Well, here's the last chapter. Sorry about the wait, I wanted to tinker with it before posting. Thanks for reading and especially to everyone who has sent me a message or a review. :)
Quick recap: Sherlock was kidnapped, tortured and left for dead in a shed as a message to Mycroft from Myra and The Boss, who it turns out were in cahoots all along, despite the appearance of him double-crossing her. The message was: "DO NOT INTERFERE AGAIN". Also, Lestrade rescued Sherlock and as a result missed his holiday. Bless.
When Sherlock got home from hospital with a few extra bandages and a pair of crutches, it was to find an eviction notice on his door. Something about unreasonable behaviour and it negating the need for the usual notice period.
Inside his room, his experiments had been dumped messily onto the bed and ruined. He shoved them and the duvet aside violently, staining the floor with blood and goo and flopping onto the bare mattress. His leg twinged. His face hurt. His hand was numb. It was cold.
-Knock knock-
He held his breath. After a minute, a yellow envelope was pushed under the door. A leaving card from Emily from room 2, no doubt. He ignored it.
And then it was dark for a while.
When he woke, he knew something was wrong. It took him four minutes to find the hidden camera. He crushed it under his shoe and ignored a call from Mycroft.
I was concerned. MH
Yet you're still protecting his identity. SH
I have it under control. MH
It's not your problem to control, Mycroft. Why did you even get involved? SH
I was just trying to help. MH
Bullshit. It was a power play and you lost. SH
Mycroft didn't reply, but Sherlock got a text from someone he did want to hear from.
You feeling better? It's about the case. GL
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was throwing open the door to Lestrade's office.
"Well?" he greeted.
"Nice to see you too," Lestrade quipped.
"Dispense with the small talk Lestrade. The case?"
Lestrade sighed. "I made those enquiries you suggested."
"And?"
Lestrade sighed. "It's all classified."
Sherlock looked excited. "I must have been on the right track then."
"Maybe," conceded Lestrade. "Everywhere I looked, classified. Now even the evidence for our case is classified. Everything from Sam Rowland's mobile phone to the lab results to the photographs of your injuries."
Sherlock's heart was racing. "Then there was something there that implicated him. Maybe the number he used to ring the kidnappers. We need to get into the evidence locker and…"
"You're not hearing me, Sherlock. It's over. It's being investigated by MI5 now, I can't get any access to anything."
"You can't just drop this!" Sherlock protested.
"Then you tell me what I can do," Lestrade snapped.
Sherlock opened his mouth…
"Something other than breaking into the MI5's evidence locker," Lestrade interrupted. "How about you ask that brother of yours?"
Sherlock snorted derisively and looked away.
Lestrade thumped his desk in frustration. "I don't like this any more than you do, Sherlock. This guy, whoever he is, is a murderer and a kidnapper and he hurt you. But without evidence, there's nothing to investigate, and if you won't ask your brother then who can we take it to?"
"Your boss?" Sherlock suggested. "No, of course, he's already ordered you to stay off this."
"There's more," said Lestrade.
Sherlock looked him in the eye and frowned. "The kidnappers?"
"Dead. Found overdosed in their cells. Coroner ruled them suicides."
Sherlock cursed. "That's not all is it?"
"No," admitted Lestrade.
"Myra?"
"She's disappeared. She was released on bail somehow and now we can't find her."
"Maybe you can't find her."
"Sherlock," Lestrade warned. He heaved a huge sigh, then attempted to change the subject:
"Cigarette?"
"No thanks," said Sherlock said curtly.
"Been evicted haven't you?" Lestrade said.
"You know I have."
The DI sighed. "The wife went on the holiday without me and won't be back for another week, so if you need..."
"No thank you," he said sharply.
Lestrade frowned. "Look. We need to talk. This isn't easy for me to say, but... I can't consult you any more. It's... it's too dangerous. What happened. I brought you in on the case. If I hadn't..."
Sherlock stared at him hard, turned on his heel and hobbled out of the office as quickly as he could manage.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him.
"Goodbye, Lestrade," Sherlock said firmly and continued to walk. "Text when you change your mind."
Lestrade swore, exasperated, but didn't follow.
On the way out, Sherlock saw Donovan and she sneered: "About time we cut you loose, freak."
"Oh please," Sherlock spat. "You'll all be begging me to return in no time. Next time it's a child, or a serial, or something else you can't handle. What am I saying? What can you handle? Unless it's a cut-and-dry domestic you're lost without me.
I give it a week. You all care so much you couldn't possibly take the risk that you could've caught the killer if only you'd got down on your hands and knees and begged me to help."
"You wish," Donovan laughed. "You think we need you? We don't. All you do is get in the way of the real police work."
"There's a big difference between so-called police work and actual detective work," Sherlock bit.
Donovan's eyes narrowed. "The next time I see you here, you'll be in cuffs again. Watch out, freak. I'm keeping my eye on you."
Sherlock looked up to see Anderson smirking. He shook his head irritably. Idiots, the lot of them.
"One week," he called as he slammed the door behind him.
As predicted, he found Myra. It hadn't been difficult. She was in a five-star hotel in Cairo using a rather obvious pseudonym. Obvious to him, anyway.
"For crying out loud, Sherlock," she tutted when she saw him.
"Myra," he said in way of greeting, as he joined her by the pool, sitting awkwardly on the edge of a sunbed with his bandaged leg outstretched in inappropriately-British black jeans. "What brings you here?"
She couldn't help but laugh at his pretense at normalcy. "What do you want?" she asked.
"You know what I want."
"An apology? Sorry about the injuries," she said smoothly, looking him over. "Those boys could be a bit over-enthusiastic sometimes."
"This?" he nodded towards his leg. "Don't mention it, it's nothing."
"I bet it's uncomfortable in this heat," she mocked.
"I didn't travel two thousand miles for an apology. Who..."
She cut him off: "Don't bother asking me about who he is, I don't even know myself. We used intermediaries. He wanted rid of Damian and so did I. Different reasons of course."
Sherlock frowned, studying her face. Unfortunately, she seemed to be telling the truth. Damn it, did anyone aside from Mycroft know who The Boss was?
"Did he contact you first?" he asked, hoping she would reveal something accidentally.
"Yes. Through your two friends from the shed. Always through them."
Another dead end then. Literally.
"Why, Myra?" he asked, finally. "Money?"
It was her turn to shrug. "Money, power, the usual. You know me."
"I thought you said I didn't."
She smiled condescendingly.
"And what about him," Sherlock asked. "The Boss. What did he want?"
"How should I know? Money, power, the usual. Politics. Ask Mycroft, he seems to know everything." She laughed, cruelly. "Usually, he doesn't know till it's too late, of course. As always."
Sherlock's face was impassive. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked up over his shoulder. He turned to see two armed guards looming over him, hands resting carefully on their weapons.
He snorted. What, did they think he was a terrorist just because he wasn't wearing shorts? Still, he had to admit that a disguise wouldn't have hurt his mission or his comfort level. Unfortunately, he didn't own any suitable holiday clothes and he hadn't had time to go shopping. His shirt was sticking to his chest, his face was dripping with sweat and he did not look like a local or a tourist.
"Is there a problem, madam?" the guard asked Myra.
Myra's expression had switched to vulnerable.
"This man is scaring me," she said, sounding innocent and uncertain, and nothing like the real Myra. "I don't think he's even a guest here."
The guards looked at each other worriedly.
"Come with us please, sir," one of them finally decided.
Sherlock eyed there weapons wearily. "I was just leaving anyway," he said, pushing himself to his feet.
Myra grinned at him as he hobbled away, flanked by the hotel's security. By the time he'd got away from them, she had checked out and disappeared again.
He flagged a taxi back to his hotel. Thankfully, it had aircon.
He texted Lestrade:
She's in Cairo, Egypt. – SH
I'll alert the Egyptian authorities. Stop investigating and rest! GL
He wasn't interested in Myra. It was The Boss he wanted and yet every lead was a dead end.
Tell me who he is. SH
Who? MH
Mycroft. TELL ME. SH
No. It's for your own safety. MH
This wasn't going to get him anywhere. Mycroft would never give in. He was through with him.
In that case, goodbye Mycroft. DO NOT INTERFERE AGAIN. SH
He wondered if it was possible to have an awkward silence in a text conversation. Sherlock had showered and packed by the time his brother replied.
You're just angry it wasn't about you. MH
Piss off. SH
He had one last look around the hotel room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, violently slinging open the wardrobe doors and whipping up the bedsheets.
Yes, he was angry that it wasn't about him. If he was going to be tortured and humiliated, he would at least like it to be for something he had done himself. Mycroft's sense of self-importance was inflated enough without having his little brother permanently scarred just to send him a message.
To make matters worse, having caused the problem in the first place with his meddling, it appeared that now Mycroft had suddenly decided to back off. If he was going to back off, surely it was only courteous to do it before anyone got tortured in a shed?
Now that it had happened, it was too late to back off. Now was the time to investigate, solve and arrest. But no. Mycroft would not give Sherlock the information he needed to solve the case. Instead, he kept him out of the loop and spied on him for his own protection. Sod that. Sod him.
Sherlock rang down to reception and practically shouted down the phone: "Order me a taxi, I'll be checking out in five minutes."
Back in London, he quickly found a place to rent. But it was a cordoned off area on a futon in someone's living room and the following day he was in a B&B, booking under a pseudonym. He had no illusions that it would deter his infuriating brother, but he had to at least make an effort to avoid his surveillance.
Six weeks of short stints in various expensive and dissatisfying accommodation situations later, and he was no closer to finding The Boss; nor a decent, reasonably-priced flat; nor to forgiving Mycroft and Lestrade. And of course, he'd never had any intention of forgiving Donovan. He'd ignored all texts, especially the ones that revealed his dwindling bank balance.
Balance: £10,397 - HSBC
Where are you? MH
How's the flat hunt going? GL
Balance: £8084 - HSBC
Oh, found you. Really, it's like you're not even trying. MH
Website's looking good. GL
Balance: £6428 - HSBC
I'm sorry. MH
Hello? Am I talking to myself here? GL
Balance: £4351 - HSBC
There weren't any more leads to follow to The Boss. He had researched every government official he could find information on, stalked several of them, including his brother, looked into Myra and the kidnappers: nothing. Whatever clues there had been had been killed or erased. And so, Sherlock had reluctantly put the case on hold. Not closed, he told himself firmly, just on hold until he came up with a new idea.
Still, it nagged at him constantly. He itched to look up his old dealer, but dammit he didn't want to fail at that too and besides which, he couldn't afford it. If there was anything more outrageously priced than rent in London, it was hotels, B&Bs, guest houses and even hostels.
He hated to think about money. Yet it was hard not too when it was disappearing so quickly in return for just a bed, a roof and a few slices of toast and jam each morning.
And so he had taught himself web design and created The Science of Deduction website, hoping that it would stimulate his finances and his stagnant mind.
He'd read up a little on marketing and discovered that, for some reason, he would need more than his CV to attract people's attention: his audience would want entertainment. He added a blog and created some puzzles, which he pretended were from an anonymous stalker to spice things up a little. Next, he moved onto an analysis of tobacco ash - spice for the more discerning customer.
He'd still planned to only work the interesting cases of course. Yet despite this intention, his few private cases were so dull that despite he couldn't be bothered to write them up, just noted their titles on the blog. 'The Major's Cat' for crying out loud. He needed murder, dammit, murder!
And then, just when he was on the verge of giving into his old addiction to give himself something to bloody do, he got it. A call from a PC Jane Downing about her husband's suspicious death. One phone conversation with her and he was certain that Lestrade was wrong to have closed the case.
Yes!
He knew it. He knew someone from the Yard would eventually give in ask for his help. Okay, so it wasn't Lestrade or Donovan, but it was a start. Thought they didn't need him, did they?
Ha!
He sent the DI his first text since Egypt, with a smile on his face and a flutter of excitement in his chest.
Accidental? WRONG. SH
He ignored the phone call, and the text that followed:
What? GL
Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes was back. He'd show them. If they wanted his help, they'd have to do things his way from now on or damn the consequences.
On the way to hail a cab, he spotted a familiar face that he hadn't seen for a while.
"Mrs. Hudson," he greeted, waving to get her attention.
"Oh, hello, dear! How are you?" she said, hugging him warmly.
"Fantastic, Mrs. Hudson. A man murdered, and the only suspect has a cast-iron alibi. Just on the way to the crime scene, now."
"Oh, Sherlock," she grimaced, but she patted his arm affectionately. "That's really not right."
He chuckled wryly.
"Now how are you?" he said, grasping her by the shoulders and eyeing her carefully. She watched his deduction process with curiosity, clearly wondering what he would be able to figure out this time.
"You're well... apart from your hip... although it's better than before, you've found something that works, finally. Alternative medicine."
She nodded: "Correct."
"Of course. Business is going okay, but... but your tenants have just moved out. Not a disagreement, they're eloping or buying. And you're about to advertise for a new..." He trailed off.
"How did you...?" she started. Then she laughed. "Oh, never mind, dear. I should be used to it by now."
He knew what the obvious direction of the conversation should be, but he hesitated. Who would want him as a tenant? Surely not even Mrs. Hudson was that crazy.
"I'm actually looking for a flat," he said firmly, disguising his caution.
Her reaction was immediate.
"Oh, Sherlock!" she said, delighted. "You must come and look at mine, it would be lovely to have you. I'll even do you a special rate."
Sherlock half-smiled.
"That would be... nice. Thank you."
"Now, I won't put out the ad until you've let me know. Here it is. 221B Baker street. You'll probably need a flat-mate so we could change the advert to one room, unless you know of anyone…" She pressed it into his hand. "Anyway, lovely to see you dear."
She hugged him again before continuing her walk. He slipped the advert into his pocket and grinned. Things were looking up. He had a case, he had a housekeeper, and he had a place to live. Now all he needed was a flatmate…
Thanks so much for reading till the end! As usual, please review, I'd love to know what you thought :)
Oh, and another thank you to my brilliant beta reader TeaLogic :)
Some notes...
Questions I attempted to answer with this fic:
-Why did Sherlock feel the need to "prove a point" by taking John to the Study in Pink crime scene?
-Why was there so much animosity between Sherlock and Donovan?
-Why doesn't Sherlock like traveling in the police car?
-Why did Sherlock and Lestrade quit smoking at the same time but not know each other had?
-What happened at Montague St. that Sherlock had to move?
I also tried to tie in the story with anything in the canon from the show and the official websites and lead directly up to series one. Hope you enjoyed it :)
