A/N Look who's on his way home! -gasps- Not gonna say anything else. Just that I loved writing the banter between the Holmes boys, and Sherlock, again, not being able to get a name right.
Katt96 Glad to know you love me being evil. Because I love to be evil. Oh... just you wait till you see what I've got in store for you in just a few more chapters! Mwuahaha!
Guest Lol the fact that she was already seeing him near his grave and at home... should have been a big old clue! I loved writing that bit. It was the only way to make him say 'I love you' this soon in their story. I'm glad you still love reading this.
DreamonAlina Here you go. I hope you enjoy this new chapter. And yes, Kyrie and Janine have become good friends. All a set up for the plot that's still to come. For now, happy reading!
SSS
Kyrie was standing next to Greg Lestrade and Philip Anderson at a mobile coffee stall. Sherlock was finally about to get vindicated, after two long years. Reporters had assembled in front of the court house. And Anderson had just regaled them with one of his newest theories.
"Bollocks!" Greg cried out. Kyrie said nothing, she just smiled a bit. It was clever, well-thought out... but too out there, too... all over the place. She glanced at Anderson who had a slightly deranged smile on his face. His hair looked even greasier than last time she saw him.
"No, no, no, no! It's obvious! That's how he did it! It's obvious!"
"Derren Brown? Let it go. Sherlock's dead."
Kyrie cringed at Greg's harsh words.
"Is he?"
"There was a body. His wife, Kyrie, standing right here with us, saw him herself..."
"No, it was a fake body. She was – understandably – upset and saw what she expected to see. But his body was wheeled away very quickly and –"
"It was him," Greg cut him off. "It was definitely him. Molly Hooper laid him out."
Kyrie closed her eyes. She did not want to see mental images of Molly Hooper doing a post-mortem on her husband's body.
"No, she's lying. It was Jim Moriarty's body with a mask on!"
"A mask?!"
Anderson nodded, smiling eagerly.
"So, I'm to think that, Sherlock jumped from the roof on a bungee rope, then smashed through the window, snogged Molly Hooper, hired Derren Brown and put a mask on Moriarty's face. Why? Why on Earth would he do all that?"
"Well, I'm not saying he did snog Molly, just that he could have," Anderson muttered. He quickly looked away from her.
"And then he went away, for two years now, leaving me here to think he's dead?" Kyrie asked softly. "I like hearing the fantasies, Philip, I do. But you are taking things a bit too far."
"Two years," Greg muttered. "And the theories keep getting more stupid. How many more have you got for me today?"
"Well, you know the paving slabs in that whole area, even the exact ones that he landed on...You know they were all …"
"Guilt," Lestrade said. "That's all this is. You pushed us all into thinking that Sherlock was a fraud. You and Donovan. I'm not proud of what I did that night... having him taken in... cuffed like a common criminal." Greg then turned to look at Kyrie. "You have no idea how often your words that evening came back to haunt me... still do."
"I could say I feel sorry for you, but, to be honest... I'd be lying," Kyrie said with a wry smile.
Greg chuckled. "Yeah, thought as much. I deserve it though. I should have listened to you and John. Not this... bloody idiot."
He turned back at Philip again. "Sorry mate, but you did this, and it killed him, and he's staying dead. Do you honestly believe that if you have enough stupid theories, it's gonna change what really happened?" Greg grabbed his coffee. "Coming, Kyrie?"
She nodded and followed Greg to where the reporters were standing.
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes,"
"He's not Tinkerbell, Philip," Kyrie called back, "That's not going to bring him back."
Kyrie and Greg grabbed their tea and coffee with them and walked on towards were several camera crews were filming reporters. They stayed back and Kyrie watched how the reporters, finally told the truth. Even though it was too late, it felt good to know that as least now Sherlock's name was no longer tarnished.
She heard snippets of what the reporters were saying into their crew's camera's.
"... that after extensive police investigations, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty..."
"... amidst unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion..."
Kyrie smiled hearing those words. "Finally," she whispered to herself.
"... but sadly, all this comes too late for the detective who became something of a celebrity two years ago..."
It didn't take long for Philip to join them as well. He had a pained expression on his face, hearing all around him, over and over again, how wrong he'd been all this time.
"... Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far..."
"... Journalist Kitty Riley left 'The Sun' after her scandalous exposé drove Sherlock Holmes to suicide. The Sun cited no reason for Riley's exit..."
"I told her she'd get her due. Good to see I wasn't lying," Kyrie muttered darkly. Greg grimaced at her words, Philip just looked away in shame. Though they were on speaking terms now, Kyrie had not entirely forgiven his part in Sherlock's suicide and Philip sensed it.
"Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from the top of London's Bart's Hospital. Although he left no note, friends say it's unlikely he was able to cope with..."
Greg turned around to face Anderson and Kyrie and raised his coffee cup "Well then. Absent friends. Sherlock," he said solemnly.
Kyrie and Anderson both raised their own cups. "Sherlock," they both said in unison and the three of them tapped their cups together.
"And may God rest his soul." They drank their coffee and Kyrie drank her tea, before she threw away the paper cup in a trash can nearby. "
"Okay, I'm off. I have a 'date'. I expect some better theories next time, Anderson," she warned him.
Greg and Philip smiled sadly at her. It wasn't hard to figure out what they were thinking. They knew exactly where she was going. After all, it was the second anniversary of Sherlock's death.
SSS
Kyrie was standing at Sherlock's grave. It still looked the same, except maybe for the bird poop splattered over it and the faded flowers nears its base, and she still hated it for what it represented.
She'd been standing here for a while. There was someone she hadn't seen in a long, long time and she'd kind of hoped that she would find him here. Unfortunately, she was standing here all by herself. Kyrie shivered. The coat that Sherlock had given to her had been so much warmer.
She hadn't been able to get herself to wear it again. She'd hung it next to one of Sherlock's spare coats. At least that way, some of their belongings would always be together, even though they themselves had been separated by death.
"Oh. My. God..."
She suddenly heard someone say behind her. Kyrie looked up, hearing that painfully familiar voice. She closed her eyes.
"Kyrie?! I-Is that really you?"
She turned around to face John. She instantly noticed several things. One, he had grown a moustache. Two, she didn't like it. Three, he had found himself a new girlfriend and this time, it seemed that John had taken her advise. Four... She had missed him, so... so much!
She ran towards him and flung herself in his arms. He picked her up with a smile and twirled her around. "Aaaah!" he groaned. "Let me look at you," he pulled back slightly and immediately the smile dropped from his face. "Oh," was all he managed to say.
Kyrie smiled sadly at him. Yeah... She knew. She'd changed a lot. Even she could no longer deny that her eye colour was much paler than what it used to be and they looked tired. Her skin was paler as well, her cheeks more gaunt and she'd lost quite a bit of weight and not in an attractive way.
"New girlfriend?" Kyrie asked, pointing it Mary, trying to change the subject. She looked at the woman. Older then she was, closer to John's age actually. She was was wearing a smart grey coat, blue scarf and a ridiculous black knitted hat, but it really suited her.
"Hi, I'm Mary Morstan," the woman said with a smile and offered Kyrie her hand.
Kyrie grasped it and smiled back. "So, nice to meet you, I'm Kyrie... Holmes," she said. It was still hard to call herself Holmes now Sherlock was gone. It felt, incomplete, somehow.
"I've heard a lot about you, and your husband," Mary said. "So sorry about that, by the way."
Kyrie nodded sadly. "Yeah, so am I. But, this is great though," she said as she gestured at them. "So, are you guys busy or... fancy having lunch together?" she asked hopefully.
"We'd love to have lunch with you!" Mary said with a wide smile without even looking at John. Kyrie smiled back at her. She had a feeling she and Mary would get along great.
SSS
SERBIA. NIGHT TIME. A man with long straggly hair was chained by his arms to the walls of a small interrogation room. His body was slumped forward because he had no strength left in his legs to support the weight of his body.
The man looked absolutely exhausted. He was naked from the waist up and, judging from the myriad of cuts and bruises that were visible, not to mention the bruises that were still forming... he was in a lot of pain.
In a dark corner of the interrogation room, a soldier was comfortably seated on his chair, his feet propped up on a small table. He was well protected against the cold with a thick coat and a furry hat on his head. The soldier looked over his right shoulder. His colleague had just stormed away to follow up on the information that the prisoner had just given up. Apparently, if the man hurried home, he would catch his wife in the act of doing the dirty with the local coffin maker.
The soldier looked back at his prisoner, still slumped in his chains, who hadn't uttered another word after his torturer had run off.
"So, my friend," the soldier told his prisoner in Serbian. "Now it's just you and me."
The soldier took his feet off the table and raised himself from his seat. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you," he told the man, still in Serbian. The soldier approached the prisoner and inspected his back that was covered in caked blood and dirt and he looked at every bruise and wound that was inflicted to his body.
The soldier grabbed the prisoner's long straggly hair and forced his head up a little. He leaned in close, close enough to whisper in the man's ear and suddenly he softly whispered in perfect English, "Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."
Mycroft released his brother's head and straightened up. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."
He could see his brother smiling in anticipation, even though his face was mostly hidden behind that curtain of long unkempt hair.
SSS
Kyrie and John were standing in front of the door to their old flat, 221B. For a moment they just stood standing there, each lost with their own thoughts and memories.
"Have you been in touch with Mrs Hudson?" Kyrie suddenly asked.
"Mm?" John asked a bit absent-minded. "Oh, um, no. I haven't. I meant to though. It's just... stuff happened and time past and at some point it felt..."
"... too late?" Kyrie offered.
"Yes, actually," John told her with a sad smile. "Shall we?"
Kyrie nodded and watched how John unlocked the front door and let her go inside first. Partway down the hall, they both stopped and stared at Mrs. Hudson's front door. They sent each other a meaningful look and they let out an anxious breath at the same time.
They took a tentative step forward, when Mrs Hudson suddenly opened her door and came out. She blinked at the two of them in shocked surprise. Kyrie smiled meekly and raised her hand in greeting. Kyrie quickly glanced up at the stairs, leading to her previous home, before she approached her former landlady and gave her a hug.
SSS
Mycroft was seated behind his desk in his office. He cast a casual glance in the direction of his younger brother who looked much better now his hair had been cut to its usual length.
It was... good to have him back safely. His brother was currently reading a newspaper. 'SKELETON MYSTERY' it said on the front page headline. 'Remains found in the wall of a...' Boring. The skeleton was obviously planted there. Mycroft rolled his eyes. He was tired of being ignored.
"You have been busy, haven't you?" he drawled.
Sherlock couldn't move his head much. He was reclined flat on his back in a barber's chair while a barber was shaving his face with a straight razor. He tossed the paper onto a nearby trolley.
"Quite the busy little bee," Mycroft chuckled. It was petty, to sound so disdainful, he knew... it was easier than to admit he was impressed with what his little brother had managed to do in two years time, all by himself.
"Moriarty's network... Took me two years to dismantle it," Sherlock told him.
"And you're confident you have?"
"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle."
"Yes," Mycroft said as he pulled a report towards him. "You got yourself in deep there... with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."
"Colossal," Sherlock agreed.
"Anyway, you're safe now," Mycroft said with a satisfied smile.
"Hmm," was the only answer he got.
Mycroft scowled. How was that for gratitude? "A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss," he lightly admonished his brother.
"What for?" Sherlock asked him in an annoyed tone.
"For wading in."
Sherlock raised his hand to the barber, signalling him to stop for a moment. The man stepped away a bit, creating some distance.
Mycroft sensed that his brother was about to disagree with him. "In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu."
Sherlock struggled his battered body upwards, groaning in pain as he did so. He glared at his brother.
"Wading in? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp!"
Mycroft frowned at him, he did not like what Sherlock was implicating. "I got you out."
"No, I got me out," Sherlock countered. "Why didn't you intervene sooner?"
"Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I?" he huffed. "It would have ruined everything."
Sherlock glowered at him. "You were enjoying it!" he said in an accusatory tone.
Mycroft waved his comment away, "Nonsense."
"Definitely enjoying it," Sherlock muttered.
Mycroft leaned forward. "Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock? Going undercover, smuggling my way into their ranks like that?" He grimaced at the memory. "The noise, the people." He shuddered at the thought and leaned back again.
Sherlock slowly eased his body back again, grunting a bit at the effort, and allowed the barber to resume his works.
"Yes, you were a right paragon of virtue... I didn't know you spoke Serbian," he suddenly said.
"I didn't," Mycroft admitted, "But the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words." He shrugged his shoulders. "Took me a couple of hours."
"Hmm. You're slipping," Sherlock said, mocking him.
"Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all," Mycroft replied with a tight smile.
The door opened and Mycroft's personal assistant entered. The woman who's real name was one of the best guarded secrets in England, Mycroft thought with a wry smile.
"Ah, Greta," Sherlock greeted her. "Still going with Greta?"
"I've never gone with Greta," she replied, while holding up a dark suit and white shirt on a hanger.
"That will do splendidly... Amanda," Sherlock said.
"Nope," she said with a smile.
SSS
John and Kyrie were sitting at Mrs Hudson's kitchen table. Kyrie had a sneaking suspicion that their former landlady was far from pleased with them. Maybe it was the way she firmly slammed down a small tray, containing two cups and saucers and a jug of milk.
She practically stomped across the room to pick up a plate of stale looking biscuits and slammed it down with such force that the biscuits were jostled up a bit. Kyrie sent John a brief look.
Mrs Hudson was sweet as a lamb, but if you caught her on the wrong end of her temper... Mrs Hudson lobbed a sugar bowl onto the table. She looked at it with a pensive look on her face.
"Oh no, you don't take it, do you?" she asked.
"No," John said meekly.
"I do," Kyrie muttered, looking anywhere but at Mrs Hudson.
"You forget a little thing like that," she continued.
"Yes," John and Kyrie agreed at the same time.
"You forget lots of little things, it seems," Mrs Hudson said pointedly.
Kyrie said nothing. John was brave enough to venture with an 'Uh-huh' and an apologetic smile.
Mrs Hudson brushed her finger between her nose and upper lip while looking at John. "Not sure about that," she said with a meaningful look. "It ages you."
"Just trying it out."
"Well, it ages you," she insisted.
Kyrie gulped and took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry-"
"I'm not your mother. I've no right to expect it..." Mrs Hudson blurted out, starting to sound a bit upset. "But just one phone call, Kyrie... John." Her anger suddenly seemed to dissipate and she looked so sad. "Just one phone call would have done," she said with a trembling voice.
"I know," John said, looking properly ashamed.
"After all we went through..." Mrs Hudson continued.
"We do know, Mrs Hudson and we are very sorry. We just recently met up. John and I haven't talked either since... you know."
"You haven't?" Mrs Hudson asked in shock. "But why on Earth not? You should have stuck together. Look, I understand how difficult it was for you, both of you, after..." she stopped talking and shook her had sadly.
"I just let it slide, Mrs Hudson," John explained. "I guess we both did, let it all slide. And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow. We did agree to meet up again at some point. It just took us this long to get to that point. Do you know what I mean?"
Mrs Hudson looked at them, a look of infinite sadness in her eyes, but then she sighed and reached out to grasp their hands. With a rueful smile, Kyrie and John returned the gesture.
SSS
Mycroft watched as his brother groomed himself in front of Mycroft's full size mirror on the wall.
"So, what do I call you this time then?" Sherlock asked, looking at the woman standing behind him through the reflection of the mirror. The woman paused for a moment, then smiled. "Anthea," she then said.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder to look at her directly with squinted eyes. Mycroft smiled bemused. His brother turned around again and tucked his shirt into his trousers, looking more and more like his old self.
"I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?" Mycroft warned his brother.
"What do you think of this shirt?" Sherlock asked him instead, doing the exact opposite of giving the matter his attention.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft cried out.
"Don't worry, I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft," Sherlock responded. "Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in... Feel every quiver of its beating heart."
"One of our men died getting this information," Anthea said in a tone that seemed to ask for a bit of respect. "All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London... A big one."
Sherlock all but ignored her remark and went to put on his jacket. Mycroft smiled wryly. He really thought she'd know Sherlock better by now.
"And what about Kyrie and John Watson?"
Anthea shot an annoyed glance at Mycroft.
"Kyrie and John?"
"Mm. Have you seen them?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft looked at him intently and then smiled a little. The restlessness in his eyes betrayed him.
"Oh yes," Mycroft drawled. "We meet up every Friday for fish and chips." He gestured at Anthea who immediately handed Sherlock a folder. "I've kept a weather eye on them, of course. John as a courtesy, Kyrie because... I promised."
Sherlock immediately opened the file and quickly glanced at several black and white surveillance photos and the printed report underneath.
"You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare them?" Mycroft asked him.
"No," he replied distractedly and he scrunched up his nose looking at John's new 'style'. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that."
"We?"
"He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man. Haven't you been in touch with Kyrie? Thought you would want to... prepare her?"
"Me?"Mycroft scoffed. "I was just back in her good graces again, I wasn't going to spoil that by telling her I've been lying to her for the past two years. She'd hate me all over again!"
"Kyrie? Hate?" Sherlock chuckled. "Kyrie doesn't hate! She's not even capable of that emotion!"
"You'd be surprised, brother mine. That woman can carry a grudge longer than it takes you to get in touch with your feelings," Mycroft smiled at his brother's glare. "She did forgive me, but she never forgot..."
Mycroft looked intently when Sherlock pulled out the photograph of Kyrie and studied her harsh, sculpted features. Even with the softening effect of the dimmed lights in the office, she looked supremely aloof. "This isn't her," Sherlock said softly. He closed the file and dropped it onto the desk.