Two updates in one night? That's cuz I love you and I'm doing a bit of Shameless Plugging (see below). And now my story is complete. :)
Disclaimer: See Ch.1
Shameless Plugging: That's right. I'm using this story to do a bit of shameless plugging for my new project. It's called The Audiobook Initiative and basically it's meant to get famous people to record audiobooks, sell them, and donate the proceeds to charity. Right now, I and my wonderful friends who are so magnificent as to help and support me (particularly my best friend, who is also my co-admin!) are focusing on getting Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman to record Sherlock Holmes audiobooks. There's even a petition! So just go to this website (without the spaces) audiobookinitiative . webs . com, take a minute to read it, and sign the petition. It won't take much of your time and it has so much potential to benefit so many people. Thank you.
(Or if you'd just like to sign the petition without visiting the website, go here [this one's long] www .change petitions /benedict-cumberbatch -and- martin-freeman-record- sherlock-holmes-audiobooks- and-donate-the- proceeds-to-charity)
The Personal Blog of
Dr. John H. Watson
NOT SO LOST AFTER ALL
Well, the party wasn't a complete disaster. At least Sherlock didn't insult anybody like he did last Christmas. And he didn't kill the dog, which is a miracle in and of itself.
Turns out Sherlock is a pretty good cook. I already knew he was a good baker. I guess I forgot to mention that he kept leaving cookies next to me when he thought I wouldn't notice. Peace offerings? Probably not. More likely, he was conducting some sort of experiment on me. Anyway, the food was good.
He's not a bad hand at flower arranging, either. Even Mrs. Hudson commented on how nice the flowers looked – after asking if I'd put the vases together. Should I be insulted? Never mind. I explained to her that Sherlock had actually put them together – with a little help from Molly. He'd told me that she had shown him how. I figured that's where the first vase went, the ones he picked. They weren't very lovely when he'd finished with them, and he'd probably needed assistance. (He had also informed me that Molly had written out the invitations. Apparently she has lovely calligraphy. I assume that was why he'd been so keen on picking out the right shirt the other day. I've noticed St. Bart's pathologist is more likely to help him when he wears either one.)
Apparently, Sherlock invited half the world. Okay, that's exaggerating things, but the flat was pretty crowded. Lestrade was there. So was Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. And Mrs. Turner, Harry, Mycroft, and notAnthea. And Stamford. Even Donovan and Anderson – though I suspect they were only on the list because Sherlock had a nagging desire to humiliate them and make them feel awful for doubting him.
About fifteen minutes after everyone arrived, I decided Sherlock had better say something to let everyone know why we were all here. I mean, I wasn't exactly sure myself. So I tapped his shoulder. "Shouldn't you perhaps thank your guests for coming?" I asked. "This party was your idea after all."
He paused for a moment, then nodded once and moved to the front of the room. Everyone's attention was immediately drawn to him and I don't think, in all the time I've known him, that I've ever seen him look more uncomfortable than in that moment.
Clearing his throat –but not nervously of course, the great Sherlock Holmes is never nervous – he began to speak. And what he said was so singular that I wrote it down immediately just so I could reproduce it verbatim here.
"I… ah…Thank you for coming here tonight. To those of you who were taken in by my, ah, apparent demise, I would like to say I'm sorry. The only explanation I can offer is that it was necessary because, as a very wise man once told me, 'Friends protect people.'
And to those of you who assisted with my, er, subterfuge, thank you. I couldn't have done it without you. Also, to everyone who believed in me, believed I wasn't a fraud, despite all evidence, logic, and even my own word to the contrary… you're all bloody idiots."
He was being completely serious. But we all laughed anyway because it was just so Sherlock and, deep down, we'd missed it. Everyone except Donovan and Anderson, that is. The unspoken message to them was clear: you two really screwed up and you're even bigger idiots than all the rest for believing the creep just because your pride was smarting. To put it succinctly, "I told you so."
Then he stopped talking and stood there in the ensuing silence. Despite his words, for a moment I was tempted to let him suffer, but only for a moment. When he looked at me with the 'John, help' look in his eyes, I took pity on him. I walked up to stand by him and said, "Thank you for having us all, Sherlock. And I think I speak for each of us when I say we're glad you're, um, back."
After that, everyone clapped and Sherlock escaped to the corner by the window. I couldn't blame him. I know I was right about how we all felt – except probably Donovan and Anderson, who just stood uneasily in a corner all evening – but it would still be a rather awkward conversation that ran along the lines of,
'So you're still alive, huh?'
'Yeah, sorry about that. I had to pretend to kill myself so that no one else would die.'
And Sherlock isn't the greatest conversationalist at the best of times.
I couldn't help but watch him out of the corner of my eye the rest of the night. I'm still a little worried about him. I think this business with Moriarty really shook him. He just looked so forlorn, staring out the window, like a fallen angel. Or a lost child. Hopefully he'll be okay.
Sherlock glanced around the room at all of his… guests. He still found it difficult to think of them as friends, though he knew that was what they were. Who else would put up with him?
All the same, it was hard to be among this many people all at once. A million little details and he couldn't ignore a single one. Looking furtively at those most likely to notice his absence, he decided he wouldn't be missed and slipped down the front stairs to stand outside on Baker Street.
Stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets, Sherlock took a deep breath and gazed up at the stars. They were one of the few things he could truly appreciate as beautiful. Stars didn't commit crimes, act as murder weapons, or provide a space for crime to occur. They just were.
A few moments had passed when Sherlock heard a soft step behind him. From its tentative nature and the time between each footfall, added to the quiet swish of skirts and nearly soundless woosh of breath, he immediately identified the approaching person as Molly. She stopped when she was next to him, silent but for her breathing.
Sherlock looked down at her. She was staring fixedly at the flats across the way, though he was sure she wasn't actually seeing them. He watched the slight rise and fall of her shoulders and the way the starlight sat silvery still on her hair. She was calmer than he'd ever known her to be in his presence.
After a few minutes, she spoke. "This was a really lovely idea, Sherlock. The party, I mean."
"You think so?"
"Yeah."
Another silence. Then…
"I'm really glad you're alive. The world wouldn't be the same without Sherlock Holmes."
He glanced down at her, slightly stunned. He could read this little slip of a woman like an open book when he chose and somehow she still managed to surprise him. "But you knew I was alive the whole time. You're one of the reasons I am."
Molly laughed softly and shook her head ruefully, then tilted her face up to the sky. "I know. But I'm glad all the same."
Sherlock looked at the ground, contemplating her words, then gazed back at the heavens. Quietly, he whispered, "Me, too."
She smiled slightly and they stood there for long moments, admiring the stars.
I twitched the curtains back into place, closing off my view of the scene below, before turning back to the party. Some things just weren't meant for a blog.
fin
Well, there you have it. End of story. Not a whole lot, I know. Just a little scenario that wouldn't let go of my brain until I wrote it. This last chapter was my personal favorite.
I tried to keep everyone in character, but a) Sherlock is bloody difficult to write and b) I've put him in some pretty strange situations. Also, if you have any questions about his behavior (because I know I've left some of his actions unexplained *cough*shirtchoice*cough*) or anything else that confuses you, just ask in your review and I'll be happy to explain. There are several things that I left purposely vague. Now isn't that just a great way to get reviews? ;) Nah, those things are vague just because, well, there are quite a few vague things/situations in the series. So it makes it more fun, right? Hope you enjoyed. :)
EDIT: I added a little bit because I felt that I did need to explain where the first vase of flowers went and what Sherlock did after he asked for help with picking his shirt. So it's in there now :)
Saoirse