I found myself in the back of Mycroft's car, heading out of the city. Mycroft sat next to me, reading emails on his Blackberry as if I weren't there.
I didn't want to be there. I wasn't sure how I got there. I wanted to assume I'd been drugged. Abducted. Brought against my will. Anything except the truth that whenever a Holmes brother asked, I followed.
"Where are we going?"
"Nowhere in particular." Mycroft didn't look up from his phone.
"You can just let me off here, then. I'll find my own way home."
Mycroft chuckled and finally looked t me. "I can understand why you're upset with us."
I assumed he meant himself and Sherlock, and not that he was invoking the royal plural. "Do you? Do you honestly get it? I would've thought that required some level of human emotion."
"Neither of us is completely devoid of feelings, John. We're just better at controlling them. I'm better than my brother, of course, but he was always a bit high-strung."
"Can you just take me home now, please?"
"I'm afraid not. We're almost there."
"There" turned out to be a quiet cottage. The area surrounding it was largely vacant – there wasn't a sign of human life anywhere. Mycroft walked with me to the front door. "He's expecting you," he said, and turned to go.
"You've kidnapped me to force me to see Sherlock?"
"Have I? I don't seem to recall you putting up a fight. We both know you're dying to find out how he accomplished his disappearing act, where he's been. What he's done. You would follow him into Hell itself, John. You can at least follow him into Sussex."
And in the time it took me to glance at the door and back, Mycroft was gone.
Left with no other choice, I knocked. Sherlock opened the door, but only as far as the chain lock would allow it.
"I'd prefer not to be punched in the face again," he said.
"I'll do my best."
Sherlock's bruised face looked worse than it had the night before. I supposed the darkness had masked the worst of it. Guilt almost welled up, but I pushed it aside.
Sherlock folded himself into a high-backed armchair and motioned for me to have a seat. "You look well," he said. "Limp seems to be gone again. Went away the moment you went up the stairs to Baker Street, didn't it."
It wasn't a question because we both knew he was right.
"Been keeping busy?" He asked with an air of casual conversation. "Working and the like? Dating? Seeing anyone seriously these days?"
"Cut it out," I said. "You probably know every detail of my life down to the last time I took a shit, so stop pretending."
"You're still angry."
"Brilliant. Another brilliant deduction from the consulting detective." I stood and pulled out my phone. I would call Mycroft and demand that he come back and take me home and then I would sell everything and leave the country. I'd go to America. Surely Mycroft's authority wouldn't reach that far.
There was no cellular service.
Of course there wasn't.
With a sigh, I sat back down.
"So have you been here all this time?" I asked.
Sherlock shook his head. "Off and on, when I needed to regroup. The first year I moved constantly. I tracked down Moriarty's men. Dealt with them one at a time. Moran was the last one. The trickiest one. But even he got careless.
"I killed the rest of them, John. I had to. I knew I couldn't hide forever and they would be after you, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade again. You saw that for yourself."
"At Baker Street? You mean Moran thought he was aiming at Mrs Hudson?"
"No, John. He thought he was aiming at you."
A sobering thought.
"Since it wasn't really me, who was he aiming at?"
"A mannequin on a pulley system. Mrs Hudson was safely out of range, making it move around the room. Leaving the windows open was her request – to save having to replace the glass."
I giggled. The sheer insanity of the situation, a lack of sleep and food, and the much-delayed adrenaline crash made me giddy.
"So aside from assassinating assassins, what have you been doing?"
"Travel. I went to Italy. Russia. Asia. North America. I've been dabbling with beekeeping."
"Beekeeping?" I was now on the verge of hysterical laughter.
Sherlock looked offended. "I got the idea from a writer. I don't think much of his books, but I find his blog interesting. "
"You look like hell," I blurted.
"Bees are very demanding." He was so sincere in his delivery that my mad giggling gave way to maniacal laughter.
"Oh, Christ, I'm exhausted," I said when I could breathe again. "The past two days have been unreal."
"Your room's up the stairs and to the right. Mycroft's already brought some of your things."
"Of course he has." I stood and ran my hands through my hair, considering my words. "Come with me?"
We fell asleep back-to-back, but when I woke up, Sherlock's arm was locked around my waist as if he were afraid I would disappear.
