Work Text:
John wasn't sure what he was looking for any more; it was something of his that was missing, something almost certainly 'borrowed' for an experiment it was unlikely to survive and something that until thirty seconds ago he had wanted back, but then he'd shoved the drawer back in the dresser (the one Sherlock kept non-perishable miscellaneous items in for later experiments, the non-perishable qualifier having been grudgingly agreed upon after extensive domestic negotiation) because it was full of nothing more than the usual magpie's nest of fragmented electronics, glass stirring rods, a taxidermied horse hoof and some golf tees, and he wasn't going to even ask about the last two, and dislodged a small shower of paperwork from an upper shelf.
Or he'd thought paperwork; bending to pick it up he'd found a selection of opened envelopes addressed to half a dozen people, none of whom were named Sherlock Holmes, some postcards in what he recognised as Mycroft's handwriting which he was careful not to read, and a photograph.
He hadn't meant to look at it. He'd only glanced at it at all because it struck him as familiar, and for a brief second he'd thought it just a postcard replica of a painting; he'd only looked back because it was one of the few paintings other than the Mona Lisa that he would be able to pick out of a line-up.
Just seeing it gave him flashbacks to GCSE art classes and his teacher's fondness for anyone who shared his interest in the Pre-Raphaelite era; picking Godward for his exam project had been the only thing that kept his marks above a D, because he'd rarely been able to convince his pencil to reproduce what his mind saw.
He'd always liked the Neo-Classical works better, although it wasn't an opinion he'd ever shared with his teacher or anyone else for that matter, and Nerissa had always been his favourite piece. Unlike so many similar works, Nerissa stared calmly out of the painting, as though looking at something just beyond the viewer. No heavily-romanticised forest or fantastic castle for her; she stood in a villa garden, by a simple pillar and marble bench, with a table in the background. He'd made extensive arguments about the contents of that table, not that he could remember now what they were, but the point was that they had been useful, functional items. Urns were artwork second, vessels first. She wore something typically neoclassical of draped and pinned fabric held in place with tied bands, and appeared to have been struck by a sudden thought while gathering poppy seeds. Oh yes, he'd always wondered if it was the poppy that had made her so dreamy and contemplative.
This was not that painting, but looking at the photo again, he could see why he'd made the mistake. The pose was identical, an idle and elegant figure leaning against a pillar, one hand lifted, one left to fall with a spray of plant life held, forgotten. The stare was the same, focused just off-camera, and the head of black curls held in place by a narrow circlet could've been painted by Godward himself.
Nothing else was the same. The pillar was brick, not elegantly moulded plaster; the bench was topped with paving slabs, not marble. The formica table behind held kitchenware, all glass and plastic; the plants were straggly from neglect, and the poppy head had been replaced by a sprig of hedgerow bramble. The elegant drapery had been replicated with some lacy white fabric that looked generically familiar, and yes, now he looked, the bands of cloth had been replaced with curtain ties. Where the fine netting had failed, it appeared to have been supplemented in the name of decency with lace doilies tied and folded to somehow become part of the whole.
It should've looked ridiculous. It didn't.
The figure was of undecided late teenage years, all attenuated limbs and over-prominant bones pushing through pale skin at cheek, clavicle and elbow; even sharp hips could just be seen in outline beneath the improvised chiton. The picture had been taken over a decade before they'd ever met, before life had offered most of the challenges that marked adult bodies, but even without those uncanny, haunting eyes that he knew better than his own staring out at him, he'd have known Sherlock anywhere.
He turned the photograph over, looking for a date, but all it said, in an unfamiliar juvenile scrawl, was Nerissa, by Victor.
Turning it back again he stared, his mind catching tiny details that he'd missed on first startled glance: the way the draped fabric answered to the letter of decency while still being suggestive enough to be practically pornographic, the way the tied-on additional woven pieces curved to reveal a ridiculous length of pale thigh giving the impression of lacy stocking-tops, the familiarly discordant sight of kitchen crockery set up for an experiment rather than a meal; then he realised he was fascinated and felt himself flush, because friend and peer or no, the lad in this photo had to be barely legal, and he couldn't imagine Sherlock had ever intended an adult acquaintance to see it.
Sherlock, of course, picked that moment to charge in, yelling that he needed John, now, quickly, and where was he, they didn't have time for this. John looked up guiltily into pale eyes identical, give or take a fine line or two, to the ones in the picture. Sherlock stopped abruptly, looked down at the photo in John's hand and his eyes widened as he reached to grab John's arm.
"The curtains!" he said urgently. "Of course, why didn't I realise it sooner! It's perfect!" He tugged at John's sleeve with familiar insistence when he didn't instantly spring to attention.
"I'm sorry," John offered inadequately, proffering the photo. "I wasn't prying, it just fell out of a pile."
Sherlock dismissed that with a flicker of a frown. "What are you talking about? We've got work to do, don't you see?"
"Because of curtains?" John couldn't help smiling, and Sherlock beamed back.
"Precisely because of curtains! It breaks the case wide open!"
"I didn't know we had a case." They hadn't an hour ago, when Sherlock had locked himself in his room to sulk about the lack of violent crime occurring for his benefit.
Sherlock hesitated momentarily. "I didn't tell you about the case?" John shook his head and Sherlock grabbed the photo out of his hand and stuffed it haphazardly back onto a shelf. "I'll tell you about it on the way. Come on, before Anderson ruins the whole crime scene by moving the curtains!"
Grinning, John let himself be dragged out of the flat to see what the world, and curtains, held in store for them next.