1.
"Bollocks," Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade said loudly.
"No – no – no," Anderson protested. The two men, the latter of whom had a scruffy beard and unwashed hair, stood at a mobile coffee stall, both of them clutching takeaway coffees. "It's obvious! That's how he did it! It's obvious!"
"Derren Brown? Let it go," Lestrade scoffed. "Sherlock's dead."
"Is he?"
"There was a body. It was him. It was definitely him. Molly Hooper laid him out."
"No, she's lying. It was Jim Moriarty's body with a mask on!" Anderson insisted, and Lestrade supressed the strong urge to roll his eyes.
"A mask?" he repeated. Anderson nodded eagerly. "A bungee rope, a mask, Derren Brown. Two years, and the theories keep getting more stupid. How many more have you got for me today?"
"Well, you know the paving slabs in that whole area – even the exact ones that he landed on – you know they were all –"
"Guilt," Lestrade interrupted. He gave Anderson a stern look. "That's all this is. You pushed us all into thinking that Sherlock was a fraud, you and Donovan." Anderson lowered his gaze. "You did this, and it killed him, and he's staying dead. Do you honestly believe that if you have enough stupid theories, it's going to change what really happened?"
Lestrade turned around and walked away, taking his coffee with him.
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," Anderson called after him.
"Yeah, well that won't bring him back."
Anderson watched Lestrade walk away for a few seconds, then sighed and joined him. Various reporters stood in front of their cameras, and Anderson caught snippets of their reports when he stopped by Lestrade's side. Two years had passed, yet the media had only just come to the conclusion that Sherlock was not a fake. James Moriarty was real. It hardly mattered now though. He was dead.
"Well then," Lestrade said, raising his cup. "Absent friends. Sherlock."
Anderson sadly raised his own cup. "Sherlock," he echoed, and the two of them tapped their cups together.
"And may God rest his soul," Lestrade murmured.
There were flowers at Sherlock's headstone. Some old, some new. He knew who kept replacing them – since she moved in, Elspeth made regular visits to Sherlock's grave, taking a fresh bunch of flowers each time. She once told John that Sherlock hated flowers, but it was her duty as his only daughter to aggravate him. She'd said it with a sad smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
John gazed at the headstone for a long time, thinking. Remembering. It had been two longs years. He was getting his life back on track though, and so was Elspeth.
Silently, Mary Morstan reached out and took John's hand in her own. He grasped it tightly.
The prisoner refused to talk. No matter how many times the Serbian torturer beat the man, no matter how much he shouted at the prisoner slumped in the corner, he refused to say anything. In the opposite corner, the soldier with his feet on the small table said nothing.
"You broke in here for a reason," the torturer said furiously, pacing back and forth. He picked a large metal pipe, holding it over his shoulder as he strode towards the prisoner. "Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?" he lifted the pipe and prepared to strike the prisoner, but the man suddenly whispered something. The torturer stopped. He lowered the pipe and leaned forwards. "What?"
The prisoner continued to whisper and the torturer reached down, pulling the man's head up by his hair.
"Well?" the solider in the corner asked. "What did he say?"
The torturer released the man's hair, straightening up. He looked at the prisoner with bewilderment.
"He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair."
"What?"
The prisoner started to whisper again. The torturer repeated his words. ". . . that the electricity isn't working in my bathroom; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour!" he cried, pulling the man's head up by his hair again so he could ask a question. "The coffin maker!"
Bending his head down, the torturer demanded to know more.
"If I go home now, I'll catch them at it! I knew it! I knew there was something going on!"
The torturer released his prisoner's hair and stormed out of the room, leaving the man slumping, held up only by the chains around his wrists.
"So, my friend. Now it's just you and me," the soldier said, taking his feet off the table. He stood up. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you."
The soldier walked forwards and grabbed a handful of the prisoner's hair, pulling his head up slightly. Leaning close to the man's ear, the soldier spoke in English.
"Now listen to me," Mycroft Holmes hissed. "There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear." He released the man's hair and straightened up. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."
Under his long hair, Sherlock Holmes smiled.
Mycroft was the first to return to his office in the Diogenes Club, with Sherlock only a few hours behind. By that time, Mycroft had taken the liberty of having a barber brought in to cut and wash his brother's hair, as well as remove the awful beard that had started to grow on Sherlock's chin.
The brothers barely exchanged a word for the first half an hour, in which Sherlock reluctantly enjoyed being pampered and read the paper in an attempt to ignore his brother.
It was Mycroft who broke the silence. "You have been busy, haven't you?" he asked, reading a file at his desk. Sherlock tossed the newspaper onto a nearby trolley, bored. "Quite the busy little bee," Mycroft continued, chuckling to himself.
"Moriarty's network," Sherlock said. "Took me two years to dismantle it."
"And you're confident you have?"
"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle."
"Yes. You got yourself in deep there –" Mycroft paused and checked his file again. "– with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."
"Colossal," Sherlock agreed dryly.
Mycroft shut the file. "Anyway, you're safe now. A small thank you wouldn't go amiss," he added pointedly. Being subtle did not come easily the Holmes family.
"What for?" Sherlock asked.
"For wading in," Mycroft replied. Sherlock raised a hand to make the barber stop shaving him. "In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu."
Sherlock grunted in pain as he pulled himself up in his chair, looking at his brother angrily.
"Wading in? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp."
Mycroft frowned indignantly. "I got you out."
"No, I got me out," Sherlock corrected. "Why didn't you intervene sooner?"
"Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I?" Mycroft retorted. "It would have ruined everything."
"You were enjoying it."
"Nonsense."
"Definitely enjoying it," Sherlock spat, making Mycroft roll his eyes. The older Holmes brother leaned forwards in his seat.
"Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover', smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise, the people?" he asked in dismay, shuddering at the very thought. Sherlock sank back into his seat, flinching, and the barber resumed his work.
"I didn't know you spoke Serbian," Sherlock commented.
"I didn't, but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words." Mycroft shrugged with as much modesty as he could muster, which wasn't very much. "Took me a couple of hours."
"Hmm. You're slipping."
"Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all," Mycroft with a tight lipped smile. Just then, the door to his office opened, and Anthea walked in with a hanger in one hand. Sherlock smiled at the sight of his suit and shirt.
Anthea and the barber left the room, and Mycroft averted his eyes so Sherlock could have some privacy while he dressed. His hair dried, slowly forming into its unruly curls, and he had just buttoned up his shirt when Anthea came back into the room, standing next to Mycroft. Sherlock paid neither of them any attention.
"I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock continued to tuck his shirt into his trousers, looking at his reflection in the large mirror on t the wall. "What do you think of this shirt?"
"Sherlock!"
"I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at his brother's tone of exasperation. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart."
"One of our men died getting this information," Anthea told him. "All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London – a big one."
Sherlock pulled his jacket on. "And what about Ellie? And John Watson?" he asked.
"John?" Mycroft repeated.
"Have you seen him?"
"Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips," Mycroft said dryly, gesturing to Anthea, who handed Sherlock a folder. "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course." He watched his brother open the folder. "You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?"
"No," Sherlock said distractedly, looking at the photos of John. He had a moustache. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that."
"We?" Mycroft repeated.
"He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man." Sherlock dropped the folder onto the desk, turning to Mycroft. "And Ellie?"
"What about Ellie?"
"Where is she? How is she? Surely you must have seen her a few times these past two years," Sherlock said pointedly.
"She's as well as can be expected," Mycroft replied while Anthea handed Sherlock a second folder. Opening it, the first thing his eyes sought were the surveillance images of Elspeth in black and white, focusing on her face and taking in her features. Mycroft watched his brother, seeing the love and longing and sadness swell in Sherlock's eyes. Say what you will about Sherlock Holmes, but it was impossible to deny that he loved his daughter.
"I think I'll surprise them," Sherlock announced, closing the folder and putting it down on the desk with slightly more care than he had done with John's. "They'll be so delighted!"
Mycroft's smile was cynical. "You think so?"
"Hmm. I'll pop into Baker Street. Who knows – jump out of a cake," Sherlock said, flinging his arms out.
"Baker Street? They aren't there anymore," Mycroft told him. Sherlock didn't bother hide his surprise. "Why would they be? It's been two years. They both got on with their lives."
"What life?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "I've been away." At that comment, Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Where are they going to be tonight?"
"How would I know?"
"You always know."
"John has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road, no doubt Elspeth will be joining him. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion . . . though I prefer the 2001."
"I think maybe I'll just drop by."
"You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome," Mycroft told him.
"No it isn't," Sherlock scoffed. "Now, where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"You know what."
Clearing her throat, Anthea held up Sherlock's coat. The sight of it made Sherlock smile in delight.
"Welcome back, Mr Holmes," Anthea said with more sincerity than Mycroft could muster.
"Thank you." Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "Blud," he added sarcastically.
Getting into the Landmark Hotel was remarkably easy. Seeing John for the first time was not.
Never one to miss making an entrance, Sherlock crossed the room, procuring the necessary items as he did so – first came the bowtie, then a pair of glasses that took a few seconds to adjust to. He even pinched a woman's eyeliner and drew on a moustache on his top lip, thinking it would be amusing for John and Elspeth when they saw it.
"Can I 'elp you with anything, sir?" Sherlock asked John with an exaggerated French accent, thinking it would make his friend look up from the menu.
"Hi, yeah. I'm looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one."
Sherlock leaned closer to him. "Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages."
"Er, it's not really my area. What do you suggest?" John asked without turning around, much to Sherlock's chagrin.
"Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you'd like my personal recommendation this last one on the list is a favourite of mine." John nodded, still not looking up. Why wouldn't he look up? "It is – you might, in fact, say – like a face from ze past," Sherlock continued, straightening up and waiting expectantly.
"Great. I'll have that one please," John said. He finished off his glass of red wine but still didn't look round at Sherlock.
"It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of surprise!" Sherlock made a grand gesture but it went unnoticed as John handed him the wine list, still without turning around.
"Well, surprise me."
"Certainly endeavouring to, sir," Sherlock said tetchily, taking the wine list and walking away. John barely noticed, taking a box out of his pocket and fidgeting with it so it was in the perfect position on the table. He was nervous, Mary was in the bathroom and Elspeth was late.
"Sorry that took so long," Mary said, tapping him on the shoulder as she passed, then sitting down across from him. She looked stunning. John snatched the box off the table. "You ok?"
"Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine," John said. "Have you heard from Ellie?"
"She's on her way." Mary's smile made John beam. "Now then, what did you want to ask me?"
John's grin faded slightly. He nervously offered her more wine but she declined, leaving John to fumble over his words.
"Er, so . . . .Mary. Listen, erm . . . I know it hasn't been long . . . I mean, I know we haven't known each other for a long time . . ." why wasn't Elspeth there? She would've known what to do. "As you know, these last couple of years haven't been easy for me, and meeting you . . ." John looked at her and nodded firmly. "Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."
"I agree."
"What?"
"I agree I'm the best thing that could have happened to you," Mary said, making John laugh. "Sorry."
"Well, no, that's um . . . if you could see your way to . . ." John's nervousness made Mary giggle again, and just as he was about to ask, Sherlock strode back to their table, still in disguise but with a bottle of champagne in his hands.
"Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking," he said. Mary had to turn away so he wouldn't see her laughing. "It has all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new."
John kept his eyes locked on Mary. "No, sorry, not now, please."
"Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend." Sherlock took off his glasses, waiting.
"No, look, seriously could you just –" John looked up. His whole body jolted. This wasn't possible. There was no way that this was possible.
"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters," Sherlock said. John's eyes were filled with tears as he looked away, then clumsily stumbled to his feet. He heard Mary say his name but he couldn't focus on anything other than the fact that Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him. When Mary asked what was going on, Sherlock spoke again. "Well, short version," he said awkwardly. "Not dead."
John stared at him. Sherlock could see the pain and growing anger in his eyes, feeling a bit guilty.
"Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence, it was very funny." John's murderous gaze told Sherlock that it wasn't funny. "Okay, it's not a great defence."
"You're . . ." Mary said.
"Yes."
"Oh my God!"
"Not quite."
"You died," Mary insisted incredulously. "You jumped off a roof."
"No."
"You're dead."
"No. I'm quite sure. I checked. Excuse me." Sherlock picked up a napkin from the table, dipped it into Mary's glass of water and started to rub off the eyeliner moustache. Perhaps it wasn't as funny as it anticipated it would be. He was slightly disappointed Elspeth wouldn't see it. Where was she? "Does, er, does yours rub off, too?" he asked John, trying to sound nonchalant under his furious gaze.
"Oh my God, oh my God," Mary repeated, her anger rising. "Do you have any idea what you've done to them?"
Them. Mary knew Elspeth. Sherlock looked down nervously.
"Ok, John, I'm suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology," he said. Both he and Mary jumped when John's fist clenched and slammed against the table. Mary tried to soothe him.
"Two years," John whispered, hunched over his fist. He shook his head, let out a long breath and slowly straightened up again. "Two years," he repeated. Moaning, he slumped down over his hands. "I thought . . ." Sherlock had never seen John look so pitiful and helpless. He looked away. "I thought . . . you were dead. You let me grieve. You let Ellie grieve. How could you do that to us?" Sherlock looked away. "How?" John demanded.
"Wait – before you do anything that you might regret," Sherlock said, noticing that John's breathing had become more intense. He wasn't just angry, he was furious. "One question, just let me ask one question . . . um . . ." he gestured towards John's upper lip, giggling nervously. "Are you really going to keep that?"
John was calm for a second before he suddenly lunged, hurling himself at Sherlock and catching him off guard. The two of them went toppling to the ground when Sherlock lost his footing, John's hands around his neck in an attempt to throttle him.
In all the commotion, Sherlock heard a familiar voice cry out. "John, what the hell?"
The waiters and Mary successfully managed to pull John off, and Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, wincing slightly. He barely noticed the pain, however, as he climbed to his feet and turned around. He couldn't help but grin when his eyes met those of Elspeth Holmes.
"Hello Ellie," Sherlock said. "We don't have enough time for the long version before we're escorted off the premises so here's the short one: Not. Dead."
