36. Baker Street reloaded
John stretched his aching body and listened to his bones creaking. His belly was full, and he was fed up in more than only one sense of the word.
"You better wait until tomorrow or the next day, before speaking to him" Peter, who had taken quite a liking to the doctor, said as he carried their plates to the service hatch. "I could arrange things with the Oberstleutnant. Judging from Mycroft's face, little brother is not of a facile disposition presently."
"He rarely is" John replied. "Part of Sherlock Holmes' personal charm. A bit on the lethal side, but fascinating."
"Well, then good night, doctor."
"Good night, Peter. And thanks for everything. Give my regards to Demirkan."
"I will" Peter said, already half through the door. He was yawning again.
Watson watched the young German leave, sighed about his stiff joints, thought that it had been a long and tedious night, and went upstairs.
He nodded at the army hospital's night staff. One of them answered his question about Sherlock by jerking his head towards the familiar door.
Inside John found his friend, completely dressed, lying in the bed, with the blanket pulled, not over his body, but over his head.
"Sherlock, no time for that, planes and tide wait for no man."
"What plane?" was the muffled reply.
"The plane to London. Big city on a small island; all the people love to drink tea, except for those who prefer coffee. Remember it by any chance?"
"Get lost!"
"We both will. Tonight. Get up!"
"No!"
"Yes."
"No!"
Sherlock yelped when a flush of ice cold water splattered on his head. He emerged from under the soaked blanket, shocked and furious. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Getting you ready for travelling. Oh, I see, your bag is already packed. How thoughtful of you. Now get up."
"I'm staying!"
"Sorry, out of the question. London awaits, Berlin does not. Sad, but inevitable. Move your arse."
"My flat..."
"Demirkan has collected your gear, it'll be sent to London, Mycroft will take care of that."
"The devil he will. What about Musil?"
"Will be happy to receive your regular, friendly letters from London."
"But the flat you bought in Berlin?" Sherlock sounded definitely distraught by now.
"Oh, I guess I'm going to sell it. Lucky me, property's on the rise in Berlin I'm told. Can you walk or do you need a wheelchair?"
Sherlock jumped out of the bed and fought for his bag. However, John was determined, Sherlock still a bit shaky and seriously punching John was out of the question anyway.
When John twisted his arm behind his back, Sherlock knew he'd lost the struggle. His "let go of me!" wasn't very convincing.
"Are you coming peacefully or do I have to call for a sedative?" John asked.
"Don't you dare!"
"I am the doctor here, I dare anything."
Sherlock held still, but John decided he wasn't trustworthy. "And do not even think about asking Musil to take you in" he told Sherlock. "He's adamant he'll not go against your brother's wishes again."
"I'm a free man, a British citizen, I can do what I want!"
"You are a British citizen as soon as your brother returns your passport to you. Until then, German authorities can chuck you out whenever they want. Or detain you as an illegal immigrant. Come to London, we're used to immigrants."
Sherlock stiffened. "This is Mycroft's idea? He has taken my passport?" he asked, and it sounded contrite rather than angry. Very disappointed.
"No" John replied. "I did. But I put the passport into Mycroft's bag when he left a while ago and I doubt he'll find it any time soon. Demirkan has taken care of your flight to London by some special arrangements he did not want to talk about. Come on, we must hurry as it is."
"Mycroft has nothing to do with this?" Sherlock insisted. John could see a shiver run down his spine underneath the thin, wet shirt.
"No" Watson repeated, releasing his friend. "Your elder brother respected your wishes, although I'm pretty sure they broke his heart."
Sherlock sucked air through his teeth, and his muscles relaxed. He said nothing, but suddenly he looked – unsure.
"I, on the other hand" John pressed on "am not a respectful person. I want to go home, have a decent tea, and as you're clearly unable to take care of yourself, I have to do it for you. Which I can't if you're in Berlin. Can you follow my drift or should I speak more slowly?"
"You're a presumptuous, domineering, supercilious pain in the arse, John Watson."
"Look who's talking. And I'm bound to be commanding sometimes, I'm a trained officer. Captain John Watson, in case you've forgotten. Now, let's see, I've got your bag, I've got your coat, I've got your purse – hoo, heavy – great, let's go."
"It's going to be the ruin of my musical career!"
"Yes, Sherlock, I know. Although I've heard it rumoured that the English know about the existence of music and the violin. After you!"
On their way out, in the taxi, at the airport and when they boarded the plane, Sherlock didn't say another word to John. Which was fine with Watson, as he was ghastly tired.
The plane took off, and John dared to relax. For the moment, Sherlock had no means of escape and Watson was drifting off to sleep when the admonitory voice pierced his marrow and bone: "I'll never forgive you!"
"You will" John retorted. "As much as I will forgive your lies, your manipulations, your deceit, the fact that you've cost me Vanessa's love -"
Sherlock snorted and quickly covered it with a well feigned bout of sneezing.
However, not well feigned enough to fool a physician. "Whatever this awful sneezing is meant to tell me, it won't wash. You've treated me like dirt, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and it is me who is to forgive you, understood? Not vice versa!"
Sherlock folded his arms defiantly and stared out of the window.
Later, on their arrival at 221B, he made a show of greeting Mrs Hudson warm-heartedly, only to disappear into his bedroom immediately afterwards, locking the door behind him, leaving his landlady stranded with all her natural curiosity.
"What he's been up to all this time?" she asked Watson, who was by now swaying on his feet with exhaustion. The last sleep he'd got had been drug induced by Carruthers, and therefore not very wholesome.
"He's been on a case, Mrs Hudson. A long, complicated and not very pleasant case. Now we're back home. For good. I'm sure Mycroft has already told you that. There's no escape from the man."
"Yes, now that you mention it, he did phone me, told me that you're in a plane, that you're sure would stay the night here, naturally I had not given the flat to somebody else, but …... " her tone of voice changed from bewildered to irritable "it has been months and months and you didn't call, you never wrote... I do have an E-Mail address, you know."
John pulled himself together, mobilising his last reserves to do it. "I promise there will be another blog, Mrs Hudson. I'll explain everything to the best of my abilities, unless national security intervenes. One never knows with the Holmes boys."
She lingered in the door frame. "So... you're really back home. Both of you?"
"Yes, Mrs Hudson. And if he forces me to chain him to the bed once more – rest assured, I'll not hesitate."
She chuckled, if a bit nervously. "This time I'll not let him out."
She yelped when John gave her a big bear hug. "You are a very clever woman, Mrs Hudson, did I ever tell you that?"
"Not in so many words" she replied as he let go of her. "Know what, I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea."
"At four o'clock in the morning?"
"You look as if you need one."
"I do" John said. "Gosh, I really do."
Mrs Hudson went downstairs and busied herself in her own kitchen, and when she returned with tea, milk, orange juice, self-made cakes and a sandwich on a tray, she found Watson still in the living-room. Curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. Sighing, she put out the candle in the tea-warmer, covered the a bit less impossible and unbearable of her two tenants with a blanket, and went to bed herself.
Some hours later John was woken up by the clattering of plates and cutlery, and by a soft but insistent stream of cursing.
Sherlock was rummaging through the tray's treasures, and he was not amused. The tea was cold, the juice was warm, the toast soaky – but finally the cakes and the milk found favour with him.
To John's eye, the Detective looked like a bad-spirited cat, what with all his prancing round the table, looking here, sniffing there – so the choice of food was quite fitting.
Silently Watson watched his friend loading one plate – naturally, one plate – with all the available cakes, walk to his favourite chair, sit down cross-legged and begin stuffing his face, all of a sudden a picture of good-humoured contentment.
"You could have left one or two cakes for me" John said. "After all it was my tray."
Sherlock looked up, chewing away most happily. He took his time swallowing, said "you were asleep!" and bit into another cake. The last one.
"And you did not want to wake me, so you almost broke the teapot and chatted to yourself at your heart's content" John stated.
"Yes, well. You always were a light sleeper!" Holmes finished the milk, jumped to his feet, put plate and mug back on the tray, and turned to leave. "I'm going to see Mycroft. Have a nice day."
John was off the couch and in front of the door at lightening speed, but Sherlock was just as fast. As a result, they bumped into each other in their haste to either reach or block the exit.
"Glad to see you've got your agility back" John panted, rubbing his aching ribs.
"Great good it'll do me if I'm locked up in here" Sherlock shot back. He was wary, and tensed. John knew, one move towards him would set off the worst tantrum in the history of mankind. But at least Holmes made no other attempts at getting out.
Instead Sherlock turned abruptly, went into his room, and locked the door again.
Nothing John or Mrs Hudson did or said would make him unlock it.
The scratching on the violin started at three o'clock in the following night, and it did not stop.
Belatedly John realized that, as his Stradivarius was still on its way from Berlin, Sherlock must have dug out his second violin, the one he'd had as a child. The one Mrs Hudson had kept in Sherlock's old room during all this time, as John had not minded while the room had been his. Most probably Holmes had gone through the chests and dressers immediately on his arrival last night.
John also remembered that relying on Sherlock getting exhausted any time soon was not a solution. Everybody in earshot of the misbegotten sounds would go mad long before Sherlock was the least bit tired.
At the first convenient hour – which, by the judgement of John's frayed nerves was seven o'clock – he called Mycroft. No response. E-Mail, text message, phone call again – no response.
A visit at Mycroft's office, while Mrs Hudson stood guard at Sherlock's door – no elder Holmes.
John took up his post on the other side of the road. He watched the office building for many an hour, living on coffee and dry sandwiches from a little shop nearby.
Dusk was falling when the familiar lean figure with the umbrella left the building, waved at the outraged watcher, jumped into a car and was gone.
John stood frozen in his place. He did not believe what he had just seen.
His mobile buzzed.
When he fumbled it out of his pocket with stiff, trembling fingers, he found a message.
"I told you he did not want to come. I respect his wishes, something I've never tried before. It's an experiment. I'm anxious to see the results. MH"
Watson stared at the display, lost for words. Or thoughts. His mind was – blank.
The phone buzzed again, and automatically he took the next message.
"Glad you brought him home, though. Good luck! MH"
Watson's fingers pressed the keys, and his answer was sent.
"Coward! JW"
The answer came immediately.
"You're the expert. I'm told Harry's still on the bottle. MH"
John cursed viciously when he sent another message.
"ASSHOLE! JW"
Mycroft replied immediately.
"Better that than a single child. MH"
The phone did not buzz again.
John bought himself a newspaper, as well as a huge amount of his favourite sweets, and went home, resolved to surrender to his fate with dignity.
He found Mrs Hudson in their kitchen, holding her head with both hands, a new package of her favourite painkillers on the table in front of her. Four pills were missing.
Behind Sherlock's locked door, the violin howled and screeched in utter lunacy.
"Perhaps, if I just begged for mercy" Mrs Hudson said weakly.
"No use, I'm afraid" John sighed. "He won't give mercy when he's convinced none is shown to him. Fancy a visit at your sister's?"
"You can't guard him alone. He can go without sleep, we can't."
"Then we're doomed" John answered.
She nodded, and laid her head on the table.
It was just in this moment that the door bell rang.
Both wretched human beings had the same thought: "Mycroft!"
John was down the stairs and at the door first, opened it – and his face fell, as grey as ashes.
"Sorry, John, its urgent" Detective Inspector Lestrade said. "No need to show me upstairs, I remember the route."
With a few long strides the DI was on the first floor, and banged against Sherlock's door. "Sherlock? A murder case, three dead last year. One police officer critically wounded, and not a clue whodunnit. I need you."
John heard the key turn in the lock, the door was opened – as usual it squeaked a bit – then Sherlock thundered "Mycroft's sent you!"
"No, I called him" Lestrade retorted irritably. "Asked him about your whereabouts a thousand times before I got a straight answer. You're back, pouting, sulking, as selfish as ever. Now, it's a solution for this case – day before yesterday – or I'm out of job. Will you come?"
"I do not like cold cases."
"Well, who cares, most people do not like you either. Besides, next victim's due any time now. Will you come?"
"Who's on forensics?"
"Who do you think? 'But before Scotland Yard five years are as one day'. Anderson hasn't gone anywhere."
Sherlock was silent.
John pressed his thumbs until they hurt.
Then he could hear from Sherlock's voice that he was grinning. "That'll be fun!"
"Yeah, sure" Lestrade said.
A moment later both DI and Consulting Detective ran down the stairs, almost knocking Watson over in the process.
"Where's your jacket, John?" Sherlock asked sternly, ignoring Mrs Hudson, who stood immediately behind the surgeon.
"What would I need my jacket for?"
"It's cold. Not just the case. Outside."
"Are you in need of an assistant?"
"Lost without one."
John swallowed hard before he answered. "I'm coming."
"Sherlock, you'll have to eat" Mrs Hudson intervened.
"The game, Mrs Hudson. The game is on" Sherlock answered, already running.
Mrs Hudson helped John into his jacket with all possible speed, and whispered "You see, I'll never know what game he thinks this is."
Watson turned, pecked a quick kiss on her cheek and grinned "try Baker Street reloaded."
On their way to the car, Lestrade grabbed John's shoulder and hissed "you and I have an awful lot of talking to do."
"Whenever you're ready" John hissed back.
Outside, perfectly hidden in the shadows, Anthea watched the three of them drive off in an unmarked police car. Her nimble fingers furiously worked her i-phone.
Miles away, Mycroft first frowned, then smiled at his own phone.
"You were right. A."
Relaxed, Tarantula fell back into his comfortable seat before he helped himself to a glass of vodka.
How very comforting to know that his little brother had forgiven himself. No more fretting about Moriarty being smarter, no berating himself for his inability to escape the Consulting Criminal's den.
Seemed as if the final victory over James' inheritance – and over Tarantula's plans to infiltrate Chinese Intelligence with none the wiser - had finally restored Sherlock's self-esteem.
Mycroft Holmes raised his glass in salute. "Happy birthday, little one. Heaven knows, you've earned it."