A/N: I kept going.
My mother calls me a cynic on a regular basis. She says I have no trust in the world, and that I'm cold-hearted. I'd like to dedicate this story to my mother, therefore. -csf
2..
I wake up this next morning with a stiff, inflamed neck and a bit of a dizzy spell as I get up. By the time I reach the living room downstairs, Sherlock is already up, absently playing with his microscope. There's a new Sheeri on the mantle. We don't ask how it got there anymore, it'd be naïve.
'Whatever happened to the skull, Sherlock?' I ask, taking a tired seat in my armchair.
'Confiscated, I believe. Then again, Mrs Hudson might have taken it with her.'
'Oh. I hope she did.'
Sherlock is looking longingly at the empty space by my side of the mantle. 'Breakfast?' I try to distract him.
'It's been delivered. It's in the kitchen.'
Sometimes I forget; I'm not allowed to choose toast and poached eggs. I'm to take one of the kingdom's rationed breakfasts. They are flavoured powders in isothermic packets and you add water and stir through. Out of habit I read the label. Funny, there's an apple and cereals in there. I guess the state doesn't trust chewing.
'Want yours, Sherlock?'
'Already have mine.'
I smirk as I focus on his microscope studies. Don't think consuming it is in his plans.
'Is there really apple in there?'
'I've found plant cells', he admits, unsure.
Sheeri interrupts us with a ten minute long prerecording of the importance of breakfast. Sometimes I think Sheeri is a bit too sarcastic. We allow her to babble on as Sherlock and I pretend to be comparing notes on his microscope findings. Our conversation is whispered under the constant assault of Sheeri's babbling.
'How's the neck, John?' Sherlock asks first.
'Got the kink out of it, for sure', I retort carefully.
He hums. Then lowers his eyes to the empty slides and acknowledges: 'I've got no plan. My head... it's not working like it used to. It's empty. Boring. Plain. John, I hate this.' He grabs a painful hold of his dark curls between clawed fingers and pulls at them. The physical pain caused barely scratching at the surface of the mental anguish. I can see his sunken eyes, his gaunt skin that hardly ever sees daylight as there is no longer a reason to go outside, the desperate lines wrinkling his forehead. 'John, my mind has melted without the proper stimuli. The cases, they provided me with mind food. And now... they're gone. I'm no longer a detective. I'm... a waste of space.'
I grab his hand, enrolling it in my rough, calloused, ordinary one, and squeeze tight. I will never have him tell me that again, if I can help it.
'Not now and not ever, mate. We're here, we're fighting', I tell him, impressing as much strength as I can put into fleeting words. I hate seeing this Sherlock, defeated and deflated. As if he can't see him as the hero I do, I always will.
We cut our conversation as soon as Sheeri reaches the end of her educational message. I try to think of something normal to say. Something state approved. Sherlock asks first:
'Sheeri, are these Bramley apples?'
Sheeri draws out a research on Bramley apples for us and cross-references it with our issued breakfasts. Turns out they're 97% that variety, 2% of another and trace amounts of cyanide.
'What?' I stop whispering with Sherlock at once. Cyanide?
'Apple pips, John, they contain cyanide', Sherlock dismisses, snappy.
I transport my shocked gaze from the electronic ghost presence to my live friend. I missed this. A spark of his old brilliance. Even the delivery; affected, flaired, theatrical, uselessly arrogant. It's Sherlock all over.
'What is it, John?' he is surprised by the intensity of my gaze. 'It's not enough cyanide to be life threatening.'
Today is going to be a good day.
'Nothing. I missed this.'
'Breakfast?' he doesn't quite get it.
I just smile sunnily at him, and let him make whatever he wants of it.
.
Sherlock looks unsure, as he tugs his scarf around his neck, first looping it to one side, then to the other, finally sighing and letting the ends fall in despair. I smile, come over and help him rebuild that immaculate, unattainable detective image, forever engraved in my mind.
My friend's brain may have rotten in captivity and away from cases, but mine has only been kept online for the recollection of our past cases, of that brilliant Sherlock I'm never giving up on. I'll teach him to be himself again if I have to.
'Thank you, John', he says, quiet, childlike. It's wrong but I almost hoped for an insult covering the vulnerability. Like old times.
'Ready?'
He nods, discreetly patting the pocket where his fake medic pass for London is nestled.
Today we're trying the impossible. We're heading to the forbidden area. The Tourist Area. Sherlock Holmes and I have one last big heist to pull. Trying to bring London to its senses, then all of the UK.
We may never live to see this watered down version of 221B again. It feels like home, but no longer a sanctuary, not since the clients stopped showing up, Mrs Hudson isn't around to dust (England shall fall) and Sheeri is an unwelcome addition. They made 221B feel estranged from us. And they took our skull.
I pat my pocket in turn. The one with the illegal handgun.
.
The familiar streets of London are nothing like their former selves, they are too quiet, too orderly. All human movement is as mechanic as the rotating barbershop signs or the flickering red and green traffic lights. We seem to play our part in the clockwise movement of a nation, dutifully fulfilling our roles. No passion, no creativity, no self-determination.
The billboards overhanging the streets are particularly oppressive. In a land where the government determines your whims and wishes through carefully demographically selected publicity, there is hardly a need for general public targeted advertising. So now the giant billboards contain only the official message, in bright, sharp colours and bold, strong fonts.
We are strong, we are one, we are fulfilled because we are home.
Travelling for fun has been outlawed, of course. Too many people did not return from vacations abroad.
Live in the moment, live in the now.
Citizens with questions are just weak people giving way to their anxieties, we're told.
We're here to help. We're family.
Obviously the government has not met the Watsons family... Nope, clearly a typo somewhere on that billboard. Not going to comment on that one. Too easy...
Excel. Exceed. Enlist.
Army. Been there, done that. Another lifetime, it feels. This is not the same country.
Improve, impact, intel.
Not higher education, no. Spy schools. They're a big hit. 100% employability. We think. They're not 100% transparent.
Honesty. Integrity. Dependability.
Oh, this is the gold mine right here. The Triumvirate message primordial message. This is how they need us to see them, to admire them, to idolise them. Three old men – actually some say one is a woman, it hardly matters the gender – three old cronies that took over parliament and the rule of law.
These are the enemies.
By the way, the monarchy is unharmed. They live at the Tourist Area too. It's either them or some cardboard cut-outs, we're never sure from the pictures in the state managed news outlets.
By my side, Sherlock is whistling a tune under his breath. I swear I recognise one of his violin creations. It's untainted beauty against a grim world indeed.
There's no coming back from this, is there?
.
Sherlock Holmes still knows the ins and outs of London. Their foundations are buried somewhere in the genius' mind palace. Sometimes – only too often – Sherlock can't access them. He says the pathway has crumbled into rubble and debris, and a mighty migraine settles in as he tries to make use of his once brilliantly tuned brain. He then spends days lying down on his bed or the sofa, crippled by sharp bursts of pain in his head, vaguely unaware of the cold rags I lay on his forehead in hope of providing some relief.
Every once in a while we get really lucky, and in a glimpse of his earlier brilliance Sherlock finds the pathway unblocked, clear enough that he can access those stored memories, the precious data inside his repository.
'Are you sure you're alright?' I whisper tightly.
He nods sharply. His reticence in answering aloud is advised. My phone rings. There's no way I can not take this call. I grimace quickly and pull my phone up.
'Hey up.'
"Doctor Watson, member 13369851 of the civilian population, you are here by advised that unintelligible, juvenile and whispered speech are rude. We advise you to reconsider your conduct. This call has been recorded for internal verification during our internal quality audits. Have a productive day."
I disconnect the call with a shiver I can't suppress. It brings back memories of the Reintegration Camp. I cross my arms in front of me, feeling strangely cold as the cctv cameras follow us as we pass them by.
A tall bulky man in dark and imposing military fatigues stops us with a imperious gesture. He doesn't point his taser at us, but it's subtly set along his thigh, his arm muscles tenses and the trigger is caressed deviously. 'Halt! Identify yourselves!'
In concerted gestures, Sherlock and I hand out our IDs. He scans them quickly. My heart beats wildly as the silent seconds trickle by.
'Why two of you?'
'Two patients', Sherlock retorts, looking aptly bored. The military guard accepts the simple reasoning. Sherlock adds, in a conspiratorial whisper: 'They're twins, once conjoined. We're hoping they have the same genetic illness. If it turns out one fell off a ladder and the other near drowned in the bathtub, I'll be sorely disappointed.'
The guard looks bewildered. Lucky for us, he decides Sherlock is sane enough. We waves us through. I give him a short goodbye military salute. He remains indifferent, in a disgrace to the uniform.
My regular heartbeat only resumes, I must confess, after we crossed the corner and long left the man's weapon range. Adrenaline is not so welcomed these days.
Sherlock selects an old brickwork building, once a department store or office building, now state sponsored accommodation. He holds my medical pass high against the scanner. It beeps, goes green and allows us in. I follow quickly, before those doors close again with a metallic echo.
"Welcome, you patient is in floor three", the pleasant female electronic voice announces.
Sherlock confides under his breath: 'Doctors never run out of jobs. Always someone sick somewhere, if you choose a building big enough.'
We hear a metallic noise from the door behind us and the detective pulls me away from the main hall onto a shallow empty space behind the turn of the stairs. We wait with suspended breaths. What we are doing right now, a Reintegration sentence would be the least painful outcome.
"Welcome, your patient is in floor three", the voice repeats to the newcomer.
'A bit too late there, Sheeri, he's a stiff now. I'm a copper, that's why I'm here!' there's humour in the gruff retort.
We recognise the voice with a tight glance at each other.
The electronic surveillance gurgles for a second then plays: "You have been identified as detective inspector Lestrade. Welcome, your dead body is in floor three."
Greg sniggers – he obviously never had to go to Reintegration – and moves on to the only lift.
'Psst!' I dare to call out. He turns abruptly, hand flying to his service taser gun. Then he recognises us, shocked. Keeping his head, he glances at the awkward angle of the cctv camera and slides away in our direction before the lift comes.
He's kneeling by our side as the lift doors open and shut behind him.
'Sherlock! John! I thought you two were on the Tourist Area, signing autographs all day, living the good life! How did you escape? Why would you escape? I need to get you back!'
It's a relief in itself to reconnect with the detective inspector with the loyal brown eyes and overwork gait. Feels like old times at once.
I decide to take over the conversation for now. 'We were never there, Greg. Been in Baker Street as usual.'
'So what are you doing here now?'
'Trying to sneak into the Tourist Area to steel the crown jewels.'
Greg starts to grin, then falters, and looks from me to Sherlock, expecting an explanation. The genius opens his mouth, looks blank and forgetful, and blinks mutedly.
I try to dismiss: 'Reintegration Camp. He's not been himself since.'
I see Greg pale as understanding dawns on him.
'And you, John?'
I shake my head briefly, my heart beating hard in my chest. Perhaps it was a mistake, I shouldn't have trusted Greg. He doesn't understand. He's not part of our resistance. Life is good for him. He's got nothing to worry about. Why would he help us?
'Just turn and leave, Greg. Better yet, give us a couple of minutes and then report us. It's the safest thing to do. I can still take out a couple of them with my gun. Maybe that's enough time for Sherlock to escape.' I bring out my gun, my last faithful companion of war.
'A couple of minutes? Wait, stop that! Stop the ruddy warfare! You really are trying to go to the other side of the divide? John, that's... a chance in a million you'll live. Is it that bad here? Are you ready to give up here for a wacky plan out there?'
For Sherlock, yeah. I can't stand to watch him lose himself the more every day. I'm losing my best friend and whole world.
'It's okay, you don't have to understand, Greg. You're not under constant attack. You're not told to shut up, go home, be grateful for being allowed to go to work, pay taxes and be a target. You fit in, you're safe. Your police work has become the easier, even a child could solve any wrongdoings...'
'Yeah', Greg grimaces. I stop short, reading more into him from how I got to know him as a friend. Perhaps not so nice a change, then.
'Why would you give up a safe life?' I whisper.
In a tired, worn out voice Greg tells us: 'Anderson had a spat with Donovan. He told off on Donovan and she got sent to one of those Camps. You know Donovan, she can have a big mouth. I never saw her again. What in the world goes on in there?'
I shake my head, refusing to answer.
It's Sherlock that talks, unexpectedly: 'John almost didn't make it. Talk about sarcastic comebacks and those that can't keep them inside.' It's the old Sherlock that imperiously glances to me, but looks oddly human at the same time when our eyes cross.
'I'm fine!' I snap, almost too loudly. The three of us glance warily at the camera.
Greg makes a rash decision. 'Okay, guys, I'm with you. Count me in.'
'You've come here on work', I remind him.
Greg shrugs. 'The guy's dead, he's got time to waste. So what about those crown jewels? Are they even the real thing? I hear they were all glass now, to pay up for foreign debt after the last world war.'
'It's alright, mate, we're not wearing them.'
.
Sherlock pickpockets the basement door lock and we stumble inside eagerly. The dark, mouldy room has been clearly left disused for some time.
Greg Lestrade starts patiently: 'It's not that I don't trust you, Sherlock, but how is being down here going to help us?'
The consulting detective rolls his eyes with gusto. That's okay by me, I missed that too.
'It's a Victorian building, Lestrade. The old sewage system did not drain directly to the city's main sewage', the detective explains, as he runs his fingertips all over the exposed walls. 'This building in particular was connected to the Thames, feeding it raw sewage, bath water and fire sprinklers runoff in case of fire – which happened once only, in January 1907.'
'Alright, so what about that?'
'John would call it a pop culture reference.'
'To what exactly?'
'Bruce Lee. Be like the water and flow', he prolonged his words along with a vague gesture. 'Have I said it right, John?' I'm giggling hard now. Greg blinks hard. 'At this time and with the rising tide', he adds, 'I expect the current to lead us into the heart of the Tourist Area.'
'Why didn't you just say that?'
Sherlock shrugs, smugly. 'What would be the fun in that?' At that perfect moment something gives in under his fingertips and a previously invisible door swings back in the stucco wall.
We smile, relieved. Sherlock's got his magic back. It's bright and pure and full of a bursting fireworks type of energy that I'll always remember as his alone, as if his was the power to command the stars in the universe.
Oblivious to my adoration, he pushes through at once, into the dark damp. I unearth my phone and drop it on the murky floor (it's not like I'm needing it any more), take a few deep breaths to slow my accelerated heartbeats, and follow willingly. At the rear, Greg hesitates a moment—
'Wait, we can't go yet.'
.
TBC
