12/10/2014 16:45:33 a12/p12 - /tmp/uploads/FF_6036092_
Summary : Sherlock POV - making the rounds
It takes him a moment to realize where he is. The sensation has become a familiar one over the past two years, waking in a strange place, not knowing if he's in danger, or here by his own choice. Or able to leave, if he wants. He assesses quickly and remembers that he's home. Almost.
His return from the dead will be official tomorrow. His plan is to see Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson before they hear it on the news, but saving them the shock isn't his primary motive. He wants their first reactions, not what they choose to show him after they've had time to prepare. He hasn't been able to trust a single person he's encountered since he left. Whether the response to his return is positive or negative, it will be meaningless if he's can't trust that it's the truth.
Mycroft's driver is parked in front, leaning against the fender, reading a newspaper. He straightens up and opens the passenger door when Sherlock comes down the steps. "Good morning, sir."
Debatable. "Morning." He slides into the back seat.
The driver gets behind the wheel and turns to look at him. "Sir, your brother left this for you." He hands him an envelope. "He regrets that he will need the car for the rest of the day. I can take you to your destination this morning, but you'll be needing to take taxis after that." He smiles apologetically.
"That's fine." And not a surprise. He opens the envelope and finds a stack of twenty pound notes. "Bart's Hospital."
The driver touches his cap in acknowledgment and closes the privacy screen unasked. Apparently, his brother has forewarned the man to skip any attempts at small talk.
As they approach Bart's, he knocks on the window and the driver lowers it. "I want you to stop behind the ambulance station, not at the front door. I'll show you where."
He gets out at the same spot where he had John stand. He wants to see the roof from John's perspective. Every moment from that day is indelible, but he's never been able to picture what John saw. After the car pulls away, he looks up. He doesn't really know what he was expecting, but what he feels is disappointment. No revelation. No sense of what it was like for John. It's an empty rooftop. Nothing more.
He finds it less difficult than he expected to avoid being recognized. The path he takes is through the least traveled corridors, and he doesn't draw a single curious glance.
He waits for Molly in the locker room outside her lab just before lunch time, hoping she still stops to pick up her lunch bag on the way to the cafeteria. She sees him in the mirror when she opens the door to her locker, and it startles her less than he expected.
She turns and gives him her shy smile, but doesn't approach him. "You're back. How are you?"
It would be a perfectly acceptable greeting, if they had last seen each other a week ago. "I'm good. How have you been?" He starts towards her, and she backs up a step. He stops. She's still smiling, but there's something guarded about it.
"I'm sorry. You just surprised me." She closes the locker door, comes to him and takes his hands. Her fingers are icy. "I'm so glad you're safe. When did you get back?"
"I returned to London yesterday morning. It's good to see you, Molly." He clearly means it, and she blushes.
She lets go of his hands, suddenly looking awkward, not meeting his eyes. "Sherlock, about the last time we saw each other, I want you to know that I understand why you, um, kissed me."
That's good, because he doesn't. "Oh?"
"Yes, um, you were thinking about John and-" She stops. "No, I mean, I didn't mean you were... I meant you were worried about John, and it was just..." She takes a breath. "It was a comfort thing. I mean I know it wasn't... about me." She looks up at him. "I hope he's okay."
Her train of thought is mystifying. She is the only person he knows who can throw him off balance like this, doing nothing but being herself. "I know it was hard for you, not telling him the truth. There truly was no alternative."
She chews her lip for a moment. "You'll have to tell him, won't you? That I knew?"
"I already did. He asked."
Her eyes are downcast, and she nods. "He came to see me after your funeral. He...wanted your coat. I didn't have it, of course." She looks up, and the rest is in her eyes. "I almost called you that night. He was so upset." She stops, studying his face. Whatever she sees makes her take his hand and squeeze. "You're back. He'll be okay now."
"He'll understand, Molly. You don't have anything to apologize for, and he knows it."
She nods at the floor. "I hope so."
Long pause. He takes a breath and puffs it out. "You were on your way to lunch."
She lets go of his hand, and her smile comes back. "Yes. I'm meeting someone in the cafeteria. I'd invite you along, but it's, um, kind of a date."
He smiles. "Anyone I know?"
Her eyes crinkle at that. "Pretty sure not." She looks at her watch. "I should be going." She touches his arm lightly. "I'm so happy you're back."
"Me, too." He cups her chin lightly with two fingertips. "Have a nice lunch, Molly Hooper."
He glances back as the door closes behind him and sees her watching him, the fingertips of her right hand pressed to her lips.
He had started with Molly because he'd expected her to be the easiest to read. He hopes that doesn't prove to have been the case.
He briefly considers walking in the front entrance of Scotland Yard and straight into Lestrade's office, then decides that surprising a group of potentially armed men who were never exactly fans might not be wise. Instead, he waits in the underground car park for Lestrade to come down to sneak a cigarette. He doesn't have to wait very long.
"Those things will kill you."
Lestrade goes utterly still with the flame of his lighter hovering just short of the tip of the cigarette in his mouth. Seconds tick by, and Sherlock wonders if he should step out into the light, or take cover behind the pillar in case Lestrade's reaction is similar to John's.
The DI unfreezes, lowers the lighter and pulls the cigarette from his lips. "Oh, you bastard."
Sherlock takes a step into the light. "It's time to come back. You've been letting things slide, Graham."
"Greg!"
Sherlock comes toward him, smiling at the joke no one ever seems to get. "Greg."
For a few seconds, it looks like he's about to get decked, but it turns out that Greg is winding up for a bear hug. No one, not even his mother, has ever hugged him with quite this level of enthusiasm, and it's mildly alarming at first, and then oddly... not. Greg finally lets him go and steps back.
"I owe Anderson a drink. I think he just saved me a heart attack." He blows out a breath that puffs his cheeks. "Where the hell have you been?"
"That's a fairly long story."
Greg's chuckle is a little shaky. "Yeah, I'm sure it is." He sobers, and just looks at him. Shakes his head. "You're actually here."
As honest first reactions go, this one is touching him in ways he didn't expect. "In the flesh."
Greg squints at him. "How?"
"An air bag, and a lot of help."
Greg nods. "Yeah, of course. You couldn't've pulled that off alone. Who helped? Your brother?"
"Yes. And Molly."
"Molly Hooper? Really?"
"And a dozen or so others on the ground to handle the logistics."
Greg nods at the floor, shifting awkwardly before he looks up. "You've been exonerated, you know. Just last week. Rich Brook was proved to be Moriarty's creation, not yours. For what it's worth, I never thought otherwise."
"I know."
"Yeah, well I'm sure it didn't look that way to you at the time." He clears his throat. "After you, uh, jumped, I kept thinking how the last thing you would have remembered about me was getting hauled away in cuffs." He looks up at Sherlock. "Not the last impression I would have liked."
"You were doing your job. Moriarty had it all planned from the start. You never had a choice." At Greg's dispirited nod, he adds. "And you know I'm not saying that to be polite." He smiles at his own joke.
Greg gets it and smiles back. "Yeah, that much hasn't changed."
There's an awkward pause. Greg puts the unlit cigarette back in his mouth and raises the lighter. "Mind if I smoke?"
Ah, common ground. "Do you have one for me?"
Greg hesitates, then takes the pack from his pocket and holds it out. "What happened to 'those things will kill you'?" He lights his own and then holds the lighter out for him.
"There are worse ways to go." He takes a deep drag and holds it, then tips his head back and exhales. "How did Sergeant Donovan take the news that I wasn't the kidnapper?"
He looks away for a moment. "She doesn't know you, Sherlock. I do, and I never should have let it get as far as it did. She made a good case. If it had been anybody but you, I might actually have agreed with her." He clears his throat. "She's lost her staunchest supporter, if that's any consolation. Anderson jumped ship. He's been singing your praises like a disciple."
"Anderson. Philip Anderson." His second biggest detractor?
"Yeah, it surprised the hell out of me, too. You know how people say that converts are the biggest fanatics? Well, Anderson is living proof. He started a website. Organized a club he calls 'The Empty Hearse'. Kept bringing me theories about how you faked your death. Cases from all over the world that he swore proved you were still out there doing your magic." He shakes his head. "And I told him he was crazy."
"He may be, but I'd like to see the theories." He has the oddest sense of deja vu. He's heard this before. "Do you think he'd like to share them with me?"
"If he doesn't have a heart attack first, yeah." Deep drag, exhale. "You can see 'em all on his website, too. He's got a lot of time on his hands now. Lost his job over all the time he spent trying to prove you were alive." He flicks the ash on the ground, then look sat Sherlock with his chin raised.
Sherlock recognizes the body language. He's about to get to the point.
"Have you seen John?"
"Yes. Last night."
"How'd he take it?"
Pause. "It could have gone better."
Greg crosses his arms. "What happened?"
Sherlock touches the cut on his lip with the tip of his tongue. "I surprised him at dinner. He tried to throttle me, knock my teeth out, and break my nose. Not quite the welcome I was expecting."
"Christ, Sherlock. Didn't Mycroft-" He shakes his head in exasperation.
"Didn't Mycroft, what?"
Greg exhales. "Look. Your brother knows how bad things got with John. I just figured he'd have warned you off a stunt like that."
"It wouldn't have mattered."
Greg drops his cigarette and stomps it out. "It didn't go well. I get that, and I can't say I'm surprised. But I can tell you this: no matter what you said to each other, no matter what it looks like now, cross it off and start over." He holds out his hand, and Sherlock shakes it. "Bloody glad to see you alive, but if you ever pull anything like that again, I'll kill you myself."
No ambiguity there. He watches Greg walk back toward the stairway door, then heads in the opposite direction, half smiling at the thought of Philip Anderson, of all people, on his side.
Mycroft's envelope contains enough cab fare to take him on a tour of the city, and he finds a cabbie who's willing to follow his directions without debate. After three hours of nostalgic visits to crime scenes he worked with John, his mood is turning dark and it's time to move on.
It's past sunset when he gets out across the road from 221B and stands there taking it all in. The windows in his flat are dark, of course. Mycroft told him that it's vacant, and everything he owns is still there, covered with dust.
Eloquent dust. Home. Almost.
He has Mycroft's key, but he listens at the door for a moment, ear pressed to the wood. The key slips easily into the lock, and he opens it quietly. The inner door has had a squeaky hinge for as long as he's lived here, and he winces when he pushes it open.
Mrs. Hudson is standing just outside the open door to her flat, rubber gloves holding a dripping pan raised like a weapon. Her eyes widen and she starts screaming like a banshee.
He approaches her slowly, both hands up in a calming gesture. "It's me. I'm not dead." He keeps repeating it until he's standing within reach.
She stops screaming, looks up at him for a moment, then hurls herself into his chest, weeping like a child.
When he can finally pry her loose to look at her, she is beaming. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, Sherlock," is all she can say, over and over.
He's smiling over her head, but his throat is tight. The intensity of her emotional response is a bit stunning, and his reaction surprises him.
She makes him tea, of course. Her kitchen hasn't changed at all, and neither has she. The rush of affection and sense of home feel like sunlight.
She can't seem to stop smiling at him, one hand pressed to her heart. "Oh, Sherlock, I can't believe it. I just can't believe it." She gives him a plate of biscuits that he could live on for a week. "John was just here yesterday. First time I've seen or heard from him in almost two years. It's as if he knew you were coming. Did he?"
"No, he didn't." It's interesting, though. He wonders what prompted the visit, and then he knows. "He came to tell you about Mary?"
She presses her lips tightly for a moment. "Yes, he did." Her eyes are soft with sympathy. "He didn't know you were coming back, Sherlock. I guess he couldn't wait any longer."
He smiles. "You never give up, do you? We weren't together, Mrs. Hudson. I'm glad he found someone." At her dubious look, he reaches across the table and lays his hand over hers. "It's okay. Really."
She studies him, then smiles. "Do you want to move in tonight? The place is so dusty you'll sneeze yourself silly, but you're welcome. You know that. I'll go to the market tomorrow and pick up whatever you need." She sits back and beams at him. "I'm just so happy to see you, Sherlock. I can't get over it."
She takes him on a tour of his home, and he's surprised to find that his belongings are all packed in sealed boxes, labeled with the contents by room.
"I was going to give the science stuff to a school, but I never got around to it. Your clothes are all packed. They'll all smell of cardboard, but at least you'll have something to change into." She hugs his arm. "Your dressing gowns are in the box marked 'loo'."
She makes a fresh pot of tea, and leaves him with the huge plate of biscuits. "If you need anything at all, you just call me." She hugs him tightly, then goes back to her flat.
There truly is thick dust on every surface. Even the couch, he discovers when he drops down onto it. A cloud rises all around him and makes him sneeze, just as she promised.
It's only a matter of minutes before he goes up the stairs to John's room. He's only been here once before in all the time they've lived here. He was looking for case notes that John had scribbled in a notebook because his laptop was out of commission. They had replaced it the next day.
He walks over to the bed and pulls out the drawer in John's bedside table, not really expecting to see the laptop there where John kept it. The drawer is empty, but something round rolls to the back as he pulls it out. He reaches inside and comes up with a sharpened pencil, white with metallic blue embossed letters. Cross Keys Inn. Tooth marks on the barrel conjure the image of John sitting at the table with the pencil held in his mouth like a bit, both hands on the keyboard of the laptop. He puts the pencil back where he found it and closes the drawer. The bed is stripped, and he wonders if the pillows would still carry their former owner's familiar scent. Unlikely after all this time, and it bothers him that the thought even occurred.
Back in the sitting room, he locates his own laptop in the third box he searches, all of them marked 'Desk'. He plugs it into the outlet by the sofa and sets it up on the coffee table. While he waits for it to boot up and find the Internet, he locates the box marked 'loo', removes his jacket and shoes, and puts on a very stale smelling blue dressing gown. Mrs. Hudson will have a lot of laundry to do tomorrow.
He has to admit that the website title is pretty creative. 'The Empty Hearse'. Anderson has surprised him for the first time since he met the man. The layout of the site is less inspired than the title, and the contents are, not surprisingly, rife with wild speculation and poorly drawn conclusions. Chortling at Anderson's idiocy is the first entertainment he's had in a very long time.
He can't seem to shake the sensation that Greg's mention isn't the first time he's heard of this site. He allows a moment for his mind to come up with a connection, then shrugs it off when nothing clicks.
He returns to the main page. Down the left side is a list of links to related websites, and John's blog is the first entry, and he clicks on it. The familiar page pops up, and he scrolls through the entries. Browsing, not reading, he notes that the entries halted with his suicide, then resumed with sporadic, angry responses from John to the rising tide of ridicule for the fake genius. Finally, all comments were blocked, and there was a long period of no entries until last week, the day Sherlock's exoneration was in the news. John made a single-line update, and unblocked the comments. 'I told you so. - JW'
The period when no entries were made has him wondering if John truly had nothing to record, or if he had just made the entries private. Curiosity spurs action, and it takes only a few tries to unlock the section that begins much earlier than he expected, several months before the day they met at Bart's. The entries are brief, and obviously made under protest. He remembers that John mentioned his therapist's penchant for blogging in the same tone that he often commented on body parts in the fridge.
Scrolling forward, he finds the date closest to his suicide. Two days afterward, in fact. It's not a brief entry, he can tell without opening it, and suddenly he's not sure he wants to. He sits back on the couch and stares at the blinking cursor until the screen saver comes on and blots it out.
He gets up and walks to the window, then turns and comes back to the couch and clicks on the link before he can change his mind.
'I knew you would have the last word. It's your defining characteristic.'
It's John's voice in his head, and it makes him smile. He reads a few more lines, and it's clear that this is a letter to him. The thought of John sitting at this laptop, typing these words in his determined two-finger style, is simultaneously comforting and deeply upsetting.
He wanted honest first reactions. There could be no more honest reaction than what he would read here, written by the most honest man he's ever known, straight from his huge heart in the immediate aftermath of the worst thing Sherlock has ever done to him or anyone else. He doesn't know if he's ready to hear it.
He closes the lid and goes in search of fortification. They had a bottle of scotch tucked away in the cabinets. He imagines Mrs. Hudson has made off with it by now, but he looks anyway, and finds it in the cabinet next to the sink. He rummages for a glass, takes both back to the couch and places them on the table next to the laptop.
He pours four fingers of scotch into the glass and opens the lid of the laptop. John's blog entry glows at him. He drains half of the glass, refills it, and starts to read.
He gets only a few paragraphs into it before he understands. Honesty is what he wanted. Anger is an honest emotion. So are disappointment and betrayal. There's no need to read the rest. The conclusion is obvious. He had a demonstration of it last night.
What he had said to Greg was more true than he'd known. It wouldn't have mattered whether he had called John and warned him, or burst in the way he did. The reaction would have been the same.
He had known all along that saving John's life could mean giving up any chance of saving their friendship. It would have been nice to be wrong, just this one time.
He closes the lid and pulls the charger plug from the wall, then takes his glass of mediocre scotch to the window. The glass is long empty when he sets it down on the sill and starts hunting through boxes for his violin.
End of Chapter 14
Note: The blog Sherlock starts to read is chapter 5.
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