Chapter 105 — Lockdown in Progress
"Sherlock."
"It's him. It's Moriarty."
As expected, Sherlock was met with a brief silence on the phone as John digested what he'd said.
"Moriarty's dead," John said slowly, as if he now wasn't convinced of his own words.
"Yes. I know."
Sherlock shortened his stride. He was halfway to St George's Fields. He didn't know why he was heading there.
Yes. Yes, he did. Because Rose and Grace were the only aspects of his life he was sure of at the moment. And he needed somewhere quiet to think, without the possibility of clients dropping in and interrupting him with the triviality of their lives.
As a light drizzle dampened his cheeks, Sherlock drew in a quick breath and said to John, "This is it. This is his next move. Whoever she is, she's carrying out Moriarty's final wishes. She has to have been in his employ."
At his own words, Sherlock's chest tightened. 'Miss me' scrawled across Faith Smith's note told the bigger story. A mystery to be solved! This is what he thrived on. It's what he did. Why was he feeling so anxious then?
"Look, Sherlock," came John's steady voice. "Molly's still here. She's happy to stay overnight and babysit. I can come over if… if you like."
Sherlock stopped at the edge of the kerb, his head bowed to the gutter, now glistening with rain drops. What was his next move? He was in a mind to stride into Mycroft's second office—Friday night: he'd be staying back to have a glass of brandy with the Home Secretary. He didn't know why the minor government official did that. Mycroft couldn't stand the woman. Would Sherlock have it out with his sibling, then and there? His brother was obviously hiding something. A secret sister? For God's sake!
But something told Sherlock that demanding an explanation from Mycroft was going to be like extracting teeth. So, was he in need of John's company? And why was John willing to leave his own daughter to seek out…
…danger and thrills and excitement?
Of course.
He was John Watson. Soldier. Ex-army doctor. His partner in (solving) crime.
"Dunno," he told John, his mind and heart at odds. Turning on his heels, he continued along Baker Street.
Should he go back to his flat and mull over this with John, or continue heading to St George's Fields and lock himself in his Mind Palace, alarming and worrying Rose in the process?
Or, more dramatically, confront Mycroft?
"I'm thinking of heading over to the Palace of Westminster," he said, testing the waters with John as he turned the corner into George Street. "Have it out with Mycroft. He obviously knows something."
"Hang on a minute," said John. Sherlock blinked against the rain, which grew heavier as John went on. "You know Mycroft's gonna clam up if you accuse him outright."
Heaving a sigh, Sherlock left the kerb and sought shelter just inside the Tesco Express behind him.
"I know several wrestling moves," he remarked, vigorously ruffling the rain drops from his hair.
"Yeah, I've seen your wrestling moves. Look, Mycroft doesn't respond to your sudden outbursts of violence. For him, it's par for the course. I think he'll only tell the truth if he's actually wetting himself."
At John's words, a smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock's mouth. Mycroft Holmes. A slightly hysterical Mycroft Holmes. The vision of his older brother, aged fifteen at Hull Fair, came to the forefront of his mind.
"Clowns," he murmured.
"Sorry, what?" John asked.
"Meet me at Baker Street in ten minutes."
Rose pressed the power button on the electric bottle steriliser. Folding her arms in front of her, she turned and leant back against the kitchen counter. Every bone in her body throbbed with a dull ache from lack of sleep. Her head buzzed. She glanced at the clock on the microwave oven. Ten past four. Not even worth returning to bed. She'd been rocking Grace back to sleep for the last hour. The infant had been waking every couple of hours since early evening.
Where the bloody hell was Sherlock and his magic touch?
Rose drew a hand to her nape and gently massaged the tight muscles on either side of her neck.
Tea, she thought after a moment, before turning to the kettle. She'd watch something on Sky while expressing milk. Resist the urge to text Sherlock. So much for bringing home Chinese food for dinner! Not that she was going to eat any of it.
The fluttering in Rose's stomach intensified when she thought about what could've kept Sherlock away this time—what prevented him calling or texting. Since he'd become a hands-on dad in the last few weeks, he had let Rose know, via a text message or a phone call, where he'd be whenever he left St George's Fields. This time, he'd left to search for John Watson and she'd heard nothing from him. That was twelve hours ago! Rose could only imagine what could've happened. This was Sherlock Holmes. Of course he'd get into the worst kind of strife.
Rose slowly filled the kettle. Why hadn't she sent him a text herself? At midnight she'd been tempted to. Placing the kettle onto its holder and flicking on the switch, her shoulders drooped. She knew why. She didn't want him to think she couldn't cope. After he'd left that afternoon, she had called Justine to let her know it was okay for the Wilsons to have the weekend off to travel to Blackpool. She thought Sherlock would be here the entire time.
I can't do this on my own, she thought, in a rush of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. I'm such a rubbish mother.
She glanced at the baby monitor that sat on the end of the kitchen counter, daring the steady indicator to blink and the low hum of static to burst into life. Instead, she was startled to hear the latch of the front door click back—Sherlock!—and she swallowed the sob that had risen in her throat.
Rose waited for him in the kitchen. He'd figure it out. The rest of the flat was in darkness, except for the light spilling from the open kitchen door.
Sherlock appeared in the doorway a few seconds later dressed only in his suit. Rose deduced he'd already shed his coat at the door. He looked as tired as Rose felt. No doubt he'd been up all night as well.
"What's wrong?" he immediately asked.
Rose assumed the multitude of worries etched onto her own face were rather telling. Her eyes stung with tears, but she strived to keep them at bay.
"Nothing," she hastily replied. Her own evening struggles instantly took a back seat at the sight of him. "What happened?" she asked. "How's John? Did you find him?"
"What?" Sherlock asked, slowly approaching Rose. "Oh," he said, pausing and bringing a hand to his nape and rubbing it there. "Yes. He's fine." He blinked a few times as if to reset. Pulling up in front of Rose, he bent closer and said, "Hello, Rose," before planting a soft kiss on her cheek.
"Sherlock."
"He was shot," he added, straightening up. "But he's fine now."
"What?"
"With a tranquiliser gun. Nothing to worry about."
"But… why… how…"
Sherlock turned from her.
"Did you boil the kettle?"
Her lips parted, but her answer seemed superfluous right now. Sherlock retrieved mugs from the overhead cabinet, while conflicting thoughts swam through Rose's head. Be an effective counsellor or a concerned girlfriend? Why couldn't she be both? Resist the urge to overwhelm him with your own hysterical emotions, Rose! Obviously this thing with John was worrying him. He'd shut her out, if she overreacted, and before she knew it, he'd be back on drugs again. All for a bloody case, most likely. Or for John Watson.
Sherlock had retrieved a teaspoon and was already spooning sugar into the cups.
"Her Majesty keeping you up," he said. Statement or question? He had adopted Bob's term of affection for Grace, Rose noticed.
"Yes, she's trying it on," she replied, attempting to keep her tone light and casual.
Sherlock glanced up at her, giving her a resigned smile, before his attention was drawn once more to fixing them each a cup of tea.
Rose continued, feeling the need to fill the silence.
"And so I didn't think it worth going back to bed."
Sherlock's eyes flicked to the electric steriliser that had clicked off before he'd walked in the door. The lid was now filled with steam.
He nodded his understanding. He'd worked it out then. She was sterilising a couple of bottles as well as the breast pump.
"So who shot John?" Rose asked.
Sherlock emitted a steady exhale as he poured water into the mugs.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
Rose let the silence stretch before them and watched, with growing impatience, the steam rising from their mugs as Sherlock crossed the kitchen.
She cleared her throat and asked, "Any theories, so far?" Hopefully, using words she'd heard Sherlock say on more than one occasion would enable him to open up to her. From his demeanour, and the fact that someone close to him had been involved, she knew he was bottling up his own emotions so logic and reason would dominate. From past experience, this was the Sherlock Holmes she now feared. Did she have to tread on eggshells here?
But he was here, in her flat, and he'd greeted her with a kiss. He'd paused his own thoughts long enough to ask about his daughter. These were signs that her Sherlock was still present. And that was the trick to this, wasn't it? Keep her Sherlock around.
"I have two theories, and neither of them pleasant," he replied, adding milk to their tea. He placed the milk container down, then leant against the kitchen counter and muttered, "One I can safely ignore, but the other…"
Rose struggled to hear the rest of his words. She only caught one name.
"Mycroft?" she repeated.
Sherlock straightened up and appeared to rouse himself from his thoughts.
"Sorry, Rose," he said, a sheepish smile stretching across his face. "I'm not making any sense." He left the counter and drew Rose to him. "Ignore me," he said in a low voice, before ducking his head to her. "Have I said hello yet?"
"Not... properly."
Her reply had barely left her lips before Sherlock kissed her. It was light and sweet with barely a whisper of pressure, but full of promise.
Easing back, he said again, "Hello, Rose. Sorry I'm late."
His grey-green eyes glistened and Rose took a moment to kickstart her breathing.
Placing her hands flat against his chest and applying a light pressure, she said, "Don't ask me to ignore you, Sherlock." Her eyes locked on his. "I want to help."
"You are. By being here."
"No." She shook her head. "Not by being here. I want to do more." Sherlock dropped his arms, and turned from her. "You know I'm capable," Rose went on as Sherlock retrieved the milk to put away. "You can run your theories by me. I'll listen when you want to think out loud. I'll do research for you, chat to people you need information from—you know how people like to open up to me. I'll go through lists of stuff. I'm good with paperwork. I don't know. Something. Anything." Sherlock had closed the fridge door and stood in front of it, slipping his hands inside his trouser pockets as he listened, his head tilted to one side. Was he wondering what the hell was up with her?
"Don't keep me out of the loop this time," Rose pushed on. "Don't put up barriers." Before she knew it, her eyes had filled with tears once more. Oh, God. Just what she didn't want to do: get all emotional. But she ploughed on, regardless, her airways thickening as she did so. "Just… don't… don't do that again."
Sherlock's own eyes had grown rounder. In a second, he was in front of her again.
"Don't," Rose said, sniffling as Sherlock wound his arms around her. "I'm not upset."
He bowed his head to hers, touching foreheads.
"I didn't realise you'd been so worried," he said.
"I'm not—"
"Time got away from me," he added, straightening up. "I was at my flat with John, figuring this out, then wandering around London looking for members of my Homeless Network. It won't be like last time." He paused, setting his mouth in a grim smile before continuing. "I promise." Sherlock brought his hand up, cupping Rose's face. "I've never been so appalled at my own behaviour before," he went on, his voice like gravel. "I won't go near the stuff again, or push you out of my life. I'm sorry. It was despicable of me."
As Sherlock's thumb skimmed her cheek, a warmth drizzled through Rose. She cast aside her potential over-emotional response and asked, "Can you tell me what happened yesterday?"
Sherlock dropped his hand and gave Rose a lop-sided smile.
"Tea," he said. "And then I'll tell you everything."
"Here," Rose said, handing Sherlock her phone so he could ring Billy.
Two cups of tea later, Sherlock had outlined his plan that required the assistance of his protégé. Rose had remained quiet and attentive during his recount of the events involving the mysterious impersonator. Her only objection had been to his request for Billy's new contact details, since the chemistry undergraduate had gone into hiding once more, Rose had informed him.
Sherlock reassured Rose that his need for Billy's services didn't involve any illegal substances.
"Billy," Sherlock said after hearing the man's voicemail message, "I need a circus clown and a person who can pose as a young girl. Ring me."
Author's Note:
Sorry it's short!
Thanks so much for your ongoing patience and continuing to come back to my story chapter after chapter, especially ½ a million words later.
This will be my last update before Christmas, so I hope you all have a wonderful and joyous festive season, and I'll see you in the New Year!
elbafo
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