Got My Eye on You

Chapter Seventy Five

The Good Man Part Six


Once he'd finished the paperwork exposing the hoax, Greg left the Yard. He headed south of the river, to a particular end terraced house in Streatham. This, he had been assured by the telephone directory service, was the address of Miss Mary Morstan. He'd tried to call John, but been told by the service provider that the phone number was no longer in use. Then he'd tried the doctor's flat landline, to find the number had been disconnected. That's when he realised that John had probably moved in with this fiancé.

So, when he came up the concrete steps of the house, he saw three doorbells, one of which was Mary Morstan's. He pushed the buzzer. A few moments later, a woman's voice answered, "Yes?"

"Is that Miss Morstan? Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I need to talk to John Watson. Is he there?"

There were noises in the hallway, then the front door opened and a blonde petite woman looked curiously at him. "He's told me about you. Come in. He's on his way back from the take-away Indian around the corner. Won't be long."

She got him seated in their front room. Mary was scrutinising him as much as he was her. "Can I offer you a drink, Detective Inspector? Tea, coffee…or maybe a beer?"

He smiled. "I'm off duty. Actually, a beer would be great."

She vanished into the kitchen, allowing him time to look around. "Nice place you've got here," he said in a voice loud enough to carry into the kitchen.

Mary reappeared carrying a tray with three tall glasses and three bottles of Kingfisher lager. "I hope you don't mind lager. John and I prefer it with curry." She handed them over and glanced about the room. "Yeah, I was lucky to find it. Nice quiet street, mixed neighbourhood, not too Yuppie. I prefer real people to City bankers."

As he poured the beer, he realised she was pretty, in quite an unconventional way. Blonde hair cut short, practical. She seemed utterly at ease with him, which in his experience was rare. When people learned he was a police officer, a lot of them would react very cautiously, even suspiciously.

The front door banged, and then then the flat door opened. John came into the room carrying two bags of what smelled delicious. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Lestrade.

"Oh, I didn't realise we had company. Greg…um, hello." Lestrade heard the hesitation.

Mary came to the rescue, prying the bags from his hands. "Detective Inspector, have you eaten? If you can tolerate tandoori chicken, lamb vindalloo and aloo ghobi, you are welcome to share. We always get too much. I will fix you a plate."

"I really shouldn't interrupt your evening; I just needed to talk to John. And, well…you've changed phone numbers and your old flat didn't have the new one, so I just…"

"Tracked me down." This time, Greg heard the subtext of suspicion.

"Yes. Problem?" He decided for Sherlock's sake to not let John off the hook.

"No…just…unexpected."

Mary reappeared with plates and cutlery, laying three places at the round table. "Sit down both of you and stop being awkward." Greg decided he liked her. Direct, but always with a sense of fun underneath. What might be considered bossiness was softened by the perpetual smile.

Food was dished out and for a moment or two, all three just tucked in while it was hot. After a few bites and a swig of beer to ease the sting of the vindaloo, John broke the silence. "Did he send you around?"

"No, Sherlock has no idea I'm here, and if he did, he'd be pissed off with me."

"Well, I'm still pissed off with him, so that's two of us." He tore off a piece of nan bread and used it to mop up some of the tandoori sauce.

Mary laughed. "Don't worry, Detective Inspector, he'll get over it."

"Please, call me Greg."

"So, why are you here?" There was still a barely suppressed anger in John's tone.

"To explain something that a sociopath won't, or can't. Might make a difference to how you think of him."

"Don't bother." John muttered.

"Yes, I will bother. And you will listen. Because you've got the wrong end of the stick. And it isn't fair."

"FAIR?" John exploded. "I'll tell you what isn't fair! A man I once thought of as my best friend lying to me for months, then letting me think he killed himself, right in front of my eyes. Fair doesn't even begin to describe someone who could let me grieve for months, two whole years, thinking I should have done something different to stop him. And then he shows up without a by your leave and just expects me to welcome him back and tell him how clever he is. Well, he isn't. Not clever, not even a bit good. He's a man incapable of feeling anything. He doesn't care what anyone else thinks. He just uses people. I just…I can't go through that again. I won't."

"John…" Mary's concern was evident. "Just calm down. Listen to what Greg has to say." When John scowled and returned his eyes to his plate, attacking the vindaloo with his fork, she glanced at the older man and rolled her eyes, then nodded at John, urging Greg on.

Greg took out his phone and laid it on the table. "There's something I should have shared with you years ago. I didn't, because I thought you would take it even harder if you had. My fault."

John looked up with real anger. "For fuck's sake, don't tell me you knew, too. Did he tell the whole bloody world? Everyone but me?"

Greg shook his head. "I found out after you did, on Saturday. But the difference is, I know what happened on the roof. I always have. I didn't tell you, because I didn't think you could handle it then. Now you can."

"What are you talking about?" John's confusion was apparent.

"Give him a chance, John. Just let the man talk."

John glared at Mary. But he leaned back from his plate and folded his arms. "I'm listening."

"Do you remember when I found you in the reception area of Barts? While they hauled you off to the nearest A&E to get that concussion checked, I went up with Dimmock onto the roof. I found Moriarty's body up there. Dead- the back of his head was blown off. I thought Sherlock killed him, and then jumped."

Mary sat forward. "Moriarty. He's the one that went on trial for all those crimes, and then claimed he was Richard Brook. It all happened when I was overseas, so I didn't hear about it until just last year. That inquiry said he was real, the one that cleared Sherlock. But they didn't say Moriarty was dead."

John had just sat there, unmoved. Now he glowered at Greg. "You…knew from the beginning that Moriarty was dead, and you didn't tell me? Why not?"

"I found Sherlock's phone on the roof up there. He must have tossed it aside. I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket. And then Mycroft's lot arrived, and shoved me down the stairs. The case never got to the police, John. It was all handled by the security services. I was put on leave and told in no uncertain terms that if I ever wanted to work again, I had to keep my mouth shut." He took a swig of his beer, then continued. "But I found something on Sherlock's phone. I recorded it onto my own, because I was sure that Mycroft would show up and demand I hand over Sherlock's phone as evidence. And I didn't want to lose this."

"What?"

"Sherlock recorded his conversation up there with Moriarty. Let me play it for you, well, just the important bits." Greg fumbled with his phone and then set it back down. He opened the recording app, scrolled down and tapped, then pushed play.

"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

John cringed. Even Greg couldn't help but shudder. That voice. It brought back such awful memories.

"Do it? Do – do what?" There was a pause, then Sherlock's voice continued. "Yes, of course. My suicide.

"Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales."

There was the sound of walking- two sets of feet on gravel. Moriarty continued, "And pretty Grimm ones, too."

Then Sherlock reacted. "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."

With some exasperation, Jim said "Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort." This was followed by the sound of pacing. Greg could visualise Sherlock doing it, as the Irishman continued. "Go on. For me….Pleeeeeease?"

Mary looked startled. "He sounds deranged."

John just closed his eyes, as if the memory was too painful; then whispered, "He was. Certifiable."

There was a scuffled, a scrape of gravel, a rustle of fabric on the recording. Sherlock's breathing became shorter. "You're insane."

Sarcastically, Jim replied, "you're just getting that now?" There were further sounds if a scuffle, then a whoop from Jim. Then in a deadly earnest tone, Jim continued, "okay, let me give you a little extra incentive…your friends will die if you don't."

Sherlock's pain was evident in his voice. "John." Greg heard the sudden intake of breath by the man sitting across from him.

"Not just John." The Irishman whispered, "Everyone."

Sherlock filled in the blank. "Mrs Hudson."

"Everyone!"

"Lestrade." Greg closed his eyes at the sound of his own name. No matter how many times he replayed this, it still shocked him to hear the pain in Sherlock's voice.

Then the Irish accent, deadly serious now. "Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now." There was a sound of further scuffling, then Moriarty continued, "…unless my people see you jump." The phone's microphone picked up the sound of Sherlock's heavy breathing. "You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless ..."

Sherlock finished then sentence."… unless I kill myself – complete your story."

"You've gotta admit that's sexier." Moriarty's sneering triumph was not disguised.

"And I die in disgrace." Sherlock's defeated tone pulled at Greg. He watched John's face. The doctor's eyes were closed. Mary was watching him too, with concern.

"Of course. That's the point of this." Moriarty's petulant impatience was clear.

John gestured at Greg, to get him to switch it off. He paused the recording. "You said you found Moriarty dead." The doctor hesitated…"did…Sherlock kill him?"

Greg shook his head. He pushed the recording time on about thirty seconds and hit play.

Sherlock was chuckling, then laughing. From some distance away, the phone picked up the sound of Moriarty's outraged "What?" then "What is it?...What did I miss?" There was a sound of a thump, then Sherlock's voice almost triumphant. "'You're not going to do it.' So the killers can be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number….I don't have to die…if I've got you." The last phrase was almost sung in delight.

Moriarty's reply was a relieved "oh!" then "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes. So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

John exchanged a startled glance with Lestrade. This was a tone of voice the doctor had not heard from Sherlock before. Utterly ruthless, almost inhuman.

"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels." Moriarty was dismissive.

Sherlock's voice became even more ominous. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

A silence fell between the two men. The phone recorder picked up the distant sound of London traffic. Then, Moriarty resumed in a shocked tone. "No, you're not." Then in a voice filled with surprise and even a bit of wonder, the Irishman continued, "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He let out a delighted little laugh and his voice raised its pitch. "You're me! Thank you!...Thank you. Bless you."

There was a sound as if the two men had moved away from each other a bit. Then Jim's voice continued, "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out….Well, good luck with that."

A sound of rustling cloth, then a cry of "no!" from Sherlock, followed immediately by the explosion of a gunshot, so loud that it distorted on the microphone, then the sound of something heavy falling onto the gravel.

"Oh" Mary's eyes were wide. "He killed himself? What, a gun in his mouth?"

Greg wondered for a moment how she could possibly know that from the sound, but just nodded. "Yes, I'm certain of it."

The recording played on, the sound of crunching gravel, movement of Sherlock as he must have investigated whether the man was dead, then turning away. His breathing was noisy, almost frantic at first, but in a few moments, it began to slow and steady: the sound of footsteps, then the sound of stepping onto something without gravel, followed by the noise of the phone being fished out of his pocket and then a speed dial.

The microphone picked up the sound of an answering phone ringing, then John's tinny voice, "Hello?" The doctor reached over and turned the phone off. He pushed the half full plate in front of him away; "I know the rest."

Mary looked stricken. She stood up and cleared the dishes and empty bottles. John was not looking at Greg, his jaw was working and he kept making as if to start talking, but then stopped himself. Finally, he managed to get something out. "Why…why didn't he tell me? Why didn't you?"

Mary stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the table. "Because you didn't let Sherlock get a word in on Saturday. And if you'd been told earlier, before you knew he was alive, you would have felt even more responsible. That's why."

The doctor looked up at her, and tried to get his breathing under control. She closed the distance between them and bent over to hug him where he sat. "Poor you. Damned if you knew, damned if you didn't. Don't blame Greg. In his shoes, I wouldn't have told you either."

She released him. John still looked stricken. "Oh God, do you know what I said to him? In the lab at Bart's when he wouldn't go with me to Baker Street- I shouted at him. I cursed him, told him he was a machine, and that friends protected people."

"He heard you, John." Greg needed the doctor to hear the rest, so he carried on. "He said that you were supposed to be miles away from Barts, protecting Mrs Hudson, not anywhere near the place. He didn't want you to watch."

John put his head into his left hand and rubbed his brow, as if to remove the sight of something. "Is that why he was so weird on the phone? He was making no sense during that final call."

"I asked him about that. It was full of code, to the people below, because he knew Moriarty's people would be listening in. He put in phrases that meant something to the homeless network who were helping him get off the roof- which option he was going for. Mycroft was listening in, relaying it to them. The fraud thing, when he said to tell people he was a fraud- it was a list of people to be protected. He always knew you were a target, but he didn't think that I or Mrs Hudson would be. Personally, I think Moriarty put us on the list to make sure Sherlock never told you, if he managed to survive the confrontation somehow."

That made John look up, confused. Mary worked it out first. "If, after he convinced Moriarty's people that he'd jumped, Sherlock contacted John later, to tell him he was alive, then he wouldn't have been able to stop you trying to find him, to help him taking down the network. That would have left Greg and Mrs Hudson exposed. The network would have known he was alive…and they'd be killed."

John clenched his fists on the table. "Why isn't he here, telling me what an idiot I've been?"

"Because he thinks you don't want to have anything to do with him. Haven't been able to forgive him for faking it." Here the detective ground to a halt. "He needs you, John. I don't know what the hell happened to him over the past two years, but…well, he's started hearing voices. He was at a crime scene today and it was weird. He kept talking to someone who wasn't there."

"Tomorrow, after work. I'll go see him." Greg saw Mary's smile and matched it with one his own.


Author's Note: If you want to know more about Sherlock's habits of talking when John's not there, read my other story entitled Still Talking When You're not There, which has new recent chapters posted.