Chapter Eleven
Greg followed John up the stairs of 221B, heading into the flat. "Here, sit."
John settled into the sofa, looking beyond exhausted.
"Oh, John, you're home," said Mrs. Hudson, coming out from the kitchen.
John paid her no mind; he only wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the floor.
"Get some rest tonight, okay?" Greg told him.
"Sure…" said John absently. "Thanks, Greg."
Greg nodded, looking at him in concern. "Can I get you anything?"
John just continued to stare at the floor.
"All right, I'll see you tomorrow," Greg told him, still getting no response. He then turned towards Mrs. Hudson, who was looking at John with concern. He tilted his head slightly towards the kitchen before heading that way. Once they were in the other room, Greg lowered his voice. "Look…have you noticed anything…odd about him lately?"
Mrs. Hudson's confused frown turned into a worried, understanding one. "I think Sherlock's death hit him hard. The violin, the experiments…"
Greg nodded. "Yeah, he told me."
"It's like a part of him is making up for the loss, trying to keep Sherlock alive," said Mrs. Hudson, her brows pulling together in worry. She leaned closer, lowering her voice even further. "I'm almost ready to call a doctor for him."
Greg shook his head. "No, no, no, I don't think we need to do that quite yet. I think he's just grieving. I mean, the two of them didn't have the most normal of friendships. Who says his grief has to be the same?"
"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Hudson.
"Yeah, he told all about what he's been like the last few weeks," Greg told her. "He's worried he's losing his mind. Usually, someone who islosing his mind isn't really aware it's happening. I think we just need to wait for the grief to pass. If his behavior doesn't change or gets worse, then we'll call a doctor." He glanced towards the sitting room, wondering. "There's just one thing that doesn't make sense…"
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Hudson.
Greg looked back at her. "We just came back from a crime scene. I thought it might be good to run him a bit."
"Did it work?" she asked.
"It was starting to. But then…" Greg shook his head in amazement, "he solved it."
Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened. "He what?"
Greg nodded again. "He solved it. He took one look at the crime scene and knew there was something more. He spent all of two minutes examining the scene, and he had the answer. The observations he made, the way he flung his explanations at us, the deductions…" He shook his head. "Call me crazy, but…it was as though Sherlock was there, whispering them in his ear."
Mrs. Hudson stared up at him in shock for a moment before the sounds of a violin came from the other room. The two of them stared at each other a moment before slowly looking into the sitting room. John stood facing the window directly across from them, violin on his shoulder and bow moving over it. He was playing Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 as he swayed, caught up in the music.
Greg stared in shock. John had sold himself short; he didn't sound like a beginner, he sounded like a seasoned musician. Maybe not as good as Sherlock, but certainly good enough to play in public. John wasn't even looking at any music. Was what John said earlier tonight true? Was Sherlock's ghost really haunting him?
Greg looked back at Mrs. Hudson, who shared his confused and concerned stare.
John scribbled another note onto the music sheet before setting the pencil down and picking up the bow again. He played through the last few measures, getting to where he left off and continuing on. Now knowing the next few notes of the song, he set the bow down and filled the notes in on the sheet.
He set the pencil down as he observed the finished work with a smile, satisfied that it was finally done. He picked up the bow and started from the beginning of the piece. It was amazing how incredible it felt to hear a piece you had written, like an author seeing his book made into a movie.
As he finished, he became aware of someone in the room behind him.
"That was beautiful, John," Mrs. Hudson told him.
John turned towards her with a smile. "That's been stuck in my head for days."
"Well, it was time well spent," she told him, setting out a tray of tea. She took a seat on the sofa and grabbed a cup of tea for herself. "So, how's your time off going?"
John rolled his eyes as he set the violin down. "Dear Lord, must you all coddle me? I am fine!" He threw himself into the black leather armchair, gripping the armrests.
Mrs. Hudson only gazed at him calmly. "You know you really aren't…don't you?"
John stared down at the chair he had instinctually chosen to use as he came back to himself after that Sherlock-like outburst. "I know." His voice was quiet as he looked up at Mrs. Hudson. "I snapped at a patient."
Mrs. Hudson frowned. "You what?"
"I snapped at a patient," John repeated, his voice rising. "He came in for a consult, and I told him to get out and stop wasting my time."
"Oh, John…" said Mrs. Hudson, wincing in sympathy.
"I couldn't help it," John said quickly. "It was a simple chest cold, if he would've just bothered to look at the signs. They're all so stupid!" He put his head in his hand, rubbing tiredly at it. "What's happening to me, Mrs. Hudson?"
Mrs. Hudson rose from her seat and knelt next to him, placing her hand on his knee. "I don't know, dearie."
John looked down at her, clearing his throat. "Boss didn't take it too well, but they know what I've been going through lately. They really warmed to my idea of taking a leave of absence. Said I'd have a job waiting whenever I was ready to come back."
"Well, that's something," Mrs. Hudson told him and gave him a pat to the knee. "Make the most of your time off. Don't overdo it."
John nodded as Mrs. Hudson stood and left the room. He watched her go for a moment before looking down at the chair and placing his hand back on the rest.
This really is quite comfortable, he thought.
He looked around the flat, eager for something to occupy his mind now that the song was composed. But there was nothing; no experiments left, no books he hadn't read yet, no cases, no songs to compose. Imagine that! Even the violin had exhausted its entertainment value. All he had to look forward to was his daily afternoon visit from his friends. Tonight was Molly's turn.
That's hours from now, he thought. What am I supposed to do till then?
As the starting-to-be-familiar restlessness and boredom rushed through his entire body, he began to freak out yet again. Was this really the way his grief for Sherlock was making itself known? It just didn't feel like it. He couldn't really explain it, but he just knew that something else—something deeper—was going on here. But what?
Something beeped on the table, and John jumped to his feet, hurrying over to the open laptop. Pulling up the open internet window, he spotted a new message posted on the "The Science of Deduction" website.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
On Monday, my home was broken into and the safe I keep in my basement was emptied. The police have investigated this whole week, but have not been able to figure out how the thieves got in. My home is monitored by an alarm system and surveillance cameras. There was never any breach in the alarm, nor was it tampered with. The cameras show nothing out of the ordinary; none of them were tampered with, apart from the basement camera. It was disabled, but the only way into the basement is the stairs to the ground floor, and the camera outside that door showed nothing all night long.
Could you please take a look at the case and help me?
Thank you,
Miranda Kirlan
John's eyes lit up. Oh, yes! Finally!
He whipped his dressing gown off, flinging it down onto Sherlock's armchair. He rushed to the door, pulling the Belstaff off the back of it and pulling it on. He snatched the scarf and rushed out the door, thundering down the stairs as he looped the scarf around his neck and tied it.
"John?" he heard Mrs. Hudson ask behind him.
"Will be back later, Mrs. Hudson," John briskly told her. "The game is on!" He swept out of the house and towards the street. "Taxi!"
A cab pulled up to the curb, and John flung open the back door.
"526 Lexington," John told him, climbing inside. He pulled out his mobile, looking up building and construction history for the area he was headed for. He got lost in his phone as they rode on.
"526 Lexington," the cabbie said as he stopped the cab.
John tossed a note up into the front seat as he darted out of the cab, heading towards the house in front of him. He stepped up to the door and rang the buzzer, waiting for a moment before a woman came and opened it.
"Yes?" she asked, the door open just enough to peer out.
"I'm here for your case, Ms. Kirlan," John told her.
Miranda Kirlan frowned. "My case?"
"You did email, yes?" said John.
The woman's frown lessened slightly—just slightly—as she shifted on her feet. "I was expecting Sherlock Holmes."
"He's dead," said John shortly. "I'll be taking it from here."
The woman pulled the door open wider as her eyes widened. "Dead?"
"I'm surprised you didn't see," said John. "It was all over the papers."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Who are you?"
"Dr. Watson," he answered. "Mr. Holmes' companion. Now, where is the safe?"
Miranda stared at him in shock. "Erm…downstairs…"
"If I may take a look," stated John, waiting until she had stepped aside before stepping into the house.
"Right through here," said Miranda once she had closed the front door.
She led him through the hallway to a door that opened onto a set of stairs. The two of them headed down to the basement, where a safe sat in the center of the basement.
John approached the safe, circling around it with his hands placed together in a prayer position in front of his mouth. He stopped once he had completed the 360° turn and looked up at Miranda. "Well…start from the beginning."
Molly unlocked the front door of 221 Baker Street, heading up the stairs to the flat. Pushing open the door, she was greeted with the sight of an empty sitting room.
"John?" she called as she took her scarf and coat off, laying them on the sofa. She looked towards the kitchen. "John?"
Molly stepped through the kitchen and down the hall, starting to get unnerved by the absolute silence. She approached Sherlock's room, having found John holed up in there more than once in the past week. "John, you in here?"
The bedroom was as empty as the sitting room and kitchen.
Molly moved back into the hall, knocking quickly on the closed bathroom door. "John? John, if you're in there, say something or I'm coming in."
After no response, Molly opened the door; the bathroom was empty as well.
Heart beginning to hammer in her chest, she turned and ran for the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!"
Molly raced up the stairs towards John's room, flinging open the door. It was empty, too.
"Molly?"
At Mrs. Hudson's faint voice, Molly raced back down the two flights of stairs, finding the landlady at the foot of them.
"Oh, thank God," said Mrs. Hudson, worry written all over her face. "I've been trying to reach someone—"
"Where's John?" Molly asked.
"He took off about an hour ago," Mrs. Hudson told her. "Said he'd be back, but…" she shook her head, "I think someone needs to find him. The way he was acting…"
"We'll find him," Molly assured her before turning and hurrying back up the stairs to the flat. She pulled her mobile out of her coat, seeing that she had left it on silent from when she had been working. And there were five missed calls from Mrs. Hudson.
Molly dialed a number and waited.
"Hello?" Greg answered.
"It's John," Molly told him. "He's gone."
"What?" Greg exclaimed.
"Mrs. Hudson said he left an hour ago," Molly explained. "She's worried about him."
"All right, stay at Baker Street," Greg told her. "I'll start a search. Try his phone."
"Okay," Molly responded.
Greg hung up, looking down at his mobile and spotting the six missed calls from Mrs. Hudson. Why didn't I check my phone when I got back to the office?
He got to his feet, striding towards his door to open it when it opened, revealing Donovan in the doorway. "Donovan, get—"
"Boss, there's—" Donovan began at the same time.
They both stopped, and Greg jumped right in.
"Set up a search team," Greg told her. "John Watson has—"
"He's at 526 Lexington," Donovan interrupted.
Greg froze and stared at her. "He's what?"
"Miranda Kirlan just called about a man that showed up at her home in response to an email she had posted on Sherlock's website," Donovan explained. "He started to look into her case, but now, he's starting to make her uneasy." She paused and made sure she held his gaze. "She said his name is Dr. Watson."
Greg immediately headed past her as she kept pace. "What was the address?"
"526 Lexington," Donovan answered. "Need a unit to ride along?"
"No, no," Greg told her. "It's probably best that I handle this myself."
"All right," she said as they reached the lift. "Good luck, boss." She then headed back to her desk.
Greg got into the lift and headed down to the lobby, getting into his car and hurrying over to the woman's house. When he knocked on the front door, a wide-eyed woman with bunched brows answered the door.
Greg held up his identification for her. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Thank God," Miranda breathed out, opening the door further for him. "He seemed okay at first, but after he looked around the basement for a while, he started…I don't even know what. He turned almost manic and started yelling about a tunnel and Christmas. I asked him to leave, but he wouldn't budge."
"It's okay," Greg assured her as they halted at the basement door. "Dr. Watson was Sherlock Holmes' friend. He's been going through a hard time lately. I'll get through to him."
"Thank you," Miranda told him, opening the basement door. The sounds of shoes scraping over concrete and flurried movement came up from the basement. "I don't want to go down there."
"That's all right," Greg told her. "I'll take care of it." He stepped through the door and headed down the stairs, turning the corner to look at the rest of the room.
A figure was stooped in the corner of the room, struggling to get rid of a section of the floor. It appeared to be a false floor, and the figure had broken away about a third of it. Despite the fact that Greg knew this was John, the image of the figure scrambling over a crime scene in his Belstaff coat was so familiar that the name just slipped out.
"Sherlock?" Greg asked.
Before he could correct himself though, the figure—surprisingly—responded to the name.
John looked up from his work, an excited gleam in his eyes. "Lestrade, excellent." He straightened to his feet. "You can call your team in now." He gestured to the ruined patch of floor. "The burglars gained access through this tunnel. No one thought to look at the history of the house."
Greg stepped forward and looked down at the hole John had made. Sure enough, it dropped down into a dirt tunnel.
He looked up at the doctor. "John."
"This whole area was used as a tea smuggling ring back in the 1700s," John went on, speaking rapidly. "The original property was torn down, but the tunnel was never filled in."
"John—" Greg tried again in a slightly louder tone.
"I believe you will find the thieves at the Marriott Hotel," John went on, off in his own world. "I'm sure even you can take it from here—"
Greg grabbed hold of John's shoulders and jolted him a little. "John!"
John's words fled him as he stared in shock at Greg for a moment. Greg could pinpoint almost the exact moment when the man came back to himself. The manic excitement bled away from his eyes as he blinked a few times, his tense muscles relaxing a bit.
John frowned slightly at Greg before looking around the room. "What…" He looked back at him. "Greg?"
"That's it, John," Greg said softly, easing his hands away from him.
John's eyes darted around the room, beginning to hyperventilate. "How did I get here? What happened?"
"It's okay, John," Greg told him.
John's eyes widened as it all seemingly came back to him. "Oh, God…" His breathing quickened even more. "Oh, my God. What did I do?" His eyes darted down to the scarf and Belstaff he was wearing. "Oh, my God…" He started to waver on his feet as his gasps grew high-pitched and shallow.
"Hey, hey," said Greg, helping John over to sit on the stairs and leaning his upper body down so John's head was between his knees. "Slow, deep breaths."
John took a few labored breaths before they evened out. He sat up and looked up at Greg with tortured eyes. "What's happening to me? Am I…am I losing my mind?"
Greg looked at him sadly. "I don't know, John." He watched him another moment before holding out his hand. "Let's just get you home."
John shakily took his hand and let Greg help him to his feet. Together, they trudged up the basement stairs.
Mycroft glanced up as his office door opened to reveal his assistant.
"Sir, there's a message for you from the Council," Anthea told him.
Mycroft nodded at her. "Thank you, Anthea." He closed the portfolio he had been looking through. "Make sure I'm not disturbed."
"Yes, sir," Anthea said before she closed his office door as she left.
Mycroft turned in his chair, moving a hidden panel in the wall to reveal a safe. Punching in the code and then leaning forward for the optical recognition scan, he opened the safe. Inside was a small pad, just like the one he had handed to Sherlock when his parents had sent him a message. Mycroft pulled it out and pressed his thumb to the front of it. The pad switched on as it read his thumbprint and opened the main screen. A message was flashing on the screen, labeled "URGENT."
The message began as they all did: "To Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Earth's ambassador to Vulcan." But it quickly became apparent that this was anything but a normal communication. It was from the T'Lana Hamac (A/N: I completely made up the name from examples of Vulcan ship names. Sorry if it's not very good), the vessel meant to rendezvous with the probe carrying Sherlock back to Vulcan.
Mycroft's eyes trailed over the screen, taking in the information as his jaw began to drop in genuine shock. "Oh, my God…"
Ooh...What news did Mycroft get?
