Part XXXVI

Sherlock sighed. "Obvious."

Lestrade frowned, eyes darting between Frankland and Sherlock and the girls. Sherlock groaned, nodding at John. John fumbled in his satchel and produced a soggy bundle. Lestrade's eyes widened as he realised it was a coat, a scarf, and a dark, curly wig.

"He dressed up as me," Sherlock explained. "These little girls were somewhat complicit in the plan, too. They knew a man named Jack was kidnapping them; otherwise they wouldn't have called him a clockwork knave. Clockwork for the fog machine, knave for jack. It all fits."

The girls backed away; John stepped forward attempting to placate them, trying to get them to come quietly. Lestrade walked over to the nearby desk and started filling out the arrest warrant. Sherlock scrutinised the vats carefully.

After a moment, Lestrade straightened up. "I hereby arrest you, Scientist Jack Frankland, for conspiring with the Anarchists to sabotage a government project and for kidnapping these two girls. Come along, all of you."

The two girls got up, still looking skittish towards Sherlock, and followed Lestrade and Frankland out of the cavernous room. Sherlock looked at John, gesturing for him to stay. They faced the vats.

"Perkins told us to find out for ourselves," Sherlock murmured. "I think now's the time."

John nodded, grabbing the edge of the covering over one of the vats. Sherlock seized the other.

In one fluid motion, they pulled.

The coverings fell back, revealing two giant glass vats full of some hardened amber-coloured substance. Sherlock quickly deduced it as honey. The vats were sealed to guard against moisture, high temperatures, and oxidation, and inside the vats there floated two figures.

Sherlock pressed his face to the glass, trying to see through the honey. Its translucency and the glare posed challenges, but there was no mistaking the fact that there was a body in the vat. Two bodies, two vats. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock and suspicion.

"Go through the files there," he breathed at John, pointing to the shelves nearby. John pulled out volumes and volumes of books and giant files full of papers.

"What's all this?" he asked, starting to rifle through the papers. "It's… there's damp all over these pages."

Sherlock flew over, grabbed one of the papers, and started to read. His face turned ashen, sickly, sallow. His breathing quickened; the paper dropped from his fingers. John reached for the paper, eyes flickering across the top.

"Sherlock, what…"

"I don't know." Sherlock was staring at the vat. "I don't…"

"It says that… that… he's in there."

"And so is he."

"But he was cremated! My great-great-great-grandfather was cremated! The ashes are on our mantelpiece, for fuck's sake!"

"Faked," Sherlock replied quietly, blinking rapidly as he looked back at the honey-embalmed bodies. "That's why he raised bees. To get enough preservative, to start the project."

"The Legacy Project." John's voice had quieted as well. "But what does that say about us?"

For once, Sherlock seemed to be much too shocked to answer. He looked as if someone had pulled the world out from under his feet. John wanted to reach out, to enfold Sherlock in a hug and never let go. He wanted to tell his charge that it was all right, that it was a bad dream. But he was also looking at what was defying everything he'd ever been told. He shook his head, trying to wrap his brain around the ideas. The possible explanations.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked, and his voice seemed to be cracking, splintering into thousands of tiny fragments as tears started to roll out of his eyes. John had never seen him cry in earnest – he could fake tears for a case almost on demand, or summon crocodile tears to manipulate John into letting him have his way, but never had John ever seen Sherlock cry real, hot, rolling tears that streamed down his cheeks and dripped onto the stone floor. He looked even more lost than a wayward M.A.T.I.N. in the Great Grimpen Mire, and John acted on his instincts this time to nurture, to draw his charge into his arms and never let him go.

"Shh, Sherlock. Why don't we figure it out rationally?" he whispered.

"I… I can't be rational about this! My great-great-great grandfather's sitting there!" Sherlock jerked a thumb in the direction of the vats. "I… I don't want to… no… can't be…" he fell into incoherent sobbing, and it took all of John's efforts not to cry along with him.

"How do you think I feel?" he asked, kissing Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock cried against his own. "I'm just as shocked as you are. My parents deliberately lied to me, told me those ashes were my ancestor's when he's sitting right here suspended in a vat full of honey. How do you think I feel?"

"It's not just that, John, it's the implications of what we are!" Sherlock pulled away, eyes wide and bloodshot. "The Legacy Project claims to store memories. We found out it stored genetic codes as well. What if… what if…"

Realisation dawned on John. "What if those memories are our memories, and what if those codes are the codes of these two men right here, preserved for all eternity?" It suddenly felt hard to breathe, hard to do anything other than stare at the closed eyes of the original John Watson. John felt dizzy, reeling.

"Are we even human?" Sherlock's voice cracked again, and John knew it was better not to crack a joke about Sherlock possibly being a droid because now was definitely not the time. So he held Sherlock close, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

There came the sudden thunder of steps down the stairs, and moments later a wild-eyed Dr. Mortimer came rushing in.

"The villain's escaped! Frankland's headed for the mire!"

The remaining M.A.T.I.N.s and several clockwork droids were sent out to fetch Dr. Frankland, but they couldn't discover anything. Sherlock concluded shakily that he must have drowned in the mire. The girls were taken into custody, scheduled for questioning and therapy before they would be returned to their school. Their parents had been notified.

Sherlock and John returned to their rooms, still reeling over the events of the night. They were too shaken to do anything more than kiss softly, gently, reassuring the other that no matter what their discoveries in the vault at Baskerville Hall indicated about them, they were in it together and they would be there for each other. Or at least, that was what John tried to communicate through his touches and kisses to a shaken Sherlock. Sherlock reciprocated in kind.

After a moment, the Consulting Detective got up and walked over to the desk where the laptop sat, opening it up and starting to type. Moments later, he slammed the lid shut and returned to John's side, expression solemn.

"John," he whispered, pressing their foreheads together. "Would you ever be scared to sleep in the same room as an insane idiot, with some mad ex-genius who's losing his mind?"

John frowned. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, absolutely not."

"Good." Sherlock's voice was quiet. "I'd be lost without my Protector."

No more did they say that night; John tried his best to assuage Sherlock's fears through his caresses. They lay spooned, John wrapping his arms around Sherlock and trying to get the most out of being the big spoon to his lanky charge. He took comfort in Sherlock's solid warmth, in feeling a steady heartbeat pounding beneath his hands, strong and alive and human – that made all the difference, didn't it? Sherlock wasn't a droid. He didn't have a clockwork, ticking heart and a brain only programmed to do certain acts. It may seem that way sometimes, but he truly wasn't. John felt like sometimes he was the only person in the world who knew. Chances are he probably was.

Once Sherlock's breathing evened into sleep, John relaxed slightly but still could not sleep. He pressed little kisses against Sherlock's shoulders, thinking. Sherlock had pointed out just last night that Moriarty was interested in the Legacy Project for some reason. Why else would he have the Bruce-Partington Memory Key stolen? He wanted access to someone's memories. Crucial memories, possibly. Not all of the memories of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson could be preserved on one key.

The fact that Moriarty had access to memories that he and Sherlock didn't sent a chill down the Protector's spine. Hoping for the best, John nervously closed his eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.

"Lestrade," whispered Inspector MacDonald over the phone. Lestrade was staying overnight at Baskerville Hall, and he was currently sitting in the parlour across from Mycroft's Protector Assistant. The local police from Coombe Tracey had come and taken the girls with them.

"Mm, what is it, Mac?" Lestrade asked, sighing.

"Toby called. He was crying."

"What did he say?"

"He was…" MacDonald's voice cracked. "He was trying to tell me where he was."

"What happened?" Lestrade whispered.

"He was cut off mid-sentence by a gunshot. I heard it. I heard it and then I heard the explosion, and now…"

"Oh." Lestrade's mouth fell open. He noticed Anthea watching him, and hastily closed it. "I'm sorry, mate."

"It was on the evening post. An explosion in an abandoned warehouse in Surrey. I could have prevented it, had I actually sent the information about his disappearance to the police over there, but –"

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Mac," Lestrade muttered. "He's in a better place."

"The blast killed twenty more people in the surrounding area, Greg." MacDonald's voice had hardened into sharpened steel. "We have to get to the bottom of this. We have to find the person responsible."

A thought suddenly struck Lestrade. "Mac," he whispered suddenly. "I think… I think Toby was meant to contact Sherlock."

A sudden intake of breath. "What do you mean?"

"Remember Sarah Sawyer? She had contacted Sherlock and he gave us the location. I have a feeling Toby had been kidnapped to do the very same – explains the explosive death – and when told that he was free, immediately contacted you instead of Sherlock. I hate to say this, but that was his mistake."

"But why Sherlock?"

"Sherlock was tipped off about the kidnapping of two young girls over here. It must be linked." Lestrade nodded. "The girls had been kidnapped by someone who was disguised as Sherlock."

"Why would anyone…?"

"I have no idea." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How did Miss Sawyer describe her kidnapper again?"

Inspector MacDonald paused. "Tall, dark-haired. Wore a coat and a scarf," he rattled off.

Lestrade's blood ran cold. He should have seen the implications beforehand. "Oh cogs. That's why Sally was suspicious. Where is Sergeant Donovan?"

"I believe she left on a raid a couple of minutes ago," MacDonald replied. "She's with Clouseau and Anderson; they said they were going to Central London –"

"Call it off." Lestrade's voice was terse. "Call it off now, before Sherlock Holmes gets framed for a crime he didn't commit."