Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He stared at the people walking briskly across the park. The light was far from being perfect, considering the gloomy afternoon he happened to be into. Clouds had gathered in the sky above, and a grey halo contoured the subjects. Still, he had a deadline to meet and he couldn't delay any longer. The problem was that he didn't like the task he had been given. Crowds. That was it. He certainly was one of the best portraitists when it came to cameras; truth be told, he wasn't able to draw anything, but photography was an art wherein he excelled. Its approach to reality was more scientific than people usually imagined and he considered it a perfect example of how science and art could coexist in the same place, as they coexisted in him. So, in a certain way, this was the reason why he had gained his nickname: Sherlock Holmes, the phoscientist. Which he hated, but which he couldn't get rid of.

Crowds.

He had to do it. Mike was the person who had helped him to reach success years before and he couldn't refuse him a favour when his gallery was on the brink of failure. Still, the man who paid for the exhibition – a man whose name remained a mystery – had explicitly imposed crowds as the main theme. Sherlock didn't like it in the slightest. He found that a portrait was a matter of intimacy between the artist and the models – aware or unaware as they were. And crowds didn't give him enough intimacy. He had a way of looking at people and concentrate on their movements, on their small gestures, on the expression in their eyes. From this rather quick – and simple – observation he could extrapolate one's life and therefore decide to take his photo-portrait of the best person in the best moment.

The child surprised by accident when looking at blooming daisies. The woman's parted red lips wetted as soon as raindrops fell from the sky. The nervous hands of an old man firmly gripping his metal cane. Particulars which spoke volumes of people's little habits, particulars which Sherlock captured everywhere he went.

But crowds. Crowds were anonymous. You couldn't look at a single person in them. You should focus on the ensemble, on the way they moved – danced, even – together. Follow their unquiet waves. Sink into them and yet stand above them.

He stopped and tried to not focus on a single target. He had already done his takings in a shopping centre, in a busy street and during a concert in a small pub. However, he approached the park last.

Worst choice ever , he reminded himself while nervously opening and closing the diaphragm. Parks, in his opinion, were the least interesting place wherein to take good pictures. The crowd moved according to each person's destination, without having a scheme, a geometric symmetry. When photographing people inside a shopping centre, he could retrace their walking paths harmoniously.

When photographing a busy street, he could notice the current going up and down. When photographing the pub, he could see the synchronic movement of heads and hands.

But parks. He was staring at people who had their own directions, their own walks, their own movements.

The only way to get something decent , he huffed silently, is to work with a prolonged exposure .

The image would result odd and against his unwritten rules about portraits, yet it would give him the chance to explore movement instead of people.

He stood still, put down his second camera on the tripod and started to work.

The faster  I'm done with this, the better .

He glanced, annoyed, at the grey clouds hoping for a small ray of sun piercing through them. No help came from above. Instead, the linen of clouds darkened, leaving less and less light to work with. He cursed himself for having been so stubborn the previous days. Two days before, the weather had been perfect: plenty of sun, enough wind to get a good shot but not too much. And he had wasted it because he had been stubbornly editing one of the first photos which had led him to fame. All this because he loathed the crowd-themed exhibit and had tried to avoid his assignment as much as he could.

And this is what I get from it , he thought, crap light and the wrong day .

At first, when he still hadn't decided to waste his time on that damn photo, he had thought of shooting on Sunday. Sunday meant families, and families meant a rather specific way of moving and acting. Now it was Tuesday, and the park was filled with businessman and random people. He slightly opened the diaphragm and prolonged the exposure. He had the final image fixed in his head: a kaleidoscopic sea upon which a few lighthouses stood motionless; the sea being the walkers and the lighthouses being standers.

One hour later, he was rather satisfied – or, at least, less angry – about what he had done. Now he had sixty two photographs to check. And this was another thing of his job he still found difficult to accept. He never checked the shots as he took them, because he tended to be unhappy of the result more often than he dared to admit. Getting home and checking them after leaving the set was his way to get the best out of them. Alone, in the comfort of his study, he was less prone to despise his work and more inclined to make it the best he could.

He did the same that day.

Mrs. Hudson, his housekeeper, was leaving when he reached the flat.

She g reeted him with a smile, "How's the work gone, dear?"

"Worse than I expected, better than I thought."

She frowned, trying to understand the umpteenth cryptic remark of the young man.

"The light, Mrs. Hudson, the light!" he explained. He only earned another perplexed glance.

He continued, "How can you be so blind and not see how poor this light is to take decent photographs?"

“Now Sherlock! I’m sure your photographs will be lovely, as always.”

Sherlock huffed a humourless laugh, "Not this time."

"Ha-ha! You always say that, ev en when you were shortlisted for that prize... what was it called?"

"The Prix Nadar, you mean?"

"Yes, that one. You spent three months complaining about how horrible you thought your portraits were. And you won!"

"At least that was my area of expertise, this is not," said Sherlock.

“There’s nothing you can’t do, if you want to do it.”

She leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's cheek, who grunted his disapproval.

"See you on Thursday. And try to not turn your house into a battlefield ; have some sympathy for your poor housekeeper! "

Having said that, she headed down the street.

Sherlock delicately placed his equipment on the table, extracted the card from the camera and picked up his laptop. He switched it on, inserted the card and started to look carefully – more than carefully – at each shot.

Most of them were obviously the farthest from what he wanted, but he approved some of them. He checked the light, the angles, the colours, the symmetry. He discarded those without enough "lighthouses" and those that had too many.

Two hours later he had ten photos before his eyes among which he had to choose three. In those ten, there was one that caught his attention as soon as his gaze landed on it. It was utterly perfect.

Six or seven almost-white shapeless figures surrounded a single one standing. A man. But he was not a lighthouse. He was a ship. One of those ships that, against all odds, resisted to the stormy sea around them. His rather tattered leather jacket, his precise but slightly messy haircut, his tired face: all this spoke of a hard life amid the waves of destiny. Yes, it was certainly the best shot of that day, the one which would make it to the exhibit. The other two he chose where duller, but he could not care less. That one alone was everything he needed. The one in a million shot. He closed the laptop and decided to take a nap.

Afterwards, he would phone Mike to tell him he had all the photos. He just needed to edit the last three, then everything would be ready for the exhibit.

-------- @ --------

Half an hour and a nap later, Sherlock was sitting before his laptop, his hands steeple d under his chin. He observed the three photographs of the park he had chosen, focusing on the one he loved. He stared at the man. Judging from his posture and the way he was looking before him, Sherlock guessed the nameless man had halted to take a look at the stream of people moving through the park. He noticed once more the small details of his face, of his clothes, of his whole being.

The hair was cut short and was of an ash blonde with hints of grey. The cut was precise, but ruffled, as though the man – or someone else – had passed his hands into it. He tried to find a reason for that unnoticeable gesture. Had it been someone else who had done it, he would have surely straightened it back to regain his smart appearance. Therefore he had done it by himself, on purpose even. But he couldn't find a reason for a man to do so. Passing unobserved, maybe. Yet he didn't seem someone famous. Not that Sherlock had actually any knowledge about famous people, but that specific man didn't look like some posh person at all.

He had dark circles under his eyes, but not those coming from nights spent partying. They were dark circles of weariness, of thoughts that troubled him, and of a job, most likely, that kept him standing when the others slept.

The clothes spoke of old, but well-kept as if he cherished them deeply or he hadn't any other suitable to use. By the clothes and face only, Sherlock could have deduced the subject was someone rather poor with no attachments. Still, the haircut was too precise, the face too clean, the posture too right. The more he observed, the more he got lost in the contemplation.

He almost failed to notice his mobile ringing.

“Sherlock!” Mike greeted, “I thought you didn't want to answer.”

“Sorry, Mike. I was busy choosing the last photos for the exhibition and didn't hear the phone.”

“I’m happy to hear you’re nearly done!”

“It has been a hard work up till now, Mike. You know how much I despise the topic given.”

“But you still did it. Your photographs will be the cherry on top of the exhibit.”

“Is my name still that famous?” Sherlock yawned.

“Are you serious, Sherlock? Your name is the reason why the exhibit will be a success. There is no other photographer in England as renowned as you. How many people visited your last display in Paris?”

“It was calculated they were half a million,” said Sherlock, absent-mindedly.

“And since when does half a million people make you not-famous?”

Sherlock didn't answer. Mike went on.

“Be realistic. Not even Adler has reached your fame, and he was one of the best photographers of the last decade.”

“I've heard Adler became dynastic. His daughter took up his job, right?”

“Yes, she did. She'll be displayed at the exhibition too. She's talented. I daresay more than her father. Anyway, back on track. When will I have the pleasure to see your photographs?”

“I have an appointment with my publisher tomorrow, so there might be some delay... I’ll have them to you by Saturday morning at the latest. Still, I'll try to send them to you with the indications by Thursday.”

“How many are they? Just to calculate the space you need.”

“Fourteen,” Sherlock said without giving it much thought, “Four taken in a shopping centre, four in busy streets, four at a concert and two in the park.”

“Didn't you say here were three in the park?”

“I'm sorry, I miscounted. There are two. I didn't like the place at all and the light was awful.”

“No worries, Sherlock. I can't wait to see your masterpieces!” Mike cheered.

Mike then threatened, “And don't you dare not come to the opening night as you did last time . You either come or you will live to regret it.”

“But...”

“Don’t even try.”

Mike hung up before even giving him the time to answer.

Honestly, Sherlock didn't like opening nights that much. As usual, there would be people he couldn't stand who kept asking him about the smallest details about his job. Details that he jealously protected. In the end people found him unfriendly and unpleasant, and he concluded most of those gatherings being rude to everyone. Fortunately, being an artist, allowed him to behave as he wished and people seemed to forget about his outbursts in a short time.

It was in that precise moment that, looking at his open laptop, his gaze fell upon the photograph. The man, the nameless being, stared at him. His lips were curved in what was half a smile, half an unrecognisable expression. And it was only a while later that he realised he had told Mike there were only two pictures of the park. He was not going to display that one. He stared back at the man and the motionless figure seemed to approve.

He clicked on the image and renamed it.

Subject: Unknown.

-------- @ --------

When he had first glanced at it, two days before, Sherlock hadn't thought that the photograph would have affected him that much. It had become an obsession. He couldn't spend more than three hours without looking at it or, at least, without trying to give the nameless face a name. Even when he went to sleep, he dreamt of it. And, as it had already happened, the more he thought about it, the more it haunted him.

It was certainly one of the best shots of his career. There was no doubt in that. Despite the light, despite the place, the picture was perfect.

The one in a million shot , he repeated to himself.

Yet he had decided to not show it to the public. As if there were some sort of intimacy with that subject that he didn't want to share with the others. He had heard of artists becoming jealous of their works, he had even read about a painter whose masterpieces were discovered only after his death because he considered them like lovers. Still, he found the whole story ridiculous and two or three times he had been tempted to phone Mike to tell him there was another photograph. In the end, he hadn't.

And now he was about to do one of the stupidest things he had ever done in his life. He dialled his brother.

“Sherlock?” his brother sounded surprised.

“Good morning, Mycroft.”

“It's hardly morning at four P.M., Sherlock,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock gave a quick glance at his wristwatch. Last time he had looked at it, it had been eleven in the morning. H e had spent five hours staring at the ceiling and at the photograph. It wasn't good. It wasn't good at all. He stayed silent.

“Sherlock? Are you still there?”

“I am.”

“Why did you call me? I'm rather busy right now.”

“I...” Sherlock coughed, “need a favour.”

On the other side of the phone, silence fell. Sherlock was sure that his brother was desperately trying to not laugh.

“A favour?”

Sherlock clearly heard him grinning.

“Are you really asking me a favour?”

“Yes.”

He didn't know why he was going through all that embarrassment. It was just a meaningless photo. He could hang up and forget about the whole matter, go on with his life. He didn't. Cursing his sudden idiocy, he continued.

“I need you to find a person's name.”

“Why is that? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“No troubles, just...curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

Sherlock caught his breath and exhaled slowly. He hated himself, the photo, the man on the photo. Yet he could not stop. He cursed himself a second time.

“I took a photo of a man. I want to know his name.” he cut short, trying to sound convincing.

“Is he involved in something? Drug traffic? A homicide?”

“Don't think so.”

“Then why are you asking? I can't just start looking for a person because you need a name.”

“I never ask favours, Mycroft,” remarked Sherlock who was slowly losing his patience.

“I know, brother dear. Actually, we barely talk to each other. This makes me even less inclined to give you the information you want. Furthermore, should I remind you what happened the last time I indulged you?”

Sherlock remembered it too clearly, and loathed Mycroft for bringing it up every single time they met.

“Forget about it,” Sherlock gave up.

“I'd better do. The increasing tension between Russia and Germany can't be ignored.”

“Thank you for nothing.” Sherlock hissed, hanging up the call.

He stared at Subject: Unknown and found himself calmed. He thought about it one last time. He picked up his mobile once more to call Mike. He would not show the photo, but he would not go to the opening of the exhibit either. He needed to find that man first, he needed to understand why he had grown so attached to him only through a photo.

Chapter Text

John had no chance but answer the damn phone which kept ringing. One, two, three times. He had counted, hoping for it to stop. It hadn't. He had to take the call.

"Hallo?" he answered, slightly angrily.

"Doctor Watson?" a voice asked.

"Yes."

"I'm Rosemary Wittgenstein," she tweeted, "the President of the Wittgenstein Charity Fund."

John pinched his nose bridge between his fingers and desperately tried to not huff at his interlocutor. He had already had enough of that. Since he became famous – thanks to sheer luck, he admitted – his phone hadn't stopped ringing. The people on the other side invited him to this or that reception, wherein he met only people who he greatly disliked or who were so boring he could not stand them in the slightest. Rosemary Wittgenstein was new on the list of his persecutors. He had never heard of her before and he would have loved to not hear about her for some other centuries. He tried to resist the urge to put the receiver down.

What made him angrier was the fact that his secretary seemed not to listen to his instructions. He had eloquently explained her that every phone call by charities, foundations, whatever should be first approved by him. She didn't seem to understand the problem at all. She had nodded, but she kept doing it without consulting him.

He g ritted his teeth. Maybe I should fire her and find another one . But he was somehow attached to Janine and realised that he didn't have enough strength to fire her without a valid reason.

He grumbled silently as the woman began to explain her motivations to him.

"...and your presence at the reception would be greatly appreciated," she concluded.

And he suddenly realised that he hadn't listened to a word she had said. He tried to recollect the few things he had understood. Something about gathering funds for some research. He would have been interested in that if it hadn't meant that he had to attend the umpteenth boring reception with the same boring people. Sometimes he wished to leave everyone and everything behind and travel to Afghanistan again.

Which had been the beginning of all this mess. Four years before, he had been a simple general practitioner in the smallest of London's clinics. He was utterly annoyed by that life and he had gladly taken the chance of being part of a team of doctors who volunteered to help in Afghanistan. Afghanistan had brought him back on tracks, making him love again the profession he had begun to hate in that hole of a clinic. Afghanistan had also been his turning point.

-------- @ --------

Dust and wind. And a boiling hot sun stretching his rays to the dry cracked ground. Afghanistan is not a place wherein to live comfortably. John stands against the harsh wind, walking towards a medical camp. He has got a helmet on his head – he has never thought he would have worn a helmet before – and he hates it. It is too large to fit his head properly and it keeps falling before his eyes so that his sight is obstructed by both the helmet and the tiny drops of sweat. The military uniform does not help either. It is heavy on his body and it’s rough on his skin. His back itches, his feet sink into sand, his knees aches, but he walks on. When he reaches the camp, the situation is worse than he dared to imagine. The place is made by two adjoining buildings which have obviously seen better times. Inside the biggest, there are three rooms filled with rusty camp beds, and on each of them lies a body – children mainly. The sight is something John Watson would remember forever. The cries, the screams, the clamour pierce his ears, making him almost deaf. There's a kid with blood on his face. He has got a white bandage on his head and his mum's eyes peer through her burqa, agonising. He tries to suppress the urge to run away or run directly towards each bed, but, at every look, his guts clenches and his breath catches. He imagined it to be awful, yet this defies description. The smell permeates the hot room. Blood, sweat, something undefined. It grips his nostrils and makes his head spin. Yet he stands still. He stares at the first doctor coming to him.

"Doctor Watson, I suppose." he says with a cheeky humour.

"Yes." he answers, a feeble whisper on his lips.

"Welcome to Kamdesh. It is actually called Kamdesh, but it  means 'Hell'".

Despite the smile across his face, his eyes are weary, speaking of many a night spent without enough sleeping. Or not sleeping at all. But it's also a face John won't forget. Tanned skin, dark blonde hair, a hint of a beard and shining blue eyes. To be honest, never in his life he has seen someone so attractive at first sight.

"William Murray,” the other doctor reaches out his gloved hand, " but please, call me Bill. "

"John.”

The latex glove is silky against John’s damp, rough hand . He smiles back, coughing as the smell of disinfectant mixes with the rest. Bill laughs, then looks down and his eyes turn serious.

"You'll get used to it. Everyone does."

And he does. Days, weeks, months pass. Taliban armies often storm the area, but luckily they don't seem to mind their small hospital. The work is hard, the hardest. John sweats, doesn't sleep as much as he would, saves lives. Adrenaline fills his every minute, and, for the first time in his life he understands what it means ‘to be alive. ’

-------- @ --------

"Are you still there, Doctor Watson?"

The mellifluous voice of Mrs Wittgenstein woke him up from his daydream. The smelly claustrophobic Afghan building suddenly changed into a spacious office with bright windows and white walls.

"Yes, I'm still here," he answered absent-mindedly, "But I ’m afraid I can't participate in the reception. I've already promised to take part in another event that day."

A lie. He knew it too well. He had no other event to attend for some weeks, nor did he want to have any. Mrs Wittgenstein murmured something about being terribly sorry that he couldn't have made it to her charity evening. John wasn't sorry at all.

He hung up and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was three P.M. on a boring Tuesday, but he had an appointment with some of his friends from the Afghan hospital where he had served. Chris, one of the most qualified nurses he had ever met, was going to marry soon and he wanted to celebrate. John was glad to have been invited at the pub with them, since it gave him the opportunity to take off his most hated clothes and put on something more comfortable.

He opened the small closet he had in the office and took out his old black leather jacket. He undressed, being finally free from that damn suit he was forced to wear every day.

-------- @ --------

One day the sun rises over the Afghan mountains and the air echoes with the monotonous rumble of some distant helicopter landing. Two hours later a troupe of journalists lands in their nothingness. They aren't happy at all about that unrequested intrusion. More people in the building are not what they desperately need. They need food, medicines, water, more doctors. Not strangers without any knowledge of how their medical camp works.

They introduce themselves. They are producing a documentary about the work of all the volunteers in those war-ravaged lands. They promise they won't cause any trouble: they just need to film what is happening in the place for three days. They promise, but the truth is that they are trouble. Cameras, videos, interviews interfere with their everyday job. They appear when John and Bill are trying to stitch the wound on a boy's forehead. The boy looks at the cameras and moves, despite their constant effort to keep him still. Bill risks hurting him with the needle. John tries to be calm, but most of the times he just wants to throw the camera crew out.

On the third day of filming, hell happens. John is awoken by the blast of something in the distance. The pitch-black Afghan sky turns red for a millisecond, the explosion which follows makes the walls shak e. In less than three seconds the whole camp is active. John and Bill gaze at each other, fear and worry in their eyes.

The wounded start to arrive half an hour later. They haven't got enough men to keep up with the emergency, but they try. They do their best, but the stream of people reaching the place is uninterrupted and they can't do anything to help them all. Kids cry, mothers scream, men pray for their children.

John runs. Running is everything he does. He runs from a three-years-old boy with a bleeding shoulder to a grown-up man whose hands are torn in two; from an elder one with a broken leg to a teenager with burns all over his body; from a grey-haired man whose face is red with blood to a kid who is curled on the floor. He runs but people die before he can even reach them.

Then a man arrives carrying a small child in his arms. His eyes are scared and his body his shaking. He screams something in Pashtun, the interpreter tries to translate his desperate cry. The kid has a wound in his stomach from which leaks a copious amount of blood. He's senseless but still alive. Yet he hasn't got many chances to survive. Each doctor look at the others, all acknowledging mutely that the kid is doomed to die. All their eyes meet the father's and he understands, but pleas. He drops on his knees and asks for help. Any help. John reacts. He takes the small body in his hands and tries the desperate where nobody dared.

But miracles do happen even in those unforgiving lands, even amid the cries, the blood and the sweat. The surgery goes well, the child lives. The journalists witness the whole scene. They interview John, their documentary gets broadcast worldwide.

John becomes famous. He participates in debates, in TV shows, in important events. He gets a well-paid job. Finally he becomes one of the most respected doctors of the UK, with his private office and even a business card.

It reads:

John H. Watson

Cardiologist.

-------- @ --------

But as soon as success struck him, he realised how he missed being an anonymous doctor of a small clinic in London. Fame was something he had to live with, without liking it. Yes, at first it had been flattering, but slowly it became tiresome. He was recognised almost everywhere he went and his privacy was no longer his.

He looked at himself in the mirror, ruffling his hair to look less professional.

When he left his office, he had to admit that not much of Dr John H. Watson, Cardiologist was left, and it was a relief. While he was walking through the park to reach the pub, he stopped to take a look at the people there. Seeing many cheerful faces reminded him of his gloomy days in Afghanistan. It was a strange sensation being both happy and unhappy of being back. He sighed and went on.

-------- @ --------

Late in the evening, when he had returned home from the pub, his mobile rang insistently. He picked it up from the pocket in his jacket and answered without noticing the name.

“Hallo?”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“It's Mike. Mike Stamford.”

John's brain was slowed down by the two – four, but he wouldn't admit it openly – beers he had drunk and it took him a while before connecting who Mike was.

“Oh, Mike!” he said, when his mind eventually found the answer, “How are you?”

Mike was one of his oldest friends. They were neighbours when they were ten and had been friends ever since. Nevertheless, they had lost contact with each other because they had taken different paths in their lives. Mike had become a gallery owner; John a doctor. They had met once again by chance one year before, when Mike had been invited to the same TV programme as John.

“Fine, thank you. Well, at least better than in the last three months. The gallery is still on the brink of failure, art doesn't sell nowadays, especially photography. But I managed to get a sponsor for an exhibit.”

John's brain was trying hard to understand every bit of information.

“And I thought,” Mike went on, “that I could invite you to the opening.”

It was surely the alcohol talking for him, but he found himself unable to say no.

“Yeah, sure. I will gladly come.”

“It’s next Wednesday. You can bring whoever you want. Thank you very much for accepting, John, I know how busy you must be these days.”

“Don’t worry, Mike. I always got time for my friends.”

Which wasn't true, because, had he been less drunk, he would have probably refused to go. Still, sometimes, destiny decides for us.

Chapter Text

"Sherlock, try to be reasonable!"

"I've already said no. And I repeat it. There's no way you can persuade me."

"You are so stubborn sometimes! It's just for an evening, then you can go back to work or to whatever you're doing!"

"Why is it so important to you? Weren't you the one saying I should avoid those events?"

"This time is different, Sherlock," Molly retorted, "First, it's Mike. And you can't let him down. Not after what he did for you. He believed in you and bought your portraits. Without him, you wouldn't be where you are now."

"He doesn't need my presence. The photos will be enough," Sherlock pointed out.

"Are you aware that what you just said is stupid, aren't you? Mike needs you."

"Why? I don't understand-"

"Oh God! Do I seriously have to explain it to you again ? Mike’s Gallery will benefit more if the star of the exhibition will be there."

"They'll have the young Adler and even that other one, the one with the common name.. ."

"You're talking about Philip Anderson?"

"Him. His photos are so tedious I can't even understand why he is still allowed to take them..."

"Because people buy them?" Molly groaned, "Anyway; neither Irene nor Philip can match your name. Irene stands out because of her surname, but she's still new in the business. Philip, you know him already. Good photographer, but he isn't the one who just closed an exhibition in Paris which had five hundred thousand visitors. He isn't the one who took Essence du Cœur , nor did he take Me ditazioni Italiane . People are coming to the opening because Mike promised you would be there. If you don't show up, people will think he’s a liar."

"I can't Molly. I'm working right now and..."

"Also," she interrupted harshly "The patron will be there."

Sherlock's mouth fell open and he blinked a couple of times before swallowing the information.

"Did you just say...'the patron'?"

"Yes I did. Mike told me this morning. Tomorrow evening your mystery benefactor will jump out of darkness into the light."

Anyone who knew Sherlock as well as Molly did, also knew that the patron-matter had bugged him for a while. He couldn't understand why a person was willing to pay so much money to host an event in a fairly unknown gallery without ever showing himself in public, nor reveal his name. He couldn't even understand why he had chosen a theme for the exhibit. Usually, patrons would give the artists freedom to choose whatever subject they liked. But this one had been specific.

Sherlock wanted to know why crowds. Lately, the most favourite topics in photography were travels and landscapes, not people. This to o was one of the reasons why Sherlock's success was odd at best. A portraitist when portraits weren't appealing to the business anymore.

More than anything else, the idea of meeting the mysterious man tickled his fancy and he sighed heavily.

“Can you promise he will be there?” he asked.

“I can't promise anything, Sherlock. I'm just telling you what Mike told me. And Mike isn't a man who makes promises lightly. You know that.”

Sherlock nodded.

“And.”

“Is there a third point?” Sherlock huffed, annoyed.

“There's always a third point,” she replied, sounding almost more annoyed than Sherlock, “Your book will be published in a few weeks and Mike's exhibition is the perfect springboard for it. The more people who see you around and talk to you, the better. This also means that I will come with you. I don't want to leave you unleashed to sabotage yourself.”

“I don't need a babysitter.”

“I didn't say that,” she argued, “I said you need a leash.”

“I can behave.”

“No, you can't. Now, try to not sulk and get ready for tomorrow. It is going to be a great evening and I won't let you spoil it.”

Sherlock muttered something and hung up.

There were days in which he hated Molly. Not because he really hated her, but because she was right. Molly, matter-of-factly, was one of the few people who could handle him without getting burnt or without desiring to smash his head with a hammer. He also recognised that she had a deep crush on him, but she was professional enough to not let it interfere with her job. In the end, he realised, she was not only his publisher, but a friend – maybe the only one he had.

Subject: Unknown glanced at him from the bright screen of his laptop. In one week the fascination with that photo – and that man – hadn't faded away. It was still there, a reminder of something he couldn't still quite discern.

-------- @ --------

“What’s changed your mind?”

John tried to gather his thoughts to give a meaningful answer, but it seemed to slip away from his tongue. There were plenty of excuses he could think about, yet the truth was that he simply didn't want to go to Mike's exhibition. He had nothing against Mike, obviously. He just felt sick of posh receptions and their guests. He didn't even know why he had accepted in the first place. Alcohol had had its fault in making him take the decision. Still, he hadn't been too drunk to refuse. But now, a week later and one day before the exhibit, he had changed his mind. There wouldn't have been any problem if he had not already invited his fiancée to it. And now he was desperately trying to persuade her to do something else together.

“You know, Christina, I just don’t like these events. I always feel uncomfortable, and I always end up getting grumpy and impossible to deal with. Besides, I have enough to think about at the moment, and getting a headache won't help me to solve them,” he eventually confessed.

“John, you know, I would usually indulge you. I used to go to these sorts of events, and I know exactly how awful they can be. I hear you.”

“Then you can sympathise with me.” he answered mildly at his fiancée on the other side of the phone.

“I can, really. I won’t budge on this, John. It's been quite a while since you’ve gone to something like this. If you don't want to look anti-social, you should at least go to one. May I add that, probably, it is also one of the few events you have been invited to which isn’t crawling with journalists? It will be quiet. No cameras, no big personalities. If I am correct, there won't be anyone you hate either.”

John sighed loudly, but didn't interrupt Christina.

“And, John, do you know who guest of honour is?”

“Not at all.”

“Holmes.”

“Who?”

“The phoscientist.”

“Who again?”

The name actually rang a bell in John's head, but he couldn't connect a face to it, nor he could conn ect any thing of importance.

“I have three of his portraits in my flat, John. We’ve even discussed about him once. He's one of the greatest living photographers in the world.”

As soon as Christina reminded him, a vivid image of three pictures hanging on a wall came to his mind. Admittedly, he couldn't understand a thing about photography, but he found those portraits rather interesting. Holmes was talented, he couldn't deny that. And he was also one of Christina's favourite artists. Saying no to that reception was quickly b ecoming harder and harder.

“And?” he tried to derail.

“And, John, I have to meet him. I just want to congratulate him on his marvellous work.”

“Couldn't you meet him somewhere else?”

“There won't be another occasion, love. Holmes never does any interviews and never attends events. He’s nearly a recluse! This is my only occasion. Just this once, John, please...”

He pictured the photographer in his head. Probably a middle-aged man w ith long hair, lousy clothes and a tired face. Maybe also with a neglected beard and smelling of alcohol. An eccentric. Talent always walked hand in hand with eccentricity . As much as Holmes was talented, John was sure that he wasn't as interesting as his portraits. Christina would be deluded by that meeting. Yet, who was he to deny her an opportunity to meet her hero?

“Only because it’s you,” John smiled at thin air, “We’ll go, but I can't promise I won’t be grumpy all evening.”

“I'll cheer you up on Thursday with dinner,” she said.

“Is that a promise?” John laughed.

“Promise,” Christina flirted, “And I also promise to not ask you to participate in any other events for the next month. Do we have a deal?”

“We do.”

“See you tomorrow evening, then. Try to be on time.”

“I will be, don't worry.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

As the phone call ended, John looked up at the ceiling.

-------- @ --------

Sherlock got out of the car Mike had rented for him. The galle ry owner had stressed how important the event was for him, so he allowed no taxi – which was Sherlock's preferred means of transport – and had sent him a car with driver. When the black Aston Martin halted before the gallery, Sherlock was surprised to see a small crowd outside. As he stepped on the pavement, he prepared for t he light of the flashes to blind him. But no one seemed to mind his arrival. Instead, all their focus was on a white Rolls Royce which pulled up behind just a moment later. T he throng of people turned their heads to and crowded near the car door. Sherlock quickly glanced at them, then hastened to wards Mike who was waiting for him at the entrance.

“Good evening, Sherlock!” he smiled, overjoyed. “I'm so glad to see you here!”

Sherlock simply nodded.

“I didn't think there would have been such a mess of media. I had the impression you wished it to be a rather intimate exhibition with few selected guests and hosts.”

“And that is still my idea. But I couldn't avoid all those who follow Irene everywhere. I tried, but I couldn't.”

“Irene?” Sherlock frowned.

“Yes, Sherlock. Adler's daughter, do you remember?”

“Vaguely. I didn't know she was that famous among media. Photographers are never that famous.”

“Irene Adler isn't only a promising photographer, Sherlock. She's also been at the centre of a great scandal, involving some members of the Parliament. Didn't you hear about it? Many heads rolled because of her.”

“Gossip. Really not my area,” he snorted, as they entered the foyer.

Irene Adler walked towards Sherlock and Mike. She was wearing a long white dress, open on the ba ck, with sequins all over its tail. Her dark brown hair was falling softly on her shoulders with small pearls and flowers placed intermittently in it. Red lips stood out on a pale face, and magnetic blue eyes peered from beneath coquettish eyelashes.

Her appearance made Sherlock think of a predator ready to attack her p rey. He could now understand why the press took that much interest in her. Not only she was a beautiful woman, but she was surrounded by a halo which smelt of danger. And danger – Sherlock knew it too well – attracted people more than anything else.

She walked like a jaguar through the crowd which opened to let her pass. When she reached Mike, she stretched out her hand.

“I'm so glad to be here, Mike,” she smiled, but Sherlock considered it to be more a mischievous grin than a sincere smile.

“It's an honour for me to take part in this exhibition, considering the long-lasting fame of your gallery.”

Mike's cheek turned slightly pinker.

“My pleasure to have you here, Irene.”

Mike indicated Sherlock, “Please al low me to introduce you...”

“Mr Holmes!” she completed the sentence for Mike, “It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've been one of your most faithful admirers since I started this job.”

She stretched out her hand to shake Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't move. He politely smiled back and he san k his hands further down into hi s pockets.

“I'm terribly sorry, although I admired your father's style, I have not had the pleasure of seeing your photographs.”

Despite his effort to sound apologetic, his tone betrayed him. Irene Adler gave him a freezing glance.

“You will see them,” she answered, maintaining her manners polite, but with a hint of challenge.

Molly, as always, saved the situation.

“Sherlock!” she shouted, ploughing through the crowd.

Hair put up in a bun, long blue dress and red lips, Molly seemed less the anonymous publisher of photography books and more an actress. The smile across her face widened as she reached Sherlock and placed a lipstick mark on his cheek. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

“Good evening, Molly.”

“Good evening,” she greeted turning first to Mike, then to Irene, “It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Adler.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Hooper,” she replied, “Your work in the world of photography publishing is admirable. And you were so lucky to have stolen Mr Holmes first.”

Molly blushed at the compliment.

“I admit I was lucky. As was Mike,” she said.

“Should we go in?” asked the gallery owner.

“Aren't we waiting for Anderson?” Molly stepped in.

“He's already inside. He arrived early.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh.

“What's so funny?” both Molly and Mike looked at him.

“He's so desperate for exposure he arrived early to see if they would interview him.”

Molly pinched his arm and hissed into his ear.

“Be good. You promised.”

“I didn't promise anything,” Sherlock whispered, “Especially, I didn't promise to be good with Anderson. He's dull.”

“Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.”

“Shouldn't we wait for the patron?” Sherlock demanded aloud.

“You’re a bit anxious about him, aren't you?” Irene laughed.

“Curious, not anxious,” he corrected, “Aren't you?”

“Me? Oh, not at all,” she smiled mischievously.

Sherlock raised an inquiring e yebrow, and Irene only grinned back.

“Why?” he insisted “Isn't it strange? A mysterious figure cloaked in darkness, a man who never appears, and yet rich enough to pay for an exhibit with the current most famous English photographers. Aren't you curious to uncover the mystery?”

“I repeat, Mr Holmes: not at all.”

“Why?” inquired Sherlock.

“Because I know him already,” she grinned in a predatory way, “Anyway, he said he will be here in an hour. He was busy with an important job.”

An indeed pleased Irene stepped into the gallery leaving Sherlock completely stunned.

-------- @ --------

The main room was lit in pale blue. On the three walls opposite the entrance hung three photographs. The one in the middle was Sherlock's. His best shot. He stared at it, well aware that if it hadn't been for his stubbornness and inexplicable stupidity, it would have been the one he had hidden from the world. Instead, there stood Monochromatic Music . Good shot, not excellent.

Not the one in a million , he repeated to himself.

Despite that, he didn't feel guilty. Subject: Unknown wasn't for the public. Somehow, it was his.

On the left wall he recognised the tedious style of Anderson. The photo had been clearly taken in a museum. Dull. The light was wrong, making the people look like statues more than humans, and the editing showed many flaws.

Still, his attention was drawn to the Adler's one. He had to admit that Irene was good. No, more than that. She was astonishingly good. Her photo had been taken in a park but, opposite to Sherlock, it seemed her natural environment. She had been able catch the movement of four people walking at four different speeds and expose it on paper. The effect was almost flawless. She still had to work on the editing, but Mike was right: her talent surpassed her father's.

Molly put her arm under his.

"What do you think?"

"Anderson shou ld just quit. Irene could improve her use of light."

"Are you saying that you appreciate her work? That 's a first, Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Is it that strange?"

"Coming from you? You, who were once brave enough to criticise Cartier Bresson? That's not strange, that's like the sun suddenly turning blue. Or the oceans running d ry. Or snowing in the desert."

"It can actually snow in the desert, do you know? Besides, it was one of the worst shots of Cartier Bresson."

Some guests, champagne in their hands, were already looking at the pictures on the walls. Some nodded, some commented, some shook their heads. The atmosphere was almost of his liking: there wasn't much noise, and people seemed more interested in the art than in the artists. Some approached him to congratulate on both his exhibit in Paris and on his new photos, but they didn't disturb him for long. Mike had done a good job in selecting the guests. Nevertheless, he wished for it to finish soon, so he could go home.

Irene was deep into conversation with some skinny man with a green mohawk; Mike was going back and forth meeting each guest; Anderson was trying to flirt with a middle-aged woman who was showing some interest in his work; and Molly was dragging him to this or that guest whenever they caught her attention.

"Oh!" she exclaimed for the umpteenth time "Look who's here!"

"Who?" snorted Sherlock.

She indicated a man and a woman. The man was somehow familiar, but he was sure he had never seen the woman before. Molly waved to draw their attention. The man answered by waving his arm and, followed by the short haired woman, he came to them.

" Molly!" the man greeted with a rumbling voice, "It's been a long time!"

"Too long, always too long!"

Sherlock gave a perplexed look at Molly.

"Don't you remember him, Sherlock?"

The photographer shook his head and muttered his apologies.

"I'm sorry."

"It's been a long time, and we met only twice about...was it four or five years ago?"

"Five," replied Molly, "He's Richard Oaken, Sherlock. A film producer. He was that producer who asked you to be the director of photography in one of his films, but you refused."

Sherlock suddenly remembered the occasion.

"Yes, Richard, sorry."

"No problem at all. Let me introduce Ida, my wife, to you."

He smiled at the pretty young lady beside him.

"I'm Molly Hooper, publisher and editor. And he is..."

"Sherlock Hol mes, " said Ida, in a clearly Italian accent, "I've been following your career since I visited one of your exhibits in Naples. Your portraits are stunning."

Sherlock shook her hand and thanked her.

"Why are you here, Rick? Looking for something special?" Molly investigated.

"I'm currently working on a new project, and I need the best photographer for it. Therefore here I am. Sherlock, my proposal still stands."

"I'm still not interested, Rick. If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know."

"I'm counting on it."

-------- @ --------

Half an hour later, Sherlock checked the time. It was ten to ten and he was starting to feel sick of the place, of the people. Molly was still talking to Rick and had lost any interest in him, leaving him sitting alone on a stool with a glass of champagne. Had it not been for the fact that he was still waiting for the patron to show up, he would have already gone home. Irene had said he would have been there at around ten, so he kept waiting. When the clock struck ten, he decided that he had enough of that. He walked towards Molly to inform her of his decision.

As he walked to reach her, the main door flung wide open and a cold breeze hit Sherlock. He turned to see who it was.

A woman with long black curls stood beside a man whose hair was perfectly trimmed and carefully parted laterally. The fringe waved softly on his forehead, giving him a smart – yet not posh – look. His dark grey suit matched perfectly with his hair colour, and the burgundy tie stood smoothly against his skin complexion. Mike graciously approached him and as the stranger smiled back, the whole room seemed to brighten up.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times before being even able to connect his thoughts. It was impossible. He recollected all his memories and tried to make something out of them. He was so similar and yet so different. For a second the idea of being on the verge of insanity crossed his mind. He was seeing things which didn't exist. He blinked once more, but the figure didn't disappear.

He could have been the patron, considering how warmly Mike was greeting him. He could surely have been the patron.

But Sherlock had only one certainty. The man standing at the door was Subject: Unknown .