“Mary’s right,” Sherlock confirmed, holding one of the books up to show John a page – the dedication page. “It’s a second edition, and this one here,” he pointed to another book, “has this particular mark that is on all of Amelia Kipling’s special first editions. The second editions have a separate mark, and they’re both replicated on the spine of the books too. See?”
Sherlock pointed to a squiggly mark that meant nothing to John, but he could see matching marks in the stack of books on the table. “Okay,” John acknowledged. “It’s a bit pretentious, isn’t it?”
“Of course, there aren’t any third editions of her books, in the special editions print run,” Sherlock explained, ignoring John’s comment. “That makes these editions quite rare to find and own since of course, the first and second print runs were limited too. I think, perhaps, only a couple of hundred copies? They’re collector items!”
“Sherlock?” John asked, slowly. “How do you know all of this?”
“I have all of her books,” Sherlock explained. “A full set of first editions. I solved a case for a book collector a few years ago – run of the mill case in the end, rather boring, but as payment I asked if she could get me a full set of Amelia Kipling first editions. Took her quite a while to track down a full set of first editions but it was worth it. She also makes sure I’m on The List for any future books.”
John couldn’t help but snigger, ignoring Sherlock’s affronted look. “But Sherlock, this Kipling person. She writes children’s books. Aren’t you a little … old for that?”
“Great stories last the test of time, John,” Sherlock answered. “When you’re young, these books, these stories are the means by which you create the world in your mind, your imagination. As great and as big as you want it to be or as small and intimate as you need it to be. And when you’re older … and you go back to that same story. It’s still there.
“The same words in the same order. And you might still inhabit that imagined world just as when you were a child, or, as great stories are wont to be, it will have changed as you yourself have changed and be something new, be something wonderful again.”
“Wow,” John said, feeling a little embarrassed at teasing Sherlock just a moment earlier but in awe at the picture his friend was painting so elegantly. “I didn’t realise you were quite so enthusiastic about fiction books.”
“Not just any fiction books, John. Amelia Kipling’s fiction books,” Sherlock corrected, as his fingers slid over the hardback covers, tracing the embossed gold title script. “Her books are a cut above most of those authors and books purporting to be fiction.”
“So what’s so special about Kipling?” John asked. His interest rose even higher when he saw that Sherlock averted his gaze, was now wholly focussed on the book in his hand, his fingers tracing one of the first pages in the book.
“I, well … you see, John,” Sherlock started to say, verbally procrastinating. “The books, her stories. They remind me of…”
John waited patiently, something he had in great spades when it came to Sherlock, and plastered an encouraging look on his face when Sherlock glanced at him before averting his gaze. Clearly something personal going by the uncharacteristic hesitation.
“The airstrip. In January, John. Do you remember my telling you about the East Wind,” Sherlock said in an apparent shift in conversation.
“The East Wind,” John repeated slowly, narrowing his eyes as he mentally searched his memory. “That takes us all in the end. A terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path.”
Sherlock nodded. “Seeking out the unworthy and plucks them from the East.”
“You said Mycroft told you that story when you were both younger,” John recalled.
“We were both kids, if you can imagine us that young. The first time Mycroft ever told me the tale about the East Wind was when I was learning everything there was about the history of England, of Great Britain,” Sherlock explained. “I’ve deleted most of it now but I do remember reading all about The Great War, the First World War, and Mycroft used the story of the East Wind to explain how a better, stronger land was left once the storm had passed.”
John felt, and was sure he looked, nonplussed. “Right…”
FILL PART 2C: For Will, I Dedicate To You (Sherlock, John POV)
Sherlock pointed to a squiggly mark that meant nothing to John, but he could see matching marks in the stack of books on the table. “Okay,” John acknowledged. “It’s a bit pretentious, isn’t it?”
“Of course, there aren’t any third editions of her books, in the special editions print run,” Sherlock explained, ignoring John’s comment. “That makes these editions quite rare to find and own since of course, the first and second print runs were limited too. I think, perhaps, only a couple of hundred copies? They’re collector items!”
“Sherlock?” John asked, slowly. “How do you know all of this?”
“I have all of her books,” Sherlock explained. “A full set of first editions. I solved a case for a book collector a few years ago – run of the mill case in the end, rather boring, but as payment I asked if she could get me a full set of Amelia Kipling first editions. Took her quite a while to track down a full set of first editions but it was worth it. She also makes sure I’m on The List for any future books.”
John couldn’t help but snigger, ignoring Sherlock’s affronted look. “But Sherlock, this Kipling person. She writes children’s books. Aren’t you a little … old for that?”
“Great stories last the test of time, John,” Sherlock answered. “When you’re young, these books, these stories are the means by which you create the world in your mind, your imagination. As great and as big as you want it to be or as small and intimate as you need it to be. And when you’re older … and you go back to that same story. It’s still there.
“The same words in the same order. And you might still inhabit that imagined world just as when you were a child, or, as great stories are wont to be, it will have changed as you yourself have changed and be something new, be something wonderful again.”
“Wow,” John said, feeling a little embarrassed at teasing Sherlock just a moment earlier but in awe at the picture his friend was painting so elegantly. “I didn’t realise you were quite so enthusiastic about fiction books.”
“Not just any fiction books, John. Amelia Kipling’s fiction books,” Sherlock corrected, as his fingers slid over the hardback covers, tracing the embossed gold title script. “Her books are a cut above most of those authors and books purporting to be fiction.”
“So what’s so special about Kipling?” John asked. His interest rose even higher when he saw that Sherlock averted his gaze, was now wholly focussed on the book in his hand, his fingers tracing one of the first pages in the book.
“I, well … you see, John,” Sherlock started to say, verbally procrastinating. “The books, her stories. They remind me of…”
John waited patiently, something he had in great spades when it came to Sherlock, and plastered an encouraging look on his face when Sherlock glanced at him before averting his gaze. Clearly something personal going by the uncharacteristic hesitation.
“The airstrip. In January, John. Do you remember my telling you about the East Wind,” Sherlock said in an apparent shift in conversation.
“The East Wind,” John repeated slowly, narrowing his eyes as he mentally searched his memory. “That takes us all in the end. A terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path.”
Sherlock nodded. “Seeking out the unworthy and plucks them from the East.”
“You said Mycroft told you that story when you were both younger,” John recalled.
“We were both kids, if you can imagine us that young. The first time Mycroft ever told me the tale about the East Wind was when I was learning everything there was about the history of England, of Great Britain,” Sherlock explained. “I’ve deleted most of it now but I do remember reading all about The Great War, the First World War, and Mycroft used the story of the East Wind to explain how a better, stronger land was left once the storm had passed.”
John felt, and was sure he looked, nonplussed. “Right…”