Dr John Watson had been to war. He had witnessed people die. He had tried desperately to protect his men, watched as innocent people were caught in the devastation. He had been traumatised by the sounds of explosions, the gargling of blood in the throats of injured soldiers, the fear he would never make it home again. Dr John Watson had been to war, yet he had never felt so destroyed, so numb and so hollow as he did in the two years since Sherlock Holmes died.
He turned the key in the lock hearing the familiar clink. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, taking a deep, slow breath before turning around and walking along the hallway to the bottom of the stairs. His most treasured memories lingered in that stairway, so intense they almost echoed with Sherlock's voice, their conversations. He glanced at them, taking another breath, as Mrs Hudson opened her door and stepped out, her face twisting in confusion.
John opened the door to 221B slowly; the breeze causing the dust to lift from every surface and swirl around the air, like the glitter inside a snow globe. He looked around the room. Nothing had changed. It was like stepping into a piece of earth where time had stood still.
Mrs Hudson stepped past John towards the windows. "I couldn't face letting it out," she began as she opened the curtains, coughing as the dust caught in her throat. "He never let me dust it."
"Oh, I know," John replied with an almost smile, just visible under his newly grown moustache.
"So why now? What changed your mind?"
"Well, I've… got some news."
Mrs Hudson stopped what she was doing and looked over at John with a sympathetic frown. "Oh god, is it serious?"
"What? No. No, I'm not ill. I've erm, I'm… moving on."
"You're emigrating."
John closed his eyes, holding the growing frustration back. "Nope. Er no, I've uh, I've met someone."
"Oh!" Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together and smiled. "Aw lovely."
"Yeah, we're getting married," John smiled. "Well I'm going to ask anyway."
"So soon after Sherlock."
"Well yes?"
"What's his name?" Mrs Hudson asked.
John sighed. "It's a woman."
"A woman!?"
"Yes of course it's a woman."
"You really have moved on haven't you–"
"Mrs Hudson, how many times? Sherlock was not my boyfriend."
"Live and let live, that's my motto–"
"Listen to me," John began, pointing his finger at her, "I am not gay!"
III
Her dark, wavy hair was shorter now. To her shoulders; easier to manage. She tucked it behind her ears as she leant down to her laptop to click to the next slide. She stepped out from behind her desk, pointing to the slide which was now projected onto the large board.
"So as you can see from this chart here, contrary to popular belief and stigma, ninety percent of violent crimes and homicides are committed by those without mental illness. Can anyone tell me how this fact may affect our approach to rehabilitation?"
A few tentative hands raised around the lecture theatre. Margaux blew an escaped strand of hair out of her face before stepping forward and pointing to one of her students.
Two years had felt like a lifetime. Sherlock's death had drawn a line, and everything from that point was new; she knew nothing, she felt nothing. It was as if she couldn't remember how it felt to be the person she was before, like she was remembering someone else's life.
Sometimes she would wake in the middle of the night, with her hair curled and stuck to the back of her neck with sweat, and the nightmare was always the same; Sherlock's funeral. But Moriarty was there, dragging the coffin away while everybody's backs were turned and Margaux was the only one who could see him. She would shout to everyone for help, pointing to the coffin as it grew more and more distant. But no one cared, no one cared even when she began screaming in their faces; in John's face, in Mycroft's face, shaking what her brain had conjured as Sherlock's parents by the shoulders. She would run after Moriarty as he grinned and laughed, mocking Sherlock's coffin. She would try her hardest to run but her legs would never work. Then she would wake up.
Like John, Margaux had experienced trauma. She had fought and worked her entire life to be normal, happy, successful. She had lived in dangerous places, fallen into darkness where death could have been so easy, so peaceful. She had witnessed crimes that haunted her, and felt the pain of loneliness. But her dreams had never woken her until he was gone.
She dismissed her class and began gathering her things, shutting down the projector and slipping her laptop into her bag. She pulled on her thick, woollen cardigan and checked the pocket for her phone as she headed for the door.
"Dr Cave," a voice came from the front row.
She turned to see a handful of students hovering around the chairs, taking extra time to pack up.
"Yes?"
"Could we ask you a question?" One of the students said nervously.
"What about?" Margaux walked towards them, putting her phone back in her pocket.
"We… We were wondering if it's true that you… knew Sherlock Holmes."
Her eyes flitted between the group, her silence growing more and more awkward with each glance.
"Erm," she began. "Yes. Yes, I did know him. I worked with him on a few of his cases," she stuttered. "W-What does this have to do with my lecture?"
"Oh, sorry. It doesn't really. It's just that Alex," one of the students pointed to her friend, "he's been reading this site called 'The Empty Hearse' and in one of the theories, there was mention of a Dr Cave. So we just wondered–"
"Theory? What do mean theory?" Margaux could feel something bubbling inside her, it was hot and angry like magma.
"Well, the whole site is based on the theory that Sherlock Holmes didn't… that he didn't actually… well… die."
Margaux took a sharp breath, looking past the students to the wall behind them. she could feel her eyes glazing, but not from sadness. She wasn't sad, she was furious; there were people in the world who believed he was alive. There were people, not just in the world, but right there in front of her, discrediting her pain and grief with nothing more than cheap conspiracies. She composed herself quickly.
"I knew Sherlock Holmes," she began through gritted teeth. "He was an astonishing mind. If you must read about him during my lectures, I suggest you make it about the crimes he solved and the people he helped." She could almost feel the steam rising from her head. "Do some research that actually counts towards your degree, or drop out and stop wasting my time."
Margaux walked away, letting the heavy door slam behind her.
III
John looked across the table at Mary. Her eyes creased as she smiled at him; her cropped blonde hair and warm smile complimented their pale green colour, making them glitter. He loved her. He was so in love with her that all he could do in that moment was smile back as the ring box pressed into his chest through his pocket.
"You okay?" She asked.
"Yeah, yeah, me? I am fine." He let out a small laugh to hide his nerves.
"Now then what did you want to ask me?"
"More wine?" John stalled.
"No, I'm good with water thanks," she replied. "So…"
"So… Mary, listen, erm… I know it hasn't been long. I mean, I know we haven't known each other for a long time…"
"Go on."
"Yes… As you know these last couple of years haven't been easy for me, and meeting you… yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could've possibly happened–"
"I agree."
"What?"
"I agree, I'm the best thing that could've happened to you." Mary smiled. John laughed. "Sorry," she said.
"No, no, it's… So… if you'll have me, Mary, could you see a way of…" he cleared his throat. "If you could see a way to–"
A large bottle of champagne appeared in front of John's face. Accompanied by the annoying voice of a French waiter.
"Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking."
The waiter continued to talk as John and Mary stared at each other. Mary giggled as she watched John awkwardly attempting to shoo the man away. But he persisted. Mary put her hand to her head, covering her face from the waiter and pulling a funny grimace. The waiter removed his glasses and fell silent. John looked up, ready to tell him to get lost, but the words melted away before they reached his lips.
Sherlock.
"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Gives distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters." Sherlock smiled.
John staggered to his feet, pushing his chair out clumsily behind him. His breaths became sharp and his eyes wide. Mary watched on, growing worried.
"John, what is it? Wh–"
"Well," Sherlock began. "Short version: not dead."
III
Margaux slept uneasy that night. Her nightmare even more vivid than usual. She dragged herself into work with a large cup of coffee in her hand. She would often arrive early for her lectures, meaning she had the room to herself, the only few minutes of quiet she could get.
She set up her laptop, sipping her coffee and mindlessly scrolling through her notes. She looked over at the row of seats where she had stood yesterday with her students. 'The Empty Hearse', even the title made her shift in her seat uncomfortably. She continued to scroll but the thoughts wouldn't leave. She gave in. Opening a new page, she typed it in and clicked on the site.
'A club founded by Philip Anderson (forensic scientist for Scotland Yard) for like-minded people to meet and discuss theories that Sherlock Holmes is still out there' she read.
"Anderson, you prick," she muttered.
She clicked through the pages, reading different theories and looking at pictures of so-called evidence; 'A sighting of Sherlock in Japan', she couldn't help but let out a small laugh. She looked at the door, still no sign of anyone, so she clicked on the website's search bar and typed in 'Dr Margaux Cave'. A blog post written by a man named Theo appeared with her name highlighted through the paragraphs several times. She began reading it when the first flood of students began filing in. Margaux clicked off the page and brought her presentation up, standing up to greet everyone.
"Dr Cave!" Alex, one of the students from the day before came running in with his phone. "Dr Cave, have you seen?"
"Seen what?"
"It was all true!" He handed his phone to Margaux who brought it close to her face. It was a web page from BBC news, the headline reading: 'BREAKING NEWS: HAT DETECTIVE ALIVE'.
She handed the phone back quickly.
"Surely that's some kind of hoax."
"It's not! Look at Twitter…" He fumbled with his phone and handed it back to her. The screen covered in tweets and articles. All with the tag #SherlockHolmesAlive.
Margaux's heart began to race. She gave Alex his phone back once again.
"Well, I guess an apology is in order," she struggled to speak, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Alex. I think I'm going to have to leave. Can you let everyone know?"
She grabbed her bag and walked out of the theatre, leaving her coat and her laptop behind.
III
The dust had settled on Sherlock's reincarnation. He had attempted numerous times to speak to John, each time being met with either rejection or a punch in the face. But he wasn't worried, he knew he would eventually want to come back, it was just a matter of waiting to allow John's unremarkably normal brain to process his return. In the meantime, the cases were piling, and he needed a partner.
Molly sifted through her notes in the back of the black cab, the notes she had frantically scribbled down as she tried to keep up with Sherlock's fast observations. How did John do this? She thought as closed the pad. She was tired. On the last case, Sherlock had called her John, never correcting himself. Either because he couldn't be bothered or hadn't even noticed. She looked up at him as he stared ahead intensely.
"So, is John still struggling with the fact that it was all… fake?" She asked.
"John will get over it. Everyone will. And eventually it'll be like it never even happened," he replied, never looking at her.
"Do you really believe that?"
"People are too selfish, too wrapped up in their own lives to waste what little brain capacity they have holding onto information about other people. Yes, I believe they will forget."
"I think that's an assumption you've made based on yourself. I don't think everyone is like that."
Sherlock turned to look at Molly for the first time, his eyes still able to burn right into her. "Are you saying you don't think John will ever forgive me?"
"No, I actually think John will forgive you. I just think there'll be other people who'll find it harder to forget."
"Who?"
Molly sighed and returned to her notebook. In all the time she had known him, she had found his confidence captivating. But right now, she didn't see confidence, she saw arrogance, and all she could do was shake her head.
III
A man gets on a train and by the next stop, he's gone. Sherlock thought about is as they stood in the flat decorated in train memorabilia. A man gets on a train and by the next stop, he's gone. How.
He stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at Molly. "I'm going to need maps, lots of maps, all the maps, all the maps." He hurried down the stairs, passing Molly. "Fancy some chips?"
"What?" She replied.
"I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone row, the owner always gives me extra portions."
"Did you get him off a murder charge or something?" asked Molly sarcastically as she followed him down the next flight.
"No. I helped him put up some shelves." He said with a smirk.
"Sherlock," Molly began as they reached the bottom. "What was today about?"
"Saying thank you."
"For what?"
"Everything you did for me."
"It's okay. It's my pleasure."
"No," said Sherlock in a low, gravelly voice. Molly stopped walking and turned back to face him. "I mean it."
"I didn't mean pleasure, I mean I didn't mind, I wanted to." She nodded.
"Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter to me was the one that mattered the most; you made it all possible." He took a breath. "But you can't do this again, can you?"
"I've had a lovely day." Molly smiled kindly.
"I'd love to, I just…"
"Congratulations, by the way," Sherlock added as he looked down at the diamond ring on her finger.
Molly looked down at it too, twisting it, suddenly nervous. She began to ramble about her new fiancé, useless facts, she couldn't help it.
Sherlock smiled a rare smile, one that reached his eyes and caused his cheeks to crease. "I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper."
III
"Who are you!?" Mrs Hudson shouted.
Sherlock turned away from his portion of chips, glancing down the hall. "Mary?" He called out as she ran up the stairs to meet him.
She showed him the message on her phone. John Watson was in trouble. Sherlock dropped his chips on the floor and ran, followed by Mary. He ran out into the dark, wet street, the rain bouncing heavily from the pavement. Think. How to get there the fastest possible way. Think!
"Sherlock, what are we waiting for?" Mary cried.
"This." Sherlock held the palm of his hand up, stopping a biker in their tracks. They convinced him to hand it over, climbing on and riding away quickly, weaving in and out of traffic to the place John had been left.
'Save John Watson' Sherlock thought as he turned the corner sharply. In the distance, he could see a bonfire igniting.
III
John stood in 221B, fiddling with the edge of a piece of paper as Sherlock hurried an old couple out of the flat. He finally shut the door and pressed his back up against it.
"Sorry about that."
"No, it's fine. Clients?" John asked.
"Just my parents," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
"Your parents?"
"In town for a few days."
Your parents?"
"Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee but now he's trying to talk me into doing it."
"Those were your parents?" John rushed to the window. "Well, that is not what I…"
"What?"
"I mean, they're just… so… ordinary."
"it's a cross I have to bare."
John laughed, walking to the middle of the living room. "Did they know too? That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek?"
"Maybe," Sherlock mumbled.
"Ah! So that's why they weren't at the funeral–"
"Sorry. Sorry again!" Sherlock threw his arms up. "Sorry," he said again, more sincerely.
He noticed John had shaved the moustache. He looked better, Sherlock thought. John sat down the armchair, the cuts on the side of his head more visible in the crack of light from the window.
"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah not bad. A bit… smoked." John joked. "Last night, who did that? And why did they target me?"
"I don't know."
"Is it someone trying to get to you through me? Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?"
"I don't know. I can't see the pattern. It's too nebulous. Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant, that's what's strange."
"Give his life?"
"According to Mycroft. There's an underground network planning an attack on London, that's all we know." Sherlock walked to his wall filled with notes. "These are my rats, John."
"Rats?"
"My markers. If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something's up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally but the sixth… He's just done something very suspicious indeed." He pointed to a picture of the man from the train. Lord Moran.
John watched the security footage from the train again.
"Yep that's odd. Nowhere he could have got off?" he asked.
"Not according to the maps. There's something, something I'm missing." Said Sherlock, grabbing his head in frustration. "Something that's staring me in the face."
"Well bloody hell I'm getting flashbacks," John said with a small laugh.
Sherlock turned to look at John, tilting his head like a confused dog.
"Last time you had this much on the wall and no clue what the answer was, we ended up in St Bart's convincing Margaux Cave to wear a slinky dress."
Sherlock stared at John, a blank expression trying to distract from the thuds in his chest that he was sure John could see. When he left, he thought of her a lot. Too much. He spent a lot of time alone, almost all of it, actually, and those moments when he thought of her were enough to make him want to go back. He couldn't explain his feelings, he had never so much as had a crush at school, they scared him. So he hadn't allowed himself to dwell on her. Even now that he was back, he was doing everything he could to stop thinking about her, so much so that he had almost convinced himself that she hadn't mattered.
He turned away from John back to the wall, examining it closely; she would solve it in moments, he knew that. He was going to have to see her again.
The thudding in his chest continued.