tilted back and eyes shut behind his glasses. Lines of contemplation furrowed his brow. In his mind, the white letters repeatedly typed against black.
We? No, I do know.
The couple at the park, nearly ten years past, were female. This voice had a distinct male tone. It had to be someone who knew Giovanni, possibly indirectly. A friend of a friend who obtained a photo that existed in three places; on his desk, in Rosa’s family album and the gallery’s art logs. Sherrinford wryly smiled, doubtful that the man travelled to Italy for a single photograph. Not that Giovanni’s mother would willingly part with it. Evidently, he stole the photo or, at least, copied it already knowing its history.
What is the reason behind the lie? Most likely to garner interest.
The flash of a lighter lit the room.
During the evening before, Ormond removed the fried computer with distaste. Saying that whoever did this is obviously a hostile. Don’t do what he wants, boss. Sherrinford nearly scoffed. He knew this. This could very well be the first steps to his death. That did not dissuade him. The only thing that might-
His eyes drifted to a small chest resting innocuously on a vibrant chair. Contained inside were a series of letters, written on Italian stationery. A few were faded from overused and others entirely unread. Read or not, the words still invoked hesitation. In five hours, he needed to decide on a course of action.
Pro tem, he smoked and waited for a report from MI6 to see if back-hacking was possible.
Nostalgia in F Minor
Sherlock barely noticed the change in language, only the odd looks from other patrons notifying him of the transition. He licked his lips as he thought, telling himself that feeling jealous or insulted was ridiculous. Sherrinford had tried to tell him; it was his own fault that he didn’t listen. Of course Quentin knew - they had the closest relationship out of all of the brothers.
“That is…understandable.“ Was all he could manage to stay. “Were you happy?” he asked, deciding that pushing the subject of his ignorance was futile.
To describe the raw emotions caused by sharing a life; a single, unified life, with someone was impossible. Even to others who owned a similar experience, it proved difficult. It could take him months to describe the happiness and just that. Not the anger, joy, sadness, hurt, wonder, confusion, eagerness -Years of explanation would not do it justice still.
Sherrinford merely smiled and nodded.
Now, on to the important details. “Do you need a place to stay?”
 |
personalassistanttothegovernment Young Mister Holmes, how are things going in your life? |
Relatively well, thank you.
Yourself?
-H
I’m thinking of selling the house.
Do you want me to return?
Don’t be ridiculous darling. I could never ask you to do that. Your whole life is in London. I just need to accept the fact that you boys have moved on.
No, work is in London and Berkshire, as well. You are here. If you need me, I am willing to relocate.
Consider renting a temporary apartment as a trial.
I’m thinking of selling the house.
Maybe finding a smaller house. It’s too big for me. I don’t use half of the rooms and it’s not like the boys visit me anymore.
Allot Mycroft the house, it is his legally. He can pay for the upkeep while you settle in a house better suited to your needs. A London town-house with gardens is appropriate. Visits from us would be more frequent with the truncated commute.
I’ve just grown so used to the countryside. I’ve gotten used to the commute into London and it’d be so strange to leave this all behind. I’m not entirely sure what to do. All I know is that this house is far too big for one person.
Do you want me to return?
I’m thinking of selling the house.
Maybe finding a smaller house. It’s too big for me. I don’t use half of the rooms and it’s not like the boys visit me anymore.
Allot Mycroft the house, it is his legally. He can pay for the upkeep while you settle in a house better suited to your needs. A London town-house with gardens is appropriate. Visits from us would be more frequent with the truncated commute.
His part in the story||Brilliance-squared
Quentin was curled in his bed, not close to being able to sleep and feeling overwhelmingly lonely. His first day at school had been mostly pleasant, if not slightly stressful, but this was the first time he had slept alone in- he couldn’t even remember. Sherrinford had started sleeping in his room when Quentin first verbally stated that he couldn’t sleep, and it had eventually become the norm.
The small boy looked up as he heard his door open and a grin spread across his face as he watched Sherrinford slip through the door, bathed in the glow of the nightlight plugged into the wall nearby. Anxiety that they’d be caught sleeping in the same room and get in trouble surfaced somewhere in his mind, but he ignored it and shifted the duvet so that Sherri could climb into the bed next to him.
“I know I’m s’posed to be sleeping by myself now, I don’t want you to get into trouble…” He blinked and made a small, worried frown. “But I was really lonely too so… thanks.”
Cuddled safely beside his older brother, Quentin dozed off quickly.
-
He made pleasant small talk with the driver, the same one who had been driving him to school since primary, on the way home as he always did.
“Good afternoon. How was your day?”
“It was good. My classes are interesting.”
A strained smile.
“Good. Your mother has told me to inform you that she is out running errands and will be back later this evening.”
“Oh, alright.”When they arrived, Quentin climbed out of the car, feeling a lump start to form in his throat. He wasted no time getting into the house and ascending the stairs to his bedroom, a feeling of sick excitement and overwhelming anger at himself starting to build.
It’ll be better, it’ll be better for me and for everyone, they’ll be sad at first but eventually it’ll be better…
He left his school bag in his room and walked down the hallway, to the bathroom. The bottle of Ambien, prescribed to him for his increasingly bad insomnia, was where he left it, and he felt a pang of guilt- Mummy trusted him to be responsible.
It’ll be better for her, too, eventually
He left a small amount of pills in the bottle when he physically couldn’t force himself to swallow anymore. From what he’d read when he researched it, what he’d taken would be enough. Slender hands gripped the edge of the sink as the fifteen year old stood still.
When Quentin collapsed to the cold, tiled floor, he had a fleeting thought about Sherrinford and his promise to come home for the weekend before he faded out of consciousness.
Worry gnawed at him for days. Quentin showed over seventy-five percent of the warnings signs of depression. This was not a brief episode either. As opposed to the ones that lasted a few days, this was week five, day three. Something was constantly propelling Quentin’s anxiety, depression, and borderline tendencies.
Each phone call, text and email revealed his prone mental state and Sherrinford detested himself for not being there. He increased his workload, sacrificing sleep to test out of classes and write thesis papers. If he continued at this pace, he might finish this major in two, three weeks. However, he did not think his brother would last that long.
He left class early, crossing four lectures out of his schedule to do so. His professors feigned understanding when he offered the ‘I am needed at home’ line. Only Professor Aldemaro questioned why and he did so in a concerned way that Sherrinford told him.
“My brother is ill.”
“The littlest one, Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“Serious enough for you to miss class then. Drive safely.”
Currently, Sherrinford was only speeding ten miles over the limit, cutting the four-hour drive to three. He lit another cigarette, his sixth, single-handedly and then tossed the lighter aside. As he entered the stone walls of the Holmes Manor, he blamed himself for not arriving before Quentin.
Sherrinford dropped the cigarette in the ashtray and parked. No one else was home. Mother’s car was not in the driveway, Mycroft was due back in a week and Sherlock would not come home until the summer. Or Christmas, if he could get away with it.
Silence greeted him as he crossed the threshold. He frowned at the irregularity, eyes scanning the house as he continued inside. Mother usually played old records while gardening or listened to Quentin play the piano –Not even the finches in silver cages made a sound. It was too quiet, even for him.
He hurried up the stairs, taking two at a time, as his trepidation rose. This was not right. The hallways rushed past; the lit bathroom, the tapestry, the decorations –all blurred in his haste to Quentin’s room. He didn’t knock, he never did, but it would not have mattered. The room was empty.
Backtracking, he thought that perhaps mother took Quentin to the store. Perhaps he had arrived before Quentin. Or perhaps-Sherrinford frowned and stopped at the bathroom’s door. It was slightly ajar with light pooling from the cracks. His body tensed, apprehension crawling up his spine.
Or perhaps, his assumptions were correct.
Sherrinford pushed the door open, took four steps and then fell to his knees. He was not aware of the strangled sound that escaped him as the sight of his brother cold, pale and seemingly dead came into view. The bottle of Ambien and its pills on the floor did not escape his scrutiny. He had warned mother about letting her underage son take tablets meant for adults. This was precisely why- He did not have the time to think pessimistically.
One hand retrieved his phone while the other checked for a pulse. He sighed in relief when he found it; faint and fading. The phone was still dialling –of all the times to fail this was not one of them.
“Quentin.” Sherrinford sat the unconscious teen up, pulling him against his chest with an arm curled around his stomach. He pressed his palm against Quentin’s ribcage, comforting himself with the weak pumping of his heart. “Quentin!” He shouted, voice reverberating off the pastel walls, “Wake up, please- Yes, hello.” Finally, the signal connected. Quickly explaining the situation to the dispatcher, he rocked his little brother back and forth –hoping that the motion would cause him to stir. When it did not, he scowled and nearly screamed in frustration. The helicopter would be there soon, the woman on the line informed; could he try to wake him up? Yes, he was trying and every attempt failed, did she not understand this? His brother was dying in his arms and she dared to question if he was trying?
Sherrinford heaved the phone against the wall and was satisfied when it shattered. He wrapped his other arm around Quentin now, burying his face in the soft curls. A thousand what-ifs clouded his mind and he hummed to stifle sobs.
-
The medics’ endeavours to convince Sherrinford in following behind in his car were unsuccessful. His silent, unwavering gaze felt twice as threatening combined with his suit and the large estate framing him. This family was unmistakeably powerful and their jobs could be at risk if they denied him. Sherrinford did not correct their assumptions, he merely sat where they told him to and glared when he thought they were being too forceful with his brother.
The helicopter whirred to life and Sherrinford grasped Quentin’s chilly hand. Memories of their childhood randomly sprouted in his mind. He did not have the strength to try to prevent them –he just hummed, watching them and Quentin.
“Why is this llower lellow, Sherrinford?”
“Shut up, Lerlock, I am not stupid!”
“How come the sky is blue?”
“No, it’s pronounced butter-ly.”
“Lelliphants, Sherrinford! Look at da lelliphants!”
“Do you love me, Sherrinford?”
As they flew over the countryside, he realized that this could be his last memory of Quentin.
He hummed louder.
Nostalgia in F Minor
Ten years. For ten years his brother had been happy with this man, and he didn’t know. He thought that he might be indignant, demanding to know why he wasn’t told, but something made him pause. This wasn’t about him.
“Did you tell Quentin?” he asked, instead of voicing any of his myriad of concerns. It was a stupid moment of jealousy, but after seeing the way Sherrinford was acting, he didn’t feel that asking why would be the best. He might get the real answer, one he didn’t want.
He turned his gaze down, resting his chin on palm, and continued to tap the cup with the other hand. “Mhm.” A pause as he switched to French- it caused the memory of them studying in the kitchens to surface. There was much to say and his tilts and stops in English were irritating.
“As I tried to tell you, I met Giovanni before Quentin’s suicide attempt. He was my law professor –I doubt Mycroft would have approved. After Quentin was released from the hospital, he lived with me for a time, as I’m sure you remember. He attended class with me and –I…It was Quentin who convinced me that pursuing a relationship was plausible. It did not happen for another two years.” He shrugged, looking at Sherlock, “Three years later, we married in Italy. Quentin, mother and Irene attended. I do not know what else to tell you.”
brilliance-squared started following you
He was wrong. He could have stuck around. It would have stopped a lot of things from happening. She sniffled again, remembering the smells and harsh whispers. She could taste the blood in her mouth from when she had bit her lip. It had been six years since the death of her stepfather and still, there was fear.
Her hands were shaking now, making it hard to communicate. She gently grabbed the handkerchief, signalling a thank you before wiping her eyes. Years of experience? This man seemed to understand her better than most, including her brothers, and it was just years of experience…
Talk to him? she signed, eyeing him, barely sure if he could understand her shaking gestures. If I were to talk to Sherlock I would probably collapse onto the ground and never wake up. She tapped her foot nervously, as the breathing became harder. She didn’t expect it to hit her this hard. Can’t breath, she signed quickly, make it stop. It hurts. Help. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself and not make a scene. She hadn’t had a panic attack in public for months and she was terrified.
It was impossible to tell if her hands were soft or calloused as he gently pinned them between his leather-clad ones. Doing so kept her from signing but he needed her to listen and not concentrate on trying to form words.
His experience in quelling anxiety attacks did not only stem from tending to his patients. Quentin, his brother, was prone to them in his adolescent days. In a distant way, Harley reminded him of those times when his brother could not breathe through frightened tears. The similarities were obvious.
Sherrinford pressed her hands in a comforting way yet, his features remained impassive. He was concerned, yes, but concern was not what she needed now. “Focus on my voice. Breathe. Breathe and just listen. Ignore everything else.” Part one; re-establish control. Lack of control was a major cause in these attacks. (and if assumed correctly, she did not have a lot of that throughout her life.) “You do not have to talk or see him. That is your choice.” He kept his words low, short and easy to comprehend. “You will not be forced to do anything.” Sherrinford wanted to relocate her to a quieter place, the dull roar of multiple conversations tended to fuel panic. However, he could not move her in this fragile of a state. It created a difficult situation but, for her sake, he would manage.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow as Sherrinford smiled again, a little surprised by it. He was smiling a lot today it seemed. Perhaps he was ill? Or someone had put something in his drink? Either way, Mycroft smiled back.“My, Sherrinford, is that you admitting that you care? I should have brought some sort of recording device along with me - I would have liked to have that on tape.” He teased. “I am hardly going to be the cause of our brother’s death though. Believe it or not, but I do protect him as it is. If his life were at risk, I would double that protection as soon as I could.”
In a private setting, Sherrinford tended to be liberal with his smiles -small as they were. The detail that [until the recent bridging between he and Mycroft] only Quentin was aware that Sherrinford smiled did not cross his mind. He was delighted to see his brother and he knew that not everyone expressed their joy as he did. So, smiles it was.
“How about in writing?” Sherrinford countered sardonically, tapping his pen on a notepad. He ignored a light ‘ping!’ from his computer, it was just a message from Ormond stating that his two o’clock was shifted to three. That would give him ample time to finish the conversation with Mycroft. “I doubted that you would be. And thank you- the protection details are appreciated.”
Theophilus’ thin smile curled across his lips when the reply came. Most answered it with “Who is this?” or a “lol wut?” but not this one. It was already apparent that this man was slightly different. A smart fellow, undeniably, of a well organized family. His intellect and prominence made him of interest, but his overall demeanor, as described by colleagues and those around him, was perhaps most intriguing. He did not fit the bill. He was not described as pompous nor arrogant nor even overly social. No, here we had a described quiet man who kept to himself.Lust. Greed. Gluttony. Sloth. All seemed out of the picture already. But as expected from a Holmes, he did have a sense of Pride. But it wasn’t enough. No, the right buttons needed to be pushed to find this man’s true self. But what buttons needed pushing?
Theo put his computer to the side and looked through his makeshift files. There were articles about the brothers, the mother, recent events concerning Richard Brook, a photo of a white haired man… oh… yes of course.
A quick tapping of the keys and the click of enter relayed the message back before sending it out to the Holmes fellow.
After all, this was the reason he had targeted Sherrinford in the first place. Only a look of intense interest shined in his eyes as the “Your Message Has Been Sent” tab appeared on his screen. The answer was obvious, but it was not the point. No, so much more relied upon the simple response that would be given.
His eyes focused on the singular personal item decorating the desk. The photograph of his late husband, adorned with the man’s favourite rosary, smiled at him. There was an odd irritation in his chest, which he knew was associated with loss, when the memory the picture was linked with demanded his attentions. He lowly hummed. In truth, the memory was not overly special –a simple day in the park during their respective lunch breaks, completed with coffee and London traffic. A couple of photographers paused, apologised for interrupting their conversation, and begged to take their picture.
Naturally, Sherrinford declined and they respected his privacy. Their only request was that Giovanni needed to look at his husband off camera. The resulted effect was a gently smiling man who was obviously in love, the way his eyes softened… With what was a mystery to those who observed the photo in the couple’s portfolio.
Sherrinford reclined in his chair, unconsciously caressing his silver ring, and contemplated the question. The obvious answer was yes. However, the tense was incorrect. He currently still loved him. The letters Giovanni scripted for him, his lingering smell on his clothes, the excruciatingly bright colours still infesting his flat –Sherrinford loved every aspect of him, gone though he was.
The screen drew his eyes back, his glasses reflecting the words, and he frowned. His relationship was confidential, as he preferred his life beyond work. Subsequently, the man, yes man- it was statistically the most likely, was well informed.
Sherrinford now operated on the assumption that all sensitive information was known by the opposite party. He would continue to do so until proven otherwise.
[Email:
Subject: RE; None]
Yes.
H
He waited, fingers dancing over the rosary’s blue bead, and idly sent a widower’s prayer to the heavens. The fact that Giovanni distracted him now, in death, was detestable. His patients depended on his dedication to reality, not memories of the past. Sherrinford dropped the beads, shutting himself off emotionally, and resolved himself to properly complete his responsibilities. It was his duty in life to serve others, as dictated by his religion and Hippocratic Oath.
First, his anonymous contact needed do be dealt with.