A/N: Yeah, okay, I'll give it a go. I'll try to continue that last one. I've got the head canon for ages now, might even have posted part of this plot at some point, I can't remember. It may be a bit fragmented. Don't think this is me at my best - it never really is because I'm not a born writer - so sorry about that. -csf
continuation.
Sherlock was a tall ginger man by the time his airplane touched down in Amsterdam. Ginger worked for him, and although he missed his carefully constructed look, he knew it was time to sever the ties with the past. Systematically, gently, he was to put away his persona, like one of his carefully preserved specimens in formaldehyde.
The late Sherlock Holmes had been left sprawled on the cold pavement, mourned by a dazed John Watson who believed him dead and, for all intents and purposes, had publicly signed the best death certificate in the world. No one would dispute the faithful sidekick's account. John had that intrinsic honesty to him, that not even a good actor like the detective could successfully emulate. It had even been a nice tragic but heroic death, the fitting end to the consulting detective – up until his scheduled return that is.
Gone into secure storage (thanks to Mycroft) were the long coat and blue scarf, along with Sherlock's passport. All the former detective carried with him now were nondescript new items of clothes bought of the racks of a general clothing store. Polyester heavy, itchy and ill fitting.
If you want to fit in with the crowds, Mycroft had insisted, you need to wear the same as the crowds. In truth, it had nagged the former detective for a jiffy, but he had got over it quickly. One month, two months at the most, and he'd be back at London, and 221B, and laughing with John over the brilliant prank Sherlock had pulled on the world. This had the makings of John's best blog yet. What would an itchy tag on the back of his shirt's collar have that he couldn't bear?
.
'Sherlock, I still haven't heard anything I couldn't actually be there for.'
My sharp words hang heavily on the air between me and the detective. Back in real time, he's a brunette that came back from the dead and conquered his rightful place back at 221B. He picked up where he left of, with a few minor adjustments, from what I can tell.
I can still feel the hold of imaginary sellotape holding me together, in sharp contrast.
Sometimes I think he really knows what destruction his actions brought on me. Other times I think I'm deceiving myself.
As I listen to his callous narrative I start to wonder who is the strange man that came back as Sherlock Holmes.
'I'm not entirely sure you weren't there, in spirit, at first, John', he tells me, opening up some more. 'And surely towards the end you were priceless... Somewhere in the middle, however, I made sure you weren't with all my willpower.'
.
Sherlock scratches the scruff of his neck absently, taking up his small duffel from the overhead lockers. Rows of tired but fevered passengers cutting him off to the exit doors, hurrying into their holidays or their return home. And so the detective playing mediocre traveller takes his place on the queue, holding up his duffel bag and his fake passport.
Echoes of a fleeting thought surfaces as a haze, that he quickly quenches down. Not now! Yet, his own curiosity has the better of him, by trying to analyse his own subconscious drift. No, not John. John as a soldier.
John with his army duffel and a determined gaze, facing head on the war raging outside the aircraft carrier in Kandahar. John with light blond hair to match the desert landscapes and big cobalt blue eyes carrying a steely glint to match the reflexes of the bright hot sun on his army tag and the gun that would faithfully serve him for a long time to come.
Sherlock berates himself for the thought, and how easily John still pierces the armour around the detective and his mind.
John is safe, John is in London. Sherlock is on his own. Such as he has started, he'll now face his biggest challenge, just Sherlock Holmes against the world.
'Dank je', the travelling man greets as he passes the last flight attendant, marching along the queue of passengers to the main building.
Sherlock had spent a good flight learning the basic intricacies of the Dutch language. He had acquired some proficiency before the first turbulence and by touch down on the foreign soil he had grasped all but the understanding of the best Dutch poets. He could discourse over the navigation and astronomical advances of scientists, but poets – no, poetry will take a while longer in any language. Poetry is an agreeable and romanticized way of detailing sentiments and culture. Sherlock will keep to scientists and natural discoveries if he can.
As his new self, he must fool the locals into thinking he's one of them.
Not just any of them, ponders Sherlock as he reaches the passport control. He removes the shades and smiles daringly.
'Baron Maupertuis.'
The stern woman on the counter doesn't smile, does not engage.
And Sherlock almost glances sideways with a calculated look at John, who'd readily admonish him for his knee-jerk illusions of grandeur.
But John is not there to commiserate on the failings of Sherlock's charm as a redhead, to share a smirk that is both mocking Sherlock's smugness and the world's failing at recognising the hero at his side.
Sherlock casts his eyes on the empty floor instead.
And he bites down that foreign feeling of a part of himself missing.
The former detective accepts the passport back with the blankest, nearly spitefully empty, expression and crosses the threshold into the next area.
Sherlock Holmes is being left behind. The Baron is emerging.
Of course, there's yet one smallish hindrance in the plan.
The real Baron Maupertuis is very much alive and taking control of his life, right now. There's already a plan, etched with Mycroft in his bunker-like office. It will involve Sherlock going beyond any proven actor capabilities so far, he suspects, but he won't back down now.
As Jim Moriarty died in that rooftop, it changed the fate for all those he left behind. Not just removed any possibility of a regular life for Sherlock, but created a bunch of revenge, hate and decay filled backup operations that will stop at nothing to annihilate the man who brought a curse to their world.
Sherlock swallows his name, and curses himself for classing this as a success, the only possible success. He has lost his beloved work, his identity, his life, and is taking over another's as penance for his shortcomings. The detective almost loses focus.
He reviews quickly his new identity as the Baron and the plan to take over someone else's life. And he walks forward, ready to claim it as his own.
Needs must, little brother; Mycroft is quite sure this branch of Moriarty's empire can regenerate the entire threat, if not quickly contained.
.
'Mycroft, of course. Your confident', I recall, having some difficulty disguising the bitterness folded in every syllable. I pick at the fraying threads on the chair's arm, revealing the uneven padding underneath.
Sherlock nods in quiet constriction. He has long learnt he can only listen as I vent my frustration and anger and hurt. Anything he may say will be, by default, too little too late.
He offers me the chance to take deep breaths, to prevent me saying something we'll both regret.
'Yes, my brother provided me with an overall plan, John', he says at last.
I think I read something into that remark, but right now, sitting in opposite armchairs there's a large chasm between us. The size of London to Amsterdam in the least.
'Did he meet up with you soon after?'
Sherlock's grey eyes squint. 'Mycroft doesn't do fieldwork, John. It would be long before he and I met up again. I was in Serbia by then.'
'How supportive of big brother.'
Sherlock smirks as he recognises my lapse into the same old friend who takes his side in any scuffle.
'Besides, I had him watch over you here in London.'
'Hmm', I state noncommittally.
.
Somewhere on the outskirts of Amsterdam, a first class train compartment encased a man of exquisite and expensive rates, perfect enhanced physique, and immoral behaviour. He is the real Baron Maupertuis, an affected dandy with red hair and long thin limbs, surrounded by a cohort of partying easy women and men, who fawn at his every joke, smile grotesquely at each winning gesture or grovel for a touch more chemical happiness. They are wild and untouchable hedonists at their better and worse.
The Baron is young, wild and holds no real regard for his position or wealth, so he gives the entourage all beyond their wildest dreams. As long as they amuse him they can gave their share. It's an unspoken arrangement.
The garish party reveller holds himself up as the train grinds to a halt at the station. He almost trips over two of his companions, whose names he can't quite recall, obscenely making out on the worn upholstery seat. Annoyed, he yanks by the long hair the woman's head from his way to the window, ignoring as she yelps. South station. Nearly there. Forty more minutes or so to cross the city centre.
He looks down on the woman whose hair is still fisted in his grasp and he yanks her his way. Her eyes dilate in fear one second, the next they become docile as he beckons her with a few more grams of indulgence. She smiles, a lopsided smile that has no more innocence in it, devouring her price. The forlorn partner tries to protest. The Baron rolls his eyes and yanks a thin blade from his pocket, jabbing the man fatally and twisting the handle. The man falls, eyes glassy as he hits the compartment's ground already dead. The Baron turns to the other men and women crammed in the tight space. Some laugh, most applaud; live is meaningless there as an artistic expression of nihilism.
The Baron takes a quiet seat for the end of his journey, kicking away the dead man's body on the floor.
.
'Wait, Sherlock, how do you know what happened inside the train compartment? You weren't there.'
My old friend reminds me, wistfully: 'I am a detective, John. I investigate murders. I can surmise how a victim died in suspicious circumstances and interrogate witnesses.'
'And the real Baron just left the train with the murdered body behind?'
'Yes. As it turned out the real Baron was afraid of flying. A bit of an inference there, but to all accounts, he would always choose land of water travelling ways. As it were, it was not the first murder he committed on a train either. But, alas, he was never prosecuted.'
'The dutch police was in on it, protecting him?'
'Oh no. Not at all. They couldn't accuse him, though. Diplomatic immunity. The Baron was not native to The Netherlands, but international diplomacy had him treated as their own royalty.'
'Surely—'
'John, you asked me for my story. Will you let me tell it?'
'By all means, carry on. We've established he was a creepy horrible guy. Perhaps we can sanitise the gory details a bit from now on? I'm not sure I'll hold that curry in long if you keep at it.'
'John, you were a soldier', he reminds me, pointedly.
'Yeah, well, I didn't fight after a full curry, did I?' I defend myself. 'You could have had a bit more yourself so I wouldn't have had to finish it off, because I sure wasn't storing it next to the pickled liver in our fridge and you know that!'
He smiles softly. 'Sure, John.'
For a moment his eyes look forlorn, as if he had missed our banter the most.
.
Across Amsterdam two ginger men compete to arrive at a luxury penthouse in the heart of the city. The totality of the top floor of a magnificent hotel is the rented home of the Baron Maupertuis. Sherlock arrives first, after being allowed in through the hotel reception by the simple expedient of looking and acting like he belongs there. He walks the hotel hall, directing boxes and rolling hangers full of designer clothes; a mad succession of fashion on Mycroft's credit card.
No matter how much Sherlock has used prosthetics to alter his nose, and dye for his hair, he's sure he can't fill another man's custom made wardrobe with his actor skills alone.
'Will you open the penthouse for me?' he snaps at the worrying concierge.
'It is open. There's no key, monsieur.'
Ah, French. Sherlock bites his tongue not to revert naturally to the man's native tongue, that he misses from his childhood. Now is not the time, as he is not himself.
'Right, this is Amsterdam, my bad! I'll just go up then.'
Work harder, Sherlock. Not nearly in character enough. Sure enough he's asked:
'Monsieur le Baron, are you alright?'
Sherlock hesitates, brain whirling in desperation to be a convincing fraud. Before he can speak, another voice assures:
'Concierge, my son is a busy man, enough with this absurd nonsense!'
They both turn to the private lift. A mature and imposing woman comes out of the lift, liquid mercurial eyes flashing over Sherlock, measuring him.
If she's the Baron's mother, how can she not know Sherlock is not her son?
Maybe it amuses her, Sherlock considers as he sees that flinty light in her eyes matched up by a cold smile. 'Come, I was feeling lonely', she leads him.
The concierge is all apologies, the suits are being packed into another, service, lift, and Sherlock has a split second decision to pull out or join the trap willingly. He does the latter.
"Careful, mate!"
"Not now, John!"
"I really wouldn't trust her."
"I don't simply trust, John."
"Too femme fatale for me."
"Women are your area, John."
"And killers are yours, Sherlock."
The ginger detective rides the private lift all the way up to the last floor with this strange woman, wondering if she's an ally, or if she's the spider at the centre of the web, luring him in.
.
'Hang in there, I'm just going to get a refill on the tea situation, mate.'
'John, you can't just... Pause me!' Sherlock is hardly reasonable, all bothered because I got up from my chair.
'Hold your horses, I didn't say I wasn't going to listen to the rest. I just need... some tea.'
'Oh.'
'Oh-what?'
'You are uncomfortable, and I don't allude to the broken springs on your chair. My story is making you uncomfortable. But why? I haven't broken your morale rules yet.'
'Apart from lying to someone's mother that you were her child?'
'That's alright, I soon discovered she wasn't her real mother either. But she had been there as he grew up. A housekeeper, nearly a wet nanny, and he kept her around either for sentiment or because she alone could unmask huge secrets of his present life and his origins.'
I drop the kettle, stunned.
'Alright, you need to start picking up the pace now.'
'I can do that.'
.
'Who are you, stranger?'
Her words melt in the crossed winds of the wide balcony over the city's commercial district. Her poise is elegant and dignified as an old heroine from the Greek legends, but her face is marred by lines of worry and self-recrimination. She is the time immemorial witness for the Baron. She was there in the beginning and she will be there in the end.
Sherlock focuses on a small buzzing insect in a pink flower growing dejectedly in an old pot. He anchors himself in that tiny working bee, in that battered geranium, in that indomitable sign of strength in a harsh world.
'I'm this East wind that surrounds us. I'm here to do what needs to be done.'
She stills and faces the stone balcony and the city beyond.
'Moriarty sent you? To take my son's place?'
'He's not your son.'
'There would have been a time I would have disputed that with my dying breath. But now the ties that bond us have been tainted by his actions. I can no longer forgive him. You are right, I'm not his mother. A mother would always forgive.'
'Then help me', Sherlock dares to expose himself as the obvious lie, vehemence in his every word.
She shakes her head. 'I cannot.'
They hear noises coming from the flat.
She hurries to huskily tell him: 'Do it quickly and you have my blessing.'
But Sherlock hesitates. How can Sherlock kill a man cold-blooded in front of family?
"Told you.
Go back to London, Sherlock.
You can still have Baker Street.
There must be some other way."
Sherlock takes the gun she hastily hands him over. One professional glance and he knows it's loaded and carefully maintained.
"That's dangerous gear, mate."
"Shut up, John!"
"Hey, what did I do?"
"You're a soldier, you tell me what to do!"
Sherlock's hands are trembling, a sheen of cold sweat covers his face.
"No, you're not like this, Sherlock."
"You're wrong. I am like this. I'm not a hero. I could never be one."
Sherlock raises his gun to the half inebriated ginger man stumbling into the sofa just the other side of the double doors. He paces forward quietly, gun in hand, hesitating to shoot a man from behind, but stealth is a powerful weapon.
"I won't watch this, Sherlock."
The detective bends closer to the man collapsed on the leather cushions. One closer look and he knows the heart has stopped pumping blood, the brain has ceased firing synapses, the Baron is no more.
Long live the Baron.
"John?
John! Where are you?"
Only silence after his every call.
He's lost his innocence, and John too now.
.
'So you killed him?'
'You mean "murdered".'
'Don't get technical with me. Not now. Please.'
'No, John, I didn't. Not me.'
I scan him desperately, mindful that Sherlock can deceive me easily. But I haven't been bumped on the head, there are no big magic tricks, just words, that he can twist to his advantage one moment and confess the truth in the next.
I believe he's telling me the truth.
'And you were just going to leave that part out? What kind of story teller are you?'
Sherlock smirks fondly to his blogger.
'She did it. His old housekeeper. She swiftly took the gun from my hands as I hesitated too long. She fired it as he lay near comatose on the sofa. She enacted my decision in a second, the one I took 60 seconds to psyche myself into and failed. Little did I know that it was little comfort that she was the one pulling the trigger. I was to carry that deed as mine for a long time to come.'
'What do you mean?'
'The shot was heard in the other floors. The police was called and on their way. She was frantic with grief, loss and panic. I couldn't let her face the action she had taken for me, for the world. So we made a pact. I would get rid of the body and she would confirm the Baron was alive and well and that the Baron was me... I had unwillingly found myself an accomplice to a murder I had failed to carry out properly.'
I cross my arms in front of me.
'No, Sherlock. You found yourself a new sidekick. You have a penchant for sidekicks who kill for you on the day they meet you, don't you?'
Sherlock blinks, hysterically mind blown.
I roll my eyes and sit back waiting for him to recover.
.
TBC
