Chapter Text
The Solitary Hunter Trilogy
Series One: Dépaysement
“the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them”
Cause And Effect by Charles Bukowski
~*~*~
Chapter One: Twist My Arm Then
“John?”
At the sound of his wife’s voice, Dr. John Watson jumped in his seat and turned around. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly as Mary placed her hand on his shoulder, bending down to give a kiss on his temple “Thought you were sleeping.”
She pulled out the dining room chair right next to him. Sitting down, studying him sitting in front of his laptop computer in nothing but his pajamas bottoms and a rumpled t-shirt, she said “You’ll catch your death of cold, sitting out here in the chill, you know. And I wasn’t asleep. Not really, I was feeling a bit out of sorts, so I was already awake when you got out of bed. Thought you were fed up with my tossing and turning,” she smiled, giving his wrist a squeeze.
Instantly apologetic, John turned away from his laptop and placed his hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry, love. I wasn’t fed up at all. Can I get you anything? Tea?”
“No. Not right now, thanks. Just wanted to see what’s making you burn the midnight oil again. You’re becoming just about as bad as him, you know,” she teased.
“Now why would you go and say a rotten thing like that?” John teased back, patting her hand. “I don’t wake you up in the middle of the night playing the bloody violin or keep body parts in our refrigerator.”
“Immediate divorce if I ever find eyeballs in my microwave,” Mary said promptly.
“Should have added that bit to our wedding vows,” John said.
“But,” she said softly, “You’ve not been eating or sleeping properly. Like him.”
John leaned back in his chair. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?” he affectionately smoothed her blonde hair off her forehead. “You’re becoming as observant as him, you know.”
“Well, I can’t help observing when you don’t eat your dinner and don’t sleep in our bed,” she said primly but her eyes were wide with worry. “John, love…”
“I don’t need to go back to the therapist, Mary,” John said firmly. “I don’t. I know you think I do. But I don’t.”
“What you really mean is you don’t want to,” Mary retorted, wrapping her pink dressing gown tighter around her body then crossing her arms.
“Now hang on, I don’t want to have a row,” John said tiredly. Judging how she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, he knew she was perfectly ready to have a row. “I just need… if I could only… see, talking about it isn’t going to do me a bit of good because I can’t get my thoughts organized and I wander off track and forget what I’m trying to say, what I need to get out. If I could just…” Frustrated, he gestured towards the computer. “If I can just write out what I’m feeling and thinking, then I’ll feel better because it will be out instead of in. Writing helped me after the war and after The Fall,” John could hear the words “The Fall” capitalize as he spoke. “The Fall” always meant that horrible day at St. Bart’s…
Isn’t that what people do? Leave a note?
He cleared his throat. “It’s just writer’s block. I can’t think of a proper way to blog about it, that’s all. It’s just such a huge, complicated monster of a story; I don’t know how to condense it.”
Mary’s lips had relaxed and her eyes had softened while John spoke. When he had finished, she said “Then don’t. Write about what happened like a story instead of a blog.”
“A story?” John said as Mary rose from the table. “You mean, write a book? Instead of a blog?”
“I always thought you could make a fortune writing proper novels about your adventures with Sherlock Holmes rather than blog about them. You’re a fantastic writer, you know. Shouldn’t confine your gift to a few paragraphs on an online journal,” she pushed her chair in. “I’m going to put the kettle on, don’t get up,” she said sternly as John started to rise. “You’re not going to sleep anyway. We’ll have a cuppa and you can start plugging away.”
“I don’t want you to be fussing over me if you’re not feeling well,” John insisted.
“Oh sit down, I feel better moving about and I feel much better now I know what’s rolling around in that head of yours,” it was her turn to stroke his hair. “I can tell you’ve been running your hands through your hair, you look like a hedgehog with his quills sticking up.”
“You say the most loving things Mary Watson,” John took her hand and kissed her palm. “Really know how to make a man feel special.”
She whispered in his ear “I’ll make you feel extra special later if you write a page worth of words tonight,” but as she walked away, she added cheekily “And if I’m still awake, of course.”
“Oh of course,” he called over his shoulder. He smiled as she disappeared into the kitchen and soon he could hear the rattle of mugs and spoons and kettle. But when Mary came back, he had already written two paragraphs of a novel he would eventually call “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist”…
***
11 March 2015
London, England
Wednesday
12:45 PM
Once the dust settled down from his spectacular rise from the grave, life carried on almost as it had before at 221B Baker Street. Of course, it took a very long time for the dust to settle. One does not take a swan dive off the roof of a prominent London hospital only to reappear two years later without any sort of repercussions.
John still did not regret hitting Sherlock in the face multiple times for that little stunt. Well, didn’t regret it much. Plus it amused him how Sherlock stayed a good arm’s length distance away from him for a while. Until he deduced John was finished being angry with him for faking his death, of course.
Admittedly pulling him out of that ruddy bonfire helped soften John’s attitude towards Sherlock.
Even though John finally (mostly) forgave Sherlock for the hell he put him, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly for The Fall, things of course, could not stay the same. And they most certainly could not stay the same after the wretched Charles Augustus Magnussen case. He was trying to be a proper husband to Mary again after their estrangement last year. He was also a practicing physician again. He couldn’t go dashing off on some adventure whenever Sherlock beckoned and called.
Or so he tried to explain to Sherlock over and over again with zero to little effect. For example, on a damp, miserable day like today, when surgery was jam-packed with sick babies and coughing children with their worried mothers in tow, he received and ignored at least ten irritating texts from Sherlock sent within a thirty minute time period. While he was trying to gulp down a cup of tea and eat a bit of a lunch before his next appointment, he received yet another irritating text; only this one was from Lestrade:
“Was told to text you since you’ve been ignoring him. At crime scene. Lazarus needs his blogger – GL.”
Then another irritating text swiftly followed:
“Hurry. Before we test our theory whether or not he can rise from the dead a second time. – GL.”
“Oh for the love of God,” John rubbed his eyes and looked at his diary. Filled to the last minute with appointments. Not to mention all the walk-ins. This flu-and-cold season was more vicious this spring than it had been last winter.
His mobile chirped again. “Donovan is loading her gun. – GL.”
John uttered a string of foul curse words he hadn’t used since his military days then he picked up the telephone on his desk to ring the office manager “Anna? I’m so sorry, but I’ve got an emergency. I need to have my afternoon appointments rescheduled.”
Knowing full well Anna would be plotting his eminent demise (again) for leaving early (again) on account of Great Consulting Detective (again); John put on his coat and the warm blue scarf Mrs. Hudson gave him last Christmas. Then he texted Lestrade for directions to the crime scene before pulling his gloves on. A twinkle of curiosity flickered through his guilty conscience for abandoning the other doctors and nurses on duty. What could possibly be so earth-shattering that Sherlock forced Lestrade to contact him after he ignored all of Sherlock’s other texts? Normally Sherlock gave up after John ignored at least thirty of his texts.
John soon saw well enough why Sherlock had summoned him once he arrived at the crime scene, a very run-down part of London with a less than savory reputation. But this particular grimy side-street was packed with fire trucks and ambulances. John knew Sherlock hadn’t texted because he needed another pair of eyes. What was needed was another pair of hands. Doctor’s hands. Even two blocks away, John could see walking wounded weaving in and out on the streets and pavements as well as cops and medics trying to restore order or rather contain the chaos.
Moriarty… the name skittered across his mind like a spider before he could stop himself.
“Did you hear about this on the news?” John asked. “I’ve been in surgery all day.”
“Not a pip,” the cabbie said, a very confused young man with a thick Scottish burr. “Either someone’s trying to hush this up or it just happened.”
“Don’t think they can hush this up,” John said, instantly angry at Lestrade’s cavalier attitude towards this destruction. Sherlock, well, he had come to expect to be insensitive. Lestrade’s sarcastic texts, on the other hand, grated on his nerves more than ever.
“Don’t think I canna get closer to the address you need to go,” the cabbie said.
“I don’t think that address exists anymore anyway,” John dug into his pocket for his wallet. Pulling out notes, he said “I’ll get out here, thanks.”
Once out of the cab, John made a beeline for the first ambulance he saw and got a medic’s kit and gloves. Chaos reigned as sirens wailed, police shouted and victims staggered in the streets. He tried to assess and treat as many as he could on his way to the building he assumed was bombed (why else would Sherlock Holmes, The World’s Only Consulting Detective get involved if it wasn’t a bombing?) but most people were more interested in getting out of the area rather than seeking medical treatment. For the first time all day, John was grateful it was damp and drizzling. He hated to think how fast the fire might have spread otherwise. The smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air, making his eyes tear up.
He felt his mobile vibrate in his coat pocket but he steadfastly ignored it. Sherlock and Lestrade could wait. The injured couldn’t. He stayed near the ambulance and administered oxygen to those suffering from smoke inhalation, poured saline solution in reddened eyes, patched up bloody cuts the best he could under the circumstances and applied cold compresses and silverdine ointment to minor burns. He quietly and selfishly thanked God other medics and doctors were handling the actual triage responsibility. His worst PTSD nightmares were always replays of the days when he had to decide who would have a chance to resume broken lives and who it would be more merciful to let die.
Feeling more exhausted in two hours than an eight hour stretch in surgery, John found himself pulling shards of glass out of an unfortunate plump woman in her mid-fifties, who, in her haste to escape the madness, tripped and fell onto the pavement littered with the glass of a broken shop window. John knew she was trying to be brave, but he also noticed (using his “Sherlock eyes” as he called it when he consciously looked for details others overlooked) how hard she bit her lower lip. “I know, I know,” he said soothingly as he daintily pulled another sliver of glass out of her palm the same way a lady might pluck out an eyebrow hair. “It is a dreadful business, but we’re almost through, I promise.”
She gave him a watery smile. “Did the hospital send your or are you here with Mr. Holmes?” she asked in a faint voice. Apologetically she added “I recognized you from the telly, you see. After the whole…” she trailed off and shook her head.
“Yes, yes, of course,” John gently cut her off, understanding she was in complete shock. Still, he took a minute to double-check her pupils, just to reassure himself she wasn’t concussed. “Well, I suppose it’s a bit of both that I’m here, isn’t it? Now, I need you to be brave just a minute more, there’s one more bad’un I need to pull out, then we’ll wrap you up and get you to the hospital to get this properly disinfected and wrapped up, OK?”
She nodded and gnawed on her lip again. Only this time, she did give a yelp of pain even though John tried to be as delicate as possible, but it was a hateful jagged piece of glass that took a bit of flesh along with it when he pulled it out. “There,” he said, disposing of the glass and putting the tweezers down. “All finished. Let’s get this washed up and wrapped up, shall we?”
“Oi! Dr. Watson?” the young medic in charge of the ambulance John had ended up volunteering at jogged up to him. “I think we can take it from here. Your mate is probably waiting for you up there,” he gestured towards the bombsite.”
“Right,” he muttered, still not comfortable being recognized or goggled at, not even after all this time “Let me finish with… I’m sorry, dear, didn’t catch your name?”
“Rita,” she said as John applied clean cotton wool to her hands, now bleeding anew. “Rita Stuart,” then she smiled wanly “but I’m not a meter-maid.”
“Well, lovely Rita,” John reached for the gauze, “You were brilliant,” he smiled warmly at her “Just brilliant. Let me finish binding this and send you on your way, okay?”
After Rita was sent on her way, the young medic shook John’s hand after he peeled off the latex medical gloves. “Cheers, mate, I mean that. Was bit overwhelmed. Never seen anything this bad before.”
“Yes, well,” John said, feeling a blush creep up on his face. “Hippocratic oath and all that. I should…” he tilted his head towards the bombsite.
“Right, right, right, of course. Good to meet you Dr. Watson,” he grinned at John “My girlfriend’s never going to believe I met Sherlock’s blogger.”
“Mmm,” John said, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes before turning away to walk to the two blocks to the bombsite. The closer he got to the hull of a building, blackened and smoldering, he noticed how all the windows in the nearby buildings as well as the car windows were blown out, the actual neighboring buildings themselves seemed to be mostly unharmed. Odd, he thought.
When he reached the police tape, he saw his friend, meandering around the edges, getting as close to the rubble as the heat and damage would allow, holding his scarf to his nose and mouth to avoid breathing in the soot and ashes. Knowing that Sherlock would be consumed by the wreckage, John stalked over to Lestrade, who was less than three feet from the consulting detective. “Hey,” John shouted to Lestrade, who had just finished barking some orders into a walkie-talkie “Greg, over here.”
“John. Was wondering when I was going to see you pop up,” Lestrade said, looking at his watch as he walked over to lift the tape up so John could enter the crime scene.
“Yeah thanks for the head’s up about... about… THIS,” John waved his arms towards the destroyed building once he was on the other side of the tape. “I only came because I thought Sherlock was annoying everyone and Donovan was getting ready to murder him-“
“Hang on,” Lestrade ran his hand over his silvery hair, his brows crinkled in confusion. “Where did you get an idea like that? Granted, it’s not a huge leap to make, but Donovan’s not even here. She’s handling a different call. Clear across on the other side of the city.”
“You texted me that Donovan was getting ready to shoot Sherlock!”
“Oh bloody hell,” Lestrade muttered, digging in his coat pockets. Then he bawled out “SHERLOCK! GIVE ME BACK MY MOBILE!”
Even though he heard perfectly well what Lestrade shouted, Sherlock merely crouched down, staring intently at the pavement, letting his scarf slip from his slender fingers. Then he closed those intense, unsettling eyes of his. Studying the way he started waving his hands about, John knew Sherlock was not in this world, but mentally wandering around in that dratted “mind palace” of his. “Oh he’s not going to acknowledge your existence right now,” John sighed. “How’d you keep this out of the news?”
“The old gas leak story,” Lestrade said “Did not want to start a panic until we knew exactly what we were dealing with.” He paused “With You-Know-Who also making an afterlife appearance and all…”
“Right…” John suppressed a shudder remembering Jim Moriarty’s big screen debut only a few months ago. Merry Christmas… Ironically, the Spider’s return had saved Sherlock from choosing between a life-sentence for murdering Charles Augustus Magnussen or a suicide mission for MI-6.
John still wasn’t certain what Sherlock had been doing for Mycroft in regards to the Moriarty Resurrection. Both brothers had sternly told John not to pry. John had a sinking feeling it wasn’t him they wanted to keep information from… but from Mary…
John now felt chilly, miserable and bone-tired. The adrenaline from treating the hurt had worn off. He desperately wanted a hot cup of tea and then sleep. He now noticed his socks felt damp. He wished he had worn sensible footwear instead of his work shoes. Then he looked down and saw the blood on his good coat as well as the nice scarf Mrs. Hudson had given him. “Damn,” he muttered. In a louder voice, he asked Lestrade “How’d you know it wasn’t just a gas leak?”
“Because I received a call telling me this location was going to blow in thirty seconds before it did,” Lestrade said flatly “And no. I didn’t get a chance to trace the call and I didn’t recognize the voice. It was a woman’s voice who said simply there was a bomb in this building and it was going to go off in sixty seconds. Then she rang off and a minute later, the 999 calls started flooding the switchboards.” He cast a dirty look towards Sherlock’s general direction. He was still crouched down and still moving his hands around like a man trying to push his way through a massive spider web. “He already interrogated me,” Lestrade snarled.
“What was here? Was this building anything special?”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said, “A surgery.”
“Sorry?”
“A surgery,” Lestrade repeated grimly. “Full of sick kids and old people. Poor folks who can’t get to a decent doctor or hospital from this godforsaken neighborhood.”
“Jesus,” John’s stomach roiled as he thought about the ill children and upset mothers he had left behind at his surgery. “Jesus… Any survivors?”
Lestrade shook his head. “Not inside, no. Serious injuries outside the building… superficial wounds the further away from the blast they were. But-“
“Detective Inspector?” an unfamiliar voice called out. “We need you over here.”
“Go,” John said, feeling the drizzle turning into a proper rain. “I’ll get your mobile back.”
Lestrade pulled his jacket’s hood over his head, “Thanks,” he said as he hurried off.
John shivered as he walked the few steps over to Sherlock, still crouched down. His beautiful Belstaff coat pooled around him like a lady’s formal dress, becoming waterlogged by the rain. But John saw he had stopped waving his hands around like a lunatic and his eyes had opened, staring at the ruins. “Rain’s washing away the evidence,” he muttered as a greeting, wrapping his long arms around his thin legs, hugging himself, shivering as well.
John knelt down beside him. “If you catch a cold, don’t come whinging to me, I’m cross with you. You can’t just order me to leave my job just because you’re having difficulty with yours. How’d you feel if I told you to drop everything you’re doing because I need your help at the surgery?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock murmured. “I would never come if you tried to command me.”
“True, but Sherlock-“
“What do you know about IEDs?” he interrupted.
“I know I hate them,” John responded promptly, knowing immediately Sherlock meant Improvised Explosive Device. “I had to patch up several blokes in Afghanistan because of those damned things. Lost a fair few too… wait, are you saying…?”
“Observe before we lose everything to the rain,” Sherlock pointed to the pavement. “See the black marks on the pavement? Scorch marks. Detonation spots. I spotted three such marks here before this cursed rain started falling.”
“Marks will probably still be there when the rain stops,” John said reasonably but Sherlock shook his head.
“Yes, but look John,” he pointed at the rubble now, “Look how the soot is already turning into a black sludge in. This will all be a big muddy mess in minutes,” Sherlock sulked, holding out his hand, watching the raindrops fall on his palm.
“So the blast came from without instead of within?” John asked, trying to steer Sherlock away from a temper tantrum.
“Obviously. Look at how the rubble is arranged. Not sprayed all over the place like it exploded out, but rather caved in on itself. Also, the buildings on the right and left are damaged but not destroyed. If the bomb had been inside, the flying debris would have taken out the neighboring buildings as well.”
John wracked his brain, trying to recall everything he knew about the accursed things, those dirty things that stole the lives and limbs of so many soldiers, so many young people. “There had to be more than three to blow up a building like this.”
“Agreed but Lestrade wouldn’t permit me to get any closer to the building than this or to go around back,” the sulky tone still in his voice. “So while it is logical to say that there has to be more than three to destroy a building of this size, even an old, small run-down building such as this, I do not have the data to substantiate that sort of claim.” He pointed to the sky, “Three on the roof, or one main bomb. Then three,” he pointed down to the pavement, “down here and three in back. Two in the alleys on either side. All disguised as ordinary things, bits of rubbish and litter so no one would notice or suspect. The smaller bombs would go off first, as a distraction. The larger bombs, on the roof, to collapse the building, ensuring that the damage would be localized just here. Similar to what they do in Las Vegas when they blow up an old hotel building as a show for the tourists before beginning to build anew.” Despite the cold rain, a smile crossed his face “Ingenious, really… impressive, actually…” The smile widened.
“Sherlock,” John said softly, sternly.
“Not good?”
“Dead kids,” he reminded him “Never good.” His knees and back aching from kneeling, he stood up and said “Come on, you’re right, the rain is washing everything important away. Let’s head back to Baker Street for a cuppa, I’m freezi- oh no,” John profoundly wished he hadn’t turned around, hadn’t made eye contact. Despite the rain, he could clearly see who waited for them on the other side of the police tape. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t get up, don’t turn around.”
“Who is standing at the police tape that you don’t want me to see,” Sherlock asked irritably, but to his credit, he stayed in his crouched position, facing the rubble. “Or to be accurate, who don’t you want to see me?”
“Kitty Riley,” John said, loathing lacing every syllable.
“Oh her,” Sherlock said scornfully. “Yes, she’s been flitting around the whole time like the flea she is. I smelled her foul perfume when I arrived here earlier actually. Was curious if she had planned on growing a backbone and showing her face or just sulk in the shadows. Although I’m mildly impressed she’s the only reporter not to believe Lestrade’s old gas leak explosion story.”
“Just stay here, please,” John said, glaring at the disgraced journalist who hovered by the police tape, holding a navy blue umbrella, wearing a proper rain coat and wellingtons. “Let me handle this, OK?”
Sherlock scowled but he complied with John’s wish and flipped his coat collar up to better hide his face when John removed his hand. “Careful,” he said softly, sardonically “That little shark might smell the blood on your jacket.”
John wasted no time storming over towards Riley. “Leave,” he said briskly before she could even say hello “Before you have yet another libel suit to contend with.”
“Hard to believe the great and immortal Mr. Holmes would be interested in a gas leak explosion,” Kitty Riley smiled, showing all her teeth but John could hear the sneer in her voice. Sherlock’s dig about her being a shark was spot-on, actually. “What’s really going on, Dr. Watson?”
“What’s going on is the routine police investigation which follows any sort of explosion that Mr. Holmes and I were called in as consultants due to our combined experience. Nothing more, nothing less. Now, good day, Miss Riley.”
“First you believe the lies, now you repeat them,” Riley said, her smile now icy. “I’m not leaving until someone tells me the truth what happened here today.”
“I’ve told you what you need to know and now I’m tired of your little grudge match,” John stood nearly nose-to-nose with the foul woman. “You need to go. Immediately. Before I call over the Detective Inspector to escort you away seeing he’s even less of a fan of you and your writings than I am. You have absolutely no business being here. Especially since you got sacked after losing all the lawsuits and no paper or television station will touch you.”
“Grudge match?” she snapped, giving up all pretense of civility. “Oh this goes beyond a grudge match, Dr. Watson. I know Richard Brooks was innocent-“
“Oh dear God,” John groaned.
Had she been out of the country when “Richard Brooks” hijacked every screen in England?
Riley kept talking: “And that junkie, that psychopath kneeling in the mud over there in his fancy coat murdered Richard then faked his own death to get away with it and then returns to the land of the living like nothing ever happened. Well, Dr. Watson, while I admire you and your loyalty to your friend, I swear I will expose Sherlock Holmes for the utter fraud that he is.”
“You know, you come up with brilliant fiction, you really do,” John said, clenching his fists, feeling rage spreading through his body, warming him in the cold spring rain. “You really need to find a job where you can use your gifts… ah wait, I know. They’re hiring over at FOX News. In America. Hop across the pond and work over there, won’t you?”
“Is there a problem?” Lestrade materialized by John’s side, glaring at Riley. Lestrade still had his hood up over his head. John hadn’t known who stood next to him until he heard his voice.
“I was just leaving, Detective Inspector,” Riley said, turning on her heel.
As soon as the former reporter was safely out of earshot, Lestrade said tersely “Stupid bint.”
“Agreed,” John unclenched his fists.
“I don’t believe in hitting women, but in her case, I’d consider making an exception.”
“Queue up then,” John said before he could help himself. “Come on, I think we can safely get your mobile back now.”
“Any theories?” Lestrade asked when they reached Sherlock, still crouching down, the hems of his coat a soggy, muddy mess now.
“Hm?” Sherlock said dreamily “Sorry… I was recalling how before I jumped off the roof that I briefly fantasized ringing Miss Riley up and asking if she’s mind laying on the ground below to cushion my fall. After all,” he stood up, graceful as a cat. “It wouldn’t have been the first time a man used her as a mattress.”
While Lestrade sniggered John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock comments like that were Absolutely Positively Not Good. But when he remembered the utterly derogatory comments he and Lestrade had made about Riley only a few seconds ago, he snapped his mouth shut very quickly, deciding against this particular lecture. When it came to Sherlock and manners, it was all about picking your battles. Kitty Riley definitely was not worth battling over.
“Despite all the evidence to the contrary, despite his face being on every fucking telly and mobile screen in England, that daft girl still believes ‘Richard Brooks’ was real,” Lestrade informed Sherlock.
“Obviously. She was in love with the Richard persona and now has formed an obsessive sentimental attachment to the memory of a figment of her imagination. Jim Moriarty became whatever she needed him to be in order coerce her into slandering me. The Middle Child Syndrome couldn’t be more apparent in her personality: ‘Mummy, Daddy, look at me, look at me, love me, pay attention to me instead of my popular older sister or my adorable baby brother.’ That’s not a guess, by the way. When John and I were in her hideous flat, I saw a small framed photograph of her family in her lounge. Despite the dreadful hair and fashions popular in the Eighties, I was still able to deduct that her older sister was the charming one and her little brother was the cute one.” Sherlock abruptly turned and walked towards the police tape. John and Lestrade had to jog to keep up with Sherlock’s long-legged stride.
Sherlock kept his diatribe flowing as he walked, not bothering to avoid puddles. “So, denied affection from her idiot parents, Miss Riley’s desire for attention and affection plus her enviable connections in the media world made her a perfect target for Moriarty’s manipulations,” He lifted the police tape, not even looking to see if John and Lestrade were still behind him.
“Now “Richard’s” gone and ergo, the love and security she associated with “Richard” is gone, so Miss Riley has decided to deal with her grief and loss by creating this pointless vendetta against me (which she will ultimately lose, by the way) instead of pursuing more productive and attainable goals. She will not however let go of her need for revenge as of right now because first she is not willing to admit she was thick enough to be deceived by such an obvious ploy as love and second is she not willing to take responsibility for her role in the series of unfortunate events that led me to jumping off the roof of St. Bart’s.” He paused, closing his eyes. “Boring,” he proclaimed, slicking his wet hair back. He turned his head up to feel the raindrops splash on his face, “Boring and predictable.”
“That may be,” John said giving Sherlock a gentle push so he would continue walking away from the bombed out building and towards Lestrade’s car. “But she’s still going to be a thorn in our sides for quite some time.”
“Also boring,” Sherlock said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, ducking his head. His wet curls fell in his eyes again “Detective Inspector, if not inconvenient, could you please drive John and I to Baker Street but only take the back way and let us out behind the building? Miss Riley undoubtedly has alerted the media that this was no gas leak explosion and the paparazzi will be waiting at my front door.”
“Mrs. Hudson is going to have kittens,” John said as Lestrade asked “How’re you going to get inside Baker Street? Want me to have a few uniforms waiting to keep the mob back?”
“No,” Sherlock said as Lestrade unlocked his car doors. “We’ll go up the fire escapes and go through the skylight in John’s old room, like before.”
“What? No,” John said as he sat up front with Lestrade and Sherlock climbed in the back seat. “I know it’s great fun for you to thumb your nose at the paps by sneaking in and out of 221B, but I really don’t fancy the idea of climbing around wet ladders and running around the rooftops like brain-damaged monkeys.”
“What,” Sherlock said coldly “makes you think I have any fondness for roofs?”
Lestrade cleared his throat to cut the uncomfortable silence as he started driving. “It’s really no problem for me to call some boys to keep the paps back if you really think that stupid girl would alert the media. Anderson’s still on my shit list, I can call him.”
By some minor miracle, Anderson got his job back at The Met. Sally Donovan had held on to hers by only the slenderest of threads.
“No,” Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head, steepling his fingers underneath his chin.
“Sherlock, don’t be an idiot,” John turned around in his seat to face his friend. “Come with me to my house. Stay a few days until the photogs get bored and go away. Mary’s got the guest room all fixed up, it looks really ni-“
“No.” This refusal was more forceful than before.
“Sherlock, come on-“
“I would prefer to go home now,” Sherlock enunciated every word clearly as if he was speaking to either a very dim child or someone who was learning English as a second language.
“We could go to a pub, get a bite or a pint?” Lestrade attempted again to smooth things over but John just shook his head.
“It’s fine,” John lied because it wasn’t fine. Not by a long shot.
One of the obvious repercussions of Sherlock’s miracle return was his utter and complete contempt of the media. He barely tolerated the press prior to The Fall as it was. But Sherlock became literally allergic to the press after the disastrous Magnussen case. He had led on Magnussen’s personal assistant, Janine in an attempt to gain access to Magnussen’s penthouse. He even went as so far as to propose to the poor girl… with disastrous results.
In revenge, Janine sold the tabloids sordid details about a love affair that never happened. Only John understood why Sherlock let Janine get away with it, but not Kitty Riley.
Sherlock had hurt Janine, cut her deep with his deceit. Not suing her was his way of acknowledging the wrong he caused her. It was John who had to call the tabloids, threaten them with additional litigation if they did not retract their stories.
But the whole debacle only made Sherlock hate the press even more, especially after he learned how people like Magnussen manipulated it. Soon his hatred began to manifest itself in physical symptoms.
After suffering through a press conference his elder brother Mycroft forced him into after Moriarty made his unnerving reappearance, John had to go to Baker Street with a prescription-strength salve to treat a painfully itchy outbreak of hives which had erupted across Sherlock’s neck, arms and beautiful hands. He had snarled and fidgeted and complained bitterly about not being to play the violin for a week while his hands healed.
Even now, looking in the wing mirror, John saw Sherlock unsteeple his fingers and, with his brows furrowed and lips pressed tightly together, ball up his right hand while reaching around to scratch the back of his neck with his left. John hoped there was still some of the salve left over otherwise Sherlock was going to be in for a wretched night.
John did not blame him for having such a violent reaction towards the press, even before Janine had sold him out. Three years ago, the press had been so willing to prosecute, convict and condemn him in the public eye before having all the facts about the American ambassador’s children. They saw only what Moriarty had wanted them to see but if any of them, if just one journalist had enough nerve, enough courage to look deeper at the picture Moriarty painted, to read between the lines of his twisted fairy tale, to actually do their damn job and investigate…
Cowards, he thought. The lot of them… but I suppose that’s neither here nor there and now that they know Sherlock and I will sue them for libel and slander, the reporters aren’t too quick to leap to conclusions now are they? John reminded himself.
After all, the down payment for the tidy little terrace house in London he and Mary now resided at came from the settlement from his lawsuit against Kitty Riley and the detestable tabloid that had employed her. Sherlock had been right; living in that rented house in the suburbs had been intolerable. One of his conditions with reuniting with Mary was they had to move back to the city.
He had no idea what Sherlock did with the money he won from his lawsuit. He wondered if Sherlock would have even filed suit against Kitty Riley’s tabloid if Mycroft hadn’t nagged him incessantly about it.
Mycroft. A not so obvious repercussion from the Fall and Rise. They already had an unhealthy, strained relationship to begin with. But it had steadily worsened ever since Sherlock returned… the first and the second time. John knew Mycroft had been angry when Sherlock returned (the first time) but didn’t understand why Mycroft was still livid with Sherlock (the second time). Granted John had been furious and hurt as well, but once he pried it out of Molly Hooper exactly why Sherlock left (the first time) … Why he had jumped, the sacrifice he made...
Well, maybe I shouldn’t have tried to beat him up three times in a row in one night… John reflected as Lestrade maneuvered through London’s terrifying traffic. But Mycroft…
Not that John had a fantastic, warm, loving relationship with his sister Harry by any stretch of the imagination. Didn’t even bother to show up for my own wedding… However he knew in his heart-of-hearts if Harry had disappeared then came back from the dead, he would be grateful she was unharmed. Would try a bit harder to build a loving relationship with her. Mycroft on the other hand had turned positively glacial during the past year or so. In public, he still said the correct things a man should say about the return of the prodigal brother, but it was a completely different story behind closed doors. No killing of the fatted calf for Sherlock.
Meaning well (and also tired of the paparazzi putting everyone living at Baker Street essentially under house arrest) Mrs. Hudson had asked Mycroft to intervene. Sherlock had balked when Mycroft “suggested” he come stay at their family home in the country until the paparazzi found a new story to sink their talons into. John and Mary, Molly and Mrs. Hudson had ganged up on Sherlock to go at once when they all realized he hadn’t left the flat in three days and had been suffering silently with another bout of those dreadful hives…. Well not in complete silence.
There were more bullet holes in the wall now.
It had seemed like a good idea for Sherlock to go at the time, especially after the entire Charles Augustus Magnussen nightmare. With a stab of guilt, John vividly and suddenly remembered the dreadful night a month ago when he and Mary had to drive to the Holmes’ estate in the middle of Bloody Effing Nowhere to fetch Sherlock after they both received a text that simply read “TAKE ME HOME NOW – SH”.
Sherlock never used all-caps.
After an already stressful night caused by getting lost in the English countryside trying to find the damnable place, it had been nearly two in the morning when they finally knocked at the front door. Despite the late hour, a tuxedoed servant (butler? John hadn’t been sure what the man’s proper job title was but he had honestly believed servants only wore livery on television dramas like Downton Abbey) had answered and immediately escorted John and Mary to a beautiful library, full of antique furniture, old books and regal paintings. John and Mary followed the butler, mouths hanging open. They had both met Mr. and Mrs. Holmes on a few occasions… nice and ordinary as you can please. John and Mary had looked at each other, asking each other silently the same question: where in the hell did all this wealth come from?
John and Mary had felt profoundly out of place in the estate, both wearing blue jeans and trainers. Mary had pulled on one of John’s old jumpers before they left and her hair had been held back by kirby pins. John’s hair had been sticking up like hedgehog quills, as Mary would say and he only had time to grab his jacket so he had spent most of the night shivering in a thin coat and gray t-shirt. He had never felt so raggedy in his life.
Sherlock of course, was wearing one of his slim-cut designer suits, black, naturally. He had stood with his back to them, his hands loosely clasped behind him, in front of the fire place, but when he turned around, Mary gave a little gasp, almost a scream.
“What… what the bloody hell, Sherlock?” John had spluttered when he saw the cut lip, the Elastoplast over one eyebrow. He then saw there were flecks of dried blood on his normally pristine white dress shirt. A few buttons had popped off his shirt as well.
Then he noticed all the game boards and pieces scattered everywhere: Cluedo, Operation, Trivial Pursuit (Genius Edition) and Monopoly, a total juxtaposition to regal looking library with its high mahogany shelves full of leather bound books.
“Oh good, you’re earlier than I thought,” Sherlock had said calmly, as if they were just picking him up to go to the cinema or out to lunch. “Shall we?”He reached down and collected his coat, scarf, suitcase and violin case. John then saw the cuts and scrapes on Sherlock’s hands
“What happened?” Mary had started to ask but Mycroft appeared, giving both John and Mary a fright. Mycroft had also looked the worse for wear. Instead of his neat suits, he was actually in pajamas, dressing gown and slippers. His nose however had looked dreadfully puffy and his right eye had been blackened. He also had not been moving very quickly.
“Brother dear, I have decided to return to London,” Sherlock had said breezily, striding out of the library as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“An excellent idea,” Mycroft had responded dryly.
“Give my regards to Mother,” Sherlock had called as he disappeared down the hallway.
Mary, her pretty blue eyes as big and round as saucers, had tried to ask again “What happened?” but Mycroft curtly bade them good night and left as silently as he had arrived.
But John had shrewdly guessed that the Holmes brothers had gotten into some sort of row that deteriorated into a little boys’ brawl. What exactly the fight was about however, was still to this day a mystery. Once everyone and everything was loaded up into Mary’s car, Sherlock had curled up in the back seat and fallen asleep. He didn’t move until they were than a block away from John and Mary’s house. “Take me to Baker Street,” he had murmured.
Both Mary and John tried to reason to him. Mary had gone as far as to park her car and turn off the ignition. John had threatened to leave him in the backseat, but Sherlock wouldn’t budge. Sleep-deprived, with the dawn steadily approaching, Mary and John had simply looked at each other and had one of those silent conversations close couples have, then had gotten back into the car and deposited him back at Baker Street.
But Baker Street was another one of the subtle repercussions of the Rise. Sherlock’s preoccupation with Going Home. Whenever he announced he wanted to go home, it was like a proclamation from Parliament. No, John corrected himself, more like a papal bull. So shall it was decreed, so shall it be. Not even a herd of nasty reporters was going to stop him. John thought he understood how 221B Baker Street wasn’t just a flat to him. It represented a safe haven for Sherlock. Safe from the paparazzi, the reporters, the gawkers and looky-loos who just wanted to meet the Great Consulting Detective. Sherlock no longer met prospective clients at the flat, preferring Skype, if he absolutely had to communicate with them at all. Or he sent John to meet them… if the case was worth taking… a hard Seven at least.
Really the only other people allowed in the flat were John and Mrs. Hudson.
John feared his eccentric friend was dangerously close to becoming a recluse again (not to mention diving back headfirst into his old vices).
Back in April of last year, he had convinced everyone in their little circle to gang up on Sherlock, only this time to find a new flat mate. Lestrade, Molly, John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson all insisted Sherlock find someone else to live with him after John got married so he wouldn’t be alone. Sherlock spat out logical arguments why he preferred living alone but always ended up trying again to find a flat mate just so everyone would shut up and leave him alone.
Most flat mates only lasted for mere days.
After the third flat mate fled in terror after twenty-four hours because Sherlock “accidentally” let loose a swarm of bees inside the flat during one of his experiments, the indefatigable Molly Hooper created a pool to see how long the next poor bugger would last. John had won fifty quid in last month’s pool.
“Well,” Mary had said practically when he treated her to a night out at the cinema and coffee afterwards with the winnings “At least some good came out of it, I suppose. Makes up for driving out to fetch him from Middlemarch.”
As they neared Baker Street, John wondered if the current flat mate was still there. If the poor chap could last just one more week, John would win the pot again.
Lestrade, out of curiosity, had taken the main way back. Sherlock slid down in the back the closer they got. “I dunno Sherlock,” Lestrade said, seeing the reporters and photogs blocking the entrances to the flat and Speedy’s Café as he drove past “Maybe staying with John and Mary might not be a terrible idea after all.”
“Just go around back,” Sherlock had slid completely down in his seat down, hunched down like some hobgoblin, his knees nearly touching his ears. Really, it always astonished John all the ways he could contort his long, slender frame.
Lestrade looked over at John, who nodded “It’s fine, really,” John lied again. “The fire escape and skylight really isn’t as dramatic as it sounds.”
“Of course, because nothing says ‘casual entrance’ then climbing up a ladder then entering through a hole in the roof,” Lestrade’s voice dripped with sarcasm but he drove around the block to let them out where Sherlock had requested.
Sherlock unfolded himself and opened the car door. “I need to think… I’ll call you in three days after I narrow down the possible motives to three. Don’t call or text me unless something interesting develops with this case.”
He opened the car door but Lestrade said “Oi! My mobile, if you please.”
“Of course,” Sherlock dug into his coat pocket and handed Lestrade the Smartphone. He gave a slight pause then said “And do send a proper police car to chase off those dratted photogs… John’s right, Mrs. Hudson probably has had a litter of kittens by now.” He got out and slammed the car door behind him.
“Keep an eye on him?” Lestrade asked John.
“Trying,” John said. “Greg, there’s going to come a time where I’m not going to be able to…”
“I know,” Lestrade said, “We count on you too much. Just… y’know, do what you can until you can’t. We’ll figure something out once you and Mary start a family…” he trailed off, blushing. “Sorry,” he mumbled self-consciously. “I’m so sorry…”
Already under an unbearable amount of tension, Mary’s blood pressure had steadily, insidiously climbed higher and higher on the day when Sherlock was supposed to leave for his “Eastern European Mission.” Then the cramps started during the car ride back to London after Moriarty’s mocking face pulled Sherlock back into the game. Then the bleeding started.
Then the cramps had turned into true contractions by the time they had hit the city limits and both John and Sherlock had shouted at the driver to take them to St. Bart’s immediately.
His daughter had been born less than an hour later but Mary, drained and damaged by the process, had slipped into a coma. Transfusions. Unconscious for three days.
During those horrible three days, John believed he would truly lose the three people he loved the most. But Sherlock had pulled a rabbit out of his hat and Mary had opened her eyes…
But their daughter, tiny girl, precious babe, had only lived for forty hours. Not even two full days. Her premature lungs hadn’t been able to fight off the infection that materialized within her on her first and last night on earth.
Of course she had slipped away while Sherlock, acting on Mycroft’s orders, had taken John out for a drink and a meal. He barely had a chance to say hello to his daughter. And he never had the chance to say good-bye.
Her mother, comatose, never even saw her or held her.
John and Mary had talked about trying again… but it had all just been that. Talk.
Lestrade cleared his throat. “It’s just that, um, well the Great Man is finally starting to slowly become a Good Man and I’d hate to lose that momentum.”
“Understood,” John said, “Tomorrow night, stop by after you’re off work. Have a proper meal.”
“Now, I really couldn’t impose,” Lestrade said like he always.
“I insist,” John responded like he always did. “Mary makes enough to feed an army. You’d be doing me a favor. Think I’ve gained seven more pounds.”
“Well, put it that way, don’t mind if I do,” Lestrade said. “Do you care if I bring Molly?”
“Sure, that’d be great. We haven’t really seen her much lately, outside of St. Bart’s, that is.”
“She’s been busy,” Lestrade said quickly. “Speaking of busy, I better go too.”
“Right,” John got out of the car. He waved as Lestrade drove off. Thankfully the rain had let up, but it was getting dark and it was still damp and chilly. It was hard to see Sherlock scurrying up the fire escapes, but John could see him darting up the rickety stairs. He was also pleased to see that Sherlock actually left the ladder down so he could actually reach it this time.
Still, the wet metal made John nervous as he slowly climbed up the ladder and then up the stairs up towards the roof. The stairs swayed underneath his feet as John went up. The rust on the railings rubbed off on his hands. He resolutely looked up and made himself keep climbing.
He pulled himself up the ledge and swung his legs over, which was actually the most nerve-wrecking part. I bloody hate roofs John thought viciously as he walked over to Sherlock who had gotten the skylight open. “After you,” Sherlock said, gesturing grandly towards the open window.
John climbed down the small wooden ladder that led into his old bedroom. It looked decidedly unlived in. The bed was stripped and the wardrobe was empty, the doors swinging open. “Where’s Nelson?” he asked, peeling off his bloody coat as Sherlock started climbing down.
“I threw him out,” Sherlock closed the window, secured the hidden latch (John still couldn’t figure how Sherlock was able to open the skylight form the outside) and then climbed the rest of the way down.
“Oh no,” John closed his eyes. “Not literally, I hope?”
“Not this time,” Sherlock folded the ladder up.
“Okay, but Sherlock, why did you chuck him out?” he followed him out his old room down to the messy familiar lounge. Test tubes, tea cups and papers littering everywhere, the yellow spray painted smiley face still on the wall. The Cluedo board had been taken down ages ago but in its place was a paperback novel called The Secret Life of Bees. A knife had been thrust through it just like it had been through the Cluedo board. John gestured wordless towards the impaled paperback as he sunk down into the chair he always thought was his.
Strange, how comforting and relaxing it was to sit in his chair here. Not that he didn’t love Mary, didn’t love being married… but I belong here… a small incessant voice whispered in his head. He pushed the thought out of his head and focused on what Sherlock was saying.
“I thought the book was non-fiction. Because I didn’t have receipt and because I bought it off the clearance rack, the book store wouldn’t take it back.” Sherlock shrugged off his coat and scarf, letting them fall in a heap on the floor then went to draw the drapes. “As for Nelson, he was a lackey of Mycroft’s,”
“Ah,” John said. “Spying on you then?”
“Yes and he refused to split the fee he was receiving from Mycroft,” he paused at the window where he loved to stand and play the violin. Looking down at the street, looking at the reporters milling around, he muttered “Good God they really are like insects, buzzing around, feeding off of refuse, spreading disease. Not an original thought in their tiny heads,” his hand strayed to his neck, scratching again “Schadenfrende, John, must be lucrative way to make a living otherwise I cannot imagine how they can handle the dullness of it all,” he pulled the drapes shut with a swift swish. “There’s no challenge in reveling in another’s misery.”
Seeing Sherlock getting worked up, John said “Sit.”
“No.”
“Sit down and let me see your neck.”
“Oh,” Sherlock pulled his hand away, “It’s nothing.”
“Sit,” John stood up now “Unless you want it to spread to your arms and hands again? Or maybe move up onto your face this time? Don’t you want to be able to think clearly about the bombing and be able to play violin? Or do you want to be an itchy scabby mess again?”
Sherlock slipped off his suit jacket with a grouchy “Very well,” and loosened a few buttons of his purple dress shirt. He sat down in his favorite chair “If you must.”
John crossed over and pulled the shirt collar down. He ran his finger gently over the angry red bumps the size of a pence running up and down the left side of his neck. Sherlock squirmed under John’s touch. “Don’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “That makes the itching worse.”
“I think we caught this bout early, I only count five this time,” John said. “Be right back.” He went through Sherlock’s room to the master bathroom, retrieving the small tube of salve from the medicine cabinet. Returning to the lounge where Sherlock still sat, crossed-legged and brooding, John unscrewed the small cap and applied the salve to his fingers first, then gently rubbed the salve onto Sherlock’s irritated skin. “You can’t let them get to you, Sherlock,” John said in a soft voice. “You must learn to ignore the fleas. It doesn’t do you any good to get worked up into a state like this.”
“I am perfectly aware of that,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes, finally getting relief from the painful itching. “Do you think it pleases me when my body chooses to betray my emotions by producing these tedious and irritating inflammations? Do you not think I’d rather life was like it was before, where I could detach myself from pointless emotion and observe unencumbered all that goes around me with a clear mind?”
“Maybe if you’d just admit you’re angry as hell the press stole two years of your life instead of trying to shove those memories down, your body would stop betraying how you really feel.” John screwed the lid back on the salve.
“Anger is pointless emotion to exercise when it cannot undo what has occurred in the past. It clouds the mind; it causes you to make mistakes. Come John, how many crimes have we observed in the past that were simply crimes of passion? Caused in the ‘heat of the moment’ as they say. An upset husband pulls a gun on an unfaithful wife. A frustrated parent lashes out and strikes an ill-behaved child. Anger does not solve problems nor is it a cause of problems. It is an accelerant as gasoline is to fire. Not only does anger serve as a socially acceptable mask to hide true thoughts, it also acts as a blindfold.”
Sherlock stretched out his legs and stared up at the ceiling, fingertips underneath his chin. “Observe how Miss Riley’s resentment towards me has dulled her already limited wits. Whereas my mental capacity (which is vast, you must admit) must be kept in a state of perpetual motion or else it stagnates. Nursing old hurts will only slow me down, stall me, which we both know such an idle state is far more dangerous for me to be in then all the other considerable physical risks I have taken to life and limb. Once I figure out a suitable coping mechanism to keep my body from reacting so violently whenever someone from the media is near, then I will be able to better control my emotions and delegate the entire memory of the Fall and Rise to its proper place in my mind palace where hopefully I will never have to visit that particular room ever again. Or maybe be able to delete it entirely…”
“Delete it so we don’t ever going to talk about it, is that it? Is that what you what?” John asked, plunging into a very overdue conversation, one they had both been studiously avoiding during the eighteen months Sherlock had been back. “What happened, where you went after the Fall?”
“I told you what you-“
“Needed to know, sure, yeah, you did,” John put the salve tube on the small table next to Sherlock’s chair and sat down across from him. “It was Molly who told me how you tricked Moriarty’s snipers and the rest of us mere mortals into thinking you had committed suicide and why you had to pull such a dirty trick on all of us.”
Hearing the hurt in John’s voice, Sherlock continued studying the ceiling. “It wasn’t a dirty trick,” he said patiently “with malicious intent to wound. It was a necessity with regrettable repercussions.”
“And I get that, I do, Sherlock and I’m grateful to you and Molly and the Homeless Network for everything you did to keep me and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe… I can’t ever repay you for that. And I know while you were ‘dead’ you weren’t on holiday but you were still protecting us. I know you were hunting down the rest of the spiders who still kept spinning Moriarty’s webs,” John leaned forward, fixing his earnest eyes on Sherlock. The seat creaked underneath him “I’m talking to you, mate. Look at me, not the ceiling.”
Sherlock tilted his head down, his unnerving eyes locked on John’s face. He lifted his heavy black brows as if to say “Well, get on with it.”
“What happened to you while you were gone?” John said. “Where did you go? Where did you stay? I have a feeling you weren’t staying five-star hotels aboard while trying to tear down Moriarty’s webs,” John tried to smile but Sherlock’s face turned to marble. “I’m your friend, I’m not trying to pry,” John plowed on. “But I’m also a doctor and I’m also a soldier and I know PTSD when I see it.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes then looked at the floor. “John, please believe me when I say there are times that ignorance is bliss and this is one of those times.”
“No,” John said firmly, standing up “This is not one of those times. I’m not as clever as you or as quick, but I can observe things too. You never regained the weight you lost after the shooting. You’ve been sneaking cigs, I can smell that on your coat and clothes and you’re not sleeping.”
Sherlock rubbed his forehead “I’m working. I fast and I require very little sleep when I’m working. That is a constant,” Defensively he added “Also it is better I smoke the occasional cigarette rather than to indulge in one of my old unsavory vices, don’t you think?”
“Is it the same dreams again?” John demanded.
This made Sherlock jerked his head up. “What?”
“The nightmares. The ones you tried to hide from me when I stayed here after, uh, you got shot. When did they start up again? Or maybe they just never went away.” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John said quietly “Not even you can control your mind palace when you sleep.”
“Actually I’ve been studying lucid dreaming-“ Sherlock started but John cut him off.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s me, OK? I’m not some filthy pap’s trying to make money off your misery. I’m not Riley trying to wreck your life and I’m not fucking Magnussen.”
John took a deep breath, instructing himself to Calm The Hell Down. “I’m not Mrs. Hudson or Molly trying to mother you either… I’m just…” John realized he had been pacing so he made himself sit down again and to say very calmly “This is the way I see it… everybody has a Fall of some sort. Something that makes your world come crashing down. Well, my Fall was Afghanistan. I don’t have your gift of detachment so it was unbearable, patching up those kids only to send them out to get shot or blown up again. Over and over, nothing but sand and blood, day in and day out, sand and blood, sand and blood… I was a nervous wreck when I got back to London. A car backfiring could send me into a blinding panic. I watched crap telly at two in the morning because it was better than waking up screaming… then, I ran into an old friend who told me an acquaintance of his was looking for a flat mate and well… somehow, not only did you figure in less than five seconds I was a former solider with a messed up head, but you figured out how to pull me up and out of the hole I had fallen into and… well, now the roles have been reversed, haven’t they?” John felt his throat tighten. “You helped me. Now I want to help you. I owe you-“
“Don’t!” Sherlock said sharply, visibly recoiling from John’s last sentence. “Whatever you do or say for the rest of your life, please, don’t ever say ‘I owe you’ to me ever again.”
I owe you a fall…
John then realized Moriarty’s creepy, oily tenor voice echoed throughout Sherlock’s dreams. The Spider would live on in Sherlock’s mind palace forever; escaping from whatever room he tried to lock him in, scurrying and lurking in the dark rooms and corners, waiting for Sherlock to make a wrong turn. Maybe the mind palace wasn’t the fortress Sherlock thought it was.
“Then, let me say instead that you deserve someone to help you… not because you’re too thick to figure out yourself. It’s just sometimes it’s better to have a bit of help. That’s all.” John looked away. Had to. Sherlock’s eyes had grown too bright, too wet while John had been talking.
In a deeper voice than usual, Sherlock said “In my own time, John. Not tonight, but in my own way, my own time, yes, I will tell you everything.”
“Promise?” John asked gruffly.
“I promise,” Sherlock said softly.
“Good,” John said, “Good, well… um…” he wasn’t sure where to go from here. He didn’t want to let the scene get sloppy or else the progress made this early evening might become undone.
Fortunately there was a knock at the door “Sherlock? Yoo-hoo, are you in there?” Mrs. Hudson called. John got up and let the beloved landlady in. She smiled and clasped her hands in delight “Oh John, didn’t know you were here. Sherlock, those dreadful paparazzi are blocking my doorway again, did something happen? Is everything alright?”
“Lestrade should be sending a patrol car to tell them to clear off,” John reassured her, kissing her cheek. He told her his usual lie “Everything is fine.”
But her eyes were on his scarf, hanging forgotten around his neck. “Fine? What happened to this, is this blood? Oh dear, I gave this to you for Christmas.” She glared at both men “And both sitting there in wet clothes, mud all over the floor, you’ll catch your deaths of cold.” She stooped down to pick up Sherlock’s coat and scarf. “Lucky for you two I’ve got some dresses to drop off at the cleaners tomorrow, I’ll bring these in as well.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured while John said “That’s not necessary.”
“Well, it’s just this one time. Not your housekeeper, you know.”
John and Sherlock both hid their smiles. “Of course,” Sherlock demurred.
“And if Lestrade is going to help chase off those disgusting people outside, then I won’t worry about it. Was just about to have tea, would you two care to join me?”
“I really should get home,” John said regretfully, “Mary will be waiting.”
“Oh at least stay until those horrid people outside are gone,” Mrs. Hudson pleaded. “Don’t get to see you much now you’re a married man and all.”
John checked his watch. Mary wasn’t expecting him for at least another two hours. Of course, he had told her he had to work late because he thought he would be in his office at the surgery, catching up on his charts and other paperwork. “Oh, twist my arm then, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Now, get out of those wet things and come down. John, I’ve got some old things of my husband’s-“
“That’s OK,” John said quickly, not wanting to wear a dead man’s clothes. “I’ve still got some clothes here.” He had learned the hard way it was just best to keep a change or two of clothes plus a coat and a pair of trainers at Sherlock’s. For the nights that weren’t boring.
But is it ever boring, John thought as he trod back to his old room, feeling exhausted again when Sherlock is around?
A rule Sherlock had strictly enforced with all his flat mates (or victims as John was beginning to think of them) that one drawer of the bureau in the upstairs bedroom was designated for John. This touched John for some absurd reason. Sherlock had mumbled something about he was just being “practical” and had then resumed taking apart the new flat screen telly he had bought just for the sole purpose of dismantling it to see if he could put it back together. (He could and gave it later to John for a belated Christmas present.) So from the dresser in his old room, he pulled out a pair of trousers, a red jumper, pants and a pair of thick warm socks, all blissfully clean and dry. He changed quickly but didn’t put his wet shoes back on, hoping they’d be dry somewhat when it was time to go home to Mary.
When he returned to the lounge, wet clothes and coat over his arms, John saw Sherlock had not moved from his chair. He was dead asleep. John considered rousing him to at least get him to change out of his muddy trousers and socks, but decided against it. Instead, he put his wet things down in his chair and went to pull the duvet off of Sherlock’s bed. Returning to the lounge, he wrapped it around him. “G’night Sherlock,” he whispered softly, hoping no bad dreams would interrupt the man’s much needed sleep.
He turned up the thermostat, turned off the light and shut the door behind him.
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