Finally, the last two chapters.
Treasure Room
John's jaw dropped: Ashbury House was not a house at all. It was not even large; it was huge.
As it turned out, Mycroft Holmes' country house was a late 17th century mansion with two wings, surrounded by ancient trees, vast gardens, and silvery ponds. The building had a hipped roof with dormer windows, complete with a central triangular pediment sporting a coat of arms.
Gleaming in the morning light, the facade was a masterpiece of classical architecture, possibly designed by Christopher Wren himself: white cornices, prominent string courses, brick lintels and pediments above sash windows, and panelled double doors with brightly coloured fanlights under a carved hood. A gravel path was leading up to a wide stairway flanked by balustrades with ornamental vases and urns planted with ivy and wine.
John looked at Mary; Mary raised her brows.
"I guess I should have known," John muttered. He tried to count the chimneys on the roof, but failed to finish before the car pulled up at the entrance.
Servants were waiting for them, taking care of the luggage, and a butler introduced himself as 'James, if you please, Sir', but they were greeted by Mycroft himself. "John, Mary, what a pleasure to see you. Sherlock is already settled in."
"Oh, good," John said and followed him into the hall. Sherlock had been picked up earlier by an ambulance, and John was still surprised that he hadn't uttered a word of complaint, only sighing, "I suppose it is unavoidable."
"Mary," Mycroft turned to her with a radiant smile, usually reserved for heads of state or royalty. "May I refer you on to Stetson," he nodded at a middle-aged man in jodhpurs. "He's responsible for the stables - I thought you might want to start riding again while you're here."
"Oh, that would be lovely," Mary smiled, "but I'm afraid I didn't bring any gear."
"That will be no problem," Mycroft assured her smoothly. "Stetson will also show you our little surprise for Sherlock, it arrived only yesterday."
John perked up. "That's the uh-"
"Yes, John," Mycroft cut him off. "Your wife was of great help in the matter, and we have managed to keep Sherlock in the dark so far. Not an easy feat."
"Tell me about it," John chuckled.
"I'm off, see you later," Mary said to John. "Mycroft," she nodded at him, then virtually skipped through the hall, following Stetson.
"Nice house," John remarked, casually eyeing the tiled floor, the wainscoting, and the tapestries on the wall. "Pretty old, I guess?"
"Yes, it was built in the 1690s," Mycroft replied, "but the interior is mostly Victorian. In fact, quite a mixture of styles, I'm afraid – every owner added a bit and modernised according to their liking."
Mycroft had done his own modernising, it seemed: a lift was hidden behind the stairs, and on their way towards the house, John had noted a number of security cameras. Undoubtedly, the house itself was nothing less than a fortress.
On their way through the hall, they passed the butler talking to a burly man who looked like a former boxing champion. "Ah," Mycroft remarked, "that will be Sherlock's physiotherapist."
"Oh," John's brows shot up. "Looks like he could handle an ox."
"Let's hope so," Mycroft added ominously. Just when they reached the stairs, a door slammed shut on the floor above, followed by a staccato of high-heeled pumps on carpet. Next, a pretty woman in her mid-twenties thundered down the stairs, her face tear-streaked and bright red. Wordlessly, she stormed past them, through the hall, and straight out of the house.
Mycroft arched one brow. "That would have been the nurse," he explained. Turning to the butler, he added with a wry smile, "We'll settle for the young lady from Poland, then."
"Very well, Sir," the butler confirmed.
Mycroft turned back to John, who looked nonplussed. "The Polish nurse has excellent credentials, and, thankfully, doesn't speak a word of English."
"Uh," John said.
Mycroft smiled. "Meaning, she won't understand Sherlock's insults."
"Okay," John said lamely. "So, Sherlock doesn't speak Polish?"
Mycroft froze. "I hope not."
John just chuckled. He was quickly serious again. "Mycroft, what about this PTSD specialist?"
"Professor Sheffield? He'll arrive any moment now," Mycroft announced, sounding distracted.
"And you, um," John frowned, "you have broached the subject with him? Sherlock, I mean?"
"No." Mycroft's entire face seemed to actually slide down a fraction.
"And no idea how to go about it," John realised.
"I'm afraid so," Mycroft conceded, giving him a long look.
"Oh, God," John groaned, suddenly understanding. "You want me to talk him into therapy."
"If it's not too much trouble," Mycroft smiled, but he looked rather pained.
"I'll do my best," John promised, "but you know, he's Sherlock." John shrugged helplessly.
"Yes. I know," Mycroft sighed. Indicating John to follow, he ascended the stairs. "You and Mary have a suite on the same floor as Sherlock," he added. "I'll show you to his room."
"Oh, thanks," John replied. "Let me just pick up-"
Before he could finish, the butler had caught up with them and handed him a case. "That's great, thanks," John muttered and wondered whether Mycroft's employees had to pass a test in precognition before he hired them.
Mycroft led him through a corridor hung with portraits of the highest nobility from three centuries – going by the length of the line and the size of the noses. Some of them wore tartan patterns and belted plaids, John noticed. Mycroft waved at a particularly snobbish looking aristocrat in full Highland dress. "Our family has a Scottish line," he explained with a pained smile. John raised his brows. He couldn't think of a reason why Mycroft's Scottish ancestors should give him a headache, but maybe they were responsible for some salacious scandals.
They had stopped in front of a panelled door and Mycroft knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer.
The case in hand, John followed. He stopped after only two steps, gaping: the room could easily have served as master bedroom in some period piece - the floor was covered in dark red carpets, matched by the upholstery of the chairs, and a huge bowl-shaped Tiffany light was hung from the stuccoed ceiling. A large wardrobe stood in one corner, and an elaborately carved bureau was placed next to the window. But what dominated the room was the huge four-poster bed, complete with heavy curtains, and mountains of pillows and cushions. An infusion stand was visible, half-hidden by the curtains, and the antique bedside table was littered with medication packages.
Overwhelmed, John stood in awe, and only now noticed that the bed was empty. Belated, he registered the chaise longue in front of the windows looking out over the courtyard. Sherlock was reclining on it, clad in his red dressing gown, laptop on his knees, and murder written on his face.
"That nurse," he spat at Mycroft, "was easily the most imbecilic creature ever to enter this house."
"Well, thank God then that you have sent her running," Mycroft replied suavely. He turned to John. "John, I leave you to it. I hope you can lift my brother's spirits, he seems to find fault with everything today." Without a further glance at his brother, Mycroft left.
John stood in the middle of the room and felt out of place like a clay pot among bone china.
"John," Sherlock pointed to a cushioned chair – probably genuine Bidermeier. "Sit down. No need to be impressed by this old clutter."
John blinked. "Right." Carefully, he lowered himself into the antique piece of furniture and noticed to his surprise that it was rather comfortable. "Um," suddenly uncertain, he tapped his fingers on the case. "I brought your violin. I mean, it'll be a while until you can play it, but I thought …" It had seemed a brilliant idea yesterday, but now he was not so sure anymore.
Sherlock, however, pushed the laptop aside and eagerly reached out, his eyes lighting up as if it were Christmas. "Thank you, John," he said, opening the case. John watched in amazement as Sherlock took out the instrument and ran his fingers over it, caressing the wood, and eliciting a faint sound from the neglected strings. He inspected it thoroughly, then put it gently back into its case and stowed it away, next to the chaise longue. "Thank you so much."
John felt a strange warmth spreading through his chest. "You, um," he added, "I have your phone as well." He held out the phone with the diary.
Sherlock looked at it for a second, then dismissed it. "I have a new one. Courtesy of Mycroft. I don't need it."
"OK." John smiled. He knew what Sherlock meant: keep it. The diary is for you. "I just thought you might want to … you know, read the diary."
Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "No need. You've already read it to me."
John blinked in surprise. "You mean, you heard it all? You have it all in your mind now?"
"Of course."
"So, um, did it help?" He fiddled nervously with the phone.
"Immensely," Sherlock confirmed. "I can now make sense of my memories and fill in the gaps." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "My Mind Palace will never be the same, John, what is destroyed cannot be made whole. But it is no longer in chaos, and I discovered that, along with the factual knowledge, more memories appear. And of course," he added lightly, "I can always build a new one." He pulled the laptop back onto his knees and remarked casually, "Thankfully, my memories concerning you are entirely undamaged. In case you're interested."
"I am," John was quick to say. "That's great. Really great," he smiled happily.
"Well, obviously they were never in any real danger," Sherlock added dismissively, "all my essential memories are stored in the treasure room, which is protected by a firewall." He frowned. "Though I may have forgotten Mycroft's lessons on etiquette and proper social behaviour. Naturally, they were the first to go." He shrugged, and snapped the laptop open.
John sat smiling, only gradually realising what Sherlock had said – and then grinned wider than a Cheshire cat, blushing all the way up to his ears.
A minute later, still beaming with pride, he asked, "So, during the coma, you noticed most things going on around you?"
"I noticed everything," Sherlock declared. "What else was there to do?"
"What else – everything?" John echoed, baffled.
"Yes, John, everything you said, did, and felt. Probably." Sherlock cleared his throat then looked up from the computer, deliberately allowing John to read his face. It was all there, John thought amazed, the gratitude, the caring, the love.
John smiled and blushed again, a sunny pride filling him, and he struggled to not get all jittery and soppy. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, and sudden elation made his heart flutter with delight - until he remembered the task Mycroft had landed him with: talking Sherlock into therapy.
"What?" Sherlock frowned.
"Nothing," John said hastily. "I was just completely, utterly and thoroughly happy for a second, and then remembered-" he flinched.
"Remembered what?" Sherlock asked sharply.
John gave a desperate sigh. "That I'm supposed to pursuade you to speak to a therapist. About the PTSD, I mean."
"You have done that herewith. Move on," Sherlock declared.
"No, Sherlock," John shook his head. "It's not that simple-"
"Ah," Sherlock interrupted, and pointed out the window. "Here we are."
"What?" John stood up and looked down into the courtyard.
"The therapist," Sherlock smirked. "That buffoon down there, exiting my brother's car, is the renowned Professor Sheffield, specialising in PTSD. He's an idiot."
"Oh," John sighed and realised that all his efforts were wasted. Sherlock would never open up to the pompously dressed man, not in this lifetime.
"Don't worry," Sherlock quipped, "he didn't come alone. Here's his assistant."
John watched a woman in a plain grey suit get out of the car; she was completely unremarkable, mid-thirties, with mousy brown hair.
"So, if Professor Sheffield is an idiot," John began carefully, "why did Mycroft hire him?"
"Mycroft relies on me insulting him so thoroughly that he leaves after one session, entrusting his assistant with the therapy." Sherlock sneered.
"OK," John agreed, "I can see you doing that. So …?"
"His assistant, John. Dr Hale."
"She's not an idiot?"
"Not entirely," Sherlock replied. "We might actually get somewhere."
"So, you are … um, willing to …?"
"Do something about the PTSD? Of course. If it is at all possible. You know that there is no simple form of treatment, and I am certainly not going to waste time on tedious talking sessions. And no medication, obviously. Never worked for me. Naturally, the best therapy will be going back to solving cases as soon as possible." Sherlock returned to his laptop.
"Good. Good," John muttered and sat down again, not quite believing his luck yet and for the time being ignoring the fact that Sherlock had basically dismissed all conventional treatments in one go. One step at a time. "What are you working on? Thought you might be tired after last night."
"I'm bored," Sherlock declared. "I'm working on the data I stole from the Russian. I have cracked nearly all codes, except for one. Which is – ah!" His eyes widened and he threw up his hands in triumph – wincing in pain instantly. "Well." He folded his hands over his stomach, an extraordinarily pleased smile on his face. "I have cracked them all now."
"Oh," John just said. "Nice. That's good, I guess."
"That's excellent John," Sherlock corrected. "Mycroft will be over the moon with all those secrets unlocked. Now he can bully, bargain, and blackmail to his heart's content." He snapped the laptop shut and put it aside. "You should go for a walk, the estate is truly beautiful – if one cares for the charms of the country, that is," he added, settling into the cushions.
"Okay," John said, a bit puzzled, "if you don't mind being on your own …"
"Not at all," Sherlock declared, closing his eyes. "I shall get a few hours of sleep."
John's face was instantly marred by deep concern. "Is something wrong?" His hand shot out to touch Sherlock's forehead, taking his temperature.
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock drawled without opening his eyes, but also without objecting to John's touch. "I just intend to be as well rested and alert as possible tonight."
"OK. Why is that?" John asked suspiciously.
"Because, John, I have asked my brother to invite Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly for tonight to celebrate my return – or rather, my second resurrection, as he termed it. And I shall enjoy every second of it, because I will force him to fulfil his promise."
"What promise?" John asked, confused.
Sherlock tapped on the laptop. "The data. He said if I manage to unlock Michail's secrets, he would dance on the table." With his eyes still closed, he smiled dreamily.
"I remember, you wrote that in your diary," John agreed. "But – you mean, literally? Dance on the table? Mycroft?"
"Of course I mean literally."
John sat back, contemplating the idea of Mycroft dancing on the table. He could not conjure up an image; not for the love of God. In his mind, Mycroft was always stiff, aloof, and steadfastly dignified. "He won't do it," he decided.
"He must," Sherlock simply said, a smug smile on his face.
He looked a lot younger and almost relaxed in the morning light, John thought, noting with infinite relief that Sherlock was no longer sickly pale and tense with pain. He was still a long way from recovered, but being out of hospital had worked wonders, apparently.
"You're actually going to sleep?" John asked disbelievingly.
"Yes." Sherlock breathed a sigh, then half-opened his eyes and regarded him from under heavy lids. "John, stop worrying. Everything will be all right."
John smiled faintly. "Okay. If you say so …" he trailed off, then got up and turned to go. He stopped, however, and went over to the bed instead, fetching a blanket. Carefully, he draped it over Sherlock. "Don't want you to catch cold," he muttered, feeling a little bit embarrassed.
Sherlock just smiled.
The gardens surrounding Ashbury House were a national treasure: some were formal, with rectangular box hedges, others full of rampant flower beds and vine sprawling over the walls; ancient trees mixed with bushes in all shapes, the colour of their leaves varying from bright green to dark purple. A small pond was surrounded by exotic grasses, and the rose garden was still a riot of colours, even this late in the year.
John marvelled at the beauty and walked around the grounds far longer than intended. Eventually, he found the stables; even they were magnificent: the two-storey building, sporting the same architectural style as the house, was built around a courtyard, mimicking the grand mansion.
Mary was there, just sliding off a placid looking white horse, which was led away by Stetson.
She was glowing with happiness, her cheeks red from exertion. "John," she smiled and hugged him, and John laughed, revelling in her joy. "You smell of horse," he teased her.
She hugged him fiercely in response. "There, that's what you get," she chided.
"If I get that for every insult, I might become rather impolite," John chuckled.
She poked him in the side. "How's Sherlock?"
"Doing surprisingly well. You were right, he's in much better hands here than in a hospital. Actually," John frowned, looking at his watch, "I think I should check on him. He managed to scare away the nurse, I want to make sure he takes his medication. Maybe I can even persuade him to eat something."
"Good idea," Mary fell into step beside him. "And good luck. Though the porridge was a success yesterday." She patted him on the arm. "But I want to show you something first."
John raised his brows. "The surprise?"
"The surprise."
They left the courtyard and walked to the back of the stables where the kennels were. A safe distance from the hunting dogs was a fenced off green patch with a dog house. Its inhabitant perked up immediately at the sight of Mary, tail wagging.
John's face fell. "Uhm …"
Mary grinned. "John, this is Pompey."
"What?" John burst out. "Pompey? Who gave him that name?"
"Mycroft."
"Of course," John muttered. "Who else. Why?"
Mary giggled. "Actually, it's just a slight change of his original name – I mean, the dog's used to its name, so we couldn't change it completely. He was called Rompy. Mycroft thought it wasn't dignified enough."
John groaned. "So he changed a perfectly adorable dog name to that of an ambitious Roman general who lost his head battling Julius Caesar? Obvious."
"You don't seem very enthusiastic about our choice," Mary remarked, barely holding back her laughter.
John cleared his throat. "The name is bad enough, but …"
Mary held up a hand. "John, before you insult the dog, I want you to know that I got him from a colleague's uncle who breeds the finest Scottish Terriers in Britain. He's a dog expert whose Scotties regularly win international prizes. He raised and trained Pompey, and swears to his good character and intelligence. Pompey's still very young and exuberant, but he's smart, vigilant, and very affectionate; he tackles intruders fearlessly and will defend his charge without thinking twice. Really, he's the perfect dog for Sherlock."
"Uh-huh," John nodded, staring at the furry creature. "Wait a moment," he blurted, narrowing his eyes. "What's that? That blue blanket he's sitting on?" He made a step forward. "That's – Mary!" he exclaimed. "For God's sake, that's Sherlock's scarf!"
"Well, obviously we had to familiarize him with his future owner's scent. He now firmly associates everything that is good, warm, and comfortable with Sherlock. To him, that scent is as close to God as it gets. He just hasn't met the object of his worship yet." Mary smiled radiantly at Pompey, who wagged his tail even harder, but did not get up to greet them.
"He seems very fond of you," John remarked. "Why is he not coming closer? I mean, he looks rather … jolly."
"Oh, he's guarding the scarf," Mary explained. "Drags it everywhere. Uh, by the way, don't ever try to take it from him, he's a bit possessive about it."
"Wouldn't dream of it," John muttered. "I wonder what Sherlock will say."
"It'll take some persuading," Mary admitted, "but I'm confident Pompey will win him over."
"I wish I shared your optimism …" John trailed off, frowning at Pompey. Pompey rolled out a long tongue and smiled. Sort of.
Several hours later, John skipped down the stairs, fastening the button on his jacket. He was smiling proudly at Mary, who looked regal in a deep purple wrap dress with a knee-length flared skirt. The dress was neither expensive nor flamboyant, but suited her perfectly, and gave her an air of understated elegance he always associated with royalty. Or Sherlock.
For the first time in years, he was almost intoxicated by happiness: he had a wonderful wife, his best friend was back from the dead and on the mend, his other friends were invited to celebrate with a drink, and their archenemy was once and for all behind bars. He made a mental note to ask Mycroft what exactly he had done with Moriarty.
Not even on his wedding day had he been this happy, John mused – Sherlock's suicide had always been at the back of his mind, so that even the happiest moments were tainted with a bitter taste. But these days were over, he thought, now all he had to do was make sure that Sherlock recovered properly, and didn't overwork himself. The latter would be difficult, he knew - finding a balance between the needs of his weakened body and the demands of his starved mind would be a trial for everyone's patience.
But tonight was a time for celebration, and he would enjoy every minute of it; and after an hour – at most! - he would step in, all doctor-soldier, and tuck Sherlock into bed, no matter how much he protested. And protest he would, as a matter of principle, secretly pleased that John took charge and relieved him of the obligation to show stalwart fortitude. And thank God the Polish nurse had arrived in the meantime, for she had been given the room next to Sherlock, to check on him several times during the first few nights, so that John and Mary had time for themselves.
John knew he would startle from sleep at least once anyway, and worried, he would sneak across the hallway and peek into Sherlock's room to look after him; and Sherlock would pretend to be sound asleep, so that they both could have a good night's rest. This was how their relationship worked – always had, and always would: some things remained unspoken, but there was nothing they would not do for each other, and together, they would go to hell and back. They'd done it plenty of times already.
When they crossed the hall with its black and white tiled floor, heading for the little parlour, John caught a glimpse of Mycroft talking on the phone and rather hurriedly retreating into a small yellow room, almost banging the door shut. John stopped mid-stride, anxiety flaring up like a startled flock of birds. Mycroft's face had been … the epitome of deepest concern. No, worse – perplexity and dismay personified. Something was clearly wrong. He said so to Mary, his heart speeding up painfully and his mind teeming with possible catastrophes.
"Probably just some political crisis," Mary reassured him, "or the Prime Minister was found in the wrong bed, the crown jewels were stolen and the Queen has lost one of her corgies. Stop worrying John. That's Mycroft's job."
"Right," he muttered, "right." Putting up a cheerful facade, he followed her into a room across the hall called The little parlour.
The name had to be a joke – the room was hardly smaller than the entrance hall, but thankfully much more cosy. Intricately carved oak panelling ran along the lower third of the walls, the upper part was covered in brightly coloured tapestries, and just below the stuccoed ceiling, a row of escutcheons with various coats of arms adorned the front side. The entire floor was covered with a Persian carpet in pale shades of green, blue, and purple, with dashes of navy and white in between. In contrast, the draped curtains and the cushions of the chairs with their elegantly curved legs were ivory coloured, with a delicate pattern woven into the fabric. Several porcelain table lamps bathed the room in warm light, but the eyecatcher of the parlour was a huge fireplace flanked by marble columns bearing tall silver knights, complete with spears, swords, and shields. Logs were crackling in the hearth, providing warmth and light, and on the mantlepiece, blue Ming vases stood next to a rather chunky golden clock. It sat in the middle, dominating the mantelpiece and dwarfing the vases, and had to be a priceless antiquity of some sort – the only valid explanation for the existence of a clock five minutes slow in an otherwise meticulously clocked household, John mused.
"John, if you do any more gawping today, you risk trismus," Sherlock drawled, but he sounded more amused than annoyed. He was residing next to the fire in a winged chair that looked like a throne; clad in his tartan dressing gown, with a blanket in matching colours over his knees, he might have passed for a Victorian nobleman waiting to grant an audience. To complete the picture, all he needed was a hunting dog at his feet. Well, that could be remedied, John thought, and chuckled.
"I don't know what you find so amusing," Sherlock said, but a slight smile made its way onto his face as well. John sat down on a sofa next to him, and Mary followed suit, eyeing the furniture appreciatively. Tea was waiting for them on a low table, along with an exquisite assortment of delicacies served on fine china, bearing the same coat of arms as the house.
"Genuine, I suppose?" Mary asked, her eyes travelling from the dishes to the mantelpiece with the Ming vases, the clock, and the two silver knights perched on their columns.
"Mycroft abhors imitation," Sherlock shrugged. "Dust collectors, in my opinion."
At the mention of Mycroft, John remembered the scene he had just witnessed. "Speaking of Mycroft – he just looked rather concerned. As if a major catastrophe had occurred. Any idea?" A deep frown creased his forehead.
"Oh, stop worrying, John, everything's fine," Sherlock replied, dismissing the notion with a flick of his wrist. "Mycroft's pissed off about the whole dance thing. And he's got some news he finds rather hard to fit into his view of the world."
"So, um," John swallowed hard, "it has nothing to do with Moriarty?"
"Only remotely." Sherlock smirked. "Moriarty is not the source of all evil …"
John's back stiffened. "Don't make a joke of it. Just don't." He shook his head, suppressing the memory of all those days vacillating between hope and fear. "What's he done with Moriarty anyway?"
"Locked away in the deepest dungeon, of course," Sherlock replied. "Though I doubt he'll get any information out of him."
"I'm perfectly happy if he never says a word again," John muttered.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "You were worried he might have escaped – that Mycroft's so upset because Moriarty is back on the streets?"
"Is that so hard to imagine?" John looked at Sherlock, not even trying to disguise his fear.
"John," Sherlock sat up slightly, wincing in pain. "Moriarty will never walk free again. Literally," he added with a raised brow. "Turns out I aimed quite well. He's limping now."
"Good. That's good," John muttered, rubbing his face nervously. He felt Mary's warm touch on his arm.
"You look a lot better, Sherlock," Mary smiled. "Almost … radiant." She cocked an eyebrow and looked at him expectantly: Sherlock was reclining in his chair, hands folded and smiling contemplatively. "Well, it's a pleasant evening, Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade will arrive any moment now, and I relish the idea of Mycroft fulfilling his promise." Sherlock grinned. "It will certainly not be boring."
"About Mycroft," John coughed and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, really, I thought you were kidding about the dance thing. Please don't humiliate your brother. It's just not-"
"John." Sherlock looked him in the eyes. "He promised. He'd do it anyway now, if only to shut me up."
"So you'll have him dance on the table." John shook his head.
Sherlock just smiled, and for once, the smile reached his eyes. "He'll survive."
"I wonder whether his pride will as well."
The butler suddenly appeared in the doorframe, and Mary jumped up. "Excuse me, I'll be just a moment," she promised and winked at John, then followed the butler out.
"What?" Sherlock craned his neck. "What's going on?" He turned to John. "You've planned something, haven't you?"
"Wait and see." John's entire face beamed with happiness.
"Tell me!" Sherlock demanded.
"No."
"John, please, tell me." Sherlock looked at him pleadingly.
John just chuckled. "You're doing it again. Doesn't work on me." He shook his head.
"What?" Sherlock snapped indignantly.
"The puppy look. Doesn't work on me. I know you too well."
"OK." Sherlock's face took on a serious expression, and he leaned forward. "Look, John, I hate surprises. They make me …" he swallowed hard. "Feel insecure."
"Nooo," John leaned back and stared at him in mock horror. "What a revelation – Sherlock Holmes feeling insecure?"
"Well, not really," Sherlock retorted immediately, "but it is admittedly unsettling to not be able to deduce what is going to happen next." He sighed. "I hate surprises."
"Not this one. Well," John raised his brows. "I hope not. In the long run, at least."
"Whatever does that mean?" Sherlock exclaimed. "Come on, John. Tell me."
"Patience is a virtue, Sherlock. No."
"I've never claimed to be virtuous, John!" He suddenly looked horrified. "Please, John, tell me it's not a ridiculous welcome-back party with pink balloons, paper hats, and pompous fools from the Yard!"
There was a rustle at the door. "Does that mean you don't want me here?" Lestrade droned, hands on hips.
"Oh, don't be an idiot," Sherlock spat. "You know exactly who I meant. The term fool comprises many hierarchical levels, and you rank on the highest, bordering on the sensible, and you do manage the occasional foray into the land of the intelligent." He tried to add a scowl, but somehow it didn't look convincing on his radiant face.
Lestrade just blinked at him, lost.
John plucked Sherlock at the sleeve. "You remember, Sherlock, you said you wanted to throw him the occasional word of praise."
"Well, I just did, didn't I?" Sherlock looked at him, confused.
"Nope," John shook his head. "That's not praise." Turning to Lestrade, he said: "He means you're the best DI the Yard has, and he's glad to see you."
"Does he?" Lestrade didn't sound convinced.
"He does," John nodded.
Sherlock sighed. "I do." He flashed Lestrade an annoyed look.
"Well," Lestrade broke into a grin, "Good to see you, too, risen from the dead! Blimey, gave us all a scare, first coming back, and then almost dying again." He walked towards him, arms extended, then thought better of it. "I guess hugging you is not such a brilliant idea, is it?"
"No, it is not," Sherlock gave a fake smile, instinctively shrinking back into the chair.
"Don't wanna give you any more pain," Lestrade stopped in front of Sherlock, beaming down at him. "Seriously - I can't tell you how glad I am to have you back. The three years …" his expression darkened, "were pretty harsh. Look," he shuffled his feet, "I'm sorry about the whole arresting you thing and, uh,-"
"Lestrade," Sherlock cut him off, "don't get sentimental. You acted professionally, I expected nothing less of you." Sherlock caught a look from John, who had raised his brows at him. "And, um," this time, it was Sherlock who hesitated, "I'm grateful that you tried to warn me, three years ago, I mean. That was … good. Pointless, but good." He produced another fake smile and John rubbed his forehead in despair, but Lestrade didn't mind. He beamed even more at Sherlock and was about to say something else, when a shriek made their heads turn. "Sherlock!"
John had half-expected Molly, but it was Mrs Hudson launching herself across the room, skirts of her dress flying, and almost knocking the butler sideways, who had clearly not expected the frail old woman to be so nimble on her feet.
It was too late to stop her, and no one would have had the heart to do it anyway. John could see Sherlock quickly pressing a hand over the wound, and then he was enwrapped in a flowery cloud of silk, cashmere and Casbah Nights.
"Oh may boy," she all but sobbed, "first coming back and then getting yourself shot! We were worrying ourselves silly over you," she drew back and looked at him. He was smiling up at her, only slightly pained, and genuinely happy, John noted. "They wouldn't let me visit you in the hospital," she complained, "saying that this dreadful man was out there, trying to kill us all. Mycroft will do well to keep him hidden, I don't know what I'd do to him if I had a chance."
John bit back a smile at the threat, imagining Mrs Hudson attacking James Moriarty with a rolling pin.
"You'd spear him with my harpoon, I imagine," Sherlock smirked, "wouldn't be the first time."
John looked poleaxed. "What?"
"Oh nothing," Sherlock, dismissed it, "Mrs Hudson once chased away a burglar with it."
John gaped. "And you never told me?"
"You were in Dublin at the time, we didn't want to worry you."
John's mouth stood open, but before he could utter a sound, Mrs Hudson continued, "You know I kept all your things Sherlock, and your brother promised to have a new coat made for you, the bullet holes can't be mended."
"I hope he leaves out the tracking device this time," Sherlock muttered.
"I'm sure he only means well," Mrs Hudson said, tucking a wayward curl behind his ear. "But enough of my silly chatter, here's someone else who wants to say hello." She stepped aside, and John finally noticed Molly.
She had slipped in quietly, it seemed, and now stood there, clutching a too big tote bag, her expression varying between uncertainty and delight. Her hair was tied up loosely, and she had added only a touch of colour to her lips, making her look both younger and more elegant than John had ever seen her. She was wearing a midnight blue shift dress with a bateau neckline that flattered her feminine figure; the fabric had a jacquard design with blue beads woven into it, and had she not worn a rather hairy cable knit cardigan of unidentifiable colour with it, she might have come straight from a makeover show.
"Hello Molly," Sherlock said, sounding a bit husky. A tiny smile was playing around his lips, and John suddenly had very mixed feelings towards both of them. After all, Molly had known about the faked suicide all this time – had known in what state John had been; and he could not imagine what had happened after the fall – had Sherlock said goodbye to her? Had he hugged her? Had he been injured, and she had taken care of him? Suddenly, he realised just how many questions were still unanswered; falling back into step with Sherlock after he had woken up had been so easy, he had almost forgotten that there was still a three year gap to be filled – even with the diary.
John frowned at himself – was he perhaps a tiny bit jealous? That Molly shared a secret with Sherlock? Was he? Grudgingly, he admitted yes.
Sherlock shot him a quick glance, hissing, "John, you're being dense. She barely even saw me after the fall, I had to leave in a hurry."
John jerked upright. "What? I didn't-"
"You wear your thoughts written on your face," Sherlock smirked, then turned to Molly.
She had slowly walked up to him, still clutching her bag as if her life depended on it. "Hello Sherlock, it's good to see you. Um, I'm," she laughed nervously, then abruptly stopped. Swallowing hard, she unclenched her hands and put them to the side of her body, standing a bit like a soldier during an inspection. "Well, you know me, I'm only going to say silly things, and don't worry, I won't hug you, I know you don't like that, and, and I can't wait to see you in the morgue again, and I've missed you terribly, even your insults – um, I just wanted you to know that I'm totally happy that you're back – but I know you know that anyway." She had run out of breath.
Sherlock smirked. "Indeed." Tilting his head to the side, he added with a sly smile, "I may not be fond of hugging, Molly, but I wouldn't mind a welcome kiss."
"Oh," she blinked and blushed, glowing bright red within seconds. "Okay," she bent down with a jerky movement, but caught herself, and carefully put one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Apparently, Molly was thinking of a modest cheek kiss, John noticed to his surprise, because she simply touched the side of her face to Sherlock's – John had half-expected her to kiss him fully on the lips.
His eyes grew as wide as they would go, however, when Sherlock held her back with a hand on her wrist – and then gave her a slow, gentle kiss on the side of her mouth. "Thank you, Molly. For everything," he said quietly.
John gaped, and Molly did, too, but before the situation could get awkward, all hell broke loose: there was a whine, a bark, and a panicked shriek from the hall; paws were clawing on tile, and an anguished howl was followed by the butler shouting, "Hold him, Peter!"
Another yelp, and then suddenly, the wild pounding of paws on carpet was drawing nearer – a second later, a big, brown, furry avalanche the size of a Shetland pony thundered into the parlour, jumping a footstool, knocking over a servant, and tearing down the table cloth along with a century-old tea set. The fine china shattered with an ear-splitting noise, spilling tea, cake and sandwiches all over the carpet and the furniture. John was hit by a slice of salmon; Mrs Hudson suddenly had clotted cream on her face, and Lestrade found himself bombarded with scones.
"Oh my God!" John jumped up and threw himself towards the huge dog, but it was already tackling Sherlock in his chair, rearing up on its hind legs and bearing down on the object of its adoration. Sherlock gave a startled cry, but was instantly smothered by paws, fur, a wet tongue, and Molly tumbling into his lap.
Molly bravely tried to wrestle down the shaggy mountain, but Pompey blithely ignored her feeble attempts to keep him from slobbering all over Sherlock. "Stop! Stop it!" she shrieked to no avail. John and Lestrade joined her efforts, then Mary came running, closely followed by the butler, and together they grabbed Pompey's collar, frantically tugging at it, but the dog didn't even seem to notice.
"Sherlock," John squeezed out, wheezing, "tell him to sit! Sit, for God's sake, you monster!"
"Sit." It was spoken quietly, but the effect was stunning: Pompey scrambled off the chair, and folded his large frame into a neat pile at Sherlock's feet, gazing at him adoringly. He didn't have to look up very far: he was almost on eye level with Sherlock.
"Well," John huffed, straightening his jacket. "At least he's well trained." He cocked an eyebrow, glancing at the dog quivering with excitement. "I'd even say he's got a fixation on you, Sherlock."
Molly clambered to her feet, muttering dismayed "Ohs" at the sight of dog drool on her dress.
Sherlock looked at her and said, "Thank you for trying to save my life, Molly. That was brave."
"Oh," she stuttered, "Oh, um – excuse me! I need to go to the bathroom!" She fled the room, clutching her tote bag.
"You all right?" John asked concerned, looking Sherlock up and down.
"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, sounding slightly stunned.
John noticed that Sherlock's hands were trembling. "You sure you're all right?" he asked in a low voice.
"I'm fine," Sherlock repeated, folding his hands under the blanket. "Though I could do with a towel to wipe off the slobber."
"Right away, Sir," the butler said and hurried out.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said quietly to John, "I've had a few similar but less enthusiastic encounters in Russia."
"Oh, shit," John muttered. "It never occurred to me-"
"It's okay, John," Sherlock cut him off.
The butler reappeared and handed him a wet towel, and Sherlock carefully wiped his face and hands. He took his time, John noticed, probably to regain his composure. After handing back the towel, Sherlock cleared his throat, sat up slightly, then glared at the dog.
"What is that?" he spat, glowering at the animal with a blood-chilling look that spoke of bloodshed and murder.
Mycroft walked into the room, surveyed the battlefield with one glance, then said, "Surely, Sherlock, your powers of observation have not suffered so profoundly that you can no longer identify a member of the species canis lupus familiaris. It's a dog, obviously."
"It looks more like it was well on its way to becoming a bison before it stopped and turned into a yak instead," Sherlock snarled.
Pompey gave off a faint whine.
Mycroft shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "I have been told it is probably a crossbreed between an Irish Wolfhound and a Hungarian Komondor."
"It's a calamity on legs!"
"His name is Pompey, and he's yours," Mycroft informed Sherlock, glaring daggers at him.
"I refuse to take responsibility for this slobbering bedside rug!" Sherlock spat.
"He is a bit big, isn't he?" Mrs Hudson chirped, dabbing at blobs of clotted cream on her dress with a handkerchief. "I thought you had him from a dog breeder who raises Scottish Terriers?" She looked questioningly at Mary.
"Yes, but Pompey was left in a box at the doorstep of the dog breeder as a newborn," she explained. "One of the Scotties had a litter of puppies anyway, so he gave him to her, and she raised him – well, until he was too big, he kept squashing the others accidentally."
"Well, seems to be a favourite of his," Lestrade chuckled, picking porcelain splinters from the sofa and sitting down. "Sherlock," he added, "you might consider it. Think of what that -" he nodded at Pompey, "ox in a dog coat would do to a burglar. You could teach him to hunt down suspects, or - I don't know – sniff out poison and stuff."
"The Detective Inspector has a point, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a raised brow.
Sherlock scowled. "He's too big for the flat!"
"He can have John's room."
"He can not have John's room, John's room belongs to John!"
"Well, then you will have to keep him in your bedroom."
"If I want something fluffy to step on, I'll get a rug. This is not a city dog, Mycroft!"
"Then don't think of him as a dog at all; consider him your new flatmate," Mycroft sneered.
"This," Sherlock stabbed a finger at Pompey, who promptly wagged his tail, "This does not qualify as a flatmate. My former flatmate was perfectly capable of feeding and grooming himself without my help!"
"And so is Pompey," Mycroft assured him. "He will let you know if he requires anything. Hopefully, that will remind you of such basic needs like food and water as well," he added. "And don't present the argument that you do not have time for a dog. I will of course provide a dog sitter in case you need to travel abroad or other circumstances prevent you from taking care of him." Mycroft pursed his lips, then added sweetly, "You could practice on him."
John saw a strange look pass between the brothers – Mycroft had been taunting Sherlock, that much was obvious, but John couldn't figure out with what.
"Getting anywhere with your negotiations?" Sherlock jibed in return.
"Certainly," Mycroft gave a tight smile.
Lestrade interrupted, "Why did you get such a huge dog? I mean, I like him fine, but Gosh, he is big. Looks funny, don't you think? Like, he's got dreadlocks, or something."
Mycroft sighed. "It proved to be next to impossible to find a dog that would suit Sherlock. He came closest."
"Makes sense," Lestrade shrugged. "Well, Sherlock, at least you don't have to bend down to pet him!" He grinned.
Sherlock frowned at Pompey. "How does he know me?"
"He knows your scent," Mary explained. Sherlock looked suspiciously at Mycroft. "How?"
Mycroft seemed uncomfortable for the fraction of a second.
"He's got your scarf," John interjected.
"My what?" Sherlock wrenched himself around, but hissed in pain, freezing mid-movement. Pompey whined in response.
"You will get a new one," Mycroft assured him. "In fact, he had your coat first, but he -" Mycroft frowned. "Loved it to death, I suppose."
"He tore it up," Mary grinned. "We had to take it away – he kept swallowing bits of cloth."
Sherlock leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "So that's what happened to my coat."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I have already commissioned a new one at Belstaff's. The manufacturer still has both the pattern and the fabric."
"I have no use for a dog," Sherlock snapped.
"Oh yes you do," Mycroft drawled, giving him a stern look. "Remember, he's a guardian dog, Sherlock. Both Komondors and Irish Wolfhounds are famous – if not to say infamous – for guarding and defending their families with ferocious determination."
Again, John noticed, there was this strange look passing between the brothers – something unspoken, a secret untold, only shared between the two of them. His forehead creased into a deep frown, trying to fathom what what was going on, but before he could come up with anything, Sherlock huffed, "Oh, for God's sake," and lifted his hand, commanding the attention of the dog – not that he hadn't had it all along: Pompey sat watching him eagerly, tongue hanging out and drooling onto the carpet; he was leaning towards Sherlock – it was as if he were glued to the spot, but was being pulled forward by some invisible force, every inch of him yearning to climb into his master's lap.
Sherlock made only the tiniest gesture of invitation, but Pompey instantly rose on his tall legs, stepped forward, and gingerly put his head into Sherlock's lap. When Sherlock's long fingers found their way into the wiry fur on his head, Pompey gave a startlingly human sigh of complete satisfaction, and closed his eyes in pure bliss.
"He has found his god," John said reverently.