Chapter Text
At the worldly age of nineteen, Sherlock Holmes could say that he had never seen what point there was in making friends. He’d always managed to entertain himself well enough, and none of the schools he’d attended had provided him with any companion worth his while. The other boys were interested in sports, pranks, finding ways to eschew any form of schoolwork, or passing around postcards showing half-bared women. They deemed Sherlock ‘queer’ and a bit of a ‘spoil-sport’—those were some of their more polite descriptors—found his interests in insects and fungi off-putting and accused him of talking down to everyone. That was an unfair indictment, given how much sneering had come his way over the years. Sherlock had concluded from empirical evidence that whatever quality made one amicable to others, he did not possess it, and that he should not care what his peers thought of him. That decision had served him well, until Mycroft got him a job as a scout in Oxford and Sherlock met James Moriarty.
“Let’s steal it,” said James Moriarty, leaning against the glass case that contained the ancient scrolls brought by princess Shou’an from China. The Art of War, 5th century B.C. —worth a pound or two, as James had pointed out.
James’ eyes were on him, sharp, assessing, and Sherlock felt a thrill run up his spine. The tacky blood drying above his upper lip from the blow he’d taken earlier was getting itchy. Stealing an ancient artifact would provide a much more worthwhile challenge than stealing a wallet or a pocket watch, and the temptation to see if he could get away with it dangled in his mind for a moment. There was a glimmer in James’ eyes that made it hard to look at him. Sherlock shook himself and rolled the scrolls, sliding them back into their tube. Suspicions would target him immediately if the scrolls were found missing—he had the keys to the library and a recent past as a petty thief. Mycroft would certainly never forgive him, and Sherlock did owe his brother his freedom, even if he didn’t care much for the lesson that had come with it.
“We could do a lot with the money,” James said beseechingly.
“I could do more with my freedom.”
Sherlock locked the scrolls in their case. James didn’t argue further, which was a relief. They had known each other but a day, and yet Sherlock already found him hard to argue against. James spoke words that seemed plucked from some deep corners in his mind, so that Sherlock could almost believe that he’d come up with the idea himself. The party they’d just crashed had left him with a sore nose, and he was hoping to spare himself more damage today. Fortunately, the whiskey they’d filched at the party distracted James from his thieving plans, and they spent some hours pacing the Bodleian Library, entertaining each other with performances of Shakespeare, Marlowe, Dickens, Byron, Wordsworth, Tennyson. James was a grandiloquent speaker, who used his whole body when he soliloquised, waving at an invisible audience, voice booming across the library. It begged Sherlock to outdo him, and while Sherlock’s experience in orations was limited, he didn’t do badly at all, if he did say so himself.
The more whiskey they downed, the less they were able to stand upon tables and chairs, or even on their own two legs. They’d had to hide several times from Walker, the porter who regularly checked on the library, and it became easier to do it from a sitting position on the floor, leaning against a set of bookshelves, scrambling out of sight when they heard Walker plodding their way. Dimming daylight and drunkenness mellowed the mood. They had talked much, but mostly using the words of others. Sherlock wasn’t one to prod others with personal questions, but alcohol and the day’s peculiar euphoria had loosened his tongue.
“You said that your father had a copy of The Art of War. Was he a scholar?” he asked.
James took a swig from their shared bottle, frowning down its neck when he found it empty. “Something like that, I suppose,” he answered, sounding unconcerned. “Taught Greek and Latin for a time, and he penned a few articles in French and Gaelic. He’s long dead now.”
Sherlock had surmised that much. “Well, death isn’t the separation it used to be, these days. Unless he died before—”
“Nah, he died in the sixties—years after Prince Albert, may his soul ever linger.” James smiled mockingly, inviting Sherlock to share the joke. “Don’t really know where his ghost is bound, though. Even if I did, it’s not like we could have a chat in his current state. He’d be nothing but a silent shadow. Boy, did the man like to talk when he was alive.”
“I take it you’re not a spiritualist. What do you think of all the mediums who claim they can talk to the lingering ghosts?”
“I have nothing against a good show. I even respect the hustle, but that’s all it is—all the mediums do is tell people what they want to hear. But what about your father, Sherlock? Since we’re on the topic. I noted that your brother was the one who got you a job emptying wastepaper baskets and cleaning fireplaces. Has your father also shuffled off this mortal coil?”
“Oh, no, he’s perfectly fine. He’s in Vienna at the moment, last I heard. He’s a scientist.”
“Ah, a respectable profession. What would he think of his son being arrested for larceny?”
“He probably would—”
Sherlock paused for a moment, pondering his answer, when a sound interrupted his musing. This was not the sound of Walker turning his key into the library’s lock, which they’d heard enough times not to feel alarmed by. There was a tiny clinking noise, the sound of something thin and metallic being jiggled inside a lock—Sherlock had picked enough doors in his wayward youth to recognise it for what it was.
“Someone is breaking in,” he whispered into James’ ear, clutching his sleeve as he leaned in.
“Joining the party, eh?”
“Too bad we don’t have any whiskey left, or we’d have given them a proper welcome.”
A click was the only sound marking the opening of the door—the hinges were too well-oiled for it to creak. Holding his breath, Sherlock pricked up his ears for footsteps. His hand was still on James’ arm, fingers curled around the tweed fabric of his jacket. James was clearly making efforts to be quiet, keeping his breaths soft and measured. They hadn’t brought any lamp with them and had simply let themselves be wreathed in shadows. The dark outlines of the bookshelves, tables and chairs, the paler shapes from the noble busts of long-dead writers, were all ominously still. Had the intruder come in? Walking silently on soft-soled shoes? Or were they gone? Sherlock shuffled forward on his knees so he could peek around the bookcase blocking his view. The first thing to draw his eye was the silhouette of the ghost that always paced the aisle, the faded, opalescent afterimage of the man he had been in life—a porter who had died of a heart attack here in the library, Smudger had told Sherlock. The man’s features were much more distinct than in daylight, and the ghost was muttering something about a book he needed to put back on its shelf, which was the sort of inane things ghosts were saying all the time. Sherlock drew his eyes away from him, searching the shadows for any other hint of movement.
Behind him, there was a clear clinking sound, like a glass bottle toppling onto the floor, followed by a muffled curse. Sherlock winced, looking over his shoulder at James, whom he could only barely make out. Both of them were much too drunk for stealth, but at least this told them something: whoever had opened the door wasn’t allowed to be here, or they’d have already spoken up, demanding to know who was there. Instead, Sherlock heard light footsteps, then another soft click—the door closing again.
“Curious,” Sherlock murmured, once he was relatively certain that the intruder had left.
“And curiouser, I’d say,” James said, coming up behind him. “Do you think we’ve spooked a thief?”
“What would they have stolen?”
“The princess’ scrolls? They’re probably the most valuable piece in here.”
“As you so justly pointed out.” Sherlock pushed himself up on his feet. “They made their way up to the first floor from inside the building. They must have at least passable knowledge of the layout—I feel like a common thief would have broken in from the outside, through one of the windows. Inside, you risk running into Walker making his rounds.”
“These are leaded windows. Breaking one of them would make some noise.”
“There are woods on this side of the building, and a river down below.” Sherlock pointed at one of the windows and the little rectangles of deep grey-blue sky neatly delimitated by lead cames. “An outsider would prefer that route—easier to escape with the scrolls, or whatever else they’d come to steal.”
A sudden chill drenched Sherlock from head to toe, and he shuddered violently. He’d been so absorbed in his reasoning that he’d forgot about the ghost and had stepped straight in his path.
“Any opinion on the matter, old chum?” Sherlock asked him cheerily.
“Where did I put that book, what if I lost it, I must put it back on the shelf before the students come in—”
“I didn’t think so.”
James put a hand on his shoulder, its weight coming close to startling Sherlock. “If you’re beginning to converse with ghosts, I think it’s a sign that we should go to bed. There’s no point in solving the mystery of something that didn’t happen.”
“You’re right, we should go. Walker is due very soon.”
“‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: lovers, to bed,’” James said a little too close to Sherlock’s ear, before moving away to pick up their empty bottle.
---
James had half-expected to wake up to the news that someone had broken into the library and stolen the princess’ scrolls. He experienced a twinge of disappointment when nothing happened in the morning. They must have scared the would-be thief into prudence. Maybe they’d try again later or maybe they wouldn’t, but James would have probably forgot all about the incident had Sherlock not obsessed over it.
“Whoever they are, they must have prepared for it,” he said, pacing the length of his ill-lit garret while James lounged on the bed, watching him. “They won’t stop just because we thwarted them last night. I looked at the lock they picked: I couldn’t see any scratches, so this was expertly done, especially since they must have worked in the dark—”
“Not that this isn’t a fascinating mental exercise, and that watching you working yourself up into a state isn’t fun,” James interrupted him, “but why do you care? Had the scrolls been stolen last night, it could have been a problem for us if anyone had seen us enter the library, but if they try again on another day this won’t concern us at all.”
“But—” Sherlock stopped in his tracks, casting James a dumbfounded look, as if James had said something incongruous rather than spoken plain common sense. “Don’t you want to know? Who they are and what they were after? What if they’re a student?”
“What if, then? What will you do about it? Knowledge is a good thing, as long as it’s about dead men and long-forgotten deeds.” James sprang to his feet, taking hold of Sherlock’s shoulders; there was a moment of minute tension in Sherlock’s muscles, before he relaxed under James’ touch. “You, my friend, are in need of a distraction. Obviously, scouting work isn’t keeping your brain sufficiently occupied.”
“I suppose you have something in mind.”
“Always. You were speaking of spiritualism last night—what would you say of attending a séance? I hear that one will be held tonight, hosted by a student I know.”
“A friend?”
“More of an acquaintance.”
“We already fought our way out of a party yesterday. Maybe we should pace ourselves and wait a few days before we try this again.”
“You probably should, because you’re deplorable in a fight. But we won’t be kicked out. She—Prudence, that’s her name—has a soft spot for me. She buys me Chelsea buns.”
“Ah, yes, Cupid’s own food.”
“Laugh it off, all I hear is the green-eyed monster. We could go and observe, share our conclusions with one another afterward. I may be too narrow-minded when I say mediums are all fakes. Genuine communication with our dearly departed ought to be fun to witness.”
“That’s supposing the dead have anything more interesting to say than the living.”
“A fair point. We could decide on it tonight.”
Sherlock’s lips stretched into a thin smile. There was something queer about his expression, an odd reluctance that made James want to poke and prod at it.
“Sure, let’s make a night of it,” Sherlock said at last. “I’ll leave our library thief alone for the moment. As long as we don’t have any additional facts, I’ll be just fiddling about anyway.”
James slapped his shoulder. “Good man. I’m sure we’ll have an entertaining evening.”
It couldn’t be said that there were a lot of ghosts lingering about on college ground, but there were too many for James’ comfort. They made his skin crawl. During daytime, they were mere grey figures at the corner of your eye, scarcely visible when you look straight at them. Back home, those grey shimmers lined up the roads, victims of one epidemic or other, pale, stretched, gaunt figures watching travellers pass by with huge desperate eyes. You could only really see their eyes after nightfall, but once you had crossed their gaze, it followed you everywhere. Their mouths moved mutedly, forming words that didn’t pierce the veil of death. In Ireland, people appeased the dead with offerings of lavender, St John’s wort and hawthorn, but mostly left them alone otherwise; there were too many of them and it was best to focus on the living. The English, of course, had never met anything they couldn’t turn into a fashionable trend.
Part of James found the séances distasteful—probably the part that spoke in his mother’s voice—but another part was curious. If only for the spectacle of it, he ought to see how that was done, and he was also interested in what Sherlock’s reaction would be. There had been something about the way Sherlock had addressed the library ghost last night that James couldn’t put his finger on, but that intrigued him. Sherlock in general kept confounding him and delighting him in turns. He was so English, and a toff to boot, that James should have found him as dull and irritating as his schoolmates, but in a day, he’d surprised James more times than anyone ever had in his lifetime. A scout that spoke in a posh accent so crisp it set James’ teeth on edge, picked Hodge’s pocket in front of all and sundry, corrected Professor Thompson in the middle of a class while holding a wastepaper basket, verbally sparred with James as though he enjoyed it rather than cringing away like most people did—he was one of a kind, that was for sure. James wasn’t quite sure what kind exactly, but he intended to find out.
In the evening, he put on his best jacket, checked that the cuffs weren’t fraying, and went to fetch Sherlock in his room. Sherlock had traded his scout outfit for a two-piece lounge suit of tartan wool, and his cloth cap for a bowler hat. The clothes were casual and simple, but well-made, speaking of money.
“Dashing,” James, keeping his tone wry even though he wasn’t lying.
“As are you, my friend. I’m sure Prudence will be moved to offer you more Chelsea buns.”
“I’ll be hoping for a little more than that, if you see what I mean.”
Sherlock smiled blandly and for once had nothing to reply, so James wasn’t certain he did see what James had meant. He was a little younger, but he must be at least eighteen, so surely he couldn’t be an innocent, could he? He hadn’t acted innocent in any other ways.
They hurried to make it in time to the address James had gleaned, somewhere out of school ground—north of the city, toward St John’s Church. They reached the door right after a man in a frock coat had entered and it was about to be closed. James put a hasty hand against the door panel to keep it open.
Prudence was standing in the doorway. “James? What are you doing here?”
She seemed surprised, which was expected, but she did not look quite as delighted as James might have wished.
“I heard about the séance you’re hosting tonight, and my curiosity was piqued. I’ve never attended a séance, and neither has my friend here.” He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, drawing him to his side. “We’re having a bit of a disagreement over the possibility of having a conversation with the dead. He thinks mediumship is nothing but a hoax that aims at giving grieving people what they want.”
As James had been hoping, Sherlock was a good sport about it, though his smile looked a little forced. “Oh, come on, James, don’t you think it’s a little convenient that no one can check that these supposed mediums are relaying the ghosts’ words faithfully—for a fee, of course? If you observe a ghost’s lip movements, you’ll notice that they seem to be repeating the same things over and over again, which doesn’t match the notion that mediums are having actual conversations with them.”
James had never noticed that, because he’d never cared to look closely at any ghost’s face, but he didn’t let his revulsion show and at least their little exchange had the desired result.
“I’ll have you know that Miss Puttock is a perfectly respectable young woman,” Prudence said, incensed, “with real gifts that she generously shares with us less fortunate—”
“So she’s giving her séances for free?” Sherlock said. “She’s not making a living as a medium?”
“She— group séances like this one are free, though she also gives private consultations for a very modest fee. I mean, all service deserves payment, so I don’t think there’s anything sinister about—”
“As you see,” James cut in, “my sceptical friend is in dire need of evidence that will make him change his mind.”
Prudence gave him a not too kind look, that promised neither Chelsea buns nor anything sweeter in the near future. “All right,” she said with a sigh. “Do come in.”
She led them to a room that had been decorated for atmosphere. The gas lights had been turned down to a dim glow, and all portraits and mirrors were veiled with black crepe. White lilies were arranged in several vases across the room. Furniture was pushed against the walls, creating space for a large round mahogany table where the guests were already sitting, turning their heads at James, Sherlock and Prudence’s entrance. There weren’t as many people as James had expected, only half a dozen. He recognised a few faces from school, including Princess Shou’an, whose eyes followed their arrival with unerring attention. One person stood out among this crowd of youngsters, an older woman in full mourning wear, dressed in stiff, dull black from head to toe. She was wringing a handkerchief in her hands, sometimes bringing it to her face and dabbing it at the corner of one eye. Right at her back there was the silver shimmery shape of a man, standing tall and broad-shouldered—probably their subject for the night.
“Who are those young men?” the woman in mourning asked Prudence, as though James and Sherlock weren’t standing right there.
“They’re… friends, Aunt Marjory. They were curious about the séance and about Miss Puttock’s talent. They won’t be a bother.”
“We’ll be as silent as a pair of church mice,” Sherlock said.
“You won’t even notice us there,” James said.
“I’m holding you to it,” Prudence said sternly, though James would swear the hint of a smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth.
They were directed to two seats that placed Sherlock next to the princess, and James next to two empty chairs, presumably meant for Prudence and the medium. James would have a privileged view on the medium, though the downside was that he was also close to the dead man and could feel cooler air tickle his face from where the ghost stood. Sherlock and Princess Shou’an exchanged a few distinctly foreign words, and once again, James felt like his expectations of his new friend had been turned around on their heads.
“What was that?” he asked Sherlock sotto voce.
“She said she hadn’t expected to see me there. I replied that I hadn’t expected it either.”
“You speak Mandarin?”
“I once worked for a Chinese shoemaker in Whitechapel.”
“You once—” The laughter that burst out of James drew irate looks in his direction, especially from Prudence’s Aunt Marjory. “Of course you did.” To Aunt Marjory, he bowed and said, “My lady, forgive me for my improper behaviour. This won’t happen again.”
She sniffed but looked somewhat mollified. In the meantime, Prudence had come back with a young woman in tow, whom James examined curiously. She was a small, thin girl about as old as Sherlock, with pale blond hair, a pale face and washed-out blue eyes, dressed in modest and simple clothes. She kept her eyes timidly down, as though she wasn’t the star of the show—James wondered how much of it was part of the performance.
“Everyone, this is Miss Puttock,” Prudence said, her hand hovering over Miss Puttock’s shoulder. “Tonight, she will be translating from beyond the veil the words of my late uncle, Mr Hermon Stewart.”
Aunt Marjory—Mrs Stewart—clutched to her chest a silver locket. It must be containing the hair of the deceased and account for him standing there with them. If he had been bound to a place or to his own grave, this was where they would have held the séance. James had heard that cemetery séances were considered a jolly good opportunity for a picnic. A proof, if needed, that English people were mad as a bunch of hatters. When James died, he would like for his body to be burnt to ashes, so that no one could drag his ghost around the way Mrs Stewart was doing with Mr Stewart.
“Good evening,” Miss Puttock said in a soft, melodious voice before sitting down. “Mrs Stewart, will you please open the locket that I see around your neck? This will help the connection with your late husband.”
“Oh, of course!”
Inside the locket, coils of greying dark hair were trapped under protective glass. The outline of Mr Stewart’s ghostly figure became clearer as a result, and though his head was balding, James could see it bore the same dark hair.
“Now, everyone link hands,” Miss Puttock said, her voice still soft but nonetheless commanding. “Our fervent belief will help me reach out to Mr Stewart. His image may be with us, but his spirit is separated from us by a long distance.”
James took Sherlock’s hand on one side, warm and strong, and Prudence’s on the other side. Miss Puttock then ordered them to close their eyes and focus in their mind on the image of Mr Stewart and the obvious sorrow of Mrs Stewart. Naturally, James kept an eye half-open, in case she wanted them to close their eyes to cover for something. But Miss Puttock also had her eyes closed, her head slightly bowed, and she did nothing that he could see.
“You may open your eyes again,” Miss Puttock declared; James hastily closed his eyes before pretending to open them at the same time as the others. “I will start addressing Mr Stewart—Mrs Stewart, will you provide me with the questions you wish to ask your husband?”
“Oh. Oh! Right, of course.” Mrs Stewart looked flustered, as if she hadn’t expected that moment to actually be coming. “I want to ask— I want to ask him— how he is doing. His death was—well, he died in his sleep, so I daresay it was rather painless, but I hope he isn’t suffering now. Is he suffering?”
“Mr Stewart, your wife would like to know whether you are suffering,” Miss Puttock said, louder than she’d spoken so far.
And then, without warning, her head snapped backward. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets, leaving only the white part of them visible. Several guests gasped; Prudence didn’t, but her hand clutched James’ a little harder for a second. Miss Puttock opened her mouth and the voice that came out of it didn’t sound young and female anymore.
“I only feel peace, my love. There is no more pain. I am content watching you and our son live your lives.”
“Oh, Hermon,” Mrs Stewart sobbed into her handkerchief, though she didn’t turn around to face her husband’s ghost. “I’m glad to hear it, though I miss you so. I also wanted to know—I mean, Howard wanted to know—where you put the pocket watch you inherited from your father. Your son would like something to remember you by, you see. And this is a family heirloom, so it’d be only right if he had it.”
“In death, material things have lost their importance. Only my love for you and our son remains, and it should be the same for you.”
James flicked a look toward Sherlock, whose attention was on the ghost, rather than on the medium like everyone else. So, despite his reluctance, James looked at the ghost too. The low gaslights meant that shadows had pooled in the corners, and Mr Stewart’s face had become distinct enough for James to make out the high cheekbones, long nose and lofty forehead of the dead man. His mouth was moving as though he were speaking, but his features weren’t as well-defined as those of a living person, and it was hard to read words on his lips. However, James noticed that he seemed to be speaking even after the voice coming out of Miss Puttock had quieted. A lapse between his speaking and Miss Puttock’s ‘translation’, or a sign that he was saying something entirely different?
Mrs Stewart looked puzzled by the roundabout answer. “Darling, of course our love is what matters most, but I was just thinking—I mean, you promised Howard the watch, remember how you used to let him wind it when he was a little boy?”
“I do remember, yes.” James fancied he could detect a hint of impatience in Miss Puttock’s eerily deep voice. “All the memories of our days together are clear as crystal in my mind. I will cherish them until you join me in death and we are together forever more. Until then, live your life and tell Howard that no watch will be as valuable as the certainty of my presence, watching over the two of you.”
“Oh, Hermon.” Mrs Stewart was teary-eyed again. “To know that you’re here—right here—it is worth more than anything in the world. I do wish we could talk like we used to, though, without needing anyone else. But the watch, dear, if you could just try and remember—”
A sudden tightening of Sherlock’s grip on James’ hand was the only warning that he was about to speak. “The watch is under the floorboard of his bedroom, right under the upper left part of the bed,” he blurted out as though he couldn’t help himself.
All the eyes in the room converged onto Sherlock, except for those of Miss Puttock, which were still rolled back into her head—James admired the girl’s commitment to her role.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs Stewart said, her eyebrows climbing so high they threatened to meet her hairline. “What did you say?”
“The floorboard under the bed, madam. Your husband hid it there because he was worried that—well, this isn't very relevant right now.”
“How could you possibly know this, young man? What’s your name?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“What a silly name. I don’t suppose your parents instilled any manner in you, but you should know how terrible it is to lie to a grieving widow!”
“I can assure you, madam, I am not lying—”
Miss Puttock chose this moment to shudder and then crumple onto herself, eyes artfully fluttering shut.
“Miss Puttock!” Prudence exclaimed, her voice piercing through the ruckus of the other guests’ cries. She grabbed the young woman by the shoulders and let her sag against her own side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m feeling a little weak,” Miss Puttock said in the thin voice of someone coming out of a faint. “I’ll be fine, but I don’t know whether I have the strength to try and reestablish contact with Mr Stewart—”
“You should do no such thing, my dear. You obviously need to rest. Right, Aunt Marjory?”
“Quite right,” said Mrs Stewart, though she looked a little disappointed.
Prudence turned a withering look toward James and Sherlock. “I think you better go.”
“Right.” James didn’t bother to point out that he hadn’t done anything—without him, Sherlock would not have come and Prudence knew it. He’d seen enough, anyway. “My apologies for the disturbance. Enjoy the rest of your evening. Sherlock, it’s time to take our leaves.”
As they left, Princess Shou’an commented wryly, “A shame that you should leave, this was only beginning to get interesting.”
“Maybe another time, Your Highness,” Sherlock said, bowing his head.
James waited until they were in the street, navigating between the pockets of warm light cast by the streetlamps, before he said, “Not that I didn’t appreciate the entertainment, but what was that about?”
“I couldn’t let Miss Puttock keep talking in circles when there was a very simple answer to Mrs Stewart’s question,” Sherlock said primly.
“So the watch is under the floorboard?”
“As far as I know.”
“And how do you know?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, and because they’d walked past a streetlamp, his face was now swathed in shadows. But James didn’t really need him to say it.
“You can hear what the ghosts say, can’t you? You could hear Mr Stewart talk, just like you could hear the ghost in the library.”
“The ghost in the library is named Bartley, and he was a porter who died of a heart attack.”
“Did he tell you this?”
James’s heart started to beat faster; the mere idea of it, that conversation with the dead was possible, made his head spin as hard as a shot of whiskey.
Sherlock sighed. “No, Smudger told me. The ghosts aren’t saying anything very interesting, I’m afraid. At least from what I can hear. They’re generally repeating the same thing obsessively. I suppose Mr Stewart really did want his son to get his watch. He only hid it because he was sleeping with one of the maids, and he didn’t trust her not to filch it. You see why I couldn’t say this to his wife.”
“It seemed wiser, yes. I guess this answers our question about the possibility of talking to the dead. A question to which you already had the answer, you sly fox,” James said, poking Sherlock in the arm.
“I don’t agree it necessarily follows that communication with the dead is impossible. Obviously, Miss Puttock was putting on a show, but because she and I can’t do it, we can’t conclude that this is impossible. After all, most people can’t hear what I can, so why couldn’t there be others who have the ability to reach out further?”
“Have you always been able to do it?”
“As far as I remember. I was only six or seven when ghosts started to bloom everywhere. At the time, my family— well, there was a lot happening, and I can’t quite remember when I saw my first ghost, but I don’t remember ever seeing one and not being able to hear it speak. It’s a rather useless talent, which is why I don’t advertise it. People would start to expect I do what the mediums claim they can do and that would only brew discontent.”
“Do you have any other ‘useless’ talents that I should know about?”
Another pocket of yellow light caught the edge of Sherlock’s smile. “One or two, maybe.”
James refrained from asking him what those were. It would be more interesting to find out for himself. And finding out he did, though it was probably a shame that it required a murder happening.