Chapter Eight
September 20th
My alarm goes off at six. I get up, routinely heading for the bathroom to have a slash and run some water through my short strands to get the annoying swirls out of them, but halfway to the door my steps slow as I remember how I spent the day before and suddenly I'm scared to move, standing undecidedly in the middle of the room and turning doubtful eyes on the closed door. It leads into the hallway, into the sitting room where my friend is supposedly still asleep.
He's not there.
The hairs on my arms are standing up. I hesitate a moment longer before my rational side takes over and with a slight huff I walk up to the door, open it with an impatient tug and head into the other room.
He's pulled the covers up so that the only visible part of him is the dark mess of curls on the top of his head, standing on end like eager fingers have been tussling themselves through them all night. His breathing is deep and slow and I can't bring myself to move away for another few moments, listening to it, resisting the urge I feel to walk up and kneel beside him, place a finger against the side of his neck and take his pulse.
I turn for the bathroom. To put on clothes and have some coffee and brush my teeth and leave this flat for work. I've done it many times before, and it's never felt unnatural, but now I feel as though weights are tied to my arms and legs and every instinct in me is telling me to call in sick. The responsible side to me perks its head up: I have a life in my hands this morning, where is my sense of duty, how can I be so neglectful? And I want to tell it that there's a life here that has chosen to rely on me and there's a duty to that as well and I'm neglectful for leaving him.
My practical side shakes that notion out of me, however. He's been gone for a year and a half chasing assassins and going through God knows what to apprehend them – he'll be perfectly fine without me.
I close the front door behind me, locking it. I left a key with a note for him. And with that I head toward Russell Square and Mrs. Gupta's spleen.
x
"That's Sherlock Holmes," I hear someone mumble to their colleague as I enter the Yard.
I turn more than one head on my way up to Lestrade's office, but I pay them no mind. All apart from Sally, whose gaping mouth and widening eyes actually make me grant her a crooked smirk.
"He in?" I ask casually, not waiting for a reply as I open the door and proceed through it.
Lestrade looks moderately the same though his hair needs a trim, there's a tea-stain on his tie, there are dark circles under his eyes, a stiffness in his back and his shoes are splattered with a fine spray of dirty water. I believe I came just in time.
He gives me a long look before he lets out a sigh, putting the sheet of paper he has in his hands into his fax machine and punching in a number before hitting send. The sound of the fax fills the space for sixteen seconds before it goes abruptly quiet. He turns his head back to me.
"Sherlock," he says with a slight inclination of his head.
I smile at his lack of surprise.
"Been spending your off-hours in the morgue?" I ask.
"Actually I go there while I'm on duty. It's part of my job," he retorts.
Then he returns my smile, reaching out a hand. I hesitate for a moment before I take the step dividing us and grasp it in a firm hold. He's eyeing me closely now, something curious on his face and when we let go I say:
"I suppose you'd like me to explain..."
"No, that's fine. Molly..." he pauses and with a meaningful tilt of his head toward me he corrects himself: "Ms. Hooper already filled me in. And don't blame the girl for needing someone to confide in.
"No," I acquiesce and he looks almost grateful.
"Coffee?" he inquires.
"No. Thank you. I came to discuss the three murders, which you've dutifully linked together, but can't seem to find a proper explanation of. Gunshot wounds, missing bullets. Etcetera."
He stares at me, his finger hovering above the call-button for his secretary. Then he offers me the chair opposite his and has a seat in his own behind the desk, trying to look as though I'm not about to relieve him of the tension I can tell has collected in his shoulders over the past four months.
"You know who committed them?" he asks.
"Yes."
"You know how?"
I have an idea of how, but I reply:
"No. Not yet."
"What do you need?" he wonders with a resignation to his tone that makes me smile a small smile in recognition.
"Everything you've managed to collect in the form of evidence so far, as well as access to the most recent murder site. By the state of you I suppose I should wear Wellingtons."
His eyebrows lift in wonder and then he looks down at his shoes and grants me a frown instead.
I smile.
x
"But really, the amount of toxins in the ground is actually pretty distressing. Even Thomas pointed out that there's a good chance it will cause damage to the surrounding... Okay, you're not listening to me," Audrey shakes her head, sitting back on her chair, observing me with a small wrinkle on her brow. "Will you, please, just tell me what's going on?"
We're in the cafeteria of the university building she's been holed up in for going on a month now, conducting some sort of study. Concerning toxins, apparently. It's for her thesis, that much I'm sure of. I have been listening, but I have also been trying to think of a way to tell her that Sherlock is alive and well and sleeping on my floor.
"John," she prompts, folding her arms across her chest, which I know means she's as serious as she can get.
"Yesterday," I begin, "I went to Sherlock's grave. And he was sitting on it."
She looks nonplussed.
"On the headstone," I attempt to clarify, but it doesn't help at all. "Sherlock was there," I offer. "Alive. He's been alive this whole time. I wasn't even that… Not that I wasn't. I was shocked, who wouldn't be? But there's a case. And it's a pretty big one and I can't... I mean, I don't think I should tell you all that much about it because... I don't want to put you in any sort of danger. Not that there is any danger. Yet. I think. You never can tell, really. But it's going to be fine. I promise you. It'll be fine. But that's what I was doing. Yesterday. When you called."
She's staring at me. At the word "danger" her eyes grew round, but she seems to have gathered herself together somewhat. She never struck me as the type who scares easily and she sounds collected when she says:
"I'd like to meet him."
I nod, chewing on my salad. I nod and chew.
Christ.
"Where is he staying?" she asks.
"Oh," I wave a hand, shrugging, "somewhere near Camden."
She frowns.
"Really? He always struck me as more of a High Street Kensington type of guy."
"Baker Street wasn't..." I trail off, unsure of why I feel so defensive of him. "He's renting a room somewhere. ...But last night he stayed with me," I say lightly, skewering a tomato with my fork, the juices bursting from its innards.
Something shifts in her gaze. I can't put my finger on the expression, but it's different from any she's ever worn before. Her arms unfold and she places them on the table as she leans forward, resting her eyes in mine.
"Might be a few more nights," I plod on, unsure of why the words feel as though they are actually swelling in my mouth as I speak them. I swallow the tomato. "Until he finds a proper place of his own," I add, sensing it's mostly to underline the expected length of stay to myself.
She smiles then and nods, but I notice the smile doesn't entirely reach her eyes for the first time since I've known her and my heart sinks a little in my chest at the sight of it.
"Will I see you both tonight, then?" she wonders, her face softening with hopeful anticipation. "I could cook you dinner."
I nod again, grabbing my water glass and taking a mouthful. Nodding, swallowing, nodding.
"Yeah, no, that sounds... good. Great," I say. "But I don't know... Because of the case. Usually it's we're out the door at a moment's notice, so maybe we should..."
I trail off again, hating myself for it.
"…wait?" she fills in, a streak of sadness there.
Why shouldn't it be there? I'm effectively telling her that suddenly there's a part of my life that has no room for her. One that she's not able to partake in. One that I am unable to even speak of to her. But that's how this part of my life has always been with her, I realize – I've never spoken to her of Sherlock and she's never prodded. She's asked once or twice, but has given up on it when my answers have been more than evasive.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it, reaching out to take her hand.
She squeezes my fingers and gives me a smile that is a little brighter before she nods.
"It's okay. I understand, of course," she says. "He's your friend. And, my God, he's alive! That's incredible."
She laughs then and I think that perhaps this isn't all that bad. It will be okay this time. I'll make it work when all the other ones I've failed to.
"Sorry, delayed reaction there," she smiles, shaking her head at herself. "Maybe that should've come first, but... Well, where has he been? Why is he back now? Can't you tell me anything of what you're up to? I'm a big girl, you know, and if the big bad wolf is coming after me it might be better I know what to look out for," she states with a meaningful raise of her eyebrows.
I realize she's right. And so I tell her. Almost everything.
x
The house where young Eric Miller lived and died is a three-story brick construction, flanked by two houses of the exact same appearance, with a small back garden reaching for Hampstead Heath as though wanting to conjoin with its vast greenery instead of being confined by its red-painted wooden fence.
The grass is still wet from a sprinkler – given that we've had five days of complete dryness I can somewhat see the use for it – and autumn blossoms stand in their perfectly groomed beds: whoever tends this patch of land takes gardening very seriously.
"I was hoping to find... something," Lestrade is muttering where he's standing next to me, undoubtedly referring to the fact that he's already been here once today – and every other day this week, I gather.
This case is haunting him.
His eyes are turned upward, toward the window through which Eric Miller was shot.
My eyes are on the wooden fence.
"You observed he must have been killed at close range?" I ask.
"Yes. As well as Derren Small and Linus Bracket. All the bullet wounds were consistent with the weapon having been fired no more than twenty feet or less. Ms. Hooper confirmed it in her own reports."
"Yes, I know," I nod.
"It's the damndest thing, really," he goes on, making me certain he didn't hear my response. "We think he climbed the fence, but forensics insists that it wouldn't get the shooter into proper alignment. The fence is too low. But how, then? How?"
"The fence is not only too low – it would also mean the shooter placing himself at a disadvantage as he could easily be spotted not only from the path beyond, but from three neighbouring houses in either direction. Hardly ideal. He knew Eric Miller's habits. He knew when to position himself to get a clean shot and this clean shot came from those trees."
He turns his eyes where I'm pointing at a tree-line in the distance before he looks at me as though I'm insane and shakes his head.
"That's impossible," he says and I smirk.
"Exactly," I agree before I walk around to the front of the house.
Lestrade comes around the corner just as I push the bell by the front door and his shoulders slump, his face annoyed and yet acknowledging the fact that he has no way of stopping me as he complains:
"We're not supposed to disturb Mrs. Miller. I gave her sister my word."
"Luckily for us, I didn't give her my anything," I reply cheerfully as the door opens and a squat woman with a pale face and brown eyes tilt her head to look up at me.
She takes me in for a moment, bewildered by this stranger on her stoop, and then I can see recognition flutter through her expression as it softens into gaping surprise.
"You're not...?" she begins and I interrupt her by grabbing her hand and saying:
"Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure, I'm sure. Mind if I come in?"
Without waiting for an answer I step past her and into a dimly lit, narrow hallway that could use a new coat of paint. The wall that has the stair against it is covered with framed pictures of a family at different stages and in different places – a young Mr. and Mrs. Miller have a baby I can only assume to be Eric between them. Eric is on a swing. Eric is by the ocean. Eric is in a car, on a train, on a plane, on a boat, fishing, biking, climbing, laughing, crying. This woman has clearly lost her entire life through the firing of a single bullet.
"Greg," she greets Lestrade and I notice the compassionate look he gives her, the slightest smile, as he passes her as well.
"I'm sorry, Martha," he apologizes. "I never would have presumed..."
"It's alright," she shakes her head, closing the door behind him and turning to me, fresh tears in her eyes now that the shock of seeing me is wearing off. "Mr. Holmes," she says. "Aren't you supposed to be dead? I read it in all the papers."
"Only goes to show you shouldn't put too much stock into what you read in the papers, Mrs. Miller," I reply with a slight smile of my own, suddenly wishing you were here to deal with pleasantries and allow for me to simply get on with it.
"You going to find who murdered my Eric?" she asks and there's something so dignified about her as she says her son's name that I, for a moment, forget my eagerness to explore the house and turn to face her fully.
"Yes," I then simply reply.
Her lower lip trembles and I don't know if it's from her sorrow or from gratitude.
"I would like to have a look around," I say with a glance at Lestrade, who cocks an eyebrow at my actually voicing the request.
"Be my guest," Mrs. Miller gives me her leave and I turn, heading into the sitting room.
I systematically go through the first floor before I move upstairs and look through the master bedroom, the bathroom and finish with the room facing the garden where the boy was shot.
Eric's room has dark green walls, a few posters of interesting architecture, two shelves heavy with books, a CD-collection, a closet filled with nothing remarkable, a tidy desk where tiny collectable classic cars stand in a row, a TV and DVD collection and a bed. I wonder if the room was always so tidy, or if its tidiness is merely a result of it having been scrubbed clean of the blood, sprayed by the bullet opening up the back of Eric Miller's skull.
I've memorized the crime-scene photos and turn my back to the window. Eric fell backward, away from his window through which the bullet entered, moving on a path straight through the doorway. I walk back into the hall and stop before the closed door opposite Eric's. Opening it I find the master bedroom, switching on the light before I walk on the same straight line I began in Eric's room and stop by the window, leaning forward to be able to glance up and have a look at what is displayed on the wall above the window frame, disguised under the ruffles of the curtains. It confirms my theory of the bullet. I smile briefly to myself before I turn and head back into Eric's room.
He was almost nineteen, had recently begun his university studies in engineering, played football in his spare time, had a group of friends he'd had since middle school and was well-liked by everyone who knew him – none of them able to say why anyone would want to shoot him through the head.
"There must be something," I mutter to myself, beginning to pull out the drawers of the desk, looking through photographs which I know the forensic team has already looked through, flipping through notebooks that I know have already been minutely studied, aware that it's the smallest details that are always overlooked, especially by the most trained eye: it stares itself blind.
At the bottom of the middle drawer I come across a stack of postcards. I flip them over and begin to read. My gaze pauses its movement across the back of the third postcard and I find myself smiling contentedly. Shoving the postcards into my coat pocket I leave the room for the downstairs.
"Thank you, Mrs. Miller, this was most helpful," I say as I pass the sitting room doorway.
I walk up to the front door and through it without barely pausing, hearing Lestrade make some excuse and farewell before he follows me.
"Well, how did it go?" he asks as he catches up.
"Forward," I answer him and he rolls his eyes at me. "I'd like to visit the homes of Derren Small and Linus Bracket next," I add, opening the passenger door of his car and getting in.
x
"John, come in," Gareth Richardson says when I knock on his doorframe.
He's a tall, well-groomed and fair-haired surgeon who has been one of my closest colleagues this past year. He's been with Dr. Morton since he founded the practice nine years ago and is comfortable in his role as office beauty and pathological flirt. Nevertheless he's one of the most professional doctor's I've ever worked alongside and he is very good at what he does. He's also my last hope – I've gotten turned down by the other three fellow surgeons I've turned to.
I take Gareth's outstretched hand, but decline a seat as I say:
"I've come for a favour, I'm afraid. Or a few favours."
"A few?" Gareth asks. "Sounds serious. Do tell."
I smile.
"Could you cover for me? I've managed to reschedule three of the surgeries I had on the board this weekend, but tomorrow I have two that have waited for three months already..."
"Yes, we've become quite popular," Gareth smiles. "Of course I'll take them if you want out of them. Simple ones?"
"Standard ones," I nod, giving him a thankful smile as relief fills me.
"No problem," he returns my smile. "Might I ask why you so desperately need time off?"
"Not desperate," I defend myself. "Just... want to spend time with a friend. Haven't seen him in a while."
Gareth nods, looking as though he understands, but I get the feeling he doesn't and I wonder if he has any male friends at all. Probably not, he's always seemed more comfortable around women. I head for the door with a thank you, promising I'll repay him whenever he needs me to.
"I'll hold you to that," his voice follows me out the door and I give him another smile before I close it, suddenly feeling light as a feather.
I won't have to work until next Wednesday. That's almost a week off.
I say goodnight to Kate and head for the door, slowing my step as I see someone I distantly recognize outside its glass, and then another face I know, and another. Understanding wrenches through me like a closed fist and I feel breathless: members of the press. The distantly recognizable one spots me, her eyes widening as she begins to wave. Her excitement spreads like wildfire to the others and soon they're knocking on the window, shouting their questions, the sound of their voices muffled by the protective obstacle between us. They can't enter – they have to be buzzed in. I turn to Kate, almost pleading; as though she can somehow spirit me away from this place and back to my flat.
I whip out my cell-phone and text Sherlock. The reply comes in less than ten seconds.
Flat surrounded. Went to mine. 14 Regent's Park Road. Back entrance. SH
Something in me trembles at the sight of his well-known initials, as though I still can't quite get rid of the disbelief at him actually being a part of my life again, just like that. As shockingly abruptly as he left it, he's re-entered it in the same fashion. I almost call him just to hear his voice over the line telling me something other than the dreadful lies he spoke the last time I heard it on the phone, but the impulse is gone in a blink and I head for the elevator.
I'll go down into the garage below the building; hopefully I can sneak out that way. I push the button, but as I wait I find myself thinking one step further and turn, walking back to Gareth's door.
He looks up when I open it.
"John?"
"Your car," I say slowly, "it has tinted windows, doesn't it?"
He looks wondering.
x
I sit on the back of the sofa when you open the door of the room and pause, looking around in clear surprise at how small it is. I wonder what you were expecting, but discard the urge to ask you as I focus back on the three dozen or so postcards spread out on the floor before me. I've moved the table against one wall to make room, which only serves to shrink the space further and there's something tentative in your movements as you step inside and close the door behind you.
I can feel your eyes on me.
I bring my hands up, palms together, and place them underneath my chin as I let my gaze rove freely over the puzzle on the floor.
"What're we doing?" you wonder, taking your jacket off.
You bring the scent of fallen leaves and moist air with you.
"Is it raining?"
"What? No," you answer and I turn my eyes in yours, noting the small wondering frown you're wearing.
"It will," I state, not expecting a response from you and I don't get one either, instead you squat to pick up one of the postcards, flipping it over and reading the back.
"'Trip went well. Flight delayed. See you in a week'," I recite, meeting your gaze as you lift your eyebrows. "There are five of those. Four where the flight has been cancelled, six where the flight was on time, nine where the flight route was changed due to weather conditions, eight where it was missed completely, three where it was stalled before take-off and a final five where the plane suffered some technical difficulty on the tarmac. The amount of time stated for the reunion differs with every new flight scenario."
You look at me blankly, trying to catch up, but not quite getting there.
"Don't you see?" I ask, sliding off the back of the sofa to plant my feet on either side of the postcards, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees as I finish: "It's a code."
"And then where did you get these?"
"Derren Small, Linus Bracket, Eric Miller."
Your mouth purses as your eyes narrow and you observe me for a moment.
"You stole them," you surmise.
"I borrowed them," I offer.
"Out of the hands of grieving parents," you shake your head.
"They didn't even know they were there," I shrug dismissively.
"Sherlock," you say my name in that close to exasperated tone you only use when you seriously disapprove of my actions.
"No, don't you understand – these prove the link," I try to explain, grabbing another one of the cards and holding it out to you as though it will help me prove my point.
"Link between what?" you ask.
"The shootings, John," I clarify. "And there's a pattern here. I just have to see behind it."
"And then what?"
"Direction," I answer eagerly.
You watch me for a beat before you suddenly smile. I'm not sure why you do, but I return it instantly. You replace the postcard in its previous position, straightening up and looking around for a seat, spotting the chair by the desk and walking over, grabbing the backrest to pull it into position and pausing as it threatens to come off in your grasp. Your eyes are in mine again, amused.
"Spared no expense?" you wonder, dragging the chair by its leg instead and having a seat as I return my gaze on the evenly positioned question mark on the floor.
"My brother," I murmur. "His suggestion," I clarify with a glance about the room.
I know you wear a smirk even without looking at you and I suppose you think it serves me right: the comfortable life I'd managed to build for myself at Baker Street has been unravelled and I'm the only one to blame for that. If I'd chosen to send you some sort of sign that I was still alive, perhaps you wouldn't have chosen to move. My things would have been waiting for me. As well as you.
I glance at you where you're sitting, looking as deep in thought as I am, though your mind is on the puzzle, not the past or what could have been. I keep drifting back there; I've rarely spent much time there before now and I wonder why it is you've always managed to bring out this side to me. Your influence never unsettled me in the beginning, it was too subtle and somewhere I welcomed it, but then I realized I'd grown to depend on it. I do depend on it. I wonder if you know.
You did wait for me, though. Some part of you had some way of anticipating my return or you wouldn't have been as calm as you were, you wouldn't be throwing yourself headfirst into this with me, as you've always done. Your eyes meet mine and I move my gaze out of yours, snapping myself out of these useless musings as I say:
"Mycroft's arranged a press conference tomorrow."
"Yeah, about that – do we know how they know you're back?" you wonder.
"I went to Scotland Yard," I reply simply and at your frown I add: "I needed to see Lestrade. I had to have his help or I would've really been stealing the information we now have. …There was bound to be a stir."
"A stir?" you shake your head. "Wouldn't it have been better to keep a low profile? Aren't you trying to... I don't know, infiltrate? Isn't that best done… quietly?"
I lift one corner of my mouth in a smirk.
"Yes," I say. "But the rifle's already pointed at us. Causing a stir might block the bullet."
This doesn't exactly serve to set you at ease, but you don't make any voiced protest either, merely settle back with a grim expression on your face as you allow me silence to contemplate the postcards.
x
Bloody madness, but then, this is Sherlock. And I do trust him with my life. Whatever he's got moving through that brain of is I know it'll end up in a plan that will see us through. Even though the last plan he had ended up with him dead and me…
I discard the thought. There's no use dwelling on it. That was another time, another scenario and most definitively another villain. Whatever Sebastian Moran is, I'm sure Sherlock is right when he says he's no Jim Moriarty. This will not be like then.
I recline on the sofa as Sherlock sits cross-legged on the floor. Every half an hour he rearranges the postcards, turning them over so he can read their messages or turning them back so he can look at the images they depict. All of them are London postcards showing pictures from around the city, but nothing else to go on. I gave up on deciphering the messages two hours ago, leaving Sherlock to do what he does best.
"Are we waiting?" I say, having drifted off for a while and now feeling more alert than earlier.
It feels good. I sort of find myself even liking the room we're in, in spite of how it really is the saddest little room I've ever seen. But the steady shuffling of the postcards as Sherlock repositions them serves to break the quiet of it, and the yellow light from the lamp on the desk makes the place feel almost homely.
"Waiting for what?" he asks, hands together under his chin, the way they always come together when his concentration is directed with absoluteness on whatever's in front of him.
He doesn't like the disturbance, I can tell, but since he answered I feel in my rights to reply:
"To try and do the… infiltrating? Of the casino."
"Mh," he mutters.
Then nothing.
I'm about to heave a sigh when he adds:
"No, we should move quickly. Saturday."
I raise my eyebrows, pausing as I turn my head to him. He doesn't look at me. I hesitate, but say:
"So tomorrow... No plans?"
"No," he confirms, reaching out long, slender fingers to straighten one of the cards.
"Tomorrow evening, I mean. Nothing?"
"No, nothing," he states.
"Audrey invited us to dinner," I say, almost hurrying the words out before I can change my mind.
"Good," he replies, though I'm actually now unsure of whether he heard me or not.
"At her place, I think might be best," I go on, my eyes still lingering on him.
"Fine," he says.
I don't know why my heart is beating so slowly. It will be just that: fine. This meeting will go smoothly. He can behave, when he wants to. He'll want to. He'll behave himself. He's got manners, when he chooses to use them. He wouldn't want to offend me by offending her. And besides, Audrey isn't that easily offended. She can hold her own and give as good as she gets. She's clever, funny and quick-witted. But Sherlock…
Sherlock is ruthless when he's bored or when he feels his control slipping. Especially when he feels his control slipping. And his track record with my previous girlfriends isn't exactly spotless.
However, Audrey wants to meet him and I owe it to her to let her see, let her know who it is I'm putting myself on the line for, who I'm leaving her alone at night for. He can explain what it is we do in better words than I ever could, I think. He'll be blunt, but honest. And I believe she needs to hear about it from his mouth, not mine. It will weigh more heavily because Sherlock is where it all begins and ends, really. I'm just his blogger.
I smirk at that and begin to feel a bit more relaxed, clearing my throat as I sit up and say:
"So, I'll call her and tell her we're coming to hers for dinner tomorrow night, then?"
He doesn't hear me – at least this time he doesn't respond – and I rise, grabbing my phone and stepping out into the dark, narrow hallway leading to the stairs to call her with the good news. She's happy, I can hear that. Happy to be included. Eagerly she begins interrogating me about what Sherlock does and doesn't eat, does and doesn't drink and I can almost hear her writing the menu in her head.
I can't keep myself from giving her a firm warning, telling her that Sherlock can be rather moody. The word seems a good fit, instead of telling her that he can sometimes become so provoking you would think he actually has a death wish. She merely laughs and I feel my stomach warm at the sound, smiling a little to myself as we hang up.
I look at the closed door and feel wrapped in the darkness of the hallway, as though it's a protective in between: on one side of its shadows is the front door, the world beyond and Audrey; on the other is that small room, the glow of a lamp and the best friend I have ever had.
I reach out and place my fingers lightly on the knob. It's chilly to the touch, made of some cheap mixture of metals, I'm sure; but for some reason comforting. It feels steady in my hand. I turn it and re-enter the room, closing the door behind me.
