*** Dear Reader, there's a tempo to any story and this one starts slow before the adventure picks up, starting with a fun case in Chapter 3. So send me a PM or leave a review! I always love feedback from YOU! We start here, where Moriarty has risen from the dead, saving Sherlock from an uncertain fate and allowing him to return to London, right after the scene on the tarmac...oh boys, where will you go next!***
The plane landed with a gentle easy thud, a testament to the pilot's easy competence and ten years of experience, although Sherlock barely registered this deduction. He was already out of his seat and walking down the aisle towards the closed door, ignoring the tightly pressed lips of the stewardess. Then it was down the short airstair and back to John where he stood unsmiling with his hand in Mary's. She was triumphant in a red jacket that covered and hid the swell of her belly. That bump was a quiet and poignant statement of possession. John belonged to her, it said. Her eyes said the same even as they looked at him fondly.
"Well," Sherlock said. Silence followed, stretched, becoming awkward. John took a deep breath and let it out all at once.
"He's back, you're back. What now?" John asked. Loose jaw, eyes bright, hands relaxed, back: soldier straight. The most dangerous criminal they had ever known had returned from his grave and John was excited about it. Sherlock smirked.
"I don't know. I don't like not knowing. I need to get back to London," Sherlock said, glancing at Mycroft. A black car pulled up behind them. Sherlock paused, his gaze on John's still face. "I could use your help, John."
"Of course!" Mary smiled. His eyes still held onto John's as he waited for his answer. John was doing his best to shield his feelings with a mask of indifference. Emotions could be tricky to read. Not really his area. His eyes traced over the lines of John's face. There could also be anger there but all at once he was unsure. John finally gave him a tight smile followed by a smart military turn, leading Mary back to the other waiting car. She ducked inside and John carefully closed the door behind her, not looking at Sherlock again.
The ride to London was quiet, the automobile designed to muffle the noise of both the outside world and the hum of the vehicle itself. Mycroft alternated between crossing his legs, looking out the window, and giving Sherlock sly glances.
"What?" Sherlock finally snapped.
Mycroft shrugged delicately, looking at the ceiling. His fingers drummed on the seat beside him.
"I did warn you not to get involved," Mycroft finally said. "Look at the mess you've made. What were you thinking?"
"Don't be dramatic, Mycroft. It wasn't the first time I shot someone and it certainly won't be the last. How many have died on your watch? Just because you didn't pull the trigger doesn't mean your hands aren't as dirty as mine."
Mycroft sniffed. There was a long pause until Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.
"What now?" he said.
Mycroft inhaled through his nose and pursed his lips.
"I thought it was obvious," Mycroft replied.
"Either tell me or shut up. I'm trying to think," Sherlock replied.
"How quaint."
"Piss off."
"Sherlock, you knew there would be consequences. This doesn't change anything," Mycroft said.
"And if I stop Moriarty?" Sherlock asked.
"Then you'll have the support of a thankful nation. I suppose that could be enough to justify a pardon. Others have been forgiven for far worse. However when you pulled the trigger you did so publicly and in front of numerous witnesses. You can't just expect me to sweep this under the rug. You murdered a man, Sherlock."
"Everyone has the potential to kill. In everyone there arises the wish to do so from time to time. Although not everyone has the will. I had no choice," Sherlock said. And yet in that moment there had been regret, a shuddering realization that what he was about to do would change everything including himself. The thing that was born after was familiar and not at all pleasant, as if the cost of saving John was a regression into who he used to be after he fled from home. The hole left there had been filled first with cocaine, then the Work, and finally John. Now it was as gaping and empty as it ever was.
"We all have a choice. You made yours - although I can't fathom why," Mycroft replied. "John was quick to put his trust in you and you were just as fast to place yours with Mary. Look where that got you all. We never intended for things to end up this way, you and I. In the end our best laid plans were ruined by one decision, your decision. You acted rashly, Sherlock, and in the name of the thing you always claim to abhor - sentiment."
His life was set with so many befores and afters, all those crossroads that were obvious in hindsight, the reality only setting in when it was past. This was the first time he felt at peace with where it had ended, even it it was resigned. At least this time he had saved the person he cared about.
"Do you think of him often?" Mycroft ventured softly.
"John?" Sherlock muttered, distracted.
"No. Not John."
He didn't reply. Instead he folded his arms and sulked in one corner until the car rolled to a stop directly outside of 221b. Mycroft held his unopened umbrella over Sherlock's chest when he went to open the door, waiting until he had Sherlock's attention to lower it again.
"I put my best people to the task of unearthing Mary's past. They haven't found anything," he said.
"Yes, she is clever. What's your point, Mycroft?"
"My point is this: she's a ghost. If I can't find her, how did Magnussen?" he replied.
Curious, sometimes, how thoughts could swing in a kaleidoscope. It was happening now, a shuffle and reshuffle of ideas, memories, and events. Then the mosaic settled into its true pattern. A connection between the three of them: Magnussen, Mary, Moriarty. None of them working for the other, and none of them working together, but still all of them to the same purpose. And yet...
...guardian...
There was still his initial deduction of Mary. A personal bodyguard perhaps, for someone who knew her and of her past in intimate ways.
"Yes, my thoughts exactly," Mycroft nodded. "There might be more to this than either one of us can say. Best to wait and see what unfolds. I'll be in touch later this evening. Try and be… discreet until then. John doesn't need to know everything at this juncture."
Sherlock grabbed his small bag and violin case from the trunk of the car. He reached out with one hand to open the door to the flat, surprised at finding a small bit of comfort in the familiar door with its gold lettering and knocker and chipping paint. He pushed open the door with his fingertips.
"Mrs. Hudson!" he called as he entered. His bag was already forgotten on the threshold. The violin case he held close to his chest like a child.
"Oh, Sherlock. I'm so glad you've changed your mind about leaving! Don't mind me dear," she said, waving him away as she dabbed her eyes with a pink handkerchief. "I've brought up tea and biscuits. John said you'd be wanting some. He seems a bit off. Best not to stir him up," she ended in a whisper.
Sherlock hurried up the seventeen stairs, his thoughts shifting from Moriarty to Mary to John. So much was uncertain, leaving endless possibilities that made his head ache with their weight. The chances of them all making it through this unscathed were minimal.
John stood at the window between the drawn curtains, gazing down into the street. His hands were behind his back and his expression was closed. Sherlock couldn't read anything beyond the obvious – Mary had insisted he get dropped here (good girl), John was thinking of growing his moustache again (laughable), he had taken this week off at the clinic… and John *was* indeed angry.
"John. Good."
Sherlock set down the violin case next to his chair. When he stood again John had moved to the kitchen and there was the sound of metal on porcelain as John prepared his tea. Sherlock moved slowly to join him, his heart beating more quickly in his chest. John was pointedly not looking in his direction, his back turned away.
"I didn't know how to tell you the truth," Sherlock ventured.
The tea cup jangled down onto the saucer and they clinked together like bells. John turned around and jabbed one finger into Sherlock's chest, hard.
"You lied to me again, Sherlock."
Sherlock didn't have to ask what John was referring to.
"I didn't lie as much as make certain omissions," Sherlock replied carefully before grimacing at himself. Deceiving John seemed to be par for the course, defining so many moments of their lives together. Over and over again he had broken John's trust and John had done nothing except offer continued friendship. Drugging his coffee had seemed logical. He had needed to know how the poison would affect someone of average intelligence, and John was someone he could observe unimpeded and easily draw conclusions based on his knowledge of him as a person. There was the Woman, still alive, still wreaking havoc somewhere in the wide world, yet he had given John the burden of keeping her "death" a secret. And those were the examples of the mildest incidents. There were, of course, far greater sins, and secrets guarded carefully both in the light of day and the darkness of the night. Secrets held behind the closed doors of his mind, locked away but not deleted. He had considered taking them out occasionally, turning them this way and that, examining their nuances and sharp corners, but always something stopped him. He thought it might be self preservation.
"We're supposed to be best friends," John said.
"We are, John."
"Then you should have told me you weren't coming back!"
John had grabbed onto Sherlock's jacket as he spoke and he hadn't let go. He stared at his own hands in surprise and then his gaze moved to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock felt his pulse speed up again and he took in a deep shuddering breath. He pulled himself away, stepping back into the safety of his own comfort zone.
"I couldn't tell you, John."
"Why bloody well not?"
The room was silent. For a moment neither of them was moving. Sherlock realized he wasn't even breathing.
"Fine," John said.
John grabbed his jacket from off the sofa and headed towards the door.
"When I first met you I thought I knew everything about you," Sherlock said to John's back. "Since then you've constantly surprised me. And there's been nothing you've done that has made me regret our friendship."
John had paused in the doorway.
"You still haven't answered my question, Sherlock."
John's footfalls faded like passing rain, followed by the sound of the door opening and then closing. Sherlock slumped against wall then ran his fingers quickly over his hair in frustration. The tea grew cold, Mrs. Hudson came and went. Downstairs the door opened and Sherlock cringed.
"He'll return," Mycroft announced as he came in. "Now you have work to do."