It's ridiculous how much research I've had to do for this fic; three hours of surfing the internet and I've only written 7000 words so far, and I'm still not sure if much of what I've written is accurate. In light of upcoming exams, I probably shouldn't be using my time to write this, however procrastination is a favourite pastime and a longstanding habit of mine that I most likely won't be breaking soon unfortunately.
This started out as an experiment to see if I could capture Sherlock's thought process when deducting, but soon developed into something quite a bit longer than originally intended. I wasn't going to include the reunion initially, but then it escalated and I found myself adding my favourite Reichenbach theory as well. I'm doing my best not to let it get out of hand though.
I've been reading a lot of reunion fics lately and they all seem to follow very similar patterns; Sherlock returns to 221B, John is amazed, John punches Sherlock, quick explanation, everyone's happy. I have this irrational fear of cliques though so I'm trying not to follow this pattern.
Like I said, this whole thing is an experiment, riddled with smaller experiments, which will hopefully lead to better writing skills. So I hopw you all enjoy my attempt at a Sherlock ficlet!
The mundane walked past him on their way to daily life, not even bothering to raise their heads and take a look at the world around them; they were too preoccupied with their own small universes. He wasn't though. With just a quick glance he could tell exactly what they did for a living, probably where they were heading and much more besides. It still amazed him that people could be so interested in the irrelevant things when there was so much here. There was everything, and yet not enough at the same time.
Few of those around him – no, wait … none of those around him ever bothered to look properly at things. For example, anyone who took a close look at him right now would be able to recognise him, granted they had heard of him or at least seen a photo of what he looked like three years ago. It didn't matter that he was wearing different clothes or his hair was dyed a lighter colour, it was a simple matter of observation.
Sherlock sat on a low wall outside St Pauls cathedral, casually observing those around him whilst waiting for someone to arrive. In the last hour, hundreds of people had strolled, hurried and jogged past him, and each one of them he had noticed. It was roughly nine in the morning, the sun hidden behind a large mass of grey that was indiscernible as individual clouds.
A woman in her forties walked close by him. Chipped nail polish. Painted her nails to stop biting them. Either it didn't work or she chipped the paint to distract herself from doing it.
Traces of blood trapped in the nail bed of the thumb. Spent a lot of time doing needlework. The blood came from when the needle slipped and punctured the skin underneath the nail.
Dry hands. Frequently uses alcohol sanitizer. OCD.
Fur around the lower parts of her legs and upper parts of arms and shirt. She had a cat.
Just across the grass, he could see a young female student sitting on the wall opposite him; she was writing in a notepad by balancing it awkwardly on her knee. She had her shoulders brought up to her ears and was hunched over her work. Short hair that up until recently had been quite long and usually kept loose. Hunching over had become a habit to stop her hair from falling over her shoulders.
A sudden jerk in her finger. Long hours of using a computer. A result of hand being in the same position for a several hours.
She held her pencil with her fingers slightly spread out, her thumb positioned between index and middle fingers. The skin was harder on her left hand. She played an instrument; he could see lines of white powder on her trousers above the knee, caused by resting the bow on her lap and impressions left by the strings on her left hand.
She stopped writing, put her notepad in her shoulder bag, stood up and began to walk away. One hand held the strap of her bag, the other hung by her side. All her fingers on this hand were separated evenly at rest. Cello player.
The man sitting a little further along the same wall was reading a book. There were stronger markings at the bottom of the spine; he usually read lying down.
He had several long thin burns on the side of his hands and upper forearms, easily visible with his short sleeved shirt. He was a baker; the burns came from the trays he handled. Probably worked at the Paul Bakery just down the road.
A man roughly thirty with cropped hair walked past. Dark red rings around eyes. Swam regularly, the marks were from goggles.
There was an unusual growth of hair on the back of his hands. He was on steroids. At first glance it seemed that the steroids were for enhancing his performance in sport, but there was a distinctive bulge in his pocket that resembled that of an inhaler. In that case he had asthma and the steroids were most likely used to reduce swelling and mucus production in airways.
Two men shook hands to Sherlock's left. One of them had bruised knuckles. A rifle shooter, the weight of the gun pressed down on his knuckles, leaving the bruises.
The other had noticeable nicotine stains on his hands. A long-time smoker of light cigarettes.*
He stood with his feet at a right angle. Fencer.
The first man glanced over at Sherlock before walking away with his companion.
A man in his early twenties; his jacket was thrown over his arm, revealing the majority of his arms. There were lots of small burns no more than halfway up his forearms. He worked with a deep-fryer; the burns were from oil splashes.
He had many small scars on his right hand middle knuckles. He sculled in a boat regularly.
A jogger ran past. They held their arms up, hands in fists. Boxer.
A middle-aged woman with smooth skin around her palms. Her hands appeared to be dry and her palms looked tanned. It looked like there was dirt underneath her nails. She worked with red clay.
A man with a bulbous nose; it was rounded and ruddy in appearance, particularly bad. Alcoholism.
He watched as he waited, observing each individual almost absentmindedly, yet still picking up the smallest detail. It had become an addiction, a necessity for him; he could never help himself from noticing things.
He spotted her about forty feet down the street, making her way swiftly towards him. Molly Hooper held a cup of coffee in either hand; it had become a habit of hers to bring him a hot drink whenever he was around. She sat down on the bench and wordlessly handed him his coffee. He accepted it silently and they sat for a few moments without saying anything, observing the bustle of everyday life around them.
"Look at them," he said, his voice low and quiet. "They use their eyes every second of the day, yet they're so blind. Every single one of them. Nobody sees the real picture."
She said nothing, sipping her coffee and glancing at him sideways.
"Any one of them could look at me and realise who I am."
"You're not that recognisable," she said, her low tone matching his. "The hair makes a difference."
"Anyone can recolour their hair," he scoffed. "And the clothes don't change my face."
"You have a very distinctive look; people are used to seeing you in that coat and scarf. They're not exactly going to expect to see someone who's supposedly dead sitting in the street drinking coffee," she replied, a slightly defensive tone working its way into her voice.
"Exactly. They only see what they expect to see. Nobody looks. They're all petty, close-minded idiots."
Her grip on her cup tightened and she rested it on her thighs, her head down.
"Not all of us are geniuses, Sherlock," she said quietly, her tone even.
He looked at her, properly, for the first time in months he realised; the implications of what he had just said dawning on him.
"Not good?" he asked.
"It was a bit insensitive, yeah," she shrugged her shoulders as though it was no big deal and said, "You are right though. We see what we expect to see."
She took another sip of her coffee. He kept looking at her.
Dark limbal rings. Lack of sleep. Bitten nails. Anxiety.
"I saw John the other day," she said. "I don't often see him anymore; usually I ask Mike Stamford how he is."
"And how is he?" Sherlock asked, looking back out across the street.
"Good, good. His limp's getting better and he has a job at a surgery not so far from here. He's seeing someone as well," she said.
His eyes flicked upwards in interest.
"Her name's Mary Morstan, a teacher. I've met her, she's nice."
"Good," he said, pleased that he was getting his life together again. The sooner John forgot about him the better.
Molly said nothing for a while.
"Does he seem happy?" he asked.
She nodded, "He's much better."
They stayed silent for a while, both observing the movements of London around them.
"Why did you call me here?" she asked eventually. "I haven't heard from you in eleven months. I imagine it wasn't just so you could ask about John and complain about ordinary people?"
Sherlock hesitated before finally saying, "I think I'm close to exposing Moriarty."
"Does this mean you'll come back?" she asked, her expression brightening.
He didn't answer. Her smile faltered as she realised what his silence meant.
"You're not coming back," she said. "Why not?"
"If I can, I'll clear my name, but I'm not going to return. The world can continue thinking I'm dead," he said, his voice monotonous.
"But what about John? He needs you," she protested.
"He has a life without me; I'm not essential for his wellbeing."
"Then why try to clear your name?" she demanded.
"Because of him," he said after a pause. "He hated seeing the world hate me. He abhorred the way it labelled me as a fake genius. I'm doing it for him."
"But who's going to clear your name for you?" she asked.
He looked at her, raising an eyebrow.
"What, me? But I can't –"
"You're the only person who knows I'm alive, Molly. I need you to do this for me," he said, leaning towards her, willing her to oblige.
"I'm not the only one! Your homeless network all know you're alive; they're the ones who helped you survive your fall. Don't they count?" she demanded.
"A random homeless person off the street claiming to have evidence that Moriarty was real? A little suspicious, don't you think?"
"What about your brother?" she asked. "He knows too."
He gave her a contemptuous look and she huffed in frustration.
"Fine, what do I have to do?" she asked, moodily.
"When I have everything ready, I'll give you a file filled with evidence proving my innocence. Give it to Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Don't give it to anyone else; I wouldn't trust them to handle it properly. After that you just have to play your part for the media. Tell them you were a friend of mine and thought my story was surprising and uncharacteristic. Tell John beforehand if possible. Let him think it was you that discovered it all."
She nodded obediently, studying his face intently.
"When will you have all the evidence?" she asked.
"A month or two," he replied. "Not long."
"And what will you do then?" she asked.
"Move on," he said, looking away.
"But why not come back once your name's cleared?" she asked. "The fact that John is recovering is no reason to stay hidden in the shadows."
He hesitated before replying, wondering whether it was wise to tell her at all.
"Moriarty's not dead," he said eventually. "He faked his own death, just like me."
Glancing sideways, he decided that telling her perhaps hadn't been the best choice after all. She looked like she was on the verge of terror.
"But – but how?" she stuttered out finally. "They found his body on the roof!"
It annoyed him how she didn't bother to even try to think about it before asking.
"He had someone like you on the inside. They replaced his body with another's when he was cremated. This is why I can't return, for the same reason I jumped in the first place. If he knows I'm alive again, he'll hunt me down in another of his games and everyone I care about will be in danger. That goes for you too," he said, avoiding all eye contact, making his explanation as brief as possible. "The most I can do is restore my reputation. Moriarty won't like this, but I doubt it will be enough to make him to make a move against anyone. He thinks I'm dead after all. The important thing is that you tell absolutely no one about the evidence until Lestrade has dealt with it, with John being the exception. It's imperative that he doesn't tell anyone either."
"But what if he comes after me?" she asked. "I'm the one who's going to be presenting the information."
"I don't think he will, but I'll get some people from my homeless network to keep an eye on you at all times anyway. They'll alert me immediately if anything looks suspicious and the police if it gets dangerous. I promise no harm will come to you."
The first promise he would live to regret.
"Thank you," she looked down at the coffee in her hands, which had been forgotten for the past few minutes.
The corner of her mouth turned upwards a little.
"You know what I always found odd?" she asked. "After you jumped they called you a fake genius. But even if Moriarty was real and you did plan the kidnapping, you would still be a genius wouldn't you? All that work and planning; it would take a mastermind to come up with it all."
He smiled a little. It was amusing how Molly thought that only a mastermind could come up with all that. To be honest, anyone could do it if they put their mind to it. It didn't take a genius to orchestrate something like that; even she could do it, if she put her mind to it that was.
She brushed a stand of hair out of her face and glanced at her watch.
"I have to go," she said. "I'm meeting someone in half an hour."
She stood up, hitching her bag back onto her shoulder.
"Well, see you round," she said, giving him an awkward wave.
She then turned around and started to walk away.
"Goodbye, Molly" he replied.
He watched her walk all the way down the street and disappear round the side of the cathedral. Raising his neck to look upwards at the sky, he saw the moon was in view and he gave a hint of a smile to its familiar face; the same face that had followed him throughout Europe. He rocked backwards slightly before planting his feet on the ground and standing up. He marched swiftly down the street in the opposite direction to Molly, subconsciously pulling up the collar of his jacket.
Seven weeks later saw Molly Hooper sitting in her flat, reading the days newspaper. There was a large photo of Sherlock taking up the front page, an old one, the one where he was photographed wearing that deerstalker for the first time. The article was full of the evidence Sherlock had found, including a few words from her and even part of a transcript from a recording taken on his phone. They had misquoted what she'd said, but it didn't matter; the public knew that Sherlock wasn't a fake. She wondered what he would be doing now. His number was on her mobile, but it seemed nosy to pry.
Once she had finished reading the article, she folded the newspaper and placed it on the coffee table, a small smile on her face.
The room exploded.
*A light cigarette is light due to the holes in the filter, a long-time smoker will intuitively cover the holes to get a higher nicotine intake, and hence stain their fingers.
I imagine that this will be roughly three or four chapters long, but I'm horrific at judging things like this so don't pay too much attention to my guess. The next update will hopefully come soon, but despite my procrastinating ways my art project is taking full priority at the moment.
Most of the deductions came from the A Guide To Deduction blog on Tumblr, which can be found here www . aguidetodeduction . tumblr . com (Remove spaces.)