Chapter XLV - Seeing Double

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-Millie-

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I can hear the car engine quieten, feel the wheels grind to a slow halt, sense the almost indiscernible movement cease – but, due to the overly-tinted nature of the windows, I do not see the location until the doors are opened and we step out into the mansion driveway.

It's a vast thing, the product of a long-dead generation and architectural way of thinking, almost medieval in its design; bare stone walls, latticed windows, a large, central door of waterlogged wood, studded with metal bolts. The building teeters on the brink of disrepair, of neglected maintenance, and, as we approach that imposing door with its carved-stone, gargoyle sentinels, I can't begin to imagine a man like Jamie living in a place like this.

"Careful," snaps Sherlock, jolting in his seat. He turns around to glare at John, who is currently battling with the hospital wheelchair. "And to think they let you serve in the army. Your co-ordination skills are appalling."

"You know, I should let go," mutters John, under his breath. He looks wistfully at the river running parallel to the base of the hill. "See if you float."

"I'll answer that for you. I wouldn't."

"Oh," says John, savagely. "I know."

The wind picks up and together – this grim-faced entourage; me in my brown coat, Mary behind me, Mycroft to my left, eyes slit against the rain, Sherlock lording over us all in his wheelchair – we approach the entrance.

We stand outside, begrudgingly hesitant. John pushes Sherlock towards the door.

"Don't look at me," says Sherlock, folding his arms. "I'm incapacitated."

Nobody moves.

I sigh, and step forwards, knocking three times on the rain-slicked wood; the sound reverberates, caught and hurled at the walls by an internal echo. We spend a good minute standing in expectant silence and, following the click and heave of bolts being adjusted, we are eventually rewarded; the door is pulled open, straining on its hinges.

Jamie smiles, a little taken aback – I get the impression he was not expecting the number of people currently standing in front of him – and rubs the side of his neck, anxiously.

"Come in," he says, stepping back and holding open the door. "It's a little chaotic, I'm afraid."

We file into the building, damp and disgruntled.

The faded grandeur is difficult to process. It's thoroughly untidy with its haphazardly piled books and empty mugs and chipped plaster, but still beautiful in a way inherent to old structures; oil paintings of ancestral heritage line the walls, portraits of dark-eyed, black-haired men in army decorations and women with unsmiling mouths looking down, their Irish titles printed in Gaelic and displayed on small plaques beneath: the comhaireamh, the mban, the sáirsintí. Central to the hallway is a polished oak staircase, made luminous by the light filtering through the curtains; dust motes perform their languid waltz from window to floor, where mosaic tiles in terracotta browns and dirty whites mark out oriental patterns. Stag heads with glass eyes mount the walls. There's even a suit of armour set up, grimly guarding the entrance, sword in hand and chainmail worn with aristocratic pride.

The heavy silence, however, is undeniably oppressive.

"This is yours?" asks Sherlock in a tone bordering on rude.

"Yes. Well," says Jamie, closing the door softly behind us. He smiles, shyly. "It's inherited. My family owned a series of houses – one in Ireland, one in Wales, one in Scotland, and a couple around London. This is the last standing." He shrugs. "They were peculiar like that."

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