John woke at sunset. Molly's soft, glossy hair tickled at his neck. He stirred and took a deep breath, then opened his eyes. Molly was sitting beside him on the bed. She'd leaned in and woken him by kissing his forehead.
"Six-thirty," she said as he reluctantly pulled himself upright. "I've got dinner on."
"Okay. Thanks." His gaze fell on the thick manila file she had resting on her lap.
"So I got this for you," she said. "There… weren't as many photographs as I would have expected, and no recording."
"But everything you've found is there?"
She looked at him. "Yes."
Sleepy as he was, he registered her hurt. "Sorry. I didn't mean to doubt you." He ran his hand thoughtfully over the yellowed cardboard cover of the folder, then leaned over and kissed her. "I've got to admit, my fingers are itching."
Itching fingers or not, John managed to leave the manila folder alone while he showered and dressed and ate dinner with his wife. Molly went through the motions, but she clearly had no great appetite, and was pushing her food around her plate rather than actually eating it.
"Not feeling well again?" John asked her.
"I'm okay." She obligingly worried down some rice. "I'm just tired, that's all. Um. Long day."
"I wish I could stay home with you. But I really can't call in - not when I've just come back from having two months off." John got up, took Molly's pulse, then lifted her hand to kiss it. "Bath, bed and at least three Glee reruns. Doctor's orders."
She smiled tiredly. "You're only saying that because you won't be home for the Glee reruns," she said. John only ever shared the television grudgingly when it came to Molly's taste in happy, good-time programs.
"That's exactly right, and doesn't change my prescription in the least, Lolly."
John worked steadily throughout the night. It was a busy one, but not crazily so, and he tried to placate his itching fingers by reading in dribs and drabs where he could. By six, he had a general idea of the contents of Sherlock's post-mortem. And as he and Dhaval Verma clocked off for the morning, he drew the older doctor aside.
"I'm sorry to do this to you after the shift we just had," he said. "But I was wondering if you could take a quick look at some autopsy notes for me, let me know what you think?"
Dhaval raised one eyebrow. "Autopsy notes?"
"It's a long story." John handed over the manila folder. "You don't need to read the whole thing, just the fourth and fifth pages. I… I just need you to tell me what you think the likely cause of these injuries would be."
Dhaval took the folder obligingly and looked over the notes for a few minutes in silence. John waited, curling his left hand nervously.
"This is a transcript?" Dhaval finally clarified. "Word-for-word?"
"Yes."
"In that case, I'd say almost definitely a car accident." He looked over the few photographs available to him. "Perhaps something a little more obscure... like an amusement park ride accident? But yes. Probably car accident."
"What would you say if I told you 'blunt-force trauma from a four-storey fall'?"
Dhaval looked puzzled. "I'd say 'rubbish'," he said. "You can't get whiplash like that from a fall. And these contusions described here, as well as the fractures to the sternum and ribcage, they would definitely be from a seat belt…"
John nodded. "Yes. Exactly what I thought." Both doctors had seen their fair share of car accident injuries over the past six months of working shifts together.
"And here..." Dhaval pointed. "It also mentions significant grazing and contusions to the lower left quadrant. But the photograph -" he flipped to it - "shows no grazing there at all."
"I noticed that, too."
"And then, it mentions some skull and vertebrae trauma, yes, but in all, I'd expect much greater damage to someone who... fell four storeys, you said?"
"Yes."
"And hit a hard surface?"
"Very hard, I'm afraid."
Dr. Dhaval Verma suddenly realised that he had heard this story before. It was well known among the staff at Hammersmith that John was a talented and likeable doctor who could, for all anyone knew, suddenly go to pieces at the drop of a hat. Past war trauma, and a friend who had committed suicide.
"Who does this report belong to, John?" he asked him quietly.
John took a deep breath and took the folder back in his shaking hands. "I thought it belonged to Sherlock Holmes," he said finally. "But now, I have absolutely no idea."
The Homeless Network had disintegrated after Sherlock Holmes had disappeared from London. Sherlock had made some discreet enquiries that day, particularly north of the river, but nobody could tell him anything. Or rather, he suspected, nobody would tell him anything. Fourteen months on, they could not quickly forget Liam Newell, who had done Sherlock Holmes a favour and ended up severing an artery in the lockup.
Not even cash was going to persuade some of them. And for every person he asked, he knew he was coming one step closer to being discovered. London's homeless now knew that Sherlock Holmes was back in town and in full pursuit of his enemy.
The question was, did that enemy know it, too?
Sherlock spent a second night sleeping at the Cathedral. This was going to require every bit of strength and energy that he could muster, and he had always been deeply pragmatic - mechanical, even - about his physical needs, though often underestimating how much fuel and sleep the average human body required. He slept for a full eight hours this time, regardless of how many unwashed snorers he was surrounded with. On waking, he was almost angry at himself for giving in to that kind of weakness.
A quick shower and a scanty breakfast. While he was in a church, he may as well do some church-based investigating.
Molly's evening of rest and Glee reruns had done her well, John decided, when he finally woke her up at half past eight in the morning. It was a lazy Saturday and no reason to rush anywhere, at least for Mrs Watson. Her husband, on the other hand, seemed pale and agitated, and she knew it from the second she woke. For one thing, he was still clutching his precious file on Sherlock in both hands.
"Is something wrong?" she asked him, trying to swallow the sinking feeling in her heart.
"Yes, um…" John hesitated. "I'm sorry I have to ask you this..."
"You know you can ask me anything, John."
"Are you absolutely sure that, to the best of your knowledge, this file belongs to Sherlock's case?"
She looked at him for a few seconds, anxiety twitching in her chest. She hadn't had a chance to really look through the case itself, but it was certainly… yes. She could tell him this much in perfect honesty. "It was filed in our morgue records under his name," she said. "There wasn't anything else. It has all the inquest notes. And all the right information…"
John shook his head. "No."
"No?"
"No. Wrong physical description, wrong injuries. Right photographs... I think. But they don't match the written notes... and there should be a tape recording, as well, that seems to either have gone missing or never have been made at all."
By this time, Molly's heart was beating so hard against her ribcage that it hurt her. Warm nausea was rising, and she suspected that this was not in the least pregnancy-related, for once. She looked into John's eyes, searching. She saw nothing there but trust. "So… what are you saying?"
John took a deep breath, and seemed to hold it while he thought. "I don't know," he finally said. "I don't know. Except… that this autopsy wasn't done on the man I saw…"
"Oh, John -"
"I have to talk to Greg this morning." He kissed her cheek, a little absently. "I'm sorry. I hope I won't be too long about it."
"You seem deep in thought over there."
A clergyman, clearly, even without the dog collar. Obvious from his shoes. Sherlock had been tucked up in a corner of the vestry, reading the Good Book. He put it down, almost embarrassed, though why a clergyman should object to his reading a Bible was beyond him.
The elderly, bespectacled, kindly man put his hand out for a quick shake. "Phillip Avery. I'm the head of the God Squad in these parts."
Sherlock grudgingly thought that he might like Phillip Avery. Clever, placid, and accepting. He reminded him of Mike Stamford, plus twenty years, minus twenty pounds.
"I was just reading," he muttered. "About Lazarus."
"Ah, yes. Book of John?"
At hearing the name John, Sherlock flinched.
"What did you think?" Avery asked him.
Sherlock was silent for a few seconds. "I was wondering... how Lazarus felt about the whole thing," he said, picking his words carefully to match his feigned accent. "I reckon it must have been a bit of a shock for him to discover he wasn't dead after all. Hard to readjust."
Avery sat down and thought about this for a few seconds. "Yes, I believe you're right," he said. "Never thought of it that way before."
"I wonder if he ever really recovered, you know. Whether he ever got things back to the way they were."
The elderly clergyman smiled. "Well, we can only speculate. But I'd say... yes, and no. We humans like being alive, Mr. Yearsley. We're remarkably resilient in that respect. The will to live overpowers all others, and sometimes I wonder if that's right." He paused thoughtfully again. "But having something like that happen to you… no, I expect you'd never really be the same man again. And I don't think Lazarus's friends and sisters would have remained the same either. Not after the things they'd heard and seen and felt. Resurrection is a game-changer, all right."
Sherlock seemed about to speak again when the verger, a man named Tait, suddenly popped his head through the vestry door. Sherlock liked him less than he liked Avery. Twitchy and nervous.
"Sorry to interrupt," he cringed, in a way that reminded Sherlock unmistakably of Mrs Hudson at her most annoying. "But there's a call for you come through to the office, Mr Yearsley. Your brother, I expect."
If Mycroft was on that line… Mycroft would never be on that line. Sherlock had no idea where his brother was, but he knew that he would never do something that stupid. He rose and followed Tait into the little church office on the other side of the main hall. He picked up the phone, letting his withering gaze fall on Tait until he got the hint and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
"Yes," Sherlock growled into the phone.
"Oh, hello there, Sherlock," said a cheery, enthusiastic voice. "Just thought I'd drop you a line welcoming you back to London. How was the flight?"
"Long and arduous. Congratulations, you've found me," Sherlock said. "Though you could have simply called my mobile phone. Where do I meet you?"
"Meet me?"
"You heard me perfectly. You've summoned me from halfway across the world with your quaint little letters; very clever. And you know exactly where I am. Where do we meet?"
"I haven't decided that yet." A pause. "But when we do meet, do remind me that I've got something of yours you'll probably want back. Can you guess what it is?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes."
"Sharp, very sharp. Oh, and while you're there in Southwark taking refuge with the Holy Rollers, you may want to ask them about the Wedding in Cana. Just to help you get up to speed."
"Why would I want to ask them about the Wedding in Cana?"
"Exile's turned you into a bit of an idiot, hasn't it?"
Sherlock refused to bite the bait, so there was a very long pause. The two men listened to each other's breathing; one calm and measured, the other hitched and anxious.
"Went for a long, romantic walk with your friend Mrs Hudson last night." Again, those cheerful, conversational tones. "Of course, I was the only one between us who knew about it…"
"Now you listen to me, you miserable f-"
There was a low chuckling down the line.
"Mrs Hudson has nothing to do with this. Haven't you heard that I get a little put out when people threaten her?"
"Oh yes, I did hear about that." He was still chuckling. "And that was only when they hurt her..."
Sherlock drew a sharp breath. "I'm going to find you, Moran. And when I do, the state of Mrs Hudson, and the others, will determine whether I hand you over to the authorities, or whether I kill you. And if you give me reason to kill you, I can promise you now that I will do so slowly and painfully, and with more satisfaction than you can ever imagine."
And then he slammed the phone down onto its cradle.
Stalking out, he found Avery sitting in the front pew, head bowed in prayer. He stopped short in confusion, and something approaching embarrassment, as if the idea that a clergyman might pray in a cathedral had never before entered his head. Finally, Avery lifted his head serenely. "Mr Yearsley. I was just praying for you."
Sherlock suppressed the urge to protest.
"Is everything all right?"
Sherlock exhaled. Avery would probably be a better source than his phone for this one. "I need to ask you," he said, "what you can tell me about the Wedding in Cana. What is it, a Bible story, I suppose?"
"Yes. A wedding that Jesus and his mother went to, early in his ministry. They ran out of wine, so Jesus's mother asked him for help, and he turned water into wine."
Sherlock had a feeling this was not what Moran had meant when he'd referred to the story. "Is there anything else... important about it...? Can you tell me anything about it, beyond what the Bible says?"
Avery looked puzzled. "Beyond? Well, we don't really know anything about it beyond what the Bible says, Mr Yearsley." He thought. "Ah, yes."
"Ah, yes, what?"
"One thing that might help you, perhaps. According to legend, that wedding was between John the Evangelist and Mary Magdalene."
