Hello Sherlock fandom! It's high time we met. I've been obsessing over Sherlock ever since two weeks ago, when I first started, and finished it in a week. Seventy more days until season 3 darlings! I'm very glad I only have that long to wait. Others have had to wait for three years. I really pity those people. Harry Potter came back before Sherlock. Enough is enough Steven Moffat! Time to get off your ass and air season 3! But anyway, this was inspired by another fic I read, where Mycroft ruined Kitty Riley. She is the Umbridge of the Sherlock fandom. Even Moriarty has fans. Kitty? No! So, I don't own Sherlock, by the way. Read, review, and most of all, enjoy!
It had been five weeks since the death of Sherlock Holmes, and the world was still reeling. Kitty Riley, however, was floating. She had it all now. Her editor was giving her all the biggest stories, and people literally parted when she walked down the hall. She was the top honcho at the press. Everyone raved about her. The reporter who had exposed the consulting liar, as she liked to call the false detective. But Kitty was having a bad morning. Two weeks ago, people had started "I Believe in Sherlock" movement. Many people believed the dead man, believed that he was in fact a genius, that Moriarty was real, that Kitty and the media were all liars. Things were being posted on John Watson's blog, and people kept stopping others in the street to explain. Dr. Watson had appeared on a TV special about the movement, and had said, " Whoever made this, I thank you. Sherlock was a brilliant man, and the fact that so many people refuse to have his death slandered moves me greatly. Continue this, I beg you. The world needs to know the truth." Kitty had found the words "Lying bitch" sprayed over her car, and many people were giving her nasty looks in the street. Kitty had grabbed a paper, and had seen that, apparently, Sherlock's brother had said that their mother was inconsolable about the lies about her son. Kitty scoffed, and walked into her office. Sitting on her futon was a young, teenage girl snapping at someone on her phone.
"I'm not stupid, you know," she said sharply. "I know what to do." She snapped the phone shut, and smiled at Kitty. "I'm terribly sorry about that." Kitty made a dismissive motion with her hand.
"Lover's quarrel?" She asked, setting down her coffee and sitting at her desk.
"Something along those lines," the girl. "I'm Barbara, by the way."
"Kitty Riley," the reporter said, holding out her hand. Barbara didn't shake it.
"I know," she said. "And I know what you do."
"I write stories, it's true," Kitty said modestly.
"No," Barbara told her. "Authors write stories. You spread lies."
"Excuse me?" This conversation had taken an unexpected turn.
"Have you ever wondered what that does to the family of your victims?" Barbara plowed on, her eyes brighter than the norm.
"Victims?" Kitty spluttered, indignant.
"Have you ever wondered how they feel?" Her voice broke on the last word. "How they have to plow on, even when they have this gaping hole that can never be replaced. When the person they associate with comfort and security is gone?" She was crying openly now. "How can you do this to us? Do you even care? You monster!" She turned her head away; hand over her mouth, shaking with suppressed sobs.
"I'm sorry," Kitty said softly. "But what would you say I should do?" The sobs stopped abruptly.
"I was hoping you would ask that," Barbara said. She turned to face Kitty again. "Here is what you should do. Pray. You will need every ounce of your strength, Mrs. Riley. You, your newspaper, and everyone associated with you are being interrogated as we speak, for journalism fraud. For tapping private phone calls, creating false stories, man slaughter…"
"Man slaughter?" Kitty gasped. Barbara smiled. Her cheeks were still wet with tears, but her grin was terrible.
"Your vile, filthy fibs pushed a man over the edge, and forced him to kill himself," Barbara said. "And now, repercussions are descending with a vengeance."
"Why are you doing this?" Kitty demanded, shaking. This couldn't be happening. If she went into court, she would lose.
"That is of little import," Barbara said with a wave of her hand. "Remember, Kitty Riley, what makes you can very easily break you."
"This is absurd," Kitty cried. "You cannot-"
"But I can," Barbara interrupted. "I assume there will be an article about this, as this is about to become very public." Kitty felt herself becoming green. "So, I'll give you a quote. Three little words. You… repel… me." Kitty stared at her, mouth agape.
"You… you… you're…"
"Blood is thicker than water, Riley," Barbara said, standing up. "And you have spilled my blood. And invoked my thirst for vengeance." Barbara swept out of the room, and Kitty couldn't help but burst into tears. Of all the people to ensure her downfall, she hadn't expected it to be on of them.
-SH-
"How did it go?" Mycroft asked over the phone. Bond scoffed, unknotting her scarf and slipping off her shoes.
"How do you think it went?" She asked. "She bought it, at first. The crying bit."
"And then?" Mycroft sounded thirsty for details. Of course he was.
"I told her what would happen," Bond said, shrugging off her coat and getting undressed. "And I made sure she would know that there is little hope for her."
"There isn't any hope for her," Mycroft snarled. "After what she did to Sherlock, she should be grateful I haven't killed her."
"Or erased her from the world?" Bond said, putting on her pajamas.
"Too merciful," Mycroft said dismissively. Bond laughed.
"How's Germany?" She asked politely.
"Cold and annoying," Mycroft responded. Bond shook her head. They didn't do polite, or cordial, or friendly. It wasn't in their nature.
"As always, you are impeccably charming, Father," Bond said. "Now, I need sleep. I did just threaten a journalist. It's very taxing."
"You're a Holmes," Mycroft said. "Threatening is second nature to us."
"And look what happened to Uncle Sherlock." Bond clicked off the phone, and flung it across the bed. Sleep. She needed sleep.
-SH-
She was staring at the cold ground. And suddenly falling, legs tumbling over her head, ground racing up to meet her. Bond gasped and sat up, hands groping the sheets.
"Not real," she whispered. "It's not real." Bond had been plagued with nightmares ever since she was a small child. When she was tiny, Mycroft had comforted her as well as he knew how (which wasn't very well at all). As Bond Holmes got older however, she found her own method to deal with the bad dreams. She crept towards the music room, knowing that her father wasn't here. He would be the next night, in time for the trial of Kitty Riley and the hated newspaper that had taken her uncle's life. So she sat down at the piano, and flipped open her sheet music. Music helped her concentrate. Music allowed her to think. Music chased the horror away. The horror of watching John and Sherlock talk over the phone by St. Bart's, trying to convince her father that he needed to come now, of muffling a scream as she saw Sherlock pitch forward, and slam into the pavement. Bond had watched him die, knowing that there was nothing to do to stop him. Bond skimmed her fingers over the keys, before beginning to play her song. Musical genius was another Holmes family trait. Mycroft could play the flute exquisitely, Sherlock's violin skills were something to be envied, and Bond was a prodigy at the piano. But talent in music couldn't save you if you jumped off a building.
-SH-
"Mr. Holmes, is there anything you would like to add to your daughter's testimony?" Bond looked at her father as he stood. She had testified against Kitty, had said that she had known Sherlock all her life, had known that he was a genius. Mycroft had given his testimony as well. Many people had given testimonies. The only person left was John Watson. Bond pitied the poor man. Pity was a popular emotion for the Holmes family, since no one would be as brilliant as them, but pity because someone's best friend had died. Mycroft turned to the judge.
"Your Honor, to err is human. To forgive is divine. Kitty Riley erred. And she is human. But my daughter and I are not divine. And therefore, we shall not forgive." He smiled at Bond, a sinister smile that was given back to him, a smile not generally shared between a father and daughter. "Are we divine, daughter?"
"No, we are not," Bond replied. "And I can concur with my father's statement. We will not forgive. And never will." A sob could be heard from Kitty Riley, but no one paid any attention to her. The court took a fifteen-minute recess, and Bond went to the lady's room. She splashed some water on her face to cool herself off when she heard a man enter the room.
"You aren't wearing heels," she said calmly. "Your footsteps sound heavier than the average woman's. You just coughed; it was distinctly low. The fabric of your suit jacket rubbed against your pants. It's a stiff jacket, a man's jacket. You, my good sir, are a man. Wrong toilet."
"I suppose it is," a deep baritone said. Bond stiffened, and quickly straightened up. A man was there, staring at her with mint green eyes. His hair was thick, incredibly dark, and curly. His face was angular and pale, with sharply accented cheekbones. He was tall, and thin. Almost painfully so. He was wearing a black trench coat, a suit underneath, and a blue scarf with tasseled ends. He was staring at her neutrally. Bond's hair was as dark as his, even though her eyes were the same shade as Mycroft's. The man and Bond looked similar. And even without the deerstalker, anyone in the courthouse would recognize him.
"Jesus," Bond whispered.
"Hello Bond," Sherlock Holmes said.
"He is going to kill you," Bond told her uncle.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.
"Perhaps," Bond replied. "But Mrs. Hudson, and DI Lestrade, and Dr. Watson, they will definitely kill you."
"Who says I'll tell them I'm alive?" Sherlock demanded genially.
"If you don't, I will," Bond snapped, getting mad. "You horrible, sick man! You let us believe you were dead! I watched you die!" Sherlock moved in closer to his niece. Bond wasn't sure why she was so upset. She was a Holmes. She didn't get upset. She didn't get emotional. "You were dead. I saw you die. Mycroft identified your body." Bond remembered how Mycroft had given a curt nod. Bond had still been silently tailing John Watson when the doctor had cornered her father.
"I hope you're happy now," he had growled. "He's dead, if that's what you wanted." Mycroft had simply turned on his heel, and walked away, but both Bond and Watson had heard a muffled sob. Bond glared at her uncle.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said simply. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and squeezed gently. Bond allowed the hug before pulling away and storming out of the bathroom, and grabbing the nearest security guard.
"You need to get Mycroft Holmes!" She hissed. "It's an emergency!"
-SH-
"Bond?" Mycroft asked, stepping into the bathroom. "Are you all right?" He stopped dead, gray eyes hardening as he saw his brother, right next to his daughter. Bond looked bored, leaning against the sink, but her eyes were wary.
"Hello Mycroft," Sherlock said, holding out his hand.
"My God," Mycroft murmured. His mind was reeling. Sherlock was alive. His little brother wasn't dead; he was alive. He was here, and he was well. "You utter bastard," Mycroft said in a low voice. "I don't know if you understand the pain you put everyone through."
"I had to," Sherlock said. "Or Moriarty's men would kill everyone I knew."
"So why come back now?" Mycroft demanded. He was surprised at how calm his voice was. He had seen his baby brother cold in the morgue, clearly dead. He had identified the body. Inside, Mycroft was trembling violently. But outside, he was still cool and calm and collected.
"I finished off Moriarty's organization," Sherlock said simply. "With the help of Ms. Adler, I've managed to pick them off. They won't bother me, or anyone, anymore."
"Irene Adler's alive?" Bond asked. "I thought she was killed by a terrorist."
"A story for another time," Sherlock said. "I will resume my life at 221B once this is all over."
"You want the trial to continue?" Bond demanded. "The purpose is kind of null now."
"I still wish to see Kitty Riley destroyed," Sherlock said with a grin. Mycroft laughed.
"And that is how I know we are related," he said, shaking Sherlock's hand. The two men were smiling. It was a sweet little family reunion, the kind that never happened to the Holmes family. Mycroft was happy for a little while, seeing his daughter and his brother together. He was among family. Speaking of which, he really needed to phone their mother and let her know. Before he could, the door opened, and a sandy blond poked through.
"Mycroft, we need to go…" John Watson's voice trailed off. It was too late. Sherlock had not had time to hide. The secret was out.
-SH-
"Well, it looks like the cat's out of the bag," Bond said tonelessly. John could barely hear the fifteen-year-old girl over the rush of blood in his ears. Mycroft was edging away from Sherlock, towards his daughter, who was also leaning away from the doctor. John finally got an unobstructed view of Sherlock. Sherlock!
"No," he whispered. "Please, this can't be happening to me. This is too cruel…" Sherlock walked towards him, and placed his long hands on the shorter man's shoulders.
"John," he ordered in his deep voice. "Look at me. I'm here. I'm real." John grabbed Sherlock –oh yes, he was very real- and shoved him against the wall. Mycroft quickly steered Bond away, out of the blast zone.
"You sick, SICK person!" John yelled angrily. "How could you do this? I thought you were dead!"
"John-"
"I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!" John screamed. He vaguely heard the door close, and knew that the two other Holmes family members had exited the room. Wise choice. "How could do that to me? Do you know how much I missed you? Do you know how the last five weeks have been hell for me? How I've prayed for you to come back? I HATE YOU!" John punched the taller man in the chest. Sherlock didn't object. "I hate you!" John shouted, although it was noticeably weaker than the first. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him.
"One more miracle for you," he whispered. "I had to. I couldn't leave you behind. I promise you John, if there had been another way, I would have taken it." John sobbed into Sherlock's chest.
"I missed you so much," he wept. "You have no idea how much."
"I know," Sherlock said, rubbing circles on John's back. "I know, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry." John shuddered deeply, and finally got control of himself.
"You're coming back to 221B, aren't you?" He asked desperately. Sherlock smiled.
"Of course I am," he said. "But I'll be spending a little bit of time at Mycroft's mansion. Catching up with the family."
"Might I come with you?" John asked. He wouldn't admit it, because Sherlock would laugh at him, but he couldn't bear to be parted from the detective again. Sherlock smiled.
"Of course," he said kindly. "Now, go at there, and please, destroy Kitty Riley for me."
-SM-
Bond played during the day as well now. Grandmother loved it when she played. Mycroft would sometimes accompany her on his flute, and Sherlock and John would sit so close their knees touched, smiling. Sometimes, a violin accompanied Bond. And this was her definition of family.