#fff330

Sherlock knocked on a side door to the grand complex that housed famous art but no longer the French and priceless crown jewels. 

“Are they asking you to solve the – “

But before John could finish, the door opened, and an anxious looking man ushered them inside. He handed Sherlock a small map and disappeared down a corridor.

“What the hell?” John whispered.

“Come on,” Sherlock said and took John’s hand.

John was too tired to care by this point. After all – as far as John knew – there was no imminent danger. Maybe this was just a ruse to get him out of bed. John wouldn’t put it past the great detective.

“There.”

With a dramatic gesture, Sherlock waved his hand at a painting. John squinted and ascertained that it was a work by the famous Leonardo da Vinci. On closer inspection, there was something off with it. John tried to blink, but it didn’t help.

“What do you observe?” Sherlock prompted.

John let go of Sherlock’s hand and moved closer to the painting, which didn’t help in the slightest, so he moved further away than the spot he’d originally occupied.

“It’s unfinished,” he breathed.

Sherlock’s beaming smile was more telling than a resounding “yes” would have been.

“This is far from the only one in the world, but da Vinci was infamous for being slow to finish his works. Apparently, this piece was commissioned for King Louis XII. It should have been delivered in 1499, but eighteen years later it was still in the artist’s workshop.”

“God, your knowledge about curiosa like this is beyond words,” John said, admiration evident in his voice.

Sherlock just shrugged. Most likely he had googled it seconds before he woke John. Nevertheless, it took John’s breath away every time.

***

Back at the hotel, Sherlock was frustrated that he still hadn’t convinced John that unfinished paintings could be quite satisfying to look at.

“I guess the one you showed me wasn’t all that bad, love, but the one I showed you yesterday is one I want to see finished. After all, I am missing from it,” John complained.

“No, you’re not. Your jumper, hand, and silhouette – “

“I know what’s there and what’s not, Sherlock! But the artist promised to have it finished before we return to London tomorrow, and that’s not happening, is it? The hands were apparently not to this Madame’s satisfaction, and – “

“John,” Sherlock interrupted softly. “It doesn’t matter. She will ship it to us when it’s done. And to some degree I…I concur. My face is visible, and I look…sad, which I know it’s supposed to, but it won’t be complete without you there.”

“That took a minute to consent to,” John mumbled and buried his face into the soft pillow.

“I’ll make room for it over the sofa when we get home,” Sherlock said.

“No, you will not. That masterpiece belongs in our bedroom. I don’t want clients to taint it with their stares, thank you very much. And that, my dear Holmes, is non-negotiable!”

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Some context for you. The extraordinary @petite-madame posted an unfinished drawing of the two men on Twitter yesterday, and it immediately came to mind when today's prompt was launched. Since Madame hasn't posted the sketch here on Tumblr, I won't either, not without permission, but I can tell you that it is VERY promising!

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A few months later, she had sent him a specific invitation to see a set of bronze sculptures recently unearthed from an archaeological site near Zigun. Chef Chen had needed little convincing to help Huan prepare an entire travel plan before approaching his father.

There was no way he’d ask his mother for permission without being completely prepared.

Interestingly, she seemed almost disappointed that he was so well thought out, giving him permission in a tone that sounded much more like her Matriarch voice than he liked to hear.

He reached into his bag and drew out the small yellow box Chen had given to him to give to his aunt. When Huan had asked about it, he got no more details than a smile and a wink could convey.

He reached up to pull the bell cord when the door silently pivoted into the apartment, revealing his aunt in a dark green tunic over black trousers.

It wasn’t until he stepped inside, removed his shoes, placed his bag on the floor, and turned to present Chen’s gift that he realized her clothes were spattered with paint in a rainbow of hues.

A quick glance was all he needed to realize this was a shirt she had used for years of painting. The red, orange, and yellow hues at her right arm were wet, but the other colors scattered haphazardly across the rest of the garment were clumped in similar groupings of related shades. None of those other colors had the shine of new paints.

“Come on in, kid. You look like you just stepped in on your parents kissing.” With a huff, Lin turned and walked over to a countertop to pick up a tray with a teapot, two cups, and a plate of morsels he couldn’t identify from across the room.

Bewildered, he clutched the long, thin box to his chest and followed her out to her balcony overlooking what must be one of the inlets rather than Yue Bay to the west. His vauge memory of the map of the city felt like the earliest impressions of his artistic impulses, the ones that often began as paintings, even if he eventually used his metalbending to create more tactile representations.

Tea on the balcony was quiet and relaxing. He decided that she was one who, like his father, didn’t need hours of conversation to drown out the silence. They were sufficiently shaded from the late afternoon sun that sitting out and watching the water traffic was almost meditative.

But, eventually, his body demanded a bit of attention. He squirmed in his chair, Chen’s box catching his eye again.

“Chen asked me to bring this to you,” he commented, sliding the box over to Lin.

The smile she gave the box intrigued him. It was gentle, unlike any expression he remembered seeing on her face. And it was almost like she wasn’t looking at the box, at all.

“I’ll have to write him a note.” She looked up, smiled again, and gave him a nod. “Thank you for bringing this. He must have just found them. He didn’t say anything in his last letter.”

She opened the box, and he was taken aback to see the selection of paintbrushes. He held his breath, examining them with a professional interest, but still too nervous to ask any of the questions he had.

He knew perfectly well he would never touch them.

His aunt replaced the lid, placed the box on the tray, and returned inside to the kitchen. He followed her lead, bringing his cup inside, not entirely sure where to put it. At home, there was always someone in the kitchen who took things away when he returned them. But surely, he shouldn’t give dirty dishes to…

“Here, let me have your cup.”

After drying her hands, Lin picked up Chen’s gift and walked away again without speaking to him.

Once again hoping he was doing what she wanted, he walked after her, pausing for a moment when she entered a room with a bank of windows letting in the last of the day’s sunshine.

The wall to his left was covered with a cacophany of paintings, each of them visibly unfinished. A figure stood against a blank canvas. A bridge hung in space over a water with no banks. Mountains hovered in a void of white. A hand, posed in what was clearly a bending position, the owner’s airbending tattoo nearly glowing in the light from the sunset.

He stepped closer, examining each in turn. Brush strokes, color choices, line weights… she was not a professional, clearly. But he was enraptured. Each was more than a sketch, less than an entire work of art.

“Why have you never finished them?” he asked before he could stop himself. He turned to look at her, but she was looking at the wall, her eyes distant and unfocused again.

“Because of why I was interrupted. This one,” she pointed at the mountains with no sky or lowlands, “was interrupted by a callout to a fire. I met a six-year-old Asami Sato that day.” She brushed her fingers against the canvas.

Above and to the left was the person, faced away from the viewer. “I was painting Tenzin when he told me he wanted out of our relationship.”

She traced the airbender’s arm.

Mycroft never did that kind of thing. Their marriage was built on trust and well-respected boundaries. As he opened the door with a smile, Greg realized that this was Mycroft’s way of saying that he trusted Greg with another part of himself. He could take it if he wanted to.

Having turned on the lights in the previously pitch-dark room, Greg noticed that the room looked way smaller than he expected. It was more of a studio of sorts, a little too messy to be associated with someone like Mycroft Holmes, but in a cozy, comforting way. Against one of the walls, were a few stacks of boxes and a desk sat at the corner. The pen holder on the desk held five or six charcoal pencils of different heights. The rest of the work space was dedicated to a couple of more pencils, some course textured paper, a kneaded eraser, a ruler, a box of paper towels and two sharpeners. Above the desk were a set of light fixtures that seemed to be adjustable.

Charcoal art, Greg mused fondly. Of course.

A book case at the side, had two shelves full of books, most of which had titles related to charcoal art and a few about watercolour. The rest of the shelves held two more boxes of paper towels and a stack of haphazardly arranged sheets of papers.

Delighted, Greg turned to the easel mounted near the only window in the room. Admittedly, his first instinct since he had first lain his eyes on it had been to rush to it but he supposed he could wait until he had gathered all the little clues scattered about in this small room.

The easel had an empty white paper attached to the top holder. As he approached it, Greg noticed that there were not one but two papers attached to it. Flipping the top paper over, the paper underneath it startled a laugh out of him.

It was a drawing of him. Incomplete, but Greg marveled at the details of it. It was clearly a recreation of a typical Sunday morning in their household in Mycroft’s point of view. The charcoal Greg on the paper was barely dressed in a carelessly donned dressing gown, hair an absolute mess and was having his coffee smiling mischievously over the rim of his cup.

It didn’t take long for Greg to feel the presence at the doorway. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Hope you don’t mind me breaking and entering,” he said, still taking in all the little details if the drawing. The rumpled newspaper at the side, the half-eaten breakfast plates and even, he now noticed, how the sunlight seemed to be streaming in from the windows at the back.

“Not to worry,” Mycroft said, his smile audible in his voice. “I will not press charges. Actually, I was starting to wonder what was taking you so long.”

Greg turned to his husband. Mycroft was leaning against the doorframe. His eyes were bright with fondness.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” Greg said. He meant it. He knew how deeply protective Mycroft was about any part of him that made him human. Greg, himself, had been one of those for a number of years now.

 “Well,” he said, a touch nervous, “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret from you. It’s er- you haven’t yet got to the boxes I presume?”

“No,” Greg said, frowning as he turned to the boxes stacked against the wall. “What’s in them?”

“Now that you’re here, you may as well see for yourself.”

Greg looked at Mycroft once again and abandoned the easel.

Opening the top-most box, he was met with another sketch of himself. This one featured him reading a book, wearing his glasses. This too, was incomplete and seemed more like a rough sketch. The one after was of him in the process of removing his tie, probably after a day at the court. As he suspected all the sketches in the box seemed to be of him, some were smudged and some were more roughly sketched than the others but all of them were incomplete.

“Jesus,” Greg said, laughing in disbelief. “All of them?”

“Not all the boxes,” Mycroft hurried to clarify, flushing in embarrassment, as if it made any difference.

Greg pointed at another box at the bottom of the stack. “What about this one?”

Mycroft groaned in response and hid his face in his hands, clearly regretting his decision. Greg cackled as he retrieved and opened it.

As expected, it was another stack of sketches. Most of them even more scraggly looking and incomplete. It was then when he noticed the date scribbled at the bottom of the paper.

“Myc,” he exclaimed. “This is from ten years ago!”

“Greg-”

“Honestly, you should’ve said something.”

Mycroft stopped short and blinked in disbelief. “Might I remind you that you were married at the time?”

“Ah.”

“Indeed. I- assumed it would do no harm to tend to my frustrations privately- and drawing helped… in a way. Obviously when I said frustrations-”

“I know, sweetheart,” Greg intervened. Frustrations. Greg supposed that was one way to put it.

“I drew until I felt like I could sleep,” Mycroft added quietly.

Their fickle, finite lifespans kept them from reaching for the greater heights that a millennia’s, a century’s, a decade's more years might have brought; they were as incomplete works of art, whether they lived to thirty, or sixty, or a hundred. Every time, by Serie's standards, her students' potential amounted to little more than a beginning, rudimentary sketch, the first wash of colour, the start of something wonderful; or worse, the iterative planning of a remarkable piece, plaster models and practice works and a waiting marble, pristine, untouched, as the hand that might have sculpted it lost the strength to hold the tool before the first cut could be made.

Even Flamme had faded too quickly, and by human standards, she had been a masterpiece.