Meet Me In Samarra
It is not so much that I hate Series Four. It is the fact that the episodes contravene and contradict the characters and psychologies the three earlier series of Sherlock established, and were loved for. And that the final series was off kilter and full of absurdities and plotholes large enough to drive a bus through. (And needs an S5 to correct…..)
I am sure a better and more believable version should be out there, but I have not yet found The Six Thatchers tackled as a whole in fan fiction. So I am having a go at putting this ' bit not good' episode as right as possible using devil-in-the-detail and prior context as the basis. Trusting that a more credible version of the story is in there if you look for it, written here as if with a new script edit and focus. So come along for the ride and we'll see where we go. And how we get there!
Why? Just because this episode seems a natural end to the trilogy after my two other long stories which improvised upon and expanded His Last Vow.
Some sub plot elements of TST will be ignored, others addressed and extended to round out the story and strive for something more credible and realistic. While plot references and OCs from my prequel stories Things We Lost In The Flames and it's sequel, The Magnussen Legacy. will feature for consistency and continuity.
Best to have read the other two for background and context, but not essential.
This version of The Six Thatchers is what it will become. In effect, a riff and a re-edit.
And so we pick up directly from where my last story finished….
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Meet Me In Samarra
Chapter 1
Don't get too close, it's dark inside. It's where my demons hide.
(Imagine Dragons, Alex Da Kid, Josh Mosher)
On an ordinary day, on an ordinary London street, working on a case that might seem very ordinary, but could be life changing, he stuttered to a halt, dragged in a deep breath and thought he might be having a heart attack.
This was not the adrenalin rush of a good case coming together. The feeling that swelled in his chest was choking him. His face twisted with sensation, and he gasped for air. Dizzy in some totally unfamiliar and unknown sensation, and rather terrifying.
He found himself clutching at both the dog lead he was holding and the metal garden railings he was standing beside to ground himself. Refusing - definitely refusing! - to clutch his chest like an old man having a heart attack.
The inside of his head felt light, offline, as if it going to explode, something airy and bubbling, blooming up his chest and into his brain. Something good? Not good? How could he tell? Within a sensation he had never experienced before?
For a moment he could not speak. Thought he might fall over. Resisted the impulse to make an unusual noise. Groan, whimper, growl? What?
Foolish. This was stupid, letting the transport dominate, something he had never, would never, allow. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Was he dying?
Shook his head to clear it, and so attracted the attention of the small blonde haired woman standing on the doorstep of a nearby house, frozen in the act of passing a baby from herself to a man who was clearly her partner, her other half, with that synchronicity of looks and physicality that marriage sometimes reveals.
He was short and compact too, with lightly greying blond hair and that worn, shabbily attractive look of so many people in their early Forties.
She looked over at the man who was not her partner, but still a man she looked at with what many might describe as love, and looked with a keen, assessing eye.
Paused and looked: really looked. Read him in a heartbeat - reads me? No-one reads me! No-one at all! Stop it! - and then smiled at him. A smile of rare sweetness, which spread from her eyes to her mouth, to the set of her shoulders. She relaxed softly into his gaze.
And when he frowned at her - that baffled little boy frown all about drawing his eyes in and forwards to concentrate, wrinkling his nose in worry - she almost laughed.
He had just told her how much he admired her knowledge and skills, loved her for it. Was that the reaction a little praise - No! Objective assessment! - engendered? Really? He should have known better ….but that feeling had overwhelmed him. Had been threatening to overwhelm him for months, he realised.
The slow careful smile she gave him blossomed into something deep and rich and genuine. A sparkling smile taking years from her mind as well as her eyes.
The man at her side noticed her change of focus from himself and the baby, turned his head and followed her warmly concentrated look. Seeing the target of her attention, his own composed features broke into a grin too.
And then they were all grinning at each other. Like children, not the damaged adults they were. Grinning like idiots. If they were young, and naïve, and whole, they would punch the air. But they were older than that. Had never been young. So instead they shared a grin that robbed his lungs of air and filled his heart beyond capacity with something…..
Not a heart attack, you fool! Something much more serious and debilitating.
Something you have never felt before. Happiness. Joy. And you are a fool to even recognise it, for recognising it and letting it in will corrupt your cold grey heart! Do you realise that? Do you?
How can you let this ….thing…. creep in and drown you, on an ordinary day in an ordinary street? Let humanity in and let it weaken you? Are you ill? How can you allow yourself to be loved, drawn in and accepted as part of a loving family? How?
Dangerous. Yes. Fatal. Foolish. So foolish. See what happens when that happens? You will have to pay for allowing this….this enfeebling fondness.
How could you - how did I - let this happen? Let emotion sneak through those high walls no-one else has breached? How can you bear it? Admit to it? Control it?
How to deny how this ordinary looking woman and this ordinary looking man - yet neither of them ordinary, not ordinary at all - have spotted your weaknesses, and see through you as if you are a child?
Love you despite that. Love you and their baby girl. Love. You.
You? Me.
Oh, please!
Hold in the panic. Scrabble back to safe and solid ground. Breathe and wait.
Keep smiling. Push it away.
No. Hold onto that bubble of love and life. It doesn't happen often. So don't panic. This weakness will not last long. It will pass. Feeling….admitting feeling …..is truly not allowed.
Only breaks in to soften you up. Before something awful happens to bring you back to your knees, that's how this works. How it has always worked. You know that.
Try being human. Then pay the price for such a failure, such human weakness? Oh, Christ, no.
He savagely dragged in a deep breath that seemed to bypass his brain, and filled his lungs with air that was fresh and pink and sparkling with bubbles and…wrong!
Pure bloody fairyland, you idiot. Get a grip. Control. Control….
He gasped. Stepped forward, wiped all expression from his face, gathered his imperious persona back around him like a coat, offered some theory about the case, and the engine was up and running again. Brain working, heart merely an exchange pump for blood and air, not an organ of dangerous and debilitating emotion.
Ah. Better. Much better.
All three of them felt it though. Marked it. Never referred to that moment again.
But for the rest of the day he could (awkward, ashamed, embarrassed, emasculated, hamstrung) feel Dr and Mrs Watson slipping sly little smiles and amused glances in his direction.
They know! They saw!
He ignored them, Their reaction, their humour. For that is what he does.
But for weeks and months afterwards, he too often recalled that surreal and surprising and totally unexpected moment of happiness.
A feeling, a moment out of time, that bubbled out of him despite himself - him! Him of all people - and enveloped them all, the two men, the woman and the child. The unit that was, for such a very short time, his family. The family of his heart, if not his genetic footprint.
It persisted, that feeling, as the only comfort he could find, all he had to hold onto, in the wasteland his life became.
Afterwards he clutched at the memory of that reality, that fragile and precious little bubble, like a drowning man to a lifebelt.
No he doesn't! No he can't!
No, I bloody well can't! Control, control!
o0o0o
Back in London, back from Aalburg, with the Magnussen case finally and totally ended, John Watson woke and walked and sat and fretted and wondered why Sherlock Holmes did not telephone or text him.
Standing back, giving time and space and recovery, it was two days before he himself tried to text, and his message pinged back to him as undeliverable.
Two days before he suddenly realised Sherlock Holmes' phone had been stamped into oblivion, back in Aalburg. And that the cheap burn phone that had been in his pocket afterwards had been claimed as police evidence.
Sherlock Holmes had no phone. No old SIM card. No contacts, no past.
"He's not got a phone!" he tried not to shout into his own mobile and failed miserably.
"Two days and he's still not got a phone. Is he ill?"
"John. Please be calm. A new mobile has been delivered to Baker Street. I am sure he will be back in contact shortly."
The words from the other end of the telephone held their usual asperity, but perhaps the tone was softer than usual. Was he imagining that? Some empathy left from their adventures in Denmark, the devastation of Appledore?
John Watson decided he was currently less cynical about that thought than normal, but still thought any such weakness from the British Government was an advantage to press home.
"How is he?"
"Fine. He's always fine. Catching up on sleep, apparently. According to Mrs Hudson."
"You haven't seen him?" There. The worry was back.
"Why would I?" A characteristic response.
A brief intense silence.
"Perhaps he might need you?" John Watson suggested on the mild edge of sarcasm.
"Or you?"
The reply bounced back like an arrow.
The tone of voice brooked no argument. There were reasons why Mycroft Holmes is the British Government, John Watson reflected. Changed the subject.
"Where do we go from here?"
"Onwards, ever onwards."
The words were arch and final.
Frustrated and determined not to lose his temper, John Watson simply put the telephone down and held it down. Mycroft Holmes did not ring back. John Watson knew he wouldn't. Too much like his younger brother
After five frozen moments he picked up the telephone again.
"Is Sherlock with you? Have you seen him?" he asked without preamble.
"Morning, John! Did you and Mary have a good Christmas with Sherlock's parents? Sherlock texted happy new year, said you were staying on for a few days….."
Molly Hooper's voice was bright, clear and without guile, and from the resonance through the speaker, he decided she was in the morgue attending to a body. Any body. As long as it was not Sherlock's body.
She did not know the truth about Appledore, he realised. About Denmark. About Sherlock's failed promise to go to Molly Hooper for STI testing. No surprise there, then.
"We've been back a couple of days. Sorry to bother you, Molly. I thought he'd said he would visit you yesterday…." He did not mention any need for blood tests. He did not mention Denmark." "….but I think I must have misheard him."
"Don't worry. You know what he's like. I bet he's had lots to do since he got home, I've never known him take a holiday. His mum and dad must have been so pleased."
She was cheerful and open, frighteningly normal. Herself. He would have known if she was lying. Molly did not lie well. Unless it was about something important. About things like knowing when people weren't really dead, or even not dead at all..
"What are they like?"
"Oh, you know. Charming. Polite. Refreshingly ordinary."
"Are you sure they're Sherlock's then?" she asked with a giggle.
He laughed back at her. Exchanged a few more pleasantries, and put the telephone down.
Tried again.
"'Morning, Mrs Hudson. How are you?"
"Very well, thank you John. This dry crisp weather is good for my hip. How's Mary? Any sign of that baby yet?"
"Not yet. Still a couple if weeks to go. Don't worry, we'll let you know when anything happens."
He smiled into the telephone at her. Potential great aunt by adoption? Granny substitute by proxy? Godmother, even?
"I should think so! Give Mary my love!"
"Of course! Mrs Hudson….." he hesitated now, careful. Martha Hudson was too astute sometimes. "Is Sherlock there?"
"Yes, of course. Where else would he be?"
Deep breath.
Just ask it. Just ask.
"How is he?"
There was a pause that was both brief and too long.
"What's going on, John? I've had Mycroft on the phone asking the very same thing."
"Oh, you know..." he prevaricated. "He broke his phone, so we can't ask him direct."
"No. I don't know," she determined. "Sherlock without a phone? I don't think so. Everything is just not right. First the boys go to their parents for Christmas, when they never do that. And with guests, when they would never normally invite - sorry, John, but you know what I mean.
"Then Sherlock disappears. Reappears, and clearly something is wrong. Says he is giving up the flat, going away, hands back the keys. He is not just saying goodbye, he is saying farewell…..
"Then he's back. The very next day, Graffiti on the sitting room wall he hasn't written. Another bloody Magnussen appears, not a good sign. Then you all disappear.
"I don't know if Sherlock is coming or going. If I'm coming or going! And every time he's been home he's looked more wretched. What's going on?"
"Nothing, I promise, Mrs Hudson. It's been a bit mad, the last couple of weeks, I'll grant you, but…"
"Pat-the-old-lady-on-the-head time, is it, John?" She clicked her tongue. "Well, I've let off some steam. I won't mention it again. I'm only your landlady after all."
"I think you're entitled…." he managed to mutter. Ignored her mistake. In her heart as well as her head, she still felt he lived there, even three years on. That he had never really left.
Don't think about that. Just don't.
"You want to know about him." She sighed. "Yes, he's here. Davy Gallagher came to fetch him yesterday but he'd put a note on the door saying he had changed his mind. Davy didn't seem worried, told me not to worry either. Said Sherlock just needed rest.
"He's been resting. Taken to his bed."
"The last few days away he was complaining how tired he was…." John Watson confirmed, and felt a pang of concern.
"I check him morning and evening, as always. Take up tea and toast."
" You're a treasure. Does he eat and drink?"
She did not answer directly.
"He hunkers down like this sometimes, you know that. When pushed beyond endurance. I'll give him another day before I start shouting at him."
John Watson heard himself laugh, despite his fears. Yes, he knew about that.
"Has he got up and dressed?"
"No. Just lying there."
"OK. When you speak to him next, tell him I called to say hello. Let me know when he comes out of hibernation."
"Tell him yourself," she said gently, and put the telephone down.
Before he could call anyone else, it rang under his hand. And he snatched it up again, taken by surprise.
"Hello, John. What's occurring? Where's Sherlock?"
"Morning Greg. He's at Baker Street. His phone's bust."
"Ah, that explains it. I was getting worried…." his voice trailed away.
"Any messages?" John Watson asked on a sigh.
"Yeah. Tell him the Ghanian has been moved to I-know-not-where by I-know-not-who. Forces beyond the Met, anyway. He's part of a major new case, apparently. MI5 MI6, European peace keeping forces. Know anything about it?"
"About as much as you, I guess."
"Yeah? Well, tell him when you see him, would you? "
And he was gone.
John Watson sat and pondered. Not happy with his thoughts.
Just lying there…
"Have you spoken to him? Is he OK?"
Mary Watson brought him back to reality and put a cooked breakfast down in front of him and waited for her answer.
"No. Still no phone." Levelly. Then, hesitantly: "I'm not sure."
He looked up and forced a smile onto his face.
"No, he's fine. Of course he's fine. This looks a smashing breakfast. You spoil me!"
"You deserve it."
And he put a kiss to her cheek as she bent to ruffle his hair.
o0o0o
His first day back at work after Christmas had been a late shift, and he had busked hs way through it feeling unreal, disjointed, distanced.
Just days ago he had been on his hands and knees saving the life of a stab victim. Rampaging through corridors with Piet Bruhl at his side, shooting a villain dead with no hesitation or regret. Riding shotgun and playing backup to a more damaged and demonic Sherlock Holmes than he had ever seen before.
And now - here he was discussing sore throats and sciatica, making the big life decision of whether to drink real or decaffeinated coffee, making small talk and sick of smiling politely. Wanting to scream and shout Do something more bloody useful…!
He could feel even his thoughts sounded hysterical.
Three days back at Sherlock's side in what had felt like hyper space, and all the lights inside had immediately switched back on: guns and stress and running and blood pumping. Life and death and decision very different to the life and death and decisions within the sterile objective and so very safe environment of a medical surgery.
He had felt the adrenaline in him rise and hit and dissipate. He had felt the results of his decisions. He had felt the tug of excitement that was nothing at all like the humdrum responsibilities of his real life. Or, rather, his new reality.
And he had felt that pang of wishing for the past. For his life to be as it had been. And he had pushed all that down to concentrate on being doctor and husband and potential father.
And yet two resolute days later he was still worrying about Sherlock Holmes. Again. And he knew - despite himself, despite knowing Mycroft was always near, that Mrs Hudson was watching, that Lestrade and Molly Hooper were waiting - he knew he had to do something. See for himself.
o0o0o
The house was in darkness. Silence. Mrs Hudson's weekly evening spent next door with Mrs Turner, was it? He had put the small routines of the house out of his mind three years ago, when he had left it. He remembered that they happened - bin day, Mrs Turner evenings, rental payments - but the details had been lost to him long ago.
They didn't matter any more. Only one thing mattered.
He closed the front door softly behind him. Looked up the seventeen stairs towards 221B. No light, no sound, came from above. Stepped softly up the stairs. Pushed open the sitting room door.
The curtains to both windows were drawn, and the still soft air of the room had a feeling of having been closed in all day, or days. Perhaps since the moment Sherlock had arrived home.
He stepped forward to switch on the table lamp by his old chair, and the edges of the room came into view, dark pooled shapes of familiar furniture. The violin case seemed to be exactly where he had seen it last - untouched then - as were the three laptops, lids closed, on the old G-Plan dining table that served as a desk between the front windows.
A small pile of mail sat neatly in the centre of the coffee table, unopened, skewered by the Toledo dagger with the blue enamelled hilt that had been Mary's birthday present, the bubble wrap, string and brown paper that had enclosed it still crumpled alongside.
Also on the table was an unopened rectangular box containing a new mobile smart phone; top of the line and ultra expensive. Mycroft had been as good as his word, then. It was just the recipient who had not made the step to reconnect himself to the world.
But no slim body slumped in the grey Bauhaus chair, no pale angularity filled the old leather sofa. Nor did a hunched figure brood over experiments at the kitchen table.
Bedroom then.
The door was not locked, and John Watson opened it softly. And something indefinable, something of fear and trepidation, leapt in his heart and was throttled at birth before it rose into his throat.
Sherlock Holmes was in his bed, lying on his side and facing the door, and so deeply asleep it had seemed to John Watson for one manic moment he was not breathing.
A grey duvet was pulled up (pushed down?) to his waist. Both face and torso were naked in sleep and the slanted critical light showed all the damage, all the surface repairs old and new that made John Watson wince. Yet it was the all too human auburn stubble on his face and the pale, concave chest with it's central puckered scar that made the consulting detective look young, and vulnerable, and very alone.
As did the shallow lines of fresh cuts that had been closed with superglue. Trauma receding. Recovery was coming, but still being negotiated.
The eyes were closed, blue veins showing on the eyelids with those ridiculous long feminine lashes lying still on gaunt cheekbones, the querulous mouth unusually relaxed, and open a little in sleep.
"Sherlock?" he said softly, hoping his friend would wake. Moving closer he could now see the broken knuckles of the loosely curled right hand, and three bruises with pinprick blood points on the inside of the outflung left arm that had not been there three days ago. Needle marks.
John Watson groaned with an old despair, sat heavily down on the little chair by the bed and felt sick and very tired.
"Sherlock you are an utter bloody fool and I haven't a clue what to do with you." He huffed out a breath and resisted the temptation to haul the younger man awake and aware and smack him until he apologised for retreating again, resorting to drugs again, for not being safe to leave alone for five minutes again…..
"I knew I shouldn't have let you leave the other night. Knew I should have kept you with us, kept you safe. Couldn't you sleep? Not after everything that has happened? Couldn't you stop that rocket brain of yours, let it settle quietly on the launching pad and just stop for a change? Just turn it off like anyone else?
"Or was it all just too bloody much? With no-one to help you or to talk to? You are a total prat."
He sat and watched the motionless man for a few more moments, then made a decision. Left the room and fetched a glass of water, a blister pack of paracetamol and put them on the campaign chest by the bed. Sherlock would need those to hand sooner or later.
He stood back and looked. Made an exasperated sound in his throat and pulled the duvet up to Sherlock Holmes' shoulders.
"Just stay there and sleep. Sleep is good for you. If you are sleeping? Are you asleep, Sherlock?"
No reaction. No change in the reduced breathing pattern or in muscle tension. No flicker of the eyelids.
"How can you be the best and the bravest and the wisest man I know and yet you do this to yourself? How? Break this pattern, Sherlock. You are too good for this, and I am too stupid to know how to stop you…."
He stopped talking and ravaged his hands through his hair in impotent despair. Then made the decision to fetch a cup of tea, to leave it by the bed, in case Sherlock Holmes woke in the next few minutes.
But when he went to the refrigerator, it was empty. No milk, no fruit or vegetables, nothing else to drink or to eat. Empty and switched off since the tenant had left before Christmas and never switched on or stocked up since, he realised.
Just the offer of tea and toast twice a day….and no other input.
He was struck by a terrible sense of abandonment and aloneness on his friend's behalf.
He left the kitchen and stood in the doorway of the bedroom, hands on hips, Gave a short angry sigh of frustration.
"I'll be back," he said into the air, to a man in sleep or coma and who could not hear him..
Hand on the door of 221B, he cast a look back. Nothing had changed within the bedroom, there was no movement. And he was overcome once again with a sense of waste and of sadness.
Only after he had turned away did opalescent eyes open and watch him leave.
o0o0o
George Bradshaw punched the switch to close the electric gates of the main entrance and then opened the front door of the elegant modernist house just beyond Hampstead Heath.
"Sherlock Holmes for Lady Smallwood," said the visitor. Formal, expressionless baritone voice. "I am expected."
Dark overcoat with the collar flipped high. Blue cashmere scarf and overlong dark hair concealing expression. Hands fisted deep into pockets. Shoulders harsh and unyielding.
George Bradshaw responded in kind.
"Indeed, sir. Welcome to Fineshades. Please follow me."
He led the way to the formal dining room, even though he was well aware the guest knew the house and would have preferred to go alone. Refrained from making conversation. Even though he had known this younger man since he was eight years old; had taught and rescued and soothed and healed him. Had last spoken to him only three days ago.
He rapped lightly on the walnut door, waited for the voice from within to grant permission to enter, opened it and ushered Sherlock Holmes inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
The slim elegant woman seated at the head of the Finn Juhl dining table had an open briefcase and papers in front of her, but looked up when he entered, silently watched him halt a formally correct six paces from her to stand square, clasping his hands behind him at parade rest, expression unreadable.
Immaculate as ever, she observed. The usual uniform as armour. Clean, contained and cool. The visible damage to the face receding now. The enigma almost restored.
"How are you?" she asked without greeting or preamble.
"Fine. Thank you for asking." The tone was so neutral as to sound sullen.
"Colonel Bruhl and your brother have given reports on the events in Aalburg. Try again."
"Fine. Thank you for asking," he repeated. Then added with something that was almost insolence: "Lady Smallwood."
"Hmn. Like that is it?"
"No idea what you are talking about, Elizabeth."
She looked at him and he met her eyes with very deliberate blankness.
"You have just treated George like a stranger."
"Really." The single word was as uninformative as it was unyielding.
She tried again. Tried not to be seen looking at the damage he carried, or assessing his quality.
"Have you slept? Eaten? Been….." she had trouble finding the right phrase. "attended to?"
"Yes,"
"Had hoped you would be more communicative."
"Indeed? Then I shall confirm the Magnussen situation you commissioned me to resolve is finally over. Utterly. Over." He rose a little on the balls of his feet. Poised, arch, firm "It cannot touch you, or Jack's memory, ever again. No more problems for Ellie or Fredrik or Ari. All blackmail threats over. All the Magnussen empires destroyed."
"Thanks to you."
"I had help."
"Your investigation. Your plan. Your collateral damage."
He watched with silent and merciless intensity as her mouth twisted, as she swallowed back words she wanted to say, concern she wanted to express. He was in no mood to hear that, or help her say it.
"You commissioned me to solve the Magnussen problem. I have done so," he pointed out. "You paid me. Jack paid me. End of."
"It turned out more extensive than anyone expected. Wider repercussions."
"We were lucky."
"You call what happened to you lucky? "
"I had calculated for that eventuality. All of it, in the final analysis. Attack, torture and rape proved essential for process and end result. Nothing more nor less."
"Hmn." The small noise in her throat told him she did not believe him, but would - for his sake as well as her own - accept that statement at face value. For now.
She pushed the paperwork away and looked up at him. Stood to face him.
"I do have news for you. I prefer to tell you myself - here, privately and informally - rather than leave it to your brother so your filial connection does not undervalue or minimise what I am about to say."
There was the tiniest frown between the eyes and then it was gone, the impassive mask back in place. "Go ahead."
"Three weeks ago you killed Charles Augustus Magnussen in cold blood. In response to that act, the speed with which this rare and unusual thing has been expedited is a reflection of the importance of Magnussen's death.
"The depths of information and criminality which have been revealed by his paperwork is proving remarkable. And of great assistance to national security. None of this would have been revealed if you had not shot him."
He watched her with a blank sort of fierceness, but did not speak
"And by also bringing his brother to book and revealing a linked wide spread crime and human trafficking organisation you have done the world a great deal of good."
"Hyperbole," was the rigid reply.
"True nevertheless," she snapped. "Live with it, and now listen to me."
His head went back as if he had been struck. His grey wide eyes met hers again.
"To achieve clemency for murder is very rare," she explained sternly. "A pardon is a government decision and prerogative via the Secretary of State and the Parliamentary Intelligence and Security Committee. It is dependent upon that illicit act, that most extreme act - murder in this case - being greater, in balance, as a more positive action for national security or human safety, than the illegal act itself.
"Clemency can be extended if the guilty party is considered to have paid his debt to society in absolution of that act. So you killed one Magnussen and revealed his secrets, then exposed the other Magnussen."
"You told Mycroft," his voice was calm and without inflexion. "You told your sub-committee which agreed the public version of what happened at Appledore - that I was off the hook; that a pardon was not needed."
His memory of that meeting in a darkened and secret committee room beneath Whitehall was total and unrelenting, despite his act of being high, of being over the top and beyond help; of pretending to be careless and tweeting, heartless and preferring ginger biscuits to explanation.
He had calculated only too well the disapproval behind everyone's eyes. Everyone's -except that of the woman before him. Who had chaired and steered the meeting and instructed that behaviour from him.
"Of course I did. But we know that is not exactly true, don't we? We had to clear up the mess and tidy it away as quickly and efficiently as possible. Invent a less particular truth that would be just as unpalatable but more acceptable, to those who needed to know. Even your brother.
"But the reality, the real truth, is known where it matters. So your formal pardon was deemed essential. But," she added firmly. "It is considered you have already met all terms for clemency and restitution by your actions since release from solitary confinement.
"And the application for your Royal Prerogative Of Mercy was approved at the highest level in the land and is subsequently going forward. Do you understand what I am saying?"
She watched him swallow hard and drop his head. She knew how much this would have preyed on his mind.
"Yes," he said briefly. "Thank you. And thank her."
"Thank you," she returned. "The lady is very astute, and appreciates all you have done. You cooperated on the public version of events we manufactured to explain Magnussen's death. You sacrificed acclaim, as well as truth, for the greater good.
"And your act of being high before the security sub committee could not have been better. Or more convincing. Made them want to wash their hands of you, and the situation, as fast as possible."
He nodded.
"The ginger nuts were a lovely touch," she added, allowing a smile to escape. " And the way you managed to thoroughly piss off and wrong foot your brother was delightfully convincing. And rather artistic."
He grinned back at her.
"My pleasure."
She knew he meant that, and it killed her smile.
"But we must press on, Sherlock. What is your current situation? With the work? With your colleagues?"
"I continue as before. Naturally. Consultant to Scotland Yard and privately. A consulting detective is what I am. But I now have my own connection with the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe, with Danish police and military forces. We may all benefit from that."
"Nor forgetting your especial connection to MI5 and 6," she added primly. "For the record."
"Good job this is an off the record debriefing, then."
He nodded, said no more. Between herself and his brother he had a purity of connection at the very highest level, and his reluctance to mention that was both deliberately diplomatic as much as his own natural reserve, she knew.
"And what of your personal connections? Colonel Bruhl? The Watsons?"
"Captain Watson and Colonel Bruhl make an efficient team. Unexpected allies but not unwelcome."
"And Mrs Watson?"
He looked at Elizabeth Smallwood for a long time before he spoke. Knew, even more than she, the importance of what seemed such a simple question. And the importance of his answer to it.
"Her child is due within the next three weeks, and seems genuinely desired," he offered calmly. "I would not presume to predict how this maternal feeling will affect her in the future."
"You are telling me you trust her? Have empathy and have forgiven her for almost killing you?"
Her voice rose in tone a little; exposed both her disbelief and her evaluation of his opinion of the importance of Mary Morstan.
"She is a professional," he said coolly." She regrets shooting me and acknowledges her mistake. Her main intent was to protect her new husband. I appreciate that. Her husband is our connection in common. It will uniquely constrain her."
"Indeed so. But how long will it constrain her? Before her true personality emerges?"
He drew in a long slow breath and considered her questions, questions he recognised with dismay, but had known were coming, needed facing. Questions he had long forced outside the walls and corridors of his Mind Palace.
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Of course you do! You read her AGRA file. But I understand Doctor Watson did not? Is that really the case?"
"Yes. He chose to exercise faith. Love, loyalty, all that sentimental rubbish.. I prefer to exercise truth and knowledge, however. He did not know I had read it before whichever one of them flung it to the back of a fire and destroyed it. A Christmas present of sorts, one to the other, I imagine. A sign of new and mutual trust. Sweet," he added with something like scorn. And deep distaste.
"You read it and copied it." Statement, not question.
"Of course I did! One of us had to know the truth. The woman is an assassin." The imperious iron self control wavered for a breath. He bent his head. Realised he had to give her something, however reluctantly.
"As distasteful as I may find it," he continued reluctantly, "They really do appear to be in a state of what is known as being in love. It weakens them both because they are both trying to appear better than they are to each other. And appear normal, whatever that may be, in their terms.
"Neither are normal. Both are exceptional professionals. Complimentary, but different. They seem reluctant to admit to each other that they are both professionals; trained killers as well as trained health professionals. You may understand their mutual conflicts."
"So what is your assessment? Knowing both better than anyone else?"
"Watson is tough and resilient. Reliable and committed Moral, though. Sometimes more doctor than soldier. His Achilles heel.
"Morstan is in a different league. Tough and objective, very sharp. She sees the bigger picture. More intelligent, less emotional than her husband, although she hides it well. Not averse to killing or being killed.
"Unusual for a woman. However much becoming a mother changes her - permanently or pro temps - is something I cannot as yet predict. The complication of a child is something we could do without, but it is what it is. It will be dealt with when it happens." He shrugged, off hand in his judgement. "But I assume her true nature will eventually assert itself. Child or no child."
" You sound as if you admire her, understand her, even. Are you really telling me you have forgiven her for killing you?"
"There are worse things." He shot her a level look from under his brows. "Presenting forgiveness keeps me close. To react fast."
"So. If you are operating a policy of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, what does this say about your relationship with the doctor?"
"It has nothing to do with it. My relationship with the doctor is immaterial, and, in the final analysis, unimportant. Useful, certainly, possibly a complication to overcome." He folded a hand over his face as if in exhaustion to stop a fleeting reaction there being seen or read. "Who knows?"
She looked at him sharply then, realised she had missed something…..
"With Morstan's background, latterly as a black ops freelance," he continued remorselessly, "part of a tough team and the only female: odds are statistically against her taking to domesticity. Or even allowed to by outside factors. Magnussen was just such an outside factor. Logic says there must be others."
"Yes. I agree."
"There is also the additional pressure of her final mission being a failure. It keeps her….looking over her shoulder, waiting for something. The Tblisi incident killed her career - and her team - stone dead. An itch that will need scratching."
"You are not supposed to know about Tblisi. It is a very well kept secret."
"And so it should be," he agreed. "For a siege to occur at such a high risk embassy, and for the ambassador-without-portfolio to be taken; for several rescue attempts to fail, and the final Morstan led one to fail so demonstrably - a contracted last-ditch mission without proper resolution and final debrief…." he broke off and shook his head. "Loose ends. They always flap noisily in the wind. Not good."
"Don't tell me what I already know. The repercussions from that still….echo."
"For you, certainly. For her, especially. Unfinished business rankles."
"You expect her past to get up and bite her?"
"Law of averages. Very few former assassins die peacefully in their beds. She knows this as well as we do."
"So we should expect ….something?"
"To not expect something would be naive. And you have just said repercussions from Tblisi still echo. What did you mean by that?"
She looked away and he watched her think. The thought process took too long, and he felt a shaft of…something. A vague niggle turned over and grew. Instinct fired in the back of his brain. An alarm call.
An instinct he should resist, kill at birth. Kill and walk away from. Kill and walk away from now, before it killed him.
But he was Sherlock Holmes. And he could not do that. He owed John Watson his life, and had made of a public vow of loyalty and protection. To John, to his wife, and to their unborn child. He had to protect them. He had made a vow. His last vow.
She looked on as those cold grey eyes snapped fiercely inward, registered the sudden electricity within him. And she also knew as much as he did that he could not walk away from the danger or the debt he owed and was still repaying. Which was why she hesitated.
"Tell me, Elizabeth. You owe me that, at the very least."
"Nothing to tell you." She tilted her head, dismissive, knowing he was neither satisfied with that answer, nor believed it. "Nothing solid," she conceded, gently angling for his interest whilst appearing not to. "Just whispers."
"Someone out there - we don't know who - is asking about the Tblisi failure. Bizarrely, in connection with Margaret Thatcher. Which doesn't make sense. She was long gone from the political scene by then; nothing she could have done, even if she had been mentally capable at that point, which is debatable. So why start digging now? With nothing to trigger it?
"That's what I mean about nothing solid. Questions about Tblisi? Now, and linking to Thatcher? Nothing make sense."
"No smoke without fire, especially in the security business," he responded automatically. "Or you wouldn't be telling me."
He inhaled, long and slow, and looked at her all the while. He could feel his concentration sharpening, instincts firing.
This was a game changer, he realised. This would negate everything he had said to John Watson the evening before. This would throw him back into action, and into a past that was not his own. Which was always dangerous.
"Are we talking about a lone wolf mission? A wild guess from other mercenaries after a commission? A rogue male? An investigative journalist? Moriarty?"
She met his look for a long moment, then shrugged.
"Don't ask. Because I don't know. This is not your problem. And you don't look fit enough to take the skin off a rice pudding. If you were my employee I would send you for rest and recuperation."
"Pointless remark."
"I know. But I still have to make it. Morstan is neither your guilt nor your responsibility."
"So you say."
Fire flashed behind her eyes, despite the offhand denial, and she concealed that satisfaction from him. She both welcomed his apparently off-hand response yet was appalled by the unspoken commitment of it. By what she recognised as the professional callousness of her own manipulation of him. Highlighting a whisper barely yet heard. And twisting it in the heart he denied having, while he was still weak and, hopefully, a little emotional. Open to influence and inference and interference.
"Don't let her lead you into trouble," she counselled.
"Too late for that remark, don't you think?"
"I'm sorry," she said, and the words were genuine as he reacted and confirmed her instincts. "But she may be a target. And if she turns in self defence….I can't stop you doing whatever you may feel you need to do, can I?"
The personal was at war with the professional behind her impassive exterior. But she had a job to do. And a way to play it. "Just a whisper, Sherlock. But a whisper that niggles. A little warning. That's all."
" All? You have given me a watching brief, Elizabeth." He sighed and half turned, looked away. Muttered, low and pained. "And you have no idea what you are asking of me."
But she chose not to hear those words. Because she wasn't asking him. She didn't need to. His conscientiousness and his loyalty would take him where asking him could not. As they both knew.
She met his eyes then; guarded, decisive, computing already. Hers were sad, resigned, with an element of guilt. But they were in accord now, as much as anyone could be in accord with Sherlock Holmes. This was them. Dancing the dance they both knew too well.
And so she nodded. Swept her papers into the briefcase.
"Stay for supper. Tell me about Denmark. I've never been….."
o0o0o
Twenty minutes. That was all it took for John Watson to hurry to the nearest Tesco and stagger back with two carrier bags full of groceries.
He pushed the door of 221B open with his shoulder, looked up. Dropped the bags in the doorway and tried to think what he should say and feel.
Sherlock Holmes stood by the fireplace, adjusting his shirt and jacket before the mirror. Showered, shaved, smartly dressed. The armour firmly back in place.
He looked up and met John Watson's eyes through the mirror.
"John." An acknowledgement this time, at least. "What are you doing back here.?"
"Someone has to make sure you have food to eat."
"Mrs Hudson…." a dismissive hand waved vaguely.
"Is not your housekeeper," the doctor pointed out, passing into the kitchen to put everything away.
He was placing milk, butter, cold meat and cheese in the refrigerator when he felt Sherlock Holmes come up behind him and stand very close.
"This must stop," he said, voice quiet but firm.
"What must stop?" John Watson, concentrating on such a mundane task, turned with simple enquiry and little concentration.
"This. You. Looking after me."
"Why? It's what I've always done…."
"No longer. I am not a child. You have your new life, responsibilities. A wife to look after and - very soon - a baby."
"Yeah, think I know that. So what's the big deal?" John Watson was almost relaxed; he had heard this before.
"Needed pointing out."
"Noted."
"Go home to your wife, John. Prepare to be ordinary." Sherlock Holmes took out his wallet, flung two twenty pound notes onto the kitchen table.
"What's that for?"
"I owe you. Shopping. "
"Only for shopping. And not forty quid's worth."
"Whatever. I just owe you."
He shrugged and turned away.
"Wait…." John Watson caught an arm, stopped the movement.
"You asked me - just now - what I was doing back here. Were you actually awake when I was here before? Did you hear me talk to you? And just ignored me?"
"No idea what you're talking about."
"No idea what those needle marks are doing on your arm either, I suppose? After you had promised me. Promised me you would never…."
"Oh, be your age. I couldn't sleep. Not your problem any longer."
The admission and the declaration almost broke John Watson's heart but did not surprise him.
"You overdosed and almost died on that plane three weeks ago," he said as gently as possible. "You could have overdosed and died today."
"You exaggerate."
" No. Remember I saved your life only five days ago."
"I saved my life five days ago. You were supposed to stay here. Safe. I made a vow John. Me to protect you. Not the other way round. Not any longer."
"It doesn't work like that, Sherlock."
"It does, It will."
"No, Listen. Listen to me."
He closed the fridge door and stepped closer into Sherlock Holmes's personal space.
"Things are different now, Sherlock. Mary and me are going to be parents. Grown ups. Mad as that seems. But I'm still here for you. You know that, don't you? Holmes and Watson, consulting detectives…."
"No, no longer. Must I point out how your life and Mary's must change? Embrace dull and boring. Best for you. And the child." The sneer was not unexpected, but still upsetting.
"….Shut up! Just…." John Watson felt old and sad, and somewhat desperate. "It's not just about us, you prat. You are part of our family. Grow with us. Be Uncle Sherlock. Happy for us."
Sherlock Holmes stepped back, face twisting.
"There is no such thing as happy, you know that. Happy is an illusion. All that concerns me is your safety. I don't want to be part of your family. I don't want to be Uncle Sherlock."
"You don't have the choice. This isn't about you denying other people, this is about other people loving you. Mary and me, that is." His friend's voice was throttled with unbidden emotion.
"Oh, please! Cheap sentiment makes me vomit."
"No!" John Watson grabbed him by the biceps and shook him. Hard. "Truth. You are such a prat sometimes…." his voice was exasperated. "Such a genius, yet such a prat." He shook his head and looked up into the hard silver stare he knew so well.
"Thank you. Finished your little speech?"
"No. This is simple stuff, Sherlock, even for you. Not dying, not jumping off roofs, not rape or murder. Just the simplest and strongest thing of all….loving and being loved."
"Ridiculous."
"Why? This is what real life is about, Sherlock. Relationships, Friends. All worthwhile and normal. So why the fuck not?"
"Can't. Don't want it. Don't know how!" His head rose, challenging, denying the disappointment in his friend's eyes. "Satisfied? Amused? And before you …. " He glared, angry, vulnerable, oddly lost. " I don't want to learn. And I won't."
The air between them was electric with their different angers. Both forcibly bit back words that would have been hurtful to the other. Breath hissed. John Watson was the one to consciously relax his shoulders, manufacture a smile before saying mildly:
"We are not going to argue just so you can win this one. I actually came round to invite you to supper the day after tomorrow. Mary asked me to ask you."
"No." The answer was instant.
"Don't take your temper out on Mary. She is your friend."
"My friend? She shot me. Remember that, do you?" The acid in his voice would have blistered paint. Or skin. John Watson's skin.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock Holmes spoke first.
"Enough. I have an appointment. Close the door behind you when you leave."
The tone of voice accepted no argument. And he was gone in a cold sweep of coat. The door slammed shut behind him, and it's vibrations echoed around the room long afterwards.
John Watson finally exhaled.
o0o0o
"That red coat is an offence to the eye."
"Shut up, you. It's the only one that still fits me."
Mary Watson stood on the threshold of 221B, grinned up at him and punched him on the arm in mock offence. Amused at the perplexed little-boy frown that caused.
She rested one hand over the enormous baby bump she carried before her, put the other onto Sherlock Holmes' raised arm, which still held the door only half open, barring her way.
"What do you want? Has John sent you? 'Soft talk Sherlock for me, Mary. He won't take any notice of me,'" The mimicry was perfect, but she refused to compliment or be deflected.
"Stop it," she ordered. "Let me in so I can at least sit down and have a rest from carting this baby elephant around."
She grinned again, and after a split second of resistance he lifted his arm so she could pass in front of him. Watched her cross to stand before the fireplace, take the point of command within the room, turn and look at him.
"So this is the elephant in the room now, is it? Baby Watson?"
His voice was icy, and he did not move from the door, and nor did he shut it. Simply waited.
"Don't be obtuse. It doesn't suit you. And don't try to insult me, either." She stood square and challenged him. Mary Morstan. Not Mary Watson.
"You wouldn't take any notice of John, but you will take notice of me. This is my appeal to your better nature, because I know you have one." She smiled at him then. An honest smile, openly affectionate. Making him frown again. "Come and eat with us tomorrow, Sherlock."
"No. Thank you." A short, formal bow of refusal meant he avoided her eyes.
"You don't get it, do you?" Her voice changed subtly; there was steel in it now. "This is not a request. It is an order. From me."
"Why?"
"Let's say, in the spirit of friendship. Because this is probably our last chance before Baby Watson arrives to be we three, together. And it would be nice to eat, relax, chat….."
"Chat? Me?"
"You are no fool, Sherlock Holmes, so don't act like one. Not to me. I know you. And you know I need to talk to you. "
"Then talk, Talk now. Don't involve John."
He finally closed the door. Drifted slowly, cautiously, towards his leather armchair and sat. She sat opposite, in her husband's old Victorian fireside chair. She nodded, then. Drew a deep breath.
"We both do our best to protect John. That unspoken compact between us, always. Loving John. We should have had this talk a long time ago" She back and relaxed with determination. " Will you start? Or shall I?"
"Start? We 'started' a long time ago, Mary. When I came back from the dead. You were so angry. John was your safe refuge while I was dead. Then I wasn't dead any more. I upset your plans. So you instantly decided to become my ally. You'd talk him round, you said."
"And I did."
"Yes. Made me suspicious even then. John never saw what I saw. That you were not what you seemed. But love is blind, apparently. So. First question. Why did you shoot me?
"Oooh. Took you a long time to get round to asking that one."
"Been a bit busy."
" Fair point," she conceded. "Why do you think?
He watched her carefully now. No longer the witty nurse, the smart receptionist. Nor even the pregnant wife. This was role play no longer. The compliment of being allowed to see the real woman, agent and assassin.
"To kill? Or not to kill? To make me suffer? Because I suffered, Mary. I did."
Unexpectedly, she dipped her head, clenched her hands together. Looked back up at him with tears in her eyes. Sherlock Holmes lifted his chin in response, refusing to be gulled.
"I know. I am so sorry, Sherlock. That was not meant to happen."
"Explain."
"The first I knew that Magnussen had found me - was that telegram you read at the wedding. Referring to my parents, calling me 'poppet' signing himself Cam. I could have killed him then. He ruined….." she stopped herself.
"I worked for him before. Strongarmed business rivals, you might say. Until he wanted me to kill for him. When I refused, he threatened.
So I disappeared. Changed my name, appearance, nationality. I'm good at that. After five years he should have forgotten."
"Eidetic memory."
"Really? I didn't know." She shrugged. "That telegram was his treat. He'd get me, in his own time. Victims can defeat themselves with fear, waiting. While he stalked you." She paused.
"His blackmail plan was simple. I kill you, or he kills John. After he had finished …."toying with you," he said. If your brother did not give him what he wanted using your fate as his lever. State secrets, power….
"I had to meet him alone, a night you and John were out and I was free. If I had known where you were, what you were doing….things would have been different.
"I was going to kill him, I was. I couldn't see any other solution to save us all. And he was pleading for his life like the coward and bully he was. Then you arrived. Interrupted things. I realised John would be with you. I had a problem."
"So you shot me," he said. "To show him - and me - your power, your refusal to be bullied by him. To stop me betraying you, even? But then you figured you could not shoot him, because John and I would show on CCTV and be accused. And that would open a whole new can of worms, with the authorities this time. You and your cover would be blown.
"Whereas in fatigues and balaclava no one would recognise you even if your image was captured. You entered through the roof, using surveillance blind spots. You might be chased, but you wouldn't be found. You could perhaps still get away with it. And Magnussen might just be frightened off pursuing you."
She nodded. "I thought …..if he didn't agree to leave me alone, even after he saw me shoot you… then I would kill him anyway. I was so angry.
"I had only meant to wing you, and knew you would have the sense to play dead. But I hadn't used that gun for a long time; it pulled right. Even as the bullet left the barrel I knew I'd done the wrong thing. Hit you centre mass.
"I'm sorry….no time to help you…Because as I turned to kill Magnussen I heard John coming up the stairs. Couldn't shoot then, couldn't let him find me. He had to find you. Save you. I was calling 999 as I ran…..
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Really I am. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I regret nothing in my life as much as killing you."
"You didn't kill me."
"Only because you refused to die. And I owe you. For everything I have. For not ratting me to the police. Putting John and his happiness first."
"Sentimental claptrap. You don't fool me, Mary. You made a simple decision to kill me to protect John "
"You would have done the same. You love him too."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"You always pretend to be so heartless. Yet your actions say otherwise." She looked up at him. "Have you fucked him, Sherlock? You before me? Is that why….."
"Of course I haven't! I'm not…..I don't…"
She leant forward then, put her hand on his knee. The understanding in her face was heartbreakingly soft.
He looked into her eyes, at her hand upon him. Spoke before she could.
"You think you can seduce me into silence?"
"I don't want sex with you, Sherlock. Or to use it as a weapon against you. Not that I don't think it would be glorious with you - fire and ice and heartstopping. But I love John, and he is all I need."
"Yet you still need something from me."
"Something rarer and simpler. Something as important. Your friendship."
"What? "
"Your friendship, Sherlock." She sat back in John Watson's chair and smiled.
"You read my file, You know what I am, what I can do. You also know retired mercenaries like me rarely live long after they retire; trouble finds them like iron filings to a magnet."
She shifted closer. Intent. He tried not to flinch as she spoke now.
"There was once a merchant in the famous market of Baghdad," she recited.. "One day he saw a stranger looking at him in surprise. And he knew that stranger was Death. Pale and trembling, the merchant fled the marketplace and made his way - many miles - to the city of Samarra, for there he was sure Death could not find him. But when at last he came to Samarra, the merchant saw, waiting for him, the grim figure of Death. 'Very well, said the merchant. 'I give in, I am yours. But tell me: why did you look surprised when you saw me this morning in Baghdad?'
"'Because,' said Death, 'I had an appointment with you tonight. In Samarra."
"Ridiculous fable. I have never believed in Fate."
"Neither did I. Until recently. Until you defied Death and returned from the dead. Now I can't get Samarra out of my head. I started off thinking it applied to you. After Magnussen….but now I am convinced it applies to me." She looked at him, not flinching.
"You once vowed to keep us safe, John and me and our baby. And you have been doing that. Removing the Magnusson threat once and for all. Well, now you must see I need you close to me. At my side, watching my back. Forever. Or for however long I have."
"Pessimistic of you."
"Law of averages. I might live to a great age, grandchildren on my knee. But I doubt that, somehow. All I want - need more than life itself - and for as long as I want it, is my chance to be normal, for once. An ordinary wife and mother. For me, for John."
"You know I already do that. I don't understand….."
"I need more from you than protection. That's the easy bit." She took his hands in hers, stilled their resistance.
"We are too alike, you and I. Intelligence, decision, objectivity. Courage in action, regardless of the cost. We are more like siblings, Sherlock. We understand each other. We are cleverer than John. No, no, that's not a complaint. He is reactive and a battler, a survivor - different, still good.
"But we are motivators, winners. And to find someone who shares my mindset is as glorious as it is rare." She smiled at him, open, candid, telling her truth.
"We need to become a team, Sherlock. To keep us all safe, make John and the baby happy. Function close up, with infinite awareness. Together we are our best chance for survival. And I am finding that surviving normality is as complex as surviving danger.
"To make our lives work now, I need you to be my friend, brother, partner, colleague. I need you to be happy and laughing and content. Uncle and godfather and babysitter. The quiet benign power in our corner folding your protective arms around us all."
"You have no idea what you are asking of me."
His voice was flat.
"Yes, I do. Because I am asking the same of me. Forcing myself into a humdrum alien world of nappies and shopping and routine. "
"You expect me to join you in that? And yet also watch and wait for danger? Guard you from it?"
"Too much to ask, I know. I'm sorry. But only you can do this. For us, for you."
"I can't do this. I don't have the skills."
Domesticity and danger? Babies and barbarity? Guns and gripe water? Baby sitting and shadows? An assassin for a mother and a killer for a father? How would that work?
And where would that put him? Or me? Bouncing a baby while breaking down the Browning? A toddler on the hip with a handgun at the ready?
"Nor do we," she laughed lightly. "New babies; everyone learns and survives the experience."
"What if you don't survive? What if I can't save you?"
"Then we all die in the attempt. Go down guns and baby bottles blazing. But I will never blame you."
"Don't joke."
"What else can I do? Life is a joke."
"And all things show it." He glared at her. Looked down at his feet, in any direction but into her bright brave eyes.
"I can't do this. You ask too much of me."
"I'm only asking you to be human. Is that so bad? My dearest Sherlock?"
He could hear the tears and the plea in her voice.
World crime. Scan world crime, Stay ever alert to risk. Remember Lady Smallwood's words. About Tblisi. About Thatcher. About how these two subjects offered the greatest risk to her and to them. And how he must find the source of the threat, spot the patterns, be ever vigilant, ever on guard. While regarding a baby!
This was madness…
'Never let you down… a lifetime ahead to prove it…..
My first and last vow. Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there for you, always, for all three of you….…..
He looked at her and realised it had always been going to come down to this. From that very first evening at The Landmark when her first reaction had been: 'Oh God. You're dead.' hadn't he always known that his first duty was going to be to keep her alive? For John's sake?
And what was so dangerous about trust and acceptance from your best friend's wife? Unless that wife was Mary Morstan nee Agra?
"You have no idea what you are asking of me," he said again. He had said as much to Elizabeth Smallwood too.
Two very different aspects of his life ready to collide, to crash and burn…..
She squeezed his hands tightly, stood awkwardly, leant forward and placed a kiss on his forehead. For a moment he looked up at her as she looked down, Her look was soft, intimate. Pleading, almost. His grey and artic, somewhere near the point of collapse.
"You are a good man, Sherlock Holmes. You watch my back, and I'll watch yours. I promise."
And then she walked away. Crossed the room, turned back to smile at him, a hand to her lips. He did not reply nor react. But once she had gone, heavily down the stairs, he went to the window and watched her leave. Did not return the gesture when she looked up, caught his eye, lifted a hand in salutation.
"You have no idea what you are asking of me….no idea," he muttered again. Braced himself. "And so it begins."
He reached for his mobile phone. Began to type.
TO BE CONTINUED….
Author's notes:
Piet Bruhl, Pedder Magnussen, Jack (Lady Smallwood's late husband) Ellie, Ari, Fredrik, 'the Ghanian' and Davy Gallagher are OC's from the prequels to this story, Things We Lost In The Flames and The Magnussen Legacy.
Finn Juhl: Danish architect and designer (1912- 1989)
The Met: London is served by several police forces. The Metropolitan Police - known colloquially, personally and collectively, as The Met or the Yard is the main one, based at New Scotland Yard. London's Police are never called NSYers or Yarders as they are not an American football team.
Every nation has it's own version of a royal pardon. This is Great Britain's.
Tblisi: Capital city of Georgia, with a long and complex history. Has been under Persian and Russian rule and contains over 100 ethnic groups.
Margaret Thatcher: Great Britain's first female Prime Minister between 1979 - 1990.
Samarra: The fable of Samarra is an ancient Mesopotamian tale from the Talmud, and first came to western attention when retold by Somerset Maughan in 1933. Samarra isalso a modern Iraqui city on the east bank of the Tigris river.78 miles from Baghdad, and a World Heritage Site.
'And so it begins.' Best known these days from The Lord Of The Rings: The Twin Towers, the phrase comes from classical literature, The Metamorphoses of Apelius, and translates into the Latin phrase 'sic infit.'