Post by Arctura on Dec 17, 2013 16:16:15 GMT
“The noir hero is a knight in blood caked armor.
He's dirty and he does his best to deny the fact that he's a hero the whole time.”
-Frank Miller
“Heroes don’t exist and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”
-Sherlock Holmes, “The Great Game”
Chapter I
The former consulting detective sat in his homemade lab, testing the effects of dimethylmercury and methylmercury on horde of rodents. He was pragmatic. Prudent. As usual. He was uncapping another vial of the mercurial liquid when a certain dominatrix strolled in, confidently, with a single piece of news:
The last target was down. Dead, to be specific.
The entire network had been dismantled, which was shocking, considering they initially underestimated the consulting criminal’s dominion. And all of Irene’s underground enemies had seemingly vanished.
But they didn’t question it. They were free.
The unusual pair arrived home the following day. “Ah, London, the great cesspool.” Sherlock thought, admiring the city, as they navigated the sodden streets. The black umbrellas reminded him of his brother. No doubt he’d be here, an owl waiting for its prey. He envisioned Mycroft lounging calmly at 221B, burdens lifted, as if he felt he was no longer responsible for any harm done to his brother- or lack thereof.
Sherlock bid the Woman goodbye, made his way up the creaky stairs, and slightly pushed open the door to his flat. No movement could be seen through the slim crevice, except for the curtains gently swaying. He opened the door fully now but still no sight of his short friend. His glasz eyes swept the room, calculating every minutia of the furniture, and he stopped upon his old velvet chair.
There was a deep depression on the seat, and it was still warm. There were fibers (no doubt belonging to a jumper) and a few blond hairs. Sherlock sniffed the air once. Pine trees. “Yes, he was here recently. Must be out." He allowed a rare smile to break his stoicism. It was comforting to know John still lived here, despite his absence.
The consulting detective went about the room, making several deductions, but resolutely kept his back away from the kitchen. He was pointedly ignoring the portly man in a waistcoat sitting, legs crossed, idly enjoying a cup of tea. He let out a guttural laugh at the thought Mycroft believed himself to be oh so clever with his silence and subtlety. After three minutes, the man stood up, deciding to make his appearance known.
"Oh my."
Sherlock turned around slowly, faking a disgruntled expression to indulge his older brother- only a moment though, before erupting with laughter. Mycroft looked mildly perturbed, but he quickly put the pieces together; his powers of deduction near transcended Sherlock’s. Unlike his brother, he could take a bit of humor and inclined his head, communicating “Fair game”.
However, there was one question. Leaning on his umbrella, the hard-eyed aristocrat inquired, “You are certainly an astute one, dear brother. But why on earth would you lead me here? What did you hope to accomplish? You were never one for confrontation.” He was hinting at Sherlock’s excessive use of texting. Mycroft was the exact opposite, opting for confrontation whenever possible, even going at great lengths to acquire a meeting.
“Isn’t it obvious?”, Sherlock replied, “I did not know initially, but I was always, to some extent, wary you may be watching the house. After all, is that not what you do? Secrecy. Duplicity. I knew that you would stop by, hoping to catch me.”
Mycroft sobered up immediately. He looked almost contrite. Almost. He spoke up, “It was for your own good, Sherlock. Who do you think cleared Miss Adler’s salacious record? Helped with those stymying underground purveyors? I must admit however: the snipers were entirely your efforts.”
“Yes, yes, I know. You’re the British government, endless puppets to control. Contacts everywhere, even in the most unsuitable places. Oh, lying to me about Irene’s existence was admittedly not one of your most brilliant plans. I rescued her in Karachi.”
“First name basis, are we?”, Mycroft quipped, not addressing the matter of the Woman. He was not surprised that Sherlock had deduced her whereabouts and rectified the situation.
“Yes. Change the subject.” He hated how even a mere mention of her put him off balance.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. The detective hastily corrected him. “Oh no, not that. Business partners. Acquaintances.”
“I see.”
Mycroft, although disappointed that Sherlock hadn’t come to him to for help with Moriarty and thus had to take such drastic measures, he could not help but feel immensely proud. He had averted a crisis and the death of three innocents, his loved ones. Moreover, he felt relieved. Relieved that Sherlock had found a safe location and had company over the years. Even if the company was Irene Adler. Innately, Mycroft knew she was good for him. In a way. At the very least, his little brother wouldn’t hopelessly die a virgin.
The silence was comfortable. The two had unexpectedly fallen back into their natural, brotherly rivalry.
Suddenly bothered, Sherlock plopped down on the couch below the spray painted and shot at wall. He asked the inevitable "What do you want, Mycroft?" He was on the verge of playing his violin in a dissonant and dreadful manner.
Mycroft said in a low voice, "I think you know exactly." The words hung ominous and palpable in the air. Sensing his confusion, he clarified, “It’s simple. Tell me everything.”
Sherlock's face changed from petulant to remorseful. Suddenly, his mind became submerged in throes of all that had happened in the past two years. It was certainly no respite. There were more threads in Moriarty’s web than he could’ve imagined.
When Sherlock was atop Saint Bartholomew’s morgue, he had anticipated Moriarty’s textbook move of targeting his loved ones. It was obvious to Sherlock that a.) Molly’s relevance would be overlooked and b.) he would have to face death in some fashion, so he sought the scientist’s help, no less than an hour previously. Together, the two of them mapped out every plausible scenario, involving the Homeless Network and some of the morgue employees. And the plan had worked. Though, it was only nearly infallible- nearly, because in saving John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, he had to leave precious London for two years, henceforth devoting his life to bringing down Moriarty’s cohorts.
In a way, it was similar to life before his challenge with the Irish madman. Sherlock would awake each morning, wrapped thinly in a bed sheet, and spend the entire day on a case. Except, there was no Molly to let him pilfer specimens, or Mrs. Hudson to shriek at said specimens which were left -sometimes, purposely- on the kitchen counter, or John to berate him for not wearing pants, eating, sleeping, or for playing the violin too loud. He even missed Anderson a bit; he found satisfaction in degrading Scotland Yard’s resident ignoramus.
Mycroft stared intently throughout this reflection, his slate grey eyes deducing the emotions that ran across his brother’s normally inscrutable face. It was a rare opportunity and one he would not pass up. He thought about bringing him back to reality but decided against it. Sherlock was employing the Method of Loci, or the collection of memories (as he calls it, his “mind palace”). Mycroft would be daft to interrupt his concentration. He sat down in the velvet chair and steepled his hands.
This was going to be awhile.
Chapter II
Immediately after the staged plunge from the morgue’s rooftop, his infamous pseudocide, Sherlock hid at Molly’s house until his ‘funeral’. It was just as he suspected. Dull. Sepulchral. Boring. A few days later, he saw Mrs. Hudson and John on their way to the cemetery and followed them. In the umbrage, he heard everything- from Mrs. Hudson’s teary exasperation of the time he kept a head in the fridge to John’s quiet, endearing words.
“You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human...human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there,” John said, fighting back tears, “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” His face quickly became stoic, and he stood straight, ever the soldier. He flexed his hands as he walked away from the gravestone, trying to quell the tremors.
Soon, the man disappeared and Sherlock was left more alone than he’d ever been.
Emotions were not his forte, but Sherlock had never heard anything quite so beautiful yet understated in his life. And it was about him. He appreciated John in that he was the faithful friend, the silly blogger, and the strong soldier at once. Most of all, he was someone who didn’t tell him to “piss off” every time he made a deduction.
John understood that Sherlock was spectacularly ignorant about a lot of things in life, like rudimentary astronomy, but he accepted it. Sure, there was a bit of scolding, but he never really meant it. Above all, Sherlock was amazed that he never stopped believing. When all others had branded him a fake, John had faith in him. The sociopath. The freak.
“Nobody could be that clever.”
“You could.”
Was his pretentious brother right? Was caring not an advantage? Was sentimentality truly a chemical defect found on the losing side? On the rooftop, moments before Moriarty’s demise, Sherlock told him that although he may be on the side of the angels, he was not one of them. He had misconstrued his own incapacity of expression to mean that he didn’t care at all. How could that be? He was human. Of course he felt emotions; he just didn’t quite know what to do with them. It seemed to be one of those trivialities he so often ‘deleted from his hard drive’.
And, more than that, it’s hard to change your life after living as if loneliness protects you.
However, now was not the time. A rational voice told Sherlock it would be counterproductive for him to stay in London. He knew, to some degree, what he was in for when he accepted Moriarty’s mad challenge. Damn him wanting to achieve the next high! Donovan was right. He gets off on it.
"One day we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."
How right she was.
Moriarty knew from the start, even before their first encounter, that Sherlock would agree to ‘play the game’. The criminal kept his promise to “burn the heart” out of him. At the time, Sherlock had mistaken it for the contrived and empty threat of a villain, when Moriarty meant the worried man who was behind Sherlock.
Semtex strapped to his chest.
John.
Sherlock reluctantly bid Molly farewell and took the next flight to Liverpool. There was an abandoned Holmes estate -a safe house- that he assumed Mycroft would not bother to monitor. The place was large, baroque, and near dilapidated, though not entirely uninhabitable. Sherlock realized that his goal of purging Europe of Moriarty’s plague would be impossible without resources. He could not rely on Mycroft’s sly surveillance or the London Homeless Network. He did the only thing he could: he texted Irene Adler. The Woman, as she is professionally called. Innately, Sherlock knew that he should not trust Irene when she played him on marionette strings, his heartstrings. Not to mention, she outright sold him to Moriarty. But again, he repressed and interred those feelings and succumbed. Completely.
Dinner? In Liverpool. -SH
Hello, Mr. Holmes. It’s always nice to eat with a dead man. -IA
The London Carriage Works. 8:00 tomorrow. Don’t be late. -IA
Or I might have to punish you. -IA
I’d let you. -SH
As soon as they met up, they addressed the elephant in the room. They attributed the incident with Moriarty to be under ‘unfortunate circumstances’. Irene agreed that cunning as she may be, she did not expect to develop feelings whilst on the job. She worked with Moriarty only because he could offer the protection she needed. In that respect, they were the same: neither of them have ever been in love. It was a new territory that they hadn’t handled well.
The new alliance was admittedly tense in the first few months, but soon an easy camaraderie was built. He researched from home while she did the leg work. She was his eyes and ears, his own homeless network. Irene had no qualms about travel; in fact, she loved the excuse to evade the overbearing marshals of Witness Protection. What else would possess her to fly all the way to Liverpool?
Sherlock, on the other hand, was even more of a target than Irene. He could not afford to leave the house unless absolutely imperative. Besides, he preferred the provincial life. Furthermore, Irene indulged his guilty pleasure: nicotine. Was not life perpetually a three-patch problem? To Sherlock, every case posed as the means to achieve the next high. Anyways, he justified his relapse with her debt.
He chuckled lightly at the memory of Karachi when he used Baritsu to, as John once said, “beat the shit out of the bad guys”, saving her from being beheaded by Pakistani terrorists. If only Mummy could have seen him. She never did think he could handle ‘physical work’ (Sherlock liked to think she meant Mycroft, who was notorious for never lifting a finger).
After the initial excitement of his mission wore off, the tediousness of the single case became apparent. His mind rebelled at the stagnation that seeped into his every orifice. By the end of each day, a new bullet hole graced the parlor wall. Not to mention, every time he made a call, he had to procure a burner cell. Sherlock was in an unenviable situation: he missed Baker Street. Feelings of nostalgia were sure to impede his efforts, but they could not be helped. Whenever Sherlock found a case back in London, he’d send an anonymous tip to Scotland Yard. He even resorted to stalking John’s blog, hoping for an update, and every time, yet another bullet was added. Then, he’d ring up Molly, again, hoping for a vestige of news. Anything. Eventually, after months of disappointment, she told him the ‘happy’ news: John was engaged. Getting married in seven months, apparently. To some woman named Mary Morstan. How quaint.
Suffice to say, he stopped calling. He deleted the bookmark of John’s blog, too.
Sherlock desperately wanted out but not until every sniper was eliminated and Irene’s past was cleared. More than just returning to idyllic London, Sherlock wanted to hear Mrs. Hudson’s gentle chiding and John’s reluctant praise of his "massive intellect". He wanted to have coffee the way John made it -black with two sugars- and he wanted to play his violin into the wee hours of morning -sometimes as early as two o'clock- just to see his flatmate storm out of his room, hair like a bird’s nest, threatening to castrate him. Ah, pleasant as always.
Chapter III
It was one in the afternoon, nearly forty minutes after they had last spoken. The tea was cold and Mycroft was impatient. How much more reflecting did the man need? He snapped his fingers, effectively ending Sherlock’s reverie.
“Welcome back, Sherlock. Fancy a chat?” He asked, patronizingly.
“Depends. Do I get a cigarette?”
“No.”
Sherlock gave no reply.
“Good heavens, Sherlock. Must you always be so difficult?” Mycroft said, pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose.
“Only on Saturdays.” Sherlock replied, wry.
Mycroft was not amused. Sighing, he took a pack from his coat pocket. He always kept one, though he stopped smoking a while ago (truth be told, he only ever started that nasty habit, because it supposedly controlled weight gain). It was for making Sherlock talk when all else failed. A symbol of his resignation.
A last resort.
Sherlock, like a child on Christmas morning, greedily snatched the lone cigarette from his brother’s hand. It was better than nothing.
Mycroft quickly tucked away the pack. Exasperated, he asked, “For God’s sake, why is it that all of our most worthy conversations happen when you’re under the influence?”
“Chemically, nicotine stimulates the brain. It heightens awareness and short-term memory. In moderation, the effects are desirable.” Sherlock recited flatly.
“Fascinating,” he said, massaging his temples, preventing the migraine that was sure to come, “I knew this addiction would come back. I’m guessing it was Irene? Of course. It must also be why you look so tired. Insomnia, creative or otherwise, can kill you, Sherlock.”
“I’m not sleep deprived. I’m simply adopting a polyphasic sleep pattern.”
“Sure you are. Well, anyways, I suppose that the nicotine cannot be the sole reason…”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Am I incorrect to assume that Dr. Watson is not a contributor to your ailment?”
“I am not in distress, Mycroft. I am not some petty widow.”
He tsked. “Too close to the heart, then?” Sherlock didn’t think Mycroft knew just how close he was. The aristocrat plowed on, "Are you aware that dear John is to be wed in a fortnight?"
"Yes, and that may or may not be why I'm even here in the first place." Sherlock thought bitterly. Instead, he said, "Obviously. Molly told me. She said and I quote, ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Sherlock? I’m going to be a bridesmaid. Me, a bridesmaid!’” He threw up his hands in mock excitement.
“I don’t believe there’s any way I couldn’t have known. It’s all over his blog, too. And Twitter. "
“Ooh, really? Pictures?” Mycroft was enjoying this.
Glaring, Sherlock said, “You really are a politician through and through, aren’t you?”
“Well, I am in the possession of some scruples I can assure you.”
The detective uttered a single word. “Bollocks.”
Mycroft was surprised. Expletives were not in his regular vernacular. Chuckling all the same, he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in the velvet chair. “Why else would I make the effort to come here, knowing fully you’d put up a fight, unwilling to provide me with even a vestige of information? As your older brother, it is my duty to ensure your...safety. Yes, I’ve been watching you but with good intent, Sherlock. Surely, you must understand. Regardless, I require that you tell me enough so that I may assist you. And, I...promise that I will not make any deliberations without your knowledge.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, contemplating this admission for several minutes. “Fine.” he said.
Mycroft could dance at that moment. Well, if he did physical activity. He let out an exhale of pure relief. For the second time in his life, his younger brother was on his side; it was unnatural but welcome. And this time, it only cost him an hour and one cigarette. Wait.
Sherlock could see the gears turning in his older brother’s head. Was he reconsidering his proposition?
“Actually, on second thought, Sherlock”, Mycroft began, “I think it is best that we have this conversation at a later date. There are some things you should take care of first before I divulge any more. Oh, yes, don’t look so surprised. There is a rather large piece of information you don’t know. And it has to do with Moriarty’s network.” Holding up a hand to ward off any inquiries, he continued, “Later, Sherlock. Now, you must meet up with John. Show him that you are alive and well and hope for his forgiveness, though I expect it will not be immediate.”
The consulting detective was concerning himself with the state of the curtains. Looking for a distraction. The first rays of light that day were peeking through the gauzy curtains. He observed that the rain must have stopped.
And it was not only the sky that was clear to him.
He nodded his acknowledgment. He knew what had to be done.
Mycroft stood up. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, brother of mine,” He said smugly and added, “One more thing: don’t cock it up.” He strode out of the room, umbrella in hand. It was a futile caveat though; of course something was going to go horribly wrong. Considering Sherlock’s tendency to be rather blunt, it was, in fact, downright barmy to think otherwise.
Sherlock thought fleetingly about unpacking, ultimately deciding it would be unwise. He did not live here anymore. What if John came back only to find a dead man’s belongings? There was no need to give the soldier a heart attack. There were a few options: He could a.) wait for John to return or b.) take matters into his own hands. He rang up Molly Hooper.
“Hello.”
“Sherlock? What is it?”
“John.”
“Sorry?”
“John”, Sherlock said impatiently, “Is he with you?”
“Uh, no...I could call him. If you’d like.”
“Yes. Do that and ask him where he is.”
After a few moments, Molly said that John was at a dress shop with Mary. Apparently, buying a dress was the last item on the checklist for the wedding. “Thank you.” Sherlock said after a pause.
That was all she needed to hear. “Good luck.”
He hung up. Luck was for quixotic fools.
Chapter IV
Sherlock walked out of 221B, coat collar turned up, and the first thing that hit him was the light, almost spring feel of the air. Suddenly, the worn blue scarf was suffocating him. He shoved it in his pocket. The only thing on his mind was getting reacquainted with the city.
“I need to get to know London again. Breathe it in.”
It was true he had not forgotten the simple things like how to hail a bloody cab, but things like the exact route of each establishment eluded him. He told himself that such information would be useless in Liverpool. So he deleted it. It frustrated him that he could no longer map out the entire London underground. He couldn’t even remember where each of the members of the Homeless Network were.
In seven minutes, Sherlock had reached his destination. “Hmm..that would be considered walking distance.”
Maybe cab rides were too painful for him without Sherlock.
Oh god, he was doing it again. Concluding everything in John’s life revolved around him. Did it not? No, he had moved on, continuing cases for Lestrade and even finding a significant other.
But there was one stray detail: John still rented 221B Baker Street. Why? Why be in an environment that reminded him constantly of a certain dead, annoying prat? Sherlock shuddered at the thought John may have developed some masochistic complex. It was unhealthy. And what did his fiance think of the circumstances? He assumed the couple would be living together at this stage in their relationship.
No matter. The truth will come out from both sides. Well, once Sherlock worked out the details of his reveal. Perhaps he could jump out of a cake. No, that’s absurd. It was no better than waiting around at the flat, or he supposed, surprising John at the dress shop. It seemed Sherlock had vastly underestimated the difficulty of returning from the grave. Dealing with terrorists, fine. Greeting an old friend? Not so much. It required sensitivity. Unlike Mycroft, John had delicate sensibilities. He wished he had asked Molly for advice on relaying the news gently. But there was no going back now.
Before Sherlock could augment his anxiety, he entered the store. After all, there was no need to meticulously orchestrate this. He wasn’t plunging to his death. Sherlock immediately took into account the odd crowd. Autumn wasn’t typically the wedding season. He could not see John, and even if he did see Mary, he wouldn’t have known. There weren’t any pictures of her on the blog.
“Drunkard. Polygamist. How ironic. Cocaine addict- oh, that’s familiar. Kleptomaniac. Taxidermist. Extreme narcissist? Getting married? Odd. An illegal immigrant. Okay, there’s another drunk...” Sherlock thought critically as he scanned the faces. Then, he saw him. The blonde army doctor. He was standing alone, aimlessly browsing the -gaudy- model dresses, waiting patiently for his fiancee, who was obviously in the back room, having her measurements taken. For the first time in a long while, Sherlock grinned. Like an idiot. John was well. Alive. Breathing. The only differences were that he sported an unflattering moustache, and judging by the cane, his psychosomatic limp had unfortunately returned.
John glanced around, no longer interested with the display. Sherlock managed to quickly obscure himself behind tall, plastic foliage. He was officially panicking. How could he possibly think to barge in unceremoniously? Mycroft was probably right about forgiveness not being immediate, and Sherlock did not fancy the thought of having his arse kicked in a public place. However, plan B required a disguise and carefully written dialogue, both of which he currently did not have the temperament for. Damn it all.
Mumbling goodbyes to his unmarred features, Sherlock turned down his coat collar in an act of humility and approached the bored man. John stood, faced away from him, humming idly. Annoyed, the detective had no choice but to wait. He briefly reconsidered jumping out of a cake. Heat prickled at the base of his neck. After a few tense minutes, Sherlock cleared his throat loudly to will the inevitable.
John turned around. His cane dropped to the ground with a thud.
Just then, Mary popped up behind Sherlock, and seeing the shock on her fiance’s face, asked, “Darling, what’s wrong? Who’s this?” As if there were truly words to describe the enormity of the situation. John sat down weakly. He was breathing hard, eyes closed. Hands clenching and unclenching in an erratic manner. He was battling the denial. He quickly ruled out the thought that it was a hallucination brought on by medication; he hadn’t taken it that morning. Or that it was a cruel trick from Moriarty. But he was dead. John was the sort of man who had to see to believe, and this was undoubtedly very real.
Mary became increasingly concerned. She could have sworn John was getting better, but he looked to be on the brink of a panic attack. And the mystery man was the cause of it. She addressed Sherlock, slightly rudely, “Who are you? What’s your problem?”
Struggling for some semblance of composure, he replied, “I’m Sherlock Holmes, ma’am.” He felt the title might appease her, if only marginally. Mary’s reaction mirrored John’s initial one.
Utter disbelief.
“Oh my god...no..no..you-you’re dead. And now you’re not,” she started, “I don’t understand..I-I saw your grave. All over the news...” She trailed off, for there was nothing else to say. It was obvious that everything was a load of rubbish. John, however, was not coping quite as well. After all, Mary hadn’t witnessed Sherlock jump from St. Bart’s and crack his head on the unforgiving pavement nor had she seen the morgue’s -rather Molly’s- report that confirmed this.
Most of all, Mary didn’t know him. Not like he did. Her only knowledge came secondhand from the telly, the tabloids, and of course, John’s blog. A majority of it was shameful propaganda (Sherlock’s name had been cleared only a week ago). Even the blog excluded the intimate details of the detective’s life.
Soon enough, John gave in to the onslaught of emotion and one in particular: anger.
Unadulterated rage.
“You bloody bastard. You utter prick. I will kill you. FOR REAL THIS TIME!” John shouted, loud enough for the whole shop to hear. In a flash, his hands were on Sherlock’s neck, and a moment later, both men were on the ground, battling for dominance. Actually, correction: John was strangling Sherlock while he struggled for air. Mary stood, wringing her hands. She had no idea whether she should intervene or let things play out. Mary understood what John was feeling, and to be honest, Sherlock deserved a little arse kicking. But she quickly paid for her dress and attempted to pry the two apart. Then, before the men knew it, they were being dragged out of the store by their collars.
John immediately apologized to his fiancee. “I’m sorry, Mary. I-”
“It’s fine, John. It’s just that we were attracting a lot of attention. I bet everyone saw Sherlock now. Don’t be surprised if the news is already on Twitter.”
Sherlock straightened out his coat and cradling his stinging face, said, “Well, um, I hope you have sufficiently gotten that out of your system.” He turned to Mary. “My apologies, for causing a scene.”
Mary looked at Sherlock long and hard. She sighed and said, “It’s quite alright. I don’t think it’s me you should be apologizing to, though…”
“Right, so-”
“Don’t”, John said sharply, “Don’t you dare apologize to me. If you were going to, you might as well bugger off. You were dead for two bloody years, and you can’t just waltz in and think things are going to be perfectly okay!”
“Oh, John, don’t be so melodramatic. I get it- you’re cross.” Sherlock was imploring John to see his way. It’s not like it was his favorite option. Frankly, faking his death was a messy and complicated affair. He hated to acknowledge that perhaps it would’ve been best to involve his brother.
John was quietly simmering. “Cross? Cross doesn’t even begin to cover it, Sherlock. I swear to god, just tell me. Tell me why. Why go to all that trouble? Did you want out? Was London too boring for you?” He could feel his anger fading away, finally to be replaced with exasperation and curiosity. It was only natural to want to know what possessed the detective to up and go. To feed him with those blasphemous lies.
“It was a trick. Just a magic trick.”
Sherlock was silent for a while, and then he said, softly, “I suggest we go back to the flat. Talk there.” John had thought about telling Sherlock that he didn't actually live at 221B; all he did was have tea at Mrs. Hudson's insistence. But he decided against it. Without waiting for their answers, Sherlock swiftly waived down a cab with a five pound note that he filched from John's pocket.
In the taxi, Sherlock sent out a quick text to Mycroft.
It’s done. -SH
He didn’t bother waiting for a reply. There wasn’t going to be one. Unless of course, the man was getting his teeth drilled.
The couple stayed rooted, incredulous. Mary wondered if life with Sherlock was always like this. So damn hard to keep up with, forever at the mercy of the wind. And, as if on cue, it started to rain. Again.
"Uh-oh", John thought, "Something big's going to happen, isn't it?" He could feel the fear, along with something else as well. The blood pumping in his veins. The thrill of the chase. The adventure. As he walked alongside Mary, he noticed something.
He didn’t need his cane.
