Chapter 11: What about a cup of hot chocolate?

Sunlight fell through the large windows, making every dust particle seem as if it were dancing in the air.

John blinked distractedly as he was slowly woken by the bright colours of sunshine. For a second he was disorientated. A wooden wall above him, yellow curtains in front of the patio door and a probably quite expensive painting hanging just next to him.

Where the heck was he?

Oh yeah, right.

Manhattan.

He groaned, as he caught a look at his watch. It was already 11:15. The last few days had obviously messed with his sleeping patterns.

After a quick shower, a small breakfast and a little chat with the receptionist about Manhattan and its worthy sights he found himself seated in a cab driving him to the George Washington Bridge. Once again John memorised the registration number and added it to his growing list.

About ten minutes later he could already see the huge Bridge clearly, hanging over the water.
Impatiently he paid the cabbie, leaving him a little tip and made his way through crowds of curious tourists and annoyingly slow walking people. It's funny how when you're in a hurry everybody seems to walk even slower than ever before.
John felt a slight breeze wash over him and pulled his coat collar up high, just like Sherlock always had. Smilingly, he thought about the way he had always mocked him for it.
While he let his gaze drift over the paths and river he made sure to examine and analyse every single detail, trying to apply the Science of Deduction as Sherlock had done so often.
There were hundredths of people walking around, some being fascinated, taking pictures, buying souvenirs at every given opportunity, others, mostly children, were just poking along, looking bored or were sulking. John gave a reluctant laugh. He could picture Sherlock perfectly among those kids.
One young woman passed by – middle long blond hair, blue sparkling eyes, and a friendly smile playing upon her lips – John gulped visibly by the similarities, reminding him of Mary.
The lady noticed him staring and before he could avert his eyes, pretending not to see, she smiled sheepishly and greeted him politely.

"Who are you looking for?" she added when John just nodded.

"Oh nothing. Really. I didn't mean to be rude. I'm sorry. It's just that you were reminding me of-" he tried to play his stares off.

"Oh no. Not that" she tossed her hair back and laughed visibly amused by his uneasiness. "I mean, the way you're looking suspiciously around. You're not a tourist, are you? You're obviously not enjoying the beautiful view here, nor are you taking any pictures or anything. It seems to me that you are looking for something or someone." She shrugged, "Can I help you?"

"Wow, that was … quite good." John answered impressed. Not a Mrs. Holmes yet, but she definitely could have the makings of it.
She laughed heartily. "Well, thanks. No, seriously, what's the matter? If you're trying to find someone specific, I may help you. Contrary to most of the other people here, I'm not a tourist. I live here just around the next corner. I know this place like the back of my hand."

"Thank you. I appreciate your concern, though I doubt that anyone could help me because I'm not even sure if I'm at the right place." And at the right time, the nagging voice in his head added, but the last message hadn't been sent so long ago. So the odds might even be in his favour.

"Oh, alright. If you should know more, just tell me. Maybe then I can help." She offered.

"Sure. I will." He nodded gratefully and shook her hand.

"I'm Jane by the way. What about a little cup of hot chocolate in a café? I know it's only the middle of September but it's already freezing cold, isn't it?"

"True." he said absent-minded, still keeping a lookout for a tall guy with a long coat, ruffled dark hair and an outrageously good-looking smirk on his face.

"I know a good café. Not too far away from here. It's good, trust me. I noticed that they've just hanged out an advisement poster of it at the beginning of the bridge railing. Just so you'll know."
A warm drink and a nice place to sit down and just chat a bit sounded damn tempting but not under any circumstances wanted John to leave this place and give up already. He didn't come all way to Manhattan only to give up his position after less than 30 minutes.

"That sounds beautiful, to be honest. I'd love to meet you there. It's just that I'd like to stay here a bit longer, if you understand. Maybe another day?"

"Of course! No problem at all. We can meet at the pub tomorrow or sometime in the following days ... Just in case, you won't find the poster and its information, the address is '1152 1st Avenue' and the little Irish pub is called '221b Baker Street'. It's great. I'm happy we-"

"Wait what, sorry but … what did you just say?" John burst out. "Say it again."

"The pub is great? And I'm happy we can meet again?"

"No, no. That's not what I meant. '221b Baker Street'? Are you serious? Are you sure? That's its name?"

"Yes, of course it is. I've been there already ten thousand times."

"Oh my god. Oh. My. God. Please, I need to go there. I can't explain it now. But I'm for hundred per cent sure that's exactly where I'm supposed to be right now."

"What do you mean?" Jane was just about to say but closed her mouth again, when she saw the wild excitement and the fiery hope in his eyes.

"This is it. It has to be it. There's no other way. It can't be a coincidence." John murmured again and again, repeating the thoughts in his mind like silent prayer.

The taxi-drive felt like ages passing by. John was fidgeting at the backseat; he just couldn't keep still for a second. His mind was racing and his body felt like it was just about to explode every moment.
Though it seemed to John he'd never reach the so called '221b Baker Street', he eventually did, after spending 25 minutes of pure hell in the smallest cabbie one could get.
Jane was initially the one who had invited him but he didn't feel like having company right now, for that reason they had exchanged numbers and promised to talk again. She had left him at the cab with a "Good luck, whatever it is you're looking for".

His heart was hammering in his chest and his breath came out rapidly and trembling when he finally stood in front of the nice, little café.

With slippery fingers he opened the small door and stumbled over the little step which he had totally overlooked in the entire flurry. "Ouch" he cried out and almost fell, were it not for two long, pale hands that caught him and held him steady.

"See, who's falling now?" whispered a deep voice, close to his left ear. Without having to look behind he knew who was kneeling there and John felt his legs getting wobbly.

"Oh God" was all he could say and then dropped to the ground, his knees finally giving in. The familiar hands, however, were still steadying him on both sides, not letting go.

"Hey?" Sherlock murmured in a soothing way, his left hand caressing gently John's shoulder blades.

"John?" he asked hesitatingly after a while, breaking in this way the deafening silence.
It was so unlike Sherlock. John had never heard him sounding so desperate and so insecure before. As an answer John simply dropped his head and let it rest in the crook of Sherlock's neck.
He perceived his friend humming in agreement.
They were so close. John could feel Sherlock's curls tickling him on his cheek. He could feel Sherlock's breath right next to his ear.
Neither of them made an attempt to move.
It must have looked odd to other guests, how they were both sitting on the floor, both trying to regain their breath and control - well, assuming that other guests were present. But strangely that wasn't the case. There wasn't a single soul in sight.
"Sherlock, why are we here all on our own?" John wanted to ask but shut up, for it was not the most important thing to concentrate upon right now.

But Sherlock, being the smart ass as always, could apparently read his mind. "I hired this café. There's no one here to distract us, except the staff."

"You hired …?"

"Mycroft has his connections."

"Of course."
John wanted to ask so many more questions, he had so much on his mind, so much to get off his chest but he just couldn't find the right words. In the end he settled for a simple "Thank you."

"What for?" came the surprised reply.

"Everything…? I suppose?" John said. Instead of "Thank you for saving Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and me. Thank you for letting me know, though you couldn't have chosen a more complicated way, thank you for not abandoning me, for not leaving me behind with a broken heart. Just thank you."

"Okay" Sherlock said, being blatantly confused.

"Okay" John smiled.

***
"You know, we could use a table and a chair like ordinary people do. It'd be much more comfortable, you'd be surprised." Sherlock suggested jokingly after a while of comfortable silence.

"Right." John answered hoarsely and was maneuvered to the closest table. It was a small one but looked way better than the floor. The lighted candle however turned John's stomach upside down, reminding him of old times.

"Thanks" he said once he had managed it to sit down. It was the second time now in this evening he said that and he knew that he meant it.
Sherlock took a seat opposite to him but averted John's eyes. Unsurely he stared at the table cloth, concentrating solely on the coffee spots which were sprayed all over the fabric as if he had never seen something like this before.

"Sherlock?" John asked and waited until his friend raised his head to meet his gaze. When he did so, John could read all the hurt and regret in his crystal blue eyes.

"I'm sorry, John."

"I know. But it's all fine. I've found you. It's all fine now." John assured him and reached out for his hand. He squeezed it tightly and smiled. Sherlock smiled back. The smile did not wash away the uneasiness and self-loath (so unlike Sherlock, wasn't it?) which was printed in every crook of his face but it made the world seem a bit brighter.

"Sherlock not that I am complaining, but why am I the only one you send these messages to?" John asked, one of his many questions he had had on the tip of his tongue for so long. Since now, they had just chatted a bit about this and that, trying to avoid the difficult topics.

"I …" he swallowed and avoided John's eyes.

"I couldn't see you suffer."

Silence followed.

"You could have just told me, you know? It would have been a lot easier."

"I couldn't risk it John. To tell you on the phone would have been too dangerous, for the gunman was watching you and the slightest change of your facial expression - one wrong move, one relieved sigh - could have revealed too much. He would have pulled the trigger."

"Why didn't you call, you know, or just sent a little note? I know you like it complicated, the huge brain of yours, but was it really necessary, I mean Manhattan seriously?" a hoarsely laugh escaped John's lips.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Indeed John. It was even of highest importance. The risk of anyone else finding out would have been too huge. But a riddle, a small, plain quiz … Everyone else would think it's a joke, they'd try their best to solve it, though they might probably fail at the very beginning, considering no one knew what was going on except you, John. You knew. And I knew you'd figure it out in the end and you did." He sounded proud. And John knew he couldn't be angry with him. Not in the slightest.

"Oh no, Moriarty isn't dead." Sherlock interrupted John after a while, when his friend was just about to tell him how Molly, Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard had coped with the suicides of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty.
"There's still so much to do. The whole network needs to be destroyed." Sherlock sighed, more in annoyance than worry.
"Moriarty is alive? Are you kidding me? How did he survive? His corpse stayed in the morgue. They did autopsies. Molly told me." John insisted disbelievingly.
"It was a trick. Just like mine." Sherlock began to explain. "He had a gun which he pretended to shoot himself in the head with. But in reality a trained assassin was hiding, who shot, close to his head but not close enough to strike him. The bullet was after all meant to strike a little plastic bag filled with fake blood which then poured all over his head. "

John whistled through his teeth. "Not bad."

But then something occurred to him."How did you know he survived? I mean, if you had known all along that he wasn't dead, then you wouldn't have needed to jump."

"The first few weeks in hiding I had indeed no idea." Sherlock admitted. "I kept running around with the childish idea in my head I've had outwitted him until one of my older acquaintances informed me that this wasn't the case. At least I found out about it in the end - contrary to Moriarty who's still blundering in the darkness, believing that I am the one who is dead" he chuckled.

"Who's the acquaintance you mentioned?" John asked curiously.

He hesitated. Now again showing a great interest in the coffee spots on the table.

"No one."

"Sherlock!"

"John!" He deadpanned. Then he sighed, giving in. "Irene. Irene Adler."

"She's dead, Sherlock."

"So am I. And so is Moriarty."

"Oh boy, is there anyone who's not 'not dead'?" John groaned, laughing despite his confusion and disbelief.