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Notes: the last chapter but one! Make sure you read this one first!

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Chapter 11

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Lestrade immediately felt a pang in his chest. In his head, winded on at full speed all the mysterious cases of intrusion spread since months in the Yard's corridors. Had John and Sherlock really done all of this ignoring that…?

That didn't make any sense. How, knowing themselves dead, could they still believe that…?

Oh.

Seeing John's poor smile before his obvious thoughts, the DI fell silent, under shock.

Of course they knew. They were dead, what else could they expect? They knew that the blog no longer existed, they knew that Sherlock's mails never reached Lestrade. They knew that their belongings had been moved, that all they could own had been gotten back by their families. They knew that Mrs. Hudson had abandoned the place, gone to find comfort with her sister, unable to stay any longer in Baker Street.

They knew that the cases on which they said they were working on never existed. They knew that the crime scenes were fake, that the law enforcement agents they fled from weren't even there.

It was just… They played at make-believe. When they had returned to Baker Street and they found themselves facing the harsh reality of their situation, they had simply chosen the easy way out: they had simply denied it, imagining instead a scenario and decor they had come to believe wholeheartedly. Baker Street had become again the joyful mess they had always known, as if nothing had happened.

Lestrade paused momentarily. He could understand this choice, claiming to have acted differently would have been lying. But wasn't it lying to oneself that to convince oneself of a story that one had never lived? John and Sherlock had come to persuade themselves of a past and a present that didn't exist, for the simple reason that their condition didn't fit well with the situation.

He swallowed his saliva, uncomfortable. He knew what he had to say. He didn't know whether to say it, but he should. And he was aware that his next words were going to be full of meaning.

"And you never… considered…? I mean…"

He bit his lip.

"Moriarty's network has been defeated, if you are to be believed. What I mean is that…"

He scratched his neck.

"Damn," he swore to himself, "I'm really not made for that."

"Made for what?"

"Dammit, Sherlock, I'm an agent of the Yard, not a bloody psychologist! But Sherlock… John… You never considered to… rest in peace?"

The fraction of a second later, he thought his comment would be misinterpreted and immediately protested:

"I mean… It's not that… But… normally shouldn't you rest in peace…? It isn't what the dead do, usually?

"Rest in peace? Enough to bore you to death. No pun intended."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock, do you only understand what I'm saying?"

He looked at them, silent and motionless.

"What I'm saying is that the dead are supposed to be dead. They are supposed to be in heaven or hell, whatever, but it's not their role to evolve among the living. Well, as far as I know."

Sherlock and John knew there was some truth in Lestrade's speech, but they still had a role to play. They were the detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, chasing crime was what they were made for. When they had completed their worldwide mission, their return to Baker Street seemed obvious. They didn't even question it.

"But…," Lestrade hesitated, "You would have done it a long time? Listen, I'm just trying to understand. What I mean is that the deal was simple: I had cases and I let you work on it. But it's over. So I'm asking you: what will you do when the people you know won't be longer there? How long will you introduce yourself gently on imaginary crime scenes? I know that puzzles, this is your thing, Sherlock, and you, John, I know you enough to know that you'll follow him anywhere. But you'll really keep doing this knowing it's not real?"

John and Sherlock didn't answer. Lestrade's comments were more and more filled with truth overtones.

"Our work wasn't finished," Sherlock argued then.

But Lestrade shook his head.

"No, Sherlock. It's finished. It ended the moment you jumped off that roof. John's ended the moment he stuck that gun to his head. Listen, don't take wrong what I say, don't believe that I chase you away or anything, quite the contrary. You'll allways be for me the two most amazing men I have ever met, and I'll never forget what you have done. But I think it's time for you to retire."

The poor DI felt his heart break at these words. But he was certain he was right. Yet, he hadn't meant a word for a second before seeing them again. Until now, he had been driven by feelings, by emotion and nostalgia. John and Sherlock were back in London. He wanted to see them again. He had to see them again. His heart had jumped with happiness when he had seen them dash, laugh on the lips, the two extraordinary crime scene troublemakers.

Then he had returned to Baker Street, remembering the days that followed John's death. Clothing, objects, files that were left, everything had been gone, gotten back by Harry. Only remained furnitures and dust, strangely alone in these areas once cluttered with objects and life.

He then had gone into the living room, and he had immediately noticed that something was wrong. The space remained the same nevertheless, only furnished with the few belongings Mrs. Hudson owned. Today, despite the passage of time, she still didn't find the strength to refurbish the premises. The sofa against the wall, two armchairs by the fireplace, nothing had moved.

Still, when treading upon the bare floor that creaked under his feet, it had been overcome with a strange sensation. A shiver had ran down his spine, the Baker Street flat had seemed to close up around him. Walls gave the impression of looking at him. The air seemed permeated with a form of life this place no longer had three years ago.

Baker Street obviously had new tenants.

He had collapsed in the armchair that had once been Sherlock's. Spontaneously, he had remembered the drug bust, when John and Sherlock had just met.

The good old days. He remembered the jar of eyes in the microwave which had shocked Donovan so much. The skull on the mantelpiece. Sherlock and his unbearable cleverness, John and his infinite kindness, the blog, crime scenes, poor Anderson always in sight… The melancholy had twisted his guts, and he had to keep the tears from running down his cheeks. He wanted to see them again, to be again in front of them, to exchange friendly sour civilities, to drink a pint of beer with John, and make his neurons work with Sherlock.

But no.

That was before.

And when John and Sherlock had appeared in the living room of Baker Street, he had understood.

The good old days would never be any more.

John and Sherlock were dead, what he had before him was only the remnant of a past impossible to catch up. They shouldn't be here. They should be in peace. Not trying to cling to a semblance of life they no longer had, not trying to continue to see what they wanted to see, to believe what they wanted to believe, not working on cases that never happened, sending imaginary emails or posting entries on a blog that no longer existed. They could claim anything they wanted, the life they had was now rigged, scammed, the pale ghost of what was once a great adventure, but was now only stolen pieces of a present in which they no longer belonged.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had no place here anymore

John looked down while Lestrade was desperately trying to channel his emotion.

"I'm sorry, guys… But you must go. Do it for yourselves."

The two men didn't answer, but unconsciously clung one to the other. There was on their faces as a form of distress.

The DI watched them. He wanted to walk towards them, hug them with force, but despite all his will, he knew he could never touch them. He plunged his hands into his pockets, clenching his fist with stiffness and frustration.

"It's not fair," John whispered.

Lestrade shook his head.

"It never is. I'm sorry, John. If I had known it would end like this…"

"You don't have to blame yourself. You only did your job. It's just… it's so stupid."

"What is stupid?"

John shrugged with a slight amused smile.

"Everything. Our fall, our death, everything that followed. All because of a man smart enough to make up a credible lie, and some people gullible enough to believe it."

This thinly veiled reference to Donovan and Anderson's responsibility made the DI's shoulders bend.

"And you know what amuses me the most?" John continued.

"What?"

"My blog. An entry about a case in Greenwich, an apparent suicide. It was Dimmock who was on it. You know what name I gave to this case? "The Double Death". Ironic, isn't it?"

John chuckled and shook his head, as if struck by the coincidence.

"You know…," Lestrade confessed, "If there was a way to bring you back… and when I say back it's back … Or even to make you work again… I swear I wouldn't hesitate a second. Unfortunately, you must understand that…"

Yes, they understood. They understood all too well. This last year had taken good care of reminding them.

He looked at them.

"Listen, guys, you need to face the truth. You are brilliant, fantastic, I love you, sincerely. But everything has its time. John… Sherlock… You did yours. Cases are your things, I know that. But you won't do that indefinitely. One day or another, we won't be there anymore. And you're going to stay here, solving imaginary cases all alone like idiots? It breaks my heart just thinking about it."

"It is our job, Lestrade," Sherlock persisted. "These crimes, these investigations… it's us. That's why we are here."

But the DI shook his head sadly, in silence. He didn't even need to argue to make the detective understand he was going astray.

There was a long silence during which no one spoke a word. Then, after a long and agonizing hesitation, John and Sherlock finally exchanged glances, and Lestrade understood. His mouth twisted. His voice was blank and dry.

"Just… Do you think we'll see you again … up there?"

He saw Sherlock's jaws contract, then a tear roll down his cheek. It would be the only one he would ever see.

John nodded, both as an assent and as a farewell, and then slipped his arm under Sherlock's. There were on their face as a kind of gentle resignation.

Then the DI's voice suddenly rose:

"Before that," he interrupted, "There's one last thing I want to know."

The momentum froze instantly. John turned his head towards Lestrade, questioning. A flash of surprise crossed Sherlock's eyes, he had a split second of hesitation, but he nevertheless invited him to speak.

"Yes, of course…"

The DI casually slipped his hands into his pockets.

"Your last case, what was it?"

Immediately, an extraordinary burst of gratitude washed over John. In an instant, he forgot the cemetery, he forgot the graves before him, he forgot everything. He just felt like he had hurled back three years ago. His nose suddenly sniffed a sneaky smell of blood, his ears resounded with a shrill siren, his tongue tasted a faint taste of dust, and his body trembled with a new excitement and a new impatience.

Sherlock looked at the officer in astonishment, wondering the reason of his sudden interest for their "cases". But Lestrade remained serene, even encouraging him with a look.

So, Sherlock talked about the Ilford crime scene.

Sherlock lighted up, developing emphatically, even daring to criticize the lack of clues available. He explained the argument that had started in the kitchen, the vegetables crushed in the struggle, the elbow in the refrigerator, everything he had time to analyse and deduce. He also called into question the possibility of a case of domestic violence, the door left open by the husband in his flight clearly showing the panic of a man who wasn't used to hit his wife. Playing the game, Lestrade then committed himself to claim his own assumptions, such as an extramarital affair, revealed some information that the victim's body showed no previous injury to those at the time of her death, the neighbours had never heard arguments before that day. The autopsy and analysis hadn't been performed yet, so he was unable to say anything more, except that the first observations had reported slight injuries. With the exception of the fatal impact, the others partook of superficial haematoma. Sherlock then started up again, suggesting the hypothesis of a simple accident. That during a violent argument during which they had a row, the husband had been able to push the victim who had swung back and smashed the occipital lobe against the corner of the table. So he invited the DI to comb through his index notebook and visit his closest contacts as a priority. The husband was certainly hiding at a reliable person, stricken by his actions. To make him explain the reasons of the accident would then be child's play.

John didn't say a word during the whole report. He didn't need to, and he didn't want to, just smiling before the trance that drove the detective. This moment, it was Sherlock's and no one else's. Despite what he had always said, Sherlock had missed this attention, the opportunity to display his genius. He had missed collaborations and arguments, analysis and cons-theories. So John stood back, leaving his friend the prestige of the deduction, just smiling at the many compliments that came through his mind at that moment. And he looked at the detective and the officer, touched, sent by nostalgia, but the bottom of his eyes covered by a sad veil. Because he knew.

This case, as fake as it was, would be the last one.

Their last hurrah.

Sherlock then ended his long list of instructions to the DI, including to stop meeting the brunette he was currently dating, the lady obviously more in search of thrills than great love. The officer nodded to make clear that he understood and would follow the recommendation to the letter. He tried valiantly to keep his professionalism, but his pain was evident in his eyes. He also knew the outcome, on his face were confronting grief and denial. John then reassured him with a sweet smile, and then slipped his arm again under the detective's.

There was a silence, during which nobody had nothing to say.

"Sherlock…," then Lestrade whispered, "I… I'll tell your brother that you are fine."

The DI felt his words wobbly and ridiculous, but that was all he found to say. Sherlock thanked him with a nod, and this was the last image Lestrade kept of them. His face twitched and he broke down, unable to contain his distress any longer. His legs buckled under him, tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he cried.

Alone.

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