CHAPTER 33: ORANGES AND LEMONS
SEPTEMBER 9, 2015
'Still like watching me dance?'
The table was overturned, and the chessboard lay on the ground between their feet. Black and white pawns, bishops, and rooks were scattered across the shiny marble-like floor, but three pieces remained upright upon the fallen board: the black queen, the white king, the white knight.
The two men faced one another, chests heaving and fists still clenched. Moriarty was no longer laughing. His head was dipped, his frown severe, and he glared at Sherlock through demonic eyes that burned black as coals.
'The game is over,' said Sherlock, smiling as he panted. His heart was racing and his brow was damp with perspiration. 'Check and mate. I've taken your king. With him, the whole kingdom has fallen.'
Moriarty sneered, but in the next moment regained a measure of control. He lifted his head and straightened his black suit coat, face impassive.
'No more moves,' Sherlock continued, hand cutting through the air. 'No time to reset the board. We're finished here, James. It's done.'
'We're never finished, Sherlock,' said Moriarty softly, barely moving his lips, hardly inflecting his speech. He sounded tired, drained of energy. Just a spark of something remained, one tiny flicker, like a child begging for just five more minutes to play before the lights went out for good. 'I'm a part of you now. I'm in your mind. I am you. Every time you stumble. Every time you're weak. I. Am. There.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'You've left your scars. But that's all you are. A scar.'
He stepped backward, creating distance. His eyes darted left and right, scanning the whiteness of that battleground as he searched for his fellow soldier so that together they might leave the place behind.
'The queen still stands, Sherlock,' said Moriarty. 'With or without the kingdom, she stands, and she's as dangerous as she's ever been. I made her that way. Me.'
Sherlock sniffed. 'As I suspected.' Then he quoted: 'Il y a une femme dans toutes les affaires; aussitôt qu'on me fait un rapport, je dis:Cherchez la femme!' His smile widened. 'Not to worry, my dear, long-time rival. We shall deal with The Woman.'
'We?'
Sherlock felt the presence behind him like a warm light upon his shoulder. 'You didn't think I stand alone, surely.'
The light grew warmer.
Moriarty's face grew darker, his eyes darting. 'That's not fair. There's two of you.'
'There's always two of us,' said a voice behind.
Then there he was, stepping forward. John. He stood at Sherlock's side, as if he had been there all along. The warrior. The doctor. The bravest and wisest man Sherlock had ever known.
'And you, Mr Moriarty, have become quite boring,' said John. 'Wouldn't you agree, Sherlock?'
He touched Sherlock's arm, then turned around and began to walk away. Sherlock smiled. He gave one more cursory glance at Moriarty, then turned and followed after.
Somewhere between Spain and England
They started with the riddle.
'Irene Adler was the author of all of it, I'm sure,' said Sherlock, pacing the room slowly, the points of his joined fingertips resting just below his lips. 'Every puzzle, every rhyme. Moran was her executor, but it was all her design.'
'You're sure,' said John, his tone indicating, not doubt, but inquiry.
'It's perfectly obvious, John. She likes to play games. She likes to play games with me, the way Moriarty did, which is probably why he chose her at the start. Moran was his muscle, his trigger man, the one who got his hands dirty. That's what Moriarty needed him for, not his mind. But Ms Adler . . . She was something else. She could almost keep up. She could almost play his game. Not outwit him, no, never that, but still she could hold her own. You remember it, John, the day we met her. I wore a disguise, and so did she. Role-playing, that was the first game, and it ended with a puzzle. A code. The passcode to her phone was clever. She thought it was. A little joke for her own amusement, maybe, but a puzzle for me to solve, all the same.'
They had left the safety of the hacienda in the dark of night, leaving behind only a note to pass along to Mycroft to reassure him that they had left of their own volition and that they would be in contact again in due time. Now, they were holed up in yet another undisclosed location in an unremarkable village, there only prerequisites being good wi-fi and a dead bolt, convinced in neither head nor heart that all dangers had passed.
John bounced a pen thoughtfully in his hand, his notepad perched on a knee crossed over the other leg. 'And you think she was behind all the nursery rhymes of the Slash Man killings, too.'
'Oh yes.' His eyes were alight, focused, the way John remembered from days past. 'For her, the games never stopped. When she found me in Libya, our conversation was nothing but wordplay. On the last day of your captivity, when she showed up at the convent and forestalled Moran from shooting me in the head, she didn't leave before teasing me with a clue about our next meeting. Moran only ever cared about violence and pain, and making it last as long as possible. That's all he ever wanted for either of us. He would have killed us both, not for Irene Adler. So yes. I believe she was the one who designed game in which she spelt our names in the deaths of homeless victims, forestalling our demise, watching us dance. Moran and his cronies carried it out, but the vision was hers. She left you with the pips and the riddle at the end of April. Whatever her end game, this is fun for her.'
'Maybe so,' John agreed, 'but also deadly serious. Remember what Ella told us.'
Sherlock's pacing stopped. His hands lowered in almost a huff and he turned his body to hide his expression, but John could read even the back of the man's head. He hadn't forgotten. It was just easier to talk about puzzles and games, even sinister game, than to talk about a pathological dominatrix.
'Let's not lose sight of the danger here,' John said softly.
'I'm not,' said Sherlock, a little sharply. Then he turned back and smiled tightly, masking his disturbance. 'Let's return to this final puzzle, shall we?'
They had spent enough time already reading and reciting the nursery rhyme that John was fearing he would never be free of the melody running through his head, and he was pretty sure he had memorized every jot and tittle. The version they had committed to went like this:
Oranges and lemons
Say the bells of St Clement's
You owe me fivefarthings,Say the bells ofSt Martin's.When will you pay me?Say the bells atOld Bailey.When I grow rich,Say the bells atShoreditch.When will that be?Say the bells ofStepney.I do not know,Says the great bell at Bow.Here comes a candle to light you to bed,And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!Chip chop chip chop the last man is dead.
'So!' said Sherlock, practically twirling back around to face John. 'What does this eighteenth-century rhyme tell us? One. All of these churches are in London. They each have a long history there, hundreds of years, even. Obviously, whatever the answer to her little riddle, the place is London. No surprises there. So two. The story likely arose from the sale of citrus fruits in Cheapside, cheap having once been the word for market. Nothing sinister about that. But the deeper implication is that this is a song about debts and debtors, the things one person owes another. And if we press on that analogy—as we did with the King of Birds and Cock Robin—then clearly she means to say that I am the debtor in this scenario. And there will be consequences for not paying what is owed.'
'Only, you owe her nothing. She said so herself, once. You told me. You save her life in Karachi, and she saved yours that night at the convent.'
'I believe she is referring to a different debt here.'
'What debt?'
'Her promise to keep you safe from Moran.'
John scowled. 'She didn't save me from Moran. You did.'
For the first time since their discussion began, Sherlock's expression softened, and John saw the beauty of his humanity peer through the machine, but John didn't fully understand what was going on behind those pensive eyes. Was he remembering that moment in the woods? Was he, despite all protestations, troubled by the act of killing, no matter how justified, no matter how necessary. He sniffed, looked at his feet, and when his head lifted again, the machine was back in control. 'Doubtful Adler sees it that way. In any case, she gave us the riddle long before Appledore. She couldn't have known how the rest would play out.'
John conceded. 'Fine. So she plans to collect on this supposed debt by seeking retribution. With the pips, the—what did you call them—warning of avenging death.' He paused in thought, then reached for his notes and quoted, 'I'll meet you at the gate to the port, where old things become new. Shall we assume that the answer to that riddle is in the rhyme?'
'Not unreasonable.'
'Then . . . I think I see it.'
'Do tell.'
He knew that tone, so often he had heard it. Sherlock had already reached a conclusion; he was just waiting for John to catch up. John coughed into his hand, straightening in his chair. 'Right. So.' He might as well play along. Sherlock would fill in whatever holes he left open. 'Speaker of the poem wants to be paid, yeah? "When will you pay me? says the Bells at Old Bailey." So . . . the Old Bailey is the place where the debt will be repaid. The meeting place.'
'Nearly,' said Sherlock. John noticed that he was mindful to keep his good ear toward the conversation. 'Keep going.'
John flipped a few pages, scanned a few more of his untidy notes. 'The Old Bailey doesn't actually have any bells,' he murmured to himself, thinking. Then he began to see it. 'Oh. The Old Bailey is across from St Sepulchre-without-Newgate on the Holborn Viaduct. New and gate are both in her riddle. It's St Sepulchre's, isn't it?'
Sherlock smiled subtly, pleased with John's progress but taking it one step further. 'The church has been around since Saxon times and used to be called the Church of St Edmund the King and Martyr. St Edmund was executed by Vikings.'
'King and martyr,' John repeated, sullen but accepting. 'That's how she sees you, isn't it? I did tell you: queen needs a king.'
'And a dead man makes a martyr. But what's more: the Old Bailey once served as Newgate Prison.'
'I remember learning about that one school,' said John. 'Probably the most notorious prison in London's history.'
'Famous for overcrowding, unhealthy conditions, unimaginable suffering, and, of course, execution. Though, to be fair, the executions themselves took place near Marble Arch. The bells of St Sepulchre's would toll to announce each and every execution.' At last, Sherlock stopped pacing. He crossed the small room to sit on the edge of the bed, facing John. His energy was now hyper concentrated, and he said solemnly. 'Do you remember Buckingham Palace? The same day we met The Woman?'
John laughed wryly. 'How could I forget?'
'Do you remember the date?'
He thought carefully. 'Late summer, was it?'
'September 12, 2010.'
John frowned. The twelfth of September was only three days away.
'She promised me a special surprise. On our anniversary. If I'm right, St Sepulchre's bells will ring again in three days' time.'
John set aside his notepad and crossed his arms. 'Doesn't matter if we're not there.'
'I mean to return to London.'
For a moment, John only stared, unable to form a response. Sherlock had been deliberate with this exclusionary pronoun, and John had not missed it. 'We,' he said. 'Like I wanted to do at the start.'
But Sherlock acted as though he had not spoken. 'If she knows nothing else—and she knows plenty—she knows how to hide. She's been playing that game for a long, long time. Therefore, she will not easily be discovered. The best chance we have is if we draw her out. I know how she thinks. I know what resources she has. And I know where she is weakest. I mean to exploit it, but it will take the two of us. John. I have a plan. You won't like it, but this has to happen.'
John chewed his cheek. All the things they had already done together since leaving London, all the crazy ideas and dangerous situations and horrible actions, he didn't regret a single one of them. He had thrown his lot in with Sherlock ages ago. He trusted him more than he trusted the sun to rise in the morning. So he sure as hell wasn't about to back out now.
'Say it,' he said.
'John.' Sherlock smiled sadly. 'This time, it's your turn to play dead.'
Michaela Warner hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks and weeks, and it was beginning to take its toll. Her contacts swam in her eyes from being worn too long, so she was constantly blinking and rubbing her eyes to clear them. It was only ten in the morning, and she was already on her fourth cup of coffee.
Not that she could complain. As far as her career was going, she was on fire. A rocket ship, said BBC News in describing the success she had enjoyed over the summer months: After that first article in June linking the trial of James Moriarty and the selection of jurors to the A.G.R.A. crime ring, she had written a report on the terrorist attack on New Scotland Yard that implicated supposed A.G.R.A. kingpin Sebastian Moran; another article featured the life and disappearance of Richard Brook that clearly connected his final days to that self-same James Moriarty, with a carefully plotted timeline leading up to the trial; yet another featured the lesser known victims of the Moriarty Mayhem, including Frank Vander Maten and Hugh Freemont; and most recently, an article centred on Mary Morstan to highlight the senseless loss of innocent lives.
She had her critics, of course. There were plenty of contrary news outlets who were suspicious of her cosy relationship with the Met. Others called her a Sherlock Holmes apologist, even though she had deliberately steered away from writing about Holmes or Watson in recent weeks. She couldn't help that it was her early investigations into Holmes' return and Kitty Riley's smear campaign that had first set fire to the fuse that launched her meteoric rise. She supposed she would forever be connected to that story, and she couldn't deny being proud of the fact.
In fact, it was that story that weighed most heavily on her mind.
It was that story she wanted to return to.
It was only a promise to a certain detective inspector that kept her from continuing to write the biggest story of her career. So she didn't bring any attention to the fact that Holmes was almost certainly no longer on English soil. Nor did she help the public draw the lines from Holmes to the dissolution of A.G.R.A. cells across the globe, although she herself kept a steady eye on reports out of Europe and the Middle East that she believed with every fibre of her being were a direct result of Holmes and Watson's enigmatic involvement. One day, she hoped, the sanction would be lifted, and she'd return to the story with vigour.
She just wasn't expecting how it would come.
'Michaela.'
She was walking down the hallway at work, on her way to the ladies', when a voice called her back. She turned to see her boss, Larry Heinrich, signal her to follow him. His lips were pulled down into a grim line, the kind he wore when he heard that they were being sued for libel or when he was about to make someone redundant. Her heart skipped then sank, and with dread she followed him back to his office.
He closed the door.
'Report from Interpol just came down the wire. Our contact at MI6 released this just five minutes ago.' He pointed her to his computer monitor. She leant over and read:
Body recovered from the explosion sight at Appledore outside of Barcelona identified. British citizen John H. Watson confirmed dead.
She gasped and jumped back from the screen as though it had just caught fire. 'No! No, that's not possible!'
'Eyewitnesses place him at the scene. God knows what he was doing there. They're saying it was some sort of base for the A.G.R.A. crime ring.'
Her eyes were welling with tears, and she was filled with a great sadness for a man she had never met, yet one who had occupied a considerable place in her imagination. 'What about—'
'Sherlock Holmes? No official word. Though there's suspicion he was there, too.'
'Shit, Larry!'
'I know. I'm sorry. This was your story, you were close to it, and . . . I'm sorry.'
He dug his hands deep in his pockets and looked at the floor. Michaela stood with one arm around her middle, the opposite hand covering her mouth, shaking her head in disbelief. For over a minute, neither moved, neither spoke, because neither knew quite what to do next.
Finally—
'You want me to write it up?' she asked, her voice husky with the effort of controlling a waver.
'It's your story,' he repeated.
She nodded. Unable to glance back at the screen, she left Mr Heinrich's office and returned to her own for some privacy. She had only recently been given an office with a door.
Lestrade's feet were heavy, his hands shaky. He tightened one into a fist, took a deep breath, and knocked on her door.
Mrs Hudson greeted him with a smile. 'Greg! Do come in, I've just made a soda bread,' she said cheerily, retreating toward the kitchen. 'You know how good it is when it's still warm. Is Molly home?'
She was, but she was in no state just then to come down the stairs. She wanted to, she thought it was only right. But Lestrade spared her. This was going to be hard enough as it was.
He swallowed away the lump his throat, but his breath caught in his chest. 'Mrs Hudson—' he stuttered.
'Just on the sofa there, you're all right,' she said, waving him into a seat.
On the cusp of objecting, his throat was stoppered when he saw that morning's issue of The Guardian on the end table. Its headline seared his eyes:
Sherlock Holmes' partner confirmed dead in Barcelona explosion
Stunned, he picked it up with quivering fingers. So she had already seen it? She already knew? Or was it possible she just hadn't put on her reading glasses yet? He couldn't let her find out this way, assaulted by a newspaper headline. No, it had to be him. Lestrade had to be the one to tell her. He folded the paper in half and tucked it beneath a throw pillow.
Mrs Hudson returned from the kitchen with a slice of warm soda bread on a tea plate and a cup of coffee in a teacup. She set it on the coffee table for him, then sat herself in her rocker overlaid with a brown and yellow crocheted blanket. Gently, he sat with her, hands folded together. He licked his lips and tried to speak but couldn't. He licked his lips and tried again.
'Mrs Hudson,' he said, wrinkling his nose to stave off the tears, 'something's happened. Something you should know. But—'
'I know,' she said.
He stared, blinking rapidly.
'What the papers say, I already know.'
'God,' he said, his head falling forward.
'Greg, love.' She reached for his arm and gripped it tightly. 'It's not true.'
It was worse than he had imagined. She was in denial, and he had to convince her—
'John called,' she said, eyes shining above an uncontained smile. 'He said that soon, very soon, they would start reporting that something had happened to him and that I wasn't to believe a word of it. Not a word.'
Lestrade felt as though someone had poured ice-cold water over his head. He froze, incredulous. 'What?'
'Not a word. And I wasn't to say a word either, not to anyone. I confess, I thought he had called you, too!'
'Mrs Hudson.' He turned his body to face her more directly and took both her hands in his to look hard into her eyes. 'You're saying John called you.'
'Yes.'
'You talked to John.'
'When? When did this happen?'
'Last night, just as I was readying for bed.'
'And you're sure it was him?'
'Of course, I'm sure!'
'It wasn't just someone impersonating John?'
She regarded him sternly. 'I know the sound of my boys' voices.'
He felt like he was interrogating a witness. 'What did he say? Every word, Mrs Hudson, tell me everything, everything, exactly as you remember it.'
So she told him:
Her phone displayed Unknown Caller, and she had been trained (by Sherlock Holmes, no less) to be wary of answer any numbers she did not know. So she ignored it and continued turning down the covers. But a minute later, the phone started ringing again. Again she ignored it. By the time she was saw on the edge of the mattress, the phone lit up for a third time, and something in her reasoned that such persistence was indicative of an emergency. Fully prepared to hang up, she answered the call.
When she heard his voice, she began to cry. He asked after her health and whether Greg and Molly were doing right by her ('Good good, quite good' and 'Oh yes, such dears, the both of them'), and he said that he missed her terribly but not to worry. They had only one more thing to do, and then they were coming home. But before they did, there was something she needed to know.
'Something had happened to him,' repeated Lestrade. 'He didn't say what the news would report? Just something?'
'And like I said, I wasn't to believe a word of it. Nonsense is what it is, even if Ms Warner was the one to say it.'
He couldn't talk long, John had said. He cautioned her not to tell anyone they had spoken. Before they said their goodbyes, he told her he loved her. She pressed a hand to her heart as she spoke it, tears of joy leaking from the corners of her eyes.
Greg couldn't stand it. He helped Mrs Hudson to her feet and embraced her. His own devastated heart, broken only hours before, was made whole again. He almost wanted to cry harder now. And laugh. Holmes and Watson, those two bastards. What were they cooking up?
He thanked her for the soda bread, which he now gobbled up with gusto. Then he kissed Mrs Hudson on the forehead and apologized for his abrupt departure, but he had to go tell Molly the good news.
A man boarded a train at Heathrow, headed for London, carrying nothing but a black shoulder bag. He wore a blue-collared shirt and dark blue tie overlaid with a midnight-blue peacoat and dress trousers. He looked something like a security guard, but for the fact that there was no patch or lettering or insignia on his clothes, no ID tag or badge. And he wore a close-fitted black beanie pulled far down on his brow, almost obscuring his eyes. Official enough that no one would stare; not official enough to identify him with any particular organization. Essentially, he was invisible.
He settled into an open seat, slumped down and spread his legs like a cad, and pretended to doom scroll on his phone. Really, he was observing his fellow passengers and checking the news. He didn't have to search long before he found what he was looking for.
John Watson of London dies in explosion
Victim of kidnapping-and-rescue plot found dead in Spain
Sherlock Holmes' partner confirmed dead in Barcelona explosion
Watson murdered by international crime ring
It didn't matter that they were untrue. Seeing those words in print, seeing John's face attached to article after article, the face of a presumed dead man, made Sherlock's heart quail. He had to remind himself that it was impermanent, and necessary. There was only one person he needed to convince of it, and to do that, he had to convince all of England.
Still, it was a hell of a ruse to play on the world.
'I'm calling Mrs Hudson,' said John, only fifteen minutes after the story had been planted by an 'anonymous tipster'. Already, the dominos were falling in rapid succession, and it wouldn't be long before word reached London.
'Not a good idea,' said Sherlock. 'The whole plan relies on total—'
'I'm calling her.' John's tone gave little room for argument. He wasn't happy with the plan as it was, and getting him to agree to it had been an eight-hour long ordeal.
'She won't have to sit with it for long,' countered Sherlock. He had no wish at all to bring Mrs Hudson grief. But if this was going to work, they couldn't take any chances. 'Seventy-two hours, at most.'
'It will kill her, Sherlock. I'm not doing that to her. I'm not. I'm calling.'
He wanted to call her, too. He was back on British soil, speeding toward London and little more than an hour to his own front door. But he had to put it from his mind—Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, all of them—and focus on the plan. One more case. Seventy-two hours, he had promised.
At the next stop, feeling that he was getting close to his destination, he lifted his eyes to check where he was and read the sign on the platform: Leicester Square. Only two more stops then. He shifted in his seat and was in the act of putting away his phone when his eyes snagged on a girl's backpack as she prepared to alight from the train. A large pin was attached to the outer pocket reading I believe in Sherlock Holmes. He stared, baffled by the pin. Instantly suspicious, he made a quick scan of the girl: early twenties, uni student, cat owner, weed habit, rather unremarkable. The pin itself looked to be homemade. A fan? These days? Strange.
But when he got off at Holborn, he hadn't gone twenty metres before, looking up, he saw a sign in a flat window, also homemade, reading the same: I believe in Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't help it—he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at it. Someone ran into him, and he murmured an apology and kept walking.
And there! Graffitied on the side of a shopping trolley kiosk: Sherlock lives!
He suddenly felt like he was under a giant spotlight. His cast his eyes around wildly for a moment, up and down the street, up and down the buildings, but no one was watching him. He shoved the beanie a little further down his brow, ducked his head, and kept walking. But he dug out his phone and started searching.
The hashtags #SherlockLives and #SaveSherlockHolmes were going viral, and had been for less than forty-eight hours. But not only those, but also this: #JusticeForJohnWatson. And the posts! They spoke of everything from broken hearts to vengeful wishes to long pontifications on what Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had done for the city, echoing John's blog post from a few months before. And some of them, it seemed, were drawing lines that the public were never meant to draw:
Authorities are being coy, but it's obvious to anyone who can connect A to B. #SherlockHolmes and #JohnWatson took down Moriarty and they took down A.G.R.A. They're fucking heroes, man.
Hot take: A.G.R.A. headquarters was in Barcelona. #Sherlock blew it up, Death Star style. #RIPJohnWatson.
I refuse to believe #JohnWatson is dead. Show us your receipts!
#JohnWatsonLives! No body, no death.
Look, fellas, if #SherlockHolmes can come back from the dead, you better believe he'll resurrect the love of his life. #LoveConquersAll.
#NotDead. John said it himself, people. 'Sherlock lives means John Watson lives.' I'm not giving up on those two.
Sherlock was stunned. Outrage his behalf? A public outcrying of support for him and John? This was not the London that had condemned him four years ago, or driven the mob to his front door only months before, the city that had hounded John for a story they had no right to. He didn't know what to make of it. And he wondered what John would make of it. Not for the first time that day, his thoughts slid away, thinking of the man he had left behind.
'What do you think, John?' he asked, turning a slow circle in his latest disguise.
John stood on the other side of the room behind a table, packing a small black duffle. He would be travelling light. He looked up, but his expression remained inscrutable.
'Am I invisible in a crowd?'
'I'm not the one to ask,' John said softly, returning his attention to the duffle. He yanked a zip. 'I would know you in dark.'
Sherlock could feel his discontent wafting from the other side of the room, manifesting as barely masked anger.
'Then you'll have no trouble finding me,' Sherlock said.
John's eyes alone snapped up. Doubt marked every line of his face. But he nodded sharply. 'Seventy-two hours.'
St Sepulchre-without-Newgate stood opposite the Old Bailey, its tower dragging Sherlock's eyes skyward where the sun was a small circle of light behind a gauzy September sky, clouds too high and too wispy to threaten rain while still precluding more cheerful weather. He paused at the corner of the street, observing the grounds, as if in search of some clue as to what he was about to walk into. But the longer he lingered, the more chances that he would be spotted and recognised on the street, and the more likely he would be to lose his nerve.
It was possible, of course, that he'd got it all wrong, and he and John were chasing the wrong trail, and their plan would shortly come to naught. It was possible. But there was only one way to know for sure.
He approached the gate, took one more deep breath, and let himself inside.
The inside of the church was quiet. Tall white columns stretched toward the curved ceiling, and what poor light there was outside dimly lit the stained-glass windows on either side of the nave. His shoes barely made a sound as he crossed over the black and white tiles, chequered like a chessboard. His eyes roved, but he spotted only a couple of patrons sitting and conversing quietly in the folding wooden chairs. He wandered slowly to the aisle on the right, not sure what he was looking for, or waiting for, so he catalogued everything, from the two old patrons to the artwork in the glass to the signs indicating where to leave a donation. But as he curved around one of the columns, he paused. A wooden cage of glass hung on one side of the column, and behind the glass, a handbell, dark in colour, like iron.
'All you that in the condemned hole do lie—'
Sherlock had seen the man's advance in the glass, but the voice still startled him, and he turned quickly to see a vicar smiling subtly with hands clasped behind him.
'—prepare you, for tomorrow you shall die.'
'Pardon?'
The vicar nodded at the glass case. 'The Execution Bell,' he said. 'It brings in a lot of tourists. Do you know its history?'
He did, but he played stupid and let the vicar talk, giving Sherlock a longer chance to scrutinise the man before him.
'Purchased in 1605 by a man called John Dowe. That very bell was used to announce the execution of men condemned to die by hanging. The bellman of the Church would ring it twelve times, then the prisoner would be led out of Newgate Gaol, where the Old Bailey stands now, and taken to be hanged on Tyburn Tree—a gallows in Tyburn, near our modern-day Marble Arch. More than a hundred people were executed there.' He chuckled good naturedly. 'London Town is rife with gruesome stories like that. The horrible things we do to each other. One hopes, today, we are a little more civilised than our forebears.'
Sherlock did not return the smile. 'Or perhaps, we're just finding new ways to punish and torment . . . and avenge.'
'How do you mean?'
'Please,' said Sherlock with a sneer. 'You're no more a vicar than I was five years ago today. An amusing callback. I have to hand it to Irene for her attention to detail.'
The vicar's smile slipped by degrees. 'She did say you were quick.' He looked down at his black cassock, then fingered his clerical collar. 'How did you work it out?'
'I don't waste my time with stooges. Where is she?'
Stepping back, as though afraid Sherlock might add to his fancy dress by giving him the same wounded cheek Sherlock himself had sported that day, he said, 'Underground. Metaphorically speaking. It wouldn't do to expose herself in public.'
'I would have thought public exposure would be right up her street.'
'Cute.'
'Thank you.'
'I'm merely the messenger, Mr Holmes. She didn't know if you'd come today. She was hoping. But she didn't know.'
'The message, if you please.'
'There are two. The first is this: Sincerest condolences on the loss of your darling pet.' He put up his hands quickly at Sherlock's intense glower. 'Only the messenger!'
'If she knows John's dead, then she knows I'm coming after her.'
'She knows. And she's ready for you.' He reached inside a pocket of his cassock and withdrew a sealed envelope. 'Message number two.' He passed it over, then, with discernible relief, the false vicar turned and walked away.
Sherlock held the letter loosely. He drifted away from the Execution Bell and sat in one of the wooden chairs, expecting to be regarded as merely a parishioner whose privacy in worship was to be respected. There, he silently tore the seams of the envelope and extracted the single paper therein:
Come for me, Sherlock, where a memorial was raised to one who never died.
He did not fail to understand the double entendre in her opening, and he knew instantly where she intended him to go. Newport Cemetery.
Where old things became new.
His own death, he reckoned.
He was headed back to Buckinghamshire.
'She'll ambush me,' he told John. 'Incapacitate me, somehow. But she won't kill me right away. That will give you time.'
John licked his lip, swallowed hard. 'Poison, I reckon.'
'Hm?'
'A drug. She's Queen of Poisons, remember? Aconite with Mycroft, then sodium thiopental for Anthea and Davenport, the same for Ella and Naomi, and hell, it's probably what they used on me at Appledore. She'll stick a needle in you, almost certainly.'
Sherlock hummed in agreement.
'Too much, and it'll kill you.'
'Historically, her dosages have been low.'
'It could kill you.' John stood up from the table, if only to release his frustration at the whole thing.
'John . . .'
He pushed back from the table and walked around it. Placing a hand on John's shoulder, he turned him gently until they were facing each other, though John's head was drooping and he couldn't meet him in the eye.
'This is going to work.'
John looked away. 'And if it doesn't?'
Sherlock caught his jaw, bringing him back around. He waited for John to lift his gaze. 'Trust me. Please. One more time. I know Irene Adler. I know myself. And I know you. This will work.'
The cemetery was like the church—cold, dark, empty. The last of daylight cast long shadows across the headstones. Overhead, a bird cawed, and when a stiff breeze blew, it blew chill. Sherlock dug his hands deeper inside the pockets of his peacoat, but he resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders because there, up ahead, near a grave marker still bearing his name, stood three men in long black coats. They were waiting for him.
He stopped when he came within six metres. They were dressed, not as thugs, not like Moran's men, but like lawyers, but for the submachine guns crossing the bodies of two of them, who stood rigid with weight evenly distributed between both legs. The third stood more casually, holding a black attaché case at his side.
'Evening,' he said, his voice bland, his expression blank.
The man in the middle nodded. 'Mr Holmes.'
'Where is she?'
'Nowhere you would think to look for her.'
'But you'll take me there.'
'Of course.'
'Then let's get on with it.' He looked at the briefcase. 'A presume you're carrying the tools for my detainment.'
'Yes.'
'Let me guess. Black bag over my head. Handcuffs. Sodium thiopental.'
For the first time, the man emoted—a single raised eyebrow. 'How unimaginative. Ms Adler is more poetic than that.'
'Do tell.'
The man came forward and indicated that Sherlock put out his hands, into which he delivered the attaché case. He popped the locks, lifted the top, and stepped back.
Inside, Sherlock saw a syringe in plastic packaging, a rubber hose, a spoon, a lighter, and a small plastic baggie of white powder. His eyes snapped up. This wasn't part of the plan.
'A welcome home gift, Mr Holmes,' said the man. 'Ms Adler bids you enjoy it.'
'You're not serious.'
'Of course, you need no instruction, as I understand.'
'I'm not shooting myself up.' His heart began to beat in earnest. He was clean. One hundred percent sober, and he had been for nearly seven years, since before moving to Baker Street.
'Then this ends here.' The man nodded to one of the gun-toting cronies behind him.
'I . . . I don't even know what it—'
'Heroin. Don't worry, it's pure.'
Sherlock's jaw tightened, his breath coming more rapidly now. He knew this drug. He had once known it very well. Once it hit the bloodstream, it would turn into morphine, its chemical structure so similar to that of endorphins, what he used to crave above any form of stimulus. The euphoria was again right at his fingertips. The morphine would bind to the opioid receptors in his superior brain. He would get high. He would feel amazing. And then, he would fall asleep, and it was possible—every time it was possible—his body would forget to breathe. Or his heart might fail altogether. Arrhythmia, pulmonary oedema, heart attack. He had escaped it before. He had been lucky. There were only so many times a man could be lucky.
He didn't move but to raise an imperious eyebrow and disguise his fear. 'I'm more of a cocaine man,' he said snidely. Then he sniffed. 'It's like she doesn't know me at all.'
'You have five minutes to prepare and inject, Mr Holmes.'
'Or what?'
'Or we shoot you in the kneecaps. You're coming with us one way or another. It's up to you whether you want your knees to come, too.'
He was horrified. Trapped. His repulsion was a sour taste on his tongue and an instinct to run. Before this very moment, he had not realised how he cherished his sobriety. John had not known that other version of him, the weak and pathetic smackhead Sherlock Holmes. Of course, he knew of Sherlock's history; he knew he was an addict. Hell, he'd known it almost from the very beginning, and had never held it against him. Not even Lestrade had seen him at his worst. Only Mycroft.
Sherlock slowly lowered himself to his knees and set the open attaché case in front of him. He began to go through the motions, machine-like, as if he wasn't there but watching himself from above, seeing the young man he used to be make another stupid, stupid decision. Mycroft's voice was inside his head, berating him, pleading with him not to do this. This wasn't sodium thiopental—it was something far worse, and it was just as likely to do him in.
Not part of the plan.
They watched him prepare tap the powder into the spoon, heat it to bubbling, and draw it into the syringe. They took from him his coat so he could roll his shirtsleeve up past his elbow and fit the tourniquet to his arm. All actions familiar, almost exciting, deeply repugnant. He shook as he positioned the needle, cursing the Woman with every throb of his aching heart. Even if he survived this, she had just stolen something deeply important to him. How dare she. How dare she.
The needle pricked and pierced; the syringe plunged. And within mere seconds, before he had even extracted the tip, he felt a sense of euphoria begin to bloom. Soon, he would be drowsy, clouded, and easy to control. If the drug didn't kill him, of course.
Damn her. Damn her to hell.
'That'll do,' said the man, satisfied. 'Now Mr Holmes, we'll take you to meet the Queen.'
A pressure on his back, followed by urgent shaking, startled him awake.
'Greg. Greg.'
Lestrade's eyes snapped open in the same instant he rolled onto his back. Molly was up on an elbow, and before he could ask what was wrong, she had a hand over his mouth to keep him from speaking.
'I heard a noise,' she whispered. 'I think . . . I think someone's in the flat.'
He stilled, straining to hear a noise. Then he thought he did: a slow creaking noise on the stair. His eyes snapped to the digital clock on the bedside table. Just after two in the morning. Not Mrs Hudson.
He rolled soundlessly out of bed and went straight for his Glock. 'Stay in the bedroom,' he said, barely loud enough to hear. 'Lock yourself in.'
He heard her gasp, but he was already at the bedroom door, easing it open and slipping out into the hallway. Weapon pointed at the floor and back against the wall, he eased down the black hallway and was just reaching the kitchen when a pale orange light suddenly snapped on in the sitting room. His footsteps halted, but only briefly. He raised the gun and made his purposeful way toward the sitting room, ready to engage.
Then he saw John Watson.
'John!'
He stood with feet apart and hands in his pockets, his face in shadow for the light behind him, and Lestrade could make out no expression. 'Greg.'
'Oh my God! John!' Behind him, Molly hit the kitchen light, adding to glow of the solitary lamp dimly lighting the sitting room, and in the seconds before Molly rushed to him, Lestrade took note of three things: a body worn thin but rugged from unspoken trials, a dark wound still healing on the side of his face, and a grave expression that promised something foreboding. But Molly saw none of that, only threw her arms around his neck and embraced him. John's expression cracked a little as he returned her embrace. His eyes closed in contentment. 'We've missed you, Molly,' he said warmly.
Still feeling the rush of adrenaline and shock at seeing his old friend, Lestrade dropped his arms to his sides. His heart was pumping like he'd just raced up the stairs, and he was forcibly recalled to another midnight hour, coming home to a different ghost in his sitting room. 'We?' Lestrade came closer. 'John, where's Sherlock?'
John released Molly, and she stepped back a little, creating a circle. John's expression drew grim. 'It's almost over, Greg. All of it. But I need your help.'
'Of course,' said Lestrade. 'Of course, anything you need, but where's—?'
'Make some calls. I need everyone in the War Room before the sun comes up. Everyone. We have work to do.'
'John.' Lestrade stepped forward anxiously and gripped John's upper arm. 'The last we knew anything, you were in Spain, both of you. Then all these stories start coming out about Appledore and A.G.R.A. and Moran and all of it, and then suddenly the news is reporting you're dead! But here you are, in the dead of night, you're home, but . . . but where is Sherlock?'
John's jaw tightened and he folded his arms, but Lestrade saw in his eyes a note of deep sadness, and for a moment, his stomach clenched in anticipation of devastating news.
'Precisely where he means to be,' said John. 'But not safe. He needs our help. I made him a promise. Together we made a plan. It will work. I have to believe it will work. But . . . I can't do it on my own.'
'We're with you, John. Always.'
'I know.' He cast his eyes downward and to the side, looking at Sherlock's empty chair. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it locked up inside.
'Where do we start?'
John lifted his eyes back to Lestrade. His voice was a deep whisper. 'Cherchez la femme.'
