"It is hard to believe
that a man is telling you the truth,
when you know you would lie if you were in his place"
-Henry Lewis Mencken
Sherlock sits across the table from John, still dressed in his hospital gown. He folded his hands awkwardly in front of him, waiting for his former flat mate to begin speaking.
John, however, does not appear to wish to break the silence. He stares, his eyes haunted and filled with fury, at the man he mourned in front of him. He would wish all of the time that Sherlock would not be dead—he prayed to a god that he never believed in.
And now, his wish came true. Sherlock is alive. Somehow, the pain only increases. He blinks a bit, trying to feel his way through the labyrinth of emotions, but is unable to.
"John," Sherlock ventures. He tests out the water, and sensing it is safe, he continues speaking. "I never realized this would hurt you so much."
John's hands tighten into fists, trembling and rapidly turning a bright shade of white. His breathing becomes faster, and he takes a moment to compose himself.
"You never realized this would hurt me, Sherlock?" John says hoarsely, yet it comes out sounding like a threat. He grits his teeth, staring at his flat mate. "You've pulled a lot of shit, Sherlock. But this…this is…."
"Unforgivable," Sherlock states, keeping his hands folded together. Otherwise, they would be trembling.
Sherlock had spent hours, waiting for John to wake up after the fainting spell and consent to see him. During that time, he had used to internet to research exactly what he had done wrong. After wading his way through Tumblr and WikiHow, he had found the answer: he had been cruel.
John considered him to be a friend.
John's taken aback, doubting that Sherlock's words could be genuine. "Yes…Exactly that. You…You were dead, Sherlock."
"I know," Sherlock says plainly. "I am unworthy to ask you your forgiveness, but I must ask of it anyways."
His jaw is threatening to fall open, as he looks at the nervous and vulnerable consulting detective in front of him. Sherlock's eyes have started to water slightly, as he returns the gaze, almost shyly.
"I see," Sherlock says, starting to get up. "I understand your decision. I accept that I am no longer welcome in…in your life and I shall respect that."
His voice cracks, and the pain spreading from Sherlock's heart becomes apparent to John. Wordless, John stares at Sherlock helplessly, torn between having his rightful rage or stopping his best friend from leaving again.
He swallows, holding Sherlock in place just with his gaze. All of the comments made, about him and Sherlock being lovers, vaguely fly through his mind. He gazes at Sherlock's lips and licks his own unconsciously. Taking a step forward, he raises his arm, prepared to bring Sherlock into a hug.
"This is for being a dick!" John calls out, decking Sherlock in the face.
"John!" Sherlock cries out in alarm, staggering backwards and rubbing his face. His lip has a nice shiny cut on it, with blood slowly throwing from it.
John shakes his hand out, going in for another swing. But this time, he pulls Sherlock into an actual embrace, ignoring the fact that tears are pouring from his eyes. Mary and all of the pain seem to be a distant memory, belonging to someone else.
John is complete again. He has Sherlock with him.
He lets him go reluctantly, though keeps a hand on Sherlock's arm. It acts like an anchor, ensuring John that he won't slip away the moment his back his turned. His heart is pounding and he finds himself staring at Sherlock's bloody lip again.
"You're forgiven, you arse," John chuckles, wiping the blood off of Sherlock's face.
Sherlock lights up with confusion, his eyebrows almost receding into his hair. After a moment, a grin spreads against his face, as he finds himself oddly at ease with John's touch.
"I see you've gotten yourself a new girlfriend," Sherlock mutters, glancing at the slight bulge in John's pocket—a ring box. "Is it serious?"
"Oh, no," John shrugs, settling back into the routine. "She's a bit of a tosser, really."
Sherlock considers bringing up the ring, but decides against it. The bullet wound injury is still healing, and he doesn't want to risk John feeling the need to beat up on him once more.
"John," Sherlock begins quietly. "I'm afraid I have to confess something to you. I am as shocked as you, no doubt, will be. You see, John, I have—"
"A daughter," John interjects, grinning bizarrely. "I know. We've been trying to chase her down—Irene Adler's got her somewhere, I'm certain of it. The bloody Queen is trying to find her!"
Sherlock frowns, his mind whizzing through the deductions. For once, John figured something out before he did—how odd. But after a few seconds, the pieces fall into place, and he grins with the new information. The case is almost completely clear to him—only a few questions still remain to be answered.
"Mycroft lost his power, yet you continued on," Sherlock chuckles. "How fortunate for me and my…child."
"Are you going to keep the kid, Sherlock?" John questions, peering up at his taller companion. "Once we find her, I mean."
"I suppose I will have to," Sherlock shrugs, wearing a mask of indifference. "You know the state of the orphanages, John. They're worse than having me for a father."
He smiles at his friend, causing John to laugh sadly at the comment. Truth be told, the prospect of Sherlock having a kid is thrilling. He can picture the three of them together, happy. He could have a family.
Of course, Sherlock mustn't realize this, John reasons to himself. The domesticity of it might scare him away.
"We looked through files, trying to find someone who resembles Irene Adler," John explains. "No luck."
"Fortunately for you, I was the one who helped her disappear," Sherlock points out, his eyes twinkling with forbidden knowledge.
John pauses, before swearing under his breath. Sherlock had known all along then, when he was lying about Irene being in America. But more importantly than that, an overwhelming feeling of jealousy spread throughout him.
"She was relocated, naturally," Sherlock continues to explain. "Her new name is Ashley Madison. I believe she was the one behind the website of note."
"You know about the website?" John says, feeling incredibly impressed. "Never knew you'd learn to read the news."
"It was an acquired taste," Sherlock admits. "I don't read it very often. Only in want of an interesting case."
John stares at his friend, for a moment wondering how he could possibly be standing in front of him. He imagines himself asking, only for Sherlock to turn into a ghost and slip away, all of it being an illusion.
He doesn't want to shatter the dream.
Donovan and Lestrade are sitting in a bar, just the two of them. The rest of the department left ages ago, saying empty words of comfort to Lestrade.
It's not fair!
You're a brilliant Detective Inspector…
I have no idea why they demoted you, you inspired me…
….I guess you were okay.
We'll miss you, but it's not like you're leaving, right?
He shrugged it all off then, and he continues to do so. Most of his friends had left the department, onto better careers for the most part. Only Donovan remains with him to the end, his partner in crime—well, in fighting crime.
"It'll be okay, boss," Donovan says, motioning for another round.
"I'm not your boss anymore," Lestrade chuckles sadly. "Besides, you never even called me boss when I was!"
"I didn't want your ego to get too big," Donovan lies, her face turning a delicate shade of red. "But now, I don't care anymore. I'll call you boss all day….boss."
Lestrade smiles at her, grateful for the effort she's making. It shouldn't bother him too much, having lost his position and his post. There were times when it would have made sense, when the call he made would deserve such an action. But now, it is unwarranted.
It is wrong.
"The Addy Snell case was closed," Lestrade says.
Donovan sighs, ready to hit her head against the wall. "Honestly, how can they expect us to do our jobs when they—"
"I don't think they ever wanted us to solve it," Lestrade admits, taking a straight shot of vodka. He kicks a bit, wiggling in his seat. "I think they wanted us to fail."
"Do you know who ordered your demotion, boss?" Donovan adds suddenly, with a knowing grin spreading across her face.
Lestrade shakes his head. He hadn't glanced over the paperwork too much. It is beyond comprehension for him still—the words, written in red, still float in front of his eyes. Perhaps they will never fade away, the evidence of injustice and failure staying with him till the end of days.
"The bloke they got to replace Holmes," Donovan grins, before feeling the need to clarify. "The not dead one….Oh, that isn't much better…You know, Mycroft. The fat one."
Lestrade nods, shaking the image of Mycroft's perfect smirk out of his head. He never could understand those feelings for the elder Holmes, and found it best not to dwell on them. They could lead to nothing but trouble.
"He's the same one that closed down the Addy Snell case," Donovan states, acting like it explained everything.
"What's that got to do with anything?" Lestrade sighs, taking another shot. The taste is awful, yet it gives him what he needs—relief.
"He demoted you and shut down the case—he doesn't want it solved, boss," Donovan says, grinning from ear to ear. "And the people who don't want things solved are usually involved in it themselves."
"So…You think that the Thompson bloke had something to do with the girl's kidnapping?"
"Bet my life on it," Donovan wagers, taking another gulp of her drink. She squirms a little, blinking her eyes. "Promise you, I'm not off my knocker. I think we're onto something."
Lestrade mulls it over, trying to fit it all together. There is no explanation for why Thompson would want the case to remain unsolved, unless he has something on the line. He glances up at Donovan, knowing in his gut that she is right.
It terrifies him. Mycroft held a lot of power once—now Thompson has it. Would they really be able to take down a giant with just a slingshot?
"The case is cold, though," Lestrade protests. "It's over. There's nothing to do about it."
"We solve it ourselves," Donovan suggests, not missing a beat. "I've still got some pull around here. We solve it, get that git out of office, and get you your job back."
Lestrade blinks at her, his face slowly widening into a grin.
"Problem, boss?"
"You're brilliant," Lestrade beams. "God, I'd kiss you but it would be gross as hell."
Donovan glares a bit, before softening slightly. "That's what all of the girls want to hear, boss. That we're gross as hell. Maybe you should stick with gents."
Mycroft appears in Lestrade's mind.
The Queen sits down, the simple chair looking like a throne with her upon it. Security crowds the room, all staring straight forward, yet never missing the slightest movement. Daintily, she sets her teacup down, and motions to her guest that he is free to speak.
"Your Majesty," Anthony begins. "I've come to tell you that I will personally be overseeing the progress of the Addy Snell case."
The Queen is unmoved, staring forward with an air of indifference. Her wrinkled face possesses some rare traces of remaining beauty, yet it still holds a regal air. She nods slightly at Anthony, allowing him to continue.
He isn't nervous at all, completely in his element. To him, this is all a game, a game to prevent him from being swallowed whole by boredom.
"The detectives on the case were treating it poorly, Your Majesty," Anthony lies, a small smile sliding up onto his face like a serpent. "I intend to treat this case with the importance it deserves, and I ensure you, it will be solved soon enough."
The Queen nods, taking a small sip of her tea. The tiny motion is enough to let Anthony know that she likes him, that he isn't in any danger of losing his head. If he could relax more, he would have.
"Have the detectives in question been dealt with?" the Queen poises, setting her cup down on its saucer once more.
"Of course, Your Majesty," Anthony promises. "I've dealt with them personally. They don't understand how important Addy Snell is to you, Your Majesty."
"So they did not," the Queen said plainly, motioning for one of her guards to come over.
Anthony's eyes follow him as he steps swiftly and quietly, bending over to hear the whispered instructions of his Queen. He nods before disappearing, vanishing out of the tiny parlor and from all existence, as far as Anthony is aware.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, Your Majesty?" Anthony asks, bowing his head subtly.
A rare smile treasures the Queen's face, and she nods slightly. "Continue as you have been doing, Mr. Thompson. I see great things in your future."
Anthony nods, bowing again as he rises. The Queen excuses him with a simple wave of her hand, smiling once more as soon as he's turned his back.
She likes him, far more than she ever did Mycroft. Fortune has quite literally smiled upon Anthony Thompson.
Mycroft sweeps through the hospital, casting an air of importance about him. Despite having no power, the impression he gives off is enough for no one to question his presence. Eventually, he finds the room of interest at Maida Vale hospital—Sherlock's room.
"Hello, brother of mine," Mycroft grins sourly.
John is asleep on the bed, while Sherlock is lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with his hands clasped as if in prayer. He is praying to the wrong deities, at any rate.
"Mycroft," Sherlock states, not bothering to move. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"It's time I told you something I ought to have told you a long time ago," Mycroft says quickly, trying to gloss over his admittance of being wrong. Sherlock perks up slightly, and Mycroft swears—he noticed it.
"Oh?" Sherlock says, his face emotionless but his voice betraying his excitement.
"The chap who replaced me—Anthony Thompson," Mycroft begins, building up the drama. "He isn't who he claims to be."
"Most people aren't," Sherlock muses. "Why is this important, Mycroft? Can't you see I'm busy? Go bother someone else."
Mycroft frowns, trying to think of a way to properly explain how dangerous Anthony Thompson is. There is a reason no one had found the body on the rooftop—an alarming reason that Mycroft wishes never came to be.
"Anthony Thompson is an old friend of yours," Mycroft prefaces.
"I don't have friends!"
"I know you don't."
"Then who is it?" Sherlock huffs, becoming frustrated with the entire song and dance his brother insisted on putting him through.
"James Moriarty," Mycroft says slowly, as if tasting each syllable in the name. Underneath the hard icy exterior, he is shuddering, wondering how he could have let such a criminal rise to power.
How could he protect his baby brother now?
"Moriarty," Sherlock repeats, his pupils dilating. The rush of a case is filling him up, sending energy jolting into all of his muscles.
"Yes, Sherlock. James Moriarty," Mycroft repeats. "I fear that he may attempt to do you harm—I'm concerned for you, Sherlock. I cannot protect you this time."
Sherlock unclasps his hands, raising himself up from his position on the floor. John continues to sleep peacefully on the bed, unaware to the world beginning to crumble rapidly around him once more. The pieces of the puzzle from earlier fall together in Sherlock's mind—the case is solved.
The battle, however, is lost.
"Can you protect him?" Sherlock asks quietly, avoiding Mycroft's gaze.
He doesn't need to specify whom it is he wants protected. Mycroft knows, just as he always does. For a brief moment, Mycroft considers lying to him—but it would not be kinder.
"No," Mycroft answers plainly, electing to tell the truth.
"Will he try to kill him?" Sherlock asks, his voice as small as a child's.
"Maybe."
John continues to sleep, signs of worry and stress gone from his face. People are supposedly completely at peace when asleep, as if they were angels. Sherlock disagrees—John is simply John.
Mycroft had left unhappily about half an hour ago, giving Sherlock time to think. The identity of his brother's replacement meant nothing to him—but now, it complicates everything.
Pulling out John's phone, Sherlock notices a few texts he missed—mostly from Lestrade. It takes him only two tries to guess John's password—the same as Irene's—and he reads them in full.
Got demoted. Case closed. –GL
Donovan and I are at the Coach & Horses. Join us? –GL
Figured out that the new Mycroft demoted me, shut the case down too –GL
John? –GL
He's involved –GL
Sherlock shuts the phone off, replacing it on the bedside table. His heart races, as he feels the game thicken. The spider's web is vaster, more so than he could ever have imagined. As much as Moriarty disgusted him, he excited him.
"Moriarty and Irene Adler are working together, then," Sherlock says aloud. "It's all some sort of ploy, but for money? No…This goes deeper than that."
He gently feels at his bullet wound, attempting to pull more and more information from what he had seen. Moriarty always had a flare for dramatics, and for leaving things in plain sight.
Perhaps…
Sherlock frowns a bit, mulling the idea over.
"It's possible," he mutters, vaguely aware of it, yet struggling to explain how it fit.
The very first time he had come into true contact with Moriarty, he had received a pink phone. It alluded to a previous case of his, in which a cabbie convinced people to commit suicide. Moriarty was behind that, but it was a calling card of his.
Could it be that his daughter is at the very spot he found the pink woman, lying down dead?
Dread fills his body, confirming it for him. He glances over at the still sleeping John, pondering on whether or not to rouse him.
And whether or not his child is already dead.