Chapter Ten: Heads Will Roll
"Get in," Irene demanded, pulling her car alongside Sherlock. He climbed into the passenger seat. "You look like shit."
"I feel like shit," he complained. "Do you have a cigarette? I could use one."
She motioned to her bag between the seats with her eyes as she pulled back onto the highway. "In there. Are you going to tell me what happened? Or why you're suddenly trusting me to drive you away in my car after your outburst the last time we met?"
Sherlock pulled out the box of matches from his coat and lit the cigarette. He took a deep drag before replying. "Moriarty's dead. So if he paid you to do anything, you really don't have to. And since I saved your life once, I'd really appreciate if you didn't."
Irene paled and gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Dead? Is he really dead this time?" She cast a curious glance towards Sherlock.
"Yeah, dead. Can we leave it at that for now?"
"What the fuck happened? Is that why you look awful?"
"I really don't want to talk about it right now," Sherlock sighed. "I just want to go home. How's John?"
"Bloody awful," she replied. "What were you thinking, leaving him like that? And not answering his messages?"
"I was trying to protect him," Sherlock murmured.
"And who's going to protect him from himself if you're gone?"
Sherlock sat up straight at that. "He didn't... try... you know... again? Please say he didn't."
"No, he just had an emotional breakdown at your kitchen table. Text him now."
"Saying what?"
"That you're sorry, and you're coming home."
"I... I don't know if I could go back home, actually. I was thinking of staying at Lestrade's."
"Sherlock, stop being a drama queen. Why wouldn't you go home?"
"Because then I have to see him," Sherlock whispered. "And remember. And it hurts."
Irene let out a loud breath. "You're still being a drama queen. I don't have time for that bullshit. Straight answers."
"I kissed him," Sherlock admitted. "I kissed John Watson. 'Not gay' John Watson."
"Mhm, I heard. Actually, I heard he kissed you. But your point is?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell told you?"
"John. Really, Sherlock, you're off your game today. Keep up please. It's annoying when you're slow."
"Why did he tell you?"
"Because I was looking for you and I walked in on his crying fest. He thinks you left because he kissed you and you hated it or some bullshit. Honestly, I think everyone knew you two were gay for each other except you two."
"He's not gay though. He had a wife."
"Oh, stop being emotional. It makes you dense. Eleanor Roosevelt was married to a man but she was a lesbian, wasn't she? Really Sherlock. What the fuck happened while you were out?"
"Fine, I'll go home. I'll text him now."
"You better or I'll kick you out and make you walk the rest of the way."
John nearly jumped when his phone rang. He looked down to see Sherlock's name appear. His heart fluttered in his chest as he opened it nervously, anticipating the worst but hoping for the best.
17:42
I'll be home tonight. Sorry for leaving abruptly. I'll explain later. SH
John let out a sigh of relief and stared at the screen for several minutes just to make sure he was reading it right. A smile crept onto his face at the relief of Sherlock's return, but he was still cautious, unnerved by the fact that he had left in the first place.
17:49
Is Chinese okay for dinner?
17:52
Yes. I'll pay. SH
"You look really dumb smiling at your phone like that," Irene commented. "What did John say?"
"We're having Chinese."
She shook her head. "You two are hopeless."
"Hopeless?" Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"Just like that, you're planning what to eat. As if nothing happened. As if you aren't sitting in my car right now missing your shirt after an unexpected disappearance."
"But we like Chinese," Sherlock said, blinking.
"If I ever did something like that to Harry, we wouldn't be offering each other Chinese. We'd be offering each other makeup sex."
Sherlock turned to look out the window to hide the smirk that came to his face as his mind buzzed with Irene's words. He bit his bottom lip, wondering what that'd be like with John, then mentally chided himself for allowing such ideas.
Irene glanced over and smiled.
19:21 - John Watson
Tell me you're alive.
19:23
Of course I'm alive. SH
19:26 - John Watson
Tell me something only Sherlock would know or say.
19:28
Mary picked the name Lucy because it was her actual sister's name. SH
19:30 - John Watson
When will you be home?
19:31
Ten minutes. Why? SH
19:33 - John Watson
You need to get here right now.
19:34
What's going on? Are you alright? SH
19:37 - John Watson
Greg's here. Just... hurry up.
Irene parked a few blocks away from Baker Street and Sherlock ran the rest of the way. He started sprinting once he saw the flashing lights and police tape in front of his flat. "John!" he shouted. "John, what happened?"
Mrs. Hudson reached Sherlock first, tears streaking her makeup. "Oh Sherlock, it's terrible!"
"Is John alright? Is Lucy okay?" He grabbed her shoulders, searching her face for any clues.
"They're fine dear, they are, but... oh!" and she let out a giant sob.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock spun towards the direction of John's voice. "John?"
John popped out from behind a police officer with Lucy in his arms, unharmed. "Christ, it's good to see you," he said, wrapping his free arm around Sherlock in a welcoming embrace.
Sherlock moved his arms around John, breathing in his lavender shampoo. "I'm sorry I was gone," he breathed.
John broke away from the embrace. "Yeah, well, we can talk about that later. You need to see this first." He started walking towards the flat, and Sherlock followed behind. John stopped at the door. "Just... just go inside, okay? I don't want to go back in there again."
Sherlock gave him a puzzled look before stepping through the doorway and heading towards the noise upstairs. He walked into his living room to see Lestrade and several others standing there, scribbling on pads and taking lots of photographs. Lestrade turned to the sound of Sherlock's footsteps.
"Oh good, you're here," the detective inspector said, clapping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I think we found out what our beheader was up to."
Lestrade moved to the side. Sherlock's eyes were greeted by an obscene sight. Heads, severed from their bodies, lined against the wall. The first was a gray-haired man closely resembling John. The second was a redheaded woman, and the third was a petit old lady. The next head had silver hair the color of Lestrade's and was placed beside a woman's with short-cropped blonde hair. The final two heads made Sherlock's vision begin to spin slightly. It was the baby, and a man with a dark, curly-haired wig upon his head. Beside the last head was a notecard that simply said "Kisses" in the familiar scrawl Sherlock had quickly come to resent.
"Not... not possible," Sherlock breathed, reaching out to grasp Lestrade's shoulder for support.
"What is it? Do you know what this is?"
"John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. You. Mary. Lucy. Me." Sherlock choked on the words as they burned like acid from his throat.
"Pardon?"
"Don't you see, Lestrade? It's us! It's all of us. All the people that matter to me, represented by these heads." He hunched over and threw up, just missing Lestrade's shoes.
"Fuck, Sherlock," Lestrade said, beginning to look queasy himself. "It's him, isn't it? Is this some kind of sick sign?"
"It... it can't be. He's dead. He died."
"Then who the fuck put these heads in your flat while John went out to get Chinese? He's not dead. We know that already."
"But... but I killed him. Last night. I killed him."
Lestrade sucked in his breath. "Let's take you outside, okay? I think you need some air."
"I killed him, Lestrade. He burned. I set the house on fire."
"I think we need to talk about this when you calm down more, okay?"
"He's dead! He's fucking dead! He can't keep doing this! It's not fair!" Sherlock's voice boomed loud, causing everyone in the room to turn and stare. Lestrade tried vainly to get him to relax.
"Sherlock?" John called, coming up the stairs. "I heard you shouting."
Sherlock took two long strides to meet John halfway and threw his arms around him, nuzzling his face in John's hair. He didn't care about everyone around him. He didn't care if John was gay or straight. He needed him in that instant, needed to breath him in and feel him physically in his arms, to know he was okay and safe. Tears dropped off his face into John's hair as he silently sobbed.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, resting his head on the taller man's chest. "It's Moriarty again. I recognized the handwriting," John whispered into Sherlock's bare chest peeking through his coat.
Sherlock just nodded against John's head. "I know," he whispered. "I know."
"We'll get him, Sherlock," John murmured. "We'll stop him. It's gonna be alright."
Sherlock didn't answer. He wasn't certain anymore.