"There will be a man at the door shortly. Open it, greet him as though you know him, let him in. No, shh, shh, no, don't ask questions. Very important that you do this. Precisely this. Yes?"
Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson an encouraging look. She returned it with a puzzled one of her own but nodded.
"All right, dear, if it's important–"
"It is," Sherlock assured her, then kissed her cheek for good measure.
"Upstairs," he said, turning to John, shooing John with his hands. "Upstairs, now, chop, chop."
"Sherlock–" Mrs. Hudson started.
"He's someone you're expecting!" Sherlock hissed at her, grasping the banister halfway up, leaning over at the waist, nodding at her quickly. "You know him!" He paused again. "He's a young man, green eyes, short hair, light brown. Oh, best be quite nice to him also, he'll have a gun. Or several."
Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to protest but Sherlock was up the stairs, in through the door behind John, shutting it behind him and leaning against it, fingertips splayed on the wood, eyes darting to one side, listening hard.
"Was that necessary?" John asked.
"Shh, shh, John!" Sherlock said, holding up one hand. "Yes, it is. Mycroft, you know."
"It's just gone dusk," John protested. "You told me–"
"Can't be too careful. Best not let my brother get the wrong idea."
At this, John raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.
"That is a good point," he agreed.
"He'll be tetchy and suspicious right now," Sherlock said, keeping himself against the door, turning his attention away from John. "And he'll have heard about the explosion by now, probably has more details on it than I do at the moment. I'd really rather not have him draw unnecessary conclusions and start baby-sitting us again. Nor do I want to come to the attention of any of these superiors of his. Unless I miss my mark, neither does Sam."
"All right, but-"
"Shh!" Sherlock hissed, spinning himself round so he could press his ear to the door. "He's just outside."
"How can you possibly tell that?"
"Lived here for four years, haven't I?" Sherlock asked. "Now shut up."
He ignored John, focusing on the sounds coming from below, and, after a moment, he heard the faint rapping on the main door. It sounded normal, casual. Good. As though he was expected. Which he was, of course.
Sherlock held his breath.
A moment later, footsteps below in the landing, and the door opening. Sherlock shut his eyes, focusing his concentration on the conversation below. Ignoring John was the hardest part – he was breathing. Not loudly, normally, but it was so easy to be aware of him. Did he know that? He heard John shift balance somewhat – more weight on the right leg, then the left, then right again, Sherlock noted. Antsy.
Focus, he told himself.
Mrs. Hudson greeting him, feigning familiarity and delight quite well, actually. Well done, he thought, biting his lip without noticing. Sam, replying in return, didn't seem surprised, greeting her just as warmly, wishing her good evening, laughing.
Much better than last time, Sherlock noted. Less tension in his voice. Laughter wasn't forced. He'd be carrying himself less rigidly, too. Less worried. Less injured. Good. He needed to know this. Always important to know with whom one was dealing.
Good to know, too, that Sam was doing better.
Now ask him in! Sherlock thought, growing impatient. After a moment, a tread on the floor boards, the door shutting behind Sam, locking again.
Sherlock breathed out.
Footsteps on the stairs, a voice coming toward them, thanking Mrs. Hudson for letting him in. French accent, but subtle, with overtones of something else. British? No, not quite. What? Sam was English. Always had been. But spoke French perfectly, and had been living in France, at least until recently. Not anymore, though. Sherlock tried to pin it down, but Sam had stopped speaking, climbing the last of the stairs.
Sherlock pulled the door open a moment before Sam knocked, so his right hand was still raised in a loose fist, but he didn't look surprised. Pleased, he looked pleased. And he grinned. Fewer shadows, scars were faded or gone, expression more relaxed, less tension in the eyes, although he looked older now – of course, they were all older, not by much, a year and a half, but the whole thing had aged Sam more than he would have otherwise. Shoulders back, down, body held easily, but that was still taking some effort, no one else might have noticed, but it was a conscious act in some respects, keeping calm, keeping confident, as though he'd never been harmed, as though he were anyone else.
His green eyes darted to Sherlock then past him to John, lighting up in greeting.
"Hello, Sam," Sherlock said.
Sam's face relaxed more, and Sherlock grinned.
"Hello, Sherlock, John," Sam said and stepped inside as Sherlock moved back from the door. Sam put down the laptop bag he'd been carrying – heavy, Sherlock noted, so there was a computer inside, but thicker than normal, so something else as well. He swung the door shut, throwing the locks, then embraced Sam warmly.
This time, only the barest of tension in Sam's shoulders.
The last time Sherlock had seen him, Sam had shown up unannounced and the consulting detective had hugged him hello in disbelief, surprise, as if to prove to himself that, yes, his friend was there and quite alive and real. Sam had almost immediately asked him to let go, however, and Sherlock had stepped back smartly, palms held up, grey eyes carefully evaluating the younger man. Had given him physical space, waiting quietly but with a sharp eye, until Sam had reasserted control over himself.
Not this time, however. Sam returned the hug without much difficulty – some, there was some there, Sherlock noted, but under his control.
Sam then shook John's hand, and they pulled each other into the one-armed embrace that men do when they are less certain about the demonstration of affection, but genuinely glad to see one another.
"What have you got for me?" Sherlock demanded then and Sam turned back, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
"Sherlock!" John admonished. "For God's sake, let the man breathe. Sam, come in. Tea?"
"John, no time for that!" Sherlock admonished. "We have a case!"
"You have a case," Sam agreed. "Although it's not why I'm here. And yes, John, tea would be brilliant, thank you."
Brilliant, Sherlock noted. But less excited about the tea than last time. Last time, they'd received a card not long before Sam had visited complaining that he couldn't get a decent cuppa in France. Well, he'd said Venice, but he'd been in France. The last time he'd been in their flat, he'd taken tea with something bordering on absolute relief and had held off even sipping it for two minutes after it was ready, just inhaling the scent and letting the steam waft over this face. Relishing the experience, because who knew when the next time he could get a real tea would be?
Not as eager this time, but still more so than he would be if he were used to it again.
And using British slang. Maintaining a weak French accent.
"What do you know about the explosion?" Sherlock demanded. John reproved him from the kitchen, but Sam shrugged off the light coat he'd been wearing and Sherlock took it, hanging it quickly. A coat wasn't necessary in this weather, but it covered the scars at his wrists, on his arms. Sherlock noted them and saw Sam note that in return. Last time, he'd worn a long-sleeved shirt, kept his scarf on. There were no marks on his neck now. The ones on his wrists were still red, the ones on his arms faded to white.
"It's worse where you can't see, believe me."
Shock ground Sherlock to the floor momentarily.
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."
Sam had not told him what Moriarty had done. Sherlock had wanted to know, since this had been in part because of him, or about him, but Sam had simply refused and Sherlock understood the look on his face. Then he couldn't speak about it without losing control. Now he wouldn't speak about it so as not to dredge up the memories that still clung to the edges of his green eyes, but did not invade them, at least not all of the time.
Sam shook his head. For a moment, there was something else in his green eyes, a coolness, an aloofness, then it faded, but didn't disappear.
Yves, Sherlock realized. That was Yves.
He'd almost forgotten he wasn't speaking with Sam Waters anymore, despite the fact that younger man looked different – gone was his dark hair, replaced with a lighter brown, less distinctive, so that his colouring was no longer startling, no longer something Sherlock would have noted.
He remembered John, high on morphine, making fun of him for checking out Constable Sam Waters.
Two years ago now, Sherlock realized. Two years.
How much had changed.
John came back into the living room, carrying two teas, and passed one off to Sam. Sherlock's eyes slid back to his husband.
And how much had not.
"Thank you," Sam said, accepting the tea and sipping it without hesitation – no appreciation this time. John passed the other mug to Sherlock, who took it absently as Sam picked up his laptop bag, then went back into the kitchen to fetch his own tea.
"I don't know anything about the explosion, so I'll save you some time right now," he said as John came back into the living room. Sherlock waved Sam into a chair and the younger man sat down, resting his mug on the table beside him, placing the case on his knees. "I was here for another reason altogether."
"They haven't reassigned you here, then?" John asked, sitting on the couch. Sherlock perched beside him and John leaned forward somewhat, elbows resting on his knees, his mug held in both hands. "Are you still in France?"
"Dublin," Sherlock and Sam said at the same time, and both Sam and John looked at Sherlock in surprise.
"Your French accent – very good, by the way – isn't strong enough for you to be living France as your French self, unless you're not maintaining it for our benefit, but if that were the case, you'd drop it altogether, so you keep it up for consistency, to keep from slipping up. But you're still using British slang – brilliant – and you are less interested in your tea than last time, indicating you now live somewhere where it's readily available, but not so long as to be completely used to it again, you aren't taking it for granted, not yet. But you're still rolling your ars, from the back of the throat, like a proper French speaker, so in a place where it may not be as noticeable. They'd hardly send you back to London, given the number of police officers you know here, nor, I think, would then send you anywhere in the UK, but I'm willing to be wrong on that point. However, Dublin is a large and cosmopolitan city, so your accent wouldn't be unusual there, and your colouring, particularly your eyes, is less likely to stand out. Certainly you aren't living any farther south in Europe, given that your skin is precisely the same colour as it was when you were working here, so you're in a place with a similar climate, both in terms of temperature and average sunlight. You've been there approximately seven weeks, although I suspect your persona has been there a lot longer, correct?"
Sam's lips twitched and he picked up his tea again.
"Eight weeks. Well done," he said. "Please don't disappoint me by telling me you learned all of that from your brother."
"I don't speak to my brother," Sherlock replied coolly. He noted John shifting somewhat beside him – the whole situation with Mycroft made John uneasy, in a number of ways. He was upset that Sherlock didn't get on with his brother, but also unwilling to push it, because he himself did not particularly want Mycroft in their lives. He regretted that Mycroft was the way he was, and wished the brothers had a better relationship but was reluctant to see that happen.
Sherlock wished John would just pick one way of viewing the situation and stick with it.
"I thought not," Sam agreed. "That's why I'm here."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious.
"You've not joined forces with him, have you?"
Sam arched an eyebrow.
"I've only ever spoken to him once, at your request. But I have kept my word and there are people monitoring him. I know what happened in Edinburgh."
"I am not interested in discussing Edinburgh," Sherlock said flatly. He pushed himself to his feet and moved away from the couch, holding his tea mug in his hand, sipping from it absently, as Sam unzipped the laptop bag and pulled a file from it.
"I have information you need," Sam said. "That's all."
"Keep it," Sherlock replied. "What were you doing at the explosion last night?"
Sam sighed and cast a look at John, then passed the manila folder across the room. The doctor reached out and took it, Sherlock's eyes following his husband's movements. John settled back and flipped it open, reading quickly.
The alarm that lit his brown eyes concerned Sherlock immediately but he kept it to himself. Let Mycroft deal with Mycroft. He wanted nothing to do with his brother.
"Sherlock, someone murdered Marco De Luca," John said, looking up again.
This made Sherlock pause.
"Six days ago," Sam confirmed. "Assassinated from a distance. Sniper rifle. I can't tell you how riled up Interpol is about that – no trace of the assassin."
"No," Sherlock said. "There wouldn't be." Then he snapped his grey eyes back to Sam, expression cold. "Who have you told?"
"No one," Sam said simply. "My superiors know nothing about your brother's connection to De Luca. Only myself and one field agent, the one who was keeping an eye out the day Mycroft went to Bart's to see you, know what he had you working on."
"Do you trust this person?"
"To do his job, I do," Sam said. Sherlock noted the distinction. "And his loyalty, yes."
"What do you wish me to do with this information?" Sherlock asked. John looked displeased, but Sherlock ignored this. This was getting tedious – as happy as he was to see Sam, he had a case to work on. And questions of his own.
"Nothing," Sam replied. "I just want you to know. And Mycroft certainly won't be the one to tell you."
"Indeed," Sherlock agreed coolly. There was an abundant amount of information Mycroft refused to share with him. He could start with the existence of David altogether, and work his way down from there. "Thank you. What about last night?"
"What about it?" Sam asked.
"Hardly a coincidence that you just happened to be in the area," Sherlock replied. He was beginning to feel fidgety – he wanted to work. Sam could help with that. Interpol should have more information on the people who had been living in the building than the police did. Perhaps one of them was even on an Interpol watch list – he should be so lucky.
"No," Sam agreed. "Although the bomb and my presence were. What do you imagine, that I set it off?"
"Did you?"
Sam stared at him hard and Sherlock saw clear through all four layers – a rare event, with Sam.
"My job involves enforcing the law, not circumventing it and blowing people up," he snapped. "I was on my way here, to drop the phone in your mail slot so I could contact you about that," he nodded at the file that John was still holding. The doctor was looking somewhat stunned about all of this, Sherlock noted. Really, did this sort of thing continue to surprise him?
"Why not just drop the file? Why come see us?"
"Sorry? You do have a landlady who could access your mail. And it is nice to actually see friends again, you know."
This stopped Sherlock up a moment. John gave him one of those pointed looks that he so favoured when he wanted Sherlock to stop and think a moment about being human, not about the case.
But there was a case, and it was pressing, since a number of people were dead.
"Since you're here, you can have a look at the files for the people already suspected dead in the blast," Sherlock said. "The police have had no luck identifying a culprit."
"Nor have you, then, I take it?" Sam asked.
Sherlock turned his head and fixed Sam with a glare and was further annoyed when John swallowed on a snicker, and not very effectively.
"No," he replied.
"I'm not doing field work," Sam said. "I don't do cases anymore."
"Yes, and you hate that," Sherlock replied. "It chafes at you because you are not a man who's content to sit behind a desk and supervise people when there is work to be done and suspects to be apprehended. You want to go back into the field, despite it all. Every single day. It must drive you mad."
"Some days," Sam agreed. "And no, I am not entirely content to sit behind a desk, but I am also recovering from PTSD and I understand that I'd be a liability in the field."
"Liability!" Sherlock snapped. "Says the man who has been undercover since he was twenty! Who is Sam Waters if not a field agent?"
"Sam Waters is dead," Sam replied wearily. Sherlock threw up his hands in disgust, nearly spilling his tea.
"Have a go at the files, Sam. Give me something from Interpol I cannot get from the police, or we will stall out now and at least seven people will be dead without any hope of us tracking down the murderer."
"Sherlock," John said in a warning tone and Sherlock glanced back, seeing the look in John's eyes telling him not to push Sam, but he ignored it. When else would he have this opportunity to get someone in Interpol – someone quite well connected in Interpol – to provide him with information?
"Somehow, I doubt that would be the case if you're on the investigation," Sam sighed. "But all right, fine. I'm back to Dublin tomorrow anyway, so don't expect to be able to ring me up and have me assist you on this."
"I've already got a partner," Sherlock sniffed. Sam looked at John, raising his eyebrows, as if to ask if Sherlock was always like this. Sherlock deliberately did not look at John's silent response. "You're just an outside opinion."
"Give me the files," Sam said, gesturing with his right hand. Less stiffness in his right arm and shoulder – good. Sherlock snagged his laptop and called up all of the police files Lestrade had sent over on the known victims so far, then passed the computer off to Sam.
He paced as Sam read through them, and John pushed himself to his feet, shaking his head.
"This is not a good idea," the doctor murmured.
"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "Interpol is a law enforcement agency. We're not breaking any laws in asking for their assistance, John. The police and the fire department are not making headway, so why should we be constrained by their limitations? We have resources they don't have, why not use them?"
John pursed his lips unhappily, but shook his head.
"I don't like it," he said. "None of this."
"Nor do I," Sam agreed from the other side of the room and both the detective and doctor looked over, but he was not precisely speaking about the same thing. He had the laptop propped on the arm of the chair, turned to face them, a file with a woman's photograph displayed on the screen.
"It appears I was wrong when I said I wasn't here about the bombing. How much do you know about the agents who arrested Alessandra De Luca?"
"Nothing," Sherlock said promptly. "Nor do I wish to."
"Well, you're about to. The woman who lived in the flat above the bomb was one of the main undercover agents who infiltrated Alessandra De Luca's circle. Last week, someone assassinated Marco De Luca and this week, someone who works for your brother and lives close to you – keeping tabs on you, I'm sure – is killed. I'd say I'm not back in Dublin tomorrow. And that, no matter how much you may not want to be involved in this, I think you just got pulled into it."