Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1

Author's notes:

- To LienaGrace: thank you! I am glad you liked the article about Donovan and Anderson.

- This chapter is ultra-smarmy! Read at your own risk! ;-)

- Chrétien de Troyes was a twelfth-century French poet who wrote among other stories "Yvain, the Knight of the Lion", "Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart" and "Perceval, the Story of the Grail".

Chapter 9: Sun in splendour

Luckily, the walk back home was uneventful – otherwise, Sherlock would have had a hard time fending off curious police officers, annoying journalists or unwanted fans while supporting the weight of his coughing-mad friend. John was hiding his reddened face behind his hands, his breathing imperilled by the tremors shaking him from head to toes. Only after the door of 221 B Baker Street had slammed behind the two men did John stop to sit down on the corridor's floor, laughing his head off. Sherlock crouched by his side, gently rubbing the doctor's back while patiently waiting for him to calm down – to tell the truth, he was enjoying himself listening to his friend's giggles. After a long moment, John finally managed to get a partial control on his diaphragm, making the hiccups a bit less violent, and he croaked:

"That was... ridiculous. That... was the most (hic!) ridiculous thing... I've ever (hic!) read!"

"The article?" said Sherlock, raising his eyebrows in an aristocratic manner.

"Gosh, yes. How could Ander(hic!)son and Donovan act like perfect imbeciles? I mean, (hic!) sex in the open isn't exactly intelligent in a crowded city filled with (hic!) CCTVs, but they have to go and (hic!) destroy their reputation by dropping their pants nearby a crime scene, a (hic!) sure place to find photographers and TV crews!"

"If I had known this article would make you laugh so much, I would have mailed it to you months ago, my dear John!"

"And I don't know why (hic) I'm laughing, either. God knows, I'm not the kind to kick downed people but... I can't find it in myself to sympathize to their plight, it is so (hic) idiotic!"

"When we were children, Mummy would always tell Mycroft and I that you reap what you've sown. Donovan is a mediocre person filled with ambition and a deep hatred towards intellectual superiority. Since she obviously couldn't boost her career by using her brains, Sally thought being "friendly" towards men with a semblance of authority would grant her enough support to rise within the ranks – and play the sexism victim whenever one of her "targets" would be indifferent to her seduction act. As for Anderson, he's unfaithful to the bone and would jump on any skirt pretending to be interested in him. The poor fool has been completely clueless about Sally's little game, and now he's working for an undertaker to pay his ex-wife's alimony! Well, at least in this place he's unlikely to make a mess out of crime scenes. Come on, now, there's a cup of tea upstairs with our names on it."

"By the way, Sherlock (hic!), have you n-noticed your 3-D image (hic) has disappeared from our window?"

"Why, yes. The batteries of the projectors must have gone flat. I was worried about that, by the way: if Moran had come just half an hour later, he would have seen my electronic "ghost" flickering and then vanish from lack of electric current, thus prompting his immediate departure from his shooting spot. A good thing Moran came in on early, didn't he?"

The detective hauled a still-hiccupping John up on his feet but, before the two men could start to climb the seventeen steps leading to their flat, the blond man stopped to brush his hand across Sherlock's coat, mostly over the left breast.

"What are you doing?" asked a puzzled detective.

John stepped back, and smiled at his friend: "Just (hic) brushing away the last remnants of straw."

Genuinely moved, Sherlock seized John's hand and headed upstairs. Then, he led his friend to the green leather couch, instructing him to sit down and stay put until the tremors were gone, and then he busied himself in the cluttered kitchen. It was a well-known fact Sherlock was completely clueless – no pun intended – in preparing food but at least, his gentlemanly education had made him a master in making tea. Five minutes later, he had readied a tray with cups filled with hot and aromatic Earl Grey, saucers and spoons. They were out of milk and sugar but it was too late to try and find a 24/7 grocery store.

Sherlock repressed a shiver from running up his spine at the thought of the last time he had used this elaborated tea set: it had been during Moriarty's visit at the flat, right after the madman had been cleared of all charges for his break-in at the Tower of London. The detective had offered tea and Moriarty had seized the occasion to whisper threats in a very soft voice, promising Hellfire and punishments to him for having thwarted his plans regarding the Royal family. To think Sherlock had to wait for three years to lay his eyes upon this particular tea set again...

Frowning at this sudden attack of sentiment, Sherlock picked up the tray and walked back to the living-room. John was still seated as per instructed; the hiccups had stopped and he was rubbing his face with both hands in a vain attempt to chase away the fatigue of the night. But the detective knew better and it wouldn't be long before his friend would surrender to Morpheus' call, worn out by the recent events.

"Here you are," said Sherlock, deposing the set on the coffee table.

"Oh, thank you. This will do the trick, definitively." answered John while trying to stifle a yawn behind his hand. After a few minutes of sipping warm tea and enjoying a quiet moment, Sherlock scrutinized the doctor's tired face and drew the inevitable conclusion:

"There is something burning on your lips, my dear blogger, and it isn't tea. In fact, I'm ready to bet it is a question!"

"Yes," admitted John, too tired to argue or even ask how Sherlock had deduced it. "You haven't told me Moran's motive for shooting the Honourable Ronald Adair."

"Oh, that! It's not nearly as important as smoking out the old tiger, but since it is apparently of interest to you then I shall tell you: Moran shot Adair simply because the young fellow has found out the Colonel had been cheating while playing poker on-line."

"Really?"

"Why, yes. Kids those days are computer wizards and Ronald Adair wasn't just a young lord with money-filled pockets and too much time on his hands; he was also a good investigator on the Internet and, with the proper training, he would have been an asset to Scotland Yard's Cyber Crimes division. Anyway, Adair had been Moran's partner for on-line poker sessions and between them, they have won a considerable amount of money. But undoubtedly Adair grew suspicious of his "partner" and so, he started searching and quickly found out the information Moran had left on the poker's site about his background were completely false. Fearing a crook, Adair pushed further and arranged a meeting with Moran under the pretext they would elaborate a better playing strategy if they could speak to each other face-to-face. The Colonel accepted, since he was in such financial dire straits any opportunity to raise money was welcome. But Adair confronted him about the fraudulent information about his identity and threatened to expose him to the on-line poker games' webmasters. Moran, fearing an embarrassing investigation, proposed a bribe but Adair was honest, and flatly refused. The only solution for the Colonel was to murder Adair before he would talk to some high-ranking persons in the police: a young lord is likely to be well-connected. Hence, Moran had to shut this potential blabbermouth and his sniper talents came in on handy."

"This man has served his country and yet, he has chosen to get thick with Moriarty," muttered John in his teacup. "To think I may have met Moran during my Army days..."

"Believe it or not, John, but for years Moran's military career has been an exemplary one. Maybe you did catch sight of him in the past, but then you probably wouldn't have seen anything but a man of iron nerve, issued from a respectable family and with a spotless record, the epitome of an officer and a gentleman. Up to a certain point he did well, but once he reached the grade of Colonel the twisted side of his character got passionate with the respect due to his rank. This plus his perfect command on guns made him drunk on the power of life or death over his fellow human beings, only to get kicked out of the Army in disgrace. His family quietly disowned him and that was a bitter blow for Moran; a man of his so-called quality simply couldn't be left to rot in the gutter along with ordinary mortals! That's when Moriarty found him, patched up his wounded pride and gave him a golden opportunity to play God again."

John drained his cup and put it back on the tray, and then he locked his ocean eyes on Sherlock's steel ones.

"So, it is over, now?"

"Yes, my dear fellow, it is finished. Moriarty's gang is broken beyond any repair, and doubtless the news of Moran's arrest will discourage other criminals to take up the reins – especially since Brother Dear won't miss the occasion to "interrogate" the Colonel in his prison cell about eventual remains of Moriarty's organization. Journalists will announce my come-back in a blaze of publicity and it will also warn the wrongdoers their carefree days are over. Sherlock Holmes is back, so watch out!"

The doctor had a soft chuckle, and added: "Let's just hope those pen pushers will be a little bit more honest than Kitty Riley."

"Oh! Speaking of whom..."

Sherlock was about to tell something about the despicable woman but something caught his attention: John's eyes were getting glassy and it was a sure sign the man would fall asleep soon.

"But it's a story for another time. Right now, you're dead on your feet and you should get some rest, my dear John."

"What 'bout you?" asked a yawning doctor.

"Don't you know how I feel about sleeping by now?" asked the younger Holmes as he took the tray from the coffee table and walked towards the kitchen to put the teacups in the sink. "I've always found it a waste of time; besides, Lestrade will probably show up at first light to get my statement and I need to clear my head; a few hours of silence would be welcome."

John took off his cable-knit jumper, revealing a white T-shirt beneath, and kicked away his shoes with a sigh of relief. The emotions of the night were taking their toll on him and the idea to lie down for a while was certainly engaging; but where could he sleep? His bed in the upstairs bedroom had been stripped years ago and Sherlock's was probably covered with dust. The blond man took a glance at the green leather couch, and shrugged: he had slept on much worst places...

Meanwhile, the younger Holmes had cleared the tea set before leaving the kitchen to go to his old bedroom. Turning on the lights, he had a small smile as he noticed Mrs. Hudson had indeed kept it intact during his absence. The bed was unmade, clothes were still hanging inside the cupboard or crammed inside the chest of drawers, books left everywhere and a pair of discarded socks had remained on the floor. Sherlock rummaged in the chest for a few minutes and took out a pair of silken grey pyjamas, giving an inward praise for the good quality of the garments, and spotted his deep blue bathrobe hanging from a hook behind the door. The detective quickly stripped and donned on the pyjamas, and exited the bedroom while putting on the robe. Did it felt good to put on this casual clothing! It truly gave a comfort of home and, even though Sherlock wouldn't have said it out loud, he had missed it terribly for the past three years, almost as much as he had missed John.

Walking back to the living room, the tall brunette stopped dead on his tracks as he saw his friend had fallen asleep on the couch in a half-seated, half-lying position and with the nape of his head resting on a cushion in an awkward angle. Sherlock clucked between his teeth at the sight: John would wake up with the mother of all stiff neck in the morning, and the leather couch didn't exactly make a warm bed!

Without thinking about it twice, the younger Holmes went back to his bedroom, took a spare blanket out from the cupboard and returned to the living room. He switched off the standard lamp, which light was falling right on the doctor's face, and dropped the blanket on the coffee table, just before piling the cushions at one end of the couch. He slipped his mobile phone in the pocket of his bathrobe and then he sat down, grabbed his friend's sleeping form and made him rest in his lap; the cushions supported John's upper body as he was lying against the detective, using his chest as a pillow. Sherlock extended his wiry arm towards the coffee table, took the blanket and covered John with, making sure the shoulders and neck were protected from the cold.

Anyone walking in the living room would probably be shocked by the sight of two male adults together on a couch, one bundled in a blanket and cradled in the arms of the other man, but the younger Holmes had never given a damn about what people could say or think about him. What was wrong with keeping a friend warm and safe, anyway? Besides, he needed this contact with John; he had yearned for his presence during those terrible years, where he had become the Straw Knight chasing evildoers round the world – but his worst fear had been to receive a text message from Mycroft announcing John's death at the hands of Moriarty's thugs. Sherlock had been worried sick his "suicide" hadn't been public enough, in spite of all his efforts, to erase the last remnants of suspicion in the criminals' minds, making them kidnap and torture his friend for information he didn't possess.

Sherlock clenched his teeth at the thought of John suffering abominations at the hands of low-life scum while he were on the other side of the world hunting down Moriarty's lieutenants. The good doctor, this kind, gentle soul sleeping innocently against his chest, trusting him to keep the nightmares at bay; there should be a law against even thinking of harming John Watson! The younger Holmes tightened his hold on his friend, pressing the golden head on his breast, next to his heart. John snuggled closer to Sherlock and sighed, unconsciously listening to the detective's tranquil beat which lulled him to a peaceful sleep, something which hadn't happened since that fateful day at St. Bart's.

Sherlock knew the shadow looming above him was definitively neutralized. Moran's capture had sounded the death knell of Moriarty's evil empire; no gangster could pretend to be smart enough to proclaim himself the new Napoleon of crime; finally, after three years of chase, it was over. Nothing could prevent the world's only consulting detective to go back on business and provoke a riot with the news of his miraculous return.

And he had regained his heart, too; Sherlock pressed a soft kiss on John's forehead, making the man smile in his sleep. He couldn't have done it without John; a lie and thousands of miles had separated them but deep down, the younger Holmes had known his friend would remain steadfastly loyal to the detective's memory – not only with that final, meaningful statement posted on his blog, but also by his dignity in mourning. Mycroft had constantly texted Sherlock about John refusing to drown his sorrows in drinks, drugs or with a string of mindless girlfriends; in spite of the enormous pressure of police and public inquisitiveness or the more-or-less subtle allusions about the nature of their friendship, the doctor had taken everything in stride and his only answer to wild accusations had been a stony silence. According to Mycroft, John's noble attitude had enraged accusers to the point of making them suffocate on their own poisonous saliva. Hyenas have sniggered until their tongues had dried out but the sun had followed its course through the sky, shining in all its glory above a miry swamp.

"My heart, my sun," thought Sherlock, gently carding his fingers through the blond strands of hair covering John's head. "My sun in splendour."

John may not be aware of it but the mere fact that he was safe from both Moriarty's men and slandering toads had been a great help for Sherlock. It would have killed the detective more efficiently than a bullet in the head if his friend had succumbed to the sirens' call for self-pity and addicted destruction. But then again, he knew his blogger: a born soldier, courageous and resilient, with a chivalrous spirit similar to the one found in medieval tales, John wasn't the one to cower in fear in front of a fire-breathing dragon. No, he had protected himself with a shield – his honesty – and then he had thrown a weapon – his writings – at the beast's chink in its scaled armour – every dragon had a weak spot, right? -, slaying the roaring monster in one swift move.

Moriarty had said once that every fairy tale needed a good villain but in his heinous quest to destroy Sherlock, "Sir-Boast-a-lot", he had forgotten about John, "Sir-Quiet-Writer", the worthy successor of French poet Chrétien de Troyes who had enchanted generations with Arthurian stories. John, in his own silent way, had faithfully kept Sherlock's memory intact, clearing the path for his return, thus thwarting Moriarty's plans (once again) to destroy every last shard of hope for a future for the detective. Moriarty should have known the pen was mightier than the sword!

John mumbled something in his sleep and Sherlock stroked his friend's temple with the side of his thumb, quietly telling him that everything was under control and they were safe. The doctor instantly returned to his dreams and, for hours, silence reigned in 221 B Baker Street, disturbed only by the occasional creaking sound of a piece of furniture from the night's coolness.

John was sleeping.

Sherlock was on watch.

Dawn came and the first rays of light filtered through the curtains of the living room, bringing the promises of a new day. The younger Holmes had kept his mobile phone in his robe's pocket all night; in case a text would arrive, he didn't want the ring to disturb John's slumber. Around 6:00 a.m., a muffled electronic sound was heard and Sherlock quickly took the electronic device out of his pocket to read the message on the device's screen:

Will come at 8:00 a.m. MH

The detective inwardly groaned; Mycroft wanted to visit them, botheration! His big brother probably wanted to explain his role in Sherlock's disappearance, and brag about how efficiently he had protected John for the past three years, without the doctor even realizing it. Couldn't Mycroft just stay in the ministry where he belonged and spy on third world countries, instead of coming boring them to tears? Then again, Sherlock could hardly make short work of his brother; even if Mycroft had babbled about the detective to Moriarty, all this for Queen and country, he had nonetheless respected his word about protecting John after the Reichenbach fall. Oh, well, it would be better to invite him over for a cup of tea and be done with it; otherwise Mycroft would text until the end of the world.

Sherlock typed: "OK" as an answer and sent the text right away. After a few seconds, the mobile ringed again, surprising the younger Holmes: his brother usually never answered so quickly!

But it wasn't Mycroft this time; it was Lestrade:

"I am standing outside 221 B. May I come in?"

Sherlock frowned at the thought of having to wake up John to receive the Detective Inspector; but, then again, why should he? Lestrade probably couldn't wait to get his statement about Colonel Moran for his future report, so the capture of this blatant criminal would finally give his career a much-needed boost.

Sherlock typed: "If you must." and sent the message. After a moment, a key was turning quietly in the front door's lock and footsteps were heard in the downstairs' corridor. The detective then remembered he had given Lestrade a spare key of his home years ago, in case he wanted to see him and neither John or Mrs. Hudson would be available to answer the door – Sherlock simply hated doorbells. The footsteps resounded in the staircase and came closer to the flat, just before stopping cold at the living-room's doorstep.

"Sherlock?" asked Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"Ssh!" was the sharp answer.

A bit taken aback, Lestrade entered the living-room; he certainly didn't expected a warm welcome, not with the goof he had committed three years ago, but he didn't foreseen being ordered to keep quiet. Then his vision adapted to the dim light and he remained agape at the sight of blanket-bundled John curled up against Sherlock, sound asleep.

"Take one photo and you're dead, Lestrade," growled the younger Holmes. He didn't care what it looked like but he knew John was more self-conscious about public opinion – especially after being mocked about his friendship with Sherlock for way too long.

Lestrade raised his hands in a placating gesture, showing he had no intention to take any picture. With a nod of his head, Sherlock indicated him to seat on the chair across the coffee table and the DI complied diligently. Then he rubbed both hands against one another, sighed and started to speak:

"Sherlock, I'd like to..."

"Quiet!" replied the detective.

"But..."

"Don't disturb John!"

Lestrade thought the younger Holmes hadn't changed in three years; his manners hadn't improved a bit and he was as overprotective towards Watson as ever. But the policeman wanted to talk; he had quite a lot to say about the dramatic events culminating with a certain jump out of the roof of a hospital building and he was desperate to say those words, even if Sherlock obviously didn't want to listen.

However, Sherlock had wasted no time "reading" DI Lestrade's life from his clothes and face. The results weren't brilliant: rumpled clothing, meaning he hadn't adapted to live on his own after his divorce; unshaved face, bags under the eyes, bloodshot conjunctiva: Lestrade worked overtime to pay the alimony for his wife and children; no PCs to escort him: his superiors had him on a tight leash and they would kick him out of the force at the slightest faux-pas; almost-white hair: Lestrade knew about his superiors' intention towards him and he had been living on the razor's edge, worried sick about losing his job on top of his reputation and his marriage. Sherlock would have still hold a grudge against the DI, who had forfeited years of fruitful cooperation with the younger Holmes after having lent his ear to poisonous Donovan and Anderson, but Lestrade certainly had paid a high price for his mistakes and no doubts he had been kicking himself silly ever since.

A souvenir jumped in Sherlock's mind: the night the crime-fighting duo of 221 B, Baker Street had been arrested, he had seized a gun from a PC, shot a few rounds in the air to submit the crew of police officers before escaping with John, leaving behind a crouching Lestrade with his head between both his hands, in a typical attitude of: "My God, what have I done?"

"Sherlock..." started Lestrade.

"What?"

A sigh, and then the white-haired man whispered: "What can I say?"

"It depends on you, Detective Inspector," retorted Sherlock with a steel-like quality in his voice. "If you are here to say stupidities, like accusing me of having kidnapped a millionaire, a football star or even Prince Charles to boost my personal glory, you can show yourself out and never come back again."

"No, it's not that!" protested the policeman, trying to keep his voice low to not irate his interlocutor. "Listen... I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry, so sorry for having listened to Donovan and Anderson! I don't know what possessed me... I damn well knew they hated your guts and would have done anything to bring you down, and yet when they presented me the so-called "proofs" of your culpability, it sounded so true... I got afraid, I thought for sure you had been playing me for years; the only thing I could think of was saving my own skin by reporting the "proofs" to my superior. How could I have been so blind? I saw you a hundred times making your deductions on crime scenes, relying only on your pocket magnifying glass and your brains to find clues, but I had to go and listen to Donovan and Anderson's suspicions. I fell for it hook, line and sinker – gosh, I'd probably have swallowed the fisherman as well. Everything went downhill afterwards: your escape with John, the hunt throughout London... But when I got this phone call saying you had committed suicide, it felt like the world had crashed down on my head. I was convinced it had been entirely my fault; that you had jumped out of desperation to ever prove your innocence; and I was disgusted with myself for having being so stupid."

Lestrade rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand to chase away an unwanted mist gathering beneath his eyelids. Sherlock remained impassive, looking unblinkingly at the DI.

"And then I had to identify your body at St. Bart's morgue... You probably don't remember it, you were as white as the sheet covering you at the time, but I was devastated. Your brother showed up and told me to leave; judging by his tone and the creepy-looking persons accompanying him, I knew better than to argue. And afterwards, there has been the shit-storm thundering through Scotland Yard... I still don't know why I have been granted the chance to keep my job, Donovan and Anderson hadn't been so lucky – and their latest sexual exploit in the open sure won't plead in their defence. My wife divorced me, stating our kids were bullied at school because their father was an incapable, stupid enough to not believe in Sherlock Holmes! I had to leave my home, my children, and live in a miserable flat with only the souvenirs of my actions to keep me company."

Lestrade glanced at John, who had moved slightly in his sleep, making the blanket shift from his shoulders. Sherlock readjusted the woollen cover without a word.

"I called John a thousand times; I wanted to explain, to apologize but he never answered," added Lestrade in a sad voice. "I can't blame him, though; I've betrayed you and I'll understand if you'll never forgive me. All I can say is... I'm truly sorry."

Lestrade sighed, got up on his feet and turned to leave, but Sherlock's voice stopped him:

"Frankly, Lestrade, you still haven't grown some extra brain cells during my absence, have you?"

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock glared at the DI, silently telling him to keep his voice down, and then he said:

"John hadn't answered your calls to protect you: he avoided contact simply because he didn't trust himself enough to not punch your nose, like he did to your former Chief Superintendant, and yet somewhere he still likes you; besides, he knows you're been nothing but a fool in this whole Bruht kidnapping business and John isn't the kind to hold grudges against small-brained people. My brother Mycroft pulled some strings so you'd keep your job in spite of the scandal, to protect you: he knew losing your income would be the proverbial straw breaking the camel's back; you would have been utterly destroyed, and your kids' future would have been compromised before it could even start. And now, I'm giving you the entire credit of the arrest of Colonel Moran, murderer of the Honourable Ronald Adair and countless other ones – including Mrs. Stewart, a wealthy woman who had been killed for some time now –, also to protect you: your superiors will have a hard time sacking you after the brilliant conclusion of such a high-profile case, thus letting you remain at Scotland Yard until you'll retire with a healthy pension."

Lestrade was making a remarkable imitation of a fish with his rounded eyes and his opening and closing mouth, but Sherlock kept on talking:

"You are too much an idiot for us to bear a grudge against you, Lestrade. I'm sorry about your divorce and I can't do much about it, John would tell you I'm no good in the sentiment field but at least the Holmes brothers could salvage your career and your future. Now, after the capture of Moran, maybe your wife will come back to you, who knows? Anyway, I can only hope this little incident had finally opened your eyes and you will let me do my little deductions in peace, without having to deal with would-be Donovans and Andersons every time John and I will show up at Scotland Yard. Free access to crime scenes and no time-wasting sarcasms, do you hear?"

"You... You still want to help me with cases?" asked the stupefied DI.

"Of course! London has become a mess and I can't sit here all day along, waiting for a message to show up on my website, can I? You Bow Street runners look like you could use some intelligence for solving murder cases! Besides, it would avoid your superiors to look like fools in front of the TV cameras, another good point on your file. Now, John needs his sleep and you have a report to write; please leave and call me only if there's interesting cases around, okay?"

TBC...