… and a second one because it looks like I won't be able to publish tomorrow.
Resurrection
John sat down and took in the bustle around him. So here he was, back in one of the court rooms of the Old Bailey, attending another hearing, waiting to be called as witness.
The press was there, of course, and he had even seen the face of Kitty Riley. She had done well for herself: gone was the girlish style, she now wore an elegant designer outfit and subtle make-up, giving her a professional look. The scoop with Sherlock's life story and the exposure of the great detective as a fraud had boosted her career phenomenally. John was surprised that she deigned to come at all. Others did the running and scribbling for her now, but she was probably just as curious as everybody else what the hearing, announced to present new and crucial evidence, would reveal.
A dead man it would reveal, John thought, and that you were all wrong. Faithless bastards.
Turning around, he saw familiar faces: Lestrade was in the audience, surrounded by Mycroft's bodyguards, and behind him Sally Donovan. They were both scowling, but probably for different reasons. The DI was fidgeting with his phone, looking tired and worn, his coat uncharacteristically rumpled, with crumbs on the lapel indicating a hasty meal on the way – probably just off a case or cramming the hearing into a badly needed break. He, too, had aged; his hair was now all silver, there were new lines edged into his face and he had put on a few pounds. His career had miraculously survived his involvement with Sherlock, and John had a strong notion that this was Mycroft's doing. Not that Lestrade looked happy about it.
Donovan watched the door through which the judge was supposed to enter impatiently and gave the impression of simply hating it all. Well, John mused, no one had forced her to come, but she obviously felt compelled to attend. She despised everything connected with Sherlock, yet could not quite close the case either and had probably come to dismantle the entire argumentation later, but also to watch over Lestrade – despite her prickly demeanour, she had a soft spot for her boss.
She noticed John looking at her and stared back defiantly. At least she was no coward, John admitted grudgingly, she had never pretended to be sorry about Sherlock's suicide. Well, she wouldn't regret having come, he smirked, for once feeling a little elated.
He also saw Molly Hooper, a tiny figure at the very back, and strangely, when his eyes met hers, she dropped her gaze instantly, frantically clawing through her bag, looking for nothing. 'So you knew,' John suddenly realised, and then it all fell into place. Of course, she was the only one who could have helped Sherlock at such short notice – organizing the body being whisked away, providing a corpse, producing a falsified autopsy report and death certificate. Sweet Molly, so inconspicuous even Moriarty had missed her significance. So had he. He suddenly felt as if he had been slapped in the face: Sherlock had trusted the overanxious pathologist, but not his only friend, the soldier with the nerves of steel. Granted, he thought, constantly belittled Molly Hooper had proven she was a tough cookie – sweet only on the outside. And it also explained why she hadn't spoken to him in all this time. Feeling guilty, huh?
He craned his neck but he did not see Mrs Hudson in the crowd, though he had a feeling that Mycroft had broken the news to her already, and gently, advising the old lady to avoid the hustle of the court room – she had grown very frail during those three years. 'I wonder who's fault that is,' John grumbled, but he had no time to continue mulling over his anger for the doors finally opened and everybody rose.
The hearing began.
After two hours of droning speeches and angry bickering in front of a stoic judge, John found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. That a resurrection could be so tedious … 'Sherlock will be bored out of his mind by now,' he thought, then imagined the detective with all his pent-up energy carving smileys into the oak panelling of the venerable antechamber, and he almost giggled.
He became serious instantly when the judge interrupted yet another monotonous monologue of a fellow wig-wearer.
"Surely, this must be an error, Mr Williamson." The judge squinted at the list of witnesses in front of him, his eyebrows raised so high they almost collided with the wig: he had discovered the name of a dead man. His brows came down again, staring at the offending name, then jumped up in sharp disapproval when Mr Williamson insisted that the list was indeed correct, and this was in fact the name of his witness.
The judge scowled. Mr Williamson cringed, and the doors opened.
'And here we go,' John thought and sat up, now wide awake.
The bailiff cleared his throat and announced, "Sherlock Holmes."
All heads turned.
John looked around: Molly's face lit up; Lestrade's chin dropped; Sally paled; Kitty Riley stared open-mouthed; the rest looked dumbstruck or confused. John turned and looked to the doors, his skin suddenly tingling.
And there he stood, tall and serene, the dead man resurrected, befittingly clad in a dark suit. Sherlock's eyes met John's; and for the first time he smiled. John felt a warm rush of joy at the sight of Sherlock looking like his old self again, and he had to cling to his seat to keep himself from running over to him.
He was not the only one having trouble to stay seated, it seemed: everything was thrown into turmoil, people gaping, shouting, babbling, reporters scrambling to get out and make hectic phone calls, and the judge nearly smashing his gavel in the effort to restore order. It took a long time until the hearing could proceed and John didn't really listen to all the tedious details, just drinking in the image of a living and breathing Sherlock showing the world the miracle he had worked. 'You brilliant bastard,' he thought fondly, and smiled until his face hurt.
In the end, he wasn't even called as witness: Sherlock provided all the evidence necessary. Too soon it was over and John found himself being escorted away by Mycroft's men. They ushered him into a side room and from then on, it was all a rush.
"Right, okay, so what now?" John asked, craning his neck in confusion and seeing nothing but strangers bearing down on him.
"All right, Sir, just a moment." A tall man in black spoke into a walkie-talkie. Two people were in front of him, one pulling off his jacket, the other loosening his tie; a tough looking woman slapped the bulletproof vest onto his upper body, the weight and bulk surprising him. Hands from all sides plucked and tugged at him, a grey-haired man was inexplicably kneeling in front of him and fiddling with whatever, someone threw his overcoat onto him, spinning him round, and John fleetingly wondered whether models felt like this before stepping out onto the catwalk – he certainly felt more like three years old again, being dressed to play in the mud, his mother's warning not to ruin his good clothes under his dreadful fishing trousers still ringing in his ears.
"Sir, we're ready," the man with the walkie-talkie returned, looking him up and down. Two police officers appeared in the doorway, and the man kneeling at his feet gave a thumbs up.
"Um," John looked around in confusion. "Anybody care to tell me what's next?" He couldn't discover a single familiar face.
"We leave the building, Sir," the man said and pointed towards the two waiting police officers. "We're just waiting for the final OK."
"Right." John straightened, clenching his hands involuntarily. "And then?"
No one answered – suddenly there was a tense silence; then the cracking of the walkie-talkie. The man turned around, speaking hastily into it. "OK! They've got him." He signalled to the two policemen and John found himself being marched out of the room. "They got him? Both? Moran and the other one? They've got the snipers?" John was pushed forward to keep up.
"Yes, Sir, the danger has been neutralized. There's a lot of press out there. This way, Sir, if you please."
"Yeah, right, but … I don't feel quite ready to face the press, without any prep talk, I mean …" John trailed off, stumbling along and plucking in confusion at a cable coming out of the bulletproof vest – what was this for and why was the thing so voluminous? He tried to pull the zipper down, but a hand reached over his shoulder from behind, stilling his fingers. "Please don't, Sir!"
"Uh, sorry." Confused, John said, " Excuse me," turning to the walkie-talkie man. "What sort of a vest is this? I mean, normally they're not quite this bulky, I kind of look pregnant in this thing …"
"It's a custom-built model, Sir. This way, please."
John's eyebrows jerked up and down in confusion. He had worn his fair share of bulletproof vests and armour as a soldier, but never anything as strange as this, and something was definitely wrong with it. What worried him more, however, was the fact that he did not know any of the people around him, and unpleasant memories of a similar situation popped up in his mind, ending with him wrapped in Semtex beside a pool. He was about to stop dead in his tracks, intending to remain rooted to the stop until he got to the bottom of the matter, but before he could protest, they rounded the corner, and there was Sherlock, waiting for him.
It was was all right, then.
His heart skipped a beat – finally, his friend looked familiar, like the Sherlock he remembered: dark coat, blue scarf, a detached half-smile playing around his lips, his hands folded behind his back. But when he tried to make eye contact, the detective looked away, addressing the man standing next to him.
John didn't know how, but suddenly they were underneath the imposing entrance arch of the Old Bailey, standing shoulder to shoulder without having spoken a single word to each other, facing a legion of reporters.
The throng in front of them was unbelievable and if the police had not cordoned them off, the journalists would have trampled them down. It was confusing enough as it was: a frenzy of flashing cameras and people yelling questions.
"Boffin Holmes and Bachelor Watson – are you back?"
"Was Moriarty real?"
"How did you fake your death?"
"Will you work together again?"
"What about your relationship?"
"Are you friends or lovers?"
"Mr Holmes, where have you been all this time?"
"Dr Watson, did you know the suicide was faked?"
"If not – have you forgiven Holmes?"
"Are you still friends?"
'Are we still friends?' John wondered and desperately tried to relax his posture, a strained smile plastered to his face. He glanced at Sherlock: he was looking straight ahead, but his eyes were not on the journalists; they seemed to be fixed on a spot on the opposite building. Strange, really –
Two shots. Earsplitting noise, a punch that knocked the breath out of him, sending him into a shrill panic, body and mind reeling.
Two shots. And he was hit.