Chapter 1: Text from Tuesday
In a high-class club in the centre of London the British Government sips his tea. In a police station across the river a Detective-Inspector sits at his desk filing paperwork. In the mortuary upstairs a woman sighs as she cleans up. In a flat close the center of the city an old woman smiles sadly as she touches the bullets holes in the walls, and the yellow smiley ace no one has bothered to paint over. Behind the closed doors of a psychologist's office an army doctor tries to explain that he still believes. And below the city, the man with the keys plots and waits.
John Watson limps slightly as he walks, as if an old injury haunts him, as if he has something to forget. He hails a cab as it starts to rain; it seems to him that it has always been raining, pouring, spitting, trickling, bucketing, and drizzling. It has been raining for three whole years. The water blurs the lights of London; he wonders what is behind them, behind the closed windows and locked doors, then stops himself. No good ever came of such curiosity he reminds himself. The cab pulls up outside of a flat on Baker street, number 221B, and John hauls himself out, he pays the cabbie then limps up to the door, unlocks it and steps inside.
A dog half walks and half falls down the stairs, "Hello Gladstone," John says; the dog was his psychologist's idea: maybe by caring for an animal he could learn to take care of himself. It hasn't worked, Mrs. Hudson mostly takes care of it, and it only reminds John of the empty flat. He sits in a chair staring at a newspaper, he doesn't read it: none of it seems to matter. The sky darkens, and another day fades into the rainy grey blur of the last three years.
He picks up his phone; there are three new text messages, and an email from Harry. He deletes the email without even opening it.
Having drinks with the men from the yard tonight.
Do you want to come?
-Greg Lestrade
No. He doesn't want to go, besides he'll just be stuck in the corner talking to the one or two officers there that he still knows. And they won't want to talk to him, his connection to Scotland Yard died a long time ago.
How are you doing, still holding up okay?
If you ever want a cup of tea and a chat, you know where to find me.
-MH
Mycroft has been weirdly persistent lately; maybe he should go this once to shut him up. He texts a quick reply.
Sounds lovely, tomorrow at six?
-JW
Mrs. Hudson interrupts him before he can get to the third text.
"Oh, it is filthy in here, isn't it. You expect me to do all the housekeeping, I'm not your housekeeper you know." She rambles on, picking cushions and books and plates off of the floor. John doesn't reply.
"You have to take better care of this place, you haven't tidied once since Sh-" She stops, covering her mouth with her hand.
"I'm going to take a nap." Says John, as if he hasn't heard her, but the trembling of his hand as he grasps his cane say otherwise.
He sits on his bed, twiddles his thumbs, stands, walks to his desk, turns on his laptop, walks around the room while it boots up, sits down again, opens his blog, closes his blog, takes out his phone, reads the third message.
Dear John,
You don't know who I am, you've met me, but you don't know who I am.
My interests are the same as yours, John. We both want something.
I want you to solve a case, one last case, just for me.
One last case, the mysterious case of Sherlock Holmes.
So your first clue is this: Download Image
-Tuesday
Sherlock Holmes is dead.
-JW
He texts back, and then take his shoes off and lies back on the bed. The phone beside him buzzes.
But we both know that's not quite true.
-Tuesday
This, this can't be happening; all his ambitions vanished three years age. There is no way he is going to be dragged down this slippery slope again. He made the mistake in digging too deep into London's crime once, and wasn't about to do it again.
Still, despite his better judgment, despite all common sense, he opened the image. While it loaded, he remembered something his best friend had told him once, just after they met 'Seen a lot of injuries, violent deaths. Bit of trouble I bet.' 'Of course, enough for a life time' he had answered 'Wanna see some more?' John realized that his answer hadn't changed. As he opened the file, he whispered it to himself.
"Oh, god yes."