John left the Diogenes Club on legs that felt slightly numb, as if they weren't quite in contact with the ground. He was still struggling to absorb everything he had just learned, there wasn't enough brain-power left to direct his feet, he thought, almost giggling.
It must be the shock, he thought, as he climbed into the waiting car, the precious flash drive secure in his pocket.
They were halfway to Baker Street when he got a text message. A request from Greg for help with a case. He hesitated—could he face Greg right now, with this new knowledge of Sherlock's jump still eclipsing his brain? He could beg off with an excuse about preparing a lecture, but … no. Leaning forward, he redirected the driver, and before long, he was facing another crime scene.
"Ronald Adair," Greg told him. "Killed by a gunshot in his locked, third-floor study, with no gun in sight. Nobody heard a shot, he was alive at 10:00 pm when his wife went to bed, but dead when they looked for him at breakfast. The maid reports hearing a crash around eleven, but … it's a weird one."
"Weird, indeed," John said, looking around. "Sherlock would have loved it."
The words slipped out before he realized. He never talked about Sherlock at a crime scene, but after watching the video, he was so fresh in his mind… He felt closer than he had in years.
Ignoring Greg's look of surprise, John began to prowl around the room, pausing to look out the windows. There were four of them, one for each compass point of what was essentially a tower room. Two were propped open, but there was nothing outside that could have served as cover for a sniper. The third he looked at showed a hairline crack in its stained glass. The hillside distant was far, but … He looked back at the body, mentally tracing trajectories, and then looked down at his feet.
"It was a sniper," he said. "He shot from over there through the open window, and then once Adair was dead, shot out the support for the window." He pointed to the splintered wood half-hidden in the shadows. "There's a crack in the glass from when the window fell closed. That would be the noise the maid heard."
Greg was slowly shaking his head—doubtful, but not convinced. "A sniper? At that distance? At night? And the calibre is all wrong…"
John was back at the window, considering, then gave a firm nod. "I could make that shot, with the right equipment, and a lot of snipers have their own specialized guns. I knew a man in Afghanistan who had modified an air rifle for hunting—he could get extraordinary shots…" His voice drifted off as he turned back to the victim, thinking hard. "Do you have the bullet?"
Hawkins handed him the evidence bag, and John gave a low whistle. "I … You might want to check to see if Sebastian Moran is in the country. He used to be a Colonel in the army, was one of the finest shots I've ever known, and … used to use a gun that fired rounds just like this."
"And you just happen to know him?" This was Donovan, standing in the corner with her arms folded, the picture of scepticism.
"I was in the army, you know," John said, refusing to take offense. "Medic or not, I was the best shot in my unit, and I received some extra training … and some of it was by one Colonel Sebastian Moran. I'm not saying it's him, but he might have some information for you. Tread carefully, though. He's got a prickly temper."
"You want to come? Since you know him?" Greg asked.
John considered. "I … don't know. I've got some other things I need to do today… Call me when you find him and I'll let you know?"
Greg nodded, and John started toward the door. "Oh, and Greg, can you stop by the flat later? I've got something unrelated to show you."
After divesting himself of the protective clothing, John walked back outside, squinting in the bright sun. Could it really only be 1:00 in the afternoon? It had already been a full day, and there was so much still to do.
His ride from Mycroft had long-since left, and he considered catching a cab, but a frisson of superstition ran up his spine at the thought. No, today, he would skip cabs and reminders of Sherlock and suicides. It was a beautiful day, and the walk would do him good.
He started up the street, thinking hard. The morning's revelations would change his blog strategy a bit. That video was solid evidence that Sherlock had been coerced by Moriarty—no matter what he was calling himself. If John had been structuring his posts all along to lay a solid groundwork that would narrow to support his argument, then he had just been handed the piece that was going to hold everything together.
It wouldn't change what he had to do, but he needed to be sure that all the pieces linked together. He couldn't allow any flaw in his argument, in his presentation, to weaken his case. Before, he had been going on faith that Sherlock deserved to be vindicated, but now? Now he had solid proof that Sherlock deserved every accolade that had been held back. Innocent. Real. Falsely Accused. Good Man.
Hero.
And so, as he walked, John laid out his blogging strategy in his head. He'd talked about coerced suicides already (and thank God he'd written that before seeing that wrenching video, he thought), so his next post would be…
A young man dashing down the street, phone to his ear, collided with John, knocking him down. "So sorry," he said, picking himself and already starting to continue on his way. "You're not hurt, right?" he called, jogging backwards. And then he was gone and John was pulling himself to his knees with a handy metal fence along the pavement. Was he invisible these days? He was getting tired of being knocked over by people too hurried to even stop…
He stopped, staring at the wall in front of him. Was that…? He spun around, scanning windows and rooftops and … there, an open window with just a hint of a waving curtain. Empty now, he was sure, but … he looked back at the chip in the wall, and then pulled out his phone.
"Greg? I think someone just tried to shoot me."
#
And so it was much later when he got home. He still didn't know if the man who'd knocked him down had deliberately saved him or if it had been serendipity, but he had to be grateful. Judging by the trajectory, the shot would have gone straight through his head if he hadn't fallen.
The fact that the bullet was the same type that had killed Ronald Adair didn't make him feel any better, either.
He still had the flash drive, though. It had been one of the first things he'd checked, though he couldn't imagine why anyone would have wanted to steal it (assuming they even knew he had it). It was just a copy, after all. Mycroft would have easily been able to give him a new one.
Still, he thought, this had made one thing easier.
"Can you come up for a few minutes?" he asked Greg as the car pulled up at Baker Street. "It's important."
Before long, he was plugging the flash drive into his laptop and warning Greg, just like Mycroft had warned him. "I only saw this for the first time this morning, and I'm warning you. It's hard to watch, but you need to see it, okay?"
"What is this about, John? I've got a sniper to catch."
"I know you do, but trust me—you really need to see this." John called up the video and then turned away to pour a drink, placing it next to Greg's hand.
"Thanks, but I'm working, John."
"I know," he said, "Just hit Play."
John couldn't help but watch as the video played again, and it was just as wrenching as it had been before. He staggered into the other desk chair as Sherlock's last minutes streamed by. This time, though, Greg continued the video through his and Sherlock's conversation. You could only hear Sherlock's side of it, but John found himself filling in his own replies, and then, as Sherlock spread his arms, you could hear John's voice screaming his name, and then there was nothing but static.
Like John, Greg's first act was to grab and down the waiting drink. "Christ, John," was all he said.
"I know."
"He was… That was Moriarty."
"I know."
"Jesus … he jumped for us."
"I know."
There was silence for a long, endless moment, then, "Mycroft?"
"This morning. After reading today's blog post, he felt it was time."
Greg looked as stunned as John had been. "He knew?"
"He was waiting for the right time, he said, which I can understand, I suppose, but don't think I'm not furious with him for keeping this from us."
"Especially you," Greg said. "You deserved to know."
John wasn't sure how to react to that. Part of him agreed, but realistically, did he have any more need to know than the Detective Inspector who had put his career on the line countless times for Sherlock? Or the woman who had practically been a mother to him? "We all did," he said finally. "But now that I know, I'm making sure you do, too—and Mrs Hudson as soon as she gets home from the shops. The thing is, though—I discussed this with Mycroft and he agrees. I'll be posting it to my blog later."
"Yeah, yeah, right… It's the right thing to do." Greg just looked shattered as he nodded, face blank. "Christ, Sherlock."
"I know. I'd say he fulfilled his promise, wouldn't you?"
"What's that?"
"He not only was a great man, Greg, he was a good one. An extraordinary one."
Greg tipped his glass back, swallowing the last few drops at the bottom. "Yes, he was. And so are you. Do me a favour and send me a text when you post it? I want to see Donovan's face when she watches it."
A feral grin spread across John's face. "Oh, yes, but only if you promise to record it for me."
"It's a deal," Greg said, and then, pulling his DI authority around him like a coat, he went on his way, leaving John staring again at the image on the computer screen: Sherlock, arms poised to fly.
#
For the rest of the afternoon, John worked on his blog post.
It was one of the hardest things he'd ever written—this after two years of difficult, challenging writing. He remembered now why he tried to keep his posts as dispassionate as possible these days. Writing about facts was remarkably easy. Writing with his heart … wrenchingly hard.
Because, this time, no matter how he tried to stick to the facts, it was impossible to write about Sherlock jumping off a building—to save John's life, nonetheless—without getting emotional. His guilt and pride and loss infused every sentence. The entry positively dripped with it, oozing with both cloying sweetness and the sharp, bitter, acidic pain by turns.
He actively fought with this post.
At one point, he paced the room, despairing he would ever find the words to say. He wished he could just post the video without comment, like he had with that news link the day after Sherlock jumped, but found he couldn't do it. He owed it to Sherlock to write this, and to write it well.
Pausing long enough to show Mrs Hudson the video (plying her with tea for a change) was almost a relief.
Finally, he cued up the song that had started him on this road almost two years ago. And with the refrain sounding in his ears ("Say what you wanna say, And let the words fall out. Honestly, I wanna see you be brave..."), he started to write.
#
It's been almost two years since my friend Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death from St Bartholomew's Hospital.
As much as I've tried to understand why a man who seemed to care so little for public opinion would kill himself because of it, I've always been left with questions. The pieces just didn't add up, and all I was left with was the memory of what he told me on the phone just before he jumped.
I've never told anyone what he told me, in those last moments. Not because it was too personal, or too hard (though it was, impossibly, incredibly hard)—but because it was at that moment that, for the first time ever, that Sherlock Holmes lied to me.
Yes. He lied to me.
And for the last two years, I've wondered why.
Why would my best friend lie to me at that crucial moment? Even at his most "heartless" (because he was never truly heartless), Sherlock was never a cruel man, and I can't think of many things that would be crueller than to not only make me watch him kill himself, but to make it even harder by lying to me first.
Because, that day, Sherlock Holmes told me he was a fraud.
But why would he do that? I've gone over it and over it. I've gone through hundreds of cases he worked on to prove that he was the real thing. And he was. I've never doubted it.
So, if Sherlock was not a fraud (which he was not), and if he was not cruel (because he wasn't), why would he have chosen that moment of all moments to LIE?
I may never have all the answers, but today? Today I have some of them.
One thing is now crystal clear.
Sherlock Holmes lied to me to protect me.
Sherlock Holmes jumped off that building to save my life, as well as that of the two other people he was closest to.
If that's not the act of a man who cares, deeply, I don't know what is.
I ask you to watch the video posted below. I warn you that it's gut-wrenching. It's hard to watch—the hardest thing I've ever sat through.
But it shows EXACTLY why Sherlock Holmes jumped from that building. And it wasn't because he was a fraud. It wasn't because he couldn't bear the turn in public opinion, or because he was ashamed of being caught out in a crime¬—because none of those were true.
No, Sherlock Holmes jumped because he was a hero.
He died proving that he was, in fact, not only a great, but a truly GOOD man, who was willing to sacrifice himself for others.
I may never understand why he lied to me, but I will never forget.
Thank you, Sherlock.
#
Taking a hard breath, he uploaded the video and moved to click POST when a voice came from the doorway.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Dr Watson."
#
John's hand froze, and he turned toward the door. "Colonel Moran."
"Nice to see you again, Watson. Now move your hand away from the computer."
Quietly, John did as he was told, keeping his eyes on the man standing with a gun in his living room. "You're a literary critic now, Moran?"
The man chuckled. "Hardly—not that what you write is exactly literature. No, I'm here to prevent you from making a mistake."
John folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "Really? What kind of mistake is that?" It infuriated him that Moran looked so relaxed, as if he wasn't taking this seriously.
"Up until now, your blog has been, well, almost amusing. Your little attempts at deductions and crime-solving have been entertaining enough to watch. Believe me, I don't begrudge you your new career, even if it based on the work of a liar who cost a better man than he his life."
John ignored the reference to Moriarty, though he could almost feel his teeth grinding. "So you are here to critique."
Moran shook his head. "No, I'm here to give you a chance, Watson. I have no problem with you helping the police put away the stupid criminals. I mean, really, they just get in the way of us professionals. Most of them deserve to be caught. So far as I'm concerned, you're doing good work."
"And yet, here you are in my flat with a gun," John said, mentally tallying all the things within reach that could be used as a weapon.
"I find it helps people focus when I want them to pay attention," Moran said.
John kept his expression polite as he nodded. "Well, I'm paying attention. You like what I've been doing, but you object to the entry I haven't even posted yet."
"Before today, you haven't attacked my boss."
"Most people just send nasty e-mails when they disagree."
Moran smiled. "I'm not most people. You'd think you'd remember that."
Images from Afghanistan flashed behind John's eyes. "Oh, I do. I gather you work for Moriarty these days, or his network, or whatever?"
"Something like that. And you're about to make a mistake."
John glanced at his computer screen, cursor poised over the POST button. "You don't want me defending Sherlock."
"I don't want you muddying the waters by publishing information that's better kept a secret."
John could feel the quizzical expression on his face. "You do realize we have a free press, don't you? And that whether I defend Sherlock or not, it's going to get out there eventually?"
Moran tipped his head. "Maybe. But not today. Not unless you want to traumatize your poor landlady when she comes up to find you with a hole in the head, blood everywhere. Very messy."
"You'd rather kill me that let me write a blog post." John couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice. Not that he didn't understand the importance of this particular post, with all its life-changing possibilities, but really? It was worth shooting him over? Moriarty and Sherlock were dead. It's not like this was going to change that.
"It's entirely your call, Watson. You can keep doing exactly what you're doing, helping put the stupid bad guys away, living your quiet little life undisturbed. Or you can start stirring things up that are better left alone, which would have very bad, very immediate consequences." Moran shifted the gun, just enough to draw John's attention. "I'm just trying to be a friend, here, but it's your choice."
John stared at him. Seriously? If he posted this blog entry, Moran would actually kill him?
He turned to look at his computer screen, the post he had agonized over waiting to address the world.
Because it was the kind of post that could change the world—not just his little corner of it. John's blog had developed a reputation for excellence that had an international following. Sherlock's reputation might not have been world-wide before his jump, but it was now, and it was all through John's efforts.
If he were to die now… what would that do to the cause he'd worked so hard for these last two years? Would his murder solidify Sherlock's reputation? Or would it all crumble away?
He liked to think that he had laid a strong foundation, here. Sherlock's (and his) reputation should be secure. Knowing public opinion, an assassination would probably help solidify it, if anything, like an artist's work increasing in value after their death. But if he backed down now, what would that say?
Sherlock had jumped off a building to save his life, he thought. His friend would likely want him to live, to continue the Work. He could almost hear him now, "It's the Work that's important, John. I don't care what people think of me."
Except … John did.
Sherlock had given his life to save John's. Surely John could do the same?
He looked back at Moran. "You're not my friend," he told him. "But Sherlock was."
Reaching quickly, he hit POST on his computer screen and then shut the lid, knowing the log-in screen would delay Moran if he wanted to try deleting the post. It would buy time for the video to get out there into the cloud, or whatever they were calling it these days. Hopefully it will go viral and be copied before Moran or Moriarty's people can do anything about it he thought wistfully, just as there was a noise behind him and everything went black.
#