Sherlock's gravesite had become an oasis for John, a place of comfort in an otherwise unfriendly city. Obviously it had been painful for him to visit the grave, particularly in the first couple of months after the fall, but still he came every week. Could he tell you why he had started this weekly ritual? Probably not. Duty, possibly? Some sort of desire to demonstrate that he still believed in Sherlock Holmes, that he was a loyal friend, despite the rage of the public and the press? However it had started, it had become John's most cherished part of the week. He came every Sunday, hell or high water (and he'd faced high water more than once, as well as snow, sleet, astronomical heat and a very buggy spring). After 18 months of Sundays, he knew why he continued to make the pilgrimage. Because seeing those letters on the gleaming black marble felt like coming home. The grave of Sherlock Holmes was the only place in London where John felt whole.
But not today. Today he was at the grave for a much different reason. And this time, he wasn't alone. A quick scan of the area revealed at least a dozen police officers, four cemetery workers, two hearse drivers and three officials from the Medical Examiner's office, one of whom was Molly's boss. She had signed the death certificate and released Sherlock's body for burial. If he wasn't in this coffin, which John knew he wasn't, things could get rough for her. One cemetery worker was operating a backhoe, and another was on some other sort of machinery, possibly a crane? He wasn't certain, but it looked like it was built for extracting something. The roar of the two machines filled the air, pierced only by their beeps whenever they maneuvered backwards.
John felt an incredible tension in the air and he knew Lestrade must be feeling it as well, because he was barking orders to everyone who passed by, regardless of whether the listener was under his command or not. John checked his watch for the millionth time. The sun was lowering in the horizon and there was less than an hour until 6 p.m., the time by which Sherlock had told John that his coffin must be opened. Still, the grave was not touched.
"You don't have the proper permits, Detective Inspector," shouted the man who John took to be the cemetery's overseer.
"Do I look like I give a shit about permits, man? Dig up this grave or I'll be digging one for you!" John had to give it to Lestrade, the man knew how to motivate a person. Giving up, the cemetery overseer gave the command and the man on the backhoe began to excavate the grave of Sherlock Holmes.
John watched as the machines tore at the earth, making light work of the six feet of earth covering Sherlock's casket. There had been days at the cemetery when John had imagined digging up the grave (he knew this was a bit crazy and quite morbid, but that's what grief did to a person). He'd imagined being able to just hold Sherlock, stroke his hand, see his face. Those ridiculous cheekbones. Obviously, those were insane imaginings, but so what? Imagining had made him feel a bit better, at least for a moment.
His train of thought was interrupted. "The press are here," Lestrade said, pointing to the entrance of the cemetery, "rotten buggers." John saw several cameras set up and three news trucks readying for more sensational reporting on Sherlock's affairs. Sherlock Holmes continued to sell papers and drive business even a year and a half after his death, so obviously something as salacious as the excavation of his grave was going to be big news.
"How did they find out?" John asked, bewildered. "I thought we were keeping it secret."
"You know how the world is nowadays, John," Lestrade said, gesturing around. "A couple of these blokes probably tweeted about it."
John hoped that Sherlock was prepared for this information to go very viral, very quickly. He began to wonder if he was prepared, if he was really ready to go into battle with Moran. John knew the hitman would be very interested to know Sherlock's grave was empty and if Moran got definitive proof that Sherlock was alive, John would be a marked man. John felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Was Moran watching him now? If the coffin came up empty, would Moran pull the trigger and not wait to find out whether or not Sherlock was alive? "I hope to hell you know what you're doing, Sherlock," John whispered to himself.
Lestrade leaned closer to John and whispered, "so, what do you think it is?"
"Pardon?"
"In the coffin? There must be something in there, if not Sherlock. Sand bags or weights of some sort, something to make the pallbearers feel as though they were burying a man, right?"
Lestrade was indeed right. There must be something in that coffin, but knowing Sherlock, he doubted it would be something as benign as sandbags.
The man on the crane had gotten the coffin out of the grave he slowly lowered it to the ground. Even though John knew that Sherlock wasn't in the casket, it still gave him chills to see it again. Almost as if the grief John felt when it had been lowered in the ground was returning. God, this was stressful.
"Alright, boys," Lestrade said grimly, moving to the coffin. "Let's open 'er up."
A motley group of police, cemetery workers and medical examiners took a place around the edges of the casket. Lestrade looked to John before proceeding. "John? You want to step away or do you want to open it with us?"
John was shaking, but he moved toward the coffin, and took a place next to Lestrade. He was at the head of the casket, where Sherlock's beautiful, brilliant head was supposed to be lying for all eternity. He took a deep breath and placed his hands on the coffin.
Lestrade led the men. "Alright, on three. One. Two. Three." Together they lifted and there were so many men and all were pulling with such force that it seemed as though the lid of the coffin almost flew off without effort. Heart beating wildly, John looked into Sherlock Holmes' coffin and saw a perfectly preserved body lying so peacefully inside. The body of a man John recognized immediately. The body of James Moriarty.
At the same moment, at the British Museum, the Head Curator of the Ancient Egyptian Department was concluding a talk about an enormous stone sarcophagus. In the audience were dozens of top scholars from around the world, all waiting for the opening of the beautiful sarcophagus. The proceedings were being live streamed to classrooms and museums around the world.
The curator was drawing to a close, "found in a little explored section of the Valley of the Kings, this sarcophagus hasn't been opened in over 3,000 years. Well, ladies and gentlemen, let us wait no longer! Open the lid and let us see the wonders of the ancient world!" With a flourish, the curator stepped back and gave a signal to a crane operator, who used his machine to slowly lift the massive stone cover. The ropes tightened and there was suddenly separation between the lid and the body of the sarcophagus, and the crane operator swung the lid over to the side. The tomb was open. The audience leaned forward in anticipation, hoping to see a mummy wrapped in splendor or other magnificent golden treasures. The curator took a step forward and peered into the tomb, as a figure, all in black, rose from its depths. There were shocked cries and screams from the crowd, and the curator stumbled back in fright, shouting, "my god, what is it?"
The tall, thin figure turned toward the crowd, his pale face looking eerily gaunt in the cold museum light. A woman fainted. You couldn't blame her, the figure looked like the very spirit of death. But he was no spirit and he was not dead. He was a man and he was very much alive. With a smile, Sherlock Holmes swung his right leg over the side of the sarcophagus and hopped down. "Oh, don't mind me, curator," Holmes said. "I was just having a bit of a kip." With that, he sauntered out of the room, tossing his scarf over his shoulder and leaving a stunned crowd in his wake.