A Cold Case Chapter 8
The past is never dead. It's not even past. All of us labour in webs spun long before we were born, webs of hereditary and environment, of desire and consequence, of history and eternity. Haunted by wrong turns, and roads not taken, we pursue images perceived as new, but whose providence dates to the dim dramas of childhood, which are themselves but ripples of consequence echoing down the generations. The quotidian demands of life distract from this resonance of images and events, but some of us feel it always.
(William Faulkner)
"Mr Holmes? Oi, Sherlock?"
He had lost track of time. But his name being spoken penetrated through the fog in his brain, and he recognised the rasp of the voice. The persistent voice repeating his name, irritating his ear. Old London accent, a harsh whisper, really, on an air of warm and beery breath. Roused himself a little despite himself, started reluctantly to return to reality. Tuned back into his senses.
Still sitting on the cold pavement then, feeling ripples of air moving around him – traffic on the road, people walking past – the stomach lurching smell of a mobile burger and kebab stall setting up for the evening, all wet onion and hot grease – the vague dampness of January evening mizzle.
There was a hand on his shoulder now, gripping lightly, a palm persistently rolling against the bone, trying a little shake. A torso leaning against his own from front and side, pushing slightly.
"Shezza? Come on, me old china. You're on my pitch, here. Depriving me of earnings. You know?"
He opened his eyes. The face he expected to see.
Young-old weathered and battered face. Broken nose, scarred jaw, baby bright blue eyes shing out of grey skin and stubble. Balding crewcut, worried frown, cauliflower ear. Mighty Mouse Morgan. Pensioned off flyweight bare knuckle boxer. Bruised and battered in all aspects of life, streetwise and street dwelling angel of The Angel. Looking intently at him, harassed and worried.
Seeing reaction at last, the frown turned into a tentative smile.
"God, you look awful. What's happened to you? How long you been stuck here? Are you going to shift?"
"Mouse…." His voice sounded rusty and foreign even to his own ears. "Sorry. I'll…"
He indeed shifted a little, tried to move his legs. Too stiff from sitting so long in the cold on a hard pavement, and moving physically actually hurt. So he flinched, groaned a little, despite himself.
"Are you OK?" Harassed cursory care persisting from a founder member of his homeless network.
"Yeah. OK," he repeated
"Don't look it."
"Hmn."
An arthritic hand went under one elbow, tried to lift. Nothing happened.
"You ill?"
"Not….exactly."
"Want me to ring Dr Watson to fetch you?"
"No! Not Watson. No." The voice was little more than a whisper, but the decision unmistakeable.
"Then what?…..Who?"
He shuffled a little where he sat, thinking as fast as he could manage.
"Gallagher. Taxi."
"Corp Davy? Yeah, I reckon he's on shift tonight. Gives yer phone."
"Coat pocket…."
He felt Mouse Morgan's hand dip into the Belstaff pocket closest to him, draw out the old mobile.
"No, not that one" he automatically reached out a hand, "It's dead….."
"No, it ain't…"
The old telephone in Mouse Morgan's hand was ringing out. The unforgettably chirpy tone of "Stayin' Alive."
"Don't answer it!"
The denial was panicked, and instinctive, but too late. The reply button had already been pressed.
"'Allo?"
Mouse Morgan automatically put the mobile close to his ear.
"Why don't you just kill yourself? Doofus!"
Sherlock Holmes stopped breathing, gagged. He recognised the ringtone, the words, the voice.
The pool. The rooftop. Moriarty!
"What? 'Ere!"
The genuinely astonished reaction was wasted. No more words, no conversation. The call ended abruptly.
Watery bright blue eyes turned towards Sherlock Holmes.
"Wrong number," the man holding the phone said, flipping it over in his hand.
"Mouse….." Sherlock Holmes' voice was so tense he heard it crack. "What did you hear? The words. What did you hear?"
"Nothing, mate. Just a wrong number. Whoever it was cut the call." The ex boxer was, protective, uncomfortable, intentionally unhelpful.
"Mouse." He grabbed the hand holding the phone in a death grip "Please. I heard it. Tell me what you heard."
"It was a wrong number, Shezza. Don't bear it no mind."
"Mouse. I need to know what you heard." His head dropped, and he almost sobbed with both the frustration and the horror of it. "O.K. I'll tell you what you heard. You heard 'Why don't you just kill yourself. Doofus.' See? It was meant for me."
The other man hesitated, looked searchingly at the man by his side, shook his head in a pretence of exasperation.
"Sherlock-bloody-Holmes. I dunno. More drama than a Brixton riot."
The fierce grasp of his shoulder turned into a reassuring pat.
"Right, then mate. Calm down, I'll agree with you. The voice on the phone said: 'Why don't you just kill yourself, Doofus.' Satisfied?"
"Oh, God, yes. Thank you, Mouse."
He put his head down into his hands, almost unable to breathe, indulging, just for a second, in a rush of reaction, suddenly reassured of the sanity he had been doubting, and could not hold back a deep sob.
Put a hand into the other coat pocket and withdrew his own mobile.
"Here. Use this. Davy's number's on the contacts list…."
He felt overwhelmed and could only put his head back down onto his knees, close his eyes, breathe deeply and try to control the weakness threatening to overwhelm him. Distantly he heard a one sided conversation, then felt both phones put back into his coat pockets.
"He'll be here in ten minutes at the most," a reassuring voice spoke close to his ear. "Can I get you anything? Black coffee looks a good idea."
He turned his head slowly and smiled brightly with determination into the worried little face of the man who had probably just saved his sanity if not his life.
He squirmed so he could dig a hand into a trouser pocket, withdraw some notes
"Here, take this…."
"That's far too much."
"Get yourself a meal. Enough cash there for a few meals. The least I owe you."
There was a murmur of assent, then the presence next to him shifted, moved away. But was back within what felt like seconds. Clutching two cardboard cups of sweet black coffee and a hotdog with all the trimmings.
"Wanna bite?"
"No, thanks."
The very mundane exchange was stabilising, shifting him from near hysteria to normality. The two men grinned at each other.
"Not seen you for ages, Shezza. Nice to catch up."
He sipped coffee; too hot, too sweet, too bitter, but very welcome.
Several silent sips later a Doc Marten's kicked, not ungently, against his backside.
"Taxi for Holmes," said a cheerful voice. And the consulting detective looked up into the calm rugged face of Davy Gallagher. Taxi driver, former soldier and long time ally, backstop and ultimate rescuer.
He was hauled effortlessly to his feet, wobbling, just standing. Was strong armed across the pavement to the black cab parked on the absolutely-no-parking red lines and pushed into the back, and the door slammed shut as he slid to the far corner of the bench seat.
Mouse Morgan watched as the two drove away, two half empty coffee cups scrunched in one hand, raised hot dog in the other, in a farewell salute disappearing on the far side of the glass. And the world felt suddenly warmer and quieter. Calmer.
"Home?" came the query from the driver's seat.
"Baker Street," he confirmed. "Thank you, Davy."
"No problem."
o0o0o
He realised he looked worse than he felt when Davy Gallagher automatically helped him across the pavement without comment, took his keys and opened the big black door of 221B to usher him inside.
"I don't know what's happened, but….do you want me call someone? John? Mycroft? The Lady?"
"No. None of them. I'm OK. Better than expected, actually."
He flashed a smile, the words themselves chasing the weight off his shoulders.
"Want me to come up with you?"
No. Thank you, but no. I'm OK," he repeated.
"Sure?" The former commando gripped his arm, a wordless gesture of support. "You need anything, shout. You know what I mean."
"Always. Give my love to Chaturi."
An honest wish, not mere politeness, code words for gratitude not expressed, as well as something like affection for Davy Gallagher's Sri Lankhan wife, as beautiful as her name. But also a mutual acknowledgement of their shared past, of events in Sri Lanka many years before that had changed so many lives and bonded them as friends and colleagues forever.
"Always."
"I owe you."
"Give over. Prat."
The door closed firmly behind him as Mrs Hudson bustled through from 221A as if on cue.
"Molly says you need feeding," she admonished by way of greeting, ushering him up the stairs before her, pulling off the Belstaff and pushing him down into his armchair.
A tray with a large dish of cream of tomato soup with two chunks of new bread lathered with golden Jersey butter on the side landed on his lap within minutes. Comfort food for warmth and nourishment.
"I'm staying here to make sure you eat this," she said, dropping down into the old armchair opposite with a mug of tea between her hands. "So eat."
"I had a black coffee a few minutes ago…." He protested. But faced with the silent glare that produced in response, found it easier, just for once, to do as he was told.
But he did feel much better once he had eaten, had pushed the empty dish aside and was chewing the last piece of bread crust when he remembered what he had so urgently needed to talk to her about.
"The flat downstairs," he began. Then hesitated. Realising he was making a commitment, initiating an action that could change all their lives. But he did not change his mind, even while waiting for her to look him in the eye before taking her time to respond. That pause chilled him. Did she know what he was going to say? Before he said it? There were times her foresight was disconcerting.
"Been empty a long time," she answered, as if unsurprised by the subject matter. "Needs a lot of work I can't afford. Or be bothered with, really. Hard work, a lot of muck and dust, and then trying to find a decent tenant to recoup the cost. Too much effort at my age."
"Oh, well." He hesitated for just a second, then committed himself; committed them both. "What if I said I have a tenant for you? And that I will take care of the details and underwrite the cost? Which you can always reimburse through my rent, if you really feel you must."
She looked at him, silently, levelly, read his thoughts and gave a little nod.
"You have thought this through," she declared.
"Naturally. Just need your agreement to make a start. Getting the work done will be an asset to the house, of course. And for you."
She looked at him, eyes searching his. Sighed and shook her head. Smiled a little.
"You want him home," she said. "Yes, of course you do. And he should come home. For himself and for Rosie."
He felt a surge of relief to hear her pragmatic agreement, made so quickly and easily. Turned his head away to conceal the small smile of comfort he could not contain.
"Am I being fanciful to need this?" he asked of the only other person he could ask. "Over protective? Stupid?"
"All those things, probably. But why should any of that matter? In the end? To have John back where he belongs?"
He felt some tension within himself release. He had thought – hoped – he knew what she would say, how she would think. But that had not made broaching the subject, or accepting her decision, any easier.
"Aren't you supposed to tell me he isn't worth the effort? Or the expense? That after the way he has treated me he doesn't deserve helping? Or saving?"
"Why should I say that?"
"Because that's what everyone else thinks."
"And since when have you ever cared what anyone else thinks or says about you?"
"I….don't."
"Nor should you." She was brisk. Thinking.
"Does he know he should come home? Has he mentioned it to you?"
"I…mentioned it to him. Asked him to come home."
"And?"
"He thought I was propositioning him." Sherlock Holmes rolled his shoulders and looked away.
"Really?" She neither scoffed nor laughed, and he thought, not for the first time, his landlady was a better person to have by his side than he had ever deserved. "And what did he say to that?"
"Oh, you know. The usual negative 'not gay' response."
"Naturally. It's his default position. Retreating into his untouchable macho masculinity. He doesn't want to believe he is worth saving, or being kept safe. Even by you." She shook her head at the general disappointment of the world. "Especially by you. Or by anyone, really. To be fair."
She muttered something under her breath, something vexed and irritated. Asked the question.
"Were you propositioning him?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Mrs Hudson. You know me better than that, even if he doesn't. I was simply trying to find the right button to press. Because – you know very well – whatever needs doing to save him, I will do. Gone too far to pull back now."
"So when are you going to say that to him?"
"At the risk of repeating myself: don't be ridiculous."
"Look. I know the pair of you better than anyone. Landladies are like that. And it always strikes me how John may be the one with the manners and the life skills, but you are the one with the friends."
He shook his head.
"It's a point of view. Fact remains he saved my life. When he had known me for less than a day. He killed someone for me, tto keep me alive. I owe him. I always will."
"He killed a killer. Something he was trained to do."
"Trained to save and heal."
"He does that too. Except when it comes to saving and healing himself. "
"Cherophobia," he said.
"Oh, you and your big words….." she chided, and pretended to give him a clip round the ear.
"It's a condition. Not daring to be happy; sabotaging the possibility of being happy."
"Sez you!"
"Sez me," he agreed, candid for once. "I recognised that in myself. Years ago. How I recognised it in him." He shrugged. "The difference being - I chose to delete any hope or expectation of happiness from my psyche. Better that way. What you never have you never miss. John, however, is not me. John very much wants to be normal, and accepted, and happy.
"But he daren't be happy, because every time he tries he only makes his life worse. He has a lot to overcome. All the classic pathways to cherophobia. So he blocks anything that might make him happy before trying hurts him again.
"Losing Mary was his final straw. Never could please his parents, a financial and emotional drain they had never wanted. So he was hard wired for poor self image from the start. Tried looking after his sister, though they never got on. Tried to be all things to all men by becoming both a healer and a killer. Contradictory instincts. Typically John. Survivor guilt from being shot in Afghanistan but getting out alive, despite a big scar, big guilt, and two lost careers, soldier and surgeon both.
"Lost his identity and his soul. Only found his place with me by a fluke. Adrenalin and acceptance, both. He was clawing his way back to life until I jumped off a roof and lost him by saving him." He shrugged. "See the pattern, Mrs Hudson? After me he tried being normal. Married a lovely girl. Who turned out to be an assassin. And shot me after I came back from the dead.
"Into all that emotional turmoil he found he was going to be a daddy. Most men want to procreate. But for John, the deal to achieve that version of happiness meant his wife died. My fault I know, the ultimate betrayal by a best friend. So here he is, stuck with a baby girl to bring up on his own. Not much of a bargain, was it? Definitely not happiness. Which is how John knows seeking happiness is not to be trusted, because life always ends up worse than before…"
"It's not your fault," she interrupted softly. "Well: not all of it."
He resisted the temptation to put his head in his hands to avoid the compassion and understanding on his landlady's face. Wrinkled a frown instead.
"It is, Mrs Hudson. It really is. The irony being that to do the bidding of his loving wife and save him from drowning in his own grief I had to destroy the last of his faith in me. And even that had a twist to it. Even though I killed her, his wife had more faith in me than he had, and knew I would stop him killing himself, haul him back into life, whatever the cost. Again."
She started to protest, but he talked over her.
"A high cost, risky. Back on drugs to solve a case and save him. When he has always hated drugs."
He stopped speaking, a long speech that had clearly been on his mind since the beginning. So she asked one quiet question that had hovered on the tip of her tongue for weeks. "Does he understand what you did for him? How close you came to dying?"
"What do you think?"
She shook her head. Leant forward in her chair and wrapped his hands in hers; tiny work worn hands enclosing large lean ones.
"What I think is that you have both suffered. You both deserve to be happy. Whatever that means. And I will always think – have always thought - John needs to come home. We are all the family he's got. You and me."
Their eyes met, and she smiled at him, gently and with a level of understanding he would not normally allow anyone to express. He wavered a smile in return.
"And Rosamund, God help us. Don't forget Rosamund. I am her godfather. An awesome responsibility, Mrs Hudson. "One I never sought."
"You forget; I am one of her godmothers." The tiny smile she saw grow a little in return showed her he had not forgotten, not at all. "And that little scrap also needs us both. Quite a leverage against John to do what's best for them both. Don't you think?" There was mischief on her face at that moment, but also determination and commitment.
"So," she said briskly, grasping his hands even tighter before releasing them. "Let me get this straight. I need a new interest because being an old age pensioner is really boring. So I have finally decided to get the basement flat renovated.
"However. I can't be bothered finding and training a new tenant how to behave in my house and put out the bins. So I have to ask - why not bring Rosie home and live here again, John? You would be doing me a really big favour. Because then I could see more of my darling little god-daughter and babysit for you. In exchange, having my personal doctor on the doorstep is a reassuring if rather selfish ambition at my age."
She grinned, a bright, cheeky grin that took years from her face. "Think that'll work?"
"You are a cunning witch," Sherlock Holmes said, trying not to laugh. "Talk about using his own cherophobia against himself: allowing him with no choice but to do what is best for him because someone else needs him. Someone that isn't me. And if that makes him feel safe and happy and supported – well, that's your fault and not his. Brilliant."
"And he will stay with you while the work is done. Him and Rosie. Like they did before."
"If he agrees. But we need him here as soon as possible. To keep them both safe."
"Safe? Is that just a word? Or something only you know and understand?" The grin disappeared suddenly, she became grave and concentrated, and he cursed himself for having used the danger word: she knew only too well his meaning of 'safe.'
He opened his mouth to speak, but she put up a hand to stop him. "No. Don't tell me. I don't need to know. Stuff above my pay grade, as they say these days." She paused, alerted but untroubled.
Her faith in him was humbling, he thought. "He will agree. He won't have any choice, because he is a good and caring man. I will ask him – tell him, more like - and he will accept it is an order. He daren't let me down or upset me. Or little Rosie, for that matter. He will do what is best for him by doing what is best for her. You'll see."
She took the food tray and turned away to return downstairs.
"Cheer up, Sherlock. We'll get him back here. And we'll get him right."
But she paused at the door.
"And I think I know someone who can sort out the basement flat for us…"
o0o0o
In the quiet of that same weekday evening, Mycroft Holmes let himself in uninvited, and found the flat dim and silent, lit only by the desk lamp on the other side of the room and the flicker of the fire in the hearth. His brother sat, as still and silent as a statue, cross legged on the floor beside the fireplace.
"Well, this looks very cosy," the British government offered as a conversation opener, with an easy acceptance he did not feel, not really expecting an answer. "Something wrong with the chairs?"
The half light in the room cast deep shadows that accentuated sharp cheekbones, crow's feet around the downcast eyes, hollows in the forehead. His usually immaculate little brother needed a shave, , suit rumpled, shoulders slumped. He looked frail, and vulnerable, and very alone.
Mycroft Holmes declined to acknowledge the little stab of fear that pushed into a space where his heart should be. When even the lack of acknowledgement of his presence was uncharacteristic.
"You wanted to see me?" he prompted.
Two grimy hands with broken and bitten nails lifted upwards towards him as if in supplication. Lifted from his lap, hands held, he could now see, a quality cream vellum envelope. Within the envelope – Mycroft peered down curiously – were breadcrumbs. Stale, hard, and grey with age.
"Your evening meal?" he asked with careful sarcasm. "Prison rations are not appealing. And you hardly need to diet."
"No. Breadcrumbs…"
"As I can see. Auditioning for a seasonal role in Hansel and Gretel, are we? A little late brother, I believe that pantomime has already been cast."
"Cast years ago, Mycroft. These are the breadcrumbs Moriarty left for me. The trail to lead me to my own Hansel and Gretel horror story. The Bruhl children he had kidnapped from St Aldate's School. The great game. The Reichenbach fall. Do you remember?"
"Of course I remember. But – really? Moriarty again? How many times need I tell you he is dead?"
"And how many times do I need to tell you – not to me?"
Their eyes clashed, neither prepared to back down. But it was the elder brother who broke the impasse.
"What are you doing with those breadcrumbs now? And whyever did you keep them?"
"I don't know why I kept them. Perhaps my subconscious knew they might be important one day. Today."
"Why today?"
"Something happened today." He took a deep breath, looked up, eyes wide with a rare open honesty. "I heard his voice, Mycroft. Twice. At his mother's house. Outside the Angel. Moriarty."
Mycroft Holmes clicked his tongue against his teeth in unveiled frustration.
"Have you considered delusions caused by ingestion of so many drugs of late? Auditory pareidolia?"
"It was not drugs; the after effects of all that are wearing off; and I haven't taken anything in weeks. But I know drugs, their effects upon me; and they never do that. It was not pareidolia, either. I heard and recognised Moriarty's voice."
Mycroft Holmes lifted his head, looked down his nose, and all but scoffed.
"And did anyone else hear this voice?"
Sherlock Holmes' mouth twisted in either pique or disappointment.
"The second time. Yes." He explained what had happened at the house in Highgate, outside the Tube station.
His brother listened impassively without interrupting. Waited until the end.
"So you tell me you have heard Moriarty speak to you twice. The first time, when his mother did not hear him…."
"That's what she said; not necessarily truthful….."
"And the second time on the telephone, your corroborative witness being Mouse Morgan; a punch addled ex boxer and homeless alcoholic. Who would agree with anything you said for a handout – while you were stupid enough to tell him exactly what you heard – thought you had heard - so he could parrot your words back to you. Saying just what you wanted to hear."
"It wasn't like that! Why do you always deny everything?"
"Because this is not real!" Mycroft Holmes heard himself raise his voice. Paused to attain self control. "How many more times need I tell you? Before you get it? Stop behaving like a stubborn little boy, Sherlock. For God's sake let it go!"
The words hit like hammer blows on a new and still fragile confidence. Looking sharply down into his lap, face pale, voice tremulous, Sherlock Holmes' words still came out firm and committed.
"I am not being stubborn. I am right."
"Morgan told you repeatedly it was a wrong number when he answered the phone. And no-one actually said your name, or accused you in a way that could be personally identified."
"But he had said those very words to me before, Mycroft! On the roof of Bart's! He said those exact words!"
"And that is where you are remembering them from! You have lost your mental balance and your objectivity - letting him haunt you!" He found he was gripping the padded arms of the chair, leaning forward, intent on being right, on helping even if it meant hurting. "For God's sake, Sherlock! Snap out of this!"
He watched a shudder pass through his brother's entire frame. Watched his thin shoulders brace, saw his head lift. Watched his brother dig deep. Close a door. And ignore every word that had just been said.
"Anyway…..back then…." He reached a hand into the envelope, lifted stale breadcrumbs and dribble them back into the paper with a flamboyant flourish. "John found this envelope on the doorstep, and opened it. The breadcrumbs were a clue – and the Bruhl children had been sent a copy of Grimm's Fairytales to prove the connection.
"But it struck me just now, when I took the envelope out to look at it, this was one of the only two solid connections I ever really had with Jim Moriarty. So what were they meant to mean? And why? Were they clues to enable me to find him - rather than just clues to follow him?
"So now…I think… if this was the case…that he had planned dying on the roof of Bart's for a long time. Another magic trick, a deceit. Or a reality - by substituting his twin brother for himself - all so he could disappear. Because I was making life too hot for him, once he had shown his hand. And he knew I would not stop until I had chased him down.
"The breadcrumbs came first, though, when he thought he would win. A clue for me in finding him. For reasons of his own. Then he changed his plans. Not knowing I also had my own plan to die and to disappear so I could take him down from the shadows through his crime network."
"Oh. Good lord." Mycroft Holmes was almost speechless at the very thought. "That is indeed a very scary and very Machiavellian thought. How alike you both are. Were."
That made his brother lift an eyebrow, and risk a grin.
"Quite so. Enchanting thought, isn't it? And yet…how could he do that? Without specifically incriminating himself? There was no note, either with the book or the breadcrumbs. No watermark on the envelopes to have them traceable.
"But there was the seal. Ancient, incongruous, unnecessary. Telling? Both items bore the same seal – John spotted that." He stroked a thumb softly against the dark red wax impression.
"But why do something so old fashioned as using a wax seal on the envelopes? Sticky tape or packing tape would have done the job just as well, if not better. So look at that seal, Mycroft. It has to be a clue. What does it tell you?"
There was the flicker of a wild look of new awareness in Mycroft Holmes' eyes; there and gone in an instant. But he accepted the challenge and took the envelope handed to him, being careful not to spill breadcrumbs over his best Shepherd and Neame suit. Leant towards the light from the fire and looked closely.
"Hmn. The sealing wax itself is old; you can tell from the darker melt residue on the edges. But it is the standard colour used on legal papers. As for the stamp of the seal, the insignia….it is too large for a signet ring, so it must be a proper seal. Well worn, also clearly old, so probably a personal insignia rather than an official one, which would need to be sharp and clear for the sake of servicing bureaucracy."
He looked down, and into his brother's face. "Oh! Oh, I see. You think Moriarty used it so he could be traced back directly through this? That it might be a family piece? His family?"
"Any avenue is worth pursuing. We know nothing of his background."
"Indeed."
He drew a folding magnifier from an inside jacket pocket, put it to his eye and examined the seal imprint more closely.
"This is very worn. Very old. Hard to make out the devices. An eagle's wings I think. And is that a dolphin at the base? Both mainly used in European heraldry rather than British…..Eastern Europe, perhaps? Russia?"
Europe again. Vague and yet specific. Joanna Moriarty leaving St Aldate's for a school closer to a European uncle…a connection to be investigated? Or a red herring to distract?
"Eagle's wings. Yes. Well done." Sherlock Holmes passed his brother a photograph of graffiti on a building; the huge brown wings with I.O.U. slashed across their centre; the emblem daubed on the corner house diagonally opposite 221B as taunt and warning and reminder; and which he had been too busy running away from at the time to consider seriously.
"Ah." Mycroft Holmes' took the photograph, examined the motif. "Yes. That was on the house wall when the Albanian assassin detailed to oversee you was shot saving you from being run down by a passing car. The house in which he lived, I believe."
"Yes. Sulejmani. One of four assassins living close at the time to keep me safe. Or perhaps not. I never got the chance to investigate that. One thing or another kept getting in the way." He pushed aside memories of assassination attempts and police chases. Shaming, horrible, pointless to recall.
Delete, delete.
"The motif was indeed on the side of the house where Sulejmani lived. And was painted over almost as soon as you had spotted it," Mycroft Holmes recalled, staring at the photograph as if transfixed by the image
"Extravagant. Deliberate. Very Moriarty."
He was thinking of the letters – I.O.U. - painted on windows in an office block opposite Scotland Yard. So much contrivance for one large and unsubtle warning that had flickered, caught his attention – and then was gone. So like Moriarty himself.
"Indeed so," Mycroft Holmes agreed. "We were never able to establish who was responsible for that; who undertook the work."
"I have always assumed he had a large tribe of worker ants; just as I have my Homeless Network."
"Hmn. Perhaps so." The elder brother looked across to meet his brother's eyes. "His obsession with you was intense. Over the top. Too personal. Writing your name on cell walls, on the display case in the Tower. Does it never strike you….?"
"Yes."
"….to consider what he thought it was he owed you?"
"Thinks he owes me," he corrected, almost absently. "Yes. Of course. It has to be revenge, does it not? But revenge for what? For never believing Carl Powers' death was an accident?"
"Or for thwarting his plans for world domination? Even if you did not know that, in the beginning.."
"Hmn. But what if the reason is something more personal, Mycroft? What if I did something – long ago – to damage him? Personally, I mean. As Jim. Not as the criminal mastermind Moriarty?"
Mycroft Holmes lifted his chin in surprise. Thought about that, and nodded. Asked a question he could not resist.
"Did you do that?"
"I don't know."
"Why don't you know? You seem to not know rather a lot. Not knowing is not like you."
"I….I…." he shook his head, perplexed. "You are describing some sort of personal grudge."
"Yes. Of course. But you don't remember offending him somehow? Taking his treasure? Throwing his toys out of the pram? Stealing his affections?"
"Those theories may all be credible. But none of them make any sense to me. I just don't remember."
"I am unsettled by all these gaps in your knowledge, no less than the fact you are actually admitting them. Did you delete the knowledge as boring? Or did an east wind blow your brain away?"
"No. And that is why it worries me."
And even as he spoke, the recent words of Sebastian Wilkes echoed in his mind.
'There was one guy. A bit creepy actually.
I bet he still remembers you. Followed you round like a puppy for ages. All big sad eyes and yearning body language.
He had a thing about you. Fancied you rotten. He stuck with it – with you – for ages. At least a term. Like a limpet. Always trying to catch your eye. Chat. And more.
Always trying to get close to you. He was one sad crush.
A story going round college that he actually turned up in your bed at least a couple of times, and you slung him out.
He really was so terribly like you in lots of ways. Brilliant. Obsessive. Scary. Weird.
Tasty videos of you on the dark web…..
He shook his head. For suddenly, unprompted and unexpected, came the voice of the Victorian Moriarty from the drug fevered dream while on the private plane that should have been taking him to his death in Eastern Europe…..
Europe again; Eastern Europe again? Why? What was the link?
He gasped deeply, as if coming up for air from a deep dive.
Six times, Sherlock. Six times you repulsed me….
We were made for each other…..
I like your room…..Your bed is surprisingly comfortable…..
The unwitting connection of memories jolted him from the inside of his head, making him sweat, and to start in something like fear. Was it fear? He opened his eyes wide, and found his brother looking at him intently. Waiting. And with a worried frown.
"Your memory lapses are clearly worrying. And not at all like you. Drugs, was it? One long bender, all of your time at Cambridge; was that it? "
"Oh, ye of little faith. But no. Not quite."
"What happened? What have you just worked out? Remembered?"
"Nothing. I don't think." He picked up his phone. "I need to talk to people…"
"Tomorrow, Sherlock." He leant forward and plucked the phone from his brother's fingers. "You have done enough for today, and may be on the point of collapse. Leave it for now. Let your subconscious take over for a while, see if it finds the memories, solves the case. Tomorrow is another day."
Mycroft Holmes stood up. Went to the desk, put the seal on the envelope below the desk lamp, took a photograph with his phone.
"I will see if I can identify and find a connection to the crest on this seal. Dolphins and wings. Leave it with me." He looked down at the seal, at his photograph, again before slipping the mobile into his jacket pocket.
"Dolphins are mainly in French heraldry. Reflects love of music, affection for children and family."
"Hardly Moriarty's thing," his brother remarked. But Mycroft Holmes looked at him with a stern sideways glance.
"We don't know that. We don't know the connection. Or Moriarty's motive behind what he perceives he owes you."
"Present tense, Mycroft?"
"It's a catching turn of phrase, brother mine, nothing more. A slip of the tongue does not mean I believe you any more than I did when I entered the room. So don't start congratulating yourself."
o0o0o
"Hiya, buddy."
Midnight was no time of night for a telephone call, especially when the call came up as 'number withheld.' And he stood at the table and looked at his phone, lying there for five rings before he could bring himself to pick it up and accept the call.
"Sherlock Holmes" he said. And even to himself his voice sounded harsh and impatient.
"Aw, Sherlock, you sound really pissed off about something. Anything to do with me?"
The relief was so palpable he had to lean on the kitchen table to stay standing. He had been making a cup of tea, alone in the darkness, when the phone rang. It said much for his state of mind that the kettle in his hand spluttered water over the worktop before he regained control of his hand and his nerves.
"Hello Sebastian. Late for a phone call."
"Why? Were you doing something I should be doing?" A suggestive snort of laughter came down the phone.
"Just making a cup of tea. What do you want?"
"I don't want anything. But I did say I would ring you. With any news about that bank account name you were looking for. Remember?"
"Yes. Sorry."
"Not much help to you. I did a very thorough check, as it was for you, but no accounts in the name of Moriarty. Sorry. But if you come up with another name, I'll still check that for you. If that helps."
"Thank you."
"No problem. And that other thing; that creepy guy?"
"You remember something?" The cold ache hovering over his spine deepened.
"He called himself Jack – Jacobus. Stupid name. Only remember it because it reminded me of that nursery rhyme; you know – Jack be nimble. Seemed a good pun, as he wanted to, what you might call, jump over the candlestick. You, dear boy; something long, slim and pale. And cold until burning…." Sebastian Wilkes giggled. He sounded a brandy beyond good behaviour. Which was perhaps the only reason he had rung so late in the evening.
Jack. Jacobus. The name Jason Concannon had remembered. And there is no such thing as coincidence.
Sherlock Holmes sucked in a deep breath to stop the world spinning on it's axix, resisted the temptation to snap out a tart reply. Waited.
"Still can't remember the surname; something odd, a name I'd never heard before, I'm certain. Not much of a help I know, but….."
"Seb. What else do you remember from those days?"
Another giggle. "That would be telling."
"Yes. That's the general idea," he prompted, unable to contain the exasperation in his voice.
Sherlock Holmes listened to a silence while the banker thought some thoughts. Laboriously.
"Meet me tomorrow night. We can have something to eat and a gossip. As it were. Reminisce about old times. When we were young and green and life was fun. And cheap."
"How many snifters have you got through this evening?"
"Not a question to ask a gentleman, I'll have you know."
"OK." He thought rapidly. "Do you know Angelo's on Northumberland Road? I'll meet you there at eight. Don't forget."
"As if! See you later, alligator."
And he ended the call. Leaving Sherlock Holmes standing and glaring at his mobile and wondering what he had just committed himself to. And if he really wanted to know what it was he needed to know.
o0o0o
He had fallen asleep, gradually and imperceptibly, bone tired and mentally exhausted. Alone and fully dressed, he crawled onto the old leather sofa, tried to review the day, tried to think.
But his brother's advice had been only too correct - needed if not necessarily heeded; and despite himself and his racing brain, the transport took over and dragged him down into a deep and dreamless sleep regardless of his intention to stay awake. For some thinking. Some research.
He was woken, suddenly and with a jolt of something like physical fear, by the realisation that someone was standing silently over him, looking down at him. And from his low level, the first thing he saw was square capable hands curled into fists, a clenched physicality. An angry frown, tight lips, a disturbed mind.
John Watson. Jeans, jumper, checked shirt, waxed jacket. Not a work day then. Small backpack. Had come out with small Watson. But the child was not with him. So Mrs Hudson must have taken over, kidnapped her god-daughter, to give him space to think, to allow them the freedom to talk. So she had spoken to John Watson at her first opportunity. Had asked him to come home.
"John…." His voice was low, rasping, brain not quite yet engaged. He swung his legs off the sofa and struggled to sit up.
We need a word." Hard flat words that would not allow deflection or refusal.
"Yes." He rubbed his hands over his face, blinking, orientating. He felt fuzzy, a little nauseous. More tired than when he went to sleep. "What time is it?"
The daylight was thin and grey, typically winter. Someone – John, perhaps? – had opened both pairs of curtains at the front windows, but that was not what had awoken him.
"Just gone ten. You slept there like that all night?"
"Hmn…."
"Go and shave. Make yourself look respectable. I'll make tea."
Showdown delayed, grateful for that until he had pulled himself together, he did as he was bid. Not out of simple obedience, but a need to restore something like normality, to collect his wits, pick an attitude.
When he emerged, clean and freshly clothed, there was a mug of tea and a plate of toast and marmalade on the coffee table, while John Watson had taken off his coat and backpack, turned up the thermostat, and was sitting in his old chair, hands round his own mug of tea, quiet and self contained.
Sherlock Holmes looked and observed, but could read nothing in the doctor's expression. So he sat down opposite and occupied himself with the tea and toast provided. A sign of appreciation, diplomacy, compromise. Breathing steadily, instincts on the alert. Tasting the quality of the air around them.
The silence did not last long.
"I've been talking to Mrs Hudson. Or, to be more accurate, Mrs Hudson has been talking to me."
"Oh?" It was hard to sound merely polite. Merely mildly interested. To allow the doctor to speak.
"God, I hate it when you try to sound innocent."
Those cynical dismissive words flipped a switch. The simmering anger returned. The Sherlock Holmes everyone knew needed to reassert himself and try another tactic beyond simple truth.
"Innocent? Me? Surely you jest?"
The bitterness of rejection spilled over into his voice and his face without containment.
"What?"
"You heard me. So what did she talk to you about?"
"About coming back, with Rosie. To live here again. Properly, permanently. Turning the basement flat into a bright new home for us. Home. She kept saying 'home.' Wanting to have us back 'home.' As if I was some sort of lost child."
He scraped a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture, as if puzzled.
"That's how she thinks of you right now. Does 'prodigal son' grab you as an alternative description, then? More acceptable to your fragile masculine ego?"
"What?"
"She wants you back here. Back home. She sees this house as your home. Not the place you live now. She thinks of you as the son she never had….."
"No. That's you."
"Not necessarily just me. Both of us, then. Definitely you, though. Her confidant, her changer of light bulbs, her cleaner of bins. Her doctor. You look after her. The thought of being ill worries her as she ages. You must understand that? After all, you are a doctor.
He softened his tone a little; tried that.
"And she just misses having you here. She always has. Misses having Rosie to care for and fuss over. Her god-daughter. Do you understand how important that is to a childless old lady with no-one but us to care about? Care for her?"
John Watson's face twisted unhappily.
"Doing a bleeding heart routine on me now? Not like you. And a very low blow, Sherlock. But you don't fool me. I know all this was a put-up job. Your idea."
Sherlock Holmes munched toast and shrugged a careless shoulder.
"Why should it be my idea? It's her house, not mine. You should be here as her doctor, not me. And the idea has been rolling around in her head for years. You know that."
"Timing, Sherlock."
"What about it? Don't blame me. I asked you to come back here to live because it is practical. Sensible. You have a support system here – a family, if you like. To help you looking after your daughter.
"It's more sensible being here, handy for work, even. And that flat you bought with Mary was never home. The neighbours don't even like you. Why have you stayed there, anyway? Mary's insurance policies, her off shore investments, make you a rich man. Why don't you make the most of her riches? Live somewhere better?"
"You must be joking. Mary's money is blood money, Sherlock. She earnt that money by death and destruction. I don't want to think about that side of her. I don't want money that's tainted. I – I 've donated most of it to charity."
"Then leaving the place where you lived together is best anyway."
"I'm not coming to live here."
They glared at each other. Sherlock Holmes lifted his head, looked down his nose at John Watson in a way he knew irritated him.
"Cutting your nose off to spite your face, John? Stamping your little foot? Being independent at all costs? Well, look how far that's got you and Rosie up to now."
"Thanks."
"Someone's got to say it. So that would be me."
He looked John Watson up and down with a contemptuous curl of the lip. Held the silence until it became uncomfortable.
"Oh, I see, now. John 'I'm-not-gay' Watson daren't come home because he thinks – no, fears – I am going to seduce him. Daren't face needing to be safe and protected. Because that is what he is supposed to do. Not be."
He watched John Watson blush, move his shoulders uncomfortably, look away.
"OK, then, John. Cards on the table time."
He took a deep breath. Played his hand.
"I misjudged you. I'm sorry. I thought a sentimental appeal to the emotions yesterday would get you. Take you by surprise, appeal to your better nature, all that bollocks. So now I'll be honest. And you will believe me this time."
He put his plate and mug down on the coffee table with slow deliberation. Leant forward. Did not smile.
"It's quite true, I do want you to come home. It makes all sorts of sense, for the both of you. But it has nothing to do with propositioning you. As if I would proposition anybody. Least of all you. I like sex with a bit of class, John Watson, and you are seriously lacking in that department."
He registered the sharp intake of breath, the flare of insult and anger suppressed.
"Oh, don't take offence. Unless you want to, that is. You are very special to me, after all, A unique mixture of talents. You can kill and you can cure; you deal effortlessly with all the boring facts of life I cannot be bothered with – shopping, meals, bills, social interaction. That sort of thing.
"You do not try to overshadow me – well, you can't do that, obviously –because you are the perfect assistant and lieutenant, at my side or that little step just behind me. So, you see, I do need you rather badly. For the boring chores. You are good at them. And it is just too much of a fag to try and find someone else, to train them up to work alongside me.
"It is the most sensible thing to come back here with me. Us. Mrs Hudson and I are your daughter's godparents after all. So why not move back? Becoming my assistant and jobsworth again is a big deal for you. Safety, job security, all that. Your perfect role and future, if you would only see it."
H raised a hand to silence the words starting to splutter forth in response and self defence
"No, don't lose your temper. I am right, and I am being honest. Perhaps more honest than you deserve. Don't consider it a retrograde step, either. More a return to your natural place in the big wide world."
"Jesus, Sherlock. You are a pompous, sanctimonious bastard. How in hell do I ever put up with you?"
He watched John Watson bit back his most natural reaction, speak as of the present and not the past, and control the impulse to thump him; which, to Sherlock Holmes' relief, seemed like progress of a sort.
"Because you can't resist me. You can't resist the strange, dangerous, adrenalin fuelled danger and adventure of the life I give you. That no-one else can give you. Because you need it, John Watson. You need the buzz. And so you still need me."
He stopped talking. Wondering if he had said too much, pushed too hard and too far. But John Watson said nothing. Just stared, face impassive, hands clenched into fists, that telltale left hand trembling unheeded.
But he had not shouted yet, or swore. Or swung those fists in anger.
"Why? Because at heart you are very much a doctor, but also very much a soldier. A soldier with a steady gun hand. as well as being pretty good at cooking things with peas."
And then he grinned. That rare, goofy lopsided teenage-boy grin that was as rare as it was precious.
John Watson, inexplicably, grinned back.
"I never know if you are telling the truth," he gritted through tight lips." I never know if you ever mean anything you say. Even the insults."
Push. Push. Challenge and demand, and charm.
"The job comes with excellent references, a regular pay cheque, total flexibility, the opportunity to work full time at your real vocation as well as working for me, and take advantage of accommodation that does – or does not – go with the job. With the added perk of childcare in situ and a steady supply of scones. Not made by me, I hasten to add."
John Watson shook his head.
"I am still bloody angry with you. You should know that. For too many things…..and I don't know if I can come back. Step back in time when so much has happened…."
"But you want to. Need to. And need to think about your daughter, and what she needs. Put her first now."
"What does she need?"
"Family. People who make her feel safe. People who keep the pair of you safe."
"Mrs Hudson, you mean? Cake and cuddles and common sense?"
"Something like that. That's the hard bit, after all. I do the easy stuff."
He refused to express his fears, his valid fears, whatever Mycroft said, about the safety of John and Rosie; about how much he knew Moriarty would go for the people he loved.
"I have it on good authority I don't have a heart."
"But we know that's not exactly true…..
Really? And what's that? Was that the ghost, the glimmer, of a smile? Go for it!
"Danger and adrenalin. Puzzles. Justice. That sort of thing." And then he pushed. Yes. "Oh, stop bloody waffling, John. I need an assistant; don't you remember me saying that to you? Years ago? Nothing has changed as far as that is concerned."
"Too much has changed as far as that is concerned."
John Watson stood up, reached out for the small black leather duffel bag that had been on his shoulders.
"But that's not what I came here for today. Mrs Hudson sort of diverted me on the way in."
He was serious, intent. Opened the draw cord on the bag and put in a hand. Sherlock Holmes did not ask or protest; fought down some sort of premonition.
From the bag came several small sections of creased cardboard; coloured blue on one side, brown on the other. A logo on one piece he could not read. John Watson turned, held the pieces out to him without speaking, without any expression at all.
"What's this?"
"The remains of a box, Sherlock. A child's shoe box."
He took the pieces in his hands. Turned them over. The box had been squashed, ripped, twisted and bent. But it was a new box; smelt new, smelt of card, and leather dressing, and …a vague background smell of biscuit. Malted milk? A child's biscuit?
Puzzled, he looked closer. There were tiny tooth marks on one corner of card. A small child's teeth.
"This was the box…. for Watson's new shoes?" he ventured. Looked closely at John Watson. Who did not say brilliant or fantastic or remarkable, but pursed his lips and frowned.
"That box is supposed to be here. Because I thought – no, I knew – I had accidently left Rosie's new shoes here; that you had hidden or binned the box; had set the little trainers down in the other flat yourself. To trick me, draw me into your obsession, try to convince me that this Moriarty thing wasn't all a delusion in your mad brain."
"But I…"
"I know, Sherlock. I know! Well; I mean, I do now. You tried to tell me, and I didn't believe you." He sighed, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and slumped back down into his armchair.
"I'm sorry. I should have….known…should have believed." He looked up, raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose in a familiar gesture of restraint, frustration.
"When we got home yesterday Rosie dropped a biscuit, and then accidentally stood on it. Crumbs everywhere. So I had to get the vacuum cleaner out and shove back the armchair to get at all the crumbs.
"And that's how I found the bits of shoe box. Rosie must have sorted through her new things, and found the shoe box more interesting than the contents, tucked the shoes to one side and pulled it apart – and then hid it – while I cooked tea and before I put all her shopping away."
"What are you trying to say, John?"
"I am trying to say something I barely dare think. But I can't see any alternative. That you didn't plant the shoes as I thought, because they did come home with me. And someone else planted the shoes in 221C."
He was angry, frustrated. And his eyes were full of puzzlement and of fear.
"It wasn't you who did that. It wasn't me. And it certainly wasn't Rosie. So the only explanation is that someone took those little shoes from my house and put them in the empty flat. Just like with Carl Power' trainers, all those years ago. The only answer I can see is that it either had to be Moriarty – or someone working for Moriarty. Who broke in and stole the shoes while we were asleep, decided to repeat the set-up was a good idea. And did it.
"Because who else would know? Would want to? Would do such a thing?"
"John….."
"No, Sherlock. I don't want to hear what you have to say. I don't want to be involved in this; not me, not Rosie."
"I'm sorry. It's not my fault. I tried to tell you….."
"Shut up. This was always going to happen, wasn't it? You jumped off a roof and played dead to protect us. Took two whole years to close down Moriarty's criminal network. You shot Magnussen to protect us, but even though he is supposed to be dead, all that effort only delayed Moriarty's plan to get to you and make you suffer. But through me this time? Well, I don't think so."
"So what do you intend to do?"
"I've already changed the locks…."
"Pointless. If someone can pick locks, they will be able to pick new ones, just the same."
We could go….."
"No! No. Running would snap the jaws of the trap, only draw danger to you faster, don't you see that?"
Sherlock Holmes stepped in front of John Watson, barring his way to the door.
"Moriarty would see that as a challenge. And he would go for you immediately. The only way through this mess, the only way to keep you both safe, is to come back here. While I sort this."
"Oh, no! No, that's…"
The telephone rang. And they both stopped moving, speaking.
Sherlock Holmes picked up his mobile and looked at the name that appeared on screen.
M & S, it read. Not the store chain, although the caller was listed that way so no-one else would know. . . that was the number for Midge and Siward.
He put up a hand to still John Watson.
"Wait, John. It's my parents. I need to take this."
John Watson gave a curt nod. Sherlock Holmes accepted the call.
"Sherlock?"
"Hello Pa. What can I do for you? Bit busy at the moment…."
"What else is new?" His father chuckled quietly. "I'm told your mother has been doing some research for you…..diving into boxes of diaries and notes in the lumber room."
"Yes, that's right."
"Well, I think between us we have some interesting information for you."
"Tell me."
"It's a bit complicated. Come over and we'll explain."
"Oh! Hang on, Pa!"
Having taken his eyes off the doctor, he heard John Watson opening the door to the flat. Took the phone from his ear and stepped rapidly to the side, trying to catch his visitor before he left.
"John! Wait!"
But the doctor was running down the stairs, not replying, ignoring his call.
He heard the outside door slam, and then silence.
Slumped against the wall, not knowing whether to be angry or relieved. Put the phone back to his ear.
"Sorry to interrupt you…" he said with all the apparent calm he could muster.
"No problem. Come on over and we'll give you a meal. Things to show you."
"Interesting things?"
"Oh, yes. You'll see."
Sherlock Holmes looked at the pieces of shoe box lying on the coffee table. Made a decision.
"Be with you as soon as I can."
And was moving even before the call was ended.
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Author's Notes:
Doofus: USA slang for stupid.