Shut up Mrs. Hudson. John thought. Please.
" . . . really should answer your doorbell dear, especially for your sister. She doesn't just go away, you know. She sits out there and rings the bell every five . . . "
John wasn't listening. Day in and day out, everything was the same now. Even Mrs. Hudson nagged him about the same things every day. Eat something dear, answer your bell dear, go find some friends dear. But he had had friends before, and none of them were left. He wasn't going to make that mistake again anytime soon. Tonight he was out of toothpaste, and all he wanted to do right now was get out of his compulsively clean flat and go to the grocery store. Ella was urging him to go through the motions of normal life, insisting that eventually something would take meaning again. She was fooling herself. Nothing ever did, and nothing ever would.
Before he realized what he was doing he walked away from Mrs. Hudson mid-sentence. That was rude, he realized. I'll have to be sorry later. He went straight to the curb and raised his hand to hail a cab.
The first one drove past him, already occupied. John remained where he was, hand in the air, blood flowing out of his arm until one finally stopped. "Where to, sir?" The driver asked. John's eyes flicked over the back of the man's head and dashboard. Went partying last night, he noted, needs to switch hand soaps, his is giving him a rash.
"Sir?"
"Oh, sorry. London Cemetery."
"You got it."
Why did I say that? John thought. He opened his mouth to change his mind, then stopped. He hadn't visited Sherlock's grave since the day they buried him. It would be good to go again.
After a short ride, the cab pulled up at the gates to the cemetery. "You want me to take you in, Sir?" the cabbie asked.
"No thank you, I'll walk from here." John answered. He paid the cabbie and waited until the car was out of sight before turning and making his way up the hill in the dark to where the black stone waited under the tree.
"Hey Sherlock." He murmured when he reached the grave. "Sorry I've been so long. I've been . . . busy."
That was a lie. But Sherlock wasn't here with that laser beam gaze of his, a fact John was painfully aware of.
"Sherlock I . . . I just want to say I forgive you. I used to be angry at you for leaving, but . . . I dunno. I won't pretend to understand, but . . . I forgive you."
He stood in silence for a while, the night settling in around him. It was nearly pitch black in the graveyard.
"Well, uh. I should go, I need to . . . buy toothpaste. Yea. So . . . bye Sherlock. I promise I'll come back soon." He sniffed once and turned to leave. John walked through the shadowy cemetery, following the single streetlight he could see by the front gate. He was about 30 yards away when he thought he heard something behind him, like liquid splashing. He turned and looked behind him, but the light from the gate showed nothing out of the ordinary. John resumed walking.
Suddenly a sweet, terrifyingly familiar smell filled his nose just as a hand came out of nowhere pressing a thick cloth over his face. Chloroform, he thought frantically. Training kicking in, John held his breath and drove his elbow backward to where the man's side should be, only to meet no resistance as his assailant deftly avoided the blow. John felt the man's other arm wrap around his body, pinning his arms and preventing any further blows.
Dammit, John thought, trying to step on the man's feet. He couldn't hold his breath for much longer. Already his arms were going numb, his view of the gate blurring. His gaze dropped and he had the sensation of falling forward, then . . . nothing.
Two years later, earlier in the morning than was considered decent, two unusually tall men covered in mud and sequins walked the London streets back to the blue box they called home.
"All in a day's work, eh Sherlock?" the Doctor grinned, slapping his companion on the shoulder.
"Of course Doctor." Sherlock replied with an easy smile. "Swoop in to save the world, fail miserably and get ourselves arrested, then pull a Houdini at the last second and everything's okay."
"Like I said, just an average day."
It was 2015, and both men were eager to get back to the Tardis's special multi-headed showers. Originally Sherlock had been hesitant about landing here, so close to when his own 'death', but the impending alien invasion had left them little choice. So he had settled for a sweatshirt with a hood and a box of cheap hair dye.
But still it made him nervous. If he ran into anyone . . . he might even be in this time stream himself. He still intended to go back to that day in September when he'd met the Doctor in a café and left everything behind, once he and the Doctor were done with this 'one trip'. He was nearly done disposing of Moriarty's web anyway, and how could he resist running away with a 900-year old alien in a time machine? The Doctor had promised he could take him back to that same week, he could finish what he started, and then go home to John.
John . . .
Sherlock felt a guilty pull in his stomach. He hardly thought of John anymore. Traveling with the Doctor was a full-time gig and didn't leave much time for dwelling on the past.
"I still can't believe you were right about that professor!" said the Doctor, interrupting his melancholy thoughts. "How did you know he was an alien?"
"It was the way he held his fork." Sherlock responded. "Like he'd never seen one before."
"Ah, the fork! Yes, aliens can never get the eating habits just right. I mean, you lot practice them three times a day, you've got it down to a science! How's a guy like me supposed to pick it up in an afternoon? I remember one time Martha and I went to Australia . . . "
Sherlock tuned the Doctor out, watching a newsboy changing the papers in the nearby machine. Must be nearly 4:30 then. He thought. He was about to look away when the headline caught his eye.
SHERLOCK HOLMES PROVEN INNOCENT
Sherlock would've sworn his heart stopped in his chest. Veering away from the still-babbling Doctor, he ran to the dispenser and jerked it open. Breathing quickly, he began to read:
Nearly three years after the famed detective killed himself by jumping from the roof of Bart's hospital in London, shocking new evidence in the case has come to light. Last Tuesday morning Scotland Yard received an anonymous tip on the location of Sebastian Moran, the known hit man wanted for the murder of Detective Inspector Ian Tanner.
When officers arrived at the scene to arrest Moran, the suspect resisted and was killed by police. In the subsequent search of the building officials recovered certain documents that indicated Holmes's innocence, showing the methods by which one James Moriarty rewrote his identity, creating the name 'Richard Brook' and going public with the story that Holmes had not solved the many crimes he claimed to, but had in fact committed them himself. Moriarty claimed he was only an actor, hired by Holmes to play himself, the so called 'Napoleon of Crime'. (Read a full recap of the case on page A3.)
This new evidence proves without doubt that James Moriarty was entirely who Sherlock Holmes claimed he was, and the character of 'Richard Brook' was entirely fabricated. The fall from Bart's roof no longer stands as a cornered man's way out, but Holmes's way of escaping a world that no longer believed in him.
Sherlock couldn't move. Moriarty had kept evidence? He would not have thought him that sloppy. If it had been him, he would have destroyed any trace of his scheme, making it untraceable.
But this meant . . .
Even after disposing of Moriarty's cobwebs, Sherlock had never expected to be able to return to his old life. Reveal himself to his friends, yes, but he would never be "Sherlock Holmes; Consulting Detective" again. Now he could. He could show himself to the world and not fear arrest. And John . . .
"Sherlock?" The Doctor had finally realized his companion wasn't with him. "What are you doing?"
"Come and see this!" he called out, smiling broadly. But then his eye caught another paragraph near the bottom of the page:
The development in the case has prompted Scotland Yard to delve deeper into the disappearance of John H. Watson, Holmes's associate and friend. Watson disappeared two years ago after leaving his flat. The Yard still has no new leads as to his whereabouts. He is presumed dead.
Sherlock's heart froze for a second time this morning.
"What have you found?" The Doctor asked.
Sherlock handed him the paper. "We need to make a trip."
