Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1

Author's notes:

- To LienaGrace: nothing escapes Mycroft's human and electronic eyes, does it? ;-)

Chapter 11: Movin' on, moving out

The two men wasted no time after John's heartfelt acceptance to move back in 221 B Baker Street again; the doctor finished his pastries and tea in record time while Sherlock was on the phone, asking for a taxi to come and pick them up immediately if the drivers valued their licence. After having dumped the tea set in the sink for a hopeful wash, John barely had the time to grab his jacket before Sherlock seized him by the hand and made a mad dash down the stairs, risking his friend's health in the process since a certain leg was still subjected to psychosomatic limps from time to time.

Fortunately, no accidents happened and they got out of the building and started crossing the street at the exact time when a black TX4 Hackney Carriage (also known as a London cab) stopped in front of them in a loud screeching of tires. But, as it was still the early hours of the morning, no annoying passerby was here to witness this narrowly-avoided accident. Sherlock flung open the car's door, pushed John on the back seat and ordered the driver to "step on it", regardless of the poor man's attempts to scold them for being so careless. John quietly gave the driver his soon-to-be former address and his calm demeanour made a good job in defusing the man's indignation; in less than a minute, the black cab had left Baker Street to head in the direction of the north.

"Why are you in such a hurry, Sherlock?" asked John. "My things are not going to fly out of the window of my flat at a moment's notice, you know."

"I am quite aware of that. It is just that I want to fetch your stuff and go back to 221 B before those pestering journalists will arrive and camp on the sidewalk. We will have a harder time carrying heavy boxes and bags while clearing a path through their stupidity at the same time."

"Well," said the blond man with a smile, "I guess we can't really blame them for wanting to immortalize the return in London of the world's only consulting detective."

"Are you joking? The journalists will make a fuss about my miraculous reappearance, true, but it will last for about one hour and a half; then, they will start make veiled accusations about my "demise" being another fraud and, given my reputation, it won't last long before they'd shout from the rooftops that all this had been just a lure to escape the police and I've spent the last three years vacationing in the Bahamas. You would have known all this since the beginning, of course, and Mrs. Hudson had probably been paid off to keep quiet about this..."

"That's horrible! Journalists just can't print lies and slander other people, regardless of consequences for the innocent!"

"John, you are talking like a man who hadn't had his nose dug into newspapers for, say, three years?" asked Sherlock with his usual ironic half-smile on his lips. "You are obviously out of shape concerning those disreputable individuals who would stop for nothing to have their articles printed on the front page of a gossip rag. For your information – no pun intended – journalists haven't taken any deontology classes during my absence and besides, they all have this pathological hate of being proven wrong. I'm still a fraud for them, thanks to Moriarty's evil genius – even if I've been cleared of all charges for the Bruht kidnapping, it hadn't erased the other accusations like me being a faker, a show-off and a liar."

"But can't you organize a press conference or something, so you could explain what had really happened?"

"And throw myself to the vultures? No, thank you."

"But you've just succeeded in capturing Sebastian Moran, notorious criminal and Moriarty's most trusted man!"

"I gave all the benefit of his capture to Lestrade, remember?"

"So, how are you...?"

Sherlock gently rested his hand on John's arm, efficiently cutting short his friend's bombardment of questions.

"Please, drop the matter for the time being. I have come up with a little something that will settle the accounts right but I cannot give you more details for the moment. For now, let's just concentrate on packing your things before the journalists move for the kill, right?"

John opened his mouth to protest, to say they should waste no time, spare no expenses in defending his friend's reputation but a firm glance from Sherlock made his contestations die before they would ever form on his lips. After a moment of silence, the doctor whispered under his breath:

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

"The Shadow People?"

Another nod answered him. John understood the Holmes brothers had arranged something in the goal of restoring Sherlock's image and, knowing the detective, it would certainly be a brilliant demonstration of irrefutable logic, a firework of deductions that would leave all the mediocre – may they be cops, journalists, magistrates, the public or any other kinds of incredulous – biting the dust, thoroughly humiliated for not having believed in Sherlock Holmes and John sombrely thought it wouldn't be a bad thing if Kitty Riley would be amongst the vanquished.

Sherlock lightly tapped his friend's arm and relaxed against the seat's cushions. The cab driver, who had observed them through the rear-view mirror, shook his head in consternation: he had transported some odd couples in his life, but this one was definitively the weirder!

The taxi finally reached John's apartment building and, after having paid the driver who seemed very anxious to leave, the detective and the doctor entered the grim-looking structure. Sherlock had a hard time repressing a grimace at the sight of the dirty corridor walls, the barely-functioning elevators, the occasional painted tag praising a gang or a rock star. Sounds of crying babies could be heard; the floor was sticky and littered with cigarette butts as if cleaning had been a distant souvenir; and the elevator's strongly smelled of urine, a testimony someone had spent the night before drinking cheap beer.

"Sorry you have to see that, Sherlock," said John with a sigh, focusing his attention on the luminous numbers flashing above their heads in a desperate hope the elevator would move faster.

"Actually, this whole building could prove to be a mine of information about its tenants; why, for example, I can deduce a teenaged couple had sex here about two nights ago and they switched on the emergency button to avoid being disturbed while copulating; a drunk had used it to relieve himself as you already know, and a middle-aged man had his face slapped by a woman wearing fake nails – the violence of the impact has tore off the index nail of her right hand, and its trajectory ended in the far corner of the cabin. But, since we have no intention to stay in this building for very long, keeping this data would soon prove to be useless, wouldn't it?"

"You are quite right, my dear Sherlock; just erase it from your hard-drive brains," said the doctor, genuinely happy at the thought he would leave this building forever to sleep in his large, sun-filled bedroom at 221 B Baker Street again. His flatmate was the king of eccentrics and some strange ingredients could be found from time to time in the fridge, but compared to this dump it sounded like paradise!

The elevator stopped a bit too abruptly at the fourth floor; then, the doors opened with a squeaking sound and John led the way until they reached a door painted in dark red and marked with the number 10. The doctor dug out his keys from his jacket's pocket and quickly unlocked the door, switching on the lights as he went in.

Sherlock quickly found himself standing in a minuscule living-room as John wordlessly headed to his bedroom. The detective inspected the premises and what he observed made him frown: this flat was as lousy as his friend's former one, just before they met in St. Bart's laboratory. Walls painted in a sickly yellowish colour; threadbare rug on the floor; second-hand furniture; a depressing desk supporting the laptop computer; small cathode-ray tube TV; a kitchenette in a corner, barely functional with a mini-fridge, a sink and a set of hotplates. Only John's meticulous nature had avoided this place to become too depressing by keeping it clean from top to bottom (including the windows) and putting up decorations like framed photos, a calendar and even a potted plant on the kitchen's counter, but the flat still emanated sadness and loneliness – two words that would perfectly describe Doctor John Watson's life for the past three years.

Sherlock looked at the framed photos hanging on the walls: a black-and-white one showing a smiling bride and groom on their wedding day – Mr. and Mrs. Watson, judging by the strong physical resemblance between the man and John, but his friend had also inherited his mother's smile and shorter stature. Another photo of the couple, this time in colour, was showing the proud parents with a sulking little girl and a chubby, happy baby boy. A picture of young Harriet and John with presents in front of a Christmas tree; Harriet holding her chartered accountant's degree with troubled eyes and a superior smirk on her face; John graduating from medical school with his beaming parents flanking him, while Harriet was deliberately avoiding to look at the camera. A photo showing Captain John Watson surrounded by a crowd of army buddies, visibly toasting in celebration, and then...

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat as he looked at the last framed picture: it was a photo of him and John, seated at a table at Angelo's restaurant. Sherlock remembered the occasion perfectly; it had been John's birthday and the detective had suggested a dinner at their favourite restaurant. Just before dessert, Sherlock had handed out his present – a very nice fountain pen, "in case you'd get tired typing our adventures on your keyboard, my dear blogger." John had been deeply moved by the gift and busybody Angelo had seized the occasion to immortalize the moment with a click of his numeric camera. Sherlock had frowned a bit, not liking this interference during a special moment shared with his John but his friend had merely laughed before thanking Angelo. The detective hadn't been aware the restaurateur had e-mailed the photo afterwards, though.

"I still have it, you know," said John's voice at Sherlock's elbow.

"Excuse me?"

"The fountain pen, I keep it on me all the time. I even engraved my initials on the cartridge container, in case someone would think it funny to steal from me."

"Oh!" exclaimed Sherlock, inwardly scolding himself for not having had the pen engraved by a professional before giving it to John. Then again, he hadn't imagined he would be framed by a criminal mastermind just a few weeks after John's birthday.

"Please, could you take down the photographs? I'd like to take them today. I've packed most of my stuff but the heavy things like books, household appliances and winter clothes will need a second trip."

"I could ask Brother Dear to send a few of his goons and do the packing..."

John made a small grimace: "Frankly, I'm not comfortable about having some of the Shadow People here to rummage through my things, Sherlock. It's personal..."

Sherlock was about to reply the said shadowy persons had been spying on the doctor since he had agreed to become his flatmate so they probably knew everything about him, from the brand of condoms he preferred to the number of holes one of his socks sported, but something in the back of his head told him it would be "no good", to quote John, so he cleared his throat and said instead:

"I see your point. Well, how about a professional mover? I happen to have helped one years ago – a very small matter, he was accused of stealing goods from his clients while actually it had been his business associate helping himself – but he has been eternally grateful towards me ever since. Maybe it is time to call in a favour? He would be happy to oblige, even after all these years."

"Are you sure?"

"Why, yes and he runs a very good team: efficient, careful and reliable, who can ask for anything more?"

John thought about it for a while, and then he agreed: "Well, okay. After all, packing the rest of my stuff won't take too much of their time. I'll finish with the suitcase, and then the smaller things can fit in my old army bag. Can you take care of the photos and the laptop, as well?"

Sherlock complied and the two men worked in silence for a few minutes. The small, personal stuff was tucked in the army bag while the laptop was neatly packed in a specially-designed nylon case. But while helping John, the detective's mental clogs were turning in full force and the deductions he was making didn't suit him at-all. His friend had obviously been living from hand to month despite having a good job at St. Bart's cardiac care department and being a newly-successful writer: this dissymmetry called for a little straightening of situation, since Mycroft hadn't been too loquacious about John's financial situation during Sherlock's exile.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"How is your sister fairing at rehab?"

A long-suffering sigh followed Sherlock's question, and then the doctor came out of his bedroom and leaned against the doorframe with a resigned look on his face.

"How did you know?"

"My dear fellow, you should be accustomed to my methods by now, but I'll indulge you nevertheless; the framed pictures you are found off show the most important persons of your life: your parents, your friends from the army, your sister and me, which I find highly flattering. However, it doesn't take a genius to see that Harriet's resentment towards you goes back from the very beginning and yet, you kept her picture so, conclusion: you still care for her, in spite of being estranged. The photo showing Harry graduating also reveals she had taken to drinking during her student days – and there's no recent pictures of her, meaning she is still taken with the bottle and refused to be photographed. You have a steady job and you have managed to publish a book, so money shouldn't be an issue and yet, you live in conditions unworthy of your status. Hence, you have faced monetary problems – not your own, but somebody else's, probably a relative. Since both your parents are dead, the only person remaining is Harry. Now, I happen to know it is hard to concentrate on figures and accounts while drunk as a skunk, so logic calls for thinking Harry's overindulgence in alcohol had cost her dearly – and you stepped up to pay for her debts, to avoid her prison. And finally, knowing you and your good heart, it is transparent you wanted to give her a chance by sending her to a rehab center, in the hopes she will clean her act and start behaving like an adult. The recent money you've earned with the book covered the expenses, leaving none for you so your dreams of moving to a nicer flat or to develop your professional future had been put on hold. Am I right?"

John rubbed his face with the back of his hand. He had forgotten how the perceptivity of Sherlock could be tedious, at times.

"You're right. After your demise, I moved out of 221 B and stayed here to lay low for a while, hiding from the journalists. Mike Stamford found me this job at St. Bart's because he felt partly responsible for my problems – after all, he's the one who had introduced us at the laboratory – but it had been hard; a lot of colleagues looked at me rather suspiciously since I was the "fraud's friend", I announced it loud and clear on the Internet so there'd be a good chance I'd be dishonest as well. For months I lived under their scrutiny and I feared the littlest faux pas would cost my job, so I stayed at this flat because I didn't dare spending more money on rent. I saved cash on everything: nights out with Stamford, kitchen appliances, entertainment; I also avoided women because for all I knew, they could be Mycroft's creatures or Kitty Riley's-wannabes faking a romantic interest in me to extort confessions about you. I don't doubt some hacks have written about "the confirmed bachelor John Watson" mourning his dead boyfriend, thus "proving" we were a gay couple, but I didn't give a damn!"

John seated heavily on a chair; this trip down memory lane wasn't easy on him but he carried on telling the events that had plagued his life recently:

"And then, about eighteen months ago, Harry called me. She was in a terrible mess: she had made enormous mistakes in the accounts of a big software company and they were suing her for all her worth. I hired an attorney and, after long negotiations, the company agreed to not drag her into court provided the missing sums would be paid – bad publicity wouldn't have been good for business but Harry lost all her remaining clients. I paid her debts and then, as soon as it was over, she drowned in alcohol once again. The bank seized her assets for non-payment of her mortgage so she was ruined, penniless and destroying her health. I couldn't do anything for her as a doctor; she steadfastly refused to listen to me and thus, the only option left was to send her to rehab. I've spent the rest of my money paying the bills of a specialized clinic frequented by movie stars, writers, rock musicians and the likes, hoping their highly-regarded status would prompt her to re-think her life."

Sherlock gently put his hand on John's shoulder: "And… is it working?"

As an answer, John took out his mobile phone and typed on a few keys before turning on the loudspeaker. The disincarnated voice of Harriet "Harry" Watson resounded through the small living-room like an enraged ghost:

"John, it's Harry. What the Hell have you been doing? You were supposed to send me money days ago! How am I supposed to buy my cigarettes and magazines without cash, do you expect me to pay in kind? You could be more thoughtful, you know! This clinic bores me to tears, there's nothing left to do but smoking and reading since I am stuck here thanks to you, so the least you could do is make my circumstances more acceptable. But I suppose daydreaming about that fake detective is more important than your sister! I have to go now, there's another dull meeting I'm supposed to attend but once I'm out of here, you'd better have left a message telling cash is on its way, otherwise I'll go over the wall and hitchhike my way back to London and make a scandal at your hospital, do you hear? And it's not an idle threat! Bye!"

John turned off the phone with a resigned sigh while Sherlock was barely able to contain his anger, his handsome face set like flint. The nerve of that selfish, inconsiderate woman! Her brother was nearly broke from her inebriated shenanigans and yet she had the nerve to complain about her stay in a pricey clinic! Sherlock had some previous experience with rehab and he knew some underfunded centers in London where the hopes of cleaning one's act were very slim, not to say non-existent; Harry were in the best hands to get another chance in life but she stubbornly clung to her whiney act, heaping insults on John while extorting money and making a complete fool of herself. No doubts she would relapse as soon as her stay at the clinic would be over, and the vicious circle would start again: drink, fall sick, clinic and drink again, regardless of John's feelings towards his sister.

"I received this message shortly before leaving for Camden House. I had planned to send her money after my visit to your hiding place, but… Well, I have been a bit distracted on the way," said the doctor with a smile towards the brunette. "But it's okay: cell phones are not allowed in the clinic and calls from the public phone can be done only from 3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. It is only 7:15; I still have plenty of time to send her money via the Internet. Harry will probably rant and rave for me being late, but I'll just have to tell her about your return and hopefully, she'll understand. Oh, please remind me to call St. Bart's once we're back at 221 B, okay? I'm taking the day off, there's no way I'll leave you alone today to face the press and the police about your return."

John went back to his bedroom and resumed his packing. Sherlock stayed rooted on the spot for a minute, his brains processing the data he had just received about his friend's finances, his professional future and Harry's self-obsessed attitude. Then, a knowing smile lightened his features as the perfect solution came to the detective's mind. He couldn't utter it out loud, since it was a delicate matter involving John but with a few planned, subtle moves made over a long length of time, Sherlock would soon see his friend realize a lifelong dream.

"John?"

"Yes?" answered the blond-haired man as he kept on packing.

"Do you like your job at St. Bart's?"

"It's okay, I guess. After your "suicide", I honestly thought I wouldn't be able to practice medicine again so Mike's proposal had been a godsend; otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to afford living in London. The pay is good, and I enjoy treating patients. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock didn't say he knew – from Mycroft – that a few doctors at St. Bart's were resenting John's presence amongst them, not because of his links with the world's only consulting detective but for the exceptional kindness he showed to the patients. A lot of them had loudly praised Dr. Watson's professional qualities and it was irritating the Hell of lazy, unconcerned staff physicians more focused on golf scores or weekends than by treating people with a heart condition.

"Oh, I was just remembering you mentioning once you considered private practice... You know, share a surgery, have your own patients and organize your time like you want to..."

John stopped folding a shirt as an image formed inside his mind: a golden brass plate fixed on a building's stone wall, reading "Dr. J. H. Watson, general practitioner". Receiving patients in the calm of a surgery, listening to their problems while a receptionist would take calls and note the appointments in an agenda, instead of having to rush through the overcrowded corridors of a hospital, bumping into sick persons and medical staff alike and having to deal with suspicious colleagues... John couldn't deny this idea had been appealing these past few years. He hadn't minded working in hectic conditions during his Army days but time had flown by and he longed for a bit of peace and quiet at work...

The doctor shook his head. Dreaming about his own surgery was a waste of time; he wasn't wealthy and the prices for private practice in London were simply out of his reach. The sales of his book had allowed him to reconsider this project for a little while but then Harry had burst into his life with her problems, her debts and her failing health. John had gladly helped his sister, regardless of his own dreams but he had received very little in return, apart from a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Yes, it would be nice, Sherlock. But this is London and buying a surgery is not in my means. If you and I will work on cases again, provided Lestrade will keep his word, then maybe I'll earn enough by writing more books about your deductions, who knows?"

John closed his suitcase's lid, unaware his friend was watching him with a mysterious half-smile on his lips. The good doctor genuinely thought the Holmes family was reduced to Mycroft, Mummy and Sherlock but, actually, there were a lot of first and second cousins scattered throughout England. One of Mummy's second cousins twice removed, Anthony Vernet, was a medical doctor in London and considering retirement since his arthritis had been growing steadily worse. He would probably look for a successor, and a certain younger doctor would be the perfect candidate...

Provided Sherlock would have a preliminary talk with his long-lost relative, of course!

TBC...