The Madness Was A Man

Silent Letters And Words Unsaid

A maid called John into the drawing room, for obviously he couldn't saunter into the house uninvited. Sherlock had tried to tell one of the maids to show John in without too much fuss; however they all seemed very reluctant to talk to him. For whatever reason the staff weren't his biggest fans, especially the maids. Whenever he was around they started to get tense, and they would whisper things to each other as if they were planning some sort of escape route. He must have scared them, yet for what reason he could never guess. And so he usually left them alone, except in dire situations in which he urgently needed a fresh towel or his laundry done. Thankfully john found his way to the drawing room without too much issue, issue of course being Agatha's intervention. Sherlock suspected that his aunt would not very much appreciate John's poking around in the house, nor his fraternizing with the youngest brother. She saw their friendship as very unorthodox, almost as if it was threatening to her most prized values. It was sickening, really, the bias towards the lower class. Well who does Agatha think does the dirty work of the house, who were the ones slaving away to make sure she could live her high class lifestyle? Without the respect of the working class there could be no upper class, they'd die of starvation before a week had passed. Yet Sherlock had to admit, as John in his dirty overalls strutted over the plush carpets there did seem to be something wholly unnatural about his being here. It seemed a room designed for high society, with golden trim along the walls and portraits of kings. Sherlock rather ogled John for a moment, understanding that he was out of place yet still appreciating his rugged beauty, all the while John looked a bit uncomfortably back at the path he took across the carpet, as if trying to make sure he had not tracked any mud through the deep and expensive fibers.
"Glad you could make it." Sherlock muttered, seeing thankfully with a glance at the clock that John had arrived precisely when he had promised to. It was six o'clock nearly on the dot, and here he sat now next to Sherlock around the round oak table. He had set out all that he thought they might need, all sorts of notebooks and fountain pens. All that would be helpful to make their lessons a success.
"Glad to be here. Quite a transition, walking from the stable into the house." John admitted with a rather regretful tone.
"You smell like a horse." Sherlock giggled.
"And you smell like perfume." John snapped right back, however a smile erupted onto his face just as soon as his mock anger dissipated. "Like a flower, not yet plucked from the garden." He added, though his face got a little pink as he forced out his version of poetry. Sherlock nodded, smiling softly though he didn't really know how to process that. And so he decided not to.
"Have you written anything before?" Sherlock wondered.
"I learned how to sign my name, for legal purposes." John admitted. "Though it's not much better than a child's."
"You can hold the pen then?" Sherlock presumed.
"Yes I can hold a pen." John grumbled, taking up one of the pens in a full fist and threading his fingers very awkwardly around it. It seemed as though he couldn't hold it properly, despite his rather stubborn insistence.
"That's not right." Sherlock interjected, watching rather painfully as John wrapped his pinky around the base of the pen so as to steady it against the paper that had been laid out for him.
"Well I mean...it's what I know." John grumbled, throwing down the pen not unlike a child throwing a little temper tantrum. Sherlock could tell that John didn't like to be bad at anything; he didn't like not knowing things. Obviously this was going to be a challenge, teaching something that required something more than brute strength and a rugged spirit.
"How many times have you actually signed your name?" Sherlock wondered. John sighed heavily, yet shrugged his shoulders in some sort of humiliation.
"Oh just once. When I got the job here." he admitted finally. Sherlock smiled at him, taking up one of the pens properly in his own fingers and demonstrating the technique.
"Well then, before you know it you'll be able to sign your name at the bottom of your lengthy hand written letters." Sherlock assured. "But for now, we'll see if you can hold it right."
"Letters to who?" John wondered with something of a chuckle.
"To anyone you like. Perhaps a female correspondent." Sherlock joked, as much as the idea revolted him he had to make this lesson at least seem meaningful.
"A love letter." John muttered. "How very unlike me."
"You never know until you try." Sherlock said with a shrug, wiggling the pen rather awkwardly between his fingers and thinking upon love once more, and the gaps he still had yet to fill. Even now he felt as though he was being watched, presumably by his undead admirer.
"Have you ever written a love letter, Sherlock?" John wondered, now seeming to have lost track of their purpose for being here. Sherlock felt him face begin to grow hot, yet he sunk his eyes down to his feet and shook his head rather meekly.
"Never had reason to. Not yet at least." He admitted.
"Now with the ladies knocking down your door I'm sure the postman will have to get a bigger bag." John added, though there was some sort of misery that was evident between the syllables he spoke. Some sort of aching sadness, as the truth began to descend.
"That doesn't sound like me either." Sherlock admitted finally.
"What, the letters?" John muttered.
"The love." Sherlock admitted grimly, his eyes glassing over for a moment of contemplation. John nodded, though he didn't seem quite eager to investigate farther into such a statement. Instead he picked up the other pen, holding it between the appropriate fingers and balancing his thumb rather forcefully at the top.
"Good, that's good." Sherlock said happily, noticing now that John had the very basics down. "Just slacken your fingers, don't make a fist. Just let the pen lay there, gently."
"I am being gentle." John insisted.
"Then you need a better definition. Come on then, like me." Sherlock insisted, holding his own with very slackened fingers, as if he was cradling something far more precious than a pen. John mimicked him, nodding his head silently as the pen began to look more natural in his hand.
"Perfect." Sherlock muttered. "Now get the paper, and we'll start by drawing up the alphabet."
"Oh how exciting." John declared, though there was not as much enthusiasm in his voice as Sherlock would have preferred.
"Can you read?" Sherlock wondered, just now realizing this might be a lot more difficult than he thought. If John couldn't understand what he was writing then there really was not much purpose to this, was there?
"Here and there." John admitted finally.
"And that means...?" Sherlock clarified.
"I know how to read my name. And a couple other words." John mumbled a bit glumly. Sherlock sighed heavily, not having factored John's complete illiteracy into this equation.
"So you don't know the alphabet?" Sherlock presumed. John shrugged his shoulders, which Sherlock decoded as something of a shameful no. Square one, then. "Then watch me, I'll go slow. And then we can sing the alphabet song."
"I can't sing either." John insisted, as if he thought that might get him out of this so easily. Sherlock ignored him, beginning to draw out the alphabet in very large, very easy to follow strokes. John followed behind obediently, yet ignored Sherlock as he lectured on the sounds and the different variations of the letters in the English language. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock had one of the best tutors around. That meant he knew about the history of each letter and the modern alphabet as a whole, he knew the root words, he knew the Latin derivatives, he even knew where some of the words had first appeared in modern texts. He was very well learned on the subject, and so would John when their lessons had concluded. Soon they would both be riding horses and writing letters every day, and hopefully such activities would happened together. When finally they had both copied down the letter z, John sat back in his chair and admired his rather sloppy handiwork. Aside from it looked very elementary, it must have been very impressive for him. It was an accomplishment for sure.
"Can you point out your name then? Draw it out now that you know the letters?" Sherlock wondered.
"I um...well John. John..." he muttered, scanning over his alphabet and mouthing the different sounds that he could remember. His pen lingered now on the lowercase g, as if he had remembered a tail being attached to his signature in one section.
"No, no it's actually a J." Sherlock pointed out, tapping his pen against the correct letter while John's frown deepened.
"Well I guess they sound alike." John decided with a frown. "But I know an O comes next."
"Very good." Sherlock agreed, feeling quite like a proud parent.
"And an N. Jon." John finished with a smile. Sherlock hated to crush his dreams so fast, but of course the English language was a very rude thing.
"Not quite. See there's a hidden letter there, it's silent. There's an H." Sherlock corrected.
"A hidden letter? What on earth is this, some sort of guessing game?" John growled, slumping back into his chair with that telltale quitter's attitude.
"I'm sorry, but it's just how the language is. It's not as straight forward as we would like it to be." Sherlock admitted with a frown.
"Well then, it's J...O...H? N." John decided finally, carefully copying down the letters under where his alphabet was scrawled. Sherlock smiled, seeing now that he was at least getting the concept.
"Perfect! Learning so fast already." Sherlock said with a smile. "Now your last name?"
"I think I can guess that one...unless they've got some hidden letters." John growled.
"None that I can think of." Sherlock admitted, watching now as John picked the W and wrote it next to his name. Sherlock smiled, watching him work with very admiring eyes. He was a clever boy; he just never had the upbringing to bring out the potential he had stowed away. He could learn to read and write...no he would learn it. After Sherlock was done with him surely John would become the next Shakespeare.
"That's perfect!" Sherlock exclaimed, seeing now that John's name was spelled out in full and proper letters before them. Just as he was going to recommend something of an easy word, like apple or something mundane like that, he saw that John had already set off to spelling another word. He had chosen the S first, and had drawn something of a very lumpy letter, before stopping rather abruptly as he scanned his alphabet. He frowned, before looking up at his teacher in some sort of defeat.
"What comes next?" he wondered, to which Sherlock gave him something of a blank stare.
"What comes next in what?" he asked.
"Your name of course." John clarified finally. Oh if ever there was a moment to kiss that fool it would've been right now. Would if he could, Sherlock would have taken John's face in both hands and kissed him just as he would have wanted to be kissed. Nothing aggressive like that stranger had, but something soft...something meaningful. It would have been perfect, in the soft light of the golden room. It would have been beautiful. Every muscle was aching to reach out, anxious to touch upon John for what needed to be the first time! The strain was beginning to weigh on him; Sherlock felt he might explode if he didn't do something right now. Even now he felt tears begin to well in his eyes, tears that were the cause of the battle which was raging inside of his skull. It was almost impossible not to break down right now, break down his barriers or at least break down and cry. Yet he did neither, he just forced a smile, he forced a laugh. His heart realized that nothing was going to become of the moment and it too stood down. Its beating settled to a normal if not melancholy melody, and silently Sherlock sat in wait for the next opportunity that might come and go.
"Well um, second comes the H. Together they make that sound, the shh sound. Like you're telling someone to be quiet." Sherlock explained, though his voice was very tight in his throat. It was hard to get the words out, now that he wanted their moment together to be silent. John nodded, processing that now and drawing out the capital H in big strokes. "Then E." Sherlock added, knowing that John might go for the R instead. John nodded, drawing that on command before proceeding to the R without instruction. Sherlock smiled, but he knew better than to comment on it. He didn't want to say anything any longer. John was just finished with the L when the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted them. The footsteps were quick and loud, characteristic of only one high heeled member of the family... Sherlock was just about ready to run to the door when it opened on its own, and Agatha walked in rather calmly. Though her attitude quickly changed when she saw that her nephew was not alone in the drawing room, that he had invited in the stable boy.