This fic is for Schmiezi.

 

Your prompt was: Johnlock, fluff, heartbreaking romance with angst and happy end, getting rid of Mary or Mary being out of the picture

from the start.

You are absolutely unwilling to read: good! Mary, happy Watson marriage, character death, unhappy endings, any other pairing that involve John or Sherlock except when it is used as an obstacle that will be overcome.

And this was to play an important part: Love conquers all, John.

Also, a reference to the Extended Mind Palace theory would be fantastic but not necessary.

 

Sorry, there is no fluff in this fic but lots of other things you wished for. And a little extra: John is pretty damn smart here. So I hope this will make you happy.

 

 

Through a Glass, Darkly

 

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face:

now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

(1 Corinthians 13)

 

It comes as a surprise. Not that she is clad all in black, holding a silenced gun – Walther PPK, his mind palace willingly provides – small smile playing around her lips. Not that she shoots him. Not that she apologises for doing so although she is not sorry. Not really.

Nothing of this comes as a surprise.

But he should have known. He should have seen it coming.

He opens a drawer in the intricately decorated filing cabinet and takes out his book of lists. He likes making lists. He has one about the shortcomings of his own mother and he also kept the one of people who hated Mary – he really should have seen it coming – and now he looks at a new one, captioned:

What I should have seen and did not see.

Excellent memory. 

Instant recognition of skip code. 

Sangfroid in front of a wedding party, emanating pure hatred.

He remembers his first deductions about her, words swirling in front of his face, dissolving into the darkness until only one of them remains. LIAR. 

He saw but he did not observe. 

 

He is so still. This is so very wrong. He needs to be like quicksilver, talking all the time, running around with his big coat billowing behind him, using his long, elegant hands to emphasise his deductions, letting his voice rumble deeply or smack his lip to stress the plosive at the end of a word.

This is not Sherlock but a statue, attached to monitors and IV lines disappearing into various parts of his body.

John should be able to distance himself, he is a professional after all, but this is different. This time he is just John Watson, not an army doctor, not a GP, just John Watson, a friend.

The friend.

‘I’ve just got one.’

 




After having walked through the various rooms of his mind palace, Sherlock sits down in the chair before the fireplace. It is not the real one made by the French-Swiss designer whose name he has deleted but a classic Chesterfield, bottle-green leather with buttons, sturdily built. A piece of furniture that belongs in, say, a late-Victorian bachelor gentleman’s home.

He stretches his legs towards the fireplace, lights his pipe – no smoking prohibitions here, tobacco not being a forbidden substance then – and starts puffing little clouds towards the smoke-darkened ceiling. Better than any nicotine patch. And there is morphine and cocaine, he thinks dreamily, available from any good chemist, not something to be acquired illegally in filth-ridden alleys or behind rusty warehouse containers.

‘Stop being sentimental’ he tells himself, ‘there is work to do.’

So Mary is a liar after all. Her stance, her cold demeanour, the precision of her shot – not killing him at once, not shooting him in the head because, this way, it would buy her time to escape. John would care for him, try to save his life, call an ambulance instead of running behind the killer – all this tells him she must be a professional, maybe a secret agent gone rogue, acquainted with stealthy operations, changing identities, playing a part, shooting a gun.

 




The doctors are not sure what is going on. Sherlock’s vitals are good, no danger there. He is running a fever, true, which might be expected in cases of massive internal injuries, and there was the flatline and the consumption of hard drugs on the day of the shooting but they still seem to be baffled.

So is John, at least from a medical point of view. As long as there is no brain damage – and John really hopes there is not and actually Sherlock’s heart did not stop that long to suggest such an assumption – he should have woken up by now.

But he does not.

 




His thinking goes fine until suddenly, out of the blue, just like that, John’s face appears before him. He should not have thought of John, not now, not when he is trying to work, to make sense of all this.

But there he is. Brave, sarcastic, tough, caring John who was shocked at Sherlock’s callousness towards Janine, human error and all that crap, assuming that this is how Sherlock thinks about love although it is not but John may never know.

John’s face gets bigger and bigger, blotting out the other chair, the fireplace, the whole cosy late-Victorian gentleman’s room to swallow him whole.

 




Mary comes early in the morning. She is worried, standing beside the bed and carefully touching Sherlock’s shoulder. Biting her lip. Very quiet and subdued. John is glad to see her but she leaves sooner than expected, talking about having to buy some baby things.

There is something he cannot put his finger on, something nagging at him while he watches her disappearing from the hospital lobby.

When he comes back into the room, he realises what it is. The smell, a hint of her perfume. Claire de la Lune.

John sits on the chair beside the bed and remembers the moment in the office, Janine lying on the floor, unconscious, Sherlock running around wildly, deducing the temperature of  a chair. And a perfume. John himself saying, ’Mary wears it’. And Sherlock retorting, ‘No, not Mary. Somebody else.’

 




When he comes to, the fire has gone out and the room is uncomfortably cold; the pipe lying on the well-worn burgundy red carpet. He sits up, remembers what he saw last before he slept, faded, dissolved, whatever describes his condition best.

Ah, yes, John’s face. John.

He gets up and starts pacing the cold room, hands in pockets, no noise from the outside, no horses' hooves on the cobbles, no cries of street vendors, no shrill whistles of the city’s policemen. Must be late at night then. 

He remembers the dungeon-like padded cell and chained Moriarty - how very Victorian - how much he hated Moriarty drooling over him, the horrible stench of his breath, his flamingly insane eyes but, mad as he may be, it was he who gave Sherlock what he needed – an incentive to live.

That wife.

But John married that wife.

There is the rub - no idea who said that but it seems strangely fitting.

John married her and they are expecting a child.

Sherlock suddenly remembers John’s face in the restaurant, not the horrible moustache or the anger but the eyes, dead eyes, not dead like Magnussen’s but empty, without soul, and not even proposing to Mary did change anything about it. He knows that John needs him in his life, needs the adventure and the thrill of the chase, the temptation to dart from the surgery into 221B, leaving behind his GP identity like his white coat.

But this is the only thing John needs from him. Now he will have a family, something Sherlock cannot provide. He has taken enough, two years of John’s life, giving him new lines in his face and grey hair instead. This is something he may never take from John.

On the other hand, there is this nagging fear. Will John ever be safe with her? Will there be people from her past, chasing her, finding her buried deeply in suburbia with her doctor husband and child? Will they take their revenge by killing her? Or taking her baby? Or even … no, he must not think about that.

He swallows, pacing frantically in front of the windows. This is going to be hard, very hard, even harder than the fucking speech and that was a tough one. But he could always rely on his mind, on his big fucking brain, and he will put it to good use. He remembers half-forgotten deductions about different scenarios, how he used to play through various possibilities until he found the only one that made sense. This is what he is going to do.

He takes his gild-edged, leather-bound notebook and a pen and carefully writes down a heading, underlines it for the sake of importance.

Scenario 1

John has chosen Mary, they are going to be a family soon. Therefore Sherlock must find something to exonerate Mary, to make her enormous, boundless, massive, tremendous betrayal palatable to John.

He sets to work.

 




When John goes home in the evening to get some hours rest, Mary is not there. He finds a note on the kitchen table: Sleepover at Cath’s. Girls’ night. There's lasagna in the fridge. Hope Sherlock’s better. XX Mary

He looks into the fridge, sees the foil-covered baking dish and closes the door again. He walks from the kitchen through into the living room, upstairs into the bedroom, feeling restless and agitated.

In the bathroom John notices the perfume bottle on the shelf over the sink. Claire de la Lune. Moonlight.

He sniffs the bottle, closes his eyes, tries to remember the moments in Magnussen’s office, Sherlock’s quick deductions, him going upstairs while John was tending to Janine. He remembers kneeling beside her, checking pupils and pulse, being relieved that there were no worse injuries than a mighty swelling on the back of her head. For a moment he thought he was hearing murmured voices from above, maybe Sherlock talking himself through his deductions.

John allows himself a little smile, remembering how Sherlock used to talk even when John was not there.

But then there was another sound – he would not have heard it except it was so quiet in the room, the penthouse floating high above the city like an untethered airship.

A soft, popping sound, nothing more. Someone not accustomed to hearing weapons fired might not have noted it at all but John was once a soldier and he knows exactly what a silenced gun sounds like.

This knowledge combined with the eerie silence in the room made him run to the stairs, bursting into the room – a bedroom? – and finding a cruel variation on the worst moment of his life.

Not a pavement this time, but a carpeted floor, not a shattered head covered in blood but a red bloom on a white shirt, eyes not open but closed.

But these differences did not really matter. This was Sherlock and he might die again. This time for real.

John clenches his hands and puts the bottle back. He looks towards the wardrobe, shakes his head, returns to the hallway, and pulls down the ladder leading up to the attic.

If there is something to find, he will find it up there.

 




Assuming she was an agent/assassin once, what would Mary do? Try to minimise the threat to herself. Keep Sherlock from giving her secret away, at least for the time being. Would she dare to put a pillow on his face and smother him? Pull out the oxygen feed from his nose? No, John will surely remain at his side all the time, so a sudden death might be suspicious even under these circumstances.

No, she will go for a verbal threat, hoping to placate him until he either dies or gets well enough to negotiate.

No, no, no, this does not work. John must know what is going on. Come on, Sherlock tells himself, you can do better. Which is true. 

Although this is a dreaded scenario, in the end it proves to be fun. John once called him 'a drama queen' and, while Sherlock was slightly insulted in that moment, he must admit that his friend was not that far off the mark.

Imagining boltholes in the most outrageous places and assigning them to people – Lestrade gets the boring ones, Mycroft gets the Gothic ones, greenhouse and leaning tomb. Molly, this is a bit mean but still true, gets the bedroom. Mrs Hudson gets the clock face of Big Ben, a belated comeback for her forcing him to watch a silly cartoon about a mouse detective and his obese friend.

Next the perfume in the flat, the projector opposite the empty houses – he is very proud to have come up with those. Of course, there are no real houses there, just a 5 feet wall and a precipice with two parallel Underground tracks in it, but Sherlock lovingly furnishes his bolthole, adds a little chemistry lab and even an armchair, a bit like the one he has in his Victorian living room. And of course John, with mussed hair and upturned collar, Sherlock-style.

Yes, this is brilliant, well done, of course it hurts like hell, but as long as he gets the work done, it is fine. All is fine. Never better.

 




The attic is dusty and cluttered, full of  useless stuff they just put up there in the hope it would magically disappear. Did not work, though. They have been living together for less than two years and yet they have accumulated so much junk.

John starts searching frantically through boxes, plastic bags, under heaps of old bed sheets and in a sleeping bag no one has slept in for years. He starts coughing, has to wipe tears from his eyes.

He is eager to return to the hospital but he has to seize the opportunity. Had anyone told him only days ago that Mary being with a friend would ever become an opportunity to search his own house … but that was before.

Before Sherlock was shot.

Before John found him bleeding out on a floor. Again.

He does not admit to himself what it is he is searching for. But he is sure he will recognise it the moment he finds it.

Half an hour later he is desperate.  At his wit’s end. He has found nothing.

He starts to descend the ladder, gripping the rungs as if there was a thousand feet drop beneath him, when he sees it.

John starts to laugh hysterically, remembering something Sherlock once said.

Hiding in plain sight.

He pushes his hand into the inconspicuous leather case which is the same colour as the attic hatch and has been carefully tucked between the wood and the ladder.

His hand closes around the pistol.

 




Sherlock gets up, lights his pipe and starts pacing again, enacts the drama, assigns positions: Mary next to the fireplace – there is the knife, she is clever after all - Mrs Hudson in the kitchen, John in the middle of the room, seething with anger which is normal given the circumstances, himself at the door.

Why is he at the door? This is his flat after all. But of course Sherlock has to survey the room and needs a sturdy doorframe to hold on to, especially in case his … best friend threatens to kill him. After John’s own wife almost killed Sherlock before.

No, this is not on. He has to keep calm. They should sit down. Sitting down is good, makes talking easier and it takes the strain from a bullet wound you actually should not have run around with in the first place.

Things will calm down. Sherlock will explain how he deduced Mary’s history, maybe Mycroft could help with that - colossal favour for hurt little brother and all that - how she did not shoot him in the head, killing him instantly, but left him a slim chance of survival which is actually quite generous. Will John buy this crap? Of course he will. Because, after having thought about it long and hard, he will realise that this is what he wants, that Mary will give him all things he ever hoped for in one person.

A female body. Sex. Adrenaline. And a child.

While Sherlock can only provide one of these. Well... maybe two. But this is simply not on. Not now, not ever.

 




‘Tell me,’ John is adamant. Neither the posh interior of the Diogenes Club nor the bunker-like office can intimidate or impress him anymore. He bangs his fist on the desk, sending some papers and a half-drunk cup of tea to the floor.

Mycroft Holmes raises an eyebrow, ‘Shouldn't you be at my brother’s side?’

‘Shouldn’t you be at your brother’s side?’

‘I am quite sure that Sherlock would prefer to see you when he wakes up. The hospital keeps me constantly informed about his condition, so no worry there. But from past experience I can tell you that Sherlock usually does not take well to seeing me when coming out of a –’

‘This is not a fucking overdose! He was shot!’

‘I assure you, John, I am may be nearing middle age but my hearing is still excellent.’

John is breathing hard, he has to close his eyes for a moment to get his feelings under control. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’

John gulps and takes another deep breath. ‘That it was my wife who shot Sherlock.’

For the first time Mycroft seems genuinely surprised. ‘John, I assure you –’

‘Shut up! When we entered Magnussen’s office, Sherlock smelled a perfume. Mary wears it. And today I searched our house. Guess what I found?’

Mycroft Holmes has naturally pale skin like most redheads have but now he looks positively ashen. ‘A gun?’

‘Indeed. A silenced gun like the one I heard at Magnussen’s. Unloaded of course. But I am sure it was a bullet from that very gun that got stuck in your brother’s chest.’ The anger makes it almost impossible for John to continue. ‘And that got me thinking. I know, compared to you and Sherlock I am just a brainless idiot, but still. Think of an empty shell of a man, tormented by grief and guilt, drowning his misery in a bottle most evenings. He desperately tries to cling to his work if nothing else. And one day, just like that, a funny, cute nurse shows up, new part-time assistant, cheery, positive, sassy, with a kind word or a smile for even the most tedious patients. Just what the sad little doctor needs, right?’

Mycroft has turned strangely quiet, turning a pen in his hands.

‘She can read the sad little doctor like a book. Always the right words or plans to distract him from what is eating him from the inside. And when his detective friend, the one he mourned, suddenly returns from the dead, she becomes his friend as well. She even helps the detective to save the sad little doctor when he gets kidnapped and thrown into a bonfire. Imagine that! Because. She. Is. So. Clever. Right?’

Mycroft raises both hands to placate but John bangs the table once again. ‘No! You are going to listen to me for once. The doctor does not even get suspicious when there is a list of people who hate her, who for some reason or other dislike the lovely nurse. Maybe he is an idiot after all but so is his detective friend. And then something happens.’

For the first time sadness threatens to overwhelm John and dispel his anger. ‘The doctor realises that he is not happy, not happy enough for a man who just got married and will be a father. And of course, the lovely nurse sees what is happening and it pisses her off big time. And then … well. Then the lovely nurse threatens to shoot a man who has some information on her– this is at least, what I think – and the detective comes in and she shoots him first. Strange, isn’t it? Shooting someone who can fold such lovely napkins for your wedding.’

John presses his lips together but it is too late. He feels the wetness on his cheeks, sees the shock on Mycroft’s face, and even something like shame.

‘Do you really want to tell me the British Government himself did not know that Mary Morstan is a fucking killer?’

 




Everything goes to plan. Well, nearly everything. Sherlock has to go hospital again, relapse due to physical exertion, prolonged recovery. How long? His head starts to hurt and he has to sit down and pull a blanket over himself because it is so very cold in here, no fire burning, just cold ashes and dust.

Think.

Christmas. Oh, yes, this is brilliant. Presenting his parents as the perfect married couple, teasing but in a loving way, just like...well. Do not go there. Here be dragons.

And since Sherlock knows that Appledore is not that far from the cottage and Magnussen has a helicopter at his disposal, he could strike a deal, save Mary once and for all from the clutches of that fucking piece of … Sherlock mentally kicks away the images that start creeping all over him – is it a memory or a dream, Magnussen coming into his room and touching him in ways he never wanted to be touched, breaking down his boundaries – stop.

He will strike a deal and save the world, including Mary, John, and their child, from this man.

It is fun to meet Magnussen bare-arsed in an Italian restaurant aka the hospital canteen. Even more fun to imagine Billy Wiggins, a man he has met only once or twice, drugging his family with the Christmas punch. Outrageous, but he always gets away with the outrageous things. Drama queen all over.

A list of things that do not work for him

Sitting on a park bench talking about ‘feelings.’

Hiding in a crowd on a dance-floor and pretending his heart is still in one piece.

Telling John about … no. Not this. Not ever.

Back to work.

John must take his gun. He always takes his gun when there is an adventure. But Magnussen’s men will search them, like they did in Baker Street. Does not matter, he decides: this is just a scenario, nothing real, nothing anyone could ever believe. Or is it?

Sherlock suddenly remembers the way Magnussen seemed to call up information, said he was reading. Not with the glasses, he does not think it might work. What else could it be?

What if Magnussen was not so very much unlike himself? What if he had a mind palace of his own? Actually, this would be clever because if there were no archives or vaults in which he stores his knowledge, nobody would ever be able to steal it. His assets hidden safely in his own brain. Clever.

Or not so clever, because in order to destroy the knowledge, one would have to destroy the brain. Oh.

This is quite unexpected. True, there were some cases of self-defence during his time away but will he be able to shoot a man in the head, just like that, even if he was not a very nice man? So he imagines what Magnussen could do to John – threaten his wife, his child, his future.

But he needs more, he needs a trigger, something as disgusting as the man himself. Imagine Magnussen humiliating John, hurting him, John turning to Sherlock for help because he must have a plan, he always has. Why did John choose him of all people to trust?

So Magnussen starts flicking John’s face, belittling him, threatening to tear his future to shreds, enticing him to let it happen for Mary’s sake.

This is enough. Sherlock thinks he can do it, he really can. And he does.

 




John walks back to the hospital, wearing himself out in order to overcome his anger. He feels slightly dizzy, his head is pounding, he can fell sweat trickling down his back. His fingernails biting into the flesh.

He feels humiliated, laughed at, despised, belittled.

He remembers Sherlock telling him how Mary spotted the skip code in the text message, how she went to Baker Street, how she made Sherlock save John from the fire. How Sherlock praised her while Mary seemed strangely silent about the whole incident.

And even earlier, the remark about the confidante, a word he would never use himself. A word for spies and agents and people who work undercover, in a world of darkness and deceit.

And Mycroft Holmes? He kicks away an empty plastic bottle, nearly hitting a child on a scooter.

John does not pay attention to the scowling grandmother, walks faster, concentrating on his hatred and nothing else.

He remembers the look of shame on Mycroft’s face. Was he ashamed about his own stupidity, or his lack or care in placing Mary Morstan in John Watson’s life?

 




There is always a downside to saving John Watson.

The first time, it meant going away for two years, coming back and realising he would not be getting his old life back. The landscape had shifted, people were not what they had been before. Maybe he should have stayed away for good.

Sherlock tries to get back to the Victorian living-room with its cold fireplace but somehow he has got stuck.

Stuck in a clean little cell with nothing to stimulate his brain, not even drugs – although he might give it a try, tell the warden with the Financial Times in his pocket about that big upcoming Government contract for this IT company in exchange for a little favour –

Yes, the downside. The downside is that he is alone, locked up with his brain and his feelings and memory of a man falling backwards – not him, not this time, bullet to brain, not the chest, dead as a doornail.

And then Mycroft is there. Sherlock hates being with him in the confined little cell, hates being the target of his compassion, hates being the small brother who has to be comforted over and over again.

And yet.

Mycroft offers him a way out, a bleak one, for sure, but everything is better than getting life for murder. So he agrees.

What follows, is hell. Sherlock knows that this is not real, just a film playing in his head, and yet it is hell. (Because something like this could come to pass. Mary is a killer and John is married to her and Mycroft never did anything to prevent this.)

He is standing with John on a lonely tarmac, Mary a red dot in the background, a sombre Mycroft at her side, a private jet waiting to take him away …

For a moment he allows himself to think that he might say it now, before it is too late, before he will never be able to say it. And stops. He stops before the words leave his mouth and goes for a joke. Tries to leave John with a laugh on his face.

He knows it would not work, John would feel something was amiss, but he would accept it stoically like a soldier. And Sherlock will clench his teeth until his jaw hurts, enter the plane, wait until they are in the air, get out his phone and read about the day they met.

(Distant voices, beeping sounds, feet moving around, but only from far, far away, from a place that slowly fades, becoming mute again.)

 




‘What is happening? His fever is not that high.’ John is looking at Gemma Wood, the consultant, mid-thirties, red hair, pageboy hairstyle, competent and nice, pointing at the heart monitor with its spiking line.

She shakes her head. ‘Nothing physical, John.’ She has started to call him by his first name as if they were friends. Or colleagues. Which they are not but he is willing to let it pass for now. She walks around the bed, checks the IV lines, and turns back to look at him. ‘You told me about this thing he does, this technique. Mind Castle or something like that?’

He nods his head. ‘Palace.’ Vaguely remembering an underground lab, talking to a scientist whose daughter had lost her glowing rabbit, the scientist wondering about the pompous choice of words.

‘Being shot comes as a shock, physically as well as mentally. Tell me about his state before this happened.’

John swallows. He told her about the drugs so this is not what she is getting at. But what else could it be?

‘John, please. Why did he take the drugs? Was he in some sort of distress? Did he feel ill before he was shot? Did he behave in a strange way?’

The laughter is as involuntary as inevitable. She looks at him inquisitively.

‘If you knew Sherlock, you would not ask this. He always behaves in a strange way, it is his default.’

‘John, you keep evading my questions.’

He turns around and walks to the window, leaning lightly against the cool glass. ‘Shouldn’t we discuss this outside? He might be able to hear us.’

They are sitting in a little overstuffed office, teacups between them on the table.

The first words are difficult, John is not really good at talking about this stuff. Feelings. Regrets. Hopes. Fears. But suddenly a dam breaks, giving way to a flood that does not stop until it has run itself dry.

Gemma listens to him, interrupting him not even once, sitting there quietly, hands folded in her lap, head slightly tilted to the right.

When he is finished, she leans back. ‘I see. So what you are telling me is this: Sherlock pretended to commit suicide and left London for two years in order to dismantle a criminal network. He came back and found his former life had irrevocably changed. You had moved out of the flat you shared, taken on a job in a surgery, and met a woman. You married this woman. Sherlock was your best man and did everything in order to ensure you had an unforgettable wedding. On the evening of the same wedding, he left without saying a word. You did not see him for the weeks that followed, until you found him in a drug den, on the morning of the day he was shot in the chest during an investigation. Is this the gist of it?’

John nods his head. Remembers all the things he left out, he could not tell her – dancing in the darkened living room, putting his hand on Sherlock’s knee in front of the fireplace, hugging him for the first time in his life, feeling the tension in Sherlock’s body –

‘ … away?’

‘What? Sorry, I got distracted for a moment.’

‘Do you know what happened to him during the years he was away?’

John shrugs. ‘He never told me. Chasing thugs, I would say. Solving cases in exotic places. Things like that.’

She gets up. ‘Come with me.’

They enter Sherlock’s room. His heart rate is back to normal, the breathing even, his fever not alarmingly high.

She puts her hands gently on Sherlock’s left shoulder and hip and slightly turns him to the right.

‘Do you know about these? There are more, all over his back.’

John closes his eyes.

 




No! Something is wrong. Sherlock slaps his cheeks to rouse himself from his self-pitying trance. Think, he tells himself frantically, just think!

His brain must have turned to mush during his two years of being dead.

How probable does it seem that a woman like Mary Morstan chose to become a nurse and accidentally got a job in the same surgery as John Watson, friend and flatmate of a deceased consulting detective – the only one in the world (that’s me, by the way, hello) younger brother of the most powerful man in Britain, only antagonist of Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous spider in the web? According to his estimate the probability is virtually zero.

Think, he urges himself, imagining the plane flying eastwards, taking him away from England and John Watson forever.

The Woman faked her death. He himself faked his death. So what if – the roof, the shot, the blood and brain matter, he never checked his pulse, assumption instead of assurance …

And then he creates the video.

 




John Watson is not given to self-hatred but there are exceptions. Like the moment when Gemma shows him the scars on Sherlock’s back. Very visible, medical treatment probably came too late for neat scarring, maybe infected as well.

He swallows. Before the fall – he still finds it hard to think of that time, to dress the unspeakable in simple words – he had seen Sherlock’s naked back more than once. No scars then. No new injuries since his return last November, he would have noticed. So it must have happened in between, during what John called, as he now shamefully remembers, ‘playing hide and seek’.

Nothing could be further from the truth and yet Sherlock did not contradict him.

‘So you didn’t?’ Gemma’s voice is soft.

He shakes his head. ‘No. He did not tell me and I … you know … we once have been close but this was before he … went away.’

Of course she knows Sherlock’s story, just as everyone who is not exactly living under a rock does.

‘I see. These scars were probably caused by violent beatings and not treated appropriately or in time. But surely you can see that for yourself. So at some point Mr Holmes has been the victim of one or several attacks. The fact that the scars are only on his back indicates that he had been constrained in some way which, in turn, indicates that he must have been a prisoner. Probably not in a British prison since to my knowledge torture has been forbidden for quite some time.’

John nods, lost for words. Sherlock being shot is bad enough. But to learn that he has been the subject of violence, probably torture, before is unbearable.

‘And you think …’ he has to start again, his voice sounding strangely hoarse, ‘you think that all this might have caused this condition?’

She nods her head towards the door and they leave the room. They find an empty niche with some plastic seats and sit down opposite each other.

‘John, may I ask you a question?’

‘Yes.’

‘What exactly is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?’

 




Sherlock feels how his scenario is slowly slipping from his grasp. He realises that this is not about saving the Watson marriage any longer. He has to go deeper. There must be a connection between Mary and other people, people who know him and John, who are moving in the dark, stealthily - for now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face-to-face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

Where did this come from? He is not a religious man but his parents took him to church and at school they used to read the Bible; and sometimes Scripture is surprisingly to the point.

He dreams himself into the past: a time in which there is good reason for him and John to not share a flat because people might talk, for him and John to be friends and nothing more, a time in which John will be married and Sherlock will be a confirmed old bachelor.

He digs up a case bearing some similarities to Moriarty’s death on the roof, someone firing a gun and faking their death and later dying again, Scotland Yard baffled...as always. It is full of Gothic drama, blood-red mouths, a cross-dressing Molly Hooper and a Mycroft the size of a mountain made of port wine jelly. It is fun and yet he feels himself slipping, his mind grasping wildly and finding nothing but water running through his hands.

He imagines a nightly conversation with John in a greenhouse – nice one, there is the glass again, through a glass, darkly – and lets John ask him the questions he has always wanted to be asked and has wished to hear for so long and yet, on hearing them, he loses heart and evades the answer.

‘What made you like this?’

‘Like what?’ he should have answered. ‘Like a freak, an automaton, a sociopath, what do you really mean?’

And his Mind Palace John would have said: ‘Lonely, unhappy, withdrawn. Denying yourself what others have: love, romance, partnership.’

But then there is a dog barking and a light moving in the courtyard and the moment is gone.

What follows is a jumbled melodrama: shattered glass, shadows of a bride, a member of the gentry stabbed with a dagger, a message to himself.

Miss me?

 




If he knew the answer to Gemma’s question, John would not be in a situation like this.

He licks his lips, tries to find an honest answer. ‘I am not sure. You see, with Sherlock everything’s different. He is not like …’ He shrugs helplessly.

She leans towards him, speaks in a low, very soft voice. ‘I have watched you since he was admitted. A lot. It is my job to observe the environment of our patients, their family and friends and how they react to an illness or injury. Because this is important for the healing process and … other things but I do not have to tell you this.’

He knows what she is talking about: telling patients and their loved ones that there is no hope left. 

'I have seen friends in such situations, close friends as well, and believe me, I can tell the difference. I do not wish to lessen the meaning of friendship but if someone is truly in love with a patient,  I can see it. Always.’

He swallows. ’And you think I am?’

‘Of course you are, John. I get the feeling that there are unspoken things between you and Sherlock and that it might be helpful if you talked to him.’

He looks up, knowing that his whole heart is mirrored in his face. ‘And if it is not?’

‘Sometimes it takes a leap into the unknown. Uncharted waters. Paths you have not walked before.’ She laughs, slightly embarrassed. ‘Now look at me, waxing poetical while I should have been on to the next ward twenty minutes ago.’

She gets up and looks over her shoulder. ‘Think about it. There is no immediate danger but I would really, really like him to wake up.’

 




Jim Moriarty. In his flat. Talking the usual sexualised rubbish and blowing his brains out just like he did on the roof, presenting a crater-like hole in the back of his head, still very much alive …

Sherlock feels his control slipping, reality bleeding through, no, not 'real' reality but John is there and Mary and Mycroft, and the only thing that matters is the feeling, no, the certainty that there must be a connection between his brother and the woman known as Mary Morstan. Probably not her real name. Not fictitious either, the closer to reality, the better, so a name taken from a gravestone perhaps. He would not put it past her. Nice touch of old-fashioned spy dramas, flickering black and white images, accompanied by dramatic music.

Then he is back in the past, in his Victorian sitting room, his mind mirror of 221B. He conjures up John to pull him from his drugged slumber on the floor. John who is disappointed and angry, demanding Sherlock to be better than he truly is. Painting him in a shining light for his magazine stories.

He always wanted to be good for John. And failed, spectacularly.

Something changes, a telegram from Mary. This is not the way this is meant to go but he cannot help himself. He is trusting her again, coming to her aid, saving her from an imagined danger while all the time she has been working with Mycroft behind his back – where does this come from? Is he still feeling guilty over hurting John that much? Still wishing for John to find happiness in normal life? But why does he want to push John towards a woman who is still keeping things from him, who is still a question mark? Who...

He shakes his head and lights his pipe again, closes his eyes, lets himself sink into the chair.

Deeper, deeper, he has to go deeper still. He finds himself in an abandoned church, there is a crypt with flickering candles. Mary has led him to Moriarty dressed up as a bride, nice touch - it is burning his heart out - this is what Moriarty threatened to do from the very beginning and what he never managed but Mary, Mary did, well, not quite, he is not dead, not yet …

And then everything merges MaryBrideLadyCarmichaelMoriarty, always Moriarty, following him even to the very deepest levels of his subconscious …

 




John sits down beside the bed again. He puts his tea mug on the nightstand and takes a deep breath. Then he covers Sherlock’s right hand, which is still too warm but not in an alarming way, with his own. This is something he has never done before, and it seems strangely intimate, and yet so very right.

John finds himself talking.

‘Sherlock, I just realised we only hugged once. Once in all these years. Which is weird because best friends hug each other all the time. It is something you do, when saying hello after some time or to congratulate someone on a new baby or a new job or when your team has scored a goal or to comfort your mate when life is shit. But with us, it was different.  And you know what? It was me who did not want it, who shied away from it. Never you. You kept touching my arm to alert me to things, had me dig your phone out of your breast pocket or leant closely over my shoulder to have a look at the laptop. You were the one who took my hand when we were running away from the police. It was always me who tried to keep his distance. Because I was afraid of people talking, of maybe feeling something I did not want to feel, of giving myself away’- he laughs sadly- ‘you know, I enjoy sex. Very much and as often as possible. But intimacy, well that’s another matter.’

He absently strokes Sherlock’s hand.’Some girlfriends complained about it. Sorry for bringing this up’- he clears his throat- ‘what I want to tell you is this...’ His eyes have started to burn and he sits there, still stroking Sherlock’s hand and then he can feel the wetness on his cheeks.

‘I touched you when you came back, right? Throwing you to the floor, hands around your throat, my fist in your face, my head … giving you what I thought you deserved.’ The bitterness is threatening to engulf him. ‘You know what you deserved? A punch to the face, and then a hug. But you only got one half of the deal.’

 




There are voices, light shining into his eyes, a sort of hospital and John is there, Mycroft, Mary hovering in the background. But no, this is not right, he has things to do, he is not finished yet. Then everything is getting blurry again, a car, a cemetery with old trees and leaning gravestones.

Sherlock tries to make sense of his story, to keep to the scenario as planned but he is unable to hold down the memories any longer. Memories and suspicions and the one fear he never dared to voice, not even to himself, not even alone in his bed, at night.

John leaving him to his work, going home with Mary, not taking seriously what he does anymore, not being interested in Sherlock’s cases. And the cases are all he is. A hollow man dressed in adventures and a good coat.

After John and Mary are gone, he starts digging desperately, helped by Greg – yes, he knows his name after all – who is always there when he needs someone to lend him a hand with manual labour, and Mycroft shining a light into a grave conjured up from a cheap period horror drama.

There must be something there, this is not the whole story, Mary and Moriarty and Mycroft, there must be a link, a connection which he must find, and then everything will make sense.

He goes deeper still. Free fall. Landing hard on wet rock. A roaring waterfall behind him, the spray soaking him instantly.

 




Sherlock is not moving, the tea has gone cold but John cannot bring himself to stop. Now that he has begun to talk, he will not stop until everything is said.

‘I was so angry when you waltzed into that restaurant, playing a French waiter, for God’s sake, after having put me through hell for two years. I was as good as dead myself, worse than after Afghanistan, worse than before I met you because I had met you and I knew what my life could be like and that it was over and would never come back.

‘There is this old Eurythmics' song, ‘Better to have lost in love than never to have loved at all.’ Bit cheesy, but I could not keep it out of my mind, playing it in my head for months on end. Of course it was not exactly about us, the person lost is still alive in that song, but it comes quite near. Was having had you in my life, and losing you, better than not having had you at all? Or would it have been easier if I had never met you and just found someone else or put the gun to my head one night and ended it all?’

These are things John has never told anyone, has not even dared to voice while being alone.

He lets Sherlock’s hand go and buries his face in his hands, scrubbing away unshed tears.

‘Do you know why I was so angry that evening? Come on, you are the cleverest man in the room, tell me. Because it was not just two years grieving you, feeling lost, getting drunk, talking to a headstone- that was quite appalling by the way and I really hope you did not choose that one yourself, but my bet is on Mycroft, just to spite you. Anyway’- he laughs- ‘by now it seems funny but then I was so fucking angry, because of all moments you could have chosen, you chose this. The moment I thought I was over you, the moment I had decided to move on, the moment I was sitting there with a woman who had caught me when I was stumbling around in the dark.

‘That night I lay in bed, Sherlock, wide awake, thinking of you. My whole brain kept circling around one question. Why now? Why not a year before? Or even six months? Why not before Mary? You see, I am not a good man. A good man would have been happy to have his best friend back and a lovely woman at his side. But I was not happy after that day’ - he hesitates- ‘although this is not quite true. There were some happy moments. The moment I touched your knee in front of the fireplace. The moment you put your arm on the headrest behind me when we were sitting on the couch. The moments you taught me how to dance in our living room. Closed curtains, I know, but still. And when we hugged at the wedding. The collection of John Watson’s Happy After-The-Fall-Moments is quite small but it is precious to me. And you know what? There is not a single moment with my wife in it.’

 




This is rock bottom. He smiles at his own pun. Lying on the hard, wet ground, clothes soaked to the bone, attacked by his own weakness and fear and inability to overcome that very fear. He realises that he has never really fought against a man, but always against himself. He let himself be lured into the game, was flattered to be the object of such an intricate plan, such a work of beauty. Crimes made to measure, puzzles only he could solve.

When he realised what Moriarty had become, a part of himself, it was too late. He realised it the moment he saw Moriarty’s face in Dewer’s Hollow, triggered by a drug that showed Sherlock his own worst fears. A bit like a fairytale, a counterpart of the Evil Queen’s mirror. How fitting. Moriarty was always one for fairytales.

And then he knows it is over. He made a mistake, again, meeting his deepest fears alone, without someone at his side. He should not have started this experiment on his own, should have talked it through with John but no –

There is the wife to be considered.

Sherlock is fading away, he cannot fight the vicious attack any longer, he is close to giving up, to fall again, once and forever, never to come back again. There is a pain in his chest, the bullet wound, Moriarty hitting him in the very place, a breath-taking pain and then –

John is there. There is always two of them.

For a moment Sherlock allows himself the impossible dream of John coming to save him, of John throwing Moriarty over the edge and Sherlock throwing away his stupid hat – the How People Want To See Him hat - and jumps into a new life.

He awakes on the plane. Mary is there. Mary is pregnant. Why was she not pregnant in his Victorian escapade? He made a mistake there, surely, because she is pregnant now and he deduced it himself, he is not stupid, all the signs were there – as was the sign of the liar and yet he did not observe as he should have done.

A last desperate attempt at getting back the happiness, placing John and himself in their beautiful Victorian attire in front of the fireplace, smoking, chatting peacefully, perfectly intimate, him walking to the window and looking out and seeing – the present. The present in which Mary is pregnant and has shot him and John does not know about his wife and Mycroft cannot be trusted and –

 




The heart monitor is beeping, the ECG spiking, Sherlock’s hands suddenly twitching, his head rolling from left to right.

John is up from his chair, leaning over the bed, putting his hands on Sherlock’s face and trying to calm him down but it is no use. Gemma and a nurse are entering the room, checking everything, Sherlock’s temperature which is only slightly elevated- no fever- and yet something is happening to him.

‘I ... I talked to him as you said. He has been quiet all the time, this started only seconds ago,’ John says, feeling terribly awkward. Was it something he said that upset Sherlock? Did he hear him? Did he hear everything he said?

Gemma sends the nurse away. ‘I do not care if you have been pouring out your heart to him or read from the telephone directory,’ she smiles. ‘Whatever you did, you got a reaction. And even if he reacted to something inside himself instead of your words, this is a good sign.’ She looks over to the monitor. The heart rate is slowing down. 

‘No medication as long as his condition remains stable. Keep up the good work.’

She leaves him alone.

 




They are driving into a tunnel, Sherlock and John in the front seats, Mary in the back, moaning, telling him to go faster, then a cry, ‘Stop! At once! I cannot … feck … my water just broke …’

He abruptly stops the car, sends it slithering against the kerb, John jumping out and squeezing himself in the back with Mary.

Sherlock is trying not to hear the moans, the groans, Mary swearing, John talking to her in his best bedside manner, hiding his own nervousness because his daughter is going to be born in a fucking car in a fucking London tunnel, of all things.

Sherlock looks at his phone, trying to distract himself because he knows what this means, he will never have John, not the way he wants him, he will be the uncle coming to tea every second Sunday of the month, bringing funny presents for which John’s daughter is far too young, carrying her around the room in a mixture of awkwardness and pride and then going home to Baker Street alone.

There is some shark graffiti in the tunnel and he thinks of Magnussen and that he is not sorry, will never be sorry for killing him, but why are they here of all places, what are they telling him?

After that everything starts to blur, a jumble of images floating through his brain, John and Mary and the baby in a lovely, pink bunny suit and they all take a walk like a happy family, Mr and Mrs Psychopath and their high-functioning uncle dragged along by an over-eager dog into a crowded market and –

 




‘Sherlock, I need you to wake up. Please. I know you suffered a terrible shock and you are in pain but please, for me.’

John is holding Sherlock’s right hand that has no venous access with both of his own, maybe even clutching it but he cannot let go, he is afraid. He is a doctor and should be able to keep his professional distance but this is Sherlock.

‘I could say sorry and explain why I have been the way I am and that this is not how I want us to be but I know that you are not fond of sentimental crap so I will start again. I need you to wake up because I have a case for you.’

 




At first there is just light. Nothing hard or glaring, more like the sun shining through mist, soft, subdued, muted.

Then there is a sound, a voice. He knows that voice, he could pick it out of a hundred, a thousand, of all other voices.

‘A very important case, Sherlock, and I want you to listen to me. I know who shot you. This is all I have to say for now,’ a pause, ‘and there is something else. I promised to skip the sentimental crap so I will keep it short. I have no idea if you can hear me or if you even want to hear this but, just this once. Let me say it, just once. I love you.’

 




John feels a sudden calm after he has said the words. It is as if he has shed an old skin, like a lizard or a snake, only to find a shining new skin beneath. A skin in which he feels at home.

At first it is just a twitch, feather-light, so light that it could be his imagination. But then Sherlock’s hand starts to move in his and he loosens his grip and looks down at the long fingers that are scrabbling about.

‘Sherlock? Can you hear me?’ John looks at the monitors, everything is fine. Pulse almost normal.

He starts to stroke Sherlock’s hand again and keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s face. Lips starting to move, trying to form words.

‘Just a sec, I’ll be back at once.’

John runs out into the hallway, barges into the nurses’ station, shouting for ice.

‘Mr Holmes is awake?’ asks a young nurse. ‘I will page Doctor Wood at once.’

But John is already on his way back, nearly slithering into the room, shutting the door and bending down over the bed.

Sherlock’s eyes are open. Slightly unfocussed. Lips still moving. John carefully places an ice cube against Sherlock’s lips. He hesitantly licks the cube, water slowly dripping down over his chin and John’s fingers. One minute, two minutes. Then he turns his head away.

John sits down, putting the bowl of ice on the nightstand.

‘Can you hear me?’

 




Sherlock manages a nod. His brain is still fuzzy; he is floating on a cloud of morphine but he is awake. His mouth is still terribly dry but he has to try.

‘Too.’

His mouth does not obey, his lips are numb and it feels as if he has to learn to speak again.

John’s face is very close. ‘You don’t have to speak. Everything is fine, the operation went well, they removed the bullet without any damage to blood vessels or other organs. But you lost a lot of blood and have been unconscious for two days.’

His voice is just a whisper, ‘Mary?’

John’s lips turn into a hard line. ‘This is the case I mentioned, the case for which you have to get well.’

‘He has … things … on her.’

‘Who has?’

‘Magnussen.’ Sherlock closes his eyes, exhausted from a few short words.

‘Magnussen is dead, Sherlock.’

He tries to move but the pain in his chest is excruciating even through the morphine cloud and he has to take some shallow breaths. Another ice cube is placed to his lips. A warm, dry hand is stroking his forehead.

‘He was killed in his office. I found both of you. Him, I could not save. Shot to the head. But you … well, the killer had second thoughts,’ he swallows, ‘and yet, you almost died, Sherlock, it was touch and go. I think they had given up on you.’

He looks away.

 




John tries very hard not to cry in front of Sherlock, ’let’s talk about this when you are better’ - he gets up from his chair- ‘I will look for Gemma, your doctor. She will be happy to know you woke up. You gave us a right puzzle.’

Sherlock looks at him quizzically.

‘There was no physical reason why you should remain unconscious for so long.’

Something like a smile appears on Sherlock’s face. ‘Other reason.’

John nods. ‘I see. Trip to the palace?’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock’s voice is low and tired but not without a hint of amusement.

John gets up and walks to the door. His hand is already touching the doorknob when something makes him stop abruptly in his tracks.

‘I heard you.’

He almost runs back to the bed. Sherlock is looking at him with wide open eyes.

‘I love you, too.’

 

 

Love never fails.

(1 Corinthians 13)
 

Dear Sherlock Holmes,

Your prompt was intimidating to me when I first received it.  You asked for a story where Mary’s past catches up to her in catastrophic ways (I hope this is catastrophic enough) and in which John must make a difficult decision, along with a plot based on an original canon story.  I still haven’t read a lot of the original Doyle stories, so I was not sure I could find one that was not too difficult to adapt, but I think I found something that I was able to manage.  Merry Christmas, and I hope you enjoy my gift to you.

 

The Wealthy Bachelor

 

John let out a sigh as he started his car to go home from work.  Mary had been on maternity leave for some time now, so he was used to driving home alone, but on days like this, where he felt more tired than usual, he liked to have the company to help him stay focused on the road – or have Mary do the driving instead. He turned on the radio, hoping that it would help.

 

There was not much of interest in the day’s news until John’s ears perked up when there was mention of a missing person. 

 

“Helen Doran, daughter of Alan Doran, American technology firm owner and entrepreneur, has  gone missing after her wedding to Robert Simon this weekend.   She was last seen at her father’s house, where the wedding reception was to take place. Those with any information are encouraged to contact the police.  It is still unclear whether this is a case of foul play.”

 

John expected Sherlock would soon know about this, if he did not already.  He thought about it for a while, but soon found that he was home and it slipped from his mind.

 

He went up the front steps of his house to find that the door was ajar.  He considered that perhaps Mary had accidentally left it this way if she had run inside upon hearing the baby crying, but she had not been planning on going out that day.  John pushed the door open and entered slowly, beginning to shift into soldier mode.

 

“Mary?” he called out cautiously.  There was no answer.  He crept inside and started to look around.  Nothing was majorly disturbed in the immediate vicinity of the front door, though the few papers – unpaid bills – that had been sitting on the table had been scattered.  But that could have happened just from walking quickly past.

 

“Mary?” John called out again.  Again, no answer.  He looked around and found nothing amiss, but Mary was also nowhere to be found.  He went up the stairs.  When he got to the top he turned to go inside his and Mary’s bedroom.  That was when he finally saw what had happened. Or, at least, an index of what had happened.

 

The room was in disarray.  The bedside table had been knocked over, the objects that had sat atop it strewn across the floor.   The dresser drawers were open and had been rifled through. The bed was practically unmade, the sheets wrinkled and bunched to one side.  It was then that John heard a low sound.  He followed it to see that Mary lay on the floor on the other side of the bed, gagged and with her hands bound.

 

“Mary!” John exclaimed.  He hurried over and untied her.  “How long have you been like this? When did they break in?” he asked.

 

“I don’t know,” she said once she could speak.  “Maybe an hour ago?  I can usually get myself out of this, but I suppose even trained assassins have bad days.”

 

“Did they hurt you? Did they take anything? What about the baby?” The words kept sputtering out of John’s mouth.

 

“There were two of them.  They didn’t take anything, including the baby.  I made sure of that.  What I did give them though…”

 

“What did they want?”

 

“Information…They threatened to hurt me…and then they did…when I wouldn’t tell them where the base is located for the operations…that I used to be a part of.”

 

“Did you tell them?”

 

“I had to.  They threatened to hurt our little girl…and I suspect I’ll have a good black eye by tomorrow morning, if not tonight.”

 

“Oh, thank goodness, they didn’t take her” John sighed.  “But do you think they’ll be back?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Well, I hope they’re satisfied with what you’ve told them and that they won’t come back.” He held her tight, relieved that she was alive and in one piece.  “I’ll go check on our daughter.”

 

---

 

Things settled down after the scare that day.  Mary did get a black eye, as well as some other bruises, but she was otherwise fine.  John took a day off work to help her with the baby and the house, finding it unfair that she should be left alone all day with her injuries, even if they weren’t critical ones.

 

Things were getting back to normal when Sherlock texted John, alerting him of a new case.  He responded that he was on his way.  When he arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock was on his laptop.

 

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock muttered when John entered before looking up and smirking.  John smiled.

 

“So,” he said.  “What’s the case this time?”

 

“Helen Doran,” Sherlock replied.  “Went missing after her wedding a few days ago.”

 

John remembered the story he heard on the radio.  “What do you know?”

 

“According to the media, she married Robert Simon, son of the politician Gerald Simon, for the money, but her father was in technology, so even if she did come from a less-endowed family, the difference in their families’ wealth couldn’t have been that great, and would still prove financially advantageous.  But enough about that.  It was a relatively small, fairly private wedding and the bride disappeared during the wedding breakfast at her father, Alan’s, home.  It was a quiet wedding except for the disturbance by an unknown woman who tried to force herself in, spouting unflattering claims against the groom and his father.”

 

“Did she arrive before or after Helen Doran went missing?” John asked. 

 

“Before,” Sherlock said.  “But there is little other information in the papers.  I’m hoping her husband will be able to fill in some more of the details.”

 

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door downstairs.  They heard Mrs. Hudson answer and show the man in.  In a few moments, he was at the top of the stairs in the doorway to the flat, introducing himself to John and Sherlock as Robert Simon.

 

John had expected a younger man, but Robert Simon had thinning hair that was beginning to grey.  He dressed well, but in a way that the effort to do so was too obvious.

 

“You must be Mr. Simon,” John said. 

 

“Yes,” the man replied.  “Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand and John was given a firm handshake.  Simon moved to Sherlock, who declined the gesture, leaving the man in a momentarily awkward position.

 

“Start from the beginning, Mr. Simon,” Sherlock said, sitting back in his chair but his eyes alert.

 

“Right,” Simon said.  “I met Helen last year in San Francisco.  I had heard of her father before meeting her since he’s one of the richest and most active entrepreneurs in technology right now.  He had only recently become rich when Helen had turned twenty.  Because of that, Helen never got to go to university, but to say she isn’t intelligent would be completely wrong.  She is still well-read.  Strong-willed and clever, too.  I was immediately enthralled by her.”

 

With that, Simon pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and showed the two of them a photograph of Helen.  It was very flattering and professionally-taken.

 

“Did you become engaged shortly after meeting?” John asked.

 

“No, not at all,” Simon replied.  “Once my father’s engagement in San Francisco was over, we returned to London and I didn’t see Helen again until the spring when she was in London with her father.  She would help him with his business, you see.   Anyway, it was during that time that we were engaged to be married.”

 

“You were aware of the financial gains involved in marrying her?” Sherlock interjected.

 

“Of course, I was,” Simon replied.  “How could I not be?”

 

“And you would know how much more wealthy you would become through your union? How much exactly?” Sherlock probed.

 

“I have nothing to say on the matter,” Simon said, shifting his feet beneath him.  “But I will tell you that it was not merely for financial benefit, and certainly not only for my own gain.  The feeling was mutual.  The day before the wedding, Helen could barely contain her excitement, talking of the future.”

 

“And on the day of the wedding?”

 

“The same.  I have never seen a happier bride.  That is, until the ceremony.  She began to feel agitated when she dropped her bouquet on her way up the aisle.  A man who happened to be sitting in the pew where she dropped it returned the bouquet to her.  I’m not sure why it upset her so much.  I don’t think it disrupted the ceremony for even a minute.”

 

Simon paused, then.  John glanced at Sherlock, who had his fingers clasped pensively.  John knew then that this seemingly unimportant moment must hold some detail that he could not fathom.

 

“But despite that, nothing seemed particularly strange before Helen disappeared,” he continued.  “The only thing that stands out to me is that she had a brief word with the maid once we got to the house after the ceremony, but it didn’t seem at all surprising for her to do that, though I thought everything for the wedding had already been taken care of.  I heard her mention something about ‘jumping a claim,’ but I didn’t let it concern me, since the wedding was the most important thing at the time.  And anyway, their conversation didn’t last long.  She joined us in the dining room as we waited for everyone to arrive.”

Robert Simon paused again.

 

“Is that all?” John asked, thinking that perhaps this was everything Simon remembered.

 

“No,” Simon replied.  “After a little while, Helen said she was feeling tired and wanted to take a short rest in her room before we started the party.  She went upstairs.  She still had not come back down by the time all our guests had arrived for the reception, so I excused myself to go make sure she was all right.  She wasn’t in her room.  I looked around and noticed that her wardrobe was open and her coat missing.  I didn’t know where she could have gone, I haven’t seen her since that day.”

 

Robert Simon stopped there.

 

“Are you sure you’ve told us everything, Mr. Simon?” Sherlock asked from his position in his chair.

 

“Yes,” Simon replied, shifting his feet again.  Sherlock stared at him expectantly.

 

“What?” Simon asked.  “You don’t believe me?”

 

“There is something you’ve failed to mention,” Sherlock said, unfolding his hands and leaning forward towards Robert Simon.  “There were reports of an unknown woman who disrupted the wedding party, spewing unflattering remarks about you and your father.  And yet you failed to mention such a disturbance.”

 

Simon shifted in his chair again, breaking his eye contact with Sherlock.  Finally, he gave a sigh of resignation.

 

“Oh, all right,” he said.  “Yes, there was a disturbance.  She wasn’t unknown to me. Her name is Flora Millar.”

 

“How did you know her?” Sherlock asked, still leaning forward expectantly.

 

“I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this,” Simon said.  “If possible, I would like to keep this out of the press.  It could damage my career.  Flora’s a stripper.  I’ve known her for many years.  She had an unrequited attraction for me, but I never had any relations with her, not before and not after meeting Helen.  When she disturbed the wedding she was escorted off the premises and we didn’t hear anything about her after that.  Are you happy now?”

 

Sherlock leaned back again.  “Yes,” he said.  “Thank you, Mr. Simon.  Do you have a photograph of her?”

 

“…Yes,” Simon said, taking his phone back out of his jacket.  “Here.”

 

Sherlock examined the details of the picture.

 

“Are you aware that later that day, Helen was seen in Hyde Park, wearing her coat over her wedding gown, walking with a woman fitting Flora’s description?”

 

“That comes as a complete surprise to me,” Simon replied.  “And I don’t know how I wouldn’t have seen them.  We could see Hyde Park through the window of the house.”

 

“I see,” Sherlock said, seeming to dismiss that last fact.  “If that is all, you may go now, Mr. Simon.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Simon said, rising from his chair.  “I hope you will be able to find her.” He nodded to each of them and left.

 

“What do you think, John?” Sherlock said, turning to his friend.  “A strange wedding day, was it not?”

 

“Not that much stranger than mine was,” John replied.  He noticed that Sherlock reacted with a face that suggested he did not want to remember that day.  John tried to quickly change the subject back to the case.  “But anyway, yes, a strange wedding day, those two had.  Did Mr. Simon’s story give you much to work with?”

 

Sherlock got up from his seat.  “Yes,” he said.  “Or at least, enough to begin with.  I’m still working out a few things, but he was definitely helpful.”

 

Sherlock walked over to where his violin case was resting, opened it, tuned the instrument slightly, and began to play.

 

Sherlock’s thinking took such a beautiful form when he played violin.  He may not have been a professional musician, but that didn’t matter to John.  It was not a real performance, he knew, but it was more intimate that anything you could hear at a concert hall.  John savoured the moment, listening to Sherlock’s thinking music, remembering when he could hear Sherlock play any day, anytime.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.  He took it out to see a message from Mary.

 

I have something very important to discuss with you.  Please come home as soon as you can.

 

John waited for the piece to end before speaking.

 

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” he said.  “I have to go home.  Mary needs me for something.”

 

Sherlock looked like he was trying to hide the disappointment on his face.  “Right.”

 

---

 

Mary was waiting for John in the living room when he got home.  Her face was hard to read, which seemed intentional, but she was not completely succeeding.  She looked troubled, but there was also a hint of determination on her face.

 

“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” John asked her, sitting down across from her.

 

“They might come back,” Mary said soberly.  “The men who broke in.  They know where I live now, and that I will give them the information that they want.  Apparently, the location of the base wasn’t enough. Even though I’m not active they might come back for information.”

 

“How much of a chance is there?”

 

“More than is comfortable.”

 

She did not need to say more; John knew what this meant.

 

“How far away do you think you’d have to go?” John asked her.  “Somewhere else in England?”

 

“No,” Mary said.  “America, at least, perhaps to South Africa from there.  I’m not sure yet, but either of those should be safe enough for us.”

 

“Us?” John asked.  No, this wasn’t right.  Why was he asking whether both of them would go? Weren’t they a married couple, supposed to do things together?

 

“Yes, John,” Mary.  “All three of us.”

 

“You expect me to go with you?” John felt his temper rising, though he was not completely sure why.

 

“John!” Mary’s was rising, too.  Understandably so.

 

“You expect me to leave my best friend?” John asked.  He was nearly shouting now.  “Who brought me out of the darkest time of my life? Who gave me something else to live for when I thought there was nothing left for me?”

 

“Didn’t I do the same for you?” She was nearly shouting now.  “When you thought he was dead?”

 

“Well, he’s not actually dead now, is he?” John retorted.  “Do you really expect me to leave him after everything the two of us have been through?”

 

“That’s a choice you’ll have to make, then, John,” Mary said, slowing the pace of her speech in attempt to regain control.  “Your wife and child, or your friend.”

 

He let those words sink in for a few moments.  “I suppose you’re right.”

 

---

 

He barely slept that night.  He doubted Mary did, either, though he wasn’t sure since she wasn’t the type to toss and turn in bed like he was.  He tried not to mess up the blankets too much, though minimizing his disruption of her rest was not exactly much comfort.

 

Both Sherlock and Mary had saved him, in their own ways.  Both had hurt him, too.  Both had given him something he had wanted in his life: purpose.  The thought of leaving any of those things behind tore his heart in two.

 

---

 

He arrived at Baker Street the next morning in a groggy state.  He was distracted on the way there, but somehow managed not to take a single wrong turn on the way, it was so instinctive.

 

Sherlock appeared to be inside his mind palace when John entered, his eyes closed.  It was a few minutes before he opened them.

 

“Ah! John!” he said, rising to his feet.  “You came at a good time.  Lestrade is on his way here now to share what he’s found in his investigation at Hyde Park.”

 

“Yeah, great,” John said, lacking his usual interest.

 

“Are you all right, John?” Sherlock asked, suddenly more serious.  “You’re clearly sleep-deprived.”

 

“Yeah, I am,” John said.  “It’s not important.” Why did he lie like this?

 

A minute later, Lestrade arrived.

 

“Hello, Greg,” John said, trying not to sound apathetic.  He did care about the case, but his mind was full of so many things it was hard to stay in the moment.

 

“John,” Lestrade replied with a nod.  “I’m not sure how much farther this gets us, but we found Helen Doran’s wedding gown in the Serpentine, and her shoes.  We had Mr. Simon come down to confirm that.  She was sensible enough to get a dress with pockets, and inside we found a business card holder with a note inside.”

 

Lestrade reached into his coat pocket to show Sherlock the note. 

 

“It says, ‘I will see you when everything is ready.  Come straight away, F.H.M.’  It’s written on the back of a hotel bill.”

 

He handed the note to Sherlock, who proceeded to examine it.  After a few moments, the corners of his mouth turned up into a grin.

 

“Very good, very good,” he said.  “This helps things along very well, indeed.”

 

“You’re not looking at the side with the note,” Lestrade said.

 

“Right.”

 

“Don’t you think the note is proof that Flora Millar is to blame for the disappearance?  Look at the initials. The back of the note is just a bill.”

 

“Yes, the initials also help.  Thank you, Lestrade.  You may go.”

 

“But…” Lestrade sighed.  “All right.  Let me know when you’ve figured things out.”

 

John watched Lestrade leave before turning back to Sherlock.  He considered the thought of not seeing him again for a long time, how he could barely stand it the last time it had happened.  Could he do it again?

 

“So,” John said.  “What does the note tell us?’

 

“I just need to confirm those initials, but I have just about got it.  The fees on the bill are from an expensive hotel, and I believe whoever is staying there is who will give us the rest of the answers we need.”

 

“Would Millar be able to afford it?” John asked, still puzzled.

 

“No,” Sherlock said.  “No, I don’t believe so.  We would be hard pressed to, as Lestrade has attempted, to prove that Flora Millar is the culprit.”

 

“Then who?”

 

“Patience, John.”

 

Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed out. “Be back soon” was all he said before disappearing down the stairs.

 

---

 

John sat in his familiar chair while he waited for Sherlock to return.  He wondered why Sherlock had not asked him to come along, but then realized that he would not have been much help.  He had barely been able to keep his mind in the present moment when Lestrade had come.

 

He remembered when this very chair had seemed to have disappeared from the living room after he had married, before eventually being restored to its proper position once Sherlock knew that John would never really leave him.  He wondered…if he really did leave, would the chair disappear again?

 

---

 

Sherlock looked very pleased with himself when he returned to the flat.

 

“I suppose you were correct?” John asked him.

 

“Oh, yes, John,” Sherlock said, as giddy as a child on Christmas morning.  He pulled out his phone and quickly typed something out.  “Sit tight, John.  Lestrade will be here in...” his phone beeped, “…twenty minutes, and we will be having some other special guests as well.”

 

“Special guests?” He did not think he had ever heard Sherlock say such a thing.

 

“All will be revealed, John,” Sherlock said.  “But for now, I will tell you I was right.  Flora Millar is not the one responsible for Helen’s disappearance, certainly not as a kidnapper or anything else of the sort.”

 

“Then who?” John asked.

 

“I won’t spoil the surprise.”

 

---

 

As the evening began, a delivery man arrived at Baker Street and lay out an expensive meal.

 

“Ah! Mr. Moulton’s generous gift has arrived!” Sherlock said excitedly.  John wondered who Sherlock was talking to, but did not bother to ask, assuming he would not get an answer.

 

A while later, there were more arrivals.  First was Robert Simon, who was muttering about what his father would say and worrying about whether his family’s reputation was on the line, followed soon after by Lestrade. A few minutes later a man and a woman entered the flat.  The man, John did not recognize, but the woman he did from the photograph Robert Simon had shown them – the woman they had known as Helen Doran.  The man extended his hand to John and Sherlock in turn.

 

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Frank Moulton,” he said.  “And this is my wife, Helen.”

 

She turned to Robert Simon after the introduction.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said to him.  “I know you must be angry.” Simon was standoffish, but said nothing in response.

 

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket then and he turned away to sneak a glance at the message – another from Mary.

 

Have you made up your mind yet? it read.

 

He typed back a quick reply. I have.

 

He turned back to the guests to hear just as Mrs. Moulton – he supposed that was one way to address her – was beginning to speak.

 

“I met Frank at a technology industry conference when my father was giving a presentation there.  Frank had just started a new project which he hoped would succeed.  We kept seeing each other and soon we were engaged.  But Frank’s venture ended up failing, so even though my father initially approved, he no longer wanted us to get married.  Though not together, we both went to San Francisco around the same time and met up again.  I couldn’t stay long, but I promised I would marry him the next time we could meet.  Instead of leaving it at that, we decided to get married in secret, then and there.  My father didn’t know, so I went to live with him.  Meanwhile, Frank went to Silicon Valley to start another project, hopefully to have success this time.  One day, it was reported that there was an office fire.  The papers reported Frank among the dead, though it was a mistake, but I did not know that and so I believed it.  It was around then that Robert came to San Francisco.  We eventually went to London and our marriage was arranged.”

 

John looked at Lestrade, who looked just as surprised as he was at this revelation.  Sherlock, meanwhile, looked pleased with himself.

 

“I told myself I could be a good wife to Robert, if I couldn’t have Frank,” Helen continued.  “But that all changed when I saw Frank sitting in one of the church pews as I went down the aisle.  I didn’t know what to do, so I dropped my bouquet in front of him, pretending it was an accident.  As he bent down to grab it he quickly scrawled a note and stuck it in the bouquet before he returned it to me.  I knew then that I had to leave the wedding as soon as possible, which was after the church ceremony.  I could explain later.  When I finally met up with him, I told Frank I had thought he was dead, and he told me about the mistaken report in the news.  He assumed I would had received a correction once that was cleared up, but I never did.”

 

“How did you know to come to London?” Lestrade asked Mr. Moulton.

 

“I had gone back to San Francisco after the fire,” he said, “but she had already gone to London.  I was directed to her new address here and flew over as soon as I could.  After that, well, you know what happened.  Needless to say, we are very happy to finally be reunited.”

 

“Yes, I can only imagine,” Lestrade said.  John nodded in agreement.

 

After the story was over and Lestrade took note of what he needed to bring back to Scotland Yard so that they knew that no kidnapping or murder had occurred, they all sat down to the meal that Mr. Moulton had generously provided for them. 

 

“There’s just one thing bothering me,” John said, turning to the couple.  “Even if you were married to Mr. Moulton, how are you not also married to Mr. Simon?”

 

“Robert and I had been to the church,” Helen said.  “But we hadn’t signed the papers yet, so we weren’t legally married.  And neither of us are that religious, really, so the church wedding is more of a formality than anything binding.”

 

“Plus, I suppose you can’t get be married to someone else once you’re already married, anyway” Mr. Moulton added with a laugh.  Robert Simon did not seem like he wanted to join in on the humour, but he appeared to be coping.

 

When everyone had left, John finally got a chance to ask Sherlock how he figured out who Frank Moulton was and his connection to the case.

 

“It was not difficult,” he said. “As I already alluded to, his note to her was on a bill for one of the most expensive hotels in London; there are not many with rates as high as those written on it, so I knew it was someone wealthy who she would have already known.  After that it wasn’t much, just had to find out who was staying there with the initials matching the note.”

 

“I see,” John said, “brilliant.”

 

Sherlock, though still clearly proud of himself, was surprised.  “It’s been a while since you’ve said that.”

 

“Has it?” John replied.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “It’s been eight months, exactly.”

 

“I suppose it has been a long time…”

 

---

 

When John got home that night Mary seemed calmer than she had when he had left the house.

 

“What did you decide?” she asked, giving him a peck when she came in the door. 

 

“That America might not be so bad,” he replied.

 

Before they went to bed, Mary booked them plane tickets from London to America – John did not ask which city, he did not care.  In the morning, they woke up early to pack their bags.  Mary said they should only pack the essentials, but soon discovered that when you know you will never be returning, almost everything seems essential.  She somehow managed to fit everything that she needed, leaving out the few things she could bear to leave behind.  John also did the best he could, folding his shirts efficiently as he had learned to do very on his way to work in the mornings

 

They loaded everything in the car, the baby being the last.  Mary noticed John still looked anxious as they were driving.

 

“I won’t let anything happen to us ever again,” she said to him, reaching one hand over to his shoulder to try to relax him.  “We’ll be safe there.  I know it.”

 

John did not calm down, however.  They got to the airport a little late, though since they were there for an international flight that meant they were still there a few hours before they were scheduled to board.

 

As they were walking to the gate, where they would be waiting around yet again for quite some time, John offered her one of the suitcases – one of hers – that he had been carrying.

 

“Let me hold her for a while,” he said.  “Take a rest.”

 

“Thank you,” she said, handing her daughter over to her husband’s outstretched hands before taking the light suitcase he had been carrying for her.

 

John looked down at his daughter in his arms, bouncing her lightly as Mary had been doing to keep her calm.  He could not stand the thought of not watching her grow up.  He knew he had made the right choice.

 

The gate was at the end of a travelator.  The people were just beginning to form a queue to board.

 

“We’re just in time,” Mary said, before turning to her husband.  She found herself talking to the air.  She turned around to look behind her.  He was nowhere to be seen.

 

---

 

John dragged his suitcase with one arm and his baby daughter in the other.  He struggled to get the wheels up the steps to the door of 221B, be he did it, only stumbling a little through the door.

 

Mrs. Hudson had heard the noise and came to greet him.

 

“John!” she exclaimed, her eyes glowing.  “What a pleasant surprise! I didn’t know you were moving ba-”

 

John put a finger to his lips.  Mrs. Hudson stopped herself, understanding what he meant, before winking at him and gesturing up the stairs.

 

He carried the baby up with him, leaving the suitcase to be retrieved later.  He strode into the flat happily.

 

“We’re home, Sherlock,” John said when he saw his friend drinking tea in his chair by the unlit fireplace.

 

“John!” Sherlock quickly put down his cup and practically leapt out of his seat.  “Mary called this morning, saying the two of you were leaving today for America.”

 

“Change of plans,” John said, unable to stop himself from grinning anymore.  “Well, for me, anyway.”

 

Sherlock let out a breath that was a cross between a gasp and happy laughter, smiling brighter than John had seen in a long time. 

 

“Will you have us?”  John asked.

 

“Of course I will!” Sherlock then turned away for a second, and John heard his breath interrupted by a quiet sob.

 

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said.  Sherlock turned back to him, his eyes full of tears.  He saw that John’s were the same, but they were both still smiling.  Sherlock rushed over and, careful not to squish the baby, wrapped John in a hug.

 

“Welcome home.”

 
 

Last edited by Schmiezi (December 8, 2016 6:20 am)

Still, he was saved from further awkwardness by Sherlock who went past him carrying himself like royalty, his back ramrod-straight and approached the temperamental officer with his self-possession back in place. En-route, he produced a visit-card out of his vest-pocket and as he was handing it to the policeman, he coldly introduced himself: “My name is Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective and I am currently in your country on the invitation of your government. I arrived into Béziers this evening in the company of Inspecteur Principal Justin Ganimard of La Sûreté. You can check these facts with him, he is to be found at the local Commissariat de Police at the moment.”

The officer, quite cowed and bewildered all of sudden, accepted the card meekly and read it with an almost comic kind of reverence. Meanwhile, Sherlock made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the room with it and continued: “Now let me describe the state of this place as we found it upon our arrival after the announcement of the crime.”

He gave a short summary of our previous actions to the gendarme, indicating a coffee table at the end: “We touched nothing, except the middle of this door and the saucer pad. I was careful to put it back on the table into its original position for you. If you allow me to advice you something, I would preserve that cup together with its content for now and let it be analysed by an expert later. The strong herbal smell of the tisane makes it impossible to tell, but I suspect there was some potent drug administered to this drink earlier in the evening.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and nodded in the direction of the stove after that: “I would also like to put your attention to the coals that had fallen all around the deceased. Some of them are certainly not placed in positions into which they should naturally fall at the time of an impact. They are not scattered – the few blocks were probably pushed aside by some instrument and created something like a row right under the stove. Please, note down the fact, it's very important.”

The officer nodded in the bout of obeisance, still, he raised a careful objection right away: “Monsieur Holmes, I would still be forced to take this gentleman, Authié, to the station. He must be questioned on the matter as soon as possible.”

Sherlock pierced him with a stern, steely gaze from the side and replied curtly: “Do what is your duty, captain. You will find me at the house of Mr. Vernet if my presence is deemed necessary.”

He slightly bowed to the gendarmes, placed the deerstalker at his head and beckoning to me and Vernet, he left the room. We hurried after him and soon found ourselves at the street in front of the bistro once more.

Thousands of questions were pushing against my tongue, impatient to get out. I felt hotness pulsing frantically in my chest – jealousy and the sense of betrayal. My hands itched in desire to grab Sherlock, to press him against the wall and to interrogate him thoroughly about the bizarre spectacle I just witnessed in the victim's flat. But neither the time nor the place was suitable for that.

During the time we were away, the street filled with nosy busy-bodies and neighbours. I noticed that Rosalie and Marie were among them, grimly observing the house of the tragedy with the others. The ominous police van stood higher up the street. Its black wagon adorned with tiny barred windows waited patiently for the arrival of the fresh prisoner, disturbing atmosphere of something fatal keenly perceptible in its stillness.

Sherlock mumbled something under his nose, rambling back and forth on the trottoir next to the bistro, his head bowed to his chest in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. No one dared to approach him, people kept their distance seeing how absent-minded and out of it he is.

He snapped of his mental reverie only after few minutes. He hesitated for a while and came nearer to Marie, tipping his cap to her.

“Madame Thibaut?” He addressed her deferentially. “You have told me earlier that you were a housekeeper in the house of the deceased. I couldn't help but notice that your employer was a Jesuit. Therefore, may I ask you…”

Rosalie, who obviously lent Marie her company to shield her from any unwanted attentions, gave him an ugly glance and put her hands on both shoulders of the elder woman. She gently pushed her back inside the shop and slipping right after her, she retorted: “Leave us alone, monsieur! We know nothing about the matter!”

The bell placed high on the wall rang angrily when the door was slammed shut into Sherlock's face. Two pairs of hostile, distrustful eyes pierced Sherlock from behind the glass. The slim female hand let down the blinds after that and cut the bistro from the rest of the world in an uncompromising manner.

The pink-cheeked granny who stood nearby and who carried two live chickens in the basket thrown over her shoulder tut-tutted compassionately. She leaned to Sherlock and informed him in a hushed up voice of a well informed confidant: “Don't bear a grudge against them, sir, they didn't mean it like that. They both adored Monsieur Arnaud immensely. They must still be in shock.”

Sherlock peeked at her from under the visor of the deerstalker inscrutably. Still, he was not bearing the name of the sleuth in vain. He flexibly adjusted himself to a new source of data and asked smoothly and politely: “You knew Monsieur Arnaud then, Madame?”

The old lady nodded slowly: “Oh, he was an absolute angel, sir. A devout Jesuit and a man full of Christian virtue, as you have said. I was his acquaintance from the moment I first came into Béziers thirty years ago, because he served as an aide for the church I used to attend for many years. He was such a great support for the poor of our town while he was still active! Especially children from destitute families and the orphans have much to thank him for, because he frequently organised charities for them and helped them to find some decent work. Not only Rosalie and Marie, but also many others will miss him so…”

Deep sigh rose from her chest. Her voice descended into something resembling a sob and she blinked, overpowered by a sudden bout of nostalgia.

Sherlock hastily handed her his batiste handkerchief. She thanked him plaintively and dabbed the corners of her eyes with it, alarming the chickens by the act.

“Did you see Monsieur Arnaud lately, Madame?” Sherlock asked empathetically.

“Oh, I only met him a few days ago, at this very bistro! I didn't even know he moved here, to Rue de l'Orb, because he inhabited a nice little villa near Les Halles previously. He told me he had to give up his work for the church because of an illness and that he needed some change of the environment… I wanted to pay him a visit and to bring him some wine from our vineyard soon… and now I'm annoyed with myself it never came to that. If I only knew…”

She blinked again and then she blew her nose into Sherlock's handkerchief thoroughly.

Unexpectedly, the assembled mob hummed in excitement. I turned my head after the source of the noise….

And just as unexpectedly, I felt how Sherlock's hand slid into mine. I don't know how he did it, but he suddenly stood by my side, straightened out into his full height and as taut as a violin string. His face turned into stone once more, but his fingers, intertwined with mine, trembled in nervous anticipation.

The gendarmes emerged from the gate of the house, their white-haired prisoner walking sluggishly in their midst. The police van was already opened and its black wagon with barred windows and wide-open doors looked like the mouth of some hungry beast lurking in the darkness, prepared to swallow its prey hungrily. The prisoner was scanning the amassed mob with murky eyes while being dragged to this movable cell and he managed to find Sherlock just before he was forced to board it. He stopped for a second and exchanged a long glance with him. Even through the distance, the sense of their mutual connection was palpable. Sherlock flinched as if he was hit right into solar plexus.

And then it was over. The metal door closed with a loud whack. The coachman cracked the whip over the two black horses and the carriage diverged slowly to the crowded street, taking up speed, until it disappeared behind the nearest corner.

Sherlock squeezed my hand in a vice grip. Despite his outward façade of absolute stoicism, he couldn't fool me. He was shell-shocked there, under the hard kernel of apathy.

Vernet approached us with the rueful face. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and started to apologise: “Guillaume, I'm so sorry….”

Sherlock abruptly let go of me, whirled to his cousin and clutched at his coat, long fingers tearing into fabric like claws. He put his face close to the stunned Frenchman and said to him in a low, urgent voice, his eyes blazing savagely: “Marcel, we must remove the books and papers from Professor's house immediately, lest the police find them! Where does he live currently?”

“It's Rue de la Citadelle, not very far from my own house.”

“Fetch us a cab then, we must hurry!”

Vernet gulped heavily, nodded and mutely made a bolt for the nearest cab stand.

I couldn't believe my ears and this time, I let my displeasure be known.

“Sherlock!” I hissed and grabbed Sherlock's forearm, barely stifling the urge to shake him. “What the hell? Don't tell me you want to make us an accessory to this crime!”

He shook my hand off angrily: “Don't talk nonsense, John! That man is innocent, he could never perpetrate this crime, that's impossible!”

„Really?” My eyebrows flew up to my hairline. “And how did you deduce that? Don't you want to enlighten me on that?”

“Because he's…” Sherlock hesitated and bit into his lip, frowning irritably.

“Because what? I'm all ears!”

“Because he's perfect, that's why!” He retorted in a muffled, but very firm voice.

In that moment the wheels of a cab rattled on the cobblestones near us and the spacious hansom came to a halt at the edge of the trottoir, empty, with Vernet sitting next to the cabbie. Sherlock gave me the last meaningful, dark stare and quickly jumped inside, leaving the door open for me.

Blood rushed into my head and caused my cheeks to burn. Heart thumped furiously in my chest and I felt a bit faint from sudden onslaught of red hot jealousy and pain that enveloped my whole body. I blindly clambered into the cabin and shaking in agitation, I sat next to Sherlock, but avoided looking at him, preferring to stare out of the window instead.

Only after the cab moved and we were riding through the streets shrouded in the night twilight, I asked quietly: “So he's your ideal of male perfection, huh?”

I heard him exhale heavily and he replied, sounding very tired: “I never said that he is my ideal, John. I only said that he's Perfect.”

He weirdly emphasised the last word. I bowed my head in disappointment and obsessively rubbed the place where my late moustache grew a few days ago.

“Please, explain it to me more clearly, for I do not understand…”

“Well… maybe “bonhomme” is a better term? He is bonhomme?”

Bonhomme? A Good Man? I felt as if I was drifting farther and farther to the sea, loosing even the slightest connection with the land.

“Uh, maybe he looks like a good person to you, Sherlock, but I doubt…”

“All right,” Sherlock capitulated. “We will try it the other way around. Have you ever heard of Cathars, John?”

“Cathars?” I shrugged. “You mean that queer sect of heretics that plagued Southern Europe during The Middle Ages? Of course I have heard of them.”

“So that's what he is first and foremost, John. A Cathar.”

I was rendered speechless by that announcement. I caught myself facing Sherlock again, unbelieving and bug-eyed, but now it was him staring out of the window. He observed the lights of the town and continued in a wistful, dreamy tone: “Cathars are the folk which, according to their beliefs, carries within itself the shard of the Divine Light. They are the folk which perceives the human body as a garment of flesh only. The Angelic Soul of an individual is trapped within this garment, forgetting its origin in God and it must incarnate into this world time and time again until it is able to return to that original state. Most individuals therefore go through this long circle of reincarnations.”

“But there are some,” Sherlock's voice lowered “who became linked intimately with God although they were not yet released from the confines of the body.”

He shut his eyes and cited the words he evidently knew by heart: “But they which shall be accounted worthy to obtain that world and the resurrection from the dead neither marry, nor are given in marriage, neither can they die any more: they are equal unto the angels and are the children of God, being the children of the resurrection.”

Sherlock raised his hand instinctively and pressed it over his heart: “And such people, John, are called boni homines among the Cathars or Perfecti by the Catholic Church. They live the life of extreme austerity. They do not dress lavishly. They do not lie, nor swear in oaths. They willingly endure strenuous work and all different kinds of hardships. They fast frequently. They do not have a procreative sexual contact with any person, so as to not entrap more Angelic Souls into this garment of the body. They do not eat meat, eggs, fat or cheese, because these too were originally obtained through coitus. Moreover, it is forbidden to a Perfect to inflict pain upon any Soul imprisoned in this world, whether it lives in an animal or human form. And for this same reason, Perfect would never take life of any living creature, John. Never.”

Sherlock pierced me with a look as sharp as a knife, the paleness of his irises hardening into steel: “Spilling of blood in such a manner would do away with his purity at once and would condemn him to the hardest of damnations. Spiritually, he would never recover from such an incident. Therefore, he would rather be killed himself than to slay somebody else. And so this man, Authié, being Perfect, couldn't murder the victim. He just couldn't!”

Short, stunned silence ensued.

At last, I coughed and replied dryly: “You know, that is quite a detailed knowledge of this arcane teaching – from the person who refuses to register that the Earth goes round the Sun.”

Sherlock's lips twitched imperceptibly, but he didn't bother to grace my dig with further remark.

I put my fingers to the sensitive area under my nose and drummed on it, musing loudly: “But weren't Cathars completely wiped out during The Middle Ages?”

“No, there were always small cells upheld by the adherents of the teaching. Among the Perfecti, the Elder Chosen One transferred all his status and power to the Younger Chosen One gradually. And so the movement survived to this very day.”

“And Julian Authié is now the leader of it, here in Béziers?”

“You could say that, yes.”

“But he doesn't preach his cause to the public openly?”

“No.” Sherlock admitted restlessly. “If it leaked to the public that Julian leads Cathar rites in secret, he would lose his position as professor and the scandal would most likely deprive him of both his reputation and his freedom. That's why it's so necessary to remove every damning document out of his house before the police comes snooping and turns it upside down.”

“Still, your cousin, Vernet, knows about it, doesn't he?”

“Marcel is a sympathiser, a credente. He acts coquettish towards Cathar beliefs, but does not take it very seriously, to be honest. Yet he is safe. He knows Julian from a very young age and he likes and respects him a lot.”

And you? I felt this question tickling me at the tip of my tongue. Where do you stand in relation to this man? Why were you so shaken at the sight of him? What post does he occupy in your heart, in your mind?

But I didn't dare to explicitly ask this yet. So I just scratched myself behind the ear as if I was hiding embarrassment and I squinted to the side, thinking aloud: “There is one thing in the whole situation that does not make sense to me at all, Sherlock. If Authié spread Catharism around, why the deuce would he try to visit a Jesuit all of a sudden? They could have nothing in common, for sure. Also, wouldn't it be risky for him to keep such relations?

So why was he in Arnauds flat, I wonder?”

“I don't know.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, his eyebrows creased up in thought. “Based on what Marcel told us, the Professor intended to meet him at the bistro later this evening. I doubt he bothered to explain his presence at Arnaud's place to him, though. I guess we must wait until we reach Rue de la Citadelle, John. Julian's filius minor will maybe tell us more.”

And with that, we ceased speaking up to the moment when we reached our destination.

We ordered the cabbie to wait and hurried through the badly-lit archway to the small court lined with entrances to the individual flats on all sides.

Vernet climbed three steep steps leading to a battered oak and knocked on it in vehement taps.

“Didier!” He called out. “Didier, open up, I must speak with you!”

Dim light of a lamp flickered in the porthole above the door after some time and the key rattled in the lock. The oak opened hesitantly and a young man appeared on the threshold.

As I glimpsed him, a sharp jolt in my chest made me gasp audibly. It could well have been a young Sherlock who loitered on the stairs above us. The young man had a rich dark curly hair and a pale complexion, piercing green eyes and a dignified presence. He was tall and lithe and very, very pretty.

If I had my suspicion about Authié's tastes before, it now increased tenfold and it soon solidified into horrifying certainty that sunk into my stomach like a stone.

Being informed about Authié's arrest, this young aide, Didier, turned ashen in the face and rocked back and fort as if overcoming an urge to faint. Vernet caught him under the armpit and leaned close to him, whispering some soothing words to him. He then escorted him inside.

And as they disappeared in the dark interior of the house, I noticed a shrivelled old bloke standing at the door – probably one of those credentes Sherlock was speaking about in the cab. That's when I obtained the final proof.

Because the old guy focused his short-sighted eyes on Sherlock carefully and hesitating for a while, he finally bowed to him and started to declaim in a raspy voice: “En aisso sabem quar en lui estam et el e nos quar del seu Esperit dec a nos. Quar esz fil de Deu, Deus trames l'esperit del seu Fil el vostre cor.”

Sherlock just shook his head quietly, his white profile pronounced in the darkness.

“Don't be mistaken, my friend. I may be on the side of the angels, but I am not one of them.”

It was a cleverly evasive answer, but it came too late. The deed was done. One glance at that young chap, Didier and the words of that old guy were enough to tell me what I needed to know, what I already surmised. And the truth appeared in front of me in its naked wretchedness, as clear as a day.

When Vernet and Didier re-emerged from inside, carrying two big bags with them, I barely recognised them through the water that got stuck in my eyes. I retreated further into shadows and breathed heavily, trying to calm myself. Thankfully, I managed to somehow mask my disconcertedness in time to see Didier locking the door and handling the keys to the old guy who shuffled deeper into the court with them, leaving us to our own devices. I was therefore able to follow the others in quite a peaceful manner while we returned to the cab.

I kept my tongue sullenly and Sherlock, walking by my side, was silent too, his gaze aimed ahead of us unflinchingly, his steps noiseless, his face pallid, withdrawn and mysterious in the all-encompassing gloom. He remained like that even as we stepped into the cab. He never once looked at me during our ride.

Our company reached Vernet's two-storey house placed at Les Allées Paul-Riquet, beautiful tree-lined promenade in the middle of the town.

It was too late for any festivities and we were all in the dumps a bit, so Vernet didn't even try to propose any night entertainment. He accommodated Didier in the saloon and then he led us upstairs, to the two-bed guest room. Discreet good-night, softly closed door, the subtle sound of the steps descending downwards – and soon, we were left alone.

Sherlock sighed softly when that happened and started to disrobe. He stripped down to the plain shirt and trousers and hung his coat, cap, jacket and vest on the rack. He remained standing near the wall after that, with his back turned to me.

I shook off my own coat, sat down on the edge of the bed I reserved for myself and I raised my head defiantly, my jaw all stiff and set.

“So…” I cleared my throat, “Julian Authié and you were lovers, if I understand correctly?”

His wavy black hair bobbed up and down as he nodded, once.

“Yes.” He whispered.

I was already firm in my knowledge of the fact. Nevertheless, it was a blow to hear it confirmed from his own mouth. I struggled to continue, my shaking fingers clawing my thighs spasmodically: “How old was you when you first started sleeping together?”

“Seventeen. Julian was my tutor then.” Sherlock touched the rim of his Ulster coat and started to crumple it between his fingers. “He was intelligent, very charming, very… attentive. When we were alone, he was never trying to hide his adoration of me. He called me beautiful, ephebic… so it naturally happened one day. In my grandmother's cabinet. And then it continued for some time.”

“For SOME time? How long a time do you have in mind?”

He exhaled tiredly: “Three years and a few months…”

The casual admission ejected me from my seat as a bullet: “You mean to tell me you allowed this disgusting pervert to defile you for years? That's… preposterous!”

He turned to me sharply, his gaze meeting mine for the first time since our visit in Authié's flat: “Don't call him a pervert! What he did was not proper, I admit, but he didn't abuse me. I had my say in the matter and I allowed it to proceed. Julian taught me many things about my body and I learnt much about myself while we were together. I later split with him, but I don't think the experience harmed me in any way.”

“Oh, what a good soul he was, really!” I laughed hysterically. “The hypocritical swine! Purity, chastity, abstaining from sex… he certainly adhered to his own principles, didn't he?”

“Cathar bonhommes only abstain from procreative sex. Our coitus could not be procreative, therefore it did not break the rules of conduct which Julian had to follow as one of them. Our coupling was not something filthy. It was more like joining of souls, in fact.”

I had a sudden urge to tear my hair out: “Sherlock! What the man did was illegal!”

Sherlock lost his patience with me and began to walk to and fro in the middle of the room: “I can't believe you are talking about legality all of a sudden, John! Did you forget that the thing we do together is hardly legal in our home-country either?”

This lowbrow argument took my breath away.

“Do not ever,” I hissed after a sinister pause, “do not ever compare our relationship to the one you shared with this charlatan! I made love to an adult who was fully conscious of the consequences of the act. He took advantage of an inexperienced young boy!”

“No, he didn't!” Sherlock protested heatedly. “I never felt misused or exploited by him! I was active in that relationship and I sought Julian's attention eagerly. It was a flattering thought that he craves me so much. I felt wanted… I felt like a chosen one.”

Chosen one! The moment he used that term, the sparkle of enlightenment was kindled in my mind and it threw light at the last piece of the puzzle for me. I couldn't believe how dense I previously was.

It all added up. Sherlock's pale complexion and his ascetic lifestyle. His long fasts interlaced with periods of hard work. His constant praise of the spirit and his equally strong contempt for the “transport”. His choice of a partner with which he could never have procreative sex.

How could I be so blind?

“You!” I gasped. “You are one of them, aren't you? That old guy at Rue de la Citadelle identified you correctly! You are of their elite! You are Perfect!”

He rubbed his face with his hands in frustration: “I was one of them while I lived here, yes. But that thing is in the past now. I am no longer a pure one. I chose my own path.”

I clenched my hand into fist and I pinned it against the side of the table.

“I can't believe it!” I gnashed my teeth. “I just can't!”

Sherlock stared at me with the annoyingly clear eyes, probably at a loss for words. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders: “Is it such a big deal for you that I was a Cathar, John? Why does that bother you so much? You know that as the members of the Established Church of England we would be considered heretics here anyway.”

“You know full well this is not the issue!” I retorted, barely restraining myself from screaming. “Your religious experiments do not interest me the least! But I can't stand the thought you played bottom to that creep out there!”

That did it. I angered him too.

“Yes, I have a past. A past I didn't inform you about.” He said in a clipped tone. “But I can't see how I'm so different from you – John “Three Continents” Watson!”

I flared out: “Don't bring my relationships with women into it! I did not seek them out since we ended together!”

“I didn't seek anyone since I first met you, John!” He burst out angrily. “I never desired another after I came to know you as you are well aware! You never witnessed me to behave as a philanderer, so you could be very sure about my fidelity! And yet you married that woman and left me alone, resigning me to cocaine!”

The reproach was worse than a shooting wound to me. I blanched, staggered and I had to sit down at the edge of the bed again, lest my weakened knees would give way on me.

But Sherlock shrunk back too, astonished about his own outburst. He raised both hands in a placatory gesture and apologised quietly: “No, I didn't mean it like that. Please, forget all I just said, John.”

He sat at the edge of the opposite bed, looking utterly devastated and then he lay down unexpectedly, as if all of his strength was sucked out of him at once. He reclined among the duvets motionlessly, faintly trembling with nervous exertion.

In an instant, I felt deflated and cowed like a whipped cur with its tail held low between its hind legs. I slunk through the room and crawled into Sherlock's bed, curling into a ball at his side. He sighed inaudibly and his tremors stopped after a few minutes.

Sensing that he has calmed down a bit, I clasped my arms around his waist and I held him tightly, burying my face into his cotton-clad chest.

“I'm sorry.” I whispered ruefully. “I didn't mean to make such a scene. In a way I'm glad that you are so protective of your former lover. I wouldn't like it one bit if you abandoned him to his fate. It's just… I felt so insecure when I realised you were once intimate with him. Like I should lose you to him.”

He put his hand at the crown of my head, his fingers ruffling up my hair gently. I shut my eyes and leaned more comfortably against him.

“I was always attracted to you, from the moment of our first encounter at St. Bart's, Sherlock.” I confessed. “But I believed you to be unobtainable, uninterested in such things. I also genuinely loved Mary, my feelings for her weren't any shallower than those I had for you. I am aware it's unfair of me to berate you about Julian when I am like that. When I was able to give my heart to two people simultaneously. Still, it's how I am.”

I gulped around the big dumpling that has risen into my throat: “That's the real reason why I'm so afraid, I guess. You already knew some form of perfection, I guess. And I am an utterly imperfect man. I could never be an equivalent of that to you.”

He caressed my cheek, his touch delicate as the flutter of the butterfly-wings. His fiery lips pressed against my temple next, marking me with a kiss.

“I would not give up your imperfection for the world.” He told me. “You should not worry about that. I assure you I was not involved with Julian because of his “perfection” either. At that time, I was simply happy to find somebody who shared my peculiar tastes. I was always aware I am not like others and I believed myself to be abnormal. Then I met a boy, Victor… but that connection never went past friendship.

Julian was a revelation for me. He was charismatic, erudite and mysterious, he belonged to the leading circle of a fascinating movement and he was an invert like me… I was quite dazzled.

But he ultimately wasn't what I was searching for. I have found that much, much later.”

I slowly unbuttoned his shirt and prostrated myself on his naked chest, kissing him with abandon. He reciprocated passionately. Emboldened by this response, I quickly stripped him, leaving the rest of his clothes on the floor and being dressed myself, I claimed him greedily, embracing his lean, firm tights and torso in turns.

Then, while he was slowly recovering, I shed off my own garments and joined him on the bed. I cuddled with him for a while and claimed him again after that.

Following my bold plunder of him, I never bothered to transfer into my own bed. I just threw my arms around him, holding him close and immersed myself into a deep, sated sleep. However, in the wee hours of morning I was roused unexpectedly and coaxing Sherlock out of his slumber too with playful bites to his jaw, I prepared and claimed him once more. I could never have enough.

Sherlock smiled sardonically when we were finished and he remarked: “If I knew what effect the revelation of my past would have on you, I would have told you about Julian much sooner.”

“Oh, shut up, you.” I growled with a smirk and burrowed under the duvets lazily.

A silent scratching sound echoed from the direction of the door at that second. We both stiffened in shock – but it was a false alarm. No one approached our room, the occupants of the house were still asleep. The scratches clearly resounded from behind the wall.

“Rodents, most likely.” I commented and tapped on the plaster lightly, confirming that the resulting sound rang hollow under my hand. “The building is old, it must be full of long forgotten vents and chimneys, I gather.”

I turned to Sherlock and was taken aback by his appearance momentarily.

He sat by the headboard, clutching at his waist as if he had severe abominable cramps. Every drop of blood disappeared from his face, leaving it as white as a bed-sheet and his eyes had a glassy expression in them. His lips moved as in a trance, repeating two words over and over.

“Old chimney. Old chimney!”

He sprang like a lightning flash from his seat straight away and he hollered at me: “John, get dressed, quickly! It's the old chimney, of course! Oh, what an idiot I was! Come on, we must run! Come, lest it'll be too late!”

My ear-drums nearly burst from the intensity of his scream. I wonder to this very day that the rest of the house was not immediately roused by it, thinking the roof is on fire. Shaken by the whirlwind of activity that suddenly took place in front of me, I dressed in haste, throwing clothes sloppily on my body, while Sherlock raced around like a flame, restless, wild, almost frantic with impatient energy.

Thankfully, as we emerged to an almost empty street, we were able to catch an errant cab returning from its assignment immediately. Sherlock would probably sprout wings and fly at our destination, if we didn't.

When we were seated safely inside, our hansom cab racing in the direction of Rue de l'Orb like crazy, I finally managed to ask Sherlock: “You are up to something. Did you get to the crux of the matter at last?”

“Yes, John.” He replied, his whole countenance ablaze with triumph. “The case is now solved, I believe.”

“Is it really? But I'm none the wiser where it's concerned, I must confess. Can you tell me more about it?”

“Just think about it, John!” Sherlock gesticulated in excitement. “Just think what we saw at the site of a tragedy! The house which was neat from outside, but nothing more than a derelict ruin from inside. The poisoned tea. The room where the shooting took place, the dead man at one side of the door, the drugged up man at the opposite side, the door between them completely unscathed. The blocks of coal which should scatter around the victim in a completely random manner but which were arranged into something of a row. Does it ring a bell with you, John?”

“It is all very interesting, but I would be lying if told you I surmised the identity of the murderer from that.”

“That's because no murderer exists, John. The man did it himself. It was a suicide!”

I opened my mouth in astonishment.

“Suicide? But… it can't be, for sure! How would he… why?”

“Because he was ill, John.” Sherlock ascertained grimly and frowned. “Very ill, I think. Probably on the verge of dying. But he didn't want to go like that, to fade away like an insignificant ghostly shadow. He was a Christ's warrior all his life, a devout, ardent Jesuit and he wished to decorate his demise with a deed that would give significance and glamour to all of his previous existence.

And what better deed could a spiritual person like him crave for than a destruction of the heretics, the wiping out of the enemy of his Church?

I don't know how he got wind about Julian, but it's no doubt he hated him with a passion and he intended to uproot him and the Cathar heresy from the soil of Béziers once and for all.

And so he gave up his villa in the centre of the town and moved to the poor house in a significantly less glorious district where he was not so well known. That way he could impersonate another person, a hesitating sympathiser of the Cathar movement seeking the help and the guidance of the bonhommes.

In my opinion he lured Julian there under such or a similar pretext. Then, as they were discussing things inside, he handed Julian the drugged up tea and patiently observed how it slowly transformed his Cathar adversary into a catatonic, barely conscious dummy.

He placed a revolver on the table next to Julian, to incriminate him with a crime. I'm sure he shot one round from that gun in the fields at the outskirts the town previously, to create an illusion that it was this very gun which was used for his murder.

But something had to happen after that and he was disturbed, because he hid Julian's prone figure behind the half-closed door and he forgot to open it wide again, not realising how dumb it would look if he was found shot in such circumstances. I noticed it right away. The corpse could not be dead for long at the time we have discovered it. But if Julian was the one who supposedly killed the man, he was required to be sober just a short time ago and to docilely close the door on himself after he mortally injured his host. Yet he was drugged senseless, only just emerging from the high. It stuck me as very unusual and it was the first clue that led me to the truth eventually.

I presume that as soon as he got rid of Julian and secured that the Cathar would be found sitting in an incriminating position, Arnaud took a second gun from its hiding place, walked to the heating stove and turning the revolver against himself, he looked into the barrel and cold-bloodedly pulled the trigger. The glorious knight died a beautiful death, clearing the land of the pest that was plaguing it for so long.

However, as he was falling down, he overturned the coal scuttle and the resulting mess that ensued from the act constituted another clue against him, pointing me at the right direction in due time.”

Listening with the keen interest, I nodded in affirmative at that statement.

“Fascinating. I admit it could happen that way… but in that case, where is the true murder weapon? We didn't see it when we examined the corpse. Did it fell into some obscure place that escaped our attention?”

“It didn't. It was disposed of more devilishly than that.”

My curiosity reached its peak with that bold claim. Yet at that moment our cab stopped abruptly and I glimpsed the familiar façade of the bistro out of its window. The young man dressed in the leather apron worked in front of the shop, unloading the crates full of meat from his cart parked by the house-gate.

Sherlock practically jumped at me, driving me back into a corner as he leaned out of the window at my side and called at the youngster: “Hey, garçon! Tell me, is Rosalie in?”

The boy raised his head in surprise and removed his cap, answering politely: “No, sir. Rosalie went out for a short walk to the river a few minutes ago. Told me she is not feeling well.”

“Damned!” Using this uncharacteristically harsh word Sherlock plopped at the seat next to me and shouted at a cabbie: “Take us to the Pont Vieux! Quickly!”

The cabbie gave us a responding cry and prodded the horses into a swift ride, turning around and taking the corner into a busy nearby street leading to the old bridge across the river Orb.

I flinched at the mention of Rosalie's name. The outrageous idea flashed through my mind – but I couldn't quite believe it.

“The girl… it was the girl all along?”

“Yes, she was the one who took away the weapon. Some old, unused chimney must be located behind the heating stove in Arnaud's drawing room, with a hole cut into it at the level on the floor, entirely masked by the body of the stove standing in front of it. Arnaud probably fastened a cord to a revolver and as he hid the revolver under the stove, he pushed the end of the cord into the hole in the chimney, so that it reached the ground level. I bet the chimney still has its wicket there, so the cord was practically invisible to the prying eyes of the uninitiated.

At the hour they previously both agreed on Rosalie came to the chimney, opened the wicket and listened closely until she heard the sound of the shot reverberating above. Her sole task was to pull the cord after that and to drag the revolver into the hole, to let it fall down, probably into some container littered with straw to cushion it upon impact. Taking care of the weapon that way, all she had to do now was to close the wicket once more and to wait for a suitable moment to dispose of the gun entirely.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But one thing the conspirators didn't count with was the coal that scattered all around Arnaud at the time of his death. When the weapon was being dragged through it, it pushed some of the blocks aside and it created something like a row of them which was unnatural in that setting. It was this fact that ultimately disclosed the manner in which this crime was committed to me.”

He leaned against his seat and steepled his fingers under his chin, musing loudly: “You know, I think we actually caught Rosalie red-handed when we entered the bistro last night. I remember how late she reacted to the bell, how breathless she looked when she appeared at last and how obsessively she tried to wipe out the traces of soot from her hands. She also obviously knew Julian by name. When I mentioned him during our conversation, she got frightened for a few seconds and almost dropped the tray full of food into your lap. If I was not preoccupied with my own thoughts at that moment, I would have noticed it much sooner.”

Sherlock shook his head ruefully and glanced out of the window with grim expression on his face.

We managed to catch up with Rosalie when she was already in the middle of the bridge. She was standing motionlessly next to the solid stone edging of Pont Vieux and observed the fiery red glow of the approaching dawn at the horizon, wan mist of October morning enveloping her like a transparent veil. When we stepped out of the cab some distance from her and went to her on foot, she turned in our direction and closely observed us, but she didn't try to flee or to do some other inconsiderate thing. A simple wicker basket lay at her feet, covered with the piece of white cloth.

Seeing the basket, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He bent down and took it into his hand. Rosalie just mutely looked at him, but she didn't make any effort to prevent him from touching it. The detective lifted up the cloth, checked the contents of the basket carefully and after that he showed me what was inside. The revolver, very dirty and bound with the cord from all sides, rested upon the pile of straw at the bottom of it.

Sherlock left the basket in my keeping and viewed Rosalie with amazement, a sense of wonder reflected in his pale, slanted eyes.

“So you didn't dispose of the gun after all.” He remarked, very much surprised.

Rosalie pressed her lips together and turned away from him, putting her hands on top of the stone edging of the bridge. She fastened her stare on the surface of the calmly floating water and replied in a defiant, resolute manner: “Oui, monsieur. I was always very loyal to Père Arnaud. Always. But I can't send that gentleman to the guillotine knowing he is innocent. Even if he is the envoy of Satan as Père Arnaud assured me.”

Sherlock stood still for a little while.

“You are a very good person, Rosalie.” He said to her at last. “But now you will have to follow us to the police so that we can inform them about the matter, you are aware of that?”

Instead of a reply, she reached into the pocket of her dark green overcoat and pulled a piece of paper out of it, handing it to Sherlock.

“Perhaps this will help you, monsieur.”

The letter was battered and badly creased but still nicely readable. It was written in the heavy masculine hand and it depicted the plan of Arnaud's suicide to the minute detail, leaving no doubt about the true course of events in our minds. It figures that Arnaud had still a modicum of conscience in him – he gave Rosalie the letter in case she would be caught with the revolver in her hands to protect her from the possible accusation of murder. Thankfully, he never mentioned the fact that Authié is a Cathar in it. In his dementia he only referred to Authié as “the hell spawn” and so the letter could be later used to acquit Authié of the crime.

And so later that day, we found ourselves in the vicinity of Cathédrale Saint-Nazaire, at the gates of the town prison, accompanied by both Vernet and Didier.

While we were waiting patiently, loitering about the small square bestrewn with sand which was adjacent to the prison-walls, a troop of gendarmes marched to the area from the town, escorting the familiar looking prisoner with them.

His elegant Paris evening suit was in rags now and his face was smeared with muck, but his top-hat escaped the ruin somehow and was still in quite a serviceable shape. When he glimpsed us, he tipped the hat to us and bared his teeth in a cheeky smile, addressing us as if we were meeting in front of an elegant restaurant not in front of a gaol.

“Hello, Mister Holmes, hello, Doctor Wilson. You came to welcome me into my new home? How very nice of you! Don't you want to join me, by the way? There's a plenty of space inside.”

“Thank you, maybe later,” replied Sherlock phlegmatically, not the least disturbed by the jab. I only looked at the thief in contempt, enraged by the deliberate mispronunciation of my name.

Fortunately, the gendarmes didn't allow the man to continue with the foolishness. They seized him by the arms and as the prison gates opened, they pushed him inside roughly, entering the building at his heels. And as they all went in, the white-haired, sternly dressed lithe man was released from inside and stepped out to the square, walking leisurely from the closing metal gate. He halted opposite us and shielded his eyes against the sudden sunlight, staring at Sherlock for a long while.

He smiled warmly then. He came quite near to Sherlock and shortly squeezed his forearm, his fingers long, delicate and frail.

“Merci, Guillaume.” He said softly. His large grey eyes flickered to me after that and crinkled at the corners in amusement: “And congratulations.”

He bowed his head to both of us in greeting and passed us slowly, heading right to Didier and raising both of his hands to him. The young man was at his side in a flash and they embraced amiably. As they separated, they started to walk towards the town almost immediately, never looking back at the huge building which held one of them prisoner a while ago. Vernet intercepted them on their way and engaged them in a boisterous conversation, his ringing laughter reverberating through the place like thunder.

And suddenly I saw these men as they probably really were, stripped of their pretences and their masks, free from all that religious fiddle-faddle – and all I beheld were two lovers trying to excuse their dalliance by sticking it behind the shield of a bizarre cult, which lent a semblance of respectability to their connection.

I glanced at Sherlock pensively.

“May I ask you one last personal question, Sherlock? I will stop bothering you with them after that, I promise.”

Sherlock turned to me, carrying a wary expression in the lines of his face.

“Why did you split with Julian at the end, I wonder?”

He was a bit nonplussed by my inquisitive request, I could sense that. But he just brushed his lips with his index finger and answered truthfully: “It was during one day in the middle of the summer. We strolled with Julian at the opposite bank of Orb. Some peasants tended to their vineyards there, next to the road and the pair of local women passed us by, returning from the market at Les Halles. It was sultry hot, the earth being soft and muddy after the rather violent storm.

We seated ourselves to the grass that covered the bank as the pleasant felt carpet and discussed some metaphysical philosophies, never noticing that the giant black poplar growing nearby was uprooted by the wind and rain the previous evening. And so it toppled over and fell on us unexpectedly, its long branches and twigs hitting me so that I was knocked down in an instant. Julian escaped from the incident unscathed somehow.

Nothing much happened to me, I was just shaken and frightened. Still, there was a lot of blood because my body was full of bleeding scrapes and I also couldn't move, being stranded under the heavy load of leafy branches.

That's what made me decide that I should leave him. Because the vineyard workers, the women of the market – they all gathered there, pulling me from under the tree quickly and they tended to my wounds, transporting me to my grandmother's house at last. The simple, uneducated people helped me the best they could – and Julian never touched me. He was Perfect, after all. My blood would contaminate his religious purity.”

Sherlock smiled wistfully. “Striving for purity is a nice thing, but having too much of it – it is definitely not healthy.”

He exchanged the glance with me, his eyes bright and his face serene once again: “Therefore I decided to only surround myself with simple, imperfect, but reliable things. These never betrayed me in my life. And I hope they never would.”

I slipped my hand into his covertly and I held it tight. We couldn't kiss there, not in public, but everything we needed to tell each other was expressed in that little, inconspicuous gesture. And so we remained standing on the square side by side and we silently contemplated the picturesque plain of the Orb that stretched into the distance deep beneath us. The pale sunlight of the late October bore on us from high and caressed our shoulders like a lover.




25

I hope the author doesn't mind that I did a quick spell-check before posting




This story is for Vhanja

Dear Vhanja, this is your story. Your wishes were: Johnlock, domestic, Mary at the beginning to be overcome (paraphrasing) is okay. Also you need a happy ending. Your prompt was that Sherlock doesn't like Christmas and doesn't look forward to the season. And John changes that. (paraphrasing again...)

I very much hope that you will like this story. It came to me on an almost sleepless night after this turned out to be more challenging than I initially thought.

Enjoy reading and have a merry Christmas!










Blackbeard

Or how Sherlock stole Christmas







23rd of December 1986




Just in time for the festive days it had become ice cold and clear. A pale but bright winter sun stood on the glacier blue sky. It was early in the morning and the street workers cared for the slippery footpaths. 

A dark-haired, tall but quite skinny boy happily skipped along the street, humming a little tune he just studied on his violin. 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was excited. Very excited. He loved Christmas. He loved all the fairy lights in the big windows of the shops. He loved the smells of Christmas cookies, plum pudding, roasted almonds and other delicacies. And he even looked forward to Christmas eve, even though Mycroft came home from uni to attend, and he was a true pain lately. 

But before family time began there would be the last day of school today with a little celebration and they wanted to do a secret Santa. Sherlock's heart had begun to flutter in his chest when he had read who his partner would be: Sebastian Wilkes. 

Sebastian...

Sherlock couldn't quite explain it but since the tall blond boy with the green eyes had been introduced to the class this summer Sherlock lived through rapid changing emotions from feeling flying sky high one moment, in the depths of despair the next. Whenever they talked, Sherlock felt a flush on his face and he barely found words. Sebastian had been friendly from the beginning, but with the time he had been a bit more reserved and scrutinizing. He became good friends with a couple of boys Sherlock did not get along with at all and who more than once had shouted names at him whenever he had found out about their nasty little secrets. It was not that Sherlock found them interesting in any way. They were nothing but stupid little boy mysteries like stealing cigarettes from their dads and secretly smoking them. Boring. It just kept Sherlock entertained from time to time. 

But for the moment being Sherlock had never felt a deeper wish but to get Sebastian as a true friend. 

In his school bag he carried his carefully wrapped present. He had spent his pocket money to buy a little book for Sebastian he had just read and that he had found so astounding and touching in many ways: the story of a double murder in the streets of Paris and two very special friends solving them by using the skills of deduction. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" by Edgar Allan Poe. Sherlock had read it once, twice and he knew what he wanted from his life: deducing, solving riddles and puzzles, and more than anything he wanted to have a relationship like C. Auguste Dupin and his anonymous partner.

When the time came to exchange gifts, Sherlock suddenly felt uneasy. Slowly he approached Sebastian who happily chatted away with a couple of other boys. With shaking hands he handed the little package. Slowly Sebastian unwrapped it. His eyes looked a bit wary. "Oh. A book. Bril. Thanks." he said. "Well, it's really good" Sherlock answered. "You know, it's really thrilling and the two main characters..." Sebastian flipped through the pages. "Hmhm. Maybe I'll give it a try. Those two men, what are they? Are they queer or what?"

Sherlock wasn't sure he knew what Sebastian meant by this. He just had a feeling that it wasn't right. "Well... they're very good friends. They like to spend their time together. They solve crimes. They love being..." Sebastian's head bounced up. His face got all red. "They love?" he shouted at Sherlock "Do they? What do you want from me?? Get away, Sherlock!! Who the hell is called Sherlock anyway??" He turned on his heels, cheered by the boys near them and clapped on the shoulder. The gang went away, the other boys looking over their shoulders and giving Sherlock strange looks. Sherlock stood frozen.

Later he shuffled home. He felt sick. How could he have thought that Sebastian wanted to be his friend? What had he been thinking? Mycroft had always told him and he hadn't listened. Nothing of the Christmassy decoration looked pretty for his eyes anymore. The odours were no longer tempting. It was all a farce. Not even the thought of his violin and the music felt calming. 

When his mother opened the door it took him one glance into her eyes to know that this day was far from being over.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




23rd of December 2010




"God, Sherlock, how did you know?"

Since the day Dr. John Watson had moved into 221b Baker Street his flatmate had given him more than one moment of jaw dropping. Him and Lestrade followed Sherlock on his heels but were hardly able to catch up anyway. A crime always gave Sherlock an outburst of energy that made him positively glowing. John loved those moments.

"John, don't insult my intelligence. It was obvious, wasn't it?". Sherlock pushed the door to their flat open and froze on the spot. Lestrade stepped to him from behind and had a look over his shoulder. "Sherlock, what seems to be the .....?".

"Mr. Hudson!" boomed Sherlock. John pushed his way in, closely inspecting the living room. He detected exactly nothing except.....

Well, Mrs. Hudson had obviously made good use of the time they had been away solving a woman's murder. 

Coloured fairy lights at the windows, thick red candles on the mantelpiece waiting to be lit, fir sprigs and Christmas cake waiting to be eaten. John smiled. That was the most heart warming view he had had for quite a few years, since his army days for sure. "Ah, isn't it lovely." he said, "it truly is Christmas". 

"Mrs. Hudson! I certainly do not wish to be distracted from my work with all this....this ....whole sappy boodle! Who gave you permission to come up here and intrude into my personal tidiness?" "Whoa, wait!" John suppressed a snort and halted Sherlock's outburst with a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but I do in fact live here, too. And I happen to appreciate this homely and Christmassy atmosphere. A lot, to be honest. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson" Their landlady had appeared in the doorframe and now pointed towards Sherlock, who had flung his Belstaff onto the table and had slopped himself into his chair. "Sherlock! You may grumble about my attempts at creating a nice atmosphere for the two of you as much as you want! But nothing! I repeat nothing gives you the right to intrude into my personal tidiness to dispose of all the packages I have prepared already! Where did you put them?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his voice sounding like "Bin". Mrs. Hudson stalked out of the room and John heard a rummaging out side the window, followed by a loud clang. Obviously she had found the packages just in time. 

John sat down into his own chair and shook his head with a small smile on his lips. It had almost been a year since Mike had introduced Sherlock and him. It had been the best year of his life. His flatmate never stopped being all kinds of exciting and interesting. Well, most of the time that was to say. Sherlock surely had his days off, as John called them for himself, he was moody, arrogant and -as he had announced- sometimes didn't talk but just elicited some melancholic tunes out of his beloved violin. And his sense of housekeeping was an impertinence, to say the least.

But to his own surprise John never really could get worked up about it. They had their minor rows from time to time, true, but before it could get too serious there was always something adventurous to do. That was life with Sherlock. And as soon as he "recruited" John for a new case the untidy sink was forgotten. 

And there was more. Something that was entirely new for John. He felt that he was absolutely fascinated by watching his friend. His outward appearance was a complete opposite from his surrounding at home. Sherlock set high value on his clothing, mostly dark suits with shirts highlighting his slim features. John found himself absolutely fascinated. And that had never happened before, not with another man. He was fascinated by Sherlock's movements, his voice, those unruly dark curls and he had realized with astonishment that the first time he came close enough to smell his cologne his heart began to beat faster. Weird. But still, he felt alive, powerful, healthy and absolutely comfortable in the rooms of 221B. 

"Okay, now if it's not too much trouble, I would like to know how on earth it was possible for you to find the private detective Mr. Simmers guilty of the murder of Mrs. Fletchley?" Greg interrupted John's thoughts. Sherlock gave the twinkling fairy lights a last annoyed look and rolled his eyes. "How is it possible for you to miss which got clear within the first three minutes I spent at the crime scene?" he snapped at Lestrade. "First of all, the murderer had to be left-handed and wearing some kind of signet ring. That much was clear from the cut on Mrs. Fletchley's right cheek. Secondly, she could not have died at the crime scene because one of her ear clips was missing and nowhere to be found. So my theory was that she had been killed somewhere else and transported away with a car to simulate an armed robbery. And thus our little date tonight at Mr. Simmers' garage to find him feverishly searching his car – in which he had transported the corpse- for the earring." Sherlock beamed.

"But... the motive?" John asked. "Boring." Sherlock answered. "Mr. Simmers had been mandated by Mr. Fletchley to find his spouse guilty of cheating. Which she was. But- and that was his mistake- he quieted Mr. Fletchley down and used his knowledge to blackmail Mrs. Fletchley. As you will all know Mr. Fletchley has quite a name in the pharmaceutical research and development. If the rumours are true he made a very important breakthrough on medication easing the symptoms of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Hm, what a nice try to get the formula from Mrs. Fletchley and try to sell it. Nasty man, nasty man..." Sherlock rubbed his hands in glee just until Mrs. Hudson entered the living room again and cheerfully served her freshly made mulled wine to the men. Sherlock refused it vehemently and snatched a can of beer instead. 

One hour later John accompanied Lestrade to the door and watched him leave. He felt warm, fuzzy and tired inside. When he returned to the living room he found Sherlock at the mantelpiece in deep thought. "Hey, you" John said quietly. "That was absolutely brilliant tonight. You know that, right?" Sherlock looked back at him with a hint of a smile. "It was? Thank you, John" "Well, I'll be going to bed now. Quite tired and Mrs. Hudson's mulled wine did the rest for me." "Hmhm." Sherlock answered. It still took a couple of minutes till John managed to break away from the looks the two man exchanged to climb up to his bedroom. He had a very light and superficial sleep that night.

When he came down the stairs the next morning all of the Christmas decoration had gone.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




23rd of December 2012




The day had been grey, way too warm and a fine drizzle had come down till the twilight. A tall man in a dark coat with upturned collar slowly and cautiously walked down Date Street and after walking along Faraday Gardens turned left into Blackwood Street. The people passing him did not seem to notice the man. He didn't care, it was exactly what he wanted and – to be more precise- needed to survive this. He knew it was dangerous and unreasonable. And it had cost quite a lot of persuading. 

"Six hours." Mycroft had eventually conceded. "Six hours, and not one minute more. No personal contact. At midnight precisely you will enter the plane back to Delhi." 

Sherlock agreed to this by saying absolutely nothing. It was better than nothing. Since the fall he had travelled the continents, hunting Jim back and forth, encountering minions of his here and there, had even been caught and abducted by two of them while in the streets of Cairo..... 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Even thinking about this made him feel the scars on his back. But there had been one realization, that came as a bit of a surprise to him: he had jumped for John, that much had already been clear from the start. A bit for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson also. Maybe a bit for Molly. But he could not have foreseen how lonely that would make him. When John and him had met for the first time at St. Bart's, Sherlock knew it was special. He just hadn't known by then how very special. They had shared the flat, most of their spare time, even their money. Though John could be infuriatingly thick from time to time he was also a lot of things Sherlock hardly knew he liked: warm-hearted, funny, good around other people and most important of all he could stand being around Sherlock. 

So, Mycroft had given him six hours in London. Back in London. Slowly Sherlock approached the big house built of bricks and felt the lump in his throat growing with each step. 

John had rented a little flat in the basement. Good for him. The windows were lit, John had obviously not bothered yet to draw the curtains. All the better. The front garden was small and a really bad place to play hide and seek. Damn it. He had to do this, he just had to! Slowly, slowly he neared the window. Not head-on, too dangerous, but from the right. He hoped no one would chose this moment to come out of the door. When he had reached the window frame he peered around the corner. My croft had told him that John had rented the flat already half a year ago. Yet the living room looked strangely unfurnished and cold. A pile of boxes were cramped into a corner and clearly did not look as they had been opened since the move. 

John.

Sherlock's heart missed a beat. Maybe two or three. 

John sat slumped into a big couch. His tiny hands were wrapped around a glass with an amber liquid in it. His eyes were slightly red and indicated at once that this was not the first glass. Had his hair become a tad more grey? Anyway, the grey had always suited him so well, it didn't matter. And the jumper.... Sherlock chuckled quietly, it was the same monstrosity in mismatched colours he had worn last year, when they were onto Irene's case... Suddenly the lump in Sherlock's throat made it almost unbearable to breathe. And to his own surprise he felt a sting in his eyes. No, not this, not now! He had to leave again anyway, and quick! "Humbug!" he muttered with a sudden disgust. His eyes fell on a couple of little red poinsettias in pots, the only Christmassy decoration that was to be found. In a sudden outrage of annoyance and grief all together he grabbed them and threw them hard towards the house wall. Jim! Why in the seven hells did he have to put them through this all?

The noise made him come to his own sense's again. He had to rush. 

"I'll come back, John." he whispered more to himself while retreating. "I will. Not tomorrow or next week, not even next month. But I will. Please, wait for me."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




25th of December 2014




"Sherlock, dear, that is so nice of you! I actually came across this lovely fragrance a couple of weeks ago when I did some shopping at Sainsbury's and I really, really liked it!" Mary spun the half-moon shaped bottle of perfume in her hands. Sherlock watched her unemotional. He scanned everything. The blond hair, as always combed tightly to her head, the big eyes, that could actually radiate warmth that could even reach Sherlock, the bright red lipstick, some bulky dress he would delete from his mind as soon as he had sat out this evening.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Mary embraced him tightly and Sherlock hugged back as good as he could. That was the thing with Mary. He could not put the finger on it. He felt like he wanted to pull back at once. He just couldn't really explain why. Her embrace was warm and tender. And yet.... She's nice, he told himself in his head. He looked over her shoulder and saw John watching the two of them, smiling a bit apologetically. Sherlock smiled back at him. John was happy, that much was for sure. He had to be, he just had to. After his return Sherlock had found nothing as it had been. And it had become clear quite quickly that things had changed for John as well. If Sherlock wanted him to stay in his life for at least a bit he had to accept this. More than that: he wanted to help him building his perfect life, no matter the costs for himself. He owed him. 

John hardly spoke during the Christmas dinner. Sherlock carefully watched him while Mary was chatting away cheerfully about the wedding, she laughed about the list of people who hated her, she frowned about the craftsmen that were supposed to finish some reconstructions that had to be done at John's consulting rooms. Plus a couple of other things that Sherlock blocked at once. John mostly looked down at the table. 

Later he accompanied Sherlock to the door. 

"Hey, you." he said quietly. 

"Hey, you." Sherlock answered. 

"I'm sorry" John said. 

Sherlock stared at him. 

"I know you hate this sort of thing. I don't know why Mary and me thought it would be a good idea. Won't happen again."

Sherlock did not answer. 

"Anyway, there's the cab. Come on, you'll just get cold." John clapped his shoulder but didn't remove his hand at once. It slowly, slowly slipped down his arm and like a light feather brushed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock did not move. It would take him just one little move of his fingers to embrace John's hand. This tiny and yet so warm and firm hands. They did not look into each other's eyes anymore, they drowned in them. 

The cab tooted. 

"See you." John said. He turned and retreated into the house.

Sherlock finally turned as well and went down the garden path towards the cab. 

On the way he ripped a big fairy light from a clinically cropped rhododendron bush and disposed it into the bin.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




23rd of December 2016




John rushed out of a small boutique, pulled out a little piece of paper and checked it with a deep frown on his face. In his mind he ticked off the list of names on it and his face looked more and more content. 

"John, dear, so good to see you!" 

Mummy Holmes.

"Oh, why, hello, Mrs. Holmes." John had always liked the elderly sophisticated lady very much. He embraced her warmly. 

"My feet are killing me. You may invite me for a nice cup of tea, love." she announced in a manner that would not tolerate any objection. John smiled. "Very well, at your service." he said a bit mockingly. But Mrs. Holmes understood. Of course she did. She greeted him with a look that was so similar to Sherlock's that John felt a little sting in his chest. 

They had entered the next pub and ordered fresh tea when John noticed that Mrs. Holmes inspected him very close. Too close.

"So, have you finished your shopping?" she asked. It was a perfectly innocent question, but John felt naked to the bones.

"I have, yeah." he answered.

"So, what are your plans?" she insisted. 

"I....I don't know... I..."

"Have you found a replacement for that flat of yours?" she asked.

"I have, yes."

"Well, then there is no reason that you might not be coming to a little concert we will be hosting in a little chapel next to our cottage tomorrow! Sherlock will be there as well."

"Uh? He will?"

"You know that he really hates this sort of thing?" 

"Well...yes. Of course...I...."

"He never told you?"

"Uhm, I'm not sure I know what..."

Mrs. Holmes sighed. "He would never want me to tell you this. He was just a boy, ten years old. Sherlock has never been an easy and sociable child. But there was this boy, Sebastian. To be honest, I never fully learned what happened between the two of them. It was after the last day at school before the holidays 1986. He came home and was shattered, positively shattered. But the thing was.... when he came home.... well, that very morning our dog, Redbeard, he had had a grave accident on the street. The driver had been drunk, too much mulled wine. We.... before Christmas eve, we had to put him to sleep. We had no other way. Sherlock cried and screamed, we should at least care for the dog until the days were over. But we decided it would be best to get over with it at once. Sherlock has never been the same around Christmas."

"I never knew that." John said. "That is so sad, Mrs. Holmes."

"Well, yes. " she said. "But John, love, I know, what you mean to him. Be good and gentle."

"I will give my very best, Mrs. Holmes." John said with a voice, that was suddenly hoarse.

She nodded and left.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




24th December 2016




"God, why do you do this to me, John?" Sherlock asked in a sulking manner.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock, you would have come here anyway. It's your parents, it's Christmas – don't role your eyes on me!- and it's probably nice music. So there."

"What is it anyway?"

John studied the programme. 

"It's the psalm 115 intonated by Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy. Ah, that is nice."

The orchestra began to play the little overture and after a while the choir kicked in with bassos and tenors chanting 

"Nicht unserm Namen, Herr, nur Deinem geheiligten Namen sei Ehre gebracht"

("Not to us, Lord, not to us but to your name be the glory")

And while they continued together with sopranos and altos to sing about "Im Himmel wohnet unser Gott, er machet alles, was er will"

("Our God is in heaven, he does whatever pleases him")

John turned quietly to Sherlock. "I'm going to see Ella again." he said. 

It came rare enough, but Sherlock didn't know what to answer. "Oh...erm...are you?"

"Yeah. That's probably for the best, starting a new year and so on. You know, sorting my life anew and stuff."

"Hmhm." Sherlock muttered. He felt a bit of uneasiness in his stomach. Well, so what, he had planned to secretly throw his mother's pudding into the next bin anyway.

"Ella is great though." John went on. "I need her help with this. You know, Mary, the truth about her, having shot you and all this. She's out of my life now, but I need help to cope with this."

Sherlock still didn't answer. Of course John still suffered. What had he been thinking? That now Mary was imprisoned for her crimes they could get back to earlier times again? The damn they could. And of course John had waited till Christmas eve to share this with him, Sherlock thought, how very fitting! 




He hardly realized that the second part of the cantata had begun with soft strings of the violins. With a tender and clear voice a solo tenor inserted.

"Alles Volk hofft auf Dich, Du wirst sie beschützen in Not."

("All you Israelites, trust in the Lord, he is their help and shield.")

In this very moment a young soprano singer joined with an equally clear and angelic timbre.

"Aaron hofft auf Dich, Du wirst Sie beschützen in Not, Du wirst Sie beschützen in Not. Denn Du bist ihr Helfer, ihr Eretter bist Du."

("House of Aaron, trust in the Lord, he is their help and shield")

John turned to Sherlock again and looked into his eyes.

"There's one thing that Ella could not possibly help with." he continued. 

Now the bassos joined the duet echoing the two soloists

" Israel hofft auf Dich, Du wirst sie beschützen in Not."

"And what could that be for you? Having lost Mary?" Sherlock asked.

"Losing you, Sherlock. Losing you forever. Again. For real." John simply answered.

This was the moment Mrs. Holmes chose to turn around to the men.

"John, love, it is great that you came to celebrate with us, but I would prefer we could all enjoy the music."

The whole choir and solo singers chanted jubilantly

"Wahrlich, der Herr gedenket unser und segnet seine Kinder!"

("The Lord remembers us and will bless us!")

"Und er segnet das Haus Israel" sang the bassos.

Sherlock slowly reached out for John's hand, searching his face for approval. John smiled and gave a little nod.

"Und er segnet das Haus Aaron" the tenors continued.

Sherlock smiled back and leaned towards his mother. 

"Denn er segnet das Haus Israel" the altos now chimed in 

"Mother," Sherlock said, "John is not your love. He's mine."

"Und er segnet alles Volk, die seinen Namen fürchten, beide, klein und große!" 

("He will bless those who fear the Lord, small and great alike")

John laughed all the way through the last echoes of the bassos "Und er segnet alles, alles Volk". And finally, finally, while the violins played their last chords he pressed a soft kiss on Sherlock's hand.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




25th of December 2016, sometime in the morning




Finally it felt right again. Sherlock sipped a bit of his coffee and looked down on Baker Street, lying in the silence of Christmas day. How had he not seen this beauty of silence the last years? He took another sip, not even thinking of having breakfast to go with it. He wondered when John would be up. 

Then he heard the house door slam open and footsteps on the stairs. So, John had been out and about already?

John entered the living room. He put his jacket on the wardrobe, awkwardly guarding a little bundle while doing so. Then he saw Sherlock. "You're awake?" he said smiling.

Sherlock just smiled back. John was a bit thick from time to time but even for him it would be impossible to overlook the feelings for him on Sherlock's face. 

"Merry Christmas" John said, coming nearer. "I got a present for you. And I hope that from now on you will get to properly enjoy the holidays. With me."

He handled the bundle to Sherlock. Suddenly it started to wriggle and gave a little bark. Sherlock froze. Then he unwrapped out of towels what appeared to be a little coal black puppy. A little crossbreed. He looked at Sherlock with a tilted head and the same coal black eyes as his fur, then he reached out with a big soft paw. Sherlock felt that sting in his eyes again. But this time, for the first time in years he allowed himself to let them flow. A little. Then John was by his side. Wonderful brave John. John embraced him, cradling both Sherlock's curls and the puppy fur.

"Give him a name." he said.

"I have one." Sherlock answered. "I know exactly what to call him. Merry Christmas, John".







The End

    Chapter 4

    Two days later, John woke from the beeping of his mobile. There was a message from Sherlock. “Am sick. Stay away,” it read. John couldn't help but snort.

    “I am a doctor,” he wrote back, “Sick is the only thing I still know how to deal with!” He hit send before he could over-think his words again and again,
    and left the flat instantly. In the taxi, he checked his mobile to see if Sherlock objected to him coming, but it remained silent.

    He had spent the last day feeling bad about slipping back into his old role too quickly. He did not want to want that old life back, he wanted to be angry
    with Sherlock and get away from him. He wanted to see Sherlock and be reminded of all the pain that man had caused.

    Somehow, that had not worked.

    On the stairs of 221b, John could already hear Sherlock sneezing. It sounded melodramatic, just like John had thought it would.

    But when he entered the flat, all bitter thoughts evaporated instantly. Sherlock looked miserable, sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa. His eyes
    had a feverish gleam, his cheeks an unnatural shade of red.

    “I wanted to tell you to stay away again,” he said as a greeting, “but I left my mobile in the kitchen and couldn't get up again.”

    There was so much weakness and pity in his voice that John could not stop his heart from melting.

    Just a tiny bit. Not much. Really. Just a tiny little bit. It felt strange.

    Sherlock sneezed again, and winced instantly. John knelt down next to him and touched his forehead. It was burning, just like he thought it would. To his
    surprise, Sherlock seemed to lean into the touch. Well, maybe it was just weakness. Still, that little gesture left a funny resonance in John's soul. He
    brushed that thought aside quickly.

    “Come on, let's get you to bed,” he said and heaved Sherlock up. They both stumbled a bit, and John had to struggle to get them going. It seemed like
    Sherlock tried to follow but could not stand on his own. They found a stable position when Sherlock leaned against John and let himself being pulled into
    the bedroom.

    John gently lowered him on the bed where Sherlock slipped underneath the blanket with a heavy sigh. “Don't want to cause you trouble,” he mumbled.

    “Idiot,” John answered softly and wiped Sherlock's damp curls from his eyes. He wanted to say more, ask how much water Sherlock had drunk today or if he
    had taken any meds, but the sick man's eyes were falling closed already, and he was asleep before John was finished draping the blanket around his
    shoulders. So instead, he closed the bedroom door and tiptoed back into the living room.

    There, he stopped, standing right in the middle of the room. It felt wrong being here alone. The last time he was, it had been …

    God. It had been THAT day. He had stood here just like that, on his own. And it had been wrong to be here alone. He no longer lived here, but that had not
    been the reason why it had felt wrong. He had come here for a reason, determined and nervous, and – Sherlock had not been here. But his laptop had been
    open, and a route had been seen on google maps, and John had instantly understood that Sherlock had ventured off to meet Moran on his own, and John had not
    needed a nano second to decide to follow him.

    And by that, he had sealed his daughter's fate.

    The memory was almost too much. John took an unsteady breath. But he needed to face that thought every now and then, right? If he had stayed away, Mary
    would still be alive, and his daughter would not have died before getting the chance to be born.

    But he could not have known that Mary would be there too. How could he have guessed that his wife would do something so incredibly stupid? How could he
    have guessed that Sherlock would allow her to join him but leave John behind?

    Grief and anger were burning hot in John's throat. He had to concentrate on breathing for a while.

    Why had he followed Sherlock that day?

    Because that was what he always did, a little voice inside him said. Sherlock went into danger, and John followed. So how could Sherlock have left the
    route open? He must have known that John would follow him. And he must have known that John showing up at the peak of the confrontation would set Moran
    off.

    How could Sherlock not have seen that coming?

    Because Sherlock could not have known that John would come to 221b, that little voice said. Because John had made a big fuss over pretending to go on a
    conference that weekend, so Mary would not ask where he had been.

    Because Sherlock could not have known why John had come that day.

    John briefly wondered if crying would cause relief. Or if he wanted relief. Did he deserve it? He had no idea. But then, he was not one to cry anyway, and
    there were things to be done. Like, … John looked around. Like checking the meds, finding out if he needed something in case Sherlock's fever got higher.
    Like placing a glass of water on Sherlock's bedside table. Looking for clean cloths to wipe the sweat away. Something light to eat, some soup or the like.

    All that occupied John for a little more than thirty minutes. Afterwards, Sherlock was still sound asleep and John alone with his thoughts. Should he tell
    Mrs Hudson he was here? She was angry with him, kind of. Well, the last thing he felt up to now was facing an angry Mrs Hudson.

    For no reason at all, he sneaked back into the bedroom and looked down at Sherlock. He felt … something. Not sure what it was. Too many things at once to
    tell. Sherlock looked peaceful in his sleep, much younger than when he was awake. John remembered a time when he had known exactly what he had felt when
    looking at Sherlock in his sleep. Why had everything seemed to be so complicated back then? What an idiot he had been.

    He had already turned around to leave the room when he heard Sherlock mumble something.

    “John.”

    He stepped closer. “I'm here,” he said, with his soothing doctor's voice, but then he saw that Sherlock was staring into the empty space next to John's
    face.

    “John is doing it wrong,” Sherlock whispered. Doing what wrong? John felt like he should leave now to grant Sherlock privacy, but then …

    “What is he doing wrong?” he asked instead. He felt a bit guilty.

    “Healing,” Sherlock answered, still looking at something next to John's ear. There was a great sadness in his voice.

    At first, John thought Sherlock was talking about John doctoring him today but the he realized that this was not what Sherlock meant.

    “What do you mean?” he implored, and to his surprise, Sherlock willingly went on talking.

    “He thinks he needs to forgive me or to finally condemn me to move on but that is bullocks. He needs to forgive himself.”

    John watched Sherlock blink a few times, then his eyes closed again. “I miss him,” Sherlock whispered.

    “But he came back, didn't he?” John could not help but ask.

    Sherlock's voice was barely audible when he said, “Not with his heart.”

    He sighed, and then fell asleep once more.

    And left John standing in the bedroom alone, confused and overwhelmed. For a long time, he could only stare at his sleeping patient. His mind refused to
    think about what he had heard, his heart refused to let it go. His body, trapped between the two, only stood still for what seemed to be like hours.

    When he was able to move again, John sneaked into the living room and slipped down into his chair. His chair. His mind was still swirling without
    getting hold of a clear thought. Feelings washing over him like tidal waves.

    There was a thought that fought his way to the surface of John's mind, a thought he had pushed away again and again for two days now. He missed Sherlock
    too. He missed being his friend, he missed admiring him, taking care for him, laughing with him. He missed the prospect of being more one day. He missed
    everything that had died together with Mary and the baby that day.

    Feeling empty and drenched, John did the only thing that made sense now: he made tea. His body took over, automatically doing everything that was necessary
    to fulfil the task.

    At some point, he realized he was sitting in his chair once more, the cup already half empty.

    There was something dangerous all around him now, something that was luring him into deep waters. Hope. Was it really possible to forgive himself? And
    would that really lead him back to what he had thought he would no longer want? Could it -

    The prospect of all that left John almost numb. His breath was a bit unsteady, he noticed, and it was not completely impossible that his cheeks were a tad
    wet. He closed his eyes. Was forgiveness really a possibility?

    And then there was something new adding to the mix of emotions, something even more dangerous than hope. Longing. He was longing to get back what he lost,
    longing to feel content again, longing for peace.

    Longing for Sherlock.

    Damn. There it was in the open, now. Once he had thought it, he could not stuff it back into the box he had built in his mind. He was longing for Sherlock.

    The words of the old Italian poem came back into his mind, “Here begins a new life”. And for the first time, he understood that even now that could also
    mean something good. A new life. A better one. It seemed to be waiting for him once more, should he only decide he'd want it.

    ***

    When Sherlock woke up from his feverish dreams, he was alone in his bed. His sheets were not drenched with sweat, so somebody must have changed them. His
    pyjamas were not drenched with sweat, so somebody must have changed them as well. His pants … Oh damn.

    There was a glass of water standing on his night table. Yes, better to focus on that one than on the pants that were also not drenched with sweat. There
    were little drops of water condensation on the outside of that glass, so it had not been standing there for too long.

    Who could be there?

    He had a blurry memory of telling John to stay away, and of talking to somebody about John, and about being brought to bed, and about John tending for him
    in the living room. Maybe he got the order of events wrong. Had John really been here?

    It was much more likely that Mrs Hudson had heard him coughing or something.

    Had he coughed?

    No matter how hard he tried, he could not remember more than little fragments that did not fit together. A sound broke through his feeble attempts to think
    clearly. A cup clattering. Somebody was cleaning the kitchen. Moving faster than Mrs Hudson would. Not hesitating, somebody who knows exactly where
    everything belonged.

    John?

    With some effort, Sherlock got up and stumbled into the living room. From there he could see him, clearing away some dishes. The living room was tidier
    than before, the magazines all placed in a nearly perfect stack. So John had spent quite some time here while Sherlock had been sick.

    The changed pants came back to his mind, and he felt himself flush. Well, John was a doctor, right? And he had seen Sherlock naked more often than once.
    So, let's get over that one. The more important thing was that John was here. Sherlock had told him to stay a way and he was here.

    Before Sherlock could dwell upon that thought, John turned around and spotted him.

    “Hey, see who is awake again,” he said, smiling just a little bit, and came to him. “Better sit down, you must be still weak.” And with that, John placed
    him on the sofa, put a blanket over him and made a cup of tea appear on the table.

    There was something strange about him. Something new. Sherlock was still too tired to put his finger on what it was. It seemed to be something good.

    John sat down next to him, producing another cup of tea out of nowhere and sipped it carefully. They sat like that for a while, in almost comfortable
    silence. Almost like they used to do back then. It was almost wonderful.

    When finished with the tea, John started a little examination. Are you feeling sick? Is your temperature still higher than normal? Do you feel up to taking
    a shower? It was nice, being taken care for. Sherlock gave in to it and let John take his temperature, feel his pulse, push him into the bath room and
    leave him there with fresh comfortable clothes to take that shower.

    When the warm water was pouring over him, Sherlock recalled every move, every word John had said, and searched for what was new. It took him a while to
    finally understand what had attracted his attention: The lack of bitterness.

    What had caused that? Sherlock had no idea but that didn't really bother him. John was here, and better than before, and that was all that mattered to him
    right now.

    After the shower, when Sherlock had huddled under a blanket on the sofa close to drifting into sleep once more, with John sitting next to his feet, he felt
    something he had not felt for a very long time. He felt whole again.



    Chapter 5

    They used the time Sherlock needed to get back to his strength to do some research on all the obscure stuff James Winter had mentioned. The hollow or flat
    world, chemtrails, aliens who dealt with American presidents. Weird stuff.

    And yet, Sherlock enjoyed it immensely because John was there. Incredible how much his presence made everything better, more exciting, bearable. And
    something had definitely changed that day when Sherlock had been sick. John was really there now, with his heart. It was so much more than Sherlock had
    hoped for.

    They were skimming through forums and facebook groups, sharing the most ludicrous ideas with each other. Sherlock was telling John about a stupid believer
    who thought he was a super hero because he wallpapered his home with aluminium foil against his wife's wish to protect them from alien observers, when John
    suddenly went sober.

    He did not say a word but started to look to the ground instead at Sherlock, frowned, pursed his lips and did all the other things he always did when being
    on the edge of saying something unpleasant.

    “Please John,” Sherlock interrupted his preparations, “just say it!”

    John's head snapped up. He had not been aware of all the signals he was sending out and felt thrown off his guard now. Well, that was always the best state
    of mind for him to talk about all that feeling stuff.

    “I … “he started, stopped, and Sherlock knew he would go on like that for quite a while. Patiently, he watched him until he finally blurted out, “Why did
    you take Mary with you to that storage building?”

    That question came as a surprise to Sherlock. An unpleasant one. He felt his guts clench in a very unpleasant way. How could John think … had he thought it
    all the time? Damn.

    Sherlock closed his eyes, forced himself to remain calm. To not let the anger lash out. It did not really work, for his voice was trembling with rage when
    he said, “How can you even possibly believe I “allowed” her to come with me?” Something was stinging in his eyes but he pushed that feeling aside. Not now.

    John just stared at him. As always, that only made Sherlock go on talking. “I made a vow, John. A vow! I had no idea she would come to that building. I
    would have never ...”

    He needed to stop, for that stinging in his eyes became more intense. John was just staring at him, open-mouthed.

    “I thought ...” John started saying and fell silent again. He was a mess, that much was clear, but unfortunately that did nothing to soften Sherlock's
    anger.

    “I NEVER thought she would come along!” he went on, his voice shaking even more now. “She made me think going for Moran was a good idea, and just when I
    managed to open up that sealed door, she appeared right behind me.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I never understood how a highly pregnant woman could
    be that fast and stealthy!”

    Sherlock took a few breaths before he could continue, “She made clear that loudly arguing with her about going away would endanger her a lot more than
    letting her trail behind, and she was right. She was right, John!”

    The memory still hurt so much more than he could stand. John was completely silent. There was sheer horror on his face. Did he regret thinking Sherlock had
    endangered both Mary and the baby like that? Sherlock hoped he was, for it was a terrible thing to believe.

    “I thought ...” John stammered after some time, “I really … Oh god, how could I believe that?”

    They looked at each other, both close to tears. Well, maybe just a little bit beyond tears. John closed his eyes in pain, and Sherlock's anger melted away.
    They were silent for a very long time.

    When John started speaking again, his voice was soft and low, “How did you manage to forgive yourself, Sherlock?” He looked at him so lost that Sherlock
    had to fight the impulse to embrace him, long and hard. “How can I ever forgive me all the things I did and thought?”

    Sherlock shook his head a little. “My way of forgiving myself won't help you, John,” he answered.

    John frowned, and Sherlock went on before he would lose the courage to say it loud, “I worked so hard on forgiving myself because I knew I would have to be
    whole again should you ever come back and need help with healing.”

    After that, Sherlock expected John to leave the flat. To his surprise, he only stared at the ground for a while, then he sniffed, wiped away a few unshed
    tears and said, “Did you know that people like James believe the sun and stars are only projections? They don't think that there is a universe, so no stars
    a s well.”

    He turned his back to Sherlock to continue reading on the internet forum, and Sherlock watched his shoulders relax ever so slightly.

    Well, all right. Let's go on then. Other people would have talked about it more detailed but they were not other people. For now, they had said everything
    they needed to say. Sherlock made a more or less funny comment on that idea, then they went back to researching.

    When John left late that night, he looked into Sherlock's eyes when wishing him a good night.

    ***

    Sherlock's sickness had thrown them back a few days but James Winters did not seem to mind. In fact, he told them that for him, it was the final proof that
    neither Sherlock nor John were bought by “them”, whoever “they” might be. And when Sherlock told him that they had found Jeanette, he was more than
    pleased.

    Of course, that changed rather quickly when they met at a café, closely watched by John and Sherlock. For Jeanette did not fall into his arms, happy to be
    rescued from the reptiloid leaders of the world. She told him she no longer loved him, clearly, softly, but without leaving any doubt.

    John had to admire her. He had ended a few relationships a lot less appropriately. Briefly, he wondered how he would have told Mary. Surely not as calm and
    determined as Jeanette did.

    James did not cherish that, of course. When the woman he loved had left the café, he barely looked at John and Sherlock, murmured a few words of thanks
    anyway, and left, tears clearly visible in his eyes. Poor sod.

    “Well,” John said when James had left, and then he realized that he did not know what else to say.

    Sherlock said nothing.

    John cleared his throat. “Um, do you think ...” He looked at Sherlock who was still staring at the door, “Do you think he'll get over her now?”

    “No idea,” Sherlock answered, avoiding John's glance. Or was he just too lost in thoughts to look at him?

    John sighed, “It is hard when you have to give up the last bit of hope for your love, right?”

    At that, Sherlock looked at him sharply for a second, then seemed to have found something extremely interesting on the floor he kept staring at. “I don't
    know,” he said softly, “I've always kept that last bit of hope.” Then he looked at John once more, “I am not sure that is better or worse than accepting
    the end.”

    For some reason, John had to swallow. Silence fell between them while they were both standing in the middle of the room. John watched Sherlock's feet.
    Sherlock watched something on the carpet.

    After what seemed to be an eternity, Sherlock spoke up again, “John, I need to ask you something.”

    For a second, John expected to hear “Do you love me?” but that was absurd of course. “Yeah, sure,” he said, feeling the need to move closer to Sherlock. He
    remained standing where he was.

    Sherlock seemed to brace himself for something. Then he took a deep breath and asked, “Why did you come here that day?”

    John could not help but close his eyes for a second. He clenched his jaw.

    Sherlock, maybe sensing his discomfort, went on talking, “I mean, you told us you'd go to a medical conference. And you lied. Perfectly, apparently, for
    neither Mary nor I realized you were lying. And you are a bad liar normally. So either you had decided not to go spontaneously, but in that case there was
    no reason to come to 221b instead of going home. And there had been no time for you to do that. No, you came here first. Apparently you had put all your
    energy into lying that well. So there must have been a very important reason. But for years now I fail to understand what that might have been.”

    They were both looking at the other's direction while avoiding each other's eyes. John sighed deeply. He realized that his fists were clenched. Sherlock's
    face was slightly red, and John could see him swallowing. Oh Lord, what to do now?

    With another deep sigh, John stared, “It does not matter any more. I will tell you but it no longer has any consequence.” He was not sure if his voice was
    really trembling. Did he believe himself? He had no idea. Anyway. He fixed his eyes on a spot right next to Sherlock's face and went on, “I came to say
    ...” It was not easy. “I wanted to tell you that I ...” Damn, it hurt, even though it should not. Not any more.

    “I came to tell you that I loved you and wanted to leave Mary for you.”

    Sherlock did not move. At all. He stood perfectly still for a while. Then he nodded, slowly. “I ...” he started and had to try one more time, “I had no
    idea.” There was marvel in his voice.

    He gave John a sad little smile, “See, you always manage to surprise me.”

    The moment hung into the air between them, Now would be a good moment to go, John thought. Instead, he remained standing there.

    After a while, Sherlock took a deep breath and said, “I would have … appreciated hearing that from you that day.”

    John nodded too. He had suspected that, had been almost sure that his feelings had been mutual. “It does not matter any more,” he said quietly. And when
    Sherlock did not answer, he turned around to go.

    He had nearly reached the door when he heard Sherlock's warm, gentle voice, “I still have not given up that last piece of hope, John.”

    Not knowing what to say to that, John stood in the door of the café for a while. Then he left without looking back.

    ***

    When he arrived at his holiday home, John allowed himself to collapse onto the sofa. It had been too much today, he knew that. This terrible roller coaster
    ride. Hope, no hope, love, hate, … He knew he needed to stop that, one way or another.

    Damn, when he had come back from Scotland, he had been sure that he wanted to get over everything Sherlock-related. Now he was almost sure that he wanted
    forgiveness, for him and for Sherlock. And he wanted to share Sherlock's hope.

    There was no way he could find a way to forgive himself, John knew. He had tried for a long time, then he had had to ignore his own guilt to get going. How
    do people forgive themselves?

    Then he had an idea. Maybe he could use a trick. Do what Sherlock did so often. Maybe he could go inside his mind, and talk to the one whom he got killed.
    Maybe he could imagine Mary and see if he could make peace with himself that way.

    He found a comfortable position on that sofa, closed his eyes, and tried to make up the perfect surrounding for their imagined reunion. He wanted to
    conjure up the living room of their old home but ended up in the bedroom that should have been their daughter's. No matter what he did, his mind insisted
    on staying there. Well, so be it.

    Now he only had to imagine Mary being here as well...

    He heard a movement behind him and turned around to face her. But what he saw hit him by surprise. A young woman was standing in front of him, barely grown
    up, with long dark-blonde hair and a smile that reminded him of Harry when she was young.

    He had made up his daughter, he realized, a version way older than she would be now. God, she was beautiful.

    “Hello, dad,” she said, her voice reminding him of Mary when she was still pretending to be that good nurse. “It is about time that you came here.”

    He did not know what to say. The lump in this throat was so big that he could not swallow.

    “You wanted to call me Isabelle,” she said, still smiling warmly, “The only name you both could agree on.”

    She was right, of course. Mary had insisted on choosing the name on her own but John had strongly objected to Tabatha, Deborah and Marylou. In the end,
    they had agreed on Isabelle. John looked at her, knowing his eyes were wet.

    “You are beautiful,” was all that he could say. Then he corrected himself, “You would have been beautiful. I mean, ...”

    Isabelle shook her head, “Don't get lost in grammar, dad. You came here for a reason, didn't you?” Her voice was warm and gentle. There was no bitterness
    in it.

    John nodded. He could not stop to look at her. Suddenly, the full impact of what he had lost that day took the air out of his lungs. He would never see his
    daughter make her first steps, learn how to speak, go to school, meet a boy or girl she loved, get a job, … A whole life was extinguished that day. A
    wonderful person that never got the chance to be.

    In his mind, his legs gave in. “Forgive me,” he said, barely able to speak but needing to finally get it out. “Forgive me for coming to that storage
    building. If I had stayed away, Sherlock and Mary would surely have been able to deal with Moran. He only shot her because he felt threatened by my
    appearance. I never wanted … I wanted to protect Sherlock. I did not know I would … “ He needed to say it, now. “I killed you. I made him shoot you and I
    am so sorry.”

    He was crying now, cowering on the floor, heavy sobs shook his body. He heard steps approaching him, then he felt Isabelle taking him into his arms. Her
    long hair was tickling his face. She just held him for a while.

    “Did you know Mary would be there too?” she asked after a while.

    John shook his head fiercely. “No, no I didn't. I'd never thought she would put you in such danger.”

    Isabelle started rocking him gently in her arms. “Did Sherlock know she would be there?”

    John bit his lips. It was hard to let go of the bitterness he had carried around for so long. After a while, he admitted, “No, he didn't.”

    He pressed his face into his daughter's shoulder. She smelled of body lotion and a fruity shampoo.

    “You had no way of knowing Mary would be there,” Isabelle said softly. “So who is really to blame for her presence there?”

    John was quiet for a long time. It was a thought he had never accepted but it was true. “Mary. It was Mary's own fault you both were there that day.”

    Saying it loud was a strange kind of revelation. He felt tons lighter than before. “Mary is to blame too.”

    Isabelle stopped rocking him. She moved back a bit so she could look into his eyes. “I forgive you, dad. Go and be happy.” She took something out of a
    bagback she had not been wearing before and handed it to John.

    He took it carefully. It was a book, looking new, with a bright turquoise cover. Inside, the pages were empty.

    “A new life will start soon,” Isabelle explained, “and now you have a brand new book to write all of it down. A fresh first page to start again.”

    The very next second, John was back to the sofa, in his empty holiday home. His hands were empty, of course, the book existing only in his memory. But
    there, it existed, and John cherished it. The new day was already dawning.

    His future was out there, waiting for him to grasp it. The new book that was his memory would not start with when he had first met Sherlock. It would start
    today, when he would come back to Baker Street, telling Sherlock that they still had a long way to go but that they would end up facing it together. When
    he would tell him that he loved him.

    Yes, that would be the perfect start. He still had time to get two or three hours of sleep. Not bothering to go to bed, he slipped into a deep slumber
    right there on the sofa. A new life, he thought while slipping away, and it would start today.


   
    Chapter 6

    Sherlock should have known that a nerdy lunatic like James Winter did not have any manners. Threatening Sherlock with a gun, in his own living room, before
    breakfast, was simply rude. And why that early? He glanced longingly at the cup that was standing on the kitchen counter, tea bag already placed inside. He
    sighed.

    James was still babbling but Sherlock had stopped listening when the gist of his sermon had become clear: Sherlock had failed to return Jeanette into
    James' loving arms, hence he must be in cahoots with “them” and Winter was angry about that.

    The way he was holding the gun demonstrated clearly that he had never used one before. Aiming for Sherlock he would surely shoot the lamp or the chair. He
    was used to a higher class of life threatening situations, and annoyed rather than scared.

    Sherlock had spent the night thinking about John, whether he had opened a door by his remarks about hope or closed it. John was still fascinatingly hard to
    predict. Well, the faster he dealt with Winter, the faster he could continue marvelling about John.

    He listened to Winter for a moment. Yep, he was still talking about Sherlock being manipulated by this group of bankers. Or reptiloids. It was ridiculous.
    Sherlock knew exactly who ruled the world in reality. He was related to one of them.

    Suddenly, what had been a mere annoyance became something serious. Steps on the stairs. John's steps.

    And judging from speed, tact and lightness, he was in an extremely good mood. After going home to find a way to forgive himself. After learning that
    Sherlock still loved him. Now, John was stupid enough to get himself shot just when he wanted to make a love declaration.

    For the second that was still left, Sherlock willed him away, tried to send him back into his holiday home by the sheer power of his mind but of course
    that never worked. Instead, John opened the door looking eager and self-assured and found himself standing in front of Winter's gun.

    “Oh, John,” Sherlock said sarcastically, mainly to force Winter's attention back to himself, “finished with being manipulated by the hollow world's secret
    rulers already?”

    “Flat,” Winter said, and both John and Sherlock stared at him so he went on, “The world is flat. Not hollow. That would be absurd!”

    Oh Lord, they were really in the hands of a crackpot.

    “A flat world is just as absurd,” Sherlock could not help pointing out, “at the shore you can easily see how the ships … ”

    “SHUT UP!” Winter yelled.

    Yes, of course. Yelling was so much easier than thinking for yourself. Sherlock sighed again. He caught John's warning glance. Never make the one with the
    gun angry.

    He calculated their options. Winter was standing between the two of them, wildly pointing from John to Sherlock back to John with his loaded gun. John was
    at full soldierly attention, watching both Winter and Sherlock. Winter was so busy waving his gun that he should have no brain capacity left to observe
    them carefully.

    They should be able to communicate silently to coordinate their effort to end this situation. He needed to establish eye contact with John so they could
    start planning. But instead of looking at him, John was fully focused on Winter.

    “Look,” he heard John say, “I know how hard it is when a love affair comes to an end ...”

    Oh, stupid. Very compassionate and very … John, but still a stupid thing to do. Winter was way beyond listening and would interpret every sentence as an
    attempt to manipulate him. Sherlock needed to do something, and quick. He needed to evoke Winter's attention so John could disarm him. Yes, good idea. John
    was better at disarming people. It was a lot safer that way.

    “I am not manipulated ...” Sherlock started, wanting to tell Winter that the reptiloids never offered him enough money to convince him but never got the
    chance. For he took a step forward towards Winter while talking, and Winter saw that, and panicked, for some reason Sherlock would never understand, he
    fired his gun that was still pointing at John.

    John cried out and collapsed in a heap on the ground, and then did neither move nor cry. An eerie silence fell over the flat, and for a second, nothing,
    absolutely nothing happened.

    Then Sherlock snapped out of his shock, leaped at Winter, wrested the gun from him and hit him on the head with it to knock him out. More than once. Out of
    the corners of his eyes, he saw movement. John sitting up, holding his -

    He was alive. Alive. With one fluid movement Sherlock threw the gun away, jumped to his feed and dropped down next to John. John, who only seemed to have a
    little graze on his arm.

    “You are all right,” Sherlock stated the obvious, realizing his brain was not working at full speed for some reason.

    John, who was sitting upright now, nodded, “Yeah, not bad. I thought going down dramatically would give you enough time to ...”

    Sherlock stopped listening, for his whole body started shaking for some obscure reason. His hands seemingly tried to do an impossible mixture of holding
    tight to John and touching him all over to make sure he really was not hurt badly. He realized that John was looking at him in an odd way but could not
    concentrate on it.

    There was a voice filling the room, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize it was his own. What was he saying? Something about his life ending should
    anything ever happen to John. Cheesy. He was making a fool of himself. Why didn't John stop him?

    John was still looking at him oddly, and then, without any warning, without saying a word, he did stop Sherlock from talking nonsense. He leaned forward
    and kissed him. Right there, on the floor. It was uncomfortable, for John was still clutching his graze and Sherlock was still shivering but it was also
    wonderful and perfect and so Sherlock kissed back,

    It was a long kiss, or several long kisses, rather, it took the breath out of Sherlock's lungs and left his brain spinning around in a daze. It was all
    John, strong and sturdy, and warm and just right. It went on forever.

    They only broke away when Winter started to stir.

    “We better tie him up,” John said.

    “We need to take care for your graze,” Sherlock said at the same time.

    John smiled, and the sun rose over London. “You tie him up, I'll take care for my wound,” he ordered then, and Sherlock obliged.

    Explaining the whole thing to one of Lestrade's less stupid colleagues was easy. Explaining it all to Mrs Hudson was a bit harder. There was another bullet
    hole on her precious wall now, and she was still a bit reserved about John. But in the end, all explaining was done, and to Sherlock's pleasure everybody
    not John had left the flat.

    “You kissed me,” Sherlock said, not quite knowing how to handle that special situation.

    “You love me,” John stated the obvious, apparently better at the handling thing.

    “The feeling is mutual,” Sherlock answered, and John started grinning like a teenager. He opened his mouth to say something, the closed it again, came
    closer and kissed Sherlock once more. And once more. And once more. And then they were no longer just kissing but also doing other things instead, and
    nobody talked for quite a while.

    ***

    Later that day, or maybe it was already night, John had lost track, they were lying in bed, John spooning Sherlock, their legs tangled, Sherlock's curls
    tickling John's nose.

    "Here begins a new life," John thought, and pressed himself closer against Sherlock's back.

    "What?" came a drowsy whisper. Apparently he had said it loud.

    "A new life," John explained and started to play with those soft curls just because he could, "A poem I read once that somehow became important to me. 'In that book which is  my memory …/ On the first page / That is the chapter when / I first met you...”

    “Appear the words …/ Here begins a new life” Sherlock continued. "La vita nuova by Dante Alighieri. Written in 1295, and it still fits with our lives."

    He remained silent for a while, and just when John was sure he would fall asleep again, Sherlock went on, "This is not the beginning of your book, John.
    This is not when we first met. Ever since then, there has been ..."

    "Hush," John said, softly caressing Sherlock's back with his fingers just to make sure he got the point: that they were here now, together. That it would
    always be the two of them. That there would always be love.

    "I have decided to start writing a new book that will start today." After giving it some thought, he went on, "Sherlock, love, there are still so many
    things I still need to get over with. It won't be all fluffy and sweet and ..."

    "Hush," Sherlock whispered softly, mimicking John. "We both need to get to terms with so much. But we have all the time in the world. And we have each
    other."

    They fell silent again. Then Sherlock suddenly giggled. "The new book of your life, starting with so much porn? Why am I not surprised, Dr.
    Three-Continents-Watson?"

    How could he possibly know about that nickname? Well, he was Sherlock, right? John had to giggle as well. "I intend to write a lot more trashy chapters.
    And as you are the one profiting from that ..." John let the unfinished sentence linger while quickly demonstrating what he meant.

    Sherlock gave him a pleasant groan. "No objections here," he whispered.

    John smiled to himself. They lay like that for a long time. When John was slowly drifting into sleep, Sherlock's deep voice found it's way into John's ear
    once more.

    "How will you call it?"

    "Hm?" There was something very earnest in his voice so John struggled a bit to wake up properly.

    "Your book of life. What will the title be?"

    He blinked and gave it some thought. Then he nodded to himself. "The two of us against the rest of the world." he answered then.

    Sherlock gave an affirmative hum and underlined his approval with an action worthy to be mentioned in the first chapter of John's porn.

    He had to laugh out loud at that thought, and Sherlock chimed in, most likely knowing exactly what John had been thinking.

    It would not be a fluffy rose garden kind of life that would be described in that book, but it would be a life well worth all the struggle that had led
    them here.

    It would be their life.


 

Okay. Think. Here he was, cable tied to a chair several feet below street level. Whoever had put him here had an extensive knowledge of the sewer system, for the absence of light leaking through grates or manholes proved he wasn’t stuck in any old conduit running straight below the surface. Either that or it was night. The street lamps’ ambient glow would be hardly strong enough to penetrate the system.


Not that any of it mattered. What was important was that no matter how vigorously he wriggled and squirmed the cable around his wrists didn’t budge so much as a tenth of a milimetre, and by now his toes were on the point of succumbing to hypothermia. Better accept he’d never manage to free his hands and start finding a different approach to extracting himself from this smelly prison.


Planting his left foot as firmly on the floor as the plastic tied just above his ankle and the slippery tile allowed him, he tried to hitch his right leg up along that of the chair. With the aid of his calf as a measuring instrument Sherlock had already determined the chair leg itself ran straight so – provided he managed to move his leg at all – he wasn’t in danger of running his ankle aground at an impossible height which would add greatly to his general discomfort.


Honing all his senses in on a small slice of his body he pulled with all his might in an attempt to see how much leeway the cable tie afforded him. His plan was to slid the ties down over the bottom of the chair legs. After taking his other leg through the same procedure Sherlock pondered his next move. Standing on one foot while pulling his leg free seemed highly inadvisable. With both legs tied he had very little room for manoeuvring and the floor was slick with a film of unsavoury debris and lichens that thrived in the foetid darkness; every flushed toilet literally depositing food at their doorstep. If he fell…


Sherlock considered attempting to hop to the side. A lot of London’s sewage tunnels had a catwalk running along their sides for the convenience of the sanitation workers. The catwalks also narrowed the channel and increased the flow of the water and sewage. Some of these catwalks towered quite high above the smelly river below them and Sherlock’s career as an escape artist would greatly benefit from their presence in his immediate environs. Which, given his current predicament and the conclusion he’d long since reached that his opponent may be a reprehensible sadist but was also quite clever, was almost definitely – he estimated the chances against at 99.23% – not the case.


Oh, for God’s sake, what was he dawdling for? He’d braved more unpleasant prospects without batting an eyelid. The squid trawler cocaine smuggling case, for instance, which had required jumping straight into a cargo hold filled to the brim with freshly gutted squid.


Pulling as much of the squalid air into his lungs as he could, Sherlock pressed his mouth shut, tipped his chin close to his chest, pushed off with his feet to launch the chair’s front legs into the air, and toppled over backwards.


***


Mycroft answered his phone so quickly John wondered whether he’d been expecting the call all along.


Strangely, he retained a statesmanlike quiet after John had explained his motive for initiating contact. John raised an eyebrow, which got him one of Mrs Hudson’s in return, and was about to disconnect and redial when he thought he heard the soft snick of a door closing, followed by the loud slap of leather soles on wooden flooring.


“John,” came Mycroft’s voice next, all smooth and warm. “You caught me in the Diogenes’ reading room. What time did my brother leave the house?”


John told him.


“Hmm. I’ll have someone look into it. You’ll hear from me. Goodbye.”


“Wait,” John shouted, unprepared for such an offhand dismissal, even from Mycroft, compared to whom the Lord Protector himself must have been the embodiment of frivolous discourtesy. “How long will it take you?”


“Five minutes maximum,” Mycroft said and ended the call.


“Great.” John threw his mobile a disgruntled glare, wishing the device would magically convey his massive displeasure to the uppity git who still chose to believe John’s sole function in life was keeping his baby brother from stirring up trouble.


“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson commented pointedly.


“It’s fine,” John hastened to assure her. “I just resent the hell out of him.”


“Yes, I can see why you would,” Mrs Hudson replied mildly. “But he truly loves our Sherlock as much as we do.”


“I don’t—” John began before dismissing the rest of the sentence as futile. The notion of her tenants conducting a passionate affair straight above her head simply held too much appeal for Mrs Hudson. Despite her marriage’s gruesome ending she remained a true-blue romantic at heart, quite apart from the ongoing contest with Mrs Turner. Her pair might be married but Mrs Hudson’s pair was more obviously devoted to each other. And in a way, John conceded, he and Sherlock were closer than many a married couple he’d encountered in life.


“Perhaps the Detective Inspector is right and someone has a grudge against Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson proposed. “Someone they forgot to lock up. You know how Sherlock is always complaining…”


Her trail of reasoning was interrupted by the shrill noise of John’s mobile. It was Mycroft. John checked his watch. Two minutes had passed since Mycroft rang off. His minions must be particularly keen to please him today.


“John,” Mycroft breezed in straightaway. “Sherlock entered a vehicle on Park Road eight minutes after he left 221B. We traced the vehicle to a car park at Bowling Green Lane. So far it hasn’t emerged again. My people are checking the garage as we speak.”


“But…”


“Ah, excuse me, there’s an update. – Yes, as I feared the empty vehicle has just been discovered and it seems some of the car park’s cameras were tampered with. Another aspect we’ll examine. Sadly, my people’s investigation will be hampered by the considerable lapse in time allowed to pass since Sherlock’s disappearance.”


There was no need for Mycroft to add ‘by you’ for John to hear it loud and clear. Valiantly staunching his irritation he suggested, “Shall I come over to Bowling Green Lane then?”


“Good heavens, no,” came Mycroft’s instant dismissal. ‘How would that profit our search? Besides, I’m sending someone over to clean up the mess my irksome younger brother imposed upon you and the excellent Mrs Hudson. I’d rather you rummage through the notes for that amusing blog of yours for any clue, however tiny and seemingly insignificant, that will help us uncover who’s responsible for Sherlock’s abduction and where they’ve taken him.”


“Abduction?”


“I’ll have the footage sent to you and will leave you to your own conclusions,” Mycroft answered in the weary tones of a man whose low expectations of the average human being’s intelligence had taken yet another plunge. “Do call if you think I’ve interpreted the material incorrectly.”


Of bloody soddingcourse Mycroft’s reading of the images was spot-on. John and Mrs Hudson watched helplessly as their friend, under the mistaken assumption he was dealing with his meddlesome elder sibling, confronted the sleek black vehicle one moment and disappeared inside it the next.


“Oh dear, the silly boy. What do we do now?” Mrs Hudson asked, hands fluttering up and down in apprehension.


“Now we follow Mycroft’s suggestion,” John replied grimly, unearthing his notebooks from the uncoordinated heap tottering on a corner of their desk. Thanks to the saint guarding the average blogger’s grinding toil through the ages, the pile was located just outside human liver bomb spray range.


“What exactly am I looking for?” Mrs Hudson was already beating a retreat to the comparative cleanliness of the sofa.


“Anything that…” The doorbell rudely interrupted John’s explanation. They shared a look – the mix of hope and apprehension on Mrs Hudson’s face a faithful depiction of the mingled sentiments churning in John’s chest – and then John was setting a new record for tackling seventeen steps and yanking a front door open in one go.


The presence waiting on their doorstep made John blink and check whether his left hand was indeed wrapped around 221B’s doorknob and not around the TARDIS’ door handle. The sight of Hilda Ogden staring up at him from beneath her trademark curlers, half-hidden beneath a headscarf whose hideousness outshone the faint glow of Baker Street’s street lamps easily, teletransported John straight back to his parents’ living room, and the black and white telly on which the woman had presided like a working class Queen.


“Hello luv,” the spectre greeted him in a tone that suggested a mutual acquaintance. Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle, she even sported a pinny. “Mr Holmes sent me for an emergency cleaning job.”


“Mr Holmes?” John repeated, incredulous. Every single employee of Mycroft’s John had encountered since he and Sherlock started flatsharing filed through his mind’s eye, each of them decrying the frankly outrageous notion this…menial labourer would be one of their number. A loud rattle behind the woman drew John’s attention and he gawped at the pair of men, suited with the sartorial elegance that marked them as Mycroftian minions to even his unobservant eye, struggling to lift what looked like a professional cleaning trolley from the boot of a sleek black car. The curlers on top of ‘Hilda’s’ head bobbed as she threw him a withering look that would have done her alleged employer proud and convinced John she was actually speaking the truth.


“Upstairs, innit?” The woman swept John aside in genuine Holmesian fashion, effectively reducing him to a speck of dust imprudently loitering in the path of her broom and thereby strengthening her declaration.


“Dr Watson,” the men greeted him respectfully as they followed in her wake with the trolley, lugging it up the steps between them.


John shut the door and scaled the stairs in the men’s wake, already dreading the scene his eyes would meet once he entered the flat.


To his surprise and relief Mrs Hudson and ‘Hilda’ appeared to have clicked immediately.


“...Got a soft spot for his brother,” Mrs Hudson was saying. “Now dear, they stock their cleaning supplies in the cupboard to the left of the sink but I don’t know…”


“Never mind, luv. I always bring my own. The scenes I’ve clapped eyes on. Not that I can spill the score. Mr Holmes made me sign a paper.” A snort conveyed the woman’s opinion on the Official Secrets Act. “I could do with a cuppa, though.”


“Of course. Oh, John—” Mrs Hudson redirected the conversation smoothly. “I think I found something. A case you haven’t written up yet. In your notes it says Sherlock had words with the Detective Inspector.”


“They often do,” John said.


“Yes dear, who wouldn’t? But this was special. Sherlock insisted the police had arrested the wrong people, small fry, while letting the brains walk free.”


“Oh, that case. God yes, I remember. That stench—”


“Well dear,” Mrs Hudson said in an impatient tone, clearly wondering why he was still loitering at the premises. Sherlock, naturally, would have been out the door like a shot. Unfortunately, for all the months they’d spent together Sherlock’s genius still hadn’t rubbed off on John.


“You might have a point,” he stalled for time. “Problem is, I don’t have a map. We didn’t really need one, Sherlock had the whole system stashed somewhere in that Mind Palace of his.”


“Oh, really?” This information seemed to daunt Mrs Hudson for a second, but then her face brightened. “Of course. Even in a palace there’s bound to be a loo. Are the taps gold, you think?”


“No, it’s all brass,” ‘Hilda’ butted in.


Thrown off balance by yet another outstanding example of their landlady’s singular line of reasoning, John buried his nose inside his notebook, pretending to read up on what he’d jotted down during the case rather than trying to sustain a serious conversation. This case had been one of their first, unfolding just two weeks after Sherlock had arrived just in time to save Sarah from a thoroughly nasty and unromantic ending by a pointed arrow aimed straight at her heart.


Sadly, it had also been one of those cases where Sherlock’s mental associations and deductions had followed each other with great leaps. They had flown from his mouth as inevitably as wisdom from a mythical fountain of knowledge. To the ears of mere mortals like John Hamish Watson the blurb outdid the Delphic oracle for obscurity. John had counted on Sherlock pointing out the details he had missed – which in this case amounted to about ninety-five percent of everything that had happened to them over the last few days. By then he’d learned there were few things Sherlock relished more than taking someone by the hand and guiding them along the trail his mind had shown him. Until Mike introduced them Sherlock simply never had met anyone willing to undertake the effort, even Lestrade, who certainly reaped the rewards.


But that case had ended badly, with Sherlock maintaining the Met hadn’t arrested the biggest culprit and the Yarders triumphant with closing down the largest heroin-smuggling enterprise ever run in the UK, and their catch of a large number of thoroughly hardened thugs with outrageously silly aliases. When John attempted to comfort Sherlock with the observation that thanks to his efforts a lot of extremely wicked individuals would grow old in the nick Sherlock’s lower lip curled in disdain and he locked himself in his room. Three days later he emerged, dressed to the nines and absolutely refusing to discuss either the case or his response to its outcome.


“They’re idiots, even Lestrade,” was his only comment and at John’s request for further clarification on what exactly they’d been doing before Sherlock’s temporary seclusion he took his violin and began sawing at it so savagely John actually checked on the landing whether Mycroft had popped up unannounced.


John turned the page and felt his eyes widen. Apparently acting as a pawn in a master criminal’s sick game, being snared in a dominatrix’s recreational activities and battling monstrous hounds influenced his mental capacities adversely rather than stimulating them, for he’d completely forgotten jotting down these maps. The brownish coffee smudge refreshed John’s memory. Half-frozen, they’d struck up a temporary camp at Lestrade’s office for revitalisation purposes. Accompanied by derisive sniffs from the corner where Sherlock perched like a gigantic crow with eyes glued to his phone, Lestrade had produced a map of London’s bowels and tacked it next to the city map adorning his cubicle in order to retrace the gang’s movements across London aboveground and underneath. For the criminals’ thorough knowledge of the pathways hidden beneath London’s surface had been the vital key to their success, allowing them to materialise out of nowhere and literally vanish from the face of the earth.


They’d trafficked their harmful wares along one of the Thames’ minor tributaries, long since enclosed and transformed into one of London’s sewer system’s major components. Convinced he was onto something, John fumbled with his mobile for Google maps.


“Have you found something, dear?” Mrs Hudson enquired but her voice sounded far-off. Which wasn’t at all surprising, as it had to travel aeons of sudden understanding.


“You’re a marvel, Mrs H,” John breathed, jumping to his feet.


Mrs Hudson tittered and presented one of Mycroft’s lackey’s with a mug of tea. “Do you want a biscuit with it? Mycroft always declines.”


“No time for that,” John decreed, snatching the mug from the startled man’s fingers. “We’ve got a consulting detective to rake up.”


Dear God, he prayed, please, let him be alive. Please Sherlock, don’t be dead.


***





Fully benumbed as they were from an enforced submersion in dubious, barely tepid liquid, Sherlock’s feet never prepared him for the shock of the chilly, swift river that threatened to close over his head. Panic almost had him open his mouth, whether for a scream of agony or a plea for help that wouldn’t arrive, he hardly knew. Not that it mattered. Its only outcome would be swallowing a huge gulp of wastewater.


Something undefined and insalubrious bumped into his right cheekbone in a gentle reminder he was supposed to wriggle his feet free from the chair legs. Suppressing the urge to gag he jiggled his right leg until he encountered the merest hint of leeway his captors had unwittingly granted. Now all he had to do was lift his leg and move it – smoothly, gently, nice and easy does it – forward along the chair leg, guiding the cable tie as patiently as a mother accompanying a toddler to the playground.


At long last he felt first the heel of his shoe and then his whole leg slip free.


Thank God.


Profound relief skittered wildly through his head, momentarily suppressing the warning signals his lungs transmitted that his supplies of oxygen were running dangerously low.


Focus, Sherlock, he instructed himself in what for a hysterical instant he mistook for Mycroft’s reproving tones. Irritation with his infernal sibling – if only it were his fat arse squiggling in the foul mire currently attempting to swirl up Sherlock’s nose – gave his left leg the final shove it needed.


Both legs free, Sherlock grounded his shoe soles against the slippery bottom as firmly as the thin leather permitted and, fighting the chair, managed to push his body into a standing position. Heaving glorious life-sustaining breaths of unsavoury air deep into his lungs he tottered on his legs like a new-born foal but managed not to lose his hard-fought balance.


Filthy, dishevelled and shivering, his present position was nevertheless infinitely better than the last one – or the one before that. Briefly, Sherlock considered trying his hand (or rather, his whole body) at demolishing the chair by ramming it into a wall but decided such impulse was stupid and definitely below him.


The only sensible approach to his quandary was slugging a course along the pipeline until he encountered a shaft of light falling down a grate. There all he had to do was shout his lungs hoarse for someone to hear him and have the sense to ring the emergency services, who would then proceed to extricate him from his ignominious position.


Insupportable.


Sherlock gritted his teeth. All too eagerly his mind conjured an unwelcome, noxious jumble of images: John’s dismayed honest and open face, Mrs Hudson tutting reprovingly and offering a mug of tea with a rock cake, Mycroft’s cold reproachful glare, Lestrade shaking his head in disbelief, Donovan sniggering maliciously. Bellowing in frustration Sherlock propelled his feet backwards, gaining speed for exactly one quarter of a second before the chair legs smashed into – something, a wall presumably – which launched him neatly across the width of the tunnel. He nearly tripped over his toes and smacked his forehead hard against what he assumed was the other wall. A sharp encrustation that was nonetheless slippery and damp and profoundly unpleasant grazed his skin. Blood seeped into his brows and trickled into his eyes. If he hadn’t already been surrounded by an inky blackness the blood would have blinded him.


So much for the senseless approach.


Gnashing his teeth again Sherlock shook his head, righted himself and started on the long slog through the darkness.


***


One thing Mycroft Holmes definitely had going for him was a seemingly infinite store of eminently cooperative assistants, John pondered as one of the patented sleek black cars hurtled him along London’s streets in hushed luxury.


Agents Peters and Peterson had perked up considerably at John’s order to drop him off at the Bowling Green Lane garage. They were men attuned to danger and clearly sensed John was a surer means of providing them with excitement than passing their evening watching Mycroft’s personal char scrubbing at 221B’s surfaces, no matter the amount of weird and frankly alarming trappings she thus brought to light.


“Just one more minute, Dr Watson,” Peters – or was it Peterson? – spoke up from the front passenger seat. “Mr Holmes’ PA just texted. The auxiliary forces have arrived.”


“Good,” John said. Any pangs of conscience regarding his engagement of Mycroft’s people had long since succumbed to anguish over his friend’s fate. Contrary to the association with some inane teen pop band their name inspired, the Bunsen Boys had consisted of a vicious lot of criminals who held the lives of others all too cheap. What they would do to the man responsible for the lion’s share of the gang mouldering in prison – and John pitied the other inmates – he didn’t dare to imagine. In Afghanistan he’d run into too many examples of the atrocities man was capable of.


Sheets of plastic partitioned off a corner of the car park’s lowest level. In front of the plastic wall ‘Anthea’ awaited them, highlighted like a beacon, fingers dancing gracefully over her mobile. John hitched an eyebrow, which she duly ignored.


“Hello John,” she greeted him, her attention fully focused on the screen lighting her face. “Long time no see.”


Eyes still fixed on her Blackberry, she lifted one of the plastic curtains and stepped inside, motioning with her head for John and agents Peters and Person to follow her.


“Nice seeing you too,” John answered in the most sarcastic tone in his repertoire. He might as well have commented to the fairies flitting about in Regent’s Park or the man in the moon. ‘Anthea’ didn’t bat so much as a single eyelash. To be fair, she probably dealt with worse on a minute-by-minute basis.


Perhaps John’s training at Sherlock’s hands had been lacking in essential aspects. After months of flatsharing with an eccentric genius, John considered himself pretty much inured to the general madness that sprang from interacting with the Holmes brothers. Still, he batted not one but several eyelashes at the sight that greeted his eyes. At ‘Anthea’s’ daintily shod feet rested a pile of gear adequate for outfitting a spelunking expedition to the South Pole. Lined up against the far wall, a squad of Mycroft’s minions stood at attention. Each of the men’s smart trouser legs ended in a – admittedly seriously stylish – wellie and a screamingly yellow builder’s helmet hid their pricey haircuts. Fluorescent Hi-Vis jerkins completed the outfit.


“What is this?” John asked, completely flabbergasted.


“Mr Holmes deemed it advisable you lead his younger sibling’s extraction,” “Anthea’ informed him over the top of her mobile. “He’s unexpectedly up to his nose in a smelly affair concerning the Norwegian prime minister or he would be here to oversee the operation in person.”


Pulling on his wellies (of bloody course they fit like a glove) John thanked the Norwegian prime minister for being such a convenient pain in Mycroft Holmes’ arse. He quickly followed the impulse with a flare of sympathy for the unlucky man or woman – his grasp of Norwegian politics was a close match to Sherlock’s familiarity with British cabinet ministers – bold or stupid enough to cross the path of the British government.


“Isn’t this setup a bit over the top?” he commented, donning his orange jacket and already dreading Sherlock’s massive scowl of indignation.


“Nothing is excessive in Mr Holmes’ opinion when it comes to his baby brother,” ‘Anthea’ replied, carefully screening her own thoughts on the subject behind her Blackberry.


“That’s exactly the point, isn’t it?”


The remark’s bitterness had ‘Anthea’ raise her gaze from her mobile for the first time since John had entered the garage. Her eyes travelled up and down his form, dissecting the various parts with the cold assessment of a butcher estimating a loin of pork hanging from a hook before dismissing him altogether and returning to the infinitely more interesting content of her Blackberry. With her right hand she produced a gun, seemingly out of nowhere, and proffered it to John.


“He trusts you brought your gun. If not, please accept this one with Mr Holmes’ compliments.”


“Nah, I’ve got it,” John replied, swearing under his breath. Of bloody sodding course Mycroft knew about the gun. Did the man really wonder why Sherlock might resent the hell out of his elder brother or did he consider himself above such puerile concerns?


“Here, Dr Watson.” Agent Peterson – or was it Peters? – thrust an unwieldy box at John. “Cave radio,” he explained. “In the tunnels our mobiles won’t work. May I suggest we work in teams? Peterson and I would be honoured to assist you personally, sir.”


“Oh yes, of course.” John fiddled with the knobs and handed the box back to Peters. “You’re head of communications.” Peters looked exceedingly pleased with this easily accomplished promotion. “We do have maps, I suppose?”


“Yes, Dr Watson.” Peterson had accepted a yellow manila folder from ‘Anthea’ and was handing out booklets of plastic-laminated A4 sheets that contained a map of the whole London sewage system.


“Good.” John nodded his approval, spun on his heel and appraised the line of patiently waiting special agents for whom he was now directly responsible.


“Gentlemen. Thank you for helping me look for my friend, Sherlock Holmes,” he began. “Unlike him, I’m not a genius so there’s a high chance we’re chasing the wrong lead and won’t find anything down there. But if I’m right I want you to remember we’re dealing with the remnants or a newly resurrected organisation of dangerous criminals who’ve stopped at nothing in the past. We’ll work in teams and you’ll radio Peters here immediately if you don’t trust the situation. No violence unless absolutely necessary to save yourself or Sherlock. Any questions?” His gaze travelled over the men, who all shook their head. “Right, let’s roll.”


During his speech ‘Anthea’ had opened a door on the left. Murky, dank vapours wafted through the opening and mingled with the garage’s equally unappetising odours of gasoline and exhaust fumes. Moisture beaded on the door’s steel coating, John saw, as he marched past it onto a tiny platform suspended over the tunnel, from the end of which a ladder ran to the bottom.


“Good luck,” ‘Anthea’ bade him farewell but John didn’t heed her. He was too focussed on not slipping from the ladder’s rungs, which were bedecked with some kind of moist algae Sherlock would no doubt have declared ‘fascinating’. John merely considered it a nuisance. Once his feet hit bottom he felt infinitely better. He breathed in relief and coughed into his hand straight after. The air was foul, even worse than he remembered from his last visit.


“Dr Watson,” Peters said and John retreated to make room for the other men descending the ladder as quickly and stealthily as a herd of mountain goats traversing an Alpine summit. The last man shut the door and darkness as deep and impenetrable as a tomb closed over them. John felt for the lamp on top of his helmet.


“Two men into every side tunnel, starting with those at the end of our line. Radio your findings and go back to the main tunnel if there’s a branching or a dead end. And remember, safety first.”


He started plodding down the stream swirling around his wellies. The beam of his head torch skipped ahead of him like a fairy, guiding them along. John huffed at the ridiculous notion. The movement swung the beam along the ceiling and lit the encrustations hanging there, making their crystals glitter like a myriad Milky Ways rolled into one. It was oddly beautiful in its own way.


They passed the first side tunnel. John checked the map. So many tunnels deviating in every direction, the enterprise felt as hopeless and futile as combing through every back alley and mews in Greater London. And Sherlock might not even be down here.


As if to punish such negative musings that second, the floor gave way beneath John’s right foot. Peters’ fingers circled his arm just in time to spare John a humiliating – and definitely malodorous – encounter with the slop eddying around their legs and the distasteful shapes bobbing on its surface.


***

 

Dear SilverMoonDragonB

I just helped out at short notice and thought to write just a tiny fic with three of wishes, to be ready as soon as possible. Johnlock, friends to lovers (Sherlock and John) and the sister (Journalist) are mentioned. Hope you like it.


Who is Scarlett?

“Who is Scarlett? “ John entered the flat with a letter in his hand, given to him by Mrs. Hudson for Sherlock when he returned from work.

Sherlock looked up shortly from his laptop before he went on staring at the screen. “Not important.”

“Strange. Only the first name, no address of sender. That implies a certain… intimacy? Or one of those “ladies” who offer “special” services. But usually that doesn’t happen via old-fashioned letters.” Amused, John waved the envelope in front of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock grabbed the letter and put it under his laptop. “You are right. Old-fashioned.” His attention returned to whatever he was researching. Making clear that he wasn’t interested at all to go deeper.

John shrugged his shoulders and went into the kitchen.

---

“Did you read it?” John asked, interrupting reading his book.

Sherlock watched a documentary about forensic medicine on TV. “I’m not an expert on that. But I’m sure the cut they suggested to open the skull is nonsense. Have to talk to Molly about it someday.”

“Sherlock, did you read the letter?”

“Which letter?”

“The letter I gave to you yesterday. Scarlett… remember?”

“Um… that… yes.”

“So?”

“So?”

“Am I allowed to know anything about it?”

“As I mentioned before, it’s not important.”

“Strange that you don’t want to talk about it. I thought… after I split up with Mary… you would have more trust in me… that you and I were more than just friends…”

“To be precise you didn’t split up with Mary. She left you in a cloak-and-dagger operation and took your daughter with her.”
Sherlock turned off the television. “I shouldn’t waste my time watching these poorly researched documentaries. Do you remember the one about mummies? That was even worse. I don’t understand how halfway educated people… What is it?”
Sherlock became aware of John staring at him.

“Sometimes I really doubt that you have a heart.” John answered stony-faced.
He stood up and went into his room without saying another word.

---

On the next morning, Sherlock was already busy in the kitchen and wearing his usual dressing gown, when John came down in pyjama trousers and a t-shirt.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Making breakfast. I’m not sure… how do you want your eggs… boiled… fried… scrambled? Coffee is ready. And toast as well. Take a seat.”

“Breakfast. YOU are making breakfast.” John pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down.

Sherlock shortly turned around to John, smiling, and then continued his work as house husband.

“Sherlock, what happened? Why are you doing this? It’s the first time in all those years.”

Sherlock turned around again with a seemingly guilty face, an egg in one hand, a spatula in the other and John had problems to stay serious because Sherlock looked so funny.

“I had a chat with Mrs Hudson about what happened yesterday. And she said I should…”

“You had a chat with Mrs Hudson? When I left last night it was late already.”

“Don’t worry. She had her sleep. I knocked at her door a few hours later.”

“A few hours later. When exactly?”

“Ah… maybe three or four o’clock. Can’t remember. Anyway she supposed I behaved too rude and it would be…”

“Hang on Sherlock, you woke up poor Mrs Hudson in the middle of the night only to discuss your behaviour that you aren’t able to control? I can’t believe it.”

“It wasn’t that bad, really. In fact she seemed… touched that I came to her. She said things like “I’m so glad” and “Finally you face up your feelings”. Sounds… good, doesn’t it? Well, I wasn’t aware that being frank could be… um… hurtful. I am really sorry, John. You know my brain is full of useful things but being tactful isn’t part of it. But it is fact that Mary… Anyway I want to apologise, I must apologise. In fact I couldn’t sleep after I… you left… Oh, Mycroft would burst of laughter if he could see me now. Mrs Hudson had tears in her eyes when she said I should be honest to you… just once. What I’m trying to say… when you didn’t live in Baker Street anymore and married Mary… inside me something… hurts… my non existing heart, you know… never had that before…”

“Sherlock, would you please put that damn egg away?”

“Um, why?”

“Because of what I am going to do now. It will break.” John stood up, took Sherlock’s head in both hands and pressed a gentle long lasting kiss on Sherlock’s mouth.

The egg burst on the floor.

---

After breakfast John sat in his chair, reading the newspaper, and Sherlock stood at the window, observing life on the street.

“So, you want to know who Scarlett is.”

John immediately folded his newspaper. “Yes… if you want to tell me.”

“Alright then. She is my sister.”

“You have a sister? Why did you never tell me? That Mycroft didn’t is no surprise, but even your parents never mentioned her.”

Sherlock turned around. “She is, well, the black sheep of the family.”

“The black sheep? With brothers like you and Mycroft? That’s hard to believe.”

“My parents and Mycroft haven’t seen her or heard of her for ages. She left when she only was 18. To be precise she eloped with a man who was nearly 30 years older. The relationship didn’t last long. She is a free journalist now, travels around the world. I have contact to her via email again for around three months now. In fact I still… love her? She wants to come for Christmas this year. Do you mind?”

John smiled. “If I mind? I would love to meet her.”

“Good. I will send her an email.”

“And Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I have to apologise. You definitely have a heart. A big one.”

 

Chapter 1



‘Burd Memorial Centre For The Restoration, Rehabilitation And Treatment Of

The Magickally Impaired And Damaged’







Fourteen Months ago…



“John! John! Oh god…John!”

“John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Veteran of St Bart’s Hospital in London, Paternal side Human with Magick and Mage maternal, early presentation of Magick at eight years of age, Honourably discharged due to injury-”

Heavy…feels like being weighed down by a million stones…can’t breathe…but what’s the difference? My life is already nothing…nothing happens…never ending days of nothing. Might as well make it official.

“-Class A1 Augment – ah, now that is intriguing. Don’t get many of you through here-”

The grip John had on his cane tightened and the tremor in his left hand caused him to flinch. The nasally voice of the intake nurse barely registered in the wake of the memories his weakened body seemed determined to remind him of.

“John! Stay with me…John…Yes! I’m at….Insomniac, Zolpidem overdose…alcohol, I don’t know how much…barely conscious, not breathing…name Dr. Mike Stamford, healing magic, able to keep him stable for now but - please hurry! Yes thank-you!”

“Suicide attempt via Zolpidem overdose exacerbated by alcohol-”

John had the passing thought that he should’ve used the gun, and ignored the mess that would make…and maybe save himself from this humiliating experience.

As much as John wanted to die, he woke in the hospital to the face of his crying sister and something changed. Maybe it was because he couldn’t remember the last time he saw Harriet cry, or maybe it was the notion that despite their estranged relationship she clearly still cared, whatever it was John felt…regret, and shame. John wasn’t sure whether the latter was because he failed to remember Mike’s impending visit to his pathetic army pension funded flat that day, or that he attempted to take his own life at all. He took those pills with no regrets (what was his life without purpose? He was of no use damaged, useless, he thought).

What John ended up regretting the most was not only did he not succeed; he ended up damaging himself further. He didn’t need the Doctors at the hospital to explain, even if he didn’t notice the Magick restraints on his wrists and ankles John knew, he felt it. Like observing something through a two way mirror, seeing it, unable to reach it, John lost control. His Magick went haywire.

John had the thought that the state of his Magick was now fully reflective of his state of mind and purpose, without direction, broken, damaged.

John Watson, former Solider, former Doctor, former.

Poetic justice? For what? Trying to kill himself? It was his life, and he couldn’t stand it.

“-Hm, with your power you would’ve had to have taken a lot. Even with control, your body’s automatic self defense would’ve kicked in to that level of poison, unless-”

John had no intention of enlightening her. She was clearly not that knowledgeable in this area, or she would’ve realized that committing suicide is not the same as being non-consensually poisoned. The importance of intent is drilled into the minds of Magickal kids from primary school.

John barely resisted the urge to glare at her where he stood and she sat at the guardhouse entrance desk, reading his file with fiendish speed. He wasn’t even in the main building yet, he dearly hoped not everyone was like this.

“-Your caregivers and physicians will discuss the details of your condition and what it means once your inside, but being a Doctor I’m sure you know all about it already-”

Hardly. I specialized in trauma surgery.

“-For now I can tell you, you’ll be given a room in Paget Wing, it is reserved for high level Magick users like yourself with both physical and psychological damage whose Magick in its uncontrolled state doesn’t cause damage to anyone but yourself-”

Small blessings. Since full powered Augments like himself are so rare (typically confined to mixed species offspring with one parent being a Mage, apparently), most can only increase the level of one or two things, like fire or antibodies in human beings, John can augment and amplify the degree, level and amount of anything “alive”, with an energy based power source. Within reason. He couldn’t increase his number of biscuits much to the disappointment of his barely presented nine year old self (his mixed parentage made his Magickal control significantly higher at an early age). It still made him exceedingly useful as a Doctor, especially in the army. John hadn’t personally known anyone with uncontrolled Augment Magick.

It didn’t really surprise him to discover that his Magick in a damaged, uncontrolled state would amplify nearby things compatible with his Magick to different levels at random. Which could be understandably dangerous.

John almost didn’t survive the trip to the hospital because he was told the Ambulance kept stopping and starting again – his Magick affecting the efficiency of the engine. Apparently he also exploded Mike’s watch. He only survived because Mike is a high-level Sorcerer; his healing, touched based Magick kept John stabilized just long enough to reach the hospital. On arrival they immediately put the wrist and ankle restraints on him, thus dulling his Magick completely until they could fully assess the situation.

Once he was awake and out of immediate danger, what little the hospital staff could tell him was that he would have to wear one restraint on his dominant hand at all times until he regained control completely. It would restrain his Magick enough that it wouldn’t affect anything over with a high energy output, at most a few lights risk being turned off when he enters a room, and only if the bulbs are old, but allow him enough freedom to eventually regain control if he was able. A Doctor – John couldn’t remember his name - compared the state of his Magick now to John coming home to find a rave going on at his place, only the locks have been changed and now John has to create a brand new, totally different key from scratch.

John had thought the pain of his wounded shoulder and the limp in his leg was bad, it was nothing compared to being essentially powerless for the first time in his life.

He never let on how much the restraint hurt. He knew it was necessary and quite frankly, his pain was his own.

Grossly unprofessional attitude of the intake receptionist aside, his business was his own and the only reason he was even here was because both Mike and Harriet insisted. He’d only barely managed to get them to agree to let him come here alone.

John has no reason to be happy to be alive. So why wasn’t he angrier to be here?

“The BMC is the oldest and most highly regarded Magickal rehabilitation centre of his kind. Not only that, it is entirely Government funded. You know this John. Your stay would be long term, but I really do think that they could help you, not just with your Magick but-”

“Fine.”

“John-”

“Fine.”

“John, you need to talk to some-”

“Thank-you Mike, I’d rather be alone now, please.”

That conversation happened barely a few days ago. To John it felt like a lifetime.

“Well Dr. Watson, Hooper is the lead Doctor in the wing you’re being assigned to. She will be here momentarily to give you a tour and escort you to your room. Please, walk through those doors, down the path and take a seat in the area immediate to your left when you enter the main building. You should only have a five minute wait at most. Have a pleasant day!”

A pleasant day? Bloody hell, this is already a nightmare.

John forced himself to smile politely and took the now filled out intake forms the receptionist handed to him.

The receiving room is small, and not a part of the main complex. Because of the sensitivity exuded by Magick users who are damaged in some way, it is safest for everyone to be as protected as possible.

John couldn’t even see beyond the high brick wall that greeted him when the cab dropped him off. The slight distortion in the air above it told John that more than physical barriers were protecting it. The receiving house looked like a small stone cottage and sat right in front of what must be the main gate, the only entrance to the facility is through the unremarkable building.

Overall, it rankled. But John was never one to avoid a situation because it might be dangerous, so, cane in hand, he walked across the mostly empty parking lot, ignoring everyone he passed, only peripherally noticing the tall trees blocking the main road from view and entered the house; which is where John began the uncomfortable conversation with the receptionist.

Thank god that’s over. John took whatever he could get.

Papers in his free hand, he gave the receptionist – Kathy, according to her nametag – a nod and walked down the hallway towards the tall double doors, passing more than one guard on his way.

When John reached out to open the door the sleeve of his army green coat pulled up revealing the thick leather bracelet, decorated with multiple symbols, on his wrist. Its purpose is not only to restrict his Magick, it is irremovable by him and would alert any nearby medical staff if he were of a mind to make a second attempt. He very purposefully ignored it and prayed to whatever God may be that this place wouldn’t sap the last of John’s dignity.

John opened the door. Holy….Christ.

He isn’t easily shocked, but his pace did slow upon seeing the sheer size of the place. There wasn’t just the mansion sized main building, architecture centuries old, but in the distance John could see others, equally as big on the property. The wall disappeared from view into a forest on either side; the only disturbance was a pair of metal doors John assumed were for vehicles. In front of John was a wide open lawn dotted with gardens and fountains. With winter around the corner, neither of those were at their peak, and the lawn had mostly turned a dull, shriveled brown with only spots of green.

The only thing that gave away the purpose of it all was the few patients, therapy animals, nurses and Doctors, outside walking with patients or talking in groups, all wearing similar non-descript uniforms and coats.

That was of course until John reached a large metal sign attached to two, similarly metal stone posts overarching the main, large stoned path wide enough for an army tank to traverse.

‘Welcome to the Burd Memorial Centre for the Restoration, Rehabilitation and Treatment of the Magickally Impaired and Damaged. Circa 1895’

Brilliant. John frowned and kept walking, body aching hatefully the closer he got to those imposing double doors. He wondered then if this would be futile. Even when or if his Magick recovered, John would be no better off than he was before.

With a sigh, John pressed on. Nowhere to go but forward.



~



John approved of Dr. Hooper (“Call me Molly”). Not only was she obviously a capable Doctor, knowledgeable and professional without being condescending (a trait unfortunately common in his occupation), she didn’t show him pity; that more than anything made John respect her immediately, perhaps a bit enthusiastic for his state of mind but she was very matter of fact and didn’t treat him like a child. It felt like chatting with a colleague, a feeling John greatly missed.

What really surprised him though was when she told him she came from a long line of Witches, but that she was born without any Magickal ability whatsoever. There was still a substantial amount of stigma surrounding people like that, many referring to them as “duds”. John threw his first punch at age thirteen when a fellow classmate teased his friend Sarah for being such.

He didn’t feel all that sorry.

In a place as highly regarded as the BMC, job positions are difficult to get and it is a sad truth that seeing someone like Molly in such a high-level position is rare. It made John feel a bit better…though not by much.

After introducing herself, Dr. Hooper and John walked out of the large entrance hall – which had been bustling with activity, mostly staff and only one or two patients, none of whom paid them any mind, the area greatly resembled a large foyer, an effort to make the Centre more appealing probably – and through a door on the left. After that it was a maze of rooms and halls, and John definitely had no trouble believing the building belonged in the 19th century. The mix of new technology with the atmosphere of an old world manor was interesting.

Each time they entered a new area, Molly would scan the pendant on the end of her necklace and be let through. It didn’t matter that the restrictions were largely for safety; John couldn’t say he relished the idea of being restricted to a specific area, like a gilded prison.

Molly told him that each Wing acts like its own unit; Magickal barriers which allow all known residents and workers in a specific Wing to pass through it unimpeded, each with its own staff, both medical and otherwise; treatment programs tailored to each individual’s need, with a lead Doctor that reports to the main office, and sits on the BMC board. And unless a patient is unable, everyone has access to the outside.

“As I’m sure Kathy told you, you will be housed in the Paget Wing. It’s small; we try not to crowd too many in one place. Too much inhibited Magick in one area, well-” Molly commented after a few moments of silence.

“Not good.” John finished, flexing his bound wrist.

She nodded and gave him a genuine smile, mousy brown hair bouncing a little. It wasn’t long before they stopped outside a pair of metal double doors that towered to twice his height. John and Dr. Hooper stood at the end of a long, red-carpeted hall, the entire left covered floor to ceiling in windows while the right sported multiple wooden doors, John had no idea where those led.

For the last time, Molly unlocked the doors with her pendant and pushed them open.

Almost immediately John collapsed.

Whoa! What the… Dizziness, the room swimming around him, John braced himself against the wall to his left and tried to breathe through his suddenly constricted windpipe, a loud humming buzzed in his ears and the band around his wrist felt like it was tightening enough to bruise.

John thought he vaguely heard voices, and felt hands guiding him…somewhere.

“Dr. Watson! John, can you hear me?”

Molly.

Feeling some support below him, John opened his eyes (when did he close them?) and looked around. He was sitting on a nearby chair, Molly kneeling at his feet and a couple of people in ivory scrubs John didn’t recognize stood close by. All were watching him with concern.

As soon as John started to focus on his surroundings, the humming, the dizziness and tightening on both his wrist and throat began to lessen. Instead he just felt drained.

That was…bizarre. What the hell? The feeling kind of reminded him of holding your breath underwater for too long.

It wasn’t rational, but seeing the concern on all their faces made John feel worse.

“I’m fine, just got…a bit dizzy.” Determined, he pushed himself up, consciously telling himself to not bloody fall over like an old man.

“Are you sure-”

“Yes. Let’s just…continue please?” John interrupted Molly, perhaps a bit curtly.

He felt a bit bad, but Molly didn’t push since it didn’t seem like he was going to keel over again. It was probably just exhaustion. It didn’t help knowing that there was no way they would allow him to take his sleeping pills, since that’s what he OD’d on in the first place. Very little else has helped his insomnia since coming back from the War.

“Alright.” Molly turned and dismissed the two orderlies. “We just entered Paget Wing, your room is nearby. It’s late so all the other residents are asleep. Tomorrow someone will come to your room and show you the rest of the wing, ok?” Molly looked at him a bit more searching than before.

John sighed. “Sure.” If only.

The two orderlies returned to their station and for the first time John noticed the room.

So…this is Paget Wing.

It was surprisingly cozy, in a way no other part of the facility was. Up until then it had been overbearing and opulent at best. Now…John wondered if all wings were like this. They were standing on the outskirts of a large rectangular room, one side curved with window seats, and directly across from that was a large half circle desk area against the opposite wall, upon which the night orderlies were sitting and conversing.

The lighting was muted, but the room was by no means dark, though the sky had faded to deep, navy blue outside, the moon raised over top the trees. The walls were wood; the ceiling was criss-crossed wood, slightly curved and not overly high. The floor was wood also, nearly completely covered by a large, circular, red and brown embroidered rug. Other than a few sets of chairs against the unoccupied walls there was no other furniture. There were two doors, and two hallways branching off from it.

A big sign hung above the desk saying “Paget Wing”.

John couldn’t decide which emotion to feel in that moment. All he truly wanted was to sleep (if he could, he might just be exhausted enough to do it), and deal with…everything tomorrow.

What could he say? Nice place you have here, wouldn’t be right.

So John simply followed Molly when she made for the door (bypassing the two branching hallways) directly across from them.

“The first hallway there leads to the shared resident rooms, the second leads to the activity room, gardens, the Wing therapist and communal kitchen. Your room is private-” Thank god, John couldn’t help but think “-and those are through here, there are only three currently available-” Molly continued to talk as she opened the door. John half expected to collapse again, but was grateful when he didn’t. This hall had five doors, all with a significant amount of space between them, and was of décor very similar to the opening area; long carpet, all wood, there was a small sitting area off to the left with two sofas and a television. “-Your friend Dr. Stamford said you had a fondness for the colour green, so we gave you this room here.” Molly’s eyes were kind as she stopped at the first door on the left, waiting for him to open it.

John appreciated the thought, while at the same time wondering why Mike would tell Molly his favourite colour.

John tried not to feel a sense of impending doom as he opened the door.

Well, it was definitely green. The floor was beige carpet, but the walls were a deep, forest green, along with the shelves lining the wall opposite to what must be the loo. John liked the room’s simplicity, a singular bed, with beige bedspread, two pillows both with pale green casing, a wooden nightstand, a deep gray recliner sat by the window and a small pine dresser with a vase of lavender roses on top.

It felt too homey for a medical facility.

John pushed his discomfort aside and turned to address the patiently waiting Molly. It wasn’t her fault he was in this situation after all.

“Thank-you Molly, really I appreciate it.” He might’ve been trying too hard, but Molly seemed to like his words all the same and smiled.

He assumed she would leave now and he could collapse – on purpose this time – on the bed and attempt sleep.

She didn’t, not right away.

“It’s no trouble. I know it won’t be easy, but everyone here genuinely wants to help. If you need anything, there is always someone at the desk out in the main room, and you can page me or the Wing therapist, her name is Ella Thompson, anytime. We are both on call tonight. Only staff and you can enter your room, unless you personally allow someone else to do so. We try to encourage contact with other residents whenever possible, it does helping the healing process, but we recognize privacy is just as important. Which is why each room is coded to the residents living in them and only they can allow someone else in, with the medical staff exception as I mentioned.”

John was not used to being on the patient side of medical care, but he admired the thoroughness and dedication most of the people he met so far seemed to show.

“With the exception of the door at the end of the hall, all other doors are resident rooms. If you are hungry, you need to exit this area and head to the hallway on the right.” Molly gestured back in the direction they came.

John, curious, cast a glance at the last door at the end of the hall. It looked different than the others, older, and thicker, almost industrial.

“What is that room?” John asked.

Molly’s expression didn’t change, but there was definitely new tension in her shoulders.

“A patient died there years ago, before I came to work here. He was quite powerful I’m told and left a dangerous amount of Magickal residue behind when he died, no one has been able to clean it enough for a new resident so it’s been abandoned.”

Hm. There was no doubt in John’s mind that she was lying, for the most part. In the morning John would probably wonder why, but at the time he was too tired to care all that much. So he let it go and nodded.

Molly seemed too relieved that he didn’t ask any more.

“I’m going to…” John waved to the bed.

“Oh! Of course. I’ll leave you to it. The nurse is a lovely man, and he’ll be ‘round to wake you at eight for the tour and group introduction. Try and get some rest.”

“Ok.”

Molly lightly patted John on the shoulder, smiled and walked back the way the two of them came.

John exhaled a weighted breath the moment he was alone. Please God let me sleep.

He was about to enter his room and try and do just that when he felt a tingle on the back of his neck, similar to how he felt when instincts in the army told him he was being watched. Completely calm, John turned around.

A…dog?

Sitting directly in front of the very door Molly talked about was a dog, long-haired and red.

John smiled, but felt a bit confused.

John knew animals were a part of the therapy program at the BMC, but as far as he was told no one was using it in this Wing, so what…?

“Hello boy, you lost?”

As soon as John spoke, the dog barked and he heard a loud smash off to his right, and then what sounded like running footsteps. Heart pounding John whipped his head around, hand automatically going to his waist, though no gun has resided there for months.

Nothing. Odd.

John turned back around to the dog.

It was gone.

What the hell?



~

Chapter 3

Mycroft Holmes





Before John even opened his eyes he knew he wasn’t alone.

The squeezing pain in his head, dryness in his throat and mouth, along with the feeling that he’d been beaten repeatedly with a stick – no, a metal pipe – reminded John of the worst hangovers he used to get on occasion back in Uni.

He did not miss the feeling.

It didn’t help that there were people near him in his room speaking, obviously trying to be quiet about it – but the ringing in John’s ears made it seem like they were screaming, even though he couldn’t tell what they were saying.

Wait, I’m not in my room. Christ, what happened? A nightmare, I had a nightmare, nothing new there but there was something odd –

An entirely new sensation of his chest constricting engulfed him as the memories rushed in.



…flashes of sand… places unfamiliar to John…pain… everywhere…He left his room…sweat dripping…barely breathing…he could still see sand, blood, stones of a house…Then he went - he couldn’t even distinguish which feelings were his own… Lights exploding…tremors…voices…banging…Magick, barriers disintegrating…running…Magick guiding him not his own…He felt Magick, deep, overwhelming Magick for the first time in weeks, but it was different…doors…hands on fire…John clenched his hands, he felt a tugging sensation on his left hand, expecting to find the pain of burns but there was nothing…dark hair a halo on the pillow cradling the head of –

Him. The man, the man, he saw -

“Christ...” John’s voice came out a quiet croak.

The voices around him went silent. At that moment he ignored them.

John opened his eyes. The ceiling was the same as he saw every morning in his own room, he even felt the familiar feeling of a soft, supporting mattress beneath him, but the walls were a pale sky blue.

When John moved, just a little, that odd tugging feeling on his left wrist pulled him to look to his left.

God.

Feelings of confusion and shocked warred within John – it wasn’t a dream – as he stared at the man beside him, laying on a bed and with daylight casting prisms of light all over the room the man, the man he thought a hallucination or apparition of some sort John had seen and spoken to, John could see him clearly.

Johns mouth parted, heart pounding, only his determination and training as both a Soldier and a Doctor kept him from losing it.

The man…he looked horrible.

The fingers of John’s right hand, hidden from view, clenched the silky sheets beneath him in his fist, in effort to keep from shaking – still feeling very raw from the night before. John consciously kept the rest of his body completely still through pure will alone, internally pulling on his Doctor’s ability to be objective.

The man – whoever he was – was unconscious. If John couldn’t see the, however faint, rise of his chest, at first glance John would suspect the man (in a bed directly level beside him, why? ) to be dead.

His skin was faintly yellow, indicative of a malfunctioning liver and likely multiple other organs going by the state of him; the sunken, tight, extremely pale quality of his skin showed he was severely dehydrated. Only his upper torso, arms and face were exposed, John could see, painfully, the defined lines his bones, from the emaciated stomach to shrivelled fingers. There was also scars, scattered all over his body and face, all of various levels of severity, and all healed enough to be mostly white with only tinges of pink, they looked to be a combination of old knife wounds and scars left behind by Magickal torture (a thing he had seen far too often in Afghanistan).

There were no IVs or any other obvious form of nutrition and regulation of the man’s waste apparent, physical or Magickal, which alone was odd. Especially since going by the disturbed sheets (some of that probably from John last night) and obvious physical signs of bed sores, the man had either not been there very long or was moved often, and therefore had actually been there a while. What John could immediately see indicated he had not moved on his own, or had been conscious for quite some time.

He looked like a man who had been locked in a room and slowly starved for years.

Whatever happened to him, it was clearly hell.

John’s heart and mind ached with sympathy.

He was nothing like the man John had seen and spoken to.

What happened to you?

John’s instinct was to get up, move closer and examine him more thoroughly, but before he could do so was when he noticed the restraint – a new one (the old one, tightening, dissolving into ash…), significantly thicker and wider than the one he wore previous, was linked via a faintly glowing strand of crystal to a matching restraint on the right hand of the man in the bed next to him, the man he’d just been looking at.

Their hands weren’t touching, but resting parallel to each other on the seam between their two beds.

(…Skin. Cold, skin.

No, hot…hot, too hot…)

What on earth –

“Are you quite finished observing my brother Dr. Watson?”

John turned his head around to face the source of the brand new voice.

It was apparent to John almost immediately why this man said brother, the similarity between the apparition (even with this new, shocking revelation of the reality of that very man, John was still no closer to figuring out what the hell was going on – and why he saw him, apparently healthy, in the first place) of the man John saw compared to the very real presence of the man standing at the foot of the bed John was lying in, was very real – if not in physical appearance, than in presence.

His short, dark hair, trimmed to a perfect seam, face empty of any facial hair and overall excessively groomed appearance, from his neatly pressed gray suit, dark, black long coat and polished wood handled umbrella held casually at his side by black, leather gloved hands, gave him the appearance of a posh aristocrat. His eyes were small, and held none of the adventurous curiosity of his brothers but the same, superior intelligence was definitely present. His nose, and face, was thin, slightly pinched and significantly more wrinkled than the man beside John – older brother then.

Overall, John got the impression everything about him was designed to be intimidating; put whoever he confronted at a state of unease, except John wasn’t intimidated. Gathering by the vaguely amused look he cast in John’s direction, the man standing opposite him knew it.

Nothing about him seemed trustworthy, if anything John felt as though he was lying at the feet of some privileged supervillain. John felt none of the similar feelings his brother gave him on the few encounters he’d had, and he wasn’t sure if the controlled expression he wore indicated concealed distress or if that was just how he looked. If it were Harriet in that bed, looking like that, John knows he would feel more than distressed – despite their estranged relationship, she was his sister.

Still, there was something about him that put John on the defensive.

John determinedly pushed the feelings of his aching body and mind aside, and sat up on the bed (he noticed for the first time he was still wearing his clothes of yesterday) with as much dignity he could muster in the situation.

With the new change in perspective John noticed Dr. Hooper was in the room, standing silent and close to the window, near to the only other occupied bed in the room; her distress was easy to read. Beside her stood another stranger, the lines of his face were drawn in obvious concern, and his graying hair was a mess – as though hands had been repeatedly run through it. He was pointedly not looking at the man beside John, but his continence was significantly more pleasant than the one at the foot of his bed.

All of them were silent; waiting for John to speak.

Why do I feel like I’m on trial here?

The whole thing was a mess of confusion and questions. Maybe he would finally get some answers.

“Who are you?” John asked, a simple enough question to start with.

“Who I am is not important, what I need from you is.” His voice was hard, and far, far too monotone to be anything but a façade.

This was a man with many secrets.

John didn’t like secrets, no matter how necessary they sometimes were. With the deathly condition of the man lying next to him, secrets right then seemed dangerous.

“Really? Well, you won’t mind telling me who you are then, since you clearly already know my name and who I am, I’m not giving you anything until I know what is going on here. Why did I go completely berserk last night?-” The mountain of ‘what the bloody hell’ questions felt like they would surely crush him. “-Why am I here?-” John gestured to the room with his unbound hand, the reminder brought him to his next question. “Why am I connected to your brother? How did he pull me here? And what the hell happened to him? And why does he look like he’s not receiving any basic treatment?” John’s voice rose.

When John thought about it, the hangover like feelings fading the more he was awake, the more he spoke, the more John knew instinctively the Magick that pulled him to this room last night, like a force unwilling, everything he felt, the sheer desperation, was a result of the man lying on the edge of death beside. John wasn’t sure if he knew that because of whatever happened last night, he still didn’t know how, or if it was a result of why John had been seeing him at all.

The fact the man was unconscious only made those circumstances more mysterious and confusing.

John hated the sheer amount of unknown surrounding him. The only upside seemed to be that he didn’t have time to think about his own problems.

“And if you, whoever you are, give me that ‘need to know’ shite I swear you’ll find out why I don’t need a gun to knock a man on his arse.” John glared, Watson determination rearing its head.

John was bound, weakened in more ways than one, at that moment the threat was only symbolic in nature. The man didn’t appear to give any outward response to John’s comment, save for the singular brow that rose toward his hairline.

John thought he heard a barely restrained snort of amusement, unsure if it came from either Dr. Hooper or the new stranger. It was only a blip though, and soon enough the room returned to its overall heavy feeling of solemnity.

“If you could reign in your anger, it would be much appreciated. There is no need for violence Dr. Watson; I assure you the answers you seek will be given momentarily.”

John’s tension didn’t release, and honestly, he didn’t feel all that reassured. If anything, John felt more suspicious than he had been.

The man’s voice when he spoke John’s name was filled with its own form of mistrust. He moved away from the bed on which John was sitting and pulled a lone, wooden chair away from against the wall and positioned it precisely in the middle of the ends of both beds, angled towards John.

John glanced at the emaciated figure beside him, stomach rolling, heart panging at the sight, before looking once more towards the man now seated and level with John; legs crossed, umbrella leaning against the edge of his alleged brother’s bed and hands resting lightly on the chair arms.

“There is no time for ‘beating around the bush’, as some would say, so I will present the situation to you as it currently stands. All I ask is that you listen, is that too much to ask, John?”

John really didn’t like how this man already knew his name, and John still didn’t know his. What caused John to refrain from asking again, for now, was that as soon as the man sat down his shoulders fell as a though a weight greater than the world rested on his shoulders. The man then barely glanced at the man he called his brother, but in that moment, if John hadn’t been watching so closely, he doubted he would’ve seen it; a few emotions – desperation, pain, worry to name a few – seeped through cracks on the cold, emotionless mask upon his face, which soon replaced itself. Maybe he didn’t show that small amount of feeling, maybe he did, but it gave John pause – he wasn’t as unfeeling about all this as he appeared to be.

And so, John nodded and waited for the man to start talking.

“Thank-you.” The man nodded. He then turned around, giving a brief nod of dismissal to Dr. Hooper and whoever the other man was.

To John’s surprise, they listened (seriously, who is this guy?), though neither looked eager to leave. Molly left first, giving John an attempt at a reassuring, apologetic smile – which failed horribly. The other presented John with an awkward smile before following Molly out the door, but not before casting one last, long, worried look at the other bed. Another relative maybe?

“I asked our dear Dr. Hooper and D.I Lestrade to leave only momentarily, you’ll get to meet him after our discussion. What I have to say is private, and sensitive, even they only know little.” The man briefly rested his palms together under his chin, observing John carefully.

D.I? That man was a police officer? Huh.

John didn’t say anything, merely leaned back on the wall beside the bed – in effort to relieve the aching bruise on his back that must surely be there from where he landed on the floor last night – and waited.

In his peripheral vision, John noted the glowing crystal bond between the two restraints flicker for a moment before returning to its previous state.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes, attaché to the British government, owner and founder of The Burd Memorial Centre for the Restoration, Rehabilitation and Treatment of the Magickally Impaired and Damaged, and elder brother to Sherlock Holmes, the man lying in the bed right next to yours.”

John suspected ‘government attaché’ was a gross understatement, but he wasn’t surprised by the mention none-the-less.

Wait…the Centre was founded in 1895, how could this man – Mycroft Holmes- be the founder? Unless…

John blinked. “You’re an Enchanter?”

The man – Mr. Holmes, dipped his head.

“Yes, along with my brother here.”

John was amazed despite himself. Enchanters were exceedingly rare, often kept to themselves and weren’t known to present their designation in public. Not only were they the most powerful Magickal species, they were always guaranteed Magickal power at birth and are believed to be the first existence of Magick in any Earthen species. What has been most notable about them however, was not their known wide range of multiple Magickal powers, but their lifespan. They are not immortal, but they on average live longer than any other species on Earth. As far as John was aware the oldest known Enchanter in history lived to be 520yrs of age.

(At the time John thought it could also be an explanation as to why despite appearing near death, Mr. Holmes’ brother – Sherlock – was still alive, Enchanters do not die easily)

Because of this they are either regarded with great suspicion or awe.

John had never met one personally – well, not until that moment.

John had always been peripherally aware of the Burd Memorial Centre for most of his medical career, but he’d never heard of this Mr. Holmes – let alone his brother.

Secretive indeed.

“Our species is of little consequence to this situation however, at least, it is not a major part.” Mycroft Holmes took a deep breath and reached to somewhere out of John’s line of sight, he then proceeded to lift a black, rectangular briefcase and place it quickly on his lap. Swiftly flipping opening the buckle and lifting the lid of the case, Mr. Holmes removed two cream coloured folders. He placed one on his lap and held the other out to John.

John frowned, but took the file with his free hand. He laid it down across his legs and flipped it open. Immediately it became apparent it was a medical file, and John wasn’t surprised to find the patient was one ‘Sherlock Holmes’, full name ‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes’, date of birth – January 6th, 1854.

Suddenly John didn’t feel quite so old. Enchanters do often have physical markers such as significant height, dark hair, vaguely elfin features, all of which Sherlock – and Mycroft – had in abundance, maybe John had a stereotypical idea of old in his head but he just had a hard time picturing the man he’d seen (aloof, a childlike air concurrent with that extreme intelligence, eyes bright with youth not age) as an old man.

Then again, not even 200yrs old is hardly “old” for an Enchanter.

John quickly moved on from that piece of information to what the file contained…Oh god.

It was a detailed account of all injuries sustained and diagnosis of the patient upon his admission to London General Hospital on December 23rd 2005.

2005…five years? Has he been like this for five years? Christ, no wonder…



‘Patient arrived with deep lacerations and contusions covering over sixty percent of his body. There was evidence of past and more recent scarring, due to needle injection on his arms – history of Patient provided indicated a long history of Cocaine and Heroin abuse. Outside physical damage was minimal however in comparison to his mental state. Medical personnel at the scene of rescue before arrival at the hospital applied immediate restraints to neck, wrist, ankles and waist - due to the patients’ extreme level of Magickal power now out of control as a result of extreme physical and psychological trauma. Injuries to recovery personnel occurred. Luckily, restraints were applied before a more serious incident. Further examination proved that Patient had been in a coma for a minimum of three hours before rescue, there is no physical indication for his state – Magick reasons exclusively. No staff present with compatible Magick is able to assess the severity and reason for the Magick induced coma. Suspect this is due to the extreme mental shielding emanating from the Patient himself. Recommend follow up in accordance with Class AA2 Enchanter procedures, as Magick restraints will only hold for a minimum of twelve hours at best against this kind of chaotic activity. Our hospital isn’t equipped to deal with the inevitable long term specialist treatment Patient will need.’



AA2? A1 – which is John – is considered a relatively high class; AA2 is the second rarest power level worldwide.

John wondered what these follow up procedures were, even before joining the Army and deploying, John had never come across a situation anything like this. John suspected they almost never happened.

“I imagine you are wondering how all of this relates to you, in order to do that however you’ll need to know how my brother came to be in this position in the first place.” Mr. Holmes placed a single hand on the other folder still in his lap – John wondered what that contained.

John looked up from the folder below him. He didn’t notice at first the state of his hands; one clutching the folder white knuckled, the other his own fingernails digging into the depth of his palm. After the explanation of Sherlock Holmes’ injuries, there pictures of some of those very injuries that were sustained, his Doctor side needed to see those for himself, to judge what happened, but a part of John had been growing steadily angrier the longer he looked at them; torture, that was what he – Sherlock, had to have experienced. And according to the file the physical injuries were minimal in comparison?

Goddamnit.

At that moment John couldn’t care less about himself, he needed to know what happened – and if whoever was responsible was dealt with, otherwise John would have to find a way to do that himself, he found he was especially missing his gun in that moment.

“Tell me.” John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock beside him, before coming to firmly rest on the Holmes brother sat upon the only chair in the room.

Mycroft Holmes nodded gravely.

“The first thing about my brother you should know he was – is a Consulting Detective, he took great delight in the term, which he invented himself.” There were traces of a familiar, almost fond exasperation in Mr. Holmes voice, often present in siblings. His face showed nothing. “I won’t go into the details, I’m sure you can glean the sum of what that title implies. All you need to know is that my brothers’ occupation repeatedly led him into the path of dangerous people, usually, his intelligence in combination with his unique, multifaceted Magickal power made him invincible in comparison to the rabble of the world. However, my brother is only human. Approximately seven years ago, he gained the attention of one James Moriarty. The world moves too slowly for people like my brother and I. Moriarty was…A true Criminal mastermind, dangerous menace to society, power to level that of my brother, and myself, and Sherlock saw him as the first real challenge to his own intellect. Sherlock solved case after case connected with Moriarty, everything from fraud, kidnapping to Warlock trafficking and murder, all of this worldwide. He had been on our Most Wanted list for quite some time, but we were never able to touch him - his power and influence ran deep. My brother and I have a…contentious relationship at best, but in the end it became apparent that neither of us could stop Moriarty alone. We joined together to conceive a plan to take him and his Criminal Empire down. We made the biggest mistake people in our position can make. We became overconfident.” Here Mr. Holmes paused; face contorting with barely concealed distress. He rested his face briefly in his hand, as if to cover his reaction to his own words.

John was a smart man, but even without the knowledge of the resultant condition of Sherlock, he didn’t need to be smart to recognize what Mycroft was telling would lead nowhere good. John has seen evil many times in his life, combating it was his dream as a child and eventual reality as an adult, and all the gritty, grey areas that came with it. Sometimes though, there were clear cut decisions, and this Moriarty – the name caused a chill down John’s spine, though the man was unknown to him personally – was someone who obviously needed to be stopped.

John still had questions, if possible even more than before, but he remained silent.

“We were lulled into a false sense of security flawlessly engineered, and my brother ended up paying the price.” Mycroft, having regained his control over himself, resumed speaking. “Again, details at this juncture aren’t necessary. We were able to dismantle the vast majority of Moriarty’s web, even with the man himself in the wind and nowhere to be found at the time. We did find him, eventually; it soon became obvious it was because he wanted to be found. James Moriarty ended up somehow bypassing our measures and traps and kidnapped my brother. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said Moriarty had power to match that of me and my brother, Class AAA Illusionist-” Jesus Christ. “-With one particular gift, he could sense a person’s deepest pain and build it up in their mind and heart, make them relive it over and over, he could strip down any physical and mental defences we have to deal with trauma and make a person feel it without end. With no fading or petering out, and it was impervious to mental shielding. Death is almost always the outcome to something like that, and he had my brother for at least two weeks before we found him. Moriarty was killed and my brother recovered. However…” Mycroft breathed deeply, now staring unwavering at his brother. “Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock’s mind, when we arrived to retrieve it seemed that he had succeeded – at least, that is how it appeared. He was comatose; it was initially assumed that it was a result of what Moriarty did to my brother – and he was, partially.”

John frowned. The report mentioned that Sherlock had already been unconscious for at least several hours before being rescued, if Moriarty wasn’t the sole reason for Sherlock’s condition than who was? Without the whole story, John could only theorize little.

Mycroft released a long exhale and opened the second file, not yet looking at it.

“Once I moved him from the hospital to this facility and a secure room tailored to him-Now that John knew that’s what this was, the report made sense. Sometimes Magick restraints weren’t enough to hold a person’s Magick uncontrolled, whether it was because the person had a quirk to their ‘Magickal anatomy’ so to speak, or they were too powerful for them. The latter was more common, but still rare. “- there was no reason to suspect Sherlock wasn’t safe, for the moment. I requested an individual with the proper tools to deal with this kind of trauma, to give me an estimate on the damage and when Sherlock would awaken. They weren’t able to get much further than those at the Hospital; however, they were able to diagnose the reason for the coma itself.”

This was when Mycroft turned his piercing gaze back towards John and handed him the final, open file.

“Most people who came under the unrelenting force of Moriarty’s power either died or entered a permanent vegetative state. With more a thorough examination, it was discovered Sherlock’s mind itself was mostly present. His current state is a result of what Sherlock himself did, albeit the coma was probably unintentional, and we still don’t know if it was a conscious decision on Sherlock’s part or a defensive mechanism on the part of his Magick. Either way Sherlock’s actions are why he is neither dead nor vegetative, because of you however, that is now likely to change.”

John held onto the file with one, firm grip, still not looking at it. His mind deeply caught in what Mycroft Holmes was revealing to him. There was no way to be sure if Mycroft meant the latter statement in a positive or negative way, or how John could even begin to help – especially with his Magick the way it was.

John caught onto one part of Mycroft’s words in particular.

Defensive Mechanism…like supressed memory maybe? John was no expert in the Magickal mind, but he thought he knew enough to theorize the implication of that, and with what Mr. Holmes said of James Moriarty’s power, John felt he was beginning to understand what had happened – at least partially.

“You said that Moriarty could pinpoint a person’s greatest pain and magnify it, right?” Mycroft nodded. John still didn’t know the breadth of what Sherlock’s powers were, but given the fact that he was a Class AA2 Enchanter, there was no doubt in John’s mind they were diverse. “Did Sherlock…as a result of what Moriarty did-” John’s fists clenched. “-in the midst of that did he repress whatever that pain was, is, and block it off somehow? Make Moriarty’s power less effective?” But why would Sherlock still be in the coma then?

For a moment Mycroft appeared almost impressed. He adjusted himself in his chair and gestured towards the filed in John’s lap.

“For the most part yes, you are not an unintelligent man Doctor Watson. I believe the statement of the man who examined my brother – you just saw him actually – will answer and clarify any remaining questions you have.”

Just saw…the D.I?

John heard a familiar beep, and Mycroft retrieved a lit phone from his pocket; attention momentarily on whatever information he just received.

Finally, John looked at the file; there were two pieces of paper inside, handwritten. John lifted up the first.



‘I never want to be in this position again. God, I hope we’re able to find a way to fix this soon; I actually miss the annoying bugger buzzing around my station calling us idiots and solving our cases for us.’



John found his lips quirked into a small smile, despite the gravity of the situation, somehow he found that not a difficult image to imagine.



‘My mental abilities as an Illusionist aren’t all that high really – ‘



He was an Illusionist too? Like Moriarty? They hadn’t even properly met yet, but John didn’t get the impression this man was like Moriarty at all, John doubted he would let him within a mile of his brother if he was and by the sound of things, they knew each other personally. Illusionists powers are always mentally based, and can often involve making a person believe something to be true when it wasn’t, or create very real looking visuals that aren’t actually there, feelings that don’t exist – as the name ‘Illusion’ implies – all from reading a person’s mind and emotions. According to what John had read in the past, they are the only ones apart from Enchanters who can do so relatively easily, unless a person has significantly powerful mental shields. Just because a person has that power though, doesn’t mean they’ll use it negatively or at all. Still, a lot of people hold a prejudice against them because of it.

And this man became a Detective Inspector in the police? Impressive.



‘- but I suspect Mycroft believed his brother would subconsciously recognize me as familiar and hoped that would allow me to delve a little further past those bloody shields of his (relentless even in the state he’s in) to see what happened…Obviously Mycroft doesn’t know his brother as well as he thinks he does. I’ve never done this before, for this purpose at least, but I was able to get somewhere…I don’t see how it helped all that much. We’re still stuck at square one. Ironically, the person who could most help us now would be Sherlock. From what little I was able to see, before I was rather forcefully ejected, rather painful I might add, Moriarty (evil bastard, wish I could’ve shot him myself) attacked Sherlock relentlessly for days, but wasn’t able to find his deepest pain until the day Sherlock was rescued. And then…God, I couldn’t see anything specific, but I could sense Sherlock’s mind was a mess. Sherlock had been trying to block as much of himself from Moriarty’s influence as possible, and he succeeded, just not for long enough. I can’t even imagine what would constitute a deepest pain to a man like Sherlock Holmes, a man many unfairly assume to be emotionless.

From what I could gather, I doubt Sherlock would’ve been able to do this consciously - the pain Sherlock felt was so immense his Magick went independently haywire on the spot and locked away the source of that pain within his own mind, and not just in a way that would make it impenetrable to Moriarty but to himself as well. In essence, if Sherlock has any awareness in there, even he wouldn’t know what it was. He basically performed self-amnesia, but thanks to Illusionist tailored training I received during the academy, I was able to deduce – Sherlock would approve – that the source of the pain itself, memories, were still there and them being locked away as they are is what is causing his coma. If the finest Doctors couldn’t get this far, there’s no way I’ll be able to unlock that block in his mind. If it caused him that much pain this happened…a part of me doesn’t want to give him back those memories, whatever they are.

I have no idea where we’ll go from here. Hopefully time will change things.’



That was the end of the first page. Christ. John wasn’t far from assuming this man had been through hell.

Everything surrounding John became inconsequential. He immediately dropped the paper he’d been holding and picked up the yet to be read one, written in the same handwriting John noticed and much shorter.



‘Four years. How has nothing changed in four years? If Sherlock weren’t as powerful as he was, and clearly still is even with his Magick out of control, he would be dead. Somehow his comatose state is acting as hibernation; he might as well be cryogenically frozen. He doesn’t need food or water or anything physical, people tried to get close enough to give him those things but even those that know him, like me, can barely touch him. It’s like he knows, in some way, that we’re trying to unblock that pain and it’s preventing us from even getting close enough to do so. Deathly determined, literally.

He looks…God, I almost vomited. He looks like he should be dead, his body is giving the appearance of what must be extreme dehydration and starvation, but his Magick is somehow keeping him alive despite all that. This shouldn’t be possible. We’re all mystified.

Only one thing has changed. His Magick has, for the most part, healed itself. Sherlock still has to stay in his room, of course, but I noticed every time I visited him and examined his mind that the stability of his Magick was changing, even without outside help. And now, it has all but healed and no longer unstable the way that it was. I’d hoped that would mean he would awaken, but he hasn’t and shows no signs of doing so. This block is, quite literally, the only thing keeping him from waking.

A strong and unwavering part of him would rather die than remember.

What do we do? I hate feeling this useless.’



John dropped the paper and rested his head in his hand. He has never felt this invested in something so quickly before, and this D.I, he hate’s feeling useless – which is how John felt.

This is all insane! Impossible; none of this should be possible. Mycroft Holmes obviously thinks I can do something, but what? I’m a discharged Army Veteran with a limp and a tremor, who attempted suicide and whose Magick went out of control. Clearly I make terrible decisions. Or I have the worst luck in the world.

Everything John has been told and read explains a lot, but it doesn’t explain everything.

“Alright. I can’t even begin to express how sorry I am that this happened to your brother, but…how am I of any use to you?” John replaced the papers into the folder and looked up at Mycroft.

The man seemed to contemplate something, watching John carefully with a finger resting on his chin.

John met his gaze; unrelenting.

“The answer to that Dr. Watson, lies in this.” Mycroft Holmes pointed towards the bound wrists of John and Sherlock.

John looked at Sherlock for the first time in several minutes. With all the new knowledge in his mind, John is, if anything more confused about his connection to this man than he was before.

Sherlock Holmes has been in this Magickally sealed room for years, comatose, Magick uncontrolled, and according to this D.I, has recently mostly healed. Even if John weren’t messed up the way he was, and knew Sherlock personally, there was no way he should be seeing him walk around healthy – and the dog. Mycroft had yet to mention that in anyway, though he must’ve been told.

John’s eyes were drawn once again to the mysterious cuffs binding him and this still very much unknown to him.

He had never seen cuffs like those before. John had over the course of his life seen examples of restraints for dual use, but never in practice. He was almost positive those he had seen did not have a crystal like material between them.

“What you and my brother appear to have is a very distinctive Magick bond, one that typically occurs between two Enchanters, and only once in each life time. It is most…unusual to see this with you being a Mage. As far as I am aware, mixed species within this bond has only happened twice before.” Mycroft paused to replace both files securely in the briefcase. After setting it on the floor beside him, Mycroft then returned his severe, calculating eyes on John. It all seemed needlessly dramatic. “Coniuncti Sumus.”

Johns jaw dropped. That’s impossible.

“What?”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “Ah. So you have heard of it then.”

“Of course I – that, how is this, I’ve never even met-this is insane!” More insane than what’s happened so far? It would explain a lot.

John desperately wished he could punch his inner voice.

He exhaled painfully and collapsed against the wall, torn between absorbing the information and fighting the desire to pinch himself, to make sure he wasn’t still dreaming.

“Prior contact is not always necessary, connection can and most often will occur merely when two peoples ‘Magickal boundaries’ coincide.” The man hardly seemed affected by the almost casual way he had suggested that John and his brother share one of the rarest and most revered of bonds.

John felt like he’d gotten mistakenly tossed into one of those movies about love at first sight involving this bond, Harriet watched them a lot when they were growing up.

Didn’t John note how particularly attractive the man he saw was? The man he now knows to be Sherlock Holmes.

“Before you work yourself into a coma of your own, despite what popular culture would have you believe, the Coniuncti Sumus bond is not inherently romantic in nature – the possibilities of the bond merely lend themselves to the deeply sentimental nature of humankind.” Mycroft sounded more than little exasperated, if not outright annoyed.

John rolled his eyes. “Contrary to what you, and your brother apparently, seem to think I’m not an idiot.”

It’s true. While John was aware, even though he hadn’t known anyone personally involved in a bond such as the one they were discussing, that a Coniuncti Sumus bond could be romantic, it wasn’t intrinsic.

In Afghanistan, their commander in chief - James Bartholomew Sholto, spoke of his parents best-friends to John, two Enchanters; a couple, who had the Coniuncti Sumus bond. Sholto was always an interesting man to talk with, reserved, but highly intelligent. John may have harboured an infatuation towards him at one point, though at the time he would hardly have admitted it to himself.

James Sholto told him the basics, mentioning first that the bond is unique to each person and some things aren’t necessarily universal to each bond, a few things are though. Coniuncti Sumus; Latin for ‘we are united’, in essence means two people share a complete capability of Magick, like two puzzle pieces fitting, or magnets of opposite poles being continuously drawn to each other. The two halves increase the power of the other through mutual support, and are often capable of great strides in their Magick that they wouldn’t be able to achieve otherwise. And they will always, always know when the other is in physical pain, or, worst-case scenario, dead. Not only that, they often are able to reach each other through any Magickal hindrance. All those realities will only increase in strength the stronger the emotions between the two people are.

So yes, John knew there wasn’t anything inherently romantic in Coniuncti Sumus, but that didn’t stop remembering how his mind, and body, lit upon seeing Sherlock Holmes that first time, even when he didn’t even know who he was – he still didn’t, not really.

“I’m sorry? You said my brother; you have actually spoken with my brother?”

While John had been remembering what he knows of the Coniuncti Sumus bond, Mycroft froze to utter stillness at John’s words; for the first time appearing genuinely surprised.

John wasn’t confused by his reaction for very long, he quickly remembered that he only ever told Dr. Thompson he saw a man, and a dog, not that he’d actually spoken with him.

The wide-eyed look on the man sitting opposite him reminded John that despite the professionalism with which Mycroft Holmes held himself, this was the man’s brother they were discussing.

“Yeah, twice actually. Deduced my whole life the first time, then when I saw him…well, yesterday, he kindly explained that I was an idiot, but that’s ok because everyone is – like it was supposed to be reassuring.” It was annoying, but part of John had felt like laughing.

Mr. Holmes blinked, slowly.

“Indeed. My brother could never be called a tolerant individual. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve had contact with a part of him in some approximation. With enough focus, my brother was occasionally able to project himself a short distance away from his physical location. Even in this state, especially with the majority of his Magick healed, some of him would be – in lay terms – leaking out beyond this room.”

John had wondered if maybe this bond was why he’d been seeing him, it would make sense in a way, but maybe not?

“So this isn’t because of the bond?”

“Yes and no. Always when my brother projected himself, it worked much like a two-way mirror. He could see out, but no one would see him. That you saw, and spoke with him, is the part that is a result of your bond.” Mycroft, all previous evidence of distinct emotion gone, gestured towards the briefcase at his side. “As you very well know, my brother’s mind is still fractured, with the knowledge you have just given to me, I now suspect he may very well be aware to a degree, at the very least within his own mind. Regardless, I doubt he is consciously aware of what is going on.”

John looked over at the aforementioned man; chest rising in the same, slow, pattern, face lit further by the rising sun, accentuating the decrepit condition of his body.

John ached, and for the first time wondered if that was the bond or him.

“Because of whatever memories he locked away?” John asked without turning his gaze away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft nod. “Do you know what they are?”

“I have my suspicions, but no, I do not know. It is not in the Holmes nature to share information about our lives unless absolutely necessary.”

John hummed. Somehow, this knowledge did not surprise him.

“What about the dog I saw? Was he, or she, a product of Sherlock’s mind?”

Mycroft appeared to ponder that for a moment. “That seems probable; I can honestly say however that I do not know why that image was significant enough that Sherlock, intentionally or not, projected it. We never had a dog growing up. Dr. Thompson mentioned you said it was red?” The last sounded slightly more emphasized than the rest.

Was red significant somehow?

John nodded. “Yeah, Irish Setter I thought.” He should know, his Nan had two all through his early life.

Mycroft took a deep breath, eyes distant for a moment before coming to rest on John once more.

“I wish I had more answers for you John, truly.”

John ignored the many ways that response could be interpreted, knowing he would probably find out the truth some way or another – regardless, there was a more pressing concern.

John took a deep breath. “What now? You still haven’t said how any of this is of help. Or why I was drawn here last night for that matter.” Something John would really, really like to know, especially now.

Quite honestly, the full gravity of it hadn’t quite sunk in yet. John was running on adrenaline.

Mycroft made a grunt of acknowledgement, and for the first time during their long conversation, he ejected himself from the chair he had been sitting in.

“That, Dr. Watson, is what we shall all explain to you.”



~