impulsereader (impulsereader) wrote,
impulsereader
impulsereader

Sherlock didn’t answer right away. He rolled a sip of rich red vintage in his mouth and leisurely swallowed, closing his eyes to savour the taste. Finally, his eyes still closed, he said, “Several summers during my childhood Grandmere decided that she simply could no longer resist the charms which Paris had to offer. She would declare her intention to make the trip, and weeks of preparations would ensue. The house would become a whirl of tweeds and satins and trunks, because of course Grandmere would not be travelling by means of anything so prosaic as an aeroplane.”

He opened his eyes, though they were focused on the globe of his glass, half-filled with blood-red liquid, rather than on John. “She would never so much as mention me in relation to her trip, and she would never name an actual departure date; if questioned she claimed not to worry over such details. She used to say, ‘Oh, tosh, when it’s time to go to the boat Essie will bring my hat and my coat and off we’ll go’.” He sipped again, closed his eyes once more. “After she put on her hat and her coat, she would come find me and say, ‘Time to go, Sherlock’.”

“Let me guess, your parents always just happened to be elsewhere when this occurred?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “Precisely.”

“My regard for Grandmere continues to grow apace.”

“You should ask her about her involvement with the French Resistance during the war.”

John’s eyes widened. “She must have been just a kid!”

“Indeed. No one pays much attention to children.”

It took only a beat for John to catch on. “Of course, that made them the perfect messengers. Good lord.”
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