The ride to Scotland Yard is probably the most awkward I've ever had in my life – and looking back on my uni years, that's saying something. Lestrade makes me sit up front, probably so I don't attack Sherlock again, and Sherlock, for once, says nothing. No brilliant deductions, no analysis of Lestrade's new haircut or the dirt under his nails or the half-empty coffee cup on the dashboard or anything else, which is good because if that damn moron opens his mouth right now I swear I'll do worse than punch him, police or no police. We make it to Scotland Yard without incident and soon find ourselves seated in Lestrade's office. For several minutes, no one speaks. We all know the conversation that needs to happen, but none of us seems to know where to start.
"Sherlock," Lestrade finally says, "What the hell is going on?"
"Well, Detective Inspector, it appears that John was less than happy about our chance meeting in the square and punched me in the face." There is a hint of a smile in his musical baritone, and it sets me off.
"'Less than happy,' Sherlock? I've thought you dead for three years, you think I was just going to be okay with you waltzing on over and greeting me like nothing's happened?" Clearly, his sensitivity for other people's feelings hasn't gotten much better.
"Is this about caring, John?" he asks quietly.
"Yes, you bloody idiot!" I say, trying not to lose my temper. "Did it ever even occur to you what faking your death – since I suppose that's what you did – would do to anyone else? How Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, myself, the others, would feel when we thought you had died?"
"Of course it did!" he cries, his voice rising sharply and exasperation clearly visible in his eyes. My retort dies upon this declaration.
"Wait…what?"
"You don't understand, John, I had to do it! It was the only way to beat Moriarty! You heard me in the courtroom –he's a spider, a spider lurking at the center of a highly dangerous web. The only way to beat him was to outsmart him, and the only way to outsmart him was to make him – and all of his associates – think that I thought I had no way out. It would only work if you truly believed I was dead, if you truly believed I was a fake."
"But how –" Lestrade begins, but Sherlock isn't finished.
"No one could know – not either of you, not Mrs. Hudson, no one he could potentially harm for information. Mycroft, of course, was in on the secret – always best to have someone official on your side when faking your death, remember that – and Molly, of course, who proved invaluable in several ways."
"That bastard – I knew he knew something," I mutter. "And Molly – what'd you have to do to get her to pull those strings, take her to dinner?" Sherlock looks surprised.
"No," he says. "I merely asked for her help, and she gave it to me."
"Of course she did, she's mad for you," Lestrade says. Sherlock raises his eyebrows.
"Molly's attentions towards me are neither here nor there at the moment," he replies calmly. "The point is that she helped me to 'die' so you all could live. I jump, the snipers leave, you all live. End of story."
"With zero regard to how it would affect us afterwards!" I say, as Lestrade simultaneously asks, "But how did you do that?" We listen as Sherlock describes the whole affair to us – the twisted mind games with Moriarty, the rooftop confrontation, the carefully planned 'suicide,' and the timing critical to his plan's success. When he finishes, we sit in shocked silence. The truth is even more fantastical than anything either of us could have possibly imagined. Only one man in the world could have pulled off such a stunt successfully, and he sits before us. Even more shocking is the realization that my earlier thought was wrong – his incredible efforts to protect us are proof that Sherlock Holmes does, in fact, care.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are bloody brilliant," I say. "I hate you with a fiery passion at the moment, but you're still bloody brilliant."
"Thank you, John," is his response, and the smirk returns. Git.