Coda: The End of It
Sherlock sat up in his bed, panting but elated. He was alive! He was here in his own bed, in his own room, in his body with his own future life stretching out before him! Everyone had always said Sherlock was brilliant, and he was going to prove it by not making the same mistakes twice.
He dashed into the bathroom to check his face. It was a little more hollow in the cheeks than in former days, but the temples were clean and dry and his skull intact. "I am here," he whispered to his reflection.
"Those shadows of things that would have been are gone like the sound of the violin after I lift my bow. They will never come to pass, I will make sure of it!" He smiled a little, the movement feeling stiff on his face and rather unfamiliar at first, but he gave it a few more tries, and really for a beginner the effort was quite good.
He ran back into his bedroom and threw up the sash of his window, sticking his head out onto Baker Street. For a moment he just breathed in the cold air and enjoyed actually feeling the chill moving in out of his real, functioning, living body. Having seen it lying dead made him less inclined to dismiss his body as mere 'transport'. It was part of him in a vital way which he had not previously appreciated.
He was babbling to himself, "There's the café, and there's Mrs Turner's place, and there's the empty house opposite, and some homeless people clustering under the bridge… And there's Wiggins!" He stopped for a moment to hear the bells of St Marylebone ring the hour of nine. But what day was it? How many nights had the journey with the Three Spirits taken? He had no idea.
He shouted down through the open window, "Hey, Wiggins, I'll pay you for a very useful piece of information! What day is it?"
Wiggins stood in the street staring up at Sherlock and scratching his head. "To-day? Why, it's Christmas Day! Obviously." The last word was spoken in an undertone, but Sherlock caught it anyway.
"Obviously? Yes, of course! The Spirits did it all in one night! Of course they did, and I haven't missed it! There's not a moment to lose. Wiggins!" Sherlock struck the window frame with his fist in sudden resolution.
"Yes, sir?" returned Wiggins, detecting a promising change in the consulting detective's manner.
"I need a plum pudding." Sherlock said, decisively.
"A… a pudding, sir?" returned Wiggins, wrinkling his nose.
"Yes, perfectly understood! I'm glad we agree. And a ham, some punch, some real French champagne and napkin rings. The best napkin rings you can find. And a book on ABA - Applied Behaviour Analysis. One suitable for children with autism. Here's money," he threw down from the window a few hundred pounds in notes, "keep the change, and if you are back here within the hour I'll give you another twenty pounds on top of it!" He slammed the window shut, as Wiggins was already off down the street.
"Right," said Sherlock rubbing his hands. "What else do I need for a celebration? A shave!" He bolted into the bathroom and nearly cut his own throat with the straight razor while shaving, he was still dancing around so violently with unaccustomed glee. "I'll take my violin - Mrs Hudson always loved hearing me play carols on the violin, and a copy of Handel's Messiah for Andy, something with interesting and intricate mathematical patterns in the music. Can't get him started on music too soon."
Sherlock dashed back out to the main room of the flat and snatched up the small rectangle of paper with John's address from where it still lay on the coffee table. "John! It is still Christmas! It is not too late! I'll make amends, you'll see!"
Sherlock gathered up his violin and his coat and scarf and hurried downstairs. He was too impatient to wait for Wiggins to return. Just as he was passing Mrs Hudson's door, a thought struck him, and he knocked.
She answered the door, saying "Who… Oh, Sherlock! It's Christmas, you know, and I have to get this turkey all packed up for John. Whatever you need, can it wait until tomorrow?"
Sherlock's lip curled with self-derision at what this speech implied. "Mrs Hudson, I am here to apologise," he said stiffly. "I have not been fully appreciative of all the work and care you put into not being my housekeeper, which is above and beyond any small favour I may have done you years ago. I would be honoured if you would allow me to accompany you to John's for Christmas."
"Oh Sherlock!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson, beaming and hugging him. "I'm so glad… John will be so happy to see you! Do you have a gift for him? Don't worry if you don't - I'm sure I have a spare tea cosy around here somewhere…"
"John said no gifts, didn't he?" asked Sherlock.
"Yes, dear, but he was just being polite. It's Christmas! You don't want to turn up without at least a little something to show him that you were thinking of him."
"I'm always thinking of him," said Sherlock, "And I don't think a tea cosy…" he stopped suddenly. "Actually, you are right. Just give me a moment to get something from upstairs and then I'll call us a cab and we'll go to John's. Wiggins should be here any moment, tell him to wait for me."
Sherlock ran back up the stairs, long legs pumping and coat flying. He was back almost immediately, slipping something small from his palm into his pocket. Just as Mrs Hudson was about to ask what he was giving John, the front door rattled with a vigorous banging.
"Ah, that will be Wiggins, and I hear from the use of his foot that he has been quite successful in obtaining all my requested items. Excellent, let's go."
He popped open the front door, to the surprise of Wiggins who was just trying to balance on one foot in order to assault the door again. "I got everything you asked for, and a box of chocolates as well, just in case, sir. Always best to be prepared, sir, ain't it?"
"Brilliant!" declared Sherlock, "Excellent deduction! I'm glad to have you on my team. That looks like an excellent ham, too…"
"Oh Sherlock," interrupted Mrs Hudson with rebuke in her eyes. "How could you forget? I always do my special glazed ham for Christmas. Now we have two, how can we eat…"
Sherlock held up his hand for silence. "Wiggins," he said slowly, "This is for you and your friends to share, as a small token of my appreciation for your work during the year. Also, I wish you and the whole Homeless Network to have lunch at Phoenix Palace. Very good Cantonese food, and they should be open on Christmas Day. Remind them about the horse meat incident, and tell them to charge it to Sherlock Holmes. Eat as much as you like, I'd be surprised if I ever see the bill."
Wiggins' mouth fell open, and he was still standing in silence staring at the ham in his hands when Sherlock whirled off again, calling for a cab.
At John's door Sherlock felt an unaccountable hesitation. What if John did not really want to see him? Would it be intruding for him to accept the invitation that John didn't think he would accept?
"Knock, dear," said Mrs Hudson getting out of the cab behind him, "This turkey is heavy."
Mentally kicking himself for being ridiculous, Sherlock knocked.
"Come in Mrs Hudson," exclaimed John as he opened the door, only to fall silent on seeing Sherlock standing on the doorstep.
"It is I," said Sherlock stiffly, then coughed slightly and added, "I mean, thank you for the invitation, I… decided to accept." He felt his cheekbones heating up as he added, even more awkwardly, "I hope that's still… acceptable to you. May I come in?"
John closed his gaping mouth and grabbed Sherlock's hand, ushering him into the room and fluttering about to find him the best chair. He took the turkey from Mrs Hudson and carried it into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of sherry and one of sparkling wine.
"Can I tempt either of you?" he asked, waving the bottles in their general direction. "Molly should be here soon with Andy, but they are going to be late. Something about not wanting to put his shoes on, I think. Anyway, we should start."
"I have a gift for you John," Sherlock said quietly. He forestalled John's protests with an upraised hand. "Yes, I should have. A great many past acknowledgements which I should have given you at the time will have to be comprehended in it. This is only the first instalment."
He presented John with the champagne bottle and a tiny gift box. "Open the box later, the champagne is for now - I know that Molly loves her bubbles!"
"Well, yes," said John, "I'll just go get the glasses."
While he was in the kitchen, Sherlock swiftly took up all the napkins and reset the table with the red napkin rings Wiggins had procured. It gave a splash of colour to the table that warmed up the otherwise rather cold blue and silver of the rest of the setting.
After the sherry and champagne had been poured, just before an uncomfortable silence threatened to set in over the party, the doorbell rang. Molly and Andy were shown into the room, and Sherlock quickly engaged Mrs Hudson in conversation about comparative mince pie recipes. He kept her fully occupied for at least eight minutes, giving the boy a chance to look around the room and to settle down in the strange place. Once Andy was safely inspecting the tree, Sherlock pointedly offered Molly a glass of the champagne, before John could say anything that might be misconstrued.
The rest of the Christmas party went off beautifully. Sherlock and John took turns involving Andy in opening presents, or examining the decorations, or plying him with Christmas foods. Molly had initially appeared on edge, just waiting for an incident to occur that would require her intervention. But as the afternoon progressed, she relaxed and talked to Mrs Hudson about the little details of Christmas events in the extended family.
Sherlock was just putting on the Messiah CD he had brought along, when the lull in the music allowed him to overhear what Molly was saying.
"…so hard finding childcare that I sometimes feel like I'm working just to pay the bills. If I could work from home I could keep and eye on him and do online reporting and save so much."
Sherlock quickly turned and addressed Molly, "But you couldn't do autopsies from home, could you? Or work with the MET? And aren't those the parts of your job you like best?"
Molly blinked at his unexpected interruption. "Well, yes, I suppose so, but there are other things I could do. Online second opinions and reporting is a booming business now."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh please. Reassuring anxious pathologists they got it right the first time, and looking at photos of slides that any blind man could see haven't been stained properly in the first place? You are better than that. There is more to your job than the money. You need to get out and talk to adults, use your professional skills, that's all there is to it."
"Sherlock!" protested John with a laugh, "You can't just decide someone's life path for them!"
"No," sniffed Sherlock, "but I can point out the obvious which other people may have failed to observe. Staying home for a small increase in cash flow for a few years would cut Molly off from climbing the career ladder at St Bart's and by the time Andy is ready for school, she would be too far out of current medical progress to get back in at a major hospital. My way is better."
"That's enough badgering Molly, Sherlock," scolded Mrs Hudson. "Off you go and get your violin and let's have some music."
"Yes," agreed Molly, "music would be lovely." She dropped her gaze and seemed to sit staring into her empty glass for quite some time after that.
Sherlock put on the CD and let the music wash over him as he tuned the violin to match. He let the overture pass, and the first couple of arias and some recitative until finally the piece he wanted came on; the full-choir chorus of 'And the Glory of the Lord'. Closing his eyes, he used his violin to pick out and reinforce the main theme as it appeared, first in the alto line, then repeated by the bass and tenor parts, finally recurring as a soprano descant floating over the rest. The fugue developed the theme in all four parts, the increasing speed of the reiterations a challenge for a single violin, but by playing the first few notes of the subject he was able to point it out to his increasingly riveted audience.
At the end of the piece he opened his eyes to the amazed stares of John, Mrs Hudson and Molly. Where was Andy, the one it was all for? Trusting his intuition, he turned and spotted the boy. Sitting on the floor behind him, sucking his thumb and still nodding the rhythm of the last few bars, was Andy. Ignoring the bauble discarded on the floor in front of him, his steady gaze was fixed on Sherlock.
He took the thumb out of his mouth, "More," he said, demandingly.
Sherlock flicked the CD forward a few tracks. "You'll love this one, the mathematical progressions in it are fascinating."
Sherlock played as the choir sang: for unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given.
Absorbed in the music Sherlock suddenly realised what the next line was going to be, and with extra feeling he doubled the bass choir as they sang the second subject of the piece, what he thought of as 'Mycroft's Theme': and the government shall be upon his shoulders, and his name shall be called wonderful counsellor…
His thoughts were suddenly derailed as the CD clicked loudly and jumped several tracks before resuming playing with: Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
"Sorry about that," said John, stopping the CD. "Must be a bit of dust in the player, it hasn't jumped like that before." He restarted the CD, and the calm intricate music of the Pifa resumed without further interruptions. Andy sat on the floor still staring at the CD player, completely captivated. Occasionally he would nod his head or tap his fingers on the floor mimicking the complex rhythms of the four-part choir and full orchestra.
"Molly," said Sherlock as he touched her shoulder, "Your son is…"
Molly flinched back from him, half closing her eyes, "No, don't."
John started forwards, one hand outstretched in an effort to stop him, but Sherlock knew what needed to be said.
"Molly, your son is a mathematical and musical genius."
Molly's hand flew to cover her mouth as her eyes widened and a tear dripped slowly down her cheek. "Really? You really think so?" She sat down suddenly on a chair, her voice barely able to be heard through the thickness in her throat. "I never wanted him tested. I didn't want him labelled… for people to only see disability and difference when I see him as a wonderful, talented little boy. Oh Sherlock, do you really think it could be true?"
She scooped Andy up from the floor and hugged him on her lap. He tolerated the embrace for less than half a minute before squirming to be let down. "More," he explained, pointing to the CD player. "Yes, love," Molly whispered, "but can I have a hug before you go?"
Andy tilted his head to one side as he considered his mother. "OK," he conceded. He held up one hand, his stubby fingers spread widely. Molly matched her left hand to his right, interlacing her fingers with his and squeezing for a moment. Then she let him go, to run back to the fascinating music.
"That's his preferred way of hugging," she explained, rather self-consciously. "I read about it in a book. An amazing book really, written by… anyway, it doesn't matter." She smoothed her ponytail in lieu of further speech.
"Actually, I have a book for you that I think you might like," said Sherock into the subsequent silence.
"Yes, presents!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson, "I have something for Andy too!"
The rest of the afternoon passed very pleasantly with good food, amiable company and just the right amount of punch to make everyone cheerful. Altogether, Sherlock could not remember ever being so relaxed and happy.
Molly was the first to take her leave, needing to get Andy home for a light supper before bed. She offered Mrs Hudson a ride home, which was gratefully accepted. There was a little bustle at the door, then they were gone and Sherlock and John were left staring at each other.
"You were good with Andy," commented John at last.
Sherlock shrugged, "A personal interest," he conceded. "But you never opened your present."
"I was very interested but you said to wait for later, by which I inferred that you wanted me to open it after everyone else left."
"True. That circumstance now applies."
John cocked one eyebrow, "Is that Sherlockian for 'please open my gift I want to know what you think of it?'"
"Not precisely," said Sherlock darting his glance away from John, "If you open the box in front of me I'll see your first reaction to it and I won't need to ask what you think of it."
Without further delay, John produced the small box from his pocket and proceeded to open it, pretending not to notice Sherlock's long fingers knotting and unknotting anxiously. It was a small box, plain navy in colour and not decorated as a gift box, by which John guessed that it had been a last minute impulse and was not a standard Christmas present. The box was light and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He would have thought maybe it contained cufflinks except that it rattled slightly as he tilted it. Not cufflinks or a tiepin then, though maybe a box from one of those repurposed to hold…
A key ring? John felt himself gaping slightly at the prosaic item which seemed to be making Sherlock so apprehensive. It wasn't anything special as key rings went either - just a standard fluorescent yellow tab with a piece of paper inside to label the key. Was the important part of the gift the paper? John picked it up, letting the key dangle as he brought the paper close enough to read the tiny print inside, written in pencil in Mrs Hudson's uncertain script.
221B
John's fist closed possessively around the key as he realised what it was. His own key to… to what? What exactly did Sherlock mean by this? Was he asking John to move back in with him? As flatmates again? Or something more? Did Sherlock know now what John had realised since Mary's death?
Sherlock watched with satisfaction as John's hand tightened convulsively around the key. "Yes," he said aloud. "Yes to all of it. Move back to Baker Street with me. Come home, John. Come home to me, at last."
Tears were shining in John's eyes as he finally met Sherlock's gaze and repeated one of the first things he had ever said to Sherlock, "Oh God, yes."
Sherlock was better than a great man, he was a good man from that day forward. He was like a second father to Andy, and John became like Andy's favourite uncle. Sherlock and John had a big wedding, much to John's amazement, with all of their friends and family, parts of New Scotland Yard and most of the Homeless Network attending. "After all," Sherlock reasoned, "If we're going to have a party it is more efficient to invite everyone at the same time."
It would be nice to say that he was a changed man ever after, and if it wasn't quite true, it was very nearly true. The transformation had begun at least and John, with time and love would complete the cure. Some people laughed in their sleeves that Sherlock Holmes himself, who had always disdained sentiment, should live to repudiate his own oft-repeated axiom. Sherlock just shrugged and said, "It is the height of idiocy not to be able to learn and change. If only some of those at NSY could learn from past mistakes the force would not be in the dismal state it is now."
They never saw or heard from Mycroft again, but every year at Christmas Sherlock would put on the Messiah CD and toast his brother of fond memory. John eventually got used to it.
And Sherlock and John celebrated Christmas joyfully every year, and the Birth of Love every day of their lives, and their home was always filled with laughter and music as they lived long and happily ever after.
The End of the Dream: The Beginning of the Rest of Their Lives