EXT. 221 BAKER ST – DAY
Mid-morning, and an overstuffed carpet-bag drops at the feet of Sherlock and Mrs Hudson; they face the open doorway to 221. Mrs Hudson, a loaded shopping bag already in one hand, flexes her now-empty one with a grimace. Sherlock stands by her, armed with dustpan, brush, and broom.
A car door slams shut behind them. John is playing a ridiculous balancing act between his open wallet and the restless toddler hanging off his shoulder as he pays the cabbie. Presently, he steps over to join them, but no one makes a move to step over the threshold.
Finally, it's Mrs Hudson who squares her shoulders and takes a determined stride forwards. She looks back with encouragement in her eyes, but her expression falters when she sees Sherlock and John's immobile reluctance. She sighs.
MRS HUDSON (capitulating): Alright. Cup of tea first?
Rosie gurgles happily.
INT. MRS HUDSON'S LIVING ROOM – BAKER ST – LATER
Some time later. John and Sherlock are still dressed in their winter coats and scarves and are conked out on either end of Mrs Hudson's lounge for all intents and purposes dead to the world - if not for Sherlock's light snoring. Empty mugs stand on the coffee table before them. Rosie, too, naps peacefully, in a foldout crib in the corner. Meanwhile, Mrs Hudson is perched in her armchair. Newspaper on lap and pencil in hand, she's scowling at a half-completed crossword. Evidently she's a bit stuck; she poises to write before withdrawing her pencil to chew on the eraser-tip. After a few more moments like this, looking increasingly frustrated, she gives up, checks her watch, and leans over to tap John awake.
MRS HUDSON: John! Time to get up!
John grunts and cracks open one eye.
MRS HUDSON: No use lying around down here, you've got work to do. (With an exasperated glance towards the ceiling, wrinkling her nose) There's only so much time I can spend round here with the thought of that mess upstairs.
JOHN (Sincerely): Sorry.
MRS HUDSON (softening): Not to worry, dear. (Louder, as if she expects him to be listening; which he probably is) As long as Mycroft Holmes sorts out my insurance cover…
JOHN: It's the least he can do.
MRS HUDSON (continuing, gentler): …and as long as you two really are alright.
JOHN (sighing): We will be.
He pats her arm gratefully before hauling himself to his feet. He takes a moment to check on his daughter; then, bending at the waist, he scoops up the broom from where it was unceremoniously dumped on the floor, flips back up again, and turns to Sherlock.
JOHN (with little ceremony): Sherlock! Wake up!
He prods the broom-handle at Sherlock's kneecap. Sherlock's eyelids flick open and, barely giving himself a chance to wake up, he's on his feet and standing to attention like a Queen's Guard caught napping.
SHERLOCK: What was that for?
John hands him the broom and salutes mockingly.
SHERLOCK: Quick march?
John nods. And then that's it. There's a sudden, steely glimmer in Sherlock's eye, killing his air of fatigue. John answers it with a tight smile. Then they're off, heading for the stairs, Sherlock wielding his cleaning gear like an advancing warlord.
Mrs Hudson frowns, bemused.
INT – LIVING ROOM – 221B BAKER ST – DAY – CONTINUOUS
In the week since the explosion, the room has been left to its own devices. Consequently, it has the cleanliness of a badger's sett, and a cloying dankness to match. Exposure to the elements has not been kind. While thankfully there's little glass on the floor (the windows having shattered outwards), the mouldiness from seven days' rain has more than compensated in the cleaning workload.
Sherlock and John emerge from the landing and grimace at the charred remains of their home.
SHERLOCK (to himself, with a snort of contempt): Well this is familiar.
John sucks air through his teeth at that comment, but his friend is already pushing past him and shrugging off his overcoat. He balls it up and, by force of habit, aims to pitch it across the lounge, but John's hand raised in warning stops him. John points. The lounge itself, skeletal, looks like the unearthed hull of a Viking longboat as it emerges from the bog of waste strewn around it. Sherlock purses his lips. Accordingly, he reaches round the still-attached and remarkably-unsinged door to hang his coat.
JOHN: Poor Mrs Hudson. We're just lucky there are no worse threats than a cleaning bill, considering the trouble we've caused.
Sherlock looks at him, and raises an eyebrow.
SHERLOCK: Not our fault. Besides, Mycroft's paying for it.
They stare at each other. Then – in face of the bleakness around them – they burst into peals of laughter.
SHERLOCK (clucking like a mother hen): 'I'm putting that on your rent, young man!'
MRS HUDSON (O.S., from downstairs): If you two don't pipe down, I'm coming up!
They sober up quickly at that. Sherlock starts stripping off his jacket and unbuttons his cuffs to roll them up.
JOHN: (also rolling his sleeves): Right. Let's get cracking. Get me a pen and paper, will you?
Sherlock nods. He disappears into the kitchen, to return with a permanent marker and a slab of laminated chipboard.
JOHN: What- what on Earth?
SHERLOCK: Killing two birds with one stone.
JOHN: If we're cleaning up, hadn't we better start with the actual rubbish? Not demolishing the kitchen cupboards?
SHERLOCK (shrugging): They are demolished. It was there and it was unsalvageable. I couldn't find an uncooked notepad. Thus, two birds, one stone.
John rolls his eyes and accepts the unorthodox writing implements. He uncaps the marker and draws a rough line down the slab.
JOHN: This – (he writes above the left-hand column) – is "Restore". This – (and above the right-hand column) – is "Replace". A working list, write as we go. Should keep things neat and orderly, so we don't lose track. If we start on this now, we'll be able to send a list of items for Mycroft to source while the rest of the junk gets cleared.
SHERLOCK: Heaven forfend a military man keeps his effects in disarray. Let's start with the furniture, shall we?
John crosses to the lounge.
JOHN: Sofa?
SHERLOCK: Danish modern. Vintage, sag-resistant steel-sprung, with feather and down-fill cushions.
JOHN: Anything will do, won't it?
SHERLOCK (levelly): I want everything the same as it was.
He leans over to note the details on the list.
JOHN (raising an eyebrow): Well good luck finding that one again , but we'll…
He breaks off as his gaze fixes on a point in the corner by the window. He's just discovered Sherlock's violin on the floor, burnt out to a husk.
JOHN: …We'll certainly try to- to do our best…
Hesitating, he drifts across to half-block the sight from his friend. Noting the pause, Sherlock looks up. Glancing quizzically after John's sneaking movements, he spies the wrecked instrument immediately.
JOHN (at the same time): I- I'm sorry- ah…
SHERLOCK (at the same time; matter-of-factly): Oh, that's a pain.
They stop awkwardly, waiting for the other to continue.
JOHN (earnestly): I'm so sorry, Sherlock-
SHERLOCK (lightly): Oh, not to worry. Shame I didn't get to keep that Strad I was… (He scratches his ear.) I did intend to get my bow rehaired at some point. Looks like my visit to the luthier be a little more comprehensive than I first thought.
JOHN (unnerved): Um... Yep.
Sherlock narrows his eyes. Checking himself, John gingerly retrieves the violin and hands it over. Sherlock returns a careful smile and places it gently on the junk pile. He pauses a moment, looking down at the instrument with his chin to his breast and his eyebrows furrowed; then he whips round to retrieve the "Replacements" list. He takes his time to scrawl a relevant note.
Swinging his arms loosely at his sides, John gazes round for an appropriate distraction in the ensuing silence. Soon he spies it: the bison skull by the remains of the table.
JOHN: Grab that bison head for me. I'll find the… (making a sudden beeline.) - aha!
He spots the vintage headphones inexplicably blown under a chunk of bookcase and goes to fetch them. Sherlock, meanwhile, hoists the skull for John to fit the pieces together.
JOHN: There. (He taps the white plastic casing with a blackened forefinger.) It's a wonder the Bakelite didn't melt.
SHERLOCK (scoffing): Don't be ridiculous. It's a thermosetting polymer, it won't melt. (Tilting the skull and scanning the headphones thoughtfully) Should have burnt, though.
JOHN: Well… Well, why didn't it? Come to think of it, why hasn't anything burnt? How come – (he scans the room for an example) – that glass cabinet didn't shatter, but the windows did? You've got to admit, that's intriguing.
SHERLOCK: Hm. Maybe. (He sighs.) Some other time.
John purses his lips. Sherlock props the skull on the table under its usual hanging-spot.
SHERLOCK (flourishing his hands; brightly): Back to normal!
From the expression on John's face, it's clear he wishes it were.
INT. LIVING ROOM – 221B BAKER STREET - LATER
Mid-afternoon. The two have settled into silence save for Sherlock humming small phrases from Mozart's "Don Giovanni" to himself. They crouch near the hearth, having now turned their attention to the bookshelves – or what's left of them scattered across the floor. By now they've made a good dent; there's a small pile of survivors, included among them: John's copy of "Gray's Anatomy", a tome surely capable of surviving nuclear disaster, and – in a cringeworthy twist of irony – Sherlock's copy of "A Beginner's Guide to Airplanes (Flying and Gliding)". There's a much larger load of books past saving. These have been stacked in boxes.
Now what's left is rubble: the bookshelves themselves, splintered in parts; and an awful lot of ash and dust, which John is trying to corral with a dustpan. Sherlock, meanwhile, is occupied in scooping up loose papers around the room.
Buried further underneath all the rubble is the mantelpiece in chunks; presumably after many years of fists, blunt-force objects, and knives being slammed into it in despair, anger, and jubilance alike, it had been weakened, and hence tumbled first.
Underneath the mantelpiece in turn is the remarkably whole skull of Billy, friend and confidante to Sherlock Holmes since his Cambridge days. John, having overturned chunks of wood to find it, grasps the cranium gently in both hands and lifts it to eye-level. The jaw hangs a little lopsidedly and there is a scorch-mark atop the pate. As John cradles the skull in the watery autumn light, this scene becomes horribly familiar to John. A new look of consternation dawns on his face as he stares into the hollow eye sockets.
JOHN: Sherlock?
SHERLOCK (distractedly) : Hm?
JOHN (As gently – and cautiously – as he can manage): Perhaps… H'hm. Er- Don't you think it's time…?
SHERLOCK: Time for what?
JOHN (hesitant): If we got rid of this?
Sherlock casts a perfunctory glance back at his friend, before a double-take directs his gaze to the object in John's hands. He stares at it for a moment.
SHERLOCK (lightly): What- Billy? Why?
John looks pained.
JOHN: You know… a skull?
SHERLOCK (firmly): I want everything back the way it was.
JOHN: Look, I hate to presume. But I thought it might be… insensitive to have something like this here. Considering what's gone on.
SHERLOCK (scrambling to his feet): What are you talking about? No, no, it would leave such a gap in the décor. See how it complements "Mr Blue Skull" opposite?
He points across animatedly – then revises the angle of his arm downwards as he realises the print had slipped down to the skirting-board. And shattered, too.
SHERLOCK: Oh. Well that's out of the equation! (He chuckles to himself suddenly. With a dark look:) D'you think we could replace it with a taxidermized red setter?
John looks stricken.
JOHN (gently): That's not funny, Sherlock.
Sherlock pulls a face and goes back to bundling papers. For the moment silence reigns. Realising he still has the skull, John plonks it down hastily and dusts off his hands. He stands.
JOHN: I'm going down to put the kettle on. Won't be a moment.
SHERLOCK: Okay.
John heads out and closes the door behind him.
INT. 1st FLOOR LANDING – 221B BAKER STREET - CONTINUOUS
John is practically running down the stairs, two steps at a time, when he stops suddenly. We ear sounds of movement from the living room. Footsteps clearly concerned with stealth pick their way through matter clearly not placed to aid subterfuge, and John listens intently. The steps halt, fabric rustles, and then they're off again. Shaking his head, he creeps back up to the landing and pauses by the kitchen door to listen. The footsteps on the other side pass by and head for Sherlock's bedroom. The door shuts behind them.
Censuring himself, John makes to follow.
INT. SHERLOCK'S BEDROOM – 221B BAKER STREET - CONTINUOUS
Sherlock is perched on the edge of his bed, elbows on the bedside cabinet as he leans over the skull sitting atop it. He's gently rubbing with a square of cloth at a scorch mark on the crown of Billy's head. With his back to the door he can't see John, who is peering through a crack in the doorway.
SHERLOCK (Pausing in his actions, without turning): Stealth is redundant in this place, you know.
JOHN (giving up the pretence): Tell me about it.
SHERLOCK: Not a critique, just an observation.
John wanders in and perches beside his friend.
JOHN (soberly, and for the third time this day): I'm sorry. Truly, I am.
SHERLOCK (quietly): "Fire exposes our priorities." What were Eurus' priorities?
JOHN (at a genuine loss for what to say): To… impress someone?
SHERLOCK: Hm. (A beat.) Can anything be the same again?
JOHN: Does it have to be? Can't we make something better for ourselves? And for Rosie?
Sherlock shrugs.
SHERLOCK (to himself; so quiet he's practically mouthing the words): "Burn the heart…"
John may not have heard Sherlock, but he can guess where his friend's thoughts are heading. Slowly he moves to lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Gently he prises the rag from his friend's grip.
JOHN: C'mon. Let's leave the rest to Mycroft's legions. We need a holiday. As your doctor, I'm saying so.
SHERLOCK (after a pause; with a weak smile): Would Beachy Head do?
JOHN: That's really, really not funny.