Author's note: I couldn't resist. Another of my readers (still can't believe I have those) requested a Sally/Sherlock reunion story, and I started writing.
You don't have to read any of my other stories to understand this one, but technically, this is a sequel to "How Not to Keep a Promise", which is a companion piece to "No Forgiveness Necessary", which itself has a sequel, "De Mortuis Nihil Nisi Bene". Good Lord, I could start calling it a "universe" by now... But, just to make that clear, my other stories remain standalones until I state otherwise. Just wanted to make that clear.
But I'm rambling again. I don't own anything, and please review.
Sally had had plans for the third anniversary of Sherlock's death. Luckily it was a Saturday and she wasn't going to get called out to a crime scene, not when DI Lestrade was out in Cornwall holding a seminar.
She's still not sure how he managed to keep his job and his rank, and she'll never ask, but she's glad he did. He's still the colleague whose opinion she values the most. And not only because he gave Anderson a bloody nose when her ex-lover started abusing Sherlock in front of him. A pity she only heard this story and didn't see the punch.
But DI Lestrade was there for her when, about nine months after Sherlock's suicide, her career suddenly turned out to be the one in jeopardy. The Chief Superintendent hadn't been very pleased when, only two days after he'd been informed that DI Lestrade had come out of the investigation spotless and would therefore not only keep his rank and receive the salary he hadn't been paid during his suspension, but start working again in the next week, Sally had to tell him that she'd finished re-investigating Sherlock's old cases and, while there had been some where they'd been forced to release the (most likely guilty) convict because there had been no tangible evidence, most of the time, it had turned out that the consulting detective had been right.
In hindsight, maybe she shouldn't have used his title, the one he'd been so proud of, when she could already see that the Superintendent was about to start screaming.
But, in the first year after Sherlock's death, and even in the two years that followed, she spent so much time thinking about him and why he did what he did, that she's not even calling him "freak" anymore in her head. It's not even "Mr. Holmes". It's "Sherlock" or "consulting detective", and she knows how weird it is, to feel closer to someone when he's dead than when he was still happily prancing around at crime scenes.
She doesn't think the Sherlock in her head is anything like the Sherlock that grinned about missing children, though, but the one in her head has greatly helped her to overcome her feelings of guilt, so she guesses there's no real harm done (except for the fact that you have an imaginary friend, my dear. God, she hates her own mind sometimes).
DI Lestarde hasn't really forgiven her, and most likely never will, but he's trying not to show it. And, for what it's worth, the week after the Superintendent threw her out of his office with the promise that she wouldn't see another promotion (and, to this day, he's been true to his word), the DI asked her if she still wanted to be in his team. She said yes. There wasn't any other answer, really.
So there she had been, three years after a day that had ended one persons' life and, at the same time, changed the lives of several others (please, don't include yourself there. You shouldn't even be allowed to stand at his grave – if you hadn't started the whole "He's a fraud thing", he'd most likely still be laughing manically at every new murder. No, that's not right. If it had all been real – and everything seems to be real – than this... Moriarty guy was real too. He would've found other ways to discredit Sherlock. Tell yourself that.)
The annoying voice in the back of her mind (which not only sounds more sarcastic every day, but also seems to have acquired a deeper tone as time passed) notwithstanding, she had had plans for the day. She would go grocery shopping.
She would go to the cemetery and pay her respects – after the grocery shopping, because she'd been pretty sure Doctor Watson would visit the grave first thing in the morning, and his grief was his grief. She hadn't wanted to intrude. Of course, there was always the chance that his landlady or this strange, posh guy with the umbrella – she'd seen him a few times in the past three years, usually she'd just waited until he left – would be there, but she could hide in another part of the cemetery until they'd gone. Cowardly, yes. But the only way she knew how to keep her private thoughts to herself.
But none of her plans had included – should have included, would have included, could possibly have included – meeting a dead man at the entrance to the cemetery and taking him home with her.
She had finished paying her respect – luckily, nobody else had been around, so it hadn't taken long – and had lit a candle in the cemetery chapel. All in all, it had brought her a feeling of peace that Sherlock probably hadn't known in his lifetime. Oh well, she'd take what she could get (but not what you deserve).
She'd just left the cemetery and decided to walk straight home – her apartment was only a few streets away, and now and then, she would go for a walk after a visit, but today, she really yearned for a cup of tea – when she'd seen an old man with a violin at the other side of the street, and spontaneously decided to do a good deed and give him a few coins (aren't we self-righteous today), she remembered the consulting detective's habit of playing, or rather not playing the violin, loudly, when he'd been annoyed. She'd only heard it a couple of times, but it was quite hard to forget.
Nothing in the world could have prepared her for what happened next.
She'd actually recognized what the man was playing – Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, or rather a part of it, "Die Ode and die Freude", and while she realized the irony, she loved the melody, so she said quietly "Thank you. That sounds beautiful" while she let the coins fall into the cup standing next to him on the pavement.
And then he looked up.
He might look like an old man – he might look shorter – he might have wrinkles and white hair and all of that – but – she'd recognize those eyes, and the look of recognition when he'd figured something out, everywhere. Good Lord.
Sherlock.
Luckily, she didn't proclaim who he was in the street – she'd been struck speechless. His eyes narrowed, she saw him figuring out a plan – since when did she know what he thought just by looking at him? Good Lord, what had happened? – and then he gave his cup a push and the coins rolled everywhere.
Understanding from a glance that he shot her way that she was supposed to pick them up, she did, and when she took a coin laying next to his left foot, she heard him hiss, in the old, deep voice, "ask me if I'd like a cup of tea in your flat, it's only a few streets away, after all."
Some time ago, she would probably have angrily demanded how he knew where she lived. Now, she just accepted it, apologised as she gave him back his cup, and invited him to her flat. He answered in the affirmative – in the weak, shrill, quiet voice of an old man this time – and wobbled after her as she showed him the way he probably already knew.
Which is why she's currently standing in her kitchen, making tea for a dead madman, while sad man is stretching in her living room. A part of her is convinced she's finally gone mad.
Another part of her – to be precise, the annoying, sarcastic part of her she never knows how to control – is reminding her that she hasn't felt this alive for years.
She ignores both parts, shrugs at herself, and takes the tea to the living room.
Sherlock – thinner than usual, even paler than usual, but at least he no longer looks like an old violin player (what's left of him is lying on her sofa) is looking incredibly relieved – and still stretching himself. "Ah, Donavan, I tell you, it's no small feat for a tall man top take a foot of his stature for hours on end."
There are a lot of things she could say at this, but she opts for "No, I suppose not." Might as well keep the conversation as normal as possible, so that the universe won't collapse due to the sheer craziness of this situation.
The, she thinks about a question that doesn't sound like "Why are you alive?" "Where have you been?", or God help her, "Will you forgive me?". It takes a few minutes of silently sipping tea, but she finds one.
"What were you doing at the cemetery?"
He, of course, answers her like it's the most normal thing in the world.
"I was looking for Greg" – Greg? So she's apparently not the only one who's started calling people differently in her head. She didn't know he was even aware the DI had a first name. "My brother is currently out of the country, so he couldn't help me, aside from the fact that he still doesn't know I am alive, and I need Lestrade's help to capture the last alive and free member of Moriarty's gang."
She takes a moment to take in what he just said. "So, Moriarty has a gang –" "Had a gang. He's dead. Not my fault, though, he committed suicide. Can't say that for some of his friends, though."
The realization she then has should probably scare her, but it doesn't. Yes, she's going crazy. But who cares.
"So, that's what you've been doing? Running around, catching" she makes sure she pronounces catching in a way it includes other ways of ensuring their permanent retirement "the members of Moriarty's gang? That's why you haven't told anyone you're alive?"
"Well, well Donavan, I have to admit, you seem to have gotten smarter in the last three years. Not much, of course, but noticeable smarter. I'm almost impressed."
She smiles. She can't help it, because he's alive, and not dead, and this means his death is not her fault, and he's insulting her like in the good old times, and she realizes that annoying voice in her head hasn't popped up once since he started speaking.
For a moment, he looks stunned, then he flashes her a half smile back, before his face grows pensive – or takes on its normal look, more like.
"What were you doing there, anyway? The only reason I let you know who I was is that I was too surprised to react – your family lives on the other side of town, so it's unlikely they use this cemetery for burying their dead, your friends are too young, and you didn't lose someone close to you before I left, I would've known, and nobody you know died while I was away, because I'd be able to deduce it."
"Of course you would –" and there she stops, because she can't bring herself to call him freak, and if she says "Sherlock", he's probably going to think she did something stupid like missing him. Yeah. Like she would ever do that.
"So why – oh. You visited... my grave." And, for the first time in all the years she's known him, he looks genuinely surprised, and shoots her a glance like he suddenly sees something in her he's never seen there before, and she has to admit that maybe, just maybe, the Sherlock in her head wasn't that far away from the Sherlock in reality, not when looks confused like a child at the prospect that someone who knew him would visit his grave.
She chooses not to elaborate why, and how many times she was there in the last three years. Instead, she asks a question that suddenly finds his way into her head, thinking about cemetery and visits. "Does Doctor Watson know you are alive?"
He takes another sip of his tea and looks like a lost child for a moment "No, not yet, I wanted to speak to Lestrade first and make sure I could – return – before I tell John that –". She doesn't force him to end the sentence, because he looks so caring and almost cute, and –
Good God, she actually, genuinely likes him now. The arrogant sod, the sight of she could never stand. The man who put her abilities down time and time again. Heaven help her.
He changes the topic "Anyway, I need to know where Greg is. Do you happen to know where he might be?"
"Cornwall – he's holding a seminar, for graduates of the police academy there, but he should be back by Monday."
He sighs and suddenly looks very tired, and for a moment, she wants to pad his head or his shoulder or something like that, but restrains herself. That would just be too weird.
"Good. Well, I think I can manage to spend another two days and nights in this disguise..."
"Nights? You've been sleeping rough?" Something suspiciously sounding like caring must have slipped into her voice, because he shoots her the didn't-think-you-had-it-in-you –look again and waves his hand dismissively. "Well, Mycroft–" "Mycroft?" "My brother." "ah, yes, you mentioned him, didn't know you had a brother." "Long story short – he is the British Government, don't try to understand or believe it, if that's a problem." "I think" she says with conviction "my problem is that I do believe it." He shoots her a half smile at this, again, and she finds she quite likes that smile.
"So... you are planning to sleep on the streets?" "I've slept in worse places in the last three years." Now the tiredness is in his voice, too, and her heart - imagine that, her heart touched because Sherlock Holmes is tired, wonders will never cease – breaks a little at the thought of him wobbling around and sleeping on the floor in his disguise.
"You can stay here on the sofa, if you like. It's not like I live with anyone." His eyes search her flat – and then, he say with the usual conviction of being right, "And I see you've finally come to your senses and ended things with Anderson."
"Yes, I did." She will not tell him the reason. She will not say "I couldn't stand him looking so happy while you were lying on a slab in the morgue." Instead, she tells him "DI Lestrade punched him in the face because he insulted you, you know." Sherlock's eyebrows rise. "A shame I didn't see that."
"Yeah, I heard it was quite a spectacular sight. He's been rather quiet ever since, though."
And then, because she can't hold it back anymore, she says "I reinvestigated your cases and you were right and I'm sorry and –" And a few tears that have been threatening to spill over ever since she discovered Sherlock's alive escape and she's trying to find a handkerchief and not be embarrassed at the same time, and then he takes and squeezes her hand – suddenly, and it's barely a real squeeze, and he lets go immediately but it's there – and it's fine, it's all fine, because the squeeze says "I understand" in Sherlock, and it doesn't matter anymore. And she doesn't feel guilty for the first time in years.
Of course, he acts just like the old Sherlock right after. "Good, you know I play the violin when I'm thinking, and I take my coffee black, with two sugars."
She just answers "Okay."
The rest of the day, and the Sunday that follows, are surprisingly domestic. She makes them dinner, and he actually eats – good for him, he looks way too thin – they even watch crap telly together. Now and then, he lets slip where he's been – Nepal, France, South Africa – and sometimes, there is a look in his eyes that tells her he, too, will have a hard time getting over the last three years.
And she gets lulled to sleep by the sound of "Ode an die Freude" that night, and doesn't mention it. She knows he knows she remembers and is thankful.
And she says, on Sunday morning, "It was black, two sugars, right, Sherlock?" and he shoots her the look again, and they both ignore it.
And she wakes up on Monday morning to an empty flat, but there's a not on the kitchen table saying "Thank you, Sally. SH". She puts it in her wallet, as a lucky charm. He'll never know. Then, again, it's Sherlock, so maybe he already does.
And, if, after all has been dealt with and Sherlock Holmes is once again the world' only consulting detective, she says at their first new crime scene "Hello, Sherlock" and he answers with a real smile this time – one that lights up his eyes – and answers, sarcastically but not sharply, "It's still "Freak" for you, Sally" and prances to where the corpse is, and Anderson stares at her like she's crazy because she answered Sherlock's smile with one of her own, and neither doctor Watson nor DI Lestrade seem surprised – so he does talk to his friends, who would have known – she can't be bothered to care.
Because, against all odds, she has been given a second chance to get to know a good man.
And if this means she's slowly losing her mind – she has a feeling she won't miss it.
Author's note: well, once again: That turned out longer than expected.
And, if you detected a strange romantic tension there – yes, I noticed it to. It's fascinating when characters surprise you.
I hope you like it, reader who asked for it (you know who you are, I wasn't sure you'd appreciate me writing down your name). Of course, I hope all the other readers enjoyed it as well.