Calais Reno

***

For each passing week, it happens more frequently. And it doesn’t only apply to when I’m in the flat. Even at grim crime scenes I lose myself in thoughts of Sherlock. 

His agility – jumping over fences like an athlete. His large hands – gesturing elegantly. His voice – deep and resonant, speaking to my very core. His lips – lush and breath-taking. His hair – tousled or perfectly coiffed. His coat, his tight trousers, and shirts – making my knees weak.

“Out with it!”

I’m so startled, I nearly topple over. A large hand grabs my elbow gently, and Sherlock’s baritone scolds someone called George for being rude.

“Come on, John. We have a killer to catch!”

And without further ado, I’m running after my mad and gorgeous detective, while my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.

Later - the killer is behind bars, and Sherlock delights in my adoring praise of his flawless deductions – I get a chance to check my mobile.

Are you ok? You lost yourself in your head again today. Like Sherlock does. What’s going on, John? Out with it!

“What does Gavin want?” Sherlock drawls from his chair.

“Nothing,” I say.

My blush is competing with the flames in the hearth, and I’m one hundred percent sure Sherlock knows I’m lying. He always does.

***

One of the many perks of Sherlock retreating to his Mind Palace, is that I get to observe him undisturbed. I only let my gaze linger when his eyes are shut. Granted, I’ve tried to wave my hand in front of his face when they are open; he doesn’t even blink, so I know it’s safe. Nevertheless, I don’t want to push my luck. 

What will he think if he saw me drinking him in like a man finally reaching an oasis in a dry desert? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

At the moment, Sherlock’s eyes are closed, so it’s safe to ogle his lithe frame, his steepled hands, his slightly parted lips. I let my eyes wander and linger wherever they desire. My tongue darts out to lick my chapped lips, and to my horror I realise that I’m drooling slightly. Christ.

When I have swiped the moist away, Sherlock’s eyes are open, meeting mine with an unexpected fondness. I find myself unable to look away. Maybe it’s time to stop this pretence and just dive into the unknown.

“So, this is what Gerald meant,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“His remark, and I quote: ‘Out with it.’”

Shit. He heard that. Obviously. His hearing is –

“John, don’t. Please.”

Please, what? I can’t comprehend what the familiar voice asks.

When something warm registers on my face, I open my eyes to find Sherlock kneeling in front of my chair, his delicate hands cupping my face.

“You need to stop doing that,” he whispers, “it feels like you’re leaving me.”

“I would never do that to you, Sherlock,” I say softly, and lift my own hands to caress his precious head.

“Good.”

We are both properly present when our lips meet for the first time. After all, this isn’t something any of us would want to miss.

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Nuisance tags

“Where is his laptop?” “Didn’t see one.” “Really, Lestrade.” I’m holding up a power cord, still attached to the wall under the desk. “Obviously it’s been taken.” “Okay, someone broke in and stole his laptop. Killed him when he caught them at it.” “A rather stupid thief, then, since he left the mobile.” Plucking the cell phone off the floor, I flip it open. “Enabled for email. Maybe it’s here.” “What’s here?” “The last message he sent, warning his colleague.” “Colleague?” “Partner, whatever. He’s an archaeologist, an unlikely victim of murder, unless he was involved in something more than ancient history. For that, he would need a partner, a collaborator, a confederate. Here it is.” I pause, frowning at the phone.  “What, like smuggling artefacts? Running drugs?” Ignoring Lestrade, I continue looking at the email. Don't go home tonight. It appears that our victim wasn’t warning his colleague; instead, he has received a warning himself. Not the only interesting feature of the case, but certainly worth looking into. 

“So, they weren’t supposed to kill him? What were they after? And why not take the phone?” “I don’t know yet. Probably thought the laptop had what they wanted. When I’ve studied the message, I might have a better idea.” “His last email?” I raise my hand for a cab. “Trace the sender for me. The name’s JH Watson.” Lestrade grimaces. “Common name. I’ll see what I can do.”

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“I was unsatisfied, not knowing whether the man who confessed to me was telling the truth. Since I did not know if I’d solved the murder he committed, I had to try it myself. As far as I can tell, I have succeeded.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked the younger man, distraught. “I am no priest!”

“I am telling you because you have a mind that seeks answers. Just as I did, you will try to find this murder and solve it. The idea of it will haunt you, as it haunted me. Is there a perfect murder? Is there a way to snatch a soul while life goes on around the deed, oblivious? My own death, which will happen eventually, will be so much more gratifying, knowing that another carries on after I am gone. This is my legacy to you.”

“But, Mr Holmes— surely, you can’t mean that you’ve killed a man for nothing! You’ve spent your life working for justice—“ The young man struggled for words, then fell silent under the keen gaze of the old man.

“So kind of you to visit me in my retirement,” the detective said. “Thank you, Mr Hopkins. I wish you a long, successful career.”

Once the inspector was gone, Holmes chuckled. “You have a great gift of silence, Watson. I had expected to you give the game away before I had my tale told.”

Watson puffed on his pipe for a moment. “My dear man, even after knowing you for so many years, your ability to tell a boldfaced lie still astonishes me. Why did you tell young Hopkins all that balderdash?”

“He’s a good policeman, and has potential to be the best, but he’s not very skeptical. If he now looks at every case as the perfect murder, he will be more attentive and less inclined to accept easy answers.”

“Aren’t you worried that he may decide to try his own hand at murder?”

“That boy? Not at all! Lestrade says he almost became a priest.”

Watson laughed. “And so did you, according to the tale you just told.”

“Oh, that part was true,” Holmes returned. “I went to seminary before I studied chemistry at Cambridge.”

Watson sat up, leaned forward. “Holmes, please don’t tell me you murdered someone just to see if you could—“

“My dear Watson, you know me— do you really believe me a murderer?”

“Of course not. Though if you had turned your talents in that direction, I believe you could have gotten away with it. Thank heavens you did not! But tell me, did you ever find out the identity of the man who confessed that night?”

“Here is the truth, Watson: it was not to me that he confessed. I was a student, remember, not an ordained priest. The priest who heard the confession was so unnerved that he told me, in confidence. He also told me the name of the man. I had already decided to leave the priesthood at that point, and knowing my talent for deduction, he said that I must look into the man’s history.”

“And you did, I presume.”

“Indeed. He survived cancer and went on to have a long and deadly criminal career.”

“You eventually caught him, I presume.”

Holmes lit his pipe again and puffed until a cloud of blue-grey smoke surrounded his head. “We caught one another, Watson, at Reichenbach.”

He waited, watching his friend’s face to see this fact settle. 

Watson nodded. “Ah, yes. Moriarty.” 

***

Sherlock wonders how long he’s been trapped. He can’t even recall why he entered in the first place. Was it to search for something, or was it to escape his own living room? He never leaves - at least unnecessarily - to his Mind Palace if John is present, but perhaps he went out on a date again. If Sherlock isn't playing the violin or performing an experiment to stave off the tedium of John's absence, he tends to walk through this place for a while. The fact that he can’t remember the reason for coming here, is unsettling.

Mycroft has of course taught him everything about the comings and goings, but Sherlock can’t remember if he ever mentioned how to escape his own head if he got stuck. Most likely, it didn’t occur to his brother that it was an option. Mycroft has always had better control of his emotions than Sherlock. He will obviously deny this to his dying day, but inside his mind he can afford to be gracious.

“Are you still here? I’m waiting for you, you know. There’s tea and biscuits.”

John has returned, but he disappears faster than Sherlock can respond.

***

At the end of the corridor is a green sign, which Sherlock supposes is the one he’s been searching for, but when he walks toward it, the sign transforms into a painting. 

The Reichenbach Falls.

It had been a gift from… a client? Or was it some politician? An insignificant detail at this point, obviously. 

The painting gives him the shills; an expression John would use. It is ominous and if he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the grand waterfall.

“John? Where are you?”

Why hasn’t he thought of calling out for the man earlier?

Sherlock contemplates that he might be drugged. Perhaps he isn’t –

“You called,” John says calmly, suddenly standing beside him.

“I did. Thank you for coming. I… I can’t…”

Sherlock is slightly embarrassed to admit that he’s adrift in his own head. 

“Lost, are you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.

To his horror, he feels a burning sensation in his eyes.

A warm hand slides into his, and the words “come on” are uttered. 

Is John holding his hand? 

Sherlock looks down and sees that they are indeed holding hands. However, this is Mind Palace John, a fictional version of his friend, not the real one.

“Here we are,” John says softly.

They stand before a door which opens a crack. Scents of tea, gingernuts, leather, books, and dust invade Sherlock’s nostrils. There’s also the unmistakable and unique smell that belongs to the man who’s sitting in his chair sipping tea from his RAMC mug – John. The real John. His John.

***

“You’re back,” John says with evident relief and warmth.

Sherlock blinks and nods; his voice seems to be out of order at the moment.

“Come sit. There’s tea and your favourite biscuits,” John coaxes.

Sherlock stands from the sofa and walks over to his chair.

“Did you finish cataloguing?” John asks.

The look on his face is different somehow. More open, fond, and… something else Sherlock is unable to deduce.

Tea first, then – 

“You don’t remember, do you?”

John’s voice is sad all of a sudden.

“What?”

“Why you retreated to your Mind Palace,” John explains.

His voice is still – 

“Oh!”

Images of John cupping his face, kissing him softly on the lips, telling Sherlock that he… loves him.

“Oh,” he repeats.

“Right,” John sighs, “that didn’t go according to plan, I see.”

“John.”

His words elude him, and John seems unable to decipher what Sherlock is trying to convey. 

Action, Holmes.

He steps closer to John’s chair, pries the mug out of his hands, and curls up in John’s lap, mirroring the army doctor’s ministrations from earlier.

“I love you too,” Sherlock whispers after glorious minutes of kissing.

“Thank God! I thought I’d scared you away,” John exclaims, so relieved it nearly breaks Sherlock’s heart.

“Never!” Sherlock says emphatically.

“What took you so long, then?”

“I couldn’t find the correct sign, but then I called out for you. The other you, and he led me back.”

“Clever guy that one.”

“Most definitely no idiot.”

“High praise, love.”

Sherlock hides his blushing face in the crook of John’s neck and wonders if he will ever get used to being called ‘love’. 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but apparently John knows him too well.

“I will repeat it until you believe it, but I will never stop,” John assures him, and that is the best answer Sherlock has ever got in his life.

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