A/N: Just a quick note, the parts in italics are moments where events are taking place in the 'real' world/modern era ;)
~8~
The Abominable Bride: Three Dreams
Two days later would find Jacqueline sitting on the sofa of 221B, a book open in her hand where she had written down the list of all of Holmes's notes regarding the 'ghost bride' while the man himself lay stretched out on the sofa, his head resting in her lap while her other hand absently stroked through his hair. She had once thought it a distraction to him and would quickly stop when she realized what she was doing, though he had confessed it soothed him and relaxed him, allowed him to think more clearly and so she kept on.
He wanted to go through every detail of every 'bride' case, every killing, to try and find some clue about how Emelia had seemingly survived her initial death.
And she knew it was not a mere curiosity to how she pulled off such a feat, but a genuine fear he had that, if she could, another might have as well.
"Eet eez not Moriarty," Jacqueline reassured him as she set the book aside.
"We cannot be certain," Holmes countered.
For as much as he would wish it to be so, he could not take that risk with Jacqueline's life. If Emelia could survive the first shot to the head, enough to be recognized and functioning as so many claimed, then so could Moriarty for he had endured the same end to his life as well. And that would mean his most foul of enemies was still alive somewhere, and that his wife and the life he had built with her was in terrible danger. If there was no possible way she had survived it, then he would know Moriarty was gone. But he had to be SURE.
"'e would 'ave done much more damage," she pointed out, "'e would not go after zese men, zey are too…small for him," she tried to find the right word, "'e would want more chaos."
Holmes had to agree with that. When he first learned of this Moriarty figure, he had spoken with her about it and she had drafted up a list of qualities he was likely to possess, to help him understand the man's next move. It was eerie how spot on she had been. If she thought he wouldn't react in this manner if he had lived, then he believed her. But that suspicion that he could still be out there was driving him up the wall. The number of times he had almost turned to his drugs and pipe in the last two days alone were concerning, but Jacqueline had been there each time, ready to distract him with a much better drug, one that calmed his mind and made his heart race.
"The fact he was able to enter our home no less than 6 times…" Holmes sighed, reaching up to take her now free hand in his own, looking at her digits as he fiddled with her hand.
"Eet eez disturbing," Jacqueline agreed, "Especially when he tried our bed."
They had had to throw it out and purchase a new one, just to remove the violating feeling of someone else sharing their bed but them.
"But he eez gone," she continued, "You made sure of zat, Locksley," she added, leaning down to kiss his forehead, earning a small smile from him.
"The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off," Holmes spoke, "And then she came back. It should be impossible. But she did it, and I need to know how. Because this is exactly how he died. How can he be alive? How could he survive?"
"How could she?"
"She couldn't."
"Zere you go zen," Jacqueline said simply, "We are all human, Locksley, one cannot survive such a wound, no matter who zey are," she hummed in consideration, "Perhaps...do not fret over how she survived but instead…how zese events happen when eet eez not her. Maybe eet can tell you zomezing about her. Not twins, but zese copy cats."
"Copy cats," Holmes repeated, before lurching straight up on the sofa, turning to face her, "COPY cats!" he reached out to take her face in his hands, kissing her soundly, "You are brilliant," he murmured, kissing her forehead, before leaping up and taking her hand to pull her to the door, when he was suddenly seized by a severe bout of shaking...
~8~
Sherlock Holmes's eyes snapped open and he sent the foulest glare he possibly could towards the male flight attendant who had shaken his shoulder. Leena, beside him, bit her lip to keep from laughing at the absolute loathing on Sherlock's face at the interruption of the story he'd been telling her. They were sitting on a somewhat long sofa on the side of the plane they'd been exiled in, his head on her lap, a hand running through his hair, while he recounted, at length and in great detail, the story of Emelia Ricoletti and his musings for how he would have solved the case had he been around back in the 1880s. She was more amused by the fact that she, John, and Mary had featured into the story as well. The second Mycroft told them they were going to be coming back to England because, apparently, Moriarty had returned, Sherlock had immediately reviewed every case he'd ever even heard of for something similar, someone who had blown their head off and come back to life, to solve how Moriarty might have survived or what could be happening to explain his sudden reappearance. She'd stopped off to the plane's loo for a moment, her stomach turning, likely from how the plane had veered back sharply, he'd taken one look at her when she'd stepped back, beamed, and launched into the tale.
She'd known better than to interrupt him while he'd been on such a tangent, though the attendant clearly hadn't.
"We've landed, sir," he remarked, glancing from Sherlock to Leena to repeat, "We've landed."
"No, no, no, not now, not now!" Sherlock huffed, "No, no, no, not now, not now!"
"Thank you," Leena offered the man who looked more than a little bewildered at Sherlock's behavior.
"I trust you had a pleasant flight, ma'am?" the female captain asked as she passed them, heading for the doors to allow Mycroft Holmes in as the man had been the one to request their return to ground.
"Yes, thanks," Leena nodded, before looking down at Sherlock as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes in frustration, thrown off his stride by the interruption and knowledge that he'd have even more coming in the moments to follow.
"Well," Mycroft spoke before Leena could utter a word of comfort to Sherlock, the man climbing aboard, "A somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, brother mine, although adequate given your levels of OCD."
Sherlock ignored him, lowering his hands to look up at Leena, "I have to go back!"
"What?"
Leena, though, merely nodded and ran a hand through his hair, "Then go, I'll be listening," she promised, glancing up at Mycroft who was eyeing Sherlock worriedly, "He almost had the answer to the case," she said by way of explanation to the question in his eyes.
"What on earth are you talking about?" Mycroft demanded.
"Go back where?" John asked as he and Mary came up behind Mycroft, "You didn't get very far."
"Ricoletti and his abominable wife!" Sherlock groused, "Don't you understand?!"
"No, of course we don't," Mary moved to sit down on a rather comfy looking chair, "You're not making any sense, Sherlock."
Leena shushed him quietly, letting him close his eyes as she looked over at them, explaining, "It was a famous case from about 140 years or so ago, the woman involved appeared to be dead, shot herself, but then, somehow, came back," she lifted an eyebrow at Mycroft, "Sound familiar?"
"Like Moriarty?" John followed.
"Shot herself in the head, exactly like Moriarty," Sherlock muttered, trying to slow his breathing and go back to where he'd been actually picturing out the scene in his mind while he described it to Leena.
It was a mental technique she had adapted that often helped him recount images of scenes he needed a second look at. It was a sort of cognitive interview, helping him relive a scene or room, picture it again, only this time a little more in depth where he made it up. But she would ask questions as he went to help him feel like he was actually there, what he would have smelt, what he would have felt, and so on.
"But you've only just been told," Mary remarked, "We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country."
"It's also been five minutes since Mycroft called," Leena reminded them, "And we DO have phones, it was trending on twitter in under a minute."
"What progress have you made?" Sherlock turned his head on Leena's lap to eye Mycroft, "What have you been doing?"
"More to the point, what have you been doing?" John eyed them with a laugh, they were both quite cozy on that sofa, Sherlock hadn't even moved to sit up.
"Sherwood has been giving me quite a bedtime story," Leena joked back, "He was telling me how he'd solve the crime if he'd been there when it happened."
Mycroft, instead of looking a little amused as the Watsons were, merely frowned down at Sherlock, angry and disappointed, "Oh, Sherlock."
"I had all the details perfect!" Sherlock sounded very close to a whine, "I was there, all of it, everything! I was immersed in my Mind Palace."
"Of course you were."
"I know," Leena soothed him, ignoring Mycroft to continue running both her hands through his hair now, "You can still bring them up again."
Mycroft frowned at her now, "You really think anyone's believing him?"
"No, he can do this," John defended, "I've seen it, the Mind Palace. It's like a whole world in his head."
"The Mind Palace is a memory technique. I know what it can do; and I know what it most certainly cannot."
Leena snorted, "Just because YOU can't do it, doesn't mean Sherwood can't."
Mycroft appeared even less amused, "Did you make a list?" he asked her, knowing Sherlock likely wouldn't have, he did like to make things difficult.
"I make lots of lists, Mycroft, you're going to have to be more specific."
"You know damn well which list I'm talking about!" Mycroft nearly snapped at her, "Did you make a list of everything he's taken?"
"What the hell makes you think he's taken anything?" Leena glared at him now, her hands stilling in their running, which made Sherlock smirk at the tone of her voice even if he was disappointed in the fact that she stopped.
"Look at him!"
"He's content, Mycroft," Leena spoke, a hint of ice in her voice, "I know it's a foreign concept when he's around you, but with ME he DOES relax! And for you to even suggest that he's used anything? After everything? He hasn't needed a list in years, you absolute prick."
"What…what list is this?" Mary asked even as Sherlock snorted at Leena's words.
"We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day," Mycroft sighed, rubbing his head, "Wherever I find him, whatever back alley or doss house, there will always be a list of the drugs he's taken."
"You should have told me the first time," Leena shot a positively venomous glare at Mycroft, "We could have sorted it sooner."
"I was trying to protect you," Mycroft looked at her, "No one deceives like an addict."
She hadn't been the first person to know Sherlock had gotten into a bad way with drugs, no, that had been Mycroft. She was of the belief that, had Mycroft not gotten involved in 'caring' for his brother, she would have seen it all much sooner than she had and handled it faster. But between the Holmes brothers, between Mycroft helping to cover it up and sober him up during times he'd spend with her, certain tells had slipped through the cracks. When she had finally seen what was happening…
That had been THE most explosive fight she had ever had with Mycroft in her entire life…and Sherlock had been so strung out through most of it he barely remembered the very creative words she used and likely couldn't remember a word of the French she'd slipped into when her anger had been highest.
After that SHE had demanded to be the one to find Sherlock, to get him out, to try and help him. Mycroft wouldn't let her assist or do much at first, but she'd hacked his phone and put a tracer on his precious umbrella and she would show up wherever he went to collect Sherlock. He said he was trying to protect his parents and her from seeing him like that. She'd been spitting angry he had hidden it, that he hadn't gotten Sherlock help.
He kept saying Sherlock would refuse and 'I know my brother' and so many other excuses that she had all but called him an enabler.
Part of her getting Sherlock clean had been to spite Mycroft. She loved Sherlock, she wanted him clean and sober for his own health and wellbeing, which was why she'd locked them both away during that awful time. That was the largest part of it, but a smaller part was to show Mycroft he was wrong and that Sherlock COULD be helped and could stay clean if one just went about it the right way. Who the hell knew if her way had been the right way at all or if she could have done something better, different, faster, but it worked in the end.
She still had never forgiven Mycroft for not coming to her the first time it happened, thinking about all those times Sherlock had spiraled the way he had, the ways he'd suffered, the danger he'd put himself in.
Sherlock moving cut through her thoughts, the man reaching into his pocket to pull out a folded piece of paper, handing it to John.
John frowned but opened hit, his eyes instantly widening with shock.
Mycroft froze, staring at John's expression, his heart stopping at the realization…there WAS a list this time and SHERLOCK had kept it…his eyes shot to Leena, never wanting her to experience what he had, especially after all her efforts to keep his brother clean...only...she was smirking now.
"Um," John cleared his throat, trying to hand the paper back, but Mary had gotten up to snatch it and see what it was, "That's…something."
Mary snorted and burst out laughing, "Interesting choices," she agreed, handing the paper back to Leena.
"This is a serious matter!" Mycroft snapped when John began to smile.
Leena rolled her eyes and bunched the paper into a ball to throw at Mycroft, the man shooting her a glare when he unrolled it…
His eyes narrowed so much that she was sure, for a moment, he'd closed his eyes.
"Funny," he sneered at them, "So very funny," before he threw the ball away.
It was a list alright.
A list of every name under the sun that they had ever considered calling him besides BomE, not all of them in English, and a few in particular he recognized from that one explosive fight with Leena years ago, in French. It appeared some of it had actually stuck in Sherlock's memory.
"So this Emelia Ricoletti," Mary pulled out her phone to try and look her up, "What exactly was her case…"
"Here," Leena called out, tossing her phone to the woman, "I've already got it up."
"And I have access to the top level of the MI5 archive…" Mycroft added, seeing Sherlock didn't appear about to move before he finished 'solving the case.'
"Yeah," Mary laughed, "That's where I'm looking," she wiggled Leena's phone, which made him roll his eyes at the fact that, of course, Leena had hacked into MI5, "Emelia Ricoletti. Unsolved like they said."
Sherlock let out a huff now, "Could you all just shut up for five minutes?" he snapped, "I was nearly there before you stepped on and starting yapping away."
"Yapping?'" John snorted.
Leena chuckled, resuming running her hand through his hair, "Go on, Sherwood, I want to hear the end of the story."
"Thank you!" he huffed, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to the nearest area to his lips which made her giggle somewhat when he hit a ticklish place on her stomach, "Now…where was I…"
~8~
"Ah, Watson!" Holmes cheered as they reached the door and threw it open, only to see Watson heading up the stairs.
Watson took one look at his ecstatic expression and sighed, turning his gaze to Jacqueline beside him, "Which is it today, morphine or cocaine?"
Jacqueline shook her head, a soft smile on her face, "Neither. You know I do not allow zat in our home."
Watson had to chuckle at that, from what Holmes had told him, a story from many years ago, once he had cleaned up, he had allowed Jacqueline to tear the flat apart and threw every ounce of any sort of drug out the window.
"Sherwood, I zink, has had a breakthrough," she continued.
"Really?" Watson turned to him, his eyes wide, "Good lord, what is it?"
Before Holmes could speak though, the houseboy, Billy, ran up the stairs, "Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! Telegram, Mr. Holmes!" he hurriedly offered the telegram to Holmes and rushed off again.
Holmes frowned, not having expected a telegram and opened it, his eyes scanning it quickly, before his eyes widened. Jacqueline, who was beside him reading over his arm, gasped, a hand moving to her mouth.
"What is it?" Watson frowned, "What's wrong?"
"Eet eez Mary," Jacqueline told him, hurrying for her coat on the rack as Holmes moved to grab his own.
"Mary? What about her?"
"It's entirely possible she's in danger," Holmes warned him, swinging on his coat as well, taking the deerstalker hat from his wife.
"Danger?!"
"There's not a moment to lose."
"What danger could Mary be in? I'm sure she's just visiting with friends."
"Come on!" Holmes called, hurrying down the stairs with the two following close behind, running out onto the street and looking around for a cab.
Jacqueline merely strode ahead and held a hand into the air, "Cab!" she called out, and one quickly pulled up for he lovely woman. She winked back at her husband and Watson, before climbing in, not about to let her husband tell her to stay away from this one, not when one of her dear friends was in danger too.
~8~
As soon as the cab hit the countryside, it took off at Holmes's urging for haste, a fast canter careening them towards their destination just as dusk began to fall.
"So, tell me, where is she?" Watson demanded, having needed some time to gather himself and prepare himself for the answer, "You must tell me. What's going on?"
"Oh, good old Watson!" Holmes muttered, "How would we fill the time if you didn't ask questions?"
"Sherwood," Jacqueline reached out to touch his arm, "Eet eez his wife," she reminded him, "How would you be eef eet was me?"
Holmes fell silent at that, nodding, taking the hand she'd placed on him to kiss her knuckles, before turning to Watson, "She's at a de-sanctified church. She thinks she's found the solution and, for no better reason than that, she's put herself in the path of considerable danger," he glanced away, "I must say, Watson, you've made an excellent choice of wife. Not so great as my own, but near."
Jacqueline rolled her eyes at that, but leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, knowing it was Sherlockish for quite a high compliment to Watson.
It was only another few minutes before they arrived at the church, the two men and Jacqueline bounding out and running through the cloisters in search of Mary. They made it halfway through before Mary herself stepped out in front of them.
"What the devil?!" Watson nearly shouted at the sudden appearance.
"I've found them!" Mary exclaimed, beaming as she pointed into the church, pausing when a distant chanting began. She put a finger to her lips and led them towards the sound, moving down a series of steps.
"What is all this, Mary?" Watson demanded quietly.
"This is the heart of it all, John, the heart of the conspiracy."
She continued to lead them on to the vaults, until they reached a pair of arched stone, windows through which they could see a procession of people, likely women given the voices chanting the Latin phrases, walked past, all wearing dark blue robes with pointed conical hats that were veiled to cover their faces.
"Great God, what is this place?" Watson breathed as he and Jacqueline looked through one window, Mary and Holmes through another, "And what the devil are you doing here?" he asked his wife.
"I've been making enquiries," Mary said simply, "Mr. Holmes asked me."
"Holmes, how could you?!"
"No, not him. The clever one."
"I cannot recall a 'cleverer' one," Jacqueline remarked, which made Mary smile.
"It seemed obvious to me that this business could not be managed alone," Mary continued, "My theory is that Mrs. Ricoletti had help, help from her friends."
"Copies," Holmes murmured, nodding, "Bravo Mary," he offered, before blinking, "'The clever one?'"
Watson let out a breath and turned to his wife, moving over to her while Holmes went to join his own wife, "I thought I was losing you. I thought perhaps we were neglecting each other. You're working for Mycroft?"
"He likes to keep an eye on his mad sibling," Mary shrugged, "And he knew not to ask Jacqueline after the last time."
Holmes smirked recalling the limp his brother had had when he'd first made the mistake of asking Jacqueline to do such a thing. She had perfected the art of kicking one in the shins some time ago.
"'aving an already trained spy would help," Jacqueline remarked, nodding, only for Watson to gape and look from her to Mary, startled.
Holmes caught on, realizing Watson hadn't realized the truth about Mary that he and Jacqueline had, "Has it truly never occurred to you that your wife is excessively skilled for a nurse?"
"Of course it hasn't," Mary smirked, "Because he knows what a nurse is capable of. When did it occur to you?"
"26 hours after we met," Jacqueline remarked, at the same time Holmes said, "Only now, I'm afraid."
Holmes looked at his wife, surprised, but she merely turned to Mary as though in apology, "I 'ad a cold you see, mal de tete terrible."
"I'll let it pass this time," Mary teased back, a headache was a good enough excuse for her, though she couldn't help but add another tease to Holmes, "Must be difficult being the slow little brother."
"Time I sped up," Holmes decided, determined to make up for his lax observations of Mary and impress his wife once more, "Enough chatter. Let's concentrate."
"Yes, alright," Mary turned to watch the procession, "What's all this about? What do they want to accomplish?"
"Why don't we go and find out?" he mused, turning to head through the vaults, passing a few columns and finally reaching a small chapel where the procession had ended, the women gathered, still chanting. He looked over at a gong set to the side and moved to grab the mallet, banging it loudly enough to draw their attention, "Sorry. I could never resist a gong. Or a touch of the dramatic."
"Never have guessed," Mary muttered, sending Jacqueline a look as though to ask 'how do you put up with that?'
"Though it seems you share my enthusiasm in that regard," Holmes continued as though he hadn't heard her speak, moving into the middle of the gathering, "Excellent. Superlative theater. I applaud the spectacle," he gave them a grin, slowly walking back to his wife's side, turning to eye them all, "Emelia Ricoletti shot herself, then apparently returned from the grave and killed her husband. So, how was it done? Let's take the events in order. Mrs. Ricoletti gets everyone's attention in very efficient fashion. She places one of the revolvers in her mouth while actually firing the other into the ground. An accomplice sprays the curtains with blood and thus her apparent suicide is witnessed by the frightened crowd below. She falls backwards into the room, where another woman is already lying, wearing an identical wedding dress and makeup. A substitute corpse bearing a strong resemblance to Mrs. Ricoletti takes her place and is later transported to the morgue. A grubby little suicide of little interest to Scotland Yard. Meanwhile the real Mrs. Ricoletti slips away. Now comes the really clever part. Mrs. Ricoletti persuaded a cab driver, someone who knew her, to intercept her husband outside his favorite opium den. The perfect stage for a perfect drama. A perfect positive identification. The late Mrs. Ricoletti has returned from the grave and with a little skilled make-up and you have nothing less than the wrath of a vengeful ghost. The alley she disappeared down had a manhole set, one quick stomp of her shoe, and another accomplice uncovers it, allowing her down, to disappear before the nearest officer can spot her. There was only one thing left to do. All that remained was to substitute the real Mrs. Ricoletti for the corpse in the morgue. This time, should anyone attempt to identify her it would be positively, absolutely her."
"But why would she do that?" Mary asked, horrified at the idea of anyone setting the scene up in a way where it was the only conclusion for them to actually die in the end, "Die to prove a point?"
"Martyrs exist in every great cause," Jacqueline answered.
"Every war has suicide missions," Holmes agreed, "And, make no mistake, this is war. One half of the human race at war with the other," he took a few steps towards the robed figures, "The invisible army hovering at our elbow, attending to our homes, raising our children, ignored, patronized, disregarded, not allowed so much as a vote," he watched as the figures began to pull their hoods off to reveal all of them women, "But an army nonetheless, ready to rise up in the best of causes, to put right an injustice as old as humanity itself. So, you see, Watson," he turned to his friend, moving over to Jacqueline once more, "Mycroft was right. This is a war we must lose," he reached out and took Jacqueline's hand, pressing a kiss to it as though asking for her forgiveness, "As we should. As we deserve."
"Not all men," Jacqueline reassured him, seeing an apology in his eyes that he did not owe her, "Not my husband," she added, smiling at him so he would know he was the best of them, "I have always been your equal."
"My better half," Holmes corrected, for it was undeniably true in his opinion, "In every way. I would not be the man I am without you, Jacqueline. I cannot be me without you."
It did not escape Mary's notice, as she gazed at each of the women there, how they looked at Holmes in that moment, that wistfulness in their gaze that she had seen in the mirror herself. For a man to treat them not even as a superior but an equal, to hear them and appreciate them, to trust them and encourage them, to know what they were capable of and to celebrate it…the way Holmes did with his wife every day. She had seen it in them, the way that Holmes turned to her for her thoughts and opinions, how he included her in his investigations, how he never expected her to just sit off to the side twiddling her thumbs but instead would have her work with him by taking notes or making lists of evidence. And even then, she knew, she could see it in him, that he never felt it was enough, the freedom he gave his wife, because society as a whole would never treat Jacqueline the way he did, that she was limited, even still, by what others would allow of her.
It had taken Lestrade ages to accept that Jacqueline had a specialty of her own, a background in investigation that could assist the Yard. Many times, at first, he would disregard Jacqueline's opinions and suggestions, focusing entirely on Holmes, casting off Jacqueline's expertise as a flight of fancy from a nonsensical woman. Holmes had issued an ultimatum that he would cease to assist the Yard if Lestrade continued to disrespect his wife in such a manner, he had refused to speak with the man when he would come to him with a case that only really needed help to identify the criminal in question and nothing else , giving the stack of papers Lestrade would bring to his wife with a pointed look at the man that said he would allow the woman to look at it and make her statements for the both of them. Eventually she had shown herself to be an asset to Lestrade, but it would not have come to be if Holmes had not been so adamant and so supportive, giving his wife those opportunities to prove herself.
Not many women had such men in their lives.
And, now, standing before these women, Mary had the sneaking suspicion that Holmes would soon realize that there were women beyond his own wife who had to suffer the idiocy of small-minded men. Perhaps that was why he hadn't worked out this grand scheme earlier, because all other women blended into those who were not his wife and, therefore, were of no concern to him. Even SHE sometimes fell into that category despite being the wife of his best friend. Now, seeing them, seeing all of them, he could not help but realize how his gender had failed so many others beyond just Jacqueline.
"She was dying," Watson realized, murmuring beside her, not seeming to realize he'd said it out loud nor meant for it to be heard, but the acoustics of the hall made him sound louder than he was.
"Who was?" Holmes turned to look at him.
"Emelia Ricoletti. There were clear signs of consumption. I doubt she was long for this world."
"So she chose her own time," Jacqueline nodded, "To make eet count."
"Yes," Holmes nodded, following along, "She was already familiar with the secret societies of America and was able to draw on their methods of fear and intimidation to publicly, very publicly, confront Sir Eustace Carmichael with the sins of his past."
"He knew her out in the States," one of the women there spoke, not quite as deep as three of them were familiar hearing it, "Promised her everything," the woman stepped forward, to reveal Doctor Hooper, but without the false wig or mustache, "Marriage, position, and then he had his way with her and threw her over, left her abandoned and penniless."
"Hooper!" Holmes gaped at her, looking truly startled to see her as a woman and not the annoyance at the morgue he was familiar with.
"Holmes," Hooper greeted, not at all apologetic for the trickery, she had done what she needed to do to get ahead in a man's world even if it meant playacting as one of them.
"For the record, Holmes, she didn't have me fooled," Watson had to add…until he noticed one of the women in the gathering was his own maid, who had only recently complained that he didn't mention her in his works.
"Nor me," Jacqueline added.
"Yes, well, find anything that can escape your eyes," Holmes muttered.
Mary snorted, "You didn't notice because she wasn't Jacqueline."
Holmes had to concede to that, he did have a terrible time recognizing women who weren't his wife. It took him a full year before he could remember that the woman Watson was courting was called Mary. He could at least recall her face, ready to be deleted from his mind should the courtship or, later, marriage fall through, but it kept on.
"Emelia thought that she'd found happiness with Ricoletti," another woman with a faint Irish accent spoke, stepping up beside Hooper, "But he was a brute too. Emelia Ricoletti was our friend. You have no idea how that bastard treated her," she softened as she observed Holmes beside his wife, still holding the hand he had kissed, "You really couldn't," she mused, for it was clear to all of them that the man before them, for as callous as he appeared in real life, for as cold as he sometimes came across in Doctor Watson's stories, could never treat his wife anything close to horrible or neglectful.
"But…the Bride, Holmes," Watson frowned, "We saw her."
"Ze apparition?" Jacqueline guessed he meant that and not the physical one he had apparently seen before he fled guarding the window, for that one could be explained as one of the women there in costume, "Eet eez an old trick, I saw eet used in the theaters of France before," she added.
"The sound of breaking glass wasn't a window," Holmes elaborated, "It's called Pepper's Ghost. A simple reflection, in glass, of a living breathing person. Their only mistake was breaking the glass when they removed it. Look around you. This room is full of Brides. Once she had risen, anyone could be her."
"Copy cats," Jacqueline realized how her word had triggered this and Holmes' epiphany of the duplicate, copied body of Emelia.
"The avenging ghost, a legend to strike terror into the heart of any man with malicious intent, a specter to stalk those unpunished brutes whose reckoning is long overdue. A league of furies awakened. The women I…"
"Men," Jacqueline quietly interrupted, squeezing his hand, not about to let him put this all on himself.
He smiled at her, "The women whom men have lied to, betrayed, the women men have ignored and disparaged. Once the idea exists, it cannot be killed. This is the work of a single-minded person, someone who knew first-hand about Sir Eustace's mental cruelty. A dark secret, kept from all but her closest friends..." he looked over when one of the women stepped out from the gathering, dressed as the Bride, veil and all, "Including Emelia Ricoletti. The woman her husband wronged all those years before. If one disregards the ghost, there is only one suspect," he looked at the Bride, "Isn't that right, Lady Carmichael? One small detail doesn't quite make sense to me, however. Why engage me to prevent a murder you intended to commit?"
"Suspicion," Jacqueline answered when the Bride was silent, "She could not be a suspect eef she was trying to prevent eet happening."
"Brilliant," Holmes breathed, both for his wife at figuring it out and Lady Carmichael for thinking of it.
"Is it?" a voice that was distinctly not Lady Carmichael, or any woman, spoke, and the veil was lifted to reveal Moriarty beneath it…
~8~
"Moriarty?" Leena laughed, flicking Sherlock on the nose as he chuckled and opened his eyes to look up at her, "Ridiculous, Sherwood."
"What?" he challenged, smiling up at her, "I had to make sure you were paying attention!"
"I always listen when you speak," she gave him a look, "You were starting to lose the plot early though. A sudden telegram? A de-sanctified church? Costumes? A gong? A GONG?"
Sherlock chuckled and sat up, a new determination in his voice, a surety that he had solved it, and proven Moriarty couldn't be back, "Mrs. Emelia Ricoletti. I need to know where she was buried."
"What, 120 years ago?!" Mycroft scoffed from where he'd been checking his emails on his phone and scheduling a complete drug test for his brother, wanting to be sure he hadn't somehow convince Leena to cover for him.
"Yes."
"There should be some sort of record for it," John remarked.
"That would take weeks to find, IF those records even exist," Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Even with my resources…"
"Got it!" Mary called out, beaming as she looked at Leena's phone, "You need to send me a copy of this program, I am loving it."
~8~
Leena did her best to hold in her laugh at how Sherlock was smirking at Mycroft's intense glare as they walked through the cemetery Mary claimed Emelia was buried in. Mycroft was meant to detain them, take them into a briefing, not allow them to 'wander free' but Sherlock would not quit and refused to leave the plane and threatened to move with Leena to France, leaving England to fend for itself against the return of Moriarty, unless Mycroft arranged this first. Having no other option, the man had done so.
Had Sherlock threatened a move to America, Mycroft would have certainly known he was bluffing. But, given there HAD been one time when he was 13 that she had been in France for two months due to some family obligations and he'd threatened to run away to France and literally did that, showing up on her doorstep not 24 hours later…Mycroft knew a threat to uproot to France was entirely possible.
"I don't think the extra officers are necessary, Mycroft," Leena remarked as she followed Sherlock, John and Mary behind her, Mycroft and Lestrade joining them, with a number of officers everywhere.
"Sherlock is a flight risk," Mycroft muttered, not happy with this at all.
"I don't get it," John spoke as Sherlock began to look at the headstones, "How is this relevant?"
"Finding the body and perhaps even the double will mean he was right," Leena explained.
"Because it could explain how Moriarty did it?" Mary followed along.
"But none of that really happened," John argued, "Solving the case, it was in his head."
"It's a possible solution," Leena argued, "The crime happened the same way, and it IS a logical plan. If he's right, he has a way to explain Moriarty appearing again, and also how Moriarty could truly be dead."
"Here!" Sherlock called, finding it, cutting off any remarks John was about to make.
"The stone was erected by a group of her friends," Mary eyed the inscription for 'Emelia Ricoletti,' "Not by her family or her husband's…"
"Would John's family chip in for a stone for you if you killed him?" Leena countered, it did make sense.
"I don't know what you think you'll find here," Mycroft huffed.
"I need to try," Sherlock argued, "Mrs. Ricoletti was buried here, but what happened to the other one, the corpse they substituted for her after the so-called suicide?"
"They'd move it," John reasoned, "Of course they would."
"But where?"
"Well...not here."
"It would be the last place anyone would look for it, though," Leena reasoned.
"The conspirators had someone on the inside," Sherlock nodded, "They found a body, just like Molly Hooper found a body for me when I…" he was cut off by Leena pressing the tips of her fingers to his mouth.
"I would rather hear anything else in the world than you talking about how you faked your death again, Sherlock," she told him, serious, "I'd even take having to hear Mycroft having sex over that."
Sherlock's face scrunched in disgust which set Leena laughing, but he nodded, agreeing not to bring it up. Instead he turned and began trying to dig at the grave with a shovel Lestrade had brought with them.
"You're not seriously gonna do this?" John eyed him.
"It's why we came here," Sherlock shrugged, "I need to know."
"I don't," John huffed, "I am NOT helping with this. I draw the line at grave robbing. When you're ready to go to work, give me a call. I'm taking Mary home," he reached out to take is wife's arm.
"You're what?" Mary turned to him, her eyebrow raised.
"Mary's taking me home," John amended instantly.
"Better," she shot Leena a wink before the two of them turned to walk off, a promise she'd get John to calm down and a request to let her know how this went with a single half-blink.
"Here," Leena moved forward, a shovel of her own in hand, "I'll help…"
"No!" Sherlock said quickly, so fast and sharp that she nearly jumped, but just gave him an unimpressed look, "Mycroft should."
She sighed, "Between the two of us, which has more experience helping you dig up a grave?"
Lestrade and Mycroft both looked at her for that, their eyes slightly wide in surprise that she was admitting she'd actually helped him dig up a grave before.
"You're wearing a white coat," Sherlock said, sounding very much like he was grasping for straws, "It'll get dirty."
"I can take it off," she pointed out.
"You shouldn't," Sherlock spoke, giving her a look in return, something unreadable to anyone else in his expression, but Leena saw through it and sighed, "It's chilly," he added as an afterthought, "We've just got back, no use getting sick," he smirked at that last part.
She narrowed her eyes and shook her head as though silently scolding him, before she sighed and turned to hold the shovel out to Mycroft, giving him a pointed nod to his brother.
Mycroft looked between them, feeling like he'd missed something, but took the shovel anyway, because Leena was asking so politely…and he didn't want his shins kicked in for refusing, he was sure that the hairline fracture she'd caused that one time still hadn't healed properly, "Cherchez la femme," he murmured.
Leena crossed her arms, "Ne parlez pas français, Mycroft, vous semblez stupide."
Sherlock snorted and the two Holmes brothers got to work.
~8~
Hours had passed and the Holmes brothers had finally seemed to reach the six foot depth to the coffin of Emelia Ricoletti. Lestrade and his officers had set up portable lights all over the area to help in the dark, he'd even had an officer run out to get them some warm tea when it began to truly get chilly. Mycroft had tried to hand off the shoveling to Lestrade at some point, but refrained when Leena shot him a foul look. Her thoughts were cut off when Sherlock's latest move was met with the hallow thunk of the coffin.
Sherlock looked up at them, before he and Mycroft got to work getting rid of the last of the dirt from the coffin, grunting as they grabbed it from the sides and managed to heft it up to the ground. Lestrade stepped over with a crowbar, wrenching it under one end of the coffin lid before handing it over to Sherlock to get the other side after he'd climbed out of the hole. Inside was a very rotted corpse, nearly entirely a skeleton by that point, worms everywhere, wearing a rotted version of a wedding dress.
"Eww," Leena grimaced at the sight, looking away, not really wanting that image stuck in her mind for the rest of her life.
Mycroft, who had gotten out of the hole himself, turned to shine a torch on the corpse while Sherlock took a breath and forced himself to reach into the coffin, feeling around and under the body for the second one he suspected being there. It wasn't enough to find a physical body in the coffin, for all they knew, without proper DNA testing, it could be the duplicate and not Emelia, he had to find two bodies for his theory to be correct.
"Oh dear," Mycroft huffed when that rooting about came up with nothing, "The cupboard is bare."
"They must have buried it underneath," Sherlock reasoned, "They must have buried it underneath the coffin."
He looked over when a shovel appeared next to his face to see Leena holding it out to him, "Then find it," she said simply.
He grinned, jumping to his feet and leaping into the hole once more, digging and tossing the earth to the side, searching for the duplicate.
"Bad luck, Sherlock," Lestrade called down to him, when still nothing appeared, "Maybe they got rid of the body in another way."
"More than likely," Mycroft agreed.
"No," Leena shook her head, "They wouldn't risk someone else finding the body and working out the truth behind the ruse."
"Exactly!" Sherlock called up to them.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Leena called HIM an enabler.
"At any rate," Mycroft called down to his brother, "It was a very long time ago. We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, little brother. Moriarty, back from the dead?"
Sherlock ignored the man, continuing to dig even as it began to rain, creating a muddy mess within the grave. His shovel vibrated in his hand when it struck something hard in the dirt. He lifted it and began to shove the dirt nearby away, staring when he saw the beginnings of a skull staring at him from the mud. He spun around to call up to the others that he was right...and tripped on the mud, falling into the grave, his head slamming into the ground right beside the skull with a thud.
"Sherlock!" Leena's gasping call was the last he heard as his vision went dark…
~8~
Holmes jolted up with a start, his hand flashing to the back of his head where he could swear he had hit a rock or something while he'd been digging a grave in…quite an odd time. Or was it an odd time?
As he straightened up and looked around, he was hit with the distinct feeling, a realization more so, that he was dreaming. The last he knew, he had been in a church, surrounded by women, and a dead man had appeared…which, admittedly, should have been a sign that he was dreaming for he knew Moriarty to be well and truly dead now that he knew Emelia Ricoletti could not have survived. Now, he was lying on the ground, on a ledge beside a roaring waterfall far too similar to the Reichenbach he had thrown Moriarty's body down.
His hand moved from the back of his head to his forehead, "I see," he murmured, nodding to himself, "Still not awake," he reasoned.
It was becoming clear to him now, these…dual lives he kept envisioning. One was real, one was a cognitive technique his wife had developed to help him imagine scenes playing out only, somewhere along the lines, it had blurred into a dream world of sorts. Which was where he was now.
Though…despite now being aware he was apparently in a dream, seeing his wife lying beside him, unconscious and far too close to the ledge, was enough to jolt him into action. Dream or not, he would never allow harm to come to his wife, real or imagined.
"Leena!" he scrambled over, reaching out to touch her cheek, his other hand on her shoulder to lightly shake her.
He didn't know how he'd fallen unconscious and ended up there, a sure sign of a dream how disjointed it was, but that Jacqueline was there with him was a relief. His mind, apparently, could not bear to have his wife so far even when he wasn't actively in control of it.
Thank the Lord.
"Locksley?" Jacqueline murmured as she slowly woke, blinking up at him and reaching out to touch his cheek, her fingertips moving along it to his hair, "Your hair eez wet."
He chuckled at her observation, they were both covered in a fine sheen of the mist from the waterfall, and he knew it must be playing havoc with his hair. It was always unruly and curly when he would wash it, before he could slick it back, but he knew his wife loved it and, even in such a dire situation as this, that she could find comfort in him meant everything to him. And so he leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead…when another voice spoke out behind him.
"Aww, sweet."
They both looked over to see Moriarty standing there, a full moon behind him, illuminating the area. Holmes shot him a glare, reaching out a hand to help his wife up, keeping her more behind him and out of Moriarty's path for the man had a gun in his hand.
"Too deep, Sherlock," the man sighed, sounding bored and disappointed, "Way too deep. But congratulations. You'll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace."
Holmes scoffed, "The setting's a shade melodramatic, don't you think?"
"For you and me?" Moriarty considered it, "Not at all."
"Sherwood," Jacqueline spoke quietly a little more beside him than he would have wanted, "HOW eez he here?"
"He's not," Holmes reassured her, "Moriarty's dead."
"Not in your mind," Moriarty smirked, enjoying how much he could taunt them, "I'll never be dead there. Imagine your brain is a hard drive," he began to step forward, Holmes not moving but moving his wife further behind him, "Well, say hello to the virus. This is how we end, you and I. Always here, always together."
Holmes shook his head, "You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty. I admire it. I concede it may be even be the equal of my own…"
Moriarty smiled, "I'm touched. I'm honored."
"But when it comes to the matter of unarmed combat on the edge of a precipice," Holmes smirked, "You're going in the water," he eyed the man, "Short-arse."
Moriarty lunged at him for the insult, reaching as though he wanted to jab at Holmes, only to stumble back with a hiss when Jacqueline, from the side and unnoticed by Moriarty's fixation on Holmes, moved and kicked him in one of his shins. Holmes used the distraction to rush forward, grabbing Moriarty and shoving him against the rock of the ledge wall.
"Run!" he called to Jacqueline.
But Moriarty then used HIS distraction to twist, managing to slam him into the wall instead, before kicking his foot out to send him to the ground.
"You think you're so big and strong, Sherlock!" Moriarty snarled, managing to get himself onto of Holmes and land a sound punch across his face, "Not with me!" and again, "I am your WEAKNESS!" and again, "I keep you DOWN!" and again, "Every time you STUMBLE, every time you FAIL, when you're WEAK…" and one more time, "I…AM…"
Before he suddenly fell to the side.
"So stupid," Jacqueline huffed behind him, panting, a very large rock in her hands that she'd slammed to the side of Moriarty's head to drop him, "If you zink I would ever run away when my husband eez being threatened!" she turned as Moriarty tried to struggle back to his knees, and used her own knee to hit him in the face, "Or zat he would ever face zomezing like zis alone!" Moriarty groaned, twisting on the ground and Jacqueline lifted the rock again, Moriarty actually cowering, but she let it go with one hand and pointed a warning finger at him, "Stay down!" she snapped, glaring, before she threw the rock over the ledge and hurried over to Holmes's side to help him sit up.
"Leena," Holmes breathed as Jacqueline pulled him into a tight hug, "I told you to run."
She scoffed in his ear, "Eet eez you and me, Sherwood," she pulled back to look at him, her hands cupping his cheeks, her eyes roving over his bruised and cut face, "Togezer, both of us, always."
"I wouldn't if I were you," the voice of Doctor Watson spoke, and the two looked over to see Moriarty had managed to stagger to his feet and appeared about to try and launch himself at them, only for Watson to stop him, standing there with his revolver in hand, aimed right at their enemy, "Professor, if you wouldn't mind stepping away from my friend. I do believe he finds your attention a shade annoying."
Holmes smirked, watching Moriarty stumble away before turning back to Jacqueline who pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his split lip, allowing his wife to tend to him now that Moriarty was well in hand.
"That's not fair!" Moriarty huffed, sounding far more petulant than a man who had gotten soundly throttled by a woman should, "There's two of you!"
"Three," Watson corrected, sending Jacqueline a wink, "There's always three of us. Don't you read 'The Strand?'" he gestured at the man, "On your knees, Professor," he waited till Moriarty did so, "Hands behind your head."
"Merci beaucoup, John," Jacqueline smiled at the man.
"De rien," Watson smirked, before his gaze turned to Holmes, "I think it's time you woke up, Sherlock," he gave the man a smile at his startled look, "I'm a storyteller. I know when I'm in one."
"Of course," Holmes remarked, knowing this was his mind's way of telling him the story had resolved itself, that it was time to wake. He had accomplished what his mind needed him to, he had learned Moriarty had not survived, that the only place he lived on was in memory, and even then, he would never have to face that alone, he had his wife and his friend beside him, "Of course you do, John."
"So what's he like? The other me, in the other place?"
"Smarter than he looks."
"Pretty damned smart, then."
He nodded, "Pretty damned smart."
"And me?" Jacqueline teased, another indication that it was coming to an end.
"Perfect," Holmes smiled at her, before leaning in to give her a gentle kiss.
Watson huffed when Moriarty began making disgusted noises and expressions, moving behind the kneeling man and, with a firm kick, sent him flying over the edge and down the waterfall.
Jacqueline pulled away with a soft smile, resting her forehead to her husband's, "Savez-vous comment vous réveiller?" she asked him gently.
"J'ai un plan," he reassured her, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before he stepped back to the edge of the waterfall.
"Are you sure?" Watson called.
"Of course," Holmes nodded, turning to face his wife and his friend, "I always survive a fall."
"But how?"
He smirked, "Elementary, my dear Watson."
He pulled the deerstalker off his head and tossed it to Jacqueline with a wink, before holding his arms out wide and allowing himself to fall backwards off the cliff, a smile blooming on his face with the knowledge that he was right, that he had solved it, and that Moriarty was most certainly dead and could not truly harm his family any longer…
~8~
"Sherwood," Leena's gentle voice cut through the haze as Sherlock slowly woke up...to find himself on the plane once more, a bit dazed and confused as he could have sworn he'd tripped in a dug up grave only moments ago.
"Hmm?" he stretched a bit, sitting up from the sofa where he'd been stretched out with his head on her lap, "What?"
"You fell asleep," she laughed, "Mid-story. And it was at the good part too! You'd just cracked something to do with copy cats."
"Did I?" he blinked a few times, before looking over to where John and Mary were only just entering the plane, Mycroft a few paces ahead of them. He could have sworn they had already gotten on the plane and interrupted him telling the story to Leena, but apparently he'd fallen asleep and dreamed that part of it. He glanced over at Mycroft who looked unamused, "Miss me?" he couldn't help but taunt, knowing it would annoy his brother even more than the fact that he'd fallen asleep within minutes of finding out 'Moriarty was alive' again as though it was boring and no concern.
"Sherlock?" John paused when he caught how Mycroft was glaring at the man, "You alright?"
"Yes, of course I am," he frowned, eyeing them, "Why wouldn't I be?"
"'Cause you look like you just ODed," Mary pointed out, "What?" she held up her hands, "He looks terrible, you have to admit."
"He hasn't slept much in the last week," Leena defended. He'd been so worried about whatever punishment Mycroft would have to inflict on them both that he'd fretted endlessly. If it hadn't been for the sorrow and solemn nature of their departure, how emotional it made everyone, she was sure John and Mary would have noticed that before they'd even gotten on the plane, but Sherlock held back, kept it all in, put on a strong front and only let himself show how truly tired he was once the plane had taken off, when it was just them, "You're lucky I got him to nap at any point instead of imbibe nothing but coffee. He always goes off like he's spiraled when he's living on caffeine."
"Well then," Sherlock sniffed deeply, standing and holding out a hand to Leena to help her up, "Time to head to Baker Street, Moriarty's back," the way he said the last two words made Leena roll her eyes, he sounded like he was trying to use quotey fingers without actually using his fingers, he didn't believe it at all.
"I almost hope he is," Mycroft remarked dryly, catching the tone.
Sherlock rolled his eyes this time, at his brother, "Come on, we have work to do," he took Leena's hand and began to head for the door.
"Jackie," Mycroft called out, causing her to pause as Sherlock continued on, "Look after him, please."
"When do I not?" she asked.
"Oi!" Sherlock poked his head back in, "What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be off getting Leena and I a pardon or something, like a proper big brother?"
John and Mary exchanged a look, feeling as though they'd missed something, but turned to join Sherlock and Leena at the door, the woman winding a blue scarf around his neck.
"Sherlock," John hesitated, "Explain. Moriarty's alive, then?"
"I never said he was alive," Sherlock shook his head, "I said he was back."
"So he's dead," Mary confirmed.
"Of course he's dead. He blew his own brains out. No one survives that."
"He was recounting the case of Emelia Ricoletti, an old case, where she did the same thing, just to prove that no one can come back from the dead," Leena said, "Must have solved it too, he fell asleep in the middle of it. He never does that unless a case is so obvious and boring anyone could work it out."
"Moriarty IS dead," Sherlock confirmed, "No question. But more importantly, I know exactly what he's going to do next," he gestured at the stairs down from the plane, allowing John and the very pregnant Mary to go first before he and Leena followed.
~8~
"Flying machines?" Watson asked, a scoff in his voice as he sat in his armchair of 221B, staring at Holmes as he looked out the window, Jacqueline and Mary over by the fireplace, examining a scrap of paper Mary had found on another assignment from Mycroft that she wanted analyzed, all of them listening to a story Holmes had come up with of a bizarre dream he'd had shortly after they had solved the case of Emelia Ricoletti and had gathered to discuss how to publish it in the Strand, it had devolved rather quickly as Holmes's dream had begun right where the case had ended, at the Church, "These, er, telephone contraptions…what sort of lunatic fantasy is that?"
"It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like, and how you and I might fit inside it," Holmes remarked, "From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara."
"Or a Reichenbach."
"'ave you written up ze case yet, John?" Jacqueline turned to him, having given Mary all she could see in the message.
"Yes," he nodded with a grin.
"Modified to put it down as one of my rare failures, of course?" Holmes guessed, they had all agreed on that at least, that they could not reveal the truth of who was behind the Ghost Bride murders or the entire sacrifice behind it, the entire movement of it, would be for nothing.
"Of course."
"'The Adventure of…the Invisible Army,'" Holmes suggested, "'The League of Furies?' 'The Monstrous Regiment.'"
"How about 'The Abominable Bride?'" Mary suggested.
Watson grinned, reaching out a hand to his wife, "I rather like that one."
Holmes, however, grimaced, moving to sit in his chair, "A trifle lurid."
"It'll sell," Watson remarked, "It's got proper murders in it, too."
"You're the expert," Holmes shrugged.
"As for your own tale…it sounds a trifle fanciful."
"Zings cannot advance without someone imagining ze impossible," Jacqueline defended.
"Yes," Holmes hummed, "Perhaps such things could come to pass. In any case, I know I would be very much at home in such a world," he looked over at Jacqueline as she came to sit on the arm of the chair, "So long as you were there with me, my dear."
"Flatterer," Jacqueline chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead, only for him to tilt his head to capture her lips with his own.
~8~
Leena sighed as she and Sherlock made their way down the steps of the plane, her arm linked through his, "As much as I liked the story," she began, "What really brought it on?" she asked, knowing he could have worked it all out on his own without breathing a word, yet he'd launched, not just into a tangent, but sounded more like he was telling her an actual story.
Sherlock glanced at her, "You know," he shrugged, a small smile on his face, "I thought I should get some practice in."
He laughed when she rolled her eyes but smiled, and looked down the steps as they neared the bottom to see John and Mary standing there, waiting for their next adventure.
A/N: I'm sorry this was late :( We had a bit of a...bad news thing at my house last night. (talk of Covid to follow so if it's not something you feel comfortable hearing about, because I know it is really devastating the world right now, skip this paragraph). We found out my uncle and aunt (my dad's brother) in Pennsylvania both tested positive for Covid :( My uncle, so far, has very minor symptoms, but my aunt used to be a heavy smoker and was hospitalized last night due to difficulty breathing so it was a hard time. And my cousin, who lives with them, is now trying to get tested while also living separate from her father in the same house in case she's negative so we're all just hoping my aunt will be ok. So far, she's on oxygen and not a ventilator, thank god, but it's also only been the first night and my mom has seen her own coworkers come down with the virus, start off on oxygen, and end up on the ventilators so we're just trying to stay positive and hopeful that it won't get worse.
On a lighter note, and I really need to look at a lighter note right now, we've now concluded the Christmas Special :) I hope you enjoyed this version of it :)
I know there were a few key differences between the show and this chapter. For one, Holmes doesn't envision Moriarty breaking into 221B and conversing with him. With Leena being there and her very clear moves to prevent Sherlock doing any kind of drug, I couldn't see it playing out the way it was portrayed in the show, as a bad trip due to the drugs he took. With the relationship he's built up with his wife, I thought it would be more in line for him to be discussing the case with her and getting her thoughts than conjuring up Moriarty. I thought it would fit the narrative better, given how Sherlock empathizes with the women later, to have him just having a normal, domestic moment with his wife and partner ;)
There wasn't a hospital scene where Sherlock wakes up from seeming to overdose in the modern era, again because Leena has kept him on the straight and narrow and, with her cognitive technique, which sort of modified the Mind Palace concept, he didn't need drugs to immerse himself in that imagining of events. Which also meant that most of the 'flashbacks' were more a lucid dream of sorts, that sort of ended up becoming a complete dream when Sherlock fell asleep in the middle of telling it lol. So the first time we see John, Mary, and Mycroft enter the plan was around when Sherlock fell asleep and he dreamed being interrupted. When he woke up the last time, to the three coming onto the plane, that was the real part ;)
The Holmes who wakes up to face down Moriarty also didn't need the ghost of him spelling it out that that world wasn't real and was a dream, because the Sherlock who was dreaming it was more aware that it had been him imagining it on purpose. Falling unconscious the way he had, his mind sort of subconsciously created a mad situation where he could finally confront Moriarty and prove he was dead, but in a way to make sure he understood it was a dream because there was no logical way for it to go from the church to the waterfall ;)
I tried to allude to the multiple dreams with the title, with there being one dream of just the past case, one of the 'modern' world, and one of him confronting Moriarty :)
I hope the changes made sense and fit with the story version of the episode :) I have to say, this episode, because it was in 3 parts, was the shortest part of this story. All other chapters are...16,000 words or more so we have a lot of content to come ;)
Translations:
Mal de tete terrible - A terrible headache
Cherchez la femme - look for the woman
Ne parlez pas français, Mycroft, vous semblez stupide. - Don't speak French, Mycroft, you sound stupid.
Merci beaucoup - Thank you very much.
De rien - You're welcome.
Savez-vous comment vous réveiller? - Do you know how to wake up?
J'ai un plan - I have a plan.
No real notes on reviews ;)