Do consider dropping a note to let me know what you think about the resolution in this story. It is, I think, a drastically different outcome and likely (certainly) an unpopular one. And hence, I find myself desperately curious as to the reactions among the few who have read it. So please, do take the time to comment- one way or another :)
You see, I feel deeply saddened when I see what is largely being posted in fan-fiction right now. Authors have either gone silent or are choosing to largely explain John's behaviour or completely ignoring it. After Reichenbach falls there was an outpouring of stories showing John devastated and then angry and a remorseful Sherlock finally being forgiven. After Season 3, there was a profusion of stories about pining Sherlock, evil Mary and a plethora of plots to somehow get John and Sherlock in a relationship. But now….. barely anything! When John raised his hand at Sherlock in "Culmination", I punished him severely for it. I then endured reader's outrage at this. Where are such passionate readers now? Where is the outrage? Where is the debate? Why the bias? Who speaks for Sherlock?
So if you like what you've read in this story or even if you did not but found it thought-provoking - do consider leaving a review or recommending it to friends. It may give other authors the courage to write different stories, it will allow for diversity of thought and opinion, it may halt the death of a creative fandom…..
Another thing- just FYI- for those who read "Moksha" after having read "Culmination" and liked it—I am planning a sequel to Moksha at some stage. So do keep a look out :)
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it, no matter your views!
"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock hollered loudly as he ran up the seventeen stairs to 221B.
"In here, dear," came the muffled reply from the kitchen.
Sherlock put his bag on the sofa and removed the Stradivarius gently, putting it away with care. He flung his coat on his chair with a flamboyant flourish and walked into the kitchen.
Mrs Hudson stood crouched over the crisper tray of the open fridge, stocking fresh produce. She straightened up and turned.
Sherlock smiled as he pulled her towards him. "Come here," he said as he enveloped her in a warm embrace.
"Oh, Sherlock dear, is everything alright?" Mrs Hudson's voice was muffled against his shirt. Her arms instinctively returned the hug as she snuggled against his warmth.
Soft lips pressed down gently on her forehead, one large hand rubbing her arm up and down.
"Just fine, Mrs Hudson."
Her laugh was delighted as she gently stepped back and looked at him. "Well, I knew you'd be back from visiting Eurus just about now. The water is hot. Go on, then. Have a shower. Would you like a cup of tea for now?" She started filling the kettle with water, without waiting for his reply.
Sherlock stepped out to the living room saying, "That would be lovely, thank you."
"I'm making lamb stew for tonight. Your favourite," she called out from the kitchen.
"Sorry, I'll be out tonight," he said, switching on his laptop.
"Oh?" She came out to the living room wiping her hands with a tea towel.
He looked up and smiled.
"Perhaps tomorrow night?"
She nodded and turned. Then paused and met his eyes. "John has called twice already today. He wanted to come tonight to talk to you."
Sherlock pursed his lips. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."
Mrs Hudson put the tea next to Sherlock. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Let me know when you leave."
Sherlock nodded absently as he steepled his hands under his chin, fingers absently tapping against his lips. A slow smile began to creep in. He knew what to do.
Opening his email account, he began to type.
Lestrade,
Your full name is Gregory Emerson Lestrade. You were born on the 12th of November, 1973, in Sussex. Your French mother Adele Lestrade passed away in 1988. Your father, Mathew Smith, whom you visit monthly, lives in a retirement home in Sussex with his two cats, Tobias and Oscar.
Your best friend, Adam Taylor, was killed in action in Iraq on 23rd March 2003.
You became estranged from your wife of fifteen years, Joanna- in 2010. You share joint custody of your two daughters. Iris and Bella. Iris is in year eight and wants to become an artist. Bella is giving her GCSE's this year and wants to become a psychologist.
You are an Arsenal fan, partial to Heineken beer, enjoy pub food particularly Shepherd's pie….
The smile stayed on his face as he kept typing.
Mycroft Holmes's shoes squeaked as he walked over the spotless polished floor, the hermetic doors closing behind him with a resounding click.
He leaned against his umbrella as he watched Eurus.
She was sitting on the ground in her glass cage; legs pulled up, chin on her knees, her long wavy hair framing her face, rocking back and forth where she sat.
He waited silently, alert.
"You took your time," her voice echoed.
Mycroft grimaced. "Yes, well….. I was otherwise occupied."
She hummed for a while, continuing to rock where she sat.
"It's done."
He took a deep breath. It had always been hard-talking to Eurus. Often impossible to pin down her intentions, that flat toneless voice she preferred to deliver her words in, that unyielding stare that she managed without moving a muscle. He'd always felt wrong-footed.
"And how did you do it?"
She tipped her head to one side. "Don't worry. It wasn't re-programming or hypnotism or whatever else you're calling it these days."
"Then how did you do it?" He refused to back down.
Her lips slanted into a half-smile. "I held up a mirror."
He looked thoughtful.
"I see. I'd….. I'd always taught him that caring was not an advantage. That alone is what we are. Alone protects us."
She unfurled with a lithe grace and stood up straight.
"Wrong!" She took a step forward. He struggled to not take a step back. "A Holmes protects a Holmes. You were always too slow."
His jaw clenched.
She took another step forward and said in a sing-song voice, "Are you going to keep your word, Fat-croft?"
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Eurus, please!" He gave a long sigh and hung his head for a moment. Then, "For short periods of time to start with." He raised a warning finger. "And only if Sherlock is amenable."
She smirked as she stepped close to the glass. Mycroft's grip on his umbrella handle tightened.
"So, when are you planning to tell Sherlock?"
"About what?"
"About Jim Moriarty."
"What about him?" He tried for nonchalance.
"Don't pretend ignorance. It sits badly on you."
Mycroft huffed. "Perhaps our brother is smarter than we both give him credit for."
Eurus raised an eyebrow as he removed his mobile from his trouser pocket.
Holding it up theatrically, he read aloud—
Brother dear, tell her I said thank you. And I would like to know exactly where you are keeping Jim Moriarty. I will ask this of both of you. Eventually. First though, I need to right some errors in judgement - SH
Eurus smiled. A genuine smile.
"It will be interesting. Seeing them together."
Mycroft sighed, "Dear God!"
Eurus's expression was thoughtful, "They are, you know? Made for each other."
Mycroft stared. "I'm not discussing this."
Her smirk was smug.
He cleared his throat. "Yes, well. I must leave now." He turned and walked to the door, then paused when she spoke. Her monotonous tone was chilling as she quoted Mycroft's words back to him.
"Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another."
He turned around, the skin over his knuckles stretched as he gripped the umbrella hard. Lying to Eurus did not even occur to him; she read him even better than Sherlock did.
"Yes, well… a lot of truths were unearthed that day. Thanks to your game. And in the months prior to that." He stepped forward, a grimace on his face. "I had rather hoped once that he would be the making of our brother…"
"Instead he broke him. Repeatedly."
Mycroft gaze drifted to the ground as he clenched his eyes shut. With a deep sigh he looked up as she continued.
"Nurse Cornish reported that John Watson left his cane. At the hospital. After he'd beaten Sherlock, rather brutally…... As a farewell gesture. Said that it was his cane, from a long time ago….." She flicked her hair back with a jerk. "The same crutch, the need for which Sherlock had once removed from his life."
The gleam in her eyes was ominous as she came up to the glass. "It's fascinating, isn't it?"
Mycroft's eyes darted over her face for several long beats. He did not want to go down that rabbit hole just yet.
"Indeed." He felt unsettled. "Well, I must be leaving. And…Thank you," he said graciously, bowing his head.
"I did not do it for you," she snorted.
"No. You did it for Sherlock." Yes, Sherlock had always been her favourite. Sadness clouded his features for a brief moment, before he pulled himself to his full height. "You were truly your brother's keeper."
Pained eyes looked at Mycroft. "He fed me chips." Her eyes drifted away, tone wistful, "We walked all night. He was drugged and depressed and having flash-backs. And yet, he tried so hard. Because he thought I was about to kill myself. A stranger."
"Eurus….."
She shook her head, "No. I think it's time, don't you? For the Holmeses to look after their own?"
Mycroft stared at her for a long time. She stared steadily back, a challenge in her eyes.
Oh, what the hell!
"What do you propose?"
Water dripped in fat droplets from the stubborn black curls and splashed over the faded dull-green leather of the sofa. Sherlock lay wearing his soft cotton pajamas and ratty inside-out t-shirt as the perspiration from the recent hot shower cooled on his body. One hand stroked the heaviness between his legs in languid strokes. The other rested over the mobile on his tummy, tapping idly.
He bit his lower lip as he thought.
Now that he'd decided to end his self-imposed exile into the land of celibacy, he was feeling increasingly restless. He was no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh. In fact, like a typical addict, it was an all or nothing phenomenon and he'd swung between the extremes of monk-hood and hedonism most of his life.
One option, was to visit a club or pub and pick up someone for the night. Man or woman, did not matter. He'd indulged in both in the past and enjoyed either equally. But the preliminary dance tended to get tedious. And he was impatient.
Or, he could…
He bit his lip harder.
The Woman was in London. Had been here for months now, living under an alias close to her previous home. Taking a break from her activities in the States. She'd already texted him several times.
What would it take to make a Dominatrix submit? He pictured Irene Adler naked on her knees, seductive eyes flashing as they desperately tried to mask the hunger beneath, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his riding crop... Now that would TRULY be an interesting experiment!
Coming to a decision, he typed quickly.
Hungry, Ms Adler? – SH
He stilled the hand between his legs. Pleasure deferred was pleasure intensified after all. Standing up, he stretched and walked to the window, hand still toying with the mobile. He caressed the Stradivarius with long fingers, wondering idly what tune he would play for Jim Moriarty when they met next…. It has been years. About time, Jim!
It was dark outside. He stared blankly. Then face grim, he began to text.
John. Mrs Hudson mentioned your concerns. Ian Traise, a former client, works as a real estate consultant in your suburb. And Nigel Rodney, a friend, is a financial planner. I'll email you their contact details.
His mobile pinged with Irene's distinctive text alert. He saved John's text to drafts and opened Irene's text.
Starving, Mr Holmes
Sherlock's laugh was triumphant. He went back to the drafts and added some more.
John. Mrs Hudson mentioned your concerns. Ian Traise, a former client, works as a real estate consultant in your suburb. And Nigel Rodney, a friend, is a financial planner. I'll email you their contact details. I'm afraid that is all I can do for now. I am busy for the next few days. See you at dinner on Sunday. Mrs Hudson has been trialling a new cake recipe for Rosamund! - SH
As he moved to the bedroom to get changed, his mobile pinged again.
Are you to provide satiation?
Sherlock raised a smug eyebrow… Oh yes, this is going to be interesting!
Let's have dinner – SH
He threw the mobile on the bed as he dressed in brisk, efficient movements. Putting on his coat, he walked up to the window again, one hand moving the curtain aside. Baker's Street was busy. Pedestrians bustling about. Cars honking. A group of teenagers had stepped out of Speedy's café. They were laughing and talking loudly. A car was parked on the opposite pavement, the driver out on the kerb busy arguing with the grim-faced police officer. Idiot. Can't you SEE he is lying. Look at his tells!
His city. HIS London. A sigh of contentment.
He picked up his phone. He texted.
Molly, I do love you. You are my most trusted friend and closest confidante. I measure women by your yardstick. Blinded by romantic idealism, you've lost perspective. Do not eschew this love, do not consider it inferior merely because it is not romantic. It is all the greater for its purity. Your friend-SH
A gentle smile graced his face as he closed the door and thundered down. Putting his coat collar up, he yelled out just as he opened the front door, the noise of the traffic loud and rambunctious.
"Good night, Mrs Hudson."
He stepped out into the cold night.