PERSPECTIVE
A server placed a fresh pot of tea on his table and John Watson nodded his thanks. He scooted his chair over an inch, the better to see out the window of the café. He felt faintly ridiculous camping out in Speedy's in the hope of catching Sherlock Holmes' departure from the next door flat. The odds of him being able to follow Sherlock without being caught were laughably low. But Mrs. Hudson was worried and needs must. If crouching behind the half wall separating Speedy's kitchen from the table area would help settle her mind, John would do it.
Truth be told, John shared his former landlady's concern. It had been less than a week since he'd followed an exceedingly drugged Sherlock from a plane originally meant to take him on a mission to Eastern Europe. The apparent return of James Moriarty from the grave to haunt England had been fortuitous in aborting the mission, but had left a dark cloud over them all. Sherlock had, in turns, been agitated and depressed by his lack of progress toward explaining Moriarty's reappearance. Then there were the drugs…
John had always known that Sherlock was a drug user, if not an outright addict. Many were the "danger nights" when John and others had watched him anxiously for signs of a relapse. And then there was one notable occasion when John had discovered Sherlock in a heroin den, reclining on a filthy bed in a shocking state of filth himself (all for a case, or so he said). Even after seeing that, John was shocked at the sheer depths to which Sherlock would stoop in service of a high.
When his plane to Eastern Europe returned to the airfield near Gatwick, Sherlock had five different narcotic substances flowing through his veins. Cocaine, heroin, diazepam, oxycontin and, curiously, enough zolpidem to put a pair of elephants to sleep. Any one of the substances was dangerous, the combination was borderline lethal. Brain damage, organ failure, a heart attack or stroke—all were possibilities. Even so, Sherlock walked off the plane (somewhat unsteadily, but under his own power) and went right on with an investigation of how Moriarty's image had been splashed all over Britain's televisions.
Yet while he appeared to be working, his behavior was unlike any he'd previously displayed on a case. Sherlock in the throes of an investigation was typically all nervous energy. Whether pacing or staring into space, the man all but sent off sparks. His concentration was intense and his devotion to resolving the problem at hand absolute. Until a case ended, Sherlock was utterly engaged in it to a molecular level.
Over the past four days, however, Sherlock had been anything but the picture of concentration. According to Mrs. Hudson, he'd sleep or watch TV for hours during the day, then would rush out until after dark. When he returned—often soaking wet—he'd say nothing other than the occasional thank you for whatever sustenance she'd left for him in the flat. None of that behavior—including the thanks—was normal.
John had barely seen Sherlock. When he stopped by, the man was either asleep or out. Once, he'd come across him with his head on his arms at the kitchen table, a knocked over cup of tea dripping onto the floor. John had been seconds from conducting a physical examination when Sherlock awoke, shaking his head like a sleepy puppy. He'd looked at John for several moments, then rose to grab a dish towel, wiping up the spilled tea.
"Who are you and what did you do with Sherlock Holmes?" was on the tip of John's tongue to say until he noticed that the entire flat was abnormally clean. Sherlock's sudden and unprecedented attention to a mess wasn't the only unusual thing in the room. No streaks of eloquent dust, no piles of paper strewn over every surface and, most oddly, no signs of evidence being tacked to the walls. Usually, any case worth Sherlock's interest led to yarn, photos and notes gracing the Victorian wallpaper. Yet the walls were empty. In fact, except for a rumpled throw pillow on the sofa, the flat seemed almost antiseptic.
Sherlock followed John's gaze. "Mrs. Hudson's been in," he said flatly.
"Yes, I see that," John responded. "Since when do you let her clean this much?"
Sherlock just shrugged.
"It seemed to make her happy." He dropped into his armchair, steepling his fingers under his chin. John had seen him adopt the pose hundreds of times, but this seemed different. Instead of thrumming with energy, Sherlock slumped down into the cushion. He never slumped.
"Hey, Sherlock, you ok?" John asked.
Sherlock's eyes drifted shut. "Of course," he said distractedly.
"Actually, I bet you feel like shit with all those drugs running out of your system." John paused, peering closely at Sherlock. "They are out of your system, yes?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped open with his first display of energy since John had arrived. "I. Am. Clean," he growled. "Since you ask. I haven't taken drugs since-".
"Since five days ago," John said. "I saw you out of your mind with them then. So don't bother getting on your high horse with me."
Sherlock closed his eyes again, pointedly ignoring John's comment.
"Let's review the symptoms of drug withdrawal, shall we? Headache, mood swings, nausea…" he began.
"Oh, for God's sakes," growled Sherlock. He leapt from his chair. "Spare me. I am perfectly fine. I am simply too busy to deal with Mrs. Hudson's twittering or yours." With the last, he stomped off to his bedroom and slammed the door.
John relaxed his hands from the fists they'd formed and walked into the kitchen. A partially soaked section of newspaper lay open on the table. A photo of Moriarty took a quarter of the space above the fold. A photo of Sherlock was just below it. Both shots dated from the trial of charges against Moriarty for simultaneous break-ins at Pentonville Prison, the Bank of England and the royal display of the Crown Jewels.
Jury tampering had ensured his acquittal and set the events in motion which led to Sherlock's fall from grace and the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. John's mind momentarily boggled at the sheer scale of disaster which had followed Moriarty's release.
"The authorities are still at a loss to explain how an image of James Moriarty was broadcast to televisions across London last week. As readers may recall, Mr. Moriarty was accused of crimes of breathtaking scope three years ago, but never convicted. Following his trial in 2013, rumors arose that he was an invention of private detective Sherlock Holmes. Those rumors were later shown to be baseless, but not before Mr. Holmes appeared to take his own life by leaping from the top of St. Bart's Hospital, where Mr. Moriarty's body was discovered with a fatal gunshot to the head. The official investigation concluded that Mr. Moriarty had also committed suicide. Mr. Holmes, however, was later found to be alive…".
John knew the story all too well. He balled up the newspaper and shoved it into the bin next to the kitchen counter.
"Sherlock," he called out. No answer. "I'm going home to check on Mary. If you ever want to properly work on this thing with Moriarty, let me know, yeah?" Still no answer. Sighing, John left the flat.
He hadn't seen Sherlock since. Mrs. Hudson called at 10 the previous evening to say that he'd returned from yet another nighttime excursion, this time in the pouring rain.
"He came in like a swamped cat, John. Dripping all over the hall, soaked to the skin…and he wouldn't say a word! Just nodded like some stranger on the street and went up to the flat. This is the fourth time he's done this, John, I just don't know what to make of it. I almost wish I'd hear him stomping around the flat, playing the violin at all hours…you know, acting normal."
John snorted at the thought of Sherlock's "normal" behavior.
"I'm worried, John. With that Moriarty person possibly about, it can't be good for Sherlock to be running around all by himself. Unless you're meeting up with him?" Mrs. Hudson asked hopefully.
"No, I haven't seen him since Monday," John answered with regret. "He was a bit off then, but generally his usual rude self. I think he's just-" John stopped himself before the words "in withdrawal" could escape his lips. Mrs. Hudson had no idea about Sherlock's recent near overdose and it wouldn't do any good to add to her worry by disclosing it.
"Absorbed in figuring out what Moriarty is up to," John finished.
"Oh, dear. Do you think it's possible that he isn't dead?" asked Mrs. Hudson, a note of pleading in her voice.
"No, no. Sherlock is convinced that he's dead and you know him, he's rarely wrong. This is probably just some leftover post-mortem plan of his, a way of messing with us from the grave."
"Well, whatever it is, it sounds dangerous to me. Could you…could you possibly find out where Sherlock goes at night. Maybe…oh, I don't know, follow him?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
John laughed. "Follow Sherlock? He'd catch me at it before we left the street."
"Ask him then. He won't tell me a thing, won't even talk with me unless it's to ask for more tea."
"He's not doing much talking to me either," John admitted. "Look, I'll try, Mrs. Hudson. I'll watch for him this evening. If he catches me, so be it—at least we'll be talking. How does that sound?"
"Oh, John, that's wonderful. I know I'm probably just worrying for nothing, but he's been so strange…".
"Not at all, I'll see what I can do and will let you know what I find out."
Now John was seriously regretting his promise to Mrs. Hudson. He was on his third pot of tea with no sign of Sherlock. The wait staff at Speedy's was giving him significant looks which suggested that he'd better order more than tea or move along.
Just as he was pondering whether he could force a sandwich to join the liquid in his stomach, he saw a curl-covered head move past the front window of the café. Throwing down cash, John headed for the door, lingering as Sherlock turned to the curb to summon a cab. As soon as the car moved away, John darted out to summon one to follow. In a rare stroke of luck, a cab pulled up right away and John leapt in.
"Follow that cab," he said, feeling like a character out of a bad movie. The cabbie rolled his eyes but complied, slipping into traffic two cars behind Sherlock's. Fifteen minutes later, they reached the edge of Highgate Cemetery. Having closed hours before, its gates were tightly shut.
"Circle!" said John urgently, all too aware that his cab was glaringly obvious on the quiet road. As it drove past, Sherlock climbed out of his cab and turned to pay just as John's turned the corner. Sighing in relief, John asked to be let out.
"You sure, mate?" the cabbie asked. It wasn't an unreasonable question. While the cemetery was located in a residential neighborhood, its main gate was across from a park. At this time of night, both were dark and deserted.
"It's fine," John assured the man. He stepped out of the cab and walked the few steps back to the corner of the cemetery's fence, reaching it just in time to see Sherlock slip through the gate. John followed at a discreet distance.
Sherlock walked without hesitation along the main path then across the grass up a hill. John stopped and gaped. It seemed implausible, but he knew exactly where Sherlock was going.
By the time John arrived, Sherlock was seated on the ground in front of a plain gray headstone. Lettered with "James Moriarty", it had replaced the black granite stone which had marked Sherlock's fake grave. Very few people recognized the site as having been Sherlock's not final resting place.
"John," said Sherlock in greeting. There was no longer any point in John pretending that Sherlock didn't know he was following him. He'd probably known since John took his seat at Speedy's Café.
"Sherlock," John responded. "Why are we here?"
"Don't know why you're here, although I suspect Mrs. Hudson is behind it. I'm here because it's the place I've been every night this week." Sherlock turned to look at John. "In case you're wondering, which I know you were."
"But why?" asked John. "What do you hope to learn by visiting Moriarty's grave?"
"Oh, nothing," replied Sherlock. "It's not his grave I'm visiting. It's mine."
Sherlock looked back at the stone. John settled in next to him and waited. The silence between the men drew out. Just as John decided that Sherlock wouldn't speak, he did.
"Would have been a bit crowded in there if I'd succeeded," Sherlock said, nodding toward the gravesite. "I suppose that the family would have put me somewhere else, probably some sort of plot." His voice became thoughtful. "Not sure if we actually have one, a family plot, that is. I've never asked, but it seems the sort of thing my parents would want."
"What do you mean, if you succeeded?" John asked, a slight chill running through him. "You mean on the mission?" Anger crept into his voice. "I know the plan was for you to die out there, Sherlock. And I'm really, really pissed that didn't say a thing. How in the hell did you expect me or anyone else to help if you just swanned off without a word?"
"Oh, that," Sherlock said dismissively. "There's every chance that Mycroft would have pulled a rabbit out of a hat and brought me home himself. Although in truth, my choice to murder Magnussen in front of a squadron of his boys did limit his choice of magic tricks."
"So was it…it was…Moriarty's broadcast, that was Mycroft's doing?" John said, the pieces coming together in his mind.
"No, he wouldn't have acted that quickly. Mycroft would have let me suffer a while before lifting a finger to help. Maybe wait for me to get shot again first." Sherlock smiled grimly. "No, the Moriarty thing was Mary."
"Mary!" cried John. "That's absurd, Sherlock. How could Mary have taken over every television set in the city?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Intelligence agent, remember, John? Mary may not have MI6 at her disposal like Mycroft does, but she isn't without resources. Although using them may have lifted her cover a bit—we'll have to watch her more closely. I've been thinking of ways to bolster her protection and Mycroft will assist as well, of course."
John stared, jaw hanging open slightly. He recovered enough to sputter out a question.
"You're telling me that my wife—my pregnant wife—somehow maneuvered to save your neck and now she's put herself in the line of fire? Not that I wouldn't have done the same, Sherlock, but Mary…" John's shocked voice came to a stop.
"She'll be fine, John," Sherlock said with deep sincerity. "I promise you on my life that she and your child are safe."
"I…I…" John wiped his hand over his face. "I don't know what to say."
Sherlock just nodded.
John dropped his hand to the ground then raised it, momentarily surprised to find it wet. The grass had been watered just before closing time and the damp was soaking through both men's pants.
"If Moriarty had nothing to do with this, why did you say at the airfield that you knew what his next step would be?" John asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "Took me awhile to put the pieces together. I was a bit…off my game at the time."
John snorted. "That's one way of putting it," he said. "So, again—why are we here?" John gestured around the cemetery.
Sherlock looked away. "I thought…there was a good chance that I…" he stopped and shook his head. "Perspective," he said, finally.
"Come again?" said John. "Perspective on what?"
"Life, death, all those little things that ordinary people think about," Sherlock answered with a huff. John said nothing, choosing instead to wait for Sherlock to explain himself.
Sherlock sighed. "The drugs. I wasn't lying on the plane when I said that I took them to go deeper, to explore some…questions. Moriarty was just one of them, one that didn't come up until I got the call from Mycroft about the broadcast."
"What were the other ones?" asked John quietly.
"Only one, really." Sherlock stared at the gravestone again. "Whether to live." His voice was just above a whisper.
John started. "What do you mean, whether?"
"When I took the drugs," Sherlock stole a sideways glance at John. "Before I left my cell." John's lips pressed together but he stayed quiet.
"I thought there was a good chance that I wouldn't make it home this time. That Mycroft's bag of tricks to save me would turn out to be empty at last. And the thing is…I was all right with that, either way. Mary was safe, your child was safe, you were safe, Magnussen was gone…it was all just…all right."
Sherlock growled. "How do you deal with all these," he waved his hand. "These emotions. So distracting."
"Go on," John urged.
With a deep breath, Sherlock continued. "When I thought about coming back…or not…it didn't seem to matter. It wasn't that I didn't care exactly, or that I wanted to die. I just didn't have the energy to avoid it." John shifted in the grass but said nothing.
"The two years I was away were…relentless. Then coming back was, um." Frustration crept into Sherlock's voice. "It wasn't what I expected. It was…good, seeing you and…all, but…" Sherlock stopped speaking. "Going through all that again wasn't something I was really looking forward to," he said in a rush. "It seemed better not to try. Just to…let go."
"I'm not stupid, you know. I know the risk I took with the drug cocktail. I could have made its outcome more certain, if I'd wanted to. Let it take me away before I even got on the plane."
"Kill you, you mean," said John tightly.
Sherlock nodded. "But I couldn't quite make that decision. So…" he spread his hands out.
"You rolled the dice," John supplied. Sherlock nodded again.
"If I survived, fine. If not, fine."
A full minute passed before John spoke.
"That is the most cowardly thing I have ever heard anyone say," he said, his tone almost conversational.
"I know," whispered Sherlock, then his voice grew stronger. "But at the time it seemed perfectly reasonable. There wasn't a reason to stay alive that…resonated. I knew some people might be unhappy if I died—I learned that much from last time," he said drily. "I didn't want that to happen. But I couldn't figure out why that mattered more than anything else."
"So coming here, it does what? Make you see what might have been?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered simply.
"And has it helped?" John asked.
Sherlock considered the question.
"Yes."
John nodded sharply.
"Right then." He stood, brushing off his pants. "Let's go home."
Sherlock looked questioningly at him.
"We're going to my place for some food and you'll spend the night."
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John waved him off.
"You will. And we'll talk to Mary. And we'll talk about this some more, if you want to. And…it's all going to be ok."
Sherlock stood slowly. "John, I…" he began.
John shook his head. "It will. I promise on my life," he said sternly.
Sherlock looked at him for a few moments, then smiled broadly.
"Shall we," he said, gesturing toward the path. "And next time, John, don't sit at Speedy's. They're paid to let me know when I'm being watched."
"Oh, for the love of…" John started, then laughed. The two men moved away from the grave, moon shining on them as they walked.