From a Drop of Water - victorianpining (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue: Did You Miss Me?

Chapter Text

“What are you still doing here?” Sherlock asks, eyes flashing with irritation through a haze of chemically induced fog. “Shouldn’t you be off getting me a pardon or something? Like a proper big brother?”

Sherlock forces himself into the narrow space between Mycroft and the seat opposite him, shoving past without so much as another glance. Mycroft’s mouth tightens as his gaze falls to the floor. Mary is quick to follow, smirking at Mycroft as she goes, with John a few steps behind. Mycroft looks up as John passes by.

“Dr. Watson?” He calls out. He turns to face John where he stands in the arched doorway of the plane. There’s a pause where the whistling of the plane’s air system is the only sound as John looks expectantly at Mycroft. The corners of Mycroft’s mouth pull up in a sad imitation of a smile. “Look after him. Please.”

John’s expression softens and he gives a small nod in answer before he turns away to follow after Sherlock.

Mycroft stoops down to gather the torn pieces of Sherlock’s drug list from where his brother had carelessly discarded them onto the orange carpeting. Mycroft tucks the scraps between the pages of the notebook from his breast pocket. He stares at the list for a long moment before folding the notebook shut. Straightening up with a tired sigh, he ducks through the plane doorway and looks out across the tarmac to watch his brother get into a car with John and Mary. The phone in Mycroft’s pocket chimes and he absentmindedly checks it:

1 New Message: Unknown Number

Mycroft’s brow furrows as he reads the text, and he glances back up at the car now pulling away with fresh concern on his face.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Sherlock,” he murmurs. Mycroft returns the phone to his pocket without responding to the message. As he climbs down the steps to the tarmac, he undoes his tie, handing it to his assistant who offers him a navy blue one in return. Mycroft casts one final look at the car now far in the distance and shakes his head.

Sherlock, meanwhile, sits in the front seat of the car leaving the tarmac. He’s contorted around to face John and Mary in the back and is speaking so quickly that it’s difficult to follow. “It’s simple, really. Once Moriarty was dead, all someone had to do was wait until the right moment and then resurrect him. Everyone would be so focused on finding Moriarty that no one would suspect the real hacker. Well, except for me. I need to get back to Baker Street to prepare. I’ll need to be ready to face whoever is bringing back Moriarty and figure out what they’re after.” Sherlock’s focus is centered on Mary as he speaks, rather than John. A sharp twinge of rejection stabs through John’s chest.

John glances between Sherlock and Mary, wondering yet again if he’s missed something between them. He flashes back to Appledore, Sherlock looking back at him over his shoulder with his hands above his head. “Give my love to Mary…” John pushes the thought away, tries to stay focused.

Mary smiles at Sherlock, like she’s in on some joke he’s telling. “And you got all that from the Ricoletti case, did you?”

“Naturally.” Sherlock smiles back at her. It’s more than John can stand at the moment and he interjects himself into their conversation.

“Clever, and all that. But you can’t seriously think you’re going to go chasing after some new criminal mastermind now. With the dosage you took, you’re lucky to still be breathing. You’re going to the hospital.” John’s voice is hard, but there’s genuine fear in his eyes. Sherlock finally glances at John and there’s some emotion there that John can’t quite put his finger on.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Actually,” says Mary, “I think that’s a good idea. We lost you for a minute there. I’d hate for you to go collapsing again.” It doesn’t actually sound like she hates the idea at all. John grinds his teeth together as the fingers on his left hand tremble slightly. He balls them into a fist.

Sherlock looks back at Mary, appraising her for a long moment.

“That won’t be necessary.” He finally says with a hint of humour. “I’ve solved cases in worse states than this.”

“Sherlock.” John says, “You’re going to the hospital. End of discussion.”

“Fine.” Sherlock sighs, his eyes sliding closed. When he opens them again and looks back at John, he seems slightly dazed. “Only a fool argues with his doctor after all.” Sherlock beams at him.

John’s eyes widen in alarm as he takes in Sherlock’s expression. He spares a fleeting glance at his wife. “You coming with us?”

“No, that’s all right, you two go ahead.” She says casually, her eyes on Sherlock. Mary looks over at the driver. “Drop me off first.”

The atmosphere in the car is tense as they make their way to the Watson residence. John keeps his gaze fixed on Sherlock, looking for any signs his condition might be worsening. Mary’s posture is rigid as she stares out the window. Every so often, her eyes flit between John and Sherlock, expression unreadable. Sherlock, oblivious to the dark mood emanating from the back seat, continues to insist that he’s completely fine, right up until the point they pull up to the curb in front of John and Mary’s house.

When the car is parked, Mary is quick to climb out. John likewise exits the car without looking at her. Sherlock tenses, thinking John is going to follow Mary inside. Instead, John pulls open the passenger side door and stares down at him, posture full of quiet authority.

“Out you." John orders. "You’re coming to the back so I can keep an eye on you.” Sherlock lets out a dramatic groan, but complies, practically falling into the back seat. He rights himself and slides across the seat to where Mary had been. He turns to look out the window, seemingly oblivious to John getting back into the car next to him.

Sherlock’s eyes follow Mary as she walks to the front door and enters the house. As soon as she’s inside with the door shut, he visibly relaxes.

He turns back to face John, smiling like he’s high out of his mind. “So... John.” Sherlock’s smile grows impossibly wider. “Any ideas as to who is behind Moriarty’s apparent return?”

“How would I know?” John asks, reaching a hand down to grab Sherlock’s wrist and placing two fingers over Sherlock’s pulse point. He looks down at his watch and begins counting. Too fast, he thinks to himself, his lips pressing together into a hard line.

Sherlock considers John’s answer, then sighs. “Hmm. I suppose you wouldn’t. Well, how did Mary take the news?”

“Mary?” John asks incredulously, eyes flashing up to Sherlock’s face.

“Yes. Did she seem worried?” Sherlock is looking intently at John, like his answer is vitally important. John fights back a wave of confused emotions: hurt, betrayal, jealousy. Not the time.

“Er, yeah. She did, actually. Frightened was more like it.”

“Interesting…” Sherlock’s eyes go a bit unfocused, like he’s either figuring something out or is about to lose consciousness again. John instinctively sits up straighter, alert. “Well, we can’t have that. I suppose we’ll just have to solve this as quickly as possible.” Sherlock groans again, then collapses back into his seat, head tipping backwards onto the headrest at an uncomfortable looking angle.

“Sherlock!” John exclaims, already crowding into Sherlock’s space. Sherlock’s eyes slide open as his head lolls to the side to get a better look at John. The dazed expression is back at full force.

“Hmmm?”

“Keep your eyes open for me, yeah? Just keep your focus on me. Knew we should have gone straight to the hospital.” The creases in John's forehead deepen as he looks into Sherlock’s eyes, noting his wide-blown pupils. Not a good sign. He’s alarmed when he feels Sherlock’s pulse in his wrist speeding up.

“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock says; his voice has gone soft and he’s smiling deliriously again. “You’re here.” He says it as if this fact makes all the difference in the world.

John’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head.

“Can you go any faster?” He asks the driver without looking away.

“Nearly there, sir.”

When they arrive at the hospital, John gets out of the car first. He extends his left hand to help Sherlock up. Sherlock grabs it readily but springs out of the car without John’s assistance, pulling John along with him by the hand. John plants his feet, stopping Sherlock’s forward momentum.

“Sherlock. Easy.”

Sherlock, enthusiasm undeterred, suddenly whirls around to face him. His eyes dance with excitement. “John, can you do something for me?”

“Yeah.” John replies without thinking. “Anything. What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sways a bit closer, and he puts a hand on John’s shoulder to steady himself.

“When you go home, keep an eye on Mary for me, won’t you?” The words are barely above a whisper, as if he’s worried about someone overhearing them.

John’s face crumples a bit. “On Mary?”

“Yes, it’s very important.” Sherlock’s expression is intent, and John once again has the sense that Sherlock is trying to convey something to him with his eyes. John doesn’t understand the message, or he hopes he doesn’t. But he agrees all the same.

“Yeah. All right,” John nods. “Keep an eye on Mary for you. Right. I’ll do that.”

Sherlock smiles again at John in that same, delirious way

“Thank you, John. Knew you’d understand.” Sherlock winks at John, before pulling his hand free and turning away, walking towards the hospital doors. “Now let’s get me hooked up to an IV before I start hallucinating that we’re in 1970.”

John follows him, battling down that same wave of confusion and hurt he’d felt in the car. “Yeah,” John attempts to laugh. “Can’t have that. First undead brides... You’ll be seeing the Loch Ness Monster next.”

As they pass through the lobby John looks up at the TV screen in the corner of the room. Moriarty’s face still flashes across the screen in an unending loop, his mad grin seeming to pierce straight through to John’s heart.

“Did you miss me?”

Chapter 2: The Six Thatchers: Part One

Chapter Text

Dull grey light filters through the curtains of John and Mary’s bedroom the next morning. John, who had not gotten back home until well after midnight, lies awake in bed with his eyes fixed to the ceiling, trying not to think and failing spectacularly. Mary sleeps beside him, curled towards him and gripping his arm a bit too tightly in her left hand. He looks at her face for a moment before returning his gaze to the ceiling.

John has spent the better part of three months trying to figure out his wife. How much of Sherlock’s explanation of her actions had been real, how much of it Sherlock himself believed. John has a difficult time believing any of it, but then again, he has a hard time trusting people in general. Especially when the people closest to him have repeatedly proven themselves to be untrustworthy.

After Mary had shot Sherlock, John had moved back into his old room at Baker Street. With Sherlock still recovering in the hospital, John had plenty of time alone during those months to think.

He’s gone over the evidence countless times in his head, trying to figure out what exactly had happened. Where it had all gone wrong. The possibilities and their implications are well worn paths in his head.

Option 1: Sherlock is telling the truth. Almost impossible to believe, but why would Sherlock lie? As unlikely as it seems to John, he supposes there is a chance... that Mary really shot Sherlock to save his life. Even if that is true, John doesn’t think he’ll be able to forgive her. Especially considering…

In his mind he sees a flash drive, the letters AGRA... “My initials… Everything about who I was is on there. If you love me, don’t read it in front of me… Because you won’t love me when you’ve finished.” John suppresses a wave of anger. Overall, he doesn’t place much stock in option one.

Option 2: Sherlock is, in fact, lying. Because he has a plan. Sherlock always has a bloody plan. This of course, would mean Sherlock is deliberately keeping John out of those plans. Again. Despite how much John hates that idea, this is still the explanation he hopes for. Because it means there’s potentially a way out of this situation, that the complete detachment he feels towards Mary now isn’t a sign that something is wrong with him.

But because it’s the explanation he wants to be true, John doesn’t let himself dwell on it often. Though he had nearly convinced himself of Sherlock’s plan in the leadup to Christmas...

But there had been a third option lurking in the back of his mind. One that had begun looking more and more likely when Sherlock had thrown his entire life to keep Mary safe, when he had kissed her cheek and embraced her in farewell on the tarmac. A stark contrast to the lone pale hand he had extended to John. When even now, Sherlock seems preoccupied with Mary’s well-being, what she thinks of his explanations, her reaction to Moriarty coming back, insisting to John that she be looked after…

Option 3: Sherlock is lying to himself, because he’s in love with Mary. That would explain Sherlock's anxiety in the months leading up to John's wedding, would explain why he would go to these ridiculous lengths to forgive her, to keep her safe.

John finds this option unbearable.And all of this is only complicated by the baby...

He takes a deep breath and pushes the emotions, the fear, the jealousy, the heartbreak, away. They aren’t helpful. He’s decided to do things Sherlock’s way. Always his way. So, when it looked like Sherlock wanted John to forgive Mary, he had carefully crafted a speech that sounded just enough like reconciliation to still be believable when every single word of it was a lie. And if Sherlock wants John to keep an eye on Mary for him, he’ll do it, regardless of why he’s asking. Even if the probable reason makes John feel like his insides are on fire.

Mary’s grip unconsciously tightens on his arm. John looks back down at her hand. She’s always slept like that, holding onto him. It had always bothered John. But he had thought he was being ridiculous, so he never mentioned it. It wasn’t until he heard her tell Sherlock why she had lied about her past that he could finally articulate why.

“John can’t ever know that I lied to him. It would break him, and I would lose him forever and Sherlock, I will never let that happen. Please. Understand. There is nothing in this world I would not do to stop that happening.”

The unconscious contact had never felt like affection. It had always felt possessive, like Mary thought she could keep John with her by force.

John’s only been back in this bed with Mary for a week and already he finds himself wishing he was back alone in Baker Street. Well, if he’s honest, he doesn’t want to be there alone… Another thought he pushes away.

John sighs, extricates his forearm from Mary’s hand, and gets out of bed. After a shower John sits down at his computer desk with an apple and a cup of black coffee and tries to write something for his blog.

“My best friend is probably in love with my wife, who by the way probably tried to kill him, even though he’s insisting that it was ‘surgery,’ whatever he means by that.”

John stares at the text, then backspaces through it one letter at a time. As he does something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. His blog counter, perpetually stuck at 1895, has finally changed. It now claims 7,734 hits. Odd. He wonders why it’s been fixed.

John’s phone starts ringing on the desk beside him. Sherlock. He answers it before the second ring. “Hey, Sherlock. You okay?”

“Yes, John, I’m fine. I keep telling you I’ve had worse.” John doesn’t doubt it, but that fact does nothing to lessen his concern. At least Sherlock sounds more like his usual self. “That’s not why I called. Mrs. Hudson’s just been up with the mail. I’ve had a package. No return address, just the words ‘Miss Me.’ Can you meet me at St. Bart’s? I want to scan the package before I open it. Moriarty was known to send explosives and whoever is pretending to be him may have picked up the trick. Lestrade is sending bomb disposal to transport it now to be safe.”

“Sure, I’ll be right there.” John’s already keying up at the idea of another case. It’s been ages since the two of them have had a proper adventure, or really had any time alone together to talk...

“And bring Mary with you when you come. I think she should be there for this.” Just like that all of John’s excitement fizzles out and he’s back to fighting back a twisted knot of darker emotions.

“Right. I’ll see if she’ll come.” John’s voice sounds dead to his own ears, he winces.

“Thank you, John. I’ll see both of you soon.” Sherlock hangs up before John can respond.

John sets his phone down and puts his head in his hands for a moment. A small voice in John’s head wonders if there’s another explanation for Sherlock suddenly wanting to keep Mary involved in the case. Maybe it’s part of some plan… John knows that’s what he wants to be true though, so he ignores it. He pushes his chair back and goes back to the bedroom.

He finds Mary awake and watching the door.

“Was that Sherlock?” She asks.

“Yes, it was. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Said he got a package that has something to do with Moriarty’s return. He’d like both of us to meet him at St. Bart’s.”

“Both of us?” Mary looks as confused by that as John feels.

“Yeah, he said you should be there for this.” John says, trying to keep his voice neutral. Something passes over Mary’s face, but it’s gone before John can identify it.

“Sure, I can tag along and keep you two out of trouble. Just give me a bit of time to get ready. Can you fix me some breakfast while I take a shower? I’m starving.” She rubs a hand over her belly as she says the last part, as if to remind John of the other reason he’s still here. The baby...

“Yeah, right. Some toast okay?” Mary must be able to hear the hollow tone in his voice. If she does, she doesn’t seem to care.

“Really? Just toast for your pregnant wife? The least you could do is make some eggs,” she laughs, patting his bicep as she walks past. John can’t tell if Mary thinks that’s supposed to be charming; it just doesn’t have the same effect on him now.

“Right. Sorry. I’ll get right on that.” Mary smiles at him and he forces himself to return it. Like with his voice, if Mary notices something off about John’s smile, she doesn’t appear bothered. She grabs her clothes and heads to the bathroom. The door swings shut, and John takes the click of the lock as his cue to leave. He goes to the kitchen to cook, his half-eaten apple going brown, and his now-cold coffee forgotten on the desk.

Somewhere across town a delivery man walks through a bustling office space, ducking past disgruntled workers without making eye contact. He’s wearing a uniform with a cap pulled low on his brow and is carrying a bright blue box under his arm. There are headphones in his ears and the music is loud enough that those nearby can hear the staticky echoes of the song he’s listening to as he passes. He makes his way to a metal door labeled Archives and slips inside unnoticed. Inside are rows of shelves filled with identical blue boxes; without pausing he turns to his right and strides past the aisles until he reaches the one labeled April-June 2010.He walks down the aisle to the very end, where he pulls out a box filed under 15 May 2010, Gibson.

That box is removed and the one under he'd brought with him slides into its place, identical to the original. With the stolen box tucked under his arm he makes his way back out of the building, reaching into his pocket to turn up his music as he goes.

I’ve had enough of scheming, and messing around with jerks.

My car is parked outside, I'm afraid it doesn’t work.

I’m looking for a partner, someone who gets things fixed.

Ask yourself this question, do you want to be rich?

John and Mary enter the lab at St. Bart’s to find Sherlock already at work examining the package. The fluorescent light glints off the glass bottles on the shelves behind him, framing him in a bright spectrum of color. Sherlock looks up from the box as they come through the door.

“Oh good, you’re here.” Sherlock half smiles at John before directing his attention to Mary. “We’ve just finished scanning the package for explosives. None found, so we should be safe to open it.”

Mary’s eyes narrow as she tilts her head to the side. “Were you expecting it to be a bomb?”

“Oh, you can never be too careful. Especially when it comes to Moriarty, or people pretending to be him.” He smiles and John again finds himself left out of whatever inside joke they have going.

John clears his throat. “Did Lestrade have any other information about who might have been behind the hack?”

Sherlock glances over at him, looking a bit exasperated. Like John is missing something obvious.

“No, I don’t think Lestrade is going to be much help with this particular case.” He says, obviously trying to communicate something other than what is being said. John can’t imagine what he’s hinting at.

“Your brother then?”

Sherlock’s eyes dart back to Mary, then down at the package before he responds. “No point. Whoever is behind this wants me to be the one on the case, clearly. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have gone through the whole ordeal of bringing me back.”

John is about to ask if Sherlock has any ideas about who this could be when the door to the lab swings open with a high-pitched squeak. Molly Hooper bustles into the room with a coffee in one hand and a stack of files in the other, pushing the lab door open with her shoulder.

“Oh hello, John! And Mary. Good to see you again, it’s been a bit, hasn’t it?” She smiles at John. John notices something seems different about her, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. She sets her files down and turns to Sherlock, “Did you find out what Moriarty sent you yet?”

“Just about to,” Sherlock says, picking up a boxcutter.

He carefully slices through the packaging tape. Despite Sherlock’s assurance that the box is free of explosives, John holds his breath as Sherlock lifts the cardboard flaps aside. Nothing happens. Inside is an old-model MacBook, partially melted through the outer shell as if it’d just been pulled from a fire. Sherlock eases the laptop out of the box, turning it over in his hands to examine it from every angle before setting it on the table. He opens the laptop and tries the power button.

Surprisingly, the computer does turn on. After it boots up, the screen plays the same clip of Moriarty that had taken over the TV screens.

“Did you miss me?" The recorded Moriarty asks, a chill-inducing smile on his face. Instead of repeating the video on a loop though, the computer then loads John’s blog. It only stays on screen for a few seconds before the MacBook powers back off. Sherlock tries the button again to the same result: Apple, Moriarty, John’s blog, black screen.

Mary looks at Sherlock incredulously. “What do you think that’s supposed to mean?”

“Not sure, yet. But I have a few theories...” He picks up the computer back up and begins examining the melted portions, seeing if there are any clues left on the machine itself. John has a thought.

“Sherlock… Do you remember that case years ago now at a murder scene, when we found a laptop like this one? It was melted too, wasn’t it? Though that one was in worse shape, wouldn’t even turn on.”

“Good work, John.” Sherlock praises, glancing up at him briefly with a small smile before returning his focus to the computer. “The thought had occurred. I had assumed that the other laptop had been destroyed by the murderer because it had identifiable information on it. But since the murderer ended up committing suicide, we never got the chance to ask him. As I said, we can assume that whoever is bringing back Moriarty is doing it for my benefit. It’s not a tremendous leap of logic to assume they might be making a deliberate connection to an old case. What’s odd is that the computer shows your blog. You never actually wrote up that case.”

Molly pipes in, “Do you think it’s possible the message is a bit more literal? That whoever is, er... being Moriarty now is telling you that you missed something in the original case?”

Sherlock looks at Molly, a bit surprised. “That’s possible. Probable even.”

Molly smiles brightly, and John is suddenly able to identify what’s different about her. She’s more confident than he’s seen her before. Well, that’s not entirely accurate; she’s more confident than John’s seen her be around Sherlock.

Sherlock is still processing the new information. “Clever, using the video as a double meaning. They thought this through very well...” He looks back at Mary. “I have a few more tests I’d like to run. Do you think you could help me? I thought with your background you might pick up on something I miss.” John fights down another wave of rejection. It’s fine if Sherlock wants Mary’s help, that shouldn’t make him feel like the air is being wrung out of his lungs.

John watches Mary’s response. She seems a bit… wary, almost. She glances back at John before responding, “Yeah, alright.” She absentmindedly places her hand over her stomach as she follows Sherlock to the far side of the lab.

John takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales slowly staring down at the lab table. He looks up to find Molly watching him, a familiar expression of concern on her face. It makes John feel scrutinised and he fights to get his emotions back under control. He smiles at her, or tries to.

“You seem well, Molly. Happier.” It doesn’t entirely work; John gets the sense Molly knows exactly what he’s doing. But she shakes her head slightly and answers anyway.

“I am. A few things have happened. The main one though is that I decided... Well,” she pauses and looks back at John with thoughtful eyes before she continues. “I decided that I finally had to live my life. And to do that I couldn’t keep pining after… things… that weren’t working out. Sometimes those things just won’t want you back. Because they’d rather have someone else.” There’s a meaningful look in her eye as she finishes, like she’s saying something she thinks John needs to hear.

John looks away from her and over to where Sherlock and Mary are working. Mary is holding the laptop up with both hands and examining the keys. Sherlock’s eyes are intent on her face, watching her with an unreadable expression. John looks back at Molly, still staring at him with that knowing look.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He says with a hint of regret.

Molly looks like she wants to say more, but Sherlock jumps up off his stool and claps his hands. “Well, it looks like we’ve gotten as far as we will with just this computer. Our next step is to see if Lestrade still has the other laptop in evidence. I think Molly is onto something, if there aren’t any other clues on this device, it follows that this person is expecting us to connect this to the old case and check there. John, Mary, come along.” Instead of whirling out of the lab, he waits for John and Mary to meet him at the door. Sherlock waves back at Molly before holding the door open for them. “After you,” he says with a nod.

Mary walks out first, Sherlock’s eyes following her as she goes. The spasm of hurt this causes slips out onto John’s face for just a moment before he ruthlessly tamps it down. He stuffs his fists into his pockets as he walks past Sherlock, who follows closely behind him.

Lestrade leads Sherlock, John, and Mary through the crowded halls of Scotland Yard. His voice carries over the ringing phones and office chatter. “Surprised when you called about the Gibson case. It’s been years since you solved that one, yeah? You think you’ll find Moriarty with this?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “As I already told you, Moriarty is dead. But yes, I think I can find who is behind the stunt on TV yesterday. The evidence is pointing us back to this case, there must be a reason.”

“Right. Well, after you then. It’ll be in here.” Lestrade says, gesturing to the door he’s led them to, which has a sign labeling it the Archives. Sherlock enters first, his eyes scanning the shelves of blue storage boxes. Lestrade steps around Sherlock and points to their right. “This way. 2010’s back over here.” Lestrade leads them past the shelves, shoes squeaking across the linoleum floor. He stops in front of a shelf labeled April-June 2010. Sherlock walks down the row until he reaches the 15th of May and crouches down to pull out the box labeled Gibson. John kneels next to Sherlock as he opens the box.

But there isn't a melted laptop inside. Instead, the first thing they see when Sherlock has lifted away the interlocking blue top is a sheet of parchment paper with the words Did you miss me? printed on it. Sherlock picks up the note to inspect it.

John glances down at the open box and his eyes grow wide. He reaches down to pick up the item on top of the pile.

“Sherlock.” John’s tone instantly catches Sherlock's attention, and he peers back into the container.

The box contains a stack of comic books. The cover of the one on the top of the pile is an illustration of a woman dressed in pink, lying dead on the floor, her hand outstretched towards the letters rache scratched into the wooden floorboards beneath her.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Issue 1: A Study in Pink.

Sherlock snatches up the comic and begins flipping through the pages. Behind him, Mary’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm before she regains composure. Sherlock sets the first issue down and begins rifling through the stack of comic books in the box. There’s an issue for each case covered on John’s blog, and for a few more that weren’t, like the Missing Issue 1: The Case of the Melting Laptop, or some like Issue 4: The Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror that had been long deleted.

John picks up the comic for A Study in Pink and flips it open to a random page.He finds that the illustrations are eerily accurate, as if the person who had drawn their likeness had been in the room with them. He stares at the panels perfectly replicating the halls of Roland Kerr Further Education College, Jefferson Hope leading Sherlock down the hallway to an empty classroom and suppresses a shudder.

“Whoever's doing this can’t have just gotten all this information from my blog.” Says John.

Sherlock shakes his head. “There are two possibilities. Either the person who made these comics was involved with these cases-”

“All of them?” John interrupts.

“That doesn’t seem very likely,” Mary says in a tight voice. John glances up at her. Her eyes are narrow, and she clenches her jaw in apparent annoyance. John’s brow furrows.

“That’s why I favor the latter option,” Sherlock continues, looking up at Mary, “They got this information some other way.”

“What other way?” Asks John, but Sherlock doesn’t answer, like he doesn’t hear him at all.

Lestrade steps closer and grabs a comic from the pile now scattered at the bottom of the box. Issue 16: The Poison Giant. “Why comics though? That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? This guy some kind of superfan of yours or something?”

John’s eyes land on another cover, this one with an image of three ninjas fighting, two in black, one in gold. Issue 5: The Geek Interpreter. Chris Melas and his friends had come to them because his crazy theories about his favorite comic series had started coming true in real life. The owners of the comic had been behind it, trying to drive Chris insane to get their series more publicity. Thankfully Sherlock and John had been able to put a stop to it before any permanent damage was done to Chris or his friends. John picks up the comic and hands it to Sherlock.

“Do you remember what Molly said? About us missing things in the old cases? Could this tie into the Geek Interpreter case?” He asks.

Sherlock frowns. “That’s probable. I wonder though. That case didn’t have any unsolved elements, why connect back to that…?” He trails off, thinking.

“Are you sure this isn’t a waste of time?” Mary asks, still irritated. “I think you ought to be focusing on finding the person behind this, not digging through all these old cases. For all we know this could all be a distraction.”

Sherlock sits back on his heels to get a better look at her, his head tilted to one side. “This is the only clue we've been given as to this person's identity. What are you suggesting we do instead?”

“I don’t know, call your brother? It seems like you’d want to use his resources a bit more.”

“He won’t be able to find anything.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “These comics are our best bet. We’ll need to examine them thoroughly. Lestrade, you don’t mind if we take these, do you?”

“By all means.” Lestrade replies.

Sherlock stacks the comics back into the archive box, then tucks it under his arm. “Back to Baker Street then. John, Mary, coming?”

John pushes up onto his feet to follow.

As they go to leave the room though, Mary speaks again in a careful tone. “Actually, I’m feeling a bit run down. To be expected in my state, I suppose.” She pats her round stomach. “I’m going to go home to rest. You two go ahead. Have fun, I won’t wait up.”

Sherlock looks like he’s going to argue for a moment but seems to change his mind. Outside he hails a cab, then holds the door open for Mary to get inside. She gives Sherlock a wry smile, then pulls John in for a kiss, fingernails digging into the back of his neck. John is quick to pull back.

“Let me know when you’re home, okay?” He asks, trying to smile.

“Oh, like you need to know where I am.” Mary says with a wink, and gets into the cab.

As the car pulls away, John turns back to Sherlock, and is surprised to see his demeanor has totally changed. Sherlock’s eyes are tight and his lips are twisted together in an uneven line.

“Sherlock?” John asks, his voice much softer. “Everything okay?”

Sherlock shakes himself before taking a deep breath. The pained expression is replaced with one of concentration. “Yes, fine.” Sherlock says offhandedly. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.” He raises his arm to hail another cab.

It’s drizzling when the cab pulls up in front of 221B. Sherlock buttons his coat up, passes the fare up to the driver, and climbs out of the cab first, holding the door open for John. John approaches their front door, already pulling his key out of his coat pocket. As he turns the knob, he hears a voice calling out from their left.

“Sherlock! Look Scott, it’s actually Sherlock.”

John looks over to see Scott and Ian Sacker standing together under an umbrella on the steps in front of 219 Baker Street. Scott is wearing a suit and smooths his short brown hair back, like he’s worried about it frizzing up from the rain. Ian Sacker is dressed in a smart looking military jacket and has pulled his long blond hair back into a bun.

Ian smiles and lightly hits Scott on the chest. “Told you he’d be back didn’t I?”

“Oh, is that so? You’re the one who kept going on about how worried you were.” Scott teases back. He turns to wave at them. “Hello John. Sherlock, good to see you back in the land of the living.”

“Hello,” Sherlock replies, an obviously forced smile on his face.

“Cheery as ever I see.” Ian replies, unfazed. He turns his attention to John. “How have you been John?”

“Great.” John says without much emotion. “Really, great. How is Mrs. Turner doing? I heard she had a bit of a bad fall.”

“Oh she’s fine.” Scott rolls his eyes. “Seemed to recover as soon as she saw the aftermath of my attempt at making a soufflé in the kitchen. I swear, she faked it for sympathy.”

“Yeah. Sounds about right.” John replies. “You two headed out?”

“Date night!” Ian says, looking a bit smug. “Have to keep the romance alive. Well. You know how it is now don’t you? You and the wife.”

Sherlock huffs and pushes past John to walk through the front door.

John looks back at the couple under the umbrella, his expression apologetic. “Sorry. Case on, you know how he gets.”

“We won’t keep you.” Scott says, walking out onto the pavement and pulling Ian with him by the hand. “Have a good night. Keep that one out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best.” John responds with a tired smile.

As John steps into the landing and pulls the door closed, he overhears Scott chastising Ian as they walk past 221. “I told you not to bring up his wife. John wouldn’t have been living here for the last few months if everything was fine, would he?” John grimaces as he bolts the door shut.

John trudges up the stairs to 221B and finds Sherlock is already pulling comics out of the archive box and spreading them out on the desk and coffee table. The fact that there’s room for them on any surface is a testament to Sherlock's prolonged absence.

He watches Sherlock, realizing this is the first time he’s seen him in Baker Street since that awful night after he had been shot. John's face falls at the memory and his hands clench into fists at his sides. After a long moment, John realises he’s still staring at Sherlock so he forces himself to go to the kitchen and flicks on the electric kettle. Two mismatched mugs, two bags of black tea, one with milk and sugar, one without. The familiarity is almost overpowering. John stands there with his mouth in a hard line, fingers drumming sharply on the counter as the kettle comes to a boil.

He comes back into the living room a minute later and sits next to Sherlock on the sofa, placing Sherlock’s mug in his outstretched hand. As Sherlock blows over the surface of his tea, his phone on the table chimes. John reads the upside down text out of habit.

Mycroft: Any updates?

Sherlock glances at the phone before picking up one of the comics in his free hand. John’s forehead creases. “Shouldn’t you answer that?”

“No time.” Sherlock responds without looking up. “This is our best bet for finding whoever is behind Moriarty’s return.” John shakes his head, but follows Sherlock’s lead, picking up the nearest comic. Issue 12: Death by Twitter.

Time passes as they pore over the comics, but nothing seems like an obvious clue. The stories are unchanged from the real events, and they don’t reveal anything Sherlock and John don’t already know. The only thing remarkable about them is how uncannily accurate they are. It’s as if someone had been watching over their shoulder as they solved the cases.

Henry Knight crouches down in the fog of Dewer’s Hollow, holding a gun up to his lips.

Isaac Persano surrounded by 1,812 matchboxes, staring out of the frame with an unhinged smile.

Sherlock kneeling on the floor of a train carriage. The floor panel in front of him has been pulled away to reveal the bright red valves of a massive bomb.

Sherlock tosses Issue 7: The Aluminium Crutch, back onto the coffee table and ruffles his hair in frustration. He picks up his phone and sends off a text before setting it back onto the table with a sigh. Sherlock grabs the comics for the two cases they’ve gotten clues from so far, Issue 5: The Geek Interpreter and Missing Issue 1: The Case of the Melting Laptop.

A thought occurs to John then. He retrieves his laptop from his bag near the door and turns it on. The moment his blog loads onto the screen, Sherlock’s eyes snap over to it.

“Your blog counter has changed.” Sherlock leans in closer to get a better look at the screen. Probably to see if anything else looks different, John tells himself.

“Yeah, I noticed that this morning. Must have gotten fixed somehow.”

Sherlock hums a vague agreement under his breath but doesn't say anything else. He shifts back to his side of the sofa. John finds his writeup of the Geek Interpreter case. The story is just as he remembers, the same as what’s portrayed in the comic version. He’s about to close out of the page when he looks down at the comments section. The first comment is from one of his blog’s oldest followers: theimprobableone.

what happened to the case of the missing laptop?

“Sherlock, look at this.” Sherlock leans over his shoulder and reads theimprobableone’s comment. “That’s the only connection we have right now between the laptop and the Geek Interpreter. Do you think we should reach out to the theimprobableone? See if he knows anything?”

“It’s a good thought, but I think it will be a waste of time. Anyone could have seen that comment and connected the two cases. Most likely a coincidence.” Nothing else jumps out about that particular blog entry so John picks up the earliest comic and starts comparing the versions case by case. A few minutes later there’s a knock at the door. Sherlock springs to his feet.

“I’d better get that. Be right back.” Sherlock rushes down the stairs and returns a minute later holding a bag of takeaway from their favourite Thai restaurant down the street. He clears a place on the coffee table to set down the bag, then goes to the kitchen to get plates. John stares at Sherlock incredulously.

“What’s this?”

Sherlock walks back to the sofa looking like he’s trying very hard to not roll his eyes. “Dinner… I thought that would be obvious.”

“But you never eat on a case… Ever.”

“Thought I’d change things up a bit. Doctor's orders.”

John’s eyebrows furrow. “Which doctor?”

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. “You, obviously. Do I have any other doctors? You’re always telling me to take better care of myself.”

John tilts his head skeptically. “And since when do you listen to me?”

“I always listen to you, John.” Sherlock murmurs. He starts untying the bag and pulling out food containers.

“Right, that’s likely,” John mutters, but he reaches out to grab a plate and begins dishing himself out some pad prik, careful not to get any on the comic books scattered on the table. They eat in comfortable silence and then go back to their work.

Hours pass. While John is still methodically comparing the comics to his blog one at a time, Sherlock flits from one comic to the next, seemingly at random. Sherlock is skimming through Issue 3: The Great Game when he inhales sharply and stiffens. The illustrated version of himself stands in Scotland Yard next to John and Lestrade, holding a thick parchment envelope up to inspect it. The tiny replication of the cursive handwriting on the envelope is unnervingly familiar; Sherlock has seen it more recently.

“She’s used a fountain pen. Parker duo fold, iridium nib.”

“She?”

“Obviously.”

“Oh!” Sherlock breathes “Oh, I see.” John looks over to find Sherlock’s eyes are unfocused, staring out at a distant sun that John can’t see.

“See what?” John asks. Sherlock doesn't respond at first, still frozen in pace.

“Nothing, I just…”

It’s rare that Sherlock Holmes is rendered speechless. He notices too many details that others don’t to be surprised often. The exceptions usually come when someone has used that against him. Created an elaborate game of distractions for him to lose himself in only to pull the rug out at the last moment. Magnussen’s vaults, Moriarty’s code, and of course, the assassin with her sights set on John’s heart.

In more ways than one.

John walks out into the blue light of the pool. He unbuttons his coat to reveal the explosives strapped to his chest. “What would you like me to make him say next?” Moriarty asks through John. A red dot appears over John's heart.

Moriarty comes out of the locker room, smirking at Sherlock as he spares a worried glance at John. His voice is disconcertingly playful. “Don’t be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

“I just didn’t realise…” John is watching Sherlock intently, so he sees panic flash across Sherlock’s face before he can conceal it. Concern rises like a tide in his chest. John looks down at the open page of the comic Sherlock is holding, but with Sherlock’s thumb covering the panel with the envelope, he doesn’t see anything on it that would cause this reaction.

Sherlock abruptly jumps up from the sofa and claps his hands together. “I didn’t realise how late it was. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

John puts down the comic he was holding, staring at Sherlock. “Why’s that? Everything okay, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s answering smile is convincing enough. “I’d just feel better if you were here, is all. I always work better with you nearby.”

John thinks that over. He can’t figure out what Sherlock is up to, but he’s eager for any reason to stay.

“Right. I should probably let Mary know.” He starts searching for his phone among the mess of comics and take away boxes. He finds it on the floor under the table. Straightening up he finds Mary’s name in his recent contacts and hits the call button. It rings and then goes to voicemail. He’s going to leave a message, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“Let me try.” He pulls the phone out of his pocket and sends a text. Not even 10 seconds later Sherlock’s phone is ringing. John does his best to suppress the flare of jealousy. It doesn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter. Well, not for the reason it matters to him anyway. Sherlock holds the phone up to his ear.

“Mary, thank you for calling back so quickly,” Sherlock says.

John can’t hear much of Mary’s reply, only the word “Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles. “Just wanted to let you know we’ll be working late, and John won’t be home. He tried to call but it must not have gone through.”

There’s a pause as Mary responds.

“Just thought you’d like to know how we’re coming along. It takes a surprisingly long time to go through these. There are so many details you miss the first time around.” Sherlock teases. John’s vision goes red around the edges.

It takes Mary a long time to answer. Whatever she says seems to please Sherlock.

“Oh, I think we both already know the answer to that.” Sherlock says, his voice low and intimate.

Mary’s voice raises in volume enough for John to make out her asking “Does John know?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock replies casually, glancing over at him. His eyebrows knit together at John's anger. Sherlock’s expression is still thoughtful when he responds again, eyes still trained on John. “Assuming he hasn’t worked it out yet himself.”

Sherlock stands to his feet and walks to the window, eyes scanning the street below. The rain is coming down harder now, the sound a persistent tap against the window panes.

“That won’t be necessary.” Sherlock murmurs. “As I said, I just wanted to let you know John is staying here tonight, I’d hate for you to worry.”

Another silence.

“Yes. Good night Mary, I’ll be seeing you soon.” He hangs up the phone and turns back to John. “Well, that’s settled. I think Mrs. Hudson has remade your bed since you left. I’d be happy to bring you up some more tea if you’d like. I’ll be up working late, it’s imperative that I solve this quickly.”

John stares at Sherlock, mouth agape.

“Are you really…” John trails off, fighting the sense that he’s being pushed out of the way. He can’t finish that question. He doesn’t want to know the answer, cannot bear to know that what he’s afraid of is true.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asks, concerned now.

“It just seems like you...” John still can’t finish. His eyes fall to the floor.

“Seems like I what?”

John risks a glance back at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye “You aren’t trying to get me out of the way so you can go off somewhere, are you?”

Sherlock frowns. “Where do you think I would go?”

John appraises Sherlock for a moment, head tilted to the side. Sherlock’s confusion seems genuine, causing John to second guess himself.

He sighs. “Nowhere. Never mind. But I don’t mind staying up with you, it won’t be our first all-nighter reading through evidence, will it?” John forces his expression into a half smile.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow in concentration. But he can’t figure out what John is thinking, so he plays along. “No, it won’t, will it? Thank God it’s only one box of books this time…”

They settle in to work.

At some point, John must have fallen asleep on the sofa, though he doesn’t remember making the choice to lie down. He wakes up with his union jack pillow tucked under his head and the plaid blanket normally draped over the back of his chair covering him. John stretches and sits up, glancing out the window. The sky is light enough for John to guess that it’s already late morning.

Sherlock looks over at him from his desk. “Oh, good. I was just about to wake you. I’ve found something, and I think you were right.

John’s still a bit groggy. He tries to remember what Sherlock is referring to, but he comes up blank. “Right about what?” He asks, voice rough with sleep.

“About talking to theimprobableone. I don’t think they were an ordinary fan.” That gets John’s attention.

Shaking himself awake, John pushes himself off the sofa and stands beside Sherlock at the desk, peering over his shoulder. “What makes you say that?”

“The comics don’t include a comments section, obviously. Except…” Sherlock pauses to pick up the comic laying open on the desk beside him and holds it so John can see the cover. “This one does.”

The cover shows a plaster bust smashed to pieces on the ground. The bits that were previously the bust’s forehead still recognizably have devil horns attached.

Issue 9: The Six Thatchers.

“That’s the case we solved right before that Christmas party, isn’t it? While Irene Adler was texting you.”

Sally Barnicot had come to them because her friend, Pietro Venucci, had been killed, and she thought his lover Beppo Rovito was the murderer. It had been obvious to John that she was only interested in the case because she had feelings for Pietro before he died. Not that it had mattered. They had caught Beppo stealing busts of Margaret Thatcher that Pietro had made before his death, trying to recover the murder weapon. When Sherlock and John had confronted him, Beppo had confessed to everything.

Sherlock casts John an annoyed look out of the corner of his eye. “That’s not how I would have described it...But yes. The case isn't what caught my attention, though.”

Sherlock flips to the back of the comic and holds it open. John leans in to take a closer look. The last panel has a picture of Beppo being led away by the police in handcuffs. Nothing seems off about it.

“What am I looking at?” John asks.

“Not the comic, on the other page, with the publisher information.” John does as Sherlock says. He still doesn’t see what Sherlock is referring to at first until he gets to the acknowledgments: Disappointingly Simple. John looks back to Sherlock.

“What does that mean?”

“Your blog entry for The Six Thatchers only received two comments. One from Jacob Sowersby, calling the case brilliant, it really wasn’t, and another from theimprobableone. Guess what they said.”

John catches onto where Sherlock is leading him. “Disappointingly simple?”

Sherlock smiles at John. “Precisely. That’s two connections now to our friend theimprobableone. Well, I say friend. We never actually met them, even when we got their help with that Twitter case it was only over email. I think it’s time we changed that, don’t you?”

“Right, yeah. Give me a minute.” A few minutes later John is sitting at his side of the desk with a coffee. Sherlock stands over his shoulder, a hand on the back of his chair. He logs into the admin side of his blog, where he can view the contact information for everyone who has left a comment, which is how they’d gotten theimprobableone’s help in the past.

But when John pulls up the contact list, theimprobableone’s email has been removed. Instead… "Did you miss me?” Sherlock reads out, a smile on his face. “So, we’re on the right track, then.” He crosses over to his side of the desk and sits down, opening his computer “I have some friends who should be able to help us recover the original information from the blog. In the meantime, though, where do you keep your notes?”

“My notes?”

“Yes, the physical notes you write while we’re on a case.” Sherlock says, still busy typing away.

John isn’t sure where Sherlock is going with this but answers his question anyway. “Er, yeah, I keep my current notebook in my desk drawer at home when I’m not using it, or in my coat pocket when we’re working. And my old notebooks are up in a box in my loft.”

“Perfect,” he says, looking up from his computer with a small smile. “I’d like to come round and take a look at them, if that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah, of course.” John says. Sherlock gets up to grab his coat. On the desk, Sherlock’s phone lights up with another message from Mycroft. Sherlock glances at it when he comes back, but drops the phone into his pocket without responding. John frowns but follows Sherlock out the door without a word.

Chapter 3: The Six Thatchers: Part Two

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John sit in the back of a cab making its way across London to the Watson residence. Sherlock’s hands are folded under his chin and he absentmindedly taps his fingers together in an indiscernible rhythm. John glances over at him periodically, but mostly stares out the window. The sky is overcast and it looks as if it could begin raining again at any moment.

As their cab pulls up to the house, John notices a familiar car parked outside and groans. Sherlock snaps out of his reverie. “John? What’s wrong?”

John’s mouth tightens into a hard line. “Harry.”

Sherlock glances back at the car. “And? Is something wrong?”

John sighs, hands balling into fists for a moment before he forces them back open. “No, everything is perfect. Come on, let's get this over with.”

Sherlock can only guess this means introducing Harry to Sherlock, since in all the years he’s known John, he has never actually met Harry. It seems like a deliberate effort on John’s part. Sherlock has always wondered whether that was because John was embarrassed of Harry or because John was embarrassed of him. Sherlock follows John out of the cab and towards the front door, flipping up his coat collar as he walks. As they approach, Harry Watson steps out of her car.

The most surprising thing about Harry’s appearance is her height; she’s a full four inches taller than John. There’s an obvious punk influence on her style, though Sherlock imagines it's more subtle than what she might have worn when she was younger. She has a deliberately casual manner that Sherlock instantly recognises as a form of defence. Underneath it Sherlock sees the same watchfulness that had caught his notice in John the day they had met. It had been as if he was still carrying a war around inside him and was expecting the room to explode in gunfire at any moment.

John hadn’t picked that up in Afghanistan, then.

Harry’s hands are stuffed into her coat pockets, and Sherlock wonders if they’re shaking. He can’t smell any alcohol on her as they approach…

“John! There you are, I’ve been calling you.” Same intonations as John too, and the same exasperated expression Sherlock has seen directed at himself countless times. John reaches into his pocket to check his phone. True enough, Harry had called twice the previous night and once already this morning.

“Sorry, Harry, I’ve been… busy. What did you need?”

“Nothing. I just saw the Moriarty thing on TV and was worried about you. Not to mention what you texted me about Sherlock leaving…” Her eyes slide over to Sherlock. Another uncanny similarity: like with John, Sherlock feels as if Harry is seeing right through him. Her eyes are full of disapproval. “This is him, yeah? We finally meet, Sherlock Holmes.” She holds out her left hand, perfectly steady. Sherlock reaches out to shake it.

“Hello, Harry. Nice to finally meet you.” Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, like Sherlock’s polite greeting surprises her somehow. John looks at her with an expression Sherlock can’t quite read and interjects before she can say anything else.

“Is Mary here?”

Harry takes her eyes off Sherlock to respond. “No, thank God.” She rolls her eyes. Obvious distaste dripping from her tone. Sherlock deduces that might be why she had skipped the wedding.

“Right.” John says, looking between Sherlock and Harry, trying to read the situation, figure out who is more likely to say something he doesn’t want them to first. “Well, no use standing around out here.” He walks past Harry to unlock the front door and leads them to the living room. After standing between them in silence for a few moments, John decides it's unlikely either of them is going to strike up a conversation.

“Harry, I’m just going to go grab something from the loft.” John thinks it over, decides a warning might be helpful. He looks at Harry with a serious expression. “Be nice, please.”

“I’m always nice!” Harry says, with a bright grin. John sighs in exasperation and glares at her, before casting an almost nervous glance at Sherlock and leaving. Sherlock stays rooted to the spot he's standing, suddenly feeling tremendously awkward. He’s sure John is worried that he’ll say something to upset Harry, though he can’t imagine what. Maybe John thinks he’ll bring up her drinking? As if Sherlock is in any position to criticise someone else’s addiction. Besides, even John should have been able to tell that she’s been sober for a while.

Sherlock glances around the room, then back at Harry, who is staring at him. The disapproving expression has returned. Sherlock looks away again, feeling guilty without knowing why. He’s about to bring up the weather, of all things, just for something to say. But Harry speaks first.

“You really hurt him, you know. When you died. He never got over it and I don’t think he ever would have. It was the worst thing you could have done.” Sherlock looks back at Harry. She meets his gaze, no hint of compromise in her expression. She arches an eyebrow and waits for a response.

“I know.” Sherlock says finally, his voice is thick with remorse. Harry’s eyes narrow.

“I don’t think you do, actually. Did he ever tell you about our mum?” Sherlock shakes his head, fascinated. John never talks about his childhood, or about his past at all. “Didn’t think so. He keeps so much locked up… Like I can talk.” She lets out a humourless chuckle, then sits on John’s sofa, hands clasped between her knees, and nods for Sherlock to take a seat in the chair. He does.

“I’ll give you the short version. I’m a few years older than John, so I remember more of what things were like. Before. Not that our family was ever well off, but we were okay, at least. Before Dad got discharged for drinking on duty and refusing to go through rehab. None of that support stuff for a tough army major like him…” Harry rolls her eyes. “Things went downhill pretty fast after that, Dad drank even more and started getting even more bitter, more angry. Soon shouting wasn’t enough. He started getting violent, with Mum, with us…” Sherlock notices that Harry’s clasped hands are tightly gripping each other now. She takes a deep breath and relaxes them.

“After a few years… it got too much for Mum to handle. She decided she’d had enough. Instead of leaving with us though, she wanted a more permanent way out…” Harry looks back at Sherlock, her blue eyes piercing through him as she continues. “She locked herself in the bathroom and swallowed a bottle of pills. She had written a note, apologising for being a terrible mother, said she was a fraud, but she said she just couldn’t take it anymore.” Sherlock’s insides twist painfully. His own words reverberate in his mind. I’m a fake.

Seeing the horrified understanding dawn on Sherlock’s face, Harry nods. “We were the ones to find her. I tried to get John out of there as soon as I realised what had happened, but it was too late, he had already read the note…” Harry’s face scrunches up. “I think he would have blamed himself, anyway, reading that. But of course, Dad blamed us too. Said that if we hadn’t been such a burden, she wouldn’t have killed herself.” Harry goes quiet. Sherlock stares at her, trying to think of something to say.

She looks back at him, suddenly thoughtful. Sherlock is surprised to see she looks a bit embarrassed. Her mouth tightens as if she’s debating on whether to say more. Speaking eventually seems to win out, though her voice is lower now. “He would kill me,” She says, nodding to the door John had walked through, “If he knew I told you this, but… He saw how Dad treated me when we were growing up. When I cut my hair off. When I brought home my first girlfriend and got kicked out… John had always tried so hard to make Dad proud, especially after Mum died. I think seeing what happened to me made him try even harder. Of course, it was never enough for Dad,” her tone turns biting, “Even when John marched in his footsteps right into the army. ‘What’s this doctor business, why couldn’t you be a proper soldier?’" Harry sighs and looks down at her hands.

“He’s been dead for years now, died while John was overseas. I think John was relieved, I know I was, but we never talk about him. I think John is still angry with himself for not being able to make Dad proud.” She unclasps her hands and lifts them up to rest her face in them. “I heard his voice in my head, for a long time, telling me I was worthless. It’s why I drank, to get him to shut up.” She laughs bitterly. “He won’t tell me, but I don’t think John’s ever gotten past it either. It’s why he gets upset about my drinking. I remind John of him.” She raises her head and smiles sadly at Sherlock.

Sherlock thinks that over. Considering what he knows of John, he’s inclined to agree with Harry’s assessment. John had always seemed as if he was struggling with some internal voice of disapproval. He remembers their fight in Baker Street, after Mary had shot him. “Why is everything always my fault?” Clearly, he had touched on a very old wound.

Sherlock has done so much to hurt John. Mistake after mistake. Even as he’s done his best to keep John safe. Sherlock is suddenly overcome with the same sense of self-loathing that had defined his life in the months after his return to London, when he was sure he was unworthy to be in John’s life at all.

But John had wanted him there…

“Harry…” Sherlock begins. She looks back at him. Sherlock takes a deep breath to steady himself, “I can't tell you how much… how I wish I could go back and do things differently… I have regretted that choice every day since I came back. I promise you that I am doing everything in my power to make it up to him. There’s nothing more important to me than John’s wellbeing.” His sincerity is evident.

Harry blinks and tilts her head, the same way John does when he’s appraising him. After a moment, she smiles at him genuinely, if a little ruefully, for the first time. “I believe you.”

At that moment John comes back into the room, looking a bit out of breath. “Sherlock, I’ve found something you’ll want to see.” He’s holding a large cardboard box in his arms and looks a little too keyed up for having only found his notes. Sherlock stands to take a closer look. Behind him, Harry clears her throat.

“I can see you’re busy. Like I said, I just wanted to check in and see if you were doing okay. You haven’t been in touch lately, and I worry. Especially now that I’m sitting at home nights instead of going to the pub.” She stands and smiles, a bit chagrined.

John looks back at her. “Oh. Back on the wagon then?”

“Yep. Six months strong now.” Harry says. She holds up her fingers in a mock salute.

“Well done, Harry. Really.” John smiles at her and Harry grins back. They all hear a car pulling up. Harry glances at the window, her face darkens a bit.

“That’ll be your horrible wife. I better get out of here before I start a fight.” She winks at John. “Answer your phone next time, John. We need to catch up. And I need to introduce you to my girlfriend, Willow! We're getting a bit more serious, want to meet the families and all that.”

“Yeah… that’d be great. Sorry, I’ll try to do better about staying in touch. I’ll text you later.”

“You’d better,” Harry says with a smile before ducking out the front door. She walks quickly past Mary’s car and gets into her own, driving away without looking at her.

Through the window, Sherlock watches Mary glare at Harry’s car as it pulls away. She then arranges her features into something more friendly, places one hand on her stomach, and walks slowly to the front door. “Hello? Anybody in?” She calls as she steps inside.

“Yeah, Sherlock and me.” John calls back, suppressing a wave of dread. Sherlock will undoubtedly want to include Mary again, now that she’s here. Mary comes into the living room and smiles conspiratorially at John.

“Any progress on those comic books then?” She asks, trying just a bit too hard to sound casual.

John’s eyes narrow slightly as his eyes bounce between Sherlock and Mary.

The corner of Sherlock’s lip quirks up. “Some.”

John takes in Sherlock’s rigid posture and the way Mary is staring at him. He clears his throat. “We’ve just had a bit more actually. Here, I’ll show you.” He sets the box on the coffee table. “I keep my notes in here. I was on my way back down with them when I saw this.”

He reaches into the box and pulls out a plaster bust of Margaret Thatcher with devil horns on her forehead. He looks up and sees that Mary’s face has gone completely white. Her eyes flicker rapidly over the statue's face. Sherlock’s attention is entirely focused on the bust and he steps closer to take it from John’s outstretched hand.

“I take it this isn’t yours then.” Sherlock says. John, still trying to make sense of Mary’s reaction, doesn’t respond right away. Sherlock looks up at him, then at Mary, who has recovered from her initial shock and is staring at the Thatcher bust with innocent confusion.

“Er, no. It’s not.” Says John slowly, wondering if he might have been onto something before, about Sherlock having a plan. If Mary is this nervous about whoever is playing this game with them… She seems to think they’re after her. What if that someone is Sherlock?

But then again, why would Sherlock go through all the work to solve a case he himself put together? Still…

Sherlock senses the change in John’s demeanor but can’t make sense of it. He turns his attention back to the bust, testing its weight in his hands. He hums at something he sees, but then sets it down to pick up one of John’s notebooks instead.

“Sherlock, you going to tell me why you’ve taken a sudden interest in my notes?”

“Remember what I said about the person behind this getting the details of the cases somewhere besides your blog? This is what I meant.”

John stares at Sherlock incredulously. “You think whoever is behind this has been in my loft to read my notes and then left a bust of Thatcher to what? Be funny?”

Sherlock glances at Mary. “That’s one theory.” He murmurs.

John is suddenly aware of how little sense Sherlock’s actions make if he isn’t doing this as part of a plan. Sherlock’s excuse about the notebooks is flimsy at best, obviously someone couldn’t have gotten all that detail from just reading the notes. But if it’s a lie for Mary’s benefit… The sense of relief John feels is almost overpowering. John has to suppress a laugh. Mary’s eyes dart over to him.

Sherlock then looks at Mary, a bland smile on his face. “Mary, you have a criminal background. If you were behind this, what would you say we should do next?” Mary’s glare shifts to Sherlock and she flexes her jaw.

John swallows. He flashes back to holding the memory stick with AGRA scrawled on the front, sitting down to his computer, and plugging it into the USB slot…

“Sherlock...” John warns. If this is a ploy on Sherlock’s part, it’s not a smart one.

“No, it’s fine.” Mary replies, but the tone of her voice blatantly contradicts her words. Her cold eyes bore into Sherlock’s as she continues. “Honestly, this whole thing isn’t really my style. Whoever is behind this seems like they want to be caught. For you to find them. I would never be that stupid. So, I’d focus more on finding the person behind this, rather than the cases. They’re a distraction.” She says the last part forcefully.

John isn’t quite sure why she’s bothered about the old cases. Come to think of it, why would Sherlock have thought to use them to begin with? His eyebrows furrow as he thinks that over.

Sherlock likewise appears surprised by Mary’s response. “Interesting…” He murmurs, trailing off. Sherlock’s phone lights up and John reads the text over his shoulder.

Philip: Ready when you are.

“Who’s Philip?” John asks.

“Philip Anderson. He knows some people who should be able to help us track down theimprobableone. So, we’ll take your advice,” he nods at Mary, “and focus on that angle for now. Would you like to join us?”

Mary carefully thinks over the offer, then shakes her head, a careful smile on her face. “No, I think I’ve had enough excitement for the day.”

Like last night, her lips twist up in a cruel smile directed at Sherlock before she reaches out and grabs John by the arm, pulling him in for a kiss. This kiss is much more forceful, and John can’t easily pull away from her grip in his hair. By the time she lets go of him, John turns to look over his shoulder to find that Sherlock is gone. John glances back at Mary. The expression on her face is more condescending than kind. “See you later, John, I love you.”

John stares at her for a long moment, fighting back his emotions. “You too.” He says eventually, sounding defeated. He steps away from her grasp, collects the box with his notebooks, and goes out the front door to meet Sherlock where he stands at the curb.

Mary watches them out the window as they walk away. When they pass out of view, she turns back to look at the coffee table, where John left the bust of Thatcher. Her expression is impassive as she picks it up to examine it, turning it this way and that. Then she raises the bust above her head, as if contemplating smashing it to the ground.

Sherlock and John stand in the middle of Anderson’s living room, the walls covered in sticky notes and newspaper clippings. They are surrounded by over a dozen fans crowded into the small space, staring at them with wide eyes.

Philip Anderson stands next to him and sighs in exasperation. “Remember what I told you, please try to act normally. They’re not going to come back if you scare them off.” His friends just continue to gape at Sherlock and John in silence. John’s eyes drift uncomfortably around the room, feeling a bit like a specimen pinned for examination. He looks over at Sherlock, who is glaring at a fan wearing a deerstalker. John elbows him and nods his head to indicate to Sherlock he should get on with it.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes, well. As you probably saw, someone is currently pretending to be Moriarty. We’re trying to find who that might be and why they've chosen to bring him back now. Our first clue was a package with a melted laptop in it-”

“Oh! Like the one John mentioned on his blog!” Says one of the fans crammed onto the sofa. Sherlock glances at John, a bit annoyed, but John shakes his head. Sherlock fights back his reaction and responds to the fan who interrupted.

“Precisely. Which led us back to the original case. When we went to find that laptop, we discovered it had been stolen from Scotland Yard. Instead, we found these.” Sherlock sets down the blue evidence box that had been tucked under his arm onto Anderson’s coffee table. Instantly the fans closest to the table reach forward to open the box and start distributing the contents. The room is filled with gasps and murmurs.

“The Hounds of Baskerville! that was always my favourite.” Says the fan in the deerstalker.

“Idiot,” says another, a heavyset woman with dark hair and thick eyeliner. “Everyone knows The Great Game was Sherlock’s best case. Moriarty always brought out the best in him.”

“Is this what you meant when you said Mrs. Hudson was pushed out of a helicopter?” Says the person standing closest to Anderson who is holding up Issue 14: The Inexplicable Matchbox. “I imagined you meant that the helicopter had been in the air, not that it was still on the ground. At least the ending is good! I can’t believe you actually hijacked The Maid of the Mist.”

“Death by Twitter!” Says a young man with bright green hair. “That’s the one that one of the commenters on your blog helped you solve, isn’t it? I wish that had been us, it would be so cool to help you solve a case.”

“Actually” Sherlock says, raising his voice to be heard over the clamor. “That’s exactly why we’re here. We think theimprobableone might have something to do with Moriarty’s return. Their contact information has been removed from John’s website though, so we hoped one of you would be able to help us recover it.”

“Ah. Rachel should be able to help you with that. Can’t you Rachel?” Says the green haired man. He gestures over to a slight woman with messy brown hair and wide blue eyes.

“What’s that, Nathan?” She says looking up from the comic she was holding. Missing Issue 3: The Elephant in the Room.

“Sherlock wants to know if you can retrieve information that’s been taken off of John’s blog.” Nathan looks at John and rolls his eyes.

“I saw that.” Says Rachel, annoyed. “Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem. Hey Bones, hand me my bag, will you?” Bones, who is apparently the individual standing just behind Anderson, looks up from an illustration of Sherlock dressed as a clown and picks up a messenger bag covered in pins. They hand it off to Rachel and go back to reading. “Thanks.” She pulls a massive laptop out of her bag and looks up at John and Sherlock. “Bones and I go way back, they’re the one who told me about this club in the first place.”

“Er, that’s... nice?” John says.

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. “Yes, yes, very touching, making friends and all that, but we are in a bit of a hurry to find Moriarty if you don’t mind.”

Rachel huffs in irritation but returns to typing.After a moment, she bursts out laughing.

“Something funny?” John asks.

Rachel turns her screen around to face them. “Your website counter says hell. Did you do that on purpose or is it part of the hack?” John and Sherlock look at each other, Sherlock shrugs.

Nathan speaks up. “I can show you. I’ll need an old calculator, but I bet Phil has one, he’s ancient.”

“Shut up!” Anderson snaps, but he goes to his desk and pulls out a calculator from the top drawer. Nathan takes it and types in the number.

Then he holds it upside down facing Sherlock and John.

“That’s not very original.” Says Bones. “We used to do that all the time in school. Surprised neither of you knew that.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows pull together. “I wonder… Can you pull up the entry for The Six Thatchers for me? Hell seems to imply the devil, and we did find that bust in your loft, John.” Rachel pulls up the page.

Everyone who can see the screen gasps. John and Sherlock step around the gathered fans so they can see over Rachel’s shoulder. Instead of the picture of Sherlock in his deerstalker that John had uploaded with the case writeup, there’s a gif of Moriarty, helpfully captioned Did you miss me?

“That wasn’t there this morning.” Sherlock says, eyes widening.

“So, whoever is pretending to be Moriarty is still actively hacking your site. Give me some time to see if I can find how they got in.” Rachel goes back to typing furiously

“How do you know so much about this, anyway?” John asks.

“I do freelance white hat work.” She replies without looking up.

“You do what?” John says.

Rachel sighs, like she’s had to answer this question countless times. “I intentionally hack into things. Websites, systems, you name it. To find the weaknesses that a more malicious hacker might use to break in. Give people a heads up so they can fix the issue before it becomes a bigger problem.”

John’s face creases in confusion. “Go to school for that, did you?”

“No, I studied literature, actually. But they have a lot in common. Staring at a text, looking for patterns, the obvious tells. I picked it up pretty quickly.” Her lips quirk up in a smile. “Got it. I’m sorry to tell you, whoever this is has had access to your site since 2011.”

“2011? What?” John leans down to get a closer look at the screen. She has an old post pulled up, half the screen showing the code for the site. The left side of the screen plays the video Moriarty had posted of himself breaking into 221B.

“Most systems have an image uploader.” Rachel explains. “Logos, profile icons, that kind of thing. In this case, the uploader for your blog posts has one. It’s the best way to hack in if you know what you’re doing. It’s very easy to hide malicious code in an image file, and then you can use that opening to do all kinds of things. Good sense of humour including the code in the video of Moriarty breaking in. This does remind me though…”

“Of?” Asks Sherlock.

“Well… No offense, but it wouldn’t be hard to hack into your website, the security is horrendous. But whoever this was put a lot of effort in, way more than they needed to. And there’s something familiar about their method. I think actually…” She trails off, as she begins pulling up files. After a moment she nods. “Yes, this is it. This is Moriarty’s work. It’s just like the code he used for the triple break in.”

“Ooh, I loved that case!” Interjects a woman with ginger curls. “The Bank of England, Pentonville Prison, and The-”

“The Tower of London, yes, we all know Capella.” Says Nathan.

“Moriarty didn’t use a code to break in.” Says Sherlock, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“Yes… He did?” Rachel says slowly. “I would know. I was brought in after the fact to see how he’d gotten in. The code on your website is identical to his work on those three cases. That’s why I was interested in this club at all. I knew Moriarty was real, I’d analyzed his code. So, I knew that you had been lying and probably weren't really dead.”

“That’s not possible.” Sherlock says, alarmed now.

John looks over at him, confused. “The code was how he changed his identity to Richard Brook too wasn’t it? Or that’s what you told me. Why did you think there wasn’t a code?”

Sherlock’s eyes squeeze shut as he goes back over his final confrontation with Moriarty on the roof of St. Bart’s. “He told me it wasn’t real. While we were in the lab you started tapping your fingers and it reminded me, he had done the same, when he came to visit. I assumed he had tapped out his code in binary. But when I told him I had figured it out, he said there never was a code, that it was all a trick.”

“Well, that was your mistake,” Says Rachel. “Of course, it couldn’t have been a single line of code. Nothing is that simple, and Moriarty’s work in particular is a lot more intricate than that.”

John looks back to Sherlock. “Why would he have lied, said there was no code?”

Sherlock’s eyes are still closed. “Two possibilities. Either Moriarty thought getting it wrong at the last moment would make me feel hopeless enough to go through with his plan and kill myself. Or…” He opens his eyes and stares down at the computer screen. “Or this is all part of a game he set up before he died. He expected me to survive and then someone else would continue it years later…”

“Why on earth would he do that?” John asks.

Sherlock looks back at him with wide eyes but doesn’t answer. Instead, he addresses Rachel without breaking eye contact with John. “Can you find that contact information for us, please.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. Sherlock isn’t usually that polite, something must be very wrong.

“Here.” She says after a moment. “No email, they did a good job erasing that. But they left this phone number behind, I guess in case you got this far.” She writes it down and hands it to Sherlock who absentmindedly reaches to take it out, still reeling from the revelation about the computer code.

Sherlock’s reaction to this news has John doubting himself yet again. Sherlock can lie when he wants to, but this is all a bit elaborate for that. Maybe this isn’t all a setup for Mary after all. So, what other explanation is there? His mind drifts back to his other theory, that Sherlock is doing this to try to protect Mary from something, because he wants her safe… Because he loves her.

The thought is somehow even more painful after he had mostly convinced himself that it wasn’t true. John’s face crumples.

“Well…” Sherlock begins, “You’ve all been very… helpful. But we should be going. Come along, John.” John is going to follow when he sees one of the fans elbow the one they called Capella. She whispers to Nathan, who rolls his eyes.

“You should ask him.” Says Rachel, not looking up from her computer; clearly, she overheard the exchange.

“Ask what?” Says John. Nathan glares at Rachel, but then clears his throat. “We just wondered… if it was true… I mean, about you and-”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Exclaims Anderson. “How many times do I have to tell you lot to keep your ridiculous theories to yourselves?!”

John has an inkling where this is going. “What theories?”

Rachel’s the one to respond. “Well, we always wondered, reading your blog, the way it’s written. It kind of gives off the impression that you’re in lo-”

“That’s enough!” Anderson interjects, giving John an apologetic grimace. John swallows and looks nervously at Sherlock, who suddenly seems very preoccupied with something on his phone. He looks back at that lot, who are now staring intently at his face, expressions ranging from interested to slightly smug.

“Thought so!” Says Bones happily.

Anderson groans. “I swear to God, if you don’t shut up, I will kick you all out of The Empty Hearse. This club is for serious theories only and I won’t tolerate this kind of offensive nonsense.” Bones rolls their eyes. John’s about to turn to leave when Rachel holds up a business card.

“Here. In case you need anything else. Or, you know, if you decide to fix your website. Because not only is it a security disaster, it’s also bloody hideous.”

John opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock grabs him by the arm and pulls him out.

“Well. That was… something.” John says when they’re out on the pavement. Between being caught out, again, and his realization that this case is probably not Sherlock’s doing after all, John’s mood has soured considerably. He paces back and forth in front of where Sherlock stands.

“Good information though,” Sherlock replies as he pulls his phone back out and types in the number written on the note he’s holding in his hand.

“So, we just call and hope theimprobableone answers?” Asks John, annoyed.

Sherlock presses the call button and glances up at John as he holds the phone up to his ear. “Seems like the obvious next step.”

Mary Watson strides through a large room with high ceilings and tall glass windows. The sprawling space is filled with modern, brightly colored chairs and tables. Mary walks with her hands stuffed into her pockets, looking at the artsy twenty-somethings sprawled on the furniture and chattering loudly about colour theory with disdain as she passes by. She ducks into a hallway, her quick footsteps reverberating in a staccato beat through the narrow space. The walls on either side of her are painted in colourful, abstract murals. She ignores them in favor of glancing down at the note clenched in her left hand, directing her towards a room at the end of the hall.

As she approaches, she hears music playing from the other side of the door, dulled by the thick walls. Mary pauses with her left hand on the door handle and draws her gun out of her right pocket before slowly pushing the door open. The song is more distinct without the barrier. Mary’s eyes turn steely as she steps inside.

You can tell I’m educated, I studied at the Sorbonne.

Doctored in mathematics, I could have been a don.

I can program a computer, choose the perfect time,

If you’ve got the inclination, I’ve got the crime.

The music abruptly cuts off and a loud buzz sounds repeatedly from the corner of the room. Mary’s eyes snap to the phone vibrating on the lecturer’s desk, then slowly up at the person sitting behind it. Her expression is unreadable as she watches them casually reach out and pick up the phone.

“Call declined.” Sherlock says, lowering the phone from his ear; he doesn’t seem surprised.

“Should we try again?” John asks. Before Sherlock can respond, his phone chimes again with a message.

Unknown number: i'd rather text, for now.

Sherlock smiles, like he expected this. “Of course they would.” John takes a step closer to Sherlock who holds the phone so that John can read the conversation.

Sherlock: Is this theimprobableone then?

Unknown Number: it might be.

Sherlock: We found your clues. What do you want?

Unknown Number: i told you already. you missed me. look again and find me.

Sherlock: Find you where?

Unknown Number: the cases.

Sherlock: Which case? The Six Thatchers?

Unknown Number: maybe ;)

Sherlock: I already solved that case though, we caught the killer.

Unknown Number: did you?

Sherlock: What do you know about that case?

The last text gets an error: Unable to reach sender. Theimprobableone must have blocked their number, ending their only line of communication.

“Well, at least we know what to do next.” Says Sherlock to John as he tucks his phone back into his pocket.

“You mean solve the Six Thatchers case? But how? Even if you had it wrong the first time… That was years ago now, any evidence is long gone.” John stuffs his hands into his pocket and lets out a frustrated sigh. Sherlock glances over at him, confused by his sudden anger. He tries to get John back on track with the case.

“Maybe not. Do you remember that bust?”

“Kind of hard to forget.”

“It was identical to the ones Pietro made. Exactly identical, meaning it would have had to have been made with the same mould. So, I’d say that’s our next lead. It can probably wait until tomorrow though. We should get our rest…” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Would you like to come back to Baker Street?”

John tilts his head as he considers Sherlock’s offer. He’s tempted, very tempted. But something is stopping him. Sherlock, whatever he’s doing, obviously has something that he isn’t telling John. John’s expression hardens.

“Sherlock?” He sounds exhausted.

“Yes?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow, trying to determine the source of John’s mood.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” John asks, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“What do you mean?”

John lets out a bitter huff of air and looks away. He gestures to the space around Sherlock. “I mean tell me what you’re doing. What’s going on with you and Mary?”

“I-” Sherlock’s voice quavers and John looks up at him. There’s no mistaking Sherlock’s expression as anything other than what it is: guilt. It’s worse than John was afraid it would be. “John… I’m so sorry, I…” Sherlock looks away and wrings his hands together.

This time the surge of emotions- anger, hurt, betrayal, jealousy- is too strong for John to push away.

“Right. Never mind. I don’t want to know.” John laughs humourlessly. “This is just perfect. After all of that, you pushing me back at her and the whole thing. Now this. Fantastic.”

“John, I’m sorry. I had thought that you-”

“You know, I don’t actually want to hear what you thought. Just go ahead, do what you want. I’m going home. I’ll see you later.” He turns to walk away; he can't bear to look at Sherlock a second longer.

“John, wait!” John stops in his tracks, even as he internally berates himself for doing it. Like a trained dog, he thinks. He glares back at Sherlock who suddenly looks very small. “John, I... If you do go just... Remember what I said outside the hospital. Please.” He insists desperately.

Keep an eye on Mary. Even now, that’s Sherlock’s priority, keeping Mary safe, over him. John is furious.

“Perfect, yeah, right, I’ll keep an eye on her, make sure she’s safe for you. Alright?”

“John?” But John is already storming off down the road. Sherlock stares after him in agony as the freezing rain finally begins to fall.

John comes home to an empty house, no Mary in sight. John’s mind is still racing as he flicks on the lights. His phone beeps. Sherlock. John doesn’t want to read it, but he does anyway.

Sherlock: I’m sorry about all this, I wish things were different. Please be careful.

John fights the impulse to throw the phone across the room. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, breathing hard. Sherlock is gone, and Mary is who knows where. What if they’re…

His phone goes off again. Not Sherlock this time but Harry.

Harry: Good to see you John, glad you’re okay.

John: Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Just had a lot going on.

Harry: Been there. You ok?

John: Yeah just… marriage trouble. You wouldn’t understand.

Harry: Wouldn’t I?

John: Touché.

The corner of John’s mouth pulls up, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s a long pause while Harry types the next response.

Harry: Seriously, you know you can talk to me, right?

John: There are some things I don’t talk about with anyone Harry.

Harry: Don’t you think I might understand that? Of all people?

John knows they aren’t talking about Mary anymore. As usual, Harry has picked right up on what’s actually upsetting him. It’s part of the reason he keeps distant from her; she sees through him too easily.

John: I’ll keep that in mind. Goodnight.

There’s nothing for John to do in this awful house but think about things he rather wouldn’t. He pours himself a large glass of whiskey and sits in the armchair in the bedroom, staring at nothing. As his mind begins to fog over from the alcohol, the thoughts he had been pushing down begin to drift to the surface. Mary isn’t here, God knows where she is, or what she’s doing. He knows nothing about her, nothing.

While he had been living alone in Baker Street that past autumn, he had spent all of a week debating whether or not to look at the flash drive. It had only taken that long for John to decide that he had to know what was on it, whatever it was. Memory stick in hand, he had sat at the desk in the living room of 221B, gazing over at Sherlock’s empty chair while he waited for the computer to turn on. His hands were steady as he opened the folder on his computer.

There was nothing. The memory stick had been empty.

It had just been another lie, another attempt to manipulate him. That had been part of why John had hoped so desperately that Sherlock must have a plan, because Mary clearly had no remorse for what she had done. How could Sherlock think she could be trusted? John had hoped he hadn’t. But now… The same small voice from earlier tries to tell him that it’s still possible, that John’s just missing some piece of information.

But now all John can think is that Sherlock is in love with Mary, that there’s every possibility that while he’s sat in this dark empty room Sherlock is at Baker Street and Mary is there with him and they’re sitting close to each other and looking into each other’s eyes and…

John takes another big swallow of whiskey, feeling it burn down his throat, then puts his head in his hands. Mary had liked Sherlock instantly when she had met him, which had never made sense to John. His girlfriends never liked Sherlock, for good reason. It had taken a long time for him to grow suspicious. Memories play behind John’s closed eyelids.

Sherlock’s obvious sadness in the leadup to the wedding, even when John had reassured him that they would still go on cases afterward. The way he had left the wedding early and then cut all contact with John. Gotten himself on drugs. Then the ridiculous lengths he had gone to in order to protect Mary after she had shot him in the chest. Not only making sure she wasn’t caught by the police, but that she was nearby and protected from Magnussen. At any cost. “Give my love to Mary… There’s something I meant to say… and never have.”

And now all of this, whatever this is. It’s more than he can stand. He downs the rest of his drink and puts his head back in his hands.

A dark thought creeps up from John’s subconscious. That this may have been going on for quite some time. That depending on how long Sherlock and Mary had been carrying on, there’s a possibility that the baby... isn’t his. His heartbreak is suddenly mingled with an ugly sense of relief that John immediately quashes down. He can’t let himself think about that.

It’s well after midnight when John decides he should try to sleep. He mechanically changes into his pyjamas and pulls back his side of the blankets. John lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking that he’s got to get past this. If Mary is who Sherlock wants. Well. He should probably warn Sherlock about the empty memory stick, at least. But would that matter to him? Mary shooting him clearly hadn’t. And what would stop her from doing it again? He doesn’t care about losing Mary, it would be a relief to be out of their marriage, if he’s honest, but the thought of her being with Sherlock instead…

Even putting aside the jealousy, the heartbreak, John is terrified at the thought. Mary isn’t safe and Sherlock wouldn’t be safe with her. He has to think of some way to warn Sherlock off that he’ll actually listen to, without giving himself away. John rubs his eyes and concentrates on not thinking about where Mary might be right now. Eventually he falls asleep.

When John wakes early the next morning, the other side of the bed is empty; it’s obvious that Mary never came home. Which is a relief… and completely terrifying. He grabs his phone from the bedside table. No new texts or calls. John decides he should probably check on Mary.

John: Everything okay?

John goes to take a shower. Mary has responded by the time he’s out.

Mary: Yes. Met up with a friend last night and stayed later than I meant to. I ended up falling asleep here.

An image of Mary knocking on the door to 221B plays in John’s mind, Sherlock letting her in, bringing her upstairs, leading her to his bedroom… John inhales sharply as the hand not holding the phone clenches into a fist.

Mary: You still on the case today? Just wondering if I should tell the clinic you won’t be in

John: Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.

The brief exchange leaves John feeling hollow. He hasn’t been happy with Mary in a long time (he hasn’t been happy with Mary ever if he’s being honest, he’d just decided that she was the best he could expect from life after Sherlock had died). But something has shifted. It’s as if they both know now that their marriage is an act, that they know the other knows it too, but they’re still going right along playing their parts.

John debates whether he wants to talk to Sherlock yet. He doesn’t want to start the conversations he knows they’ll need to have. But putting it off won’t do any good. He’s just about made up his mind to text Sherlock when Sherlock himself calls. John stares at his phone as it rings. After a moment of hesitation, he hits the green button and slowly holds the phone up to his ear.

“Hello.” John says, sounding tired.

“John! Is everything alright?” Sherlock is anxious, like he had been expecting John not to answer. Probably understandable, given the way John had left the night before.

“Yeah, everything’s fine, why wouldn’t it be?” John hears Sherlock sigh on the other end of the line.

“I just… wanted to be sure. And how does… I mean... How is Mary?”

Barely suppressed anger clouds over John’s face. “Why would you be asking me that?”

“What do you mean?”

John thinks Sherlock is being deliberately obtuse. Well fine if he wants to play it that way… John speaks slowly, deliberately enunciating each word so that Sherlock understands that he’s made the connection. “I mean I wouldn’t know. Mary never came home last night.”

“She didn’t? You never heard anything from her?” Sherlock asks, sounding puzzled.

“No. I texted her just now, she said she stayed over with a friend. I had assumed…” John debates whether or not to say it. May as well get it over with. “I thought that she was with you.”

“Why would you think that?” Sherlock asks. John is torn. He can’t imagine why Sherlock would lie about it at this point, but Sherlock had definitely felt guilty about something last night. This conversation is going nowhere.

John closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look. Did you have anything you wanted to do on the case today, or should I go to work?”

“I was hoping to go round to the university where Sally, Pietro, and Beppo studied. And…” Sherlock trails off sounding uncomfortable. “It’s important that Mary is with us for this, if you can convince her to come.”

John had thought he’d gotten mixed signals from Sherlock in the past. That was nothing compared to this. John’s temper spikes again.

“Why would you need me to convince her? Can’t you do that yourself?!”

Sherlock is quiet for a long moment before he responds. “She’ll listen to you. You’re her husband, after all.”

And what is that supposed to mean? Maybe nothing has happened between them yet (relief), but Sherlock is still pining away over her (agony).

John realises all over again that letting himself get upset about this isn’t doing any good. He had decided to do things Sherlock’s way for a reason. It’s easier not to feel, to pretend he’s a machine that isn’t breaking into pieces on the inside. He wrestles his emotions into an iron box and forces himself to focus on the case. The case that Sherlock wants Mary’s help to solve.

John’s voice is hollow when he responds. “Right. I’ll see what I can do then. Where are we meeting you?”

“London College of Contemporary Arts. I called the professor who had taught the three students involved in the Thatcher case. We have a meeting with him this afternoon.”

“Right. See you then.” John hangs up before Sherlock can say anything else. He texts Mary asking if she can come along with them. She’s quick to agree, which makes the iron box in John’s heart rattle around painfully. He ignores it.

Chapter 4: The Six Thatchers: Part Three

Chapter Text

Mary, John, and Sherlock walk into the London College of Contemporary Arts with a tense sort of silence hanging over them. They barely have a moment to take in the sprawling student lounge before a rail thin man with enormous glasses and a bright blue ascot tied around his neck begins to approach them. He greets them with an arch smile and a delicate handshake.

“Sherlock Holmes, yes? I took the liberty of looking you up after your phone call. Quite the impressive record you’ve managed to collect over the years.”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock replies, eyes sliding over to John. “I’m afraid my reputation greatly exaggerates the reality of my abilities.”

“You’re too modest! If there’s one thing I appreciate, it’s an artist at work. My research did jog my memory though, I’ve met you before.” He says with a finger pointed towards John. “You were pretending to work with the Hickman Gallery at the time, were you not?”

John looks away feeling a bit chagrined. “Er, I was, yeah. Sorry about that, people tend to clam up when they know they’re being investigated.”

Horace laughs, or rather, giggles. “No need to apologise. It’s all good fun. I just never forget a face. Especially not one as remarkable as yours.” Horace warmly smiles at John. Sherlock looks at Horace a bit more intently: eyebrow gel, manicured nails, the precisely tied ascot, a very particular brand of shoes. Sherlock sighs in exasperation.

Mary doesn’t look particularly thrilled either. “If you could show us where the mould is. We don’t have all day.” She says with an undercurrent of agitation, stepping closer to John as she speaks and wrapping both arms around his. John does a double take down at her, face scrunching up as he tries to figure out why she’s holding onto him. He takes a half step away from her.

Horace clears his throat and looks away. “Yes, of course. Right this way.” He begins leading them through a brightly colored hallway to one of the art studios. “You have remarkably good timing. The mould had been down in storage for years. We were keeping it as a kind of tribute to poor Pietro. But recently one of our students requested it, wanted to do a recreation of his project. Took us a bit of digging to find it but it’s in the studio now.”

He holds the door open at the end of the hall for them. “After you,” he says, smiling at John again. John walks through the door first, so he doesn’t see Mary and Sherlock glaring at Horace behind his back.

The studio is furnished with light wooden furniture that has clearly been here for decades. A lecturer’s desk is placed in the corner so that the professor would be able to watch the students as they work. The far wall is made up of wide glass windows overlooking the city; the afternoon light casts long shadows that slant like bars across the room. At the far back of the room, the two halves of the cast Pietro had made have been taped together and placed on a high table. From across the room, the winding layers of masking tape make the mould appear a bit like a severed mummy head staring back at them.

Sherlock approaches first, picking up the cast. “Is it alright if we open this?” Sherlock asks Professor Harker without looking up.

He clears his throat “Well, I mean… That is to say… I don’t think I can permit you to tamper with a student’s work.”

Sherlock looks up at John, then pointedly glances at Horace. It takes John a bit to catch onto what Sherlock is asking, but he turns to Horace and clears his throat.

“Professor Harker,” John says. Horace meets his gaze. “It would be helpful if we could take a closer look. It might lead us to Pietro’s killer. If Beppo is innocent, we need to be able to prove it.”

Horace’s mouth hardens and he eyes the cast warily. “Be that as it may…”

John looks back at Sherlock, who nods more forcefully at Horace. John mouths “what do you want?” at Sherlock, who subtly does a patting gesture behind Horace’s back. John shakes his head, eyes flashing with incredulity, but Sherlock gestures at Horace again. John sighs but goes along with it.

He steps closer to Horace, placing a hand on his shoulder. John sees Mary glaring daggers at him in his peripheral vision as he speaks again in a soft tone. “Please Professor, it would mean a lot to us, to be able to make this right.”

Horace flushes. “Oh fine, then. But do be careful.”

“Thank you.” Says Sherlock a bit smugly. He begins methodically unwrapping the cast, one layer at a time. When all the tape sits in a tangled knot on the table beside him, Sherlock eases the two halves of the mould apart. The Thatcher bust inside looks identical to the others, devil horns and all. Sherlock picks it up, turning it over in his hands looking for any kind of clue. He finds a small mark at the bottom, gestures for John and Mary to come over. “What does that look like to you?”

They both examine the bust. John sees a white ring, like something had been pressed into the plaster before it had dried. Mary grabs it and holds it close to her face. “Yep, something is definitely in there.” She looks back over at Horace. “We’re going to have to bust it.”

“Wait! You can’t do that!” But he’s too late, Mary has already lifted the bust over her head and smashed it onto the ground. Horace Harker jumps back from the shards of plaster as they scatter across the floor. A rolled-up envelope slowly starts unfurling in the pile of rubble. Sherlock stoops down to pick it up.

“Really now! What am I supposed to tell the student?” Exclaims Horace.

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” says Sherlock without looking up at him. “This one wasn’t made by a student.” He passes John the envelope, which has the now familiar question written on the front. Did you miss me?

Horace huffs out of the room, muttering something about calling security. John looks up at Sherlock and raises his eyebrows, silently asking if he can open the envelope. When Sherlock nods, John slides his index finger under the flap and tears it open.

Inside are a series of photographs of a bridge somewhere in London at sunset. At first, John doesn’t recognise the location, but as the photos progress he sees Beppo Rovito walk onto the bridge, smash a bust, then pick up a knife from the rubble. Eventually, John and Sherlock enter the frame. The last photo shows Beppo’s expression just before he had turned around to face them, looking down at his own chest where a red dot has been trained onto his heart.

John goes pale and hands the pictures to Sherlock, who quickly flips through them. When he gets to the final photo, he groans. “So, I did get it wrong, Beppo was innocent. How could I have missed that?” Sherlock sets the photos on the table next to him, before pacing the room.

Mary picks up the photos and looks through them with a cold expression, though John does see a flicker of some emotion pass over her face as she gets to the last photo, the one with the laser on Beppo’s heart. Fear? Anger? It’s gone before John can identify it. She sets the photos back down and stares at Sherlock pacing back and forth, her face set into an unreadable mask.

“It was obvious Beppo had done it.” Sherlock mutters, more to himself than to them. John strains to make out what Sherlock is saying as the words tumble out of his mouth as quickly as he thinks them. “Sally and Pietro had dated in the past, the way she spoke about him made that clear. But Beppo and Pietro had been together for nearly a year, and yet Sally was still emotional enough over Pietro’s death to seek out our help. Could have been out of a lingering sense of sentiment. But no. There was the new locket she was wearing, kept fiddling with it every time she mentioned Pietro. Obviously a gift from him, a recent gift, meaning they had been carrying on behind Beppo’s back. So I knew the most likely explanation was that Beppo had discovered the affair and had killed Pietro in a fit of jealousy.”

John’s forehead creases. “You never mentioned that bit.”

Sherlock’s steps falter momentarily as his eyebrows pinch together before he shakes his head. “The motivation seemed transparent. The simplest explanation of all the facts. And yet that’s the problem. It was too simple, too neat. Like someone had set it up for me knowing I would come to that conclusion. But how did they...” Sherlock trails off.

He briefly flashes back to that day four years prior. Following John around London as he did his Christmas shopping. John had gone off to some horrible, tedious jewelry store to buy a necklace for his latest girlfriend, he couldn’t seem to go more than a month without bringing a new woman home, flying through them like he didn’t care who they were, just wanted someone to take on dates and have sex with. This one hadn’t been around for more than a few weeks and yet John felt the need to buy her presents. Sherlock had been so irritated by the whole thing that he stormed off and started accosting the closest person, who happened to be a man dressed as Father Christmas.

After being escorted off the premises, they had gotten home to find Sally already waiting for them with the story of how her friend had been stabbed through the heart by his lover. Sally, who had been sleeping with Pietro behind his boyfriend’s back, who clearly thought Pietro had been going to leave Beppo for her. The wave of irritation, of jealousy. Of course Beppo had found out and killed Pietro. The situation would have been enough to drive anyone mad...

“How did they what?” John asks.

Sherlock suddenly whirls around and darts back for the photos, flipping through them again. “We need to go back here. To Thor Bridge, where these were taken. The angle the photograph was taken from is different from the angle of the laser, see?” He shows the picture to John again. Sure enough, Sherlock is right. “I suspect if we go to the location where this was taken, we’ll find our next clue, they might have taken a photo of the sniper.”

“Right. Good plan.” Says John. He’s going to follow Sherlock who has started walking towards the door when he feels Mary’s grip digging into his arm again.

“No.” She says, voice cold.

Sherlock turns, glances down at Mary’s hand on John, then meets her eyes, apprehensive.

“You don’t want us to investigate this?” Sherlock asks, taking a cautious step closer towards them, his hands raised slightly, as if to show he means no harm.

“No. Those pictures won’t lead you to the person behind this.” Mary’s face is hard, threatening. John has only seen this look on Mary’s face one other time. When she had stared him down in that narrow hallway at Leinster Gardens, thinking he was Sherlock.

“How good a shot are you?” Sherlock had asked through the receiver.

Mary had co*cked her gun as an answer. “How badly do you want to find out?”

John doesn’t understand this reaction at all. He subtly tries to pull his arm free, but Mary’s grip on him is too tight to get out of easily. Sherlock glances back down at her hand on his arm, his lips pressing together. He looks at John, caged in by the shadows coming from the window, and very slightly shakes his head.

Sherlock then looks back at Mary, taking another step closer. He keeps his expression calm and responds to her in a low, reassuring tone. “Mary. I’m doing my best to solve this case. I just want to find out what this person is after. That’s all.”

Mary laughs harshly. “Seems like you should have been able to figure that out by now.” She abruptly looks back at John watching her, like she had forgotten he was there. She appears to shake herself, placing a free hand on her stomach. “This is a waste of time. Come on John, we’re going home.”

Mary takes a step towards the door, but John doesn’t budge. She looks back at him, eyebrows raised, and nods her head towards the door again, as if telling him to get on with it.

John frowns. “No, Mary, we aren’t going anywhere.”

She scoffs. “What, you’re not actually going to send your pregnant wife home alone so you can keep running after him like an idiot are you?” Her tone turns biting. “You always give him whatever he wants. Why? So he can feel clever and important? Are you honestly that pathetic?!”

John’s eyebrows shoot up and his mouth falls slightly open in shock. John looks over at Sherlock, who is staring at Mary with a pained expression. After a moment though, Sherlock feels John’s gaze on him and looks over to meet it. There’s fear in his eyes.

All at once, the confused turmoil raging within John dissipates, replaced with an ironclad sense of resolve.

Whatever is going on with Mary, whatever is going on with Sherlock, whatever Sherlock is keeping from him, all of that is irrelevant. Sherlock is frightened that John is going to leave with Mary. As if it had ever been a question who John would pick between the two of them. As if there had ever been anything other than the one, obvious answer.

John looks into Mary’s eyes and puts his right hand over hers still clutching onto his arm. Her lips pull up in a small smile. John’s answering smile is self-deprecating. He answers her so quietly it’s barely more than a whisper. “Yeah... I guess I am.”

He gently but firmly pulls himself free of Mary's grip and takes a step back from her. A step towards Sherlock.

Mary looks between them, then tilts her head menacingly to the side, flexing her jaw and glaring at John. “Fine.” She lets out a bitter huff. “I guess I’m leaving alone then. I’ll see you later, John.” The last words are laced with menace.

She stuffs her hands into her coat pockets and spins on her heel, storming out of the room. The door slams behind her.

Sherlock takes a step towards John. “John, I’m so sorry. I-”

John holds up his hand and looks at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “We are going to solve this case. And immediately afterwards you are going to tell me what is going on. Clear?” John’s determined expression brooks no argument.

Sherlock nods. “Of course. I’m sorry again, I had thought-” John raises his head and looks at Sherlock full on. His expression stops Sherlock in his tracks.

“Not now. If we do this now, I won’t be able to keep this under control, and we need to solve this, right?” John attempts a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. Sherlock’s answering smile is sad.

“Right. Let’s go then.” And leads John out of the studio.

Sherlock and John stand on Thor Bridge, coats buttoned up against the cold January wind. The evening sky is dark grey, the falling sun obscured by thick, roiling clouds. Sherlock holds up the photographs and paces back and forth across the bridge, ducking and rising on his toes, trying to determine the angle the pictures were taken from. John watches as he eventually seems to settle in one spot and then spins around to look behind him, scanning the roofline.

“Up there.” Sherlock says, pointing to a rooftop in the distance. He holds up one of the pictures for John to see as he steps closer. “Just there, in the corner, you can see that chimney,” he gestures to a closer building, which sure enough has a chimney that matches the one in the photograph. “Between that and the view of the river, it must be there.” Sherlock looks back to John, who nods.

“Right.” John says in a monotone. “Lead the way then.” The two cross the bridge and walk up the street, John a few steps behind Sherlock. The two duck into the alley a few blocks down behind the building in question. The sound of their feet splashing through the dirty water pooled on the ground echoes off the buildings on either side of the alleyway. They stop under a fire escape and Sherlock jumps up to pull down the ladder. The metal hinges emit a loud groan as the ladder lowers to the ground.

Sherlock gestures for John to climb first, the corner of his mouth pulling up. John sighs and places his foot on the lowest rung.

On the roof, John takes the photos back out of his pocket. He walks towards the ledge and holds them up to compare the view. Sure enough, the angle is a match.

“John?” Sherlock sounds nervous. John turns back to look at him, Sherlock is standing a few feet behind him with a wary expression. “Can I see those, please?” John sighs again and hands over the photos without a word. He looks back down at the bridge, staring at where Beppo had stood years prior. John wonders how it felt, knowing he was doomed no matter what choice he made. He thinks he can empathise. John startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock points over to the roof just across the short alleyway. “Shall we?” He says, smiling. John tries to return it. Sherlock pats the hand on his shoulder, then backs up to make a running jump across the alley to the other rooftop. As John prepares to follow, he remembers their first rooftop chase, how light and alive he had felt that first night. John’s expression clouds over as he is hit with a profound sense of loss. He reminds himself that he’s meant to be focusing on the case though, and so he squares his jaw and jumps over the gap to Sherlock.

Sherlock approaches the ledge that overlooks the bridge and stoops down. He mimes holding a rifle pointed down at the bridge, adjusts his position to better match the angle of the shooter, and then shifts his gaze downward. It’s dark enough now to be hard to make out details, so he pulls his phone out of his pocket and uses it as a torch, scanning the light over the brickwork of the ledge.

“Here.” He says suddenly, pulling at a loose brick. From inside the gap left behind, Sherlock pulls out yet another envelope. He redirects the beam of light to illuminate the words written on the front.

Did you miss me?

John takes a step closer, and Sherlock stands to meet him. He hands John his phone, who holds the light steady so that Sherlock can open the envelope. Sherlock’s arm brushes against John’s as he opens the envelope and pulls out the contents.

Inside are several pieces of folded paper. Sherlock slowly unfolds them and what John sees inside makes him feel as if his heart has dropped into his stomach. It’s a picture of the sniper crouched where Sherlock had just been, gun aimed at Beppo on the bridge below.

Mary.

Sherlock eases the photo aside, so they can look at the other contents, which turn out to be a printed-out email thread. Though John feels slightly sick, he reads them over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Dear M,

A mutual friend passed along your contact information. I have a problem and you’re the only one who can fix it. The man I love has decided he can’t love me back because of someone else. I want to destroy both of them. I don’t care how it’s done, and I’ll do anything you ask. I have money, as much as you want. Please help me.

-SB

Dear Sally,

Consider yourself lucky, your story appeals to my sentimental side. Attached are your instructions for how to kill your Pietro and frame his boyfriend.

I don’t want money. Instead, once you’ve murdered Pietro, you are to contact Sherlock Holmes and have him investigate your case. If you set things up exactly as I say, he should be convinced by the evidence you’ll plant and your rival will take the fall. If necessary, I can ensure his confession.

You will be receiving a burner phone. If I contact you, I expect you to immediately follow any instructions I give you. If you don’t, I’ll make sure Sherlock finds out who’s really behind the murder.

M

The plan had been straightforward. Sally knew Pietro’s schedule, that he often stayed on campus to work late into the night. She waited for him there. When he had set the final bust in his set of six Maggie “Devil” Thatchers, Sally had entered the room wearing an art smock, one of Beppo’s knives tucked up into her sleeve. She had gone to him, begged him one final time for Pietro to leave Beppo and be with her. He had refused her advances, pushed her away when she had tried to kiss him. In a fit of rage she had pulled out the knife and stabbed Pietro through the heart, twisting the blade while looking into his eyes with a cruel smile.

Once Pietro was dead she had taken the knife and pressed it into the drying plaster of the last bust. She had stuffed the smock into her bag and left the room, quickly running around to the back of the building and smashing the window, making it look like someone had broken in. She texted Beppo from the burner phone, informing him that Pietro was dead, stabbed with one of his knives, and unless he confessed to the murder, he would be killed next.

As expected, Beppo had immediately rushed to the studio. He had just enough time to see Pietro lying dead, to notice the smudge of red on the horn of one of the busts, before the police burst into the room and took him in for questioning. But with no evidence, he had been let go the next morning. As expected, Beppo began seeking out the busts and stealing them, trying to recover the knife before it could be used to frame him for the murder. Sally had been given the order to seek out Sherlock and John. She had been told exactly what to say and how to act, the necklace had been a gift from her benefactor sent that same day, part of the ruse.

There is one final scrap of paper on the bottom of the stack, a printout of a text sent to Sally dated the day Beppo had been confessed to the murder, the address of the building where the photos had been taken along with a brief set of instructions:

Rooftop. 6pm. Bring your camera. When Beppo arrives, take photographs of the arrest and of my accomplice on the roof opposite. Make sure she doesn't see you. Send me the pictures and your debt is paid in full.

M

John’s head is spinning. He looks up at Sherlock, who seems troubled, but not surprised. John sucks in a breath through his teeth and states what is now obvious.

“M is Moriarty.”

Sherlock nods once, then looks away, wincing slightly in anticipation of what’s coming.

“Mary worked for Moriarty.” Sherlock nods again. John is breathing hard now, hands shaking. He balls them up so they’ll stop, it doesn’t quite work. He paces the length of the roof and back, then walks up to Sherlock, fury etched onto his face.

“How long?” John whispers with as much force as he can. “How long have you known that?”

Sherlock forces himself to meet John’s gaze. “Two days. The comic of our first round with Moriarty reminded me that Moriarty’s accomplice had been a woman, that I had seen Mary’s handwriting once long before we met. I texted her, mentioning that night with Moriarty at the pool to test the theory. She more or less admitted that she had been there.”

----

“Care to explain that text, then?” Mary asks angrily.

"Just thought you’d like to know how we’re coming along. It takes a surprisingly long time to go through these.” Sherlock replies, glancing down at the comic still open on the coffee table. “There are so many details you miss the first time around.” He keeps his tone light.

Mary’s voice, on the other hand, has gone cold. “What kind of details?”

"Oh, I think we both already know the answer to that.” Sherlock smiles, knowing he has her.

“And does John know about your theory?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock replies looking over at John, who he’s surprised to find is glaring back at him.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep it that way.” Mary says through her teeth. Sherlock continues to stare into John’s eyes, wondering just how much he knows. John, clever John, must suspect what’s going on...

“Assuming he hasn’t worked it out yet himself.”

“Sherlock. Don’t push me.” Mary’s voice has gone higher, singsong. It reminds Sherlock of her threatening him in his hospital bed. He stands and crosses the room to look out the window, glancing down at the street, just in case. “I’ve already shot you once. Trust me, I would be more than happy to finish the job.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Sherlock says under his breath. “As I said, I just wanted to let you know John is staying here tonight, I’d hate for you to worry.”

“I don’t have any reason to worry, do I? You’re going to be a good little detective and stay focused on the case and keep your mouth shut, yes?”

“Yes. Good night Mary, I’ll be seeing you soon.”

---

The pool... John makes the connection instantly. If Mary had been working for Moriarty back then, with her skill set that would have meant that she had been the one aiming at the hostages. Aiming at him when he was covered in explosives. Had that been the first time she had seen him?

That revelation, disturbing as it is, almost seems irrelevant to John, just then. Because if Sherlock had kept the fact that Mary had worked for Moriarty from him, it suddenly seems much more likely that he had been hiding things from him all along.

“And before that?” John asks, still whispering so that he won’t scream. “How much did you know? How much of what you told me was a lie?”

Sherlock grimaces. “All of it. She shot me hoping to kill me. She said as much before she did it. I knew she was dangerous, that she had just proved she would go to tremendous lengths to keep you. I didn’t know whether or not that included hurting you. I had planned to tell you everything after Magnussen, but then…”

“So all of that... Everything you said.” John presses his hands against the sides of his head as his anger starts to boil over. That horrible conversation from that night is swirling in his head.

---

“You.” John glares at Mary with utter contempt. “What have I ever done? My whole life, to deserve you.”

Over his shoulder, Sherlock’s mouth presses into a hard line and his fingers twitch slightly before he speaks. “Everything.”

John turns around and crosses the room to look him in the eye. “Sherlock, I told you, shut up.”

“No, I mean it, seriously, everything. Everything you’ve ever done is what you did.” Sherlock winces as his heart throbs painfully in his chest. It’s impossible to separate the pain from the gunshot wound from the anguish he feels knowing what he’s inflicting on John, they blend into one singular kind of agony.

John smiles furiously. “Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine…”

“You were a doctor who went to war.” Sherlock says, forcing himself to meet John’s gaze. “You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high…" Sherlock grimaces, hating himself for what he's doing. But he has to keep John safe... "John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. So, is it truly such a surprise that the woman you fall in love with conforms to that pattern?”

“But she wasn’t supposed to be like that!” John whispers back. He stares at Sherlock and asks the question burning in his mind. He had picked Mary because she had seemed safe. Not like... “Why is she like that?”

Sherlock looks away as his mouth falls open. He shakes his head slightly before he gives the only answer he knows will work. “Because… You chose her.”

---

John had known, even as he desperately wished that the entire thing had been a trick, what that would mean. He had been so focused on the idea of escaping the situation with Mary, of there being a way back to Baker Street with Sherlock, that he hadn’t really let himself think about the implications. What that meant Sherlock had done. That he had deliberately chosen the cruelest possible words, the ones he knew would hurt John the most, and all to get him to stay with someone he knew was deadly.

“Why?!” John demands, still whispering. “Why did you lie?”

“I-”

“You could have just told me what you knew. I would have done whatever you asked, you know I would have.” Sherlock’s tortured gaze staring back at him pierces straight through to his core, making John feel a sudden urge to protect him. Something about that makes John even more angry, at himself this time. He begins pacing again. “Because apparently I’m a massive idiot who only hangs around people who want to hurt me for the fun of it. Mary’s right. I am pathetic.” John lets out a laugh that sounds tortured. “Wasn’t making me watch you die enough?!”

Sherlock’s recoils as if John has hit him. “John, I… I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, sorry, are you? Well thank God that fixes this. I had to live through months of thinking I deserved a marriage with a psychopath. Because that’s why I chose her. So I spent months hoping that you were lying to me again. Because that’s the only way I wasn’t a monster. And of course you were. Sherlock Holmes always had a bloody plan too clever to share with the rest of us. You’re so above it all you never think of the consequences. Hmm? But you’re sorry now. That’s nice.”

All at once it’s too much. John strides over to the nearby chimney and presses the brick against his back as he sinks to the ground. He puts his head between his knees, holding his head in his hands. John doesn’t cry, just stares at the rooftop beneath him and breathes like he’s just run a marathon, hands shaking uncontrollably on either side of his head. He hears Sherlock approaching but doesn’t react. His mind is a confused tangle of anger and relief and disappointment and heartbreak. He has to focus on getting it back under control, on keeping it locked inside.

Sherlock kneels beside him and puts his hand on John’s shoulder. John considers shrugging it off, but he doesn’t. Somehow, even now, it helps. Having Sherlock there.

Sherlock looks down at John curled in on himself, regret and self-loathing etched onto his own face. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, but so full of emotion that John is taken aback by it.

“You’re right, John. Perfectly right. I don't blame you for being angry with me... I’m furious with myself. I keep making the same exact mistake. Thinking that I can take care of these things for you, keep you safe, and then once it’s done, once that last thing is dealt with, I can tell you everything. But there’s always something else!” Sherlock flings his free arm into the air at that bit and lets out a frustrated sound. “After what I’ve put you through, I wouldn’t blame you if you decided you’d had enough of me. That would be more than fair, I wouldn't try to stop you.”

John’s head snaps up at that. He looks straight into Sherlock’s agonised face, more vulnerable and open than he’s ever seen it, and John can tell Sherlock genuinely means it. He expects John to leave him now, because of this. Ridiculous. John has always known he would never abandon Sherlock. Even if he actually thought Sherlock was a heartless monster.

But looking at Sherlock now, his eyes brimming with sincerity, John also knows, deep in his bones, that Sherlock does have a heart. He’s always known that, too. For all that Sherlock has lied to him, has kept him out of his plans, carved wounds into his chest that have left an uglier knot than his gunshot scar… John has never doubted that at his core Sherlock Holmes is a good man. One he would follow anywhere, if he only knew where to go.

“That can start now.” John says with a nod. Sherlock’s expression falters as he sucks in a pained gasp. John realises what he’s just said, that Sherlock thinks he’s agreeing he never wants to see him again. He sighs. “I meant you telling me everything. Whatever the danger is, I want you to tell me now. So we can face it together.”

John tries to smile at Sherlock to reassure him. It doesn’t come easily, and when he finally manages, the smile is a weary one. But the effort still has its intended effect. Sherlock relaxes, and smiles back.

John speaks again, voice slowly becoming more steady. “Let me start with what I know. I read the memory stick Mary gave me. It was empty. That’s part of why I hoped you had a plan; I couldn’t believe you had actually fallen for her act. Well, not until Magnussen anyway.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow. “Magnussen… What did you think after that?”

John is tempted to tell Sherlock to forget it, but if they’re going to be in this together, John needs to be honest too. “‘Give my love to Mary,’” he echoes, “I started to wonder if you had meant that literally.”

Sherlock instantly knows what John is getting at and he thinks back over the last few days. His face twists in horror as he sees how his behavior would have seemed to John. “You thought I was including her in the case because I’d rather have her around than you.”

“Well... Yeah.” John thinks it over, and realises if that’s not true, and if Moriarty’s return isn’t Sherlock’s doing, that he doesn’t know what has been going on at all. “What have you been doing, actually?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, then speaks all in a rush. “Well, I’m fairly certain Mary is the one behind Moriarty’s return. It would have had to have been someone close to him, especially now that we know this person is using his code. He wouldn’t have turned that over to just anyone. Even with that though I can’t figure out what she wants. I wanted her nearby to keep an eye on her, to see if I could deduce anything from her reactions, but it hasn't worked so far. It doesn’t make any sense. I know she wanted me out of the picture, but she waited until I was about to leave to start this game. Then when I try to follow the clues she leaves, she tells me to stop. But I’m stuck playing along trying to keep you safe, not to mention your child.” Sherlock's tone completely shifts at the last word, his eyes going out of focus, like they do when he’s making a deduction.

“Sherlock? What is it?” Sherlock’s eyes are flickering back and forth.

“It’s… It’s nothing.” Sherlock says automatically, still focused inward.

“Sherlock.” John warns. Sherlock looks at him and the intensity of John’s hard gaze pierces through him. “No more of that. Tell me.”

“I… I’m not 100% certain of this. And if I’m wrong it would put you through a lot of unnecessary pain.” Sherlock says.

John shakes his head once. “I can handle it. Just tell me.”

They look at each other for a moment. Seeing John’s resolve, Sherlock nods his head. “I think I was wrong. I think Mary might not actually be pregnant.”

Whatever John had been expecting to hear, it was not that. No wonder Sherlock hadn’t wanted to tell him, the idea is ridiculous. John laughs.

Sherlock’s answering expression is grave. “I’m being serious, John. That day, at the wedding. Mary had been playing up her nausea, her change in taste perception, but only around me. When I said she was pregnant she looked overjoyed, until she thought it over. Then she seemed worried. I assumed that was just concern about how you both would handle a child. But… what if she realised she had gotten herself into an impossible situation? That she wanted me to guess she was pregnant so she could be sure she had you, but now was trapped in the lie? It would explain why I saw the symptoms and you didn’t. Because you’re a doctor, and they weren’t real.”

John is still fighting the impulse to laugh. That’s all well and good about the wedding day, but it has been nearly five months since then. Surely John would have noticed if she wasn’t pregnant in the meantime. But then, as he begins to think it over… Would he really have had the chance to notice?

He and Mary have not had sex since their honeymoon. It’s unsettling that Sherlock seems to know that, given the reason behind it. Because John had thought he might have seen something in Sherlock at the wedding and being with her after that had felt too much like a betrayal. He had been hoping Sherlock would come round when they had gotten home. That hadn’t happened.

Instead, not quite a month later, when Mary would have been two months pregnant, she had scaled a tower to threaten a man at gunpoint. Shot Sherlock in the chest. Which had changed everything.

John had moved into Baker Street after that. And in the three months that followed he had only seen Mary in brief interactions at work. John had seen her stomach grow in that time, but had never looked at her closely, had avoided looking at her altogether, when he could help it.

And then, nearly two weeks ago, he had reconciled with Mary at that disastrous Christmas party. When he had gotten out of Mycroft’s custody and gone home, she had shown him the scan she had done in the months he had been away, chastised him for missing their daughter’s milestones while he had been off moping. Mary hadn’t tried to initiate having sex at all since he had gotten back, and now that John is thinking it over, she had been very careful to not be undressed around him at all, taking her clothes with her into the bathroom when she showered, when she got ready for bed, always locking the door behind her.

It’s possible that John wouldn’t have known at all.

Relief is the strongest emotion, with guilt following closely on its heels. Not having to endure another four months of this, or another eighteen years, for that matter, feels like a tremendous weight has been lifted from John’s chest. John remembers though, that even before he had learned Mary was an assassin, the thought of starting a family with her had already filled him with dread. He had felt trapped in a life he thought he was supposed to want. But he hadn’t. So John can’t fully experience his relief before he begins berating himself for having it.

Sherlock watches John carefully, and when he seems to have absorbed this revelation, he continues. “In addition to all of that,” He says, as if he heard John’s internal reasoning, “These past few days I had noticed that she would walk too quickly or stand up straight until she thought you could see her. Then she would shift her posture and place a hand on her stomach, like she had to remind herself to stand that way.”

John is mostly convinced Sherlock is right. But if this is true, this plan is ridiculously shortsighted.

“What was she going to do? Steal a baby?”

“I don’t think she was going to let it get that far. I imagine she had hoped she could actually get pregnant quickly after I deduced it. When that failed… Most likely she was going to fake a miscarriage at some point, knowing the guilt would have kept you there almost as well as a child would have.”

“Christ!” Because Sherlock is right, that would have worked. Feeling like he had failed as a father… Mary knew exactly what she was doing.

Sherlock doesn’t know what else to say. He looks down at the bridge, where Beppo had stood all those years ago. “With this evidence, we should have what we need to exonerate Beppo. Four years late, but it’s better than the alternative. We may even be able to arrest Sally. But first we have to deal with Mary.”

“Right. And how do we do that?” John asks.

Sherlock thinks it over. Then looks back at John, fear and resignation mingling in his eyes. “I hate to ask this of you, but I think our best chance is for you to do it. If you go home now, I can follow close behind. She might hesitate just long enough if you’re the one to confront her that we can catch her.”

John nods. “I can do that.” Somehow it seems appropriate, that he be the one to face Mary.

“I should warn you John, I don’t know how she’ll react to being caught. This could get dangerous.”

John gives Sherlock a half smile. “Then I’m your man.”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, gauging his reaction, before bursting out laughing. John joins in with a tired sounding chuckle. Still smiling, Sherlock stands to his feet and holds his hand out. John takes his hand and lets Sherlock pull him up. They take the running jump over the alley together this time and walk back to the fire escape side by side.

A floor-to-ceiling wall of monitors dominates the room, demanding attention. At first glance, the information displayed on it is an incomprehensible mess. Half of the screens are dedicated to illegible code. But taking in some of the screens individually slowly creates a clearer picture. A blog with a dark green banner. A widget tracking online traffic for the word “Sherlock.” Several CCTV feeds across London. Sherlock and John walk across one of the screens, on their way back to confront Mary. In the middle of the wall, no less than six screens are dedicated to monitoring a flat from multiple angles. The flat in question is a cluttered mess; piles of books and specimens are crowded onto the shelves and walls. On the far wall of the living room, a faded yellow smile stands in sharp contrast to the dark damask wallpaper.

A man sits in a black leather chair, staring at the wall of screens with headphones in his ears. His dark eyes follow Sherlock and John as they move across another screen. He clicks a key on his keyboard and the screens update to keep them in view.

The man reaches down to his phone to turn up his music.

Oh, there’s a lot of opportunities,

If you know how to take them,

Oh, there’s a lot of opportunities,

If there aren’t you can make them.

Make or break them.

John puts the key into his front door and unlocks it. He looks back to the corner where he had left Sherlock. He isn’t there, of course. Sherlock is halfway around the block by now, on his way to climb over the garden fence so he can be ready at the back door for John’s signal. John squares his shoulders and turns the door handle.

“Mary. I’m home.” John announces. The house is dark, and he turns to flick on the switch. He doesn’t hear any response, doesn’t hear any movement at all. John walks to the living room, but no one is there.

“Mary?” John asks again, turning to go to the kitchen. It is likewise empty.

He climbs the stairs up to their bedroom, and he finds that an envelope has been carefully placed in the middle of the bed.

“John Watson.” It says in Mary’s familiar cursive. John rushes back downstairs and opens the back door, where Sherlock is waiting.

“She’s not here.” John says. Sherlock’s brow furrows, then he sees the envelope in John’s hand. He steps into the kitchen and holds out his hand, silently asking for the envelope. John hands it to him but stands at his side to read over his shoulder.

John,

I know what you’ve found on that roof, and what Sherlock thinks it means. He’s wrong. As much as I hate to leave you behind, I wasn’t going to wait around and let you try to arrest me. By the time you’re reading this, I’ll be long gone.

As for who’s behind this game you’re playing. Tell Sherlock to go over the Ricoletti case again. The solution is there. If that doesn’t work, tell him there was a fourth sniper that day when he jumped off the roof. That I saw everything. He didn’t die, and neither did Sherlock. Just as planned.

I will see you again, I promise you.

Mary

“The Ricoletti case? The one you said you were trying to solve on the plane?” John says, looking up at Sherlock, who John is surprised to find has gone completely pale. “Sherlock?”

“No.” Sherlock says, his voice shaking. “No, that can’t be true, she’s lying.”

“Sherlock, what is it? Is this about the case?"

“I…” Sherlock trails off. “He can’t… He can’t be…” John can recognise the signs that Sherlock is going into shock.

“Sherlock. Look at me.” Sherlock complies, eyes wide with fear. “Take deep breaths, in time with mine.” John breathes in slowly, exaggerating the movement in his shoulders. Sherlock’s breath is still coming in frightened gasps. John speeds his own breathing a bit to make it easier for Sherlock to match the pace. With considerable effort, Sherlock forces himself to breathe in time with John, eyes still round as saucers. John takes another breath in, slower this time, and Sherlock copies him.

They repeat the cycle a few times before John speaks again. His voice is steady and reassuring, like he’s speaking with a patient. “Good. Now focus on the case. Start at the beginning. Walk me through it."

“The case…” Sherlock swallows before continuing. “Emelia Ricoletti faked her suicide in front of a crowd. She shot herself through the roof of her mouth, or made it look like she did. Really, she had accomplices, someone to spray the curtains behind her with blood while she fired a second gun into the ground. She used her apparent death as an alibi to kill her husband. Then, since she had fallen ill and was going to die anyway, she had one of her accomplices kill her. After her death, word spread of her avenging ghost and her associates could use the legend as a cover for their own crimes. Simple.”

John’s forehead creases. “Hang on. You said you used that case to prove Moriarty had died. How does anything you just said prove that? Emelia faked her death using the same method Moriarty used to kill himself. Doesn’t that mean he could have faked it too?” John looks back down at Mary’s letter. “The fourth sniper… She helped him do it. Helped Moriarty fake his death. She knew all along?”

“No!” Says Sherlock forcefully, breathing picking up again. He sways on his feet before collapsing into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Puts his head in his hands, staring down at the linoleum tabletop. “Moriarty can’t be alive. He has to be dead. He has to be!”

“I don’t know, Sherlock... This whole thing, right down to the packages, and sending you off on a game. It’s exactly what he did before. Wouldn’t it make more sense if it’s really him?”

“It can’t be him. If this is him then he didn’t die, and I did all of that for nothing!" Sherlock shouts the last part. John can hear Sherlock’s breathing go ragged. “That can’t have been for nothing.” Sherlock’s voice is rough, like he’s fighting back tears. John has only seen Sherlock like this once when he had been exposed to the HOUND toxin. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say that will comfort him.

Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath then slowly stands back up, turning his face away from John, back towards the door. “If he is back, I should go. I need to figure out what to do.”

John is hit with a horrible sense of déjà vu, remembering Sherlock leaving him behind the night before he had faked his death. He reaches out, about to grab Sherlock’s coat sleeve, but stops himself just short.

“Don’t.” John whispers instead, hating himself for the obvious desperation in his voice. But his need is greater than his shame. “Not again.”

The emotion in John’s voice stops Sherlock in his tracks. Almost against his will, he turns around to face him. Sherlock’s eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is twisted into a frightened grimace. But when he sees the same fear reflected in John’s eyes, he’s hit by a sudden rush of emotion that feels almost like a deduction.

Hadn’t he spent the last three years wishing he could go back to the time before his death and do things differently? Pushing John away hadn’t kept him safe. Mary was proof of that. Leaving John out of his plans had only hurt him in ways Sherlock would give anything to undo. And he had very nearly made the same mistake yet again. Every instinct in Sherlock’s body is screaming at him to run, but he forces himself to ignore the impulse. John needs him.

Sherlock nods and takes a step back towards John. His voice is still unsteady when he speaks again, but he attempts a small smile at John all the same. “No. You’re right. Together this time, I promise.”

Seeing that Sherlock isn’t going to leave, John finds he’s suddenly in danger of his knees giving out. He groans slightly as he wobbles on his feet. Sherlock reaches out to catch him but John steadies himself on the kitchen table.

“I need to get out of here. I can’t stand being in this house right now.”

Sherlock nods again. “Of course. Let’s go home.” He says softly.

And so, the two make their way back to Baker Street.

Sherlock and John sit together on the sofa in the living room of 221B, the mostly empty plates from their dinner sitting in front of them on the coffee table. Neither of them has said much since getting back. Too much to think about. John is the one to break the silence.

“So. We’ll need a plan then if this is Moriarty. Any ideas?”

Sherlock sighs. “If he is really back, I think our first move should be to go to Mycroft.” His face scrunches up slightly at the last part, he’s obviously dreading that conversation.

“Oh, so you’re talking to him again, are you?”

Sherlock sighs. “I had thought that if Mary was behind Moriarty’s return, it seemed like a bit much for her to orchestrate on her own. I suspected Mycroft might have been helping her, so I was avoiding him. Since that’s obviously not the case, I think it’s our only option.” Sherlock rests his chin on his folded hands.

John looks over at him as his expression clouds over with apprehension. “Sherlock, if this is him, what do you think he-”

He’s cut off by Sherlock’s phone ringing shrilly on the coffee table.

Unknown number

John and Sherlock exchange a nervous glance. Sherlock braces himself and reaches out slowly to pick up the phone. He holds it up, blood pounding in his ears.

“Hello?” Sherlock says impassively.

“Hello, my dear,” replies a gently lilting voice. “Did you miss me?”

John can’t hear the voice coming from the receiver, but he can tell instantly from the way Sherlock's cool expression falters that it’s Moriarty on the other end of the line. John keeps his eyes trained on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock swallows and fights down his reaction. When he replies, he sounds offhand, even sarcastic. “Not particularly, no.”

On the other end of the line, Moriarty clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew everything I’ve done for you. So ungrateful.” He sounds more amused than angry.

“Oh, are you expecting a thank you for the stunt on TV?”

“Maybe. I did save your life after all. Though it was the least I could do, after you got rid of Charles for me. He had been getting in my way. Didn’t expect you to actually kill him though! That was a nice surprise. Though it did require some rather drastic measures on my end to keep you from being sent away.”

“You were working with Magnussen?” Sherlock asks. He glances back at John. “You were behind the fire.” John’s eyes go wide.

“Of course I was. Surprised it took you this long to work it out, thought it was rather an obvious giveaway. Not only did Charles never do anything that risky… But I told you years ago exactly what I was going to do to you.” Moriarty sing songs.

I will burn the heart out of you echoes in Sherlock’s mind.

Sherlock sighs as if he is terribly bored by the conversation. “I thought you had decided you wanted to ruin my reputation and then kill me.”

“I told you once already that killing you is far too obvious.” Moriarty croons. “I knew you’d think of a way out of it. I just wanted you to think I had gone. So I could surprise you later when I came back for you.”

“Well, colour me surprised.” Sherlock says, voice dripping with irony.

“So, did you figure it out yet?” Moriarty asks with barely contained glee. “What you missed?

“You mean about Sally?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, no,” Moriarty says, sounding disappointed now. “No, there’s so much more to it than that. I’ve set up quite the elaborate game for you Sherlock. Puzzles hidden in puzzles. Layers and layers of meaning. You never seemed to pick up on it though. So, I thought I’d be more obvious this time around.”

Sherlock’s eyes flit back to John. “About what?”

“Do you remember just before the end?” Moriarty asks. “How I turned myself into Richard Brook the storyteller? That was another clue for you. I’ve been telling you a story, you see, Sherlock. For years now. It’s about time you went back and found out what it was.”

“And if I don’t?” Asks Sherlock.

“Well, that would be a shame. If you don’t read the story, how will you get to the happily ever after?” Moriarty laughs. “No, no, no, no, that won’t do at all. Go back to my story, Sherlock, find the clues you’ve missed. If you can’t... Hell mend you, I suppose. But I know you’ll get there this time. Everything I’ve done has been for you, after all. I’ll be seeing you very soon, love.” Sherlock can hear Moriarty blowing a kiss before he hangs up. He woodenly lowers the phone.

“Sherlock. You okay?” John asks, voice filled with obvious concern.

Sherlock nods tightly, then dials a number on the phone before holding it back up to his ear. “Mycroft, it’s me. I need your help.”

Moriarty’s face is illuminated by the dozens of screens in front of him, an eerie smile etched on his face. His eyes are trained onto the screen showing the living room of Baker Street, watching Sherlock call his brother. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mary pass through the view of one of the CCTV screens. He reaches down to text her.

M: Report back, I have another job for you.

His hand shifts to his pocket and he unwinds his headphones. His eyes have gone back to the living room of Baker Street, staring at Sherlock as a twisted smile takes over his face.

“Come on, Sherlock. Find me.” He murmurs, placing the buds into his ears.

You can see I’m single-minded. I know what I could be.

How’d you feel about it? Come, take a walk with me.

I’m looking for a partner, regardless of expense.

Think about it, seriously, you know it makes sense.

Let’s… Got the brains…

Make… Got the looks…

Let’s make lots of money…

I’ve got the brains, you’ve got the looks, let's make lots of…

Chapter 5: Prologue: A House Call

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s bedroom is dim, illuminated only by the floor lamp tucked into the corner of the room. The air is heavy with the smell of tobacco smoke. The wooden floor is a mess of papers and empty cigarette boxes; the remnants of half-burned cigarettes lie on the end table and the windowsill, and discarded books are scattered across the bed. An open case rests on Sherlock’s chest of drawers and the needle nestled in the velvet lining glistens in the faint light.

Sherlock lays on his rumpled bedding, tossing and turning, fingers twitching, dark curls clinging limply to his forehead. He’s gaunt, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. His eyes are shadowed by dark circles, and there’s a fervour in them that is more than a little unhinged. He flips back over to face the door, clutching his shaking hands to his chest. After a moment, his restlessness drives him to jump up and pace the room, papers stirring in the small breeze created by his dressing gown as he passes. Sherlock stoops down to one of the boxes on the floor and pulls out a fresh cigarette. He lights it while continuing to pace, only to snub it out halfway through and fling himself back down on the bed.

“Moriarty,” he mutters to himself, covering his eyes and letting out a shuddering sigh. There’s a knock on his open bedroom door and Sherlock’s eyes snap open. “Come in,” He says, voice hoarse.

Mrs. Hudson comes through the door, fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan. Her eyes fall on the case on the dresser, then dart to Sherlock, staring back at her with an unearthly intensity. She clears her throat. “Sherlock, dear. You have a visitor. His name is Culverton Smith, he said you asked for him?” Her voice wavers on the last bit, and she looks uneasily back at the man standing in the doorframe behind her. He takes this as his cue to step into the room, crowding Mrs. Hudson out of the way. He gives Sherlock an unsettling smile of crooked yellow teeth.

“Yes, exactly who I’ve been wanting to see!” Sherlock says hoarsely, sitting up quickly. Too quickly; he loses his balance and has to steady himself with his left hand. Mrs. Hudson steps forward to help him but Sherlock holds up a hand to stop her. “I’m fine. That will be all, Mrs. Hudson. Do close the door on your way out.” She eyes him nervously, but Sherlock is now gazing unblinkingly at Culverton Smith and doesn’t appear to notice.

“I’ll just be downstairs if you need anything, dear.” She says hesitantly before leaving the room and pulling the door closed behind her as Sherlock had asked.

Culverton Smith strides leisurely across the room with his hands in his pockets, glancing down at the scattered papers, the half burned cigarettes, the open drug case. He makes a sound in the back of his throat that is almost a laugh as he nudges one of the boxes across the floor with the toe of his shoe then turns to sit at the end of Sherlock’s bed. He smooths his hands over the expensive material with an absent smile before looking up at Sherlock.

“So,” Culverton begins. His voice is cloying. “You asked for me. Why not go to your regular doctor? Watson, wasn’t it?” He tilts his head, watching Sherlock with an amused expression.

For the first time Sherlock’s eyes darken, losing a bit of their manic energy.

“John isn’t really in the picture anymore,” he murmurs with his eyes fixed on the sheets. He shakes his head slightly then looks back up at Culverton, his voice suddenly much colder. “Besides, even if he were here, he would be useless for this.”

Culverton quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so? And just what do you expect me to do? There’s no cure, which you already know. I’m not sure why you thought I would be able to help you.”

Sherlock scoffs and stands shakily, walking to his chest of drawers and leaning on it with the heels of his hands, facing Culverton. “I don’t want a cure. I just said that to get you to come.” Sherlock’s mouth twists up in a bitter smile, the shadows sharpening the harsh angles of his face. “No, I have far more important business.”

Culverton smiles back knowingly. “And what business might that be?”

“James Moriarty.” Sherlock says, his eyes burn into Culverton’s.

“Who?” Culverton asks, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence.

“Please.” Sherlock says scathingly. “The act is tedious. I already know you’re working for him and that you know where he is. I need to find him.” Sherlock’s fingers twitch at the last bit. He stuffs them into his dressing gown pockets. When he speaks again, his voice is low, deliberate. “There’s something I need to tell him, something I think he’s been waiting to hear.”

Culverton chuckles and crosses his ankle over his knee, resting his clasped hands on his lap. “What makes you think I would help you?”

The fire in Sherlock’s eyes turns slightly menacing. “Oh, I have my ways.” He says darkly. But then he grins again. “I don’t think that’s necessary though; he told you to come, didn’t he?”

“He might have,” Culverton replies, a polite smile on his face.

“I imagine he’s already warned you I wouldn’t tell you what I’m after. That’s between the two of us. Suffice it to say, I’ve come around to seeing things his way.” Sherlock begins pacing the room again. “I’m tired of dealing with these… people” he says the last word disdainfully, arm flinging out to gesture to where Mrs. Hudson had left, “who just keep holding me back… Or leaving me when I need them...”

Sherlock stops and stands at the far side of the room, staring dejectedly at the far wall with his wardrobe door. He abruptly whirls around to face Culverton, again having to steady himself from the sudden movement. He seems desperate as he finishes his speech. “There has only ever been one person who has truly understood me. You’re going to tell me where I can find him.”

Culverton's smile grows wider. “He said you might say something like that.” He gestures for Sherlock to come back to his side of the room. Sherlock does so slowly, eyes not leaving Culverton’s face. When Sherlock has crossed the room, Culverton Smith stands and reaches into his coat pocket.

He slowly pulls out an ivory box with a golden latch and offers it to Sherlock in an outstretched hand.

Chapter 6: The Lying Detective: Part One

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock climb out of a cab pulled up to the white brick facade of the Diogenes Club. The morning air is filled with a dense fog, John can barely make out the door in front of them.

“You sure about this?” John asks. From prior experience, John knows Sherlock and Mycroft working together tends to go… less than smoothly. Even leaving aside the disaster with Magnussen, Mycroft hadn’t brought them any cases since the plan to blow up Parliament for good reason. And Sherlock has been in a sour mood the entire ride over.

Sherlock sighs. “As much as I hate to admit it, Mycroft is better equipped to handle this situation than I am. We need to put a stop to Moriarty as soon as possible. Sadly, this is the best way to do that.”

“Right,” John says before sighing. “Lead the way then.” John gestures to the front door. Sherlock grins then holds a finger up to his lips. As if John needs the reminder, he rolls his eyes while Sherlock holds the door open for him. They nod at Wilder at the front desk, who seems unsurprised to see them. Wilder points to the back room, indicating that Mycroft is already waiting for them.

As they make their way through the silent loungers, John can feel their disapproving eyes boring into his back after they’ve passed. He already has the feeling that this whole endeavor is a mistake. But Sherlock is right: Mycroft’s resources will help them find Moriarty sooner than they otherwise could, and since it seems important to Sherlock that they find him quickly... John squares his shoulders and follows Sherlock deeper into the Diogenes club.

They enter Mycroft’s office to find him sitting at his desk sipping his tea and reading the morning newspaper. The words Master Criminal Terrorises Britain: Can He Be Stopped? printed in boldface across the top of the paper seem to jump off the page. Just below the words, a picture of Moriarty with a serene smile and wearing the crown jewels stares back at them. At the sound of their entrance, Mycroft folds the newspaper closed and sets it down on his desk.

“Sherlock. John. Please, have a seat.” He says dryly, gesturing to the chairs across from him. Sherlock flings himself into one of the chairs and John follows behind at a more measured pace. When they’re both settled, Mycroft folds his hands under his chin and smiles a bit smugly. “Well now, Sherlock. I see that you’ve decided to go about things in a more sensible manner this time.”

Sherlock gives Mycroft a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Because I’m doing them your way, you mean?”

Mycroft’s smile grows impossibly more condescending. “Naturally.” He replies, narrowing his eyes on Sherlock. “Now. Tell me what you know.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to John, who gives him a tight nod. Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Moriarty is alive.” Sherlock’s voice is even enough, but Mycroft still sees through his facade to the anxiety underneath. Mycroft’s mouth twists up in disapproval in response. He doesn’t seem surprised though.

“Yes, I had rather thought that was a given, what with him taking over every TV screen in the country. Do go on.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. John nervously glances between the two, but Sherlock continues in a measured tone. “He seems to be playing some sort of a game with me, he wants me to find something in my old cases. And Mary…” Sherlock cuts off at that, looking back at John, who is now staring at his balled-up fists in his lap. “Mary is working for Moriarty. She was the one who helped Moriarty fake his death three years ago. She’s disappeared and has almost certainly reported back to him by now.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft says, raising one eyebrow.

John looks up at Mycroft with apparent scepticism. “You really didn’t know, then?”

Mycroft returns his gaze and flexes his jaw in annoyance. “No. You saw her hack into the MI5 files on the plane. She must have done something similar when she took on her identity as Mary Morstan. She completely erased all evidence of her former life. She was very thorough.”

Sherlock makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat and Mycroft glares over at him. Sherlock's arms are now defensively crossed in front of him. “If that’s true, then this is a waste of time. We were hoping you could help us catch Moriarty but if you can’t even discover one of his operatives-”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I have people looking into this now, it’s only a matter of time before we discover where Moriarty is hiding.” He unfolds his hands at the end, holding them open in front of him. “In the meantime, I’d encourage you to stay out of this and let me handle the situation.”

Sherlock unwinds himself from his contorted pose in the chair and leans forward to gape at Mycroft. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am, Sherlock.” Mycroft snaps, his temper rising in tandem with Sherlock’s.

“I thought you would have an actual plan, a way to draw him out. Moriarty has successfully kept himself hidden for years. What makes you think that your people can find him now?”

“I wasn’t looking before. I am now.” Mycroft says evenly. “As I said before, it’s only a matter of time.”

“That isn’t good enough!” Sherlock practically shouts. “We need to deal with this. Now!” John hears a hint of terror creeping back into Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock hears it too and takes a deep breath. Showing emotion around Mycroft is the last way to get what he wants. It’s too late though.

“Your greatest weakness, Sherlock, is your impulsivity. You get irrational,” Mycoft’s voice drips with disdain, “And then you make mistakes. Take your little stunt with Magnussen. You went after him when I expressly told you not to, got in over your head, and were nearly exiled as a result of your rash behaviour. If it hadn’t been for Moriarty’s return, you wouldn’t be sitting here in front of me.”

“You can’t seriously be defending Moriarty?” John asks incredulously. He’s beginning to remember that he doesn’t much like working with Mycroft either. While Mycroft usually has Sherlock’s best interests at heart, his definition of best interests is very different from John’s.

Mycroft’s eyes cut back to John in irritation. “No. I am merely being practical. Something neither of you seem to be able to manage. Moriarty knows your weaknesses,” Mycroft raises an eyebrow at John who has the sudden sense that Mycroft is seeing right through him. John looks away with a grimace. Mycroft turns his gaze back to Sherlock. “He’s used them against you before, he'll do it again if you let him. He wants you to make a mistake. Don’t play along.”

Sherlock scoffs. “So we do nothing?”

“You do nothing, Sherlock. I told you, I will take care of this.” Mycroft says each syllable carefully, as if he’s speaking to someone very slow.

“Just like last time,” Sherlock says angrily, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice, thinking of how it had been Mycroft’s idea for John to see Sherlock fake his death, his idea that John shouldn’t be told what was going on...

“You’re the one who came to me for help Sherlock. Because you know you’re out of your depth. I’d advise you to keep that in mind. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you.” Sherlock flops back into his chair, head turned obstinately away from Mycroft.

John isn’t handling this development any better. “Really? That’s it? We have a criminal mastermind and his top assassin after us, and your only advice is wait it out?”

“We are working on it, John. You’ll just both have to learn a little patience.” Something about Mycroft’s cool demeanor in all of this is completely infuriating. John pushes his chair back and stands.

“Great, well, glad to hear you’re working on it. Very reassuring considering that you didn’t know Moriarty was alive or that my wife was working for him. But right, no reason for us to worry. You’re on top of things, hmm? Perfect.” John storms towards the door.

“John, please,” Mycroft calls after him.

John pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

“Yeah, I know. You and your bloody silence.” John takes a calming breath and looks at Sherlock, who has turned around in his chair to stare at him, the now familiar anxiety back in his eyes. “I’ll be in the waiting room.” John says more gently, thinking Sherlock’s nervous about him running off to find Moriarty and Mary himself. Sherlock nods at him and John leaves.

Sherlock stands as soon as the door is closed, wanting to follow him. He can’t bear being away from John now that he knows Moriarty is back; his mind is already swirling with images of John being cornered, a needle jabbed into his neck, dragged helplessly into an unmarked car…

“Sherlock, I mean it.” Says Mycroft, a bit kinder now, but still determined to get his point across. “Get control of yourself. I’ve been telling you your whole life not to let emotions get in the way of what needs to be done. I know why you’re so desperate to go after Moriarty.” Sherlock looks back at Mycroft and knows that he’s telling the truth. Mycroft knows. “Moriarty knows it too. He’s using it against you. Stay detached.”

Sherlock’s frowns. “We all know where your way leads to Mycroft,” says Sherlock, thinking beyond Magnussen, beyond faking his death, to the real reason for the distance between them.

A young Sherlock strides into their parents' kitchen with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, home from university for Christmas. He finds his parents sitting at the kitchen table, his mother’s eyes are red from tears. Mycroft is staring dejectedly at the floor…

Mycroft grimaces, but recovers quickly. “And do you remember what happens when you follow yours?” Says Mycroft with a condescending smile. Another memory:

"You didn’t actually believe that rubbish about sending him to live on a farm?!” says the thirteen year old Mycroft in his mind. “You really are so stupid, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns away so Mycroft can’t see his face and leaves without saying another word. Mycroft stares at the door for a moment and shakes his head. He then folds his hands and places them back under his chin, thinking.

James Moriarty sits in his chair facing his wall of screens, elbows sprawled on the armrests, chin resting on his hands. His eyes are closed and his mouth curves up into a serene smile.

“The story’s coming together now,” He murmurs to himself. “Just a bit more time. And a few extra players to write off.” His expression darkens as he speaks. There’s a sudden knock on the door and Moriarty’s eyes snap open. “Yes, what is it?” He calls out lazily. A woman with short blonde hair enters the room, her posture is rigid.

“Ah, Sabrina Moran, just the woman I wanted to see.” Moriarty smiles but it does not reach his eyes. “Or do you still prefer to go by Mary?” He raises his eyebrows at her and tilts his head. It’s clearly a loaded question. She barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes as she twines her hands together in front of her.

“What do you want, Jim?” Sabrina says, irritation leaking into her tone.

Moriarty clicks his tongue and his head begins subtly swaying side to side as he speaks. “Careful. I think you may have gotten a bit too used to your long lead. You’d do well to remember who is in charge. I’ve been very forgiving so far but I won’t overlook another mistake.” Moriarty’s tone sharpens at the last word.

Sabrina angrily twitches her chin up, but after a moment sighs. “My sincerest apologies” Her lips twist, like it’s physically painful to say. “I meant to ask what my next assignment was, sir.” She’s going a bit overboard, really. The last word is clearly tinged with sarcasm.

Moriarty’s glare intensifies for a moment before he calms himself. “I have someone I’ll need you to keep an eye on. Keep them quiet. Permanently, if necessary. Your forte.” He writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to her. She looks down at the name, her expression unreadable. “Off you pop now. And do stay focused, I’ll know if you get distracted.”

“I won’t.” She says with a small half smile up at Moriarty. He nods her back towards the door. As soon as Sabrina’s back is turned her expression hardens and she clenches her hand around the note in her fist as she leaves.

When he’s alone once more, Moriarty stands. He pulls his headphones out of his pocket and places them in his ears. Moriarty walks over to the bookshelf along the far wall, runs his fingers along the spines until he reaches the one he’s after. Grimm’s Fairy Tales. He pulls it from the shelf and lets it fall open naturally to a page towards the middle of the book. He reads with a small smile on his face, singing along to the music.

I picked you out, shook you up and turned you into someone new.

Now five years later you’ve got the world at your feet,

Success has been so easy for you.

But don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now,

And I can put you back down too.

The living room of 221B Baker Street is a chaotic mess of notes, case files, and scanned pages of The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes comic series. (Sherlock and John never had gotten the originals back from The Empty Hearse club, but their fans had sent over scanned copies as a replacement). When they arrived back at Baker Street Sherlock had begun poring over their case files without a word to John. Without Mycroft’s help, Sherlock feels his only option is to follow Moriarty’s not-so-subtle hint and search for what he had missed there before.

At the moment, Sherlock is methodically sorting their cases into neat piles while John sits in his armchair, watching him over the top of his laptop with a sceptical expression. Sherlock seems to have taken Moriarty at his word, that behind every case Sherlock had undertaken, Moriarty had lurked just out of sight, pulling the strings. John finds the idea hard to believe.

“Sherlock,” John sighs. “Have you considered that Moriarty was lying to you? Maybe he was just trying to get under your skin. He can’t have set up all of our cases.”

Sherlock doesn't look up from his work. “We already know there are some cases that Moriarty had a hand in that I missed at the time. Like The Six Thatchers. It was a mistake not to consider the potential of his involvement at the time, I’m trying to rectify it. If I assume he was behind all of them, I can examine the cases for potential clues. It’s probable that not all of them were actually Moriarty, but those exceptions should become clear as we find the patterns.”

“What kinds of patterns?” John asks, forehead creasing.

“That’s what I’m working on now. Any kind of recurring ideas in the cases that may have been a message for me.”

If John is being honest, the thought that all their cases had been part of some elaborate setup on Moriarty’s part is more than a little terrifying. It makes him feel paranoid, like his entire life since he had met Sherlock has been taking place in a fishbowl. He doesn’t think it would be wise to mention the idea to Sherlock though; he’s barely holding it together as it is.

“Still…” Says John, trying to suppress the image of Moriarty watching over their shoulder, “Do you think it’s possible he could have just gotten the information some other way?”

“Perhaps. Just not the most helpful theory at the moment. Though he did tell me once that secrecy wasn’t an issue for him. That could have been its own kind of hint, I suppose.” Something about that triggers a memory and Sherlock suddenly stiffens, eyes roaming the room, as if he’s looking for something.

“Sherlock?” John asks, standing up from his chair, trying to follow Sherlock’s line of sight. After a moment, Sherlock relaxes slightly.

“It’s nothing. I think Mycroft is right- Moriarty must be getting to me.” He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. He looks back at the stacks of paper. “Still, there’s something here, I just have to find it.”

John hesitates, then asks the question that’s been nagging at him since they’d discovered Moriarty was still alive. “Do you think you know what he wants? Why he brought you back?”

Sherlock’s expression hardens. “I have a guess.” He doesn’t seem inclined to share what that might be.

John has his own theory. The only explanation that makes sense of the ridiculous lengths Moriarty has taken to get Sherlock’s attention. But he doesn’t want to bring it up if the idea hasn’t already occurred to Sherlock. He’s been off-kilter enough the last few days, and if there’s one thing John knows about Sherlock, it's that he’s alarmed by romantic overtures.

“Well…” John says, when it’s obvious Sherlock is in danger of falling into one of his long silences. “What have you found so far?” Sherlock shakes himself and focuses on the cases in front of them.

“Three potential patterns. This first set,” Sherlock gestures to the stack of papers to his left, “is the most obvious in retrospect. They all involve elaborate setups for one person’s benefit. Like what the owners of Kratides were doing to Christopher Melas, or The Murder at the Orient Express, where all those seemingly unconnected people had come together to kill one man. Not to mention what happened to Isaac Persano. Then there’s our more recent case, The Poison Giant. Probably the most blatant, the whole thing was a setup to get the two of us killed. It seems as if Moriarty was hoping I’d pick up on his game. So he set up cases that hinted at it.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. Sherlock is right, that is rather obvious. The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach intensifies. “And your other two piles?”

Sherlock looks down at the second, seeming more uncomfortable. “This second set all involves people being driven to commit suicide, or accidentally getting themselves killed.” John looks at the pile and sees Death By Twitter, and The Aluminium Crutch on the top of the stack. “It seems that Moriarty knew what I was planning beforehand, that I was going to try to fake my death, and wanted me to know that he knew it. Bit like what I was trying to do for you, actually.” Sherlock looks chagrined now.

“Sorry, you what?”

“Do you remember when we played Cluedo?”

“You mean when you had a strop about the rules not making any sense and insisted that the victim had faked his own death?” The realisation hits John as he’s saying it. “Oh my God. Is that why you never told me you were alive?! You thought you already had?”

“No, I didn’t reach out because Mycroft said it was a bad idea, too dangerous. He’d be furious if he knew I had tried to get you to guess it. I had just hoped you might remember later and figure it out.” Sherlock looks down, battling down a wave of remorse.

John doesn’t want to go over this just now, with everything else hanging over them. He sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead. “Maybe try being a bit more obvious next time. Apparently I don’t pick up on your brand of subtlety.”

Sherlock casts him a long look that John doesn't understand. He seems almost… exasperated?

“And what’s the last pile then?” John sees his notes for The Six Thatchers on the top of the pile.

“This one all involves people being killed by people close to them, lovers or friends or family. Of course, that’s true for most murders, the victim tends to know their killer. I’m hesitant to place too much meaning on it… But I did wonder if it had been a warning about Mary.” Sherlock’s voice falters on her name, like he’s still not sure if he should be bringing her up. “Not very concrete. It could be nothing.”

John exhales sharply and looks away. He knows Sherlock thinks he’s conflicted about losing Mary; he wouldn’t be so uncharacteristically careful about the subject otherwise. John is grateful that Sherlock’s dismissal of romantic sentiment means this is the one area he doesn’t see through John like an open book.

John is conflicted, but it has little to do with his wife. The contentment he feels being here, back in Baker Street with Sherlock after all these years… It’s everything he had never felt with Mary. Not once. On some level, even knowing what she was, what she had done, John is still eaten up with guilt over how little he cares that she’s gone. And of course, there’s the possibility of the baby. While John mostly trusts Sherlock’s deduction that she had never actually been pregnant, they don’t know it for sure. The chance Sherlock was wrong is a lingering source of concern.

But more than all of that, the thought of Mary fills John with genuine fear. Not for himself, but for Sherlock. Mary had presumably entered their relationship on Moriarty’s orders. John assumes because it was the most convenient way for Moriarty to get an agent close to Sherlock. He knew that John always followed where Sherlock led. Once Mary was in the picture, she would be following right alongside him. That’s part of John’s guilt, feeling like he was too easy of a pawn for Moriarty to use.

Mary has already tried to kill Sherlock once. John has a sneaking suspicion that might not have been on Moriarty’s orders; it seems to go directly against all his other plans. If John’s right about that, it means Mary was willing to go against Moriarty. To kill Sherlock.

That terrifies John, more than the idea of Mary coming back for him. He cannot lose Sherlock again. Until she’s been caught, he doesn’t want to let Sherlock out of his sight.

“Sherlock…” Sherlock looks up to meet John’s gaze as he trails off. “I know we haven’t really talked about it, but you don’t mind if I keep staying here do you? Just for now. It’s just... That house...” His excuse isn’t convincing to his own ears, but Sherlock’s eyes fill with concern.

“Of course, John. You’re always welcome here. You can stay as long as you like.” Sherlock tries to smile but he’s quickly overcome with remorse.“John, I’m so sorry, about Mary, about all of it. This is all my fault. If I had just seen what she was right away, if I hadn’t left-”

“I don’t blame you, Sherlock. This isn’t your fault.” John means it. The last thing he wants is for Sherlock to burden himself with anything else with Moriarty looming over them.“You know I forgave you for leaving as soon as you came back, right?”

“Did you?”

John’s lips quirk up in a half smile. “I never can seem to stay angry with you.”

The worried lines on Sherlock’s forehead deepen. “What you said before, about me hiding things from you. Lying to you. I can’t help but think that I’m not... In the end, is there really any difference between what I’ve done and...” He can’t seem to finish the thought. John knows what he’s asking, if he’s the same as Mary.

John thinks that over. He has a point, in a way. Sherlock has lied to him nearly as often as Mary had. But there had been a world of difference in their motivations. Mary had lied to keep John with her, because she knew he wouldn’t stay if he knew the truth. Sherlock had only ever lied in a misguided attempt to keep him safe. John takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Sherlock, you’re not Mary. Even when you were keeping things from me, I never doubted you. I trust you more than anyone, I always have.” Sometimes he thinks he trusts Sherlock more than he trusts himself.

Sherlock doesn’t appear comforted. “And what if I don’t deserve it?” He says, thinking of how he failed to see Mary for what she was until it was too late, of all the ways he’s hurt John, repeatedly let him down.

John hates these kinds of conversations, so close to all the words he never lets himself think, let alone say. He finds himself unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“You do.” John whispers, completely sure. “Just, I’d prefer it if you didn't keep trying to keep me safe by shutting me out. Keep me in the loop this time, yeah?” he peeks over at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course. I already promised you, John. I only-” John holds up a hand to cut him off.

“Then I trust you.” John nods definitively.

Sherlock would like to say more, but he can tell John has reached his limit for this conversation. He knows John doesn’t like to talk about his feelings, especially not his feelings about their relationship if he can help it. It wouldn’t be on to press the matter further just for reassurance.

So Sherlock nods back. Then he stands to his feet and stretches. “Well, we aren’t going to make any more progress on this tonight. We may as well both get our rest in case my brother suddenly decides to do something useful for once.”

John stands too. “Right, good plan. I’ll see you in the morning then?” John doesn’t mean for it to be a question, it’s just so surreal being back here with Sherlock, he can’t quite believe it. Part of him is expecting him to wake up in his house with Mary still gripping his arm.

Sherlock nods again, but doesn’t move. John finds himself suddenly feeling like his bedroom is too far away, that if something happened he should be closer. Of course, he’s not going to say that out loud, Sherlock would laugh at him. So John sighs and walks away first, stepping past Sherlock with a small nod and climbing the stairs to his room. Sherlock stares after him, and his face is creased with sadness, as if he had been thinking the same. He winces and shakes his head, then goes to his bedroom and shuts the door behind him.

Several days pass. One sunny morning, Sherlock sits in his armchair plucking at his violin and John is at the desk writing something new for his blog when there’s a knock on the door.

“Yoo-hoo!” Says Mrs. Hudson. “You boys have a visitor,” She’s in a chipper mood, has been since John first moved back in. Undoubtedly anticipating some sort of development now that he’s back. But thankfully she's had the good sense to not say anything about it to John or Sherlock.

Lestrade is just coming up the stairs behind her, somewhat apprehensive as he steps through the doorway. “Hello, you two. Everything all right?” Sherlock notices instantly that he’s trying a bit too hard to be casual. His eyes narrow, trying to determine why.

“Hello, Greg,” John says, looking up from his computer with a smile, he’s wearing a cobalt blue jumper that makes his eyes shine brilliantly. “What brings you round?”

“A case. Two actually. I wasn’t sure if you’d have time though, considering… Everything else.” He looks over at Sherlock, who sighs and rolls his eyes.

“According to my brother, it’s for the best if I stay out of the Moriarty business. I am going insane cooped up here like this. What are the cases? Anything would be a welcome distraction at this point.”

Lestrade clears his throat. “Well, there were two murders last night, and there has to be a link between them, but there isn’t any that we can find.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Did the victims know each other?”

“No, and they have no common acquaintances, from what we can tell. One was a man, one was a woman. One was found alone, the other was found with her husband. The only thing in common between them is the lack of any obvious signs of injury or cause of death, except for the expression on their faces. They both apparently dropped dead of fright.”

Sherlock scoffs. “That’s highly unlikely. I’m surprised at you, Lestrade, you overlook a lot of things but you don’t usually settle for the supernatural.”

“Didn’t say it was supernatural, did I?” Lestrade shifts his weight uneasily with a frown that suggests he hadn’t entirely ruled it out. “Just that we can’t figure it out. That’s why I came to you, isn’t it?”

Sherlock smiles at that, John can tell he’s flattered. “Right you are.” Sherlock glances at John and raises his eyebrows as a question. John nods in answer, eager. “We’ll take the case.” Sherlock stands and is about to pass through the door to the stairs when he abruptly stops in front of Lestrade, examining him intently. Lestrade tenses.

“What?” He asks defensively.

“You’re very dressed up for an ordinary day at work,” Sherlock replies. It sounds like an accusation.

Lestrade crosses his arms. “Maybe I fancied a change.”

“No. That’s not it, not for a practical man like you. Your line of work, clothes like that are going to get ruined, more likely than not. I sympathise, but not all of us have family inheritances to spend on replenishing our wardrobes…”

“Sherlock, maybe lay off,” John says at the same time Lestrade says:

“I might have a meeting later.”

Sherlock ignores John in favour of further questioning Lestrade. “What kind of meeting would you need to dress up for? You don’t have any cases that would require a press conference- oh.” His face relaxes as the pieces fall into place. “Obvious. You have a date. Either lunch or coffee, otherwise you would have waited to change until after work.”

Lestrade sighs in exasperation. “Yeah, alright, very clever, you found me out. Can we get moving, please?” Sherlock stays where he is, appraising Lestrade.

“Why would you keep that a secret though? Unless of course we know her-”

“Enough!” Lestrade says forcefully. He looks at John. “I’ll text you the address and meet you there, I don’t think I can handle the car ride there with this one.” He jabs his thumb back at Sherlock. John grimaces apologetically at Lestrade, who shakes his head and leaves.

John turns on Sherlock. “Do you always have to do that?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows pull together. “Do what?” He asks.

John gives him a long, withering look. “Nevermind. Let's go.” Sherlock stares at the back of John’s head as they go, trying to figure out what he means.

The first crime scene is at a townhouse a few blocks away from where John and Mary had lived. The small front garden is cordoned off with yellow tape. A crowd of curious neighbours stand on the pavement in front, attempting to peer into the windows. Police officers crowd the small front patio, blocking their view. Lestrade sees Sherlock and John cutting through the crowd and strides forward to meet them.

“The victim’s name was Robert Morrison,” Lestrade says a little too forcefully as he holds up the police tape, probably to stop Sherlock from saying anything else about his date. “Lived here alone. He was found last night by his boyfriend, Jack Tregennis. Apparently they had been having a night in before Tregennis went home early this morning. Says he left his phone behind, and came back to get it, but Robert didn’t answer the door. He thought Robert had just fallen asleep and let himself in with the spare key. And that’s when he says he found Robert dead.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally. “And does Tregennis have any idea of who may have wanted to kill his boyfriend?”

“None. Apparently they weren’t very serious, so he didn’t know any of his friends or family, let alone any enemies. I thought it was suspicious too, we’ve had him stay around for questioning. That’s him over there.” Lestrade points over to the man being questioned by a uniformed officer.

Jack Tregennis is a tall, well-built man, with carefully groomed brown hair and designer clothes. Even without the tipoff from Lestrade, John thinks he could have picked up on his sexuality right away. Then again, he thinks, eyes sliding over to Sherlock. John is suddenly struck by how very much Jack looks like Sherlock, and immediately sets about trying to ignore that.

“Hang on,” they overhear Jack saying, “Who are you letting in there? I thought this was a proper investigation.”

“It is,” the young constable replies. “That’s Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, they’re here at the DI’s request.”

Jack ducks past the officer, ignoring her protests as he approaches Sherlock and John.

“I’ve heard of you two,” he says, eyes bouncing between them but lingering on Sherlock. “Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes and which is John Watson?”

“John is the handsome one,” Sherlock says, nodding his head towards him. John’s eyebrows shoot up as he glances over at Sherlock’s profile in disbelief. He hasn’t had time to fully process that remark though when he registers a shift in Jack’s demeanor out of the corner of his eye.

Jack smiles flirtatiously and takes a step closer to Sherlock. “I wouldn’t say that,” his eyes run slowly up and down Sherlock’s frame as he deliberately licks his lips. “How does a man like you get into detective work?”

John feels a strange sense of whiplash. What’s worse, John is sure he can see a hint of pink on Sherlock’s cheeks, as if he’s flattered.

John takes a step between the two, glaring at Jack. “Are you sure you want to be flirting with someone right outside your dead boyfriend’s place? Makes you look a bit guilty.” John says, voice laced with thinly veiled outrage.

Jack laughs at him. “Robbie and I were nothing serious. We were both open to other people, he never would have dreamed of stopping me from going after someone else.” His eyes slide back to Sherlock, “I think that’s very important in life. Seeing what you want and going for it.”

Sherlock takes a step back and clears his throat. “Yes. Well, what I want at the moment is to search through your boyfriend’s things to see if I can find out who killed him. If you’ll excuse me. Coming, John?”

Sherlock spins on his heel and practically runs into the house, leaving John staring after him with his mouth agape. John glances back at Jack, who raises his eyebrows, almost as a challenge. John squares his jaw and follows Sherlock.

Inside Sherlock’s eyes roam the scene, picking up the important details. Remnants of a lit fireplace. Candles placed around the room. Playing cards still lying on the table, two on each side with three turned up in the middle. Rob’s clothes strewn on the floor. Strip poker then. There’s a bottle of champagne on the table, expensive, very expensive. Out of Robert’s price range, considering the neighbourhood. Most likely gift from Jack then, he clearly has money to burn.

Sherlock notices a strange smell in the air, thick, almost oppressive. He sniffs heavily and traces it to the fireplace. He pulls an evidence bag out of his pocket and takes a sample of the ash. He then goes to the bottle of champagne and picks it up, handing it to John.

“Cheers,” says John sarcastically, looking into the empty bottle. “Good stuff, by the look of it. Shame there isn’t any left.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.“We’ll want to check that for poison, so don’t try drinking it.”

That catches John’s attention. “If it was poison, wouldn’t Jack be dead too?” He asks.

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock says absentmindedly, before walking through the rest of the house. He doesn’t find anything inside so steps out into the back garden.

Robert had kept a small garden along the back fence. Sherlock notices that the blackberry bush appears slightly crushed on one side, like someone had recently passed by. He steps over the small fence and crouches down. Behind the plants, he finds an impression of a shoe left in the soil, like someone had gone over the back wall “Do you know when it last rained, John?”

“Er, yesterday, wasn’t it?” John replies, crouching down next to Sherlock. He sees the footprint Sherlock is examining. “That would have to be fresh then.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock says, with a small smile. “I think we’ve found enough here. Let’s get the other address from Lestrade.”

On their way out they find Jack still standing near the officers. Sherlock changes course to approach Jack, much to John’s dismay.

Jack sees them coming and smiles, eyes only on Sherlock. “Well, hello again. Anything else I can help you with, handsome?” At the word handsome, Sherlock stumbles, tripping over a watering can left on the driveway. John instinctively reaches out to catch Sherlock, but Jack gets there first. His hands linger on Sherlock’s waist longer than is strictly necessary. Sherlock appears incredibly flustered.

“I just wanted to ask for your number,” Sherlock’s voice cracks. John feels his blood pressure skyrocketing. This is somehow much worse than when he had thought Sherlock was pining after his wife. Sherlock clears his throat and stammers onward, his voice higher than usual. “In case we needed to contact you again for the case, I mean,”

Jack smiles, a bit smug. “Course, anything for you,” He winks and holds his hand out for Sherlock’s phone, who gives it to him. Jack quickly types in his number and hands the phone back to Sherlock. “Be seeing you around then.” He places his hand on Sherlock’s arm for a moment, gaze lingering on his face with an easy smile before he strolls back to the pavement. Sherlock’s eyes trail down Jack’s body as he leaves, smiling at something he sees. John feels as if he’s about to explode.

Sherlock looks back at John. “Shall we,” he says, his voice perfectly even as if none of that had happened. He registers John’s furious expression with a small amount of shock.

“And what was all that about?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks, eyebrows drawing together.

John assumes he’s deliberately playing dumb. “You know what I mean. You never act like that.”

Something about John’s tone is familiar. Sherlock matches it to the memory of John staring at him in disbelief. “You have a girlfriend?” If possible, John looks angrier now than he had then...

Sherlock lets out an indignant huff. “I wanted to see if his footprints were a match for the one in the garden. To do that, I needed him to get his feet wet. Hence the watering can,” Sherlock says, gesturing down to where the water was spilled. Sure enough John can see Jack’s footprints leading away. “As you can see they were a match. And now we have a way to get ahold of him later without tipping him off,” he continues, holding up his phone. “Which it looks like we’ll probably need to do.”

“Right,” says John, only slightly calmer. That explanation seems more in character for Sherlock. But John still sees Jack’s hands lingering on Sherlock’s body; the image tinged with red in his mind’s eye. “Good thinking, I guess.” The irritation is still clear in his voice.

Sherlock studies him for a moment before John makes an exasperated sound and turns his face away. “Let’s get the second address from Lestrade so we can get out of here.”

Lestrade agrees to ride with them to the second scene, and goes over the case details on the way. “We’re going to Conan House, owned by a Wanda Ferguson. Her eldest son Mortimer lives there with her. Yesterday was her 70th birthday, and she held a small party at home with Mortimer, her second son Owen, and her daughter-in-law Brenda. Everything was in order that evening.

“Wanda and Mortimer went to bed early, leaving Brenda and Owen downstairs. Mortimer says less than an hour later he heard loud laughter and went downstairs to tell them to keep quiet. He found Brenda lying dead on the floor and Owen sat next to her laughing uncontrollably with an odd look on his face. That’s when he called 999.”

“And where is Owen now?” Asks Sherlock.

“Detained in a hospital for his own safety, he’s stopped laughing now but he’s still not in his right mind. We were working on the assumption that he may have killed his wife and then suffered some sort of mental break before we got called to the Morrison case across town.”

“That’s one possibility, I suppose,” Sherlock replies, sounding rather sceptical.

They pull up to a security gate. Lestrade rolls down his window to show his badge. The guard nods and presses a button. The wrought iron bars in front of them swing aside and the car pulls forward onto the brick driveway.

After a long stretch of garden, they come to a fountain. Behind it is the Conan House. Manor would be a better word. The building is perfectly symmetrical and is made of warm brick and white stone. Large ivory columns set off the impressive entryway. The house would seem welcoming, if not for the topiaries growing in the front garden on either side. The odd, twisting shapes look almost like gnarled green fingers, reaching up from beneath the ground to grasp at the house.

Lestrade eyes the topiary uneasily as he leads John and Sherlock to the front door. Sherlock notices and makes a small scoffing sound in the back of his throat. He leans in towards John and stage whispers behind his hand. “Do keep away from the bushes, John, these plants might be our killer.”

Lestrade scowls at Sherlock. “Yeah, alright, maybe I’m being superstitious. Still, they give you a bad sort of feeling, don’t they?”

“I don’t make a practice of solving cases based on feelings.” Sherlock retorts.

Lestrade rings the bell. After a minute’s wait they’re greeted by a frazzled looking maid who can’t be older than twenty-five. Her hair has been hastily pulled up into a bun and she has dark circles under her eyes, like she had been woken up in a hurry.

“What do you want then?” She asks, frowning at Sherlock.

Lestrade steps forward and holds out his badge. “D.I. Lestrade. I’ve brought these men to assist in our investigation. They have the full support of Scotland Yard.”

“Oh!” The maid appears embarrassed. “Sorry about that sirs. It’s been a long day. We’ve already had a few members of the press get past the guard. Don’t know what they pay him for…” She holds the door aside for them. “Mrs. Ferguson is back this way, if you’ll follow me.”

Sherlock questions the maid as they walk. “You don’t seem surprised that you’ve gotten press.”

“Well, no. Not the first time, is it? Mr. Ferguson’s position draws a lot of attention.”

“And what is his position?”

“Public relations for the government. Surprised you haven’t heard of him, he’s usually all over the papers.” She says.

“I don’t concern myself with useless trivia.” Sherlock says defensively.

“Funny how often that useless trivia seems to turn up in cases.” John muses. Sherlock shoots him an annoyed look.

The maid leads them to an enormous white paneled door. Lestrade holds his arm across the doorway, barring them from entering. He’s glaring at Sherlock. “Sherlock, please try to take it easy on the witness. She’s had a rough time of it.” Sherlock frowns and looks at John, who just raises his eyebrows as if to say he has a point.

“Fine.” Sherlock says briskly, turning down his coat collar before nodding at the maid to let them into a respectably sized library.

Mrs. Ferguson is sitting on the sofa near the window overlooking the back garden with a blanket wrapped around her frail shoulders. Her worn, gaunt face appears much, much older than a day over 70, exacerbated by the grief etched in deep lines across her face. She sees them coming and holds a handkerchief up to her eyes to wipe them, trying to gain composure. One eyebrow is smudged slightly where it had been drawn on. She runs a hand through her hair, and it’s obvious by the way her entire head of hair follows the movement that she’s wearing a wig.

Sherlock approaches Mrs. Ferguson slowly and holds out his hand. Sherlock feels Mrs. Ferguson’s hand trembling in his grasp. “Mrs. Ferguson, Sherlock Holmes. This is my partner Dr. John Watson. We’re here to find out what might have happened to Brenda.”

At her name, Mrs. Ferguson’s lip quivers and her eyes shine with new tears. “Ah, poor Brenda,” she says, her voice quavering. “Wonderful girl, always so brave, so kind.”

“Can you tell us what happened last night, Mrs. Ferguson?” Sherlock asks gently.

“I’ve already told everything I know to the police,” she says, glancing at Lestrade. “We were having dinner for my birthday. It was the first time I had seen Owen and Brenda in quite some time. And it was such a lovely evening,” her voice grows hoarse as she begins crying again in earnest. “I felt so perfectly happy. And then… Last night Morty woke me up… gave me the news… that Brenda was dead… and Owen, poor Owen…” She dissolves into tears, covering her face in her hands.

Sherlock is undeterred. “Do you know of any reason why Owen might have…” John throws an elbow at Sherlock, cutting him off. Rubbing his side, he tries a different question, “You said you hadn’t seen Owen and Brenda before last night. Why is that?”

Mrs. Ferguson’s sobs intensify for a moment, but she takes a shaky breath and holds her head back up. “There had been a fight between Morty and Owen. Years ago now. They made peace though, for my sake. Morty seemed happy to have Owen back.”

Sherlock smiles kindly at her for a moment, before pointing to the table next to her. “Are those your sons there?” He asks, indicating a picture framed on the table next to several bottles of prescription pills. John glances at the label of the closest one, methadone, high dosage.

In the gilded frame, a much younger Mrs. Ferguson stands with her arms around two boys. The older boy is solemn while the younger has a brilliant grin and a mess of curls on his head.

Mrs. Ferguson smiles fondly and nods. She points over to the shelf on her left, “That one there is from Owen and Brenda’s wedding day,” Mrs. Ferguson stands beaming next to her son, who is gazing deeply into the eyes of a petite blonde woman, adoring smiles on both of their faces.

Mrs. Ferguson begins crying again, “Such a wonderful day. That was the last time I had seen Owen so happy, before last night. I thought I was finally getting my family back. And now… And now…” She buries her face in her hands again.

Sherlock stands. “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Ferguson. If it’s any consolation, I doubt very much that Owen is guilty. We’ll just go examine the sitting room, if you don’t mind.” She nods without lifting her head. They take that as their cue to leave.

Once they’ve left the room and the door is closed behind them, John speaks in a subdued tone. “Sherlock, you may have noticed, but Mrs. Ferguson has clear signs of late stage cancer. She’s obviously been through chemotherapy. But she’s taking a fairly high dose of pain medication now, they may have given up on treatment. Based on her appearance, I’d be surprised if she made it another year.”

“Thank you, John. That may prove very useful.”

“Shame this had to happen now,” says Lestrade. “She could have died happy, if this had happened a few months later.”

“That may have been intentional,” Says Sherlock.

The maid leads them to the sitting room. As they walk, Sherlock continues questioning her. “Did you notice anything odd last night?”

“Well, not apart from the obvious. We were a bit busy, making sure everything was set up for the party. Normally I would have cleaned the room by now, but the police told me to stay out. Wish they would have at least let me air the room out though,”

“Why’s that?” Asks John.

“Well, there’s an awful smell. Of course, that’s probably normal, with a dead body, and all. It was so strong though when I walked past the open door this morning. Gave me a horrible feeling.”

They step inside and find the room is still decorated from the night before. Golden streamers drape outward from the chandelier in the middle of the room. A cake decorated with an elaborate floral pattern sits on a trolley by the table near the door. There is a smaller card table with four chairs placed closer to the grand fireplace on the far wall. In the corner is a massive bouquet of brightly colored balloons. All in all, the cheery decorations clash horribly with the sense of tragedy that lingers tangibly in the air.

Sherlock again scans the scene for details. Cards on the playing table, expensive champagne with crystal flutes set out. The fireplace was clearly used the night before. Sherlock visualises the family sitting at the table during the party based on how far the indentations in the carpet are spaced away from the table. Mrs. Ferguson’s chair, with the lightest indentations, had been facing the fire. Mortimer had sat at her left hand with Owen on her right. Brenda, with her chair pushed in closest to the table to account for her short height, was closest to the fireplace. Brenda’s chair lies knocked over on the carpet. She had still been sitting there when she collapsed.

John walks over to the table and picks up the bottle of champagne. “Sherlock, this is the same champagne that was at Robert Morrison’s house. That can’t be a coincidence, can it? Do you think it was a bad batch or something?”

Sherlock is focused on the fireplace. He sniffs along the mantle before responding. “We can test it to be safe. But at this point, I think this is something far more sinister than someone tampering with the drinks. Besides, there are four champagne flutes out, and only one of them died. They would have toasted for Mrs. Ferguson’s birthday, and you can see from the spray there on the surface that the bottle was opened at the table. So it would have been very difficult to slip something into only one of them.”

“Right!” Says John, impressed. “Any other theories then?”

“One,” Sherlock says, straightening himself while tucking an evidence bag full of ash into his pocket. “Nothing that should keep us here though, meaning you’ll be able to make your coffee date on time, Greg.” He checks the time on his phone as he’s finishing.

Lestrade lets out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, all right, that’s enough… Hang on.” He looks at Sherlock, face bewildered. “You called me Greg.”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Sherlock looks confused.

“It is, I just thought you didn’t know it.” Lestrade says.

“Why would you think that?” Sherlock replies. Lestrade looks at John for some kind of explanation but John just shakes his head, equally confused. Sherlock lets out an annoyed sigh at their silent exchange. “Let's be going,John. I want to go to St. Bart’s this afternoon to run some tests. But I suppose we may as well get some lunch on the way, we won’t be able to do anything until Molly gets back.”

John’s brow furrows. “And where is Molly now?”

“Going to a café, I think.” Sherlock says, glancing at Lestrade and raising an eyebrow. Lestrade goes bright red.

“Okay, yes, fine! Look, we’re keeping it quiet for now, please don’t tell anyone.” He implores. Sherlock mimes zipping his lips shut and smiles.

As they leave, John flashes Lestrade a thumbs up and mouths “Well done!” Lestrade gives him an embarrassed grin in return.

Chapter 7: The Lying Detective: Part Two

Chapter Text

“So,” Begins John, standing next to Molly in their usual lab. “How did the date go?”

“How did you… Oh.” She says, abruptly looking over at Sherlock standing at his microscope. “Of course he figured it out.” She shakes her head before looking back at John, a genuine smile on her face. Her bright blue jumper makes her pink cheeks appear to glow in contrast. “Well. Really well, actually.”

“I’m very happy for you both, it’s a good stroke of luck for you.” John says, thinking of how long it had taken Molly to get over Sherlock.

“We had wanted to keep it a secret for a bit, you know. In case things didn’t work out. We’ve known each other so long, didn’t want things to get awkward. But of course you can’t keep a secret with that one around.” She looks at Sherlock again and rolls her eyes. “And to be honest, I’m not worried about it anymore. I feel pretty sure about Greg.” She’s smiling again at the end.

“So how did it start then, you two?” John asks.

“It’s a bit silly. We were working late together on a case, and he surprised me with dinner from my favourite place. Said he knew I didn’t get to go often, with my schedule. And there was something so sweet about it, him noticing that. I saw right away why he did it, how he felt about me. And I realised that I felt the same way about him, that I had for a long time and just pushed it away because I thought it could never lead anywhere. There had always been other people in the way. For both of us. But we got there in the end.” She finishes with a wink.

John is suddenly filled with a sense of utter hopelessness, which must show on his face by Molly’s horrified reaction.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry John, I should have thought... I shouldn’t have said all that, so soon after Mary.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s not that, Molly. I-” John cuts himself off and clears his throat. “It’s actually nice, hearing that it worked out for you. Reassuring.” He forces himself to smile. Molly returns it, but her eyes are still filled with concern. After a moment she sighs and redirects her gaze to Sherlock.

“Any luck over there, Sherlock?” She calls out, loud enough to draw his attention.

“The champagne is clean, as expected. This ash though… There's something odd about it. But there's no match in the system. So either it’s very uncommon, or the chemical compound changes as it burns. I think we’re safe to assume this is some sort of airborne poison though. It would explain why Brenda was the most affected, she was the one closest to the fireplace. It’s just a matter of figuring out how long it takes to have an effect...”

“Why’s that?” Asks John.

“Obviously if the poison has a delayed effect, that opens up the potential pool of murderers considerably. But if the effect is instantaneous, it would have had to be someone who had just left the room.”

“Do you think Owen might have meant to kill Brenda, but ended up inhaling the poison?”

“I suppose that's one possibility, but not one I find likely. He lacks a motive, from what I can tell. But there is someone else I think we should speak with.”

“Who?” Asks John.

“Mortimer Ferguson.” Sherlock replies, already looking up the contact information on his phone.

The next day, Sherlock and John find themselves still in the waiting room at Mortimer’s office, a full ten minutes after their meeting was supposed to start. John is getting a bit restless and is debating asking the man at the desk when he thinks Mortimer will be ready for them again. Sherlock sees this and catches his eye, shaking his head. John sighs and goes back to staring at the horrible wallpaper.

Five minutes later, Mortimer comes out of his office, talking with another man. “Thank you so much for taking the time to come and see me, I know you have other priorities calling for your attention. I do so appreciate your assistance Mycroft.” Sherlock stiffens, whipping his head around to face the door to Mortimer’s office, where sure enough, Mycroft Holmes stands looking equally displeased to find them there.

“And just what do you two think you’re doing here?” Mycroft asks disdainfully. Mortimer looks back and forth between them, his hands twitching slightly.

“Do you know these gentlemen, Mycroft?

“Gentlemen isn’t the word I’d use.” Mycroft says, still glaring at Sherlock. “This is my younger brother, Sherlock and his… associate, John Watson.”

“Ah, so this is Sherlock Holmes,” Mortimer says, raising his eyebrows. “I should have known. I lost quite a bit of sleep over you a couple weeks ago, cleaning up the story with the Magnussen business for the public. Quite the lucky escape on your part.”

“Yes, well. As they say, keep your friends close and your arch enemies in line of a sniper rifle.” Sherlock says with an obviously fake smile.

Mycroft sighs and rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, this isn’t the place for your nonsense. I suggest you go home.”

“We’re here on business, actually,” says Sherlock, “But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to stay out of your way.” Mycroft and Sherlock glare at one another.

John thinks Sherlock starting an argument right in front of their lead suspect probably isn’t the best idea, so he cuts in. “Shall we head in, then?”

“Right you are, Mr. Watson.” Says Mortimer with a relieved smile. “This way.” He holds the door open for them.

Sherlock strides past Mycroft, deliberately avoiding looking at him, but he does shoot Mortimer an annoyed glance as he passes. “It’s Doctor Watson,” He says. “Obviously.”

At this, Mortimer shows the first hint of irritation, but continues to hold the door open. Out of the corner of his eye John can see Mortimer give Mycroft a tight nod after they’ve passed.

“Please, have a seat,” Mortimer says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “Well, how can I be of assistance, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?” He asks, giving John an indulgent point of his finger. His hand shakes slightly as he does.

Sherlock looks to John and gives him a covert nod, the signal that John should ask the questions for now so Sherlock can focus on scanning the room. John opens his notebook. “We’ve been brought in to investigate the death of your sister-in-law, Brenda Ferguson. We were hoping you might be able to tell us what you saw that night.”

Mortimer’s eyes narrow. “I’ve already given my statement to the police.”

Sherlock pushes back from his chair and begins pacing the room. “I work better when I have the information firsthand, not through the filter of a desk sergeant's report. We’d like to hear it from you, if you don’t mind.” Says Sherlock, another fake smile plastered on his face.

Mortimer’s lips press together slightly before he smiles coolly in return. “Of course. If you think it will help convict the guilty party, ask anything you like.”

“You sound as though you know who did it.” Says John, suspicion evident in his tone.

Mortimer exhales sharply. He suddenly looks very tired; John’s eyes are drawn to the dark circles around Mortimer’s eyes as he rubs the bridge of his nose with a trembling hand. “Well, I should have thought it was obvious that my brother is the prime suspect. I found him laughing over Brenda’s dead body like a lunatic. He may not have been in his right mind when he did it, but it must have been him.”

Sherlock and John exchange a glance. Sherlock nods his head for John to continue questioning. Sherlock shifts his attention to discreetly examining the room.

“Maybe you can start at the beginning.” John says, “Did you notice anything odd between Brenda and Owen at dinner?”

“Well… Normally I would never speak of it, keep these sorts of things in the family, you know. But given the circ*mstances… Yes I would say Owen seemed off that night. Very out of sorts, looking at everyone strangely. Especially Brenda. I had wondered if they might have been quarreling. Five years of marriage, you know, it’s normal for those sorts of things to come up. Still though, I wouldn’t have thought it would lead to this.” His eyes wander over to Sherlock, who is examining the shelves along the side of the room.

John coughs and hurries to ask another question. “Can you tell us what happened when you found them?” Mortimer redirects his attention back to John. Meanwhile, Sherlock’s focus narrows on an odd looking plant on the shelf just below eye level, covered in tiny thorns and adorned with pointed red flowers. It's been recently repotted.

“As I told the police, I was asleep by 10pm. I’m an early riser, like to be well prepared before I have to come into the office. Well at about 11 o'clock that night I woke up to the sound of Owen laughing. He was on the other side of the house, so it was very loud indeed. As you can imagine, I was very annoyed at being kept awake, so I got up to ask him to keep it down or else leave.”

As Mortimer is talking, John glances over at Sherlock who is surreptitiously plucking a leaf from the strange plant. He quickly looks back to Mortimer to avoid tipping him off.

“Well, I got downstairs,” Mortimer continues, “and the laughter was absolutely deafening. I thought it was a bit odd, him laughing for so long, and I couldn’t hear Brenda’s voice at all. I walked in and found both of them on the floor, Brenda lying down and Owen sitting next to her, staring at her. When I got closer I saw the horrified look on Brenda’s face, could tell she wasn’t breathing, and then I saw Owen. He was absolutely unhinged. Couldn’t get him to stop laughing, even when I slapped him across the face, so I called the police.”

“And what can you tell us about your falling out with Owen?” Sherlock asks, making his way back to stand next to John’s chair to get a better look at Mortimer’s face.

Mortimer glares at Sherlock. “That was years ago now. I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

Sherlock smiles blandly. “Just looking for context. Perhaps Owen has a history of this kind of outburst.”

Mortimer looks almost pleased at the suggestion. “Well, not to this extent. But yes, he caused me quite a bit of trouble at work years back, if you must know. Almost cost me my position. Didn’t even really seem to be sorry about it though, seemed to think I was in the wrong. We never saw eye to eye on it, but as I said, it was years ago now, and as you can see, I’m still here today with my career intact. So when Mother wanted to invite Owen and Brenda round for her birthday, I told her she should. It was time for the family to come together again.”

“And how has your mother’s health been?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, you know. Off and on, off and on. She had a pretty bad diagnosis some months back, but she’s been on the upswing in recent weeks. Wouldn’t be surprised if she made a full recovery.” Mortimer says with a smile.

“I see,” says Sherlock noncommittally. “Well, thank you for your time today, Mr. Ferguson, you’ve been tremendously helpful. We won’t keep you any longer.” He reaches across the desk to offer a handshake. Sherlock examines Mortimer’s hand, scrapes on his palms, the smallest trace of dirt under the fingernail of his right ring finger where he wasn’t quite careful enough washing. He can feel Mortimer’s hand trembling in his grasp. John shakes Mortimer’s outstretched hand, likewise noting the tremor, and the two leave the office.

“So…” starts John when they’re safely out of earshot of the man at the front desk. “What did you find?”

“Mortimer’s fairly eager to blame the whole thing on his brother for someone who had supposedly just reconciled with him. And he’s blatantly lying about his mother’s condition. I’d already suspected that the timing wasn’t a coincidence, someone wanted both Brenda and Owen out of the picture before Mrs. Ferguson’s death. It’s looking increasingly likely that person was Mortimer. I just need to find out why. I’ll have my people do some digging, see what they can find out.” Sherlock says, already texting away.

“And I imagine we’re going back to the lab to examine that plant sample and see if it’s a match for the ash then?” Says John.

Sherlock smiles. “Exactly right.” He says, clearly pleased. “You’ve learned my methods well.”

“Well, after five years something is bound to rub off.” John says nonchalantly.

Back at the lab that afternoon, Sherlock’s computer beeps loudly.

MATCH FOUND: RADIX PEDIS DIABOLI

“Devil’s foot root?!” John asks in alarm.

Sherlock glances at him. “You know what this is?”

“We did a case study on it in medical school. Christ, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. It’s a perfect fit. When the roots of the plant are burned they’re a highly dangerous hallucinogenic.”

“Dangerous how?” Sherlock asks.

“The severity of the effect. It’s not uncommon for people to die from overexposure, if there isn't proper ventilation. But even leaving that aside, when inhaled, the chemical compound interacts with the amygdala, causes people to see things that aren’t there, terrifying things. Loss of fine motor control too. If you’re lucky and only inhale a small amount, you’ll have a bad trip, but you’ll recover. But the longer the exposure, the longer the effects."

“Such as?”

“Depends. Tremors are the most common lasting effect. But the drug can have some nasty effects on brain chemistry. Paranoia, hysteria, drastic changes in personality. Sometimes the damage is permanent.”

Sherlock is silent for a long moment as his eyes dart back and forth. “That explains what happened at the party then. Mortimer must have waited until his mother was asleep, then came back into the room and thrown the poison onto the fire. But he was exposed himself… Mortimer had a tremor, you noticed it too, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did. You think it was on purpose?”

“Hard to say. It would be one way to avoid suspicion, I suppose. Making it appear as if he had suffered the attack too. Still…” Sherlock trails off for a long moment. “That doesn’t explain the Morrison case. It’s such a conspicuous method. And to have two unconnected murders use the same poison… It might not be a coincidence.”

“How do you mean?” Asks John.

“There are two explanations. Either the same person killed both Robert Morrison and Brenda Ferguson. But I think we can safely narrow down the Ferguson case to Mortimer considering he was in possession of the Devil’s Foot, and I highly doubt he knew Robert. So that leaves the other option. They had the same supplier.” Sherlock’s tone is still offhand. But John, now growing practiced at watching Sherlock’s facial expressions, sees the growing hint of anxiety in his eyes. “And what criminal in their right mind would give out such an ostentatious murder weapon to multiple people at the same time? Unless they were trying to draw attention to themselves.”

John’s blood runs cold. “You think these cases are from Moriarty then?”

“I don’t know. It’s definitely a possibility. Then again, that might be what he wants, for me to see him everywhere, get paranoid, make a mistake… Either way, our only way of learning more is to solve the cases.”

John thinks it over. “If they aren’t connected, Jack would be our prime suspect for Robert’s murder, yeah?”

“That was my thought, yes. We just need a motive now for both cases. Speaking of which…” Sherlock trails off as his phone on the table chimes to read the new message. “Just the news I was waiting for. Looks like my hunch was right, Wanda Guinevere Ferguson had recently changed her will.”

“Let me guess, Mortimer is inheriting everything?” Asks John.

“No, the opposite. Mortimer had been set to be the sole heir of the Ferguson’s fortune, until two weeks ago, when she altered her will so that everything would be split down the middle between Mortimer and Owen. As you said, she knows she doesn’t have long. She must have thought her relationship with her younger son was more important than Mortimer’s pride…”

“Do you think Mortimer knew about the change?”

“He must have caught wind of it. So in order to keep his share, he set up Owen to either die or, more likely, go insane, so he would still be left in full control…”

“Jesus.” John exclaims. “To his own brother…”

“You’d be surprised at how little familial connections mean to some people,” Sherlock says. “In any case, we should confront Mortimer sooner rather than later. Just in case he gets any ideas about finishing off Owen so he doesn’t risk him making a recovery…”

Later that evening, Sherlock and John stand at the front door of Conan House. Sherlock rings the bell twice. The door is answered by the same harried maid from before. “Ah, you again. Did you need something else from the Missus?” She asks.

“We’re here for Mr. Ferguson, actually,” says Sherlock. “Is he at home?”

“He is, but he’s in his study. Mr. Ferguson doesn’t like to be interrupted while he’s working. Maybe I could take a message?”

“I’m afraid that won’t do.” Says John, thinking quickly. “You see, we’ve heard from Owen’s doctors. There’s been an update on his condition. They insisted we deliver the news to the family in person.”

“Oh!” says the maid. “Is that so? That changes things, Mr. Ferguson has been very worried about his brother. I’ll take you right up.” As they follow behind her, Sherlock gives an approving nod to John, who shrugs nonchalantly.

They are led up the stairs to a large door on the second floor. The maid knocks. “Mr. Ferguson? Two detectives here for you with news about Owen.”

There’s a long silence. The maid looks at them apologetically. “I told you he doesn’t like to be interrupted, maybe I shouldn’t have brought you in after all.”

Sherlock reaches past her to knock on the door. “Mortimer!” He shouts. Still no response. Sherlock looks back at John, who nods. He reaches for the door handle, ignoring the maid’s protests.

“No, you can’t-” her words are suddenly cut off as she glances inside and sees Mortimer sitting in his chair, eyes wide and unblinking, head lolling to the side, blood running down his temple. She lets out a high pitched scream and runs away.

John and Sherlock exchange a glance and enter the room. John approaches Mortimer, and puts his first two fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse. “Dead. Going by temperature I would say he was shot at least an hour ago.” Sherlock meanwhile has his arms held outward, assessing the scene.

“No signs of anyone else in the room. So the killer made the shot through the open window.” They both glance over at the window, curtains still fluttering in the unseasonably temperate breeze. Sherlock frowns. “But Mortimer was sitting too far away from the window for the killer to have been able to make the shot from the ground. They would have had to be at the same level. The closest vantage point would be from there.” Sherlock points to the outbuilding far in the distance. “That’s a few hundred meters away. Meaning our killer is an excellent shot…” Sherlock looks at John, coming to the same realisation he is...

“Mary.” They say simultaneously, Sherlock’s face creases with remorse, John's with dread.

“Quick, Sherlock, down.” John commands, suddenly anxious. Sherlock instinctively obeys, but when he looks back at the window, he doesn’t see a reason for John’s urgency.

“Why are we crouching?” Sherlock whispers to John.

“If it’s Mary, who’s to say she isn’t still here, waiting for us? She and Moriarty must know we’re investigating.” John whispers back.

Sherlock sighs and responds at a normal volume. “You said it yourself, he was killed some time ago. It’s likely that Moriarty didn’t want us talking to Ferguson. Or the other way around… If that’s the case, it’s more likely she’s gone on to her other target to make sure he doesn’t talk…”

“Jack Tregennis?” John asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you think we have a chance to get there first?”

“It’s worth a try.” Sherlock replies. “But if we want to find him alive, we had better be going.” John nods in response.

The two hasten out of the room and climb down the grand staircase. Sherlock notices John is walking closer to him than he usually does, that he’s deliberately placing himself between Sherlock and any windows they pass.

“John…” Sherlock starts.

“I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock.” Says John. “We both know she’s less likely to shoot me.”

Lestrade is able to get them Jack Tregennis’ address. In a manner of speaking. It turns out he lives on a luxury houseboat on the Thames.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” scoffs John when he sees where they’re going. “Of course he bloody does.” Sherlock gives him an exasperated look.

The sun has fully set when Sherlock and John arrive at the docks. They make their way cautiously down towards the water, John still hovering protectively near Sherlock. Jack’s boat is appropriately the showiest one in the Marina, wide modern windows line either side of the upper cabin, the warm glow a stark contrast to deep green of the hull, ostentatious lettering proclaiming the ship The Dorian. John lets out an annoyed huff and rolls his eyes. They cross the narrow beam over to the deck.

“I don’t think anyone is here.” Sherlock murmurs. He begins scanning the area for a way in. He crosses around to the far side of the deck and notices that Jack has left one of the windows open. “This way,” Sherlock says, stepping forward and putting his hands on the window sill.

“Wait!” Says John.

Sherlock shoots him an annoyed look. “Really, John, breaking into a murderer’s home is hardly the worst thing we’ve-” He abruptly cuts off when John places a hand over his.

“Let me go in first.” John says with a determined expression.

“John, really! I-”

“Just. Let me go first.” John reiterates. Sherlock slowly removes his hands and gestures for John to go ahead. “Thank you.” John says, before entering silently through the window. Sherlock is quick to follow, the two crouching behind the kitchen island. They make their way slowly to the living room, where the fireplace is lit. But no one is there. They both slowly stand upright, feeling a sense of relief.

“Jack must be out,” says Sherlock. “Probably at a bar, it looks like he’s planning on bringing someone home with him.” He points to the ice bucket on the table with the same expensive champagne they had found at Robert’s flat.

“Should we wait here for him to come home then?” John asks.

“May as well. We don’t want Mary getting to him first.” Sherlock says.

“No?” Asks a voice from behind them on the back deck. Both Sherlock and John tense and turn towards the door, John instinctively taking a step to the side so he’s standing in front of Sherlock. His hand hovers over his gun tucked into the back of his trousers.

Mary leans against the doorframe, her expression cold. “John.”

“Mary,” replies John with his jaw clenched together.

He’s suddenly struck by the difference in her appearance, his eyes dart downwards and find that her stomach is flat. Sherlock had been right then, about the pregnancy. John’s relief is drowned out by a fresh wave of fury. He puts his hand on the handle of the gun, slowly pulls it out from his waistband. Mary’s eyes follow the movement, and she laughs.

“Oh, we both know you won’t do that, John.” Her smile is condescending. John’s expression turns steely. He brings his gun arm around to the front, aimed at her.

“Won’t I?” He asks in a deadly whisper.

Mary is unperturbed. “No. You won’t. Because no matter what I’ve done, you’re a good man. And you couldn’t live with yourself afterwards, could you?” She raises her eyebrows, arms relaxed at her sides, and takes a small step forward.

John stares at her with his mouth twisted into a hard line, but conflict rages in his eyes. Sherlock watches, waiting for what he already knows will happen. After a tense pause, John’s shoulders slump slightly and lowers his gun back to his side.

“There now,” says Mary with a smirk. “Glad we got that out of the way.”

Sherlock slowly steps forward, so that he’s standing next to John rather than behind him.

“Why are you here, Mary?” Sherlock asks in a deliberately even tone.

Mary’s looks at Sherlock for the first time, eyes filled with undisguised hatred. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. I heard you talking on your way in, you’ve obviously already figured it out.”

“But why would Moriarty set me on a case he didn’t want me to solve?” Sherlock asks slowly.

“You’d have to ask him yourself,” Mary answers, clearly annoyed. “I don’t ask questions, just go where he tells me.”

“Oh, is that how it works?” John asks, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Lovely. So that’s what you did with me? Hmm? He ordered you to get close to Sherlock and you married me?” John’s knuckles wrapped around his gun turn white from the strength of his grip. Sherlock eyes him nervously.

Mary appears oddly pained at John’s question. “No.” She says gently. “You weren’t an order. You were my reward.” Sherlock can tell that she genuinely means it. Though he also suspects that’s not likely the whole story; Moriarty at least, had another motive.

“Your reward?!” John asks incredulously. “Oh, that’s much better. So for good service, killing enough people, Moriarty decided to give me to you. Like what, I’m some sort of toy?” Mary’s eyes flash with anger.

“Oh, right.” She says, matching John’s sarcastic tone. “Because that’s so different from how he thinks of you,” she gestures harshly at Sherlock. John glances over at him, mouth snapping shut, before his eyes return to Mary. “Because I’m untrustworthy, but of course Sherlock can do no wrong. Because he’s so different from me. You can never stay angry at him, never doubt him, no matter what you trust him.It’s so hypocritical! If I’m evil, so is he.”

“You’re wrong.” John says,quiet, but sure.

Mary scoffs. “I’ve killed people, so has he. So have you for that matter. I lied to you about who I was, but I wasn’t the one who made you grieve for two years. That was him. We both know who between the two of us has hurt you more.” She arches an eyebrow at him. John winces slightly but squares his jaw. Mary continues in a softer tone, “If you were smart, you’d come with me. I can keep you safe. If you stay with him, you’re going to wind up dead.”

John responds without missing a beat. “I’ll take my chances.”

Mary tilts her head, reaching for her gun for the first time. Then she seems to think better of it, shakes her head. “Fine. Have it your way. You’re right about one thing, Jack won’t be here for a while, no use waiting here.” She takes a small step back.

“Mary, wait!” Sherlock calls out, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. Something about that, Sherlock being the one to ask her to stay and not John, even for the case, sets Mary off. Her eyes narrow dangerously as her hand drifts back towards her gun.

Sherlock takes a steadying breath. “Maybe we can help you.”

John’s eyes bug out of his skull as he glares at Sherlock. Sherlock ignores him and keeps his eyes fixed on Mary, speaking in a reassuring tone. “I imagine once you start working with Moriarty, you can’t just turn in your resignation, even if you wanted to. And you want to, don’t you?” Mary’s lips press together. Sherlock nods. “Work with us. With your knowledge of his operation, we’d have a better chance. All of us. You’re practical enough to see that.”

Mary lets out a harsh laugh. “Oh, sure! And the second you get what you want, you turn me in.”

“No. I won’t.” Sherlock promises. “If you help us with this, help John with this, you can go free. Just help us take down Moriarty.”

John is shocked to see that Mary appears to be actually considering Sherlock’s offer, her head tilts to one side as she appraises him. Her eyes slide over to John, who meets her gaze with obvious contempt. Her eyebrows pinch together, for a moment it looks as if she’s going to cry. She inhales sharply and her gaze darts back to Sherlock, her eyes once again cold. “Why would I?”

“You said yourself John is in danger.” Sherlock says. He takes another step forward, only a few feet away from Mary now. John, hating the distance between them, goes to close the gap. But Sherlock holds a hand up to stop him without breaking eye contact with Mary. “You can save him. You’re smart enough, talented enough. Moriarty isn’t a match for you. John can live and you can get your revenge. Isn’t that worth taking a few risks? Working with me a little longer? You don’t even have to pretend to like me anymore.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up in a small smile. “Help me save him. Please.”

There’s a long silence. Mary's eyes fall back on John. This time she doesn’t flinch away from the hatred in his gaze. She stares back, eyes burning with indecision. Her hand resting on the handle of her gun lifts away ever so slightly and she opens her mouth. “I-”

John knows what Sherlock is doing, can even see it’s a smart strategy. Mary is undoubtedly aware of what Moriarty is planning, broadly speaking, and that knowledge would be incredibly useful. As much as John hates the idea of working with her... he’s willing to follow Sherlock’s lead. Even so, with Mary back in the picture, there’s always the risk that she would decide to take matters into her own hands, would try to kill Sherlock again.

At the thought, John shoots Sherlock an anxious glance, which seems to make up Mary’s mind. Her eyes cut back to Sherlock, filled with rage.

“No.” She says with a desperate sounding laugh. Her hand falls back to the handle of her gun, gripping it tightly. “It wouldn’t make a difference. He’s already made his choice, and it’s not me.”

John grimaces from behind Sherlock. He watches Sherlock for his reaction, but he appears unfazed. He speaks softly, giving Mary a sympathetic smile. “If John is safe, even if it’s not with you, isn’t that enough?”

Mary doesn’t answer, but it’s clear from the loathing etched onto her face that her answer is no. Sherlock takes another step closer and Mary’s eyes flash dangerously.

John tenses. “Sherlock, don’t-”

But the warning comes too late. As Sherlock turns back to glance at John, Mary draws out her gun. John lunges forward, thinking desperately of how to place himself in the line of fire in time. Instead of shooting Sherlock though, Mary rears back her gun arm and whips it across Sherlock’s temple, knocking him out cold.

“Sherlock!” John shouts. He dives across the room, kneeling above where Sherlock now lays sprawled out in front of the lit fireplace, instinctively reaching out to check his pulse. He’s startled when he feels Mary’s fingers running through his hair. He glares up at her and tries to jerk his head back, but her fingers tighten their grasp. She uses her grip to pull John’s head back and smash his head sideways onto the coffee table.

John retains consciousness, but it’s a close thing.

He watches Mary as if through a long tunnel. She’s looking down at Sherlock with a ruthless smile on her face. “On second thought…” she says, her voice melding with the ringing in John’s ears. “This could be perfect...” She reaches into her other coat pocket and pulls out a small envelope.

She sees John is still awake. She crouches down beside him, brushing her hand against his cheek as she smiles at him. “I had brought this for Jack,” she says, holding up the envelope. “But I think this will do better. It’s against my orders… Doesn’t matter, Sherlock is right, I can get us away. Just wait right there while I take care of Sherlock.”

“No… Sher…” John mumbles, but he can’t quite find the strength to get back up. Mary steps over Sherlock’s lifeless form and tosses the packet onto the fire with a twisted grin, lingering there to watch it burn.

But she’s made a grave mistake. Devil’s Foot has a near instantaneous effect and only a second later Mary begins coughing uncontrollably, a terrified look on her face.

Mary’s eyes meet John’s, wide with horror. She seems to brace herself and stumbles back to John, grabbing him by the coat collar, her twitching hands scrabbling for hold when he weakly tries to wrench himself away. The smoke is quickly filling the room. Mary makes another attempt to hold John in her grasp, nails digging into his neck, before she’s overcome again, coughing and choking against the smoke. Struggling to stay on her feet, she casts John one last, longing glance before holding her breath and running out of the boat, leaving him behind.

Asecond later the smoke hits John with a dry burn in his lungs. The room seems to lurch and he’s overcome by a sense of soul-crushing dread, like he’s in a waking nightmare. John is suddenly sure that Mary was right. He’s going to die here with Sherlock.

Thinking of Sherlock has John pulling his eyes open, (he hadn’t realised they had closed), and searching for him. The room is filled with disturbing shadowy figures, Mary and Moriarty grinning wickedly at him from the shadows. But it’s not real, John knows that. He forces himself to ignore the terrifying visions, thinking only of finding Sherlock. His eyes finally land Sherlock’s face, and John is convinced it’s going to be the last thing he ever sees.

Sherlock’s expression is completely relaxed, his lips parted slightly. As if he’s only peacefully asleep. There’s something about Sherlock’s unguarded, vulnerable expression that cuts through the smoke-induced delirium and fills John with a sudden sense of urgency.

Sherlock cannot die here, John has to save him.

Before he knows what he’s doing, John is dragging himself across the floor, fighting his twitching limbs, wheezing desperately for air. He reaches Sherlock and wraps his arms under his shoulders. John wrenches himself up to his feet, stumbling backward through the smoky room, through the open glass door to the deck. He eases Sherlock down onto the wooden boards, feeling as if the world is spiraling around him, but retains control of himself just long enough to grasp the handle of the door and slam it shut behind them. The smoke immediately begins curling menacingly against the glass, as if it can sense they’re still there just out of reach.

John collapses onto the deck, coughing and wheezing, his hands twitching. He stares at Sherlock’s face as the fog in his brain slowly begins to lift. The cool night air is a welcome relief from the burn still filling his lungs and he slowly begins to breathe more easily.

As he watches, Sherlock begins to stir. Sherlock’s face contorts into a grimace and he lets out a low groan before he begins coughing weakly. He slowly opens his eyes, and his gaze meets John’s.

“John... John!” Sherlock rasps. “What happened... Where is Mary?” He tries to sit up but can’t quite manage, grabbing his forehead and groaning again before falling into another coughing fit.

“She’s gone.” John croaks out. “She had the Devil's Foot with her for Jack but... After she knocked you out she had the idea to use it for us instead. She was going to take me with her but… it was a bit too much for her. She ran off instead.”

That hits Sherlock like a jolt, and he finds the strength to sit up, eyes scanning the area. He sees the thick smoke inside the cabin of Jack’s boat, and his eyes grow wide as he looks back at John. “You were exposed too… But you saved me.” Sherlock sounds slightly awestruck.

John sits up and resolutely avoids meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “I wasn’t going to just leave you there, was I?”

Sherlock stares at the side of John’s face for a long moment with an almost reverential expression. “John... I… Thank you. I’m so sorry, I should have known it was far too dangerous to come here, let alone to bring you with me.”

John is struck by the emotion in Sherlock’s voice, but can’t quite bring himself to look over at him. Not after Mary practically spelled out John's reason for choosing Sherlock over her. Staring out at dark water, he responds in a careful tone. “You know, it’s not the worst situation the two of us have gotten into. And if I wasn’t here, who would save you when you get in over your head?”

Sherlock chuckles, “True, you do have a bad habit of saving my life.” Sherlock smiles fondly at John again, but he’s still looking out at the water. Suddenly Sherlock remembers something Mary said. “You can never stay angry at him, never doubt him, no matter what you trust him.” The tone of her voice, like she had been quoting something.

“Cameras!” Sherlock exclaims.

“Sherlock?” John finally looks back at him, suddenly worried that he may have inhaled too much of the poison. Sherlock had been closer to the fireplace after all. Sherlock’s expression goes slightly unfocused, but his eyes are clear when he looks back at John a moment later.

“Mary knew what you said to me in Baker Street that night. But she couldn’t have known that. Unless…” Sherlock trails off, the thoughts forming faster than he can speak them. “Do you remember years ago, when I was about to… when Moriarty was trying to ruin my reputation? When I found a camera in the living room?”

“Yes…?”

“I had wondered if he had tried that again since. When you asked me if he could have been getting his information some other way than setting up all those cases, I considered that as a possible alternative. But I thought I was just being paranoid. There were no obvious signs of anything being disturbed. But if the cameras had been there for a long time…”

“What?!” John is completely horrified. Bad enough, imagining Moriarty eavesdropping on their recent conversations. The idea of his return to Baker Street happening under Moriarty’s watch leaves a bad taste in his mouth. But if they had been under surveillance even longer… Had he seen John living there alone pining after Sherlock? Their argument the night after Sherlock was shot? The dancing lessons? John feels cold all over.

“Obviously, this isn’t ideal. But Moriarty doesn’t know that we know he’s watching. Which means…” Sherlock’s face breaks out into a bitter grin, “we can use it to our advantage. Get a one up on him.”

“How?” Asks John, still reeling.

“Clearly waiting for Mycroft to do anything is useless. Moriarty won’t let us wait. So we have to draw him out. The only way to do that…'' Sherlock grimaces slightly before continuing onward in a rush, “...is to make him think he’s gotten what he wants. Of course it’s not a very good plan, and I don’t expect you to like it. In the past it’s the kind of thing I would have kept you out of, but I’ve promised not to do that anymore. And as it is, I think you could be very helpful in selling it.”

“Sorry,” interrupts John. “Back up. Selling what? What do you think Moriarty wants?”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “Me.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “Picked up on that, did you?”

Sherlock huffs in exasperation. “He hasn’t exactly been subtle about it, has he? I know you think romance is a foreign concept to me but I’m not completely oblivious, John.”

John gives Sherlock a withering look, but he thinks better of arguing that point. Another objection occurs to him though, because if Moriarty has been watching them, he’s bound to know a few things that will make Sherlock pretending to be in love with him a bit unbelievable.

“Sherlock-” John begins, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“We need to plan this out, but not here.” He points over to a shack on the dock “That will be a better spot to talk, more cover. We don’t want to risk Moriarty seeing us.” Sherlock shakily stands to his feet and holds a hand down for John, who takes it to pull himself up.

“Thanks.” John says.

“It’s the least I could do,” Sherlock replies. “Come on, quickly.”

The shack is a cramped and disorganised mess, and close enough to the water that they can hear the current sloshing against the dock below them. They lean on opposite walls, postures mirroring one another with their arms crossed in front of them. There’s just enough light for Sherlock and John to make out each other’s faces. Occasionally, a passing boat sends a brilliant square of light in through the small window that glides across the room before disappearing again.

“So,” Begins Sherlock. “I’m sure you have some concerns.”

“Well. Yes. It’s a terrible plan.” John replies.

Sherlock sighs. “I know, but what else can we do?”

“No. Well yes, that. But I meant that you’re not going to be able to convince Moriarty that you’re in love with him.”

“Why do you say that?” Sherlock asks, brow furrowing.

“Well… Moriarty is the one who sent Irene Adler, right?” John looks at Sherlock with raised eyebrows, as if that proves his point by itself. There’s a long pause.

“And?” Sherlock finally asks.

John looks away in embarrassment, scratching at his eyebrow. “And… Don’t you think that she would have told him? About…” John takes a deep breath. “How you felt?” John’s face scrunches up as he speaks, like he’s already regretting the question before it’s entirely left his mouth.

Sherlock lets out an annoyed sound. John speaks again, before Sherlock can respond, still not looking up. “We don’t have to talk about it. I only mentioned it because I think Moriarty must know that too.”

“No,” says Sherlock, he appears to carefully think over what he wants to say. He eventually finds his resolve and speaks. “No. I think we need to have this conversation, actually.” Another pause. “That won’t be a problem. Moriarty thinking I loved Irene, I mean. Because I didn’t.”

John finally looks at Sherlock. Sherlock is staring at the ground, scuffing his foot against the grimy floor. His crossed arms are now gripping one another tightly, like he’s trying to hold himself together. He seems all at once impenetrable and oddly vulnerable. John’s voice goes soft in response. “Sherlock. You don’t owe me an explanation, it’s okay. It doesn’t make you weak if you cared about her.” The words burn in John’s throat on the way out. But he means it.

Sherlock glances back up at John as he replies. “I’m telling you the truth John, I was never in love with Irene. I know that’s what you thought at the time, and I let you think it. But I wasn’t.”

“Sherlock…” John is hesitant to force the issue. Half because he doesn’t want to bring up questions that so obviously upset him and half because he isn’t sure that he really wants the answers. But if Sherlock’s finally talking about it… “I saw how you acted. You were heartbroken when you thought she had died, when she… when she was gone.”

Sherlock winces, and John regrets his words immediately. Before John can say anything else though, Sherlock responds.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “That wasn’t what you thought it was.”

“What was it then? Look, I know you, I know how you are, and nothing about the way you acted about her was normal. You couldn’t even handle texting her back.” At this, Sherlock laughs, causing John’s brow to furrow in confusion.

“Because ignoring someone’s advances is such an obvious indicator of attraction.” Sherlock says sarcastically.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to-” John starts, but Sherlock interrupts him.

“For God’s sake! I’m gay, John!” Sherlock flings his hands out as if to emphasise the point. A beam of light passes over his face through the window.

John’s mouth falls open, unable to form a coherent thought in response. Sherlock… is… he… That doesn’t make sense.

“I… but… Janine?” It’s barely a question. Sherlock seems to understand anyway.

“You know my relationship with her was fake, I've already told you that.”

“But…” John’s brain is slowly coming back online. Enough to work up to full sentences, anyway. “You… You were taking a bath. With her. And I read what she said in the papers.” John had read and reread those interviews, even as it felt like a knife twisting into his heart each time.

"All he wanted was my body. And I know some people thought he'd been having an affair with John Watson, but I can tell you that's definitely not true. Sherlock Holmes is as red-blooded as they come. He broke my heart but the sex was mind-blowing."

The images that had inspiredhad haunted John while he had been living alone in Baker Street, trying desperately not to imagine Sherlock and Janine having sex on every surface of their flat…

Sherlock sighs in exasperation and runs his hands through his hair. “First of all, Janine and I did not take a bath together. She sat on the counter while I took a bath with the curtain closed, and I made her turn the other way when I got out. Secondly, if you’re alluding to what I think you are, I can assure you, that never happened, Janine made the entire thing up to get revenge on me for me lying to her.”

John’s chin lowers, staring intently at Sherlock, “You mean, you never…”

“No.” Sherlock says definitively. “I could call her, if you’d like. She complained about it to me, said she wished we would have. Not sure how she ever thought that was going to happen, considering she was using me to help her find attractive men the day we met…”

“That’s what you meant.” John says, realisation dawning, mingling with acute relief. “When you said Janine made a mistake falling in love with you. That she knew you were gay.”

“Obviously.” Says Sherlock, eyebrows drawing together. “What did you think I meant?”

John doesn’t respond, he’s too busy thinking. Because if Sherlock is telling the truth. If he doesn’t think love is a human error… if he’s gay… John feels a burst of some bright, wonderful emotion in his chest.

It takes him a moment to identify it. Hope, like he hasn’t felt since he was sitting across from Sherlock at Angelo’s that first night. When Sherlock said that women weren’t his area. That he knew having a boyfriend was fine. But that he didn’t have one at the moment… If Sherlock really is gay, it occurs to John that he might actually have a chance after all.

It doesn’t take long for reality to sink in, though. Surely, if Sherlock had been remotely interested, he would have said so by now, would have let it slip at some point in the last five years. John’s brief elation turns abruptly into agony. This changes nothing. In fact, John is suddenly sure that this is the worst revelation that could have come out of this conversation. Worse than if Sherlock was still in love with Irene, worse than if Sherlock had never felt a stirring of romantic interest in his life.

Because now John knows. Sherlock does feel attraction, attraction to men.

But not to him.

Sherlock stares at John, watching the emotions play across his face, confusion evident on his own. John seems to settle on something that looks very much like fear.

Because the thought has occurred to John that in all the years he’s known Sherlock, he has never seen Sherlock express any degree of interest in any man. Except for one.

“Novel…”

“So why is he doing this then? Playing this game with you. Do you think he wants to be caught?”

A smile ghosts over Sherlock’s face. “I think he wants to be distracted.”

John laughs bitterly. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

“So you're going to make it look like you've fallen in love with Moriarty?” John asks in a whisper. His hands are balled into fists at his sides.

Sherlock tilts his head. “That was the plan, yes.”

“And that…” John swallows. “That would be… pretending, would it?”

Sherlock instantly knows what John is getting at. He is suddenly very angry. “Sorry?!” He asks, glaring daggers at John.

“I just mean...” John’s insides are in turmoil, he’s going over all their encounters with Moriarty in his memory, suddenly very, very worried at how fascinated Sherlock had always been by him. “Moriarty is brilliant.” John winces as he says it. “I’ve heard you say so yourself, that he’s the only one who’s ever been a match for you. And he’s gone through a lot of trouble to get your attention. Maybe you really-”

“Please don’t bother finishing that sentence,” Sherlock’s tone is harsh, but there’s a tinge of some deeper emotion there that John can’t quite place. “I am not actually in love with Moriarty. I thought you said you trusted me.” Sherlock’s voice breaks at the end.

“I do!” John insists.

“I’m not attracted to evil, John!” Sherlock shouts.

John stares at Sherlock, who is breathing hard, face contorted in pain, and realises he’s taking his disappointment out on him. That what John had just done was very close to what Sherlock had done to him that terrible night when Sherlock had implied that John deserved to be with Mary. Except John, for one moment, had meant it. He’s completely horrified with himself.

“Of course not.” John says, his voice much softer. “Of course you don’t… I mean, of course you’re not… I know that. I shouldn't have said that. I’m sorry I just…” John’s not sure how to finish that sentence, he gestures futilely with his hands. “I’m sorry.” He says again. His remorse is written plainly on his expression.

Sherlock stares at John in anguish. In this moment, here in the dark, he lets himself consider how easy it would be to tell John the entire truth. Such simple words, really. It wouldn’t be any harder than what he had already told John, would it? He opens his mouth, the words on his tongue “It’s you, John.”

But no. That’s just selfishness. Again. John has been through enough already because of him. It would only be worse if he knew the real reason why Mary had been brought into their lives. That Sherlock was the one to blame. Because he had made it far too obvious that John falling in love with someone else would be the best way to hurt him.

So Sherlock says a half truth instead. “I’m not surprised you would come to that conclusion, after I’ve kept so much from you. Which is why I’m including you now. I’ll need your help.”

The corner of John’s mouth turns up. “And what do you need me to do?”

“For this to work, you and I will need to have a falling out. After all, Moriarty knows you wouldn’t be happy if I decided I wanted him.” He forces himself to smile to hide the blatant lie. That’s not why Moriarty needs to think John won’t speak with him; Moriarty knows that he only has a chance of winning Sherlock over if John is out of the picture. If it looks like John has had enough of him, convincing Moriarty of Sherlock's change of heart will be that much simpler. “Mary gave us the perfect cover.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, for starters, I don’t think she'll be reporting back to Moriarty after she tried to kill me a second time. He’ll figure out pretty quickly that she crossed our path. It’d be believable enough if you were furious with me over what’s happened with her. But what’s better,” Sherlock’s expression becomes more thoughtful. “She used the Devil’s Foot. You said it can cause drastic changes in personality right?”

“Yes…” John says slowly, already not liking where this is going.

Sherlock looks up at him with a dark glimmer in his eye. “What if that happened to me? It turned me into a raving lunatic obsessed with Moriarty and you don’t want anything else to do with me.”

John’s forehead creases. “That’s your plan? Pretend that you’ve had a drug-inspired epiphany that you and Moriarty are meant to be together?”

“Seems like the most convenient explanation.” Sherlock says with a shrug.

“And I’m not coming back to Baker Street with you.” It’s not a question.

“No, this plan won’t work if you and I are together.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit on the sidelines while you use yourself as bait to lure out a maniac?” John asks, not angry, afraid.

Sherlock watches him, feeling resigned. “It’s the only way.”

“And if something happens... Or worse, if you actually succeed and find him. How am I supposed to know what's going on?” John grows more animated in his anxiety. “If Moriarty has eyes everywhere, and can hack anything, there’s no way for you to tell me if you’re in trouble. I’ll just be sat in that house scared to death not knowing whether you’re alive or dead.”

Sherlock’s mouth presses together in a twisted line. He can imagine how he would feel if the situation were reversed all too easily. It was how he had felt every time John had gone home with Mary. An idea occurs to him. “We may not have to completely cut contact. Do you remember that girl in Anderson’s fan club?”

“The computer one?”

“Yes. She may have a way for us to stay in touch without tipping off Moriarty.”

That doesn’t quite seem like enough to John. There's an edge of desperation in his reply. “There has to be another way.”

“If you have any better ideas, I’m all ears.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

They are both silent for a long moment. Eventually John nods, feeling resigned.

“What will you do first?” John asks.

“Well, I think my first step is to try to find Jack. If I can get him to talk, I might be able to find his supplier. That should get me one step closer to Moriarty.” Sherlock smiles bitterly. “After that… I’ll just play up the high-functioning sociopath angle with everyone. Thank God I read that term while I was in school, no one but you and Mrs. Hudson will be shocked that I've suddenly gone off the deep end.”

“So you knew that was an act then?” John asks, trying to keep the impending dread he feels at bay.

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I know I have feelings, I just don’t like people using them against me. It’s easier to pretend I don’t have them, safer.”

There’s another long pause. It’s dawning on both of them that this may be the last time they see each other for quite a while.

John sighs. “Right. We have a plan then. I guess I should go back to the house and write something for the blog. To convince everyone I’ve had enough of you.” John’s mouth twitches up again, “Keep in mind it’s a lie, alright? I know you get upset when I’m less than perfectly flattering about you on my blog.”

Sherlock laughs once. “As long as you’ll do the same for me. If you hear any nasty rumours, it’s part of the act.” They smile at each other before the weight of the moment presses in again. It doesn’t do any good drawing it out though. Sherlock pushes off the wall and turns to the door, stepping out into the cool night air.

John is a few steps behind him, suddenly thoughtful. Sherlock is walking away when John calls after him.

“Sherlock…” John says, voice filled with some emotion Sherlock can’t place. Sherlock turns back to find John’s face creased in obvious indecision. It’s a long moment before he speaks again. When he does, it’s haltingly, like he’s battling with himself to say the words.

“Listen… This probably isn’t any of my business… I mean, I’m probably being presumptuous… But there have been… I mean… You have had a boyfriend, then?” John is looking at Sherlock out of the side of his eye, like he does when he’s afraid of what he’ll see if he looks at him full on.

The temptation to tell John the truth is back, so strong it’s actually painful. It’s like the words are lodged in Sherlock’s throat, choking him, he’ll go mad if he doesn’t say them out loud.

But Sherlock remembers another night. Another boy, the closest he ever came to having someone, before John.

“Absolutely disgusting, that’s what you are.”

“But, Victor, I only thought-”

“I’m not gay! And anyway, who would ever be interested in a freak like you?”

“I-”

“I never want to see you again, Sherlock. Leave me alone!”

No, he can’t tell John. It would ruin everything. His sudden desperation to tell John the truth doesn’t lessen, but the pain twists into something more bitter. He’ll have to live behind the mask soon enough anyway, might as well use it now. He feels his face growing cold and emotionless.

“Yes.” Sherlock says distantly. He sees a flash of panic in John’s eyes, only making Sherlock more sure this is the right decision. “You’re being presumptuous.”

The emotion in John’s eyes is abruptly too much for Sherlock to bear, and he turns away so he won’t have to see it anymore, so he can hide his own face. “Good night, John.” He says coolly, and begins to walk away.

“No! Sherlock, wait!” John says, too loudly. Sherlock stops instinctively. He doesn’t want to turn around, doesn’t want to see John’s reaction, is afraid of seeing disgust there. But it’s John, and he can’t help himself, so he slowly turns back to face him. When Sherlock’s eyes find John’s, they’re filled only with regret.

“I’m sorry.” John says. He should have known, after this many years, that this is a subject Sherlock wouldn’t want to discuss with him.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and attempts a smile. “It’s fine.” Says Sherlock, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu as he does, remembering that first night. “I know it’s fine.”

John returns Sherlock’s smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Please try to be careful. And if you’re in danger, tell me. Even if it breaks your cover.”

“I can take care of myself, John.”

John is undeterred. “I know you can. But all the same. If you need me, I'll be there.”

Sherlock’s expression softens to a genuine, if sad, smile. “I do know that, John. You’ve never failed me.” John will never know just how much he relies on him.

He’s standing too far away from John to shake his hand, and is afraid of what he might do if he allows himself any closer, so he resigns himself to leaving without even that small comfort.

“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock says.

John grimaces, but his voice is gentle when he replies. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns and walks along the dark dock, his black coat blending into the night. John stands there, watching Sherlock’s silhouette getting further and further away until he can’t make it out anymore in the darkness. Then he shakes his head and goes to find a cab back to the house he had shared with Mary.

The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

January 15th, 2015

Enough

There’s only so much you can take in life. Only so many betrayals before you snap. This last time is one too many. I don’t think I want anything unrealistic, just some normal human decency. But apparently that’s too much. Every person I’ve ever thought has cared about me has been lying. Every f*cking time.

So yeah. My marriage is falling apart. Apparently it was a sham the whole time. Which is lovely, isn’t it? The person you pledged your whole life to being some completely different person you never actually knew at all. I can say now that I honestly never loved her, which I guess is a relief. Not having to pretend, and now she doesn’t have to either.

That’s to say nothing of the biggest disappointment in my life. Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

I don’t know what I ever thought I saw in him, but I was clearly delusional. He was right, he’s not a hero. He’s the worst kind of psychopath. I honestly think he got off on hurting me.

I’m done. With all of it.

This will probably be my last post. I’d say I’d miss you all, but that would be a lie. What I wouldn’t give to go back and unwrite this whole blog. Or to make it so that I never stepped foot in that bloody lab. The last five years have been a living hell, and it will be a relief to not have to try to turn it into something entertaining for you all.

I won’t be seeing you.

The post has barely been up for five minutes when John’s phone goes off on the desk beside him.

Harry: John, are you okay??? What happened???

Harry: Call me. Please.

John knows though that he can’t tell her what’s going on. Any electronic messages he sends can be traced by Moriarty.

John: Not now Harry. Just leave me alone.

He wonders if this was how Sherlock had felt when he was pretending to be dead. He doesn’t know how he could stand it. Being completely cut off from everything and everyone you cared about. Then again, John had done the same thing when he lost Sherlock, cut himself off from the world. It had been easier not to feel at all.

But things are different now. This time, though they’re apart for God knows how long, John has Sherlock and Sherlock has John. That will be enough.

Chapter 8: The Lying Detective: Part Three

Chapter Text

Sherlock stands under a streetlamp and raises a lit cigarette to his lips, bracing himself for what is undoubtedly going to be an unpleasant evening. The first of many. But he reminds himself that it’s to catch Moriarty and so must be done. Sherlock reaches his right hand into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone. It doesn’t take long to find Jack Tregennis’ contact information; his eyes narrow in annoyance when he sees that Jack left a heart emoji next to his own name. Sherlock sighs and types a new message.

Sherlock: Hello Jack, this is Sherlock Holmes. I was wondering if you might have some free time this evening. I’d like to get together one on one. To talk about the case, of course. ;) -SH

He hits send and takes a long drag from the cigarette. As the seconds tick by, he begins to wonder if including the emoji had been too over the top. Do people actually do that? Maybe he should have gone for an ‘x’ instead. Although that seemed a bit forward. He looks back down at the phone, planning to send another text, when he sees that Jack is typing a reply.

Jack: Well hello handsome! Thought I might be hearing from you ;)

Jack: I’d love to see you, I’m at Village Soho now, if you’d like to meet me here.

Gay bar, of course. And it’s one Sherlock has been to before, just once. He hadn’t realised it was a gay bar at the time, it was just the closest bar to where he and John had found a dead Mark Sutherland…

Sherlock: Perfect. Be there in 20 minutes. -SH

Jack: You don’t have to sign off with your initials every time, I know it’s you ;)

Sherlock: I’ll keep that in mind. -SH

Sherlock stomps out his cigarette and approaches the curb, raising his arm to hail a cab. It’s a short ride to Village Soho. On the way there he focuses on detaching himself from his body, his transport. This isn’t so different from staying crouched in an uncomfortable position for hours while waiting for a suspect, or forgoing food and rest for days to focus on a case, or repressing his cravings for nicotine and things 7% stronger.

It’s to keep John safe, he repeats to himself. In any case this will be easier than having to kiss Janine.

“Here we are, mate.” Says the cabbie, pulling to a stop. Sherlock pulls out his wallet and passes a note to the front seat before silently stepping out onto the street. He approaches the door with his shoulders tensed before deliberately relaxing them, slipping into a much more casual posture. He pulls off his scarf and stuffs it into his pocket and adjusts the front of his shirt, undoing an extra button.

The music inside is blaring. Sherlock’s eyes scan the room, looking for Jack Tregennis. He quickly spots him leaning against the bar, watching the dance floor and sipping from the co*cktail glass in his hand. Sherlock approaches from the side, so that Jack won’t see he’s there. He reaches the bar and leans in close to Jack.

“Hello again.” Sherlock murmurs, his voice slightly higher than normal. Jack smiles as he turns to face him, shifting his arm so that it’s resting behind Sherlock on the bar, nearly touching him.

“Hello, Sherlock. Nice to see you again.”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me.” Jack’s eyebrows knit together. Too formal, Sherlock berates himself. He focuses on his posture, leaning slightly towards Jack, looking away, as if embarrassed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t do this sort of thing often.”

“You don’t? Well then, lucky me. Can I buy you a drink? It might help you relax.”

“That would be perfect, thank you.”

Jack turns around to face the bartender, a muscular man wearing an open vest over his bare chest. “Two honeydew shots over here.” Jack looks back at Sherlock and winks “You look like you’d go for something sweet.” When their drinks arrive, Jack picks them up and hands one to Sherlock. He holds up his own for a toast.

“To trying new things.” Jack says.

For a moment the room appears to fall away. Sherlock is overtaken by a memory from six months prior. The night he had been here with John. His recollection is fuzzy around the edges…

A dancer wearing nothing but a pair of army fatigues walks past and Sherlock finds himself staring with open fascination before he can school his features. John huffs in annoyance and wraps his hand around Sherlock’s forearm, pulling him towards the bar.

“It’s too soon, John.” Sherlock insists, his voice already gone a bit slurred. “We have to wait another twenty-six minutes for our next drink.”

John groans. “Will you forget your bloody schedule?” He asks before turning away from him and calling out to the bartender. “Two whiskeys. Make them doubles.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, worried about what he might say if he lets himself get drunk. But John turns back to him and places the drink in his hand. John’s hand lingers on his to carefully wrap Sherlock’s finger’s around the glass. Sherlock is so distracted by the sensation that he forgets all about his objections.

“To a new chapter.” John says, holding up his glass. As Sherlock clinks his glass to John’s, he glances up at John’s face, and is surprised to see he appears almost… afraid...

Sherlock wills the memory away and clinks his glass against Jack’s, downing the shot without breaking eye contact. His insides instantly begin to warm. It helps. He relaxes back into the bar and gives Jack a brilliant smile.

An hour or so later, a much more inebriated Jack has his arm slung around Sherlock’s shoulders and is explaining his life philosophy. “You can’t let other people’s ideas of right and wrong dictate your life, you know? You have to be free from that, do what you want, go where you please, with whoever you like. You know what I mean?”

Sherlock is shocked to find he can relate, in an odd sort of way. “Completely.”

“I never stay with anyone very long, things just get messy. You start feeling like maybe you should settle down, but that’s a load of rubbish. Anyone who makes you feel that way is holding you back. Better off without them, I say.” Sherlock's lips quirk up as Jack unwittingly reveals Moriarty’s intended message with this particular case. Ditch John, he’s not good enough for you.

“Funny you should say that,” Sherlock presses his side against Jack’s. “I feel just the same… Listen, you wouldn’t want to get out of here, would you?”

“Love to.” Jack replies, quickly downing the rest of his drink and setting his glass back on the bar.

Jack takes Sherlock's hand in his as soon as they’ve settled into a cab. “You’re shaking,” Jack remarks. It’s true, Sherlock’s hands are still trembling slightly from the exposure to Devil’s Foot.

“Nerves,” Sherlock says with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. Told you it had been a while.”

Jack grins easily. “Nothing to be nervous about. I promise I won't bite. I can be quite the gentleman, when the occasion calls for it.” Jack lifts Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth to brush his lips across his knuckles with a wink before dropping their hands between them and tracing patterns along the back of his hand. Sherlock does his best to appear soothed while trying desperately to ignore the contact. He reaches into his pocket with his other hand and texts Lestrade.

Sherlock: Solved the Morrison case. Meet me at Tregennis’ boat in 20 minutes. Bring backup.

A short cab ride later they arrive at Jack’s and Sherlock pretends to be surprised. “Oh, wow. This is very nice!”

Jack chuckles in response. “I used to do modeling back in the day, if you can believe it. I did pretty well for myself, between that and my inheritance I’m set for life. Now I can just go where the wind takes me.” He unlocks the door and smiles over his shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

As soon as they’re inside though, Jack tenses. The smell of Devil’s Foot lingers in the air, not strong enough to be dangerous, but instantly recognisable. It’s obvious Jack knows someone has been here, suspects they had tried to come after him. Jack tries to play it off. “Must have left the oven on, let me go check that.” Sherlock notices the way his eyes flick over to the desk in the corner. Interesting.

“Some drinks too?” Sherlock asks, hoping to keep Jack out of the room for a bit longer to give himself time to search.

“Of course.” Jack leaves to go to the kitchen and Sherlock quickly strides over to the desk, begins covertly rummaging through drawers. Nothing obviously incriminating. Then he notices a button on the underside of the desktop and presses it. A compartment opens in the space above. Inside is a pile of papers with a business card on the top of the stack. It’s blank apart from a name and a phone number. Dr. Culverton Smith.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jack asks, standing in the doorway holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

Sherlock casually stands to his feet and turns around, shifting readily back to his natural intonations. “Solving the murder of Robert Morrison, obviously. I take it Culverton Smith is the person who supplied you with the Devil’s Foot Root.”

Jack’s jaw flexes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think you should leave.”

“I’m afraid not. You see, I’ve already identified the drug at the crime scene, and now that there are traces in your own fireplace...” They hear sirens approaching and Sherlock quirks his eyebrow. “Well, it’s not looking good for you. You can make things easier on yourself though. I’m not really after you, I’m after your supplier. Well, your supplier’s boss. Tell me what you know and I’ll have a word with the police, let them know you cooperated. That will lessen your sentence considerably.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, not happening. Good luck proving anything in court, you have nothing.”

“Oh, come now.” Sherlock teases. “I thought we had a connection.”

“I did, too,” Jack says with a bitter laugh. “Though thinking back on it… You’re an awful liar.” Jack is slowly backing towards the door, obviously thinking of making a run for it. Not that he’d get far. Still better to avoid a chase...

“I was admittedly surprised you fell for it. It must be the ego. Can’t say I lack sympathy there. Sadly, you're not quite my type.”

“No.” Jack’s lip twists up slightly. “You go more for the short, grumpy type don’t you?” There’s a pregnant pause where Sherlock remains noticeably silent. “Yeah, I thought so. Too bad he doesn’t seem to feel the same way. That must really get under your skin.”

There’s a knock on the door. “Scotland Yard! Open up.”

Sherlock makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “All the same, it was so nice getting to know you. Consider yourself lucky, if I hadn’t been investigating your case, you would already be dead.” He walks to the door and opens it, letting the police into the cabin. He watches as Jack stoically allows himself to be handcuffed and led away by a uniformed officer. As soon as he’s gone, Sherlock glances down at the business card in his hand, his expression darkening.

“Good work, Sherlock.” Lestrade says, striding up to him and clapping him on the shoulder. “Glad we could catch the bastard. Though why he would burn the stuff in his own house is beyond me.”

“He didn’t. His supplier was trying to keep him quiet. Sent someone round to have him silenced. John and I happened to be here instead.”

Lestrade frowns. “His supplier? Who’s this then?”

“That’s a bit above your paygrade Greg. Let’s just say it’s an old friend.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows furrow as he thinks that over. He’s smart enough to make the connection to Moriarty and his eyes go wide with genuine concern. “And you have that handled, do you?”

“More or less.” Sherlock replies, avoiding eye contact.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade says. “I remember what happened last time, this guy knows what he’s doing. I don’t think you should go after him alone. If you need anything, I’m happy to call in a few favours, we can get the whole force on this.”

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. He can’t tell Lestrade his plan, the fewer people who know the better. He keeps his response vague, hoping Lestrade will take the hint. “I know what I’m doing. I’ll have him soon enough.”

“Right…” Lestrade looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t say anything else. Sherlock pats him on the shoulder and walks away. As soon as he’s out of Lestrade’s line of sight, he pulls out another cigarette out of his pocket, lights it, and takes a long drag.

Sherlock exhales a puff of smoke as he hesitates just outside the front door to 221B.

“Into battle.” He says under his breath before snubbing out his cigarette under the sole of his shoe. Then Sherlock bangs the front door open, falling onto the staircase with a groan. Mrs. Hudson pops out of 221a.

“Everything all right, Sherlock?” She asks.

“No. Go away,” Sherlock says coldly. He stands up and stumbles his way up the stairs, bumping into the wall on the first landing. Mrs. Hudson follows behind him, her eyes anxiously fixed on his twitching hands.

“Should I call John, dear?” She asks, exactly as Sherlock hoped she would.

“No. You shouldn’t.” He spits out.

“Oh, come now, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson says soothingly, following Sherlock into the living room of 221B. “I know you don’t like to be looked after but John would be happy to-”

“I don’t want to see John!” Sherlock roars, whirling around to face her with wild eyes.

Mrs. Hudson takes a step back in alarm. “What happened, dear? I’m sure it’s nothing the two of you couldn’t work out-”

Sherlock groans. “God, I cannot bear another minute of your prattling.” He manhandles Mrs. Hudson back out the door, slipping a note into her dressing gown pocket as he does.

It’s not real, there are cameras. John and I are fine. Please pretend you don’t know. -SH

“Go find someone else to bother with your incessant mothering, won’t you?” He slams the door in her face.

“I never!” Mrs. Hudson says from behind the door, before she stomps back down the steps. Sherlock flings himself onto the sofa and rubs at his eyes.

“Moriarty…” He says, just above a whisper. He abruptly bounds back onto his feet and begins pacing the room, knocking papers off the desk in irritation as he goes.

Moriarty stares at the video feed of Sherlock tearing through his flat, an almost hopeful smile ghosting his face. Music plays softly in the background, low enough so that Moriarty can clearly hear every word Sherlock says.

“James Moriarty.” Sherlock mutters to himself, his tone filled with something that sounds very much like desire. Moriarty’s black eyes seem to sparkle with delight.

He’s annoyed when his concentration is broken by his phone chiming.

New Message: She’s camped out in Leinster Gardens, probably thought it was the last place you would look.

M: Good. Keep eyes on her at all times and wait for my signal.

He drops the phone carelessly into his lap, his eyes immediately snapping back to the screen. Sherlock is collapsed in his chair now, covering his face with both hands as he lets out a low groan. Moriarty’s fascinated grin returns, his head tilts to the side in interest as he absentmindedly brushes his fingertips across his mouth.

Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh...

The next morning is a dreary one. The Watson residence has an abandoned sort of feeling about it, like John’s memories of his time living here have seeped into the wallpaper, like the house itself knows John is only ever here when he can’t be with Sherlock.

John sits at his kitchen table, a cup of tea long gone cold and grey beside him. There are dark circles under his eyes; he hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. Every time he had closed his eyes he had seen Moriarty leering at a very frightened Sherlock. The lingering traces of Devil’s Foot in his system had made the images unnervingly vivid, and even now in the cold light of the morning John has to suppress a shudder. He rubs at his hands, the lingering tremor only barely perceptible. The exposure was brief enough that the symptoms should clear up within a couple of days. Maybe then he’ll be able to sleep...

John is startled out of his reverie by a sharp knock at the door. He jumps to his feet and rushes to open it, adrenaline pumping, even though he knows it can’t possibly be Sherlock.

All the same, when he opens the door and finds a uniformed delivery man waiting for him, he’s hit with a wave of disappointment.

“Package for Dr. John Watson.” He says, not looking up from his clipboard.

“Yes, that’s me.” John replies with a tired sigh.

“Sign here.”

John takes the clipboard and signs his name on the line. He looks up as he hands it back and is shocked to realise he recognises the delivery man: a young skinny man with green hair, who winks and holds a finger up to his lips.

“Take care,” Says Nathan, handing John a package and striding away before John can say anything. He looks down to inspect the label.

Hester-Traversmith Mobile

Telecommunication jeopardised? Liaise covertly! We’re here to connect you with the people who matter most.

John’s lips quirk up as he closes the front door.

He takes the package back to the kitchen table and eagerly tears it open, finding a mobile phone. There are already 14 unread text messages waiting for him from an unknown number which John can tell instantly from the writing style is Sherlock.

Sherlock: Hello John. Hope this actually makes it to you. Our fans were certainly eager to help but I’m not sure how reliable they are.

Sherlock: If this does work, your blog has turned out to be a wonderful source of accomplices.

Sherlock: Then again, bit of a mixed bag. Theimprobableone and all...

Sherlock: Speaking of which, good work on the blog post. Very convincing, I almost believed it myself. Not that I would blame you for wanting to be rid of me…

Sherlock: I caught Jack. I’ll tell you about it later, it was actually very clever, but I don’t think you would have liked the method much.

Sherlock: I found the name of the poison supplier, Culverton Smith. Currently working on finding out more.

Sherlock: You can respond back, you know. I have a burner phone too, so it's safe.

Sherlock: By the way, if you got any texts from Mrs. Hudson, please ignore them. I had to put on a bit of a show when I got home, but I did give her a note explaining the situation. I think she should have read it by now...

Sherlock: I should probably admit that I’m smoking again. I know you don’t approve, but it goes along with the act.

Sherlock: Maybe I should see if Billy will give me some cocaine, that would really help sell it.

Sherlock: No, I won’t do that.

Sherlock: Starting to worry that maybe I shouldn’t have trusted our fan club with getting this to you.

Sherlock: Or maybe you’re still asleep. You’re scheduled at the clinic at 10am, so if I haven’t heard from you by then I’m sending someone to check on you.

Sherlock: Starting to rethink the drugs thing, it really would help the role…

John hurries to type in a response.

John: No drugs, Sherlock. Not worth it.

Sherlock: Ah, there you are. Knew that would work.

John: I got the phone five minutes ago, you dick. It’s only 8am

Sherlock: Yes, and I’ve been up working for hours. Not much on Culverton Smith, just a generic website for his clinic. Putting my network onto it now to see if they can find out anything more.

John: Right. Anything you want me to be doing?

Sherlock: Keep an eye out for Mary, I don’t know where she’s gone and would hate for her to catch you unawares. You’re very easy to kidnap.

John: Ta.

Sherlock: You know what I meant.

Sherlock: Sorry.

John: Yeah, sure. So just keep an eye out for my wife who wants to drag me off. Anything else?

Sherlock: Try to keep your phone on hand. I’d hate to break cover over you leaving it downstairs or something equally ridiculous.

John: So you were worried about me?

Sherlock: Of course not, I just saw you yesterday. I knew you were fine.

John: Of course.

John smiles down at the phone fondly. As the seconds pass without a response though, John’s lips press together and he rushes to type another message before he can second guess himself.

John: I was worried too, you know. Slept about as much as you usually do.

Sherlock: That’s ridiculous, John. The odds of me locating Moriarty that quickly are infinitesimally small.

Sherlock: You need your rest, I’ll need you ready in case there are any sudden developments. Do try to take care of yourself.

John: Have you ever heard the one about the pot and the kettle?

Sherlock: If I have, I've deleted it.

John: Course you have.

Sherlock: Have to go, potential lead from the homeless network.

John: Right. Keep me posted. And seriously Sherlock. No drugs.

Sherlock: Of course not :)

John: Yeah, not kidding. I will come round there if I think you’re anywhere near that stuff again. I’m not a fan of this plan to begin with, perfectly happy to end it early.

Sherlock: For God’s sake… Fine. I promise. Satisfied?

John: Yes, thank you. I’d like to come back to find you in one piece.

John runs a thumb over Sherlock’s name on the screen then tucks the mobile into his pocket. He drinks the rest of his tea in one gulp and leaves the kitchen to get ready for work.

Sherlock stands behind a pillar at a tube station, carefully positioned so that he’s not visible by any CCTV cameras. He stares down at the phone in his hand, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a small smile. He’s startled by a hand appearing in his line of sight and snapping. His head jerks up to glare at the disheveled man standing in front of him.

“Are you even listening to me?” He asks with obvious irritation.

“No,” Sherlock replies bluntly. “I was, but then you brought up your ex-wife and I lost interest.”

The homeless man crosses his arms defensively. “Yeah, because she’s the one who put me onto the good stuff, wasn’t she? Haven’t been able to find anything else like it. Believe me, I’ve tried. Costs a bloody fortune. And you can only get it from one man, Culverton Smith.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock asks, now giving the man his full attention. “And just where is he?”

“At his clinic down at Lower Burke street. Not the main entrance, mind. He’ll turn you right out and never let you back if you try that. There’s a second door round the back. That’s where he does his real business.”

“Interesting… Thank you. Here’s your payment as promised.” Sherlock pulls a fifty pound note out of his wallet and hands it to the man. The man doesn’t move, instead his eyes remain fixed on the wallet in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock huffs in irritation. “Yes?”

“I did mention the stuff was expensive, didn’t I? If the information was really helpful, seems like it might be worth a bit more to you… Maybe twice as much?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but hands the man another fifty pounds. “There, enjoy for the both of us. Do go away now, I need to focus.” The man leaves hastily with a barely suppressed grin. Sherlock remains where he is behind the pillar until the next train pulls up, then quickly strides across the platform to board it.

Sherlock knocks on the grimy metal door in front of him. The alleyway behind Lower Burke Street is cold and filthy and there’s a woman huddled a few metres away staring at him with a dazed expression. Sherlock eyes her with his lips pressing together as he feels a mixture of recognition, pity, and a small degree of envy. He shakes his head to clear it as he hears footsteps approaching. The small view panel slides open and he finds two bloodshot eyes staring back at him.

“Yes?” Asks a rough voice.

“Yeah, hi. I’m here to pick up a prescription,” Sherlock asks in a jittery tone, fidgeting his hands in front of him.

The man behind the door looks over Sherlock from head to foot, taking in his immaculate appearance. “You don’t look like a customer.” He says suspiciously.

Sherlock groans. “Mate, who cares what I look like? I’m running low and I need more, alright?”

“Yeah, sad story, but I’m afraid I can only do business with regulars. Standard procedure.”

“Wait!” Sherlock insists, placing his fingers on the lip of the small opening, preventing the man from pulling the panel closed. “Look, a friend told me that Culverton Smith was the man to see for the best of the best, alright?” Sherlock runs a shaking hand through his hair as he begins to tear up. “Please, you don’t know what I’m going through here. I need this.”

“Jesus! Keep it together will you?” The man turns around, apparently checking if anyone is looking. When he turns back he drops his voice to a whisper. “Powder or intravenous?”

“Intravenous.” Sherlock responds with an eagerness that isn’t entirely part of the act.

“Right,” the man leans away then holds up a notecard with a number written on it. Sherlock’s eyebrows raise slightly, the homeless man hadn’t been exaggerating the prices. He sighs but hands over the money. The man makes a pleased sound then closes the panel for a moment, only to open it a few seconds later to hand out a small parcel. “There you are, mate. Follow the instructions on the card inside next time, yeah? Not everyone is as friendly to strangers as I am.”

“Thank you!” Sherlock hurries to say, hugging the package to him. “You’re a saint.”

“Yeah, alright, don’t get mushy on me, just go.” He slides the panel closed one final time.

Sherlock’s eyes dart along the alleyway, then fall back on the package. He turns it over in his hands before tearing open the flap, pulling out a sheet of paper, and holding it up to his face. His focus narrows on the letterhead. Dr. Culverton Smith. Herbal Remedies, Pharmaceuticals, & Other Treatments.

Sherlock sits slouched down in his black leather armchair, legs stretched out in front of him with his toes tucked under John’s chair. The room around him is a disaster of papers and books strewn across the floor. Sherlock holds the sheet of paper with instructions for picking up a "prescription" above his face with both hands, staring at the writing. He adjusts the angle so the paper is between him and the bookcase on the far side of the fireplace. His eyes shift so that he's looking ever so slightly past the paper, scanning the top of the shelf, looking for any sign of anything amiss, a shift in dust, the subtle reflection of a lens. He’s already located three cameras in the living room alone using this method. Four. Another up in the corner, pointed down at his chair. He quickly returns his attention back to the sheet of paper, flipping it to stare at the back, before throwing it aside with a frustrated huff and covering his face with his hands

Now that he’s aware of them, he can practically feel Moriarty’s eyes on him through the cameras, watching him from every angle. It’s sickening. Worse still, he can’t allow it to show. No, he has to make it look like he’s yearning for the man currently making him wish he could crawl out of his skin. He channels his frustration into a tortured sounding moan. “Moriarty…”

Sherlock’s hands slowly pull away from his face and his eyes fall on the seat of John’s chair, where the parcel he’d bought from Culverton Smith’s clinic sits. Buying the drugs had been a means to an end. A way to get more information about Culverton Smith’s operation, that was all. At least, that’s what Sherlock had told himself as he was doing it. But with the horrible sensation of Moriarty’s gaze threatening to overwhelm him, they’re becoming a more tempting prospect by the second.

He stands abruptly and snatches up the parcel, storming into the bathroom. Sherlock stands in front of the sink and slowly pulls out a vial. He knows exactly where his needle case is, tucked into a box with his school things in his wardrobe. It wouldn’t take much to retrieve it, to prepare the proper dosage. Then quiet. An escape from his own thoughts. He holds the vial up to the light, mesmerised by the contents. He’s just about decided that it wouldn’t be so terrible to take just a small amount when something catches his notice out of the corner of his eye. His eyes dart to the corner of the room, where there’s a small crack in one of the tiles. Has been for years. But just there, in the dark fault line, a small glimmer, something reflecting the light bouncing off the vial.

Sherlock’s stomach turns as the blood drains from his face. He takes a shaky breath as he mechanically turns around and walks to his bedroom. He opens his bedside drawer, carefully places the vial inside, and shuts it again. Sherlock’s eyes dart around the room, not trying to conceal the fact that he’s searching for something. But he doesn’t find anything amiss. Sherlock paces the perimeter of his room, carefully going over every last detail, of the ceiling, the moulding around the windows, the pictures on the walls. Nothing. He ducks to the ground feeling blindly under the furniture, looking for a mic. Still nothing. Sherlock collapses onto the floor near his bed in a crumpled heap and lets out a sigh of relief. At least there's one bit of sanctuary.

He can’t stay here, though, can’t make it obvious that he’s found somewhere Moriarty can't see him. It would give away that he knows he's being watched everywhere else. Instead he forces himself up to his feet. He goes to the living room, pulls on his scarf and coat, and climbs down the steps.

Mrs. Hudson sits on the chair in the hallway just outside 221a. She smiles at him gently. She speaks in a low voice. “Sherlock, dear. About the other night…” She trails off, not sure if she should continue.

Sherlock gives her a small smile and a nod, before replying in a biting tone, “Not now, Mrs. Hudson, I’m busy.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face pinches up in concern, her eyes flying around the hall, trying in vain to see the cameras, before she looks back at Sherlock and snaps back. “I was just going to tell you that if you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll be raising your rent. I'm your landlady, not your mother.” She winks.

Sherlock barely suppresses a laugh. He mouths “Thank you,” to her before turning to approach the front door. “Fine. Add it to my tab.” He opens the door and steps out into the night, lighting a fresh cigarette as he goes.

On the centre monitor on Moriarty’s wall, Sherlock walks through the streets of London, trailing after a seemingly oblivious Culverton Smith. Moriarty stares unblinkingly at the main screen as he smiles and drums his fingers on his armrest.

His concentration is broken by shouting coming from the hallway outside.

“Get your hands off of me!” The sounds grow louder as the footsteps approach the door. There’s a hesitant knock.

“Sir.” Says the henchman. “We’ve brought her like you asked.”

“Good.” Moriarty’s response is calm, almost playful. “Bring her in.” The door opens, Sabrina Moran stands between two large guards, hands pinned behind her back, obvious disdain etched onto her face.

“On her knees.” Moriarty says casually, and the guards shove her roughly to the floor. Sabrina glares up at him, but her eyes are a little too wide, she’s frightened. Moriarty smiles at her and clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Sabrina, Sabrina. That’s twice now. I warned you I wouldn’t be so lenient again.”

“I don’t quite understand why you’re so insistent on keeping him alive. He keeps getting in the way of your plans,” Sabrina snaps. Her anger is very convincing, she's only given away by her voice trembling slightly at the end.

Moriarty co*cks his head to the side. “Sherlock’s not getting in the way of my plans, my plans are for Sherlock.” His voice turns mocking. “Besides, you’re one to talk, so fascinated by that boring doctor. You want to talk about a waste of time, there it is.” He dismissively gestures at her with both hands.

Sabrina tries to stand to her feet to lunge at Moriarty only to be knocked back down. She winces as her knees hit the floor. When she speaks again her voice is much less composed. “So, what? You’re going to kill me now? Why bother bringing me back? Just to watch, I imagine.”

“Kill you?” Moriarty smiles. “Not just yet. You’ve gotten very lucky. It appears your stunt with the Devil’s Foot has worked in my favour. Given Sherlock that last little push he needed. No, you’ll stay here until I’m certain I’ve gotten my way. Then you’re free to go.”

“You can’t be serious?!”

“I have one final test set up for Sherlock, and if he passes then your little show of defiance won’t matter. Just behave yourself until then.” He nods at one of his men. “Take her away. To the nicest cell, of course.” They pull Sabrina up by her arms. As they lead her away she turns her head to stare at Moriarty over her shoulder, still trying to gauge how genuine his promise is.

Moriarty waves at her, then spins his chair around as the door is pulled shut. He pulls his keyboard towards him and cycles through CCTV feeds until he locates Sherlock again, still following Culverton. Moriarty opens the top drawer of his desk and pulls out an ivory box. He sets it in front of him, fingers caressing absentmindedly over the ornate golden latch.

Sherlock sits on his bed with his legs crossed, his hands folded under his chin. His stubble scratches the back of his hands, and he rubs a hand along his cheek, wishing he could shave. But it would be a rather obvious giveaway if he kept up all his other grooming while suddenly forgoing showers. He stares down at the bed in front of him, where his open needle case rests, the vial from Culverton Smith’s clinic beside it.

It’s been a week of this now. He’s kept himself busy, tracking Culverton Smith at all hours, hoping he’d lead him back to Moriarty. But so far it’s been in vain. Culverton either never had occasion to visit Moriarty in person, or else he had been warned he was being followed. Whenever tracking Culverton grew too frustrating to continue, he came back here to what he's started thinking of as a sort of twisted theatre. Here he was an actor with 221B as his stage, performing for an audience of one. There was no respite, not even in this room where Sherlock knows he's free from Moriarty's gaze. He has to carefully ration out the minutes of privacy to avoid rousing suspicion. Sherlock is beginning to feel that if this goes on much longer, he won’t be pretending he’s lost his mind.

It would be bearable if he could see John. But of course, he can’t. That would defeat the entire purpose. As it is, the burner phone has become a sort of lifeline, the only tether to a life beyond this miserable existence, a reminder that he’s doing all of this for something. For John.

He knows John wouldn’t approve of the drugs, and hasn't mentioned he purchased them for that reason. Part of why he’s kept himself so busy is so that he wouldn’t be tempted to take them. Still, if John were here, if he knew what was going on in Sherlock’s mind, he wouldn’t begrudge Sherlock just a few hours of relief, would he? John would understand…

Sherlock’s hands are steady as he picks up the needle and the vial. He very carefully measures out the correct dosage then slowly rolls up the dressing gown sleeve on his left arm. He poises the needle above the inside of his elbow, taking in a deep breath, and closing his eyes with his thumb resting on the plunger. The phone sitting beside him on the bed buzzes.

John. Sherlock’s eyes snap open. He’s filled with a wave of disgust at himself. He thrusts the needle back into its case and snatches up the phone.

John: Had a patient at the clinic today who I was fully convinced was you in disguise for a moment. Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to yank a man’s beard off thinking it was you? Thankfully I stopped myself before I assaulted anyone this time. I know you’re the one meant to have gone crazy but I think I’m actually starting to lose it.

John. Going about his life, thinking of him. Missing him. Wishing that this would be over too. He would be appalled if he knew what Sherlock was doing. Sherlock experiences a sharp stab of self loathing at nearly betraying John's trust again. He has to keep control of himself, John deserves better than to come back to a helpless addict. He internally debates coming clean about the drugs, but knows John would insist on putting an end to the plan if he did, meaning the last week would have been for nothing.

So he keeps the conversation in less fraught territory.

Sherlock: I had considered it, actually. Sadly, wherever I changed, Moriarty would be bound to notice. Which would rather defeat the purpose of the disguise.

John: Yeah, I figured. Old habits I guess.

John: Any updates?

Sherlock: None. I think I may need to try a new approach. You’re not the only one losing patience.

John: Anything dangerous?

Sherlock smiles faintly, imagining John’s eyes lighting up at the prospect of danger.

Sherlock: Hopefully not. If it looks like there will be any trouble, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Sherlock sets down the burner phone then hastens out to the living room. If Moriarty has warned Culverton about Sherlock, he may as well see if it's for a reason. It's possible he's waiting for Sherlock to seek him out. He rifles through the papers on the floor until he finds Culverton Smith’s business card. He grabs his mobile off the desk, punches in the number, and holds it up to his ear.

“Dr. Culverton Smith,” Drawls out a reedy voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Doctor. This is Sherlock Holmes..."

John sits at his desk at work, trying desperately not to stare at the clock. The lines under his eyes have deepened, the consequence of over a week of very little sleep and a near constant anxiety. The phone in his breast pocket chimes and John instantly sits up straighter, hastening to pull it out.

Sherlock: Progress at last! Should have tried the direct approach sooner. I called Culverton Smith. Mentioned having some concerns about the lasting effects of Devil’s Foot. That caught his attention fairly quickly. He’ll be round this evening.

John: I want to be there.

Sherlock: And how do you propose we do that?

John: I don’t know, sneak me in?

Sherlock: I might have a way. Surprisingly, I haven’t been able to find any cameras in my bedroom. I’ve been spending as much time as I can here without drawing suspicion. You’ll have to take an indirect route, but if you come by the fire escape in the back alley that might work.

John: Perfect. When should I be there?

A few hours later, Sherlock leans against his bedroom windowsill, staring down at the alley below. A figure comes around the corner, and Sherlock's eyes light up when he sees that it's John. He looks back to double check that he’s remembered to shut his bedroom door, then pushes the window open, moving away so that John has room to enter. John hurries up the fire escape and ducks through the window.

His eyes instantly widen at the state of the room, at the state of Sherlock. Unkempt and thinner than he’s ever seen him with black circles under his eyes. And that’s before he spots the needle case lying out on the dresser. He gives Sherlock a hard look, and gestures at the case, knowing that if he speaks it will be picked up on the microphone in the kitchen.

Sherlock sighs and rolls up his sleeves, holding out his forearms for John to examine so he can see the lack of puncture marks. You stopped me in time, Sherlock thinks as his eyes rake over John’s face. John reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s wrist, holding his arm out with his right hand and runs his fingers along the inside of Sherlock’s arm with his left. Sherlock suppresses a shudder. John’s shoulders relax slightly, but he’s still scowling. Sherlock gently tugs his arm free and taps the back of his wrist, reminding John that they don’t have long. He points to his wardrobe door.

John’s expression clearly says you’ve got to be kidding me. Sherlock gestures about the room, indicating the lack of other suitable places to hide. John rolls his eyes but crosses over to the wardrobe and eases open the door. He crouches on the floor under Sherlock’s clothes and pulls the door shut. A moment later the phone in John’s pocket buzzes, a text from Sherlock.

Sherlock: Remember, don’t believe anything I say.

John rolls his eyes, but just then Sherlock lets out a tortured groan and murmurs “James Moriarty,” with such blatant longing that he’s suddenly very grateful for the reminder.

It’s not long until they hear a knock on the front door. Mrs. Hudson lets Culverton Smith in and brings him up the stairs, all the while Sherlock continues to play the part of the demented addict craving his only true match very convincingly. John thinks he’s going to genuinely go mad if he has to hear Sherlock saying Moriarty’s name in that tone one more time.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson is at the bedroom door now.

“Come in.” Sherlock says, his voice rough.

“Sherlock, dear. You have a visitor. His name is Culverton Smith, he said you asked for him?”

“Yes, exactly who I’ve been wanting to see!” There’s a pause where John hears someone’s footsteps shuffling across the floor before Sherlock speaks again. “I’m fine. That will be all, Mrs. Hudson. Do close the door on your way out.”

“I’ll just be downstairs if you need anything, dear.” Another long pause as Mrs. Hudson closes the door. Then John hears someone, he assumes Culverton Smith, walking around the room, shuffling papers as he goes, before the footsteps stop.

Culverton Smith finally speaks with a saccharine voice. “So. You asked for me. Why not go to your regular doctor? Watson, wasn’t it?” John tenses, wondering if they’ve been found out.

“John isn’t really in the picture anymore,” Sherlock murmurs, sounding almost heartbroken. Odd. John’s not quite sure how that plays into the heartless sociopath angle he thought Sherlock was going for. “Besides, even if he were here, he would be useless for this.” That, on the other hand, is more fitting.

“Is that so? And just what do you expect me to do?” Culverton asks. “There’s no cure, which you already know. I’m not sure why you thought I would be able to help you.”

John hears Sherlock scoff and stand to his feet. “I don't want a cure. I just said that to get you to come… No, I have far more important business.”

“And what business might that be?”

“James Moriarty.” Sherlock says it like a caress and John winces. It’s an act, he reminds himself.

“Who?” Culverton Smith asks.

“Please. The act is tedious. I already know you’re working for him and that you know where he is. I need to find him.” Sherlock’s voice pitches an octave lower as he continues. “There’s something I need to tell him, something I think he’s been waiting to hear.”

Culverton Smith laughs. “What makes you think I would help you?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” The implicit threat is obvious. “I don’t think that’s necessary though; he told you to come, didn’t he?”

“He might have.”

“I imagine he’s already warned you I wouldn’t tell you what I’m after. That’s between the two of us. Suffice it to say, I’ve come around to seeing things his way.” John hears Sherlock pacing the room, coming closer to where he’s hidden. “I’m tired of dealing with these… people who just keep holding me back… Or letting me down when I need them.” Sherlock’s voice is only a few feet away and John swears he can feel his gaze through the door.

Sherlock continues with quiet intensity. “There has only ever been one person who has truly understood me. You’re going to tell me where I can find him.”

“He said you might say something like that.” Culverton replies pleasantly. John can hear Sherlock crossing back to the far side of the room. Then the sound of Culverton easing himself off the bed. “A gift. Moriarty said to tell you that there’s just one last thing you need to do to prove your change of heart. He was sure you’d understand once you saw it.”

The room is quiet for a long moment. Then a vicious scuffle breaks out, ending with the sound of someone being slammed into a wall.

“Where is Moriarty?” Sherlock’s voice, now low and deadly, sends a chill down John’s spine. He’s startled when Culverton Smith laughs.

“So it was an act then. I warned him as much, that you’d catch on. You won’t get me to talk though; your only way to Moriarty is with that box.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock asks coldly. John hears the sound of Culverton choking, “I think I can persuade you to change your mind.”

John decides to risk peeking out the door and finds that Sherlock has Culverton Smith pinned to the bedroom door, his hands wrapped around Culverton’s throat.

“Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?!” John asks, leaping up to his feet and crossing the room.

Sherlock turns his head towards John instinctively, and the look in his eyes stops John in his tracks. Complete and utter terror.

Culverton lets out a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Perfect. You’re here too. Suppose you’ve already called the police as well. Don’t worry, I’ll be out soon enough, Moriarty will see to that.”

Sherlock turns back to glare at Culverton, eyes flashing with murderous intent. His fingers tighten around Cuvlerton’s throat. “I can call them off, there’s still plenty of time to make you talk.”

“Sherlock! Christ, what is wrong with you?!” John steps forward, planning to pull Sherlock away. Without taking his eyes off of Culverton, Sherlock removes one of the hands from around his throat and holds it towards John palm out, stopping him.

“I need to find Moriarty. Now. At any cost.” Sherlock spits through his teeth.

John is bewildered. His eyes fall to the floor, where an ivory box lays near Sherlock’s feet, the one Culverton had said was the only way to Moriarty. John steps closer so he can pick it up.

The box has an ornately carved golden latch, made to look like a heart on fire. John opens it, not sure what to expect. Inside is a golden dagger, with the same carving of a burning heart engraved on the hilt.

“What is this?” John asks, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock glances back at him with wild eyes, not really seeing him. Instead, there’s a rush of memories.

“I’ve been telling you a story, you see, Sherlock.” Moriarty croons over the phone. “It’s about time you went back and found out what it was...”

Moriarty sat in Sherlock’s black leather chair, smiling up at him. “Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain...”

The image printed in the papers of Moriarty sitting on the throne wearing the crown jewels with a serene smile on his face. An evil king...

A blood red apple with one large bite taken out of it. Stabbed through the core...

Sherlock had wondered years ago why Moriarty’s allusions to Snow White had never entered into his fairytale-themed game at the end. The answer is obvious in hindsight. Everything Moriarty did was part of his game, his story. If a clue appeared to lead nowhere, it was because the payoff hadn’t come yet. Moriarty had been saving this one for the grand finale. His final problem...

“If you don’t read the story, how will you get to the happily ever after?” Moriarty asks with a laugh...

The back of a cab, watching Moriarty on a small screen telling the story of his impending demise. “But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-Lot’s Problem. No. That wasn’t the final problem...”

Magnussen sips on his brandy as he watches the screen in front of him with rapt attention. The footage of Sherlock pulling John out of the bonfire orchestrated by Moriarty plays on a loop. Magnussen's smile is smug. “Look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress...”

The third pile of clues, the one Sherlock had been hesitant to ascribe a meaning to, made up of people being killed by those closest to them had been a message after all. It had not been about Mary. And Sherlock had known it all along, if only subconsciously.

Jack Tregennis killing Robert Morrison when he began to care for him...

Pietro Venucci stabbed through the heart by his lover...

Lord Carmichael lying dead on the ground with an ornate dagger sticking out of his chest. A handwritten note from Moriarty tied to the hilt...

A final memory: not of Moriarty or his cases, but of the story. The version he had watched as a child.

“And there, my faithful huntsman, you will kill her… But to make doubly sure, bring back her heart in this...”

Sherlock knows exactly what Moriarty is asking him to do. And with the request, he finally has an answer to the question that has plagued him since the night at the pool all those years ago, when Moriarty had made it explicitly clear that he already knew exactly how to burn out Sherlock's heart. Sherlock had been in a constant state of terror those first few months, wondering when Moriarty would use that information to his advantage. But he never had, never made any move to hurt John directly. It hadn’t made any sense. Sherlock finally understands why the anticipated attack never came. The only reason John Watson is not already long dead.

Moriarty had hoped that given enough time and planning, eventually Sherlock would kill John himself. As final proof of his victory.

As soon as Moriarty realises that isn’t going to happen, there’s nothing at all to stop him from taking matters into his own hands. In his attempt to outplay Moriarty, Sherlock has unwittingly hastened the inevitable. John is going to die, and there’s nothing Sherlock can do to stop it from happening.

“Don’t touch that, John! Put it down, now!” Sherlock roars. John’s eyebrows shoot up, but he closes the lid and sets the box on Sherlock’s bed all the same.

“All right. Just… Calm down, Sherlock. Everything's okay.” They hear footsteps on the stairs, Scotland Yard coming up to make the arrest. Sherlock groans and steps away from Culverton who slides to the floor, rubbing at his throat. Sherlock pays him no attention, instead he begins frantically pacing the room, his hands now genuinely trembling with fear.

The police step inside and place Culverton in handcuffs. Culverton grins over at Sherlock. “It won’t be long now. One way or another, Moriarty will get what he wants. You know he will.”

Sherlock whirls about to lunge at him again but John stops him by grabbing onto his forearm. Culverton laughs as he’s escorted away.

Before he’s even been led down the steps, Sherlock is dashing all over the flat, climbing onto furniture to pull microphones and cameras off the tops of cabinets and bookshelves, one from inside the eye of the cow skull on the wall. Sherlock storms into the bathroom to tear out one of the tiles with his bare hands. John feels sick to his stomach when he reveals a camera that had been pointed at the shower. Sherlock gathers them all into a pile on the floor in the living room. He snatches up the fire poker and raises his arm high above his head. John watches as Sherlock rains down blow after blow, continuing long after the devices have merely stopped working; he doesn’t appear satisfied until they’ve been broken to bits.

And it’s still not enough. The fire poker clatters to the floor and Sherlock begins furiously pacing the room again, tearing at his hair, eyes desperately seeking out something else to rip apart.

“Sherlock! You going to tell me what happened there?” Sherlock doesn’t answer, almost like he can’t hear him. John puts a hand out to touch Sherlock's shoulder as he passes, trying to get his attention and is shocked when Sherlock visibly shudders.

“Sherlock. What. Is. Wrong.”

“He called my bluff,” Sherlock’s voice shakes as he speaks. Obviously still terrified.

“How’s that? And what does that dagger have to do with this?”

“I can’t tell you.” Not without revealing why Moriarty would send it to Sherlock in the first place. The last thing he needs to do now is something that will scare John away.

“I thought you weren't going to keep things from me anymore.”

“This isn’t the same. It’s nothing you need to know about. It’s just something Moriarty is asking of me that I absolutely cannot deliver, which means we're both in very real danger.”

John watches Sherlock striding back and forth, trying to figure out some way to calm him. John tries the last thing that worked when Sherlock was panicking. “Should we call Mycroft? See if his people have made any progress?”

“It’s too late for that now!” Sherlock cries out.

“So what should we do?”

“I don’t know! I don’t think there’s anything we can do. This is hopeless!” Sherlock flings his arms out in frustration. John is taken aback.

“It’s not like you to just give up like that.” He says.

Sherlock lets out a hysterical laugh. “Isn’t it? Moriarty has thoroughly outplayed me at every step of this game. I don’t know how I can get us out of this.”

As Sherlock turns to pass by again, John steps in front of him, halting his progress. He puts both hands on the tops of Sherlock’s arms, holding him there. He looks deep into Sherlock’s eyes, waiting until he’s sure that he’s paying attention. Then he speaks slowly, his voice perfectly steady. “We do it together, Sherlock. Those other times you were trying to go against him alone. I may not be as clever as you are, but I do know that between the two of us we haven’t come up against something we couldn’t face yet.”

Sherlock, who had been breathing hard, lets out a shuddering exhale. As Sherlock gazes into John’s calm, sure eyes, the manic energy pulling him in a thousand directions slowly fades, becoming something more manageable. John has a point. Sherlock might not be able to face Moriarty, but the two of them together… He remembers the dream he’d had on the plane, the craggy rocks and the rushing waterfall.

“That’s not fair, there’s two of you.”

“There’s always two of us.”

Sherlock smiles slightly as his shoulders relax. “Don’t be absurd, John. You are clever. In some ways you’re much smarter than I am.”

John grins in response. “So not entirely useless, then?” He asks with raised eyebrows, hoping it will make Sherlock laugh. It works.

“I told you I was lying! You knew that I didn’t mean it.”

“I did.”

Sherlock sighs and looks away for a moment. He glances back at John, appearing almost nervous. “Together then?” He asks.

“Together.” John replies. The two share a smile. But after a moment Sherlock frowns and steps away. He strides into his bedroom, picks up the box Culverton Smith left, and drops it out the window onto Mrs. Hudson’s bins.

“Sherlock…” John begins. Sherlock, now walking past John to flop onto his chair, shakes his head.

“Nothing you need to worry about, John.” Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin as his eyes go unfocused.

John stares at him for a long moment, but knows it’s useless trying to talk to Sherlock while he’s like this. He walks to his armchair and sits across from Sherlock, watching him carefully. But his mind drifts back to the box now lying on the bins outside.

Moriarty’s nicest cell, it turns out,is a small bedroom with an en suite bathroom. The room is cozy, if a little plain. There’s even a shelf full of books and a working TV. Sabrina Moran lies on the bed on her side, casually reading a worn paperback. She hears the sound of a door slamming open and someone rapidly approaching. She sits up just as James Moriarty steps into the room.

Moriarty is trembling with fury, and his eyes bug out of his skull. She automatically stands to put herself on more equal footing.

Moriarty walks closer until he’s standing right in front of her, their faces almost touching. Sabrina would step back, but with the bed behind her there’s nowhere to go.

“Jim-” She starts, but the way Moriarty’s eyes flash makes her fall silent.

“It looks like you weren’t so lucky after all.” He says, his voice more frightening for its apparent softness. “I just wanted to tell you in person that I was never going to let you live, after you shot Sherlock. I was only keeping you alive so you’d have to watch John Watson die.” Sabrina’s eyes widen. “I don’t have the patience for that now. But know this, he’s going to die. At my hand.”

“Wait, please,” Sabrina starts, but Moriarty is already walking away. He nods at the guard just outside the door who steps into the room, drawing his gun.

Moriarty strides down the hallway, not reacting in the slightest when the sound of a gunshot rings through the air, echoing off the walls. His eyes burn with determination.

It’s much too late to find,

When you think you’ve changed your mind.

You better change it back or we will both be sorry…

Chapter 9: Prologue: Moriarty's Man

Chapter Text

James Moriarty sits alone at the head of a massive antique table, sprawled forward with his face hidden by his forearms. A golden framed mirror hangs on the wall behind him, reflecting the flickering light of a dozen candles set about the ornate dining room.

Moriarty groans loudly, and the guard standing by the door glances at him nervously before fixing his eyes back on the opposite wall.

“No, no, no, no, no! Why couldn’t things just turn out the way they were meant to?!” Moriarty cries out, for once appearing genuinely affected with emotion.He lifts his head and rubs his hands roughly over his face. Abruptly, he slams his palms to the table and glares over at the guard. “Is he on his way?!”

The guard swallows. “Yes, sir. I’ve just received word he’s at the front gate now.”

“Took his time, didn’t he?” Moriarty jumps to his feet and begins pacing with his hands clasped behind his back, fingers drumming against his palm in impatience. He walks behind the chair to gaze into the mirror. He stares into his own dark eyes as he continues speaking, more to himself than the guard. “It could have been such a beautiful ending,” he moans. “Now I have to do things the ugly way.” The eyes in the mirror soften with genuine regret.

He’s still frozen there staring into his reflection when the door opens and a man walks in, face shadowed in the light from the doorway.

Moriarty turns to face him, shifting back into rage on a dime. “Finally! I thought I told you that when I call for you, I expect you to be here immediately!”

“Apologies,” the man replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I do have a few other priorities apart from catering to your-”

“I would have thought,” Moriarty interrupts, “That your highest priority would be doing as I say, actually. Unless you want me to change my plans.”

There’s a long pause before the newcomer replies. “I have been doing as you say. I’ve kept him from involving himself in your affairs, at your insistence.”

“Yes and unfortunately for both of us, it turns out that wasn’t enough. He’s being so stubborn. I mean even you,” Moriarty gestures his hand at the man while collapsing back into his chair, “You see that this is how things are meant to be. Sherlock and I belong together. Why can’t he see that?!” Moriarty puts his face back into his hands and groans. The man standing by the door remains silent.

“I do have another plan.” Moriarty says, raising his head and looking back at his visitor. “One that requires me to force poor Sherlock’s hand. That’s where you come in.”

“If you think I’ll be able to convince him, you are sadly mistaken. Sherlock doesn’t listen to me.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t call you here just to talk to him. Talking is boring. There is only one way to snap Sherlock out of this ridiculous fantasy he’s living in. You’re going to bring me what I need to do it.” Moriarty’s black eyes burn with intensity.

“Is that truly the best course of action?” The man’s voice is still even, but there’s a tense undercurrent to it, as if he’s holding back some emotion he doesn’t want Moriarty to see. “Surely there must be some alternative-”

“There is no alternative!” Moriarty screams, standing abruptly to his feet; his chair clatters to the floor behind him with a loud crash. “You must have forgotten the rules of our arrangement. You will do exactly what I say, without question, or Sherlock will die. Is that clear?”

It takes a long time for the visitor to respond. When he speaks again, his tone is filled with undisguised loathing. “Perfectly.”

“Good. So glad you’ve come around to seeing things my way.” Moriarty says sarcastically. He approaches the man for the first time and raises his eyebrows, as if daring his visitor to challenge him. “I’ll make the arrangements for you, set the pieces into place. When the time comes, you just remember your end of the bargain.”

“Very well.”

Moriarty holds his hand out; after a moment of hesitation the man grasps it in his own and shakes it once before ending the contact as quickly as possible.

“God, cheer up, would you?” Moriarty groans. “You’re helping Sherlock become everything he was meant to be. That’s what you want isn’t it?” His face breaks into a crooked smile. “None of my plans would have been possible without your help.” He raises his eyebrows as he waits for a response.

“I know,” the man murmurs eventually, more to himself than Moriarty.

Moriarty rolls his eyes and lets out a long sigh. “That will be all,” he says, waving his hand dismissively and walking to the far side of the room to once again stare into the mirror.

The man leaves the room without another word and walks back down the long hallway. The sound of his footsteps is punctuated by the rhythmic tapping of the tip of his umbrella striking the ground with every other step.

Chapter 10: The Final Problem: Part One

Chapter Text

Sherlock is beginning to scare John. He hasn’t eaten or slept since John has been back, and going off his appearance, he hadn’t been doing much of either while he’d been under cover. At the very least he’s returned to his usual immaculate standard of personal grooming and John has gotten him to drink water and tea at irregular intervals, half empty mugs and glasses sit around the living room as evidence. But otherwise Sherlock has been doing little other than pacing frantically and muttering to himself since Culverton gave him the ivory box engraved with the burning heart.

Sherlock strides around their living room, fiddling his phone in between his hands, murmuring something unintelligible under his breath.

Seated in his worn red armchair, John sighs heavily and tries once more to get through to him.

“Maybe if you told me what Moriarty wants, I could-”

“No, you couldn’t. Please do drop it John, it’s getting tedious having to tell you no over and over again.”

“Sherlock…” John says, giving him an exasperated look.

“I just need to think of some way we can draw out Moriarty before he decides to act again.” Sherlock continues, “There must be a way.” Sherlock sways where he stands but steadies himself with an outstretched hand on their desk.

“Sherlock!” John immediately starts up when he sees Sherlock falter, still maintaining a careful distance. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but John pushes on. “You are the smartest person I know, but even you aren’t going to solve anything in this state. Take a break, please.”

“John, as much as I appreciate your concern-”

John interrupts as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “I’ll stay right here and keep watch, if that makes you feel better.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists up. That doesn’t make him feel better at all; the last thing he wants is Moriarty to encounter John alone. “I’ll be fine,” Sherlock insists.

“I thought you said you were going to take better care of yourself.”

Sherlock covers his eyes with his palms and groans. “God, that was before all of this! Stopping Moriarty is all that matters now.”

“You aren’t going to stop Moriarty at the rate you’re going!” John practically shouts. Sherlock’s expression hardens, looking only more determined. John closes the remaining distance between them, hesitating for a moment before putting a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes snap down to his hand then back at John’s face, which has gone soft and pleading. “Sherlock. I can’t watch you do this to yourself. Moriarty hasn’t blown us up yet. We’ll probably be okay for a few more hours. Please, just go get some rest.”

Sherlock scowls. “I can’t take that risk.”

“And I’m not going to risk you making a mistake and getting yourself killed because you’ve decided you’re invincible.” John’s voice is laced with an undercurrent of authority now. “Between the two of us, I’m the one with actual battle experience. And when you’re on the frontlines, you rest when you can, so that later, when you can’t, you have the strength to keep going. So go eat something and then get some sleep. Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he blinks rapidly. John assumes he's offended at being told what to do and braces himself for an argument. But instead Sherlock appears to finally relax and the corner of his lip quirks up. He makes a small sound of amusem*nt in the back of his throat before he speaks.

“As you wish.” He says. “Though I hope you didn’t eat all the noodles you ordered earlier, they're the only thing at that restaurant that’s decent.”

John rolls his eyes. “No, I didn’t, you git. I ordered them for you.”

“You know me well.” Sherlock says as he walks over to the fridge. He grabs some chopsticks out of a drawer and eats the noodles cold, straight out of the carton. Either he’s very hungry or he’s trying to get his mandatory break over as quickly as possible because the food is gone in about a minute. He sets the carton down carelessly onto the counter and looks over at John.

“Promise me you won’t go anywhere.” Sherlock says, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“‘Course. I told you I’d keep watch, didn’t I?” John smiles at Sherlock, who doesn’t appear reassured.

He sighs heavily. “All right. Don’t let me sleep too long. And wake me immediately if anything happens.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” John insists gently. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” Sherlock stares at him for a long moment before he nods. He stands up stiffly and walks towards his bedroom, closing the door behind him. John hears the sounds of Sherlock opening and shutting drawers and decides he should probably stop eavesdropping.

Instead he sits back down in the living room and stares at Sherlock’s empty chair, trying to puzzle out what the ivory box with the golden dagger had meant. John isn’t stupid. He knows that the burning heart is a favoured threat of Moriarty’s.

“Kill you? No, don’t be obvious. I mean I’m gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don’t want to rush it though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don’t stop prying I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.”

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

“But we both know that’s not quite true.”

What John can’t figure out is how the dagger relates back to that threat, or why it would have Sherlock this frightened. Sherlock had said it was something Moriarty wanted him to do. John’s best guess is some kind of self mutilation; the image of Sherlock holding the point of the blade to his own skin causes John to wince. As disturbing as John finds the visual though, he knows that if that were the intended message, Sherlock would not be as terrified as he seems to be. He doesn’t regard his own suffering highly. But what other option is there?

The phone in John’s pocket vibrates, breaking his concentration.

Harry: Everything okay? Haven’t heard much from you since that angsty blog post.

John sighs and puts the phone down without responding. He stares over at Sherlock’s chair for a long moment, his expression steadily growing more conflicted. John knows starting the conversation is a bad idea, but the words from his blog post swirl in his mind. He's always hated people thinking the worst of Sherlock, and he knows Harry already holds a grudge against him for the way he faked his death. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try to clear his name, a bit. He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand as he picks the phone back up.

John: Yeah, I’m fine. So is Sherlock. It was a bit of a misunderstanding, I don’t really want to talk about it. Sorry to worry you.

Harry: Things okay with the wife too, then?

John blinks down at the phone, realising he hasn’t really thought about Mary since she left him to die on that boat, apart from idly wondering if she’d come back to try to kidnap him. Probably better to spare Harry all the gory details.

John: No, I meant that bit. I’ve moved out.

Harry: Oh, thank god!!

Harry: I mean, probably should say sorry to hear that, or something. But seriously, I’m so happy you left. She was awful.

John: Yeah, I know you never cared for her.

Harry: Because she was horrible to you! Like she thought she was so much better than you. It was insufferable.

John pauses to think that over. He’s surprised that Harry picked up on that, John had still convinced himself that he was overreacting, on some level.

John: Hadn’t realised it was that obvious.

Harry: Not like she was trying to hide it. Glad you’ve come to your senses John. You can do so much better.

John: Thanks, Harry. It’s a relief, to be honest. Though that isn’t a great way to feel about your marriage falling apart.

Harry: Always so worried about feeling the right thing...

John’s head tilts to the side as he grimaces. He would put the phone down but he sees that Harry is typing another message.

Harry: Anyway, I don’t want to pry. Just wanted to check on you. Glad you’re doing better. Maybe we can meet up sometime and I can share my wisdom on going through a divorce.

John: Very funny. Probably would be helpful though. Thanks.

Harry: See you.

There’s really nothing for John to do while Sherlock sleeps but obsess over the box, which is frustrating and leading nowhere. John tries to clean up the flat a bit, a wasted effort. In any case, he finds the clutter oddly comforting; his house with Mary always had a sterile feel to it, like no one really lived there. He pats the skull on the mantle fondly.

John spends some time going through Sherlock's records of their cases, which have been sorted back into three neat piles. Maybe they have some hint for what Moriarty might have planned as the next step of the game. He gives up when he gets to the end of the pile with The Inexplicable Matchbox. If there is a clue in the files, John’s not finding it.

After a few hours, John begins to get hungry again. He considers getting another takeaway, but suspects even opening the front door while Sherlock is asleep would cause him to panic when he found out. Best not to risk it if he wants Sherlock to sleep again anytime in the near future.

John doesn’t know how to cook much (one of the disadvantages of spending most of his early adulthood in the army, the food had always been provided). But he can make a chickpea curry dish that Sherlock usually likes. Of course, John had tried to explain to Sherlock that chickpeas aren’t really peas, but he had said that was irrelevant data.

John is just finishing up cooking when he senses someone standing behind him. His adrenaline kicks in and he spins around, brandishing the masala soaked spatula in his hand, only to find a very groggy looking Sherlock staring at him with wide eyes. John sighs in a mixture of relief and exasperation.

“Thought you were still sleeping.” John says.

“I couldn’t sleep anymore.” Something about Sherlock’s tone is off and he’s still staring at John with unblinking eyes.

“Sorry if I woke you. I was trying to keep it down.”

“No. It wasn’t you.” Sherlock’s voice quavers a bit.

John looks at Sherlock out of the side of his eye. Sherlock is ramrod straight, his hands stuffed into his dressing gown pockets, and doesn’t appear to want to take his gaze off of him, as if he’s trying to ground himself to reality. John may not be a deductive genius, but from years of intimate experience, he can recognise the signs of a nightmare from a mile off. His eyes soften with sympathy.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asks gently, already suspecting Sherlock’s answer, the one he himself would give.

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment. Behind his eyes he sees John lying on the ground, ashen and still, blood flowing freely from his chest. Moriarty grins maniacally at him with John’s still beating heart held in his hand, John’s blood dripping down his sleeve.

“No.” Sherlock says finally.

“Right.” John appraises Sherlock for a long moment, but shakes his head slightly. “Well, dinner’s almost ready. Since you’re up do you mind grabbing the plates?”

“Not at all. But only because it will keep you from having to get out your stepping stool to reach them.” Sherlock says, the corner of his mouth pulling up.

“Shut it.” They both laugh, but it quickly fades, the lingering tension surrounding them impeding any attempt at levity.

They eat dinner in silence. When the plates are empty Sherlock automatically picks them up to wash them, which John finds alarming. Sherlock only cleans when he’s very nervous. When he’s done washing up Sherlock crosses the room to his armchair and curls himself into a tight ball.

“Do you want to try to get some more sleep?” John asks, hovering in the kitchen threshold.

Sherlock shakes his head. “You should, though. It’s getting late.”

John sighs. “You sure?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll be right upstairs, if you need anything.” John says. The two nod at each other and John disappears upstairs.

But sleeping is a lost cause for him too, it seems. John sits on his bed for a long time, looking around the room with a sad smile. Piles of his things still sit in boxes near his old dresser, pieces of himself he’d left behind. It still feels more like home than the house with Mary ever had. That should be enough. All the same, John finds himself wishing for more. He fights the feeling down with military efficiency; letting himself hope is only going to make him miserable in the end. Being back here at all is plenty, more than he ever thought he would have again. He lies down on his bed and closes his eyes, trying not to think about how much he would rather be in the room just below.

In the depths of his mind, Sherlock strides through the perfectly reconstructed halls of Roland Kerr Further Education College, muttering to himself.

“Something, there must be something.”

He ducks through a door on his right, leading to a lecture hall with a map of England illuminated on the front screen. He approaches the projector at the back of the hall and looks down at the box of slides, labeled with the various methods of locating a suspectthat he’s used or studied. He picks up the slide at the front of the row: Knowledge of the Mark. He places it into the projector and the map on screen zooms in on London. In spite of the increased risks hiding in the city presents, Sherlock knows Moriarty is still in London, that a location closer to Baker Street is more likely than one farther away. He’ll want to stay close. There are now dozens of blinking red dots on the map, too many to be useful. He flicks through the box. Track Internet Usage, with Moriarty’s code it would be impossible. Identify Regular Staff, potential, but he has nowhere to begin. Not enough data. The usual solution to that problem is patience, waiting for the mark to slip up, to make a mistake, but...

“Useless, Sherlock.” Mycroft says, standing over his shoulder, eyeing the slides with a disdainful expression. “You don’t have the luxury of time. Every second you waste is another Moriarty could use to end the game. You need a more direct approach.”

Sherlock groans in frustration and storms out of the room, almost running down the hall now. A direct approach… A door on the left now.

Inside is a morbid sort of gallery. Skeletons and cadavers stand uprightin glass cases in row upon row, so many of them that they appear endless. They catalogue every murder Sherlock has come across in a case or in his research. He strides across the tile floor, eyes flitting over the corpses and the neatly printed labels proclaiming the method of death.

Bullet through the brain. Repeatedly bludgeoned with a tyre lever. Pushed out of a flying plane. Blown to bits in a gas explosion. Stabbed through the heart.

Sherlock flinches, but continues onward.

Poisoned with small doses of arsenic in their daily coffee. Drowned in a pool. Strangled with the killer’s hands wrapped around their throat...

“Oh, Sherlock. You don't really think you can kill me do you?” Moriarty croons from behind him. Sherlock turns to find him examining the body of Pietro Vennuci, tapping the glass just above the penknife sticking out of his chest. He leisurely turns round to face Sherlock and grins. His right sleeve is drenched with blood. “We both know how this is going to end, Sherlock. When I die, you’ll die with me. That’s how our story always ends.”

Moriarty takes a step closer. The room falls away for a moment and Sherlock finds himself standing on the edge of a waterfall, Moriarty approaching him on the narrow ledge.

He wills himself back into the college and flees the room, locking the door behind him.

“Sherlock, get control of yourself.” Mycroft says with disapproval walking briskly beside Sherlock as he speeds down the hallway. “You’re going to ruin everything if you keep this up. Don’t get emotional.”

Down the stairs of the house at Lauriston Gardens now. Sherlock resolutely walks towards a heavy metal door. He twists the crank open and peers through the crack into the dusty room full of old metal filing cabinets, the years he had spent pretending to be dead tucked neatly into the drawers. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, the metal hinges groaning loudly in the silence. He steadfastly ignores the locked filing cabinets in the corner labeled Serbia, Moscow, and Nepal, which rattle as he passes by. He frantically rifles through drawers of the other cabinets, scanningthe methods he had used to avoid capture in those two years. The locked cabinets in the corner begin to clatter even more loudly as he desperately tries to avoid thinking about the three times he had failed. What had happened when he had gotten caught...

“These Serbians got rather creative didn’t they?” Moriarty asks. Sherlock’s head jerks up and he finds Moriarty leaning against the shaking cabinets, a red file held open in his left hand. He’s smiling as he reads. “I should take notes. We’ll be spending a lot of time together soon, I’d hate for you to get bored.”

“I have no intention of letting that happen.”

“Always playing hard to get… You’d like to draw this out, would you?” Moriarty’s tongue slides out across his lips. “That’s all right. You won’t get very far. And personally I find the anticipation... delicious.” Moriarty raises his right hand, still dripping with John’s blood up to his face. He grins wickedly at Sherlock before redirecting his eyes to examine the blood. His expression grows thoughtful before he opens his mouth to obscenely lick his bloody fingers, putting the first two into his mouth and sucking loudly.

Sherlock wrenches himself out of his mind palace, eyes clenched shut and breaths coming in shallow, frightened gasps. His heart feels a beat away from exploding in his chest. He forces himself to focus on slowing his breathing down, palms digging into his eyes and fingers scraping against his scalp until it burns. Panicking isn’t going to do any good. He has to stay rational, that’s the only way to keep John safe.

When he’s more or less back in control of himself, Sherlock lowers his hands and slowly opens his eyes.

He sees James Moriarty leaning in the doorway leading to his bedroom with his arms crossed, a crooked smile on his face.

Sherlock closes his eyes again. He takes one slow, deep breath, telling himself that he's simply spent too long obsessing over Moriarty. That's all. When he looks again, the room is going to be empty. As he breathes out, he once again opens his eyes.

Moriarty is still there, smiling fondly at Sherlock as he tilts his head.

“Hello, darling.” he says softly, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Were you thinking of me?”

Sherlock stiffens. All at once, his focus comes down to a pinpoint, the rest of theworld fading away, leaving only the space between himself and Moriarty. “How did you…” he trails off. The answer is obvious. “Oh, of course. The bedroom window.”

Sherlock’s senses kick into overdrive.If Moriarty is here, he very well could have already climbed the fire escape to the floor above and killed John. Sherlock inspects Moriarty carefully; no traces of blood, clothes hanging neatly without any creases, meaning he hasn’t been in a struggle. Still not a guarantee, he could have killed John in his sleep. Or this visit could be a distraction, he could have someone upstairs right now. Sherlock does his best to appear calm while keeping his attention split between Moriarty and listening for any sounds coming from upstairs.

“Very good.” Moriarty says with a pleased expression. “Certainly brought back a lot of fond memories climbing up that fire escape, it’s been years since I’ve come in that way.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Please. If you had been in my bedroom more than the one time…” Sherlock viciously pushes away the memory of rumpled bedding, of other, more obvious evidence of Moriarty’s visit left on his bedsheets... “I’m sure you would have planted cameras in there as well as the rest of the flat.”

Moriarty’s eyebrows knit together in confusion as he pushes off the doorframe with his shoulder. He begins slowly drawing closer to Sherlock. “And why would I want cameras in your bedroom? That’s not nearly intimate enough. I’d always come to watch you sleep in person.”

Sherlock feels a chill run down his spine that he does his best to ignore. He rolls his eyes.

“So are we done with this game now?” Sherlock asks sarcastically. “I hope you liked the little touch with the smoking.”

“Oh, I did.” Moriarty says. He crosses the threshold into the living room. “The drugs too, and you calling my name.” Moriarty sighs. “It was perfect. Too bad you were only pretending. I had such a wonderful ending planned for us.”

“I saw.”

Moriarty strolls over to stand by the fireplace, only a few feet away from Sherlock now. He shakes his head sadly.

“I rather lost my temper when I realised you were faking. Had to kill Sabrina to stop myself from doing anything rash. She was going to die anyway, after what she did to you, so there was no harm in getting rid of her early.”

The context is enough to deduce that this Sabrina is - or was, Sherlock supposes now, Mary. He remains impassive. “Is she really dead?”

Moriarty’s eyes narrow in irritation. “Oh, don’t pretend you actually care. I know you were hoping to have her out of the way. So you could have the moronic doctor to yourself.” He leans his elbow on the mantle and covers his eyes with his hand. “I will never know what you think you see in him. He’s so boring.”

Moriarty’s eyes are still covered, and he’s only a few feet away. Sherlock tenses ever so slightly, thinking he could have his hands wrapped around Moriarty’s throat before he would have time to react. As if he knows what Sherlock is thinking, Moriarty lifts his head again and raises an eyebrow at him, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. The implied threat keeps Sherlock from moving. At the very least it seems John may still be alive. Sherlock hides his relief with a bitter laugh.

“And I’m not sure what you think you see in me. Whatever it is, you’re obviously mistaken. You wouldn’t have to try nearly this hard otherwise.”

Moriarty’s face clouds over with menace and he takes a step closer. Sherlock’s eyes widen ever so slightly, thinking he may have pushed him too far. But after a moment Moriarty appears to calm himself. He smiles again.

“We both know that’s not true. You wouldn’t be who you are without me, and I wouldn’t be who I am if I didn’t have you. You…” he punctuates the word by drawing a heart in the air around Sherlock’s face with his fingers, “complete me.”

“You certainly seem to think so.” Sherlock replies dismissively.

“I know so. I know everything about you, Sherlock, I’m the only one who will ever truly know you. We were made for each other.” Moriarty reaches out and gently caresses Sherlock’s face with the back of his right hand. Sherlock recoils from the contact before he can stop himself. Instead of being angered by Sherlock’s response, Moriarty’s sigh is wistful as he lowers his hand back to his side. “But you just won’t see it. That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it? Our final problem. All this work just to make you see.”

Moriarty backs away to sit in John’s chair, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees. When he speaks again, his voice is playful. “I’ve decided to be generous, though. I must be going soft. Love does that to you. I’m giving you one final chance, Sherlock. To think things through, come to the right conclusion. If you don’t...” Moriarty’s head tilts to the side. “Well, I think I’ve been pretty clear about what happens if you don’t.”

I will burn the heart out of you.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Are you expecting an answer now?”

“Oh, no! I’m more patient than that. Another thing I’ve learned for you. No, I just came by to see your face again. One last time before you’re mine.”

“How romantic of you.”

“Isn’t it?” Moriarty responds with a devilish grin.

Sherlock makes no reply. Their eyes remain locked on one another in a sort of silent battle of wills. Sherlock’s expression is set into an impassive mask, but Moriarty’s eyes twinkle with amusem*nt, as if he easily sees through it to the fear underneath. The silence drags on. It’s finally broken when Moriarty abruptly sighs and stands to his feet.

“Well, I’d better be off. Lots to prepare.I’ll be seeing you again, my Sherlock.”

“And I’ll be seeing you behind bars.”

Moriarty laughs. “You’d like that? Well, I suppose I’m not opposed to a little role play, after.” He licks his lips and winks. “Ciao, love.” He places his hands casually in his pockets and begins whistling Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture to himself as he walks out the flat door, down the seventeen steps to the landing, and finally back out to the street.

When Sherlock hears the sound of the front door latching shut, he shudders violently and puts his head in his hands. He stays frozen there, mind racing out of control, until a thick, acrid stench reaches his nose.

Smoke.

His head snaps up and he leaps out of his chair. Heavy plumes of smoke seep down from the top of the stairs.

“John!” Sherlock shouts, rushing up the steps two at a time. The air is hot already and smoke curls out the top of John’s door, creeping along the ceiling. Sherlock rushes towards John’s door all the same, frantically throwing the door open. His eyes go straight to John, still sleeping peacefully in his bed, face illuminated by the fire consuming the window frame on the far wall. He shakes John awake. “John! We have to go!”

John bolts upright, eyes darting around the room. When he sees the fire he jumps to his feet instinctively and swears under his breath.

“Oh, f*ck.” The sound of his voice is drowned out by the crackling flames.

He lunges for his bedside drawer to grab his gun and his phone. Then together they race down the stairs, away from the spreading fire and the smoke already filling 221B. Turning sharply at the bottom, they back dart towards the door of 221A. Sherlock tries the handle as John slams his fist on the door.

“Mrs. Hudson!” He calls out. There’s no answer. Sherlock reaches up above her door frame to grab the spare key and makes quick work of the door. Mrs. Hudson, her hands hurrying to tie the belt of a floral dressing gown around her waist, is already halfway to the door. John rushes in and takes her gently but firmly by the arm to guide her out before she can ask what’s happening, Sherlock racing wordlessly ahead to open the door to the street.

Not twenty minutes later, they stand huddled together in front of Speedy’s, lit by the flashing lights of the fire engine blocking off Baker Street. Luckily (or perhaps intentionally) the fire doesn’t spread beyond John’s room. The fire department makes quick work of it, and Mrs. Hudson insists on Sherlock and John staying down in her flat for the night. She flits around the kitchen fixing tea for them. Sherlock and John sit at her kitchen table, Sherlock once again restless with his knee bouncing and fingers drumming on the table.

“You going to explain what just happened, Sherlock?” John asks.

“Moriarty. He was here, came round to have a chat. He must have set the fire…” His lips press together in an uneven line and he looks away, momentarily stopping his fidgeting. “John. He… Mary is dead.”

“Dead?” John feels numb. “How do you know that?”

“Moriarty told me, he said he had her killed as punishment for shooting me. I’m so sorry, John.”

John stares down at the table, face crumpling as a tidal wave of conflicting emotions rushes through him.

Mrs. Hudson places the tray with tea, three settings, and a bowl of biscuits on the table and sits between them. “This is horrible, isn’t it? You two not being safe here. I would have killed that man if I had the chance, making you both so miserable.”

“I think…” Sherlock begins. “John and I may need to leave, Mrs. Hudson. I don’t know for how long.”

John looks up at Sherlock with hollow eyes. “And go where?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere. But we can’t stay here, Mrs. Hudson is right, it’s not safe.” Sherlock’s eyes are red around the edges and his voice is shaking. Mrs. Hudson pats him gently on the hand.

“There, there dear. We all survived this time, I’m sure-”

“That was clearly intentional. If Moriarty wanted us to be dead, we would be. The fire was just a warning. I’m not going to sit here and wait for him to…” Sherlock trails off with a sharp exhale. John goes back to staring dejectedly at the table.

The silence is broken by Sherlock’s phone ringing. Mycroft. Sherlock answers and angrily jerks the phone up to his ear.

“I assume you have a good reason for calling at this hour. Please tell me you’ve finally decided to do something about Moriarty.” Sherlock says.

Mycroft sighs heavily. “Would that it were so easy, brother mine. I’m afraid you were right, we have not yet been able to determine his whereabouts. However, I received a report of a fire at 221B, and I assumed based on the time that it wasn’t caused by one of your little… experiments.”

Sherlock scoffs. “No, it was Moriarty. He was here. Seems like you ought to have been able to spot him coming with all your surveillance equipment. Or is all that government funding going to waste?”

“He was there?” Asks Mycroft, alarmed now.

“Not for the first time. He mentioned wanting to relive his fond memories of sneaking in to see me.” Sherlock suppresses another shudder, and John’s eyes briefly dart up to his face in alarm.

“This is worse than I thought.” Sherlock can hear the sound of Mycroft writing something down. “We’ll need to take immediate action.”

“That’s what I told you weeks ago, Mycroft! You seemed to think I was overreacting at the time.” Sherlock snaps. “Glad you’ve finally decided to take this seriously. John and I need to get out of London. Better yet, out of the country.”

Mycroft is quiet for a long moment.

“That should be manageable.” He finally says evenly. “Moriarty will be expecting you to stay together, so the two of you will go separately. If you lead him in the wrong direction, that should create a diversion for Dr. Watson’s escape. Afterward, someone will take you to meet him at Heathrow Airport and from there the two of you can go where you wish.” Sherlock’s mouth twists up, he doesn’t like the idea of leaving John alone. Still, Mycroft has a point, Moriarty will almost certainly pay more attention to Sherlock's movements.

“And you’ll see to it that John gets there safely?” Sherlock asks quietly, eyes trained on John’s face. There’s a long pause, and Sherlock begins to wonder if Mycroft has heard him.

“I will.” Mycroft finally says.

“Thank you.” Sherlock says earnestly. “I hate to admit it but I don’t think we’d be able to escape Moriarty without your help. Just tell me when and where to go and I’ll be there.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Mycroft says, sounding almost annoyed. “There’s quite a bit to be done. I suppose I had better start on the leg work... Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.” Sherlock hangs up the phone.

Mrs. Hudson smiles at him. “That brother of yours finally making himself useful then, Sherlock?”

“It would seem so.” Sherlock tries to return her smile but can’t quite manage. He looks back at John, who is now resting his head in his hands. Sherlock is wracked with guilt. Another heartbreak of John’s that is all his fault. Sherlock finds he doesn’t know what to say so he just sits there in silence, waiting for instructions from Mycroft.

The minutes tick by. Eventually John sighs and lifts his head, rubbing his hands across his face. “We should probably get our things.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Sherlock says quickly, already standing to his feet. “You should both try to get some rest. We have at least a couple of hours until Mycroft will be ready for us.”

John lets out a bitter huff of laughter. “Yeah, somehow don’t think I’ll be falling asleep again after that.”

“Quite right,” Mrs. Hudson says with a small shake of her head. “Would you like help packing, dear? I’m going out of my mind just sitting here.”

“No,” Sherlock says a bit too hastily. “No, I’ll get it myself. You should stay here, keep John company.” His eyes burn into Mrs. Hudson’s and she immediately understands that he doesn’t want John left alone in case Moriarty returns.

“Of course, we’ll be right here then.”

Sherlock climbs the stairs with a heavy heart, trailing his left hand absentmindedly across the wallpaper as he goes. 221B, while undamaged by the fire, is still hazy with the smoke. It lingers in the air like a physical manifestation of Moriarty’s presence.

Sherlock takes a moment to gaze at the two chairs in front of the fire, trying to imagine he and John sitting there together, happy and safe once this is over. Instead he sees Moriarty in John’s chair, flashing him a crooked smile. Sherlock flinches and turns on his heel to go to his room. He pulls a duffle bag out of his wardrobe and begins shoving clothes into it. When the bag is half full he slings it over his shoulder and leaves the room without another glance, ducking through the doorway in the kitchen and climbing the stairs to the landing above.

The acrid smell is stronger in John’s room, the walls and furniture are coated in a thick film of soot. So the small envelope placed on John’s chest of drawers seems almost brilliantly white in contrast. It could only have been placed there after the fire. Sherlock crosses the room in one stride and snatches up the envelope. The wax seal shows yet another burning heart. He tears it open and looks down at the letter with his brows drawing together.

Sherlock joins John and Mrs. Hudson at the table a short while later. They sit in silence as the hours pass. At about 6 o'clock, Mrs. Hudson decides that they need to eat something before they go, and sets about fixing them a full breakfast. Neither of them feel particularly hungry, but she sets down the plates and glares at them until they eat.

It isn’t quite dawn when Sherlock’s phone lights up.

Mycroft: Ready. Head Northeast. I’ll be around to collect Dr. Watson shortly.

“Right.” Sherlock says. “I’d better be going, then.” He clears his throat. Mrs. Hudson stands up to pull him into a hug and holds him tightly to her.

“You take care of yourself, dear. I’ll keep your rooms clean and ready for whenever you come home.”

“I thought you weren’t my housekeeper.” Sherlock says, his voice thick with emotion. Mrs. Hudson pulls back to pat him on the cheek.

“I’m not, I just do that because I love you.” She smiles through the tears in her eyes.

“I… Thank you. You too.” He pecks Mrs. Hudson on the cheek then steps out of her embrace. He stares at John with tortured eyes, and John shakily stands to his feet. Sherlock extends his hand. John swallows heavily before taking it in his own.

“Be careful, Sherlock.” John says, still tightly holding his hand. “Please. I couldn’t bear it if-” he cuts himself off and looks down at their clasped hands. John forces himself to let go of Sherlock’s hand and balls his own at his side.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth pulls up. “You know I’m indestructible John. I’ll see you very soon.” John looks up at him and nods. Sherlock gazes back at him, wishing he had something better to say. But his phone beeps again, Mycroft telling him to hurry, and so he leaves without another word.

John watches him go before collapsing back into his chair, his breathing hitching unevenly. Mrs. Hudson moves a chair closer to his and sits beside him.

“I’m sorry to hear about Mary, dear.” she says, placing her hand over his.

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I think I’ll be okay, I just…” He sighs and doesn’t say anything else, but his face reflects the mess of emotions tangled in his chest. Mrs. Hudson’s expression grows thoughtful.

“I felt guilty for a while too, you know.” John’s eyes snap up to hers. “Even though I knew that Frank was no good. You sort of miss the idea of who you thought they were. It can feel like a betrayal to realise you’re better off without them. That you’re relieved they’re gone.”

John’s face relaxes and lets out a sigh, the tension draining from his shoulders. Because that’s exactly what has John feeling like he might be the worst sort of monster. He doesn’t have to say anything, Mrs. Hudson knows that her words have hit the mark. She pats him on the cheek.

“You’re a good man, John. And a better judge of character than you think.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just between the two of us, I knew all along things weren’t going to last with her.” She winks and John laughs shakily, guessing what exactly she might have hoped for instead. They’re interrupted by a knock at the front door.

“That’ll be Mycroft.” John sighs and stands to his feet. He already has his gun and his burner phone tucked into his pockets. He slings the bag Sherlock had packed over his shoulder and gives Mrs. Hudson a long hug. “You take care of yourself Mrs. Hudson. Hopefully we’ll be back very soon.”

“I’ll be waiting, dear.” She says with a warm smile.

Mycroft stands outside the door in his usual impeccable three piece suit and a purple tie, holding his umbrella up against the rain. His expression is sombre, like he’s watching a coffin being lowered into the ground.

“Hullo.” John says. “Ready?”

Mycroft’s lips twitch but his face is otherwise unchanged.

“After you.” He says, holding his arm out to indicate the black car waiting for them. John steps down onto the pavement. A man standing near the car takes the bag from John and places it into the boot. John turns back and casts a lingering glance at the door to 221B, wondering when he’ll see it again. After a long pause he ducks into the car and is surprised when Mycroft follows him into the backseat, sitting directly across from him. That’s unusual. The door slams shut, tinted windows blocking out the light. As the car pulls out onto the road, John is suddenly all too aware of how little space there really is in the back of the car.

“So, are we going straight to the airport?” John asks.

“What’s that?” Mycroft appears to pull himself out of some sort of reverie with a great deal of effort, blinking and smoothing down his tie. “Oh. Yes. Or rather, no. We’re going the circuitous route, in case anyone is following.”

Something is wrong, John realises.Mycroft is never distracted like this.

“Everything okay?” He asks, eyebrows pulling down. “You worried about Sherlock?”

Mycroft smiles sadly at John. “Constantly.”

“Do you think this plan won’t work? We can always call it off. I don’t think Sherlock cares how we get out as long as we’re doing something.” John watches Mycroft’s eyes tighten against some emotion. A slow, creeping sense of dread presses in on him.

“No.” Mycroft says. “This is the only way now. Much as I may wish otherwise.” John feels his stomach drop. Something is very, verywrong.

“Why do you say that?” John asks, worry obvious on his face. Mycroft returns his stare for a moment, before turning to gaze despondently out the window. He doesn’t say anything else. John stares at him, trying to figure out what he might be thinking.

A chime comes from Mycroft's pocket and pulls his phone out to check the message. John instinctively glances down to read the upside down text.

M: Are you on your way?

Mycroft: Yes. We’ll be there shortly.

John smiles slightly, thinking of making a joke about James Bond. Of course Mycroft would work with the real M. But the smile abruptly falls away as John’s eyes go wide.

He sees, all at once, how extremely implausible it was that Moriarty had been able to get so close to Sherlock time and again. Surely Mycroft, who has enough sway that John actually finds it a bit frightening, would have been able to do something about it. Sherlock was right, Mycroft should have been able to locate Moriarty easily.

Unless, of course, he had known where Moriarty was all along.

John remembers another conversation he’d had with Mycroft, years earlier, when Moriarty had set about ruining Sherlock’s reputation with Mycroft’s help.

“This, see this, is what you were trying to tell me, isn’t it. Watch his back ‘cause I’ve made a mistake.” John had said. Mycroft had winced, but hadn’t said a word to defend himself. “How’d you meet him?”

“People like him, we know about them, we watch them. But James Moriarty…” Mycroft’s eyes had shone with genuine terror as he spoke. “The most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen. And in his pocket the ultimate weapon. A key code. A few lines of computer code that can unlock any door...”

Mycroft is many things, but an actor is not one of them. For years, John had thought that Mycroft suspected what Moriarty was going to force his brother to do, had known already he had condemned Sherlock to die. He hadn’t thought about that conversation since Sherlock had returned, when he learned that Mycroft had known Sherlock was going to fake his death all along.

So what exactly had made Mycroft so afraid of Moriarty?

John pieces all of this together rapidly while staring down at the phone screen with the text from M before it abruptly goes black. He looks up to find Mycroft watching him. It’s obvious that he knows John has seen the message, and has understood what it means. His eyes shine with remorse, but the hard line of his mouth is resigned.

“Where are we really going, Mycroft?” John asks, already knowing the answer.

“I’m sorry, John. I wish there was another way.” Mycroft’s voice breaks at the end, which under any other circ*mstance would completely stun John. Now though, he’s already looking out the windows, trying to figure out where they are, how he can escape.

Mycroft scoffs once, a broken sound. “Where will you go? Between the two of us there’s nowhere for you to hide.” John’s already seen his opportunity, an upcoming curve in the road. He looks back to meet Mycroft’s eyes, his own full of anger and disgust.

“Unbelievable.” John says scathingly.

Mycroft winces and looks down just as the car begins to slow. John throws open the car door and hits the pavement hard, he nearly stumbles onto his side, but manages to find his balance and keep running. He is already hidden in the crowd before Mycroft can react. He shoves disgruntled pedestrians out of the way, not bothering to apologise.

He ducks into the first alley he comes across, running until he reaches a stairwell leading down to a cellar and crouches inside it. He pulls the phone out of his pocket and dials quickly.

“Please pick up, please pick up.” John mutters in his agitation. One ring, two rings…

“John?” Sherlock asks.

“Sherlock! It’s a trap. I don’t know where you are, but you have to run. Now. We need to find another way out of London.”

“That can’t be.” Sherlock replies. “Mycroft is the only one who knew about the plan.”

“Mycroft is the one who set us up.”

“He wouldn’t…” Sherlock’s voice fades away, and John pictures him beginning to shut down.

“Sherlock,” John says firmly. “I know this is bad. But we need to focus now. We have to get out of the city. Mycroft is right about one thing, it’s going to be almost impossible to hide from him.”

“Yes…” Sherlock’s voice is distant, like he’s still processing Mycroft's betrayal. But when he continues after a moment, he sounds more focused. “I had a backup plan, if Mycroft wouldn’t agree to help us. I should be able to get us some papers from our fan club. Seems they have some significant use after all. Meet me at St. Pancras station in half an hour. We’ll take the 08:14 train to Paris.”

“Right… Hey, Sherlock…” John starts, but isn’t quite sure of what to say.

“We need to keep moving. Keep your phone on and if anything happens, text me immediately.”

“Right. Same goes for you. I’ll see you soon.”

“Let’s hope.” Sherlock says sadly. He hangs up the phone and John begins walking to the end of the alley, making more of an effort to blend into the crowd when he’s back on the path. Of course, it probably won’t make much of a difference, Mycroft will still be able to locate him immediately. John just hopes Mycroft’s guilty conscience buys them enough time to get away.

It must, because John safely makes his way to St. Pancras without incident. He sits on a bench, eyes roaming the crowd for Sherlock. He feels a hand on his shoulder and his survival instincts kick in; he grabs at it, planning to dislocate a finger.

“John. It’s me.” Sherlock whispers in his ear. John’s grip relaxes and looks over to find Sherlock standing next to the bench, stooped towards him with his face creased in anxiety. John sighs in exasperation.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John groans. “You’ve got to be more careful, I nearly attacked you.”

“Sorry. Good reflexes though, that will probably come in handy.” Sherlock’s lips briefly quirk up before he reaches into his pocket. “I have our tickets, we should get on the train now, before anyone tracks us here.”

“Right, good.” John stands to his feet. “Lead the way.”

They make their way to the front of the train, a few rows behind the conductor’s carriage. John insists on taking the aisle seat. Sherlock tries to protest, but John quickly cuts him off, keeping his voice low. “I’m the one with a gun, I’d rather they have to go through me.”

Sherlock silently concedes the point and takes the seat near the window, John following behind him. Both of them are on edge as they wait for the train to leave the station. John turns to look out at the platform through the window, eyes scanning the crowd. After a moment, the blood drains from John’s face and he stiffens. Sherlock looks over at him in alarm, then follows his line of sight out the window.

James Moriarty sits on a bench facing their train, wearing a light grey suit, a serene smile on his face. He sees them looking at him and waves, making no effort to move.

The message is obvious, Moriarty knows where they are and is letting them leave. He’s confident he’ll find them again. The train lurches forward and Moriarty slowly fades from view behind them. Sherlock and John exchange a worried glance.

They’re underground when Sherlock suddenly groans.

“Sherlock?” John asks anxiously.

Sherlock’s eyes slide closed. “Moriarty told me that Mycroft would do this. How could I have let myself miss it?”

John’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “When? Did he say something last night that you didn’t mention?”

“No. Well, yes, he left a message for me. But that’s not what I meant... The Ferguson case, the government official who drove his own brother mad...” Sherlock says bitterly.

“Sherlock. You can’t-” John is cut off by Sherlock’s desperate laugh.

“God, that wasn’t even the only time! I knew he was sending me messages in our cases. But I never even considered the possibility Mycroft would be working with him. I shouldn’t have trusted him with your safety, I’m an idiot.” Sherlock buries his face in his hands.

John’s face softens. “Sherlock, you aren’t supposed to have to expect this kind of thing. There’s no way you could have known.”

“But he’s done this before.” Sherlock says so quietly that John can barely hear him.

“What?”

Sherlock raises his head and looks around the carriage. “Not here.” He shakes himself. “I need to focus, we need a plan for where we’ll go next.” He pulls out his phone and begins texting someone. John sighs and leans his head back against the seat as the train whisks them through the tunnel to Paris.

At Gare Du Nord Sherlock leads John to the ticket counter and uses his real credit card to purchase two tickets to Amsterdam. He then proceeds to throw both the credit card and the tickets in the closest bin.

“Where are we really going then?” John asks, following behind Sherlock.

“Staying here, there’s someone I want to meet. Someone with experience hiding from Moriarty. We’re meeting tomorrow at The Louvre. Besides, staying here would be the last thing Moriarty will expect. He'll think I'd be too panicked to stay in one place.”

“Paris, right, perfect.” John chuckles.

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together. “Problem?”

John smiles at him and shakes his head. “Not at all. What would you like to do until tomorrow?” Sherlock sighs and shrugs out of his Belstaff, draping it carefully over a bench as they pass by. “Er, Sherlock?”

“It’s a bit too recognisable, no sense in making Moriarty’s job any easier than it already is. Come on, our first order of business is to find new clothes.”

Sherlock leads John through the streets of Paris seemingly from memory and John idly wonders just how many cities Sherlock can navigate by heart. They come to their destination, a designer boutique that John can tell even from the pavement is ridiculously expensive. Sherlock's eyes light up at the long dark coat on a mannequin in the window. He hurries inside, climbs into the window display and tears it off the mannequin. By the time John has followed him inside he's already shoving his arms into the sleeves, oblivious to the irritated expression of the woman standing at the till.

“Will this do?” He asks John after he’s buttoned it all the way up to his chin, his usual form of armour. Sherlock seems so pleased that John finds he doesn’t have the heart to tell him it looks identical to the one he left behind at the station. John doesn’t think a coat will make much of a difference to Moriarty finding themone way or another anyway. And he finds Sherlock’s eagerness is more than a little endearing.

“Yeah, it’s perfect.” John replies casually, his lips pressing together as he tries not to laugh.

“Good.” Sherlock says with a small smile. “You next then.” He begins pacing through the rows, pulling garments out seemingly at random.

“Er, yeah, Sherlock, nothing here is exactly my style. But thanks.”

“It not being your style is rather the point.” Sherlock replies. He leads John towards the fitting room and thrusts a stack of clothes into his arms. He grins. “Do try to hurry.”

John rolls his eyes but goes into a fitting room all the same. The clothes are all exactly his size, of course. Still not anything John would pick for himself, though. He tries to find the most understated clothes in the pile. John emerges a minute later wearing a pair of slim cut trousers with a dress shirt tucked into them and an army green jacket draped over his arm. Sherlock’s mouth falls open momentarily before it snaps shut.

“That bad huh?” John asks, sounding tired. “I told you this kind of stuff wouldn’t work for me.”

“No, it’s… fine. You look fine. We should be going.” Sherlock ducks into the dressing room, picking up the stack of clothes John had left behind, adds to it a few more things for himself, then dumps the mountain of clothes onto the counter. He snatches upa luxury travel bag and sets it on top of the pile, then hands the woman at the register a flashy looking credit card.

“And just who is paying for all of this?” John asks, eyeing the growing total uneasily.

“The CEO of the credit card company, apparently. I have several now. It’s technically stealing, but we don’t have a lot of other options. May as well make the most of it.”

The two wander aimlessly through the city streets, their shoulders brushing against each other often, like they’re both afraid of a single inch of separation. Neither mentions it out loud.

That evening, Sherlock leads John into the lobby of a very expensive looking hotel. John’s eyes go wide at the posh cream and gold furniture and grand chandeliers.

“Don’t you think we should maybe try to keep a low profile?” He asks Sherlock under his breath.

“No point. Moriarty is just as likely to find us here as a hostel. May as well be comfortable. Besides, no one will look twice here if we flash money around for extra services. Like keeping our names off the books. That sort of thing tends to draw attention elsewhere.”

Sherlock turns and begins speaking to the desk clerk in rapid French so John settles against the counter with his eyes roaming the room, on alert for any sign of danger. His right hand rests in his back pocket, within easy drawing distance of his gun.

Thankfully, they get checked in without incident. Sherlock and John go up the hotel lift and walk towards the door to their suite. If John had thought the lobby was ostentatious, it’s nothing compared to their rooms. The furnishings almost remind him of Irene Adler’s home, right down to the ornate wallpaper and gilded furniture.

Sherlock is either oblivious or unmoved by his surroundings and sets the bag of clothes unceremoniously on the table before flopping onto the sofa. John bolts the door behind them and crosses the room to look out the window, where he can see the twinkling Eiffel Tower in the distance. His eyes light up in wonder. But he does his best to play it off when he turns to find Sherlock watching him with amusem*nt.

“Nothing special, really.” John says nonchalantly.

Sherlock chuckles. “It does take some getting used to, I suppose. If you think that’s impressive, wait until you try the food.” He hands John the room service menu on the table. John’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline at the prices.

“You’re buying, then?”

“Technically neither of us are buying.” Sherlock says with a wink.

The suite has multiple bedrooms, but Sherlock and John agree without a word to sleep in the room with two double beds. Sherlock is already lying under the covers by the time John gets back to the room in the hotel-provided silk pyjamas. He clicks off the bedside lamp and climbs into his bed.

Sleep eludes him though. He turns onto his side towards Sherlock’s bed, and finds Sherlock is watching him. Sherlock’s eyes immediately dart away, but he remains lying on his side facing John. After a long silence John hears Sherlock taking a deep breath.

Sherlock’s voice is strangely fragile when he speaks quietly into the darkness. “I don’t think I ever told you I had another brother. His name was Sherrinford.”

The confession comes out of the blue and lands straight into John’s thudding chest. Sherlock does not freely talk about himself, or his past. Never a secret or a taboo, just a part of his life that he’s brushed off as uninteresting all these years. “You didn’t.” John murmurs back carefully.

“He died when I was 18 years old. He was in government work, like Mycroft,” Sherlock winces as he says his name, but continues speaking as if he hadn't. “It’s how he got his position to begin with. Sherrinford did a lot of undercover work. He was a very good actor. Used to put on shows for me, when I was little. I picked it up a bit from him.” Sherlock smiles at the memory.

“He sounds nice.” John says.

“He was...” Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. John wonders for a moment if he’s done speaking, but he continues in a whisper. “One day though, his identity was uncovered. Mycroft had been brought in to observe the backend of the mission, learn the ropes. He knew what was happening and he could have warned Sherrinford. But he didn’t. Sherrinford was discovered and killed.”

John is horrified. “Christ, that’s awful.”

“He told me later that it was for the greater good, that he couldn’t give up the source of their information just to save one life. I was home from Uni for Christmas when he told me.” Just a few short days after the horrible incident with Victor Trevor, in fact. Sherlock had been eager to get home that year. Sherrinford always seemed to understand him in a way no one else did, Sherlock was sure he would know what to say to help him feel better. But when he had gotten home, Sherrinford hadn’t been there. Sherrinford would never be there again. “Our parents were there, they already knew, but they expected me to forgive Mycroft like they had. Instead… We had a terrible row over it. We both said a lot of cruel things, trying to hurt the other as much as possible. We barely spoke for years after that. My parents didn't understand it. They wanted to pretend everything was fine, I think they must have felt like losing one son was enough. But it wasn’t fine. Eventually I tried to move past it, for their sake, but I shouldn’t have trusted him again after that.”

John remembers Mycroft’s tortured expression in the car. “I don’t think he wanted to-”

“That doesn’t matter!” Sherlock replies forcefully. “Whatever he wanted, he did what he did. He was going to hand me over to Moriarty and let you…” Sherlock exhales sharply.

John waits for Sherlock to finish his sentence. When it becomes obvious he isn’t going to, John sighs. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

There’s another long pause.

“The worst part,” says Sherlock eventually, “Is that I wanted for so long to be more like Mycroft. I thought he was onto something, that caring about people was a weakness, that letting yourself get emotional would always end poorly. I’ve done so much I regret while trying to make the rational choice. I’m starting to wonder if that was the wrong way to go about things. Clearly he loses just as much his way as I do mine.”

John’s eyes soften in sympathy. Then his lips press together as he debates whether he wants to reciprocate Sherlock’s honesty. John’s gaze fixes itself to the ceiling as he forces himself to speak. “I can relate to that feeling, actually.”

“You can?” Sherlock asks, his face furrowing in confusion.

“My father…” John’s voice breaks and he continues in a choked off whisper. “My father was a terrible man. I don’t like to talk about him, or think about him, if I can help it. It’s part of why I’ve kept away from Harry. I see so much of him in her, and because we’re so alike, it reminds me of all the ways I see him in myself. I used to be so angry with myself for not being the man he wanted me to be. But now... I’m terrified that I’m turning into him. Mary made that worse. Because I was never… I worry that the reason I felt so little for her is that I'm more like him than I thought.” John takes a shuddering breath in through his teeth and screws his eyes shut. It’s difficult for him, bearing his heart out like this. But he knows even then that this isn’t scratching the surface of what he keeps locked inside.

Sherlock stares at John’s profile, his eyes filled with tenderness. He appears to carefully think over what to say. “You’re wrong, John. Whatever conclusions you've drawn about yourself, you're overlooking the most important piece of information. You are an unwaveringly good man, like a fixed point on uncertain waters. It's one of the very first things I knew about you... I can see why you would worry, given the way you’re drawn to danger. But you’re always there to calm the storm, tend to the wounded. That’s what keeps you going back, that you can face the danger and overcome it.”

John laughs once. “That’s a very generous interpretation, but thank you…” John looks back at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “Along those lines… I think you may be onto something. You never had me fooled, but I always liked you best when you’re not pretending you don’t have a heart. You’re one of the kindest people I know. It’s a shame you keep that hidden.”

Sherlock’s expression becomes thoughtful. “Maybe we’d both be better off if we stopped trying to live up to some ridiculous notion of who people think we’re supposed to be and decided to just be ourselves.”

“Maybe. Easier said than done, though.”

“True.” Sherlock replies. He yawns heavily and closes his eyes again. John turns onto his back and slowly drifts off, wondering just who it is that he wants to be.

Chapter 11: The Final Problem: Part Two

Chapter Text

The sun rises slowly over the streets of Paris. John and Sherlock walk through the city side by side, their travel bag slung over John’s shoulder. A new sense of significance lingers in the air between them, a quiet kind of intimacy. It isn’t until they are walking along the waterpools surrounding the Louvre’s glass pyramid that Sherlock finally speaks.

“John...” He says, a tense undercurrent in his voice. “I should probably warn you… I don’t think you’re going to be particularly pleased with who we’re here to meet.”

John’s forehead creases in confusion. “Why’s that?”

“Well…” Sherlock clears his throat. “From what I recall, when we last met her, you weren’t exactly her biggest fan... But she has successfully avoided Moriarty’s notice for four years now and if anyone can help us, it will be her.”

“She?” John asks incredulously. Sherlock looks away, obviously uncomfortable. The realisation hits John with tangible force. There’s only one woman Sherlock has ever acted like this about, and she’s dead. Or at least, John had thought she was dead. “Please tell me it’s not who I think it is.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John’s dramatics, and John knows he’s guessed correctly. He thinks back to the day when Mycroft had brought the news that Irene had died. “It would have taken Sherlock Holmes to fool me.” He had always regretted lying to Sherlock about the witness protection scheme. But it would seem in this case the lie was more accurate than the truth.

“You saved her, didn’t you?” John demands with a furious smile ghosting over his features.

“Would you have preferred it if I let her die?” Sherlock asks, arching an eyebrow.

That catches John off guard, “I… no. That’s not what I-”

“I know this is another thing I kept from you. We can talk about it later. But please do try to be civil. She’s taking a tremendous risk meeting us at all.”

John’s hands ball into fists at his sides and he’s about to say some things that aren’t very civil at all when a horribly familiar silky voice speaks from behind them.

“Well now. If it isn’t Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.” She says. John takes a deep breath and holds it in as he turns slowly around. Irene Adler stands behind them with a delighted smile on her face.

“Irene,” Sherlock says cordially, and leans in to exchange la bise with her. John’s vision goes slightly red. No, he’s not exactly angry that Sherlock saved Irene, he’s terrified of the reason why. He’s halfway into a furious spiral over it before he manages to remind himself that Sherlock has already told John that he was never in love with Irene, that he knows now that Sherlock is gay. The knowledge makes less of a difference to the way John feels about seeing Irene than it probably should. Irene glances over at him with an amused twinkle in her eye.

“I see you haven’t changed at all.” Irene says to him.

“Disappointed?” John challenges.

Irene smiles, seemingly thrilled with his haughty response. “Not at all, John.”

Sherlock loudly clears his throat, and hastens to address the redheaded woman standing next to Irene. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Ah, yes.” Says Irene, attention shifting back to Sherlock. “You were never properly introduced were you? Sherlock, John, this is my Kate.” Irene says, beaming over at her and holding up their entwined hands to kiss her fingers. It’s the first time John registers that Irene has been holding hands with Kate the entire time. John remembers that Irene had also told him that she was gay, and it occurs to him that he’s being a little ridiculous.

John steps forward and holds out his hand. “Hello, Kate. Nice to meet you.” He says, his smile a bit chagrined. Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise. Kate steps forward and offers her free hand to John.

“Hello, John,” Kate says with a careful smile, her eyes sliding briefly over to Irene. “Likewise. So much better to meet people when they aren’t breaking into your home, it doesn’t leave the best impression. In your case, you’re lucky we knew you were coming, you were such a bad actor you never would have gotten in otherwise.” John frowns as Kate glances over at Sherlock. “Not that you were much better.”

Irene laughs.

Sherlock's mouth falls open as his brow furrows. “I beg your pardon, I’m a master in the art of disguise.” Kate and Irene exchange an amused glance.

“So.” Irene says, eyes sliding back to Sherlock. “You said you were cashing in the favour I owed you for saving my life. How can I be of service?”

Sherlock glances at John nervously before responding. “John and I are… on the run. And I was hoping that you might be able to share with us how you’ve avoided detection given that you’re in similar circ*mstances.”

“Who’s after you?” Irene asks with a knowing smile.

Sherlock grimaces slightly. “Moriarty… and my brother.”

Irene’s eyebrows shoot up. “You must be joking.” She says with an incredulous laugh. Sherlock shakes his head. Irene’s eyes dart between John and Sherlock, still gauging whether or not Sherlock is being genuine. Her eyes tighten with a trace of real concern beneath her usual coy manner. “Dear God. What on earth have you been up to to make your brother turn on you?”

“It’s not like that.” John says, rushing to Sherlock’s defence. “We think Moriarty is somehow forcing Mycroft to work with him.”

“Well, I suppose that’s not a stretch.” Says Irene. “I nearly got Mycroft to give me whatever I wanted just by making it look like I might have broken your heart. And he should have known better. If Jim had threatened to hurt you…” Irene’s smile grows bitter. “If there's one thing Jim knows, it’s how to use the person you care about against you.”

Sherlock’s jaw flexes. “We’re not here to debate my brother’s dubious motivations. I want to know how you’ve managed to outrun Moriarty for the last four years.”

Irene looks at Sherlock with pity. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll be of much help to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because as far as most people are concerned, I’m dead, which I don’t think is going to work in your case a second time. More importantly, no one cared much about finding me after it was obvious I had been beaten, it was about my information, not me. Jim is after you personally, which makes things more difficult. And…” Irene’s expression grows thoughtful and she glances over at John before continuing to address Sherlock. “I was very careful, back then. No one knew what I was actually after. They thought I was in it for the money or for the fun of it. That made it easier to disappear with the only thing I really needed.” She looks back over at Kate, who smiles at her fondly.

Sherlock’s mouth presses into a hard line. “There must be something you can tell us.”

Kate speaks up. “Have you thought about going to face him head on? You’re not going to be able to hide from Moriarty for long.” Irene’s eyes cut back to Kate as she says this. Kate raises her eyebrows at her before continuing to address Sherlock. “If the two of you prepare though, you might be able to-”

“That’s not an option.” Sherlock interrupts harshly.

John glances up at Sherlock, confusion evident on his face. “Why not Sherlock? I’ve been wondering the same thing. Maybe it’s better to just get it over with.”

Sherlock looks down at John, not really seeing him. Instead he sees a John gone deathly pale, a gaping wound where his heart should be. “Not. An. Option.” Sherlock repeats coldly. John sighs in frustration and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

Irene, meanwhile, appraises Sherlock. Her eyes narrow slightly at what she sees, and her expression grows resigned. “I did evade detection. For a while.” She says hesitantly. “Mostly by never staying in the same place too long. Of course…” She looks full in Sherlock’s eyes as she continues. “You already know that only lasted about five months before I got caught. Still, you’re smart, and you have an extra pair of eyes with you. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did.”

“I can’t leave this up to luck!” Sherlock hisses.

“Then Kate is right. You’ll have to face Jim.” Irene replies firmly. “Because until you do, it’s a game of chance. And sooner or later, your number is going to come up.”

Sherlock groans. “This was a waste of time then. Come along, John. We should be going, don’t want to risk staying here too long.” He says the last bit with a tinge of sarcasm.

“Sherlock, wait.” Irene says, her eyes widening slightly. “Before you go…”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at her, clearly annoyed.

Irene drops her facade just enough for the sincerity of her words to be evident. “I wanted to tell you while I can that I’m sorry for everything. I just… I had to ensure my safety. And Kate’s. That’s what it was all for.”

Sherlock’s expression softens slightly. “I know.” He says. “I figured it out eventually. That’s why I came to save you.”

Irene holds out her free hand towards Sherlock, and after a moment's hesitation he takes it in his own. Her expression is a mixture of her usual playfulness and something harder to identify. “Best of luck, Sherlock. I hope I’m wrong.”

“You are,” Sherlock says. “But thank you. And congratulations by the way. When did the two of you get married?” He angles her hand so he can look at the ring on her third finger.

“Almost as soon as Kate came to me.” Irene says with a smile, clutching Kate closer to her side. “That’s part of my disguise. I’m Mrs. Irene Norton now. I told you before, the best disguise is a self portrait.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lip quirks up. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He’s about to let go when Irene suddenly squeezes his hand. His eyebrows draw together as he feels her thumb make its way to his wrist, above his pulse point. She quirks an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock mimics the gesture with his own thumb. He’s alarmed to feel the pulse in her wrist is beating far too quickly. He glances up at Irene’s face. The mask is still in place, but there’s another emotion in her eyes. One Sherlock recognises all too well. “I had to ensure my safety, and Kate’s. That’s what it was all for.”

Sherlock inhales sharply and drops her hand. “While you’re giving out advice, where would you go now, if our situations were reversed?” Sherlock’s tone is casual, but his eyes bore intently into Irene’s. John’s forehead creases as he tries to understand why.

“Oh, I don’t think it will matter much. Though I’d avoid going back across the pond if I were you.” She says with a smile and a casual tilt of her head. Her eyes dart briefly to the other side of the waterpool. “A change of scenery does wonders and it always pays to stay out of the line of fire. But you know all about that, don’t you, Sherlock?”

“Yes, I think I do.” Sherlock continues to gaze at her, eyes flickering back and forth over her face. John stares at him incredulously for a moment before Irene glances at him, raises a single eyebrow, then tilts her head again slightly, towards the far side of the courtyard.

John frowns and glances across the water. He sees two men leaning against a wall, watching them. John briefly locks eyes with the one with thick sideburns before the man hastens to look away, down to the brochure he’s holding in one hand. His other hand is concealed in his coat pocket. The man standing beside him likewise keeps one hand out of view. John instantly recognises the posture. Adrenaline floods his veins and he takes a half step closer to Sherlock; his hand twitches back toward his own concealed gun, but he manages to keep still.

“What do we do?” John whispers to Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He appraises Irene for a long moment with his lips pressed together. “Any other business to finish up before you go?”

“None whatsoever.” Says Irene with an easy smile. “I’m just here to see you. Can’t divulge what other kinds of trouble I might get up to later, I’m afraid. Client confidentiality. Although,” she shifts closer to Kate, “sometimes I’m not above bending the rules.” Irene flashes a flirtatious grin toward John at that. “I’m very bendy.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “No other arrangements?”

Irene tilts her head in a sort of acquiescence. “None concerning you.”

“Quite right.” Sherlock replies and John is surprised to see a small smile on his face. “Debt paid then, I suppose. We’ll be on our way.”

Irene’s eyes twinkle. “You always were fun. It’s so nice when things turn out the way you hoped they would.” Her gaze slides back over to John. “Keep him safe for me, won’t you, Doctor Watson?”

“Always do.” John replies, with only a slight trace of defensiveness.

“Good boy.” Irene says with a low laugh. Kate grins as Irene draws in a breath. “Right then. Would you mind, darling?”

“Not at all.” Kate says. She waits for Sherlock and John to ready themselves, then lets out a piercing shriek as she pretends to faint in Irene’s arms, drawing a crowd of concerned pedestrians. Sherlock and John are already sprinting towards the statue of Louis The XIV before she’s hit the ground. John plans to keep running across the courtyard, but Sherlock grabs him by the collar of his coat, holding him in place behind the base of the statue. He peers back. The two men are looking around in bewilderment, clearly having lost sight of them.

“This way.” Sherlock whispers and leads John through the crowd at a brisk walk.

They get away easily. Too easily. Both of them fear that it’s part of the trap. It’s all John can do to keep his hand off the gun tucked into his waistband as they make their way to the Louvre-Rivoli station of the Paris Metro. They switch trains at the next station. And then a second time, to be safe. As the distance between them and the danger increases, John’s thoughts circle back to their meeting at the waterpool, what Irene had said about Sherlock having already done this once. He stands holding onto a strap on the underground carriage with one hand, looking up at Sherlock.

“How did you do it?” John asks suddenly.

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together. “Do what?”

“Evade Moriarty the last time. When you were...”

“I wasn’t evading Moriarty,” Sherlock replies bitterly. “I thought he was dead.”

“His network then. That’s what you were doing right? Going after his people? Can’t imagine they’d have sat by watching you pick them off one at a time if they knew you were coming.”

Sherlock looks down at him, but says nothing. He appears genuinely caught off guard.

“What?” John asks.

“You’ve never asked me about my time away.” Sherlock says quietly. And it’s true. John hasn’t. The thought of Sherlock off having some grand adventure while he left a grieving John behind had always been too painful to dwell on. As curious as he had been, John had reasoned that knowing the specifics would only make the feelings of hurt and rejection worse.

“Well… I’m asking now. Seems relevant. Seeing as you’ve done this before right?” John asks cautiously.

“I…” Sherlock takes in an uneven breath, causing John’s eyebrows to draw together in concern. “Not well. No.”

“What does that mean?”

Sherlock’s eyes grow distant, like he’s suddenly somewhere very far away from John. “I didn’t always avoid detection.” He murmurs.

He doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t need to. John’s horror steals the breath from his lungs. “What happened?”

Sherlock swallows once. “Nothing I’d want to repeat.”

“And this…” Begins John, suddenly trembling with fury. He longs to know the names of every last person involved so he can hunt them down one by one. “This happened more than once, I take it?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. Another confirmation.

“Christ!” John exclaims under his breath before looking up at Sherlock. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What good would that have done?” Sherlock asks.

“What good?” John asks incredulously. “Sherlock. I thought you were off… I don’t know, having a holiday or something. Solving cases in your spare time. Not that you were being tortured-” Sherlock flinches at the word and John immediately stops speaking. He’s breathing hard. He sees a passenger at the far end of the nearly empty carriage eyeing him uneasily and tries to focus on calming himself.

“You really thought that?” Sherlock asks after a long silence.

John lets out a frustrated sound. “What else was I supposed to think?”

“If you had been thinking, any other, actually reasonable explanation.” Sherlock replies briskly. “If it was pleasant work, why would I have left you behind? It was hard enough putting myself through it, I can’t imagine if you-” Sherlock abruptly stops. He can imagine it actually, all too vividly. John bound to a chair while a guard reels back to strike him across the face. A lead pipe landing on John’s back over and over again as he cries out in pain. John tied down as the point of a golden dagger digs into the flesh above his heart…

The whole point had been to keep John safe, his own suffering had been a small price to pay in exchange. Too small a price; it had been a wasted effort in the end. Sherlock feels his breathing grow ragged. He’s startled by the feeling of John’s hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looks down and the sincere emotion in John’s blue eyes pierces through him, straight to his heart.

“Thank you.” John says with conviction. “I’m sorry you had to face all that alone. It’s no wonder you took it so badly when Moriarty came back, after all that. I didn’t understand before, but yeah. Now that I know, your reaction makes perfect sense.”

Sherlock sighs. John has missed the mark, but that’s for the best. “We’ll just have to hope we have better luck than I did before.”

“We do have one small advantage this time.” John says with a trace of humour.

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “What’s that?”

“Well I don’t know if you know this… But I once single handedly invaded Afghanistan.” John glances slyly at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and grins. Sherlock lets out a startled chuckle, then dissolves into giggles, which John joins with his own quiet laughter.

A few weeks later, John and Sherlock find themselves in Rome. They sit together at a table on the cobblestone road, eating cacio e pepe in the bright sunlight. The two seem content at a quick glance, which is all most passersby see. But a longer study would reveal Sherlock’s eyes dart away from the table to follow anyone who gets too close, that John keeps his right hand under the table within easy drawing distance of his gun.

“Do you know what I miss?” Sherlock asks after an elderly man has hobbled out of earshot.

“No,” John replies, eyebrows drawing together. “What?”

“My violin.” Sherlock says, his voice full of longing. “The music would let me get rid of some of the excess...” he waves a hand dismissively near his head in lieu of finishing his sentence. He sighs heavily. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to play again.”

Sherlock’s vulnerability catches John by surprise, though he supposes it shouldn’t. Things have changed between them since that first night in Paris. But it’s still jarring to have Sherlock so readily share his thoughts after so many years convinced he would never really know the man at the centre of his life. John tilts his head thoughtfully. “We could always buy you a new one,” he suggests. “Not like we’re strapped for cash.”

“No.” Sherlock sighs. “The less we have to bring with us the better. It was just a thought....” Sherlock frowns down at his plate. John watches him for a moment, sympathy softening his features, before he turns his attention to the crowd, looking for a distraction.

“Tell me about that one,” John says, nodding at a silver-haired man pacing back and forth in front of a bookshop on the opposite side of the street. It’s one of their old games, and invariably cheers up Sherlock when he’s in one of his sour moods. He’s always loved showing off. Sherlock’s attention zeroes in on the man.

“Obviously he’s waiting for something, you probably already knew that from the pacing. He keeps glancing at the windows. Could be looking at the display, but his eyes are always focused at eye level, and he runs a hand through his hair when he does. So looking at his reflection. That would indicate that he wants to impress whoever he’s waiting for. His clothes are formal, but not businesswear, so probably not a job interview. I’d say a romantic partner is most likely… Ah yes, definitely. See how he just checked his back trouser pocket? The shape and size of the impression suggest that it’s a small box. Taking that together with his general demeanor, balance of probability suggests that it’s a ring box and he’s about to propose." Sherlock’s eyes drift back to John, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Clever.” John praises, his eyes lighting up. Sherlock’s mouth pulls up in a small smile and he looks back at the man, now enthusiastically greeting a woman with long, dark hair who had just come out of the bookshop. He offers her his arm and as the two walk down the road his free hand drifts back to nervously pat the ring in his back pocket. John and Sherlock are so caught up watching the couple that they don’t notice that someone is approaching their table until it’s too late.

“Sherlock Holmes?” A man asks with a slight trace of a Russian accent. John and Sherlock are both instantly on alert, John’s hand finding the handle of his gun. But when Sherlock looks at the man, he relaxes and nudges John’s foot underneath the table. Stand down, soldier.

“Pavel. It’s been a long time.” Sherlock says fondly, offering him his hand. John looks at Pavel more closely. He’s a tall, lithely built man with a mess of light brown hair and is wearing a hint of eyeliner and a deep purple shirt under his jacket. John is instantly suspicious for an entirely different reason.

“It is so good to see you after all this time, my friend!” Pavel says, oblivious to John’s glare. “We have all missed you since you left us.”

Sherlock smiles, then looks back at John. “This is Pavel Artôt. One of the best dancers in the Bolshoi Ballet company. I spent some time travelling with them about fifteen years ago.”

“Ah, still modest I see.” Pavel says with a wink before directing his attention to John. “We almost lost our best dancer, Petrova, when her husband was kidnapped in Venice. Sherlock was in the theatre when the ransom note came, and it took him less than 30 minutes to find him. We invited him to the afterparty as thanks… And it turned out he was such a good dancer that we had him temporarily take over for one of our injured members. He could have had the job permanently but he said he had to go home to finish his degree, or some other nonsense.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” John says, with a relieved laugh. “He is a good dancer.”

“You're touring again, then?” Sherlock asks.

Pavel beams. “Swan Lake this time. It’s our last day in Rome. That’s why I am here trying to see the sights while I can. Saying goodbye to the city.” Suddenly Pavel gasps and claps his hands together. “You both must come to tonight’s performance. Everyone would be delighted to see you, Sherlock.”

“Oh… I don’t know.” Sherlock hedges. John sees the regret in Sherlock’s eyes, and decides to step in.

“We would love to.” John says with a confident smile. Sherlock glances at him in alarm, but John slightly shakes his head.

“Wonderful! I’ll see both of you tonight. I’m so glad we crossed paths. Luck must be on my side today!” Pavel shakes both of their hands then lopes away while humming to himself.

“John.” Sherlock says anxiously under his breath as soon as Pavel is out of earshot. “We shouldn’t risk it. Getting recognised is bad enough, it would be smarter to leave now.”

John calmly returns to his lunch. “We weren’t going to leave until tomorrow morning anyway. It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock remains conflicted, but his desire to stay eventually wins out. “Fine, but I’m packing our bag so we can go straight to the station afterwards. And you’ll need a better suit.”

John stands in their hotel room pulling uncomfortably at the tight collar of his tuxedo. He looks in the mirror and sighs, feeling ridiculous. He hears the bathroom door opening.

“Really, Sherlock. I know you said it’s formal attire but do we really have to wear-” The rest of John’s sentence is cut off as his eyes fall on Sherlock and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush. He swallows thickly. “You look nice.” He winces slightly as he says it. At least he had said nice, instead of incredibly sexy. The suit cuts across Sherlock’s frame in just the right way, making him look impossibly taller and more mysterious and handsome, especially with the small smile now playing on his lips.

“Thank you. You do too. Still not used to seeing you actually dressed up for a change.”

That helps John regain his composure, he rolls his eyes. “Not all of us feel the need to stand out at all times, thank you. I’m just as stylish as you are, I’m just a bit more subtle about it.”

“I suppose you are.” Sherlock laughs.

“Shall we?” Asks John. Sherlock picks up their travel bag, John double checks he still has his gun, and crosses forward to hold the door to the hallway open for Sherlock, who does a slight double take as he passes by.

Sherlock, it turns out, adores the ballet. Wonder and excitement play across his features as he sways his head and conducts along to the music. John spends more of the show watching Sherlock than the dancers on the stage, though he does recognise Pavel playing Prince Siegfried. When the Odette first appears, Sherlock leans in to whisper in John’s ear.

“That’s Petrova. Quite the heartbreaker, back in the day. Everyone said it was a shame that she married so young. That’s why her husband was kidnapped, another man wanted Petrova for himself. Obvious. It didn't take long to track down her deranged fan.”

John looks at her closely. She does seem beautiful, in a way. Tall and thin with thick brown hair and an air of mystery about her features. John looks back at Sherlock with a wry smile. “That type does tend to attract a lot of attention, I suppose.”

When the Odette eventually dies at the end of the performance, John sees genuine tears forming in Sherlock’s eyes. How this man had successfully passed for a sociopath for so long is beyond John. Sherlock’s heart has always been far greater than his brain.

They make their way backstage, where the dancers and musicians are already in the midst of a raucous party. Decanters of amber liquid are being passed around. Petrova recognises Sherlock as soon as they step into the room and rushes over to begin conversing with him in Russian. Sherlock responds in kind, gesturing at the stage with a pleased smile. Petrova laughs jubilantly before she spots a disgruntled looking older man with a goatee from across the room and waves him over.

He approaches reluctantly, frowning slightly at Sherlock and John before Petrova says something to him that makes his eyes light up; John manages to make out Sherlock’s name. The man turns to them and speaks in English. “Ah, this is Sherlock Holmes. Your fame precedes you. I am Nicolai Rogozhin, the company director. It is a pleasure to meet you,” he says with a smile that looks more like a sneer. John eyes Nicolai warily as Petrova waves down a woman carrying a tray of small crystal shot glasses. She takes four drinks and passes them to the group, before holding her own glass high in the air.

“Za Zdarovje.” She says with a smile, before emptying her glass in one gulp. Sherlock casts John a wary glance, but the two return the gesture. Sherlock and John immediately begin sputtering, much to Petrova's and Nicolai’s amusem*nt.

“God, what did you do, add red pepper to this?!” John chokes out.

“That is exactly what we did.” Nicolai says with a smug smile. “For good health.”

He appears as if he wants to say something else but is interrupted by Pavel stepping in front of him, clapping Sherlock and John on the shoulders and beaming at them. He looks rather striking in his stage makeup. “Sherlock, my friend, you came!” He exclaims happily, pulling him in for a hug before stepping back and frowning slightly. “But I owe you an apology. I realised after we parted that I was extremely rude, I was so happy to see you that I neglected to introduce myself to your handsome partner.”

“I, he’s... I mean, we’re not-” Sherlock stammers.

John, though, realises that this is the easiest way to explain his presence. So he ignores Sherlock’s stuttering and gives Pavel what he hopes is an easy smile. “John Watson. Nice to meet you.”

Pavel smiles. “Hello, John Watson. Likewise. And what is it that you do?”

“Mostly look after this one,” John says, jabbing a thumb in Sherlock’s direction with a laugh. “But before that I was in the army. A doctor, actually.”

“An army man!” Pavel replies, his eyes sparkling. He looks at Sherlock and waggles his eyebrows. “You certainly got very lucky, didn’t you? Not many eligible army doctors running around. That’s why I stuck to ballet, here it’s very usual to meet someone. Half the men in this troupe are available.” Pavel begins pointing out dancers around the room. “There’s me, Misha, Boris, Demetri, Ilya, and of course, my Serge. Well, Serge, he's... Hmm. What’s the word in English for half-and-half?” Pavel holds his hand up in a so-so gesture. John looks over in Serge’s direction. Shorter than the other dancers with close cut dark blonde hair. It’s a bit like looking in a funhouse mirror and John has to hold back a laugh.

Sherlock, mistaking John’s expression for discomfort, loudly clears his throat. “Yes, well, it was nice to see you again, Pavel. But we have an early morning tomorrow and really had better be going.”

“Not before you’ve danced, certainly!” Pavel says with horror.

“I agree,” says Nicolai heartily. “After all these years hearing of your talents, I simply must see the great Sherlock Holmes dance.”

“I…”

It’s obvious Sherlock wants to stay. John reasons that this is exactly the kind of outlet Sherlock had been looking for and again decides to intervene on his behalf. “We can stay a bit longer, can’t we Sherlock? I’d hate to deny your friends a chance to see you in action.” He says, a bit teasingly.

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “Yes, alright. Fine. But no competitions, Pavel. You know I always won and I’d hate for us to part on bad terms.”

“It has been fifteen years. I have practiced, you have not. I think I can win this time.” Pavel says with a wink at John, pulling Sherlock to the middle of the stage.

John watches them taking turns doing pirouettes, Sherlock doing surprisingly well against someone who dances for a living. He smiles fondly, before realising he’s staring and reaches for the nearest tray to take another shot of red-pepper laced vodka.

John plans to find a place to sit, but somehow gets roped into a danceline along the way, a woman on his left arm and a man on his right. He tries to extricate himself, but when he can’t easily free his arms, he decides to go along with it.

The vodka might have been a bit stronger than he thought…

Eventually the partygoers form a big circle, dancing and spinning around the room, with pairs being pushed forward to twirl gracefully together in the middle before rejoining the crowd. John’s turn comes and he spins into the centre of the stage with a laugh, his arm outstretched to grip his partner’s waist, when he suddenly finds himself holding (and being held by) Sherlock.

Time seems to slow to a crawl as they complete a turn together, staring into each other’s eyes. The air between them is full of curiosity and anticipation and, for a brief second, as Sherlock sways ever so slightly closer, a wonderful kind of potential. But the world around them catches up all too quickly, and they’re pulled back to the wider circle, neither having time to process that fleeting moment.

They dance late into the night, and when it’s finally time to leave, Sherlock and John are warmly embraced by the entire company.

“You must come back again!” Pavel says, shaking John then Sherlock warmly by the hand.

“We will.” Replies Sherlock enthusiastically. “Lovely seeing you all, really. Can’t remember a better evening.” He sighs heavily. “I think I missed my calling. I should have been a dancer.”

“That’s my cue to get him to bed, he’s talking absolute rubbish.” Says John. “It was nice to meet you, I hope we can see you again someday.”

John pulls Sherlock away by the elbow and they’re nearly out of the room when he feels a heavy hand fall on his shoulder. He looks back to find Nicolai standing behind Sherlock and himself, a hand on both of them.

“My friends!” He says with a smooth grin. “It is late. And you are unfamiliar with the city! I will go with you and call you a cab.”

“No,” John says, instinctively. Something about the ballet director makes him feel uneasy. “We’ll be alright, I can look after this one.”

“I insist!” Says Nicolai with a show of hospitality. “After all, what kind of host would I be if I let you out of my sight?”

Sherlock beams over at him. “Quite right, very hospitable of you. Isn’t it John?”

“Yeah, alright,” John says with a sigh, realising he’s going to have a time of it trying to dissuade Sherlock when he’s like this.

“Fantastic.” Nicolai says with a smile. “In that case, follow me.” He strides ahead of them and holds the door open. They walk through the theatre hallways, Nicolai a few steps in front. Sherlock sways on his feet more than once so John grabs his arm and slings it around his shoulders, putting the other around his waist to easily support his weight.

“Take it easy, will you?” John chides. “You’d think someone who has taken as much cocaine as you have would do a better job holding their alcohol.”

“That’s not the same.” Sherlock says, with a slightly dazed frown. “Cocaine is a stimulant, alcohol is a depressant. They have completely different effects. You should see me on morphine, I’m an absolute mess.”

“I have seen you on morphine, along with a co*cktail of several other things. On that plane.” John reminds him as his face hardens.

“Right you have.” Sherlock giggles. “I was completely high out of my mind! Much nicer consequence than intended.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” John asks incredulously.

Sherlock’s entire face scrunches up. “Well I was being sent on a suicide mission wasn’t I? I wasn’t about to relive...” In his inebriated state, Sherlock shudders against the memory. John instinctively tightens his grip around him. “Didn’t see a point in drawing it out, really.”

The realisation of what Sherlock is getting at hits John sharply in his chest. His words come out choked off. “You… You meant to-”

“Is everything alright?” Nicolai suddenly asks, turning around with furrowed eyebrows at John’s tone.

“Perfectly,” Sherlock says with an oblivious smile, “I was just telling John my calculations must have been a bit off, but really it was for the best-”

“Right, we’re not doing this now,” interrupts John. “You and I are going to continue this conversation later. When you’re sober.”

“Sober?” Sherlock asks, his head lolling sideways to peer at John.“Why do you say that? I’m not drunk at all.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll be the judge of that.” John says as Sherlock trips over his own foot.

Sherlock grows more thoughtful as they follow Nicolai out to the main lobby. He turns his head to whisper to John. “I am sorry though. I mean. That they assumed, about us. I didn’t mean to put you through that.”

“No need to apologise. I’ve actually gotten used to it.” John says, looking steadfastly anywhere but at Sherlock. Sherlock’s brow furrows as he tries to figure out what that might mean, but his brain is too fuzzy to figure it out.

“I think you’re right. I am drunk. Very stupid of me, all things considered. Don’t let me do it again.” Says Sherlock, words slurring together.

“Don’t worry,” replies John. “We’re almost there now.” He looks ahead to the wide glass doors leading out to the street. He sees a dark car waiting there for them, which strikes him as odd. He turns his attention to Nicolai. “Did you already call a cab?”

“Yes, while you two were chatting,” Nicolai says with a hint of confusion. “It seemed rude to interrupt."

“Oh.” John is nonplussed. “Er, sorry. Thanks for that. And everything else. He really needed this.” He nods his head to indicate Sherlock.

Nicolai’s face twitches up in a smile. “But of course. I take it you enjoyed the show?”

“Absolutely breathtaking!” Declares Sherlock. “Best performance I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah…” John trails off, feeling a bit out of his depth attempting to discuss art. His eyes drift back over to the car outside, where two large men are now getting out of the car. The uneasy feeling is back. “Actually you know what? It was missing something.”

“Oh?” Nicolai says, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Er, yeah, could have done with a few more… Vatican cameos.” He says, hitching Sherlock a bit as he says it hoping to capture his attention. It works immediately. Sherlock peers down at him, trying to concentrate. John nods his head to indicate the men now approaching the door and Sherlock stiffens.

“Vatican cameos?” Nicolai asks with a nervous laugh. “There is no such thing! What is this nonsense?”

“I can’t believe I let this happen.” Sherlock says distantly, his eyes are wide with panic.

“Nothing’s happened yet,” John says in a low voice. “Just focus on your feet, alright? I’ll get us out of here.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.” Nicolai says, the smile abruptly disappearing from his face. “I’ve been promised quite a fortune in return for getting you into that car. Enough for me to finally retire from this wretched position. You will be going with them.”

“Yeah, not on my watch.” John says brusquely. He turns to the right, pulling Sherlock along with him, and guides them towards the grand staircase as quickly as he dares.

Sherlock, for his part, seems to be using all of his concentration on keeping pace with John. Thankfully, he doesn’t trip again. “Where are we going?”

“Haven’t quite worked that out yet,” John says, looking back over his shoulder as the door below opens and the two hitmen glare up at them. He pulls Sherlock through the door into the theatre just as the shouting begins.

The ballet company, still sprawled across the stage, startles up at the door slamming open. John speaks firmly to the group while continuing to lead Sherlock down towards the stage. “Not to alarm anyone, but we’ll want to get out of here. Quickly. Is there a back exit?”

More than half the company stares at him blankly, not understanding English, but Pavel jumps up at once. He seems mildly amused. “More adventures, Sherlock?”

“This isn’t really the time for-” John’s voice is drowned out by loud shouting coming from just outside the door, Nicolai’s voice desperate and pleading. Then a gunshot rings through the air, the sound unmistakable. A few of the dancers shriek. John remains calm, his eyes locked on Pavel. “If we could hurry!”

“The- the door is this way.” Pavel replies shakily. He says something hastily in Russian to the rest of the troupe, and they’re all scrambling to their feet to follow. Pavel waits behind to help John lift Sherlock onto the stage, then leads them through the back stage door just as the men enter the theatre. Another gunshot rings through the air as the metal door swings shut behind them. Outside the dancers and musicians are already dispersing down the alley. Pavel sighs in relief when he sees Serge, then glances back at John. “Will you two be alright?”

“Fine.” Says John calmly. “Go. Stay safe.”

“You do the same, my friends.” He says.

“I’m so sorry, Pavel,” Sherlock groans. “This is all my fault.”

“Nonsense! You just listen to that army doctor of yours, yes? He’ll take good care of you.” He pulls Sherlock in for a quick hug, then hurries to grab Serge's hand and run away to their right.

John immediately pulls them to their left, hurrying forward then ducking into an adjoining alley. He sees the way in front of them is blocked off by a fence and leads Sherlock to a wheelie bin pushed up alongside it. “We have to be quick. Think you can climb this?”

Sherlock pulls his arm free and clambers onto the bin. He springs over the fence with his usual grace, but with his balance impaired he doesn’t quite stick the landing. He hits the ground on the other side with a low moan. John is already up and over behind him. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Sherlock groans. He pulls himself upright but sways on his feet. “Don’t think I can walk straight though.”

“Don’t worry, I can.” John says, slinging Sherlock’s arm back around him and guiding them forward and out towards the street. He risks a glance behind them. No sign of anyone following. John doesn’t allow himself to relax, but he does wonder if these feeble attempts at capturing them are intentional. If they aren’t meant to really succeed, just there to remind Sherlock that Moriarty can easily find him.

“Idiot!” Sherlock mutters, pulling himself away and tearing both hands through his hair. “Knew we shouldn’t have come. And then I let myself get drunk, how could I be so stupid?!”

“It’s alright Sherlock, we’re fine.” John sighs.

“It was reckless and foolish,” Sherlock snaps back.

“Don’t waste time beating yourself up over it now.” John says calmly. “You’ll get your punishment soon enough."

Sherlock’s eyes go wide with shock.“I- sorry?!”

John grins. “The nasty hangover you’re going to have tomorrow.” The confused lines on Sherlock’s face only deepen and his mouth hangs agape, and John chuckles in response. His eyes dart back in the direction of the theatre before he grabs Sherlock’s arm and pulls it through his. He’s not entirely willing to bet on his hunch that Moriarty’s just trying to keep them scared, better to put as much distance between them and the danger as possible. “Come on. You’re right about one thing. We’ll have to be more careful.”

Sherlock and John’s travels continue largely without incident. They never so much as come across anyone else who looks at them a bit too long. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. Every stop could be the one where they’re finally found.

After the night at the ballet, neither Sherlock nor John let their guard down again, and the constant tension boils over more than once. On one walk in Cinque Terre, a boulder crashes loudly to the ground as they pass and John has his gun drawn before the dust has cleared, much to the dismay of the rest of their tour group. Sherlock manages to smooth things over, mostly by bribing the tour guide.

Another night, at a restaurant in Delphi, they sit next to a man who orders his meal in a soft Irish accent. Sherlock goes completely pale and begins shaking violently before John manages to calm him.

But in spite of the terror looming wherever they go, both Sherlock and John find themselves experiencing a strange sense of contentment. As the weeks pass, the years they had spent apart seem to fade away, and they again find the easy camaraderie they had shared in the early months of their friendship. Better than that, even. Because now they actually understand each other, have let down their defenses enough to draw comfort from one another.

If it weren’t for the fact that they could be killed at any moment, it would be the happiest time of either of their lives. It almost is, in spite of that glaring fact.

It’s early spring when Sherlock and John find themselves in the Alps, in the village of Meiringen. It’s well after midnight when they arrive, their bus has run very late, and neither are in a particularly good mood when they finally make their way to the closest inn. They stand at the counter, Sherlock drumming his fingers impatiently on the wooden surface.

“You are in luck,” Says the desk clerk in slow English. “We have one room left, and it’s a double!”

“For God’s sake, you must have something else!” Sherlock snaps. John nudges him with his elbow. He sighs. “Sorry.”

“Apologies sir, that is the only room. You can try somewhere else, if that does not work.”

“Sherlock, let's just take it. I’m exhausted.” John says. So Sherlock hands the desk clerk the money, provides a false name for the record book, and in return she hands over a key labeled #9.

They trudge to the room at the end of the narrow hallway, and Sherlock unlocks the door. When they step inside, and are faced with the reality of the one double bed, John feels more than a little apprehensive. But he squares his shoulders.

“I’m going to get changed first. Lock the door, yeah?”

“Always.” Sherlock says, staring resolutely at the green carpet.

Sherlock is still standing by the door when John reemerges. John gives him an awkward nod before placing his gun on the nightstand and climbing under the covers. He really is tired so it’s more natural than it should be to let his eyes slide closed. Sherlock turns out the light for him before stepping into the bathroom.

John finds himself surprisingly close to sleep when the bathroom door opens again. Sherlock quietly treads across the carpet to the other side of the bed and pulls back the covers. John’s nerves zing to life as Sherlock lies down, as close to the edge of the bed as he can get with his back turned to John. John risks a glance in his direction and sees that his shoulders are tense. Is he nervous? The hand John has kept above the covers flutters before clenching into a fist. He takes another deep breath and tightly squeezes his eyes shut.

John wakes in the middle of the night, feeling a weight pressing on him. Still mostly asleep, his first thought is of Mary always holding onto him. He imagines himself back in the room of their old house, worrying for a moment that he’s going to wake up and find himself there. But even half-asleep, this touch feels different, somehow. Comforting.

John opens his eyes and finds Sherlock has turned towards him in his sleep and has one arm strewn across his chest, hand resting protectively on his heart.

Said heart begins beating twice as quickly. He looks over at Sherlock, still fast asleep. Unconsciousness has stripped away every bit of the carefully constructed mask that never fully leaves his face when he’s awake. He looks years younger, his expression gentle and kind. Sherlock’s fingers twitch almost imperceptibly on John’s chest and he sighs in his sleep.

John is hit with a profound wave of longing.

It’s the kind of thing he always pushes away as quickly as possible; it doesn’t do any good to wish for something he knows he can never have. But whether it’s because sleep has torn down his usual defenses, or because Sherlock’s hand on his chest makes him feel safe in a way he never has before, or simply because he’s just so tired from continually shutting away his feelings, in this moment,John lets himself want.

John’s eyes go soft, filled with all the love he never lets himself show. He stares at Sherlock’s sleeping face in the darkness, his heart aching in his chest. It takes him a very long time to fall asleep again, after that. When he does, he dreams of Sherlock.

The sunlight is streaming through the curtains when John wakes again. He opens his eyes to find Sherlock sitting at the small desk, staring at him. The memory of the night prior hits John all at once, and he wonders if Sherlock had woken up still touching him, what he had thought of it if he had.

Sherlock’s eyes dart away. “I’ll go get us some breakfast. I just didn’t want you wondering where I had gone.” He says impassively.

Any hope John had let himself feel is immediately quashed. He rubs a hand over his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll have a coffee, too. No sug-”

“No sugar. Yes, I know.” Sherlock says, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a small smile. John returns it, before tilting his head to the side. His forehead creases and he opens his mouth to speak.

They are both startled by a sudden knock at the door. John immediately slides out of the bed and grabs his gun from the bedside table, hovering protectively near Sherlock. Sherlock’s expression is apprehensive but he shakes his head at John before approaching the door. He only opens it a crack.

“Hello?” Sherlock says.

“Good morning Mr. Valladone.” Says a middle aged man with receding ginger hair wearing a polyester suit. “We’ve had a letter for you. I was told to bring it to you right away.”

Sherlock glances back nervously at John, before returning his attention to the hotel worker. “Are you sure you have the right Mr. Valladone?” He asks.

“Quite sure, Mr. Holmes.” Says the man with a quirk of his eyebrow. He holds out a thick, slightly yellow envelope for Sherlock, who slowly reaches out to take it before slamming the door shut and locking it.

Sherlock, already shaken, goes completely white when he looks down at the envelope. John immediately crosses the room and takes it from his hand to inspect it. The message on the front isn’t written in English, or any other language John can recognise. It almost looks like a row of little dancing men.

“Sherlock? What’s this?” John asks, looking back up at him.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock’s reply is a hoarse whisper.

“How do you know that?”

“The symbols.” His eyes are wide with fear, but he keeps his focus on John to steady himself. “The message he left for me before we left London was written with the same cipher.” He trails off before shaking his head slightly. “Here. I’ll show you.”

Sherlock goes to his coat hanging in the wardrobe, and pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of the inner pocket. Sure enough, it’s covered in similar rows of dancing figures.

“I don’t understand.” John says.

“It’s a simple code. Each figure represents a letter of the alphabet. You just need to identify the most commonly used characters and work from there. It didn’t take long to decipher that one. He flips it over to show the translation.

My Sherlock,

I hope you enjoyed your present! I know you’re not quite ready for me just yet. That’s alright. You can’t rush these things. Not if you want them done right. It’s a very delicate dance, romance. Softly, slowly, gently, I’ve always thought that was the best approach. The most satisfying in the end. All that tension building and building to a shattering climax? My knees go weak at the thought.

Know that wherever you are, I’ll always be waiting for you.

Lots of love,

Jim

John suppresses a shudder. “So what does the envelope say?”

“Give me a moment.” Sherlock takes the envelope back from John and sits at the tiny desk, pulling out a pad of paper from the drawer. He draws out the little figures and begins marking off letters next to them. John stands watching over Sherlock’s shoulder, hand resting on the back of his chair. His stomach drops when he sees the translated message.

Game Over

After a long hesitation, Sherlock picks up the envelope, flips it over, and slides a finger under the seam. He carefully rips it open. Inside is a small, analog timer counting down from 13:57. The timer has the words “an extra incentive,” engraved across the backm another letter written in dancing men, and a lone orange pip.

“Do you think...?” John tails off, eyes darting between the timer and the orange seed. Sherlock shakes his head and begins decoding the letter, focused now. With most of the symbols already decoded on Moriarty’s previous letter, it doesn’t take long.

Dearest Sherlock,

It’s a long game we’ve been playing,

It’s time, at last, to see it through.

If you don’t know where our story ends,

Just remember what IOU.

xx Jim

“Sherlock?” John asks, brow furrowed in confusion.

Sherlock stares down at the parchment envelope without seeing it. “He must have known where we were all along. He was just giving me time. But now he wants me to choose to go to him. If I don’t…” Sherlock’s eyes fall on the orange pip, then on the timer, now down to 11:05. He abruptly springs to his feet. “We have to get everyone out of this building. Immediately.”

“You think it’s a bomb then? Like before?”

“Yes, it must be. He never did send the final pip, must have been saving it. The inn is going to explode, that’s our punishment. My punishment. Everyone around me will die, unless I give Moriarty what he wants.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. “Is there any way to stop it?”

“There’s no time, we have to evacuate the building first.”

John hurriedly grabs their bag, slings it over his shoulder and follows Sherlock out into the hall. John begins banging on doors but, unsurprisingly, he’s only met with annoyed grumbling. Sherlock strides to the middle of the hall, towards the fire alarm. He smashes the glass and pulls down the lever. A high, shrill alarm rings throughout the building. Guests begin streaming out of their rooms, still grumbling and bumping into each other.

The hotel worker who had delivered the envelope spots them and fights the tide of people streaming out the hall to accost Sherlock. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t do that.”

“I can, actually. This building is about to blow up, I suggest you gather the staff. We have less than ten minutes.” Sherlock says, glancing down at the timer in his hand.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am.” Sherlock says, quickly walking past the man and into the lobby. He picks up the phone behind the desk and dials the intercom. “This is Manager Mark Von Hoffmanstall.” Sherlock says, glancing at the hotel worker’s name tag and speaking in a passable imitation of his voice. “Anyone who is not out of this inn within 5 minutes will be immediately fired.” Sherlock decides to knock a few minutes off the actual time remaining to be safe. “That is all.” He slams the phone down and looks intently at the man.

“Now really.” Von Hoffmanstall begins. “You cannot just-”

“This was you, wasn’t it, Mark?” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes. “What did he promise you? Money? Was that worth killing everyone here?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Von Hoffmanstall says defensively.

Sherlock nods at John who pulls his gun out and clicks the safety off, keeping it pointed at the ground. Von Hoffmanstall’s eyes widen in fear.

“H-h-he said no one would be hurt.” He replies hastily. “I would collect the insurance, and then some extra money on the side, that was all. I didn’t ask questions. But I don’t want anyone to die.”

“We don’t either.” Says John. “Tell us what you know about the bomb."

“I-” Von Hoffmanstall stammers as employees stream through the lobby, out the front doors. “I do not know much. It’s in the boiler room, I just pressed the button to activate it. Really, that’s all I know.”

John glances at Sherlock. “Should we try it?” Sherlock looks down at the timer, 7:25.

“It will be close. It’s a matter of whether or not Moriarty would have told the truth, that it’s just this building that would go up...” Sherlock exhales sharply. “We have to risk it.” Sherlock looks at Von Hoffmanstall and narrows his eyes. “You come with us and show us exactly where you placed the bomb.”

“But I-”

“Under seven minutes now so I’d hurry if I were you.'' Sherlock snaps. Von Hoffmanstall swallows thickly but leads them to the door behind the desk, through the small breakroom and down a rickety staircase to the boiler room.

John and Sherlock instantly recognise the bomb as the same kind that was going to be used to blow up Parliament over a year prior. If it’s not the very same bomb. The red valves glow brightly in the dark room.

“Does it have an off switch?” John asks, holding his phone up as a torch for Sherlock to get a better look. Sherlock begins fumbling under the device, feeling around blindly. His hands grow more frantic as he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

“No.” Sherlock finally replies faintly. His attention falls to the touchscreen just below the timer (04:25). He taps the screen and it lights up with a keyboard on the bottom half and a series of blanks on the top.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

-two attempts remaining-

“Christ.” John murmurs. Sherlock, having something to solve now, is razor focused.

“It’s a riddle.” He says. “He wants me to solve the letter, work out where he is. John, can you hand it to me?” John pulls the letter out of his pocket and hands it to Sherlock, who begins muttering. “He wants me to come to him, but where is he? Somewhere I should already know, apparently…”

The timer ticks down to 03:59

“Please!” Shouts Von Hoffmanstall.”You have to do something.”

“You can go. Make sure everyone else is out.” Sherlock replies without looking up from the letter. Von Hoffmanstall scurries back up the stairs and they can hear him trip multiple times in his haste. John and Sherlock remain focused on the puzzle.

“IOU seems out of place, doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s what he told me before my suicide. That I owed him a fall, probably because he had already fallen for me.” Sherlock says with evident sarcasm.

“So this might relate to an old case then?” John asks. “Fall… Sherlock, that painting! We’re right near where it was done. The Falls of the Reichenbach. Maybe he was waiting for us to get close so you could meet him there.”

They look at the blank spaces.

“It won’t fit.” Says Sherlock, thinking hard. “But maybe…” Sherlock reaches an outstretched finger over to the keypad and slowly types in his guess.

RICHARD BROOK

The screen turns red.

-failure, one attempt remaining-

John groans and looks away. Sherlock holds his head in his hands, thinking furiously. The time ticks down to 02:43.

“That’s why he gave me the extra attempt, he’s not trying to kill me just yet. He knew I would guess wrong the first time. That specific wrong guess. So we must be on the right track. Just the details are wrong. Somewhere for an ending, the ending Moriarty wants…”

Sherlock closes his eyes and sees himself standing with Moriarty on his imagined Reichenbach Falls. It had always been an exaggerated version of the real thing; Sherlock had always known that the setting was too tame for Moriarty. Something tickles his memory, something Moriarty had said to him on the waterfall. Subconsciously, he had connected the Reichenbach painting to another old case…

“Why don’t you two just elope for God’s sake.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he lets out a bitter laugh. John looks at him with an incredulous expression. The screen shows there are under two minutes remaining as Sherlock reaches out to the keypad and enters the correct answer, hesitating for just a moment before hitting enter.

NIAGARA FALLS

The screen turns green and the bomb powers down, timer stuck at 01:27. John lets out a sigh of relief. It’s short lived though, he glances back down at Sherlock in alarm. “How on earth did you guess that?”

“Do you remember the Persano case?” Sherlock asks, eyes flitting briefly up to John.

The Inexplicable Matchbox is what John had called it. It had started with a French decathlete completely out of his mind surrounded by 1,812 matchboxes, all of which were empty. Except for one. Several governments were after its contents, not to mention every major criminal organisation in Europe. John and Sherlock had gone on an insane chase across the continent to recover the matchbox after it was stolen from them. (Mrs. Hudson had gotten pushed out of a thankfully still grounded helicopter trying to retrieve it for them). At one point Sherlock had gone undercover as a clown in order to access the home of a mob boss during his daughter’s birthday party and John had pretended to be secretly married to Sherlock in order to garner sympathy from the woman last in possession of the matchbox before it had again changed hands. The thief had eventually fled across the Atlantic. They finally caught him hiding in a tour group on The Maid of the Mist. At Niagara Falls.

A chase across Europe…

“That’s impossible. He planned all this too?!” John asks with an edge of fear in his voice. He glances down at Sherlock, curled in on himself still crouched on the ground over the inactive bomb, eyes wide with panic, and forces himself to remain calm.

“I don’t think that’s it necessarily…” Sherlock’s voice is hollow, like his mind is elsewhere. “It’s more that he knew what I would do, if given the chance. He knew how he would want things to end, if I ran away, so he had the thief lead us to his ideal location. Moriarty knows me very well.”

Sherlock doesn’t see the boiler room around him. He sees himself back on the waterfall with Moriarty staring at him with a terrible smile on his face. His right sleeve is dripping with blood and he’s holding a throbbing object tightly in his fist. The mental image is enough to make him nauseated with fear.

“What do we do?” John asks.

“I have to go to him. This will happen again if I don’t. And there likely won’t be a countdown next time. Until I go to him, everyone around me is in danger.”

John nods once and squares his shoulders. “Okay. When do we leave?” He asks calmly.

Sherlock’s eyes snap up to John, horrified. “You can’t come with me, John! You have to go.”

“Sherlock. You just said yourself Moriarty has known where we are all along. Where exactly do you think I could go?”

“I don’t know. But you have to try! Staying with me, it’s too dangerous.” Sherlock’s voice shakes slightly. He’s confused when the corner of John’s mouth pulls up in a half smile.

“When has a bit of danger ever put me off?”

“This is different. You-” Again the room falls away. This time John is with him on the waterfall. Moriarty holds John with an arm wrapped around his throat and carves into his chest with the golden dagger as John screams.

Sherlock is pulled out of the horrible vision by John crouching next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is gentle but sure. “You aren’t going to do this alone. If you’re facing Moriarty, so am I. Even if it gets me killed, I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Sherlock stares at John in anguish. He knows he won’t be able to talk John out of it with his mind made up. A small part of Sherlock believes that if they’re together, there’s a chance, however slight, that they might survive.But to risk John's life on that...

Regardless, though, John is right. There’s nowhere for him to run. It’s obvious from Sherlock’s grave expression that he wishes he had any alternative to offer. “If you’re sure.” He eventually says.

“I am.” John says with a small smile.

“Alright then.” Sherlock sighs. “It would appear we have an appointment to keep with the devil.”

Sherlock assumes that Moriarty wants them to relive the ending of the Persano case, so looks up the schedule for The Maid of The Mist while they wait for their flight. He quickly discovers that the evening of their arrival, the ship has been reserved for a private wedding event under the name Holmes . He takes it as a confirmation that they’re on the right track.

Sherlock and John manage to sneak aboard The Maid of the Mist just as it’s shoving off. They both wear the same black suits they’d worn to the ballet in an attempt to blend in with the wedding guest. Music drifts out from the small inner cabin while most of the passengers stand on the upper deck watching the bride and groom exchange their vows. John and Sherlock remain below, eyes roaming over the crowd. As the officiant declares the couple man and wife, they silently make their way to the back of the ship. Sherlock and John watch the passengers slowly stream down the steps. But they find nothing amiss.

“No sign of him.” John says eventually. “Maybe it was just a coincidence.”

“Maybe.” Sherlock sounds less sure. “There’s no way off the boat until the hour is up anyway.”

John peers over the rail into the churning water. “What, you don’t fancy a swim?”

That earns a chuckle from Sherlock. “Not particularly, no.”

After a while, the two make their way back along the side of the boat, watching the falls in the distance. The music coming from inside the cabin changes to a new song, and the opening melody causes both Sherlock and John to stiffen.

Oh what a night. Late December, back in ‘63...

“This played at your wedding, when I told you that Mary…” Sherlock trails off, immediately regretting bringing up the subject.

“I remember.” John sighs heavily and stares off into the distance, before inexplicably laughing. Sherlock looks at him in alarm. John shakes his head. “Sort of ironic.”

“What is?” Sherlock asks.

John sings along to the next line in the song. “You know I didn’t even know her name. You’d almost think someone had planned that.” He laughs again. Sherlock appraises him for a long moment before joining in.

John looks back over at Sherlock as he laughs and is hit with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

Oh what a night,

Hypnotising, mesmerising me.

John’s eyes dart away, like they had on his wedding night. But then he steels himself and looks back up. “Hey, Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock asks.

John takes a deep breath before soldiering on, a low, dramatic tone to his voice. “Since it’s likely that we’re both about to die."

“Shut up,” Sherlock says forcefully before John can finish his theatrics. John only smirks back at him, until Sherlock laughs dismally and shakes his head. “Glad you find it so amusing, John.”

John shrugs. “Imminent peril aside, then. I was wondering… ” he braces himself to take the plunge. “Would you like to dance?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together and he frowns slightly. “You’re asking me to dance with you?”

John looks down, embarrassed. “Er, forget it, it was silly.”

“No! I mean. Yes, I’d like that.” Sherlock says, voice gone soft. John looks back up at him and smiles. Sherlock holds one hand out, and John takes it, placing the other hand on Sherlock's waist. Sherlock lets John lead, since that’s how he had taught him, all those months ago.

John stares down at his feet.

“Sorry. I’m a bit rusty.” John says as he struggles through the awkward steps. Frankie Vallie’s catalogue wasn’t exactly written for waltzing.

“You’re doing fine.” Sherlock is quick to reassure him. John looks back up into Sherlock’s eyes and finds himself unable to look away.

Oh what a night.

Why’d it take so long to see the light?

Seemed so wrong but now it seems so right…

Sherlock doesn’t look away, and appears to not be breathing. There’s an unspoken question in John’s eyes, one he’s nearly asked so many times, one he had nearly asked on his wedding night. He hears an echo of Sherlock’s words that day. “It’s always you, John Watson.” They’ve stopped dancing now. They stand there in the middle of the dance floor, arms wrapped around one another and gazing into each other’s eyes, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. John’s mouth falls open, that unspoken question on the tip of his tongue.

But the song ends, and a drunken groomsman grabs the microphone. “Enough of that garbage. Let's hear something you can actually dance to.” As some horrible country song begins to play, Sherlock clears his throat and abruptly steps away from John. The moment is gone.

“Well that was a waste of time.” John says when they disembark, hands stuffed into his pockets. The sun is setting now and the clouds are pink and lilac on the horizon. Sherlock sighs heavily and looks into the distance. Something catches his eye. A blinking light coming from the end of the observation tower at Prospect Point.

“Maybe not. How’s your morse code, John?” He says, pointing up at the light.

“I… O… U…” John translates, then looks over at Sherlock, dread and resignation mingling on his face. “This is it then. Shall we?”

Sherlock exhales slowly, resolute. “Once more unto the breach,” he murmurs. And so the two make their way towards the tower to face the inevitable.

Chapter 12: The Final Problem: Part Three

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John approach the base of Prospect Point Tower, the last bit of evening sun shimmering off the windows. The twinkling lights blend together with the signal still blinking from the tower’s end, making it almost appear as if the entire building is screaming IOU. The area surrounding the tower has been roped off, with a sign declaring the interior Closed for Renovation. Sherlock wordlessly holds up the rope and John ducks under. Two men in security uniforms stand in front of the doors; they don’t seem surprised to see Sherlock and John approaching. Instead they silently step aside and allow them to pass, sliding back into place once they’re inside, blocking their way out.

John squares his shoulders before following Sherlock to the lift. Sherlock presses the button and the two step inside. John and Sherlock’s eyes meet and they share an unspoken agreement. If this is the end, neither can bear to put it to words. Their silent understanding will have to suffice for the things they’ve left unsaid. The lift rockets upward and all too quickly they arrive at the top of the tower.

The doors slide open with a deceptively cheery chime. The sun has fallen behind the lilac clouds and a cool spring wind blows in from the open doors, wrapping around Sherlock and John and carrying with it a song coming from the end of the tower.

Tonight I’m gonna have myself a real good time.

I feel alive.

John and Sherlock nod in unison before breaking eye contact and slowly walking forward.

And the world, I’ll turn it inside out.

I’m floating around in ecstasy

So don’t stop me now

Don’t stop me now

Cause I’m havin’ a good time, havin’ a good time.

They find Moriarty at the very end of the tower. Dancing with his arms raised and his back turned to them. John draws his gun as his expression turns steely. But Sherlock places a hand over John’s and shakes his head once, so he keeps his gun drawn at his side rather than taking aim. They resume their careful walk towards Moriarty, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

I’m a shooting star leaping through the sky

Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity

“Here we are at long last, Sherlock.” Moriarty says. He seems to know without turning when Sherlock and John have gotten close enough to make out his voice clearly over the wind. “Our final problem. The real one this time.”

There’s no stoppin’ me.

I’m burning through the sky

Yeah, 200 degrees

That’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit

“And you’ve brought me a present. How sweet.” Moriarty turns around to gaze at Sherlock with a nauseating smile on his face. As he turns they can see that he’s wearing a tuxedo. He shifts to hold his hands clasped together in front of him, like a groom waiting at the altar. John finds the image infuriating and he raises his gun arm, aiming at Moriarty’s chest.

Moriarty clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Doctor Watson.” Moriarty scolds with a roll of his eyes. He sounds as if he’s speaking to a child, or a misbehaving animal, which only makes John’s temper spike further.

“Why’s that?” John asks sarcastically.

I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars

On a collision course

I am a satellite, I'm out of control

As an answer Moriarty unbuttons his tuxedo jacket and holds out both sides to reveal a mess of wires and blinking lights underneath. Explosives, of course. If John shot Moriarty now, they would all be dead. Sherlock must have already seen…

I’m a sex machine ready to reload

Like an atom bomb

About to oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, explode

John slowly lowers his gun, and Moriarty smirks at him. “Good boy.” He praises condescendingly. “Now drop it.”

John glances at Sherlock, who nods once, and so he does as he’s told, setting the gun carefully on the ground and kicking it forward slightly. Moriarty makes no attempt to grab it, instead his attention returns to Sherlock.

Don’t stop me, Don’t stop me

Don’t stop me, hey, hey, hey

“Clever of you, getting away from me in London like that. And escaping my men in Paris and Rome. Of course, you never really got away. But any idiot could see you needed space and I’m nothing if not a gentleman. I’ve given you plenty of time to think things through. But now… the wait is finally over.” Moriarty takes in a deep breath and smooths a hand over his hair. His smile is almost nervous as he reaches a hand into his tuxedo jacket to grab something from the inner pocket. John tenses, cold sweat beading on the back of his neck. “So… my dear…Have you changed your answer?” Moriarty eases his hand out of his pocket to reveal the golden dagger that had been in Culverton Smith’s box.

Yeah, 200 degrees

That’s why they call me Mr. Farenheit

I'm travelling at the speed of light

I wanna make a supersonic man out of you

The blood drains from Sherlock’s face, but his expression remains impassive. “No, I haven’t.”

John looks between the two of them, confused, which Moriarty instantly picks up on. He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock in disbelief. “You didn’t tell him what it meant?”

Sherlock remains silent but his lips quiver slightly.

Don’t stop me now

I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball

Moriarty chuckles to himself. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Would you?”

Don’t stop me now

If you wanna have a good time, just give me a call

He looks over at John, eyes twinkling darkly. “You see, Johnny boy, you are always getting in my way!” There’s a manic, theatrical lilt to his voice as he plays with the dagger. “Holding Sherlock back from everything he was meant to be. I thought he’d finally seen that, so I asked him to prove it to me by getting rid of you.” He taps the tip of the dagger to his lips thoughtfully.

So not self mutilation then, but murder. Even knowing what Moriarty’s request was, John is still completely lost. He stares at Moriarty incredulously. “Why?”

Moriarty laughs again, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “God. You are so unbelievably stupid. How does it feel, blundering around, not knowing anything?” He looks over at Sherlock and shakes his head. “If you haven’t told him, I’m certainly not going to do it.”

Don’t stop me now

Yes I’m havin’ a good time

I don’t want to stop at all

La da da da da…

“Such a shame it had to end this way.” Moriarty says remorsefully as the song begins to fade away. The silence in its absence is overwhelming. “After all that effort, the lengths I’ve gone to. It’s not a simple thing to turn the world into a storybook, you know. At least tell me you understand now.”

“Yes.” Says Sherlock evenly. “The game with the pips was just the beginning, your first obvious attempt. Refining your strategy, your coding method applied to the real world. Every case you picked for me was meant as a message about how you saw us. How you hoped I’d come to my senses and leave my life behind to be with you.” Sherlock barely suppresses his sarcasm. His eyes narrow. “Along with your hint in the Andrew West case.”

“Good,” Moriarty drawls out. “It only took you five years. I’ve been warning you about that brother of yours for quite a while. He’s willing to do anything if the ends justify the means, that one. Well, almost anything.” Moriarty’s eyes glow and he tilts his head to the side. “Such a predictable weakness. Anything to keep you alive. Thankfully that was the same thing I wanted.”

John picks up on the past tense and shifts his gaze down to his gun on the ground in front of them. Sherlock notices and rushes to speak again, trying to prevent John from doing anything rash.

“The other cases are obvious, in hindsight. You told me exactly what you were doing, deliberately setting up those games with hidden messages just for me. More warnings that you were using my brother against me. That you knew in advance I was planning to fake my death…”

“And?” Moriarty asks expectantly after Sherlock trails off.

Sherlock’s eyes fall on the dagger and his lips twist up slightly. “And how you wanted the game to end.”

“I even came to warn you in person that you weren’t catching onto it.” Moriarty says.

“Have you worked out what it is yet? What’s the final problem? I did tell you. But did you listen?”

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock replies, voice half an octave lower than usual, laced with what sounds like genuine admiration. John glances at him nervously. “It must have been so frustrating to have all that effort go unnoticed. I understand now, though. It was brilliant.”

Moriarty laughs once and rolls his eyes. “That isn’t going to work, my dear. Not this time.”

“Worth a try.” Sherlock replies, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a slight smile.

“Only one way to convince me now, I’m afraid.” Moriarty twirls the dagger between his fingers, and extends the hilt to Sherlock. When Sherlock doesn’t move, Moriarty sighs and drops his arm. He begins circling John and Sherlock, always just out of arm’s reach, while subtly waving the dagger back and forth so that it catches the fading light. Sherlock’s eyes follow it closely.

“It’s a shame.” Moriarty repeats. “I built up to it so naturally for you to choose me yourself. But now this is all that’s left. It’s a lot more direct at least. I just have to force you out of this little delusion the hard way.” Moriarty has repeated a full circle around them and when he passes Sherlock again he gently grazes the blunt side of the dagger across Sherlock’s cheek.

John makes to lunge at Moriarty but Sherlock breaks his gaze on Moriarty to shoot him a warning glance and shakes his head again. John’s hands ball into fists.

Moriarty laughs. “That’s not going to save him.” He sing songs from behind them.

Sherlock’s face twists up in utter hopelessness. But all at once an idea occurs to him. He inhales sharply, his eyes going wide and his mouth pressing into an uneven line. His eyes flash down to meet John’s and there’s a desperate edge to his gaze, as if he’s trying to memorise John’s features. Sherlock’s voice is filled with some emotion John can’t quite place when he looks away to address Moriarty. “I have something that might.”

Moriarty sighs in exasperation. “I told you already, Sherlock. You aren’t talking your way out of this.”

“I know,” Sherlock says with a hint of regret before his face smooths over into a careful smile. “I have a proposal for you… Jim.”

At the sound of his first name, Moriarty stops in his tracks in front of them still just out of reach. His head tilts so far to the side it looks almost comical. “Oh?” He asks with widened eyes.

“After all that time, all those elaborate plans, you don’t really want me to leave this tower with you by force, do you? It would be so anticlimactic.” Sherlock’s voice has taken on a strange quality John has never heard before. All at once impassioned and detached… he sounds like Moriarty. John’s heart drops. “No, you want me to choose you of my own free will. I’m offering you what you’ve worked so hard for. You can have me.”

“Sherlock, no!” John interrupts, feeling sick to his stomach.

Sherlock ignores him, his eyes burn into Moriarty’s. He continues in a low murmur, “I know what you want. I’m prepared to offer it. All of it.” Sherlock arches a single eyebrow. “I only ask one thing in return. John goes unharmed. His life in exchange for the rest of mine.”

Moriarty, whose face had taken on a bit of a dreamy expression, appears to snap back to reality all at once. He laughs and laughs until tears begin to form in his eyes. “Oh, wow,” Moriarty says when he’s regained enough composure to speak. “That was good. Really had me going, for a minute there,” his tongue slides out to wet his lips. “I really should know better, with you. You know me too well. But you see Sherlock, that’s still us stuck on our final problem. As long as he’s alive, I can’t win. You won’t be yourself until he’s gone.”

Sherlock lets out a defeated huff as Moriarty resumes his pacing. John, meanwhile, is thinking furiously. “That’s the important bit to you,” John says. “My death?”

“Obviously.” Moriarty says with his tone dripping with annoyance at John’s slowness. John looks over at Sherlock, following Moriarty’s every movement with his eyes, then down at his left hand which is perfectly steady.

“Okay.” He says, and holds his left hand out towards Moriarty, a silent request for the dagger.

“John!”

He ignores Sherlock and raises his eyebrows at Moriarty, who seems to be genuinely seeing him for the first time.

“Johnny, Johnny. You’re full of surprises. You’d do that? Stab yourself through the heart?” John’s mouth hardens, he hadn’t realised the exact method Moriarty was after. But he nods once. Moriarty lets out a delighted laugh. “That’s fine and all, very brave of you,” his voice goes mocking on the word brave, but shifts back to something more wistful. “But as much as I like the idea, I’m afraid that won’t do. I want your heart intact, you see. And I don’t think you’ll manage that yourself. Someone else needs to do it.”

John flexes his jaw. Not enough for him to simply give his life for Sherlock’s, Moriarty wants it done in the most gruesome manner possible. John thinks he’s beginning to understand why the request had so disturbed Sherlock when he had first received it. There would be pain, a lot of it, before the act was finished. But that doesn’t matter. John turns to look at Sherlock and tilts his head in a silent question.

“No!” Sherlock says firmly, his eyes wide with panic. “Absolutely not!”

“Sherlock,” John says, feeling an odd sense of calm come over him. “We aren’t both surviving this. But you can.”

Moriarty watches with open fascination. “That’s it, Johnny, talk him round. Have him kill you properly.”

“No!”

John’s face softens, touched by Sherlock’s unwillingness to sacrifice him to save himself. But there’s no use in both of them dying here if they don’t have to. He thinks of another approach. “You’d be saving me, in a way.” His lips pull up in a bitter smile. “I know you’d try to make it quick.”

“I- No, it’s out of the question!” Sherlock insists, flinging his hands out.

“Please, Sherlock.” John begs, looking deeply into his eyes. “If I’m going to die, at least this way it will have meant something.” My heart’s already yours, anyway.

“I won’t!” Sherlock exclaims, on the verge of tears now.

“God, enough!”

Moriarty, who at this point is standing just over John’s shoulder, lashes out like a snake. He goes for the weakness, John’s left shoulder, taking his arm and wrenching it back. The pain erupts like a volcano beneath John’s skin, blinding him just long enough for Moriarty to hook his other arm behind his back. His right hand holds the point of the dagger just under John’s chin, digging into the flesh but not yet breaking the skin. Sherlock dives for the gun and scurries back to his feet, pointing it at Moriarty with both hands.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Moriarty says, disappointed. John struggles instinctively against Moriarty’s hold on his wrists and Moriarty applies more pressure with the blade at his throat to make him stop. “We’ve done this song and dance before, haven’t we? You know what happens if you pull that trigger.”

“Sherlock. Go. Now.” John gasps out.

Sherlock’s hands shake as he runs through a dozen scenarios in his head: firing the gun (the inevitable explosion), throwing it as a distraction and lunging in for an attack with his fists (no way to get there in time, Moriarty would slit John’s throat first), dropping the weapon and pretending to give up (he’s already tried every pretence he can think of). He can’t think of a single outcome where John survives. Sherlock remains locked in place, not willing to take any action that will spur Moriarty on.

Moriarty begins walking backwards, back to the end of the tower deck. He leans in towards John and murmurs in his ear. “That’s it, easy does it, Johnny. So he has a good view of the show.” John grimaces but wills himself not to fight back. He’s faced his death before, and he resolves to meet it now without fear. He closes his eyes.

Moriarty and John now stand at the very end of the tower, locked in a twisted sort of embrace. The last bit of evening light stretches out behind them, and the sight would be beautiful if it weren’t for the nightmarish scene playing out in front of it. Sherlock watches on with horror as Moriarty’s lips curve up into a demented smile, his teeth bared just a few inches from John’s throat, the dagger glinting as it presses into his flesh. John stands perfectly still, the lines of his face set with quiet determination.

Moriarty redirects his attention back to Sherlock, eyes dancing with dark fire. But his quiet sigh is full of longing. “Since you refuse to do it, I’ll have the honours of cutting out John Watson’s heart. It seems that’s the closest I can come to having yours.”

The words shatter through John’s careful self control. They seem to reverberate through his mind as his eyes snap open and land on Sherlock, who is watching him with the agonised expression of a man being burned alive. The closest I can come to having yours. John finds himself pulling against Moriarty’s grasp before he’s aware he’s doing it, the hint of some profound epiphany nagging on the edges of his consciousness, reviving his will to live. To get back to Sherlock.

Moriarty increases pressure with the dagger in response, just enough that a lone drop of blood runs down the column of John’s throat. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock. “Of course, that’s only when he’s alive. We’ll see if you finally come to your senses once he’s gone.”

He eases off with the dagger and slowly drags it down to John’s chest, the tip pointed towards his heart, John struggling and jerking all the while. Moriarty pauses there, drawing out the moment. This is at last the denouement he has worked towards for so very long. Sherlock is breathing hard, his eyes wide with terror, but seems to be frozen where he stands. Moriarty makes an amused sound and licks his lips. His grip on John’s wrists eases ever so slightly as he draws in a deep breath and lifts the dagger high into the air, preparing to plunge it into John’s heart. John sees his chance and makes good use of it, yanking hard with both arms. Just as he’s pulling his wrists free though…

“John! No!” Sherlock cries out, sounding completely shattered. Again, John is overwhelmed by the feeling that he’s on the cusp of some vital understanding. John Watson’s heart. It seems that’s the closest... It distracts him for an instant too long. He grabs at the hilt of the dagger, trying to jerk it away before it can reach him. But he’s too late, the blade pierces his skin and John’s grip on Moriarty’s hand cuts a jagged line across his chest as he screams out in pain. The force with which John wrenches Moriarty’s hand away sends the dagger flying.

John bucks backward, trying to knock Moriarty off of him. Moriarty stumbles back, but he gets the other arm hooked around John’s throat. Their combined weight causes Moriarty to fall back at just the wrong angle. He topples backward over the railing, bringing John with him.

John reflexively grabs at the top of the railing with his left hand, but the movement causes the wound on his chest to sear with unbearable pain. John cries out again as his grip loosens before he can help it. His right hand grabs onto the bars just as his left gives out. His grip slides down the railing but holds tight, leaving him dangling off the edge of the tower, feet swinging freely above the churning water. Moriarty has his arms wrapped around John’s waist and is laughing madly. The wind is almost deafening as it ruffles through John’s hair, flutters open the sides of Moriarty’s suit jacket, revealing the blinking lights of the vest beneath.

“No!” Sherlock shouts. The gun clatters to the ground as he runs to the ledge. He throws himself at the railing, bending himself over it at an awkward angle to reach as far down as he can with his right arm. “John! Give me your hand!” John tries to lift his left arm to grasp Sherlock’s outstretched hand, but again, the movement causes the wound on his chest to burn in agony. Sherlock stays bent in two over the railing, eyes darting around frantically, trying to think of some way to pull John back to safety.

“This is perfect isn’t it?” Moriarty says between deranged laughs. “Almost as good. If I can’t have him, neither can you. He’s mine.”

“He’s not, actually.” John says through gritted teeth. His mind races, trying to come up with some way to pull himself back up. It’s strange, given that he had been resigned to the inevitability of his death a minute before that the thought fills him with a profound sense of loss now. Like he will have only just missed something crucial. Sherlock’s heart…

Moriarty just cackles louder. “You have to admit, it's fitting. Both of us falling to our deaths over Sherlock. Even a terrible writer like you can see a good ending staring you in the face!”

“Will you shut up?!” John snaps in spite of himself. He tries to lift his free arm again, but with their combined weight it’s a useless effort. He groans. He has to get Moriarty off of him somehow.

“I forget, you’re an idiot.” Moriarty says. “Symbolism is lost on you. That takes a brilliant mind. Believe me, I would know.”

“Yeah, not sure I would call any of that brilliant. Unhinged, maybe.” John says dismissively between labored breaths, trying to provoke him now, anything to get him to move, just enough so that he can get free.

“Of course you don’t get it.” Moriarty says, his temper spiking. “It wasn’t for you. It was for him! All of it was perfectly arranged just to lead him here. And now in the end, I win. You’ll die and he’ll be destroyed. I’ve burned out his heart after all.”

John stares up at Sherlock, trying to tell him with his eyes to be ready to grab him. Sherlock’s eyebrows pinch together but he nods slightly. “Clever, and all that. But you still won’t ever have it.”

“Have what?” Moriarty asks incredulously.

John chokes out a laugh and glances back down at Moriarty over his shoulder. “His heart.”

The words have their intended effect: Moriarty is incensed. His fingers dig into John’s chest setting off a fresh wave of agony as he drags himself upward using John’s frame. John knocks his head backward, landing with an audible crack into Moriarty’s skull. At the same time he throws his elbow backward into Moriarty’s ribs and jerks his weight away as hard as he dares.

The combined impacts cause Moriarty to lose his grip on John and he begins to slide downward. He blindly grabs at John’s legs, eyes wide with rage and disbelief. He gets a hold of John’s trouser leg for a brief moment before his grip falters again. His hands claw wildly, a wire on his jacket wrapping itself around John’s foot before he slips once more with nothing left to grab onto. Moriarty lets out a furious scream as he plunges into the water below.

Free from Moriarty’s grasp, John reaches upward one final time, keeping his lips tightly pressed together in an attempt to muffle his scream. Sherlock and John’s outstretched arms meet and a booming shockwave radiates through the air; a tremendous geyser shoots up from below as the explosives on Moriarty’s vest detonate.

Sherlock grips tight onto John’s forearm while the other hand latches onto the back of his jacket. He quickly hauls John back over the railing and to safety, not sparing a second glance to the explosion below.

John slumps back against the railing, face skewed tight with pain. He’s panting with exertion, which only serves to irritate his bleeding chest. Sherlock drops to his knees in front of him and frantically rips open his suit jacket, revealing a white dress shirt completely stained red with blood.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice breaks as his eyes dart between John’s face and the blood blossoming on his shirt. He tears out of his own jacket, balls it up and presses it firmly against John’s chest with a trembling hand. “John, God - no, no, no, you can’t - I can’t lose you, please.”

His chest hurts. Badly. But John can feel through the pressure of Sherlock’s hand that the injury isn’t fatal, probably not even very deep. He knows what it feels like to bleed out. Still in a state of shock, he stares at Sherlock’s panicked face and the image sears itself into his memory.

“Sherlock, it’s okay. I’ll be alright,” John says weakly. Tears form in Sherlock’s eyes and his lips tremble.

John again feels a realisation slowly overtaking him. He’s never seen that expression on Sherlock’s face, or anyone else's for that matter. But he recognises it all the same, from the day he had lost everything. The haunting image of Sherlock’s lifeless eyes, wide and vacant, looking at him but clearly not seeing him, his blood pooling onto the pavement beneath him. John had collapsed, horrified and numb, as everything that mattered to him, their adventures together, their breathless laughter, Sherlock’s eyes flashing brilliantly as they looked into his, his own unspoken hopes, all faded away with Sherlock’s blood in the falling rain. He knew in that moment that he would never be able to really live again if what he was seeing was real.

Sherlock’s devastated expression, that must have been what he had looked like from the outside. Heartbroken. Sherlock is heartbroken. But why?

Sherlock drops his jacket in a heap and fumbles to undo the buttons of John’s shirt with shaking hands. Once he’s through them all, he tears away John’s shirt to reveal his bare chest. An angry gash starts at a point directly above John’s heart and zig-zags down along his torso, ending at his left side just above his waist. But John is right. While the wound is long, the dagger didn’t cut very deep. John is going to be fine.

“Oh, thank God.” Sherlock looks close to collapsing in relief. “You’re right, it’s entirely superficial.” Sherlock lets out a breathless laugh, his eyes darting back up to John’s. He reaches up to gently cradle John’s face in his palm before he can think better of it. “John, I was so afraid I had lost you. I don’t know what I would have done.”

John’s heart thuds unevenly in his chest. “I think… I think it might have been worth it, actually,” he replies feeling stunned. But he means it; it would be worth dying now, if it meant he had the chance to see this first. Still mostly in disbelief he moves his left arm, ignoring the shooting pain, to place his hand over Sherlock’s where it still rests on his cheek.

Sherlock’s expression softens in response and the depth of emotion in his eyes shakes John to his core. All at once, his understanding of the world shifts on a fundamental level. He sees a thousand moments of their life together playing out behind his eyes, each of them suddenly fitting together like neat puzzle pieces to form one, unifying conclusion. This must be what Sherlock feels when he solves a case, this burst of light. All of John’s doubts fall away, replaced with a certainty that there is only one explanation for how they ended up in this moment, with Sherlock looking at him like he’s the one thing in the world that he couldn’t bear to live without. He knows exactly what emotion he sees shining in Sherlock’s eyes, the same one he feels bursting in his own chest.

In that moment, John Watson is finally convinced of the one thing he had always hoped for, but had never let himself believe:

Sherlock Holmes is in love. With him.

A smile breaks over John’s face in spite of the pain. It seems inconsequential to him now in light of this new revelation. He licks his lips and swallows, still struggling to catch his breath as he opens his mouth to speak. “Sherlock…”

The rest of whatever John had been about to tell Sherlock is drowned out by the loud whirring of the helicopters surrounding the tower.

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Help is on the way, stay where you are.” They both recognise the voice. Sherlock immediately tenses and shoves himself to his feet, glaring coldy in Mycroft’s direction.

The helicopters take no notice. Two land near Prospect Point, at the end of the land bridge leading to the tower, while one flies lower to run a searchlight over the water below, no doubt looking for any trace of Moriarty. The moment the helicopters touch down, Mycroft rushes to the end of the tower flanked by paramedics.

“Sherlock, John!” Mycroft calls as he approaches.

“Don’t start,” Sherlock hisses before his brother comes any closer. “You’re the last person I want to see.”

Mycroft stops short. “Can I not be relieved to see you’re both alright?” he asks a touch sardonically.

Sherlock remains unmoved. “No,” he snaps bitterly. “We’re not alright. John has been stabbed, and nearly fell to his death with Moriarty. Not that you care,” his voice is low and dangerous as he stares down his brother. ”You seemed very eager to be rid of him before.”

The paramedics rush past to attend to John, unaware of the stand off between the two brothers. Mycroft’s face falls. The guilt is practically rolling off of him. He attempts a step forward, hands out in a placating gesture. “I am sorry Sherlock. I didn’t have any other choice. The last thing I wanted was-”

“I can think of several other choices you could have made, actually!” Sherlock spits out through his teeth. “Like mentioning to me that you knew Moriarty was alive, or warning me that he was threatening you. But that would have dispelled the illusion of your omnipotence, I suppose.”

“I was trying to keep you alive, I couldn’t risk-”

“Save it for someone who will actually believe your excuses, Mycroft.” Sherlock turns on his heel to go back to John’s side, watching the paramedics attending to him, applying plaster over the long wound to keep it clean until they can get to the hospital and stitch him up properly. Sherlock grimaces in sympathy whenever John does. Mycroft stares at him with an expression that appears almost haunted, knowing the current situation is entirely of his own doing.

The helicopter below confirms that Moriarty is dead. They find bits of Moriarty’s remains floating in the water, leaving little room for misinterpretation. Once John is stitched up, Mycroft insists on chartering them all a flight back to London, despite Sherlock’s ardent protests. It’s John who convinces Sherlock to accept the offer. He notes with a small degree of shock how Sherlock’s arguments immediately cease when he mentions wanting to get home as soon as possible, like John’s wishes take priority over even his anger at Mycroft. His new awareness seems to tinge his perception of all of Sherlock’s actions. But he doesn’t want to say anything here, or in a hotel or anywhere else but safely back at 221B.

They climb into the cabin of the private jet Mycroft had commandeered and find him already sitting at a small table waiting for them. Sherlock’s Belstaff is draped over the back of the seat directly opposite him. He gives Sherlock a sad smile. “I took the liberty of having one of my agents retrieve it from Gare du Nord the day you left it there. I thought you might want it once you were able to come home.”

Sherlock quietly scoffs and says nothing, but he does pick up the coat and drape it over his lap as he settles into his seat, running his fingers absentmindedly over the familiar wool. John smiles slightly as he sits down beside him, and gives Mycroft a small nod. Mycroft meets his gaze with a tortured expression.

“I cannot begin to tell you-” Mycroft says, his tone tight and stilted, honesty and emotional vulnerability do not come easily to him. But he continues all the same. “How deeply sorry I am. I take full responsibility for what you’ve both been through. Moriarty would never have been so successful if I hadn’t been so blinded by pride. I can genuinely say that I didn't realise what I was getting into, when it started. And by the time I did….”

“Oh, let me guess.” Sherlock rolls his eyes before glaring at Mycroft. “Moriarty offered you use of his skillset in exchange for your assistance. It seemed like a mutually beneficial arrangement, one that would further your own ends, and you failed to foresee any serious harm, and so you agreed.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth pulls up. “Exactly right. I didn’t learn my lesson at all, did I?” Sherlock makes a face and looks away. Mycroft continues. “It began harmlessly enough, bringing particular cases to your attention. Nothing outside of your capabilities. If you solved the case and I got information out of it, it seemed like a victory for all parties involved. I knew Moriarty wanted something else. No, that’s a lie. I knew Moriarty wanted you. But I didn’t see how sending you a few cases would accomplish that end. I didn’t realise how out of my depth I was until he used Irene Adler to manipulate you into uncovering my Bond Air scheme.”

Sherlock groans. “Are you still on about that? I already told you-”

“I know you weren’t in love with her.” Mycroft replies. “I admit, I was afraid for a moment that you were. I still didn’t understand Moriarty’s plan then. It was when I watched you working out the password for Irene’s phone that I knew I had made a grave miscalculation. He wasn’t just giving you cases. He was using them to elicit certain responses in you, trying to program you, for want of a better term. And I had let him. And what was worse, Moriarty had just learned through Irene how to ensure I remained under his influence. All he had to do was threaten you.”

John leans in, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his stitches. “Why didn’t you just tell us what was going on, Mycroft?”

“I couldn’t fully, not without Moriarty learning I had done so. You already know how impossible it was to keep anything from his notice. I did what I could. That’s when I informed Sherlock that Moriarty was asking about him. And I tried to warn you as well, John. You remember.”

“We both know what’s coming, John. Moriarty is obsessed. He’s sworn to destroy his only rival.”

Sherlock scoffs again. “Yes, you telling me that you were giving Moriarty carefully selected scraps of information about me really tipped me off to the fact that you were plotting with him behind my back. You made it sound like you had the situation under control.”

“I still hoped that I did. You have to remember, Sherlock, I can outwit almost anyone. I wasn’t accustomed to playing against someone better at the game than I was. I continued to underestimate him.” Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Moriarty began to give me hints that he was planning to fake his death, that I was to help you do the same if you asked. I foolishly convinced myself that he was giving up on you, starting with a fresh slate.”

Sherlock stares at the ceiling of the cabin and speaks slowly, trying to keep his emotions under control from years of habit. “You should have told me that he didn’t die.”

“Yes. I should have. I was sworn to secrecy, of course. But if I had applied myself, I could have devised some method of alerting you to the ongoing danger while I had the chance. But I thought it was over…” Mycroft glances up at Sherlock again. “That was, until Moriarty’s right hand agent began working at John’s clinic in your absence. As soon as she did, Moriarty got in touch, told me not to get any ideas about letting you in on the secret. The implicit threat was obvious. I thought you would have approved of my choice to agree to his terms, in that case.” Mycroft stares pleadingly at Sherlock, whose mouth presses into a crooked line in response, a silent acknowledgement that Mycroft’s assessment was correct. Mycroft sighs. “After that I could do nothing but continue to monitor the situation, hoping you could manage things on your own. Even when Ms. Moran shot you, there was nothing I could do.”

John’s eyebrows pull together. Ms. Moran. Even the initials on the empty memory stick were a lie, then. “So you knew all along who she was?”

“Of course. How could I not?” Mycroft says with a bitter expression. “When have I ever let anyone get close to Sherlock or you without thoroughly vetting them first? I had actually hoped that my failing to address something so blatantly obvious would be a rather large giveaway, in spite of it being on Moriarty’s orders. But you must have thought I didn’t care enough about your safety to look into it. ”

John remembers being kidnapped after spending only a few hours with Sherlock, the frightening amount of information Mycroft had been able to uncover in such a short time, and sees his point.

Sherlock does not. “Yes, how could I ever think you might have priorities you would place above your own brother?” He asks bitingly.

Mycroft’s lips press together in a tight line. “Yes. I suppose that is a fair point. You had every reason to distrust me. It eventually occurred to me to use that to my advantage. When Moriarty came back, I tried one last time to warn you.” Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out a purple tie. John recognises it as the one he had been wearing on the day when he had come to collect him, when he had been ordered to deliver him to Moriarty. Sherlock has a different reaction.

“That’s the tie you wore the day you observed the mission with Sherrinford. You wore it on the plane, didn’t you?” Sherlock’s eyes slide shut as he tries to remember.

“You were a bit distracted, at the time.” Mycroft says sadly. “I hoped you would make the connection and begin to doubt me. I thought you had those first few days. But then you came to me for help after all, and I’d already been instructed by Moriarty on exactly what to do. To keep you from pursuing him directly. As a last resort, I thought that if I made you angry enough you might disobey me. Not that it made much of a difference.”

“I see.” Says Sherlock sarcastically. “So you told me you were compromised without actually telling me anything. Little hints and hoping I would see the blatant contradictions in your actions as proof that something more was going on. I applaud you, Mycroft. No one but you would have a plan so subtle and clever.”

“Cleverness has its limits,” Mycroft responds evenly. “The reason you sit in front of me now alive and well had nothing to do with me.” He redirects his attention to John. “Your loyalty and courage did more to protect him than I ever could. I owe you a great debt, John. You are a far better man than I am.” John feels a swell of pride at the words, knowing Mycroft doesn't say them lightly.

“Obviously,” Sherlock scoffs, as if John being remarkable is a given to him. John looks over at him, remembering the moment on the tower again. It seems so obvious now… “The fact that you’re aware that you made a mess of things doesn’t fix them, Mycroft.”

“I know.” Mycroft doesn’t flinch away from Sherlock’s glare. “I will do everything in my power to make amends. I’ve already been working these past weeks to keep your friends in London safe whenever Moriarty began to grow impatient. We’re dismantling the remnants of his network now, in case any of his associates get any ideas of revenge. If we run into any trouble I will inform you immediately. I promise you, I will do things differently now.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it, Mycroft.” Sherlock says dismissively before he turns to stare out the window. Mycroft, knowing any further attempt at conversation is pointless, looks over at John and grimaces apologetically. John looks at him for a long moment and feels a strange sense of pity. He nods back.

Sherlock storms out of the plane without a word as soon as it lands, but John is slower to get up. Mycroft clears his throat. “John, I wanted to tell you again. I am genuinely sorry. Delivering you to Moriarty was the last thing I wanted. But I didn’t see another way. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when you ran out of that car. That you were willing to fight the odds for Sherlock. But I deeply regret putting you into a situation where you were forced to make that decision to begin with."

John’s expression softens with sympathy. “I made the same choice you did in the end. Sacrificing me, I mean. You knew then that I would have gone along with what Moriarty wanted if I had understood what was happening, didn’t you?”

Mycroft says nothing, but tilts his head to the side and grimaces in silent acknowledgement.

John realises what that means and his face lights up with understanding. “Which is exactly why you didn’t tell me. You wanted me to be there to protect Sherlock when you couldn’t...” He takes in Mycroft’s pained expression and his own grows more thoughtful. “I don’t blame you, Mycroft. You did the best you could. But I don’t think you can just expect him to understand that so quickly. Just... give him time. And keep your word. He’ll come around.” John turns to walk away but thinks better of it. “And try to lose the icy exterior. Doesn’t work for either of you.”

“Old habits,” Mycroft sighs sadly. “You’ll look after him for me in the meantime?”

“I always do.” John smiles wryly, and Mycroft attempts to return it. John pats him once on the shoulder and then follows Sherlock out of the plane.

221B Baker Street awaits their return with open doors, welcoming them home. The evening sun casts long beams over the streets of London, tinging the fog that swirls past the windows of 221B with a golden glow. They can hear the sound of black cabs splashing through the rain, and as the evening goes on, the streetlamps outside flick on one by one. There’s a sense of comfort in the air. After weeks of constant tension and frantic chases and maniacs with golden daggers and almost exploding more than once, the two have managed to survive. They’ve at last made it back to the place that will always be their home.

Sherlock and John sit at the dining table with the remnants of their dinner spread out on the table between them. Sherlock is staring down at the table pushing the last scraps of his food around the plate with his fork, deliberately avoiding looking at John. John is unperturbed. He’s seen Sherlock act like this before and he knows now he had it wrong then. After all, it couldn’t have been Irene or Mary he was pining after.

Mrs. Hudson comes up the stairs with a tray of tea. She beams at the pair of them as she sets it on the table. “My boys, back home at last. I can’t tell you how unbearably quiet it is here when you two are gone. I need a little adventure now and then, you know.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick up from his plate so he can smile at her. “Try to keep that in mind the next time you complain about one of my experiments.”

“Oh, hush you. I’m just so happy to see you again, safe and sound.” She begins tearing up slightly, and Sherlock holds an arm out so that he can give her a hug. She wraps her arms around him and squeezes, smiling over at John. “By the way dear, your old room is still damaged from the fire. I kept meaning to get round to fixing it but something else always came up. You can sleep in the spare bedroom of my flat.” Mrs. Hudson smiles and raises her eyebrows. “If you’ll be needing it.”

Sherlock’s eyes immediately drop back to the table, so he doesn’t see that for once, John smiles at the implication and winks at her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” John says.

Mrs. Hudson beams before letting go of Sherlock and tapping a finger to her lips. “I’ve just remembered. I have a programme I’m expecting on the telly. Mrs. Turner’s been raving about it, said something about it making history. I’ll just be headed downstairs. Good night boys.”

“Night!” John calls.

“Good night, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock murmurs without looking up from his plate.

John swallows. Not for the first time that evening he finds that he has no idea how to begin the conversation he longs to have. His gaze drifts to the living room and he has an idea. “What do you say we light a fire and sit for a while? Like old times?” He asks, nodding over to the fireplace.

Sherlock shrugs noncommittally. “If you’d like.”

“Seems like a good way to celebrate being home.” John says with a warm smile. Sherlock doesn’t look up from his plate. John sighs. “I’ll get the fire going, you can do the washing up.” John says, mostly hoping it will snap Sherlock out of his reverie; he hates doing chores. Sherlock rolls his eyes but remains subdued as he picks up the plates and puts them in the sink without any attempt at washing them.

John lights the fire and pulls both armchairs closer to the hearth. He grabs the two mugs of tea from the tray in the kitchen and sets them on the end table between the two chairs. Sherlock sits down stiffly and gazes into the flames.

John takes a deep breath and sits down beside him. He scoots his chair slightly closer to Sherlock, under the pretence of getting closer to the fire. Their knees are almost touching now.

“So.” John begins awkwardly. He winces at himself and clears his throat before continuing in a more normal tone. He’s still just slightly overly casual. “I guess we’ll need to find some new clients, considering the source of most of our old cases got himself blown up.”

“True,” Sherlock chuckles. “Oh well. Between your blog and Lestrade, we’ll still find some work. Not every crime in the world traces back to Moriarty.”

“I had better be sure this next entry is a good one then.” John says with a grin. The expression falters and John swallows thickly and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I had a question actually, that I thought I should clear up. You know, before I write up the case.”

“Oh?”

“It’s one detail of Moriarty’s plan that I want to be sure I understand...” John trails off as Sherlock glances back up at him.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asks, voice carefully offhand.

“Well, everything he did was to win you over, right? Trying to make you fall for him… And I noticed that a lot of his plans… had to do with me.” John can see Sherlock visibly freeze. His hands on the armrests on his chair claw desperately into the leather. John waits a moment, then continues. “For starters… I was thinking back on it. And that night at the pool, I had always assumed he came back because he had gotten bored, or something. But it occurred to me, I was wearing a mic. So he heard me joking about you tearing off my clothes, and that’s when he came back to kill us.”

Sherlock looks at John helplessly. He’s not denying it, at least. John goes on. “And then his very next plan was to send in Irene. I thought for a long time that he did that to break your heart. But he knew you were gay, so that can’t have been it. And thinking everything over, it almost seemed like it was all for my benefit, making me think you had fallen in love with her.”

Sherlock still isn’t saying anything. John wishes he would say something, but he forces himself to continue his deduction. Sherlock should appreciate his methodical approach to this, at least.

“Then, when he found out that you were going to fake your death, he had Mycroft insist you not tell me your plan. And he sent in his best assassin to get close to me, brought you back to London just in time to watch us get married. Not to mention all the stuff about burning your heart when he put me in a fire. More than once. And it seems to me like all of that really only makes sense if…” John gives Sherlock a significant look, hoping he’ll confirm or deny it without John having to say the words. Sherlock, still frozen in his seat, says nothing. “If… he thought that you were in love with me.”

Sherlock winces and his eyes squeeze shut. John hurries onward, eager to reassure him. “Which I never would have considered. But what he said on the tower, that my heart was the closest he could get to yours. I saw your face when he was going to kill me, how you looked at me when you thought I was dying… The look on your face…” John’s voice has gone desperate by the end. He takes in a steadying breath before he continues, bracing himself to cross the point of no return. “Sherlock, was he right?”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is rough. He forces himself to open his eyes and look at John. But John’s open, pleading expression is too much for him and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut again, sure it can’t mean what he wants it to mean. Sherlock wants to apologise, to run away, to say the words out loud, just to finally have them spoken, even if it ruins everything. But he can’t bring himself to do any of it.

John nods once. “I was thinking, just in case that was true, that I should probably tell you…” Sherlock tenses, preparing for the worst. I’m not gay, Sherlock, and I never want to see you again. “I should tell you... Christ, this is still so hard for me.” John laughs nervously at himself. Sherlock’s eyes snap open in surprise. John rubs a hand over his forehead but forces himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze as he speaks again.

“Maybe it’ll be easier if I start at the beginning. Do you remember our first case together?” Sherlock nods slowly, eyebrows drawn together. “I had just gotten back from the war. My life felt completely meaningless. You already know that…” John grimaces and his voice drops to a whisper. “I wasn’t sure how long I was going to be able to go on living, the way things were. I spent a lot of time staring at my gun. I think you probably already know that too.” Sherlock does, but he isn’t sure what that has to do with their current conversation. His eyes drift back down to the flames.

“And then I met you.” John smiles fondly. “And you weren’t like anyone else I had ever known. You were brilliant and charming and... devastatingly handsome.” Sherlock’s eyes dart back to John’s, wide with shock. John’s expression is almost unbearably gentle. “It was like a miracle, meeting you. You brought me back to life. When you took me on that insane chase and then Angelo showed up with my cane. I realised what you had done for me and I looked back and saw you smiling at me. And that’s when I knew.”

There’s a long pause where John is clearly expecting Sherlock to say something. “Knew what?” He eventually whispers, not quite daring to let himself hope.

John takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “That I was in love with you.” He says without flinching. “That I was never going to want anyone else again.”

“John?” It’s not quite a question; Sherlock is breathless. His eyes widen and he blinks rapidly for a few seconds while he processes this new information.

John waits until the blinking stops, then puts his hand very carefully on Sherlock’s knee, leaning in closer. “I’ve been sure for so long that you could never want me back. I mean, I know I’m nothing special. Until I saw your face when you thought I was dying. So I just thought I should tell you. That I love you. That if you wanted me, I’m already yours.”

Sherlock remains silent.

The silence stretches on for just a beat too long and John begins to wonder if he’s misread things again somehow. His eyes dim as he tries to think of something to say. He can’t take it back, but he can make it clear he doesn’t expect anything from Sherlock. That just being his friend is more than enough. He looks away and begins to withdraw his hand, when Sherlock suddenly, finally responds.

Sherlock reaches out and stops John from pulling away by wrapping one long hand around his wrist and places the other on John’s face, directing John’s gaze back up at him.

John meets Sherlock’s eyes and it’s the expression he’d seen on the tower all over again, but better. Totally absent of fear. This time it’s obvious that the tears brimming in Sherlock’s eyes are happy ones.

“John! John, I love you, of course I love you. How could you not know that?” Sherlock asks incredulously, but it’s softened by the affection in his tone.

John makes a sound that is halfway between a laugh and a sob. “How could you not know? Everyone else did, and you’re the cleverest man in the world! I was so sure you knew.”

“I didn’t. I mean, there were times when I thought... But then I always thought I had missed my chance. So many times.”

“Me too.” John replies, his voice thick with emotion.

Their smiles grow as they stare back at one another, unwilling and unable to look anywhere else. Then John puts his free hand on Sherlock’s cheek, quietly thrilling at finally being able to touch him this way, and very slowly begins leaning in towards Sherlock.

Countless memories seem to swirl in the air between them in that moment. All of the ways they had been telling each other they were in love...

Sherlock wakes in the inn in Meiringenwith his hand on John’s heart. He stares longingly at John’s sleeping face turned towards him before he slowly pulls his hand away, careful not to wake him…

The pair spin together surrounded by cheering ballet dancers, eyes sparkling...

“You have had a boyfriend, then?” John asks, wanting desperately to know if he has the remotest chance...

“John is the handsome one.” Sherlock says, smiling slightly with his face turned away from John...

“This is just perfect.” John says bitterly. “After all of that, you pushing me back at her and the whole thing. Now this. Fantastic...”

“Keep an eye on Mary for me, won’t you?” Sherlock asks quietly, his eyes brim with emotion as he stares deep into John’s eyes. He almost imperceptibly tightens his grip around John’s hand in his.

“On Mary?” John asks, fighting down a wave of anguish… “Right. I’ll do that.”

Sherlock grins. “Thank you John. Knew you’d understand,” he says with a wink…

“John, there's something I should say. I meant to say, always, and never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.” Sherlock looks away as he draws in a deep breath…

Helicopters surround them at Appledore. Sherlock looks back at John with a desperate expression. “Give my love to…”

“John Watson.” Magnussen says smugly. “Your damsel in distress...”

“You are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. So is it truly such a surprise that the woman you fall in love with conforms to that pattern?”

“But she wasn’t supposed to be like that!” John whispers back. The fact that he was attracted to dangerous people was hardly news to him… “Why is she like that?”

Sherlock's eyes shine with genuine anguish. “Because… You chose her…”

“You have a girlfriend?” John demands. “Care to elaborate?” Sherlock is pleased at John's obvious jealousy but tries to conceal his smile...

“You.” Sherlock declares in front of a crowd, focused only on John. There are tears in his eyes. “It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right...”

“You stand between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world.” John looks away, fighting back tears...

“And I want to be there with the two people I love and care about most in the world. Mary Morstan… And… You.” John says reluctantly, clearly thinking this should be obvious to Sherlock already...

On the train car.

“I wanted you not to be dead!” John whispers with as much force as he can.

“Yeah, well. Be careful what you wish for. If I hadn’t come back you’d still have a future. With Mary.”

“Yeah. I know.” John says, resigned…

“You have missed this. Admit it.” Sherlock is overly confident, almost (definitely) flirtatious. “The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. Just the two of us against the rest of the world…”

“That stuff you wanted to say.” Ella says to John. “But never did.”

“Yeah.” John replies in a broken whisper.

“Say it now.”

“No.” John says forcefully.“I’m sorry. I can’t.” If he couldn’t say it to Sherlock while he was alive, he will go the rest of his life without saying it to anyone...

“Nobody could be that clever.” Sherlock says into the phone.

John doesn’t hesitate. “You could...”

Sherlock walks away from John, adjusting his coat collar. John scoffs. “Oh, please. Can we not do this, this time?”

“Do what?” He asks.

“You being all mysterious with your…” John’s eyes rake desperately over Sherlock's frame. “Cheekbones. And turning your coat collar up so you look cool…”

“You jealous?” Irene smiles.

“We’re not a couple.”

“Yes you are.” John’s face falls. He hates that everyone can see how he feels about Sherlock, it makes him feel like Sherlock must see right through him too. He goes to his usual defence.

“Look. Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes but, for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”

“Well, I am.” Irene says plainly. “Look at us both.”

John knows Irene has seen through him and lets out a resigned huff of laughter…

“He’s writing sad music.” John says to the empty room. “Doesn’t eat, barely talks, only to correct the television, I’d say he was heartbroken but well, he’s Sherlock. He does all that anyway…”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks, uncurling himself on the sofa to look over his shoulder at John.

“Out.” John says angrily. “I need some air.” Going to Sarah’s then. Sherlock curls back in on himself until he hears the door downstairs slam closed. He then gets up to watch John walk away from him through the window...

“Actually, I've got a date.” John says, a bit smugly.

“What?!” Sherlock is floored.

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

Sherlock steels himself. “That’s what I was suggesting…”

Sherlock and John stand in the car park outside Roland Kerr Further Education College.

“That’s how you get your kicks isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“And why would I do that?” Sherlock asks, suppressing a smile.

“Because you’re an idiot.” John says affectionately. Sherlock grins at him before his expression grows thoughtful and he gathers his courage.

“Dinner?”

“Starving…”

“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?” John asks eagerly.

“No.”

“Right! Okay!” John’s eyes sparkle with delight as he licks his lips. “You’re unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good…”

“I prefer to text.”

“Oh, here.” John says, thinking quickly as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Use mine.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Sherlock replies, trying desperately to remain composed as he crosses the room and stretches a hand out towards John’s.

They had been telling each other for a long time. Neither one had done a particularly good job of listening…

John pauses just an inch away from Sherlock’s lips, eyes flitting back up to his. Sherlock’s eyes slide shut and he moves ever so slightly closer and so John closes the remaining distance between them.

Their lips meet, and everything else in the world seems to fall away. Suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter at all how long it had taken to get here, how many times they had both feared that they would never be able to have this. In that moment, it seems inevitable. The only possible way things could have ended between them. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had always belonged together and nothing in the world could have successfully kept them apart forever.

It’s a chaste kiss at first. John means to take things slowly, he knows Sherlock doesn’t have much experience, if any at all. So he pulls back after a few seconds, not wanting to rush him. He smiles, his eyes still closed, and opens his mouth to speak but he’s interrupted by Sherlock blindly following his movement to kiss him again.

John isn’t complaining. The hand resting on Sherlock’s face makes its way to tangle in his hair and Sherlock responds by pulling John closer with a hand on the side of his neck. Their lips move together fervently, pouring out all of the emotions they had each held back for so long. Their mingling breaths begin to come more quickly and John’s pulse is deafening in his ears. The hand John is still resting on Sherlock's knee flexes, his fingers digging into the flesh of Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock’s response is a bit too eager. He shifts forward in his chair, trying to press himself closer, which would be wonderful if John wasn’t currently half kneeling out of his chair. The movement causes John to lose his balance and he only just manages to fall back into his own chair rather than onto the floor; Sherlock isn’t so lucky and his knees hit the carpet with a soft thud. They look at each other for a long moment, their foreheads still pressed together. And then out of nowhere they both begin to laugh. The way they only ever do with each other, light and free and alive. Relief and joy mingle in the air, both feeling as if an entire new world has just begun.

“How long?” John eventually asks when he’s gotten his breath back.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hums, feeling pleasantly dazed.

“How long have you known?” John clarifies.

Sherlock looks down as he nervously fiddles with a button on the front of John’s shirt. “I was slower to catch on than you were. I admit you scared me at first. I wasn’t used to anyone I was interested in actually returning the feeling. Which is why I panicked and tried to tell you I wasn't looking for anything, just then. I changed my mind on that fairly quickly...” Sherlock clears his throat. “The car park.”

John’s eyebrows furrow. “Sorry?”

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “When you followed me across town and killed a man to save my life when you barely knew me. Lestrade was asking me if I could figure out who shot the cabbie and I was explaining what I could deduce of the shooter when I looked over and saw you standing behind the police tape, all unassuming. As if you hadn’t just done the most remarkable thing in the world. I realised then that I wasn’t describing the man Lestrade was looking for, I was describing who I was looking for. You.” Sherlock looks up at John feeling a bit vulnerable.

He’s surprised to see John is saddened at this.

“The whole time?” John asks. “We could have had this the whole time?”

Sherlock reaches up and rubs a thumb over John’s cheek. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Moriarty was already watching us then, he probably would have killed us both if we had figured it out. And anyway, I don’t think I would have been very good at this, back then.” Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Of course, that’s still a concern now, I tend to irritate most people I spend more than a few minutes with-”

“I think by now I’m a bit more resilient than that.” John smiles but it doesn’t entirely reach his eyes. He sighs. “I guess I see your point though. We’ll just have to make up for lost time.”

“I’d like that.” Sherlock says with a small, almost shy smile that John finds completely endearing. So after a moment, John gently guides Sherlock’s mouth back to his, sliding one hand back into his hair while the other hand goes to Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock enthusiastically reciprocates, grabbing at John with both hands, pulling him closer.

John slowly drifts awake, feeling more well rested than he has in years, possibly more well rested than he has in his entire life. He can’t quite remember why, though he has the sensation of trying to hold onto a very good dream. A familiar scent reaches him in his sleep: sandalwood shampoo and faded cologne and a hint of something more elusive that reminds him of running through the streets of London, high on adrenaline and adventure. Sherlock. The memories rush in all at once and John’s eyes fly open.

He finds himself entwined with a still sleeping, very naked Sherlock, whose head is tucked very carefully on the edge of John’s shoulder to avoid disturbing his stitches. Sherlock sighs in his sleep and tightens his arms around John’s waist, and John thinks he may very well burst with happiness. He brings one hand up to card through Sherlock’s hair. The movement must jostle Sherlock because he groans slightly. John leans down to plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Sorry, love.” John whispers. He hears Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, feels him momentarily tense, as he adjusts to his surroundings. After a moment he relaxes bonelessly into John once again.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock rumbles sleepily.

“Good morning.” John says, beaming down at him. He’s a bit surprised when Sherlock tenses again and then abruptly sits up, looking distraught. “What’s wrong?” John asks, trying not to panic.

“No, no.” Sherlock says hastily, reading John’s concern. “Nothing like that. It’s just- I meant to wake up early and make you breakfast.” Sherlock looks furious with himself.

John smiles incredulously. “Why would you do that?”

“I…” Sherlock looks down at the duvet, mouth twisting in embarrassment. He speaks very quietly. “I thought that was what people do. Is that not right?”

John had thought it was impossible to be any more in love with Sherlock, clearly he was wrong. His eyes go soft and he grabs Sherlock’s hand. “You know you don’t have to do all that, right? I already feel like the luckiest man in London. Actually, I should probably make you breakfast, come to think of it. After last night.” He grins suggestively. “You were amazing.”

Sherlock’s eyes flit back to John’s face as his cheeks go pink. “I… yes… that was…” Sherlock clears his throat. “Very good.”

John finds this new, softer side of Sherlock completely irresistible and he’d like to forget all about breakfast in lieu of staying in bed a while longer. But as he begins pulling Sherlock back down into his arms, they hear a loud, insistent knock on the front door. John sighs heavily.

“That’s Lestrade’s tread.” Sherlock says, sounding as annoyed as John feels. “I can tell him to go away. I don’t want for you to have to see him if you aren’t ready. I mean. For people to know.” Sherlock looks away again, feeling tremendously awkward.

“Why wouldn’t I want him to know?” John asks, sitting up.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him slightly, trying to deduce what he’s thinking.“Well, I was under the impression that you were… are… not gay.”

John grins. “What part of all that,” he gestures back down to the bed, “wasn’t gay to you?”

Sherlock hazards an embarrassed glare at his teasing. “It just didn’t seem on to insist you tell people about us before you had time to process things.”

“Ah, that.” John chuckles. Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Very careful half truth, on that one. It got tiring, people instantly guessing how I felt about you. So, I admit I deflected a bit. I’m not gay. I’m… well…” John clears his throat and proceeds carefully, like he’s never admitted this to anyone before. “I’m… bisexual. Or something like that. Surprised no one ever called me out on that being an option. Well… Besides Irene. Sort of.” John’s eyebrows pull together at the memory.

“Oh.” Sherlock breathes, like he does when he’s found an important clue. “So you’re… already fine with that?”

“I thought I said as much when we met.” John teases. Sherlock remembers, It’s all fine. “Sherlock, everyone has known how I've felt about you since the day we met. If you think I’m going to try to hide it now that I’ve finally got you, well, I hate to say it, but you might not be such a genius after all.”

Sherlock smiles and finds he needs to kiss John immediately. And because he can now, he does. The kiss is beginning to grow more heated when the knocking increases in volume. Sherlock groans. “I had better get that before he bangs the door down.” He pecks John once more on the nose and gets up to put on pyjamas.

Lestrade stands in the living room of221B, watching intently as Sherlock flips through a case file. Sherlock makes a face somewhere between disinterest and disgust, before he tosses the file carelessly onto the coffee table. “No.” Sherlock says and he takes up his phone.

Lestrade groans. “You’ve barely read it!”

“I don’t need to. It’s boring,” Sherlock insists without looking up. “And not worth my time. I’d probably have it solved by the end of the day but I can’t be bothered.”

“And why’s that?” Lestrade grumbles.

Sherlock opens his mouth to make a witty reply but at that moment the door to Sherlock's bedroom creaks open. Lestrade’s head whips around and his eyebrows shoot up in genuine shock. They hear the sound of a kettle being turned on and then both see John stride into the living room wearing nothing but Sherlock’s plaid dressing gown tied at the waist and rolled up a few times on the sleeves.

“Good morning, Greg!” John says cheerily as he makes his way to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa. He kisses Sherlock once on the cheek as he settles into the seat beside him. Sherlock goes slightly pink again but looks extremely pleased.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” Lestrade replies, his expression a mix of shock, amusem*nt, and just a hint of smugness. “This would be the real reason you don’t want to take the case, then?” He says, looking at Sherlock and raising his eyebrows.

“No!” Sherlock insists, as if he’s offended at the thought. “I don’t want to take your case because it’s so simple that your newest patrol officer should be able to handle it. Also, I’ve just gotten home after being chased halfway around the world by a maniac, so I think I’ve earned a bit of a rest.”

John presses his lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. Lestrade looks over at him and gives him an imploring look. “Try to talk him around, will you? We really do need the help.” He pushes the casefile across the coffee table for John to take.

“I’ll see what I can do.” John says, picking up the file with some amusem*nt.

“Right. Well, I have a few other cases on at the moment, so I’d better be going. Let me know about the case. And, er. I’m very happy for both of you.” Lestrade smiles at them wryly. “It’s about bloody time you figured it out.”

“I don’t think that’s all.” Sherlock says, focus narrowing in on Lestrade’s face.

“No?” Lestrade asks innocently.

“No, there’s definitely something else.”

Lestrade sighs and stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking a bit chagrined. “If you must know, I may have just won a rather large sum of money.” Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes. “But I really am happy for you! I wouldn’t have bet on you if I didn’t think it was going to happen anyway.” Lestrade chuckles as he turns to leave.

Sherlock is right about one thing, the case is extraordinarily simple. But John wins out in the end. It isn’t even twelve hours later that Sherlock and John are crouched behind the sofa in Nathan Garrideb’s flat, waiting for their suspect to arrive. It hadn’t taken long at all to discover that the man going by the name Alex Garrideb was in fact a criminal named Steven Morecroft. He had faked his identity specifically to get into the homes of two men, both with the same last name. He obviously hadn’t found what he was looking for on his first attempt, and so Sherlock and John wait at the second location for Morecroft to try again.

He eventually does, rather loudly. Morecroft, a heavyset man with tightly coiled dark hair, makes his way to the bookcase built into the wall. He rummages around before letting out a small laugh and pulling out a copy of the collected works of Oscar Wilde, revealing a secret panel behind the shelf.

Sherlock flicks on the lamp on the end table and smiles as Morecroft startles. “Hello, Steven.”

Morecroft directs a murderous glare at Sherlock. John instinctively stands to his feet and steps forward, placing himself between Sherlock and the criminal. Morecroft’s eyes shift briefly to John, then back to Sherlock. “How did you find me?”

“Please.” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “Only an idiot would have fallen for a sweepstakes based on name alone. Clearly you were desperate, that name must have been the only information you had about where your stolen jewels ended up. So all you could do was hope the lure of a prize would be enough to get you access to what you were after. Howard Garrideb had second thoughts and came back too early, which is when you killed him. But he didn’t have the jewels and so you had no choice but to continue your little scheme. It was so obvious any child should have seen through it.”

Morecroft’s face twists in anger as he steps closer. John pulls out his gun and shakes his head. Morecroft backs away, glowering.

“I’ve already alerted Scotland Yard that you’ve arrived. They should be here soon. In the meantime…” Sherlock walks past Morecroft to the keypad on the bookcase. John trails behind to watch his back. “Hm, eight digit code, first digit is clearly a one…” Sherlock glances over at the book on the shelf and smiles. “Ah, simple.”

1-6-1-0-1-8-5-4

There’s the sound of something unlatching as the whole bookshelf separates from the wall. Sherlock pulls it to the side to reveal a secret room. A small velvet bag sits on the table. Sherlock snatches it up and empties its contents into his open palm. A small fortune of diamonds tumbles into his hand.

“Wow.” John says, eyes gone wide. He shakes himself and looks at Sherlock. “How did you work out the code?”

Sherlock carefully pours the jewels back into the velvet bag and pulls the strings shut. He then gestures back at the book. “Oscar Wilde’s birthday. Avoided deletion somehow, I did always have an affinity for his sense of aesthetics.”

“Brilliant!” John exclaims.

Sherlock’s ears go slightly pink as he smiles. “It was nothing, really.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Morecroft scoffs. “I didn’t come this close to getting my diamonds to get caught by a couple of bloody fairies…” Morecroft pulls a gun out of his coat and aims it at John.

Sherlock lunges, crashing violently into him just as he pulls the trigger, leading to the bullet lodging itself in the wall opposite, rather than in John’s chest. Sherlock wrestles the gun out of Morecroft’s hands and whips the butt of the gun across his temple, knocking him out cold.

Sherlock seems to come to his senses and looks back at John, seemingly embarrassed at his outburst. “Sorry.” He says. “I’m a bit sensitive to people attacking you, if you couldn’t tell.”

John lets out an exasperated laugh. “Yeah, I’d noticed, actually. It’s mutual. And also very, very sexy.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “I- I didn’t... I mean… Really?”

“Really.” John says with his eyebrows raised. Sherlock clears his throat to hide his pleased smile before adjusting his coat collar, making sure it’s turned up just right. John makes an amused sound at his preening. “Yeah, that too.”

When Lestrade turns up he’s thrilled to have the diamonds recovered. He claps Sherlock and John both on the shoulder.

“Great work you two! Knew you’d be able to do it. Hey listen, some of us were going to go for drinks. What do you say to tagging along? My treat.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You mean our treat, since you made the money off of us. I suppose it’s the least you can do.”

“Actually,” John says, tugging gently on Sherlock’s hand. “I was hoping I could take this one out to dinner. Can we take a rain check?”

“Alright.” Lestrade says, shaking his head indulgently. “Another time then.”

“Thanks, Greg.” John replies with a wink. He then pulls Sherlock to follow him.

“Where are you taking me?” Sherlock asks.

“Angelo’s. I thought in honour of our first case after… Well, I thought it’d be nice to have another first night there.” John looks nervously over at Sherlock, suddenly second guessing himself. “Too much?”

Sherlock smiles at John tenderly. “Not at all.”

“In that case, we should probably pull up the menu. Angelo is constantly changing it.”

“Please. You know he’ll make us whatever we want. Especially when I tell him you really are taking me on a date this time.”

“It could have been a date the first time too if someone hadn’t insisted he was married to his work.” John teases.

“Is that so?” Sherlock asks archly. “Because I seem to recall that you insisted it wasn’t a date more than once.”

“Well it wasn’t when we sat down!”

The two continue to bicker fondly about whose fault it was that their first night hadn’t ended differently, mostly for how wonderful it feels to make light of something that had been a source of pain for so long. They had both been carrying the heavy weight of regret with them for years and its absence is freeing. Suddenly the past doesn’t seem so unbearable, it had all led to something beautiful in the end. Sherlock pauses his teasing and glances down at John, a brilliant smile on his face, which John eagerly returns.

They walk towards the start of a new future, side by side and hand in hand.

THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON

A New Adventure

Hello all. It’s been a while since that last entry. A lot has changed since then.

First, the small news. You can thank RachelTheWhiteHat for the new and improved website. Apparently the old layout was “bloody hideous.” I think it’s all the same as long as you can read the posts but I’m starting a new chapter and thought it was time for a change.

Speaking of that new chapter… This will come as a surprise to absolutely none of you, but it turns out Sherlock and I have been in love since the day we met and have spent the better part of five years both thinking the other could never want us back. It took several near-death experiences for us to get it figured out, but we got there in the end.

I’ll write up those cases soon. There are a few in there that I think you’ll really enjoy. But for now I just wanted to say, for the record, that this is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. It sounds silly, and he’ll accuse me of being ridiculously romantic, but it sort of feels like my whole life was leading to the moment I knew he felt the same way about me that I did about him. If I had to wait 100 years to be with him, it would have been worth it. It’s like I have a whole new life that’s just beginning. I can’t wait to share those adventures with him, and with you.

-John Watson

Harry Watson: Are you serious??? Finally! Let me know when you two are free, we’ll need to have a double date so you and Sherlock can meet Willow.

John Watson: I’ve just texted you Harry

Bill Murray: So you have gone gay then? (Kidding, I remember your army days, casanova)

Mike Stamford: Oh thank God! I was beginning to seriously doubt myself. You two are the longest it's taken a couple I’ve set up to get together… Well done, mate.

Mrs. Hudson: My boys!!!! I’m so happy for you both. Though I do wish you would remember that the hallway is for my flat as well…

Harry Watson: lol!!!!

John Watson: Sorry Mrs. Hudson…

Mrs. Turner: Oh that’s lovely! #lovewins (Am I using that right?? Scott and Ian told me it was what the kids do now)

Molly Hooper: Congratulations! Knew you two would get there in the end. You’ll have to come round for dinner with me and Greg some time :)

John Watson: We’d love to.

RachelTheWhiteHat: Saw that one coming a mile away…

LivingBones: Right?? Now Phil will finally have to let us run the club ^^

NathanInTheWoods: We were right!!! And if it hadn’t been for us, you two wouldn’t have lived to figure it out. That’s what I call a dedicated fanbase. ;)

Capella Olgimsky: This is the happiest day of my life!! <3

John Watson: Yes all right, we get it, you all knew all along. Very clever. But seriously. Thanks again for your help.

PhilipAnderson: What?!?! Is this a joke? Did Rachel put you up to this?? You can’t actually be dating.

Mrs. Hudson: How rude! I’ll be very cross if you give either of them a hard time, young man.

LivingBones: Hey Phil, you owe me 100 quid!

RachelTheWhiteHat: Me too.

Sherlock Holmes: As it turns out, I quite like it when you’re ridiculously romantic.

John Watson: Well I like just about everything about you, so that works out well :)

Sherlock Holmes: <3

Chapter 13: Epilogue: The True Story

Chapter Text

The rooms of 221B are warm in the glow of the lamplight. The curtains have been drawn for the evening, the door to the stairway is shut, and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson sit side by side in their armchairs pulled close to the fire, their legs entwined between them. The air is filled with the rich smell of pipe tobacco.

“Come now, Sherlock! You cannot think that story is reasonable.” Watson exclaims, smiling up at Holmes indulgently.

All the same, Holmes is ruffled at Watson’s disapproval. His brow furrows as he brings his pipe up to his mouth. “My logic was perfectly sound. I laid out all the pieces for you; if you fail to follow my reasoning that is entirely your fault, John. As I have often remarked, one must follow even the smallest details to their inevitable conclusion. From a drop of water a logician should be able to infer-”

“The possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara,” Watson echoes along, with a bemused smile. “You appear to have taken that philosophy quite literally, in this particular case.”

“I thought you would appreciate the change in setting. Quite clearly I was incorrect.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Replies Watson, his grin widening.

Holmes makes a small sound of annoyance in the back of his throat. "I still hold that it was a perfectly logical way for the events to unfold.”

“Is that so?” Watson asks as he shakes his head. “James Moriarty was a maths professor. A clever one, I grant you. He did have quite the impressive web of criminal connections. But you’ve turned him into an omnipotent force! Even with all the contraptions in your modern world, I do not think he would have been able to accomplish all of that.”

“I’ll concede that particular detail was more of a… metaphorical choice. Perhaps it was not entirely grounded in reality.” Replies Holmes.

“Metaphor is one matter… Your ending is another entirely. I write publicly about our relationship and we receive hundreds of messages from well wishers? Surely you must see that for the insane degree of wish fulfillment it is, Sherlock!” Watson begins to laugh, but when he sees Holmes is genuinely offended he fights to rein in his mirth.

“It may be,” says Holmes, defensively crossing his arms. “How would you have done it, then? Since you’re the storyteller.”

Watson mulls that over for a time, drawing deeply from his pipe. After a long pause, he smiles over at Holmes, eyes twinkling.

“I think I would have drawn it out a bit more, kept the readers in suspense. So I propose that after you had gotten off that flying contraption, I would stay with my wife,” Watson winks at Holmes, “And she would have given birth a few months later. Of course, we couldn’t be happy together, her dark past would come to haunt her. Not Moriarty, something else. Then I think she should have died to save your life, driving a wedge between the two of us. Drama of that sort is always of interest to an audience. We would eventually reconcile, of course. Then, we would face the manifestation of all of your worst features embodied in your long forgotten sister. All so you could become the good man you were always destined to be.”

“And my story is ridiculous?!” Scoffs Holmes. “Why on Earth would your wife save my life after she tried to kill me? And secret siblings? Again? Honestly John, you have got to move past that idea. It was amusing at first but I believe I can safely say that that you have officially taken it too far.”

Watson chuckles. “You may have a point.” His voice takes on an even more dramatic flair as he continues. “Perhaps all of that was an elaborate ruse. In reality, you and I would be working together behind the scenes to orchestrate the inevitable downfall of my wife, a plan so secret even our audience couldn’t be permitted to know it.”

“Ah, I see.” Holmes says with a sigh. “You’re mocking me now.”

“Not at all!” Watson protests, pressing his lips together to hide his smile.

Holmes looks down at his lap, frowning. “I only wanted to imagine a time where the world could know what you are to me, what we are to each other. A world where that could be accepted, even celebrated.” His eyes flick back up to Watson’s, full of longing.

Watson’s face softens. “Sherlock. Against all of your warnings I have hinted at the truth in my stories. Suppressed the romance, as you once said. A clever reader will discover it. Some of them already have.” Watson pats his hand reassuringly on Holmes’ thigh. “No matter what may or may not come to pass a century from now, if those readers know the truth, that’s some consolation, isn’t it?”

Holmes smiles at Watson, though it does not reach his eyes. “You make a fair point. All the same, I still find myself wishing for that world. My dearest hope is that someday the true story of you and I may be told.”

Watson’s eyes crinkle up in affection. “It will be.” He says with an air of certainty. “If you’re correct in your speculations, as you so often are… Then I believe with all my heart that it is only a matter of time.”

Holmes and Watson share a moment of silent understanding, the kind that only comes with years of intimacy. Their smiles speak of easy companionship and true, unbridled love. When the silence between them grows too great to bear, Watson gently places his hands on either side of Holmes’ face and stretches up to kiss him.

And whether the year is 1895 or 1970; 2015 or 2050, that is always how their story ends.