Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1

Author's notes:

- To LienaGrace: aw, you're too kind! Thank you very much for your review.

- James Boswell (1740 – 1795) was a Scottish diarist and author, best known for the live biography he wrote of Samuel Johnson (1709 – 1784).

- "Miroir aux alouettes" in French literally means "larks' mirror". It is a trap made of a rotating plank and small mirrors reflecting the sun to catch birds. Figuratively, it is the equivalent of "to lure".

Chapter 6: Smoke and mirrors

The next two hours passed in a blur. Much to John's astonishment, Sherlock asked for food before they would go and capture Colonel Moran! The look of surprise on the doctor's face actually made the younger Holmes smile, and it ended with two men sharing a hearty laugh that did wonders in healing past wounds and pain. There was still a long way to go before they would be entirely freed from the dangerous shadows looming above their heads for too long, especially with the disgraced ex-Colonel lurking about, but Sherlock and John knew they would face it together, and stronger than ever. Their friendship had remained intact, in spite of secrecy causing an atrocious grief, and Sherlock couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief while looking at his friend's beaming, resolute face. Good old John, thought the detective, what a treasure he was! Everything was golden in him: his heart, his soul, his love, even his hair, all this set up in a sturdy frame and a face radiating adorableness. No wonder so many people were jealous of him but the kind-natured doctor was way above this kind of pettiness, including with his relatives.

Sherlock had deduced a long time ago that John's strained relationship with his sister Harry had started from the very beginning, with a jealous four-year-old girl loathing her infant brother for daring to be a boy; this resentment had grown drastically over the years, with John being an eager student while Harry's whimsical nature would drain the strength out of her parents and teachers; John, quiet but popular, would make friends everywhere and Harry would remain in the dust, shunned by the other kids for her diva-like attitude. And of course, Harry would find it easier to blame other people for the big chip on her shoulder, wallowing endlessly in self-pity while biting helping hands at the same time. It hadn't been difficult for the detective to deduce why impoverished John had refrained from asking his wealthy sister for a loan after his return from Afghanistan: the man wouldn't have heard the end of Harry's complains and scorn. How come a good, generous man like John could be related to such a selfish woman was beyond Sherlock's comprehension – but then again, he also had an impossible sibling.

"You truly want to eat something, Sherlock?" asked John, and the soft tone was enough to shake the detective out of his reverie. The younger Holmes shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind; the trap for Moran had to be set quickly for his plan to succeed.

"A dangerous night lies ahead of us; we both need our strength and there is enough time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go."

"But all the food has been cleared of the flat after I moved out three years ago, and I don't think it would be wise to call for take-out. One of Moran's spies could show up at our doorstep disguised as a delivery man, and..."

Sherlock fished a key out of his pants' pocket and tossed it at the doctor, swiftly interrupting his objections. John had barely the time to catch it before it would hit him on the face.

"This is a copy of the key to Mrs. Hudson's door. I... er... "acquired" it years ago, just in case, and I'm sure she won't object if we help ourselves in her fridge. John, could you please go and fix us a snack? We will reimburse Mrs. Hudson for the food, it's a promise."

John knew better than to argue – to tell the truth, he was feeling a bit hungry too – so he went downstairs and opened the door of Mrs. Hudson's flat. Once he had stepped inside, his honest nature made him feel a bit awkward for trespassing on the woman's property, but time was an issue for the entrapment of Moran. John headed for the kitchen and took food out of the refrigerator: Cheddar cheese, ham, bottled water, pickles and mayonnaise. He also borrowed two apples in the vegetable compartment, a bag of barbecue-flavoured potato crisps and a quick inspection of the bread basket brought out loaves of white sandwich bread.

After having picked up knives, spoons and paper towels, John rushed up the stairs like he feared his friend had disappeared again during his absence. But seventeen steps later, he found out he had nothing to worry about: Sherlock was still seated on the green couch, his hands joined under his chin in his favourite thinking-position; apparently, he hadn't moved an inch. However, another glance told the blond-haired man otherwise: several sheets of old newspaper had been spread on the coffee table in an impromptu table cloth, ready for their light meal.

Sandwiches were made within a minute, and the bottled water drenched their thirst after having raided the bag of potato crisps. John couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock's face while eating, which amused the detective tremendously but also brought a feeling of guilt: his friend must have missed him like crazy to act like this, and Sherlock silently vowed to do improve his manners, like: tuning down the snappy remarks about the doctor's intelligence, avoiding mixing body parts with edibles in the fridge, trying not to play the violin too loud at three o'clock in the morning... in short, becoming an almost-acceptable flatmate to be worthy of John's forgiveness.

After the food was gone, Sherlock suggested getting ready and John, always the military man, was up and about in seconds just before realizing he had dropped his gun at Camden House, seconds before he had fallen through the floor. His confusion at the loss of his weapon, mixed with anger at the thought he wouldn't be of any help to Sherlock without it, made the detective smile and he said:

"It isn't lost, John. I took the liberty to retrieve it before picking up after you've knocked yourself out with that termite-eaten floor. Your handgun is in the left pocket of my coat."

"Oh! Well, thank you, Sherlock. It would have been terrible for me if a kid or a tramp had found the gun and then killed an innocent with it."

John took the long, dark coat and indeed, the weapon was tucked inside the left pocket; but his hand made contact with a bulge inside the lining and, unable to contain his curiosity, he searched the right pocket as well and took out a paperback. His ocean-coloured eyes misted as he immediately recognized the cover: it was his book, "The adventures of Sherlock Holmes" and from the looks of it, it had be read many times. John's hands trembled a bit while turning a few pages, remembering the pains but also the pride he had felt during the writing of this book, slowly building a monument in memory of his deceased friend with words instead of stones. After Sherlock's fall, John had devoted all his free time writing his book and had kept on him at all times the USB key containing the manuscript. Anyone trying to steal the key – Mycroft, Moriarty's men, rancorous police officers – would had to take it from the doctor's dead body.

"Sherlock?"

"What, John?"

The detective's stern features brightened slightly at the sight of what John was holding in his hand.

"Oh, this... Yes, I bought it months ago, and it had been very well thumbed."

"What do you think of it?"

Sherlock would normally have answered this kind of question with an acerbic retort: he had never liked stories, not even as a child, and had always preferred scientific books and murder cases for bedtime readings. However, this paperback was the artwork of his only friend, who had obviously suffered a lot while writing it and the detective would be damned to Hell before insulting John's loyalty by his usual contempt for fiction.

"Well, my zealous historian, it appears that you have made a small miracle; you have succeeded in interesting me with stories, something that had never happened before."

"These are not exactly "stories", Sherlock," corrected John. "Every word I have penned was true."

"Oh, I don't doubt your honesty, not even for a second. It is just that I've never felt any interest toward fiction and the rare fairy tales I've been imposed to read have been "erased" from my brains a long time ago. I would never have thought our little cases would make good literature but you have proved me wrong and that's a rare feat, indeed!"

John felt prideful at those words, and the detective had a hard time to refrain from laughing at the blush spreading on his friend's face.

"So, you won't mind if I write some more stories about you in the future?"

"Who am I to stop my favourite blogger from typing his fingers away on his keyboard? Speaking of which... If you don't mind me asking, why did you stop posting messages on your blog?"

The doctor's eyes suddenly hardened at the recollection of awful souvenirs following Sherlock's fall from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital:

"I couldn't bring myself to write in it anymore, Sherlock. It had been the cause of all your problems and I've been a fool blogging about our association, spreading vital information about you on the Internet. How could I have been so stupid? You're a private detective, for Christ's sakes, not a columnist gossiping about celebrities! Thousands of people have read my blog and after your "death" massive arguments ran all over social networks, about if you were a fraud or not and the sarcasms, the hysteria or the spiteful comments would have been more than I could bear. So I posted a last entry to say I would always believe in you, and then shut the blog down, vowing to never use it again. Defending your innocence on the Internet was useless, anyway: on-line opinion is rarely considered as trustworthy. This is why I wrote a book, as published writings have an aura of respectability, even in this day and time."

Sherlock got up on his feet and laid both his hands on John's shoulders, his steel-grey eyes locked on his upset friend.

"Oh, John... You do think writing in your blog has played a major role in my fall? Please, get this idea out of your mind; Moriarty had spotted me months before we met. Do you remember the case you named "A study in pink"? The cabbie, Jeff Hope, had confessed being sponsored by a man who would encourage his serial killings by depositing vast sums of money for Hope's children at each murder. This diabolical sponsor happened to be a fan of my website, praising every deduction I posted and he knew I would be intrigued by those fake suicides; three guesses who he was?"

"My God!" said the doctor. "After the police had arrived, you mentioned Moriarty's name on our way to the Chinese restaurant. He was the sponsor, wasn't he? The cabbie told you his name before dying?"

"Yes, my dear John. I didn't tell you this detail about a sponsor at the time because I had no idea what the word "Moriarty" meant. It could have been a man, a company or a baby formula, whatever! But the events of "The Great Game" forced me to tell you about my suspicions about being tailed by a psychopath – and I am ready to bet General Chan of the Black Lotus gang had been an associate of Moriarty, too. Maybe he helped her to flee the country but most likely, he got rid of her. The consulting criminal had found a kindred spirit with the consulting detective days before we've become flatmates so please, don't sadden your soul with misplaced guilt. Your writing has never been the cause of my demise and besides, even if I don't always approve of your choice of titles for our cases, I have to admit I'd be lost without my Boswell. Ah, that's better!" said Sherlock, seeing the shadow rising from John's face. "I am glad to have lifted a burden from your shoulders. Now, how about entrapping Moriarty's second-in-command and cleaning London's streets from his malevolent presence?"

In less than half an hour, Sherlock and John were crossing the courtyard behind Camden House after having taken every precaution no one had seen them leaving 221 B Baker Street with the lights still on. Since their former house was spied upon by Moran's men, they had to go down the basement and out by a forgotten cellar window, and then walk through a maze of poorly lit alleyways. John relied entirely on his friend to guide him through those back streets without making a noise, as Sherlock's eyesight in the dark had always been keen and he avoided obstacles with the easiness of a bat.

The doctor was still recovering from Sherlock's miraculous return but, just like in the old days, he was delighted to follow him in another case, with his Browning in his jacket's pocket and the thrill of adventure in his heart. It was as if the last three years had never happened! John was grateful for the darkness, though, so Sherlock couldn't see him smiling from ear to ear; the detective would probably have scolded him about the seriousness of the situation and it wasn't the time to be distracted by trifles.

Sherlock adjusted his scarf around his chin and mouth – he didn't want John to see the irrepressible smile spreading on his lips – and pushed open the back door of Camden House. A quick inspection had confirmed him that no unwanted visitors had come after he had carried an unconscious doctor out of the house, so it was safe to enter. John hadn't had his pocket lamp this time, but it wasn't needed: Sherlock grabbed his friend's wrist and led him forward the familiar long hallway, apparently knowing the empty house like the palm of his hand. In spite of the dim light, John recognized the living-room (with the added pile of planks and debris, making him shudder at the memory of his fall) with its dirty windows; his night vision finally kicked in and he could see the outlines of the staircase, remembering the frailty of the construction.

Sherlock wasted no time and climbed up the steps. John followed suit but then, his foot collided with something lying on the floor, making a soft metallic clank. Intrigued, the shorter man bent to retrieve it and he gave a gasp as he recognized his walking stick, which had been kicked away by Sherlock a few hours ago. Realization hit the doctor hard as he remembered he had completely forgotten his psychosomatic limp since he had woken up in their former address: being with Sherlock had cured his leg, once again! He looked up and, even though the light wasn't enough to discern details, John knew the detective was watching him with a knowing look on his face.

John grabbed his walking stick, not wanting to leave any clue to a potential enemy, and climbed the staircase like he had done earlier by keeping close to the walls. Once he had reached the upper floor, Sherlock took his hand again and guided him to the right-handed bedroom, at the same place where John had surprised him before; avoiding the large gap in the floor, the dark-haired man crouched by the dirty window, whose panes were thick with dust, and gestured to his companion to do the same. Drawing John close, his lips close to the doctor's ear, he whispered:

"Tonight, my dear fellow, we will turn the table on the hunter. The tiger has been prowling around for too long and it is high time we take out the big guns to make him become more reasonable."

"The big guns?" repeated John. "But there is only the two of us and a single Browning. We should have asked Lestrade for reinforcements..."

"Tsk, tsk, we need to be extremely discreet. Moran is an old soldier and he would spot policemen in a snap, especially since those bumbling idiots simply can't stay quiet for a minute with their radios endlessly spouting messages. No, the best way to catch Moran is to focus his attention towards the tied goat, and a spot of light on irresistible bait will hypnotize the Colonel so much he'd forget his own name."

"What on Earth are you talking about? What bait? You have no intention to become a walking target for this madman, are you?"

"Frankly, John, you should know me better than that! In spite of my spectacular dive from St. Bart's, suicide is definitively not in my repertoire. However, it is true that the mere sight of my face would send Sebastian Moran on a murder spree, which would consequently force him to get out of his hole and that's what we want, don't we? Now, this window stands exactly opposite to the ones of our old quarters. Please, and with taking every precaution not to show yourself, would you be so kind to take a peek at our old flat?"

Knowing it was futile to bombard his friend with questions John crept forward and rested his hands on the dusty still; then he raised his head a few inches above the still and looked across at the familiar windows. His dark blue eyes widened as he saw the familiar long silhouette seated in the leather armchair of their living room, next to the fireplace: it was Sherlock!

Gasping in amazement, the doctor threw out his hand to make sure his friend was still crouched next to him. The detective's tall frame was shaking in silent laughter at John's stupefaction.

"So, what do you think?"

"Holy God! It's incredible!" cried the blond man.

"Well, I may have left my heart in London but I certainly didn't forget to pack my brains. The illusion is perfect, isn't it?"

"I could have sworn it was you! How in the world have you managed to find an actor bearing such a striking resemblance with you?"

"It's not an actor; it's me!"

John crouched back again, his eyes locked on the detective.

"Then how can you be here and in 221 B at the same time? Do you have the gift of ubiquity?"

"No, I can't pretend having the ability of being everywhere at once. I am a multi-talented man, but even genius has its limits! These are images diffused by the latest model of volumetric 3-D display devices, without needing a screen to create the illusion of life. That's progress for you! This elaborated marvel had been created and built in Japan last year for medical use, mostly to create 3-D images of brain cancers to help oncologists in their work. I've spent a few days filming myself and, while you were at Mrs. Hudson's flat looking for food, I set the display devices in our living room so the image would be projected on my favourite armchair. The 3-D beam can be controlled from a distance and the remote is in my pocket."

"Good heavens, this is marvellous!" exclaimed John. "While enemies would waste time spying your electronic ghost, we will stay here and spot them!"

"The watchers are being watched, and the trackers tracked... Yes, my dear John, this 3-D display device is my miroir aux alouettes and it will blind the old tiger, leading him right in my trap."

"Are you certain he will come tonight?"

"Oh, yes. The homeless network has done a good job babbling away the rumour about my comeback. Moran will not miss this opportunity to shoot at me from a safe distance, like the good sniper he is. No doubt he had noticed Camden House already and its decrepit state will suit his goal perfectly. With his spies reporting him my "presence" in 221 B, why would Moran have any reserve in avenging his bosom friend? Not to forget the fact that his underworld reputation would be enormously enhanced after my execution, probably winning him the title of Moriarty's undeniable successor."

"He'll never be the new consulting criminal," said John with a rare, steel-like quality in his voice. "We will stop him by any means necessary."

"Yes, we will, Doctor. The old feline won't have a chance to become the Tiger Spider."

TBC...