Fic: Rare: G

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Title: Rare
Rating: G
Length: 500
Content Notes: POV Holmes & POV Victor Trevor, wistful pining; References to "The Gloria Scott"; prose-poem
Summary: Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst.
Author's Note: For the October prompt: Spirit


Rare is the night—and it is always night—when Sherlock Holmes makes tea for himself.

When apparatus and instrument assigned to scientific inquiry are commandeered for personal use.

When richly-scented leaves are procured from a tin in a hiding place more guarded than that of a Moroccan case. Or a Turkish slipper. Or a photograph of a contralto.

The cup, too, is procured. It is his own. Not borne of the household cupboard. Not borrowed. Not casually appropriated. Not tested or tainted or tampered with.

Selected, purchased, cleaned, and reserved for the purpose.

The purpose of drinking tea grown on the terraced hills of Terai.

Rare is the night—and it is always night—when Sherlock Holmes devotes himself to the ritual.

Of drinking tea. Of smoking a quiet cigar. Of letting his thoughts wander across valley and plain and seas, dead and living. Of letting his mind curl up and down the frayed strands of a dice-throw of words uttered long ago.

Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst.

It was truth then. It is truth now, though the speaker is a ghost himself, a ghost who, though kind and well-meaning, inspiring and munificent, still casts a long shadow over the day-walking.

Rare is the night—and it is always night—when Sherlock Holmes dances with the ghosts of yesterday and wonders what might have been.

---

Rare is the morning—and it is always morning—when Victor Trevor makes tea for himself.

Before the day has dawned, before the dew has dried, before the dog, snoring, snuffling, flushing dream-pheasants in the dream-fens, has awakened.

The tea is not his. It has journeyed from here to there and back again. The tin says ‘breakfast blend,’ which means anything and, therefore, nothing.

But it tastes like him. Like before.

Cheap. Foul. Spartan.

Academic.

Rare is the morning—and it is always morning—when Victor Trevor wakes, not to plan, but to think.

Of a boy.

He thinks of a boy whilst standing in bare feet. He thinks of a boy whilst reading of a man by bare taper-light. He thinks of a boy whilst lifting and lowering pages of gummed clippings with bare fingertips. Pages —ink faded, ink sharp—of weeks-old, months-old, years-old news.

He sips and smiles and remembers.

Words, his own. Like ghosts they tap their coded pleas on window panes.

I tell you, Holmes, I have had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this time; and now I am asking myself whether, if I had let myself go a little more, I might not have been a wiser man.

It was truth then. It is truth now, though villain’s wounds are hardened scars.

Rare is the morning—and it is always morning—when Victor Trevor, warm cup of warm memory in hand, asks himself why the sins of the father have such jagged calling cards.

And whether he might not have been,

might just not have been,

a wiser man.

Comments

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Rarely good! Perfectly paced, and the quotations so well done.

Well thought, the contrast of night and morning.

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your kind words! Glad you liked it!

[gardnerhill.livejournal.com]

Sad and thoughtful and poetic.

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Thank you. These two inspire pining.

[debriswoman]

Really well done:-)
Elegant, and not a word wasted.

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Aw. Thank you! Very nice of you to say. Glad you liked it!

[thesmallhobbit.livejournal.com]

A lovely picture of the two of them. It's as if there's an invisible bond joining Holmes at night and Trevor in the morning.

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Yes! I'm glad that came across, that they're doing it at the same time. Thank you!

[violsva]

Lovely.

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

[scfrankles.livejournal.com]

I think what makes your piece so heartbreaking is the fact it is wistful pining. This is a love affair that never really started and so neither man seems tormented by the separation and by his regrets. But they're both aware they've missed an important turning point in their lives and the initial bond between them has never gone away.

Some favourite lines:


When richly-scented leaves are procured from a tin in a hiding place more guarded than that of a Moroccan case. Or a Turkish slipper. Or a photograph of a contralto.

Of letting his thoughts wander across valley and plain and seas, dead and living. Of letting his mind curl up and down the frayed strands of a dice-throw of words uttered long ago.

Rare is the night—and it is always night—when Sherlock Holmes dances with the ghosts of yesterday and wonders what might have been.

Before the day has dawned, before the dew has dried, before the dog, snoring, snuffling, flushing dream-pheasants in the dream-fens, has awakened.

I tell you, Holmes, I have had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this time; and now I am asking myself whether, if I had let myself go a little more, I might not have been a wiser man.

Rare is the morning—and it is always morning—when Victor Trevor, warm cup of warm memory in hand, asks himself why the sins of the father have such jagged calling cards.


But it's all beautiful of course ^_^ I think the rhythm is just wonderful as well - especially as you reach your conclusion.

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Thank you! And yes, my idea is that it was not a full blown love affair, but rather at the very, very beginning and if the month at Donnithorpe had gone differently, it might have become one, but Holmes was too self conscious about the anxiety he caused Trevor Senior and Victor was too concerned about Hudson and his father's health to have the carefree time that might have fostered something more tangible. So my interpretation is yours. They both know there was a moment and it passed, partly their own faults and partly circumstance. But they both wonder. Thank you, thank you. My flushed pheasant rears its head again! I hoped that you would like that line. I like the jagged calling cards image too. And the 'might not have been a wiser man' is Doyle, but of course, I repurposed it for my shippy slashy aim. Yeah I re-read Gloria Scott for Inky's column and got stuck on that line about ghosts. It's such a great line.