John P.O.V.
It was pouring rain as John sat in a seat he had never expected to return to. His therapist sat across from him calmly as she asked: "Why today?"
"Do you want to hear me say it?" John snapped and his therapist replied: "Eighteen months since our last appointment." She looked at him pointedly and John asked: "Do you read the papers?"
"Sometimes." His therapist replied and John added: "Mmm, and you watch telly?" She just watched him and he said finally: "You know why I'm here. I'm here because ..." He broke off, closing his eyes in pain.
His therapist leaned forward as she prompted: "What happened, John?" John opened his eyes to stare at her and then he closed them again as he took a deep breath. He began: "Sher..." He broke off, unable to say the name as the pain threatened to tear his heart into pieces.
"You need to get it out." His therapist told him and John took another fortifying breath. He said slowly, his voice breaking as he barely managed to say the words: "My best friend ... Sherlock Holmes ... is dead."
Three months earlier
"'Falls of the Reichenbach', Turner's masterpiece," the Gallery director was saying before the crowd of reporters, "thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
There was light applause and John nodded his head once in thanks as he stood beside his friend, both dressed in smart suits as they stood by the recovered painting before the crowd. Marie stood between the two men, also dressed in a fine dress but looking distinctly uncomfortable from all the attention.
The director produced a small box, handing it over to Sherlock as he said: "A small token of our gratitude." Sherlock took it and examined it with disinterest. "Diamond cufflinks." He muttered and added as he lowered the box: "All my cuffs have buttons."
"He means 'thank you'." John interrupted as the director looked a little offended and Sherlock asked in surprise: "Do I?" Marie sighed as John ordered: "Just say it." Sherlock sighed but said to the director: "Thank you."
He tried to walk off, but John stopped him, saying: "Hey." Marie tensed as the cameras all flashed, trying not grimace- otherwise it would end up in the papers. She usually tried to back out of these events, but Sherlock had insisted she come this time. He rarely did, only every fifth case or so when his patience wore thin and she was the only thing that would keep him sane.
After all, the last thing they needed was for Sherlock to have a fit before the cameras. Since John's blog became an internet phenomenon, more and more press was gathering around their cases. The Reichenbach case became the starting point, and the papers began to refer to Sherlock as 'The Reichenbach hero' amongst other names.
But while Marie chose to continually shy away from the attention, Sherlock began to accept it, stopping for his pictures and actually turning up for the thank you's, as with the Reichenbach director. No one commented, John just glad he didn't have to deal with Sherlock putting up a fuss anymore.
And so time went by.
One morning, Sherlock stormed into the living room with the morning paper as he spat: "'Boffin'. 'Boffin Sherlock Holmes'." He tossed the paper on the coffee table before John in disgust as he stalked about the room.
"Everybody gets one." John said soothingly as he reached for the papers while Marie just set her tea down on the desk as she read her book. "One what?" Sherlock asked as he paused beside Marie, leaning down to kiss the top of her head affectionately in greeeting.
Marie smiled at him, while John grinned at the pair. He didn't comment, just replying to Sherlock's question: "Tabloid nickname: 'SuBo'; 'Nasty Nick.' Shouldn't worry – I'll probably get one soon." John added and Sherlock muttered as he started to pace again: "Page five, column six, first sentence. Marie, column two, second sentence."
John looked surprised but turned to look while Sherlock picked up the deerstalker that Scotland Yard had gifted him with. According to Lestrade, everyone at the office had pitched in to buy it for him. Sherlock looked at it in disgust and he punched it as he asked: "Why is it always the hat photograph?"
"'Bachelor John Watson'?" John read incredulously. Marie looked up from her book to watch the pair in amusement as Sherlock continued to examine the hat, asking: "What sort of hat is it anyway?"
"'Bachelor'? What the hell are they implying?" John asked, offended. Sherlock twirled the hat as he asked: "Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?" John interjected: "It's a deerstalker." He then returned to the paper an he read: "'Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson'..."
Sherlock asked: "You stalk a deer with a hat? What are you gonna do – throw it?" He tried it out, cocking his head as he swiped his arm in a throwing motion, watching the hat while John read angrily: "'.. confirmed bachelor John Watson'!"
"Some sort of death frisbee?" Sherlock asked, completely ignoring John as he made another swiping motion. Marie laughed and John said: "I wouldn't laugh Marie. You're supposedly 'Mysterious muse Rose-Marie'." She blanched as she asked: "What?"
She walked over to read it with her own eyes as John said firmly: "Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful." Sherlock was still examining the hat as he muttered: "It's got flaps…"
He grabbed the offending parts while Marie read incredulously: "The detective's mysterious muse, Rose-Marie Jones?" Sherlock muttered in disgust: "Ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John." He tossed the hat at John, making it fly literally like a frisbee.
"Since when was I Sherlock's object?" Marie was asking indignantly as she looked up. Both she and Sherlock stared at John, who was staring at them in disbelief. Sherlock processed John's words and he asked: "What do you mean, 'more careful'?"
"I mean," John explained as he held up the hat, "this isn't a deerstalker now; it's a Sherlock Holmes hat." Marie winced as John continued, agitated: "I mean, that you're not exactly a private detective any more. You're this far from famous." He held up his two fingers, making a small space between them to illustrate his point.
Sherlock sighed as he muttered: "Oh, it'll pass." He settled into his armchair, curling up inside his dressing gown while John said sternly: "It'd better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock." John warned when he saw how disinterested Sherlock was. "They always turn, and they'll turn on you." He turned to the brunette beside him, imploring: "Marie, back me up here."
She sighed as she said: "John's right, Sherlock. The noise around us is getting a little too loud." Sherlock however, was focusing on John, examining him as he said: "It really bothers you." John glanced at Marie, who shrugged.
"What?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock, who elaborated: "What people say." John frowned as he said as though it obvious: "Yes." Sherlock asked: "About me. I don't understand. Why would it upset you?"
John looked at Sherlock blankly before he gave up, and he suggested: "Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news." John turned back to his paper and Sherlock turned away, a small frown on his face. Marie saw it, but didn't comment. Not yet.
It was about 11am on another regular day when John came out of his shower. Sherlock was working on something with his microscope in the kitchen and Marie was out at work. She'd be home in the next few minutes though, so John wasn't too worried about Sherlock becoming too bored.
Sherlock's phone beeped but the man didn't move. John pointed out as he passed: "It's your phone." Sherlock replied: "Mm. Keeps doing that." John just shrugged it off as he walked to the living room, glancing at the figure hanging by his neck from the rafters.
"So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?" He asked as he sat in his armchair, and Sherlock looked up questioningly. "Oh." He saw the mannequin dangling in the air and dismissed: "Henry Fishgard never committed suicide. Bow Street Runners," Sherlock slammed a book shut, "missed everything."
John looked up briefly as he heard the book snap shut and asked as he turned back to his paper: "Pressing case, is it?" Sherlock replied dully: "They're all pressing 'til they're solved."
Sherlock's phone dinged again. John sighed as Sherlock still made no move to get it. "I'll get it, shall I?" He said as he got up and opened the text message. As soon as he saw it, his face fell.
He turned grimly, and walked to Sherlock, holding out the phone as he said: "Here." Sherlock didn't even glance at him as he replied shortly: "Not now, I'm busy." John heaved a sigh and he said as he closed his eyes in irritation: "Sherlock."
"Not now." Sherlock shot back irritably but John just said flatly: "He's back." At John's words, Sherlock paused. He slowly lifted his head, looking at John and then the phone. He took it quickly, and read the text, his face becoming serious.
'Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x.' It read. His hand tightened on the phone and Sherlock asked: "Where's Marie?" John shook his head tersely and Sherlock stood up abruptly, knocking over test tubes in his haste.
"Sherlock." John began as the man strode out of the kitchen but they both paused as they heard the front door shut. Light footsteps sounded and Sherlock relaxed immediately while John sighed in relief as the brunette woman appeared on the landing.
"Hi, John…" She trailed off immediately as she looked at their faces. She walked over to Sherlock quickly. "It's him, isn't it?" She asked and Sherlock nodded as he handed her his phone. She read it quickly and pursed her lips but otherwise remained silent as Sherlock walked out to get his scarf and coat. John left to fetch his coat, and as soon as he did, Marie and Sherlock exchanged a long look before Sherlock took her into his arms and kissed the top of her head.
"That glass is tougher than anything." Lestrade said tersely, but Sherlock replied flatly: "Not tougher than crystallised carbon." They were at the Tower and watching the CCTV footage of the incident.
"He used a diamond." Sherlock murmured and Marie watched in silence as the camera showed the back of Moriarty's head as he stuck the diamond on the glass casing around the Crown Jewels. She watched as he waltzed his way over to a fire extinguisher, and then danced his way back to the glass, before thrusting the canister onto the diamond, causing the glass to shatter and come crashing down.
Lestrade stopped the footage and switched on another one that was filming from the other side of the room. Marie barely noticed the smug look on Moriarty's face, her eye catching the writing on the glass right as it shattered.
Lestrade rewinded a bit, pausing the footage to the moment right before Moriarty shoved the fire extinguisher onto the diamond. They sat staring at the message he'd spray painted on the glass: 'Get Sherlock'. Marie's lips folded in anger as she stared at the smiley face the monster had drawn inside the 'O' in Sherlock's name.
John glanced at Sherlock in concern but the consulting detective's eyes had simply narrowed; there was no surprise on his face as he stared intently at the message. After a moment, Sherlock stood up and turned to leave when Lestrade said quietly: "That's not all."
Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the DI and Lestrade's face was set grimly as he told them: "That man managed to break into the Tower, Pentonville Prison, and the Bank of England, all at exactly 11am this morning."
Sherlock slowly turned to face Lestrade while John frowned. Marie had tensed and she was looking at Sherlock but he was focused solely on Lestrade. John asked in disbelief: "How?"
Lestrade pointed out: "That's the question I want answered." Sherlock stared at the DI in silence, his face becoming thoughtful before he turned and simply walked out. John grimaced but followed. Lestrade sighed, glancing at Marie.
He started as he saw the emotionless look on the woman's face as she walked out just as silently as the other two. Lestrade shivered- he wasn't sure why, because there had been no emotion at all on the brunette's face, but for a second, he had felt a fear settle in the pit of his stomach. Or maybe it was because it had been so empty, so cold. The DI had seen all kinds of people in his field, and he realized that what had scared him about Rose-Marie in that moment had been that empty look in her eyes.
He'd only seen those eyes on one type of person: a killer.