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AU! No summary so far. It's about music, show business and a new life after a disaster. John+Sherlock. Slowburn.
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14237516/1/Soft-silk-is-hard-to-tear
https://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
James Sholto closed his laptop and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The number of affairs grew exponentially. And John added a problem to this. His demand to pressure the police to do a full autopsy on the addict surprised Sholto, but he trusted John. Sholto tapped into the connections he had inherited from his parents along with the estate. They are as tiny as the possession, but they were enough for such a task.
The guy was poisoned. Let him be a junkie, but killing people is possible only if there is no other way to save those who cannot protect themselves.
The guy was poisoned, and the police want to write everything off as an accident.
And there is a killer walking around somewhere near John and that nice girl Nancy.
Sholto himself would have consoled the woman who had just become a widow (he didn't care about the papers if the two were a couple), but he is firmly attached to the shelter, and John, since he turned out to be a singer and writer, needs to travel. This is a source of inspiration. And Nancy will be a good wife for him: she is kind, sensitive, faithful. And John will not need to look for accompaniment.
But how do you get the police to catch a piece of shit who killed that guy?
Also the second charity concert went down the drain. The band can't perform without a drummer. And it's impossible to find a replacement quickly.
But still, this moment should not be missed! The unfortunate man's death had caused quite a stir, albeit within the county, and Sholto would not miss the opportunity to raise money.
Is it cynical? Whatever! There are forty people under Sholto's care who need food and treatment every day. And seven people demand a salary every week. Besides, the deceased guy wasn't trash. He was a fighter. Tim struggled with his trashy fate: he changed himself from a slum-dweller to a musician, was seriously treated for drug addiction, took care of his wife and even did charity work. A soldier shouldn't die in vain. Tim's widow and his parents, if this couple suddenly sobers up, should know that he even helped people with his death.
If the 'Still Waters' stay in town for one more day, Sholto has a chance to get a drummer. He remembered a few more army buddies he hadn't called. The British army loves music, and damn it, the army can borrow a decent drummer for one gig!
But 'Still Waters' has no money. They want to go to Bournemouth, where life is not as expensive as in London, but there are also many tourists, so each musician individually can quickly find a job. And they all together will look for a drummer.
Have John persuade the group to stay. They can even live in a shelter for a while so as not to spend money on food and a hotel. And they even will earn some extra money if they help in the kitchen and with cleaning the house.
And John can sweet-talk anyone. Or fuck Dean if the words don't work. A hundred to one, the piper plays yet like a gay, that's why he's been drooling over John already. And Dean is a good fellow, John can take this man to City Hall.
***
Eurus Holmes was carefully smearing the bruise on her brother's face with cream for bruising. Both were in her office. Eurus said calmly:
"This is a good remedy. Apply it again in the evening, and by morning everything will be gone. There are many lovers of scratching their faces on someone else's fists. And I regularly recall the second year of training."
"What?" Sherlock didn't understand.
"The first stage of nursing practice for doctors. The simplest procedures."
"He almost killed me!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly.
"If he would like to kill, you would have been in the morgue by now," Eurus touched his neck with her fingertip. "One right poke here, and there will be a syncope associated with deep vein thrombosis. Any autopsy would diagnose a stroke."
"SAS stories are for stupid chickens," Sherlock growled.
"Maybe. But you yourself understand that if the trajectory of the blow was a little different, you would be lying around with a broken neck."
"I said: he almost killed me!" Sherlock jumped up from his armchair.
"Almost" doesn't count. Kill or get killed. (7) The local inhabitants always had time first."
Sherlock fluttered his eyelids in stunned silence. He loved thrills, high risk, and he knew a lot about dens. And there were miscellaneous events in these places. He had to be on the verge of life and death more than once. But this was the first time he'd seen such an impeccable destruction system.
And damn it, if it didn't make Sherlock want to jump out of his pants!
Eurus splashed him in the face with water from a small spray bottle.
"Cool down, bro."
Sherlock looked at her resentfully. Eurus ordered, nodding at the chair:
"Sit down!"
Sherlock thought for a moment and compiled. Eurus sat down in another chair.
"You can't live without London," she said. "But you sit in the village on the third day. And while Mycroft didn't trickle along here, be kind enough to explain what you have lost here."
"He told me to "Piss off!" Sherlock complained childishly. "That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
'Amazing.' 'Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.' Or 'Oh, God, yes.'
"That's interesting," Eurus smiled not without gloat. "And who else, besides John Watson, is among the 'non-normally say people'?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, confused. And he added in surprise: "No one. I can even make Mummy and Mycroft do what I want. If I try hard."
"Nevertheless, the best thing I did in my life was to run away from home," Eurus said. "It would be crazy if I looked like any of you."
Sherlock sighed resentfully. Eurus is a year younger than him, but at six, she was able to run away from home so much that it attracted the attention of newspapers and social services. Holmes managed to hush up the scandal that stained the honor of a noble family. And Eurus ended up under the care of her uncle, Rudy Holmes, a distant relative living on one of the small islands of the British Caribbean. She graduated from high school and A-Level there, but studied as a psychotherapist in Paris and Boston — the island of Saint Marie so often moved from Great Britain to France and back that the inhabitants became bilingual long ago. And Eurus used this to stay away from the Holmes family.
"But these are minor things," she continued. "Why do you need John Watson?"
"He must sing my Great Song!" Sherlock yelled and coughed.
Eurus brought a glass of warm water, dropped some sedative into it, and gave it to her brother.
"Okay," Eurus said. "Why does Dr.Watson need to do this?"
Sherlock considered. So far, he has never asked anyone for anything. Anyone and everyone was happy that Sherlock Holmes himself chose him or her for his song.
But the forty-year-old doctor, who also had combat experience, could not be like those whom Sherlock knew. He understood it. And prepared bait. However, neither the increase in the pension account, nor the opportunity to do something significant not anonymously, nor the adrenaline of the scene attracted John Watson. Sherlock accused him of cowardice because John Watson was afraid to go beyond the club scene in a provincial town, but this man was only surprised that, with such idiocy, Mr. Holmes was not under guardianship, and left.
And when Sherlock tried to threaten Still Waters' career, he got punched in the face.
"I don't know," Sherlock croaked. "But he must be mine!"
"Then think about his desires, and do not cling to your ideas about him. Facts, Sherlock, just facts. Even if they break your idea of the world and people. It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
Sherlock looked at her with hurt and anger because she didn't give the answer she knew. But he thought again. The little unprepossessing man turned out to be a big serious mystery, and this was intriguing.
**********
(7) "Kill or Get Killed: Riot Control Techniques, Manhandling, and Close Combat, for Police and the Military" by Rex Applegate. The official training manual for special divisions in the army and police in many countries. The title alludes to Jack London's novel "The Call of the Wild", which has the line: "Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this mandate, down out of the depths of Time".
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14237516/1/Soft-silk-is-hard-to-tear
https://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
James Sholto closed his laptop and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The number of affairs grew exponentially. And John added a problem to this. His demand to pressure the police to do a full autopsy on the addict surprised Sholto, but he trusted John. Sholto tapped into the connections he had inherited from his parents along with the estate. They are as tiny as the possession, but they were enough for such a task.
The guy was poisoned. Let him be a junkie, but killing people is possible only if there is no other way to save those who cannot protect themselves.
The guy was poisoned, and the police want to write everything off as an accident.
And there is a killer walking around somewhere near John and that nice girl Nancy.
Sholto himself would have consoled the woman who had just become a widow (he didn't care about the papers if the two were a couple), but he is firmly attached to the shelter, and John, since he turned out to be a singer and writer, needs to travel. This is a source of inspiration. And Nancy will be a good wife for him: she is kind, sensitive, faithful. And John will not need to look for accompaniment.
But how do you get the police to catch a piece of shit who killed that guy?
Also the second charity concert went down the drain. The band can't perform without a drummer. And it's impossible to find a replacement quickly.
But still, this moment should not be missed! The unfortunate man's death had caused quite a stir, albeit within the county, and Sholto would not miss the opportunity to raise money.
Is it cynical? Whatever! There are forty people under Sholto's care who need food and treatment every day. And seven people demand a salary every week. Besides, the deceased guy wasn't trash. He was a fighter. Tim struggled with his trashy fate: he changed himself from a slum-dweller to a musician, was seriously treated for drug addiction, took care of his wife and even did charity work. A soldier shouldn't die in vain. Tim's widow and his parents, if this couple suddenly sobers up, should know that he even helped people with his death.
If the 'Still Waters' stay in town for one more day, Sholto has a chance to get a drummer. He remembered a few more army buddies he hadn't called. The British army loves music, and damn it, the army can borrow a decent drummer for one gig!
But 'Still Waters' has no money. They want to go to Bournemouth, where life is not as expensive as in London, but there are also many tourists, so each musician individually can quickly find a job. And they all together will look for a drummer.
Have John persuade the group to stay. They can even live in a shelter for a while so as not to spend money on food and a hotel. And they even will earn some extra money if they help in the kitchen and with cleaning the house.
And John can sweet-talk anyone. Or fuck Dean if the words don't work. A hundred to one, the piper plays yet like a gay, that's why he's been drooling over John already. And Dean is a good fellow, John can take this man to City Hall.
***
Eurus Holmes was carefully smearing the bruise on her brother's face with cream for bruising. Both were in her office. Eurus said calmly:
"This is a good remedy. Apply it again in the evening, and by morning everything will be gone. There are many lovers of scratching their faces on someone else's fists. And I regularly recall the second year of training."
"What?" Sherlock didn't understand.
"The first stage of nursing practice for doctors. The simplest procedures."
"He almost killed me!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly.
"If he would like to kill, you would have been in the morgue by now," Eurus touched his neck with her fingertip. "One right poke here, and there will be a syncope associated with deep vein thrombosis. Any autopsy would diagnose a stroke."
"SAS stories are for stupid chickens," Sherlock growled.
"Maybe. But you yourself understand that if the trajectory of the blow was a little different, you would be lying around with a broken neck."
"I said: he almost killed me!" Sherlock jumped up from his armchair.
"Almost" doesn't count. Kill or get killed. (7) The local inhabitants always had time first."
Sherlock fluttered his eyelids in stunned silence. He loved thrills, high risk, and he knew a lot about dens. And there were miscellaneous events in these places. He had to be on the verge of life and death more than once. But this was the first time he'd seen such an impeccable destruction system.
And damn it, if it didn't make Sherlock want to jump out of his pants!
Eurus splashed him in the face with water from a small spray bottle.
"Cool down, bro."
Sherlock looked at her resentfully. Eurus ordered, nodding at the chair:
"Sit down!"
Sherlock thought for a moment and compiled. Eurus sat down in another chair.
"You can't live without London," she said. "But you sit in the village on the third day. And while Mycroft didn't trickle along here, be kind enough to explain what you have lost here."
"He told me to "Piss off!" Sherlock complained childishly. "That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
'Amazing.' 'Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.' Or 'Oh, God, yes.'
"That's interesting," Eurus smiled not without gloat. "And who else, besides John Watson, is among the 'non-normally say people'?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, confused. And he added in surprise: "No one. I can even make Mummy and Mycroft do what I want. If I try hard."
"Nevertheless, the best thing I did in my life was to run away from home," Eurus said. "It would be crazy if I looked like any of you."
Sherlock sighed resentfully. Eurus is a year younger than him, but at six, she was able to run away from home so much that it attracted the attention of newspapers and social services. Holmes managed to hush up the scandal that stained the honor of a noble family. And Eurus ended up under the care of her uncle, Rudy Holmes, a distant relative living on one of the small islands of the British Caribbean. She graduated from high school and A-Level there, but studied as a psychotherapist in Paris and Boston — the island of Saint Marie so often moved from Great Britain to France and back that the inhabitants became bilingual long ago. And Eurus used this to stay away from the Holmes family.
"But these are minor things," she continued. "Why do you need John Watson?"
"He must sing my Great Song!" Sherlock yelled and coughed.
Eurus brought a glass of warm water, dropped some sedative into it, and gave it to her brother.
"Okay," Eurus said. "Why does Dr.Watson need to do this?"
Sherlock considered. So far, he has never asked anyone for anything. Anyone and everyone was happy that Sherlock Holmes himself chose him or her for his song.
But the forty-year-old doctor, who also had combat experience, could not be like those whom Sherlock knew. He understood it. And prepared bait. However, neither the increase in the pension account, nor the opportunity to do something significant not anonymously, nor the adrenaline of the scene attracted John Watson. Sherlock accused him of cowardice because John Watson was afraid to go beyond the club scene in a provincial town, but this man was only surprised that, with such idiocy, Mr. Holmes was not under guardianship, and left.
And when Sherlock tried to threaten Still Waters' career, he got punched in the face.
"I don't know," Sherlock croaked. "But he must be mine!"
"Then think about his desires, and do not cling to your ideas about him. Facts, Sherlock, just facts. Even if they break your idea of the world and people. It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
Sherlock looked at her with hurt and anger because she didn't give the answer she knew. But he thought again. The little unprepossessing man turned out to be a big serious mystery, and this was intriguing.
**********
(7) "Kill or Get Killed: Riot Control Techniques, Manhandling, and Close Combat, for Police and the Military" by Rex Applegate. The official training manual for special divisions in the army and police in many countries. The title alludes to Jack London's novel "The Call of the Wild", which has the line: "Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this mandate, down out of the depths of Time".
