Inheritance - Part 4
Jul. 15th, 2011 11:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
r_scribblesFourth & final part of Sherlock Future fic/Son of Holmes/Nero Wolfe crossover insanity 'Inheritance'!
No warnings for this chapter - very faint hints of J/S in here, for once. Colour me surprised!
Part 3
-x-
NEW YORK, 2033
-x-
John’s warning shot was closely followed by a second shot from the shadows at the other end of the forecourt.
As Sherlock had expected – Lupa wasn’t alone. The petrol tanks had long since ran dry, so John felt it was safe to fire one more time, just to make it clear that he was serious.
In the light of the open forecourt, Lupa half-raised a hand. The second shooter didn’t fire again, and it was clear that Lupa wasn’t about to turn his own handgun on Sherlock.
‘At an impasse again,’ said Lupa. ‘You may as well both come out, Gentlemen.’
‘It’s all right, John,’ added Sherlock. ‘Situation’s under control – you might be interested to meet our rival face to face, anyway.’
John peeled himself away from his shadowy corner and approached the men in the forecourt. Well… he said “men”… Lupa was still just a kid. Tall, grossly overweight and self satisfied as you pleased, but no more than 20 years of age. He’d heard about Lupa, of course, but the youngster was such a recluse by all accounts that few knew what he looked like. John observed him, now – smartly dressed in spite of his size, stock still in spite of the high wind that whipped at his and Sherlock’s coats and hair. Mixed race – part Caucasian, part Afro-American. Smooth shaven, hair neatly clipped… odd features. Odd, but not unfamil… OH!
It was the eyes that gave it away. But it couldn’t be… But it had to be.
Later, John would rant and rave and dwell on the twenty years - twenty years - that Sherlock hadn’t told him. But at that moment, the only thought that struck him was ’when on Earth did he find the time to do that?!?’.
Later, he would take a moment to do the sums and work out it was when Sherlock was on the run, and they would talk properly for the first time in decades about how lost his good friend had felt during those three dark years, and eventually they’d laugh, and he wouldn’t feel hurt or angry any more.
A fourth figure – a boy even younger than Lupa, 17 if he was a day – walked up to stand next to Lupa. John saw the young lad double-take at Sherlock, much in the same way that John had reacted to Lupa. It seemed that everybody was aware of the situation, now, even if none of them were about to mention it.
‘So, you’ve finally invested in a friend,’ Sherlock said. ‘Told you it would be a good idea.’
Lupa remained poker faced. ‘This is my associate, Archie Goodwin.’
‘Live-in “associate”, is he?’ Sherlock asked.
In a single eyebrow arch, Lupa conveyed full knowledge of and scorn for Sherlock and John’s own “live-in arrangement”.
‘I’ve been able to afford a splendid Brownstone in this fine city,’ Lupa replied. ‘The whole upstairs floor was free – it would have been a shame to see it go to waste. Goodwin lodges there, and helps me out – does much of my legwork for me.’
John managed to keep his groan of dismay to himself. Good God, but the kid took after his uncle.
‘Speaking of work,’ Lupa added. ‘The Karcher case.’
Sherlock gave a gracious nod. ‘Since our mutual target has decided to base himself exclusively in the States from here on in, it makes sense for me to pass it on to you.’ He took out his iHolo and pulled up the Karcher files. ‘I’m sending you all the information we’ve collected on the case so far.’ There was a chime, followed by a reply from Lupa’s own device as it received the data. ‘I’ll be monitoring your progress,’ Sherlock added. ‘I’m very interested to see how this pans out - I have a few theories about what the conclusion might end up being.’
‘I trust that you haven’t sent me those, as well, Mr Holmes,’ replied Lupa.
‘I would never sully your case with my hypotheses, Mr Lupa.’
Lupa and Goodwin exchanged another glance. ‘I don’t use that name any more, Mr Holmes.’
‘Oh?’
‘A new name for a new city, and a new career,’ replied “Lupa”. ‘Auguste Lupa was fine when I was moving around Eurasia, but I’ve found that in the US, it’s an unfortunate moniker for a person of my size…’
‘Auguste Lupa,’ chanted Sherlock, ‘Auguste Lupa, the great big greedy nincompoo-pa.’
“Lupa” arched his eyebrow again. ‘Quite.’
‘Who’d have imagined so many Americans would have read a book?’ Sherlock added.
‘It’s been made into three films,’ John told him, quietly.
Sherlock nodded. ‘That explains it. So,’ he addressed “Lupa”. ‘What should we call you these days?’
‘Wolfe. Nero Wolfe.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sherlock replied, ‘that’s far more sensible.’
‘Are we done, here?’ asked Wolfe.
‘Big fan of Roman Emperors and large Canidae, are we?’ added Sherlock.
Wolfe didn’t reply. There was an awkward pause.
‘Yes,’ said Sherlock, ‘it appears that we are “done, here”.’
Something about Wolfe softened. ‘You knew the target was coming to New York. You knew I was already working on the case as well, and that I’d want to take it over completely. If you were already resigned to sending me your files on it, you could have done so from the comfort of your own home. Why come all this way, Old Man?’
‘The same reason that you got out of your chair, Mr Wolfe,’ replied Sherlock.
Wolfe smiled, faintly. ‘You just wanted to see?’
For a split second, Sherlock’s smile matched Wolfe’s precisely. ‘I just wanted to see.’
Wolfe blinked, and his poker face returned; the tiny glimpse of fondness between the two detectives dissolved.
‘Well,’ said Wolfe, ‘don’t let me keep you. I’m sure London misses you, already.’
‘I was thinking of staying for a couple of days, actually.’
‘Not spying on me, surely…?’
‘Sightseeing,’ replied Sherlock. ‘It’s been decades since I was here, last. So much has changed.’ he turned, and began to walk away, with John tugged along in his wake as always.
‘This is a dangerous city,’ Wolfe told him as he departed. ‘Who knows what sort of trouble you can get yourself into here. I’d watch my back if I were you, Old Man.’
‘And if I were you,’ Sherlock called over his shoulder, ‘I’d lose some weight. You don’t want to have put yourself through Diabetes Reversal Therapy – my brother tells me it’s sheer Hell.’
John didn’t just wait until they were out of sight and earshot of the forecourt. It wasn’t until they were in the ElectroCab that he met eyes seriously with Sherlock.
‘Sherlock.’
‘John?’
‘That wasn’t just a “business rival”.’
‘Quite right.’ Sherlock gave him a smile that, had it come from anybody else, John would swear was sheepish, although in Sherlock’s case it looked more like a fox that had disguised itself as a sheep and was trying to ingratiate itself with the rest of the flock before gobbling them all up. ‘I knew you’d be astute enough to notice.’
‘Well, it’s not exactly rocket science, is it, Sherlock?’ John hissed, ‘given that the only other possible explanation for… for that is that somebody saw fit to make a clone out of Irene Adler and you, feed him too many crisps and then put Mycroft’s brain in him, which is impossible, so when you’ve eliminated the impossible blah de blah de blah…’
‘What remains, no matter how improbable…’ Sherlock prompted.
‘What remains, is that somehow, you and your bloody Woman, that picture smiling at me from my mantelpiece for the last 22 years, have a grown son together…’
‘Don’t be like that, John.’
‘It’s not that.’ John rubbed at his face. ‘It’s that you didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell me! All these years!’
‘If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know myself until two years after the act.’
‘Oh, so you’ve only kept this from me for 18 years. Yes, that makes me feel much better. I mean – who is this kid? You only introduce him to me now that he’s an adult and a rival detective, I don’t even know his real name…’
‘His real name is whatever he wants it to be,’ Sherlock replied, ‘which at present, for reasons best known to himself, is Nero Wolfe.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Sherlock paused. ‘And I was hoping you’d be able to work it out – his birth name, that is.’
‘Sherlock, I am not in the mood for games, right now. In fact, I think I can safely say that I am in the polar opposite of the mood for games.’
‘Irene Adler can be capable of surprising gestures of sentimentality,’ Sherlock continued. ‘Not knowing if she’d ever see me again, she wanted to name the child in my honour, somehow.’
‘Without you knowing about it for two years?’ John snapped. ‘She must have had to have kept it bloody low key.’
‘Exactly. Couldn’t call the boy Sherlock, could she? She had three middle names to choose from, but they’re all awful…’
‘Worse than “Sherlock”,’ John agreed.
‘Why lumber a child with that?’ added Sherlock. ‘So, what’s the next logical…’
‘Sherlock, I’ve already told you,’ John interrupted. ‘I am not playing this stupid…’
‘John.’
‘No! You’re not dragging me into this. Not tonight.’
‘His name.’ Sherlock met his eye, honestly. ‘My son’s name is John Adler. Or, at least that’s what it says on his birth certificate. She named him after you, because she knew that’s what I would have done.’
John blinked. He was still angry. He still needed to rant and rave and berate Sherlock for the 18 years that he had kept his son from him. But later, he would go through the handful of John Adler’s childhood pictures that Sherlock had in his iHolo, and smile. And when Sherlock would sniff, he would sniff, too.
‘Do you love him?’ he would ask.
And Sherlock wouldn’t look up from the photos, but would quietly say ‘of course I do, John. Of course I love him’.
-x-
Another sleepless night. One of many, of late. He’d spent so very many nights yearning for his own bed, and now that he has it, he can’t sleep in it. There’s only one solution – there’s only ever one solution, on nights like this. He gets out a pen and paper, and writes.
My dear John,
I write this letter in the knowledge that you won’t receive it until after my death – perhaps you will never receive it at all. In a way, that’s beside the point.
Events have conspired with the effect that we cannot be together. I do still think about you, constantly, and very fondly.
I miss you. This may sound ridiculous to you – how can I miss you when I’ve never even met you? As nonsensical is it may seem, it is the simple truth.
There are few matters in which I trust your mother, but in raising you to the best of her abilities, she has my full confidence. She is a brilliant woman, and when she has set her mind to something, not Hell nor high water nor Yours Truly can do anything to stop her in her endeavour. She has made a mission of bringing you up, and no doubt she will achieve this with her usual flair.
I can’t imagine that she’ll prove to be a “normal” mother – whatever that is – and, even if we ever do meet, I know that we will most likely never have a functional father/son bond.
I didn’t imagine I’d find that upsetting. But, I do.
It was proved to me a few years ago that I do have a heart. I didn’t enjoy the experience, and the revelation of softer emotions continues to be really rather bothersome. I tell you this in the hope that the seriousness of my next statement will be made plain.
I love you.
Even though all I’ve seen of you have been a few photographs – I do love you, and I think I always will. I hope that, if you do ever receive this letter, you will think kindly of me for it.
Your Father,
Sherlock Holmes
-x-
THE END
No warnings for this chapter - very faint hints of J/S in here, for once. Colour me surprised!
Part 3
-x-
NEW YORK, 2033
-x-
John’s warning shot was closely followed by a second shot from the shadows at the other end of the forecourt.
As Sherlock had expected – Lupa wasn’t alone. The petrol tanks had long since ran dry, so John felt it was safe to fire one more time, just to make it clear that he was serious.
In the light of the open forecourt, Lupa half-raised a hand. The second shooter didn’t fire again, and it was clear that Lupa wasn’t about to turn his own handgun on Sherlock.
‘At an impasse again,’ said Lupa. ‘You may as well both come out, Gentlemen.’
‘It’s all right, John,’ added Sherlock. ‘Situation’s under control – you might be interested to meet our rival face to face, anyway.’
John peeled himself away from his shadowy corner and approached the men in the forecourt. Well… he said “men”… Lupa was still just a kid. Tall, grossly overweight and self satisfied as you pleased, but no more than 20 years of age. He’d heard about Lupa, of course, but the youngster was such a recluse by all accounts that few knew what he looked like. John observed him, now – smartly dressed in spite of his size, stock still in spite of the high wind that whipped at his and Sherlock’s coats and hair. Mixed race – part Caucasian, part Afro-American. Smooth shaven, hair neatly clipped… odd features. Odd, but not unfamil… OH!
It was the eyes that gave it away. But it couldn’t be… But it had to be.
Later, John would rant and rave and dwell on the twenty years - twenty years - that Sherlock hadn’t told him. But at that moment, the only thought that struck him was ’when on Earth did he find the time to do that?!?’.
Later, he would take a moment to do the sums and work out it was when Sherlock was on the run, and they would talk properly for the first time in decades about how lost his good friend had felt during those three dark years, and eventually they’d laugh, and he wouldn’t feel hurt or angry any more.
A fourth figure – a boy even younger than Lupa, 17 if he was a day – walked up to stand next to Lupa. John saw the young lad double-take at Sherlock, much in the same way that John had reacted to Lupa. It seemed that everybody was aware of the situation, now, even if none of them were about to mention it.
‘So, you’ve finally invested in a friend,’ Sherlock said. ‘Told you it would be a good idea.’
Lupa remained poker faced. ‘This is my associate, Archie Goodwin.’
‘Live-in “associate”, is he?’ Sherlock asked.
In a single eyebrow arch, Lupa conveyed full knowledge of and scorn for Sherlock and John’s own “live-in arrangement”.
‘I’ve been able to afford a splendid Brownstone in this fine city,’ Lupa replied. ‘The whole upstairs floor was free – it would have been a shame to see it go to waste. Goodwin lodges there, and helps me out – does much of my legwork for me.’
John managed to keep his groan of dismay to himself. Good God, but the kid took after his uncle.
‘Speaking of work,’ Lupa added. ‘The Karcher case.’
Sherlock gave a gracious nod. ‘Since our mutual target has decided to base himself exclusively in the States from here on in, it makes sense for me to pass it on to you.’ He took out his iHolo and pulled up the Karcher files. ‘I’m sending you all the information we’ve collected on the case so far.’ There was a chime, followed by a reply from Lupa’s own device as it received the data. ‘I’ll be monitoring your progress,’ Sherlock added. ‘I’m very interested to see how this pans out - I have a few theories about what the conclusion might end up being.’
‘I trust that you haven’t sent me those, as well, Mr Holmes,’ replied Lupa.
‘I would never sully your case with my hypotheses, Mr Lupa.’
Lupa and Goodwin exchanged another glance. ‘I don’t use that name any more, Mr Holmes.’
‘Oh?’
‘A new name for a new city, and a new career,’ replied “Lupa”. ‘Auguste Lupa was fine when I was moving around Eurasia, but I’ve found that in the US, it’s an unfortunate moniker for a person of my size…’
‘Auguste Lupa,’ chanted Sherlock, ‘Auguste Lupa, the great big greedy nincompoo-pa.’
“Lupa” arched his eyebrow again. ‘Quite.’
‘Who’d have imagined so many Americans would have read a book?’ Sherlock added.
‘It’s been made into three films,’ John told him, quietly.
Sherlock nodded. ‘That explains it. So,’ he addressed “Lupa”. ‘What should we call you these days?’
‘Wolfe. Nero Wolfe.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sherlock replied, ‘that’s far more sensible.’
‘Are we done, here?’ asked Wolfe.
‘Big fan of Roman Emperors and large Canidae, are we?’ added Sherlock.
Wolfe didn’t reply. There was an awkward pause.
‘Yes,’ said Sherlock, ‘it appears that we are “done, here”.’
Something about Wolfe softened. ‘You knew the target was coming to New York. You knew I was already working on the case as well, and that I’d want to take it over completely. If you were already resigned to sending me your files on it, you could have done so from the comfort of your own home. Why come all this way, Old Man?’
‘The same reason that you got out of your chair, Mr Wolfe,’ replied Sherlock.
Wolfe smiled, faintly. ‘You just wanted to see?’
For a split second, Sherlock’s smile matched Wolfe’s precisely. ‘I just wanted to see.’
Wolfe blinked, and his poker face returned; the tiny glimpse of fondness between the two detectives dissolved.
‘Well,’ said Wolfe, ‘don’t let me keep you. I’m sure London misses you, already.’
‘I was thinking of staying for a couple of days, actually.’
‘Not spying on me, surely…?’
‘Sightseeing,’ replied Sherlock. ‘It’s been decades since I was here, last. So much has changed.’ he turned, and began to walk away, with John tugged along in his wake as always.
‘This is a dangerous city,’ Wolfe told him as he departed. ‘Who knows what sort of trouble you can get yourself into here. I’d watch my back if I were you, Old Man.’
‘And if I were you,’ Sherlock called over his shoulder, ‘I’d lose some weight. You don’t want to have put yourself through Diabetes Reversal Therapy – my brother tells me it’s sheer Hell.’
John didn’t just wait until they were out of sight and earshot of the forecourt. It wasn’t until they were in the ElectroCab that he met eyes seriously with Sherlock.
‘Sherlock.’
‘John?’
‘That wasn’t just a “business rival”.’
‘Quite right.’ Sherlock gave him a smile that, had it come from anybody else, John would swear was sheepish, although in Sherlock’s case it looked more like a fox that had disguised itself as a sheep and was trying to ingratiate itself with the rest of the flock before gobbling them all up. ‘I knew you’d be astute enough to notice.’
‘Well, it’s not exactly rocket science, is it, Sherlock?’ John hissed, ‘given that the only other possible explanation for… for that is that somebody saw fit to make a clone out of Irene Adler and you, feed him too many crisps and then put Mycroft’s brain in him, which is impossible, so when you’ve eliminated the impossible blah de blah de blah…’
‘What remains, no matter how improbable…’ Sherlock prompted.
‘What remains, is that somehow, you and your bloody Woman, that picture smiling at me from my mantelpiece for the last 22 years, have a grown son together…’
‘Don’t be like that, John.’
‘It’s not that.’ John rubbed at his face. ‘It’s that you didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell me! All these years!’
‘If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know myself until two years after the act.’
‘Oh, so you’ve only kept this from me for 18 years. Yes, that makes me feel much better. I mean – who is this kid? You only introduce him to me now that he’s an adult and a rival detective, I don’t even know his real name…’
‘His real name is whatever he wants it to be,’ Sherlock replied, ‘which at present, for reasons best known to himself, is Nero Wolfe.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Sherlock paused. ‘And I was hoping you’d be able to work it out – his birth name, that is.’
‘Sherlock, I am not in the mood for games, right now. In fact, I think I can safely say that I am in the polar opposite of the mood for games.’
‘Irene Adler can be capable of surprising gestures of sentimentality,’ Sherlock continued. ‘Not knowing if she’d ever see me again, she wanted to name the child in my honour, somehow.’
‘Without you knowing about it for two years?’ John snapped. ‘She must have had to have kept it bloody low key.’
‘Exactly. Couldn’t call the boy Sherlock, could she? She had three middle names to choose from, but they’re all awful…’
‘Worse than “Sherlock”,’ John agreed.
‘Why lumber a child with that?’ added Sherlock. ‘So, what’s the next logical…’
‘Sherlock, I’ve already told you,’ John interrupted. ‘I am not playing this stupid…’
‘John.’
‘No! You’re not dragging me into this. Not tonight.’
‘His name.’ Sherlock met his eye, honestly. ‘My son’s name is John Adler. Or, at least that’s what it says on his birth certificate. She named him after you, because she knew that’s what I would have done.’
John blinked. He was still angry. He still needed to rant and rave and berate Sherlock for the 18 years that he had kept his son from him. But later, he would go through the handful of John Adler’s childhood pictures that Sherlock had in his iHolo, and smile. And when Sherlock would sniff, he would sniff, too.
‘Do you love him?’ he would ask.
And Sherlock wouldn’t look up from the photos, but would quietly say ‘of course I do, John. Of course I love him’.
-x-
Another sleepless night. One of many, of late. He’d spent so very many nights yearning for his own bed, and now that he has it, he can’t sleep in it. There’s only one solution – there’s only ever one solution, on nights like this. He gets out a pen and paper, and writes.
My dear John,
I write this letter in the knowledge that you won’t receive it until after my death – perhaps you will never receive it at all. In a way, that’s beside the point.
Events have conspired with the effect that we cannot be together. I do still think about you, constantly, and very fondly.
I miss you. This may sound ridiculous to you – how can I miss you when I’ve never even met you? As nonsensical is it may seem, it is the simple truth.
There are few matters in which I trust your mother, but in raising you to the best of her abilities, she has my full confidence. She is a brilliant woman, and when she has set her mind to something, not Hell nor high water nor Yours Truly can do anything to stop her in her endeavour. She has made a mission of bringing you up, and no doubt she will achieve this with her usual flair.
I can’t imagine that she’ll prove to be a “normal” mother – whatever that is – and, even if we ever do meet, I know that we will most likely never have a functional father/son bond.
I didn’t imagine I’d find that upsetting. But, I do.
It was proved to me a few years ago that I do have a heart. I didn’t enjoy the experience, and the revelation of softer emotions continues to be really rather bothersome. I tell you this in the hope that the seriousness of my next statement will be made plain.
I love you.
Even though all I’ve seen of you have been a few photographs – I do love you, and I think I always will. I hope that, if you do ever receive this letter, you will think kindly of me for it.
Your Father,
Sherlock Holmes
-x-
THE END
