Disclaimer
I don't own "Sherlock" and its characters (which, by the way, is a really good thing because I think that absolutely nobody could do such a tremendous job with the series as its current owners). The story is only a piece of fiction and I don't earn money with it. I don't even own the title, but stole it from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, together with a very rough adaption of his storyline. The bit of the story that remains is mine, though.
Spoiler!
As the title suggests (to those who have read Doyle's original stories, anyway), this story is set AFTER the season two finale (The Reichenbach Fall), so you rather shouldn't go on reading if you haven't seen it yet. Anyway, I would recommend you to watch it, whether you're interested in reading this story or not.
Thanks
… a lot to my beta readers, JolinarJackson and Starfishyeti.
So… I think that's it. Hope you enjoy reading.
Prologue
Sherlock Holmes paused. Something was different. And different meant dangerous.
Perfectly still, he stood there in the half-open door to his flat, listening, waiting. But nothing happened.
There! A breeze. A window had to be open, but Sherlock was sure he had closed all of them before he'd left.
Before his eyes could become accustomed to the darkness, a light flashed up and Sherlock had to shut them; he couldn't help it.
"Who is it?" he demanded and squinted to try to see who was shining the torch into his face.
"Good evening, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Pray, take a seat."
A shudder ran down his spine, but an instant later, Sherlock had recovered his self-control.
"Desmond Milton. Interesting. I have to admit, I thought you were somewhere else."
"Yeah, well, I didn't really like it there. So I thought I'd pay a visit to my old friend. And now please, take a seat."
"What if I don't want to?"
He heard the distinctive sound of a gun's safety being flipped. It didn't surprise him.
"Do you really need to ask?" the sneering voice said.
Sherlock, slowly and deliberately, went to the couch in his small and rather shabby flat. He sat down and with some annoyance tried to avert his gaze from the bright light.
"Oh please, is that really necessary?"
"It is," Milton said, obviously enjoying the position he found himself in. "And I'd be surprised if you didn't like it. Right in the middle of the spotlight! If that's not a place to please Sherlock Holmes, then I don't know what is."
"What do you want?"
"Isn't that obvious?" He drew nearer, his voice became softer. "I am going to kill you, Sherlock Holmes." He paused, and his face was only inches away from Sherlock's as he added with slow deliberation, "Your head is going to roll just like fair Irene's."
That made Sherlock listen. A slight frown appeared upon his forehead. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"Come on, don't think I'm stupid. Or did you really believe that crap about the witness protection scheme?"
Sherlock still wasn't sure where this was going – or even where it had come from. "Why wouldn't I?" he asked after a small hesitation.
"Because she was beheaded. By a terrorist cell."
This time, he hesitated even longer. "As much as I appreciate being informed," he said with a cold, nearly casual tone, "why are you telling me this?"
He could hear from his voice that Milton was grinning. "Because I'm savouring this moment. The moment of your destruction."
"I am very sorry, but I fail to see the connection between my, as you call it, 'destruction' and some talk about a beheaded woman."
"Don't try to fool me, Holmes. I know very well how close you were to her." He drew nearer, and his voice became very soft again. "And I can see it in your eyes. You loved her." Suddenly, he turned away, and his tone was casual again. "So, I'm curious. What's it like? I mean, to learn that your one true love is dead?"
For an instant, Sherlock considered attacking the intruder, but he had no chance and before he could even move, Milton was already facing him again. At least Sherlock thought so. He still couldn't see the other man's face due to the bright light.
"What do you want?" he asked again, though this time his voice was much graver.
"Haven't I already told you?"
Sherlock shrugged and put his hands in his pockets, trying to put on his mask of cool arrogance. "Maybe," he replied. "I can't be sure. To be honest, chatting with you isn't interesting or pleasant enough to make me pay much attention."
"Hands out of your pockets. Slowly," Milton said very coldly and Sherlock suppressed a grin. It was really amusing to see that all those inept and mediocre criminals flared up when they were insulted.
"Oh, you think I've got a gun in my trouser pocket," Sherlock said in a mocking tone and despite everything he enjoyed the anger he produced in the criminal. However, he obeyed, although he was making sure that Milton wouldn't notice the five pence coin he had stuck between his index and middle fingers.
"I don't think anything," Milton said and only realized the double meaning of his words when it was too late and Sherlock grinned. "Catch it," he said coldly, and with his left hand, Sherlock got a grip on the dark object that came flying towards him from the light. Adhesive tape.
"Now get up," Milton ordered. "Then go to that chair and tie yourself to it, first your feet, then one hand."
"And then, what are you going to do? Torture me? I'd like to see that."
"Oh, you will see that, believe me. Now get going."
Sherlock stood up, hands held loosely to his sides. In his left hand he held the tape, in the right the coin. He briefly wondered what made Milton think that he would bind himself to that chair to be tortured rather than to let himself get shot at once, but he pushed the thought aside. He had to concentrate now.
With a look of profound hatred (which wasn't really difficult to put on), he stared into Milton's eyes as he slowly went past him to get to the chair. His trick worked: Milton was staring right back into his eyes, a firm, steady gaze, and Sherlock knew that this was the moment. With a swift movement of his hand, he threw the coin into a corner behind his aggressor. A jangle could be heard and for a tiny instant Milton was distracted and moved his head sideways. This was Sherlock's chance. Without hesitation, he kicked the weapon out of the other man's hand, punched his fist into his face and finally made him go down by a kick to his stomach.
It all happened in the fraction of a second, and when Milton had recovered from the shock and surprise, Sherlock was already bending over him, holding the criminal's own pistol in his face.
"I'm usually glad to meet old acquaintances," Sherlock now said with the most pleasant smile on his face, "but I do think that you'd better go back to where you came from."
