Mycroft was frustrated that the schoolboy had given him nothing. All that trouble for a few words about a minor mystery. What a farce. With any luck, he would gain more of an insight from the next man. "Who's the next one?" Asked John. "A priest, the first one on the scene when he jumped." Explained Mycroft. John nodded with acknowledgement. "He tried to stop me from seeing the body, the blood…. Oh, god, he may have had the right idea."
The agents carried the priest in and sat him on the chair. The man looked like he had been sick. His clerical collar was missing, and there were clear marks on his jumper to suggest it had not been washed for quite some time. A few minutes passed. The man woke up with a jolt. "Where am I? What have you done to me?" He was obviously scared. He was young for a priest, only about thirty years old or so. Mycroft was unmoved by his traumatized demeanour. "Confirm. You are Rev. Andrew Peters of Dorset, are you not?" The man nodded. "And you admit that you have signed the Official Secrets Act?" Again, the man nodded. "He remembers more than the boy."
Mycroft began his question and answer routine again.
"Question number one. Where were you on the day Sherlock Holmes allegedly committed suicide?"
"I was in London for the day," Explained the priest. "And as I was making my way to the train station, I saw this man on the roof of the hospital. I wondered, where have I seen that man before? And then I remembered seeing him in the papers that morning. "The Great Fraud Detective," They called him." As he was saying this, John was fighting back the tears.
"And what did you do when you saw him?"
Well, nothing. At first. He was talking on the phone; I hoped someone might have been talking him out of it."
Goodness knows John tried.
"And then he puts the phone down and jumps. No screaming. Just falling. And then he hit the ground. That's when I went running towards him. I was he first one there.
"Can you confirm the body belonged to Sherlock Holmes?"
"I can. I got a good look at his face. It was him, alright. I still see it now. His eyes were cold, black and staring. His skin- His skin was cold. Very cold. I took his pulse- Nothing. His heart had totally stopped. He was dead, Mr British Agent.
Mycroft was looking faintly sad now. "I have to ask you one more question now, reverend. But I believe I already know the answer. Do you believe Sherlock Holmes may still be alive?"
"I do."
Mycroft was taken aback. "You do? Why's that?"
Because I do, sir. Be it some intervention from the almighty or medical science or otherwise, I believe we have not heard the last from London's finest detective. I don't think he was a fraud, no. He was simply a man of logic."
"You may go."
The Agents performed the same as they did with the boy. John was in the corner, on the verge of crying.
"What- What did we have to learn from that?" He asked.
"I wanted to show you that there are people out there who believe what you do, Watson. I knew this man would say what he said. All that being surprised was just a façade."
"How could you possibly have known that?" John asked.
"He was the first person the papers interviewed. They published the interview, but they hated him. They wanted the entire public to back them and their smear campaign. This humble priest was the first sign that people believed in a madman." John was pleased that others thought Sherlock was a real detective. If he had enough supporters, he could unmask the ugly truth.
"Before we bring the next one in, tell me a little about him." Said John. "Scholomon or something, wasn't it?" Mycroft nodded. "Scholomer Kohls. A German mortician, brought in from another hospital. He dealt with the body." "What an unusual name. How do you pronounce that?"
"Scholomer. Skaw-low-mer coles."