Thirty-six hours later …
The feet running up the seventeen stairs are angry feet.
Molly Hooper opens the door with a mixture of trepidation and indignation at the lateness of the hour, to rendezvous with Gregory Lestrade`s extremely pissed off visage on the landing.
"He`s gone too bloody far this time – Seiga is fricking furious, Molly!" His voice is artificially lowered in deference to a sleeping Viola in her arms, but every word is bitten off with anger.
"You know his methods, Greg," she answers, in apologetic defiance.
X
My sister will be less than happy I have stolen her phone … oh, and betrayed her trust, lied to her and breeched the unspoken agreement between us regarding her father – all of that will not serve to oil the wheels of sibling affiliation. But still – this is for John, and I would do just about anything to make this right.
Professor Bartholomew Moriarty – it is you, isn't it? It always, somehow comes back to you. Our little bait and switch; dodge and weave; box and cox – our little involvement that endures through life and through death. Dancing around each other like little, jerky puppets; he pushes me, I push him, and it`s all fun and games until somebody takes a fall.
There`ll be tears before bedtime, Sherlock.
The Origin of Species – a reprint from April 1984, the month of Seiga`s birth – his daughter; his only child.
~~x~~
"Ah, yes. Such a wonderful thing, to see how your gardens grow. Little Mary, quite contrary, with Sholto, and Dr Hooper and the bewitching Benedict – all your sons. Your species. What is our role, but to further our origins, to procreate…"*
"My – father, he says that blood is not always the indicator of family – "
"My father knows and envies your family because they save you, Sherlock. Not just Mycroft, or Miriam, or Vernet, but Molly, the children, and most of all – "
John.
~~x~~
He`s made John stay away from me because John is my friend, my family when I had no-one else (wanted no-one else). His brother, Jim, shot himself because of me; his daughter, Seiga, refused to play that role, so I must be punished; to see what he has lost by losing someone myself. Bartholomew Moriarty knows how I have evolved, gradually but irretrievably, from that selfish, one dimensional island of a man into a man who enjoys, and comes to need, the attentions of others. And Mycroft, clever, clever Mycroft was right all along – caring is not an advantage.
It makes a person weak and vulnerable. It makes a person stop, hesitate and examine (and re-examine) their motives and question their decision making processes. Ah, I do so miss the illicit thrill of a thoughtless decision, which may make a witness cry, but gets the job done quicker. When Molly Hooper and her insidious witchcraft wasn't even a speck on the horizon, I waltzed in, took what I wanted and got the job done. No distractions, no grit upon the lens, no misfiring of the racing engine or locked doors in the mind palace. Should my brain attic be full of diverting information (Benedict`s global warming project; Viola`s favourite toy ? – stuffed platypus – I hate that I know that; diamond rings, and Mrs Hudson`s chrysanthemum`s – see! Why can`t I delete this detritus?! Infuriating) which dilutes and reduces efficacy of my cold, hard logic.
Because I care about John Watson, I am standing here, at the top of a row of cracked and faded slides in Brighton`s abandoned water park. An embarrassment of appalling British summers combined with the cheapness of last minute package deals to the Costas have resulted in thousands of tonnes of paint peeling concrete, slowly crumbling away, and lacking its most essential ingredient – water. The graffiti is plentiful, garish and imaginatively obscene, and I admit to feeling a slight thrill and a shiver inside as I read one offering in bright yellow aerosol (Razz?):
`I believe in Sherlock Holmes`
Which does, I confess, afford me a degree of comfort in these confusing times.
After contacting the Professor on Seiga`s stolen phone, I received GPS co-ordinates which brought me to this spot. A giant water chute – very droll. I check my watch and pray that my sister will appear in time. No point levying a bargain without leverage. I am using my sister to bring back my friend … selfish, thoughtless, arrogant – I almost feel like my old self.
I sense her approach (her body lotion is Angel by Thierry Mugler – far too noticeable for an MI6 agent, I must have words, though perhaps not now) and prepare myself for her anger, although I am not expeditious enough, since her slap stings my cheek a second before I can grab her wrist.
"Du absolut smyga! Du hade ingen rätt att göra detta! Jag knullar hatar dig för detta, Sherlock!"
She is about to go in for another slap (surprisingly, not as hard as Molly Hooper – who would have known?) when a scuffling is heard and a figure emerges from the shadows at the crumbling pale blue entrance of the slide. We have all had to climb almost sixty steps to reach this height, but our guest is breathing more heavily that average, indicating a greater age or lower fitness level.
I certainly did not expect to see Bartholomew Moriarty emerge from the shabby little door (doesn`t he have enough blood on his hands in his dealings with me?) but this creature, his agent, seems ill-equipped to broker any arrangement between us. He is tiny, just over five feet I estimate, around sixty years old, with white, close-cropped hair and matching pale eyelashes beneath the tinted lenses of small round, wire framed glasses. He peers myopically through them at the both of us, and then I don`t believe that show of helplessness for a second – he is ready for us. The bumbling, breathless elderly gentleman act is purported further via extensively tweedy clothing, a small trilby and a pocket watch – a pocket watch, I ask you! The Professor obviously feels the need to engender Am-Dram night at the water park, but neither of us are fooled as we note the outline of his automatic weapon as he reaches to dab his brow with a silken handkerchief – please. All that tweed does not hide the tightly packed muscleature of a trained operative and the white hair and sunglasses indicate the colouring of an albino rather than an elderly man – sixty? Re-calibrate ... forty, at the most.
He smiles, and that fanciful back room in my mind palace treacherously blossoms forth, unbidden –
Shark.
"Well, well," the handkerchief is pocketed – I think he knows he hasn`t really fooled us, but it was worth a try, no? "Two for the price of one – how charming, and how efficient." He is favouring his left leg – an injury on the right (knee?) still bothers him.
Seiga looks at me. She is no fool (how is that even a possibility?) and she knows what I want, and that there will be a cost. I am currently unsure it is a cost she is willing to pay, and I cannot press her to it, unless there is even the slightest hint that she wishes it too. I cannot process the cost to her, even though I feel I might be reduced to begging (not yet; never); do we not just judge ourselves by our intentions, but often judge others by their behaviour? She appears angry, trapped, mutinous – I am so poor at this; I wish John were here.
The evening is drawing in, as spring clouds darken over a paling sun. Golds and reds light up the faded blue paintwork of the concrete and it`s almost beautiful.
"What do you need, Mr Holmes?" The Great White has a smile for me, and hands open towards me (to inspire – trust? Look how open I am...I have nothing to hide from you...) and I note a dark smudge on his wrist – prison tattoo, possibly Durham (nice link to his employer) – and a slight wheeze to his tone (asthmatic? Over use of steriods to counter it – another weakness).
"The evidence that has been taken from Scotland Yard – a letter and CCTV footage which incriminate Harriet Watson in regard to the Trevor Bennett killing – I want you to destroy it."
Seiga`s intake of breath is not unexpected, but I think she will realise there are many grey areas that must be breached; there are many ways to save a life.
"Harry Watson must be given the chance to claw back some of her life. She will be released without this evidence, and will have the chance to rehabilitate herself."
"That is what SHE needs, Mr Holmes. My employer would really like to know what it is YOU need. It was one of his special requests." Gleaming teeth, taking a bite of me. A sacrifice should come from me too – thoroughly fitting, so I allow it, saying:
"I need John Watson to come back to me. I need him to know his sister is safe, and to be in my – "
How ridiculous – I cannot falter now, but I do, I do. My tongue is thick and useless in my mouth and my jaw seems – tensed.
"Take your time, Mr Holmes. My employer was very specific that you told the truth. He needs to know that you understand."
And I do – I do understand what John is to me. He came to me when we were both so lost, and he was a gift (I no longer care if I am fanciful or not) who made me cups of tea, passed me pens, listened and understood what vexed and what perplexed –
That was brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing
He was (is) my window to the world; my conduit, when things are confusing and irritating. First John, then Molly, helped me to understand and attain the potential to enjoy humanity, in all its forms. Like the Little Prince, he tamed me, and we only properly understand the things we tame ourselves. I both see and observe, but it is only with the heart that one can properly see what is invisible to the eye …
I sigh, and close my eyes. Whatever it takes, Sherlock.
"John is my friend, my best friend – the best man that anyone could ever have. He is more – he is my family, my loyalty, my understanding of what is right in this world, and I need to – have. Him. Back."
And I breathe a harsh (and slightly shuddering) breath and open my eyes. Both Shark man and Seiga are staring at me; he with the quiver of a smile hovering –
(kick the left knee, twist him around, take out the gun, smash it across his teeth until they are bloody, pulpy gums … no, Sherlock, no)
"Oh, that is excellent, Mr Holmes, excellent, it seems you do understand, after all. My employer will be so pleased; he wanted you to know the importance of having family and friends close by. Now," he turns to my sister, as the last bit of daylight is fading from the sky. "What do you think you may offer in return?"
X
Sherlock and I sit underneath one of the few working lamp posts in this derelict monolith to twenty-first century optimism. There must be nothing more sad than an abandoned and deserted place of fun; more poignant, somehow, than an empty prison, or hospital. Moriarty`s man is long gone and we sit, sharing a cigarette (so bad, I know) and just – being. I was pretty angry with him – such arrogance and high-handed behaviour – what a selfish bastard, my brother. He has held me to ransom, but then I knew my father would someday find a way of reaching me. If you are the Napoleon of Crime, why would you bother with family counselling sessions? Why not just steal, blackmail and extort people`s emotions to get what you want? Simple, really.
For three years, I have ignored all attempts by my father to make more contact. It was a point of pride with me. But I knew; I still knew.
I would eventually have to know more of him, no matter how little that something may be.
So, for Sherlock and for myself, I have come to `an arrangement`. I will correspond (via email) with my father once every six months, and he may email me once, in return. I wish to know nothing pertaining to his `interests` and he will know only the barest bones of my life. We will probably never meet, and no other point of contact may be breeched. In return, he will destroy all evidence linking Harry Watson to the Trevor Bennett warehouse killing and I must lie to my lovely Gregory, since I cannot compromise his position. I was not going to do this, even for Sherlock – it has already cost me much. However, when I heard his words about John Watson, and I felt his voice break (just a little, min älskling, just a little), I knew it had to be so.
"What are you thinking about, Sherlock?"
He blows out the smoke into the cooling night air and I shiver a touch. In my haste, I brought no coat. Sherlock passes me the cigarette, then takes off his Belstaff and places it around my shoulders. Maybe not such a selfish bastard, after all.
"Bees," he answers, staring up into the heavens. "The very rare Andrena Vega bee, last seen sixty eight years ago, has recently been spotted in Kent." He pauses. "Just when you think you`ve lost something precious and rare – "
He turns to look at me and he doesn`t need to say thank you, because it exudes from him, from every fibre of his being.
" – it comes back to you," I say, and lean my head on his boney shoulder, inhaling and holding the smoke in my mouth for a second.
"Also," continues my uncharacteristically chatty littlest brother, "I would advise you to prepare yourself – "
Helig helvete, vad händer nu?
"Lestrade is going to propose to you in the next week or so. He has the ring, the venue and has even drafted the words he will say."
And suddenly, I am choking, like a fourteen year old school kid with her first cigarette; I am choking and Sherlock is hitting me on the back (useless) and laughing at me.
"He – told you?" I manage to splutter out, eyes watering and nose running.
"Deduced it. Simplest thing in the world. Do try to act surprised though, when he does it."
"Well, Sherlock, I may have actually been surprised, you know, if you hadn`t actually told me!"
But he just takes the last drag and blows it out to join the stars in the inky black night sky.
X
The totally familiar yellow tape stretches, fluttering, across the road; blues and twos blocking the end of the street; unidentifiable bodies in head to toe blue nylon suits and masks, stepping over invisible markers on the ground that only they can see –
A crime scene.
Oh, how I`ve missed you.
I duck under the tape into the buzz of crackling radios and shouted commands from one side of the garden and into the house. Sally Donovan holds up a hand to me, but it isn`t a command to stop (who goes there?) but an acknowledgement; a welcome; a `glad to have you back`. Seems like Sally has buried that hatchet (for the most part) quite a while ago.
"Good to see you, John; Mary ok? Sholto? Any complaints this week?"
"None this week – best behaviour, Sally, and we`re letting him take Taekwondo lessons as a reward."
She gives a slightly fearful grimace. "Might live to regret that, mate," she breathes, pointing upstairs to where the main action is.
It`s a bit mad, but I`m feeling my heart pounding in my chest, like I`m nervous, or something. Jesus, I AM nervous – of course I am. I`ve been in a living hell for the past month – treading some kind of diabolical tightrope to try and keep the peace with a mental, evil genius (and no, I don`t mean Sherlock).
Sherlock.
There it is again, my stupid heart. What must he have thought of me? I wasn`t allowed to explain, or make any kind of contact. I know Mary sneaked around, trying to help, but I was really mad with her for that – she could have made things go so wrong for Harry. Infuriating though it is, but Harry isn`t ever going to know (or appreciate) what we have done for her. She`s kind of blinkered around Sherlock – thinks he`s an arse (which he can be) and has no redeemable features, but she`s wrong, so wrong. I know he and Seiga had to put forward some kind of `deal` - I don`t know and I don`t want to know, but they have been selfless and amazing, and I will, one day, tell Harry what they did for her. For me.
I round the newel post at the top of the stairs and I am sweating and shaky. Stupid me. You`d think I`d never seen a dead body (albeit with no fingertips) before. And I step, boldly, into the room where Lestrade and Anderson stand back, watching, and Sherlock hovers over the body with his lens, and his coat and that mad hair. It looks, to me, like an almost exact re-enactment of the first time he did this (I wrote it up as `A Study in Pink`) and amazed the bloody life out of me. If I didn`t know better, I`d think he`d set it up, just for maximum dramatic effect ("God, Sherlock, that was fantastic!") to impress me ...
Then he looks up, with those sodding mesmerising eyes, and his lips press together in an astonishingly genuine smile.
"Hello John," he says, "welcome back, we`ve missed you."
Yeah, Sherlock Holmes, I love you too.
A/N: *this quote comes from an earlier story (When Sherlock Met the Other One) and is spoken by Professor Bartholomew Moriarty to Sherlock. The Professor is brother to James/Jim and father to Seiga.
Du absolut smyga! Du hade ingen rätt att göra detta! Jag knullar hatar dig för detta, Sherlock - You absolute bastard! You had no right to do this! I fucking hate you for this, Sherlock!
Hooray! The boys are back in town! All is right with the world! What could possibly happen next? (clue: a lot!)
John - I love you too x
Arcoiris: Librarians rock! I know a few! Have you been to the Barbican Library? Quite impressive! Love Mary and Sherlock dynamic too - will be so sad if they kill her off. The appliance of science is a tough one for me, so I do hope it looks a little authentic! :)
