"I refuse to tuck my trousers into my sock. This is Saville Row."
"Sherlock, it`s either this, or the tandem."
Riding through the Cornish country lanes after a storm, however, wipes away any doubts or reluctant bike riding. High hedgerows tower over their heads; twittering birds swoop low to tend their chicks – almost brushing passed their shoulders. Bees buzz in the early summer breeze and a bright blue sky allows unhindered rays to dapple the road ahead of them. The only vehicle to pass the two men the whole way into Helston, is a rickety cart, drawn by a dappled roan and an ancient mariner.
His Cornish accent is as clotted as the thickest of creams. "Hey, lads, you headed for the town?"
John changes down a gear on his borrowed machine with scarcely a wobble. "We are. We need a few supplies."
"Pies, you say? Well, you make sure you call in on the Professor. Best Cornish pasties this side of Truro an` no mistaking it."
And he waves them on his way.
As with the rest of the busy Cornish town, "The Life of Pie" is bustling with folk about their business. A small bell tinkles as they enter the bakery and agreeable aromas meet them. As John turns away from his, quite lengthy, appreciative glance at the pies and bread, he notices Sherlock Holmes swiping across his phone.
"You taking holiday snaps now?"
"Not exactly. Maybe something for your blog later, though."
Although John is tense and on high alert since the morning`s revelations, he knows Sherlock is on the verge of – telling him something. Else. All the usual signs were there. He could wait. He was patient – to a point.
Frisbee Sommersby doesn't seem to be around and a young, rosy-cheeked fair haired girl with intricate head plaits, is trying her best to serve the jostling throng of customers.
"Ah, Mrs Trelawny, you DID say four pasties? I`m so sorry – we`re just so busy this morning and Mr Sommersby is busy with the yeast mix…Oh, Joe, Joe!" She called to a skinny teenager just leaving with a packed bag. "I haven't given you your change yet - !"
Within a moment, a small, bespectacled baker has emerged from the back of the shop. The girl immediately turns from her customers and glances across at him.
"Jessica, please allow me to assist you."
And although his tone is smooth and amiable and his smile in place, the girl`s eyes show only one emotion –
Fear.
Frisbee Sommersby is the very epitome of delighted to see Tregennis Lodge`s two most recent tenants. Giving Jessica back free reign in the shop after the lunch time rush, he busies himself in his charming garden room, making tea and slicing a freshly baked cherry pie for his guests.
"Mr Holmes; Dr Watson, I felt SURE I would see you again soon. Sure of it! How exciting that you sought me out in my little shop."
He poured and passed a cup to Sherlock, who glances down at the proffered hand.
"That`s quite a nasty scrape at the base of your thumb. Occupational hazard?"
Frisbee examined his thumb with apparent interest. "Oh, an errant knife; apple peeling. Those Mustu apple pies have been a sell out. I must thank you both."
"And James," added John, with a smile.
"Of course. Of course."
The chink of china and Cornish tin as tea is stirred. A clock ticks above the fire place and a fly buzzes erratically, against the large patio doors. Sherlock puts down his cup.
"What a very charming painting, Mr Sommersby. Is it a famous work?"
John turned and noticed, for the first time, a small, classically painted picture of a red-haired girl of around twelve years old, cuddling a humble looking lamb, atop a small pillar. She is looking, lips slightly parted, towards the painter – the picture of young innocence and adoration. Frisbee seems less of a surfer with every passing moment.
"That? Oh, I think not, Mr Holmes. A reprint or reproduction, of a little known artist. I don't even know his name, I`m afraid. An impertinent little scribble, I fear."
Sherlock has stood and crossed the room to view the painting briefly, before Frisbee proffers him the pie and offers a tour of the garden.
Sherlock and John quite quickly make their excuses and leave. Both have had quite enough botany for the time being. Frisbee cannot help but press the remainder of the cherry pie upon them. Plate and all.
John is struggling manfully with the rusted bicycle lock when he looks up to find Sherlock – somewhere else. Glancing across, he spots him by the gates of St. James Church. Talking to a familiar young, blonde woman with plaits in her hair.
Riding back through the leafy lanes has taken a detour into a grass field, left to fallow. Sherlock Holmes has leant the bicycle against a two hundred year old oak tree and is sitting beneath it, chewing a piece of grass and looking like he really needs a cigarette. John sits down next to him.
"You`d better fill me in then," he says.
x0x0x0x0x0x0x
Did you miss me?
Mycroft Holmes has concerns for his brother, who`s loss would almost certainly break his shrunken and under-used heart. Although sniping at each other is the Holmes` boys raison d`etre; Mycroft sits on the roof of Bart`s and decides that Sherlock needs to recuperate; to shake off his uber-virus and regain himself. He needs a case. And, a dose of the truth, about Jim Moriarty.
"The time has come, little brother."
Sherlock looks over his sunglasses again. "Tired of life, at last, Mycroft? Off you pop then. Toodle-pip. Not as much of a drop as you might th – "
"Sherlock." His voice cuts through the spring air like a scimitar.
"I am very much afraid that there is a new Moriarty in town."
So many people met Jim (Rich Brook) Moriarty. He was such a show-off. Molly Hooper even dated him. He was live on all the world`s TV channels when he broke into the Bank of England and Pentonville. When he was arrested in the Tower, his infamy nearly broke the internet. His face, on a thousand screens; his name on a thousand lips. His antecedents, however, were nowhere to be seen. Where had he come from? No friends or family; no school or university or Facebook account. No past. Jim Moriarty did deal with the criminals of the world. He was their consultant and their passport to ill-gotten gains from Timbuktu to Tobago. When he held the hand of Sherlock Holmes and put a gun inside his own mouth, it was the public death of a very public criminal life. And all that time, no-one ever knew that the public face also had a private puppeteer. Jim Moriarty was not a lone gun atop the grassy knoll. He himself had a co-conspirator. A confidante. A man he could turn to when all else was at an end.
A brother.
