A/N: In which John unwittingly started a revolution.
Last one for this plotline. Sorry it's been a bit heavy. -csf
5..
Every revolution needs heroes, a cause and a war. I'm a temporary hero fighting for freedom returned from a people controlling, despotic and self-serving state. Thanks to Sheeri, we are being broadcast live into every room of every house in the country and beyond. It's an odd follow up on the crown jewels bestowed on the Three Wise Men, just before. Not even a commercial break between us, for there is no free advertisement as such anymore.
The cause is not easy to establish in a soundbite slogan, under some catchy jingle tune and clever fireworks. Not a simile of today's fast food politics at all. And yet, paradoxically, it couldn't be simpler. We want our freedoms back; to vote, to reason among different factions and to come together in a varied unity. We want rid of the Triumvirate and to have another go at our lives. Imperfect tries as they may be, they are ours to have a go. Many of us want things to go back to as they once were – knowing they will never be the same again; for we ourselves have changed. A heavy load will forever rest on our shoulders, teaching us lessons for the future days. Tales will be cinematographed about our times – we hope to make ourselves proud heroes and not miscreant villains.
One day we will turn on the telly and marvel at the annoying length of the commercial break. We will turn to a significant other and start commenting on it, maybe admitting creamy butter and car insurance companies are not so bad after all, but stop short as we notice the telly is standing close by. Listening in. Paranoia is just the beginning of a healthy memory imprint. One day we'll feel too tired after work to go vote, but find unsuspected strengths to go to the polling station, because we wouldn't give away our voices again. He will have our say, whether our champions win or lose, we will be heard.
And then there's the war. That is exactly where we stand right now. Ready for a deterministic battle of a lifetime. A turning point. A dare in a universe where the odds are stacked against us. This is where we excel: us and the nation.
Sherlock Holmes is a transformed man. He rose in a time of need, and holds himself to the highest standards to impress me, to force me to keep up a difficult fight by his side. That he almost carries his friend as dead weight, supporting me by the waist as we stand side by side as equals, is an afterthought in his mind. I'm the reason he excels; such as he is my reason to never give up.
Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes have fallen behind in the crowd, I believe, for we are enough to keep his freak show on the road for now.
Somehow Sherlock has downloaded intricate maps from his damaged memory data base, and he waltz us both through the golden inlaid corridors of power and tradition with ease.
'It won't take long now, John.'
I nod, to let him know I heard him; but find I don't have many strengths left. My feet drag on centuries old tapestries on the marble floors, my vision blurs as stately figures dominate de canvas in oversized paintings looming over us.
We make our way to one of the offices, expectation drumming in our ears. Sherlock is too marred by this life not to accept the simple powers of persuasion from my gun over his beautiful logic, and he carries it held out in a steady grip ahead of us.
The room is drenched in darkness. A stale air, impregnated with an unmistakable odour of metal and human misery, fills the opulent interior, cheapening it. Here once dwelled the finest and the best of the country, where now we find a cold shape slumped over a papers covered desk, steadily tainting it viscous red.
'What the—' I start.
'Watch it, John. We're in the eyes and ears of the world, being broadcast as we speak. Keep your language to a family standard, if you please.'
I blink and look sideways at him. He looks at me. We start giggling and chuckling at the same time.
'Yeah, fine; but the dead body over there? I think small children should have been told to leave the room already...'
'Dully noted, and broadcasted out there', Sherlock assures me.
'What now?' I ask, looking around us. 'Who did this?'
'I'm so glad you asked. Get Sheeri up, will you? This is prime time crime drama and I'm about to solve it.'
Happiness and relief fill me as once more I get to fall back on a comfortable position as Sherlock's assistant, and the man himself falls into place with a grace and fluidity to do what he does best – explain the world to me. Well, and this time to the world itself.
'Blunt force trauma to the head, John. There, at the side of the face.' The consulting detective points at the body and looks over it with the familiarity of an undertaker and the fascination of a scholar. 'Damage to the cranial structure and cerebral mass. Instant death. I believe the expression is "he didn't even see it coming". A trauma like this is beyond the force most of us could inflict in one single, sharp blow. A weapon, then. But to smuggle and conceal a weapon in this room? That suggests premeditation. Someone already planned this. Someone who knew this man always sits on this desk, facing the door, whisky glass to his right, phone to his left. It's clear from the permanent indentation marks on the chair's padding. The question becomes how to be sure the victim stood in the right position. A slight slouch in the picture could alter destiny. Again, the desk contents, and the fine must of blood and brain matter sprayed all over. Almost invisible to the naked eye.' Sherlock smiles, that slightly deranged winning smile of his, as he presents two small spray bottles from his coat pockets, very much like the ones used to use for plain travelling, with two distinct liquids inside. He sprays the first bottle with a smug smirk of someone who missed this like as expression of self. That's alright, so did I. The second liquid transforms the scene into a parallel universe of glow in the dark specks all over the desk's surface, where there are find must blood splatters. 'The phone. The receiver is set back in place but you can tell by a sizeable void he was holding it up when it happened. And this, John', he says my name out of habit, I assume, for he's looking straight at Sheeri's mechanic eye, 'is an internal phone. He was talking to someone privately when death stroke.'
Phlegmatic, my arms crossed, I notice: 'Or he was asking for help.'
Sherlock's eyes gleam with the simple challenge. He's enjoying himself. Contradicting Sherlock is the sure way to milk his genius; he works better under pressure.
'Help for what? To type a document, tie his shoelaces? John, the man didn't know that was a death trap. That was the basis of the whole operation. One of the most hated rulers of the land was trustingly answering a call when death struck him. That narrows down the pool of suspects to two.'
Three take away one is two. I won't challenge that, not on national television, not yet.
His words hang in the balance, before I whisper:
'That is amazing, Sherlock. Just amazing.'
The detective coyly looks away. It's been a while for both of us.
'Come, John', Sherlock calls me gently, heading towards an isolated bookcase at the corner of the room. I'm surprised to see it swing back like a concealed door, and the sumptuous interiors of a bathroom in marble and gold just beyond.
I follow Sherlock only to witness the next disaster, it seems. I allow my weary body to slump against the door frame, only barely hanging onto Sheeri and the world beyond.
In the bathtub, the grey tinged body of an older woman, immerged in a thick, oily bubble bath. The odd element out is a hairdryer still plugged in to the mains electricity; electric appliances make notoriously bad rubber ducks.
'Hold it', I grab Sherlock before he goes forward. 'That water is still live, possibly.'
'Hardly, John, it will have short-circuited the fuse. Hence why the only light in here and next door comes from the windows. The electrics are down.'
'Take no chances', I demand.
'How am I supposed to do my job if—'
He stops short as he glances at me and catches right of my worry lined face. I see the fight leaving his too thin, too wiry body at once.
As for me, I'm trying not to have the meltdown of a lifetime. I missed this Sherlock. Who is fulfilling his life's destiny. The one job that is so natural to him. He invented the job. He's the one and only in the world.
We're going back to the start.
Not unblemished, that's for sure, but we're full of hope and faith in a future we can love or hate on our own terms.
'John', he comes to support me at once, as my strengths fail me. 'You should take a seat. Somewhere safe.'
Out of breath, I still manage to scoff. Safe? When did I ever choose safe?
Sherlock firmly plants me on a posh velvet chair facing the grim bathtub. He glances over his shoulder. I nod. Go be Sherlock Holmes. Nothing could ever feel more healing to me right now.
'Intimacy again, John', he states without moving a muscle further than cranking his neck towards the murder victim. His deep voice is quiet and satiated as he speaks.
'She didn't find it strange to have a visitor while she was bathing. A husband or lover?' I say.
'Someone close to her, indeed. And to the man next door. In a dwelling of dozens of bedrooms and bathrooms, it is pertinent that two out the Three were together.'
'She's part of the triumvirate?'
I gulp as I realise I said it out loud within Sheeri's earshot. I wouldn't make it past another Reintegration Camp. But perhaps he are already past all that. Something changed irrevocably. A regime is falling.
'Yes, John. The most powerful Three in the land have been culled to One. And I have one suspect alone for the crimes. Motive, opportunity. Any garden variety detective could pinpoint the killer to the most dangerous man in the land, the one who believes he's above law itself.'
I can almost hear the audience's tight whispers on the other side of the screen. Sherlock still has his magician act. His abandoned mind palace being rebuilt to former splendour as we speak. That beautiful mind tuned in to high speed, gears turning, engine churning, staccato clanking over the reliable rails, and whistling along the beautiful melodies of his music.
'That was fantastic. Really, Sherlock. Truly fantastic.'
'Do not overdo it, John', he snaps, aloof, but his warm eyes betray fondness towards me.
'Sherlock, help me up, please.'
'John?' A tiny wrinkle of worry settles between his eyebrows, intensifying the green hued of his alien eyes.
'I'm alright. I'm more than alright. I can rest later. Now we need to bring justice down on a murderer who has the crown jewels in his possession. And we need to teach him a lesson or two.'
I swear Sherlock is about to say something about the jewels being polished glass, but he seems to have understood by now that it doesn't matter. Whatever they may actually be made of, to be settled definitely by a sophisticated mass spectrometer, they are part of the core of an indomitable nation. They are its very heart. They are to be ceremonially used by the Queen, but belong to us all, at the heart of London. Preferably behind half an inch thick, shatter proof glass.
We carry Sheeri again, she has served us well, not in the least to clear us from the crimes already committed by others. Used to broadcast Sherlock Holmes greatest comeback and announcing the change in everyday's life as we know it.
A dark hour still ahead of us.
.
We walk in circles, through endless corridors and stairs, and I wonder if we lost the audience already. Still clinging on to Sheeri as a recording and broadcasting devise, an electronic voice to witness our actions and motives. A couple of times my strengths have completely deserted me, and but for the faithful intervention of my best friend I would have fallen flat on my face. My heart beats steady but tiredly.
Finally we seem to find it. The heart of the vast monument to the land. A big reception room, full of mirrors, crystals and inlaid gold on the walls, frescoes on the ceiling, and centred by a long business table and periodically arranged chairs. The surface of the table is barren, and slick, reflecting the pools of light in the room. One dark silhouette is cast as a dark pool, a black hole among the scintillating night sky landscape. I look on up. A heavily built man is sat placidly at the end of the long table. His features are hard to define as he's extremely commonplace. He could be me, or some other bloke in a suit. Perhaps that's what he is, a mash up of all of us, an indistinguishable monster compiled from the worse of all of us, our fears and vanities.
'I'm here to kill you' is Sherlock's opening bid.
'Sherlock!' I protest, rolling my eyes.
'What?' he furrows his nose at me.
'He's not your newest archenemy, you know?'
'John, he directed a campaign that physically debilitated and almost killed you, he designed camps that tortured and changed you because you thought differently to the established norm, he destroyed the only home you and I ever loved and felt safe in. What do you expect me to do?'
'Put him in jail, let the courts decide over his actions. He has the right to a fair trial and to defend himself. This is still the United Kingdom. I do not do harm to avenge harm. We're better than that.'
Sherlock smiles and the aim in the gun wavers. I'm still his moral compass, I'm still John Watson.
But, honest, it doesn't mean I don't want revenge on what he's put Sherlock through.
The man clears his throat and fakes a smile.
'You all dither and backtrack. I make the though calls no one wants to make. I made us something to be proud of, no matter the cost. And you? A bunch of peace loving cowards?'
Sherlock's haw locks audibly. 'No one calls John a coward', he says through gritted teeth.
'Who would stop me? I have the power, I make the laws and I even have the crown jewels!'
He laughs, a chuckled maniacal laugh of vaudeville villains, as he dons the symbols of power like a party hat.
I feel a wave of nausea hit me as I witness this. Sheeri is but a powerless spectator, just like us.
'You really shouldn't have done that', Sherlock comments, the same anger lacing his words.
'Can you stop me?'
Sherlock looks away. The man gloats:
'In that case I'll shoot first, shall I?' he quickly backs his words by bringing a gun up and the bright spark of light and acrid smoke of deflagrated gunpowder fill the room, thundering under the gun's multiple echoes.
I hit the cold marble floor, Sherlock covering almost my every inch with his body, trying to protect my life. His fingers clawing at my forearms for perchance and reassurance.
Another shot is fired, the room nearly dissolves into darkness as my consciousness wavers.
'Great plan, Sherlock!' a sarcastic voice carries over. 'And you too, John!'
The detective's hold on me lessens fractionally as we both squirm on the cold floor to realise we're alright, and look at the newcomers. Dozens of men and women flock to the room, making it appear rather crammed all if a sudden. Some spectators step back to make way for the young woman arriving, hot gun still cocked, very blasé. Molly Hooper.
No one ever thinks her frightening. Their mistake. No one knows so many ways of killing people without leaving an identifiable trace as a pathologist. And this one is packing heat and leading the other 83 or over renegades from our side. We found strength in numbers.
'John?'
Sherlock is suddenly kneeling by my side, his strong but gentle hand splayed in my chest, monitoring my signs of life. I cover his hand with mine, my fingertips resting over his pulse, in turn.
Our hearts still beat. Strong. United.
.
These days things are so very different from the oppressive nightmare we were trapped in. Things have yet to be back to where they were, divided factions are still fighting for protagonist, and a young democracy is vulnerable but bravely marching on. As long as we keep dialogue open, and hear the words of our opponents, I have faith in the future.
As I listen to what I disagree, I learn new points of view. In the end I may stick to my guns, but I understand my neighbour better, and see him as human.
No more Reintegration Camps. They have been converted into historical museums.
No more the previous copious amounts of cctv cameras, although some remain unchallenged, like bus lane traffic cameras.
Lots of Sheeris got recycled. Some have been reprogrammed to support teaching in schools and hospitals due to their educational capability. Mostly the camera and microphone got disabled. No one is allowed to be listening in on the other side, judging you, so I guess that's alright for now. We will keep watch.
But those are realities outside 221B and they linger in the back of our minds because they are unforgettable. So Sherlock and I just know to enjoy our return to Baker Street, from which we believed we had been exiled forever.
'John, you must rest. You died, John!' Sherlock is near frantic again as he sees me pacing the living room. He worries a lot.
'Well, so did you! Snap, Sherlock. So died too once.'
He stops short, a playful smile tugging at his lips.
'You are never going to let that die down, are you?'
'Not while it suits me, no.'
He tilts his head, his features softening, but still looking haunted, haggard.
'I came back, John.'
I nod. So did I.
'For you, John', he adds.
Same here.
'Don't say that to Mycroft, he still thinks he was the one getting you back, for some reason.'
'I was making my way back, just ask Anderson.'
'Anderson? The forensic tech? That Anderson?'
I'm moving to fill the kettle (and get some cake; Mycroft still bakes, he's pondering going on a televised competition of great bakers, I believe). Sherlock nearly jumps off his seat to help me along. It still feels weird, having my flatmate so solicitous. At least I know he won't be poisoning me anytime soon, unless it's vitamins. Wouldn't put that past Sherlock, he never really understood what was morally wrong about it.
The doorbell rings, downstairs. Mrs Hudson singsongs "Coming!" on her way to the front door. Upstairs we look at each other and smile.
'Client.'
Feels like the good old days again and we heal by being Sherlock and John.
.
