Chapter 9
Come into my Parlour…
"Necromancy?" Sherlock asked. He stared hard at his younger brother. "I was under the impression that there were no necromancers left…and Moriarty is not a wizard."
Emrys sighed. "No, Moriarty isn't. He is undead. Someone brought him back."
"Who?"
Emrys shrugged.
"There are rumours. Lord Voldemort might have been a necromancer," Mycroft said quietly. "It remains unverified. There is no record of him having resurrected anyone."
"And we have the resurrection stone anyway," Emrys said.
"Moriarty was alive enough to frighten John," Sherlock told his brothers. "John isn't easy to scare."
"I know, Sherlock," Mycroft said.
"It is unlikely Voldemort would be a highly skilled necromancer without showing off," Sherlock said. "Doesn't fit his MO."
Mycroft nodded.
"So, who else is a powerful necromancer?" Sherlock asked.
"I have seen only one person pull off something like this," Emrys said. "But it is impossible." He slumped. "It would mean my oldest and most powerful enemy has come back to life."
"You are not alone, Emrys," Mycroft said softly.
Emrys shook his head, refusing to look at his brothers. "I can't drag you two into this mess."
"You are not. We are already in it," Sherlock snapped. "Stop being a self-sacrificing idiot, Emrys; we're not abandoning you."
Emrys remained silent, but the unshed tears in his eyes spoke of his determination to carry on alone. It was his destiny, after all.
XXX
On the eve of Halloween, Sherlock Holmes wondered what his life had come to as he rocked his goddaughter to sleep. He, the self-proclaimed sociopath, the world's only consulting detective, a Vernet wizard – he was on babysitting duty. Never, in a thousand years, would he have imagined this. He stared at the infant and Emma Rose Watson beamed up at her godfather. It had come as a great surprise to everyone, including Sherlock himself, that John's daughter had taken a great liking to the detective. Where John and Mary couldn't calm her down, a simple "Hello, Little Bee" in Sherlock's rumbling baritone would set her giggling happily. John often complained that his daughter loved Sherlock more than her own father. Mary rolled her eyes and said the affinity for Sherlock was clearly genetic.
And so it happened that Sherlock was on babysitting duty while John was abroad for a conference and Mary was off running errands. The detective remained intentionally unaware of the nature of Mary's "errands". John had chosen Mary. Sherlock would not interfere.
The detective's phone trilled. It was Lestrade.
"Where's John?" Lestrade demanded without preamble.
"In Vienna, I believe," Sherlock replied. "Why?"
Lestrade cursed. "An assassin was apprehended and shot dead during an attempt to murder the visiting Indian Prime Minister," the policeman said. "It was Mary, Sherlock. Did you have any idea?"
Sherlock drew a sharp breath. John would be devastated.
"I'll get hold of John," Sherlock said quietly.
"Sherlock," Greg warned. "The gun matches the bullet dug out of you."
"Let sleeping dogs lie, Gregory," Sherlock said softly. "We must think of John. Can you contain the identity of the assassin?"
"MI6 and RAW are hushing it up, but I overheard a reference to Moriarty."
Sherlock shuddered.
"Try to contact John, Sherlock. I'll drop by as soon as I can."
XXX
John took the next flight back to London. His face was hard and stoic as he entered 221B. Sherlock handed him a glass of Scotch.
"Emma?" John asked, his voice breaking.
"Asleep," Sherlock replied. "Mrs Hudson is looking after her."
John buried his face in his hands. "I should have stopped her. I should have known what she was up to behind my back," he mumbled.
"It wasn't your fault, John," Sherlock said gently.
John shook his head and emptied the glass. Sherlock refilled it immediately.
"Why did she do it, Sherlock? Was this her first one after Magnussen? Did you know?" John asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sherlock winced. "I did not know for certain," he said finally.
"But you suspected," John accused.
Sherlock nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me?" John's voice was low and dangerous.
"Because you chose her," Sherlock replied simply.
John sprang, almost involuntarily. His fingers curled around Sherlock's throat as he slammed the detective against the wall. Sherlock choked, but didn't struggle. He understood John was upset. His vision blurred.
"Unhand my brother this instant, Dr Watson." The sharp command issued by Mycroft Holmes from the doorway penetrated John's rage. He let go of Sherlock immediately. Sherlock slid down the wall and slumped on the floor, coughing.
John fell on his knees, sobs racking his frame. Hysterical apologies to Sherlock spilled from his lips.
Sherlock looked up at his brother helplessly. Mycroft sighed. Lestrade, who had come in with Mycroft, held out a syringe to the detective. Sherlock crawled to John and stabbed him with the sedative. John keeled over immediately.
Lestrade helped Sherlock deposit the unconscious doctor on the couch. Mycroft examined Sherlock's throat and his eyes flashed. The bruising remained, in deference to Lestrade's presence, but the pain disappeared.
"I was expecting you sooner," Sherlock muttered.
"I came as soon as I could, brother mine," Mycroft said, exhaustion dripping from his voice. "Everything has been taken care of. No one will know the assassin and Mary Watson were the same person. I have also taken the liberty of arranging a funeral."
Sherlock bowed his head. "Thank you," he whispered.
In an uncharacteristic gesture, Mycroft embraced his brother. Sherlock buried his head in his brother's shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut, unable to help his tears.
Lestrade looked away, cursing internally. The depth of loyalty and love Sherlock held for John…how could John not see it? How could John bear to be with the woman who shot Sherlock? Lestrade knew the complete truth now. He knew why John had suddenly moved in with Sherlock when Sherlock returned from the hospital. What he didn't understand was why John went back to that woman. Could John be so stupid that he did not see what Sherlock sacrificed for him?
Sherlock and Mycroft finally broke apart. Sherlock wiped his face surreptitiously. "You are embarrassing Lestrade, Mycroft," Sherlock said.
Mycroft's lips twitched. Lestrade simply pulled Sherlock into a hug. He couldn't help it; his paternal instincts had always kicked off where the consulting detective was concerned.
"You ok?" Lestrade asked softly.
Sherlock nodded. Lestrade lifted his chin with a finger and eyed the bruises forming around his neck. "Why didn't you fight him off?" the policeman asked.
Sherlock shrugged.
John stirred. Mycroft quickly removed the alcohol.
John sat up with a cry of "Sherlock!" Breathing heavily, the doctor looked around. His eyes finally settled on the detective and widened at the sight of his neck. The bruises were in stark contrast to the pale throat.
Sherlock made a move towards his doctor, but Lestrade caught his arm. "No," the policeman said firmly. "I'm not letting you near John until it is clear that he will not assault you again."
"He is grieving, Lestrade. He didn't intend to cause me harm," Sherlock snapped.
"That's not an excuse," Greg retorted.
"Greg is right, Sherlock," John whispered. "There is no excuse for what I did. I am sorry, and I don't expect you to forgive me."
Sherlock huffed in annoyance.
John glanced at Mycroft. "Was she working for Moriarty?" he asked bluntly.
Mycroft regard him impassively. "I believe so."
John swallowed. "What happens now?"
"That depends on you, Dr Watson. At Sherlock's request, the identity of the assassin has been kept confidential. Mary Watson could have simply died in an accident."
John's eyes brimmed as he turned to Sherlock. "Thank you."
Sherlock waved away his gratitude. "You can stay here with Emma, John."
John shook his head. "Not after what I just did, Sherlock. I don't deserve your kindness, especially not now."
"I forgive you."
John shook his head again.
"You can crash on my couch, John," Greg offered. "You can come back to Baker Street once you are stable. Sherlock will look after Emma, won't you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock nodded wordlessly. Mycroft shot Lestrade a grateful look. John thanked the policeman.
"I have to arrange the funeral," John whispered.
"Mycroft has already done that, John," Sherlock said gently.
John whispered a thank you.
XXX
Mary's funeral was well-attended. John put up a brave and stoic front, refusing to break down in public. Sherlock stood silently by his side, holding Emma Rose in his arms. Lestrade, Emrys and Harry stood next to them.
When it was over, Sherlock quietly led John to Baker Street and handed his daughter to him. Emrys drew his brother aside.
"Take Harry back to Hogwarts, Sherlock," Emrys told him.
"But John…"
"You've done enough for John," Emrys snapped. "You have duties towards others, too. Don't forget that."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong?"
Emrys bit his lip.
A cold fist closed around Sherlock's heart. "What has happened, Emrys? Where is Mycroft?"
Emrys shrugged. "Does it matter to you anymore, Sherlock? Have you noticed anything at all in the past few days besides John and his daughter?"
Sherlock blinked.
"Harry lost his parents on Halloween…you didn't remember. Mycroft has been ill…you never noticed. Your friends – Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, Billy – they have all been running around, trying to ease things for you and you never even saw them."
Guilt. That was the strange sensation crawling up Sherlock's stomach.
"What happened to Mycroft?" he asked quietly.
Emrys shrugged. "Take Harry to Hogwarts, Sherlock," he said tiredly. "I will take you to Mycroft when you are back. And it would be nice if you spared a word to your friends who have worked tirelessly to help you in your hour of need."
Sherlock took his brother's advice to heart.
XXX
After everyone left and Emma was asleep in her crib, John decided to retire for the night as well.
"A word, please, Dr Watson," Emrys called.
John sighed and resumed his seat, eyeing the youngest Holmes warily. Both Mycroft and Emrys referred to him as 'Dr Watson' when they were unhappy with him. Sherlock might have forgiven him for the assault; his brothers hadn't. John's stomach churned guiltily. Sherlock was the only reason John had been able to get through the last few days.
"You must be aware you are Sherlock's pressure point," Emrys said.
John nodded.
"In light of recent events, Dr Watson, and especially considering Sherlock's lack of a self-preservation instinct, I must ask you this – what are your intentions towards my brother?"
John suppressed his urge to giggle as Mycroft's words from long ago were echoed by his baby brother.
"He is my best friend," John said quietly.
"Yes, he is. But are you his?" Emrys' voice was cold. "Do you have any idea what you have put him through? My brother defied death for you, Dr Watson, and you have done nothing but hurt him since the day he returned."
John stared at Emrys.
Emrys laughed bitterly. "Don't look so clueless, John. Couldn't you see how you broke his heart when you chose Mary over him? Even after she nearly killed him? And yet, to this day, he still puts you first. Before himself, before anyone else."
"He isn't like that. He doesn't feel things like that," John said weakly.
"If you really believe that, then you are a bigger fool than I thought you to be," Emrys spat. "And you certainly do not deserve to breathe the same air as my brother. How can you be so blind?"
John's head whirled. Scenes, images, voices flew past him. Emrys was right. Oh, Sherlock.
"Oh, God," John cried. "What have I done?"
"Put this right, John," Emrys begged. "We need Sherlock. Harry needs Sherlock, and with Mycroft and myself down, Sherlock is our only chance to keep the world safe."
John stared at the most powerful wizard of all time. "What do you mean?" he asked fearfully. "What happened to Mycroft? What happened to you?"
"Moriarty has been resurrected by a powerful necromancer, which may or may not be Voldemort – it is likely to be the latter, which means there are dark forces beyond your imaginings at work," Emrys said. "Mycroft and I have pitted our combined strengths against the dark magic, but it drains us with every passing moment and we are not even close to undoing the spell. It is probable that Mycroft and I will not survive – and we cannot guarantee that we will take Moriarty with us. If we do, Sherlock will have one less menace to deal with…but if we can't, Sherlock will need all his strength to face his adversaries."
"No!" came an anguished cry from the doorway. Sherlock and Harry stood at the door, both equally pale.
"I am coming with you," Sherlock said, stepping up to his younger brother. "You and Mycroft will not do this alone."
"As am I," John said, drawing himself to his full height. This was war, and he was a soldier. He would not let his best friend down again. Not until a single breath remained in his body.
"Me, too," Harry added quietly, holding up a hand as Sherlock opened his mouth to argue. "If Voldemort is involved, I am the only one that can defeat him, remember?"
XXX
Mycroft looked fragile – a word John had never imagine he could associate with the eldest Holmes. He smiled at his brothers and ruffled Harry's hair.
"What if we are walking into a trap?" John asked.
"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock said. "Of course we are."
John stared at his best friend in shock.
"What is the plan?" Harry asked.
Before Emrys could answer, however, Mycroft's security alarm was triggered. The townhouse was as secure as Buckingham Palace – how did an intruder manage to get in?
"John – cover Mycroft. Harry – lookout. Emrys and I will secure the house," Sherlock ordered.
John and Harry immediately pulled out their wands.
The door flew open and a masked man, clad in black, entered the room. Emrys' eyes flashed gold and Sherlock's eyes flashed silver. John and Harry aimed their wands at the intruder.
Mycroft, surprisingly, smiled, his eyes flashing blue. "Took you long enough," he said.
The man turned to Emrys and pulled off his mask. Emrys was still poised for attack.
"Is that any way to treat an old friend, Merlin?" the intruder asked, smiling broadly at Emrys.
Emrys staggered back and fell to the floor in dead faint.
