Lestrade's back was killing him. He'd been confined to his desk after he was injured, "in the line of duty." That is to say he slipped on a freshly waxed floor whilst on his way to his office and wound up with a herniated disc. It made walking quite painful and running was right out, so he was restricted to desk duty until after he had surgery. Sitting was just as bad as walking, though, especially since doing nothing but paperwork all day was a whole other kind of pain.
He was desperate to get out of the office for a long lunch. He walked the streets until his leg went numb and the pain in his buttocks and lower back was too much to bear, then he ducked into a hole-in-the-wall café. He ordered a sandwich and limped over to a table in the corner where he could see the TV mounted on the wall behind the lunch counter. He straightened his posture when he noticed a pretty brunette sitting alone with a salad and an open laptop. She smiled shyly and he grinned and nodded to her as he took a seat at the table next to hers.
When his turkey sandwich and crisps arrived, he pushed his chair back and stretched out his legs, trying to look casual and also to take some of the pressure off of his tailbone. He was thinking, If I could just find one comfortable position I would get into it and never move ever again, when he heard a startled gasp from the pretty brunette.
He paused with his sandwich halfway to his face and his mouth hanging open to look toward the TV. After a moment or two of staring in shock, he dropped his sandwich in his lap and made what was almost certainly a very unattractive squeaky noise.
A chyron at the bottom of the screen declared SHERLOCK HOLMES' DEATH A HOAX. And it was rather unnecessary, seeing as right above that was the image of Sherlock Holmes, looking very animated for a dead man, standing before a podium and a room full of reporters. Lestrade wondered if it was old footage, but he couldn't remember Sherlock ever giving a press conference before. He jumped out of his seat and got closer to the TV.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to the teenager behind the counter. "Can you turn that up?"
"Oh, uh… We keep the volume down, because of the music," he said, referring to the piped in music playing quietly throughout the cafe.
"Please. This is important. I need to hear what he's saying."
"I'll have to ask my manager."
Lestrade sighed and reached into his pocket. He wasn't normally one to just flash his badge around without good reason, but he figured it was worth a try. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, Metropolitan Police. I'm afraid I'm going to have to commandeer your telly."
"Oh. Right. Okay, then."
"Turn it up," he said sternly. And he added, "Thank you," when the kid turned around to do just that.
Sherlock's familiar baritone boomed out of the TV, saying, "…was not an ideal situation, but I had no other choice. I had to protect myself and the people around me."
Lestrade shook his head. That son of a bitch, he thought.
The Sherlock on the screen continued, "I'm sure you're all wondering what I plan to do now that I'm alive. Now that my situation is more tenable, I hope to go back to my work. First, I'd just like to sleep in my own bed in my own flat." He smiled a creepily insincere smile, meant to deceive rather than to endear himself to anyone, Lestrade was sure.
The room on the television erupted in shouting and flashing lights. Reporters stood up and shouted questions that went unanswered, as Sherlock simply walked away from the podium and disappeared off screen. Just like that.
Lestrade heaved a sigh and leaned against the counter. "Bloody Hell," he muttered.
So, Sherlock was alive, after all. Lestrade missed most of the statement, but he assumed Sherlock must have been in witness protection or something like that, probably under his brother's protection. What he really wanted to know is how Sherlock managed to convince John Watson, a doctor, who saw him fall and saw his dead body on the ground, that he was dead. Or rather, how did he jump and manage to survive?
However he did it, Lestrade was appalled that this was the way Sherlock chose to come back to life, after over two years—a press conference. A canned statement, even. He didn't even take questions, so you couldn't really call it a press conference. Sherlock always hated dealing with the press. The last thing he would want to do is stand in a room full of reporters and read a statement. It didn't jive at all with the man Lestrade knew Sherlock to be. He had to be up to something.
He hoped to God he'd at least had the decency to talk to John alone before announcing it on telly. If not, he'd have to wring his neck.
Lestrade ambled back over to his table, half his sandwich forgotten in a messy heap on the floor. That was fine. He wasn't hungry anymore. He wondered if he should try to find Sherlock or if he should wait for Sherlock to come to him. The last time they'd seen each other, Lestrade was arresting him for kidnapping. There was a chance Sherlock wouldn't want anything to do with him.
He dropped into his chair and started to clean up his mess, the nerves in his back screaming in agony as he bent over. He stayed like that with his head hanging between his knees, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead.
He needed to call John Watson. It had been almost a year since he'd even talked to John. He had run into Dr. Watson in the A&E at St. Bart's. He was there to question a witness and John was the attending physician on duty. He discussed his case with John and, for a moment, it felt like old times. But for whatever reason, neither of them ever made an effort to reconnect. They both worked long hours and Lestrade had heard that John was apparently engaged to some woman. He'd heard she was a professor. So, he chalked it up to busy lives. And, honestly, their shared association with Sherlock Holmes was the only reason they were ever friends to begin with, so they really had nothing in common other than him, and he was a sore subject for both of them.
But he figured there was a good chance John would be on duty at the hospital if he rang up and asked for him. He was on hold for a few minutes, but John eventually came to the phone.
"This is Doctor Watson," he said, sounding a bit weary for so early in the day.
"John. It's Greg."
There was a pause. "So, you saw it then."
"Yeah. Did you know about this?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, did he tell you first?"
"No. It was on in the waiting room."
"Oh God. I could kill him."
"I'm not going to lie, I fainted. I've got a nice goose egg on the back of my head now thanks to him. And now I'm so angry I could vomit."
"Has he tried to contact you, at all?" Lestrade asked.
"No."
"Typical."
"Yeah."
"Do you even want to hear from him?"
Another pause and then, "I don't know." John sort of coughed, cleared his throat and then said quietly, "Yes. Yes, of course."
"I did hear him say he did it to protect the people around him. Did you hear what he said before that?" Lestrade asked hesitantly, knowing now was probably not the time.
John hummed. "I didn't hear any of it," he said quietly. "Listen, I've got to get back to work."
"Right. Right," Lestrade said. He bit his lip and then continued, "I'm thinking of going by Baker Street later. See if he turns up."
"Yeah? All right. I've gotta go. I'll talk to you later, Greg," John said and hung up before Lestrade could properly say goodbye.
The rest of the day dragged on as usual for Lestrade. When he left that evening, he had resolved to just go straight home. And yet he still found himself cruising down Baker Street, toward 221B. He couldn't get very close, though. The whole block was roped off and there was a crowd of about a hundred people staging some sort of protest outside Sherlock and John's old flat. Lestrade couldn't get close enough to see what they were doing, but he imagined (hoped) they were wielding pitchforks and torches.
He found a place to park a couple of blocks away and walked toward the crowd. As he came closer he could hear the chanting, "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." It wasn't a protest—it was a rally. They were holding a vigil, hoping to get a glimpse of their resurrected hero. Lestrade rounded the corner and looked up to the windows over Speedy's.
The lights were on. A shadow passed by the window. A long, lean man walked back and forth in front of the windows, playing a violin. As he got closer, Lestrade could make out the faint, muffled sound of the music.
Cheers erupted as he approached the door and rang the bell. He knocked, too, because he could remember the bell being disabled about half the time when Sherlock was living there. The door swung open to a frazzled looking Mrs. Hudson, and the crowd behind him went wild. Uniformed officers were having trouble holding people back.
Mrs. Hudson motioned for him to come in and she hugged him around the neck.
"Oh, Greg, isn't it wonderful?" she said.
"Yeah, it's great," Lestrade said. "Is he alone up there?"
"He's not upstairs."
Lestrade faltered for a moment. "Did someone else move in then?"
"Yes, a lovely couple with a little girl, but they suddenly moved out last week."
"I saw someone in the window. I can hear his violin right now."
"That's a little video trick he set up. Terribly clever. It's like what they did at Christmas at Harrod's, you know, how they made a whole scene with silhouettes in the windows. No, he's on the roof. John just came in and went up there a minute ago."
"Christ. And we're not worried about John throwing him off the roof for real this time?"
"Oh dear, I hope not."
"What's he doing on the roof, anyway?"
"He just told me to keep people out of the flat and away from the windows. I was just so happy to see him alive, I didn't ask questions."
Lestrade was starting to get an idea of what it was Sherlock was up to.
"Right. You make sure no one else comes in that door."
"Alright," Mrs. Hudson said, "But tell him I love him and I'm happy he's alive, but he needs to show his face to that crowd soon or go somewhere else. I'm never going to get any sleep with this chanting going on all night, and he's not even paying me rent for the trouble."
Lestrade took the stairs two at a time up to the roof, ignoring the pain in his back. He took a deep breath before he opened the door. It was dark. All sources of light were far off above and around him and the cacophony from the crowd below echoed up from the street, bouncing off the surrounding buildings. His heart raced as he looked around, scanning the roof for that familiar silhouette.
"You shouldn't have come here," he heard Sherlock say from somewhere to his right. "It's not safe."
He slowly moved in that direction.
"You haven't changed a bit," said a low voice Lestrade could barely hear.
"John, I can explain, but not—"
"Do you have any idea what you put me through—what you put all of us through? I don't care where you've been or what you're up to. I just came to tell you to stay away from me."
"Fine. I had no intention of approaching you, anyway. Now please go home."
Lestrade peered around the corner of the wall in front of him and made out the figures of John and Sherlock amongst the shadows just in time to see John lunge at Sherlock with a clenched fist. Sherlock ducked to the side and grabbed John's arm and pushed him back. It all happened so fast, Lestrade almost wasn't sure if he'd imagined the gunshot.
But he did, indeed, hear the distinctive echo of a gunshot from what sounded like a high-powered rifle at quite a distance, whilst John and Sherlock were scuffling. Without thinking, Lestrade rushed toward both of them.
"Shit!" he yelled. "Get down!"
Sherlock was already on his knees, clutching his hands to the right side of his head. Lestrade threw himself at him, knocking him over onto his side. John had toppled over onto his side when Sherlock pushed him. When Lestrade pulled up and away from Sherlock, in what little dim light the ambient glow of the city surrounding them and the moon above provided, Lestrade could see something black and shiny and wet on the side of Sherlock's head and all over his hands. He gasped and John scrambled over closer.
"He's shot!" Lestrade whispered hoarsely.
Sherlock's hand was hovering over his ear and John was batting it away so he could look at it. He used his mobile phone's flash for light.
"Jesus Christ! Sherlock, are you okay?" John said between panting breaths.
"It's fine," Sherlock said calmly. "It just pierced my ear."
"Sherlock, you just nearly had your head blown off!" John said, hysterical.
Sherlock sat up a little. He removed his scarf and balled it up against his ear. "I would have been, too, if I hadn't been busy dodging your fist. Thanks for that." John was struggling to his feet. "Stay down, for God's sake! I didn't spend the last two years doing all this just for you to get killed now. And Lestrade, so good of you to come. The gang's all here. Fantastic," he said sarcastically.
"What is going on here, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said. "Moriarty's favorite assassin. You could call him a right-hand-man, though Moriarty was left-handed, himself. He's not terribly bright, but he's a crack shot. He tried and failed to pick up where Moriarty left off. I've made it very difficult for him and all of Moriarty's associates, but unlike the rest of them, he's managed to elude me until now." Sherlock put his hand in front of his face and frowned at the sticky dark liquid covering his fingers. "I'm losing rather a lot of blood."
"You need to get to hospital. That kind of injury can bleed you to death before you know it," John said, still panting.
"It's slowing down," Sherlock said.
"Keep putting pressure on it and keep your head up."
"I know, John."
"Sherlock. What is going on?" Lestrade asked again.
"Moran made me. He knew I was alive, and I knew he would immediately try to kill me in the most public way possible, as soon as he could. So, I forced his hand, ensured there would be a crowd outside 221B, and set up my trap. It's his modus operandi to shoot from long distances, so I've got agents crawling all over that building." Sherlock's phone beeped from inside his coat pocket. He wiped the blood off his right hand onto his trousers and fished the phone out of his pocket. "I thought he would stay on the ground or go for the empty flat on the third floor, but he was apparently well hidden. Smarter than I gave him credit for. He's in custody now, by the way," Sherlock said and flashed the glowing screen of his phone in front of Lestrade and John too quickly for them to see the message.
"Why did he shoot up here, then?" Lestrade asked.
"Well, you'll have to ask him that, but I'm assuming you and John tipped him off when you entered the flat and I didn't stop playing the violin and no other silhouettes showed up in front of the window. I thought the press conference would piss you off, but you came barging in, anyway. That's for that. Helpful, as always."
Sherlock was right. His injury was minor enough to be remedied by a bandage, at least until he could get to a hospital. But if he'd been just a fraction of an inch to the right it would have been his brain that was pierced. Frustratingly, Sherlock was the only one who didn't seem rattled by that.
Lestrade's heart was still pounding, even as he sat in a chair in Mrs. Hudson's flat, sipping a cup of tea.
"It's so good to be back," Sherlock said sarcastically. He was stretched out on Mrs. Hudson's couch with her hovering over him, fluffing his cushions and worrying over how pale he looked.
John paused his pacing around the room and glared at him. "You're awfully glib for someone who just nearly died."
"Don't be so dramatic, John. This isn't even a flesh wound. I've had much worse. It wouldn't even be the first time I'd died," Sherlock said with a smirk.
Lestrade knew from the stricken look on John's face that they were both thinking the same thing. A moment of dreadful recognition passed between them as he and John made eye contact. Sherlock's head lifted off the cushion and he raised an eyebrow at them both.
"I'm just saying," John said quickly. "I'm still getting used to the idea of you being alive, only to see you nearly get killed for real. And don't say it was nothing, because it wasn't nothing."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "That's not what you're upset about."
"I'm angry I didn't get to punch you before somebody else tried to shoot you," John mumbled.
"Well, if it'll make you feel better, you can always punch me later."
"Oh, I will. You better believe it. And it'll come when you least expect it."
Sherlock turned and propped himself up on his elbow. "You know, there are hundreds of people outside that door who seem to think I'm some sort of hero. For once, they have point. I am a hero, damn it! I saved your life directly, all of your lives," he waved his arm around to indicate Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, "and I've not gotten so much as a, 'Thank you.'"
"I thought you didn't care what people thought about you," John said.
Sherlock flopped back against the couch. "I don't."
"Good." John put his hands on his hips.
Lestrade was starting to feel like he was intruding. "Well, I'd better—" he started.
"But a little appreciation would be nice," Sherlock said, talking over Lestrade.
John huffed, balled up his fists, and stormed right out the door. Sherlock watched him, astonished.
"—go," Lestrade finished dryly. "Yeah, I'd better be off, too." He stood up and put his jacket on. "Yep. Good night, Mrs. Hudson."
"G'night, Greg," she said. Mrs. Hudson crossed the room to hug him and he kissed her on the cheek.
"Good evening, Inspector," Sherlock said bitterly. He was sitting up now, looking at Lestrade with an unsettlingly knowing expression. Or maybe he was imagining it.
Lestrade gave him a weak smile. "Erm. You too." After another couple of awkward moments of Sherlock staring through his soul, he turned to go.
The New Scotland Yard was all abuzz the next morning. Lestrade heard, "So, what do you think?" from three different people, and that was just in the trip from the parking garage to his office. As he walked through the cubicles, everyone watched him as though they expected him to have a nervous breakdown.
As soon as he got to his office, he was summoned to report to the Chief Superintendent about his involvement in the shooting on the rooftop the night before. He thought it pretty pointless. That whole affair was way above their pay grade. So, not surprisingly, the meeting quickly turned into Chief Miller inquiring about Sherlock like an enthusiastic fanboy. He made it clear that not only was it okay with him if Sherlock started consulting on cases again, but that he would grant Sherlock some sort of special status, even if he had to invent one, to encourage other inspectors to work with him.
Then he came up with the idea of having a big event, giving Sherlock a medal or something, and inviting the press.
"Not for nothing, sir, Sherlock Holmes is a great detective and a good man, but you don't know him," Lestrade said. "You don't want to put him in front of the press and give him a medal. He will find a way to make it blow up in your face, I promise."
"But imagine what good it would do to have him officially affiliated with the force. It would be great for public relations."
Lestrade had a lot he wanted to say, but thought better of it. "I'll bring it up to him when I see him next. He may not even want to work with us anymore."
"Do what you can to convince him, Lestrade."
"I will, sir."
Lestrade returned to his office to find Donovan sitting in the corner, waiting on him.
"Sally," he said, gasping. "You're going to give me a heart attack."
"Sorry, sir," she said. "You saw him last night?"
"I did."
"I heard about it just now. How is he?"
"Same as he ever was. Except now he's missing part of his ear."
She smiled sadly and said, "Unbelievable. Do you think he would spit in my face if I went by to see him?"
Lestrade sat on the edge of his desk and watched her fidgeting with a loose thread on her trousers. "Erm. Maybe we just give him a little time, let things calm down. A week or two, yeah?"
"Was Watson upset?"
"I'd never seen him so furious."
"Alright. A week or two," Donovan said and nodded, and then she got up and went back to work.
Though he thought he might be waiting an awfully long time, Lestrade had decided to wait and let Sherlock come to him. He had been less than warmly received the last time he saw him, so he figured he should let any reconciliation happen on Sherlock's terms.
It turned out he didn't have to wait long at all. He received a text message from an unfamiliar number in the middle of the night, just a few days after what Lestrade was calling, "The Resurrection."
John won't talk to me.
SH
Lestrade groaned after reading the message and flopped back against his pillows. He answered, though.
Couldn't be because it's 2 o'clock in the morning…
Almost before the message was sent, another one came in.
Can you come over?
He sighed. He'd gotten so many messages just like that one, telling him to get to one place or another and hurry. But not for the past two years. In all that time, hecouldn't think of one instance where he was roused out of bed at an ungodly hour, not by anybody, not even for work. Sherlock hadn't been back one week and it was already happening again. Not that Lestrade was bothered by it. He had missed that feeling of being needed, being counted on. And he couldn't help but think of the one other time that Sherlock had called on him for something personal. He knew Sherlock had to be hurting to reach out like that, so his answer was obvious.
I'll be there in a few minutes.
He got dressed as quickly as he could with his sore back slowing him down. He rushed to the car and headed to 221B Baker St., almost by rote, like his muscle memory was kicking back in.
The front door was unlocked, and he let himself in and locked it behind him, careful not to wake up Mrs. Hudson. He knocked softly on the door of the flat, then went ahead and let himself in there, too.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair, which was back in its usual spot by the fireplace. The rest of the furniture was where it had always been, but Sherlock's things were in boxes stacked on the floor, instead of being scattered all over the room like they had once been.
Lestrade stopped right inside the door and marveled at the feeling of déjà vu and at the stillness of the man before him. His hands were steepled under his chin and his legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He wore his gray pajamas and dressing gown. He looked exactly the same, except his face had filled out a little. That, and he had a bit of a tan and his arms and chest looked less willowy and more powerful. Lestrade hadn't noticed before, these subtle changes; he figured because he was too busy worrying about Sherlock bleeding to death. As he stepped closer, he noticed that Sherlock's hair was a little darker, as though he'd dyed it. His hair wasn't quite long enough to cover his ears like it used to, so Lestrade could see well the bandage on his ear. Lestrade wondered what he looked like as another man, whether his personality was any different when he was living under an assumed identity. He'd seen Sherlock act "normal" before, so he figured he must have made for a spooky character.
Lestrade thought about sitting in the chair opposite Sherlock, but something about it felt wrong. Instead, he pulled a chair from the desk around next to Sherlock and sat down with his legs far apart and elbows resting on his knees.
Sherlock didn't move an inch. Lestrade had to look closely to be sure he was even breathing.
"Don't tell me you summoned me here to help you unpack," Lestrade said.
Sherlock startled like he wasn't even aware Lestrade had been in the room for the past five minutes. "What?" he asked.
Lestrade hoped against hope that Sherlock wasn't high. "Are you okay?" he asked.
Sherlock's face hardened and the confusion melted away. "Oh. Yes. I'm fine," he said. He turned his face back toward the other chair and away from Lestrade. "Perfectly fine," he added.
"So, why am I here, then? Because John won't talk to you?"
"Do you expect me to apologize to you, too?" Sherlock asked.
"Apologize? What for?"
Sherlock glared dangerously at Lestrade in response.
"Sherlock, I should be the one apologizing. I haven't had a chance to say it yet, but I'm sorry for arresting you. I shouldn't have let that happen."
"Oh, that? Forget about it. It was out of your control. I don't blame you," Sherlock said.
"Okay. Well, good," Lestrade said.
"No need to feel guilty."
"Speaking of which, I got a hold of the reports. Three snipers. You jump or we die. That Sergeant Oakley that went up for kiddie porn, I assume he was the one who was supposed to kill me."
"Yes."
"You stopped him and you took care of him."
"I owed you one." Sherlock looked Lestrade in the eye then, and the sadness in those blue eyes nearly stole Lestrade's breath.
He shook his head. "No, you didn't. Didn't owe me anything. And I know you didn't do it for just me. But thank you, anyway."
"Yes, well…"
"You have to understand that John's life revolved around you, Sherlock. You told him a huge lie."
"I had to."
"No. Not the lie about being dead. The one about being a fraud."
"Oh," Sherlock whispered.
"You didn't have to do that," Lestrade said. "How little you must have thought of him to think he would believe that, even for a second."
Sherlock tilted his head back and blinked furiously, then sighed. "I wanted him to have a clean break. If he thought less of me, it would be easier on him. I confess it wasn't my most convincing performance. Sentiment got in the way. But I had no idea he would react so strongly to that, after everything else."
"You could have trusted him with the truth."
"He would have tried to stop me. He would have gotten himself killed."
"I don't doubt that. His life revolved around you, seriously," Lestrade said, thinking of John's tireless crusade to clear Sherlock's name. "You just need to give him time to figure out how to forgive you."
Sherlock nodded and placed his hands back under his chin. "I almost didn't come back, you know? For his sake. He's been happy lately. Mary Morstan makes him happy. Have you met his fiancé?"
"No, I haven't had the pleasure," Lestrade said.
"She's a teacher. Well, a professor. And a medical doctor. She graduated at the top of her class from Oxford. She's a thrill-seeker. They take holidays in exotic locales and go skydiving and parasailing," Sherlock said and sighed. "Looks like I need to find a new sidekick."
"Well, don't look at me," Lestrade said.
Sherlock laughed wryly. "You have a life, too. I need someone without a life. I need someone to dedicate everything to me. I'm that sort of person, apparently. I take everything I can get and give nothing in return. Apparently, I get off on being withholding."
"Is that what John said?"
"He put it more colorfully, but that was the general theme," Sherlock said.
"I see," Lestrade said, smiling.
"He's right, though. He's absolutely right. So, it's a good job I've gotten so used to being completely alone."
"Sherlock."
"It's fine," Sherlock said. "I never expected everything to go back to the way it was, but I didn't think I would lose the only friend I ever had, either. I suppose I should have seen that coming."
Lestrade wasn't sure what to say. This was a side he'd never seen of Sherlock, and he knew all too well that he was only one of two people in the world to have seen Sherlock at his most vulnerable, which is to say his most honest. He was genuinely regretful and forlorn. He wasn't bothering to put on the stiff upper lip, for once.
"You've got more friends than you know," he finally said. "Maybe now you can get used to having a lot of people around you who like you, instead of just one who follows you everywhere you go. Most people have a lot of friends, some closer than others. Most people don't have friends any closer than what I am to you. It's not so bad."
Sherlock pulled a face. "Sounds like a lot of work."
"That, it is," Lestrade said and chuckled. He couldn't decide if he felt more like he was talking to Mr. Spock or to a small child. Talking to Sherlock was always like that. "John'll come around. But maybe this is a good opportunity for you, Sherlock. Perhaps now you can meet a nice woman and—"
Sherlock cut him off with a death glare.
"Or a nice man?"
The glaring continued.
"Or not," Lestrade said quickly.
They chatted companionably for another hour or so. Sherlock gave Lestrade the abridged version of how he faked his death and what he'd been doing for two years. It explained why Molly suddenly left town. Eventually, Lestrade relocated to the couch while Sherlock kept talking, and before he knew it he woke up there the next morning with the mother of all back aches. Sherlock had gone out and left him there to oversleep. Mrs. Hudson gave him one of her "herbal soothers," and he went about his day, as usual.
Several weeks went by before Lestrade saw or heard from either Sherlock or John again. He did check John's blog, and there was a new entry.
It read:
October 20, 2013
By now, you all (assuming anyone is still out there who reads this thing) have heard that Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead. In fact, he never died, at all.
A lot of people have asked me how I feel about this. In the last post I made, which was last March, I said that Sherlock Holmes was the greatest man I ever knew. I said that I was proud of the work we'd all done to restore his legacy. I said that I was inspired by how much he inspired all of you, and that I was ready to move on.
Well, I moved on. It's been 2 years and 5 months since Sherlock "died." And it's been 1 year and 8 months since I accepted that and went on with my life. It's been 1 year and 2 months since I met my beautiful fiancée, Mary. A lot has changed. I've changed. And it's been 2 weeks since I saw Sherlock on TV, announcing that his suicide was a hoax.
But how do I feel about him being alive? It's hard to explain. I'm glad he's alive. I missed him every day. I do feel a little bit left out. There's two years' worth of adventures I didn't get to be a part of, and he'll probably never tell me about them.
I think he feels guilty. I know he does. And I do, too, because it was mainly because of me that any of this had to happen. I don't know how much of this is public knowledge now, because I've been avoiding the papers and TV, but Sherlock jumped off that building because Moriarty threatened to kill me if he didn't. So he saved my life, which goes to show you what a great friend he can be. But he also faked dying right in front of me and he let me be miserable, mourning him for years, without giving me even so much as a hint that he wasn't actually six feet underground. I ask you: What kind of friend does that?
Yet, for reasons I don't care to go into here, I can't really stay angry with him.
I don't know. The answer is I don't know. I don't know how I feel about any of this yet.
For right now, I'm just carrying on. This might be the first of many new blog posts, or it might be the last ever. Time will tell.