PART 1
John stood in a grocery aisle, his eyes tired and empty. He stood in silence, debating on which cereal would make his bleary mornings before work a little brighter, his often sleepless nights a little less irksome. After pondering the decision between two equally bland and equally unappetising brands, he reached a hand to grab a box of the one whose box looked the least obnoxious. The squeaking of several grocery carts and the whining of a child wafted through the air of the market. Fluorescent light reflected off of the skid-marked floor.
Domestic, John thought.
It was four twenty-six in the afternoon; a Saturday, also a day off of work. John walked along a city sidewalk, a bag of groceries heavy in his left hand. In his right, he steered a cane, dodging the people who walked past him. His leg wasn't as bad as when he had first needed the cane after being discharged, but the pain had resurfaced and lingered, making the cane a necessity. The corners of the box of cereal and a can or two jabbed John's shins as he walked, a painful creak of the cumbersome paper bag with every step. Glum clouds filtered the sunlight into something a little less than cheery; something John and the whole of England was very used to. A normal day.
John kept walking until the sight of his navy blue front door eased the pain of the relentless bombardment to his shins. London buses and cars and cabs flew by, going to ever-so-important places with ever-so-important people as occupants, leaving behind the scent of fuel and the sound of tires on asphalt. Another sound entered John's ears; this one, however, was not so irritating. A violin, John noticed, was being played by someone, apparently on the other side of the street, and its sweet melody flowed through the air with perfect clarity. It sounded somewhat familiar, but the sound was most likely just triggering a memory of someone from John's past. He knew of whom the sound reminded him, but hid the memory quickly. He didn't need to end his day lingering on the thought of his dead best friend, even though he had done so many afternoons before.
He unlocked his front door in haste, held it awkwardly open with his cane as he passed through, then shut it gruffly behind him. The flat was empty, as usual; its hollow halls always waiting for John's return. John set the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, ridden with coffee mug stains and a stack of newspapers, and sat down in a large armchair in the sitting room (most appropriately named). He sighed and closed his eyes, weary from the journey home, even though it was only a few blocks. The melody somehow filled John's ears, despite its origin being outside.
"Bloody-" John stood up and hobbled over to a window near the front of the house, closing it quickly. He glanced out towards the other side of the street: a few people, a mother and her tow-headed child clinging to her hip, the father, apparently, and an older woman, stood with interest in front of the musician. John couldn't make out the violinist, and, finding no particular reason to find out, returned to his seat. Once again, he sighed. He seemed to be making a habit of that- sighing.
A week and a half later, John stepped out of a cab in front of his house; he had just gotten off work. The cabbie promptly drove off. Cane in hand, John observed his surroundings. The violinist was again playing his melody across the street. This time, John's view of the man was not obstructed, and he could see an empty violin case at the man's feet; an invitation for the donation of however much passing people could spare. He went inside.
The violinist had been reappearing on the same spot for ten days in a row; each time, except the first, he was there when John came home from work. It was as if John was expected. John sniffed and sighed. God, I need to quite sighing; it ages me, he thought.
The next day, at exactly the same time at which John arrived home after work every day, John got out of the cab. Again, the cabbie promptly drove off. John had grown accustomed, by now, to arriving home to the sound of the violin's strings being stroked by the bow, held by this regular stranger. He did not, however, hear it now. He looked to the spot where the violinist usually played, and, finding no one there, looked around. He saw no one resembling the man. Slightly befuddled, he walked up the steps to his flat. About to unlock the door, something caught his eye. He turned his head to see the violinist, at last, set up down the street. He looked at the man for a moment, then proceeded to unlock and open the door. He walked in. I might fancy a walk in a bit, he thought to himself. Get some fresh air. It'll do ya good.
Neither wanting to rush, nor being too eager to go outside in the chilly mid-autumn air, he moved slowly. He nuked a mug of water, also fancying a cuppa- very slowly. After two minutes, he took the mug out- very slowly. He placed the mug on the counter and inserted a tea bag- very slowly. He had no reasoning behind this; just his age had apparently begun to muddle his curiosity for things in favour of a nice, hot cup of tea.
How very English of him.
Ensured of the violinist's presence by the melody floating in through the window he'd convinced himself to let be open, John sipped his tea. Very quickly, as if infused in the tea, his curiosity returned to him. He grabbed a jacket and a few pounds from the kitchen drawer for a tip. He then, as promptly as the cabbie had, left the house. He walked along his side of the street, the cane accompanying him, and glanced nonchalantly to the musical stranger every once in a while until he reached the nearest intersection. He crossed the street, turning a ninety degree angle, and doing so once again on the other side. The violinist was now directly in his line of sight, about fifty metres away. John unconsciously fiddled with the few pounds in his pocket as he walked. He thought he would give some money to the stranger in exchange for his music.
PART 2
A year and about four months had passed since John's life jumped off a building and turned upside down. During that time, towards the end, he found some sort of peace about it. His best friend led a good and incredible life, and it was over, and that was that. John had bought a cat- a sweet but lazy male he called Simon- which heightened his spirits so much that he could come to this peace. Three months later, the cat escaped and was run over by a London bus. Children on the bus cried.
Directly after the loss of Simon, an idea started to pester John. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that his dead friend- not the cat; the other one- was still alive somewhere. John thought, much to his annoyance and cracked hope, that Sherlock was still out there. He had to be! He's Sherlock, isn't he? John saw Sherlock fall, but there are many ways to fake death. He could just be another Juliet. That's a rubbish metaphor, he thought. What would that make me? Romeo? And, besides, Sherlock isn't nearly feminine enough to be Juliet. Wasn't feminine enough. Wasn't.
The Thought festered and, almost ironically, brought John's depression almost as high as before Sherlock entered his life and after he left it. He tried to shove the Idea out of his mind, or at least into a small corner- maybe underneath some stairs- but it seemed to prefer the entryway and wouldn't have it any other way.
As John neared the violinist, the Thought rose within him like an impending storm. It rumbled as he grew nearer to seeing the man's face.
Tallish, but not particularly tall.
The hope in denial seemed the force that made his legs move.
Good posture.
He abruptly realised that his pace was overly eager, and slowed to a regular walking pace.
Brown hair.
Feet separated him from the man who could be his once-violinist.
Curly.
The gap closed; John saw the musician's face.
Alas.
The Thought retreated with barely a drizzle of rain.
PART 3
Mycroft Holmes sat in a formal armchair, almost dozing off with a book in his lap. The room that surrounded him wore wooden walls and wide windows that let the gloom of cloud cover inside. Quiet stalked the air. A mobile disturbed the noiseless calm and buzzed in his breast pocket, causing him to wake with a snort. He placed the book on the table next to him, reached a groggy hand under his waistcoat, and pulled out the mobile. The words "UNKNOWN CALLER" blinked on the screen, but he pressed "answer."
A familiar voice came from the other end of the call.
"Mycroft, it's me." Mycroft instantly awakened and sat up straighter in his chair.
"What a pleasant surprise, brother dear. It's been a while. How are you?" He masked his startled relief to hear from his brother with a sarcastically light tone.
"I appear to be needed in London." Mycroft changed ears.
"Do you?"
Sherlock Holmes stood in an old, dirty petrol station somewhere near the extremely small coast of Slovenia, a borrowed mobile pressed to his ear. The station was filled with a musky stench of sour something-or-other.
"He's back. Why didn't you tell me?" Mycroft shifted in his chair.
"We aren't certain whether he is back. He did shoot himself, you know."
"Yes, I am aware. I was there."
Sherlock paced through an aisle stocked with months-old candy. The cashier at the other side of the shop stared at him worriedly.
"I was informed of his return by one of my Homeless Network, Mycroft. The Homeless Network. You could could have found an excuse to call me. I don't think our conversations are that dreadful."
"Nobody is supposed to be able to contact you."
"You did a fine job sticking to that."
Sherlock adjusted something under his shirt.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry."
"You could be less sorry now if you had gotten me out of that at least, I don't know, four months earlier than I managed to get myself out."
"Nothing could be done."
"You are the government. I'm sure you could have easily found a way to get me out. I was tortured relentlessly for four months, Mycroft, and you did nothing about it. The only thing that was in my favour was the utter idiocy and incompetence of my torturer."
Sherlock spotted a case lined with several brands of cigarettes and his heart rate calmed slightly.
Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed.
"Your presence in London would be greatly beneficial to all that is good in England. I should have contacted you when the problem arose."
"I wholly agree. Now, would you kindly allow me safe passage into London? I've only recently escaped from my shackles, and could easily be captured again, were I to go on my own accord. I doubt you'll have too much trouble finding me."
Mycroft opened his eyes.
"Of course, brother mine. It will take a smidgen longer for you to be collected- I assume you are not currently in England. Wait a few hours. You know the drill."
There was silence between the two. After a moment, Mycroft spoke.
"When will you let John know?"
"Hm?"
"That you're still alive. That you never died in the first place."
Sherlock stopped pacing.
"Oh, I'll find the time."
He began pacing again.
"Be careful."
"What for? He was a soldier, I know, but I doubt he'll try to hurt me. He'll be glad to see me."
"John has grieved for two years. It'll be a shock to him that you're still alive."
"Oh, it's not like the possibility of my being alive hasn't crossed his mind."
"He saw you jump off the roof. You've been dead to him for two years. He's accepted that, and you coming back means that all his grieving was for nothing. It's not likely that he will welcome you back with open arms. All I'm saying is that John has been through enough. Don't give him more hell than what he has already been through. He was good to you." Mycroft's brow furrowed in concern.
"I expect I'll see you when I arrive in London. You're never far behind. Until then, Mycroft." Sherlock hung up and walked to the cashier with a few euros in his hand. He bought a pack of cigarettes, placed the mobile on the counter near the register, and walked out of the shop.
PART 4
Thirty two hours later, Sherlock opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. He stared at the luxurious wood-panelled ceiling above him in a stuporous fog. He blinked a few times, trying to diminish the glaze of the deadest sleep he'd had in years from his eyes, and recognised where he was. The scent of his brother's cologne hung faintly on the furniture and in the air.
Sherlock removed the covers, revealing a bandage wrapped around his bare chest. He pushed his back up against the pillow and winced as the bandage was slightly pulled down his torso with the sheets. He sat there, too in pain and too tired to try to move again, and gazed around the room. Minutes later, after almost dozing off again, he decided to make the effort to get out of bed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and put his bare feet on the cold floor. He stood up too quickly and fell back down on the bed, his head aching and bandaged skin stinging. He tried again, more successfully, and stumbled to the bathroom.
He took his bandage off- he barely remembered putting it on hours before- and looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection that looked at him bore still healing scars and black and blue paint. Its left cheek swelled slightly and its lip was split open. The image and the man were broken.
In a room quiet and dimly lit, Mycroft Holmes sat in a state of preoccupation. Both arms lay flat on the vast oak desk that covered only a small portion of the large room, the fingers on one hand unconsciously drumming on the wood in a repeated sequential pattern. His eyes seemed focused on something in his mind rather than a physical object. They bore through the air but didn't touch it at all. His brow furrowed above his eyes in concern; something was on his mind.
For the last several hours, Mycroft had been going over in his head the phone call that had had informed him of his brother's return to the land of the living, and the blur of his return the night before. Sherlock, who had made the call personally- an odd occurrence seeing as he usually texted(if the man has a usual anything)- now, Mycroft assumed, lay in one of his guest beds. On one hand, Sherlock's return after an absence of two years was a relief, even a joy. On the other, the sight of his beaten and bruised brother greatly lowered Mycroft's spirits.
The elder Holmes blinked and stood up, planning to check on his brother. He walked out of the room and down a corridor, shifting his hands in and out of his pockets. When his feet brought him to the room to which he had led his brother the previous night, he opened the door. His eyes went first to the bed, which was not occupied by Sherlock, but appeared as if no one had slept there at all. Mycroft entered the room and opened the cracked bathroom door. The scene there was much the same as the bed- untouched. Mycroft started to turn when he saw a note on the ground. He bent down and picked it up. It read as follows:
"Brother,
I will be out of the house by the time you find this. I shall reacquaint myself with London, and its people, when need be. I will not need room in your house any further.
-Sherlock
P.S. Sorry about the stain you'll find on the back of one of the pillows. One of my stitches came loose during the night. I wasn't in the vicinity of an experienced doctor at the time they were applied.
Give my regards to Mummy and Da when you visit next Saturday."
Mycroft chuckled: how Sherlock had deduced about this visit, he didn't know.
PART 5
Sherlock sat on the steps outside The National Gallery, looking out at Trafalgar Square. He resisted the maddening urge to scratch the area around a rather nasty cut on his jaw and instead checked his watch. It was 2 pm. In lieu of his dapper suit and black, swooping coat, he wore a thrift shop windbreaker over a sweatshirt and jeans.
Couples, friends, families, and loners walked by him, minding their business. Once, they might have taken an interest to the man to whom the name Sherlock Holmes belonged. They might have crowded around him to ask questions or to criticise or to wonder. Now, they hardly gave him a glance as they walked. He was unnoticed. He had been dead and gone, even forgotten by most, and they had gone on with their lives. He was, for once, content with being on the outside of attention.
Nine hours later, he lay down on a concrete bench near the Thames. It was cold under his body, and the air was getting colder. He shivered and curled up in the most dignified fetal position he could manage, being careful not to disrupt his wounds.
The unrestful night left him sore and chilled in the morning.
Sherlock spent the day observing London. Despite his dramatic tendencies, he was surprisingly an expert at keeping attention off of himself. He made sure to keep his head down while walking the streets and avoid anywhere he knew people might recognise him. As usual, he didn't eat. Mycroft had forced him to have dinner the night before (despite being exhausted from the trip and broken from the months away), so he would be sustained for at least a few days. He reacquainted himself with side streets and main roads, cafés and shops, and, even after a day, London was familiar to him again.
PART 6
The sun hung low in the western sky and cast a long shadow behind Sherlock as he walked. A suit now on his back, he walked with a sort of nervous dignity. As the wounds had troubled his body with physical discomfort, the task he planned to do bothered his mind, or, rather, his heart.
He drew nearer to his destination and his brow furrowed with unease. He turned a corner, now walking down North Gower Street. From down the street, he could see the deep navy blue of a front door: John's. He found his hands damp with sweat and wiped them on his trousers. It didn't help. As he neared the door, he suddenly realised that he hadn't a clue what he was going to say to John. He'd told himself he'd think of something; he always did; but he procrastinated. And with each step, words seemed to disappear from his memory. His hands sweated more.
He blinked and the blue of the door looked him in the eye. He took a breath and reached his hand toward the knocker. It hovered there for a moment, and he pulled it back. He shifted the weight beneath his feet. He tried formulating sentences.
"John, hello. It's been a while. ... I'm sorry to disturb your dinner, but- ... Not dead..." He shook his head and backed away from the door. He looked at the door for a few seconds, seeming to be waiting for something. Then, he straightened his spine, put his shoulders back, and grabbed the knocker.
The knocker rapped against the front door. John blinked and put his newspaper on the table next to him. He gripped the cane that rested against his chair and pushed himself up. He walked out of the living room, down the short corridor, and to the door. He rested against the cane and opened the door.
Sherlock stood in front of him.
"Uhm, John, I seem to have misplaced my key to 221b, and Mrs. Hudson appears to be out; would you happen to still have the other set?" Sherlock tapped his fingers against the sides of his legs.
John took a step back and breathed in. His nostrils flared as his eyes absorbed who stood in front of him. Sherlock blinked and swallowed.
By now, John's breathing was like a more inconsistent version of his repetitious limp; it faltered unevenly and heavily through his nose.
"Sher-" He looked toward the ground, then back to Sherlock's eyes. He pursed his lips and set his jaw. His hand clenched around the handle of the cane. Sherlock looked at the brick of the building instead of at John.
"I'm.. kidding, John. I don't need the key... Ah... Not dead... I suppose this must be a bit of a shock for you... I-"
"Do you have any idea how much grief you've cause me?"
Sherlock looked back at John. John sniffed.
"I spent two years alone, Sherlock. Alone."
"John..." Sherlock looked to the side again, avoiding John's angry, hurt stare.
"I buried enough friends in the war, but you went and made me bury another one."
Sherlock sighed.
"John, I-"
"You were dead. I checked your pulse, Sherlock; you were dead. I saw your bleeding body on the ground that day. I saw you die. I buried you."
"Obviously not..."
John clenched his jaw again. He let go of his cane and stepped forward as it clanged to the ground. His fist collided with Sherlock's nose rather painfully, knocking Sherlock off balance and almost to the ground. He then went through the doorway and slammed the door in front of Sherlock.
PART 7
John picked up his cane and hastily limped up the nearby stairs and into his bedroom. He threw the cane on the bed and, for some reason he didn't know, he gravitated to a drawer in his dresser. He opened it and pulled out a violin case- Sherlock's violin case. John clicked open the case and removed the delicate instrument. He felt like smashing it against a wall. Or, better yet, Sherlock's head. He glanced around the room. The window that sat behind the dresser would be a good thing at which to throw something of Sherlock's. The shattered glass would be satisfying.
Sherlock regained his balance and tried the door. It was unlocked, so he went in. Head tilted back and blood threatening to make the floor look like a murder scene, Sherlock searched for a box of tissues. He could hear John's angry limp creaking the ceiling above him as he glanced in several rooms. Finding a box in a half-bath near the back of the flat, he took a wad of tissues and held it under his aching nose.
As he ripped pieces to twist and put in his nostrils, he caught a glance of himself in the bathroom mirror. The cut on his lip was now torn wider open then before, and a new bruise was sure to accompany the previous one, as well as a possible broken nose. John hadn't seemed to notice Sherlock's already battered face.
Sherlock found the kitchen and opened the freezer. He put a handful of ice in a paper towel and gently pressed it against his nose. He stood there a moment and glanced around the kitchen, observing. It wasn't organised, like an ex-army doctor's kitchen should be, but, instead, it was disheveled. Forgotten newspapers and coffee stains littered the counter, as well as a few empty beer bottles. Sherlock opened the refrigerator, which was practically empty. The freezer was also sparse, but contained a few frozen dinners. At least he was eating, Sherlock thought, or had food if he planned to eat. Then again, when Sherlock thought back to when he had seen John, he remembered noticing John's jumper hanging a little looser on him than his jumpers had before. Judging by the state of John's flat, it wasn't likely that he made a habit of buying clothes that fit him too largely recently, much less any clothes at all. It also wasn't likely that another person, perhaps a girlfriend, existed to buy him clothes: no girlfriend of John's would allow such disarray in her boyfriend's flat. Sherlock had also observed John's uneven scruff, a millimetre in length or more, in some places. If he had a girlfriend, it would be either even or, more likely, nonexistent. Sherlock rolled his head on his neck and left the kitchen, Kleenex hanging out of his nostrils.
John quickly put the violin back in the case as he heard Sherlock's steps ascending the stairs. He rubbed his temples.
"I hope you don't mind; I helped myself to some ice and tissues," Sherlock said, his voice muffled by the tissues that hung in front of his mouth.
Sherlock took one step inside and halted, seeing something across the street through the window.
"John." His voice was stiff.
"Sherlock, get out of my flat. I don't want you here."
"Don't move, John."
"Look- there are two ways out of here: one is through the door, the other is through the window. Which do you care to use?"
"John, I'm not leaving. Don't move." Sherlock's voice was firm.
"What? I didn't do anything to your bloody violin." John stepped away from the case, refusing to look at Sherlock.
"No, stay still-"
"I didn't do anything! Go the bloody hell away!"
"I said don't move-"
"You've just come back from being dead, and you're worried about your bloody fucking violin?" John took a step toward Sherlock, looking him in the face now. Anger bubbled in his eyes. Sherlock glanced to the window and back to John. In his view of the window, a sniper kneeled ready to kill in a window across the street.
"John, I'm worried about you, at the moment. Don't move. Stay completely still."
"Oh, so now you're worried about me? Never were before! Just took a holiday for two bloody years, letting me think you'd gone and killed yourself! That you were a fake!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"John, I'm serious. Do not move."
"And, of course, I didn't believe you then. I'm starting to change my mind now. You faked being dead pretty fucking well."
"John!"
"You know; you're incredible. The fact that you think you can come in here after two years of letting me grieve and then, immediately after, yell at me for touching your violin just astounds me."
"I'm not the one yelling."
"You have got to be kidding me. Who do you think you are?!"
John threw his arms up in anger. His eyes burned holes into Sherlock.
"John, please! Don't move!"
His voice shook, suddenly serious, and there was a silence. Worry seeped into the anger in John's expression.
"What?"
Sherlock took a breath in.
"Slowly- very slowly- get on the ground."
John stayed where he was, hesitant.
"John, move."
After a moment, he did as he was told.
"What is it?"
"Come over to me. To the door."
Sherlock looked at the window again, across the street. The sniper hadn't moved; he kneeled silently in waiting, almost hidden by a shadow.
"All right. Crawl past me and into the corridor."
Sherlock moved slightly to let John through, his chest tight and breathing stinted.
"Is there a back way out of the house?"
"Yeah, what is this?"
John still lay on the ground and Sherlock still stood in the doorway. Apart from making sure John was unseen, his vision was still set on the sniper.
"Don't leave the building. Just go to the back or the middle- somewhere with no windows. Is there a basement?"
"No, just- tell me what's going on and I can help."
"Do you have your gun?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Is it with you? Is it in this room?" His questions sounded more imperative than interrogative.
"Yes- it's in the drawer." John began to stand up.
"Don't stand up." John kneeled back down as well as he could with his leg. Sherlock moved slowly to a desk that sat against the wall nearest him. "This drawer?"
"Yeah- Sherlock, what's wrong?"
Sherlock opened the drawer, his vision still tied to the sniper, and pulled out a handgun- the same handgun, he observed, John had carried two years ago. Sherlock handed it to him.
"Take this. Go downstairs and to the middle of the building. Do as I say."
"Sherlock-"
"Just go!" Sherlock turned his head around slightly to look at John, but he quickly turned back.
"Is it dangerous? Oh, of course it bloody is."
"John, stop talking and go! Now!"
John grumbled and heaved himself up.
"Sherlock, we both know I'm bloody angry at you, but I'm not losing you when I've just got you ba-"
John went cold. He saw the sniper.
"Please, John, go."
"I'm not going."
"Get downstairs. It's not safe."
"At least come with me!"
"Go downstairs."
"This gun doesn't do long distance. It's useless unless he's right in front of me. I'm not that good of a-"
"You don't have to use it, just go downstairs."
"Sherlock-"
"I'll contact Lestrade. I'll be down right after you."
John sighed (gotta quit doing that).
"I never thought I'd be doing this sort of thing again."
Sherlock listened as John's steps descended down the stairs until he could hear the uneven thump of his limp only faintly. He backed away from the door and took out his phone. He opened a new text to Lestrade.
'185 North Gower Street. Come quickly. Sniper on east side of street, first floor.' Immediately afterward, he added, 'Yes, I'm back. Don't ask questions. Come quickly.' He pressed send again and looked once more at the sniper.
He walked to the window carefully and observed the other windows and the roof of the building opposite him for more snipers. The one in the window seemed to be the only one, and seeing as it still hadn't moved from its position, he stepped away and started toward the door.
Suddenly, a bullet screamed through the air, piercing the window and hurtling through the room. It left shards of glass feet from the window and splintered the a wall on the other side of the room where it had hit. Sherlock gasped in a sudden, acute pain; the bullet had grazed his right upper arm. He grasped his arm with his left hand and glanced back through the window. As he did, another bullet jetted through the air and hit his right side near his kidney. He moved his hand down, clenched his side, and continued down the stairs with gritted teeth and heavy breaths.
From somewhere downstairs, he heard a shout.
"Sherlock!"
PART 8
Sherlock weakly limped towards John's voice, closing the door behind him when he reached the room in which John waited. The hand that had been holding his side was already covered in blood, along with his white shirt under his coat.
"Oh my God."
Sherlock staggered toward a chair.
John looked frantically around for something to stop the bleeding, and, settling on two conveniently placed scarves, began to berate Sherlock.
"God dammit, Sherlock. You could've been killed."
"I have been once before, haven't I?"
John let out an angry sigh, letting Sherlock know he wasn't yet forgiven for what he had done.
"John, how many exits are there?"
"Ah, just two. Well, windows excluded. Take off your coat and shirt so I can wrap these around the wounds."
"We need to stay near the middle of the building until the police come. There may be more snipers waiting outside."
Sherlock removed his already blood-soaked coat and shirt with pain and sat down on a wooden chair.
"No- we need to get you to the hospital. You're losing blood."
"If we go out of the building, we'll both lose a lot more blood than this."
Sherlock winced as John wrapped one scarf tightly around his waist and the other around his arm.
"I texted Lestrade. He'll be here."
"Does he know you're back?"
"He does now."
Greg Lestrade sat in a drearily-lit room, legs propped up on his desk. The lack of windows, therefore the lack of natural light, increased the annoying fluorescence of the annoying fluorescent lights which, it may be noted, annoyingly covered the ceiling. He slurped the last drop of his coffee and sighed, wishing he had ordered a large instead of a "New Healthy Portion; Free Cookie Included!" (The cookie was stale.)
His phone buzzed, vibrating in little, spastic circles on the surface of his desk and disturbing his wistful, pondering, coffee-filled silence. He picked it up in a tired-with-life-and-lack-of-enough-coffee manner and opened two new texts.
His mouth gaped.
"Oh my god."
His eyes were glued to the screen.
"Donovan," he said, raising his voice so it could be heard in the large room, also annoyingly lit by fluorescent lights, outside his office.
Sally Donovan walked into the room, sporting a grumpy, arrogant attitude.
"What is it, Greg?" she asked.
"He's back."
Sally Donovan's jaw dropped. Lestrade's did push-ups.
"Sherlock?!"
"We have to go. He's in danger."
"He's back?!"
"There's a sniper on the west side of North Gower Street."
"He's back?!"
"Shut up, Donovan; we have to go. Now. Get backup."
Lestrade stood up, immediately forgetting about his unsatisfactory amount of coffee.
"Wait- North Gower Street. Isn't that where John lives now?"
The worry in Lestrade's face became more apparent with widening, darkening eyes as he grabbed his coat and left his office.
"Backup. I won't lose the man I've lost before and the man that meant so much to him. Guys, we've got a sniper on North Gower Street! Send backup to Drummond Street, Euston Street, and Tolmer's Square. Sherlock and John need us!"
Sherlock recoiled as John applied pressure to his side.
"I have to get you to a hospital. These aren't going to stop the bleeding for long," John said, referring to the towels that now dressed Sherlock's wounds.
"Lestrade will be coming any minute. The police station is six minutes from here, and he should have left four minutes ago. I'm fine."
"No, you're not fine. You've been bloody shot."
John sighed and, this time, he didn't even think about sighing overly much.
"Literally: bloody."
"I've endured worse."
Sherlock thought back to the past two years. Blurred, singing memories slashed through his mind like the whip of a guard had relentlessly slashed his back. He cringed.
"What do you mean?"
"Your observational skills have deteriorated considerably since we last met."
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock sighed. He pointed to his bruised cheek and then leaned forward, trying not to strain his aching wounds.
"Have a look."
John took a step sideways and looked around to see several large scars hashed across his back, and even more small scars lacerated between. John gasped and looked away for a moment. Sherlock leaned back.
"Who did this to you?"
"My previous encounters with torture are irrelevant now."
His voice was stoic.
"No, don't give me that. Sherlock, I demand to know who did this to you."
"No need to be dramatic."
"I'm being dramatic?" John's breath and anger welled inside him so much so that he had to step back from bandaging Sherlock.
"I'm being dramatic," he repeated, staring a death stare at the ground. He adjusted his feet to steady himself.
"You-"
He paused to collect his words. His eyelids blinked in fury.
"You complete.. and utter... cock."
"Why did you keep it?"
"Keep fucking what, Sherlock?" His nostrils flared.
"My violin. Why did you keep it?"
John averted his gaze from the ground and looked back at Sherlock. He took a breath.
"Why do you think?"
"You had no use for it; you don't know how to pl-"
"Do you have any empathy at all? Do you even remember what you did to me? You ruined two years of my life, Sherlock; two years I can never get back. You let me grieve. For-" John caught his breath and wiped an angry tear he had just noticed form in his eye. "For two fucking years." He paused and swallowed. Then, with a voice that shook, he continued. "How could you do that?"
Sherlock looked to the ground, aware now that he might have made a small mistake.
PART 9
Suddenly, sirens disturbed the tense silence like a skipping stone to fish in a pond. The silence scattered. Grateful for a source of distraction from John's attention to him, Sherlock closed his eyes. His head and lungs felt heavy like a wet wool blanket was covering them. He felt light headed and oxygen-deprived, and breathed in through his mouth to try to intake as much oxygen as he could. His new and old wounds burned like hell.
As John's attention turned back to him, he opened his eyes and steadied his breath. Only then did Sherlock notice the bags under John's eyes. John looked tired- exhausted. He seemed much older than when Sherlock knew him before. Sherlock's absence had aged him more than the sighing.
Outside the flat three police cars pulled up, sirens screaming. Blue and red loudly bounced off the walls in the darkening sky. Greg Lestrade, now Chief Inspector, lunged out of his vehicle with a gun clenched steadily in his hands. He spotted the black sniper straight away, even in the dim light, as it ducked under the open window. Lestrade walked around behind his car as three or four policemen sped to the door.
"Go up stairs. Don't let him leave the building. You two, stay with me."
He and the two cops who had stayed behind stood with both arms and their guns aimed at the window, should the sniper reappear.
"Police. Stick your head out of the window with your hands behind your head."
He got no response.
"Show us your hands. Now." His voice was angry, but unfaltering. The window remained empty.
"You two- shoot if he looks in the least threatening. I'm going in 185."
The other two men stood with backs straighter and continued their aim at the window. Lestrade put his gun in his holster and sprinted to the front door of 185.
Several harsh, clanging knocks on the front door sounded throughout the ground floor. Along with them came Letrade's voice.
"Sherlock! John? It's Greg!"
John looked at Sherlock.
"Come on. If he's knocking, it's safe enough to go outside."
John grabbed his cane. Sherlock nodded and stood up with John's arm under his. Sherlock immediately sat back down with a heave of breath and an audible grunt, almost missing the chair. He squeezed his eyes shut, and put one hand on the chair arm to steady himself, the other on his side. John looked at him with worry, anger still in his eyes.
"Open the door for him, John."
John sighed and let go without a word.
The door opened, revealing John Watson. His chest was heaving with stress and his tan jumper was covered in blood.
"John, are you hurt?"
"No. It's Sherlock."
Lestrade ran past John and down a short hallway until he reached the room where Sherlock was. Sherlock looked miserable from blood loss, but straightened his posture as much as he could.
"Sherlock. Oh my god."
"Geoff, how pleasant to see you again. And in good time, too."
Lestrade allowed himself a small smirk, then motioned for John to help him.
"We're gonna get you out of here." "No hurry, Grant."
"Can you walk?"
"I seem to be having difficulty doing so, at the moment."
"Come on, John."
Together, the two men heaved Sherlock into standing position. Sherlock winced as seven legs staggered out of the room and into the hallway. Suddenly, they heard a shout from outside. Two shots rang out, then another one followed.
"Shit," Lestrade cursed.
When they reached the door, Lestrade gave Sherlock's weight to John and opened the door slightly.
"Oh, Christ."
He opened the door fully. On the ground lay the bleeding bodies of the two officers Lestrade had left behind. A third body clad in black hung out of the window, its blood dripping down the side of the building. The red stain stared back at the three men.
Lestrade took out his phone and speed-dialed a number. The phone rang and the person answered.
"Donovan, get over here. You can call off the other officers. We don't need backup anymore. We need an ambulance. Call one."
He hung up and dialed another number.
"It's Lestrade. Cribbins, we need an ambulance. Four people have been shot, and three are dead. North Gower Street and Euston Street. Send it as fast as you can. Please."
It was only a few minutes before the piercing scream of an ambulance ceased its crescendo upon arrival, along with another police car to join the other three. The bodies had been brought together and placed on the hoods of the police cars. Blood trickled down the sheet plastic hoods like water off a duck. It left trails on the ground, marking the path the dead had taken. The scene was quiet for the lost officers.
PART 10
"Sherlock." John repeated Sherlock's name for the third time, trying to penetrate the half-conscious fog that surrounded him.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?"
The cloud in front of his eyes cleared somewhat as Sherlock heard his name.
"Where-" Sherlock asked, unable to say but one word. An oxygen mask covered his mouth.
"We're in an ambulance. We're almost to the hospital. You've lost a lot of blood, but you're gonna be all right. I know you're gonna be all right."
Sherlock tried to open his eyes wider.
"John," he said in a strangled voice.
"Yeah. It's me. It's John."
Sherlock's head lolled to one side, and his eyes shut. His eyelids were magnetised together.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, stay with me. Stay awake. Please, I'm losing you." John grasped Sherlock's hand.
"I'm not gonna do that again."
PART 11
Mycroft sat in a hard chair in the hospital canteen, his legs crossed. John walked over with a basket of chips and sat down, sighing.
"Chips?" he asked.
"No, I'm eating light." Mycroft smiled an off-putting and falsely pleasant smile.
"They're rubbish anyway. I much prefer the ones at pubs to hospital canteen chips." John put a small handful of chips in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and cringed. There was an awkward silence.
John retracted his hand from the basket and put it in his lap.
"Why did he come back?" John looked deadly serious.
Mycroft fidgeted.
"Well, John, it seems we may have a problem... involving James Moriarty."
The furrows that lined John's forehead deepened.
"Is everyone coming back from the dead now? Who's next, Lennon?" John massaged his temples.
"Not exactly." Mycroft crossed his legs. "We; by we, I mean the British government; -"
"O' course."
"- we received a message. Most of it still needs decoding- that's why we need Sherlock- but what we do know of it could have been from none other than Moriarty, or someone very closely associated with him. The reason that this is so strange is that we, up until decoding some of the message, believed that Sherlock had destroyed all of Moriarty's web during his absence, and, of course, that Moriarty was absolutely dead. We now know that Sherlock wasn't as thorough as he would have liked to be. What we've been able to gather from the message is that London is, or will be, in danger."
John looked intensely at something, in thought.
"Is that why he left?"
"Hm?"
"Is the reason why he left so that he could destroy Moriarty's web?"
Mycroft looked at John.
"Yes. It took, shall we say, guts. He wasn't in the best shape, as you probably saw, when he came back.
"What happened to him?" John looked even more concerned than he already was.
"He was tortured," Mycroft stated matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, I could see that, but why?" John's eyes turned angry. "Did you know he was being tortured?"
Mycroft breathed in.
"I think I could assume... Yes. I did know."
"Well then why didn't you bloody do anything about it?" John slammed his fist on the table, causing it to wobble. Heads turned. John put his hand in his lap again.
"You knew. But you let him suffer."
"It had to be done, John. It was vital to the safety of-"
"You're his brother." John gave Mycroft a stare that could cool fire.
"I am aware of that, but there was no other way. John..."
"What?"
Mycroft hesitated.
"He did it for you."
"He did it for me." John laughed. "How? How could he not let me know that he was alive? That was two years of my life he took away. Mycroft, do you have any idea what his death did to me?"
Mycroft sighed again.
"I have some idea, yes."
"Oh, I forgot. You're the government. I suppose you kept tabs on me."
"Yes, John, of course I did. You were my brother's only friend. He's thirty seven years old and the only other thing close to a friend he ever had besides you was a bloody dog," Mycroft snapped.
"Yeah, he was my friend- my best friend- but I was nothing to him. Nothing. You wanna know how he came back? He came to my front door and made some bloody joke like I'd seen him last week."
Eyes looked at the two men.
"Volume," Mycroft said.
"All I'm saying," he said, a little quieter, "is that that is not how a friend treats a friend."
Mycroft tilted his head. "You almost broke his nose."
"Mycroft!" John shouted, forgetting about the volume.
"I'm sorry." Mycroft nodded in apology. "You did mean a lot to him, John. He may not have let on, but you impacted him just as much as he impacted you. He's an expert at calculations and deductions, but he's rubbish at knowing the value of people."
John thought a moment and nodded slightly. Mycroft took a chip. They sat in silence.
PART 12
Muffled voices pushed through the heavy blanket of unconsciousness that threatened to suffocate Sherlock. Muted light flowed over the cracks between his eyelids. Pain clogged his body, forcing him into consciousness. He gasped as light touched his eyes for the first time since they last closed in the ambulance.
A blurry figure turned its head towards where he assumed was the door, asked a nurse to fetch the doctor, and walked towards him. He vaguely recognised the voice as that of his brother. He blinked away as much of the blur as he could and attempted to sit up.
"Not you again," he whispered weakly. Mycroft chuckled, but his smile was plaintive.
"You should take better care of yourself, Sherlock. It's costing a fortune to keep you in here."
"I'm sure I can afford it."
Mycroft sighed.
"How long have I been out?"
"Two days." Mycroft's smile faded.
"And Moriarty's message?" He emphasised the "m"s, as if trying out his voice for the first time.
"I have people working on it. You need to rest."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"It's highly unlikely that anything significant will be accomplished by people of that mental capacity."
Mycroft looked somewhat offended.
"Brother, the people working on decoding that message are among the smartest people in Britain."
"Government officials are considered smart."
Mycroft rolled his eyes also.
"Is that an insult?"
Sherlock would have smirked, if not for the drugs that pulled his muscles down to the floor like weights. His brain, however, soared like a somewhat flight-weary mockingbird.
"I find your self confidence amusing, Mycroft. What will you have me do when I'm well enough?" he asked.
"I'll tell you that when you're well enough," he replied. The doctor entered the room, clipboard in hand, and walked to the hospital bed. Mycroft shrunk back away from the bed.
After the doctor had left, and Mycroft along with him, Sherlock scanned the room. Another person he hadn't noticed before occupied a chair a few feet from where he lay. John slumped, asleep, in the chair. His chest softly expanded and contracted with each tired breath. Sherlock watched him, the rise and fall of his chest slowly falling into sync with John's.
Sherlock slid his back further up the headboard of the bed and, with difficulty, upped his morphine dosage. The pain of reaching over forced his eyes to shut. When they opened again, they saw John grunt awake in the chair. His sleep had obviously not been a restful one.
"Sherlock," John said. Instant relief lit up his clearly exhausted voice. He heaved himself out of the chair, bracing himself on his cane.
"You don't have to stand up, John."
"No, it's all right. I've been sitting here for hours." He arched his back and stretched his arms. Sherlock swallowed.
"You missed the doctor."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing important. Nothing I couldn't've figured out myself."
"God, Sherlock." John shook his head.
"What?"
John sniggered. "You're so... You."
"What am I supposed to make of that?"
"I don't know! You make everything out of everything. You'll think of something eventually." John cracked a small smile.
Sherlock, being the socially and emotionally inadequate person that he was, didn't pick up on John's lightheartedness. Being the egotistical person that he was, he didn't care.
"They fixed your stitches on your mouth. Sorry I, ah, ruined the first set." John shifted his weight awkwardly.
Sherlock looked perplexedly at the foot of the bed. He breathed in as if he were about to say something, but let the breath out. A second later, he breathed in again.
"John, I should tell you that I didn't intend for.. what happened.. to impact you so harshly." John's expression darkened slightly.
"It was not my intent to put your life at a standstill, but, rather, to enable it to continue." Sherlock searched for words. "I suppose that wasn't clear to you before-"
"No it wasn't." John shifted his weight again.
Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it. He opened it again.
"What I'm trying to say is that..."
"Yes?" John prodded. The lighthearted tone had left his voice.
"Well, John, actually, I'd rather thought you'd take advantage of my absence. You know, found yourself a girlfriend- one that'd stick around, maybe-"
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock." John raised his cane a foot off the ground, as though to hit something (or someone, possibly). "Every single girlfriend I've had since I met you left because of this. This is what you do. You are so fucking pretentious, and you know it, too. You with your cases and 'needing my assistance.' Of course they all left. You just can't share what you have with anybody else."
"I think they just didn't fancy you."
"And you think it was easy for me after you left; I thought you died, mind you; and that finding a girlfriend, finding someone, was something I could get like a jug of milk at Waitrose."
"John, don't try to appear intelligent by using similes in conversation."
John's eyes glinted with fury and a deadly smirk spread across his face. "You know, I used to have some admiration for you. You seemed to be a clever man. Your brain did good things for people. But now I realise that it's not your brain that's big; it's your mouth."
"John, I didn't mean-"
"No. You know what's bigger than your mouth? Your ego. If you ever loved your mother, you love yourself a hundred times more. Your arrogance is astounding. I mean astounding."
"I'm not quite sure about arrogance, but I take pride in the abilities of my 'brain,' as you so.. plainly put it," he said, the arrogance he attempted to shrug off being emphasised even more.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" John waved his cane in the air, almost knocking down a lamp.
"Sherlock, do you not understand what a complete arsehole you are?" Nurses outside the room watched through the windows and door.
"I don't care if your haemorrhaging, having an epileptic fit, or otherwise extremely ill. You need to learn how to be a person, because right now, you're just a conceited machine."
John stormed out of the room, and despite his limp, he was frightening.
Sherlock sighed and reached again to up his morphine dosage. He did so with pain and closed his eyes.
When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the room had gotten considerably darker. He wasn't sure whether a few hours or a few days had passed. His eyelids struggled to remain open and felt like two men in a bar fight being magnetised towards each other, though with much less energy. Sherlock did force them, as draining as it was, to stay open. As the room came into focus, so did dull pain in his side and arm. He once again gave himself more morphine, as it had been apparently lowered by a nurse or doctor.
"Sherlock." He heard a voice from the chair John had previously occupied. Sherlock turned his head to see Lestrade sitting on the edge of the chair, worry emanating from his face. Sherlock started to say a name beginning with G, but the rest surfaced with uncertainty, coming out almost as a question.
"G- arrett?"
"How are you, Sherlock?" Greg Lestrade almost smiled through his worry.
"Oh, you know. Fine. Same as always." This time, Lestrade did smile, if still tinged with sadness.
"Really. Are you recovering all right?"
"Just fine, thank you." The "thank you" slid out, causing Sherlock to pause, a bit surprised.
"John?" Lestrade's concerned eyes asked the question. Sherlock frowned.
"We're.. not on speaking terms, for now."
Lestrade looked disappointed. He sighed and bit his lip.
"We're working on finding out who did this to you. There've been a couple leads, but so far we haven't gotten much progress."
"Who else knows?" Sherlock asked, now looking at Lestrade's face.
"No one, except for who's already seen you and the guys at the station. You're still dead to everyone else. The press doesn't even know it yet."
Sherlock blinked and looked at the foot of the bed.
"I'm sorry about... um.. the people you lost... and, um.."
"Thanks, Sherlock," Greg said, relieving him of the task of finishing his awkward sentence. "We're a bit shaken up at the Yard. They were good people. Had families. They'll be missed." He looked at his shoelaces. "They died honourably, though, Sherlock. Protecting a man who had died honourably, himself." He looked back up to Sherlock. "Really, though. Thank you. I've heard from your brother. You did it to save your friends, and I'm honoured to have been among them."
Sherlock didn't reply. He looked deep in thought, still looking at the end of the hospital bed.
"Sherlock?"
He still gave no response. Lestrade sighed, then put a hand on the bed.
"I'm glad you're back. Get better." He stood up and walked out of the room.
PART 13
John sat across Mrs. Hudson at her small kitchen table. He looked tired, ashamed. Bags were layered under his eyes and he wore the same shirt he'd been wearing for two days.
"John, I'm very glad you've come to visit, but really! It's been a year and a half since I've even heard your voice!" Mrs. Hudson piped.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm sorry. These past couple years have been really difficult for me, as you know, and-"
"And they haven't been for me?"
"I'm just saying that time got away from me. As I'm sure it did for you, in the beginning. I... forgot to talk to anyone. Don't take it personally."
A small sigh came out of Mrs. Hudson's mouth and she put her hand to her chest.
"Don't be sorry, John; I've just missed you. You and Sherlock were like sons to me." She paused, not sure if she should have mentioned Sherlock's name in front of John. John showed a clear sign of discomfort, his eyes closing, almost as if he were in pain.
"I'm sorry," Mrs. Hudson squeaked.
"I have something to tell you." Mrs. Hudson looked at him in attention.
"You're not ill, are you?"
"No, Mrs. Hudson. No, I'm not ill." John swallowed. "But someone else is."
"Oh, who is it? Mrs. Turner's off on holiday and I haven't heard from her in a while. Is she okay? Oh, I would've thought she'd told me!"
"N- it's not Mrs. Turner. I haven't heard from her since I lived here." Mrs. Hudson breathed a sigh of relief. John inhaled, preparing to give her the news.
"Sherlock's back. He's in the hospital."
Mrs. Hudson gasped.
"John, that's not funny! That's sick!" Her face contorted into an expression of surprised disgust.
"Mrs. Hudson, please don't yell at me for something the bastard went and did to himself."
"John!" Her disgusted expression changed to one of even more surprise at John's insult to Sherlock.
"He's back, but he went and got himself bloody shot. He was in a coma for two days, and, despite being fatally injured and dead for two years, he's still the biggest dickhead to walk the earth."
Mrs. Hudson gasped.
"Sorry." John pursed his lips together and sighed. Mrs. Hudson squeaked.
"I just thought you should know. You know, that he's back and in the hospital. I'm... sorry that you had to receive the news like this. I got carried away."
"You've been to talk to him?"
John opened his mouth.
"Ah, yes. I have."
"Are you going again tomorrow? I'd love to visit him with you."
"Sherlock and I... we aren't really on speaking terms just yet. You're free to go, yourself."
Mrs. Hudson sighed. She looked like a mother whose child had decided to give his best friend the cold shoulder. In a way, she was. John looked weary. A few moments of silence preceded the next words.
"John, please be easy on him. I mean, he's been shot, and..."
"Easy on him?" John could feel his face grow hot. "And you think that's fair. You think he's been easy on me, too, do you?"
"No, John, I just-"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but he doesn't deserve my friendship right now. He did without it for two years, so he obviously doesn't need it now."
"Maybe you do," she said quietly.
John stood up and picked up his cane that was leaning against the table.
"Yeah, it's been very nice to see you, Mrs. Hudson, but I think it's best that I leave."
"Oh, John. John..."
"See ya."
John limped out of the room. Mrs. Hudson sighed as she heard the front door open then shut, her mind seeming to focus on John's well being rather than the recent shock of Sherlock's return and hospitalisation.
John stepped out into the startlingly numbing air. Tendrils of wind whispered around him and stroked his exposed skin as cold clenched his bones. He shivered in his coat and limped along the side of the building.
PART 14
Lestrade approached the lobby of the hospital, a dismal air about him. He observed patients in wheel chairs, several nurses aiding each one. A mother walked, grinning but tired, toward the exit, hand in hand with her husband and her newborn baby in her arm.
He had almost put a hand on the exit door, when he suddenly stopped and turned around, remembering he had left his coat on the back of the chair in Sherlock's room. He turned on his heel and walked back to the nearest lift. He stepped in after the doors slid open and pushed a button to go up. When the lift doors reopened, he followed the corridor and turned a few corners until he approached Sherlock's room.
He entered. What he saw, or, rather, what he didn't see, struck him with worry.
"Shit."
The bedding was untidy- and empty. Lestrade looked across the room. The window was open, the dusk chill seeping into the room. He looked out. No Sherlock. He left the window and barrelled out of the room to a group of nurses.
"Sherlock Holm- your patient ran away. I just saw him, but he's not in his room anymore. The window's open. I don't know where he is." A nurse gasped and rushed to Sherlock's room.
"John, Sherlock's gone missing. Do you have any clue where he could be?" Lestrade imperceptibly perspired as he clutched the mobile to his ear.
"Shit," John said, almost throwing his phone out the cab window on his way home. "I'm sorry, I don't know where he is. I haven't seen him since yesterday. What happened?"
"I was visiting him at the hospital and forgot I left my coat in his room after I left, and he was gone when I went back to get it. He ran away right after I left. The window was open. I don't know where he could be- he couldn't have gone far, in his condition; he seemed pretty tired when I saw him."
"How long ago did he escape? Did you look outside?"
"Only about fifteen minutes ago. We checked the parking lot and I looked in some of the side streets, but there isn't a trace of him anywhere. We're sending someone over to 221b right now."
John took the phone away from his mouth.
"Shit. ShitshitshitshitSHIT," he cursed to himself. He inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. After he had composed himself, he raised the phone back to his ear. "Do you know why?"
Lestrade sighed.
"No. I was hoping you would know. I know he said you weren't really on speaking terms, but- maybe you'd talked about something."
John paused. Sherlock had used the same phrase as he.
"Can you remember him saying that he needed to do something? Go somewhere?" Lestrade asked.
"No... No, I can't. I really haven't got a clue. Dammit, why does he have to be so-" John sighed. He relieved his clenched fists and clenched them again.
"Does Mrs. Hudson know yet? Can we ask her?"
"Yeah, I told her today. It wasn't long ago- about fifteen minutes, actually. She wouldn't know anything. He hasn't talked to her yet."
Lestrade paced.
"All right, if you hear anything of him, tell me right away."
"I will."
"Bye, John. Let's hope he shows up."
Mycroft wiped exercise-induced sweat off his brow with a towel after a quick jog on the treadmill. He stood, catching his breath, for a few moments, then began to leave the room when, on a small table near him, his mobile buzzed. He picked it up and read the received text.
'You'll find that I am no longer in hospital. Don't pretend to be concerned. I am well. I received a text, I assume, involving Moriarty; I presume it is from one of his men; and was given a clue that, if I put it to use, will save an innocent life. It is a skip code whose message contains a meeting place. I know the risks, but it will save a life.' Mycroft typed in a reply, 'Since when have you cared about innocent lives,' but was interrupted by another buzz, this time, a call. He answered it.
"Mycroft Holmes. - Yes, I am aware. He is well, Mr. Lestrade. - Greg," he said into the phone in a tone resembling that of a son replying to his mother on the phone. "-He texted me. - He knows his limits. - He's going to save a life, apparently." He set the towel down. "- Keep in touch. Or don't. Either one will suffice." He sighed.
PART 15
Sherlock stumbled back into the cab that had taken him from Bart's to 221b Baker Street to replace his hospital gown with his familiar, august coat and suit. The impression that came from his turned up collar and tall coat would have masked his affliction, if not for his haggard breathing and pale face. He functioned with some difficulty as the lack of a constant flow of morphine through his veins began to take effect. His split lip and almost broken nose were the least of his pains.
Once in the cab again, and after giving a destination, he reopened the skip code he was given:
'Bristol: North or South? You enjoy swimming, don't you? Pool or loop, will never know. Save polar bears. Innocent accidental tragedies: life insurance, maybe?'
After studying it for some minutes, he received a text, this time, from Lestrade.
'Sherlock, where are you? Please let us know that you haven't died.'
Sherlock sighed. He reopened the skip code again, copied it, then pasted it into a message to Lestrade. He hit send.
Two and a half hours passed riding in the cab, and Sherlock was in Bristol. He paid the driver and, with a painful effort of dizzying pain, got out of the cab. He stood alone in the cool night air, the only sound the cab driving away. A few faint stars stared down at him through clearings in the clouds.
The building in front of him bore a sign: Bristol South Swimming Pool. The site of Carl Masters' death, the meeting place of Sherlock's first introduction with Moriarty, the place inside which he was to go now. He left the curb and walked to the entrance, his strength somewhat returning. He tried the door; it was unlocked, so he went inside.
He wavered down a deserted corridor which bordered the pool area until he reached the doors that led to the pool. He hesitated a moment, listening. After a silent minute passed, his breath the only sound, he lay his hand on the door. Slowly, he pushed it open with a creak.
Light and shadows danced on the tile ceiling and walls, reflecting off ripples in the pool. A light in the ceiling flickered. The emptiness of the room amplified each footstep Sherlock took into the room, until another set echoed along with his. Sherlock turned his head to the sound, its source still invisible. His eyes searched and waited for the source to enter the room from behind a stall.
The first thing he saw come into the room was a leg covered by expensive looking suit trousers. The body and chilling grin of James Moriarty followed. Sherlock staggered where he stood.
"Long time no see, Sherlock. You've lost weight. Looks great."
PART 16
Sherlock swallowed in shock.
"I have missed this game of ours, Sherlock. Haven't you?" He stood firmly on the slick tile floor and picked a piece of lint off his suit. "Hm. No, you wouldn't, I guess, seeing as you've been dismantling my web for the past two years of your life. Well," he said, "trying to."
"How are you here? If I'm not mistaken, you shot yourself two years ago."
Moriarty chuckled.
"You're mistaken, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock's rancorous face stared with pure hatred at Moriarty.
"I'm rather surprised you haven't figured it out yet. I know how you work, and I'm disappointed in you, Sherlock."
"How?" Loathing smouldered in his voice. Moriarty grinned.
"I don't want to give it away, Sherly. That would remove all the fun! That's what that's what this is all about, isn't it? Games are meant to be fun, aren't they?"
"Were a year and a half of killing and four months of being tortured by your men meant to be fun?"
"Oh it was great fun for me; believe me, Sherlock," he said, almost giggling. "Letting you believe you were so close to the end. So close to ridding your world of me." His eyes glinted with malicious glee. "But that wasn't even the best part, Sherlock, oh, no. The very best part; I loved this; was watching you squirm."
Sherlock groaned slightly, attempting a sotto voce level of volume to hide the pain. Moriarty's ears perked up.
"Are you in pain, Sherlock?" he said mockingly. "Sorry about that. My sniper didn't mean for you to suffer. Moran and I had an argument the day before, and his aim was off. He usually kills with the first shot."
"I wish I could say I was sorry your man is dead, now, but my mum taught me only vermin lie."
Moriarty's grin dissipated with the insult.
"My brother also taught me never to get attached to people. Was he really as special to you as you so blatantly make it seem, or am I deducing wrongly? I sincerely doubt the latter." Smugness now replaced the pain in his expression.
"You know, Sherlock, I feel sort of empowered seeing you like this," he said, changing the subject. "Your weakness at my hand makes me feel a bit giddy! I kind of like it," he leered. "Of course, this is nothing new to you. The pain, that is."
"Would you stop gloating and tell me how you are still alive? It's unnecessary and irritating."
Moriarty pouted.
"Sherlock, I've already told you: I'm not going to tell you because it's not any fun!" Sherlock still glared at him. Moriarty sighed. "I suppose I could give you a teeeensy hint." Sherlock moaned again: his injuries screamed at him.
"You remember when you visited Richard Brook, of course."
"Yes."
"And you remember when you were kind enough to give Jimbo tea, correct?"
"Yes."
"And you recall Jim the Cabbie?"
"Yes, and?" He gritted his teeth.
Moriarty frowned. "Oh, come on, Sherlock. Think." He held his hands in front of him. Sherlock appeared to be somewhat nonplussed, but he thought. "Really, Sherlock, I would've thought this would be obvious to you." Sherlock remained puzzled, but, still, he tried to remember every detail.
Moriarty sighed.
"I'm disappointed, Mr. Holmes-"
"Just let me think!" Sherlock bellowed.
The two stood in silence, Moriarty looking at Sherlock, Sherlock looking in his mind. His fingers were now pressed against his temples, his eyes closed. His chest swelled with each heavy breath. His wounds, at least for the moment, were of no issue. Moriarty sighed impatiently after minutes of waiting.
Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes opened and widened with realisation. He lowered his hands.
"You've figured it out?" Moriarty asked, though he knew Sherlock had. "My little secret was enjoyable while it lasted."
Sherlock's eyes hovered to Moriarty's face.
"Two people."
"Yes, of course two people. I would be cold in the ground, were it one."
"Twin?"
"Yes... I'd love to know how you figured it out."
Sherlock instantly took the opportunity to communicate his deductions.
"Two things. Oh, they were obvious, had I known to look for them. I'm rather disappointed in myself that I didn't realise them as I saw them." He grinned slyly to himself. Moriarty looked to be having quite a bit of fun observing Sherlock. "Two things: when I served you tea, your dominant hand was your left; you held the cup with your left hand." He gestured holding the tea. "But when I saw Richard Brook, he was clearly right-handed. He put his right hand out in defence, which means right is his dominant. That suggests that Richard Brook and James Moriarty are two separate people."
"Good," Moriarty lauded. "And the next?"
"My ride with 'Jim the Cabbie' was only a few hours before I met Richard Brook. When you were my cabbie, you were clean shaven. Hours later, Richard Brook had stubble. Despite the hair-growth products that exist, I know for a fact that none of them has the ability to grow a healthy stubble in a matter of hours. That also suggests two people. "
Moriarty smiled.
"Well done, Mr. Holmes. Really. Well done. I applaud you."
Sherlock smiled, but winced slightly as he remembered his wounds. Moriarty had noticed this again.
"So sorry, again, to have had you shot." For some reason, he emphasised "shot." Sherlock tilted his head. "Guns are a bit unoriginal, but they do get the job done. They kill very well." Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Especially with point-blank range. That's a guaranteed kill, if you know how to use a gun."
"What are you getting at?"
Moriarty's smile morphed into a grin once again.
"Don't worry, Sherlock, I'm not just trying to chat."
Sherlock looked at him for a second, but suddenly curled over in pain from his wounds. Moriarty suppressed a chuckle. Sherlock moaned as he tried to recover from the sharp resurgence of pain.
"I wouldn't count on being 'on speaking terms' with Dr. Watson at all, Sherlock. Check mate."
When Sherlock looked up again, the thin barrel of a handgun stared at him like an animal whose only instinct is to kill. Sherlock choked and staggered back in shock.
"I really hoped I wouldn't have to do this until you figured it all out," he said with a moue. Sherlock grasped his side and breathed agitatedly.
"Why are you doing this?!"
Moriarty's eyes glinted, but his grin vanished.
"I did say I would kill you some day. Do you take me for a man who doesn't keep his promises?" Sherlock tried to stand taller, but the pain was excessive. He involuntarily trembled.
"The skip code said my coming here would save an innocent life."
"Oh, we both know you're not completely innocent of everything. And I lied. You should expect your enemies to lie to you by now, Sherlock Holmes. You're slipping." He now had a crazed tone in his voice. He held the gun firmly in his hand. Sherlock breathed.
"I would've expected something more creative from you, James," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He clenched his side and struggled to keep his balance. Moriarty sneered down at him and laughed at Sherlock's attempt to stall him.
"It really is a pity you weren't able to figure out the whole truth. It was rather exciting watching you realise some of it." The sound of the gun being cocked echoed off the tile walls.
The door to the entrance of the building clanged open and the running footsteps of three people advanced towards the pool area. Moriarty smiled as his finger pulled the trigger. The middle of Sherlock's chest was ripped open by the bullet and he fell to his knees in agonising pain.
PART 17
He blacked out for a few seconds, then opened his eyes to Lestrade and two other men yelling and trying to lift him up from the ground. Moriarty was gone. The hole in his chest, though acute, sent excruciating pain coursing through his body like lightning. His vision and hearing faded in and out, but through it he heard Lestrade's voice.
"Who did this? Where is he?"
Sherlock was too weak to answer, but, before he blacked out again, he understood what Moriarty meant about figuring it all out. On the rooftop of St. Bart's, the day Sherlock died, the day John's world fell apart, the man who shot himself there held the gun in his left hand.
All was black.
PART 18
A dull, throbbing soreness crept through John's body like a deadly gas penetrating the air. His body felt like dead weight; it sank toward the mass of the earth with such gravity that trying to move seemed an insurmountable task, and the thought of it dragged it down even further. His eyelids seemed to be glued together.
He lay quietly, as he was unable to move, and listened to noises around him as though listening to sound under water. John didn't make any effort to try to make sense of the din. After what felt like hours, the heavy fog of deadweight dispersed and John struggled to open his eyes. When he finally could, he felt a hand suddenly around his. It was smaller, probably a woman's, but somewhat calloused, and with a ring around one finger.
His eyes slowly traveled up her arm and neck until they reached her face. His heart sank when he recognised her identity.
"John? John, it's me, Molly. Can you hear me? Can you say anything?"
John breathed in and squeezed her hand.
"Yeah. What happened? Why are you here? You look.. different." His voice was weak and barely intelligible.
"You don't remember? I- I'm not sure if I'm allowed to tell you. I'll ask the doctor- hold on."
John watched as Molly left his side to find his doctor. He shuddered: this wasn't the Molly he knew; this one was much older. Grey streaked through her brown hair and slight wrinkles skirted the corners of her eyes.
Molly reentered the room, this time with the doctor, a grave look on her face replacing the worry John had seen before. She approached the side of the bed as the doctor approached the foot. She made eye contact with the doctor, and he nodded.
"Four days ago, you were mugged and had a massive heart attack during. It's a miracle you're still alive, given your age, and they left you in the street even after they knew something was wrong. Someone called an ambulance, thank god. You're going to be okay, though. You are okay. You're awake now!"
John sat up a bit, with some difficulty.
"My age?"
Molly glanced at the doctor, the worry returning to her expression.
"Yeah, John. You're seventy six."
The doctor cut in, "Now, Dr. Watson, survival from a heart attack this massive for someone your age is unlikely, as Mrs. Baker said. The best thing for you now is to rest. You may experience some confusion, not all due to the heart attack, and any memory loss is most likely temporary."
Molly turned to him. "Most likely?"
"Mrs. Baker, there really is no reason to worry yet. He has done very well so far, and he is awake, which is exceptional."
John shifted his gaze to his arms. Instead of the leaden limbs he felt previously, they now resembled shrivelled apple cores. Age spots were sprinkled over the surface of his skin like stains. These were the arms of an old man.
John looked back up, sensing the two pairs of eyes on him. He met Molly's eyes.
"Where's Sherlock?"
Molly looked at him with a melancholy sadness as she realised who this man was. This was not John as he should be, but a confused old man.
"John, Sherlock's not here. He's.. he's been dead for over thirty years." Tears began to well in her tender eyes.
"But he came back." Molly shook her head. "I remember. He came back, Molly. He came back." His throat clogged with a painful confusion.
A tear slid down her cheek.
"No, John. I'm sorry. He never did."
"Was it from being shot? He was in the hospital, but he was recovering! He was getting better." His voice fell like a slinky down stairs as he remembered the second shooting.
"No... He was never shot- John, he jumped off St. Bart's. You were there. You saw him."
Now, John was even crying. Not a sob, but a single, lonely tear.
"I'm sorry," Molly said.