Holmes is where the heart is

by Rose de Sharon

Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock TV show, which is too bad but that's the way it goes!

Author's notes:

- This fanfiction is inspired by the story "The empty house", written around 1903 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859 – 1930).

- "The Raven" is a poem published in 1845 and written by American author Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849).


Chapter 1: Nevermore

Doctor John Watson was strolling down the streets of London, a walking stick in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in another. His gait was strong but his right leg was limping, a souvenir of an ill-fated campaign in Afghanistan during his former military career. The limp was partly psychosomatic and, for a time, John had thought it had been cured by sharing a flat with the most eccentric, impossible, wonderful genius the world had ever seen. But alas, three years ago, this man had fallen to his death, leaving a grief-stricken John alone in a too-empty flat. Unable to live in a place haunted by the souvenirs of his deceased friend, John had moved out to a much-smaller apartment, which had looked like an insult after the comfy rooms of his former Baker Street address but it was all he could afford at the time. And, right after he had settled in his new flat, the limp had come back with a vengeance, forcing John to walk with an aluminium crutch again.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining behind fluffy clouds rolling on the blue sky; pigeons were roaming endlessly in the air, cooing in joy at the feeling of warmer air beneath their wings. People were smiling, couples were walking hand-in-hand and children were playing with a renewed energy. John, however, couldn't share the feeling of well-being that usually accompanied the return of spring; his friend's suicide had happened in May and, for three years straight, this time of year had left him a bitter taste in the month.

A news kiosk was standing in the middle of the sidewalk and John applied a pressure on the stick's pommel to help his right leg in avoiding the contraption. A force of habit made him glance at the wooden panel placed at the bottom of the kiosk, bearing "The Sun" headlines:

PARK LANE

MURDER

BAFFLES

POLICE

"Serves them right," muttered John under his breath, his dark blue eyes hardening in anger.

He wasn't a rancorous man – far from it – but he still hadn't forgotten the part some police officers had played in his friend's demise, either by stupidity or jealousy. The Park Lane murder was a high-profile one with the mysterious death of Ronald Adair, a young aristocrat with a penchant for on-line poker but, surprisingly enough, without enemies or particular vices. He had been found shot dead in his bedroom, the door locked from the inside. Higher powers screamed for results while the lower classes laughed at the police's impotency to solve the case.

But another headlines pinned on a panel next to the Sun's made him repress a shiver:

CRIME

RATE

UP TO

20%

John sighed, and his hardened features swiftly changed into a concerned expression. Crime rate had indeed steadily gone up since his friend's demise, and it was no wonder: the newspapers had clarion the suicide in bold, huge letters and one had to be out of town to have missed this information. But the snickers about the "fake, fraudulent genius" choosing the coward's way out promptly turned into cries of anguish: delinquents of all sorts had heard the news too and they hadn't wasted time re-conquering businesses his friend had helped the police to close for years. Blackmail, extortion, aggression and murder were all in the rise, leaving London in a state of disarray – which hadn't boded too well with the 2012 Olympic Games. The police was completely helpless and the object of public ire; John couldn't help but think about how Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was feeling. The man had been a more-or-less ally to the crime-solving duo of Baker Street, but then the policeman had made a terrible mistake: he had let his judgment clouded by two of his subordinates, Forensics expert "Abominable" Anderson and Sergeant Detective "Defamation" Donovan.

That pair of jealous backstabbers – and illicit lovers – had accused his flat mate of having kidnapped two children after one of the rescued kids had shrieked in terror when she had seen the face of John's best friend. According to Anderson and Donovan, those screams were an absolute proof of culpability and Lestrade had folded, reporting their suspicions to his superior, Chief Superintendent Williamson. It had ended with an arrest, a broken nose for the Chief Superintendent (courtesy of John), an escape, a desperate attempt to clear their names...

...And a suicide for John's friend.

Sherlock Holmes.

Private investigator, chemistry graduate, consulting detective, expert criminologist, master in deductions at a glance and violinist during his spare time, Sherlock had been the best and the wisest man John had known. They had met through a mutual acquaintance and Sherlock had spontaneously proposed to share a flat with him, not even bothering to ask for references from the ex-army doctor who had been in financial distress at the time. Less than one hour after he had stepped into the roomy apartment of 221B Baker Street, John had been caught in one of the detective's case, a serial killer working as a cabbie and it had been concluded by a bullet in the murderer's chest – John's shot, to save Sherlock's life. Their friendship had been sealed in gold that fateful night and they had become the formidable crime-solving duo, providing unofficial help to the police and helping countless persons in and outside London.

It hadn't been an easy road; Sherlock was often impatient, brusque and his social manners were non-existent to say the least, calling everyone around him idiots and fools, an attitude that had won him many animosities. Even John had to endure the blunt of his rudeness from time to time but he knew it had been the detective's genius expressing irritation for having to deal with persons who couldn't follow the speed of his rocket-like mind. However, Sherlock hadn't been invulnerable to kindness, patience, empathy – John's main qualities – and together they had found equilibrium, Sherlock's energy finding conduction with John's calm grounding, while the doctor got a new purpose in life in helping the detective with uncommon crime cases.

But it was over.

Sherlock was dead.

John's heart constricted painfully in his chest, and his hand clutched more tightly the bouquet. For an outside observer the short, limping blond-haired man looked like a nervous suitor heading for a date, but it was far from the truth: the flowers were for Mrs. Hudson, his former landlady at 221 B Baker Street. The woman had been their angel in the house and a mother figure to Sherlock and John, cleaning up the mess while repeating she wasn't their housekeeper. She had been devastated by Sherlock's suicide; she had a soft spot for the young man since the day he had proved her absolute innocence in the crime committed by her ex-husband in Florida – freeing her of both suspicion and a wife-beater. For three years now, John and Mrs. Hudson would spend the anniversary of Sherlock's death talking quietly about their friend, then pay their respects to his grave before heading back home and have a nice cup of tea; And every time, John would bring flowers for his former landlady.

Mrs. Hudson hadn't blamed the doctor for leaving the flat, even if she missed him dearly: she understood it would have been too painful. John had been worried that the loss of rent money would dig a big hole in Mrs. Hudson's finances, but she had assured him it wasn't the case; Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother, had proposed to deposit a healthy sum of money every month on her bank account, on condition that Sherlock's flat remained untouched, like a giant shrine.

Once again, John's gentle features hardened. He hadn't forgiven Lestrade and his minions for accusing his best friend of an atrocious crime, but Mycroft Holmes held the blunt of his wrath. Sherlock's older brother – spymaster, unofficial British government and all-around lazybones – had yielded to the blackmail of a psychotic criminal mastermind, Jim Moriarty. The deal had been simple, actually: secrets about Sherlock in exchange of information about a secret computer key code. As soon as Moriarty had gathered enough data on the detective, he had escaped to launch a diabolical plan to get rid of his nemesis: ruining Sherlock's reputation, driving him to suicide after the press' slanders and the police suspecting him of kidnapping. Moriarty had blown his brains out shortly afterwards; John had supposed he wouldn't have lasted long after having denounced some of his accomplices and besides, he had achieved his masterpiece: Sherlock Holmes lying dead on a sidewalk, broken in both soul and body.

In the end, the consulting criminal had vanquished the consulting detective.

This very thought revolted John's chivalrous soul; after Sherlock's death, he had spent his evenings and weekends writing a book about his experiences with the detective. He had waited two years for the heat to calm down before submitting it to an editor and the first one he had contacted had accepted to publish the book immediately. "The adventures of Sherlock Holmes" had brought Doctor John Watson a tidy sum but, surprisingly enough, neither the tabloids nor the police had said a word about its publication. John more or less suspected Mycroft to be behind this silence but the elder Holmes had never contacted him about the book or anything else. Not that John would have answered, though: too much bad blood between him and Mycroft.

Lost in his thoughts, John hadn't realized he had reached Baker Street. He dug his hand in his jacket's pocket and fished out the key opening the door of his former address. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that he should keep it in memory of Sherlock and the doctor appreciated her trust. The blond man smiled gently at the sight of Speedy's, the familiar sandwich and coffee shop where he had brought so many treats. Then, John unlocked the dark green door of 221 B Baker Street.

"Mrs. Hudson?" called the doctor as he stepped inside the entrance hall.

Silence greeted him, which was strange. Mrs. Hudson would normally come out of her flat to give him a big hug as soon as she would hear his voice, but this time no movement could be heard from behind her door. It was very unlikely that she would forget the date, so what was happening?

"Mrs. Hudson?" asked John louder, fearing the woman might be sick. He seized the doorknob of her door and turned it, just to feel a resistance: it was locked. Then, the doctor spotted an envelope with the word "John" written in bold letters, leaning against a vase filled with water and set on a small table, next to the door.

Puzzled, John put the flowers in the vase and picked up the envelope. There was a letter neatly folded in three inside and the blond man wasted no time reading it:

"My dearest John,

I am so sorry but I have to leave London for a few days. My sister has finally gathered up the courage to divorce from her no-good husband but, as you can guess, she is pretty upset about the whole matter. Her children are all grown up and have left home, so she is alone in a tiny apartment and I don't want her to drown her worries in alcohol once again.

I will spend three days in Manchester (no longer than that, sleeping on my sister's couch is murder for my hip) and I'll call you as soon as I'm back. I'll make it up for you with a cup of my best tea and homemade biscuits, and we'll go see Sherlock's grave afterwards.

Take good care of you in the meantime. I'm taking your book to read in the train. You're a very good writer and Sherlock would be proud of the way you have been telling your adventures.

Love,

Mrs. Hudson"

John smiled and tucked the letter inside his jacket. Dear Mrs. Hudson, she was truly a pearl amongst landladies. Of course, it was disappointing that she wouldn't be around for the third anniversary of Sherlock's death but the doctor understood plainly her plight: he also had an alcoholic sister, Harriet ("Harry" for her relatives and girlfriends) who had recently relapsed. John had sent her to a very pricey rehab clinic, in the hopes that consorting with actors and celebrities would take her sister's mind out of her problems – squandering his recent wealth in the process. Harry had thanked him with insults and accusations, as usual.

At least the flowers wouldn't go to waste, Mrs. Hudson would find them after returning from Manchester, a signal that her former renter had indeed dropped by but the doctor didn't look forward to go to the cemetery alone. However, John was a soldier and a doctor, not the kind to shirk away from his duties. He turned about leave but couldn't help taking a look at the much-cherished building: the dark-colored walls, the gray carpet, the narrow entrance hall with the seventeen steps leading to their shared flat, Mrs. Hudson's door next to the staircase, the ceiling light that had been fixed by a repairman the day Sherlock had committed suicide.

A sad sigh escaped from John's lips as his eyes got filled with unshed tears. Since Sherlock's death, he hadn't been able to climb the stairs and take a lot at his former apartment. He knew Mrs. Hudson had kept it intact and only his own stuff was missing, but his throat would tighten like in a hangman's noose at the very thought of pushing open the door of their flat and look at Sherlock's stuff scattered everywhere. The violin, the piles of books, the scientific equipment on the kitchen's table, the smiley painted in yellow on the wall, the newspapers lying on the floor... All but painful reminders that Sherlock was gone. John would have given the world… his soul... anything to have his friend back! He wanted to be Sherlock's flat mate again, to be awakened in the middle of the night by violin playing, to find human body parts in the refrigerator, to run across all London to solve crime cases! He owed Sherlock so much for throwing him back to life after Afghanistan and the end of his military career, and the doctor hadn't been able to repay his friend in full… and never would.

"Nevermore," whispered John, remembering the poem by Poe with the raven repeating endlessly this word, increasing the narrator's distress about the death of his beloved. Yes, his grief felt like having a black bird permanently roaming above his head and cawing this desperate word – but John was the only one to hear it. No one had been able to help him overcome his sorrow; his colleagues at work, his therapist, even Mrs. Hudson were powerless in consoling John. His heart had been irremediably broken on that fateful day at St. Bart's and it had been relentlessly bleeding for three years.

The doctor was a courageous man, though, and he steadfastly refused to fall apart. It would have pleased Sherlock's detractors too much if John used his friend's suicide as an excuse to lose himself in booze or rage. Besides, Harry's alcoholism had discouraged him a long time ago to become intemperate; he had seen too many times his father trying to calm her down while their mother was crying in the background. No, John was a man on a mission: restoring his best friend's reputation by his writings. He had vowed that the whole truth would come out one day and his book was the first step towards the right direction. He would write twenty more books if needed but he would succeed and the raven would shut up, along with the other birds of ill omen who had made a mockery of Sherlock. On everyday life John would keep his shoulders straight, his chin up, do an outstanding job at St. Bart's cardiac care department and spend his nights writing to achieve his secret goal; only when he visited 221 B Baker Street or at nights, when the nightmares were too violent, would he allow the grief to re-surface. More than once did Doctor Watson left for work early in the mornings with red-rimmed eyes.

Blinking furiously, the blond-haired man limped his way out of Mrs. Hudson's household. He closed the door behind him, locked it and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He held his head up to avoid a tear from falling down on his cheek and the momentum made him look without thinking at the dilapidated building located across the street, opposite of 221 B.

And then….

A movement…

Behind one of the dirty windows!

John blinked again to clear his vision but it was too late: whatever had been moving had disappeared in the shadows of the empty house.

TBC…