Disclaimer: Sherlock was created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss based on the words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own the rights to Sherlock. This is a work of fanfiction, taking elements from S2, Ep 3 of Sherlock written by Mark Gatiss as well as The Sign of Four by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Thus, if you know it, I do not own it.
Such an Illusion…
Twenty minutes later, Mary was still scrolling through the various contacts on John Watson's phone. You could tell a lot about a person by the contacts in their phone. People who wanted to be well like and make it look like they knew everyone had a lot of numbers in their phonebooks, but only maybe regularly called three or four. Super social people had contact lists that made your head spin. Theses sorts also tended to contact at least twenty or more people a day. Private people had only a few numbers programed in and contacted maybe two or three people often. If someone stole Mary's phone, they'd think she was a hermit.
She had one number saved in her phone book: her employer.
She did not text anyone, so there weren't any texts. She called only maybe a handful of numbers, but none with regularity.
Her life as Mary Morstan was dreadfully boring.
She loved it.
John Watson had very few contacts and only regularly phoned or texted with Sherlock, Lestrade and someone named Mike Stamford. He called his sister maybe once or twice a month.
John Watson clearly lived with Sherlock, if the talk of milk and things in the fridge were anything to go by. The pair worked together in some capacity, as they met with DI Lestrade often at crime scenes.
John's texts with DI Lestrade were usually about Sherlock. They occasionally met for a pint, but mostly they talked about Sherlock who was often ignoring Lestrade.
Stamford was a friend, fellow doctor and worked at Bart's with someone named Molly.
John wasn't romantically linked with Sherlock, judging by the number of females he texted with over the course of the life of the phone.
John Watson was a serial dater. He did not save the number after he stopped dating the woman, but he didn't delete the texts either.
"So, what have you figured out from him phone?"
Mary slowly lifted her head to find a salt-n-peppered (more salt than pepper) haired man staring down at her. He was stocky, with a kind but rugged face and warm brown eyes. His hair seemed to have a life of it's own, but was close cut. He had clearly not gone to bed the night before, between the state of his hair, the stubble dotting his jawline and the rumples in his cheap suit. He'd also lost his tie at some point. Or didn't bother to wear one.
"He has a few friends and dates a lot," Mary said, tucking a peice of hair behind her ear. "Are you DI Lestrade?"
"Yeah," the man said, pocketing his own mobile. He must have a track on John's phone. There had to be an app for that. "I'll take that, as I'm sure you've figured out John and I are…friends."
Mary nodded, extending the phone out to him. She was curious why he had paused for so long before admitting they were friends. The DI took the mobile and slipped it into his other pocket. He asked her a few more questions about what she'd seen when Sherlock Holmes (he used the man's full name each time he referred to him) fell from the roof. She answered honestly, yet felt something was off with the DI in front of her.
"Can I ask you a question?" Mary inquired, standing up. The DI was taller than her, but not by much. If she put her heels on (which she wouldn't unless someone held a gun to her head), she'd be about the same height as him.
"You can try," the man said, his eyes darting around the waiting room.
"What happened?"
"Huh?"
"I have a feeling I'm missing something important. If I'm totally honest, I feel like I just walked into a movie at the worst possible moment," she admitted. "I'm grasping at straws and getting nowhere in figuring out the plot line of this story."
DI Lestrade stared at her, his eyes stating she was right. She's walked into the movie right at the climax without knowing any of the backstory. And he wasn't about to tell her what the hell was going on.
Her eyes drifted down to the pocket of his trench coat he'd stored John's phone. The phone gave her snipits of a life, glimpses into a rich story.
"Who is Sherlock Holmes? The staff have been all looking glum, the nurses who took John into care all knew him, and while his contact list is very short and the people he actually communicates with is very limited, his phone was getting notices like whoa."
DI Lestrade stared at her, looking almost fearful. He pulled the phone in question out, flicking the screen to life with one finger.
"Three hundred and forty-two emails," he whispered. "Only?"
"I turned off his mail app," Mary replied. "He got over half those notices from when I picked the phone up and I gave him to the nurse. In a span of maybe ten minutes."
"I take it you don't read the papers, Ms Morstan?" Lestrade asked carefully, putting the mobile into his pocket again.
"No. I've also been out of the country for a few years," she said slowly.
"Where?"
"New Zealand," she replied smoothly. "Thailand, India, Vietnam then back to New Zealand after I got tired of all the dirt and raw sewage."
Mary didn't mention the real reason she had no clue what was going on in the world: she did not read the papers, watch the news or use any sort of social media.
It had no reason to do with not actually being in the country.
"So, you don't know who Sherlock Holmes is?"
Mary shook her head. "Should I?"
"He's been in the papers quite a bit recently," Lestrade offered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked up and away from Mary. "And today…"
The older man trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. He appeared as if he was in pain, denial and suffering from a massive bout of regret. All at the same time. Lestrade turned back to her, meeting her eyes, then studied her, eyes sweeping up and down her again.
"Well, thanks for the mobile," DI Lestrade said. "I…I'm…"
He lost his words. Without thinking, Mary put a hand on his forearm, bringing his attention back to her.
Greif. His eyes shown with grief and regret he was attempting to smother. He did not understand what had happened, did not know how to deal with what Sherlock had done. Looking harder, she got the feeling Lestrade was almost frightened of facing John.
"You knew Sherlock well, didn't you?"
He did not answer her. He took a shaky breath in.
"I don't know where he went!" someone shouted off to the left.
Mary tore her eyes off DI Lestrade and noticed a nurse near by getting angry at an uniformed policeman. DI Lestrade took a step away from Mary.
"Well, where did he go?" the policeman asked. "He's not in the room. If he's as injured as you're claiming, then where is he?"
"They might have sent him off for a CT," the nurse insisted. "He's not my patient."
The DI moved over to the policeman and began to question him. Mary watched, unable to hear what was going on. She noted the change in Lestrade's body language though. He was hiding from his emotions now, going into copper mode.
She could leave, she realized as she watched the DI stride away from the police officer and hit the bottom on the elevator to go down. She'd given the phone to the DI and there was nothing keeping her any longer.
The police officer picked up his radio and eyed the DI who was waiting for the elevator.
Mary made another choice: to follow the DI.
She quickly dashed into the elevator before it had a chance to close. Lestrade gave her a funny look, but did not question why she was suddenly in the elevator.
A horrible feeling settled within Mary the moment they entered the corridor that was clearly leading to the morgue. It blossomed further the moment she spotted John Watson, head in hands and sitting outside some doors. He was in a ball on the floor, leaning against the wall, his knees bent. The man was still, almost as if he was a lifelike statue. The DI approached and cleared his throat, keeping well out of reach of the grieving John Watson. Mary glanced at the DI, wondering if he was good friends with John why he was standing so far away and looking so awkward. The man seriously appeared unable to figure out what to do with his hands. They flopped between reaching out and going into his pockets.
John looked up at the noise, eyes red rimmed, but more focused than the last time Mary had seen him. Emotion flickered across John's face at lighting speed. Mary was unable to categorize it, but he clearly wasn't happy to see Lestrade.
"Why are you here?"
The question lacked any emotion and caused the DI to shudder.
"I was just told," the DI admitted. "About Sherlock. Then…"
He looked over at Mary. John looked at Mary, blinked and frowned. Mary gave an awkward smile.
"I picked up your mobile. I called two people, hoping someone would come to look after you, since you didn't take the phone when they swept you off. I called your sister, who…well, you know."
John looked embarrassed. Mary felt worst.
She had hated the people who had called her mother after Reid had died. They clearly had not known her mother at all.
"Then she called me," the DI said, holding the mobile out to John. "And then, uh, Donovan told me about…what happened this morning."
John stared at the DI, not taking the extended mobile.
"I…I…I…"
The older man was floundering for words.
John stared.
"I'm sorry. Sherlock…I know."
"You know," John stated flatly.
"I know he's not a fake," the DI said, voice sure.
"Of course not," John snapped. Then quieter, "Of course not."
John looked away, staring back at the doors.
"Have…they….asked you in yet?"
"No."
"The police haven't…."
"No. They don't want me to do it."
"Oh. Why not? You were a witness and you knew him."
"I chinned the Chief Superintendent last night," John reminded the DI.
The DI flinched and his body sagged.
"They called Mycroft," John stated. "I'm waiting for them to wrap things up and they'll take me to the station."
"You've been here for two hours," Mary whispered. "What is taking them so long?"
"They had to wait for me to be cleared and now they have to find me," John said.
Mary suddenly remembered the policeman looking for a patient upstairs.
"Ah, here you are."
The voice came from behind and was cultured, cold and steady. Looking over her shoulder, Mary found a smartly dressed older gentlemen with an umbrella standing a little ways behind the group, his eyes taking in the DI and John. His expression was aloof, cold and detached till his eyes fell on her. The expression faltered for a moment before reverting back to blank.
"John. Lestrade," the man greeted. "Ms Kensington."
Mary suppressed her gut reaction to throw up, shudder and run for the hills at hearing that name.
"Excuse me?" she asked, looking politely confused.
The two other men stare at her, looking befuddled.
"My name isn't Kensington."
The cold man raised one eyebrow and asked, "Isn't it?"
"No."
"Hmmmm," he hummed, turning his attention to John and the DI. "Have you seen him?"
"No," John snapped. "They won't let me. They also think I'm upstairs."
"I've cleared that matter up, Doctor Watson," the umbrella toting man stated, swiftly moving his attention to the DI. "You are not here to arrest him are you, Inspector?"
"No. I…I wanted to see Sherlock. And John."
Umbrella Man extended his head and looked to Mary.
"I had John's phone. Now I don't. So, I'll just show myself out of the hospital and be on my way," Mary said, backing up a bit from the group of men.
"Did you see him fall, Ms Kensington?" Umbrella Man asked.
"It's Morstan and no. I was…I was…" Mary faltered for a moment. "I was watching John's mobile fall."
Color flooded her face like never before. Umbrella Man quirked an eyebrow, looking rather intrigued by this statement.
"Morstan?" he asked, surprising her. "As in Mary Morstan?"
"The one and only," Mary joked flatly. "Who are you?"
She looked at him closer. His suit was expensive and unwrinkled. The umbrella was pointless, as it was not raining but she had a feeling he always carried it, judging by how no one seemed to notice the fact he had it when the weather was nice. It was also pricey, judging by the handle.
Money. The man oozed it.
He was also highly intelligent. His eyes spoke it loudly as did the fact he knew who she really was. She had a feeling he knew who she was now working for, hence why he knew the name Mary Morstan.
He had a high power and stressful job, if the lines on his face and stance were anything to go by. Also, from the state of his hands, he spent a lot of time with paper. He didn't text, as his thumbs didn't show it. His fingernail on his right index finger was shorter than his other carefully manicured nails, proving he used it to dial numbers all day long. He preferred to talk rather than text.
Government worker.
"MI5?" she hazarded.
Umbrella Man looked a bit taken aback, but gave her a fake smile. "I hold a minor position in the British Government."
That was the understatement of the century.
"Sure, and I'm the President of the United States."
Umbrella Man stared at her for a beat before saying, "No, I'm afraid that wouldn't be feasible. But, you could be Kelia Kensington."
The DI standing next to her made a choking noise.
Mary waited a moment to long to laugh it off. It had been so long since she'd heard the two names actually spoken together to her face, let alone addressing her.
The name sounded ridiculous. What had her mother been thinking?
"I know Kelia Kensington," John said from behind her.
She did not want to turn around, but she did.
"That's not her," John stated flatly.
For some reason, it hurt to find out her disguise worked on John. While it ought to make her proud, she felt sad and lost suddenly.
"Let's get this over with."
John stood up and motioned to the door. The DI nodded and pulled the door open. John thanked her for returning his phone and marched through the open door, quickly followed by the DI.
Mary was left alone with Umbrella Man.
"So, you're the private tutor for the Forresters, are you not?" he inquired.
"Correct. Today is my day off," Mary answered smoothly. "I take it you know them."
"I know of them," he answered smoothly, leaning on his umbrella. "You would be wise to dye that hair a little darker and wear it in shorter. Kelia Kensington was known for her long, flowing hair. You also have a rather well known mouth. Though, it was your nose that really gave you away. I do applaud you at gaining so much weight, it helps hides so much, doesn't it?"
Mary glared at him. She couldn't tell if he was mocking or praising her.
"I suggest you try wearing makeup," he went on. "It would distract from your mouth and nose if you played up those wonderful contacts you've chosen to cover those trademark eyes."
"You know, no one has figured me out for four years."
"I'm not anyone, Ms Kensington," he assured her.
"Who are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes' brother," he replied before turning and vanishing through the doors to the morgue.
Mary allowed herself to shiver before hightailing it out of the hospital.
That night she googled Sherlock Holmes.
Her computer flooded with news stories, photos, and websites.
She was up till four in the morning working through the quandary of Sherlock Holmes.
Fake genius? Real genius?
Criminal mastermind? Consulting detective?
Hero? Fraud?
Angel? Demon?
The main source of the fraud theory was unreliable. It was reported in a tabloid, then picked up by the rest of the press. Sherlock Holmes' own website, while dull and boring, illustrated his mental prowess. He had invented a new way of thinking, a new way of observing the world. He used this science of deduction to…annoy people, save the world, and fight crime.
John Watson's blog showed the more human side of the genius, yet still proved the man's ability to deduce things with a mere glance…to aggravate people, find glowing bunnies and fight crime.
By the time she collapsed in her bed, she knew Sherlock Holmes was a mad genius who had a fetish for crime scenes. Instead of trying to commit the perfect crime, he helped the police solve them.
For free.
Sherlock Holmes was arrogant, full of himself, and a show off. He took it to heart the whole world was a stage and he was a performer. If Holmes hadn't been fascinated with chemistry, logic and crime scenes, he could have found happiness in the world of acting. He loved to put on a show.
That she could tell from the YouTube videos that popped up of him doing deductions at crime scenes. Or anywhere for that matter. Sherlock Holmes deduced anywhere and anyone— to annoy, aggravate, show off, save kids, find painting and hunt down murderers.
In a matter of hours after he fell from the roof, a movement cropped up around the fallen genius. People who believed in him continued to post proof that he was real, that his deductions were true. Granted, no one could prove that Richard Brook was this Jim Moriarty person, but that did not stop them from believing in Sherlock Holmes.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
While Richard Brook showed up when you googled the name, it was almost too perfect. His history didn't go back very far if he indeed worked in the entertainment industry. If he was indeed an out of work actor, he'd belong to more groups in order to network himself to find work.
Jim Moriarty showed up no where except in responses and mentions on John's blog.
Mary could not claim to be the best judge of character (she'd married a junkie, alcoholic, depressed actor who refused to get help), she was sure someone as arrogant, self assured and pompous as Sherlock Holmes appeared to be would not allow the press to drive him to leap off a building to his death. As long as he had an audience for his mental dancing, Sherlock Holmes could care less about what the world at large through of him.
He had an audience.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
So, why did Sherlock jump off the roof?
The question plagued Mary Morstan. She carried it around with her everywhere she went. Each time she ventured into London and saw the posters and the graffiti stating I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES or MORIARTY WAS REAL, the question plagued her.
Why did Sherlock Holmes jump?
She knew why Reid had jumped, knew why Reid had chosen to take his life. She knew the reasons. She might not understand the reasons, but she knew them.
Sherlock Holmes had no reason to jump, even if his reputation was in tatters. Sherlock Holmes did not put stock in that sort of thing. Nor would he stand for it. He was an arrogant know-it-all.
Sherlock Holmes would PROOVE to the world in the LOUDEST possible method he was in fact the real deal and Moriarty was real.
Falling off a roof did not do that.
So, why did he jump?
