I am not surprised very easily. Neither is Mycroft. And yet, when I am standing on that tarmac again, less than fifteen minutes after departing, I can tell that he is as stunned as I am. (So he is not the one behind it. Half expected it, but then it is not his style. Too crude, too obvious.)
I watched the little "Did you miss me?" clip on my mobile before landing, my mind racing. Who sent it, and why? There is no doubt that Moriarty is dead, of course. Have seen the brain dripping out of his head after he blew away the back of his skull. Know that Mycroft had his body taken away. So what could be the reason behind this campaign? I don't know. Interesting.
More interesting though is the sheer panic Mary can barely conceal. (Already suspected her to have some link to him.) Something criminal that frightens her. Must be really scary.
The look on John's face is unreadable.
He catches me staring at him while Mycroft tries to assure Mary that Moriarty is really dead. Slightly shakes his head. Not here. I force myself to avert my eyes again. I am not sure what I am feeling, so I concentrate on the Moriarty Enigma instead. (And when did I become someone who wonders what he is feeling while faced with an enigma like that? Love seems to do strange things to the chemical balance of the brain.)
Before long, I am sitting in Mycroft's car again, the Watsons following us in the other one. "Well," Mycroft says, looking out of the window, pretending to be mildly interested at best, "what do we make of Mrs Watson's … excitement?" But I am too tired, too overwhelmed for a conversation full of double meanings and hinted intentions.
"I don't know," I just answer, and my brother's head snaps around. He scans me, and his whole composure changes.
"She must have a solid reason to fear him," he thinks aloud, his voice free from pretence, for once. "That is our advantage, actually. That way we have a reason to include her in the investigations so we can have an eye on her. She is due in two weeks anyway, you and John need to inform me about how you wish to proceed then. Though the most logical way would be to wait until she gave birth and then sue her for all the crimes we can link to her definitely. The right of custody for baby Watson will be assigned to the father, of course."
Our eyes meet, and he hesitates only for the fraction of a second before adding, "There is a complete set with basic equipment for baby Watson stored at one of my facilities. It should match the doctor's mundane taste and fits perfectly into his old room at 221b." He gives me a little private smile, "The carrier is colour-coordinated with most of your shirts."
I am very close to being honestly touched (and that is all I will ever admit on that matter).
The ride to Mycroft's bigger operation base takes another thirty minutes after that, and I need the first ten minutes of it to fully realize that I will go neither to Serbia nor back to prison. I will stay in London, will live in 221b with John and GraceNotEmilia, will grow old. (Well, should probably not bet too much money on the last one, but still.) I will have a future.
Regardless of the fact that I am a murderer. I will go unpunished, no matter what I deem to be right. Maybe that I am still dreaming of Magnussen's dead eyes and the (incredibly small amount of) blood dripping from his temple every night is my punishment. Maybe the shot that still echoes in my mind is worse than any legal punishment.
Mycroft keeps on plotting all the way, of course. I will heroically save England and the Crown by eliminating the Moriarty threat for good (how convenient that Jim's body is still stored away in some unofficial governmental freezer.) The Committee will hence pardon me, the public who did not get to know details on the Magnussen murder anyway will celebrate me the usual way, blah, blah, blah.
While that plot is conducted, we will need to find out who really broadcast the clip and why. There is a list of twenty-six potential enemies, combined with thirteen possible motives. I cannot help but find the task ahead intriguing. Very soon I am fully innolved, following Mycroft's fast-pacing thoughts, trying to bring in my own ideas before he can think of them himself, my mind racing. I am high on adrenaline and brilliance.
When we arrive at the secret operations base in the middle of London, I feel like I am sparkling with energy. Not sure my feet are touching the ground while I'm dancing into the building. Inside, the atmosphere is enthralling. Mycroft's minions are running up and down the corridors, there is buzzing and murmuring everywhere. Huge monitors on the wall show people under a surveillance that is surely not officially approved.
I turn around to catch John's glance and share my enthusiasm with him, but his face is still unreadable.
Before I can think of it any further, Mycroft takes Mary's arm, "Mrs Watson, it was quite obvious that you harbour certain … feelings for the late Jim Moriarty. Why don't we sit down in a quiet corner and you tell me everything you know about him that I have not figured out yet."
I am speechless. Mycroft dares to abandon me in the middle of the corridor. Alone. With John. In front of an empty office.
Oh.
Only two seconds pass between realizing that it was a nice gesture and pulling John into said empty office. In a fluid motion he has to find extremely sexy I lock the door, swivel him against the wall, press his body against mine and start kissing his neck.
His body moves towards mine instantly (a subconscious movement, two objects that belong together, finding each other like two magnets), his hands clinging to my coat, his whole body shivering in anticipation. Our bodies are so close that I can feel every little crease in his shirt.
But John's head does not fall back with pleasure when I start biting (softly) into his earlobe. Why does his head not fall back? A little shift of my pelvis tells me that John is not aroused. But why is he shivering then? My hand seeks his face. It is wet.
He is crying. But why is he crying? I got out of prison and will not be send to my certain death. Plus there is the amazingly interesting Moriarty Enigma to be solved. So far, this day is quite spectacular. Why is he sad? Normally I need John to explain situations like that to me.
Stopping to kiss parts of his body seems like a good idea, so I stop kissing his ear. But what now? "John?" I try, not sure what to expect. He just shakes his head. All right, what then?
I know that a situation like that often requires you to pat the other one's back, so I give it a try. It feels awkward (as always. Maybe I am simply not very good at it.) and John does not react to it at all. I am at a loss.
Then I remember falling apart in his arms the other week in my cell. All he did was holding me and (probably) saying something soothing. So I wrap myself around John, press my cheek against his, carefully start rocking a bit and murmur something down the line of "Everything will be fine". Apparently, I am better at holding and rocking than at back patting, for John relaxes against my body and starts sobbing really badly.
We stay like that for a while, until he starts to speak. Sorts of. "You nearly … again … you can't … I am so … and the baby … how could you ...damn … sorry, but … Sherlock … please, not again ..."
I think that John can be happy that I am a genius, for I understand everything that he is trying to tell me. It is impossible to see, to feel John being sad without wishing to be able to make him happy again. And the fact that now I am crying too does not embarrass me.
"I won't," I promise him, "I won't leave you again. Never. Please believe me. From now on I will be careful and stay out of harm's way and never do something stupid without talking to you about it first and ..."
The shaking of his shoulders changes. He is giggling now, even though the tears are still streaming down his face. "No, you won't, you git," he says against my chest. "You will keep on running into disaster head over heels. But it's okay as long as you allow me to follow."
"Always," I promise. I would love to say so much more, but for some reason my throat it too tight to speak, but it is all right. We don't need to talk much right now. We stay wrapped up in each other for a long while. I hate the way he smells this days, like the shaving foam Mary buys him and the shower gel Mary buys him and a bit like Claire de la lune. A bitter reminder that he is not officially mine, but hers.
Before we sneak out again, he kisses me, desperate and sad and passionate and caring. I take a second to store every part of it in my mind palace before following him out. "We have discussed the motives of broadcasting the clip," I lie, and John nods. But nobody really cares.
The glory and excitement of the Moriarty Enigma is washed away a bit by John's breakdown. It loses even more of its sparkle as the day goes on. There are no real leads and too many potential senders. There are way too many of Mycroft's minions running around, their thoughts interfering with mine. There are tons of footage showing boring people doing boring stuff, and if there is a relevant clue in it, I miss it completely.
I cannot concentrate here amidst this information overload. My mind is longing for the quiet of our living room. I need my evidence wall, my chair and my violin. Most of all, I need the absence of all people that are not John or Mrs Hudson. Instead, I will surely have to stay in one of the impersonal rooms here, or in Mycroft's city home. Both alternatives are less then tempting, so I bury myself deeper and deeper in the investigation.
After four hours I get irritated. After six hours I am angry. After seven I am an arsehole.
After nine hours Mycroft declares the investigation over for today, referring to Mary's physical state but looking at me the way he did when I was five. I start complaining instantly, but he watches me unimpressed. Then he presses something into my hand. "Go home, Sherlock," he says patronizingly, but there is a little smile hidden in his eyes. I look at what he has given me. The keys to 221b. I hate when I am speechless because Mycroft does something heart-warming.
"You will be watched officially, and not allowed to leave London," he explains, "but otherwise free to do whatever is necessary to solve the 'Moriarty Enigma'" As if I would leave London voluntarily. And how does he know I am calling the case the Moriarty Enigma in my head? Anyway. The thought of going home, of finally going home eases my mind instantly. I can even feel my shoulders relaxing, and there is a smile on my face I cannot hide. Happily (yes, I have to admit it, I am happy) I turn around and look at John -
- who is helping Mary into her coat. Of course he will go home with her and not with me. She is heavily pregnant, and his safety depends on her believing everything is all right with their marriage. They will go home together, and I will be alone.
It is very hard not to let my disappointment show. Saying goodbye takes four minutes, and every muscle of my face is strained afterwards. The feeling inside my chest is nearly the same. Only worse.
A cab takes me home. I look out of the window so I don't have to look at the empty seat next to me. I try to tell myself to be happy. Only this morning I was prepared to leave John and England for good and face my certain death. Now all I am facing is an empty chair in an empty flat.
Soon the cabs stops, and I am standing in front of my home. I remind myself that the loneliness is only temporarily. Mary will give birth soon, and then John will be here and GraceNotEmilia and I will probably be longing for a moment of loneliness. But tonight, I cannot stop thinking of John helping Mary into her coat. Such a small domestic gesture. So John.
At the bottom of the stairs I hesitate. I simply cannot face the empty flat right now. So instead I knock on Mrs Hudson's door. Try to remember if I ever did that before, simply to enjoy her company. Surely not.
She is as surprised as I am. She fusses over how thin I am and how sad I look and feeds me. She asks me many clever questions about the Moriarty Enigma. She shares some of her herbal soothers with me, and soon we are both lying on her carpet, listening to her swing records. I tell her at length how much I love John and why, and she pats my hand and my back and my cheek. She is so much better at that than I am.
When I finally go upstairs, I still feel John-less. But I feel loved.