Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1
Author's notes:
- The last chapter! I'd like to express my thanks to all my wonderful readers and reviewers.
- This chapter is dedicated to LienaGrace.
Chapter 12: Home is where the heart is
The rest of the morning was spent in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, drinking tea and enjoying homemade biscuits. John apologized for having raided their landlady's fridge last night for an impromptu meal before entrapping Moran, but Mrs. Hudson answered with a light clucking which accented her resemblance to a mother-hen. She said they needed their strength before catching "such a terrible wrongdoer, who deserves to be in jail" and she wasn't worried about a few loaves of bread and some ham. Sherlock had to re-tell his adventures across the world from the very beginning, punctuated by "Oohs" from the dear woman (much to the detective's embarrassment) while Mrs. Hudson repeatedly described John's despair over his friend's demise (much to the doctor's embarrassment).
The doorbell rang a few times during this gentle reunion, mostly journalists and photographers trying to get the first picture of Sherlock's return but they were instantly told off by Mrs. Hudson, who shouted from the doorstep that her house wasn't a circus and she refused to let in "hypocritical forked-tongued pen-pushers, who wrote horrible things about Sherlock Holmes when they should have known better". A journalist, evoking freedom of the press, tried to barge in and got acquainted with Mrs. Hudson's broom after the instrument whacked him sharply on the leg – strangely enough, the doorbell-ringing stopped following this incident.
John was worried about getting any grocery shopping done with that herd camping out of 221 B, but Sherlock shrugged and suggested using Tesco's on-line services and have the food and goods delivered. After all, they would be busy cleaning up the flat and getting rid of old stuff; they couldn't waste time at the supermarket. For once, John agreed because he also had pressing matters to do: calling St. Bart's for his absence, write a spectacular message to update his blog, send money to Harry... And deep down he was looking forward to enjoy Sherlock's presence all day, something he had longed for three years.
Mrs. Hudson made them sandwiches and fried eggs for lunch, and her favourite tenants promised to treat her for a dinner at Angelo's once the racket over Sherlock's resurrection would have quieted down. Then, the younger Holmes wasted no time straightening the usual clutter in the living-room; he kept the old newspapers' articles mentioning Moriarty, with the intention to create a file about his nemesis, but threw the rest in the fireplace. The Stradivarius was lovingly dusted and tuned; papers, archive boxes and old letters were stacked on a corner of the shared desk; a phone call to the "Keep movin'" company quickly concluded a deal and John's stuff would be delivered at Baker Street first thing next morning; another call to the doctor's former landlord advised him he had just lost a very good tenant. John borrowed Mrs. Hudson's vacuum cleaner and soon the furniture, carpets and hardwood floors exhaled in satisfaction – much to Sherlock's dismay, since he would have loved to keep some of the three-year-old dust for experiments but his friend told him that new house dust wouldn't be difficult to acquire; the refrigerator purred back to life after being plugged into its designated socket. Beds were made with linen freshly washed by Mrs. Hudson who stated that, even though she wasn't their housekeeper, she refused to let them sleep in dusty bed sheets. Javel water and elbow grease took care of the bathroom.
By mid-afternoon, the flat was readied just in time to receive the food and housekeeping items ordered on the Tesco website; the deliveryman was a bit put off by the broom-holding woman, Yorick the human skull on the chimney's mantel and the presence of a famous man supposedly dead, but he had seen worse things on the job – and a tip from John put his mind at ease.
The detective and the doctor then enjoyed a cup of tea with milk for John and sugared coffee for Sherlock before resuming their cleaning-up. Mrs. Hudson had chuckled it looked like two birds building a nest, making both men blush a deep shade of red once again! Luckily, a phone call from Mrs. Turner saved them from further teasing and the landlady spent the next two hours telling her neighbour again and again about the return of "her boys". Harry had sent a text to her brother, asking him to not send her money because she had decided to stop smoking; the doctor, engrossed in the lecture of the message, missed Sherlock's amused smile while he was telling him the good news out loud.
Around 5:00 p.m., John typed a new message as the proud herald of the detective's return. As on cue, his blog's meter went crazy from the booming number of comments posted right after the announcement but the blond man refrained from answering; instead, he went to the kitchen and started cooking fried chicken with risotto – the one Sherlock's called "John's special risotto", which was a dish the younger Holmes ate without his usual declaration about nutrition was a waste of time. Sherlock, who was avidly re-reading his pile of documentation, inhaled the delicious smells coming from the kitchen and it gave him an idea about tying up a loose end:
"John?"
"Yes?"
"Would you mind if someone comes for dinner tonight?"
"Of course not! You want to invite Mrs. Hudson?"
"Well, I was thinking about somebody else but we could invite her as well, provided there is enough of your risotto for four persons."
"It can be arranged," said John with a smile. "You'd like Mycroft to come along?"
"Good grief! NO!" exclaimed an horrified detective.
"Then, who?"
Sherlock retrieved his mobile phone on the desk and checked on his messages; eleven new ones had arrived since they had started cleaning up the flat: three from Mycroft (delete), one from Anthea (forget it), one from Donovan (get lost), one from Anderson (so long), one from Dimmock (keep it for later) and four from Lestrade (ah-ha!). Sherlock opened the texts sent by the DI: the first one was a boring expression of his thanks for being credited for the capture of Colonel Moran; idem for the second one; the next message was a warning about the news of Sherlock's return being leaked to the press and how the journalists would invade Baker Street (poor Lestrade, always running late); and the fourth was another grateful one, for having saved him from Kitty Riley's slander about the schoolgirl murder's case (keeping Lestrade on the up and up and getting rid of that nosey journalist: talk about killing two birds with one stone!).
"Actually, I was thinking about Lestrade," said the younger Holmes.
John put down the wooden spoon he was using to stir the rice and stepped out of the kitchen.
"Why do you want to invite him?"
"I thought it would be a good occasion for you and him to reconcile. He came early this morning to make amends about his stupid behaviour during the Bruht kidnapping and I accepted his apology. He wanted to make it up to you, too, but you were asleep and I didn't want to disturb you."
John rested his forehead on the kitchen's doorframe and thought about it for a minute. He had mixed feelings about the situation: a part of him was still angry at Lestrade but, since Sherlock had returned from the dead and had accepted the DI's excuses, there were no reasons for the doctor to keep on bearing a grudge. John had been very unhappy about his estrangement with Lestrade but the pain of Sherlock's fall had been too raw and he didn't trust himself from not hitting the policeman. But his miracle had been granted: Sherlock was alive, he was back in London and the joy of his living presence couldn't be tarnished with rancour.
"Okay, Sherlock. Invite him, I'll be glad to make peace. Lestrade must have been beating himself up for three years so it's high time this rift should be closed."
The blond man went back to the kitchen to add some extra rice in the pan while the detective typed the invitation on his mobile phone. Sherlock had no doubts his friend would forgive Lestrade but, out of respect for his feelings, he had let John take the decision to invite the DI for dinner. The doctor's heart was like the ocean: too deep to be measured, and with treasures lying in wait for the audacious.
As he sent the message, Sherlock had a small grimace at the thought of a woman, more intelligent than the others, who would actually realize what a diamond John was and she would want to keep him for life. It was useless to deny it: John was kind-hearted, handsome with a hint of adorableness, and practising medicine. A very eligible bachelor for any sensible woman and, unfortunately, there were a few smart people remaining in this world!
But it was better to enjoy the present: Sherlock had his life back, his reputation restored, and he had his friend. He couldn't ask for a better denouement after the tragic case of the Reichenbach Falls.
The early evening saw a kitchen table dressed for four persons with a Mrs. Hudson beaming in pleasure at the seat of honour; Sherlock had agreed to stack his lab instruments in a corner for the evening, leaving the worktop free for John's cooking. The dishes were mismatched, sheets of paper towels were employed instead of napkins and the cutlery was a bit dented but Mrs. Hudson declared she hadn't seen such a beautiful dressing in years. A short ring of the doorbell was heard just as John was finishing preparing the salad; Mrs. Hudson made the movement to get up and see who it was, but Sherlock kept her seated with a firm hand on her shoulder.
"There's no need to go, Mrs. Hudson. It's Lestrade; this is his signal before entering since he has the key. We invited him for dinner, as well."
"The Police Inspector? Oh darling, I thought you were crossed at him."
"Well, he came early this morning and he recognized the errors of his ways, so I accepted his apology. But he wants to make amends with John as well and a dinner is the best way to reconcile, isn't it?"
"How right you are! Especially over a plate of this deliciously-smelling risotto; John, dearest, will you give me the recipe?"
"Sure thing!" said the cook with a smile.
The front door opened and the loud voice of DI Gregory Lestrade was overheard from the hubbub created by the questions of stubborn journalists camping outside on the sidewalk:
"Get lost, the goddamned bunch of you! If I ever catch one of you losers trying to step foot inside this house, I'll haul your ass downtown to the station so fast it will make your head swim."
"Language!" murmured Mrs. Hudson.
A concert of protests followed the DI's statement but the banging of the front door cut short to any attempt of home invasion. Footsteps made the seventeen steps of the staircase creak under the weight of a visitor, and then Lestrade walked in the living-room with a bottle of wine in hand.
"Ahem... Hi!" said the DI, looking a bit embarrassed at the three persons waiting for him. "Sorry for the outburst, but those journalists wouldn't let me pass unless I would give an interview about Sherlock's return and Kitty Riley's arrest. Bloodsucking leeches, the whole lot of them!"
"Never mind," answered the younger Holmes, gratefully accepting the wine. Then he pulled on the windows' curtains to make sure their dinner wouldn't be witnessed by a reporter hiding in Camden House; it would be a sad twist of fate if the detective would be spied upon by someone using the same trick he had used to entrap Colonel Moran!
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," said Lestrade.
"Oh hello, dear," answered the landlady, getting on her feet to greet the policeman effusively. "Please take off your coat and make yourself at home, it is so nice of you to have accepted Sherlock's invitation. John has made us a fantastic dinner and you've brought wine so we'll make toasts, how thoughtful of you! And thank you for telling off those wrenched journalists; one of them tried to enter here without permission, can you believe it? Well, this rascal isn't going to do it again any time soon, I made sure of that, but I'm not sure for the rest of his colleagues. A big scary detective from Scotland Yard like you is certainly be more impressive than my broomstick..."
As Mrs. Hudson kept on rambling about the journalists, Lestrade turned towards John, who was watching him from the kitchen.
"Er... Hello, John."
"Greg," answered the doctor, wiping his hands with a clean dishtowel.
There was an awkward silence between the two men, while Sherlock tried to open the wine bottle without being distracted by Mrs. Hudson's abundant advice about the best way to use a corkscrew, and then Lestrade tried to speak but John stopped him before he could start to utter a word:
"I know, Greg."
"You know?" repeated Lestrade, a bit surprised.
"I know how sorry you are about the whole Bruht fiasco and Moriarty. Sherlock told me all about the visit you've paid us, early this morning."
Lestrade took a quick look at the detective, who had managed to pop open the bottle and was pouring wine in the glasses. Sherlock glanced back, and then resumed to his sommelier's duties without adding a comment.
"Yes, well, you were sleeping so I could only talk to Sherlock," said the DI, omitting the fact he had witnessed John being cradled in the younger Holmes' arms. "That's why I was glad to receive this invitation to dinner because not only I wanted to thank you for Moran and Riley, you saved my ass twice in a day and I don't know how to repay you for this; but also... well, I wanted a chance to apologize to you in person. I don't blame you for avoiding me during Sherlock's "absence". I... Like I've said this morning, I don't know what possessed me to listen to Donovan and Anderson. I have no excuses but I've been sorry ever since. And when I had to arrest Sherlock, God knows I've hated myself... But it was too late, I couldn't stop anything. Good thing you escaped, though, otherwise you both would have been lynched in prison. Frankly, I wouldn't have minded a punch on the nose, just like you did to the Chief Superintendant, I would have deserved it."
John reached out his hand and Lestrade recoiled a bit, but relaxed as he saw the doctor's gentle smile:
"It is fine, Lestrade; it's all fine, really. After Sherlock's demise, I couldn't hear or watch anything related to crime and police forces because... It was too hard, simply more than I could bear. I admit I've been mad at you but I realized you have been fooled by Moriarty like everyone else. I just didn't trust myself to not hit you nonetheless, and it would have ruined any further attempts of rebuilding our friendship. I didn't shun you out of anger, but to protect you from me. Now, since Sherlock is back home, safe and sound, let bygone be bygones, okay?"
The reconciliation was sealed with a firm handshake and a cheer from Mrs. Hudson; then Sherlock announced dinner was served and latecomers would be blamed for the food getting cold. The three men and the woman were promptly seated and helped themselves with large pieces of chicken, spoonfuls of risotto and the salad. The wine was praised, as well as its bringer and the cook, and a round of toasts was called upon to celebrate their joyful reunion.
"To Sherlock Holmes, the Prince of detectives!" said John over a clinking of glasses.
"To John Watson, talented doctor and writer!" retorted Sherlock.
"To the crime-fighting duo of Baker Street!" said Lestrade, genuinely happy of having being forgiven.
"To Greg Lestrade, the only competent DI of Scotland Yard!" exclaimed Sherlock.
"To my boys!" called Mrs. Hudson.
"To the best landlady the world has ever known!" said John.
"To Mr. Lestrade, who defended my house!" said Mrs. Hudson.
"To you guys and thank you for allowing me to be part of the legend!" answered Lestrade.
Toasts succeeded to toasts, the food was eaten and complimented, and then it was dessert, coffee, more dessert, exchanging stories in the living-room over another round of tea and coffee, served with Mrs. Hudson's home-made biscuits and the rest of a forgotten bottle of scotch Sherlock had found in a cupboard. The dinner lasted until midnight and then, Lestrade remembered he had to go to the office in the morning; he got on his feet a bit unsteadily and said he would walk Mrs. Hudson to her flat, a proposition which prompted a fit of giggles from the slightly-inebriated landlady but she accepted his offer.
Sherlock called for a cab to drive the DI safely home; Lestrade shook his hand, thanked him again for all the credit he had received from Moran's capture and Riley's disgrace, and Mrs. Hudson kissed the younger Holmes on the nose – something Lestrade found absolutely hilarious. The policeman and the landlady walked down the stairs arm-in-arm, giggling all the way, sharing comments about the good dinner and laughing their heads off at the thought of being arrested by an imaginary constable for using a staircase under the influence.
Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenwards at the DI and the landlady's antics, and then he returned his attention towards his friend: John was dozing in his armchair, vanquished by his moving back to 221 B and the late dinner.
"John?" called Sherlock softly.
"Hum? Oh, hi," said the sleepy doctor. "Are they gone?"
"Yes, finally! They're good persons but I thought they would stay until sunrise. Lestrade really doesn't know when to leave but, since he has promised to supply us with cases, I'll override his shortcomings. But you look all in, Doctor! It's high time you reintegrate your real bedroom for a richly-deserved rest."
"Not yet, we have to clean up the mess in the kitchen and living-room," protested John half-heartily.
"You leave that boring stuff to me, I won't sleep for hours and I need to stay occupied. Maybe I'll start compiling articles for the file on Moriarty, or sort out this pile of letters and even update my website while I'm at it. You need your rest, John, especially since you have to go back to work tomorrow morning; I don't think your patients at St. Bart's will appreciate you deserting them for two days in a row."
John was too tired to argue and besides, his friend had a valid point; he couldn't neglect his duties at St. Bart's any further, people there needed his help and explaining his absence by the return of a dead friend, the capture of a notorious criminal and an impromptu moving would be quite a palaver.
"All right, you've got a point. Try to get some rest as well, okay, Sherlock? Good night."
"Good night, my dear blogger."
One hour later, Sherlock was in his bedroom, donning his grey pyjamas and his deep blue bathrobe once again. True to his word, he had cleaned the kitchen (dumped the dirty dishes in the sink, since he wasn't in the mood to wash them) and straightened the living-room (more or less, he would do better by sunlight) but he had changed his mind about going through papers or surfing on the Internet. No, a better idea had formed in his mind and he was going to execute it at once.
Barefooted, the detective headed for the stairs leading to the other bedroom. The whole building was silent, even Baker Street was calm – the journalists, fed up with waiting, had left at long last – and the only sounds that could be heard were the occasional car driving down the street or the roaring of a bus in the background. Sherlock, as sure-footed as any cat, made absolutely no noise climbing up the stairs and within minutes, he had reached John's bedroom. A slight push opened the door and he looked fondly at his friend, wrapped in blankets and fast asleep in his freshly-made bed, completely worn out by the day's events. John's features were illuminated by the moonlight pouring from the windows, making his face look like as if it had been carved in silver. A prideful smile spread on Sherlock's lips as he made out the contours of the laptop set on the desk along with the framed photos, the clothes on the chair, the discarded shoes on the floor, the watch ticking on the bedside table. Yes, John was truly home, where he belonged: in this bedroom, in this flat, in this house.
Sherlock never hesitated: he gently climbed on the bed to lie on top of the covers, and gathered the sleeping John in his arms. He had done this many times before in the pre-Reichenbach era, mostly to comfort the doctor after a nasty war dream but this time, it was the detective that needed reassurance. He would not admit it out loud but those past three years had been a terrible ordeal to him: chasing criminals around the globe, escaping death a hundred times, sleeping in seedy hotels, freezing to death in Russia or dying of thirst in Africa... No, it hadn't been a prolonged vacation and the only thing that had kept Sherlock focused on his mission in spite of hardships had been the thought he was keeping his friend safe from Moriarty's lieutenants by neutralizing them, one after another.
John curled up against Sherlock's side like a kitten, and rested his face against the brunette's neck. Even asleep, the doctor could sense when his friend was nearby, watching over him and his slumber wouldn't be disturbed by nightmares. Sherlock tightened his hold and blanket-bundled John answered with a sigh, followed by gentle snores. All was quiet and well in Baker Street, London had regained its guardians and the Napoleon of crime's shadow was definitively lifted from the world.
But the only thing that mattered for the younger Holmes was the man trusting him to guard his sleep, the one who meant everything to him: his John, his breathing heart, the living embodiment of the old saying, "Home is where the heart is".
Except that, in Sherlock's case, it was more appropriate to say: "Holmes is where the heart is."
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.
The dark angel and the golden saint.
THE END!