A/N: I didn't plan for this plotline to be this long. But all good fun must come to an end, so the last one is here. -csf


7.

John has long fallen asleep on the lower bunk bed. The military has trained him to withstand some sleep deprivation, but he's never sought middle of the night solitude or experienced my bursts of energy, genius and excitement that power me through two or three days with minimal to no sleep. It's my nature, and it always aggravated me how normal people can just waste their time away sleeping. Except that I look at John now – face and body relaxed, breathing rhythmic and deep, and I see nothing but inner peace – and it makes me question the way I am.

I can't wake up John. He deserves his sleep.

Quietly, I get out of my bunk bed and lament not being allowed to power up my phone to get to the torch app. A couple of matches and an old wax candle do the trick.

Like a ghost, I'm haunting the lighthouse in the middle of the night. One would think that literary lighthouse ghosts would wander outside these walls, aiming to reach the safety of its light. But with the lighthouse decommissioned, the fog light has long been absent, scattering those ghosts. Only me tonight.

I climb those countless spiral steps and emerge at the top of the structure. Good thing the lighthouse light is turned off. Otherwise, I would have unwittingly blinded myself with the powerful glow.

This flight of solitude is something I must do on my own, so I take a seat on the hardwood floor, back against the lamp. So far, John has kept me priceless company, but it's time to come to terms with myself.

How do I define myself, in the face of failure? A glitch; or evidence that I'm a fraud, that I never lived up to John's overenthusiastic expectations of me?

John welcomed the exception to the rule, the hint of humanity in the intellectual processes. He's a good man, John. He tries to see good and potential in everyone.

I pick up my phone, weighing its dead weight in my hand. I want to turn it on. I yearn to seek reassurance in John's blog, remind myself of how he sees me. Through rose tainted glasses. I like that version of me. The potential for transcending, being a genius, a hero, worthy of a good man's admiration.

But then I'd also get Big Brother's attention. Mycroft would zoom in that Sauron eye and I'd be constrained by the Holmesian expectations once more. We are Holmeses, not commoners. DNA and a surname taking the bigger share of the genius work.

Honestly, sometimes I swear I could just say random words for ten minutes straight and Lestrade would scratch his head, say "anyways, you say the wife's done it?" He'd be stumped no matter what I said.

I could use and abuse the fame of Holmes genius, but John wouldn't stand for it. John keeps me right.

And it's because of John – kind, brave, trusting John – that as the first lights of dawn start tainting the dark indigo sky, that I decide my career isn't over yet.

So the wife did it after all. So what? I don't work alone. Lestrade needs to carry the load too. Check my work. Keep me straight. He's getting too accustomed to phoning me for the solution to his cases. Like taking up a crime novel and reading up the last chapter to find the culprit before the start. So he can buffoon the whole way through it, knowing where to collect the necessary evidence for the court case.

I lay back and close my eyes, lamenting the lack of foresight in not bringing up a blanket to snuggle in. Decision made, crisis cycle completed, my body is relaxing and my mind is at peace.

In the morning I'll tell John to blog about my wrong deduction. No longer a shameful secret, just a proof of humanity.

Quite rare and exceptional humanity.

Still.

I could live this this.

Human.

Not the reasoning machine I've been forcing myself to be for the Yarders' acceptance, for John's blog readers, for 221B's clients.

Once in a while I could be... just the way I am.

.

Full English breakfast, I slept late, and John is beside me at a greasy joint. This commoner's life is charming, although I'm starting to miss a decent hot shower.

Late Sunday morning, John started early, making disparaging remarks about my stubble, saying it's more ginger than my hair, and how is that even possible. I pointed out that attending medical school lessons would have been a plus for a doctor, he found this amusing. I further remarked on the ruggedness look of his own stubble, and he went beetroot red, all shy and embarrassed. Priceless.

John then sobered the atmosphere by asking me if we would "be okay" to return to London tonight, as the weekend comes to a close. I said it was fine and he expressed the wish to keep the van in Mrs Hudson's back yard, "just in case".

The van isn't, strictly speaking, necessary. It's more of a mood thing.

As I'm reprimanding John for sneaking a peek into the morning papers – we debate whether it's within the spirit of a digital and tech detox – John's attention is utterly derailed by a loud explosion noise outside. So is mine.

We're up and running towards the exterior as instinct kicks in.

Lorry crashing into a house? Gas leak accumulation ignited? Giant biomechanical creature on a town rampage?

Umm, we can rule out that last one. John must be rubbing off on me.

We stop short at the sight of the local community centre strewn apart as a mount of steaming rubble. John and I immediately resume rushing forth, issuing orders for bystanders to keep a distance and searching for any victims who need help getting out. John supports an older gentleman who is more shaken than hurt, and he assures us he is the caretaker and the building was supposedly empty, he came in to feed the cat.

Said cat is strolling around the blast site, looking a bit spooked, but not a fur hair harmed.

Ten minutes into gathering confusing witness reports, and searching for evidence ourselves, John and I are convinced that criminal hand is at stake. Well, the decent sized crater where a brick building once stood is a dead giveaway.

The local police finally arrives, and I immediately make myself known to the woman in charge... who is less than appreciative.

'From London? Is that supposed to impress me?'

I openly roll my eyes to the obnoxious commissioner, and let John take over talking to her.

'Oi, you can't keep walking around the site!' she still protests. I'm not really listening. Shards of smashed glass at the epicentre of the blast are far more interesting.

'No, he's a detective, we work with Scotland Yard all the time,' John tries to soften the blow to her ego.

I shut my eyes hard, a wave of vertigo hits me. I know how this was done. I can feel the solution. I have all the leads. Think. Think!

'Sherlock, you alright?'

John's concern laden words bring me back from my spiralling deductions and anchor me safely back at his side. He helps me up.

'There was a sale to happen here today. Local businesses.' I start pointing left and right, seeing what is no longer there. 'Pasties, records, vintage clothes, more books, John!, scotch eggs, antiques—' I turn to the caretaker, he nods, I'm right.

'Oh, it's both brilliant and sad,' I bask in the afterglow of the train wreck deduction that hit me in the head. This is what I live for, this is who I am.

'Sherlock?' John's voice cuts the moment, always demanding, always strong.

I turn to him, and to him alone. 'Remember the sulphur in the bottle, in the antiques shop, John?'

It takes a couple of seconds, but he nods.

'Never leave your old chemicals lying about, never. Particularly not a different element of the periodic table. White phosphorus.'

Going by John's sudden intake of air, he's got it.

'Phosphorus?' the commissioner repeats, shaking her head in confusion.

'Spontaneously ignites in contact with air. Keep in water at all times. Of course, even in a sealed bottle water evaporates and a fire eventually starts.'

John points out, merciless: 'In a sealed bottle the oxygen need for the combustion would run out, quickly putting the fire out.'

I nod. Yes, that's the crux of the issue. I turn to the caretaker. 'It was only supposed to be a small fire, wasn't it? A spurious accident and the council would up your hours. Maybe even blame the local youth somehow. But there were other bottles there too. Other bottles you recognised too, for you worked in a laboratory before retirement. I recognise that pattern of chemical burns on your fingers anywhere,' and I show him my own hands. 'The phosphorus caught fire, perhaps a bit later than you assumed after you decanted the remaining liquid last night. The bottle was old, the fire raised the pressure inside a fixed volume, and it shattered. Still but a small fire you should have been able to put out, be a hero. Only you didn't account for the helium tank from the man who twists balloons into unconvincing animal shapes. The tank exploded, then the fire spread out like a fire ball, the roof couldn't handle it, and the whole thing collapsed. Well, tough luck, now you're definitely out of a job.' There's some viciousness in my cheap jab at the end. John knows why; I can see him glance at the poor cat.

Luckily there's an older lady, a bystander, that has taken an interest in the four legged thing, considering the cat is now homeless and ownerless – the latter a blessing, certainly.

The commissioner protests: 'Mr Holmes, you can't prove all that!'

I turn to her. 'I don't need to. That's your job, although I'd say the caretaker is ready to confess. John and I only solve the cases, and occasionally capture the criminals. Come along, John!'

My blogger grins as we walk off.

.

We are the talk of the town as I take over the van's driver's seat, John cosying up by my side. I think we made our mark here. It's time to return to London and resume where we left off.

This digital detox, as some magazine article called it, showed me I can do my job, be who I am, with or without the aid of modern technology. No matter the time or the place, I am still Sherlock Holmes. Furthermore, I reconnected with who I am, and why I do what I do best.

I smile over to John. It's been a very nice weekend, with the best company a fellow like me could ask for. He smiles back.

The van hits the motorway in no time, riding back up to busy London from the peaceful seaside coast.

John flicks through a boring celebrity gossip magazine, perhaps looking for inspiration for our next escape on the road.

'Hmm, they make an interesting point here on work-life balance and people who define themselves through their professional achievements but lead empty personal lives.'

'Non-applicable, John. I've got you in the Work and outside it.'

'There's also an article about decluttering the home.'

'Sacrilegious.'

'And one on how to have the most fulfilling org—'

'John,' I interrupt. He looks me on, partly curious, partly uncomfortable. I clear my throat. You're not as uncomfortable as I am here, John. 'Thank you for doing this with me,' I force myself to verbalise.

'I enjoyed it too, Sherlock,' he replies, making my like easier.

.

Back to the civilised comforts of our flat, a hot shower never felt so much like a luxurious and depraved privilege. I tame my hair, don tailored clothes and re-emerge just in time for John's timely cup of tea.

We could turn on the telly, but we reckoned it would be just as disappointing as the 937 notifications I had pending on my phone when I turned it back on.

'Board game?' John suggests, equally loathsome to dive deep back into digital slavery just yet.

'Hmm,' I agree, tidying away Queen Victoria's prosthetic wooden leg, that Mycroft sent over. Fine craftsmanship for 1846.

John smiles, as he's grabbing the Cluedo board.

.

'Sherlock?' DI Lestrade's voice us jittery, tired, as he bursts into our living room. 'Thank goodness you're back. I need your help, I'm drowning in cases. Oh, and by the way, that last case you solved...?'

'Yes, I know the wife did it. She confessed things she couldn't have known. Old news.'

'About that,' he counters, sheepish. 'It's really Dimmock's fault. Turns out the wife actually didn't do it. She knew it had been the mistress and decided to take the fault to guilt trip the husband. She knew so much because she used the driveway's cctv camera to know how the mistress killed the mother-in-law. So, yeah. You were right all along. Ugh, I guess your brain was never glitching, mate.'

My hands shake over the Cluedo board, John's anger filled neck vein seems about ready to pop, awkward silence fills 221B.

'Oh,' I comment. 'Is that all?'

A decision. I know my value, and a mistake wouldn't have changed it anyway. Two days ago, this would have rebuilt my confidence and shored up my self-esteem. Tonight, it's but an ironic twist of fate.

No, I still wouldn't have changed my weekend for anything. 'Drop the cases, Lestrade, and grab a seat. There's enough take away and a body in the garage.'

'Cluedo doesn't have a garage.'

'John and I have created an extension pack including more locations and murder weapons, of course.'

Lestrade sighs, looks around and makes a decision. Throwing the files onto our cluttered desk, he grabs a chair and triangulates himself among us, frowning in awe at the Frankensteined board game.

.