AN: Thanks for reading and following!
Apologies in advance for any mistake.
Dominant
"Right handed."
"Left handed."
"Right handed," Jane took off the pair of blue latex gloves and stepped back from the victim, a young man lying dead on the floor. "Neat shot."
Sherlock frowned. "What makes you the killer was right handed?"
"The gunpowder on the victim's hand," Jane knelt next to the body and pointed at the victim's wrist for Sherlock to see what she meant. "Here, see? The killer is right handed. He used his dominant hand to shoot and place the gun in the victim's hand. He didn't take into account the gunpowder though."
"A stupid mistake."
"Another 'suicide' then?" Greg asked them.
"Obviously."
"Any ID's? Credit cards?" Jane asked.
Greg assented. "He's another agent."
"Another?"
"Hmm. Mycroft reported three missing agents last year. Three weeks ago Ryan Norton was found dead. Now it's Jason Simmons." Greg told Jane. "34. Single. No bills, no credit cards. Nothing. Just his ID."
Sherlock looked at it. "Any computers?"
"Nothing."
"You think he stole information?" Jane asked her husband.
"Mycroft said Norton and Simmons were not his main concern."
"Not his main concern?" Jane said, sarcastically.
"The two of them worked for the National Security Council. Both were computer system engineers and worked in the same department."
Jane looked at him confusedly. "You think someone wanted them dead?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"That's why we need their computers."
More details concerning the crime scene were exchanged. Greg had his forensic team working on footprints, any digits left but there was nothing. The killer was indeed a trained man because he left no marks, no traces. Just gunpowder.
The victim's computer had also been taken and Sherlock, again, had nothing to star with. Just their names, their bodies left, and nothing else.
"Have to go," Jane said, glancing at her watch and taker her bag with her. "My shift starts soon."
The detective held Jane's hand and both started walking side by side. "I'll walk you to the hospital."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
"Okay."
They walked together in comfortable silence for some minutes. The streets were crowded, as always, but little they cared. It was quite a sunny morning, a bit cold, but sunny. They stopped for a quick coffee and then resumed their walk.
"You've never walked me to the hospital."
"There's always a first time," Sherlock replied, blushing, still holding her hand, but not meeting her eyes. "Will you come late tonight?"
Jane smiled at the little children walking before them, each holding their mum's hands. "No. Just eight hours today."
When they arrived at the hospital, there were already three ambulances rushing patients into the hospital. One of the paramedics, who seemed to know Jane, told her there had been a car crash and there were around fifteen people hurt.
"Have to go. See you -"
But Sherlock didn't let her go. He put his long arms around her, brought her closer to him and kissed her deeply. "I love you."
For a moment Jane wished she could back home. She wished she could kiss Sherlock more. She also wished they could go on walking all their favourite streets. But duty was calling her. She had an eight hour shift and Sherlock a case to work on.
Jane beamed. "No one's ever... ever made feel like you did." She smiled and noticed Sherlock was blushing. "We'll talk about it later, okay? I love you."
The detective watched Jane pulling her stethoscope from inside her bag and rushing to the ambulances. Putting his hands into the pockets of his long coat, Sherlock walked back home. He had a lot of things to think about. One, who killed Ryan Norton and Jason Simmons, why the killer took their computers and what for. Two, if these two murders were, somehow, liked to Moriarty. Mycroft was stupid to even suggest it. Moriarty shot his brains out, Sherlock was convinced of it, of course he was. He saw it. He saw it with his own eyes. James Moriarty had been dead for more than a decade – and there will never be a reason for him to be alive. Jim Moriarty was just dead.
And three, Sherlock still had to think about the previous night. He still blushed when he remembered that night, when he recalled those moments when he finally realised what was to love a woman – what was to love Jane. His mind palace had a new room and it was difficult for him to catalogue the feelings and images he had stored there there previous night.
It was still difficult for him to even think if he could, some day, do it again. What the detective had done, he knew, was against his own beliefs. Sherlock had always controlled himself. He had always kept himself away from those carnal instincts and needs he thought he didn't have. Sex was, for him, a distraction – something he could live without.
But Jane had proved him wrong. When he woke up, and before Lestrade had called him because another agent has been found dead, Sherlock found himself alone on his bed. Jane had been gone for long minutes, hours maybe, he calculated. The side next to him was cold and Sherlock could hear his daughter having breakfast, asking Jane to help her with her hair and saying she would be late. He also listened to Jane telling her to stop making a fuss because she was taking her to school and that she wasn't going to be late. He had a quick shower, dressed himself and announced that after taking Sophia to school they were meeting Lestrade.
On their way to school, Sherlock listened to Sophia asking Jane if they were spending Christmas and New Year's at nan and papa Holmes, if she could have a horse as a present, if they were baking cakes and if uncle Billy was going too. The detective watched Jane's hands taking their daughter's, saying they were spending Christmas and New Year's in the country, with nan and papa Holmes, that they were baking cakes as always and that uncle Billy was invited too, of course. Sherlock looked at those hands that had showed him what love was and wondered when he would feel those hands again on him, caressing him tenderly, softly.
But for now, he had to focus on Ryan Norton and Jason Simmons.
"Why life is soooooo difficult?"
Sherlock looked at the girl sitting across him. She was drinking her chocolate milk and eating her biscuits while he checked his emails: Lestrade still had no more clues for Sherlock to start an investigation with. Simmons, as Ryan Norton, had no criminal records and there was nothing about them on the system – which was clearly obvious since both had been agents trained by secret service.
"Jack likes Mary and Mary likes him too," Sophia said, pulling her fringe off her forehead and adjusting her pink glasses. "Jack wants to tell Mary he loves her but he's afraid!"
It took the detective less than two seconds to realise what his daughter was talking about. "Are you watching soap operas?"
"They are fun, daddy. Besides, nan Hudson says I can watch it because in this one people don't kiss."
"You're not allowed to watch such things."
"But they are fun, dad!" Sophia complained. "Why you think Jack is afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"Of telling Mary he loves her. It's so silly! He just has to go and tell her! Mary likes him too!"
Such stupid story resembled his own, Sherlock realised. Both Jack and Mary, according to Sophia's account of the story, were friends but both liked each other too. Jack was, actually, in love with Mary and she was in love with him too. However, Jack thought what he felt was merely an unrequited love. What Jack didn't know was that Mary actually loved him back.
Sherlock smiled when he saw on his daughter Jane's eyes, Jane's lips, Jane's sandy hair. His daughter had inherited most of the Watson's features and also some illnesses, such as her difficulty to see like everyone else. Since Sophia was three she used glasses and Sherlock always thought she looked adorable. Sophia, as her mother, was also soft, gentile, calm, had a good soul and, apparently, was a good friend since every birthday she had invited more than fifteen girls and all of them had attended her birthday parties.
Sophia had also inherited, somehow, Sherlock's nose and ears. Everyone said she looked like them, like the detective and Jane. But opposite Sherlock, Sophia had straight golden hair. Jane's hair. However, like Sherlock, Sophia could also sulk a bit sometimes, especially when she had been a little girl and when she didn't get what she wanted.
"It's not silly, Sophie. It's not always easy to change such status between friends."
The golden haired girl seemed to process the information for a moment. "And... were you afraid too... when you told mum you loved her?"
"No." Sherlock answered immediately. "A bit. Yes."
"You were mummy's best friend, right?"
The only one. "Yes."
"And you loved her lots, right?"
Immensely. "Yes."
His daughter smiled. "Mum says she'd always loved you but she was afraid you wouldn't feel the same."
I know. "And what else did she say?"
"Well, that one day you said you loved her. She also said you were boyfriends for a few years before I was born and then you married."
No Matthew Morstan then. Of course. They had agreed, many years ago, when Sophia was still a baby of a few months old, that they would never tell her the truth: that she was not Sherlock Holmes' daughter but someone else's... someone else's who had been a top trained assassin.
Sherlock knew this was for the best. Sophia should never know about that, about Matthew Morstan, about Magnussen. Sophia was his daughter after all. Sherlock had raised her. He had stayed many nights up with her when she was ill, so had Jane. The detective, as Jane, looked after her in every sense of the word and no one could ever deny Sherlock wasn't a good father. Because he was.
I wish. "Yes."
"And they didn't invite mummy and father. Nor me."
"Uncle Mycroft!"
"Hello, Sophia," Mycroft addressed to his niece and then turned to his brother. "Good afternoon, dear brother. May I?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Kettle just boiled."
Mycroft made his way to Jane's armchair. "I appreciate your kindness, but I must reject the tea."
The detective understood. "Sophia, go to your room. Mycroft is about to give another of his boring speeches."
"There are matters of great importance I ought to discuss with your father," Mycroft paraphrased Sherlock's words.
"Can I go and stay with nan Hudson?"
"Yes."
As soon as the eight year old was out of earshot, Mycroft delivered the first of his messages. "Detective Inspector Lestrade has been in touch. Jason Simmons has been found."
"Yes."
"And you never considered I needed to be told about it?"
Sherlock shrugged as if he were a seven year old boy. "Why wasting my time?"
"Well?"
The detective held Mycroft's gaze.
The politician smiled. "It's textbook, Sherlock."
"I know."
"Alistair Johnson must be found."
"You were his employer, yet you don't know where he is."
"And that's why I hired you."
"You didn't hire me."
Mycroft titled his head. "Ah. Domestic bliss suits you fine."
"Shut up!"
"We are being attacked." Mycroft admitted. "There are uncountable lives at stake, Sherlock."
"And what do you want me to do about it?"
"Find him."
"I said –"
"Moriarty is back."
Sherlock froze.
"It's the same pattern. We're expecting our bank's vaults to be opened, Pentonville prison to free all its prisoners and the Crown's jewels to be taken any moment now."
"He killed himself. I saw him."
"Tell me, dear brother," Mycroft stood up and headed to the door. "Which hand did he use?"
Mycroft left. Sherlock glued his hands together under his chin. He remembered that morning, of course he did. He remembered the breeze on his face, the clouds, the rooftop, Moriarty's 'Stayin' Alive' ringtone and Jane's voice on his phone, asking him, begging him not to jump, not to leave her alone.
Moriarty put a gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. He blew his own brains out.
He used his left hand.
But Moriarty was right handed.
"Mycroft knows it."
"God," Jane closed her eyes and sighed tiredly. "Is there anything he doesn't know about our marriage?"
Sherlock thought about it for a moment.
"Does he know my measurements?"
"Probably."
"I wonder how the two of you ended up being like this."
Sherlock frowned. "Like what?"
"Like this," she answered as if she was talking about the most obvious thing in the planet. "Your parents are pretty normal."
"So?"
"Mycroft is the British Government and you're the world's only consulting detective."
"And?"
Jane smiled a bit. "Forget it. Any advance on the agents' case?"
"Mycroft thinks it's Moriarty."
"He's dead."
"I know. I was there."
"Oh, how could I have forgotten."
Sherlock looked at her confusedly. "Problem?"
"Yes. Are we in danger?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Of course."
Jane shook her head. "You were also sure when –" she gasped. "We have a daughter now, Sherlock."
"I know. She's upstairs sleeping."
"Just... don't get involved."
"Why?"
"Why?" Jane repeated, angrily this time. "Because this time you're not alone, Sherlock, that's why. It's not you, you know. It's..."
Sherlock's piercing eyes focused on hers. "You're afraid something could happen."
"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock."
"This could be the remaining of Moriarty's empire –"
"I don't want Sophie to get hurt," Jane cut Sherlock off. "This time they'll hit you were it hurts, and that's our daughter."
The detective cupped Jane's face with his long hands and pressed a kiss to her soft lips. "I will never let that happen."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I love you, that's why," Sherlock's fingers started working on her shirt, as his mouth moved downwards, pressing soft, chaste kiss to her neck, her collarbone and her breasts. "I'll never let anyone hurt you."
That night, Jane slept safely in Sherlock's arms. She rested her head against his naked torso and slept.
However, Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. With his wife in his arms, her naked body pressed against his, he remembered that morning at Bart's rooftop.
Moriarty was dead.
He had to be.
