ONE
Content Guide
Genre: Mystery/Crime/Hurt/comfort/drama/Romance
Rating: TV-14/T/Guidance rating: For mild language, violence and some adult content.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Charles Howard (Made up), John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Sebastian, and Mycroft.
Synopsis: Post Reichenbach. Sherlock returns to London after two years of hiding and is expecting a few changes but is surprised to find that everyone, despite everything, has gone on with their lives. John is married to Mary, Molly is dating Charles and Lestrade has a new 'go-to' guy for his cases, Charles Howard, Molly's 'boyfriend'. Charles is, by far, just like Sherlock, a genius detective who actually works with everyone and is a 'good man'. They hate each other. Can Sherlock out-smart Charles on a new case which involves a murderer who likes clean shots through the head? Or will Sherlock be forever replaced by this new Consulting Detective 2.0?
Notes: Story will probably be around ten chapters or more. This will be sort of a Sherlock/Molly/Charles romantic triangle so if you're expecting some Johnlock love, I warn you it will be very platonic and friendly. Also, this my first attempt writing fanfiction but not my first attempt writing. Also, I'm not British (American) but I tried to sound English in my writing as best as I could. Hopefully, I got the characters down right, if not, any type of feedback on what I need to improve is accepted with open arms. :)
Also, I am aware this is a long chapter and if you guys want them shorter for your convenience, please let me know. All reviews/comments and stuff are very much appreciated. :)
None of the characters belong to me except Charles Howard who is made up. And I am not making money from this?
Chapter One
###
Ever get the feeling somebody's staring at you? That's how this man felt. The stranger standing next to him at the airport line check in was eying his key chain with an arched brow. The man smiled. "Home is where the heart is," he said, reading his key chain's quote.
The stranger lifted his chin, not particularly interested.
"Home is with my wife," the man added, turning the key around to reveal a picture of a young blonde woman holding a baby. "And my newborn son, Matthew."
"Hm, where's home if you don't have a heart?" the stranger asked.
The man was surprised by his thick accent. At first he wasn't sure what he had said. After a few seconds, he replied. "Well then, may god have mercy on those who don't have a heart."
The stranger cracked a smile. The two women at the check in called the men forward to examine their passports. The man handed his over and looked to his right. The other woman opened the stranger's passport, looked at it, and then perused the tall curly haired man who stood with his back straight, like a prideful lion.
"Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.
"The one and only," he answered, a one sided smiled playing on his lips.
###
"You don't have to do this, there are other ways. Please!"
The person in the dark had raised an arm, pointing the gun directly at the man's head as he stood in the corner of his room with his hands up, his eyebrows together, begging for mercy.
"There are no other ways," the figure in the dark answered.
His voice trembled. "There are."
"You should've just changed their minds. I'm sorry."
The trigger was pulled. The gunshot echoed through the halls of the loft and as easily as the perpetrator came in, vanished before the man's wife had the chance to open the door.
###
Sherlock stepped out of the taxi in front of 221B Baker Street and inhaled the familiar scent of London. It had been two years since the last time he stood before this building. He wondered what had changed and what had remained the same. He had a few theories but none which were conclusive. He wasn't a psychic, after all they didn't exist. Briskly, he dragged his suitcase up to the steps and knocked on the door.
It opened a few seconds later, revealing a Mrs. Hudson dressed in a purple dress with a large blue pendant around her neck. Trust some things to never change. He smiled as her eyes widened and she froze on the doorstep.
"Sher…lock?" she managed to croak.
"Mrs. Hudson. I've come to reclaim my loft," Sherlock answered. "I hope you haven't rented it out, actually, even if you did, just kick them out. I'll be needing a place to stay."
Mrs. Hudson, still shocked to see a dead man walking, blinked rapidly. "You're supposed to be dead, Sherlock…"
"No, not really." He shook his head, nonchalantly.
"But…how did you – they saw you fall, Sherlock!" She couldn't seem to stop saying his name, as if calling it out loud made the unbelievable more plausible.
He smiled. "Come on now, Mrs. Hudson. Did you really think I was dead?"
"Yes."
He frowned instantly. "Mrs. Hudson, it's quite cold outside." He sniffed and bucked his shoulders up like a child, hoping she'd let him in first.
Mrs. Hudson had spent a couple good years learning of Sherlock and his habits. She didn't ever once really think he was dead, the boy wouldn't have gone out like that; suicide wasn't Sherlock's style. Still eyeing him suspiciously, she held the door open for him.
"It's really you, Sherlock?"
"I could give you results to a DNA test to prove myself, but I doubt I'll need to go that far with you, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, it's me. The one and only, Sherlock Holmes." He grinned and followed the old lady.
"Well, that's a relief," she said climbing the stairs with a hand on her hip. "Your loft hasn't been rented out." Sherlock presumed it had gotten worse, her hip, and made a mental note to give her some of his 'medicine'. She unlocked the door once they reached the second level and allowed him in.
Sherlock stepped into the center of the living room and scanned the area. Everything had been left the way it had been before. His skull sat gingerly above the fireplace, the armchairs hadn't been moved, papers and books were left in their respective places, the dishes in the kitchen hadn't been touched, and it smelled like an attic that hadn't been opened in centuries. With a long thin finger, he swept the thick layer of dust off the desk and inspected it. Nothing had changed. At all.
"Care to explain why my loft hasn't been rented out?" Sherlock asked, turning around and facing Mrs. Hudson inquiringly. Mrs. Hudson wasn't one to keep a loft because she missed her tenant.
"All I can say is that an anonymous, generous person had been paying your rent with specific instructions to not touch it," she explained. "Honestly Sherlock, do you perhaps have a lover?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Mrs. Hudson." He took another glance at the wall with his yellow smiley face. The bullet holes still there. He wondered who was sentimental enough to pay for an unused, untouched flat.
"John?" he asked. He hadn't seen or kept tabs on John Watson in the last two years besides the day when he watched his best friend drop off flowers at his fake tombstone. He could've done so easily, keep tabs, even if he was considered a dead man, but he didn't.
"He moved out, not too long after your – um – death." She made a face as if she couldn't believe the words that were escaping her mouth.
Sherlock presumed that John was probably now living a very mundane life as he always wanted as a doctor. Knowing his salary, it was still a long shot John would pay for two flats. He was cheap. "I see…" He picked up a book and dusted it off.
"He's married now."
Sherlock paused and turned his head to Mrs. Hudson, narrowing his eyes. "Married?" John could barely keep a girlfriend for over a month, how had he managed to tie the knot? The news was enough for a look of surprise to cross Sherlock's face. Not many things could catch him off guard but this…this was interesting.
"She's a nice lady. Name's Mary."
"Mary," Sherlock muttered, unfazed and continued his assessment. "Mary and John…" He smirked thinking how much of a dull dove Mary must be to have married John Watson. He dropped the book he was holding and smiled. "I'd like my flat back now, Mrs. Hudson."
"I-I'll contact the anonymous renter and let 'em know," she said quickly.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, dear." She took a long hard look at the man. "It's good to know you're not dead, Sherlock. We were all very sad."
"I apologise for making you…sad, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be sure to make compensations."
Before she left, she approached Sherlock and gave him a large hug. He patted her back and then she turned around and left him alone, disappearing into her room.
Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile and began texting.
To: John Watson
When are you free? I have something to tell you.
SH
He put his mobile back into his pocket. Before he met John, there was still one more person he had to meet.
###
Molly pulled on her plastic gloves and observed the bullet wound in the cadaver's head with her small lips pressed together.
"Find anything interesting?"
Molly turned her head to look at Charles. She frowned and shook her head. Charles leaned against the counter with his arms across his defined chest. He was wearing a beige trench coat. His blonde hair was trimmed and styled neatly, showing off a fair forehead and a mole above his left eyebrow.
His liquid like green eyes scanned Molly up and down and he smiled. "When are you getting off?"
She smiled widely. "Early tonight. At seven." She pulled off her gloves and dropped them in the trash can, not wanting to see the carnal look Charles had on, she blushed despite her efforts.
Picking up a few documents, Molly turned but was caught off guard when the doors to the mortuary opened up. Sherlock walked in with his hands in his coat pocket, his scarf secured around his neck, and his curly hair brushing over his eyes just slightly. She dropped the documents onto the floor, papers spilled around her feet. She stared at him as he approached her, paying no attention to the Charles who had grown alert. Her concentration was solely on the tall slender man who didn't seem to have changed a fraction from the last time she saw him.
"S-Sherlock?" Molly stuttered, wide-eyed.
"Molly." He stopped a few steps in front of her and smiled at the dumbfounded expression she wore. He was having quite a bit of fun today with all the surprises. Perhaps he should fake his death more often. Molly Hooper was the one who helped him after his majestic swan dive off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital and he could've been a real dead man if it wasn't for her. However, she clearly never thought he'd come back after that day. He had just proved her wrong.
"Who's this?" Charles asked, stepping closer to Molly and leaning down to pick up the documents. "Friend of yours?"
Sherlock didn't waste a second to scan him.
Caucasian male, French decent based on the curvature of his nose, tall, possibly taller than Sherlock, and in his late thirties, not married but based on how he picked up the documents for Molly meant he had feelings for her in one way or another. Hm, wonderful. His beige trench coat, expensive brand, equaled the possible fact he made a decent amount of money, lawyer most likely, with a passion for fashion. His finely manicured fingernails and precision haircut showed he was someone who enjoyed keeping up personal hygiene and could be a possible narcissist or OCD, maybe both. Sherlock tried to find anything else, something more define and concrete about the man's personality but all he came up with was that this man, whoever he was, was cleaner than a bar of soap.
"Ah, yes, something like that," Molly answered after a minute. He handed her the documents and she flustered with them. "Butterfingers," she explained with a nervous laugh. "Thank you, Charles."
"No worries." He regarded Sherlock askew.
Molly blinked repeatedly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "This is, um…" She wasn't sure what to say.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock greeted, extending his hand because it was the rightfully social thing to do when one introduced himself to another.
"Sherlock Holmes? The dead guy?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows as if he was ridiculing him.
Sherlock face was stoic. "Unfortunately, I'm very much alive."
He blinked, confused. Molly looked back and forth at the both of them, not sure what to say in this circumstance.
"Charles Howard. Nice to meet you." He said, dropping the subject. "One day, you'll tell me your real name." He sounded sure of himself.
Sherlock looked away. This man was an idiot, then again, only idiots or evil consulting criminals would fall for Molly.
"I was wondering if I could speak to you, Molly. Alone, if that's alright."
"A-alone?" She looked at Charles as if she was asking for permission.
"Okay," Charles answered with a nod. "I'll just be out then. I should get back to work anyway. See you at seven?"
She nodded. "Thank you."
Charles glanced at Sherlock. "Don't keep my girlfriend too long." He said it in a way that was more serious than teasing.
So it wasn't just passing feelings, it was actually a relationship. Even more wonderful. "Oh don't worry, I doubt that's possible," Sherlock replied, forcing a smile.
Once the doors closed, the morgue was empty besides three bodies, one of which was more dead than Sherlock.
"Case?" he asked, observing the cadaver out of curiosity.
"Yes, second murder in the last two weeks. Clean gunshot through the cranium," Molly said. "Same as the other."
"Interesting…" Ideas were already flowing through Sherlock's mind and for a brief minute, he forgot Molly was even in the room.
"I didn't think you were going to come back," Molly whispered, hugging the documents to her chest and watching him with her large round eyes.
He glanced at her, realizing her existence. "Oh. Well, I did."
"Why?"
He thought before answering. "Home sweet home?" The answer didn't work for Molly. Of course, she was probably one of the few people who knew him best after John. "I got bored, obviously," he finally answered. "There's only so much a dead man can do without being found out that he isn't in fact, dead at all. Little cases to keep my brain simulated," he explained, pointing at his temple. "I flew to different countries when staying in one place became too dangerous or too tedious, using various aliases and cards with stolen social security numbers. After two years of roaming, I suppose I just got bored."
"Maybe you're just, um, tired?"
"Tired?" Sherlock asked, standing straight. "How can I be tired?"
Molly looked nervous, like a student who was unsure if her answer was right or wrong when called out upon. "Well, it just seems like, you know…" She breathed in deeply, gathering courage. "Sometimes I visit my home too, when I get tired of working postmortems and seeing all these dead bodies or when I go through a bad break-up. It's nice to come home."
He gave her a dubious stare. "But you thought I'd never come back."
"I was wrong."
"Obviously." He paused, staring at the dead cadaver and then turned back to her. "Thank you, Molly."
She blinked. "For what?"
"For helping me escape," he said. "I never said my thank you, did I?"
Molly gave a brief smile. "You were never one to follow such protocols."
Sherlock pushed his lips together and sighed through his nose. "You're right. All rather dreary things." He stepped in her direction and put his hands back into his coat pocket. "Your boyfriend is rather clean." He didn't want to talk about himself anymore.
Molly nodded. "He's like that, clean. But I think he's the one," she added. "I really do."
Sherlock squinted and lifted his chin, scanning Molly. She was rather clean herself but that was because she worked as a pathologist and not because her boyfriend had rubbed off on her. Her sense of fashion had increased slightly. Instead of those usual dreadful sweaters that always seemed to be a size too big, she had replaced them with more office-fitting clothing. He looked down and noticed she was wearing thigh-hugging black slacks with clean black shoes. She actually matched and that meant she was very serious about this Charles man. Her hair was side swept into a clean braid and the color of her lipstick was complimentary to what she was wearing. Molly also applied light make-up in which didn't stand out and didn't alter her appearance much. She was, apparently, trying very hard and she was passing.
"Is there anything you need?"
"Hm?" He didn't catch her question.
"Is there anything you need?" she repeated.
Sherlock turned and looked at the cadaver over his shoulder. "Right, is there a possibility this case might be worth my attention?" Sherlock needed something to keep himself busy. A good murder was a delightful place to start.
Molly scratched her head. "Perhaps. Scotland Yard hasn't got much information. It was all done very neatly with little to no evidence." Molly played with her hands. "Do you plan on contacting Lestrade?"
"Of course." He looked at her sideways.
"So you're…really coming back?"
"I'm already back."
"You're going to stay…right?"
"Should I?"
"Yes." She said it quickly, too quickly and caught herself. "I mean, I…missed you, I meant to say we missed you. Especially John…" She frowned but reformed her lips into a smile. "I'm glad you're back for whatever it's worth."
He stared at her from the corner of his eyes. Molly was mostly an open book and he could deduce she was completely over him and her stuttering was mainly from surprise and possible nostalgic emotions but otherwise, her heart was already with Charles. He supposed this was a good thing, being friends with Molly without having to continuously worry and consider her affections.
"Right." He turned to leave. "The lipstick – it suits you."
She smiled genuinely. "Charles picked it out for me."
Sherlock had already made up his mind about Charles. He was an idiot, like everyone else but if he could get Molly to change this much, perhaps there was something he was good at. Or he was gay and using Molly as a cover. Whatever the case, Sherlock was sure it wouldn't last long.
"You'll be seeing more of me," Sherlock called, pushing open the morgue door and strolling out.
###
John stared at his text as he walked through the cemetery. He tried to text back to the anonymous sender countless times but never received an answer. His heart felt heavy, his breathing constricted as he approached the tombstone. Sherlock's grave.
He stopped visiting Sherlock's grave when he married Mary last year. She was the only person who seemed to understand him and mended the wounds his best friend's departure left in its wake. The once single exception he made was to visit on the anniversary of his death…and when that time approached, he usually fell ill. Sick with sadness and worry but he believed, or at least a small part of him always did believe that Sherlock was alive. Maybe it was wishful thinking, telling himself over and over again that maybe the genius bastard had cheated death. John had seen his friend jump from the building with his own eyes, listened to his last words but the memory was still surreal, like a bad dream.
This morning he awoke to a strange text from 'SH', wishing to meet him and through those ten little words, he could hear Sherlock's real voice and he wanted to believe more than anything in the world that it was truly him.
As the gravesite came into view, he halted, his breath caught in his lungs. A man was standing in front of the tombstone with his hands in his coat pockets, his collar was propped up and untamed strings of curly hair flew in the crisp air. John felt like he had been dropped into a pit, immobile, scared to go closer and see a face he didn't want to see. John had witnessed his friends die and it tore him apart but he had never seen his friends come back to life…
As if his presence was noticed, the man turned halfway, revealing his face.
Sherlock.
John closed his eyes. Swallowed. Then opened them again and stared at him from the distance. He looked away, overcome with strange emotions. It was him…it really was Sherlock and John wasn't sure if he wanted to run over and pound the git senseless or embrace him for living.
After a few seconds, he gathered himself and approached Sherlock in a march. They stood a foot apart, staring each other down. John was angry and confused while Sherlock's expression was dripping with apathy.
"You're…alive."
"Good deduction, doctor," Sherlock replied almost instantly.
John hardened his jaw. There were so many questions he wanted to ask and he wasn't sure which one to ask first, whether he should say anything at all or just punch him across the face.
"Yes, it's really me and yes, I live. Please don't punch me, no matter how much you want to. How did I do it, fake my death? Well, a magician never reveals his secrets now does he, John? If I'm here, who's in the grave? A poor chap who no one would miss." Sherlock began answering each question as if he could read his mind. "Where have I been? All over the world. Why am I back? Because I'm bored with the world and London…is my home."
John clenched his fists. Leave it to Sherlock to have the most words in a conversation. "I'm…glad you're back then." He swung his left fist and punched his best friend.