The faint streetlight filters through dirty windows, casting a glow of neglect into the room. A thick layer of dust covers every surface. Old books sit abandoned on the table, unopened for more than two years. Nothing has been moved. Nothing has been touched.
My first step into the empty flat sends a small cloud of dust up into the air. I pause, just inside the doorway.
"You couldn't have cleaned it?" Sherlock says, a faint hint of disdain in his voice. He sweeps past me and throws himself onto the couch.
"I didn't live here anymore. Besides, when have you ever cared about being clean…" I fade off as I lower myself slowly into my old chair, propping my elbow on the armrest and holding my chin in my hand. For just a second, I let the familiarity of this scene wash over me. The yellow smiley face in the wall, the black-cloaked figure prostrate on the sofa, the old softness of what used to be my favorite seat…
"Lestrade should be here in just a moment," Sherlock pipes up, the glow of my phone illuminating his face. I hear the button click as he sends a text.
"You… you stole my phone," I'm not sure if I should be frustrated or ecstatic. Only ten minutes ago, I would have exploded at his pickpocketing with rage. Only a few hours ago, I would never have dreamed of this happening.
"Borrowed," is the quick response. The phone flies through the air. I catch it with a practiced hand.
My thumb wanders over the engraving on the back, the scratches around the charging port. All of the little details he had used to guess everything about me, that very first day. Sometimes still I look back on the day we met, the day he had dragged me into his life of adventure, the day he had healed me, the day I had, inexplicably, fallen into trust with Sherlock Holmes.
The trust which, apparently, is still holding strong.
He has already explained to me how he faked his death. The truck to catch his fall, the fake puddle of blood, the ball under his arm to stop his pulse, that coroner Molly to pronounce him dead… All of it in precise facts told to me on the ride over. But the Why? Why pretend to kill yourself in the first place?
That answer was startlingly vague.
Moriarty found my weakness.
And he wouldn't say another word about the subject.
"You still haven't told me what we're doing here," I say, breaking the silence that has fallen.
"All in due time. Do you have your revolver?"
"Always."
"Excellent." His fingertips touch together lightly under his chin as he sits back, eyes alight with excitement. Outside, the misty rain has swelled into a downpour. The drops hit the window with loud, pelting dribs.
A smile curled on his cheek.
"This night promises to be exciting."
-x-
The engine of the cab seems to roar as it pulls down the strangely abandoned road, leaving Lestrade alone in the rain. Almost alone. One homeless man is asleep against the side of a building, almost completely covered with a ratty blanket. With hurried strides, Lestrade passes him. His shoulders are tense with a hardly-concealed excitement.
If Sherlock is really back… The hope in his thought threatens to overflow into a smile. If Sherlock is really back, that means Lestrade will have, once again, the most brilliant man he had ever met on his side. Not to mention the effect it will have on his job… Lestrade's career had taken quite a hit when Sherlock professed to be a fake. The chief had even called him in and demoted him to an assistant for trusting him with valuable police information. Donovan wasn't that lucky. Her badge had been taken away entirely. Lestrade has managed to retrieve his previous position as detective, but if Sherlock isn't actually dead, if he isn't actually a fake, imagine how much success that will bring Lestrade's division. Sally may even come back on the force. Those two will be able to bicker and wail during cases, just like they did two years ago.
Lestrade realizes he has a grin on his face. He can't allow that. Carefully, Lestrade arranges his features into a sour expression before he reaches the address.
The door is open as Lestrade ascends the stairs of Baker Street, but there is no light on inside. No violin music wafts to his ears. Silence pours out of the hallway. Suddenly apprehensive, Lestrade raises his hand to push softly on the wood of the door. It swings open. He hesitates. Something isn't right.
Suddenly, his pocket buzzes.
Change of plans. Meet in building across from apartment. Door unlocked. Third floor. Move quickly. Danger is afoot.
-S.H.
Hardly a second later, Lestrade is jogging across the street to his new destination.
-x-
I watch confused from the window as Lestrade checks his phone and exits the doorway of our apartment.
"What is that all about, I wonder?" I look to Sherlock who, unsurprisingly, has my phone again. He taps at the keyboard some more, then flips it closed and hands it to me.
"It's all part of the plan, John."
"What plan exactly?" Sherlock just smiles a close-mouthed smile and jumps up from his position on the couch. He is at my side in a moment, peering through the window hungrily. His glance hits a tall window directly across the street from us. A bright light is on behind the shade, and a silhouette which is obviously Lestrade's is thrown into sharp relief. He paces back and forth a few steps. The shadow stops. Lestrade sits on a chair, still in full view of the window.
"We are going to catch ourselves a killer. Watch."
Again I look through the window for any sign of movement on the deserted, damp street. There is nothing. Then…
"There he is," Sherlock's voice is an elated hiss, a long finger pointing to the homeless man who, seconds before, had been loitering at the foot of our building. Now the man was standing up and pulling a long, black box out from under his blanket, striding purposefully toward the door of 221b. Baker Street.
"One of the most accomplished assassin of all times," anticipation is bubbling through Sherlock's strained whisper, "and we're about to catch him. Hide!"
Down the stairs, a door groans open.
-x-
The room Lestrade enters is big and empty, with just a little bit of streetlight making its way through the covered window. He blinks, confused. Sherlock is supposed to be here, isn't he?
Lestrade's pocket buzzes again.
Follow my instructions exactly.
-S.H.
He waits a few seconds.
Turn on the floodlight. Angle the light so your shadow hits the window, do NOT stand directly in front of the window. Your life may depend on it.
-S.H.
Lestrade looks blankly at the text, not quite understanding what was being asked of him. About four seconds later, the screen lights up with one more message.
And do be quick about it.
-S.H.
A long-suffering sigh escapes from his lips. He had never known Sherlock's plans before, why should he now? Resignedly, Lestrade sets out to accomplish his task.
-x-
"I can't believe you're using Lestrade as bait," I whisper indignantly, sinking into the shadows of a corner. Sherlock begins his response, but the muffled creak of a footstep cuts it off short. The assassin has reached the stairs.
Sherlock waves his hand for silence, and then motions drawing a pistol. I mirror. The cold weight feels familiar and comfortable. I don't suppose I'll ever forget how to shoot a gun.
A tingling sense of anticipation starts at my toes as I listen to the heavy tread of the killer, ascending the stairs into our flat. It isn't too long before I hear his breathing, too. It's labored. Rasping. Strained from years of smoking and little excercise. A sturdy thump sounds just outside the door.
I shove the pistol under the cover of my coat. The glint of streetlight on the steel would give away my hiding spot in a heartbeat. Sherlock's eyes meet mine. He nods holds up three fingers, and I nod, almost imperceptively. His teeth flash white in a smile before he covers the pale skin of his face with his sleeve, blending in almost completely with the shadows he's inhabiting.
The door to the flat swings open as our man advances in, belly straining his shirt, gun case in hand, and completely oblivious to our presence, he takes three long strides and is at the window. The assassin slides it open. Dark eyes peer from under a buzzed batch of hair at Lestrade's obvious figure.
"You ain't too smart, for a detective," he grumbles as he pulls out his rifle. "Shoulda known somebody would come after ya. Shoulda gone home tonight." The tripod is set up. He places his gun in position smoothly and professionally. His meaty finger lightly touches the trigger.
Lestrade's shadow shifts.
Sherlock holds up three fingers in the corner.
One finger drops. My muscles tense.
A second finger drops. The hand on my gun tightens.
The last finger curls up with the rest, and that's when I jump.
-x-
Lestrade doesn't know whether to be bored, angry, or excited as he sits in his chair, just off to the side of the window, his shadow mimicking him from its spot on the window shade.
Of course, it's obvious what Sherlock is doing. He's setting Lestrade up as a target for someone to shoot. Who, exactly, is the trap for? Lestrade has absolutely no idea. Why, exactly, would he want to kill Lestrade's shadow? He has even less of an idea. But he still cooperates, waiting for either his phone to buzz with another text or a shot to shatter the glass.
As prepared as he thinks he is, however, Lestrade still jumps about a mile when the bullet crashes into the room, leaving an explosion of shards in its wake. His nerves take another shock as his phone, once again, vibrates with a text message.
Call your friends. Party inside.
-S.H.
A few seconds later, Lestrade is barking, "Bring the force down to 221b. Baker Street. I do believe we have an arrest to make."
Then he is dashing away to see a living Sherlock and his brand new inmate.
-x-
The assassins finger manages to squeeze of one silent shot before I pop up, holding out my pistol to his head.
"You're under arrest!" I shout, putting as much authority as I can behind those words, hoping with all my heart that Lestrade is un-shot and will fulfill my threat. He whips toward me in surprise, dragging his rifle around to point at my chest. I knock it away, sending the bullet intended for my heart ripping through the wallpaper behind me, and kick forward powerfully at his knees. There is a sickening crack, and the assassin tumbles to the ground. A groan of pain emanates from his place on the carpet. My gun is trained steadily on his head.
"Excellent work, John," Sherlock melts out of his place in the shadows, a triumphant look on his face.
"You…" the man gasps, seeing Sherlock's face.
"Yes. Me. The one who's friends you were sent to kill," Sherlock's tongue trips slightly over the word 'friends' but he recovers, a smug grin settling on his face. The man, fear clouding his face, makes a pained lunge for his rifle, but the butt of my revolver smacks into his head and he falls again, this time out cold.
"Well," Sherlock muses. He nudges the figure with his toe. "That was a rather exhilarating occurrence, wouldn't you say?"
His eyes meet mine, and I know he can see the adrenaline that has pumped its way into my body, stilling my shaking hands and setting my muscles on an excited fire.
"—Yeah," I say. "Rather exhilarating."
We share a smile before Lestrade bursts through the door. Behind him is a bumbling bunch of fellow officers.
They all pause in momentary shock at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, alive and well and in his old flat. All except for Lestrade, I should say. He gives Sherlock a glance-over, looks unsurprised and unimpressed, and then looks to the prone body at our feet.
"And who is this?" He asks.
"This," Sherlock states proudly, "is public enemy #1. Who we seem to have apprehended for you quite nicely." The officers accompanying Lestrade look up at his words and sheepishly store their guns away, three of which had been pointing at the unconscious man.
"Of course you have," Lestrade mutters.
"What was that? A thank you?" Sherlock milks.
"Bloody show-off," Lestrade mutters, gesturing one companion to handcuff our prize.
The officers haul the assassin out to their squad cars, leaving Sherlock, Lestrade, and me in a familiar scene, the fresh evidence of a crime surrounding us, the thrill of the chase pounding through my veins, a superior look on Sherlock's face, and a begrudging gratitude and wonder on Lestrade's.
There are a few seconds of silence. We are all drinking in the moment.
"So," Lestrade states.
"So," Sherlock responds.
Lestrade looks around and sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets. Suddenly looking very tired and very annoyed, he returns his gaze to Sherlock.
"You have an awful lot of explaining to do.