Chapter 6: Relapse

SATURDAY, JANUARY 3, 2015

Though he hadn't been positive of Sebastian Moran's involvement in the death of Sam Jefferies before, he was damn sure now.

They didn't speak in the cab on the way back to the flat beyond giving the street address. John's momentary return to talkativeness had dissipated once again at the reception of the cryptic text from his old phone, and he retreated inside his own head. Sherlock did the same. There was much to think about.

Back on Baker Street, Sherlock took the shoe into his makeshift kitchen laboratory and to study it, taking particular satisfaction in dismantling the bloody thing simply because it was evidence Lestrade would rather have unhandled and intact. It wasn't the first time he'd disassembled a shoe in that kitchen, nor the first time he'd held back evidence. He had no good reason to pull to pieces it, other than curiosity (and spite), and didn't expect to find anything beyond its rather predictable history as a homeless man's trainer . . . but one never knew.

Around seven, Mrs Hudson showed up with a dinner of shepherd's pie, which he declined, leaving her and John to themselves while he slid particulates from insole, midsole, and toe box onto slides and under his microscope. John must not have eaten much, because she ended up putting the greater portion of it in the fridge and reminding Sherlock to eat it before the meat turned. The telly came on afterwards, and Sherlock deliberately tuned it out. Sometime after that, she must have left, because the next time he re-engaged awareness of his surroundings, the flat was still and noiseless. He glanced at the clock on his mobile: 22.25. Perhaps that was enough for one night.

He stood, stretched his back and neck, and walked into the sitting room, prepared to summarise his findings to John (which amounted only to more traces of sodium hypochlorite), only to discover that John had fallen asleep already on the sofa, sitting upright. His head was slumped back against the cushions and faced the door. He looked wan and spent, as if sleep had taken him suddenly, so suddenly he hadn't even had time to consider removing his shoes or lying down properly. His laptop had slid halfway off his lap, and the screen had gone dark.

Briefly, Sherlock considered waking him so he could change and settle down properly, but John's breaths were coming long and deep, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to disrupt this repose. He thought, instead, that he should just leave him as he was. Surely he wouldn't spend the whole night upright. It wasn't so terribly late, after all, and chances were he would eventually wake on his own, work the foreseeable kink out of his neck, and ready himself for bed like he did every night. In the end, however, Sherlock couldn't leave him like that. So he knelt down, carefully unlaced John's shoes, and eased them off his feet, watching John's face for any signs of waking or discomfort, but he saw none. Setting the shoes aside, he removed the laptop from his leg and placed it on the coffee table. He situated the pillow (which John kept on the floor during the day) against the armrest. Then he took John's shoulders and gently guided him down onto his preferred side. John grunted, but only a little, and his brow furrowed; but as his head settled into the pillow, he curled his arms into himself and stretched out his legs. Finally, Sherlock opened a heavy woven blanket and spread it over him, letting the toes of his socks stick out, as was John's new custom.

Turning away from the sofa, Sherlock flicked off the nearby lamp. With the darkening room, however, he noticed that, when setting it aside, he had nudged John's laptop awake, and the monitor glowed. He quickly angled it away from John's face and was on the verge of closing the screen when the open web page caught his attention, an article in The Sun, penned—predictably—by Kitty Riley: 'Public calls for Richard Brook's exhumation':

Sussex – The January 2 statement from New Scotland Yard which exonerated Mr Sherlock Holmes, London, of any wrongdoing in the death of Mr Richard Brook, Sussex, has resulted in a public outcry, not only in London but in Sussex as well, where Brook's parents, Roger and JoAnna Brook, have been forced to relive their son's tragic death.

'Three years ago, I buried my only son,' says Mrs Brook. 'Today, they're telling me that it may not be my boy in the ground.'

Mr Brook adds, 'In all this time, the only comfort I've found is knowing that the man who put a bullet in my son's brain cracked his skull on the pavement and died. But it comes out that Sherlock Holmes is alive, and now I don't even have that.'

The Brooks are horrified to learn that Holmes denies ever having met their son and insists, instead, that the man he killed on the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital was a different person entirely. When asked whether they would give permission to exhume Richard's body, Mr Brook had some very choice words:

'I already identified his body once. I don't need a sodding scientist running a DNA test to tell me that's my son.'

'I hope everyone will just let my Richard rest in peace,' adds Mrs Brook. 'And I hope to God that Mr Holmes will be brought to justice. He should be made to pay for his horrendous crimes.'

For now, the public cry to exhume Richard Brook goes unanswered, and the Yard is taking no action to justify its problematic support of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes remains a free man, a suspect in the eye of the public, but a perilous blind spot to the Metropolitan Police.

Sherlock finished the article, scowling. Just more of Kitty Riley's shoddy journalism at work. But as he went to click the window shut, he saw that there were several more tabs open, for The Guardian, The Daily Mail, The Independent, The Daily Telegraph. Story after story about him, iterations of Kitty's work, and none of them favourable. Why was John reading this drivel?

He closed the laptop with a decisive snap, but John didn't even stir. Feeling suddenly weary himself, he retired to his own room and, without bothering to ready for bed, lay down.

But he couldn't sleep. There was too much to think about. So he lay there, blanket pulled up to his middle and his interlaced fingers resting atop it while he stared up at the black ceiling, waiting for the night to pass. Soon, he was lost in a labyrinth of thought where everywhere he turned he encountered a dead end. Frustrated, he retraced his steps, explored new avenues, allowed for more creative turns, and sought out untested paths, only to meet another wall or impasse.

So lost was he within this tortuous labyrinth that he didn't even notice when John came into the room until the door slammed closed behind him.

Sherlock bolted upright and twisted his head so quickly he cricked his neck. All he could see was the dark outline of John's figure, leaning against the door.

'John?'

But all he heard was panting: short, rapid puffs of air, inhaled, exhaled. Sherlock reached across the bed to the lamp on the nightstand. When the bulb burst into light, he winced against it, but John didn't move at all. He stood with his back against the door and his head crooked, as though listening for noises from the front of the flat, and his face shone with sweat. In both hands, he held his SIG. It was pointed at the floor but ready to be engaged.

'John, what—?'

'We've been breached. They knew we were here, and they're coming.'

Sherlock must have been more tired than he thought: John's words were making no sense to him. He rubbed his eyes, trying to adjust to the light and clear his brain. He listened for any sound beyond the door, but the flat seemed still as death.

'Who's coming?' he asked.

'The defences won't hold. Take them out the back. I'll cover you.'

Sherlock slowly pulled back the covers and sat on the edge of the mattress. He leaned forward, studying John carefully. His stance was military, his shoulders square, his hold on the gun certain and familiar. But his eyes were glazed over, unfocused. He was . . . asleep.

This was new.

And Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to handle it.

John's breath came in uneven gasps, as though he'd just run a mile. 'The line was supposed to hold. It didn't hold. It didn't hold. Someone ratted us out. We've been breached.'

'John . . .'

'Shh! They'll hear! Quickly now, move, move, out the back. It isn't safe here.'

'You're safe, John.'

But unlike usual, his words failed to penetrate John's subconscious mind. Suddenly, John dropped to his knees and covered his head with both arms, pointing the pistol at the ceiling. He turned his head and spit, as though to clear his mouth of dust and falling debris from an explosion that had just rocked the air above and the earth below. Sherlock was on his feet now, but he hesitated. If John mistook him for an enemy, he would shoot. Even at this distance, he could that the safety was off.

John cried out, 'Fall back! Fall back!'

As though in response to his own command, John sprang back up, ready to sprint away; but when all his weight fell on his bad leg, the sudden movement reignited the pain in his leg. Sherlock saw a spasm run through it like a tree branch shivering in the wind.

John collapsed to the ground again, face twisting in agony. 'I'm shot!' he sobbed. A trembling hand reached for the imaginary wound.

'John, you're dreaming!'

The shout, not the words, entered John's dream; he rolled himself onto his back, lifted his head, and aimed the gun at the closed door. Though his leg continued to quiver from the pain, his hands were steady around the gun, waiting to take the shot at the first sign of intrusion.

With great prudence bordering on trepidation, Sherlock repositioned himself behind John, away from the possible line of fire. His mind sped through what appeared to be the facts: John thought he was a soldier again; he was dreaming that he was back in Afghanistan, on the battlefield; and he'd just been wounded in action. He wasn't responding to his given name. Perhaps he would respond to something else.

'Captain Watson.'

John's head twitched slightly. 'Sir!' he answered.

And just like that, he was in.

Infusing his voice with as much confidence as he could, Sherlock endeavoured to play the part. 'The enemy is retreating.' He winced at his own bad dialogue.

John made no reply, perhaps not understanding, maybe not trusting what he said to be true. So he continued to re-craft the dream.

'The defences have held. The danger is over.'

John nodded his understanding, but his arms didn't slacken. Sherlock could see a bead of sweat slide down his shiny face.

'Captain. Disengage your weapon.'

With great effort, John sat upright. He lowered the pistol and slid the safety on. Forestalling his sense of relief, Sherlock took a tentative step closer, reached down, and lifted the gun from John's hands. But John made no move to retain it. Exhaling, Sherlock placed the gun on the bed and crouched down again at John's side, taking John's arm. 'On your feet,' he ordered gruffly.

He helped John rise. John swayed and fell into him.

'Sir, I'm shot.' His voice quavered, his hands trembled.

'It barely grazed you,' said Sherlock, assuring him. 'Superficial wound. Like a scratch.'

'The blood—'

'It's already stopping. Look at it, do you see?'

John's head dropped to examine his leg and to see exactly what Sherlock told him to see. He nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'We'll get you cleaned up in no time. Now. Can you walk?'

A long moment passed in quiet and stillness. John clung to the front of Sherlock's shirt, staring at a spot in the middle of Sherlock's chest but not really seeing it; Sherlock braced his arms on either side. At last, John nodded again. 'I can walk.'

When his feet were steady under him, Sherlock served as his cane and walked him out of the room, down the hallway, through the kitchen, and back to the sitting room.

'Shall I keep watch, sir?' John asked as Sherlock lowered him onto the sofa he wished didn't serve as a bed.

'The war is over, Joh— Captain Watson.' He grabbed a tissue from a box on the coffee table and began mopping up the shine on John's forehead and cheeks. He touched his brow with the back of his fingers—warm, from the racing heart, but his pulse was beginning to slow again. John did not respond to any of this; his eyes were half-lidded, and as if in slow motion his shoulders began to sag. 'That's it,' Sherlock said softly. 'You're dismissed, captain. You've served honourably. Return home to your family.'

As before, he helped John lie down and arranged his limbs comfortably on the sofa. John's head once again found the pillow, and as he sank into it and Sherlock pulled the blanket over his body for the second time that night, he said, 'They're dead, sir.'

Sherlock's hands froze on John's shoulder. John's eyes were closed and he looked perfectly asleep once more. But he was still talking, quietly, as he drifted away.

'Sherlock and Mary. They're both dead.'

He didn't say a word after that, and he didn't stir for the rest of the night. But Sherlock didn't go back to his room. He stayed awake in his armchair, watching his friend sleep, listening to him breathe, and thinking how, in some dark part of that troubled mind, a place where wars still raged and John Watson was a fallen soldier, Sherlock was still dead. And in the morning, when he awoke and remembered that such was no longer true, he would also remember that Mary was gone. And unlike Sherlock, she could never come back.