"Hope" is the Thing with Feathers

The two men approached the Engels’ residence, a large, blue farmhouse with a manicured lawn and a white picket fence. A closeline stood out front donning laundry that was flapping in the breeze. To the right of the house, about a quarter of a mile, was a barn.

John remembered fondly the barn his grandparents had. He used to play in the hay with his cousins and hide in the stable waiting for his grandfather to find him in a game they used to play. 

As they approached the fence, John noticed a short woman in a modest farm dress tending to the garden.

“Mrs. Engels, I presume,” Holmes said, stopping by the gate.

The woman stood up straight and wiped her hands on her dress. Her brows heightened into a concerned expression. John wondered if she knew something.

“Who’s asking?” She said in a heavy German accent. 

John cleared his throat. “I believe we’ve met before, Ma’am. I’m John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. We’re here to see Mr. Engels. Is he home?”

Mrs. Engels’ shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yes, I remember you.” She smiled kindly. “Your sister, Harriet, was always so kind to my Emilia. Why don’t you two come in and I’ll go fetch Otto.”

They followed Mrs. Engels into the house where she offered them each a seat in the parlor. John sat down in one of the alarmingly purple arms chairs, but Holmes remained standing, busying himself by inspecting the mantle.

John couldn’t help but stare at his long fingers as he removed his gloves. His nails were perfectly manicured and his hands had no blemishes. Nothing like John’s, who had deep calluses and scars across his palm and digits. He watched Holmes as he inspected the room: first the piano, then the armoire, then the basket of kid’s toys on the floor.

“Where is the daughter? Emilia, is that her name?” Holmes asked, turning.

John stared at him for a moment longer, not fully processing what he had said.

“Dead,” John said quietly, hoping that Holmes would bring his voice down.

Holmes looked at him, puzzled. “No she’s not.”

John scoffed. He distinctly remembered holding Harriet at night for weeks as she quietly cried through her grief, praying that his father wouldn’t wake up and hear her. “She died a few years ago. Typhoid fever.”

“Mmm, no,” Sherlock said, turning back to the toys. “I doubt their new baby is playing with these.” He motioned to the pile of cloth dolls and kaleidoscopes in the toy basket.

John scrunched his eyebrows. “Maybe they kept them around after she died. For, you know, sentiment.”

Holmes looked at John with genuine confusion on his face. “No, I don’t get it.”

Before he could protest any more, Mr. Engels appeared in the doorway.

“Hello, gentleman,” Engels said.

John stood up and went to shake his hand.

“It’s Watson, right?” 

“Yes sir,” John replied, “And this Sherlock Holmes.” He motioned to the taller man, who was inspecting a specific cloth doll. John cleared his throat, attempting to cue the social skills Holmes seemed to lack.

Holmes looked up at Engels and John could see in his eyes that his mind was quickly analyzing him.

“Where is your daughter?”

John’s heart sank. He couldn’t believe Holmes was actually following this trail.

Engel's eyes scrunched, but he quickly returned to his neutral disposition. “Is that why you’re here, then? To meet Roberta? My wife is upstairs feeding her right now, but I suspect they’ll be done soon.”

John sighed in relief, gracious that the Engels’ new baby happened also to be a daughter. His ease didn’t last long, however.

“No,” Holmes said impatiently, “The other one.”

Engel’s face dropped and molded into something akin to rage. John could tell he was using all his restraint not to punch Holmes in the face right then and there.

He cleared his throat, attempting to remain calm. “She passed away. I would appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up again.” His last statement was not a request, but rather a strict demand.

Holmes' face twisted into genuine confusion and John could have believed in that second that he legitimately did not understand the gravity of his questions.

John quickly jumped in, hoping to save some semblance of his rapport with the family.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Engels, I have no clue what’s gotten into him.” He shot a piercing glance at Holmes. “The real reason we’re here is to investigate the death of a woman who was dropped at the morgue this morning. We’ve talked to Hooper and understand that you are the only other person with keys. We just want to know if you know anything.”

Engel's face remained just as hard as it was before. 

“No,” he spat at Holmes, “I don’t know anything. And even if I did, you would be the last person to hear it.” He began again, this time with his voice raised: “And what does this have anything to do with Emilia, hmm? Who do you think you are?”

Behind him, Mrs. Engels appeared with baby Roberta on her hip, rocking her slightly.

“Is everything alright in here?” She asked, fear dancing in her eyes.

Mr. Engels took a breath and softened as he turned to her.

“Yes, dear. They were just about to show themselves out.” He met both of them with a scowl before turning around and kissed Roberta on the forehead. He walked out of the parlor and deeper into the house, leaving the two of them with a confused Mrs. Engels and a cooing baby.

John smiled tightly, hoping to make up for the scene they had caused.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” John said, nodding curtly and turning to leave.

To John’s surprise, Holmes walked out the door without another word. Before John could follow, however, Mrs. Engels grabbed his arm. 

He turned around and found her eyes welling with tears.

“Please,” she said desperately, “Don’t tell anyone about Emilia, they’ll take her away. That’s what this is about, right? Promise you won’t.” She clung to his arm, pleading.

John’s heart wrenched for her as his head attempted to make sense of the situation. 

“Okay,” he said, almost too soft to hear, “I won’t, don’t worry.”

“And him?” She motioned to Holmes, who was already out the door.

“Noone will know.” He took his free hand and gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, hoping to provide some comfort.

Mrs. Engels nodded and John turned to leave.

“What the hell was that,” John huffed when he caught up with Holmes. 

“They’re involved in this somehow,” Sherlock remarked, “At least, Mr. Engels is. And somehow their daughter is the center of it.”

John seethed in disbelief. “Holmes, you just accused a grieving family of faking their child’s death!”

“Well they did, didn’t they?” He looked at John.

John swallowed, too upset to admit it despite the conversation he had with Mrs. Engels.

He breathed out, trying to calm himself. “I… I don’t know. I mean, yes, it certainly seems like it. I just…”

“What?” Holmes asked and John was surprised to find some concern in his eyes.

“It’s just… heavy,” John sighed.

Holmes just nodded and moved on, which John was starting to realize was his version of acknowledgement.

“Follow me,” he said and he led John across the lawn and toward the barn, looking back frequently to make sure the Engels weren’t watching.

“Holmes, what are we doing,” John asked, his patience starting to wear thin. 

“We need to observe the house. See if anyone comes in or out.” Holmes opened the gate to the barn and slipped in, claiming a spot in the hay to sit and watch.

John cursed under his breath, annoyed that his want for this brilliant, yet inept man got him into this mess. 

“I will not,” he said, but it was weak, and unconvincing. 

Holmes broke out into a wild smile. “You like it, don’t you Watson. The thrill of danger, the thrill of something new. You love this.”

John’s face flushed and his stomach twisted. He knew Holmes was right and John knew that he would likely sit with him all night if that’s what he said he wanted. He just didn’t want to admit it. Nonetheless, he sat down defeated, opposite of Holmes. 

“You can be a real dick, you know that,” John said. It sounded like a critique, but they both knew it wasn’t.

“Yeah, I know,” Holmes said, waving him off but smiling softly all the same. “So why did they do it? Why fake her death?”

John sighed, getting more comfortable in the hay. “You haven’t figured it out yet with that big brian of yours?” Woah, John, he thought. Reel it back in.

“I value your insight, Watson,” Holmes said sincerely, looking out of the barn at the almost-setting sun.

Blood rushed to his face once again as he scoffed. “Like I could tell you something you don’t already know.”

Holmes rolled his eyes dramatically. “Surprise me.”

John’s heart pounded as he processed Holmes’ close to endearing words.

“She was different,” he said, consciously trying to calm his breathing. “She wasn’t like the other kids. She didn’t talk. She didn’t read. She would sit on the ground and twist the grass in her hands, almost like it was a part of her. It started with the kids being mean to her. You know, the things kids do, they stole her lunch or pushed her in the schoolyard. But, one day my sister came home crying, saying the kids had forced her to the ground and beat her so bad her head split open. After that, the Engels kept her home, but it didn’t stop people from showing up at their house. It wasn’t more than two months before they said she had died.” 

John was surprised at how much of the story made sense with Emilia’s fake death.

He expected Holmes to chime in, eager to deduce more about the story, but instead he was silent. After a few moments, he finally spoke, so softly John had to lean in to hear.

“What a pity it is that difference is treated so poorly.”

John was taken aback by the tenderness in his voice. He was still leaning forward, his knees bumping Holmes’ unintentionally. John didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent, allowing the moment to breathe.

“I was expelled,” Holmes said, not meeting John’s eyes. “I went to a boy’s preparatory school and I was expelled. That’s why I’m here in Desert Spring. My parents and brother thought it would be good for me to start over.”

John leaned back a bit, unprepared for the vulnerability Holmes was displaying. 

“Why?” he breathed out carefully. He didn’t want to ruin this moment.

Holmes sighed, regaining some stoicism. “I deduced that the dean’s son was a homosexual. That information made its way to the dean and then back to me. So, as you can imagine, I was not invited to stay there any longer.”

John couldn’t help but laugh in order to hide the sheer panic that flared in his chest.

“How the hell did you deduce that?” he asked, still laughing.

Holmes chuckled. “Well, Watson, when one man lies in another man’s bed and neither of them are clothed, the only explanation is that they-”

John cut him off. “Hold on. You’re telling me that you found him having relations with another man?” John couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea of Holmes, with his brains and cynicism, coming across such a sight.

“Well, found, is probably not the appropriate term.” He said, looking at John was no discernible expression.

John’s mind stopped and refused to follow the path of questions any more. He simply couldn’t bring himself to ask Holmes what his part in the situation was. Maybe it was because he was afraid to think of Holmes as a social deviant. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to carry a confession that heavy. Maybe it was that it would allow John to let free parts of himself that he would rather keep locked down.

Instead, he cleared his throat, hoping Holmes would redirect the conversation.

“What about you, Watson? Why are you here?” He said, sensing John’s discomfort.

John snorted, his body still struggling to react appropriately. “I have to provide for my mother and sister. No one else will. My father didn’t even do it when he was alive.”

“You haven’t found someone to pursue?” Holmes was walking on very thin ice.

John looked into his eyes hesitantly, making sure he was reading the situation correctly and not just on his own twisted desires. 

“No,” he said softly, yet assured. “I had a thing with a girl in my teens, but it didn’t work out. Haven’t fancied anyone else since then.” Except you, he wanted to say.

“A girl?” Holmes inquired, moving forward slightly.

John rolled his eyes, suddenly very aware of their knees now resting against the others. “Yes, of course, a girl. Mary Morstan. It was complicated, her being the preacher’s daughter and all.”

Holmes' face contorted in disbelief. Not judgement, exactly, but in surprise.

John laughed at his expression. “Not the prostitute. He has two daughters. I did meet the prostitute once, though. Mary wanted to go see her in the town over and she didn’t want to go alone. She goes by a different name over there, though. Irene Adler, I think it is.”

“She wanted to tell someone about your dad,” Holmes stated.

John didn’t even bother asking how he knew that. He just nodded.

“It wouldn’t have done anything,” John sighed. “Everyone already knew. Sometimes it’s better to hide the things no one wants to talk about. She knew more than most people, though. I think everyone told themselves it was a few lazy punches here and there to make themselves feel better, but she knew that he did more than that. She saw some of it, poor girl. I had to let her go. It wasn’t fair to keep her around all that.”

“Where is she now?” 

John couldn’t decipher why Holmes offered seemingly cryptic truths as fact and why he asked about the things he could easily figure out for himself. Maybe he already knew the answers and wanted to hear John say it. Maybe he was giving John space, in some weird way, to say the hard things without so much burden. Either way, he felt heard.

“Somewhere in Europe, I think. She wanted to get away from this town and her sister’s reputation and the poor way her father handled all of it. She married some Italian guy and got as far away from here as she could.”

Holmes nodded, his face dangerously close to John’s. They had grown impossibly closer throughout the conversation, discarding the empty space left in the small animal stall. John could smell Holmes from there. Lavender and shaving cream mixed with the slight smell of a pipe.

“You know what it is like to be different.” Holmes stated it as a fact, but John knew he was asking the dangerous question that had been on both their lips all day.

John couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He knew this was a crucial moment inside himself. Either he would commit to moral irresponsibility and give in to the temptation of the gorgeous man in front of him, or he would shut himself off and deny the devil on his shoulder as he had been doing most of his mature life.

“Holmes, I can’t,” he whispered, but he stayed there, inches away from the most alluring person he’d ever come across.

“Then we won’t,” Holmes whispered back, staying just as still as John. “But I’m making it very clear in this moment that I want this. And if I’ve deduced correctly, which I usually do-” John rolled his eyes. “you want this too. But if you cannot, or rather will not, then I will let it be.”

Holmes' eyes would not leave John’s, leaving him feeling incredibly bare. He didn’t know what to say or what to do. All he could hear was the breaking of glass on his forehead. 

Holmes, sensing John’s internal battle, lifted his hand to rest on John’s shoulder. It was awkward, as Holmes tended to be, but it was nice and John leaned into it. 

“I think…” John took a deep breath, preparing himself, “You’re very… attractive. And I think I’d like to try kissing you.” He stumbled over the words, cringing as they came out. 

Holmes looked slightly shocked, his face flushed and eyes wide.

“But I need time,” he whispered, looking down at their entangled knees. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what’s okay. I have a family, they need me. I can’t jeopardize that.”

John lifted his face back up to find Holmes’, a bit disappointed looking, but kind and soft.

“I understand,” he said and John hoped to God that he did.