BBC Sherlock: A Case of Separation

Chapter 3

88**88

88**88

September 2020

Rosie let out a piercing shriek, ripping John from his thoughts. Alarmed that she might be hurt, he saw her breaking away from her game of tag with friends and running toward him, her arms flailing.

"Dad-dey, Daddeeee! Llllloooooooooooook!"

John couldn't understand what she was saying behind her mask; all he knew was that Rosie's shrill cry sent a chill up his spine. As she drew closer, it was clear she was happy, not panicked.

"Rosie, what is it?" John knelt on one knee and opened his arms.

She whisked past him. He lost his balance, caught himself before he had made a complete tumble, and swiveled around.

Ten yards behind him Rosie leapt into the open arms of a thin, shaven-headed man, wearing a dark blue mask, who was also crouching in wait for her. Her momentum knocked him off balance as well and they both collapsed onto the ground. Rosie straddled atop him squealing with delight. Her mask puckered with air kisses she bestowed about the man's face as he lay inert. He slowly curled his long arms around her in an embrace when her kissing frenzy ground down.

Oh. My. God! After his shocked double-take, John sprinted toward them. It was not the short run that made it hard to breathe as he stood over them, it was his equal parts disbelief and relief. Dropping the rucksack to the ground, he braced his hands against his knees and sucked in quick huffs of air. "Sherrrr…" He couldn't say more.

"See! I told you, Daddy!" Rosie called behind her before slipping off the chest of her prone godfather and kneeling alongside him.

His eyes bright behind the face mask, Sherlock seemed content just to lie on the lawn, his ankles crossed, shorn head resting on his folded arms. He did nothing to resist the little girl's hugs or her small hands cradling his face.

"You came baaaaack!" she squealed.

A tell-tale smile crinkled Sherlock's eyes as he accepted her sincere belief in him with measured satisfaction. "I said I'd try my best, Rosie!"

"You're the best. Evy-b'dy says so!" she enthused in awe, laying her head on his chest, her arms around him in another fierce hug. "And you did it, just like you promised."

Sherlock winced, not from the slight pressure on his chest, but because as any trusting child, Rosie believed in promises. However, given his failure record making promises and vows to John and Mary Watson, Sherlock attempted to differentiate with the child. "Trying isn't the same as promising, Rosie. I know they seem the same, 'cause I've made that mistake, too."

Her head popped up and her mood instantly shifted from elated to philosophical. "I know," she said with a solemn wisdom out of keeping with her age. "Daddy says he doesn't like when people make promises." She assumed a conversational tone as it they were playing tea time with her miniature china set, not lying on the lawn in a park at an unexpected reunion. "He says promises can break …'spesh-ally when they are too hard to keep. Like when mommies and daddies promise to be togeth-ah for-ev-ah, but then they can't."

A grim-faced Sherlock looked past Rosie at his silent friend, but John was massaging his forehead and shielding his eyes. "Your daddy is a wise man, Rosie. He's heard all kinds of promises. But he knows some people who make promises will try everything they can to keep them. And that sometimes, even they fail."

"I know you really try," she pecked a masked kissed on his forehead, "even when it's hard. Huh?" She gave a distasteful grunt when she touched the short, black stubble covering his head where his long hair used to be. "It's okay you cut your hair," she patted the bristles, doing her best to sound encouraging, "It grows back, doesn't it, Daddy?" She swiveled her head to look at her father.

John remained speechless; the lump in his throat would not go away.

"You missed my birthday, too," she turned back around to Sherlock and laid her elbow on his chest as if it were a table top. "I wasn't sad, but Daddy was."

Sherlock closed his eyes, "So sorry about that."

"I'm not mad at you," she petted his head again.

Warmed by her touch, Sherlock reopened his eyes. "I was too far away to get back in time. But, you remember? That day in the park? I whispered in your ear. You said it tickled. I said I might have to miss your party this year."

"My friends came cause it was b'fr the..the corn-u-virus," Rosie admitted, "but Daddy said we could have another party lat-ah with you."

"Well, did you have cake with your friends, then?"

"O' course, silly! A birthday and no cake?" She giggled at the absurdity. "Mine was choc'late with pink roses."

"Roses for Rosie, of course. Your favorite! Sounds delicious."

"And Daddy saved you a special slice. With a rose. We had ice cream, too. That's in the freez-ah with the cake."

"Oh? Then I must stop by straightaway for my cake and ice cream," Sherlock replied, lifting his head, and this time, catching John's eyes. They held. The unspoken gratification that passed between them was for more than just saved cake.

"Rosie! Rosie!"The cries of children hailing her, their arms waving, carried on the light, late-summer breeze, "Rosie! Rosie! Come back!"

She jumped up, slipped her mask under her chin and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Coming!" she bellowed with ferocious intensity before turning back to her godfather and asking in the sweetest voice, "Do you wanna play tag with us, Unkel Sher-kel?"

"Haven't forgotten your special nickname for me, I see." Sherlock chuckled, the picture of relaxation and contentment as he lounged on the lawn. "Tag? Some other time, young Watson. Your daddy and I have to catch up."

"Y'sure?" her eyes widened as if she were torn between staying and playing.

"Very sure. Go on, now," Sherlock lifted his head off his arms and motioned with both hands. "Shoo, shoo. Go have fun!"

"Okay!" Without another word, she donned her mask and bolted back to play.

Sherlock watched her go under hooded eyes that closed when she was far enough away. His head dropped back on the late-summer-fragrant grass and he exhaled a weary sigh that became a groan.

Tight lipped with concern, John scrutinized his friend. John could tell that Sherlock's face was gaunt even behind the mask. His close-shaven scalp suggested institutionalization. Had he been an inmate somewhere? The faded marks on his wrists could have been old bruises from restraints. His shirt collar hung loose around his neck exposing faint lash marks. Fingernail beds were healing. John quickly counted all ten fingers—present and intact. Feeling some relief by his preliminary assessment, John remained guarded. Rosie was right. Sherlock's hair would regrow, but he obviously had endured physical duress and recently. How extensive his injuries were, external as well as internal, and how well, if at all completely, he would recover from them were the troubling unknowns.

"Need a hand up, then?" John strained to keep his voice level and slipped his light blue mask on.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his face brightened by John's astuteness. His eyes smiled up at the welcome sight of the familiar face. "Yes. Actually I do, John," and accepted the proffered hand.

John pulled his friend up—noting Sherlock's weight loss, possibly by over a full-stone—and placed a gentle, steadying hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock winced and grunted in pain but when he was standing independently, he showed no other outward signs of discomfort. In a conspicuous gesture of fitness, he dusted off his dark trousers and jacket and smiled sheepishly, "I will only tolerate one Watson greeting me like that."

"You know my five-year-old pretty much laid you flat …" John said wryly, a creeping pride in his voice.

"Like father, like daughter," Sherlock grunted behind his grin. "Watsons tend to do that when they're happy to see me."

They exchanged amused glances and in that instant all John's restraints dissolved. He broke into a wide and glad smile that stretched the fabric face covering. "Welcome back, Sherlock," he laughed, giving in to sentiment. He pulled Sherlock close in an affectionate hug, taking care not to cause the man more pain, although he was unsure what injuries were hidden beneath the ill-fitting clothes.

They patted each other on the back, long enough to benefit from the comfort it gave them and to regain their composure. When they pushed away, they briefly shared warm gazes and clasped each other's forearms before letting go. Then looking around, they confirmed that, in 2020, two men greeting each other affectionately in a public park raised no eyebrows from the surrounding visitors. They stepped apart, their silly grins hidden behind their masks.

"You look like hell," the truth in John's jest was not missed between them.

"Yah shud see d'oddah guy," Sherlock replied in an authentic Red Hook-Brooklyn tough-guy accent.

"I'm surprised Rosie spotted you so quickly," John glanced down at his feet. His joy at seeing his friend was tempered with concern for Sherlock's physical appearance. "Not sure I could—"

"—That's true. Moments ago, you looked right passed me as I entered the park," Sherlock countered, adding softly, "Don't blame you really. Even so, your mind was elsewhere …." Clearing his throat, Sherlock resumed with more vigor, "but children are quick. Your daughter, however, is extraordinarily perceptive and observant. She recognized me instantly from a mere wave…."

"Hmmmm. So…," John looked away and shifted his stance from side to side, "Where've you been, then?"

"Do you want the continents in alphabetical order? Or do you want the actual countries? Nevermind. If I told you, I'd have to kill you…"

"Hah!" John gave a mirthless laugh and wagged his head at the ground.

If John's furrowed brows were any indication, Sherlock's offhand deflection failed to amuse." Too cavalier for you, then?" he muttered, his lighthearted voice—like his feigned bravado—fading. "Can't ever seem to get it right."

"I don't want cavalier," John croaked a whisper. "Never have."

"You're right, John," Sherlock conceded solemnly and waited for their eyes to meet before continuing, "You want real answers. To sum it up, this case—perhaps the most insidious global infiltration since Moriarty—tested me and took longer than anticipated."

John considered Sherlock's response as he picked up the rucksack he had dropped in his shock. His relief at having his friend back, notwithstanding, he was more concerned about the causes of Sherlock's peaky appearance; he folded his arms, "So how much can you tell me without killing me?"

Sherlock thought before he replied. "Enough to satisfy even your curiosity. Might take a while. Have you several days to spare?"

Before answering, John checked around them. Their out-of-the-way location ensured there were no immediate eavesdroppers. Stepping back to create social distance, John slipped his mask under his chin. "The coast looks clear. A synopsis would do. Right here and now. My curiosity can't wait. I'll get the details later."

Sherlock verified John's assessment of privacy and nodded. He too, slipped off his mask."A synopsis, then." He peered at the hopping game the children were playing; a nostalgic look came into his eyes. He clasped his arms behind his back with a small wince that was not lost on his friend. "It started off as a seemingly small counterfeit case. It was deceptively misleading. Turns out, it was the tip of an enormous iceberg and soon it became a very top-secret, complicated investigation. Don't blame Mycroft. He didn't assign it to me. I had discovered the Machiavellian plot and with Mycroft's help brought it to MI5. It soon fell under MI6 jurisdiction…however, by then my involvement had become pivotal…"

Sherlock rubbed his hands together with his old exuberance and went on with a satisfied grin, "Oh. This will fill pages—no volumes—of your notebooks, John. It should keep your blog active for years. Even if some content must remain classified, I will give you an astonishing account of international intrigue, biological warfare, and espionage that will hold your readers spellbound!"

A sudden thought made Sherlock pause. He added in a stage whisper. "And there's a side case, John, which I'll be sharing as well. It concerns certain documents in my possession. I will require you to post a warning. It should say that if any attempts are ever made to get at and destroy these documents, you will have my permission to post on your blog the entire story about a politician, a lighthouse, and a trained cormorant. Be assured that there is at least one reader who will understand completely."

"You had more than one investigation, then?" Despite his amazement, John kept his voice low and looked around one more time.

"A juggling act of cases," Sherlock stated sotto voce, his face beaming with pleasure. "It's been brilliant!"

"How did you manage then? Not by yourself, I hope?" John's question tamed the excited gleam in Sherlock's eyes.

"Of course, John! It was too great a challenge for one man, too many side cases—so many eddies and currents to follow. I had substantial assistance—and when the need arose, emergency rescue services—thanks to Mycroft and his expert minions." Sherlock studied his friend's face for a moment before continuing. "It was far too dangerous a mission to involve you, John. I counted on you understanding this for Rosie's sake."

"Yeah, daily life was busy enough," John drawled, "But wondering, yeah worrying about the pandemic outbreak and if you were caught up in it somehow, and waiting…well, it became very hard to stand by and do nothing—"

"—Ah! I wouldn't call what you did, nothing," Sherlock rubbed a hand over the bristles on his shaved head and grinned. "Mycroft, a therapist? He said you recommended it. Called your meetings with him 'therapy sessions.' Do you know he now thinks he has a gift for psychoanalysis? My God, the man's ego is expanding like his girth. He told our parents that he might consider it as backup career. He knows less about human nature than I do!"

"No! You're joking. Seriously?" John pulled back, his mouth open in amusement.

"While I've been away, you wrecked my brother!" Sherlock smirked, his eyes crinkled with as much hilarity as he permitted himself.

They laughed together as they had not done for too long a time. The mirth was cleansing for John who wiped the tears from his eyes. For Sherlock it was another matter, he held his sides and stifled his chuckles, although his eyes shone with delight.

After a few cathartic moans and sighs, Sherlock confided. "There's more….When I met you that day in the park, I came to tell you I might be going away for a long while."

"But you didn't tell me. You told my daughter," John countered in a quieter voice.

"True, it was hidden within an avuncular whisper about her birthday—but then, when I was about to tell you, I saw we were being watched. It was as I had feared. The window had closed. That day in the park, I had to leave quickly and make sure my tail stayed with me when you and I separated. After that, I couldn't trust my devices, my interactions, or my ability to contact you without drawing more attention to you and Rosie."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in a question, "You received my text messages, then?"

"I did," John nodded with emphasis, adding with his usual modesty, "but apparently I missed what Molly thought were embedded clues about your 'case' and what was detaining you." His eyes tracked his daughter who had in the moment stopped to do a silly dance before resuming her chase.

"No worries, as long as Molly got them," Sherlock replied with a straight face.

John gave Sherlock a hard look and flared, "What the hell, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's goofy grin was a give-away.

John snorted in relief, "Molly was wrong then? They weren't clues?"

"She's a formidable ME with extraordinary instincts, John, but sometimes our Miss Hooper's romantic inclinations get the better of her logical, scientific mind. On such occasions, hers is a more active imagination than yours. No, I knew my audience—I know you! You're a direct man, so being direct is the best way to communicate with you. Skip codes and encryptions are not your strong points. I'm sure you'll agree."

"So, after that first text—'off on a case'—which was from your mobile," John scratched his chin thoughtfully, "all the others were from burner devices?"

"Yes. I sent the first from the flat. After, however, burners were the only way to get my messages to you without revealing my locations, but my texts were never about the case. That would have been foolhardy. They were more like placeholders, merely to let you know I was alive—at least one word. As my two-year silence enraged you that first time, it seemed the better course of action this time. If you noticed, I gave you several words in each, weeeeell…." he intoned, "except for the final one—soon..."

John smiled, touched by his friend's uncharacteristic if odd thoughtfulness, but made no comment. The laughter and shrieks of the playing children filled the silence between them. Sherlock seemed content to stand quietly beside him to watch the playground antics. It all seemed so familiar, as if eleven months had not elapsed.

John cleared his throat, "What took so long?"

"Would've been back sooner—over three months ago—when the mission was completed but I was…," Sherlock confided with some reluctance, "detained part of the time…in hospital."

"Detained? For what? Did you contract COVID-19, then?" John asked in a pained voice, even though Sherlock's immediate presence dispelled the worst of his imagined fears.

"No...," Sherlock frowned and faced his friend, "and I was never touch and go, John. I assure you, Mycroft has orders…you would've been called….. It was just infuriatingly tedious."

"There'd have to have been complications to detain you so long," John wasn't speculating. Sherlock's winces, soft moans and fading bruises were telltale. "How extensive were your injuries?"

"Yes. You're right. Fractured ribs and collar bone, sprains, some contusions, among other things," Sherlock waved dismissively. "The minor injuries healed on their own over time while I was on the case. I've made a list for you …." Sherlock patted his jacket breast pocket, checking for it, "Will show you later. However, the real setback was three months ago when I contracted pneumonia—not COVID-19 related."

John's arched eyebrows compelled Sherlock to speed up his narrative, "—the result of my exposure during a rescue operation unrelated to any of the previous cases. You see, some children were lost in a blizzard, local authorities needed help. Took twenty-eight hours to find them…they were mildly hypothermic when we reached them, but the smart kids had dug a hole in the snow and snuggled together for warmth. After that, my fatigued 'transport' capitulated… "

"Where was this, then?" John's forehead creased in growing concern.

"The Yukon. Did you know that the Bering Sea is one of the most dangerous bodies of water in the world? Fortunately my escape from a gulag camp was aided by a sea-going captain and his vessel. They ferried me across just in time to assist in the rescue that was already underway when I joined in the search—"

"—Wait, huh? You escaped a gulag, a Russian gulag…?" John pulled back and stared in amazement, "to the Yukon?…The Yukon. Canadian Northwest Territories?"

"Technically, Yukon split from the Northwest Territories in 1898…"

"Sherrrrrlock…" John growled and shook his head with impatience, "Let me get this straight. Your contusions, fractures, sprains, and assorted injuries that you have on a list somewhere—"

"—Right here," Sherlock patted his pocket.

"—were sustained while in the gulag…and after escaping to the Yukon, you participated in a rescue mission for some lost children, got pneumonia—you claim was not attributed to the pandemic—and stayed in hospital there for more than three months to recover?"

"Weeell," Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "close enough. While I was at the secret military base in the Yukon, I received hospital care for both the pneumonia and minor fractures, had my head shaved yet again to clear up the head lice that just wouldn't go away, and after discharge, was housed in the barracks. The food there was almost as unpalatable as the prison's. Talk about nothing to do, you can image how extremely boring it was. Unbearable!" Sherlock grimaced at the memory. "But it was the uncooperative weather and other security priorities which made my evacuation nearly impossible until a few weeks ago."

"Security priorities? Uncooperative weather?" John was finding the "synopsis" more disturbing than he initially had been led to believe.

"Only priority personnel on missions were permitted to leave due to violent ice storms and record-setting snow accumulations in June—despite the warmer temps in the Southern Hemisphere which caused glacier melts at an alarming rate. I digress," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Anyway, both air and ground transport were too dangerous during the bad weather and then nonessential personnel, like the rest of the world, were required to stay in place for the duration of the lockdown. Just had to wait it all out. Gave me time to refine timetables, charts, and schedules of all sorts about my adventures…that's when I've created my injury list for you, otherwise, it was all very tedious, as I said."

"So, Molly's instincts weren't completely off. You were sick," John muttered. Responding to Sherlock's confused frown, he explained, "One of her theories for your prolonged absence was illness…"

"Only for a short while…" Sherlock sighed and inhaled the fresh air. "All good, especially now that travel restrictions from certain regions have been modified, I'm back. I have a curious constitution, John, work restores me, but idleness exhausts me completely."

Staring straight ahead at the children, John clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet as he processed Sherlock's disclosure. "Shouldn't have doubted," John gibed, "that you would return."

"Really?" Sherlock raised his brows in mock shock, although he noted John's good cheer had somewhat waned. "You doubted me?"

"A bit," John bobbed his head, broaching a topic he had wanted to avoid. "Oh, hell, yeah, sure. Didn't help that I had to field everyone's doubts the longer you were gone."

"Everyone? Who's everyone? Not Mycroft?"

"No, of course not Mycroft, and surprisingly, not Rosie. Now I know why. But Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly,..." John waved his hands as if they were better at expressing what he meant. "Harping about you running into danger with save-the-world schemes—schemes I'm sure were all well-thought-out, down to the last detail because that's who you are…."

"That doesn't sound like you doubted me, then."

"True, not initially, but eventually. Look, Sherlock. I've been with you long enough to know. You're both human and fallible. Someone needs to remind you that you're not a fictional superhero sleuth with superpowers and nine lives. I worry that you forget that about yourself and at the worst times. And that you might not come back, try as you might."

"But I came back, John," Sherlock persisted, puzzled.

"That you did," John agreed firmly, "This time. And I'm all the more grateful for it."

"Fact-finding and pursuing investigations of the criminal element—wherever they lead me—is what I do. It's who I am."

"Wherever they lead you...so that's it," John nodded, then shrugged. "But is it really?"

"I don't understand. My work is my life, John!" Sherlock protested and then he recalled his own words of advice to his sister in the guise of "Faith Smith" years ago. "Your own death is something that happens to everybody else. Your life is not your own."

"—I get it. It IS your life," John conceded with a nod. "I grant you that. However, you're not a spy; you're the world's finest consulting detective; your life and that genius brain of yours are important, very important. They matter the most. Didn't you once say, 'Crime is common. Logic is rare?' It's by using your rare talent to outwit the most nefarious that you are at your best. Let others—Mycroft's operatives—do the covert missions using stealth, weaponry, and brawn to go deep undercover into life-threatening situations."

In Sherlock's silence, John continued.

"Take care of that 'transport,' Sherlock. It's irreplaceable—you're irreplaceable!—" John stopped short, realizing what he had just revealed, then hit Sherlock with the heart of it, "to Rosie and me."

John clamped his mouth shut and gazed in the distance at his daughter, wondering if he had said too much. Sherlock Holmes was his work, bigger than life, a cerebral giant who devoted himself to solving the world's most puzzling mysteries, an extraordinary detective who not only dashed into danger for intriguing cases but who endured the tedium of the false leads and dead ends. Granted, his incredible deductive and inductive reasoning more often helped him avoid those pitfalls. The world would be lost without the phenomenal skill of the legendary genius Sherlock Holmes. But it was to Sherlock the man—his friend—John had been speaking. He felt Sherlock beside him, appraising him, and tried to avoid the Holmesian scrutiny by watching Rosie play.

"Hmmm," Sherlock's soft interjection drew John's attention. Meeting John's glance, he gave him a fleeting smile and a sly look, "You're sounding more and more like Mycroft… and my parents…."

"Do I? Must be from all those therapy sessions…," John chuckled with relief, noting the reference to family. Years earlier, Mycroft's harsh "This is family" to exclude John had compelled Sherlock to protest, "That's why he stays," proving the adage friends are the family we choose for ourselves.

"Mycroft said you spent time with your parents?" From the corner of his eye he caught Sherlock's nod. "Mummies and daddies. Safe zones," John muttered softly.

Uncertain he had heard correctly, Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow, "John?"

"Oh, just something Rosie said earlier today," John waved it away.

At that moment Rosie came running toward them. Sherlock watched her with interest. "Been away too long. Missed her significant child-development transition—cooperative play. She's doing well, John. Engaging in both the activity and with other children as playmates. She's more independent, too…"

Rosie arrived, slipped down her mask, and let her Dad wipe off her hands again with sanitizer before hugging him about the waist; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, the picture of happiness. "All done. Can we go home now, Daddy?"

"Quite, Rosie." John smiled at his daughter, "but I've an idea. This calls for celebration. What do you say, Uncle Sherlock?" His eyes traveled up and down Sherlock's too-thin frame yet again. "You look like you could use some cake and ice cream. Lots of it!"

"Oh!" She jumped up and down, "Yes!" She wedged herself between the two men, looking up at each excitedly. "Cake and ice cream! Let's go!" she urged them both.

John threw a mischievous grin at his friend, "You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase. The blood pumping through your veins. Just the three of us having cake and ice cream."

Sherlock smiled broadly and nodded in reply. "Lead on, my dear Watsons!"

Masks back up, they walked off, Rosie between them. John remarked softly to Sherlock, "A politician, a lighthouse, and a trained cormorant. Now that sounds promising.

"88**88

The End

88**88

Notes:

Author's Note

Special thanks to my very knowledgeable Holmesian friend for not only warning me about the pitfalls of excessive sentiment and overworking story elements, but for taking the time to show me what she means. (And to all my special FF friends and readers who encourage me with their comments and constancy to continue writing.)

I must again compliment the brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am always greatly indebted for the series' dialogues.

(All disclaimers apply. I claim no rights to the characters from the BBC show.)