1. One More Miracle
John was sitting in his chair, staring at the yellow smiley. He remembered when Sherlock shot it once, just because he was bored.
At the time, John was annoyed by it; now, he would have done anything for Sherlock to come and shoot the wall.
Everything in 221B reminded him of Sherlock. Practically everything was his.
John didn't know whether he would be able to cope with all those memories.
But he didn't really want to leave, either. It was hard to be there, but it was even harder for him to stay away from it.
So he just sat there, remembering things he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to remember. Good things, sad things, funny things…
Then, the door opened. John thought it was Mrs Hudson, the landlady, offering some tea. She had been doing that a lot since Sherlock died. They both needed someone to lean on. It had been hard for both of them.
'Thanks, Mrs Hudson, I really – ' John began, looking up.
But it wasn't Mrs Hudson. The person in the doorway was entirely different; it was a man, a tall man, with a long, dark grey coat, high cheekbones and curly brown hair.
It was Sherlock Holmes.
John wasn't sure whether he was dreaming. But it was definitely Sherlock.
'Hi John.'
John just looked at him, mouth slightly open.
'I should probably explain why I don't appear to be, ah... dead.'
John was still gaping at his friend, whom he believed was dead until he stepped into their apartment like nothing had happened.
'You see, I was with Moriarty, on the roof of St. Bart's...'
And so Sherlock explained everything. About Moriarty, about the game they played, and finally, about why he jumped and how he survived.
'Snipers were about to – shoot me, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade? How could you be sure, I ...'
'I couldn't be, but you know Moriarty – '
'No, I don't.' John wasn't sure whether he was angry at Sherlock, or glad he was alive. He couldn't quite believe it.
'But I do, obviously. So I had to arrange some things...'
And so Sherlock continued with his story. He seemed glad to finally get it off his chest.
John was overwhelmed. He had so many questions to ask – but Sherlock just answered them before he actually did ask them.
When he reached the end of his story, Sherlock still stood where he entered the apartment. He hadn't moved since John saw him.
'Just take your damn coat off.'
'Sorry?'
'Well, you live here, don't you?'
Sherlock looked around, a bit confused. He seemed to remember he actually did live in 221B Baker Street.
'You're a bloody idiot, you know that, for having me believe you were dead.'
'I know, I know, I am so sorry, John, please. They'd have shot you – '
John had gotten out of his chair, walked up to Sherlock and gave him a big hug.
'John – '
'Don't ever.. do that to me.. again,' he murmured, pressing his face to Sherlock's chest.
John let go eventually, but didn't move away. They looked into each other's eyes. Sherlock was frowning, as though he was thinking very hard about something.
Then, Sherlock seemed to make a decision, and John wondered what that expression on his face meant. He had never seen it before, at least not on Sherlock's face...
Sherlock lifted his hand, moved it towards John's face, and John knew what he was about to do, although it seemed unlikely, but he wasn't sure he wanted to go away. Sherlock touched John's chin, tilted it up a bit, not breaking eye-contact, and kissed him, a bit tentatively.
John stood still, not sure what came over him.
It was a short kiss, though neither of them minded looking in the other's eyes a bit longer. They both knew what had just happened.
Finally, John coughed and looked over Sherlock's shoulder, avoiding the wide-open eyes that were still staring at him.
'So, John, what's for dinner?' His voice sounded a bit hoarse, as though he'd just been choked - John remembered the case "The Blind Banker", when Sherlock had that exact same pitch, and giggled.
Sherlock joined in, and then the two of them were laughing as though they had just stolen an ash tray from Buckingham Palace with only a white sheet for clothing.
'Risotto,' John answered.
'No.' Sherlock contradicted.
'Why not, I've just – '
'We're out of milk.'
'Again?' John sighed, 'Fine. I'll go to the store and buy some.'
Sherlock smirked as he watched John walk towards the hall to get his coat. The taller man followed his friend and stopped him before he could get any closer to the front door. 'You are not going anywhere,' he said.
'What?' John asked confused, 'How do you mean? You just said we were out of – '
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'We've got company,' he muttered.
'C-c-company? But - '
The doorbell rang. As Sherlock passed John on his way to the door, he smiled at him.
John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock had known someone was about to visit 221B Baker Street, he had gotten used to his friend knowing everything… At all times.
'Mycroft,' Sherlock stated abruptly as he closed the door behind his brother.
'Good to see you Sherlock,' the other Holmes said. 'John,' he added with a polite nod. John raised his eyebrows at Mycroft. 'Did you,' John hesitated, 'know he was alive?'
'Only just found out. A friend of mine saw him enter 221B. Bit of a nasty shock, that was.'
'Nasty?' Sherlock asked insulted. 'Aren't you glad to find your brother alive and well?'
'A bit.' Mycroft smiled, but both Sherlock and John noticed that it was quite forced.
Sherlock glanced at John and muttered something under his breath. John, who didn't hear exactly what he said but could guess the meaning, chuckled.
There was an awkward silence in the living room. John kept looking at Sherlock, who was sitting next to him on the sofa. Every time their gaze met, John quickly looked away, but he couldn't prevent his cheeks from turning slightly red. Sherlock, who had obviously noticed, nervously focused on the floor. Mycroft sat in the chair across the sofa, a frown on his face. He looked remarkably like his brother, just sitting there, staring and thinking.
It was John who eventually broke the silence. 'I could make us some tea if you like,' he said.
Mycroft looked up in surprise. 'Tea?' he muttered, 'Yes, tea would be good. Thank you.'
John got up and walked towards the kitchen. Mycroft coughed. 'Why don't you ask your housekeeper to make us some?' he asked.
Sherlock and John sniggered at the same time. Mycroft snorted. 'What is it?' he asked annoyed.
'She's not our housekeeper,' John and Sherlock said simultaneously.
They looked at each other and didn't even try to keep it in anymore. They burst out laughing.
John, who couldn't remember what he was doing in the kitchen, returned to the living room and sat down next to Sherlock once more.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and bit his lip to prevent himself from saying anything rude.
Sherlock was the first to get himself together, but as he looked at Mycroft he started to chuckle again. John's giggles made everything even worse – they were infectious.
'Sherlock, please!' Mycroft shouted after a while. His face had turned red and he looked furious. His brother ignored him though and John started to laugh even harder.
Sherlock couldn't resist looking at John, who was now roaring with laughter. As he looked at John, he felt his own face flush – something he had never really experienced just by looking at someone – and he joined in, chuckling in his low rumble. It felt so natural, laughing with John. He had noticed something happened to his voice after – what he did. He didn't know why he did it in the first place, something inside him told him to do it. Not something in his head, as it usually did, but his heart this time.
Sherlock had always ignored these kinds of things. Love stories, it was all irrelevant. And it was – just not his own. Not his John.
Though he didn't quite know yet why he had kissed John, he was glad he did. But he still wasn't sure about himself. What if John didn't... appreciate it? Sherlock had no words to describe it.
He only hoped that John didn't mind.
As it turned out, John did not. He was, of course, confused. He had always kissed girls before, but not his best friend – who was a man – and not really minding it. John didn't know whether he liked it – if 'liked' was the proper word – but he was immensely happy that Sherlock was still alive. It seemed so silly, thinking he was dead. Sherlock always had a plan. They rarely backfired.
Mycroft was getting more and more annoyed by the minute. He didn't really know what exactly was going on, but he had a feeling something was going on between Sherlock and John – together. It almost seemed like they were... But, it couldn't be.
They were still laughing, and Mycroft just sat there, annoyed. Finally, Sherlock got up and picked up his violin. He started playing, a beautiful melody that could either be sad, or – Mycroft frowned - romantic.
John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. He had heard him play before, but not with such feeling. He almost felt moved, and soon he was captivated by the song that Sherlock was playing. They couldn't help but stare into each other's eyes, and Mycroft got the sense that his initial feeling might be right.
Sherlock finished with a long, high note and John got up, not fully conscious of what he was doing. He saw Mycroft staring at him, blushed, and sat down again. But he couldn't help walking over to Sherlock anyway and whispering something in his ear.
They both started laughing again, as if nothing had happened. Mycroft was getting more anxious to leave by the minute, almost knowing for sure his suspicion was correct. He noticed that when John walked over to his seat again, their hands brushed.
Sherlock had felt Johns hand brush against his, and it sent a tingle through his arm. He had never felt anything so strongly caused by a touch before.
'Well, I better be off,' Mycroft sighed, as he got out of his chair and picked up his umbrella. He didn't want to admit it, but he was actually glad Sherlock was finally behaving like he should, at his age. Or something like it – there still was an oddness about him.
But John just complemented it perfectly.
They'll be all right together, Mycroft thought.
Sherlock jumped at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He had been staring at John again, not fully aware of it.
'Of course, Mycroft. Sorry about the tea. You know the way out.' Sherlock coughed. His voice had gone hoarse again. John noticed; he looked at Sherlock with an expression on his face Sherlock couldn't quite place. It was... soft.
John wondered whether this was the first time Sherlock had ever had such physical contact with another person. It was too soon
thinking about him being the other person.
But, at the sound of Sherlock's hoarse voice, John softened inside. It pleased him to know Sherlock actually had human feelings. Just thinking about Sherlock made him feel hot and his heart started pounding.
Maybe it's the nerves, he told himself.
Sherlock was feeling a similar thing. He was constantly fumbling with his collar, his voice was a tad higher than usual en he seemed restless.
'Should I get that milk now?' John asked, with a bit of tension in his voice. He remembered Sherlock's hand touching his, and the spark that seemed to catch off between them. He had never had that with any girl he'd ever been with.
Sherlock didn't reply immediately, instead he got up and starting pacing around the flat. 'No,' he muttered eventually.
'Oh. Okay,' John replied, not sure of what to do or say next. He looked at Sherlock again. There was no emotion in his face. Not a wrinkle, not a twitch that gave away how he felt. Sherlock had kissed him, John, not the other way around. Surely Sherlock must've felt something for him at that point. But then again, he was Sherlock Holmes, and you never knew what to expect with him. The kiss might as well have been an experiment. 'Jesus,' John muttered under his breath.
John had never been in love before, and he had never realised it, until now. The thought of Sherlock made him nervous and happy at the same time.
'John,' Sherlock began in his normal voice. John looked up and couldn't help blushing again. It wasn't just his eyes, or his face, John now realised that he was also… attracted, to Sherlock's low and almost enchanting voice.
'Get up,' the perfect voice commanded.
'S-sorry?' John stammered.
'Get up!' Sherlock repeated.
John decided there was probably no point in arguing, so he did as he was told.
'I need you to do something for me,' Sherlock explained, 'I need you to look at me.'
Again, John did what Sherlock told him to do. The detective's penetrating eyes probably saw right through John's feelings, but the doctor didn't care, he couldn't even think straight with Sherlock standing so close to him.
'Keep your eyes fixed on me,' Sherlock said as he leaned in.
John vaguely recognised the words, but couldn't tell when and where he had heard them before. Sherlock studied John's face for a second, before lowering his head to the shorter man's and brushed their lips together. He continued the kiss for a few moments and then pulling a hair's breadth away, he murmured, 'Take my pulse and tell me if my eyes are dilated.'
John, who realised what Sherlock was doing, laughed and whispered, 'Are you actually testing this? Are you seriously using science to figure out whether you are…'
'Attracted to you? Possibly even in love with you? Yes, I am.' Sherlock replied.
This was typical for Sherlock Holmes. Use science if you have any doubts.
John looked in Sherlock's eyes, like he was told. They were still less than an inch separated from each other.
John moved his hand towards Sherlock's. He heard Sherlock take a deep breath, as he himself, put his hand over John's wrist.
John immediately felt the heat of Sherlock's hand, but continued to stare at his vivid – what colour were they, exactly? John couldn't think straight enough to know for sure – eyes, which were staring at him, too, and John got the feeling Sherlock wasn't just testing himself.
Sherlock was curious. He had never been in love, or felt this kind of attraction to someone – this strong. With his right hand, he took John's pulse, which was slightly elevated, but he didn't need John to tell him that his own was, too.
As he looked into John's eyes, he saw that the pupils dilated a bit. He heard John draw in a small breath when his pupils did the same.
Sherlock frowned. So he was in love.
He didn't know much about love, he had always thought of it as a dangerous disadvantage. Caring about things made you more desperate to lose it. And he was sure he never wanted to lose John. Just the thought of it was unbearable.
Not entirely aware of what he was doing, he let go of John's hand and put his arms around him in a warm, gentle embrace.
'John,' Sherlock began. 'I think I am attracted to you – in love with you…'
John noticed his voice again, his deep, beautiful voice go hoarse once more. It made John smile. Not even Sherlock Holmes stood above these feelings, these natural, human feelings.
John had always known Sherlock was human. This was the final proof.
'You might… I noticed your pulse, your pupils…' John croaked. He coughed. 'Yeah.'
'I noticed yours, too, John.'
John looked up. His voice was too compelling, and when their gaze met, John immediately felt relaxed. Sherlock had a little smile on his face, the one he always had when John did something foolish, or funny. He never smiled like that to anyone else – if he ever smiled.
'Sherlock, have you ever had an experience like this, before? Ever?'
Sherlock didn't hesitate. 'No.'
'Okay… good.' John seemed at a loss for words. All he knew was that it felt good feeling Sherlock's lips on his, and he didn't mind about him being a man – his best friend at that.
After staring at John for over five minutes, Sherlock bent down once more, took John's head in his hands and kissed him, this time, a longer kiss, now that they both knew what they really felt for each other.
John tried to speak, stupidly, and his words were muffled against Sherlock's mouth. He lost himself in the moment quickly, and pressed his hands to Sherlock's back. He let go however, when Sherlock's phone rang. The consulting detective rolled his eyes, but took the phone out of the pocket in his jacket anyway. He looked annoyed as he pressed the 'cancel call' button.
'What did you just do?' John asked confused, 'That could have been a good case!'
'More interesting things have happened,' Sherlock replied.
'Like what?'
'Like…' Sherlock kissed John again, running a hand through his hair.
'Oh right, interesting things like that,' John muttered.
'Stop talking,' Sherlock murmured against the other man's mouth, kissing him with a bit more enthusiasm.
John decided not to argue with his friend this once. Sherlock noticed immediately.
'You did what I said for once,' he whispered, 'I didn't know you were capable.'
John smirked, closed his eyes and was taken up in the action.
Sherlock was now extremely irritated by John's lack of sound and kissed him harder, pulling John tight against him by the waist. John used his surprisingly strong arms to push the taller man back a bit, who now found himself cornered against the wall.
Sherlock's back thudded against it and he swore under his breath. He was officially annoyed with John, who was still evoking sound from him, and therefore winning.
'I hate you, sometimes,' Sherlock mumbled.
John couldn't help but chuckle at this last comment, and it didn't take long before their kiss turned into roars of laughter. It felt good, Sherlock decided, and there was no other way to describe it. He had expected their situation to be very different and awkward now, but it wasn't. It was perfect.
'Milk,' he said eventually, 'Let's go out to buy some milk.'
'You are unbelievable,' the shorter man replied.
Sherlock frowned, 'Unbelievable? Why?'
John rolled his eyes and tried to imitate Mycroft's most disapproving face. He didn't do a terrific job, but Sherlock immediately got the reference and started laughing once more.
Their laughter was rudely interrupted by a second phone call. This time Sherlock did answer, although he seemed frustrated. 'Sherlock Holmes speaking,' John heard his friend say. Sherlock's eyes widened and he frowned again. 'No,' he whispered, 'Tell Anderson we'll be right there.'
'What is it?' John asked as soon as Sherlock hung up.
'Lestrade,' Sherlock replied, 'He's missing.'
2. The Puppet and the Wine Stain
They arrived at Scotland Yard only moments later. As they entered the section where Lestrade worked, they were accompanied by Donovan, who greeted them with her usual greeting.
'Freak,' she said almost menacingly. 'Or should I say, freaks, now that you got yourself a boyfriend?'
John giggled nervously. Sherlock coughed but touched John's hand for a moment, too soon for anyone to notice. John flushed at the movement.
As they reached Lestrade's office, Anderson and some other people were waiting for them.
'There you are, we've been waiting for you all day.' Anderson's sneer was no more friendly that Donovan's had been.
'For your information, Anderson, we came as quickly as we could. You know we live at the other side of London.'
'Okay, then, will you at least explain why you are still alive?' People were already talking among themselves, pointing at the consulting detective.
'Let's just say I did what I had to do to save London. I am a genius, after all,' Sherlock answered sarcastically. John sniggered.
'We can talk about this later,' Donovan said. 'Right now, our priority is finding Lestrade. I called him this morning, and he didn't pick up the phone. Normally, he is here earlier than he should, but this time he wasn't.'
'Obviously,' Sherlock murmured, rolling his eyes.
Donovan pretended she didn't notice it, but carried on talking with a bit more tension in her voice.
'I sent some officers to his house, and they confirmed he wasn't there. There were some signs of struggle, but no clear indications that there has been a fight. They couldn't figure it out, exactly, so – '
'So they asked for us,' Sherlock finished. He glanced at John, who was standing just an inch closer to him than he normally would have. John liked Sherlock's use of the word "us".
Donovan glared at them, but admitted with gritted teeth that was indeed the situation.
'Well then, there's no need for us to be here, anymore. Let's go to Lestrade's house.' Sherlock turned around, grabbing John's arm as he went and pulled him along.
'I can walk for myself, you know,' John told him, though he actually quite liked Sherlock's warm hand holding his arm. He just wanted to say something, anything.
'I know. I just thought I'd…never mind,' Sherlock rambled, and he let go of John's arm.
'Do you know where Lestrade lives?' John asked, still feeling the urge to keep a conversation going. He was rubbing his arm
where Sherlock had touched him.
'Yes. I told you I pick-pocket him when he's annoying? I don't just do police identifications, you know…' A grin spread across his face, apparently enjoying the memory.
Seeing Sherlock being all happy like that, John himself started feeling happy as well. It was a hopeful feeling, like a flame, filling up his chest, and his stomach felt like he had missed a step on the stairs – although this time, it was pleasant. Being near Sherlock was nice. Nice; the only word to describe the feeling that had suddenly come over him.
Sherlock felt the same thing, but didn't know what to do with it. He finally understood what all those people meant by having butterflies in your stomach. It wasn't a bad feeling – it was just weird. New.
Suddenly, he felt the urge to touch John, his face, his arms… But this wasn't the proper time. Later, he told himself. When we're back in Baker Street, alone.
Lestrade's house was far closer to Scotland Yard than theirs. John assumed it must be easier than taking a taxi to work every day.
They walked up the front porch, and John noticed Sherlock's strides getting longer and faster by the second, as though he was excited to visit a crime scene again.
But then again, John recalled, his work was what Sherlock lived for. He had missed it; for months, he got everyone convinced he was dead. John shivered at the thought. He didn't know why, but he got the feeling that if he lost Sherlock, again, this time it would be far more difficult to cope with.
Sherlock paused at the front door, reaching inside his pocket and fishing out his little magnifying glass. He studied the lock and the keyhole for a while, after which he frowned and murmured something to himself. John stood behind him, unsure what to do, exactly, but willing to help Sherlock more than anything.
'The door wasn't forced, so either the kidnapper had a key or Lestrade let them in voluntarily,' Sherlock told John.
'Let's go inside, maybe we will find something there. Donovan did say there were some signs of a struggle,' John suggested.
Sherlock smiled to John, warming them both, and went through the door. 'You're finally learning, John.'
John couldn't have been happier with the compliment, but he wasn't sure whether Sherlock meant it, or just said so to be polite – or something more.
The hallway was full of police officers and all kinds of equipment. Sherlock just strode right through, John on his heels.
The living room was quite open, with windows directly opposite the hallway. The actual sitting area was lowered with about two steps, a dinner table to Sherlock and John's right. Behind it, around the corner and out of Sherlock's sight, was the kitchen.
'Nice,' John said. 'Very nice, indeed.'
'My thoughts exactly,' Sherlock remembered from a long time ago.
John caught the reference and started chuckling. Sherlock gave him a content, caring look. John responded with a smile that made Sherlock's heart pound instantly. He cleared his throat to prevent it from going hoarse again – he knew now what caused it – and walked towards the couch. He needed a place to start.
Meanwhile, John did what he could do by checking Lestrade's notebook and checking his messages on the telephone. He couldn't keep himself from looking at Sherlock every once in a while, and liking what he saw. He had never seen Sherlock in action before while – it still sounded odd – being in love with him.
He did everything with smooth, swift motions, much like his kissing, John noticed with scarlet cheeks.
Sherlock carried on inspecting, but not even he could completely focus on what he was doing. His glances, however, were a bit more inconspicuous.
The signs of struggle, as Donovan had described them, were no more than a broken vase, knocked over from the edge of the dinner table and some cutlery and plates, spread all over the kitchen floor.
Sherlock wasn't satisfied yet. There must be more, he thought. Then, something caught his eye.
'John,' he said. John responded immediately, and came over to where Sherlock was standing.
'Look at that coffee table,' Sherlock said, pointing at the coffee table that was standing between the sofa and the television. It was closed, meaning there were no "legs", it looked more like a wooden box with a bigger surface.
'It's an ordinary coffee table. What's wrong with – oh, wait a minute…' John hesitated. 'I'm not sure, but it seems like it's been moved. Look, the carpet. Some bits are flatter, which probably indicates that the table stood there previously.'
Sherlock looked at John with such pride in his eyes, John couldn't hide a beaming smile.
'Well, let's find out why it's been moved. It might not be anything of importance, I mean, we've only investigated this part of the house. The kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, they all have to be investigated as well.'
John nodded. 'Let's look at this, first.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'We don't know what happened to Lestrade, but he could be in serious danger. I suggest we hurry up. You check the other rooms, and I'll take closer look at this table. Alone.'
John knew Sherlock was probably right. There was no point in staring at the coffee table together any longer than necessary, for John would probably not notice anything new anyway. A bit reluctant John left Sherlock to his work and walked back into the hallway.
Greg Lestrade had an extreme obsession with coffee, apparently. The paintings hanging on the walls, mainly pictured coffee cups. Next to that, Lestrade had a wonderful selection of Starbucks wares; napkins, cups and straws filled the windowsills. John was glad to see Greg had finally found his division and then smirked at his own joke. He climbed the stairs that led to a small bedroom.
Sherlock in the meanwhile, still examined the moved coffee table. He noticed several things at the time. There were coffee rings visible, although Lestrade had obviously tried to clean the table multiple times, they hadn't come off. There were a few wine stains on it as well and a couple of scratches, and it immediately became clear to Sherlock that that Lestrade had had a guest last night.
He called for John, but it was Anderson who walked in. 'Found anything yet?' he asked.
'Lestrade had a visitor last night, a woman, probably a date,' Sherlock began.
Anderson interrupted him, 'Greg's married,' he said looking quite smug.
'No, he's recently divorced. Didn't he tell you? Look,' Sherlock pointed at a wooden cupboard, 'that's his wedding ring, right there. If he was cheating on his wife, he would hide if from his date. However, he just left it there, which means that the girl he had with him last night knew about the divorce.'
'How do you even know he was on a date last night?' Anderson asked annoyed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'He doesn't drink wine, does he? His guest obviously did,' he said pointing out the wine stains. Anderson looked confused and asked, 'How do you know his guest was a woman?'
'The marks on the edge of the table, they were created by a pair of high heels,' Sherlock explained impatiently. Before Anderson could ask his next question Sherlock continued. 'I know those marks were from last night because Greg cleans his table every evening,' he pointed at the nearly invisible coffee rings, 'He tries to conceal every scratch ever made as well.'
'How can you tell?'
Sherlock pointed at some older scratch marks that were hardly visible anymore. Anderson didn't even bother to ask how the consulting detective could tell Lestrade cleaned his table every evening. 'Okay, Greg had a date last night, so what?'
'Oh for God's sake, Anderson!' Sherlock snorted, 'Like I said he cleans this table every evening. It means something to him. Obviously Greg did not clean the table last night, so that must mean he disappeared then, which means his date had something to do with all this.'
'Why? You've got to admit that it's a possibility that someone came in after his date left and abducted him!'
Sherlock rolled his eyes once more. 'Except for the fact that Greg's date never left.' He gestured to the doorway where John stood, a woman beside him. She was extremely pretty and didn't seem surprised to find Sherlock and Anderson downstairs. She even smiled at them. 'Hello boys,' she said with a voice that sounded remarkably steady, 'I promised Greg I'd wait for you here. He's gone out for a while, you see.' She wore no more than a nightgown and her shiny black hair fell over her shoulders. She reminded Sherlock a bit of Irene Adler.
'He told me you might show up,' the woman said while looking at Anderson, 'But who's your taller friend?'
'He not my-' Anderson muttered but Sherlock interrupted her.
'I'm Mycroft,' he lied, 'Mycroft Holmes.'
A frown crossed the woman's face as if she was confused by his answer. Sherlock figured she might have expected a 'certain Sherlock Holmes' here as well. But, obviously, she wouldn't be able to say so, for that would give her away… Not many people knew he was alive, if this woman had expected him to be here, someone who knew he was alive must've told her.
'Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes,' she said, 'My name's Caroline.'
'Pleasure,' Sherlock muttered, then getting up and told John to come over. John did as he was told, averting his eyes as he walked past Caroline. She made him feel uncomfortable, the way she looked at Sherlock. It was as if she knew who he actually was, and determined to find out why he was still alive.
'John, help me and move this table. I haven't done so, yet, and I don't know whether I would be able to lift it all by myself. I recall you're probably strong enough to help me…'
John remembered from earlier that day, when he had pushed Sherlock against the wall, Sherlock was surprised to find that John had such strength. He felt the inevitable heat rushing to his cheeks for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.
Together, they lifted the table and were surprised to find that there was actually something beneath it.
'Ah…' Sherlock sighed. 'Of course. I wondered when I would find this.'
On the carpet, there was a little device, and John knew exactly what it was for, although he'd never actually seen one.
'Some people were listening in on their conversation,' John said, looking at Sherlock and trying to figure out whether he knew some more.
Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, I think so… But who are they? Caroline, do you know something about this?'
She leaned in a bit closer, took one look at the little device and shook her head.
'No, I've never seen it before,' she declared.
Sherlock frowned. She is good, he thought, very good. If she had looked at that device a little longer, and said the same thing, she would have given herself away. But there was no other explanation for her being in Lestrade's house since last night. She had not come back, obviously, because she was still wearing her nightgown.
'Take her in for questioning, while we take a look at this,' Sherlock ordered.
Anderson glared at him, but, deciding it was what Lestrade would do, told the other officers to do what he said.
'John, there is something wrong about her. She doesn't seem to be innocent, but she isn't giving anything away. She is good, very good, and I don't expect the questioning to give us any answers. But we have to try. Now, let's see what this thing is all about…'
Sherlock examined the little device, then coming to a conclusion, put it in his pocket.
'That's evidence, Sherlock, you can't just – ' John began, though he wasn't really angry.
'We can only listen to what they said on my laptop. It has a special port that I know none of the computers in Scotland Yard have – at least not the ones we're authorized to use.'
Sherlock continued investigating the rest of the house, but, not seeing anything of importance, other than Lestrade having a serious problem concerning coffee, he turned to leave.
'Let's go, John, and find out what she wanted Lestrade to tell her.'
'Hang on, what she – ' John started to ask.
'Yes, obviously, why else was she there? She can be as innocent as she wants to be, but there must have been reason for her to be in Lestrade's house.'
'But if she took him, then we've already figured all this out, we don't need to listen to what they recorded.' John was trying to keep up with Sherlock's thoughts.
'No, no, she's only the puppet. The real question is… who is the master?'