Author's Note: Have you done your maths correctly? Then you know that there's one more starry scene left before I finish. Enjoy! :)
P.S. I had two songs in mind while writing this particular chapter. The title of the chapter comes from the song "Transatlantic shooting stars" by Ben Christophers and Sherlock's alias refers to the song "Julian" by Say Lou Lou. You can check out the lyrics if you are interested.
Warnings: Mention of death and violence; mild profanity
EPILOGUE: Transatlantic shooting stars
Three weeks later, a nondescript grey Dodge pulls up at the curb near the Friendship Bridge checkpoint, on the Paraguayan side of the River Paraná. It is late at night but the chaotic traffic on the bridge that crosses the border from Paraguay to Brazil is showing no signs of slowing down. The incessant flow of cars, buses and trucks is mixed with the swerving motorcycle-taxis and reckless pedestrians who are all vying for victory for the fastest and most dangerous crossing over the river.
The passenger door of the Dodge opens and a tall man steps out of the car, ignoring the mayhem around him. He walks to the riverside railing and pulls out a crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his hoodie. The flicker of the lighter illuminates his gaunt face for a few seconds.
The female chauffeur, who goes here simply by the name of Maria, observes her passenger through the rearview mirror. She watches as the far too thin man with short black hair and a fashionable stubble leans over the railing. He is smoking away at ease, looking like any tourist in his tight jeans and a black hoodie, waiting to cross the border after a shopping spree in Ciudal del Este. If his face is unusually pale or the slender hand that's holding the cigarette is slightly shaking, a casual observer would brush them off as the natural aftereffects of drinking too much of the local caña, like many young travellers tend to do on their adventures in Paraguay.
But the woman behind the steering wheel knows better. She frowns and purses her cerise lips into a thin line of disapproval. Yet, there's a big difference compared to the chain-smoking, nervously fidgeting bearded wreck of a stranger who turned up at her door only five nights ago, battered and bleeding from a knife wound to his right upper arm. A man who vaguely resembled the brilliant consulting detective she once used to know.
The days that passed resting and recovering have done wonders to her surprise guest. In the relative safety of her private rooms in Hotel Austria, her current refuge and employer, she has witnessed something of a sea change in him. The man who is now standing outside is calmer and contained, even if he is no longer exuding the cool confidence she used to attribute to him. Not surprisingly, the most effective remedy seemed to be the long hours spent in the supine silence of his mind palace.
She has seen the man do that once before, a lifetime ago in a place far away from here, and emerging with the answers he needed back then. The answers that have led them both here, through so many twists and turns. Now, at the other end of things, their paths have crossed again.
The driver takes off her black leather gloves, reaches for her handbag on the back seat and pulls it to her lap. She fishes out two travel documents and places them on the dashboard: the shiny black Argentinian passport of Mister Juliano Martinéz on top of her own. She can't help but wonder how many other aliases and fake passports the dead-and-buried detective has had in his Afterlife. Certainly more than herself.
But by silent mutual agreement, no questions are asked, no plans revealed. The less they know about each other, the better. And the things they have known or deduced, they keep between themselves. Your secret is safe with me. That's fine by her; she's only returning a favour. He kept her secret once, now she will keep his. The once-and-future detective knows this and trusts her to play her part.
Besides, by helping him she is helping herself, too. Their destinies are tied now, the future and the resurrection of the both of them hanging in the balance. If he fails, there will be no returning for her either.
The tall man stands in the night, relishing the last drags of his cigarette — a dear old habit he has taken up again, as there's no one here to tell him that he shouldn't. The glowing cigarette in his fingers is a small farewell trophy, before leaving another damned country he has no intention of ever visiting again. This has become something of a transition ritual for him during his exile: breathing in new roles and places upon arrival, smoking them out of his system when leaving.
Absentmindedly, the man leans over the railing to look at the murky water flowing under the bridge. Down below, River Paraná is rushing beside Paraguay and towards the distant ocean. In his mind's eye, he can trace the course of the water from here: flowing out into the Atlantic between Argentina and Uruguay, joining the Brazil Current off the coast, then whirling and eddying with the South and North Equatorial Currents before joining the Gulf Stream up north. If he could follow the Gulf Stream on the crest of the waves over the Atlantic, the currents would eventually bring him back to Europe and up the Thames with the returning tides…
As if to highlight his thoughts, a single shooting star whooshes across the starry sky towards the east, in the direction of the Atlantic. A whole ocean between him and home… Six thousand, two hundred and sixty-nine miles. Ten thousand and eighty-eight kilometres. A knot of something hard coils in his stomach and he feels his chest tighten. He wonders if this is what homesickness feels like.
"You're supposed to make a wish", the man remembers Mummy telling him when he was a little boy. Another one of those silly superstitions ordinary people cling to; as if wishing on a piece of dead rock could make any difference to anyone. He shakes his head, frowning. In his world of logic and lies, there is no place for such sentimental stupidity. What is the bloody point?
But against his own words of wisdom, his heart decides to overrule his head for once. In a sudden leap between the beats, his traitor heart makes a voiceless wish; reaching far across the Atlantic like the stepping stones over a river he crossed so long ago. Annoyed with himself, the man lets out a huff of breath, turns his back on the swirling river and strides back to the waiting car.
Maria watches as the smoking man shakes his head. Then he flings the stub of the cigarette into the river and returns to the car. The car door slams shut with more force than necessary and the dark figure slumps into the passenger seat next to her, his face unreadable. She gives him a quizzical look and chirps "Ready when you are", with a tone far too cheerful for the occasion. The underlying questions hover in the air between them, unasked and unanswered.
After a moment of silence that threatens to change from companionable to awkward, she squeezes his shoulder lightly, but without hesitation. The man doesn't flinch or try to pull away from her tentative grasp, but turns his head to stare out of the window into the distance. They sit side by side in the car for a while, waiting for his confirmation.
The woman scrutinizes the features of her brooding passenger. She yearns to probe and reach out, to lift the mask from his face and peek inside, if only for a second. Curiously, she wonders what the years on the run have been like for him. How has he been coping without the other half of himself? From the sunken cheekbones, the lines on his brow, the downward curve of his lips and the passing shadows in his eyes she can read all she needs to know that the years (and the loneliness) have taken their toll — the same telltale signs that mercilessly stare at her in the mirror whenever she dares to face her own reflection. The woman knows the price to pay for being a living dead only too well herself. How long will they have to keep existing like this, always looking over their shoulders?
Car horns blare further along the bridge and they hear angry voices shouting in Spanish and Portuguese, then the echo of a car backfiring somewhere rings out like a shot in the dark. Harsh sounds of life and reality that shake her out of her bitter thoughts, reminding her of their immediate situation. They must keep moving: he needs to get out of this place. Now.
As if reading her mind, the pensive man nods and turns to look at the woman behind the steering wheel. He gives her a small, but reassuring smile that reaches all the way to his grey-green eyes, and says in a quiet but firm baritone "I am ready. Let's continue." Underneath the smile, the steely glint of determination is shining through.
The grey Dodge roars back into life on the Friendship Bridge. Alone together, the two phantoms drive to the checkpoint. After passing through the cursory passport control, they cross the river and vanish into the night. Left behind on the bridge above the river, the vaporous wish evaporates into the cool night air, spiraling towards the stars like a silent prayer.
One day soon, if he is very very lucky, Sherlock Holmes might be allowed to obey the call of the returning tide and follow the Thames back home.
The End.
Author's Note:
How about that surprise entry for an ending? Well, maybe not so surprising if you're familiar with the story of Level Up…;)
A final thanks to sevenpercent and Skyfullofstars for the inspiration of this story! I can only hope I lived up to your high standards and that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed finally getting this out of my head and out there for you to read! :)
Also, thank you to everyone else who read the story, let alone followed or favorited me. That means a lot! Reviews are much appreciated!