Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

May 3rd, 2020

Mycroft,

Sorry I got rid of your men. As you know, my rivalry with Moriarty has entered its final phase, and I have to act as cautiously as I can. Though the professional abilities of your subordinate is slightly better than that of the Scotland Yard, they still have a high probability of ruining my plan. If I have allowed them to follow me till now, Mr. Moriarty would be stepping over their bodies to knock on my door by now.

Moriarty is an exceptional opponent, and I've always enjoyed competing with him on a mental and phisical level. But I have to admit that when we're going to fight each other for the last time, I cannot guarentee to leave unscathed. Of course I wouldn't let him escape with ease either, so the most possible outcome is that we'll both die. If things really head that way, then I'm sorry that it would inevitably lead to your grief. But please understand that it is a path I must take. Perhaps one more thing could comfort you : I thought that my life had not been wasted, and that even if my journey had come to an end, I could return with a clear conscience.

In that case, now is the time for me to be more honest. I'm sorry I've been a pain since I was twelve, but deep down in my heart - though I never like to admit it - I've always admired and respected you. Whether in terms of observation, self-discipline, or long-term strategy, you are all above me, and I can't help but be proud of you while I am subtly jealous of you. In addition, I am very grateful to you for putting me on this path. Surely you didn't think I hadn't found out about it by now?

Earlier this evening, I played Canon in D Major with the hotel band, which reminded me of our last ensemble before you went to Oxford, and I have to say it made me rather nostalgic, at least because your cello was so much better than their third-rate players.

As I'm sure you know, on my last night before I left London I went to see John and asked him to spend a holiday with me on the continent. If something bad happens, I'm afraid his loyalty will make him very sad. It was probably the most irrational thing I've ever done, but now it's too late to regret it.

I've worked out a remedy plan and I hope it will work. I say hope, because normally John's intelligence would not allow him to see the holes in the plan. But when John got serious, he occasionally went beyond his abilities. I'm asking you to look after him for me.

I tried to write to my mother, but without success. Please tell her I've always loved her. I know you'll take good care of her.

Yours,

Sherlock

Meilingen, Switzerland

May 6th, 2020

My dear boy,

Please contact me. Playing hide-and-seek isn't fun. Time to go home.

John isn't taking it well, and your plan, while not an entirely ignominious failure, has little to show for it. Your good doctor met two climbers who allegedly witnessed your final fight with Moriarty. So you cannot justify it now. He's going crazy. The trouble you've created must be dealt with yourself.

Mycroft

Meilingen, Switzerland

May 13th, 2020

Sherlock,

I have to head back to London. Mother's starting to suspect. 

Stop this game. Everybody's worried. I've searched this place thoroughly several times with no luck. They won't leave easily. If you're still smugly hiding in some cave, pray I don't find you. I've never really been mad at you, but this time you're testing my limits.

Respond immediatlely.

Mycroft

May 20th, 2020

Sherlock,

I brought John back to London. I'm afraid he isn't doing well. You know what would fix him better than I.

If all you're trying to do is run away, stop this childish behavior. Nothing's impossible to gain in the world. If you come back, I swear I have my ways of giving you what you desperately need.

You know that I'm a man of my words, and I always keep up with my promises.

Mycroft.

May 20th, 2020

Sherlock,

John's clinic was temporarily closed, and he still hasn't recovered from the blow. To be honest, I don't even know if that day will ever come.

I try to be faithful, but if he's beyond repair, I can't help him.

Mycroft

June 3rd, 2020

Sherlock, 

If I don't hear back, you're forcing me to do something beyond ordinary.

You should know full well that if you were to disappear, I would have reason to resent someone. I'm far less honorable than that doctor of yours.

Mycroft

July 15th, 2020

Sherlock,

I take it you didn't take me seriously last time. That's not good.

I hate overly explicit threats, but it looks like you need a little more prodding. I plan to give Dr Watson all your secrets, and I am sure it will surprise him again. Of course I can confirm his suspicions about your whereabouts.

I'm not responsible for what he'll do after that. I'm afraid your blogger is too emotional. I remember he was sad for a year when his dog died.

Please believe me this is your last warning.

August 1st, 2020

I'll never accept that you've died. For God's sakes, you're a Holmes!

A Holmes would never die without a sound, even if he were against Moriarty!

You've really dissapointed me.

August 15th, 2020

Sherlock...

September 4th, 2020

I spent a few hours at the Falls today, and I played "Canon in D Major" for you a couple of times, but without your violin, it doesn't have a soul anymore. I looked into that deep pool for a long time, and I still couldn't believe you were there.

My senses tells me that you are really dead, which is the result of all the tracking, investigation, and judgment. I even used some illegal tactics to question the two climbers who saw you fall together, and I'm sure they're not lying. I've been threatening you with your good doctor, and if you were alive, you'd never be so indifferent.

I regret now that I was never there when you needed me most. I always thought I was a dutiful brother, but I missed all the important events.

But I refuse to believe you're dead until I get permission to cut off the waterfall and drain the pool.

I'll keep the Baker Street house for you, whenever you come back.

Chapter Text

September 7th, 2020

I'm John Watson.

I'm not writing a blog. This is a secret of my own that I must write down, but there is absolutely no need for anybody else to see it.

I'm on my crouches again, but I didn't go to the therapist. Only one person could heal me in this world...

Stop. Don't start with that again.

I've been doing really awfully lately. I can't work, I've been on a low-grade fever, and nightmares won't stop hauting me. My mind feels like a pot of boiling metal, spilling liquid and steaming grey smoke that corrupts my brain, flesh and bones, and the burning smell and ever-lasting sever pain was everywhere - it's what hell would feel like if it exists.

Now that my brain had finally cooled down, the molten metal was a cold, hard, shapeless mass. Although its sharp edges occasionally gave me a few stinging pains, most of the time it didn't hurt or itch. But it seemed to be moving very slowly from my head through my neck to my chest and abdomen, branching out along my blood vessels and nerve plexus. It was the strangest feeling, as if I were turning into metal bit by bit.

I knew there was one thing I had to do, that was my last hope, but at the same time it scared me. I'm already in hell, but I don't know if I'm going to see an exit or an entrance to the next floor after I finish it.

It was two o'clock in the morning, and I heard the sound of Mary getting up to go to the bathroom. Soon she would knock on the study door, look at me with worried eyes and pretence noncholance, asking me when I was going to bed.

I have to file it now. Of course, I've already set the password.

I stopped using any passwords for a long time, because for a while, no matter how hard I tried to change them, someone would crack them within a minute and unscrupulously laugh at my lack of creativity in choosing them.

I don't have to worry about that anymore.

He's not here anymore.

October 31st, 2020

It's been two months since I last wrote something.

I've reopened my clinic. I lost quite a few patients, but soon new ones came. That's the good thing in setting my clinic at Kensington.

There were no more patients after 4pm yesterday, and Susan and Julie asked me if they could leave early because it was Halloween and they both had children under ten. I certainly agreed, and I'm grateful to both of them, who, while the clinic was closed during my illness, worked on a short-term contract rather than find another employer.

After they left, the clinic was very quiet. It took me some time to do you-know-what, but I didn't make much progress. After sitting still for a while, I called Mary and told her that I had a house case and would be home late.

I didn't really have anywhere to go. I just wanted to take a walk outside.

By this time it was dark, and the streets were full of young people in strange clothes, talking and laughing as they rushed to the bars. I walked slowly on crutches, presumably in the way of a group of street thugs who bumped into me as they passed by, making me turn ninety degrees to steady myself, just in time to face a store selling Halloween supplies.

There were huge discount signs everywhere and not many customers, except for a failed couple with a poor child who hadn't got a costume at the last minute, who was stomping and screaming and venting his anger as his frantic parents took turns showing him various props and costumes.

I stared at them for a moment, then noticed the shopkeeper standing behind the counter waving at me desperately. I pointed at myself in surprise, and he showed two big dimples and nodded vigorously.

I took a few steps towards the entrance, and he stepped up, giving a hard pat on my shoulder: "Welcome back, mate!"

I looked at him in confusion.

"The Hobbit wh doesn't even need a costume! It's you! What about your vampire friend?" He said as he waved his hands in the air.

I stared at his joyous and enthusiastic chubby face, feeling the light dim inside the shop...

There was a grim red glow in the shop that year, and a large glass jar filled with scarlet liquid squatted in front of the door, filled with what appeared to be organs and eyeballs. When Sherlock saw the large pot, as if he were seeing an old friend, he turned to me and smiled, and rubbed his leather-gloved hands excitedly: "John, this is a wonderful mantelpiece. How about buying it as a companion for my skull?" Before I could answer, he had flung his coat and lept into into the shop.

The jar was actually not for sale, and even if the boss were willing to part with it, we couldn't drag it to the University of West London. Two years in a row there had been suicides at the unfortunate university's Halloween dance, and Lestrade, not having enough evidence to build a case, privately recommended the headmaster to come to Sherlock. After requesting the old photographs and a field visit to the university, Sherlock brushed the matter aside until a few hours before the ball began, when he dragged me out to buy a costume and a mask to blend in.

The boss took care of our wardrobe problem in two minutes and pushed us into the fitting room.

When I emerged from the dressing room, Sherlock had changed into a well-fitting vampire suit and was standing impatiently with a glow-in-the-dark mask in his hand. When I opened the door he turned and raised his eyebrows playfully. "John, would you mind telling me what you're wearing?"

This wiped away my appreciation of his new image, and I shot back, "Even if you're the only person in England who doesn't know about the Hobbit, please don't flaunt your ignorance."

He pursed his lips and did not answer. It was a pitiful display of weakness on the part of a man who had always been on his high horse. He had learned long ago not to contradict me in my anger; instead, he had many similar tricks to make me feel weak before he would show his fangs in triumph.

I went to the mirror, tried to put on the stupid wig, and caught a glimpse of him tapping his fingers on his phone. Five seconds later, his long legs came two steps closer to me. "Hobbits are small and very sweet," he recited, "friendly and cheerful fellows. They are not pretty, but they are good-natured, with large, bright eyes, and mouths best suited for laughing and eating." He laughed and looked back at his boss. "I have to say, this is an excellent choice."

The boss laughed. "I knew it. The perfect hobbit and the perfect vampire! I saw it in you two when you came in." He quickly pulled a camera from under the counter. "Gentlemen, do you mind if I take a picture?"

"I'm honored!" I had scarcely opened my mouth to object when Sherlock replied, and with a stretch of his arm, he involuntarily drew me to his side. There was a flash of white light in front of my eyes, and the next second, Sherlock had dropped the money on the counter, and was rushing out of the store like a whirlwind, waving his glow-in-the-dark mask and Shouting, "Taxi!"

I grabbed the boss's arm with my left hand. "You took a picture that day, right?"

"Of course," he replied, "I've kept it in the display cabinet for the last few years, and the sales of those costumes went up quite a lot."

A surge of joy rushed through me and I couldn't help shaking from head to toe - I didn't even have a single photo of Sherlock!

"Can I have it?" I said with a shaky voice.

"Pisses me off to even talk about it. Last year - no, wait - the year before that, someone smashed my cabinet. Everything else was there except for the photo. And Tommy - my younger son - poured a glass of milk on the hard drive. I couldn't even print it again."

I stared at him in shock, releasing my grip.

But he started in excitement all of a sudden: "How about I take another one for you? Perhaps your vampire friend can come as well? He'll look absolutely splendid in the fashionable wizard costume this year. As for you, a Teddy bear would be a good choice. With your help, I can also sell my stock next year..."

He glanced at me, and stopped mid-way, avoiding my gaze as he couldn't bare looking into my eyes. "Sorry, if... I didn't know..." He stuttered. When he looked at me again there was something that almost felt like pity in his eyes.

At this point, the parents finally picked out the clothes for their child and came to pay the money. The boss took the opportunity to slip away from me.

I stood there for a while, watching the parents pay for the clothes they had chosen. The child, however, still clung to the Ouija board tightly and wouldn't let go. Every time the parents tried to persuade him that it wasn't a toy suitable for his age, he would let out a piercing scream like a steel wire being tightened.

Five minutes later, the three of them finally left. I also placed the Ouija board in front of the boss. He looked down at it, opened and closed his mouth several times, and finally made up his mind:

"Listen to me, pal. Don't play with this tonight. I'm not trying to scare you, but you have to understand that not only children wander around at night today."

"Thank you." I nodded.

After leaving the shop, I called Mary. I told her that the patient's condition was quite serious and required overnight monitoring. It was a shameful and clumsy lie, but even if she had any doubts, she still accepted it gently.

Slowly, I started walking towards Baker Street.

Mary said that Mrs. Hudson came to visit when I was sick, but I had been asleep from the tranquilizer. After I got better I never contacted her actively, so I wasn't sure if I could meet her as if nothing had happened, and talk with her about her previous tenant as if nothing had happened.

That night when I arrived at our old apartment, Mrs. Hudson was standing at the front door with a jar of sweets in her hands, a swarm of children in colorful costumes stood around her, shouting "Trick or treat!" while greedily stuffing their pockets with chocolate.

I stood their and watched for a while until she noticed me. She stared at me for three seconds. "God!" She exclaimed, and threw out the jar about five meters away.

In front of a bunch of little demons and wizards she held me, crying for about a minute. "Both of you," she accused while wiping her tears, "both of you, leaving without a word."

I didn't know what to answer to that.

She led me inside, closing the door behind her. I froze in front of the ever so familiar staircase. Mrs. Hudson stroke my hand with hers, holding my hand this whole time, "Darling, don't. He'll be back one day."

I slowly gathered back my courage and smiled at her. "I'll head up myself." I said.

She nodded understandingly. "I change the sheets in the bedroom every week, if you'd like to spend the night here." she said, "I'll get you a pot of tea."

I slowly climbed the stairs with the help of my crutches, looking up at the door at the end of the staircase. Suddenly, I felt that everything was so familiar, as if Sherlock had already taken several big steps up the stairs and was standing at the door looking back at me. His hand was already on the doorknob, his eyes shining in the dark porch. His expression was one of an almost childlike eagerness that he was trying to contain, waiting for me to finish climbing the stairs so that he could push the door open like a child showing off his treasure.

I smiled at the Sherlock from ten years ago. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew in from somewhere, slowly pushing the door open. The light from the street lamps flickered outside, and in the dim light I saw Sherlock's sofa and my armchair.

When Mrs. Hudson brought the tea, I was already sitting in my armchair, without turning on the lights. As she placed the tea down, she habitually glanced at the sofa, then she sighed softly and helped me close the door.

I sat in the darkness for a long time, until the faint sound of the TV downstairs faded away. Mrs. Hudson had already gone to bed. I took out the Ouija board and placed it on my knees.

In my college days, I had been pulled along by my classmates to play with this thing. That time it was just for fun, and no ghosts were summoned. I vaguely remembered that if one played with it alone, the spirit marker was difficult to move. Believers said it was because one person's mental strength was not strong enough, while unbelievers said it was just because you were holding it yourself and there was no uneven force, so the spirit marker wouldn't move.

I placed my finger on the spirit marker, pushed it around in several circles, then stopped and closed my eyes. I didn't have to concentrate deliberately. From the moment I stepped into 221B Baker Street, all I could think about was Sherlock.

The room was very quiet. Gradually, I felt that I couldn't recall the furnishings of the entire room clearly. I felt as if I were sitting in the center of a cloud of mist, while in the far distance, in the opaque mist, countless unknown things were moving and peeping. I heard a noise that grew increasingly urgent, and then I realized it was my own breathing.

"Is Sherlock here?" I whispered hoarsely, "Are you here?" I suddenly opened my eyes wide and looked down, but the spirit marker remained motionless.

I took a deep breath and pleaded again: "If you are here, please tell me."

My fingers trembled slightly, but the spirit marker remained still.

I was on the verge of despair, but I had to try again.

"I need closure," I said, "That's all I want. I swear I will accept the truth well." I paused, and suddenly I felt a dry and bitter sense of anger, "For heaven's sake, you didn't even say goodbye to me properly."

I looked up at the blank space in front of me, as if he were sitting opposite me, wearing his dark blue dressing gown, still with messy black curls and pale cheeks. He was looking down at me with his eyes closed, playing this stupid game. His right corner of the mouth twitched slightly, and a slightly sarcastic smile flashed by.

I involuntarily let go one hand and leaned forward slightly, reaching out my hand to him. I trembled all over and murmured: "Sherlock —"

Just at the moment my fingertips touched his hair, he disappeared silently. At the same time, I felt the spirit marker under my other hand slowly sliding. I suddenly lowered my head and watched it slide into a corner of the Ouija board and stop there.

In the pale blue light coming in from outside, I saw the inscription in the corner — "Goodbye."

...

I don't know how long I sat there. When I noticed the time, birds were chirping outside and the light streaming in through the window had turned into a cold silver and iron grey blend. I glanced at my watch and it was already 4:30 in the morning.

I stood up and slowly walked to the door of Sherlock's bedroom. I pushed the half-open door open.

The curtains were drawn in the bedroom. It was still pitch-dark inside. I sat down beside his bed, feeling my way to the pillow. The silk pillowcase would warm up with the person's body temperature, but when no one was using it, it was cold. I repeatedly touched it subconsciously to warm it up, as if someone was still using it. 

Between the bedside table and the closet stood a box. It was Sherlock's Stradivarius violin. He loved this famous violin very much, but he didn't refuse to play with ordinary violins. And the most passionate performance I had ever heard from him was with a violin that he had snatched from the student orchestra... It was at that Halloween dance at West London University. I thought he was just going to sneak in to spy secretly. But he was eager to make a big show of it.

The vampire costume he wore was almost tailor-made for him, making him look even taller, slimmer, and more distinguished. There was a subtle elegance that didn't quite belong to this era in his movements, and the luminous mask perfectly blocked his sharp gaze and expressive face. He attracted many people's attention almost as soon as he entered the dance.

As for me, as a Hobbit who at most could be considered cute, I was almost ignored by everyone except for a few girls who touched my head and face after getting drunk. I hid in a corner and secretly watched Sherlock giving his outstanding performance, making a large group of girls fall in love with him. To my surprise, if he wanted, his deep voice could also coax sweet words, and he could even dance well the tango and salsa.

I noticed a boy dressed as a devil staring angrily at Sherlock. After a little inquiry, I found out that he was the captain of the football team, the most popular boy in this university. Suddenly, I felt very funny. The only consulting detective in the world was running to a university at the age of 33 to compete with a football captain for affection.

Sherlock still didn't restrain himself. After flirting and dancing with countless girls, he somehow found the light control and made the venue suddenly brighten up. Then he snatched a violin directly from a student musician and jumped onto the stage.

People covered their eyes with their hands in astonishment and cursed loudly. While he was on the stage, he shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen... Please follow my rhythm and sink into hell." He began to play a piece of music with a fast rhythm. It was so dark and magnificent with passionate emotions that it was like being possessed by a devil. Later, I learned that it was the Monty Chardas dance music.

People were soon carried away by the melody and danced crazily. While he kept playing that magical piece, his eyes searched around the crowd, and suddenly his eyes lit up. Then his pace gradually slowed down, and the tune turned into a mysterious and melancholic one. His eyes still stared at a certain direction in the crowd. I believe that behind his mask, he had already shown that triumphant and smug expression.

When he saw me, he nodded gently to me and then stared at my direction for a full 30 seconds, as if his only audience was me. Suddenly, I felt an incredible excitement, almost re-experiencing the ecstasy I felt when watching U2's performance as a teenager.

Three minutes later, he jumped off the stage, threw the violin back to its owner, and walked out of the crowd by himself. Just as I was about to follow him, my mobile phone started vibrating in my pocket. I spent quite some effort digging out my phone from my absurd Hobbit coat, vest, and shirt.

"Wait for me in the east restroom. SH."

In a very short moment, I wondered if he had addressed the wrong person. But I immediately realized that this might be related to the case. I was quite impressed that I still remembered that we came here to solve the case.

I hurriedly rushed to the place he mentioned and before I reached the door, I already heard the fighting sounds inside. When I broke the door in, there was already a boy lying on the ground by Sherlock's feet, and he was removing the mask that was crooked and throwing it into the trash can.

"John, let me introduce you," he started washing his hands with the tap running, "This is our murderer, a future pharmacist."

I looked at the person on the ground. It was a skinny boy with a handsome face. He was collapsed on the ground in a state of collapse and despair, almost not looking like a murderer at all.

"Why did he do this?" I asked.

"Schoolyard violence," Sherlock replied, "He was always bullied, so he had a deep-seated hatred for all popular people. The first person to die was the real culprit, and the one last year was just an act of venting anger. This year, he chose me. As soon as I left the crowd, he followed me." 

"So your deliberately trying to make a show and turning on the lights was also for..."

"There were five suspects in my suspicion list. One didn't come today, and there were three present. I could clearly see their expressions on the stage. But he thought he was extremely safe hiding amongst the crowd."

"But how did he commit the murder while making it look like a suicide?" I recalled that all the victims were strong athletes.

"He followed the victim to the toilet, injected this anesthetic without the victim noticing," Sherlock pointed at the syringe on the ground with his shoe tip, "Then he dragged them into the cubicle, made them kneel in front of the toilet, and used their own hands to hold the knife and slit their throats. The blood would flow directly into the toilet. Even if someone saw the victim's feet from outside, they would think it was someone who was drunk and vomiting on the ground. Finally, he injected a neutralizer. By then, the anesthetic would be impossible to test."

"How did he lock the cubicle door from the outside?"

"John," Sherlock pointed out impatiently, "This latch is just a loop. You can easily pull it open with a longer stick or a piece of wire from the outside."

"But there are pinholes."

Sherlock accurately threw the tissue he was wiping his hands with into the trash can: "Congratulations, you finally asked the right question. The answer is: Our future pharmacist kid has invented the most magical skin care product. No matter whether your pores are as big as pinholes or not, as long as you use it, they will immediately become flawless. But after one night, you will have to pay the price of your skin peeling off. I bet you can find that magical potion in his front pocket."

The siren's sound emerged from afar.

"Ha!" Sherlock said, "Lestrade's movements aren't that slow!"

...

We declined Lestrade's kind offer to take a police car ride with him and leave the campus together. I recalled Sherlock's wild behavior at the ball and couldn't help saying, "Your college life must have been quite wonderful."

Sherlock gave me a quick glance. "I wouldn't say that," he said.

I laughed. "I have eyes. Those girls were almost crazy over you."

Sherlock snorted. "John, people have been calling me a monster for a long time. It's no news to me. When I was younger, I couldn't even fully accept myself. I tried to change myself. I observed the most popular people, analyzed the reasons for their popularity, and then applied the patterns flexibly. " He paused and gave a cold smile. "It wasn't that hard, John. I successfully became the most popular person within a few months. Just like what you saw earlier, I can easily make those people adore me. But soon I realized that wasn't what I wanted. They liked me because of the false appearances I put on. They didn't know what kind of person I really was. If I showed my true self, they would hate me and say, 'Piss of!' "

"Sherlock!" I shouted, "Those people aren't worth your concern at all!"

He shrugged. "Of course I realized that, although it did take me some time."

I pondered on his words and suddenly felt sorry for him. Although he spoke in a light tone, I could fully imagine his loneliness at that time. I was eager to say something and wanted to assure him that at least he still had me as a friend. He didn't have to hide anything in front of me, and I will always be fascinated by the real him. I stopped. "Sherlock -" I said.

He also stopped and looked back at me. I cleared my throat and continued, "I really wish I could have met you earlier."

Sherlock stared at me intently, his gaze sharp enough to make me feel as if I were being dissected. But I didn't flinch and looked into his eyes. Under the pale light of the street lamps, his grey eyes were almost as transparent as glass marbles. He looked at me for a while, then suddenly lowered his eyes halfway, and slowly spread a childish smile on his face.

"It's not too late, John," he said, "Not too late at all."

That night we were full of energy, crossing the city and walking tirelessly on the streets of London for over an hour, all the way back to Baker Street...

It seemed as if I had woken up from a dream. I found myself sitting in Sherlock's cold bedroom, falling from the wonderful memories into the cold reality. The contrast was extremely intense.

Instinctively, I grasped the violin, and even it was cold.

I opened the violin case, and a faint smell of pine wafted out. That was also the smell my roommate occasionally had. I let myself sink into the smell in the darkness for a while, then reached for the desk lamp on the cabinet and turned it on. I carefully held the violin in my hands and examined it. Before putting it back in the case, I noticed that one corner of the lining inside the case was loose. I tried to lift it with my hand, and the entire bottom plate suddenly rose, revealing a very narrow compartment.

There was only one thing in the compartment. It was a photo the size of an A4 sheet, face down.

I curiously lifted the photo.

It was a photo I had never seen before: I was wearing a wig tilted askew, a hobbit-like brown coat, yellow vest, and a green cape, wearing a dull expression. Beside me was Sherlock, wearing a collared black coat with silver trim, a pale and thin face, and cat-like cunning and bright eyes. His hand was on my shoulder, and his face was pressed against my wig.

I felt my vision go dark.

Chapter Text

It was Christmas yesterday.

Mary had no family, and I only had Harry. She just broke up with her last girlfriend, and still too upset to gather up her crazy friends to part at her house, she actually accepted our invitation to celebrate Christmas with us. That made me quite worried about this holiday.

I've never got along well with Harry since we were babies. I've always had a blurry memory of her pinching my face, standing beside my cradle, and the more I squirmed and tried to get away the happier she laughed.

Somehow Mary got along quite well with her, though. Perhaps anyone would like someone like Mary, who was kind, gentle and never spoke more than she should. Even Sherlock would hold his bitter remarks, showing some courtesy when talking to her.

The Christmas feast was rich in dishes. While eating, Harry chattered on and on, expressing her jealousy. Harry herself couldn't cook, but she was very picky about the quality of food. So although her blonde hair and slender figure were still very attractive until now, the women she had deceived ended up being unable to stand her and thus there were constant disputes.

We finished the meal smoothly. Harry helped Mary do the dishes. I continued to decorate the Christmas tree in the living room. A hook for a decoration ball was broken. I went to the tool room to get a pair of pliers. When passing by the kitchen, I heard Harry talking.

"I can't believe he still hasn't gotten over it yet. It's been seven months already."

Mary just sighed without a word.

Harry didn't give up. "Did you... I mean... I know you want kids."

"It's alright." Mary replied, "We have time. He'll come around someday."

Harry snorted. "You've got some patience."

"You've got to understand that they lived together for seven years." said Mary, "But we've only been married for three. He needs some time..."

I left without a word.

But apprently Harry decided to take matters into her own hands as she given up her disguise of helping out in the kitchen, walking back to the living room where she poured herself a glass of wine without shame. Then she sat on the sofa behind me the entire time I decorated the Christmas tree, and I could literally feel her judging eyes behind my back. When I finally finished, let out a sign and stood up, she patted the sofa immediately, signaling for me to sit beside her.

"Mary," she shouted towards the kitchen, "come after you're finished!"

Mary gave a curt reply.

I stared at her in alert and asked: "What're you on to?"

She shrugged, "Chirstmas tradition. Families play games together. You're not turning that down, aren't you?"

"What game?"

"Truth or Dare."

"For God's sakes!"

"What? Are you scared?"

That's when Mary entered the room. "What're you arguing about?"

"I'm asking John to play a game with us."

Mary placed the fruit plate on the table. "What game?"

"Truth or Dare."

"Okay." Mary replied, "Haven't done that in a while. John?" She looked up at me in anticipation.

I couldn't say no.

Hary swung her legs. "Damn, sister doesn't count as anything compared to your wife. Relax, with your wife here, she'll never let me ask anything I shouldn't."

"Shut up!" I gave her a slight kick.

Mary went looking for poker cards and Harry poured each of us a drink. "Drinking makes one bold." She said as she pushed my cup towards me.

"Look who's talking." I retorted.

"We'll see." She didn't budge.

We decided who would win by playing poker. Whoever won could ask others questions. The person had to tell the truth, otherwise he/she would have to do something stupid that someone else had designated. To my delight, I won the first round. Harry snorted and threw the cards on the table. Mary smiled at us both, knowing that my target was Harry.

I picked up the wine glass and took a sip. I looked at my sister with a sinister expression, and she had a look on her face that said, "Come on, go ahead!" I cleared my throat and asked seriously, "Tell me -" I raised my voice and said, Good. Now she's a little nervous. "Did you really pinch my face when I was still in the cradle?" Harry's eyes widened. "God, you still remember?" I grunted unhappily.

"You were asking for it." Harry said simply.

This was beyond absurd. "Harry, I couldn't even speak back then!"

"You were fat, soft and stupid then. How could I resist pinching you?" Harry said bluntly. Mary laughed beside us. "And -" Harry continued, "You retaliated later too."

"What retaliation? I don't remember anything like that."

"Ha! I already said you're a paranoid person. You only remember being victimized, but you don't remember torturing others. When you lost your baby teeth, how many times did you bite me? Whenever I got close to you, you would grab my fingers and chew them like carrots."

Mary was about to faint from laughing.

"I hate carrots." That was my most powerful comeback.

"Well then you were venting your anger!" Harry immediately retorted. "Oh, by the way, there's a video on YouTube that's exactly like you."

"What video?" Merry asked curiously.

"The 'Charlie bit me again.' one." Harry replied, jumping up from the sofa and rushing towards my computer on the other side of the table.

Then the three of us watched the video together, which had been viewed by over 200 million people. I had to admit that it was quite funny. Harry added enthusiastically, "John, you were even fatter than Charlie when you were little. From different angles, the number of your chins varied, and the maximum could reach 4. I always couldn't count them." Mary was laughing so hard that tears were coming out of her eyes. I looked at her and remembered what Harry had said, "I knew you wanted a child."

Haley seemed to understand what I was thinking. She snapped her fingers and turned on the computer. "Let's continue playing the game now." She announced.

I sat back in my seat, drank up the wine in my glass, and Harry silently refilled my glass for me. I took another sip and began to feel relaxed. Soon Harry won. Surprisingly she picked Mary first and asked how many boyfriends she had had before me. "Two." I answered for her. Harry glared at me boredly.

Soon Harry won again. This time her target was me. "Tell me about your worst Christmas experience."

"Easy one." I seized my chance, "The year when you got me drunk and tried to make me sleep with both those two brothers and sisters who swapped genders."

Mary was shocked. Harry immediately replied, "He didn't even know you back then. Plus he ran off at the last moment. Let's continue."

I won two rounds in a row and managed to get a few embarrasing stories from my sister. Harry was determined to get back at me and finally got her way. She let out a breath and said: "Me again. Alright. Tell me about one Christmas you spent with Sherlock."

I was quiet for a while. Mary looked at me gently: "It's alright, John. Keep it simple. You don't have to if you don't want to."

I looked into her encouraging and gentle eyes. I know they were trying to help me - they both think that I'd feel better once I talk about it. Though I don't see the point in talking, it might not be a bad idea. Because even if I don't, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about it.

I finished up my wine and cleared my throat. "For three years I was invited to Sherlock's home for Christmas."

"Who is there in his family?" Harry couldn't sit through a story without interrupting herself.

"He had a brother and his mother."

"I wonder what kind of woman could give birth to those two brothers," Harry chimed in. Mary looked reproachfully at her and Harriet defensively declared, "I was just saying they are different from others."

I decided not to pay attention to her for the sake of her refilling my glass with wine. "His mother is tall, has a good demeanor, and was probably a beauty when she was young. At least she seemed much more approachable than the two brothers, always smiling at people. But his family is really strange. The way they celebrate Christmas is that each of them plays  the same piece of music on an instrument, and I'm the outsider to judge who was the best."

"Oh my god!" Harry said with a grimace.

"What piece did they play?" Mary interrupted, being a kindergarten teacher and also teaching music, of course she would care about this.

"It's a Caprice by Paganini. I can't remember the number, but it's the most difficult one."

"That's number 24," Mary hummed a few notes and said, "Originally it was a violin piece, Liszt also changed it to a piano piece."

I nodded.

"His mother played the piano, Sherlock on the violin, and Mycroft played the cello. The three of them were working hard and having a lot of fun. Then all three pairs of eyes suddenly turned to me and asked me which version I liked best? For goodness' sake, I heard that piece for the first time that night, and I had no clue about the technique at all."

"Damn!" Harry said viciously, as if only this word could express her strong feelings.

Mary smiled, "I guess you don't need to worry about the technique. If anyone makes a mistake, they will surely accuse each other. They really need an audience who doesn't understand the technique to tell them which one is the most expressive."

"Exactly!" I replied. "But the problem is that I think they are all good, and I can't tell which one is better. I just told them that, and it made everyone disappointed. Later, Mrs. Holmes proposed to play bridge. Sherlock looked at me worriedly for a while, and then with a defeated look, he said to his brother, 'Mycroft, for fairness, it's better for you and John to be partners.'"

"What bullshit attitude was that!" Harry was furious.

I shrugged, "I guess it's Mycroft who was the best at it. That didn't hurt my pride at all. You know, the intelligence of this family is probably above 200, and they were willing to take me along for the ride, which means they respect me."

"How did it turn out?" Mary asked.

"The result was that Mycroft was slightly better than Sherlock, while I and Mrs. Holmes were on completely different levels. So Sherlock kept talking more and more proudly, Mycroft remained silent, and his face turned darker and darker. Finally, Mrs. Holmes couldn't stand it anymore and stopped it."

Harry drank her wine in one gulp. "I can't believe you've celebrated such a Christmas for three years."

"Oh, that's not the case," I said and refilled my glass. I no longer knew how much wine I had drunk. This warm feeling all over my body and my mind not working well was nice. "The next year, I decided to teach them a lesson. Someone really needs to teach them how normal people celebrate Christmas."

"Great! That's my brother," Harry thunderously slapped my back.

"What did you do?" Mary couldn't help laughing and pulled Harry's hand.

"It's simple, a CD of 'Jingle Bells', a Monopoly game, six firecrackers, a basket of fireworks, and - one Christmas hat for each person."

Harry and Mary burst into laughter.

"How'd you make them wear the hats?" Harry asked curiously after catching her breath.

"Monopoly."

"You won?"

"Oh God, yes! I first threw Sherlock into prison and he didn't get to go for every round. He started pacing back and forth in the room and his face was all blushed, and every time Mycroft rolled the dice he came up and offered to roll it for him. And Mycroft got into my chain hotel three times. When Sherlock finally came out Mycroft started hitting his elbow when he rolled the dice. They fought, and I got my benefits by making both of them go bankrupt soon after. Mrs. Holmes stuck through the end, and lost after a few more rounds of battling with me. Finally, she came to the conclusion that it seems that luck and intelligence are inversely proportional."

"Mrs. Holmes is quite mean as well." Harry pointed out in anger.

I rolled my eyes. "They're all sour losers." I held my cup and Harry jumped up to open up a new bottle of wine.

"John, are you drunk?" Mary touched my forehead.

I smiled at her. "I'm fine. I'm not done yet." I continued, "Even funnier while we played with the firecrackers. They've never done it before, and everyone got scared when it made a loud bang. Sherlock got the big one. There was a paper crown inside it, and he had to wear it on top of his Christmas hat. It was really funny. You probably heard the joke on the note. It's about a mother tomato and her son walking together, and the son fell behind. The mother tomato turned around and called out: 'Catch up! (Ketchup!)' But the family never watched movies, and they all laughed in perfect harmony."

I burst into laughter, and so did Mary and Harry.

"Later we set off fireworks, and, well, we even made a snowman." I paused.

"Go on." Harry nudged me.

"That's it." I said.

Harry wanted to protest, but Mary interrupted her. "Let's play the game again, okay?"

Later, Mary also started winning, but she kept asking Harry questions. There was one question Harry didn't want to answer, which gave Mary a problem. She simply didn't know how to give people a bad time. But I was quite interested in being the villain.

"Make a snowball and smash the window upstairs!" I glanced outside and saw that it had been snowing for a while.

Harry didn't say anything and went out without hesitation.

After a while, she appeared outside the window. She crouched down and grabbed a big ball of snow, squeezing it hard. I tapped the window to signal her that it was big enough and not to break someone else's window on Christmas Eve. She pursed her lips but gave in.

When she stood up, her steps were a bit unsteady, but she balanced herself quickly. She stepped back a few steps, turned sideways and stood still, assuming the position of a baseball pitcher warming up. Mary and I both laughed. The glass was reflecting a bit, so I moved closer to look. Harry had played softball before, although she could only throw the ball with her hand, the speed was still quite fast. She quickly made a full circle with her arm and the snowball was thrown out - half a second later, the glass in front of me vibrated with a pop and everything went white!

That asshole! I tried to wipe the glass with my hands in vain. After a while, I remembered to move aside a bit. I saw Harry outside, bending over from laughing, hands across her stomach. She did it on purpose.

"Hey, Mary! Put on your clothes, let's go and beat her up!"

The three of us started a free-for-all outside. Harry couldn't withstand our attacks for long and fled back inside. Mary wouldn't give up and chased her in, stuffing some snow in her neck. Harry screamed and ran to the bathroom. Mary laughed with me for a while and said to me, "I'll go check. She seems a little drunk."

I nodded.

I sat down on the sofa facing the window, stretching my legs out. I was a bit drunk myself, although not completely. I couldn't control my mouth and emotions. I knew I had said a lot of things, all the things that kept popping up in my mind these days. Some I said out loud, some I didn't. But all those things came back vividly and clearly in my mind, as if I somehow managed to travel through time and space and watch all that unfold before me again. The background was constantly echoing Paganini's No. 24 melody, sometimes violin, sometimes piano, and suddenly silence, allowing me to clearly hear my conversation with Sherlock...

"What are you doing?" I said.

That night I was too excited and couldn't fall asleep until very late. This made me hear the footsteps in the corridor that were very soft. I quietly got up and followed them without making a sound. Just as Sherlock stealthily walked up to the Christmas tree and crouched down, I unexpectedly appeared.

He was startled and turned his head sharply to look at me.

I was almost laughing out loud. He rarely looked so embarrassed. His hair was all messy like a chicken coop, and his expression was like that of a child who had just buried his head in a pile of candies and was being pulled by the collar to be lifted up.

"It's so late and you're not in bed? What are you doing here?" I asked again.

He quickly came to his senses and stood up calmly, tightening the straps of his dressing gown haughtily.

"Ha, I could ask you the same," he said.

"Oh, no no, sir, only you are trying to peek at the presents before tomorrow morning. I'm just here to keep an eye on you."

He looked at me with interest. "Oh, John, I must congratulate you on finally learning deduction."

"Deduction my arse," I said vulgarly, "You were caught red-handed. Even Anderson could tell what you were up to."

He gave a couple of snorts and shook his head. "John, don't lower yourself to Anderson's level. Although you're not very smart, you're still much better than that idiot."

He moved closer to me two steps and suddenly said, "Let's make a bet, okay?"

"What?" I couldn't keep up with the sudden shift in the topic of conversation.

"I'll guess what gift you gave me. If you guess right, you get to open the present tonight."

I glanced at his bare feet quickly. "No way!"

"Pity," he shrugged and sat down on the sofa. I silently watched him, wondering what tricks he had up his sleeve.

"I'm hungry," he said naturally.

"I'm hungry too," I smiled despite myself.

He looked at me with sharp eyes. We stared at each other for a while, and then I couldn't help pointing out angrily: "This is your house!"

"So?"

"So, I should be the one who gets served meals!" 

"Theoretically yes, but from a technical point of view..." 

"Shut up!" I said bluntly, waving to stop his endless talk. The past few years had taught me that arguing with him about this was simply hopeless. I resignedly walked into the kitchen and found the leftover turkey, then started to slice it.

He followed me in, his hands in his dressing gown pockets, giving his opinion like an overseer. "I want pesto sauce, lettuce, red peppers, a little bit of onion is enough. Acme pickles would be nice, a little honey mustard sauce would be good too."

"None of that!" I replied coldly. "Only cold bread and cold turkey. Eat or not, it's up to you."

He observed me carefully, then said, "At least it should be roasted," he pointed behind me, "I've already determined the position of the mini oven for you." 

"Ha, you really did me a huge favor," I said sarcastically.

"Come on, John," he smiled at me charmingly, "You're a good person."

"Yeah," I said, "Good person John is making the 1000th sandwich for you. I wonder when this good person will have the good fortune to taste something you made?" 

"You never know, John. You never know," he giggled. "You know I love surprising people."

"Ha!" I screeched, opened the fridge, and found lettuce, pickles, and onions. "Your surprise is putting the recovered secret files in a covered plate and forcing people to eat them by pressing their heads!" 

This time his laughter was a bit loud, so I glared at him angrily and put my finger to my lips.
He suppressed his smile and still stood there looking at me.

I was furious at my own first thousand times of giving in: "What are you looking at? Go out and wait!" 

Ten minutes later, we were chewing on hot sandwiches, sitting on the sofa and watching the garden outside. The snow was still falling, and it had accumulated half a foot thick.

Sherlock had an irregular diet. Sometimes he didn't eat for several consecutive meals, and when he did have something to eat, he always ate it very quickly. This was not good for his health. I watched him, eating that sandwich in an elegant dining posture and at an astonishing speed, and had to touch him with my elbow to slow him down. I sighed and, I've got to say, with someone who could always read your mind, sometimes doing things also very effortless.

"Have I told you about my dad?" he said, after finishing the sandwich first, wiping his hands with a tissue, suddenly like this.

I turned my head in surprise. "Never." I replied.

"Actually, I don't remember much either. He was a chemist." He said. "One of his research projects had very important military significance. He was apparently kidnapped by a spy organization of a foreign government and then killed." He paused, "Mycroft later took this path. It must be related to this incident. I know he must have managed to avenge my dad. And I chose chemistry at university."

"I'm sorry," I said.

He shook his head. "I was only five years old then. It must have been more of a blow to Mom and Mycroft. That year, Mycroft was already 12 years old. He must have remembered a lot about him, but he never told me anything. And Mom was completely broken. She locked herself in the room, sometimes without any sound, sometimes playing the piano crazily. The nanny tried to get me away, but once I pretended to be taking a nap and slipped past when the nanny left, I knocked on the door. I knocked for an hour, no one answered. Later, I thought she must have been dead."

"Sherlock," I felt a lump in my throat.

He glanced at me quickly. "You seem ready to help me cry." He said sarcastically, but I saw his long fingers trembling slightly. I threw down the sandwich and wiped my hands on his dressing gown while he wasn't looking.

"John!" He raised his eyebrows and looked at the oil stains on his clothes.

I'm glad that his obsessive cleanliness triumphed over his sadness. "It's just mustard sauce. It's easy to clean up," I interrupted him, "Now please continue."

He stared at me for a while. "Nothing more. Later, I refused to leave, so they had to call Mycroft to come back from school. Mycroft pulled me along and stood outside the door with my mother, saying that if she didn't open the door, he would call a locksmith to break it down. Later, my mother was sent to the hospital. Mycroft asked the lawyer to be our temporary guardian so that we wouldn't be separated and sent to relatives' houses. The nanny took us to stay in this house until my mother came home three years later. That's all -" He stood up, "Would you like to take a walk in the garden with me?"

I glanced at his bare feet again.

"I promise I'll wear the gift you gave me."

"What?" I looked up in surprise, "How did you...?"

"Back on Baker Street, you always protested that I walked around barefoot in the winter. Just now when I mentioned the gift, you looked at my feet. So, either one, You have a foot fetish; or two, the gift you gave me is related to my feet. I know one is not true, then it's two. Alright, socks? Or slippers? Considering the size of your gift package, I have to say it's socks." He finished the long string of words almost without pausing, took a deep breath, and then said, "For goodness' sake, we've lived together for five years!" His expression was so impatient, as if he was complaining that I made him go through so much trouble to explain such a simple question.

Normally, I would feel hurt by being called stupid. It's never pleasant, even if the person who said it was Einstein. But this time, I didn't pay much attention. I was still blushing because of the word "foot fetish". Suddenly, I realized that Sherlock's feet were indeed very nice-looking, and I couldn't control my gaze. "Stop it," I said to myself in my heart.

"Alright." I walked over and threw the gift to him.

He glanced at my face, making sure I wasn't sulking, and then his nimble fingers quickly tore open the packaging, revealing three thick woolen socks inside. He happily sat down on the sofa and took one pair to put on his feet.

"You can wrap those two up again," he suggested.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, let them see you wearing the same pair tomorrow." 

"So what? " He said confidently.

I decided not to waste any more time with him.

We slipped back to the room to change our clothes and quietly made our way to the garden.

After strolling for a few laps, Sherlock said, "Let's make a snowman."

I was used to his sudden whims, so I calmly carried out and arranged the work. "I'll go to the tool room to look for a shovel, you go to the kitchen to look for eyes and a nose." He rubbed his hands and excitedly left. For a moment, I was a little worried, but then I suddenly felt relieved: This isn't Baker Street, and what he brought back won't be real eyes and noses.

We spent forty minutes making a snowman. The reason it took so long was that he insisted on rolling the snowman's head perfectly round and wouldn't agree to use a shovel to make a head. "John," he said disgustedly, "That's not a head, that's just a polyhedron!" Of course, his damned perfectionism was doing me harm because it was me who kept running around rolling the snowball instead of him.

After the snowman was made, I sat down on the ground, exhausted. Sherlock took the shovel and put it back in the tool room. When he came back, he was dragging a small cart without wheels behind him.

He stopped beside me and kicked me with his foot. "Sir, please get in the cart," he said, taking off an invisible hat from his head and bowing to me.

I rolled my eyes. "Are you saying I have to squat in there?" I measured the size of the cart.

He laughed.

I thought for a moment and reluctantly got in.

He watched me sit or squat awkwardly, then suddenly turned around and started pulling the cart without wheels across the snow.

I was stunned for several seconds before blurting out, "What on earth are you doing?" While doing so, I grasped the sides of the cart to steady myself.

"Nothing," he replied casually. "I'm just pulling you around the garden a few times."

"I know, but why the hell is it like this?"

He just laughed.

I rode the cart up and down, bumping along like on a dog sled, and it was quite interesting. I tapped the side of the cart to get his attention and said, "So, Mr. Holmes, you suddenly decided you prefer the life of a Husky."

"Whatever you say!" He was slightly out of breath, half laughing and half running.

"Wait," I said. "I thought again. Actually, you don't look like a Husky. Considering your current hairstyle, you look more like a Komondor."
"What's a Komondor?" he asked. "You know I have no idea about useless show dogs."

"It's the mop dog I showed you."

He burst out laughing. Damn, he was planning to wake up his whole family.

"Actually," he said after a while, "When I was a kid, I had a little wooden cart. I always pulled it around the garden with a rope on my shoulder. Who sat in the cart then?"

I suddenly had a foreboding feeling.

"Round and round the garden,

like a teddy bear..."

This was too much. I was furious. I jumped off that ridiculous broken vehicle and threw myself at him. We both fell down in the snow. I got up, panting, and helped him finish reciting: "One step two step,tickle you under there..." I stretched out my sinful hands towards him.

He quickly rolled over and dodged my attack. I fell headfirst into the snow, while he seized my arm from behind and pressed my head into the snow with his other hand. This move was very elegant. If this tactic wasn't aimed at me, I would have clapped my hands in delight.

I struggled desperately. "Let me go!" The intense struggle and the loud shouting increased the consumption of oxygen. I began to feel dizzy. I shouted in the snow, "I hate you!"

"No, you don't!" He replied calmly.

"How do you know?" My intelligence had dropped to negative values due to lack of oxygen.

He forcefully flipped me over and, before I could counterattack, resecured his hands on my shoulders. He stared at me intently, while I was busy blinking and panting.

"Because..." He paused mid-sentence. His gaze changed suddenly, and I could feel his arms trembling slightly. I stopped what I was doing - licking the snow off my lips - and was stunned for half a second. Suddenly, I realized that this was my perfect opportunity to turn the tables. I jumped up suddenly, and he was caught off guard and was pushed down by me.

I fixed his shoulders with my knees. "The hell with teddy bears, I won!" I announced triumphantly, and with heavy breaths, wiped my face with my hands.

I didn't hear a reply.

I looked down at him curiously. He lay quietly on the snow, his head tilted back, his chin slightly raised, his distinct face stood out on the snow, and the skin shimmered almost like a kind of fluorescence. His hair was disheveled and pressed behind his head, like black cosmic rays surrounding his cheek. His eyes, his eyes, were not at all magnificent in color, but in this moment, in the depths of that gray, there seemed to be colorful fragments of stars dancing rapidly... I suddenly felt dizzy. I vaguely thought that I might have been dizzy after oxygen deprivation and then overexerted. I blinked hard and shook my head vigorously. I looked down at his face again and still felt dizzy.

"Are you okay? John?" I heard him ask. My knees couldn't hold him anymore. He sat up, worriedly pulling my arm...

"John?"

"John?"

I opened my eyes. Before me was Mary's face.

"I'm sorry. I think I fell asleep."

Mary smiled. "It's okay. Go to bed and sleep." She said.

"Okay." I intended to stand up.

She suddenly stopped me. Her big blue eyes stared deeply into mine.

"Would you like to play Truth or Dare one more time?" she asked.

My heart skipped a beat...

"What?" I asked.

She didn't say anything and just stared at me. Her expression was so sad that it made me feel sad too.

"Mary..." I said, touching her face. Her skin was smooth and warm.

"I forgot my question." She suddenly smiled.

"Sorry... I know..." I struggled to phrase it. "I'm trying..."

She placed her finger on my lips.

"No problem, John," she said. "I'll wait."

She hugged me.

Chapter Text

There was a note locked in the depth of my drawere. I didn't need to look at it to be able to see every word and every punctuation.

"John, you would have discovered by now that I had sent you away on purpose, and I'm deeply sorry for it. Today I will finish my final discussion with Mr. Moriarty on our problems. Believe me that I have prepared for everything, and it'll be easier for me if you weren't there.

I must leave England for a while after all is settled to avoid Moriarty's men tracking me down. There's a document in my computer named "John", and it is a test I present to you. The day you successfully open it would be the day I return.

Give Mary my best.

SH"

From the moment I first laid eyes on this note, I knew something was wrong. This feeling, combined with the terrifying accounts of the witnesses I heard and that mysterious encrypted document, has caused me ten months of confusion and torment that I couldn't escape from.
Now I've made up my mind. If this is the task Sherlock wants me to complete, I should do my best to finish it. No matter what truth it ultimately reveals, I can't keep running away.

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, his so-called test will never be simple. It was just an encrypted Word document, but after I tried every decoder I could get my hands on, I still couldn't crack it. I complained to the software companies that claimed to be able to recover passwords 100%, and a few of them, in order to protect their reputation, sent people to solve it on-site, but all of them failed. "The problem doesn't lie in the complexity of this password," they told me, "but the person who set the password fully understood how the decoding software works. He set up a program in advance to automatically disrupt the repetitive trial process of the decoding software. You should try to find a hard disk data recovery expert." Of course, after following their advice, I found that the hard disk was also password protected. Any attempt to decrypt it would automatically generate a file with the same name to overwrite the original file. I had to admit my failure with frustration. At that moment, I could almost see Sherlock sitting in front of me, his elbows resting on the armrests of the chair, his fingers touching in front of his chest, his gaze shifting from his fingertips to my face, and his tone mocking: "My dear John, you don't really think I have no idea what you might do, do you?"

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that Sherlock has such advanced computer skills. As a matter of fact Sherlock noticed the increasing percentage of electornic crime in all crime rates these days quite early, and he delved into this problem like an excited child stumbling upon a new toy. For two years I've never heard him complain "boring" even with no cases to solve. It's no doubt that he trained himself into a successful hacker these two years.

I remember one day Mycroft showed up at three in the morning, asking Sherlock to restore the MI5's data system immediately.

"The only person who has the chance to get an internal ID card and the technical know-how to cause damage is you," Mycroft said. Although his voice and expression were still calm, I knew he was secretly going crazy because he had forgotten to bring his black umbrella and wasn't wearing his three-piece suit.

"Oh, no, no, my dear brother. I'll be the expert you've invited to save the day and help you perfect the system, right?" Sherlock flopped onto the sofa, propping his legs up on the armrest.

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Yes, but only this once. Even I can't cover for you again."

Sherlock stretched. "You have to believe that with a system that I've perfected, even I won't be able to hack into it in the short term myself."

"The short term?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, seizing on the key word.

"One has to constantly challenge oneself." Sherlock replied lazily.

"You're forcing me to deal with you myself." Mycroft gazed at him intently.

Sherlock suddenly sat up, his eyes shining. "You're serious?" he asked eagerly.

"There's a way," Mycroft relaxed at this point, crossing one leg over the other, "If you agree to serve as the data security advisor for MI5, I believe I can free up quite a bit of time."

Sherlock looked at him for a while, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "Of course I know what you're up to, Mycroft," he groaned, "but the problem is, I still can't stop thinking about this."

Mycroft said nothing and only smiled slightly.

This strange conversation made my hair stand on end. I recalled the first time I met Mycroft, when he seemed to find it amusing to look me over and say, "You don't seem very frightened." And at that time, with what kind of foolish bravery did I tell him, "You're don't seem very intimidating"?

Sherlock went to the United States to attend several "Black Hat" conferences, which were themed around "anti-hacking", but I always suspected that there were quite a few experts like Sherlock, who were hard to categorize as either good or bad, rather, mixed in. The most ridiculous thing was that during the conference, a group of real cybercriminals declared war by placing several fake ATMs in the same city. The working principle of these devices was that they couldn't dispense money but could automatically record the card numbers and passwords of users. The victims at most kicked the machines twice, not realizing that their account information had already entered the black market.

Sherlock took this as a personal challenge. After returning to Baker Street, his interest shifted to ATMs. Strangely enough, old ATMs of several popular brands could even be bought on eBay. Sherlock bought several of them, filling the living room to the point where Mrs. Hudson refused to go upstairs for three months in a huff.

Sherlock was so absorbed that he spoke to me no more than ten times a week. He was very easy to get along with at this time. All I needed to do was to feed him like a puppy - leave him a sandwich, milk and a bottle of water before I went to work, and he could survive. He would go to the toilet by himself, so there was no need to take him out. When his hair was unbearably itchy, he would go take a bath by himself. Occasionally, I would see him still frantically calculating with water dripping from his hair. I would get itchy fingers and blow-dry his hair like you'd do with your pet dog. At this time, I could blow-dry his hair into all kinds of wild hairstyles and he wouldn't care at all. While I was enjoying myself, I also felt a bit bored.

I began to take my little pug Gladstone out as much as possible. We walked in larger and larger circles, and it became more and more excited. One day in Regent's Park, it ran wild, broke free from the leash in my hand, and pounced straight onto a blonde girl. I was shocked and ran over, but the girl hugged it and laughed. I hurriedly apologized repeatedly, but she didn't mind at all. That day we walked the dog for an hour, and before parting, I got her phone number. Although she wasn't very beautiful, her charm was gentle and lovely. She had a pair of big blue eyes, full and bright, full of emotion. Among all the women I had ever seen, no one had such an elegant and intelligent face.

A month after I started dating Mary, one night in the middle of the night, I was fast asleep when I was suddenly awakened by a blinding light. "Sherlock!" I moaned, pulling the blanket up over my head.

"Get up, John!" He pulled the blanket off me and I immediately covered my eyes with the back of my hand. His cold hand grabbed my wrist.

"For God's sake," I said in pain, "I have to work tomorrow."

He pulled me up with all his might and said, "Get up, John! Trust me, this is much more important than work."

His deep voice sounded even more hypnotic at that moment. I didn't answer and was almost falling asleep again.

"Please!" He used his most powerful move.

"Damn it!" I got up in great pain.

We got dressed and went out, walking down the street in the dead of night. I was still in a semi-trance and had to rely on Sherlock to pull me along. When we finally stopped, my eyes closed automatically and I entered a pleasant state of being on the verge of sweet sleep. Then I was grabbed by the shoulders and shaken violently. I felt my cheeks were about to fly off due to the strong centrifugal force.

I pushed him away and took a step back. "Stop, for God's sake, stop, I'm awake."

Sherlock chuckled softly, "John, your eyelids are still shaking."

"Piss off!" I replied, rubbing my eyes with both hands.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked.

I looked around. We were standing on a commercial street where many banks had chosen to install ATMs. I looked at him in confusion.

"Exactly, John! Exactly. There are many ATMs on this street, precisely 16. Ready to watch a little magic trick?" His eyes shone with excitement.

I felt the seriousness of the situation in an instant. "What are you going to do?" I asked nervously, grabbing his sleeve.

He smiled mysteriously, "Don't worry, John. We won't get caught. And no one will lose anything." He glanced at my hand on his sleeve and skillfully moved it, letting my arm slide into his arm. Now we were in a state of holding each other's arms. His other hand was in his coat pocket.

What happened next was like the most absurd dream. Sherlock and I, like a president and his wife (damn it, I hate to say this, but damn it, our posture was exactly like that), walked slowly past the welcoming crowd. And beside us, every ATM was flashing its lights excitedly, spitting out money with a clattering and rumbling sound. Sherlock turned slightly towards them and nodded, while I stood there dumbfounded, my mouth wide open, almost drooling (half out of fear and half because of my love for money).

When we walked down the entire street, Sherlock let go of my arm, faced me, and asked calmly, "John, did you like it?" I could see his excitement. His pupils were slightly constricted, his carotid artery was beating strongly, and his lips, which he usually kept tightly closed, were now slightly open to calm his excited breathing. If I looked closely, I could see his fingers and lips trembling slightly.

I had a thousand questions to ask, and I was both nervous and scared, but I couldn't control the smile on my face. I looked at him, this guy who was as excited as a child, and it made me so happy. I answered loudly, "Oh God Yes! A million Yeses!"

His pale skin suddenly became rosy, and his expression was like fireworks exploding, making me squint. "John, John, John!" he exclaimed, "I knew it... Oh, thank you... " He was so excited that he was almost incoherent. He opened his arms towards me. Without thinking, I stepped forward and hugged him tightly. We hugged each other like two kangaroos, using our front legs to hold each other and stomping our hind legs vigorously, spinning around in place several times.

"Now tell me, whose money is this?" I asked worriedly after we finally calmed down.

"Mycroft's," he said with a mischievous smile. "I mean, I first got the money from others and then transferred money from Mycroft's account to cover their losses. Anyway, he was going to bribe you with money. I told you before that you should have agreed and we could have split it. Of course, there's no trace. Now, John, take this and go collect the money."

I looked at the garbage bag and the terrorist mask he handed me. "What?"

He shrugged. "There are cameras on the ATMs, just in case."

I felt as if I had been plunged into an ice cellar. "What about the surveillance cameras on this street?"

He snapped his fingers. "That's already taken care of. I told Mycroft I would be active on this street tonight. Of course, strictly speaking, it's not a lie."

"Oh." I responded blankly. At that moment, I admitted that I felt a bit sorry for Mycroft.

For the next few months, we spent ten-pound notes. Even the rent for Mrs. Hudson was paid in thick stacks of cash. Sherlock gave me a scanner the size of a magnifying glass. It was very convenient to use. When I went shopping, I just scanned the items and waved it in front of the cash register that always gave me trouble, and the total price would appear. Of course, I paid with cash very conveniently.

Meanwhile, Sherlock helped the American police catch the ATM crime group that had a personal grudge against him.

Chapter Text

Today I went to offer free medical consultation to the homeless. I met old Jack.

Sherlock used to rely on these people to help him with his investigations. I knew that apart from treating Sherlock as a benefactor, they also had a sincere respect for him. Therefore, I had always hoped to do something for them. When I learned that a charity organization was recruiting doctors to conduct regular physical examinations for these people, I signed up without hesitation.

Before I recognized old Jack, he had already recognized me. Standing in the middle of the queue, he greeted me loudly: "Dr. Watson!"

I stood up and waved to him. He took off his hat and bowed to me.

Many of the homeless, including old Jack, suffered from claustrophobia. So our examination room was a semi-open shed.

"Everything well, doctor?" old Jack asked when he sat down.

I nodded, hoping to gloss over it, but old Jack insisted on bringing up Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes is doing well, isn't he?" he said eagerly, "Many people miss him very much."

I swallowed hard. "He's not in the country," I mumbled, "Now, Jack, try not to talk. I'm going to measure your blood pressure."

After a minute of silence, he relaxed and started rambling again. "Look at this scar on my hand. If it weren't for Mr. Holmes, I would have had my stomach slit open long ago."

"I remember," I said, "It was me who bandaged you up at that time."

"Yes, you were the nicest doctor, the best person in the world apart from Mr. Holmes."

I stopped what I was doing and felt a rush of blood and qi. I recalled what Lestrade had said to me at the beginning: "... because he's a great person, and if we're very very lucky, he might even become a good one."

Yes, Sherlock was a good person. All those who doubted whether he had human emotions should listen to what these people had to say. These people, who were oppressed at the bottom and had more or less mental problems, were the ones who could most directly and instinctively feel Sherlock's kindness and compassion. This meticulous person, who always dressed in high-end brands, during the shocking London incident of the homeless murders, spent a month and a half disguising himself as one of them, sleeping and eating on the streets of London like them.

That incident came very suddenly. It happened shortly after Sherlock solved the ATM case. After being relieved from the highly tense work, Sherlock immediately noticed that I was starting to date again.

It was a weekend. I was sunbathing in the armchair, reading the newspaper, while he was lying on the sofa, staring at me. I habitually ignored him. God knows if he was practicing his mind-reading skills on me.

"When are you going to tell me about her?" he finally asked.

"Who?" I raised my head. He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you mean Mary."

"So her name is Mary."

"Yes, Mary Morstan." I replied, clearing my throat awkwardly. I smiled, then suppressed it, not knowing why I felt a bit uncomfortable. Probably because he was scrutinizing me like an interrogator.

"How long has it been?" he asked after a moment of silence.

"Let me see," I thought quickly, "Three months."

"..."

I suddenly felt the urge to explain: "It's not like I didn't want to tell you, it's just that you've been busy..."

"Oh no no, not at all, the kind of information like you changing yet another date is completely useless to me. Even if you told me I'd have to delte it immediately." He replied with a sardonic and haughty tone, and with some tiredness he placed one arm across his forehead.

I sat there fora a while, and a strange sense of guilt kept me from being mad at his attitude. We sat ther in awkward silence until Sherlock asked: "What's new on the papers?"

I hurriedly flipped through the newspaper: "Ah, nothing much. The banks have tightened supervision, and the parliament is debating on tax cuts... Ah, this one you might be interested in. The new Jack the Ripper. Homeless people brutally killed." I read it attentively and looked up at him. What disturbed me was that he didn't jump up excitedly as I had expected. He just lay motionless, and if it weren't for the fact that his chest was rising and falling too obviously, I would have thought he was asleep.

"Read it out!" After a while, he whispered his order to me.

I stared at him blankly. He turned over and his face was facing the back of the sofa.

I composed myself and read the whole report. The gist was that two homeless people were brutally killed in the East End of London, both with their abdomens slit open, and their deaths were quite similar to those of the Jack the Ripper case from over a hundred years ago.

After I finished reading, Sherlock didn't say anything. I called him again twice, but he didn't answer. I thought he was asleep. I picked up a thin blanket and helped him cover himself, then quietly went out to see Mary.

When I got home, Sherlock had already gone out and didn't come back until the next morning. I worried all night and called his mobile phone countless times. The next morning, I received a text message from him: "I'm investigating the Jack the Ripper case. I won't come home for a while. Don't miss me. SH."

Sherlock disappeared for a week like this, and then another news item appeared in the newspaper. The third victim had emerged. I read the whole article nervously and was relieved when I found out that the victim was a woman. I felt that I couldn't just sit there doing nothing. I even called Mycroft.

"I have no idea where he is," he replied.

Mycroft smiled: "I hope it's not some of your disputes that led to this incident."

I recalled our previous discussion about Mary. Of course, he wasn't happy that I had kept something from him, but it wasn't worth him running away from home. However, Sherlock, as Sherlock, always couldn't be reasoned with according to normal logic.

I hung up the unconstructive call with Mycroft, and I felt that I couldn't just sit there anymore. I put my coat on and went out, and I was going to find him myself at the East End. From that day on I always lingered around that area after work, not to mention weekends. But I got nothing after two weeks. I was growing desperate, thinking that Sherlock was hiding from me on purpose, until i heard the sound of violin on the streets that day.

I followed the sound and walked over. I saw two people standing at the street corner. One was playing the violin and the other was accompanying with the harmonica. I stared at the violinist. If it weren't for that familiar posture, I would have been unable to recognize that it was Sherlock. He was wearing an extremely dirty coat, and the T-shirt inside was no longer recognizable of its original color. His hair was dyed yellow and he had a beard and a scar on his face.

I stood there watching him. He didn't look at me. He was concentrating on playing the violin with his eyes closed. I watched as his long fingers, which had become dirty, danced skillfully on the strings of the violin, just as they used to. Suddenly, I felt a pang of sadness.

There were people coming and going on that street. Sherlock's outstanding skills - although he deliberately concealed some of them - still frequently attracted people's attention. From time to time, someone threw some money into their jars. They played in a place opposite a small church. I sat on a stone bench on the side of the small church and listened to their performance quietly. They played many pieces, popular and classical ones, many of which were music that I had heard before but didn't know the names.

Half an hour later, they stopped to rest. Sherlock put down his violin - a broken one he must have got from somewhere - and squatted in front of the jar, taking out the money. I watched as he smoothed out the cash one by one with his fingers and placed the coins in his palm. Then he stood up and walked to a cart at the street corner to buy two hot dogs. He didn't even have enough money for a drink. I watched them sitting on the ground chewing on the hot dogs. Sherlock seemed to be extremely hungry. He would chew without chewing and swallow hard only when he was extremely hungry. I guessed he was thin.

I bought six bottles of water and walked over to them.

Sherlock was still sitting there, as if immersed in his own world, without raising his head. I saw the soft hair that I had blown dry with a hair dryer before tangled and dirty around his neck.

"Your performance was truly wonderful. This is a token of my gratitude," I put down the water and reached out my hand to the old man playing the harmonica beside Sherlock. The old man stood up, grasped my hand roughly and shook it: "My name is Jack," he said, looking down at Sherlock. "Jason, this kind gentleman bought us water," he said.

Sherlock nodded slightly and took a bottle of water.

I felt somewhat comforted. As for his unwillingness to look at me, I guessed it was a warning from him to me to be careful not to expose his identity. Old Jack said sheepishly: "Jason doesn't talk much."

"It's okay," I said and started to back away.

Old Jack whispered something to Sherlock. Sherlock murmured something in a low voice.
"Wait a moment, sir," Old Jack called from behind me.

I turned around. Sherlock was getting up. He still didn't raise his head, but he was holding the violin in his hand. "We want to give you a piece of music," Old Jack said.

I stopped.

Old Jack played a melodious prelude, and then Sherlock's violin music joined in. It was probably a melody that every person on earth had heard before, but it was often accompanied by Pavarotti's brilliant tenor, sounding as if it were praising the golden sun that shone brightly. I had never thought that the same piece of music played with the harmonica and the violin would be so, so - I couldn't find the right words to describe it - so powerful in evoking emotions in me. I knew I was standing there motionless, using all my strength to prevent tears from spilling out of my eyes.

Sherlock kept his eyes down as he played, his lips moving slightly. I thought he was humming the lyrics along with the melody. I knew he understood Italian. But apart from "O Sole Mio" being "My Sun", I knew nothing about the lyrics of that song. I stared at his face, watching the eyelashes that I was familiar with twitch ever so slightly. Amid the shadows of the violin, the beard and the scars, I couldn't make out his expression clearly. This made me feel uneasy. At the end of the piece, he raised his eyes and looked at me for a while, giving me a slight nod. I let out a long breath.

Later that day I followed them to the place they would spend the night. If Sherlock had found out, he didn't stop me. I watched them spread out an old blanket in the corner of a wall. Old Jack gave Sherlock some newspapers to stuff beneath his clothes against the cold. I thought that next time I'd bring some warm clothes for them.

Two days later the heaviest rainstorm in ten years fell in London. One of the tallest trees in Baker Street was struck down, and the news reported that some abandoned houses were at risk of collapse. That night as I listened to the lightning and thunder striking out side the window, I tossed and turned in bed. I couldn't stop thinking about that run-down wall corner, that old blanket, and those newpapers stuffed into their clothings, and I found myself unable to stay in my bedroom in Baker Street anymore.

I got up, quickly gathered a few things, put them on my back, and wearing my raincoat, rushed out onto the street. On such a rainy day, there were hardly any taxis. I had to take the subway to get close to that area. The rest of the way I had to walk. My trousers and socks were soon soaked through. The wind was strong and blew the rain into a whip-like form, striking me in the face one after another. I couldn't open my eyes and lowered my head, breathing like a fish taking a breath - I didn't care about all this. I just wanted to find Sherlock as quickly as possible.

But when I reached that wall corner, there was no one there. Only that torn blanket was left in the corner. I couldn't help but shine the flashlight around again and again, like an idiot, turning around twice on the spot. I never thought that Sherlock would leave there! What kind of stupidity! I took a few steps away, and the flashlight's light swept around, which suddenly made me notice that there were others nearby. Under a narrow eave, there were quite a few homeless people who usually lived in this area. They were all silently staring at me in the darkness.

I took a step backward and calmed down. "Have you seen Old Jack? Or... Jason?" God, I'm not that stupid. I still remember Sherlock's alias.

No one answered.

I shone my flashlight over them. Most of them had expressionless faces. Some put their hands up against the light, while others roared. I didn't see Sherlock, and that roar made me feel that I couldn't stay here for long. I turned and ran away.

I found myself in the headquarters of the homeless. Everywhere there were shelters for rain, but they were crowded with people who were eyeing me hungrily. I knew my situation was bad because there were kind and harmless old men like Old Jack here, and there were also drug addicts who would kill for five pounds. Although I had a gun, I didn't want to make things worse. But I never thought of leaving here. I had to find Sherlock.

After wandering for half an hour, I noticed that several people were following me. This was obviously very bad. If they cornered me and attacked me, even with a gun, I wouldn't know what to do. Suddenly, a cold hand covered my mouth and another hand tightly gripped my waist and pulled me backward.

After a second of terror, I suddenly realized who it was. "Sherlock!" I whispered in utmost relief. My eyes burned with emotion. He said nothing and continued dragging me deeper into the alley. We climbed over the low wall at the end and he silently led me to move quickly. We crawled through a hole in the iron net and into a construction site, and then crouched and crawled into a huge concrete pipe.

Old Jack sat their looking at me in a surprised expression, a lighter in his hand.

I waved at him awkwardly.

I sat down exhausted in the pipe, and it turned out to be dry. The pipe was long enough that the wind couldn't blow water into the middle.

"Shut off the lighter, Jack!" Sherlock commanded. He sat down opposite me and I could only vaguely make out his outline.

"What was going on in your silly little head?" he said in a cold, angry voice.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" I said sheepishly. "I thought you didn't have a shelter from the wind and rain..." I took off my raincoat and backpack, and to my surprise, it was still relatively dry. I pulled open the zipper, "I brought some raincoats and plastic sheeting for you, but it seems they're useless now. Anyways, there's still some wine," I knocked the brandy bottle down on the ground, "and... Great, some chocolate beans."

I handed the chocolate beans to him, but he didn't move. I had to shake my arm awkwardly and give him the wine. Old Jack muttered a "Thank you" and began to tear off the wrapping paper. I found a plastic cup in my bag and poured some wine out for Old Jack.

Then I poured myself another cup. As for Sherlock, he was still angry, and we'd have to talk about it later. I took a sip of the wine and felt my body warm up all of a sudden. Even my sore and injured shoulder seemed to be much more comfortable.

"John, why did you do this?" His voice was a little different from usual. I looked at him curiously, but the pipe was too dark for me to see clearly.

This was a stupid question, I thought. Maybe Sherlock was human too, and sometimes he could be stupid. "Of course because you're an idiot. I have to protect you," I replied.

He snorted and muttered something indistinct. I guessed he wasn't as angry anymore, so I poured him another cup of wine. I still remembered how cold his hands were.

"You didn't know how dangerous it was," he said after taking a sip of wine, "The several murders they had made them very nervous. They organized a patrol team and would take the initiative to deal with anyone suspicious. If it weren't for me wanting to see if anything would happen tonight, you..."

"But you were there," I interrupted him. "I'm fine."

He was silent for a moment. "You have to swear, John," he said, "You have to swear never to come here again unless I let you —" He seemed to make a gesture to stop my protest. "You see, I can take care of myself. And I already have some clues and will be able to figure things out soon."

I considered it. "I agree, but if there's danger, you must let me know."

He nodded. I heard him swallow the brandy. Then he lay down a little more, making himself more comfortable. He felt my soaked trousers.

"Take off your trousers," he said, "or you'll have a sore knee."

I didn't know how he knew this. This problem was left over from my time in Afghanistan. The nights in the desert were as cold as hell. Once we lay down on the firing range for the whole night, and since then my legs couldn't get cold.

I considered it and decided to follow his advice. After struggling in the cramped space for a while, I finally pulled down my trousers. Fortunately, there was a blanket in my backpack that could wrap around my legs.

Old Jack took another couple of sips of wine and started snoring. I sat opposite Sherlock, facing the pipe. His legs were beside my face.

We continued drinking and eating chocolate beans, occasionally chatting. I felt happy and stable, although this was just a damn pipe.

"How are you and Mary?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"Pretty good," I replied. "You weren't still angry that I didn't tell you earlier?"

He snorted through his nose. I laughed. As long as he was like this, it was a sign of the rain clearing up.

After a while, he asked, "Do you love her?"

I was taken aback. I thought Sherlock was the kind of person who would disdain to study such issues as "love" or "hate", but then I recalled that he had also drunk quite a lot of brandy.

"Well, I like her," I said, thinking, "I'm 36 now. At my age, it's unlikely that I'll be madly in love with anybody. She has a good personality and being with her is warm and comfortable. She possesses all the qualities of an ideal woman in my mind. And she actually likes me. Who am I? I'm not tall and I'm not handsome. I'm 9 years older than her. My career is a failure and I don't know when I'll be able to save enough money to open a business..."

"Come on," Sherlock interrupted me irritably, "Don't talk about yourself so badly."

"But that's the truth," I said, finishing the brandy in my glass.

Sherlock was pouring wine. I thought this was his fourth glass. "So, what can she give you?"

I shrugged. "A family - someone to cook for you when you get home, a tidy house, clothes ironed, someone to take care of you when you're sick. And children..."

I felt Sherlock shiver beside me. I touched his leg. "Are you cold?" I spread my blanket and gave him some. He didn't resist.

After a while, he whispered, "I didn't know you like children."

"Before I said so, I didn't know either," I scratched my head. "But being a father seems nice too. You know, I can teach them to play football, ride a bike, stuff like that. It should be more fun than having a dog."

He fell silent. I heard his labored breathing, which seemed to be longer than usual. I kicked him with my leg. "Sherlock?"

He didn't answer me. But he turned around and faced my leg. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he opened his arms and hugged my leg. "Sleep now, John," he whispered.

My leg felt moist. I thought it was from his clothes and hair that hadn't dried yet. But gradually, it warmed up in his embrace.

...

For the next two weeks, I carried my mobile phone with me all the time. I slept without taking off my clothes and placed the phone beside my pillow.

That night, he finally called me. He gave me a location and said, "Bring your first aid kit." I asked eagerly if he was injured, but the call had already ended.

My heart was burning as I rushed to the place he mentioned. I saw Old Jack covering one bleeding arm. "Where is he?" I asked.

"He's chasing the murderer," Old Jack said.

"Alone?" I asked incredulously.

Old Jack shook his head. "I couldn't stop him."

I checked Old Jack's injuries. They weren't particularly serious. "Which direction did they go?" I asked.

"You won't have time," Old Jack said, adding that they had left at least 20 minutes ago.

I hurriedly helped Old Jack deal with his wounds. The siren sounded. I threw the first aid kit beside Old Jack and ran towards the direction of the siren. I saw ambulances and an ambulance waiting to pick up the stretcher. I ran as fast as I could towards there. I could smell the blood in my throat.

When I arrived there, the ambulance had already left. I grabbed a police officer. I was panting and couldn't speak. I just pointed at the ambulance. He understood and shook his head. "Too much blood loss," he said. "Very dangerous." My heart sank, but I still had enough sense to ask, "Who?"

"Both of them," he replied.

I felt my mind go blank. My hands loosened involuntarily. I stood there for a while, and suddenly my legs couldn't support my body. I crouched down.

"John?" A hand rested on my shoulder. I felt like I had grabbed a straw. I turned sharply, no, not Sherlock, that was Lestrade.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. I couldn't answer.

He continued, "Did you come for Sherlock? I've sent him back to Baker Street."

I stared at him. For a moment, I couldn't understand his meaning. Lestrade suddenly understood. "Ah, on the ambulance are the murderer and another victim. Sherlock is fine."

My mind got around slowly. Finally, I understood his meaning. I jumped up and grabbed his collar. "Is he really fine?" I asked.

"Relax, John, relax," he said, releasing my hand. "He's really fine. The self-defense team helped him. The injured one is a member from the self-defense team."

I sent Lestrade to find Old Jack with someone. Everything was arranged. Then I rode in a police car back to Baker Street. I ran up the stairs quickly and slowed my pace when I reached the door.

I pushed the door gently. Sherlock was lying on the sofa in the living room, sleeping soundly. He seemed to have washed his face and hands, but still wore his shoes.

I gave him a blanket to cover himself. I helped him take off his shoes.

Then I sat down in the armchair opposite him.

I looked at him and suddenly felt sentimental like a woman.

My Sherlock was home.

...

The day the murderer was convicted we were invited to a celebration party held by the homeless. They lit up a camp fire to barbeque at an empty ground, and we bought alcohol and drinks. The injured member of the self-defense team came as well, fully recovered. People gathered around Sherlock, wanting to talk with him. Some even wanted to touch him. They all held affection towards him from their hearts. Sherlock hugged and shook hands with him without hesitation.

"Old Jack! Jason! Give us some music!" Someone shouted. Jack glanced at Sherlock, who shurgged. "I brought a nice violin." He said.

They played some fast-paced songs, and people started dancing around the fire. A girl dragged me in to dance for a while, too.

When I sat back down Sherlock was resting. "What music would you like to hear, John?" He asked.

"I don't know," I answered with a smile, sitting down next to him.

"Come on, whatever you like."

I thought for a while. "There was this gypsy song..."

"Ha!" He said, "That was Zigeunerweisen, or the Gypsy Airs," he hummed the first few notes of the melody.

I nodded. "Yes, that's it. Is it okay?" I asked.

The firelight danced on his pale, gaunt face as he stared at me intently. "Sure," he said, "anytihing you want, John."

He stood up with the guitar and began to play the tune. Old Jack hurriedly grabbed the harmonica and followed suit.

I sat in the darkness, listening silently. I must admit that I couldn't help but shed tears, and this time there were many people doing so with me.

I will always remember the scene that night. Sherlock was standing facing away from me, everything in black silhouettes - his tall, thin body, the delicate lines of the violin, his bowing posture, his slightly disheveled curly hair - the firelight flickered in front of him, making everything seem so ethereal and illusory, as if it shouldn't exist in this world and would soon be taken back to heaven.

Chapter Text

I made no progress in deciphering the code. I had tried all the technological methods I could, and all I could do was making shots in the dark and gamble with my luck. I've started to wonder whether Sherlock only set such an impossible task for me to stall his time. But the question was, what could I do? Sherlock knew that I wouldn't give up as long as there was a gllimmer of hope left.

It was my birthday yesterday.

Mary made many dishes, all of which were delicious. 

There was only one dish that I didn't taste at all. It was a Peruvian-style raw seafood salad (Ceviche). Mary asked me why and said that she remembered that I clearly liked this dish when we were dating. "I have a bad stomach today and can't eat raw seafood." That was my reply. She gave me a glance and didn't ask any more questions.

Actually, I didn't mean to do so. Before today, I didn't even realize that I couldn't eat this dish at all. Although since four years ago when I saw this dish in the garbage on Baker Street, I haven't eaten it again.

It was my birthday four years ago.

I got Sherlock's text at 11 a.m. , "Dinner? SH"

Sherlock had always dined with me during those times. He found a delicious seafood takeaway and they had new dishes coming up every once in a while. I replied, "OK".

At four in the afternoon Mary called me. "Happy birthday!" She said.

I was surprised. "Thanks, how did you know?"

"You forgot I saw your driver's licence." She said, "How about dinner tonight?"

I hesitated, and she added quickly, "I have something important to tell you."

I've never celebrated my birthday in the past six years, and I guess Sherlock didn't know either. It was only a coincidence. Plus we often ate together recently anyways, so missing one meal probably wasn't a big deal. "Sure." I said to Mary.

"Sorry, dinner's off. Mary has something important." I texted Sherlock.

...

Four hours later I proposed to Mary.

After she accepted my proposal she was suddenly very emotional, and I had to stay for a while to calm her down.

When I returned to Baker Street, the living room was pitch-dark and there was a smell of alcohol in the air. I kicked something and just cursed when I heard Sherlock's voice in the darkness. "John, please take that bag of trash down to the basement."

"What the... fine!" I said and went downstairs.

Before throwing away the bag, I took a quick look inside. It was Peruvian-style raw seafood salad!

I walked upstairs again and turned on the light. Sherlock Holmes, lying on the sofa, immediately covered his eyes with his hands. "Jesus Christ! Turn off the light!" he roared.

So I had to play the role of Jesus and immediately turned off the light. Apparently, he was in a bad mood tonight, and I knew the reason.

"Did you order seafood salad?" I asked, scratching my head and sheepishly.

He didn't answer.

"Sorry," I said, "I shouldn't have broken my promise."

"No, you have more important things to do. Mary is pregnant," Sherlock said, speaking as a judgmental sentence.

"How do you know?" I blurted out.
"You know my ways. Don't let me explain, John."

I sat there in silence for a while. "I was also surprised," I said, "I didn't expect it so soon... It seems I'm not fully prepared yet..." I stopped, not knowing what I wasn't fully prepared for. Was it not being ready to get married, or leaving Baker Street, or being a father? "Sherlock," I said, "I... " My mind was in a complete mess. I had no way to continue.

"That's not important," Sherlock suddenly said, and in the silence, his sudden words made my heart jump suddenly. "You'll marry her."

I fell silent. After a while, I said, "I know. But... you... "

He interrupted me, "If you can't forget your housekeeper duties, then you're just worrying needlessly. I won't starve myself to death at home just because I lost a roommate."

"Not like that, Sherlock..." I had too much to say, but I couldn't organize them effectively into words. I stopped.

The floor lamp beside the sofa clicked on. Sherlock sat up. The light was behind him, and I couldn't see his face clearly. He said nothing as he looked at me with a blank stare. This made me even more at a loss.

"Sherlock —" I struggled to find the right words, "I mean, even if I get married and move out of Baker Street, I'll still come back to you often. I can come for a weekend every month, or every two weeks." This wasn't what I wanted to say, but I couldn't think of anything else.

Sherlock didn't say anything. Ten seconds later, he burst out laughing. He jumped up from the sofa and walked to my armchair. He rested his hands on the sides of the armchair and looked down at me from above. I'm sure now that the smell of alcohol was coming from him.

"Thank you for your great kindness, your honor!" he said sarcastically, "But let's face it, can you afford living in three places, oh, actually, three places plus your clinic?"

I was speechless. I felt dizzy and my face turned red. Sherlock had never cared about my earning ability, but when he really used this to hit me, I found it beyond my tolerance.

"I won't argue with you," I forced myself to suppress myself, "You're drunk."

But he was still going on. "John, a sincere and decent person wouldn't do this. He's being selfish but pretends to be generous. Ha!" He chuckled mockingly.

My mind buzzed and for a moment I couldn't see anything. When I could see again, I jumped up from the chair, pushed him away with one hand, and he fell onto the sofa opposite. But I had used too much force and was a little unsteady on my feet, so I had to lean against the wall.

"Hypocritical? Indecent? Selfish? Prententious? Pretending to be generous?" Every time I utter a word I felt a sharp pain in my heart. "Sherlock, I've known you for seven years and that's what you have to say for me?" I roared, panting, and felt my vision go black. I felt that I was either going to start punching him, or holding him and cry.

He sat quietly on the sofa, his hair standing up in all directions. I couldn't hear a single sound from him. All I could hear was my own labored breathing and the thumping of my blood vessels in my ears.

He slowly stood up and didn't look at me. "Enough. I have to go out for a while," he said in a whisper. He straightened up and passed me by, pushing open the door and descending the stairs step by step. After a while, I heard a click from the downstairs door.

...

When Mrs. Hudson pushed the door open and came in, I was still standing where I was. She gave me a glance and asked cautiously, "You two had a little domestic?" I still couldn't say anything.

"You young people are just so prone to having big tempers," she sighed. "But today it really was your fault. He started preparing the ingredients for cooking at noon, but it all went to waste in the end." I took five seconds to understand what she said. "Who was cooking?"

"Sherlock was," she said, "you didn't know that he's been making food for you for a month?"

I felt the edge of my chair and sat down. I just couldn't stand up anymore.

He told me that it was from a restaurant for takeout, but I had never seen the takeout box. I should have known that no restaurant would serve French cuisine today and South American cuisine tomorrow.

"Surely he's got some skills, doesn't he?" Mrs. Hudson said with a smile.

I shook my head in rebuttal, "He can't cook. He never can."

"He took all my cookbooks. He remembers them after just one glance. When he offered to taste the meal I made him, he said, 'It's not difficult at all, Mrs. Hudson. It's just doing chemical experiments with food.'"

My mind started buzzing again. I heard myself saying:

"Good person John is making the 1000th sandwich for you. I wonder when this good person will have the good fortune to taste something you made?" 

"You never know, John. You never know. You know I love surprising people."

...

Mrs. Hudson was still going on, "Because of you I could get a taste of it every time. I've put on quite some weight." She patted me on the shoulder, "He's just got a temper. But you've always put up with that, haven't you?"

"It's my fault," I whispered.

Mrs. Hudson was relieved. "He'll be back tomorrow. Just apologize to him and it'll be fine." She went on for some more, made a pot of tea in the kitchen and went downstairs to bed.

I sat alone in the living room, thinking about today's events. Now I understand, Sherlock, the smartest person in the world, he relied on me like a child would do. When children are sad, their expression often show anger. He didn't want me to leave Baker Street, but he didn't know how to express it. He felt that my marriage with Mary was like Mary taking away me. But his pride made him unable to bear my occasional visit to him. For him, it was like I was giving charity to him with time that Mary didn't need with me. I began to imagine if Sherlock got married (though it's hard to imagine), would I have the same feeling? The answer was yes, I would feel abandoned and less important. I needed him to tell me that although he had a family, I would always be his most important friend.

I felt like a fool.

I waited in endless remorse until dawn. At nine in the morning, Sherlock came back.
He pushed open the door and I stood up.

He glanced at me and closed the door behind him.

I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," I said quickly, "Whether I'm married or not, whether I have children or not, you will always be my best friend," I paused, "You will always be the most important person in my life, more important than Mary, and more important than my future children."

He looked at me in surprise, his eyes wide open. This allowed me to see his face clearly. He looked terrible, pale, with sunken eye sockets, a piece of his mouth broken, and bruises on his cheekbones.

"You got into a fight with someone?" I quickly walked towards him and reached out to check his wounds.

He pushed my hand away. "I'm fine," he said calmly. "Don't apologize, John," he looked into my eyes and said, "You have nothing to apologize for. It's me who should apologize. I said those words last night when I was drunk."

I felt a sense of relief, but I still couldn't help confirming. "So you don't think I'm hypocritical, selfish..."

"No," he interrupted me. "John, you are the best, the most honest, the most upright and noble person I know. To be your friend, I feel extremely honored."

I was amused by his strange way of speaking. "It sounds rather sarcastic," I said.
His right corner of the mouth curled slightly, and the smile was as quick as lightning.

Ten minutes later, he came out of the bathroom. I had already taken out the medicine box and was sitting on the sofa. The sunlight shone right on that corner, making it very warm.

"Come here, Sherlock," I beckoned to him. He came over and lay down. He placed his head on my lap, closed his eyes, and I used a pair of forceps to dip an iodine-soaked cotton swab and treated his wound. He seemed to enjoy it. The sunlight shone on his eyelashes, and I noticed that the tips of his eyelashes were actually golden. Suddenly, I remembered that for the past month, he had been cooking at home as if trying to please me, while being awkwardly reluctant to tell the truth. This made me feel that he was the child I loved most and needed to take care of the most. I just wanted to do everything possible to make him happy.

"If you don't want me to get married," I heard myself say, "I don't have to."

He slightly trembled and opened his eyes. He stared at me, and I looked down at him. I couldn't feel my heartbeat. I didn't know if it was because it was too normal and I couldn't feel it, or if it had actually stopped beating.

"Why do I think that?" he said. "No, John, I hope you get married." He finished speaking calmly and closed his eyes again.

...

I had to stop. Recalling this memory was exhausting.

Chapter Text

My wedding anniversary is tomorrow. I've ordered the flowers and locked Mary's gift in my offce drawer, and I've made dinner reservations too. This calm and composed manner is worlds apart from the myriad worries I had when I got married back then.

On July 23rd we made the decision to get married, only less than three months to the date we chose - October 19th. Mary and I didn't have much family and friends, so planning the wedding itself was a lot easier. The key was that we had to settle for a house within three months, because our child will soon be born, and we decided to buy a place in the suburbs and stop living at a rented place.

Mary and I spent a month traveling around, and finally found a decent little house. Although it was a bit far from the city center, it was convenient to take the subway. The house itself was 30 years old, but the owner had done quite a few maintenance and renovations, so it didn't look particularly old. Mary liked the house at first sight. I calculated my savings and found that after paying the down payment, there was enough money left to cover the wedding expenses. So we signed the contract quickly.

After the house was delivered, there was only one month left until the ceremony. We had to buy furniture, kitchenware, try on wedding gowns, book a church, contact a delivery company, a photographer, arrange a honeymoon trip, and so on. Although Harry helped us, it was still a lot to handle. Every day after work, I would meet Mary or Harry to deal with all kinds of chores. When I returned to Baker Street, it was usually around ten o'clock. Sherlock seemed very busy. He was often not back when I got home, and when I left, he was sleeping. We met each other very few times in the last month.

On the Friday of the week when my wedding ceremony was only one week away, I returned to the apartment exhausted. Sherlock was indeed not there. I had a hasty meal and went to bed. After sleeping for a while, I suddenly woke up again. I turned over and saw my door half open. There was a figure standing at the door.

"Sherlock?" I asked drowsily.

"John." He answered. There was something in his deep voice that made it impossible to distinguish between dreams and reality.

He was still standing at the door, which was a bit strange because usually when he came to my room, he would drag me out of bed to accompany him to investigate cases. The steps were to rudely turn on the light, pull off the quilt, and vigorously shake my shoulders.

"Is there a case?" I sat up and rubbed my eyes with the base of my palm.

"No," he replied, "Actually, I was thinking..." He paused, "Perhaps you want to go downstairs for a drink."

This was a rather strange request, but I hadn't had the chance to talk to him for many days, and sacrificing a little sleep seemed not to matter much at the moment.

"Give me a minute," I replied.

He nodded and closed the door and went downstairs.

When I reached the living room, he was standing behind me by the window. Hearing my footsteps, he turned around.

"Sit!" He gestured towards the armchair with the wine glass in his hand. The wine glass was exactly illuminated by the light, like a deep red gem set between his artist's fingers, and the background was a large expanse of blue silk - that was his pajamas.

I slumped into the armchair, stretched out my limbs, and noticed that he had poured the wine for me on the small tea table on my right.

"You look very tired, John," he said, slightly swaying the wine glass.

"Haha, you don't need to be Sherlock to notice that," I said, "It's a complete mess, confusion, endless details, every dish I have to taste, changing one dish and having to taste another, the cake's style was chosen for two days, the rehearsal costumes couldn't be the same as the wedding... No, no, I'll save myself, there's no need for you to be distracted by this... " I picked up the wine glass and took a big gulp.

He stood there looking at me, slightly tilting his head. "Don't you feel excited and thrilled?"

I laughed. "Maybe for those who have everything taken care of and are just waiting for the wedding, but I'm so busy that I don't feel anything at all."

He said nothing, just finished the wine and came over to pour himself another glass.
When he sat down on the sofa opposite me, he said, "John, I've been handling a French case recently, and I'm afraid I can't attend your wedding."

Of course, I was a little disappointed, but to be honest, it was unimaginable for Sherlock to show up at such an occasion. Besides, I think he still had some resentment towards me for leaving him to go get married.

"That's nothing," I said, "Work is always important. Are you sure you don't need my assistance?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure, but it's not worth delaying the wedding for you - " He finished up the wine in the glass, "Anyway, I have to get used to working alone again, don't I?"

"No! You know that if you need me, I'll assist you anytime," he said.

He gave me a deep look. "Of course I know," he said, then he put down his wine glass and changed the subject, "Where are you planning to go for your honeymoon?"
"Greece."

"I thought you preferred Switzerland."

"But Mary wants to see the Aegean Sea."

Sherlock smiled. "Miss Morstan is very lucky."

"Come on, Sherlock."

He let me off the hook. "John, I have a gift for you."

I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Yes, a gift."

"You really are Sherlock Holmes? Because the guy with the same name as you I know never gives presents, not even on Christmas."

A smile flashed across his lips: "Well, maybe that's why I have to give you a present this time."

"Well," I put down my wine glass, leaned forward, and rested my hands on my chin. "Now tell me."

He stared at me, his bright eyes moving slightly. "John, how old are you?"

I remained unmoved. "Keep your nonsense to yourself and hand over my gift!"

He smiled and leaned back against the sofa: "What do you think of opening a clinic in Kensington?"

"Sherlock —" I took a breath.

"Before you protest," he gestured to stop me from interrupting, "listen to me. I'm just paying a year's rent for you. I believe that once your business gets on track, you'll have enough money to pay me back —"

"Sher-"

He frowned in impatience. "For God's sake, let me finish, John! It's impolite to interrupt others." he sat up, looking at me in discontent, and waited for me to grow silent to continue, "If you think about it in reverse, if I neede money, for whatever reason, and you had some spare money in your account, wouldn't you want me to accept it? No need for further discussion, I insist." He waved his hand in a aristocratic manner, indicating that I could speak now.

I opened my mouth. "Sherlock, I don't know what I can say..."

"Then don't say anything."

"I'm grateful..."

"Completely unnecessary."

"Who was the one saying that interrupting others is impolite?"

"Oh, that only applies to you."

I looked at him helplessly and shouted, "Sherlock!" Then I laughed.

I stood up from the armchair and crouched in front of him. He stepped back and eyed me warily, his expression like that of a little fox ready to retreat at any moment, but his eyes narrowed, like a wolf sizing up the situation.

I spread my arms out, "Come here!" I said.

He looked at me suspiciously.

"Damn it, give me a hug, Sherlock! You owe me this!"

He muttered something, seemingly reluctant. But his sharp eyes softened and turned to a shade of greyish blue velvet.

I lunged forward, suddenly embracing him and preparing for him to break free or even kick me away. But he didn't. He stiffened in my arms for half a second, then relaxed, and his soft hair brushing against my neck, and my shoulder felt his chin. He slowly raised his arms and tentatively wrapped them around me, circling loosely for a second. Then suddenly, as if he wanted to squeeze me into his body tightly, he hugged me tightly, using all his strength and trembling all over, and I even heard his teeth chattering against my ear. Air was squeezed out of my chest, and I involuntarily made a sharp inhale. My heart skipped a beat at the same time. His heartbeats from our close chests reached mine, giving me the illusion that they had jumped out of our chests and touched each other... But before the next heartbeat, he pushed me away forcefully. "Go back to sleep, John." He stood up abruptly and strode towards his room.

The weather was fine on the wedding day. Behind the small white church there was a huge birch tree. It seemed that some divine power had cast a spell on it, and an endless stream of golden rays emanated from it. These golden rays shone through its tens of thousands of leaves, and it generously distributed them to the earth beneath it. No matter how diligently people swept the ground, after a night, the green grassland would once again be covered with a layer of brilliant golden light.

Our wedding was held on the lawn beneath the birch tree. They set up a screen door under the tree for the guests to watch the ceremony, and the chairs for the guests were ten meters away. Between the two was a snow-white table, on which our wedding cake was placed.

I looked at my watch. There were only two minutes left before the band would start playing. My uncle, Mary's uncle, would appear with her. Suddenly, my mobile phone rang. I took it out and saw that it was from a strange number.

"Hello?" I picked up.

There was no answer.

I asked again.

Suddenly, music came from the phone - it was the melodious sound of the violin, a familiar melody that was incredibly beautiful yet filled with sadness. It had echoed in many corners of the world - believers listening with tears in their eyes under the golden roof, black slaves singing in the wilderness with a yearning for freedom, soldiers marching towards the battlefield with the melancholic drum music playing its melody... But the music I heard now had nothing to do with these. It was not praising the glory of God, nor singing about freedom or bravery. It told me many things, but it was beyond words and could only be understood by God.

I held the phone and listened in silence, my eyes looking at the big tree not far away. A gentle breeze blew, and countless leaves fell from the branches, leaving many straight or curved golden trails in the air... And those familiar lyrics flashed in my mind like burning words:

      Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
　　That saved a wretch like me.
　　I once was lost but now I'm found,
　　Was blind but now I see.
　　T'was grace that taught my heart to fear.
　　And grace my fear relieved
　　How precious did that grace appear,
　　The hour I first believed.
　　Through many dangers, toils and snares
　　We have already come
　　T'was grace that brought us safe thus far
　　And grace will lead us home.
　　…… ……
　　Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
　　That saved a wretch like me.
　　I once was lost but now I'm found,
　　Was blind but now I see.

The melody came to an abrupt stop, as the phone hung.

I put down the phone and felt my face, realizing why I refused to hang up.

The music started again, this time beside me. And as I lifted up my head I saw Mary, in her wedding gown, walked towards me by her uncle. They stopped before me, and Mary smiled gently at me, releasing her grip on her uncle, and putting her arms in mine, as we walked side-by-side towards the pastor.

I heard him asking, "Do you take Miss Mary Morstan as your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"

I looked in to Mary's eyes, and saw deep affection in them, and suddenly I felt guilty. For a moment I wasn't sure if I could repay the same amount of love. But at least, my vows and determination was of utmost sincerity. I looked at her and answered,"I do."

...

I've always believed that wedding vows were the most solemn and deep promises in the world. It wasn't only about love; it also encompasses the inescapable responsibility and unwavering loyalty. It requires human beings to overcome their selfish nature and to tolerate others as they tolerate themselves.

...

Something I've always been working on myself.

Chapter Text

January 21st, 2022

I went to the cemetery with Mary to visit little Tommy.

Little Tommy was born on December 27, 2017 and passed away 25 days later. If he were alive today, he would be five years old.

His premature birth was very sudden. Her blood pressure rose sharply and she fell down at home. Fortunately, I insisted that she keep her mobile phone around her neck and checked the battery condition frequently. When I got the news and rushed to the hospital, they asked me to sign immediately for the surgery. The survival rate of the child during this time was not high, but not having the surgery would put both the mother and the child in danger. Of course, I signed without hesitation. Three hours later, Tommy was born. Mary's condition stabilized.

I never held Tommy in my arms. His heart and lungs were not fully developed and he was sent to the ICU immediately after birth. I could only watch him through the glass. I stayed at the hospital day and night, taking care of and comforting Mary while watching my son struggling on the verge of life and death. It was a painful and tormenting process. Tommy had seemed to be much better sometimes, but the next night, I would be urgently called awake and sign to allow them to remove the fluid from his lungs. Poor Tommy suffered countless hardships in his short life. Sometimes I thought maybe God would have been kinder to him if he had taken him back.

Mary seemed very strong. Except for the first few days when she was in tears and needed my constant comfort, she completely calmed down later. But what worried me was that she often said to me, "You don't have to worry. Tommy will be fine." She completely refused to discuss other possibilities.

On January 21, 2018, Tommy finally found eternal peace, but Mary broke down. She had a hysterical breakdown and the doctors had to give her sedatives. She was extremely depressed for several days and I had to stay by her side all the time. Harry handled Tommy funeral alone. I secretly went out to see my son for the last time and didn't tell Mary. A month later, with the help of medication, psychological therapy and my comfort, Mary finally slowly got better. That night, I had planned to stay at the hospital with Mary, but she insisted that I go home. She said, "John, go back to sleep. I don't need you to be sick either." I agreed. I realized that in these days, I had been running back and forth between the clinic and the hospital, and I had almost reached my limit.

On the way home, my phone rang once. I nervously opened it and it was a text message:

"I have returned to London, and I am very concerned about your condition. If you need anything, you know how to find me. SH”

I read that text message over and over again and felt an uncontrollable urge. I got off at the next stop and turned to Baker Street.

In the six months since I got married I hardly saw Sherlock. On one hand, Mary was pregnant and needed to be protected. On the other hand, he often wasn't in London. After I left Baker Street, he seemed to have expanded his scope of business. Once when I came to visit but found no one, Mrs. Hudson told me that it's not only Scotland Yard's detectives that come to him now, but also clients from all around the world.

During the toughest days of my life, when I was sleeping poorly in the hospital and on the subway, I often dreamed that I was back on Baker Street. I dreamed that the fire in the fireplace was burning warmly, with the occasional crackling sound of the wood splintering gently. I lay in my armchair idly, sometimes reading the newspaper, but the words on it were usually blurry. Sherlock was always there. Sometimes he sat on the sofa opposite me, reading a book and opening and closing letters, sometimes he was fiddling with his violin, and sometimes he just stood by the window, leaving me a long, slender silhouette. In the dreams, we didn't talk much, but it seemed that we both enjoyed each other's company comfortably. My mood was always peaceful and relaxed.

I came to Baker Street with the longing for those dreams. I always had the Baker Street key on my keychain, so I opened the door myself. I went upstairs and pushed open the door of the living room. Just like in my dream, the fire in the fireplace was burning warmly, and Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, holding a book in his hand. He obviously heard my footsteps when I entered the room. He was looking in the direction of the door when I walked in.

Just this scene was enough to comfort me. I felt a warm current flowing through my body, as if I were suddenly placed in hot water.

Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and stood very close to me, stopping suddenly. That was the Sherlock I knew. He could invade someone's private space without caring, stand right in front of them and speak aggressively, but he was unfamiliar with all kinds of physical contact, even curious and clumsy. Except in some tense moments, he would subconsciously grasp my wrist, but otherwise, I was always the one to initiate contact with him.

I stepped up and hugged him tightly. Soon he hugged me back. It was an extremely comforting hug, and I heard him whisper by my ear, "My poor John!" The words seemed to have some sort of enchantment, and the next thing I knew I was done. I couldn't speak, and my legs felt weak.

Sherlock pulled my arm and dragged me to the armchair. He pulled his sofa forward and sat opposite me, so that he could pat my trembling legs comfortingly.

I began to tell him what had happened. He listened quietly, with patience that he had never shown before. During my rambling account, he never interrupted me once. His eyes sparkled, but his gaze was very gentle. When those eyes were not like an electric drill trying to pierce your forehead, or like an open freezer with a cold breath, they were the most touching things in the world.

After I finished telling him everything, he asked me in a voice that was rational and calm enough to calm the most crazy person: "So there is no major damage to Mary's body. Can you still have children?" I nodded.

"That's good," he said. "Loss is painful, but thinking of hope makes it much better. Mental trauma takes time to heal, but you and Mary are not fragile people. I know you will get through this."

"As for Tommy," he said, "even if he survives, he is unlikely to be a healthy child. The world is very cruel. An unhealthy child will only suffer more. John, believe me, this is not the worst outcome for him."

To be honest, if Sherlock had to face someone more fragile and sensitive than me, his words might seem too rational and inconsiderate. But to me, they were extremely effective. I had been so tortured repeatedly that I had lost my direction. I was trapped in gloomy clouds and couldn't extricate myself. Sherlock's words were like a distant bright lamp that pointed out the way.

I slowly calmed down, and Sherlock went on:

"There are many hardships in life, and they often come unexpected, with nothing we could do about them. So what can we do? A, end our lives so we don't have to care anymore; B, whine, complain, regret and envy others for not having to go through it all; C, Grow angry or sad, then patch up the wounds, be greatful for what we have and continue to do what needs to be done. Which would your choice be?" I looked at him. He was uttering these words as natrually as if he'd thought about it for millions of times.

"Thank you, Sherlock." I said.

"My pleasure, John." He flashed a smile, and then tilted his head, "Now tell me, have you had dinner?"

We drank some wine and had a simple but hot meal. I complimented his cooking. He froze for a second and furrowed his brows, saying, "Oh, Mrs. Hudson!"

After the meal, he made me lie down on the sofa and even went out of his way to fetch me a blanket himself.

He dimmed the lights. "It's time for Dr. Holmes' music therapy now," he said seriously, "Now tell me, do you have any special requests?"

He deliberately made his deep and resonant voice even deeper and more resonant. God, if he were really a psychologist, he could make patients obey him just by his voice.

I almost burst out laughing. I thought for a moment: "Dr. Holmes, I heard that you have the ability to read minds. Why don't you figure it out yourself?"

He smiled and pursed his lips for a moment of thought. "As you wish, then."

I watched him bend down and snatch up his violin from beside the sofa. He held the violin with his chin, rolled up the wide sleeves of his pajamas with both hands, and then picked up the bow and tested the strings slightly.

He looked at me and gave a gentle smile: "John, It seems that you are extremely tired. Close your eyes. Wait for me to put you to sleep."

The piano music began to play. I closed my eyes and listened attentively to his playing.

He tentatively pulled out some melodies, some familiar and some unfamiliar, some lively and some calm, some complex and winding while others were simple and direct. He kept changing, usually switching after playing about a dozen bars. It seemed that he was probing my preferences in this way. I didn't deliberately hide my feelings, but I also didn't think that a face with eyes closed could convey much information. However, the amazing Sherlock could practically penetrate my soul effortlessly. He quickly figured out the pattern. All the melodies that I found touching he would play repeatedly, and while I was lingering in the last melody he would play a piece that even moved me more instead. It was like having thousands of radio stations in the word and I could switch between them with my mind, so that I'd always listen to the music that captured me the most at all times.

As he played a particularly beautiful and melodious tone I held my breath. He gave a low chuckle, "Mendelssohn! Of course it's Mendelssohn!" And then he repeated that little segment of delicate melody. When I was feeling sentimental and pulled the blanket over my head, he continued to play them calmly, sometimes deviating from the theme and moving a little bit according to the score, but he would always manage to return. Only when I had a good time and vented my emotions freely under the blanket did he change to another piece of music.

After that, I felt deep fatigue. And he began to play some very gentle and melodious pieces. Although I didn't understand music well, I thought they were all the works of the same musician. They made me think of rose petals falling from the sky, birds, butterflies, and scattered feathers gliding together, and the stars were so gentle as if they were about to drip from the night sky...

In such music, I entered a dream. In my dream, I still saw Baker Street. The fireplace was burning faintly, the light was dim, Sherlock's and the violin's shadows fell on the opposite wall. His slender fingers, high forehead. And his gray-blue eyes, like clouds falling in the cold lake...

Chapter Text

January 21st, 2022

I went to the cemetery with Mary to visit little Tommy.

Little Tommy was born on December 27, 2017 and passed away 25 days later. If he were alive today, he would be five years old.

His premature birth was very sudden. Her blood pressure rose sharply and she fell down at home. Fortunately, I insisted that she keep her mobile phone around her neck and checked the battery condition frequently. When I got the news and rushed to the hospital, they asked me to sign immediately for the surgery. The survival rate of the child during this time was not high, but not having the surgery would put both the mother and the child in danger. Of course, I signed without hesitation. Three hours later, Tommy was born. Mary's condition stabilized.

I never held Tommy in my arms. His heart and lungs were not fully developed and he was sent to the ICU immediately after birth. I could only watch him through the glass. I stayed at the hospital day and night, taking care of and comforting Mary while watching my son struggling on the verge of life and death. It was a painful and tormenting process. Tommy had seemed to be much better sometimes, but the next night, I would be urgently called awake and sign to allow them to remove the fluid from his lungs. Poor Tommy suffered countless hardships in his short life. Sometimes I thought maybe God would have been kinder to him if he had taken him back.

Mary seemed very strong. Except for the first few days when she was in tears and needed my constant comfort, she completely calmed down later. But what worried me was that she often said to me, "You don't have to worry. Tommy will be fine." She completely refused to discuss other possibilities.

On January 21, 2018, Tommy finally found eternal peace, but Mary broke down. She had a hysterical breakdown and the doctors had to give her sedatives. She was extremely depressed for several days and I had to stay by her side all the time. Harry handled Tommy funeral alone. I secretly went out to see my son for the last time and didn't tell Mary. A month later, with the help of medication, psychological therapy and my comfort, Mary finally slowly got better. That night, I had planned to stay at the hospital with Mary, but she insisted that I go home. She said, "John, go back to sleep. I don't need you to be sick either." I agreed. I realized that in these days, I had been running back and forth between the clinic and the hospital, and I had almost reached my limit.

On the way home, my phone rang once. I nervously opened it and it was a text message:

"I have returned to London, and I am very concerned about your condition. If you need anything, you know how to find me. SH”

I read that text message over and over again and felt an uncontrollable urge. I got off at the next stop and turned to Baker Street.

In the six months since I got married I hardly saw Sherlock. On one hand, Mary was pregnant and needed to be protected. On the other hand, he often wasn't in London. After I left Baker Street, he seemed to have expanded his scope of business. Once when I came to visit but found no one, Mrs. Hudson told me that it's not only Scotland Yard's detectives that come to him now, but also clients from all around the world.

During the toughest days of my life, when I was sleeping poorly in the hospital and on the subway, I often dreamed that I was back on Baker Street. I dreamed that the fire in the fireplace was burning warmly, with the occasional crackling sound of the wood splintering gently. I lay in my armchair idly, sometimes reading the newspaper, but the words on it were usually blurry. Sherlock was always there. Sometimes he sat on the sofa opposite me, reading a book and opening and closing letters, sometimes he was fiddling with his violin, and sometimes he just stood by the window, leaving me a long, slender silhouette. In the dreams, we didn't talk much, but it seemed that we both enjoyed each other's company comfortably. My mood was always peaceful and relaxed.

I came to Baker Street with the longing for those dreams. I always had the Baker Street key on my keychain, so I opened the door myself. I went upstairs and pushed open the door of the living room. Just like in my dream, the fire in the fireplace was burning warmly, and Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, holding a book in his hand. He obviously heard my footsteps when I entered the room. He was looking in the direction of the door when I walked in.

Just this scene was enough to comfort me. I felt a warm current flowing through my body, as if I were suddenly placed in hot water.

Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and stood very close to me, stopping suddenly. That was the Sherlock I knew. He could invade someone's private space without caring, stand right in front of them and speak aggressively, but he was unfamiliar with all kinds of physical contact, even curious and clumsy. Except in some tense moments, he would subconsciously grasp my wrist, but otherwise, I was always the one to initiate contact with him.

I stepped up and hugged him tightly. Soon he hugged me back. It was an extremely comforting hug, and I heard him whisper by my ear, "My poor John!" The words seemed to have some sort of enchantment, and the next thing I knew I was done. I couldn't speak, and my legs felt weak.

Sherlock pulled my arm and dragged me to the armchair. He pulled his sofa forward and sat opposite me, so that he could pat my trembling legs comfortingly.

I began to tell him what had happened. He listened quietly, with patience that he had never shown before. During my rambling account, he never interrupted me once. His eyes sparkled, but his gaze was very gentle. When those eyes were not like an electric drill trying to pierce your forehead, or like an open freezer with a cold breath, they were the most touching things in the world.

After I finished telling him everything, he asked me in a voice that was rational and calm enough to calm the most crazy person: "So there is no major damage to Mary's body. Can you still have children?" I nodded.

"That's good," he said. "Loss is painful, but thinking of hope makes it much better. Mental trauma takes time to heal, but you and Mary are not fragile people. I know you will get through this."

"As for Tommy," he said, "even if he survives, he is unlikely to be a healthy child. The world is very cruel. An unhealthy child will only suffer more. John, believe me, this is not the worst outcome for him."

To be honest, if Sherlock had to face someone more fragile and sensitive than me, his words might seem too rational and inconsiderate. But to me, they were extremely effective. I had been so tortured repeatedly that I had lost my direction. I was trapped in gloomy clouds and couldn't extricate myself. Sherlock's words were like a distant bright lamp that pointed out the way.

I slowly calmed down, and Sherlock went on:

"There are many hardships in life, and they often come unexpected, with nothing we could do about them. So what can we do? A, end our lives so we don't have to care anymore; B, whine, complain, regret and envy others for not having to go through it all; C, Grow angry or sad, then patch up the wounds, be greatful for what we have and continue to do what needs to be done. Which would your choice be?" I looked at him. He was uttering these words as natrually as if he'd thought about it for millions of times.

"Thank you, Sherlock." I said.

"My pleasure, John." He flashed a smile, and then tilted his head, "Now tell me, have you had dinner?"

We drank some wine and had a simple but hot meal. I complimented his cooking. He froze for a second and furrowed his brows, saying, "Oh, Mrs. Hudson!"

After the meal, he made me lie down on the sofa and even went out of his way to fetch me a blanket himself.

He dimmed the lights. "It's time for Dr. Holmes' music therapy now," he said seriously, "Now tell me, do you have any special requests?"

He deliberately made his deep and resonant voice even deeper and more resonant. God, if he were really a psychologist, he could make patients obey him just by his voice.

I almost burst out laughing. I thought for a moment: "Dr. Holmes, I heard that you have the ability to read minds. Why don't you figure it out yourself?"

He smiled and pursed his lips for a moment of thought. "As you wish, then."

I watched him bend down and snatch up his violin from beside the sofa. He held the violin with his chin, rolled up the wide sleeves of his pajamas with both hands, and then picked up the bow and tested the strings slightly.

He looked at me and gave a gentle smile: "John, It seems that you are extremely tired. Close your eyes. Wait for me to put you to sleep."

The piano music began to play. I closed my eyes and listened attentively to his playing.

He tentatively pulled out some melodies, some familiar and some unfamiliar, some lively and some calm, some complex and winding while others were simple and direct. He kept changing, usually switching after playing about a dozen bars. It seemed that he was probing my preferences in this way. I didn't deliberately hide my feelings, but I also didn't think that a face with eyes closed could convey much information. However, the amazing Sherlock could practically penetrate my soul effortlessly. He quickly figured out the pattern. All the melodies that I found touching he would play repeatedly, and while I was lingering in the last melody he would play a piece that even moved me more instead. It was like having thousands of radio stations in the word and I could switch between them with my mind, so that I'd always listen to the music that captured me the most at all times.

As he played a particularly beautiful and melodious tone I held my breath. He gave a low chuckle, "Mendelssohn! Of course it's Mendelssohn!" And then he repeated that little segment of delicate melody. When I was feeling sentimental and pulled the blanket over my head, he continued to play them calmly, sometimes deviating from the theme and moving a little bit according to the score, but he would always manage to return. Only when I had a good time and vented my emotions freely under the blanket did he change to another piece of music.

After that, I felt deep fatigue. And he began to play some very gentle and melodious pieces. Although I didn't understand music well, I thought they were all the works of the same musician. They made me think of rose petals falling from the sky, birds, butterflies, and scattered feathers gliding together, and the stars were so gentle as if they were about to drip from the night sky...

In such music, I entered a dream. In my dream, I still saw Baker Street. The fireplace was burning faintly, the light was dim, Sherlock's and the violin's shadows fell on the opposite wall. His slender fingers, high forehead. And his gray-blue eyes, like clouds falling in the cold lake...

Chapter Text

May 3rd, 2022

It's been two whole years since Sherlock's gone missing.

I often recall Sherlock's words about the three choices these days. Based on my sense of responsibility and pride, I couldn't chose A or B, but it was so difficult to choose C. I tried patching up my wounds, but it was nearly impossible. I've seen soldiers with half of their bodies blasted of in Afghanistan. No matter how much dressing or bandage you use, these wounds could never be patched up.

I tried to live on with my wounds, not passing my desparation to those around me. So people believe that I've gotten better. Even Harry felt reassuring enough to the point where she wasn't checking in on me anymore. As for Mary, sometimes I believed that she trusted it as well. But other times, when I looked up from the newspapers and met her eyes, I knew I couldn't fool her at all.

Now, I think I may have found a plan that could help me carry out C.

Last night, I took a look at the blog that I had neglected for two years. To my surprise, Sherlock was not forgotten by people during this period. There were tens of thousands of comments about him.

Since Sherlock no longer confined his work to assisting Scotland Yard, his reputation gradually spread. By the second year after my marriage, the website "The Science of Deduction" of his had seen a sharp increase in page views. And my blog, which I had stopped updating for a while after my marriage, also received a large number of clicks along with it. The case accounts that I had written carelessly before aroused great interest. People left comments asking me to write out other stories that I hadn't written.

I couldn't make a decision on this matter on my own, so I left a message saying that I must first obtain Sherlock's consent. The next morning, I saw his reply: "Whatever you want, John. But please remember, detective methodology is a precise science. It should be studied with the same calmness rather than with emotions. Do not give it a touch of novelistic color and make it seem like a love story mixed in with a geometric theorem."

The fact that he was still reading my blog gave me a great boost in confidence. Even though his comments on my previous blog posts made me feel somewhat embarrassed.

I went through my notes and picked out some cases that I thought were extremely wonderful. Then I devoted myself to documenting them as if they were my second career. Maybe I was using this way to forget the sadness that Tommy brought to me.

In 2018 and 2019, I wrote dozens of blog posts about cases we had dealt with before. More and more people came to watch, so many that Sherlock texted me and ordered me to remove my blog profile and private information. He said that exposing myself like this would do me no good.

Partly because of the influence of my blog, Sherlock's reputation began to spread across the entire European continent. He was often not in London, and I occasionally received postcards from all over Europe from him. During those two years, I only saw him in person a few times, and once was at Baker Street. Once he came to see me. In fact, that time when I opened the door, he had already turned around and left. I stopped him in surprise. He stopped, slowly turned around, and smiled: "Nothing, John. I just wanted to see you. Now that I've seen you, I can return."

He looked thinner than before, and wrinkles were starting to crawl upon his face, but he still looked energetic. I walked out of the room, "Where are you going? Why don't you come in and sit down?"

He shrugged. "There's no need at all," he said. "I came to see you, so now that I've seen you, I can go back."

I wanted to protest. But he waved his hand and took two steps backwards, "Goodbye, John! Say hello to Mary for me!" Then he turned sharply with his coat backswing opening up like wings - he stood upright and walked away with long strides.

I stared at his back for a long time until Mary came out and pulled me back home, warming me up by the fire.

...

I scanned through the comments, most of which asking about his recent developments, asking me to update some more interesting cases. There were also new fans expressing their admiration, and some calling me a complete psychopath and saying that I was making things up. But one particular comment caught my attention: "Is Sherlock Holmes really the copycat Jack?"

This message said that recently there were widespread rumors online that the convicted and executed copycat Jack was not the real murderer but was framed by the mysterious detective Sherlock Holmes. Some also claimed that although this person was caught by the police with blood all over his hands, he was merely hypnotized by Holmes. This person was skeptical of these claims and asked me to clarify the situation.

After reading this message, I immediately searched the Internet. Sure enough, in the past month, there were many news reports about this incident. Both those who were for and against Holmes had many supporters. Even those who supported him admitted that Holmes did have the qualifications to be Jack - he had excellent anatomical knowledge, and moreover, his relationship with the homeless was good (thanks to my previous blog posts, they all knew that Sherlock used the homeless to gather information), making it easy for him to approach the victim without being suspected.

After reading it, I was so angry that I couldn't tolerate anyone spreading lies and slandering my friend. I had to write out the truth of the matter. I spent one night writing an article about the beginning to the end of the Jack case and posting it on my blog.

This blog post triggered a new wave of message floods, most of which were in support of Sherlock. But there was a guy with the ID "The Daughter of Time", who pointed out sharply that my recollections couldn't effectively defend Holmes and listed ten reasons. He basically said that I didn't witness the facts at the critical moment and that Holmes was out of my sight for a long time, and he could have committed various crimes.

I angrily got involved in the debate, refuting his viewpoints and listing various pieces of evidence to prove that Holmes was a kind and noble person. And "Daughter of Time" - now I believe this was a guy with absolute intelligence above me - always managed to disrupt the public's attention with sophistry and some seemingly reasonable but actually unconvincing arguments. This chaotic debate was covered and reposted by many websites, and its influence grew larger and larger.

Eventually this was solved by Lestrade, surprisingly, who published many evidence along with the confession records of the copycat Jack in the name of Scotland Yard. They said that the police were convinced that they had the right guy, and Sherlock came in as a consulting detective they hired to assist them with solving the case.

I called Lestrade, and he seemed very pleased when he picked up my call. When I thanked him for speaking up about it, he accepted no credit. "We had to maintain Scotland Yard's image," he said.

We chatted along for some more, and he started asking about Sherlock's whereabouts after beating around the bush for a while. I anticipated him asking about this when I called, so I told him calmly, "I don't know either." He didn't seem to believe me , because he replied, "No matter where he is and what he's up to, or whether he wants to see us or not, please tell him that us Scotland Yard people will never be jealous of him. In fact we are proud of him, and if one day he should return, whether experienced officers or newcomers will all gladly shake his hands." He added while I was too excited to talk, "Even Sergeant Donovan."

I hung up, unable to calm down.

Sherlock's genius intellect was something that everyone would sense immediately, but aprt from that, he was also an honest and noble man. Though sometimes his powerful rationality would override his emotions, making him seem ruthless. I felt that I had a responsibilty to give the world the real Sherlock. I couldn't continue to abandon myself in loss and grief.

I think that I'll start writing something, not just about crime solving, but more about the tiny moments of his life that shined with his humanity.

Chapter Text

July 23rd, 2022

It's my birthday again. I'm 41 today. When I went to get the mail in the morning all that came in the mailbox were ads and bills. I stuck my hand inside it a bit more, but there was nothing more inside. After I got married, Sherlock sent me two birthday presents, both Mendelssohn CDs. One time it was a post stamp from Vatican City, and the other one from Sweden.

After I came home Mary gave me a new doctor's robe. She said I looked very bright in it.

There weren't many patients that day, so I went home early. We went to her favorite Italian restaurant for dinner that evening. When we were about to leave, a street performer was playing the violin by the roadside. I glanced at him subconsciously.

Three years ago, on my birthday, I met a gypsy lady here. Her violin playing wasn't very good, but there was something about it that reminded me of Sherlock. There was a piece whose name I didn't know that was particularly touching. I stood there and listened to the entire piece. I gave her five pounds and she bowed to me. Then she took my hand and kissed it. That was the first time I was kissed on the hand by a woman, although the other person was an old lady. I awkwardly withdrew my hand, looked at Mary, who was looking at the old lady with a strange expression.

On the way home, I received a call. One of my patients had a high fever. I had to say goodbye to Mary and go to visit that patient. This reminded me of the time when I also rushed to visit Sherlock when he was ill.

It was in early 2020. Mrs. Hudson called me on the phone. She was almost crying on the other end: "He has been seriously ill for three days. He refuses to let me call a doctor. This morning, I saw that both of his cheekbones were protruding and his big eyes were looking at me. I just can't take it anymore." I told her that I would arrive within an hour and asked her to wait upstairs. She told me to call me if there was any situation. Then I hung up the phone, said goodbye to Mary, and hurried out.

I didn't know at the time that Sherlock had returned to London. It's been months since I last saw him and I missed him dearly. Mrs. Hudson's call made me distraught, because though Sherlock had many unhealthy living habits he was rarely under the weather. In the seven years I've lived with him he hardly ever got ill, and from what I remember he only caught a cold a few times.

I arrived at Baker Street with tangled thoughts in my mind. Mrs. Hudson heard me turning the keys and appeared at the top of the stairs, seemingly wanting to run down. I was worried that she'd fall and hurt her hip again.

"How is he?" I signaled for her to stay there and rushed upstairs in quick strides.

"Not good, but at least he's awake now."

"Why don't you send him to the hospital?"

"He doesn't want to. You know how stubborn he can be. I couldn't disobey him."

When I saw Sherlock I almost shivered. The face on the pillow was so emaciated that it was distorted. His hair was all over his face in a complete mess. Due to a high fever, his cheeks were flushed red; his eyes were full of blood vessels, and a layer of black skin had formed on his lips. He lay there listlessly, and when he saw me, there was a look in his eyes that showed recognition.

"John," his voice was hoarse, "I'm afraid you're here at the wrong time." His voice was weak, yet there was still a sense of nonchalant in it.

"I'm just on time." I said worriedly, kneeling before his bed to feel his forehead.

He dodged my hand in annoyance, "Don't touch me, John, don't touch me!" He was like a seven-year-old when he got ill.

"Why?"

"Because it is my desire, isn't that enough...?"

Turning his head like that seemed to make his dizziness worse, as he closed his eyes suddenly and clenched his teeth.

Yes. Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more stubborn than ever before, yet his exhaustion made my heart ache.

"I'm just trying to help." I explained.

"Yes, and doing exactly as you're told is the best help you can offer."

"Of course, Sherlock."

His stern attitude seemed to lessen.

"You're not mad, are you?" He turned his face and asked, panting.

Poor Sherlock, laying sick on his bed, how can I be mad at him like that?

"Sherlock," I said eagerly, "You're seriously ill. Patients should behave themselves like kids. I'm here to cure you. Whether you like it or not I need to check your symptoms and give you medicine accordingly."

He stared at me with his brows furrowed for a moment, and then started again in thought, "Right. My John is a doctor."

Fire seemed to burn in my heart. If he forgot that I was a doctor than his fever really is making him delirious. I took out the thermometer, "I'm going to check your temperature. You need to cooperate." I unbuttoned one of his pajama's buttons and stuck the thermometer under his arm. He didn't fight this time.

I put on the stethoscope, warmed the cold earpiece in my hand, and then reached inside his pajamas. His skin was hot and his heart was beating fast, but fortunately there were no abnormal sounds in his heart or lungs.

I took out the stethoscope and his eyes followed my every move as if it were something extremely new to him.

I brushed his hair away from his face and asked him softly, "Tell me, where else do you feel unwell?" He obediently moved his head to let me help him tidy his hair, looking very comfortable. As soon as I stopped, he impatiently moved his head and signaled for me to continue. Eventually, I began to gently stroke his face. He didn't answer my question, so I had to pull out the thermometer with my other hand. His body temperature had already reached 39.5 degrees Celsius.

I sighed. "Sherlock," I said, "We have to go to the hospital."

"Never!" He replied immediately.

I looked at him, poundering on whether I should continue my attempt to persuade him or give him some sedative and call 999. But then I feared that rashly giving him sedatives in this situation would result in some adverse outcomes. Just as I was hesitating he suddenly started frowning, and his breathing became ragged, as if he was feeling other pain besides his fever.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

He was too busy enduring to answer me. His face, burning red with fever a while ago, had become pale, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He squirmed under the covers for a while and settled at a position facing downwards. That didn't seem to have eased his discomfort, because moments after he started pressing his hands to his abdomen and curled himself into a kneeling position, his back trembling a bit from the effort. He was still keeping himself from moaning, but his rapid breathing made me hurt even more than if he did.

He was driving me crazy. "Do you have a stomachache?" I asked, and when I still couldn't get an answer I shouted outside the door, "Mrs. Hudson!"

But then he suddenly took out a cold, sweaty hand and clutched at my arm. "I told you I'm not going!" He shouted at me.

I wasn't frightened by him. "Then tell me what's wrong! I'm worried, Shelrock! You have to tell me where you're hurting or else I'll manhandle you to the hospital myself!" I shouted back.

He looked at me for a while, as if weighing whether his willpower could overcome mine. Then he admitted defeat. He closed his eyes. "I couldn't sleep, I had a fever and a headache, so I took an aspirin, and then I had a stomachache."

"How many aspirins did you take? How long had you gone without eating before taking the medicine?" I asked.

He answered irritably: "I don't remember."

I was confused and worried. I thought we should go to the hospital. What if it was a gastrointestinal reaction causing stomach bleeding? But Sherlock seemed to be able to see through me even at such a time. Suddenly, he lost his temper and hit the bed with his hand.

"I won't go to any damn hospital!" he gasped, "John, you come, you'll cure me."

When Mrs. Hudson heard my shout, she was knocking at the door. I let her in.

She seemed to have cried: "How is he?"

"Mrs. Hudson, please hurry and cook some oatmeal porridge. Add a little honey when it's cooked."

She nodded and went out. I quickly wrote down the required medicine on the prescription, then I put down my pen and began to massage his back for him. After a while, he seemed to feel better. He opened my hand and lay down tiredly.

I asked him nervously if he felt nauseous. He just groaned weakly. At this time, Mrs. Hudson had finished cooking the oatmeal. I thanked her and let her go back with the prescription to buy the injections. She was happy to be able to help and immediately went out.

I helped Sherlock sit up. He seemed to be dizzy severely. "We need to eat something, Sherlock, otherwise your stomach will still hurt," I said.

"I don't want to eat," the expected answer. He was as stubborn as a child.

"If you don't eat, we'll have to go to the hospital," I brought out my only trump card again. "You wouldn't be able to fight me in normal conditions, and now you're even worse. I can easily carry you to the hospital."

He gave a contemptuous snort, as if he was deeply disgusted by my bragging. But when I placed the lukewarm spoonful of cereal in front of his mouth, he still obliged and opened his mouth.

After he had eaten a few mouthfuls, he probably felt much better in his stomach and began to have the energy to comment on Mrs. Hudson's cooking. "It's overcooked," he said. I remained silent. After a while, he refused to open his mouth again because a piece of honey was not completely melted. He looked at the honey with a disgusted expression and then at me with a reproachful one.

I silently put the spoonful of cereal back into the bowl, stirred it vigorously, and then continued to feed him. This time he ate again, but immediately said discontentedly, "You should have known that. I hate sweet food."

I looked at him helplessly.

After he finished a bowl of cereal, I gave him a shot of antipyretic medicine, wiped his face with a hot towel, and helped him make the quilt more comfortable. Now he leaned against the headboard (he refused to sleep), wrapped in the quilt, with only a fluffy head exposed, and had no longer that self-important look as usual. He was like a very young boy.

I dimmed the light and sat down with my notebook. "Do you want to hear a bedtime story?" I asked. I thought I had completely entered the role-playing state because, as long as I regarded his age as a seven-year-old, I could understand his behavior more easily.

He gave a disgusted snort.

"Then let's watch some cartoons?"

He glared at me with his eyes wide open.

I was almost laughing. "Don't worry, the cartoons won't be worse than James Bond." I said casually, taking out several DVDs from my bag. They were borrowed from my nurse, and Mary was going to show them to the children in her class. I flipped through them twice but couldn't decide: "Do you want to watch 'Kung Fu Panda' or 'Up'? "

"I refuse to discuss this absurd question."

"Well, 'Up' it is."

"I said I'm not watch it."

"Don't worry. It's starting now." I inserted the disc into the computer and it whirred to life.

"John!" he shouted sternly.

"OK, OK." I replied calmly, placing the computer in a position where both of us could comfortably watch.

I knew nothing about this animation, but I had to admit that the story at the beginning, about the tough little girl and the shy little boy, was really interesting. When the little boy turned into a grumpy old man and the little girl became a photo on the table from her childhood, I glanced at Sherlock.

He was watching.

The appearance of the chubby boy was a turning point. The determined, never-give-up, always-do-good deeds-for-the-prizes medal-winner boy scout soldier managed to latch onto the lonely, grumpy old man. When their house was carried away by countless balloons, Sherlock made his first comment: "Absurd!"

But he was still watching.

When those talking dogs appeared, I think he even chuckled. Undoubtedly, the character that Sherlock could most relate to in this film was probably Muz, who designed the dog language translator and insisted on proving his correctness and intelligence to the world no matter what.

When I saw the last part, the house was left at the top of the waterfall, the old man returned to reality, and opened his adventure manual once again, feeling that he was at risk of having an emotional outburst.

Sherlock sharply concluded at this moment: "The entire story is that a not-so-stupid person was tricked away by two fools, an old man and a young boy, relying on dog luck. Of course, this is inspiring news for most stupid people in the world."

...

We spent a pleasant night. But when I took his temperature, I found that it didn't drop much.

I frowned at the thermometer while Sherlock was lounging around and said, "Don't worry, John. Your medical skills aren't that bad. I just need to sleep for a while."

I didn't have the same confidence in myself as he did. I was very afraid that I might miss something and cause irreversible consequences. I thought I couldn't sleep tonight. I had to check on him every hour.

Sherlock's temperature finally started to drop at three o'clock in the morning. By the time he woke up by himself at eight in the morning, he only had a low fever.

But my assumption that he would regain his senses once his temperature dropped quickly shattered. He insisted on taking a bath, saying that his hair was so itchy that he was almost about to "cut off his head".

After trying in vain to stop him, I finally gave in: I would assist him with the bath, but he didn't even want to think about it. He reluctantly agreed.

I first turned on the hot water in the bathroom vigorously, making it steamy and warm. Then I moved a flat beach chair into the bathroom and wrapped Sherlock in a mummy-like manner, leaving only his head exposed. Then I served this picky customer with unparalleled patience, like a beautician waiting to receive a huge tip. During the entire hair washing process, he kept complaining about everything and everything else, saying that I hadn't scratched the itchy spots. I had to point out that what I had was not a steel brush but my fingers. It wasn't until I dried his hair with a hair dryer that he quieted down, in an enjoying posture.

I made him have two more bowls of cereal, and regular and easily digestible food was crucial for the recovery of his digestive system. Under my supervision, he drank a lot of water to replenish the lost water in his body. At first, I had to hold him up when he went to the toilet. By the evening, he was much better and could walk slowly to the toilet by himself. His temperature returned to normal.

That night, he ate something again. This time it was the potato soup made by Mrs. Hudson. While I was considering whether I could go home to see Mary, he put down the soup he had half-eaten.

"Are you going home?" he asked. I had no idea how he came to that conclusion. I didn't think I was someone who put everything on my face.

I looked at him for a moment, hesitating.

His expression changed, and just as I thought he was about to usher me away, he said, "Stay, John." and looked away from me immediately, but I noticed that his hands were in fists.

"Of course." I said, "I just need to call Mary.

He looked up at me in astonishment, as if I had just said something so remarkable. He was the greatest detective in the world, the one who could always see through others. How could he not know that I would give him anything if he asked for it? Not to mention something as simple as taking care of him for one more night?

After calling Mary, I went back to his bedside. I turned off the reading lamp and the room was plunged into darkness.

I tried to make myself as comfortable as possible in the chair and said, "Sleep, Sherlock."

He didn't reply.

"Are you comfortable in the chair, John?" he asked after a while.

I moved again. "I've slept through worse than this, like in Afghanistan's desert and your damned cement pipe," I said.

He fell silent.

Ten minutes passed and he still wasn't asleep. He rolled over.

"Do you often have trouble sleeping?" I asked.

"Sometimes," he replied after a while.

"Thinking about cases?"

"...Sometimes,"

"Sherlock -" I said. On dark and quiet nights, one could sometimes feel the urge to say something stupid. I was struggling against the urge to blurt out something stupid and the effort to stay awake.

Sherlock rolled over and faced me in the darkness.

"What, John?" he asked calmly.

At the moment I heard his voice, I gave up struggling.

"If possible, could you try to stay in London as much as you can in the future?" I asked.

He didn't say anything, but his breathing became rapid. Suddenly, I was extremely afraid of hearing his refusal.

"If you don't want to answer now, you can tell me tomorrow morning," I said, propping my legs on his bed and lying down a little. I pulled the blanket up to my chin. I had to sleep now, before I did something stupid.

The next morning, neither of us mentioned this matter. I had to go home sooner or later. Besides, the clinic was waiting for me.

I went to see Sherlock again the following weekend. He completely recovered. I saw that his small suitcase was already packed and placed beside the sofa. That's when I knew his answer.

We sat facing each other and drank tea. He didn't say anything, and I couldn't find anything to say either. This made me suddenly feel a bit embarrassed.

I stood up and began to put on my coat: "I should go home now."

He suddenly stopped me. "John, there's something," he said, "there's something I want to tell you."

"What is it?" I had a bad feeling. I stopped, one sleeve not yet on.

"You know that I have been traveling a lot in the past two years. This apartment is basically empty. I don't think it's worth it, so I plan..."

I interrupted him. "Are you moving out? Or are you looking for a new roommate?"

He lowered his eyes. "The latter."

I stood there for a moment, my mind blank, not sure how to react.

"Why?" I asked. I wouldn't easily accept such a nonsensical reason. He wouldn't have allowed me to come home the day before yesterday.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Then he looked up at me, his eyes aglow and cold in the light, making me feel extremely strange. That was the way he looked at other people, but he had never looked at me like that.

"I once told you, John, detective work is a precise science, and what's needed is calm and undisturbed thinking. But I have reason to believe that our relationship has become an obstacle to my work. My judgment has been impaired, and I'm actually seriously considering whether to accept your request to stay in London and give up the entire continent of Europe to wait for the clients who need my help. I told you that I'm already married to my work, and you are threatening my marriage."

I looked at him in disbelief. What nonsense was he talking?

"I'm not cutting you off, John," he stood up. "You're still my friend, but I'm afraid we can't be as close as we used to be." He came close to me and I instinctively took a step back. He stopped.

"I get it," I said. Actually, I didn't understand anything. I only knew that the stupid thing I said that night was ridiculous. I only knew that he was going to kick me out of Baker Street. Without his invitation or permission, I couldn't come here anymore.

He stood there expressionlessly, waiting for me to say or do something.

I felt my hands trembling. I quickly hid them in my coat pocket, but when my fingertips touched the key chain, it was like being burned by fire. Suddenly, I understood what he was waiting for me to do.

I took out the key chain and searched through it several times before finding the two keys for Baker Street (one for the front door, one for the upstairs bedroom), and then I took them down with a lot of effort. I felt as if my fingers suddenly turned into rubber. There were no nerves inside them and they were completely out of the control of my brain.

I placed the two keys on the tea table. Sherlock turned back and sat down on his sofa at this moment.

I felt I should say something, but he wasn't looking at me. He was sitting on the sofa, tapping the armrests with his fingers. I thought he was impatient.

I tried to calmly say, "Good night!" Then I turned around and left. As soon as I got outside, I couldn't control myself. I was running down the stairs like I was in a hurry.

I couldn't stay in this place any longer.

I didn't go to the subway station. In fact, I couldn't tell any direction anymore. I wandered for a while, passed a music bar that was deafening, and without thinking, I walked in. I ordered double vodka at the bar counter and quickly drank it. Then I asked for another glass. Before my hand touched the glass, someone patted me. I turned around. It was a rough and big man. He signaled me to change seats. Only then did I notice that there was a hot and curvaceous woman sitting next to me. He obviously wanted me to take this seat to flirt with him.

I gave him a contemptuous glance. "Sorry," I said, "I'm not interested in you." I reached out to take my newly ordered drink. The hot girl laughed crisply.

The big guy was infuriated. He stretched out his big hand to slap my head. Of course, I wouldn't let him hit me. I shrank down and had already overturned the stool. I dodged around him and then I kicked his knee area with great precision. He let out a scream and fell to the ground. People screamed to avoid him.

I could have continued attacking him while he wasn't getting up to completely incapacitate him. But I didn't want to end the fight so quickly. I reached into the counter and grabbed the cup of the drink that hadn't been drunk yet. I drank it all in one gulp. Then I threw the cup aside and stood there, coldly looking at him as he got up.

Just then, I felt a gust of wind in my ears. I suddenly swerved and a wine bottle flew out, hitting the bar. Several pieces of the wine bottle splashed on my face. I quickly moved away to a safe place and then looked back at my attacker. Great, it turned out that the big guy wasn't the one who came here. This fight could still go on for a while.

I engaged in a fierce battle with the two of them. It took me half an hour to bring them down. Of course, I also paid a price. One of them kicked me in the thigh and when I staggered backward, my back hit the stone bar. It felt as if it snapped in the middle.

They threw me out of the bar. I continued wandering aimlessly on the street, but my legs and back hurt badly. I gasped and walked slower and slower. My phone suddenly rang. The fight just now somehow didn't even break the phone. I fumbled to take it out. The screen of the phone showed a photo of Mary. I turned it off.

I sat down to rest at the entrance of a closed shop. A cold wind blew past and I hiccuped. The alcohol began getting into my head and I started to feel dizzy. It seemed that my back didn't hurt much anymore. I curled up my legs and rested my body, which did warm me up a bit. I slept drowsily for a while until I felt something cold fall on my neck. I looked up and saw it was snowing.

When I got home by subway it was already five in the morning. As I was struggling with the lock, Mary opened the door. She stared at me in horror first, then her expression turned into one of pity. "Poor John," she said, gently holding me. She supported my face with both hands and kissed me, first on the lips and then on the forehead. I froze as she kissed me. Then I wrapped my arms around her.

Chapter Text

March 27th, 2023

It's been a long time since I last wrote this. Seven or eight months, in fact.

I've been busy with two jobs in the meantime, one of which being decrypting the password to the document Sherlock left me. I firmly believed that the clue was hid in the times we spent together, in words he did or didn't speak, and in the countless violin pieces he played for me. I put down every possible word and phrase on a piece of paper and tried all kinds of combinations. It was tedious work, so sometimes I'd just stop for a while and reminisce on some fragment of memory we had together. Sometimes it made me laugh, and sometimes it made me silent with grief. But in the end I always felt tired, as if my soul was drained from me.

Another job was updating my blog. I'd write down some memories of Sherlock on my blog, sometimes a prank he'd made, sometimes a mean joke he thought of and sometimes a song he played or witty comments he made watching James Bond films or British talent shows. What I didn't expect was that these blogs won him some young femal fans. They refreshed my comments on a daily basis and wrote down sentences and emojis that young girls liked to use. In their imagination Sherlock must have been as handsome as some movie star, and all his petulance and harshness was a symbol of his unique qualities.

However, just recently, a new rumor has emerged online.

The person who posted the message is said to be Moriarty's brother. He claims that Professor Moriarty is completely innocent and that those crimes were planted on him by a cunning person, and he suspects that person to be Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detectives and consulting criminals - these two jobs simply logically require the same kind of talent. He even asserted with certainty that Sherlock resembles Morriarty in terms of height and build - they are both tall and thin. And it is well known that Sherlock is good at disguising himself. It was effortless for him to dress up as Morriarty when giving instructions to those criminals.

This is truly absurd, but I cannot just let it go. Although that memory causes me pain, I cannot not reveal the truth to defend Sherlock's reputation, even though the truth I know is not entirely complete.

Our last umpleasant meeting at Baker Street was in January of 2020. I haven't seen Sherlock since then, nor had he contacted me or sent me anything. Until April 24th, 2020, when he knocked on my door.

I looked at the person standing in front of my doorstep in surprise. It is Sherlock, but he seemed even paler and skinnier than ever before.

"Yes, John, I have been exhausting myself recently," he said before I could speak, "The situation's a bit urgent. Do you mind of I close your window shades?"

My reading lamp was placed on the table, and it was the only source of light inside the room. Sherlock walked along the edge of the wall and drew the blinds, locking them up.

"What are you hiding from?" I asked.

"Snipers."

"Sherlock!"

"You know me, John, I'm not a coward. But if I continue to deny danger when it's just ahead of me I'd be a fool."

"How dangerous is it?"

"Enough to have me bother you here at this hour." Holmes said, "And having to ask you to sneak out the back garden."

"What on earth is going on?" I asked.

Instead of answering he asked, "Isn't Mary home?"

"She went on vacation with her best friend."

He looked at me with surprise. "Really? So you're alone?"

"Yes."

"Then I can stay a while longer and tell you this in detail." He sat down on a chair.

I stared at him. His pale and emaciated face gave me the impression that his nerves were at the breaking point. He crossed his fingers together and rested his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the wall behind me.

"For some time now, I've been trying to obtain the evidence that can put Moriarty on trial. You know my capabilities, John, but after so much effort, I have to admit that I've encountered an opponent of equal intelligence. I have to say that I admire his skills slightly more than I detest his crimes. But he finally made a mistake, a very minor one, but I was watching him so closely that even such a small mistake couldn't be tolerated. I set a trap around him from this point, and now everything is ready, and I'm just waiting for the net to be cast. Within three days - that is, on Monday next week - the time will be ripe, and he and his main associates will all fall into the hands of the police. Then there will be the greatest trial of criminals in this century, to clear up forty or more unsolved cases," he turned his gaze to my face, "but I just learned that Moriarty has noticed."

"Will he try to escape?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly: "Obviously. But I think he has one more thing he wants to do - that is, to take my life."

He waved me off and nodded. "Yes, it has begun. Moriarty is a very good at seizing opportunities. I've had three attacks today - one was a car rushing onto the sidewalk, one was a slab falling from a construction site, and another was two thugs with sticks. I have no doubt that the sniper will appear sooner or later."

Having understood the whole situation, I felt much calmer. "You can stay here for the night," I said, "I'll keep watch for you."

Sherlock smiled quickly. "That's exactly what my John would say, but no, it's too dangerous."

"What's your plan then?"

"I'll leave Britain early tomorrow morning and temporarily hide for a while."

"But Moriarty won't let you go if you go abroad," I countered.

"Of course." He smiled carelessly, "Then I shall just enjoy the fun of playing hide-and-seek."

I thought for a moment, then I stared into his eyes and said: "Sherlock, why are you here? You know this might bring me danger. Maybe someone will break into our house at midnight tonight, or someone will set fire to my house. You know there are these dangers, but why do you still come?"

Sherlock's face turned even paler. His chest rose and fell, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something. Finally, he stood up. "I'm sorry, John," he said, "I have to go."

I stopped him.

"You haven't answered my question, Sherlock," I said.

He looked at me and, in his peculiar way, as if in that moment he saw only me and nothing else. A surge of emotions were mixed in his eyes and I couldn't tell them quite apart. But I saw plead. Fucking, damn, plead!

I was furious all of a sudden. I thrust him backwards with my hand on his chest: "Sherlock! Why can't you tell me that you don't know if you'll make it back alive? You're just here to see me one last time before your suicide mission, isn't that right? Isn't it? Isn't it? Just fucking admit it!"

"John!" he shouted. He staggered back after being pushed by me. His face was as white as a marble statue. I was really afraid that he would lose his balance and fall straight down, breaking into pieces in my living room, in just a second.

I stepped closer, "Now, invite me to go with you." I said.

"John -" His voice, which had always been very steady, was now a little shaky.

"Don't even bother," I said, "I'm coming with you."

Before he could say another word I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

He's really a lot thinner than before. I could practically feel his ribs beneath his shirt. He tried to pull away but my grip was iron-tight. Two seconds later he gave up, and wrapped his arms around me, too.

He pressed his cheek against the top of my head and rubbed it.

He said nothing, but I could feel his body trembling in waves, as if some extremely intense emotion was beating it inside. He had never been so out of control before, which made me very worried.

"I must say, our last meeting was very... unpleasant," I said.

He didn't reply.

"But later I thought about it, maybe you're right. What you did could help many people. I shouldn't have confined you to England just for my selfishness. Since you can't stay, I have to try to keep up with you, so you can't get away from me this time."

He still didn't speak.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

I waited for a while before he replied. "Anywhere. I don't care." He paused for a moment and suddenly said, "Maybe Switzerland."

That night, Sherlock climbed over the fence from my backyard and left. I waited until I received his message reporting that he was safe before I could sleep peacefully. The next morning, I followed the ruse he had instructed me to do several times to wander around, hurriedly making my way to the train station. When the train was about to leave, I was still anxiously waiting for Sherlock when I realized that the panting Italian fat man beside me was Sherlock.

In order to deceive the enemy, we bought tickets to Paris but got off the train at Canterbury Station ahead of time. We even discarded all our luggage and traveled throughout the country to reach New Haven, then took the train to Dieppe. We arrived in Brussels empty-handed and stayed there for two days to purchase some travel supplies. We bought tents, sleeping bags, climbing suits, and so on, preparing to hike in the mountains when we reached Switzerland.

On the third day, we arrived in Strasbourg. On Monday morning, Sherlock received a text message and shouted angrily: "I should have expected this! He ran away."

"Moriarty?" "Scotland Yard police cracked the entire organization, but they didn't catch Moriarty. It seems that when I left Britain, no one could handle him anymore. I overestimated Scotland Yard once again. John, you'd better go back."

I sneered and didn't reply. This question wasn't worth discussing at all. Of course, even I could tell what Moriarty would do after leaving Britain. Sherlock's situation would only be more dangerous. But according to my understanding of Sherlock, he was definitely not someone who would willingly evade. Since Moriarty was tracking down, it would be better to wait for a face-to-face confrontation. As for me, how could I not take part in this thrilling adventure?

Sherlock wisely didn't say any more. So we decided to continue our journey.

We spent a delightful week in the Rhone Valley, then, from Loic, we turned to Jimmi Pass, where the snow was still very thick on the mountain. Finally, we passed through Interlaken and went to Mellingen. This was a pleasant trip. The spring was beautiful below the mountains, a lush green, while the mountains were still covered in snow, still in winter. But I knew very well that Sherlock had not forgotten the shadow on his mind for a moment. Whether in the simple Alpine village or in the deserted mountain pass, he quickly cast a vigilant glance at everyone passing by us and carefully examined them.

Once we crossed Jimmi Pass and walked along the border of the Domben Mountain, suddenly a large rock fell from the right side of the mountain ridge, with a loud thud, and rolled down behind us into the lake. Sherlock immediately ran up the ridge, stood on the towering peak, and looked around. When he came back, he had a smile on his face, as if everything was within his expectations. Although he was very vigilant, he wasn't disheartened. On the contrary, he was simply the most energetic and spirited person I had ever seen.

We camped in the mountains for several nights. One night, we dragged the sleeping mats out of the tent and lay on the ground to look at the stars. Without human lights, the stars were exceptionally clear and bright, and the Milky Way was like a huge thin veil dragging across half of the sky. The night sky seemed so strange, completely different from before, and it even made one wonder if this was not an image of the Earth, but a vast and brilliant star cloud in outer space.

I suddenly remembered that a long time ago, not long after we met, we were walking in the London streets late at night once. Sherlock looked up and said, "Beautiful, isn't it?" I glanced at him in confusion, because I had just known that he knew little about astronomy. But then he immediately added, "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

I turned silently to Sherlock. At that moment, he was resting his arms behind his head and tilting his chin upwards to gaze at the stars. But I felt that all the stars were actually within his eyes.

Under the stars, Sherlock had an entirely different air from his usual self. It was like looking at a diamond - in the sunlight, you can only see the brilliant reflection but cannot see the diamond itself clearly. But now, under the gentle stars, those lights all condensed into tiny, fluffy needles, so you could finally see all its glittering edges and planes. The stars had erased all the marks of time from his face. He looked as if he were only 25 years old or younger. His black hair was neatly curled on his high forehead, and his eyes were extremely clear.

When I looked at him like this, my heart was pounding. I thought that I had been regarded as a friend by such a person and had lived and worked with him for many years, and could fight by his side in his most important battle in life. All of this made me feel an immense sense of pride and honor. I was so excited that my eyes even felt a bit moist.

...

That evening, as the sun set, we pitched our camp facing the snow-capped mountains and glaciers. While I was cooking the canned food, Sherlock looked up at the sky. The sunset that day was extremely beautiful, with half of it in pale blue and the other half in golden orange. There was a bright red cloud in the west sky, which was quite charming.

I poured the cooked food back into the tin cans and sat down beside him. At that moment, Sherlock pointed at the cloud and said to me, "John, look at that red cloud. It's as beautiful as the feathers of a red crane. There are countless people in this world illuminated by the glow of the sunset, but there may be no one else like us who bear this kind of mission."

I nodded vigorously. At that time, a golden light was flowing across the grassland around us. The opposite glacier seemed to be sprinkled with small diamonds, shining brightly. The highest snow peak was still partially hidden in the clouds, shining with a sacred golden glow.

...

On May 3rd, we arrived in Mülingen and stayed at the "Great Britain Hotel" run by Old Peter Stäler. The owner was a smart man who had worked as a waiter at the Grosvenor Hotel in London for three years and could speak excellent English.

That evening, we had dinner at the hotel's attached restaurant, where a family band was performing. After we finished our meal, we drank coffee and listened to them play. Sherlock suddenly said, "John, let me play you a piece." He got up and went to the band, smilingly asking if they would allow him to join and play a Canon in D Major together. They readily agreed, and one of them moved aside and lent him his instrument.

I had heard this piece before, but the live performance was still quite different. The restaurant was lit only by candles, and Sherlock stared at me in the candlelight. The piece began solemnly and gently, but then it became increasingly passionate. The same melody was like waves that repeated and piled up, layer upon layer. At the same moment, you could hear an incredibly rich sound, yet it was incredibly harmonious and beautiful. All the notes were changing and chasing each other, but they never converged until the last section, when all the voices, like a wave, finally merged into one. I held my breath until the end and joined the other guests in the restaurant in a warm applause.

Sherlock returned to the table. "Did you like it?"

I nodded.
"Mycroft and I have played an arrangement of this piece on a violin and a cello, but the original score was actually like this one, requiring at least three violins."

"Why?"

"Canon is the most scientific and sensible music," he said, "There are usually multiple voice parts, with strict patterns regarding each one, and each voice part must follow the identical notes of its predecessor after some amount of time. They trail each other into a symphony, but they never overlap until the very last section, the very last chorus, and that's when they finally blend into one entity."

"You see, John," he looked into my eyes, "Music, with it’s utmost scientific and logical composition, also possesses the strongest and deepest emotions."

...

On the afternoon of May 4th, following the suggestion of the hotel owner, the two of us set off together, planning to cross the mountains and hills to a small village in Rosenloey to spend the night. He also suggested not to miss the Reichenbach waterfall halfway up the mountain, and we could take a slightly longer detour to enjoy it.

The place was truly perilous. The melting snow formed a torrent that poured into a thousand-foot abyss, with water splashing high up, like the thick smoke rising from a burning house. The valley where the river flowed in had a huge crack, and on both sides stood black coal-like rocks, which narrowed as they descended into the crack, and the milky, boiling water poured down into the bottomless chasm, surging and splashing out a turbulent current that flowed down from the opening, with continuous green waves thundering down with a deafening roar, the dense, undulating curtain of water making a continuous sound, the water flowers soaring upwards, the turbulent current and the noise making one dizzy. We stood on the mountain side, staring at the waves pounding against the black rocks below, listening to the rumbling sound of the abyss like a roar.

Halfway up the mountain, a path was carved out around the waterfall, allowing one to fully enjoy the panoramic view of the waterfall. After reaching the end of the path and returning the same way, suddenly a Swiss boy ran over with a letter in his hand. That letter turned out to be from the owner of the hotel to me. He said that shortly after we left, a British woman staying in the hotel suddenly had an old illness attack and was in a critical condition, but she refused to let the Swiss doctor treat her. The owner had no choice but to ask me to go back and have a look.

I found it hard to refuse a fellow countrywoman in a foreign land whose life was in danger, but leaving Sherlock made me hesitate a little. Finally, Sherlock said that he would stay by the waterfall for a while and then slow down to head for Rosenloey. I could meet him there in the evening. As I turned around, he suddenly called out to me and handed me a five-pound note.

"Would you please exchange this for euros for me?" he said.

I said in surprise, "I still have some."

He just shrugged his shoulders.

I turned and walked away. Before the path turned, I looked back and saw Sherlock leaning against the rock, arms crossed, looking down at the flowing water. He wore the woolen cap I bought for him in Brussels, with the tail of his curly hair sticking out from the hat.

"Sherlock!" I called out.

He turned back to me with a smile. This smile and the hat made him look very young, almost as he was when I first saw him in the Bartz laboratory ten years ago.

When I turned down the hill and looked back, the waterfall was no longer visible, but the winding and rugged path leading to the waterfall on the mountain side could still be seen. I remembered that there was someone walking up the path quickly. Against the backdrop of the greenery, his black figure was very distinct. I noticed him because of his energetic posture when walking, but because I had urgent matters on hand, I quickly forgot him.

After about an hour and a half, I reached Mellingen. Just as I stepped onto the main road, the Swiss boy suddenly handed me another letter and then ran off in a hurry.
I opened the envelope in confusion, and it was a note, in Sherlock's handwriting.

"John, you should have realized by now that I had sent you away on purpose, and I'm deeply sorry for it. It is today that I will discuss the final matters about the disputes between me and Mr. Moriarty. Trust me when I say that I came prepared, and that it'll be easier for me without you there.

I must leave for some time afterwards in order to escape from the remnants of Moriarty's party. On my computer there's a document named "John", which is my final test for you. The day you open it would be the time of my return.

Give my love to Mary.

SH"

I stood still for five seconds, then turned around and ran towards the path I had just taken. I had walked downhill for over an hour when I came here, but this time I was going uphill. Even though I was running as fast as I could, it still took me over two hours to return to the Reichenbach Falls.

Sherlock was not there anymore. I shouted loudly, but all I heard were the echoes from the surrounding valleys.

I stood there for a minute or two, trying to calm myself down, and then began to use Sherlock's method to try to figure out what had happened.

The dark soil on the path was constantly splashed by water, and it remained soft even if a bird landed on it. There were two rows of clear footprints leading all the way to the end of the path, with no signs of a return. A few yards from the end of the path, the ground was trampled into a muddy path, with the edges of the cracks tangled with thorns and ferns, lying in the muddy water. I crouched by the crack and looked down, with water splashing around me. The sky was beginning to darken, and all I could see were the shiny water droplets on the black cliffs and the flashes of the waves crashing in the distance. I shouted, but only the roar of the waterfall reached my ears like human voices.

I lay on the cliff edge, completely not knowing what to do. I couldn't even think about the worst guesses that anyone would make if they saw this situation. The note from Sherlock was my only hope. He said he would leave for a while to escape the tracking of Moriarty's followers. So could he have killed Moriarty and walked back by following the footprints he took when coming here, and then hidden himself?

I thought like this for a long time until someone pulled me off the cliff. Before I could shout "Sherlock", I heard someone shouting German at me. I got up and saw two mountaineers standing in front of me.

They were gesturing to me. I shouted, "Please speak English!"

The two of them looked at each other, and the one who could speak English slowly began to speak in English. "We saw someone... fall... off the cliff. Are you looking for them?"

"Them?" I grabbed his arm and asked.

They nodded together, and the one who could speak English was still struggling to say out the words: "Two people, fighting, fell together... " He pointed behind me at the waterfall. "We were over there... " He pointed towards the path in the valley, "and saw everything."

I felt a dizzying sensation and my limbs were weak. If those two people hadn't caught me in time, I would have collapsed on the ground. I kept shaking, my teeth chattering, and I couldn't speak. These kind people stayed with me for a while, and finally, they half-dragged and half-carried me down the mountain.

Mycroft arrived the next morning. He brought a lot of people with him. We went to the waterfall together, and he also checked the footprints and carefully inspected the nearby bushes. Finally, he came back to me, still maintaining his usual composure: "John, there's a rock at the bottom of the waterfall where you can hide. Even if what they said is true, it doesn't rule out the possibility that Sherlock climbed back up."

"Then where did he go?" I said. "I had also seen that rock, but I didn't know how likely it was that he would be caught by it after falling."

"My men are looking for it," he said. "I believe there will be news soon."

That night I didn't sleep at all. By the time dawn came, my voice was hoarse and I had a high fever. Mycroft went out again, and I had nowhere to go. Finally, I walked back along that path to the waterfall, and when I got there, I was sweating profusely and panting like a wild animal. My legs trembled as I sat down, staring at the spot where I had last seen Sherlock. When I regained my strength, I walked to the edge of the cliff, staggering there, looking down at the pool below the waterfall. Was Sherlock there? If he was...

I paced back and forth in the room like a madman until I felt dizzy and had to lie down. My hands and feet were shaking, and I alternated between feeling cold and hot, as if I had malaria. For a moment, it was Sherlock's face under the stars that night... for a moment, it was his flushed ears... for a moment, it was him smiling at me with his woolen cap against the cliff wall... for a moment, it was him falling flat on a rock with blood spurting... for a moment, it was him sinking helplessly into the water, drifting towards a dangerous whirlpool. I was driven almost crazy by these hallucinations.

When Mycroft entered the room that night, I rushed towards him, clamping my hands tightly around his neck. "Have you found him?" I asked him in a hoarse voice. His two men immediately jumped in to try to rescue him, but I managed to hold on for a while. I repeated to him over and over: "You have to let me see him, even his corpse. You have to give him back to me."

They needed a third person to pull me away and force me onto the bed. Mycroft touched his throat and waved his hand, and someone came in to give me an injection. Before I fell into the endless darkness, he came to my bedside, with pity in his eyes: "I haven't found him, neither the man nor the corpse. At least, this is not a bad news."

As far as I know, Mycroft never found Sherlock later. I still don't know where Sherlock is. He probably still lives as he said in his note, and might reappear at any time, but it's also possible that the most outstanding guardian of justice of our time has joined the most dangerous criminal, and is forever buried in that bottomless abyss of swirling waters and foaming bubbles.

And Sherlock Holmes will forever be the best and wisest man I know.

Chapter Text

March 20th, 2023

About two weeks ago, I deleted some paragraphs that had private information from my last diary and posted it on my blog, naming it "The Final Problem".

After it was posted, the hits and comments on my blog surged. Many people expressed their grievance, sincerely wishing that Sherlock would come back someday.

But among all these comments, "The Daughter of Time" emerged again. He left only one sentence: "Dr. Watson, what exactly is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

I paid no attention to this comment.

The next day, he posted a very long message, listing several details from my blog. Finally, he concluded that I was Sherlock's secret lover, rather than the assistant and friend that I had always publicly acknowledged.

When I first saw this message, I simply scoffed at it. Since becoming Sherlock's roommate, there have always been people speculating that we were a couple. At first, I was embarrassed; but later, it turned into annoyance; and eventually, I became numb to it.

But after I remained silent for two days, suddenly there was a lot more discussion about this matter. "The Daughter of Time" who had started all this was no longer present. Now the main force had shifted to a group of young girls who had only recently become supporters of Sherlock.

They have an unusual interest in homosexual relationships. They began to closely read every one of my blog posts, fully using their imagination to make wild guesses and confidently pointing out all kinds of suspicious points. I skimmed through their discussions a little, but then I simply lost the desire to read any more.

But then one day Harry called me: "Is it ture?"

"Is what ture?"

"That you and Sherlock are a thing?"

"Harry!"

"Then tell me what this is about."

"I'm married. And you know how I feel about Mary."

"Then Sherlock's pining over you?"

"Nonsense!" I shouted, "Complete nonesense!"

"Go look at those comments yourself." Harry said, "If all the details are true, then... I don't know. See for yourself."

As if that wasn't chaotic enough, Mrs. Hudson called me too. "I told you." she said, "I told you."

"Told me what, Mrs. Hudson?"

"He loved you." she suddenly started crying, "I always knew he loved you. You should've seen how he spent his time the month after you got married."

"Mrs. Hudson," I pinched the edge of my nose, "Don't belive in what those people say..."

"But he never denied." Mrs. Hudson wiped her nose, "Every time people assumed you were together, you were always eager to explain, but he never did. Never!"

My heart skipped a beat, but then I told myself, Sherlock couldn't possibly bother explaining to others about our relationship; he didn't even care about other people nor their opinions. But Mrs. Hudson...

I comforted her and swore that Sherlock only thought of me as a friend.

Three days lather I met Angelo, from the restaurant. He spat at me and left.

It seemed as if all of a sudden, everyone around me thought that I had abandoned Sherlock and gone off to get married on my own, and refused to acknowledge our relationship. I think the root cause of all this was my blog, which had received an astonishingly high number of views.

I logged into my blog and was ready to write a serious reply. But before I could reply, I had to first read what these people had actually said.

I started watching at 8 o'clock and didn't finish it all until 12 o'clock. Then I sat there with my hands and feet freezing cold, my mind blank.

I was in a state of total disarray for two days, completely at a loss. It wasn't until that evening when I had dinner with Mary that I had a conversation with her.

"I read your blog too," she said.

My head shot up.

"It's not..."

"We're done, John." she had a blank expression on her face, "stop lying to yourself. The truth had always been in front of you. I'm tired of walking on thin ice. We're getting a divorce."

I watched her in shock. Even in my wildest dreams I never thought Mary would ever say that.

Perhaps the look on my face made her somewhat sad, her expression softened.

"John, perhaps you think you merely admire and respect him, and want to protect and take care of him. You're always self-aware in front of him and you never even considered the possibility that he loved you. How would anyone believe that ther person they idolize loves them? Unless they're crazy. Listen to me -" she stopped me from interrupting, "I've wanted to tell you this for a long time."

"He is a genius, somewhat cold-hearted, and he has always held a contemptuous attitude towards the love of ordinary people. This makes you think that he will never fall in love with anyone. Moreover, he is a man. Although you have no prejudice against homosexuality, Harry's less-than-successful love life has definitely had an impact on you. You want a stable family consisting of one man and one woman. You subconsciously resist the concept that two men can be true partners." 

"All of this has built up a thick wall around you. Whenever he shows some sign and you have doubts, you will deceive yourself into thinking that it is friendship, or something even higher than friendship - brotherhood. You hypnotize yourself until you are convinced of it, until it becomes an instinct. No matter how strong the contrary evidence is before you, you will just shrug it off with a smile. "

I listened in stunned silence. When she stopped and looked at me with sadness, I pleaded, "Mary," I said, "you know I love you."

She is now completely calm. The tears on her face surprised me greatly.

"Mary." I said, feeling my heart sink. Since the incident involving Tommy, I haven't seen Mary cry in front of me.

"You truly love me, John. If you had never met him, I believe we could have lived happily together for the rest of our lives. But your feelings for him, apart from sex, are nothing that cannot surpass the love between us. Just think about it, if now it's me who is in a precarious situation of life and death, and you are still with him, would you feel as if you had lost all your senses for three years?"

"Mary -" I started.

"Yes. I've been thinking about this a long time ago," she seemed to have read my mind, "since the first time I met Sherlock."

"At that time, we were going to get married. You introduced him to me. As soon as I saw him, I felt something was wrong. No, it's not what you think. He has always been polite to me. He has never offended me or shown any resentment or jealousy in his eyes. But I just knew. When he looked at you, his eyes were different. That kind of light was simply... John, at that time I thought you were completely blind."

"Please forgive my selfishness. I couldn't tell you. I love you. I was pregnant with Tommy. I want to live with you. I just couldn't tell you. As it turned out, at our wedding, you made him the best man. It was then that I believed what you said about him having 'steel-like nerves'. He looked completely normal. I simply couldn't imagine how much self-control he actually had. If I were him, no, I wouldn't even dare to think about it... When he played that piece of music for us, I felt so sorry for him. You two were looking at each other back then. If you could have seen your own eyes, you would have known that you had fallen in love with him long ago. I had to hold onto you. I was so afraid that you would leave me and go with him."

"After we got married, he didn't show up very often, and I was very grateful for that. But sometimes I wondered, if his feelings for you were as deep as I thought they were, how could he bear not to see you? I also thought, maybe he had a way to completely supress those feelings. But that year on your birthday, I found out that things weren't like that."

"Don't you remember? I know you don't remember. You never doubted it. On your 37th birthday, we went out for dinner. Outside the restaurant on the sidewalk, there was a gypsy lady playing the violin. You listened to the entire piece and gave her five pounds."

I realized I knew what she was talking about, and it made my eyes go black.

"You noticed him from the beginning. You felt something familiar in her music too, didn't you? There's a certain way people play music, and it's different for everyone, even if he was pretending to be a less skilled player. You kept saying that it was beautiful. Do you know the name of the song? It's Liebesleid by Kreisler. I had my doubts from the start, but I became certain of it when she kissed your hands. It was Sherlock, John, it was Sherlock. His disguise was flawless, but she was trembling all over when she kissed you. No one would ever behave like that, unless they're kissing their dearest person."

I was speechless.

I looked at her. And she looked at me with a kind of sorrowful gaze that showed no tears at all.

"John, I've been waiting for five years. If I were to be honest, I'd have to say that I thought his disappearance would make you completely belong to me. But I was so wrong. His disappearance completely ruined you. I can't go on like this anymore."

I looked at her in terror. But she stood up and came to me, gently touching my face as if comforting a child.

"John, don't be afraid. I think he's still alive. He's just hiding far away. He can't bear it and has to watch you from a distance. He knows how important you consider the responsibility to be. He knows that as long as I don't voluntarily leave you, you will never leave me behind. So as long as we are still together, he won't come back. John, listen to me. We should get divorced and then put an announcement in the newspaper. You can also post this news on your blog. He will definitely come back."

"I give up now. I'll let him have you. But I have one condition, John. One condition. You must agree to it."

At this point, she began to cry.

Chapter Text

March 20th, 2023

About two weeks ago, I deleted some paragraphs that had private information from my last diary and posted it on my blog, naming it "The Final Problem".

After it was posted, the hits and comments on my blog surged. Many people expressed their grievance, sincerely wishing that Sherlock would come back someday.

But among all these comments, "The Daughter of Time" emerged again. He left only one sentence: "Dr. Watson, what exactly is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

I paid no attention to this comment.

The next day, he posted a very long message, listing several details from my blog. Finally, he concluded that I was Sherlock's secret lover, rather than the assistant and friend that I had always publicly acknowledged.

When I first saw this message, I simply scoffed at it. Since becoming Sherlock's roommate, there have always been people speculating that we were a couple. At first, I was embarrassed; but later, it turned into annoyance; and eventually, I became numb to it.

But after I remained silent for two days, suddenly there was a lot more discussion about this matter. "The Daughter of Time" who had started all this was no longer present. Now the main force had shifted to a group of young girls who had only recently become supporters of Sherlock.

They have an unusual interest in homosexual relationships. They began to closely read every one of my blog posts, fully using their imagination to make wild guesses and confidently pointing out all kinds of suspicious points. I skimmed through their discussions a little, but then I simply lost the desire to read any more.

But then one day Harry called me: "Is it ture?"

"Is what ture?"

"That you and Sherlock are a thing?"

"Harry!"

"Then tell me what this is about."

"I'm married. And you know how I feel about Mary."

"Then Sherlock's pining over you?"

"Nonsense!" I shouted, "Complete nonesense!"

"Go look at those comments yourself." Harry said, "If all the details are true, then... I don't know. See for yourself."

As if that wasn't chaotic enough, Mrs. Hudson called me too. "I told you." she said, "I told you."

"Told me what, Mrs. Hudson?"

"He loved you." she suddenly started crying, "I always knew he loved you. You should've seen how he spent his time the month after you got married."

"Mrs. Hudson," I pinched the edge of my nose, "Don't belive in what those people say..."

"But he never denied." Mrs. Hudson wiped her nose, "Every time people assumed you were together, you were always eager to explain, but he never did. Never!"

My heart skipped a beat, but then I told myself, Sherlock couldn't possibly bother explaining to others about our relationship; he didn't even care about other people nor their opinions. But Mrs. Hudson...

I comforted her and swore that Sherlock only thought of me as a friend.

Three days lather I met Angelo, from the restaurant. He spat at me and left.

It seemed as if all of a sudden, everyone around me thought that I had abandoned Sherlock and gone off to get married on my own, and refused to acknowledge our relationship. I think the root cause of all this was my blog, which had received an astonishingly high number of views.

I logged into my blog and was ready to write a serious reply. But before I could reply, I had to first read what these people had actually said.

I started watching at 8 o'clock and didn't finish it all until 12 o'clock. Then I sat there with my hands and feet freezing cold, my mind blank.

I was in a state of total disarray for two days, completely at a loss. It wasn't until that evening when I had dinner with Mary that I had a conversation with her.

"I read your blog too," she said.

My head shot up.

"It's not..."

"We're done, John." she had a blank expression on her face, "stop lying to yourself. The truth had always been in front of you. I'm tired of walking on thin ice. We're getting a divorce."

I watched her in shock. Even in my wildest dreams I never thought Mary would ever say that.

Perhaps the look on my face made her somewhat sad, her expression softened.

"John, perhaps you think you merely admire and respect him, and want to protect and take care of him. You're always self-aware in front of him and you never even considered the possibility that he loved you. How would anyone believe that ther person they idolize loves them? Unless they're crazy. Listen to me -" she stopped me from interrupting, "I've wanted to tell you this for a long time."

"He is a genius, somewhat cold-hearted, and he has always held a contemptuous attitude towards the love of ordinary people. This makes you think that he will never fall in love with anyone. Moreover, he is a man. Although you have no prejudice against homosexuality, Harry's less-than-successful love life has definitely had an impact on you. You want a stable family consisting of one man and one woman. You subconsciously resist the concept that two men can be true partners." 

"All of this has built up a thick wall around you. Whenever he shows some sign and you have doubts, you will deceive yourself into thinking that it is friendship, or something even higher than friendship - brotherhood. You hypnotize yourself until you are convinced of it, until it becomes an instinct. No matter how strong the contrary evidence is before you, you will just shrug it off with a smile. "

I listened in stunned silence. When she stopped and looked at me with sadness, I pleaded, "Mary," I said, "you know I love you."

She is now completely calm. The tears on her face surprised me greatly.

"Mary." I said, feeling my heart sink. Since the incident involving Tommy, I haven't seen Mary cry in front of me.

"You truly love me, John. If you had never met him, I believe we could have lived happily together for the rest of our lives. But your feelings for him, apart from sex, are nothing that cannot surpass the love between us. Just think about it, if now it's me who is in a precarious situation of life and death, and you are still with him, would you feel as if you had lost all your senses for three years?"

"Mary -" I started.

"Yes. I've been thinking about this a long time ago," she seemed to have read my mind, "since the first time I met Sherlock."

"At that time, we were going to get married. You introduced him to me. As soon as I saw him, I felt something was wrong. No, it's not what you think. He has always been polite to me. He has never offended me or shown any resentment or jealousy in his eyes. But I just knew. When he looked at you, his eyes were different. That kind of light was simply... John, at that time I thought you were completely blind."

"Please forgive my selfishness. I couldn't tell you. I love you. I was pregnant with Tommy. I want to live with you. I just couldn't tell you. As it turned out, at our wedding, you made him the best man. It was then that I believed what you said about him having 'steel-like nerves'. He looked completely normal. I simply couldn't imagine how much self-control he actually had. If I were him, no, I wouldn't even dare to think about it... When he played that piece of music for us, I felt so sorry for him. You two were looking at each other back then. If you could have seen your own eyes, you would have known that you had fallen in love with him long ago. I had to hold onto you. I was so afraid that you would leave me and go with him."

"After we got married, he didn't show up very often, and I was very grateful for that. But sometimes I wondered, if his feelings for you were as deep as I thought they were, how could he bear not to see you? I also thought, maybe he had a way to completely supress those feelings. But that year on your birthday, I found out that things weren't like that."

"Don't you remember? I know you don't remember. You never doubted it. On your 37th birthday, we went out for dinner. Outside the restaurant on the sidewalk, there was a gypsy lady playing the violin. You listened to the entire piece and gave her five pounds."

I realized I knew what she was talking about, and it made my eyes go black.

"You noticed him from the beginning. You felt something familiar in her music too, didn't you? There's a certain way people play music, and it's different for everyone, even if he was pretending to be a less skilled player. You kept saying that it was beautiful. Do you know the name of the song? It's Liebesleid by Kreisler. I had my doubts from the start, but I became certain of it when she kissed your hands. It was Sherlock, John, it was Sherlock. His disguise was flawless, but she was trembling all over when she kissed you. No one would ever behave like that, unless they're kissing their dearest person."

I was speechless.

I looked at her. And she looked at me with a kind of sorrowful gaze that showed no tears at all.

"John, I've been waiting for five years. If I were to be honest, I'd have to say that I thought his disappearance would make you completely belong to me. But I was so wrong. His disappearance completely ruined you. I can't go on like this anymore."

I looked at her in terror. But she stood up and came to me, gently touching my face as if comforting a child.

"John, don't be afraid. I think he's still alive. He's just hiding far away. He can't bear it and has to watch you from a distance. He knows how important you consider the responsibility to be. He knows that as long as I don't voluntarily leave you, you will never leave me behind. So as long as we are still together, he won't come back. John, listen to me. We should get divorced and then put an announcement in the newspaper. You can also post this news on your blog. He will definitely come back."

"I give up now. I'll let him have you. But I have one condition, John. One condition. You must agree to it."

At this point, she began to cry.

Chapter Text

Mary and I got a divorce today. She wished me good luck with reuniting with Sherlock sooner. I thanked her.

After I went home I solved the password to Sherlock's document. It turned out to be damn easy.

I thought to myself that I must have been cursed, but I deserved it. I didn't have the energy to write anything more.

And here is what was in the document.

John,

This letter doesn’t really have a recipient, since I’m sure you’d never work out the password. I just wanted to write some things down so that they hadn’t merely existed in my own heart, but could also be engraved on some physical hard disk.

This is undoubtedly the most foolish thing I have ever done, and I’d have to say that this opening is far from my usual style, as I have always been an advocate of simplicity and being straight-to-the-point. But the paragraph I had just wrote sounded almost like one of your sentimental blogs.

Alright, back to the point. John, you are a wonderful person. Don’t start denying it in a hurry- yes, I can practically see you standing in front of me, yelling “Sherlock!” to me in protest. You’d blink unconsciously like you always do when you feel embarrassed. Your eyelashes would flutter as if they were about to fly away...

I got off topic again. This is utterly hopeless. Alright, let’s start over.

It’s nearly impossible for me to actually like someone. You know my abilities- I can see right through most people. Most of them are selfish and unpredictable- their words fail to express their thoughts and they bear their own evil intentions. They can fool everyone else, but not me. I despise them. Others aren’t exactly unkind, but they’re weak, resentful, and as annoying as those sickly, rainy days.

But John, you’re different. The first time I saw you at Bart's, I couldn’t see anything wrong with you. Of course, you were a bit gloomy, your smile wasn’t entirely from the bottom of your heart, but you were still willing to lend your phone to a complete stranger you just met. I pulled of a little trick just to surprise you, and immediately you asked Stamford whether he’s mentioned you to me. You’re not like the others who only keeps their doubts to themselves- you were honest and straight forward. And after I asked you to look at a flat with me and was about to leave, you called after me calmly. I still remembered the look on you when you asked, “Is that it?” Your serious face was so endearing.

And of course, you were also brave- you were a fighter who held yourself upright even with a walking stick; you didn’t hesitate to follow me to that crime scene after the second time we met; you had the courage to confront Mycroft in his face (I meant, even I’d think twice if I weren’t his brother); you managed to shoot that cabbie from such long distance (Well, maybe it was me who stepped on him and triggered his aneurysm, but that’s not the point); and you clung to that impostor by the pool so that I could escape; you’ve saved me so many times after that I’ve lost count.

John, do you know why I ask you to bring your gun with you every time we went out? Of course, it never hurts to stay alert, but there’s another reason I’ve never told you about. You never realize it yourself, but whenever you had a gun on you, you’d turn into this completely different person, as if in less then a second you went from the gentle, loving man who buys milk at the corner of the street and gets in line at the Chinese food restaurant, to a skilled, agile fighter with nerves of steel, someone who wouldn’t even flinch in front of the explosion of an atomic bomb. You’d seem a lot taller than you actually are, and even your ridiculous jumper would turn into a military uniform of some sorts.

Of course, I like both Johns.

John, I was intrigued by you from the very beginning. I always wanted to test your boundaries to see what could truly irritate you. But John, you always obeyed despite your frustration, whether if it’s coming back from the other side of London just to help me send a text, or handing me my phone that had already been in my own front pockets. The only time I really upset you was when you thought I didn’t care nor sympathized. That time when the explosion in the senior apartment harmed innocent men, you lost your temper and admitted that you were disappointed in me. I suddenly felt awful, John. I hated letting you down. It didn’t matter what others thought of me, but things were different if it was you. I didn’t actually care that much, but I just wanted to fight back in the face of your interrogation. I was too agitated to even look for information so I phoned Lestrade instead. Despite how stubborn I was on the surface, I told myself to do everything to avoid letting you down from then on.

John, we’ve been living together for seven years and I never thought you’d leave me. In my heart I always assumed you’d live with me in Baker Street forever. I thought of buying that apartment (We could free Mrs. Hudson of her rent and hire her as our actual housekeeper). I even thought of renovating that place after we grow old to spare us from the inconvenience of going up and down the stairs. I was a bit nervous at first when you started dating those women- do you recall the time I insisted on coming together on your date with Sarah? Obviously, it was intentional. But then I found that you never last long with any one of them. It was as if you had to meet someone new every once in a while and sleep with her a few times, but things always ended with either you dumping them or them dumping you. Sooner or later you’d come back to me. Those women weren’t actual threats. So silly of me to believe so- I should’ve known it was because you hadn’t met the one yet. Your kindness to me slowed me down, and I was too confident that you would never really leave me for any woman.

So God punished me and Mary came along.

The first time I asked you about her I knew something was different. You smiled at the mentioning of her name, and immediately afterwards the smile was gone. You also looked somewhat guilty. Your smile was... I couldn’t find the right words to describe it, but at the very least I could tell from it that of all the women you’ve met you like her the most. That wasn’t much, but why were you guilty? That’s the question worth discussing. You never looked guilty when you had girlfriends in the past. You’ve always considered it your private business that I had no business in. Then why this time? The only logical explanation was that you saw a certain possibility: for her, you would do something to me that you’ll feel sorry for. But what could you possibly do to me? - You would leave Baker Street for her.

John, although I believe the thought of proposing to her hadn’t even crossed your mind yet by then, I saw it coming. I could hear you speaking to me as I lay on the couch, listening to you reading the newspapers for me: “I’m getting married, Sherlock.”

The thought of messing up your dates by going to them with you- like what I did to you and Sarah- had occurred to me. But I rejected it soon after. You’ve been going out with her for three months. She knows a lot about you, so if she’s still seeing you, then you must be her type. And if she really likes you, she wouldn’t break up with you because of my actions. Of course, I had my other ways, and I wouldn’t have failed if I had made up my mind to separate you at all costs. But I dare not use them- I knew that I couldn’t keep a secret for a lifetime and sooner or later you’d find out that I was the one behind it all, and you’d be disappointed in me. I didn’t want that to happen ever again.

You thought that I was asleep so you went on your date with Mary without concern. I was done being left there like that, so I left you a note and went out to investigate Jack’s case.

I knew you’d come looking for me, and to be honest I was somewhat happy when you did. But I couldn’t bring myself to look at you or talk to you. Thankfully I could still play you a song. You stared at me while I did, your face tilting one way after another as if tears were threatening to burst at any time. How could it be that at the end of the day you were the one looking so pathetic when it had been you who made me upset in the first place? You probably assumed I was hungry and had no water either, but the truth is it was far from that bad. You knew I had the habit of starving myself to keep my mind clear. But what came with clarity at that time was endless thoughts from day to night of you getting married, which was much harder to go through than hunger and thirst. I played you O Sole Mio, because to me you had been like the sun. But now you’ve changed your mind and stopped shedding your light on me, and that’s tough news.

Of course I was aware that you followed us later that day. I had intended to shake you off, but then I thought, suit yourself. I never thought that you’d come running after me at that rainy night. Fright was the only feeling left in me when I dragged you away from that rubbish bin. I’d rather have you getting married with Mary than see you hurt because of me.

John, what an idiot you were. With my level of intelligence how could it be possible for me to fail to find a place to hide from the rain? Even though I was cut off from the internet without my phone, did you really think I had no ways of seeing the whether report? How could I need the stupid raincoats and plastic sheets you brought? And only old Jack would want those chocolate beans- they’re for children. Then again, the Brandy you brought was fine. My stupid question could be the liquor talking- “What could Mary give you?” Do you remember your answer? I do. I remember it all. You said you wanted a family, dinner on the table, room cleaned and tidied, clothes ironed when you’re home, being taken care of when you get sick... I listened to it and thought to myself, God, you’re describing the complete opposite of me. But that was nothing- there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do if it was what you needed. But just as I relived at the fact that you didn’t mention any physiological traits I didn’t have, you suddenly added, “And kids...”

John, you knew exactly how to impale me. If there’s anything in the world I could never do that was it. I can never have kids even if I got a transsexual operation. There could be a slight chance I can make a breakthrough ten years into your marriage if I quit my old job and devoted my time to biological studies. I had thought I couldn’t be more devastated, but it was then that I realized that compared to this, everything I felt before lost their meaning.

John, the very reason I’m writing all this down is because you’ll never see this letter. I knew you never intended to hurt me, but now the thought of it only seems to upset me more.

The good thing was, the shot of pain only lasted a while. If it had continued even I couldn’t have endured it. On the days that followed I tried to think about how to catch the other “Jack” instead of thinking about you. Work always heals pain, John, because it was the only thing that never leaves me.

In the end when we attended the party of my homeless network, I’ve thought it through. If I really couldn’t give you what you needed, then I won’t try to keep you with me anymore.

John, it was then when I started to look back on our times together. I found that I’ve always been relying on you unceremoniously, and you’ve been tolerating, taking care of and protecting me without complaint. No one treated me better than you did. I suppose I had to at least try to treat you better before you move out. I keep thinking about how you said you made me a thousand sandwiches. Honestly, I’ve really never made you anything, not even a cup of tea.

So I borrowed Mrs. Hudson’s cook book- my gifts proved itself useful even in culinary skills, of course. You came home for dinner perfectly happy every day. I had thought that I could reach my goal of a hundred meals, if not a thousand, but it had only been thirty-two days before you called at 4:30 p.m. on my birthday to say that something came up with Mary. John, you’re a man of his word, and you rarely fail to keep to your promises. You’ve never canceled a date at the last moment, so there must be something important enough to make you do so. And what’s something important enough for Mary to call you and insist on seeing you at four in the afternoon? I phoned the school she was working at and wasn’t surprised to hear that she called in leave for an appointment. Bingo! She’s pregnant.

I guess I was somewhat overwhelmed. I had estimated at least three months before you’d move out. I threw a bit of a tantrum and threw out all the dishes I had made. I took out my precious wine and drank a few bottles like gulping down water. So when you came home I was already a bit out of it. We had a fight- so sorry about that, John, I’m afraid I hurt your feelings. But you should know that I wasn’t feeling any better when I did so.

I went to Mycroft that night, and of course he knew it all along. His words, “I knew you’d come to me. Just leave it to me and don’t ask any further.” I told him to step out of it, but he shook his head and told me he didn’t trust me to handle it myself. I said I wouldn’t and John could do whatever he wishes- I only want him to be happy. He asked me in a confused tone, then what about you? “If John’s happy, then so will I.” I said. Mycroft studied me for a while and sighed, patting my shoulders. “My dear boy, I know you’re telling me the truth, but it’s harder than you imagine.”

At first I didn’t understand what he meant; I thought I had everything prepared. But it turned out that he was right. He’s always right. John, one minute you could tell me that if I didn’t want you to get married you didn’t necessarily have to, bringing me into heaven, and asking me to be your best man the next, casting me straight to hell. As you saw me lying on the couch perfectly fine, I already felt like someone had cut through my insides and ripped my eyes out- I could see nothing but red mist in front of me.

I’m sorry, John. If I knew there was any possibility you’ll see this letter I’d never write this down. I know it’ll tear you apart. I knew you never wanted to hurt me, my dear John, and if you knew, you’d never have done that.

I suppose my endurance enhanced through one setback after another. By the time you were getting married nothing could penetrate my shield. I stayed composed even when you vowed to take care of Mary all your life. I knew what kind of a man you are, and that when you proposed to her you had already decided to stay faithful to her. I knew I was out of the picture. I didn’t need to hear you say it just to be sure. But I have to admit that I closed my eyes when you kissed her. I thought it unwise to test myself with that sort of a scenario, and that there was no need to take such a risk.

Playing you Amazing Grace was my decision on the spur of the moment. But I have to say it spoke my heart. We’ve been through a lot, and you’ve brought my many joys and pain as well. I feel grateful for what I earned, whichever one it was. I never regretted meeting you as well. Though I’d been blind for too long, and if I had realized it sooner, before you met Mary, you could’ve still been mine.

Soon after your wedding I realized that it was getting hard for me to live in Baker Street. Memories of you were everywhere, but you weren’t. It was unbearable. Sometimes I’d already started to ask you to make some tea, and when I realize that you had moved out I felt cold all over.

I started to take cases outside London. You can always rely on work. My clients no longer consist of dead men- I started helping people who are alive deal with their troubles, too. Sometimes they’re trivia uninteresting to me but important to them, and they’d appreciate my help most sincerely. I have to admit, it actually feels nice to be appreciated. And when I thought of how one day you might hear about these cases from one way or another you might just be proud of me. At that thought I feel even more motivated.

I heard about it soon after little Tommy’s premature death. Of course, John, I have my ways to hear about you even when I’m out of London. I rushed back, debating myself whether I should visit you in the hospital, but in the end I decided to wait for you at Baker Street and see if you need me. One hour after my text you appeared.

You looked so pitiful when you looked at me that I couldn’t help but hug you, even when I knew it wasn’t what you wanted. Yes- I became even more gingerly after realizing my feelings for you. But you hugged me back without hesitation. Words could not describe how happy I was, John.

I felt a faint sense of pride when you told me what happened and let me comfort you with food and music. Because at your lowest, I was the one to give you comfort, not Mary. I must admit this thought was a bit childish. But you’d have to say that I was rather good with puzzles. I could always tell your preferences. Mendelssohn, of course it was Mendelssohn! Though he’s a bit too soft for my taste I wasn’t surprised you’d like him. The fighter side of you wouldn’t be into music. The smell of gunpowder and the sound of gunshots and explosions were more to his taste.

For a period of time I’d been busy with cases in many different places. Though I’d miss you whenever I wasn’t at work, the feeling had been mostly tolerable.But then all of a sudden you started updating your blog, digging out all those old cases and started writing about our shared past that I had been trying so hard to forget- I couldn’t blame you, of course, because I was the one who gave you permission to write about them- but I never thought you’d write about them in that way. Those blog posts were completely different from the previous ones that were brief and hasty. You spent paragraphs after paragraphs on those details and painting vivid pictures, on our conversations and the jokes we made. You brought up everything that I’ve tried so hard to keep to myself. And that had a huge impact on me.

I started to miss you frantically, and whenever I read any one of your blogs I could picture how you slowly yet seriously typed those words in an almost clumsy manner, how a hint of a resigned smile plays at the corner of your lips when you write down a sarcastic remark I cast to you. I wanted to be there with you as you write about our past (the sweet, glistening, best of times) and spy on you, so that if you dare write a word against me (“How spectacularly ignorant he is about some things”, for example)I would unplug your laptop power cable. Don’t ask me how I knew your laptop battery died; I have my methods.

I found myself revisiting London on a more frequent basis, and occasionally I’d invite you to come to Baker Street or sneak to your place. I wouldn’t usually enter your flat; instead I’d wander around like a suspicious stalker. Then one day I couldn’t resist the urge to ring your doorbell, but then I heard you laughing with Mary in the kitchen. When I walked to the window I saw you arguing about who should open the door, and it resulted in Mary giving you a kiss and you running to open the door with a look of satisfaction that resembled a fox that finally caught its prey. John, you have no idea how it made me... proud, knowing that I contributed to the possibility of your happiness; yet agonized at the same time, the kind of agony that could drive one crazy with it’s endless darkness. I had to run away, or else I couldn’t bear to think what I might do. When you opened the door and called after me I really wanted to get the hell out of there, but I stood still. I turned to you and said that I only wanted to pay you a visit. It wasn’t a lie. But I didn’t tell you the reason I had to leave. I ran for my life like a coward, leaving you at the doorstep.

From then on I started to lose sleep. You’d appear in my dreams even at times when I’ve taken my sleeping pills. You already did before that, John, but afterwards, the dreams were different.

All right, I suppose I have to be honest with myself.

At first I dreamed of kissing you, platonic kisses in the beginning. I planted kisses on your forehead, your cheeks, and at most your lips. Then the dreams became bolder, and I even dreamed of you letting me kiss your neck and the scars on your shoulder (I’ve seen them, if you could recall), and as you lifted your head, eyes closed, you whispered my name in between gasps...

John, if you ever see this you’d probably feel embarrassed. Luckily, you’d never.

I went back to London on your thirty-seventh birthday. I knew you’d be dining at that restaurant, so I dressed up as an old gypsy woman and played the violin on that street. I was worried that you might recognize my hands, because no matter how skilled I was, no one could cover up the shape of hands with makeup. Fortunately it was dark enough to clout your attention. Of course you noticed my music. I suppose that despite your limited knowledge in music, your ears were quite sharp. I was positive you had your mind on me when you were listening to that song. You gave me five pounds with generosity, and as I looked at your hands I couldn’t resist the urge to kiss them, so I did. You retracted them in shock, but still didn’t recognize me. I couldn’t believe how good an actor I was.

I came back to the country I was in with satisfaction, be that Italy or Sweden- I cannot recall. I had found by that time that Moriarty’s network didn’t exist only in England, and that quite a few of the cases I worked on abroad had something to do with him. I started burying myself with work with a ridiculous amount of energy, and my longest record was five days without sleeping. Then came the humiliation of fainting during one of my cases. They sent me to hospital. Mycroft came to visit, asking me to move to his place. But I insisted on returning to Baker Street. It was my premise of my return to London.

After I got back to London I started approaching the core of Moriarty’s network step by step following the clues I’ve found before. But work seemed to have failed me after all as my constant loss of sleep gave me headaches and nausea, unable to keep anything down. It was an unbearable sort of ache for which I had to take my aspirin on a far higher dose than what would be advised. After being like this for quite a while I really fell ill, but I didn’t want to go to hospital, because it would startle Mycroft. He’d force me to move in with him. I didn’t want you to come either, because Moriarty had begun to notice me and your importance to me cannot be discovered. But Mrs. Hudson still called you.

How happy I was in those days, John. It was as if we were back in the good old days. You were even nicer to me than before. You fed me food, washed my hair, and helped me with the blow-dryer like before. You even read me a bedtime story. At that moment I thought, I’d rather be sick for the rest of my life if it meant that you’d never leave me again. Well, I believe I’d become as foolish as the story you read me.

That night you asked me not to leave London. Much as I wanted to say yes immediately, I didn’t trust myself being so close to you. I feel different now, John. Staring at you from a distance doesn’t satisfy me anymore. I wanted to kiss you, caress you, and posses you. I wanted to lock you up so nobody else could find you. I’d be jealous of Mary, and I didn’t know what else I could’ve been capable of.

Not to mention Moriarty. If I made you my promise you’d be going in and out of Baker Street on a frequent basis, and he’ll notice you. You’ll be in certain danger.

I was wide awake all night, and you were right by my bed. I yearned to kiss you, and I promise I wouldn’t have touched your lips- just a peck on your cheeks. But you were asleep holding my hand and I couldn’t risk waking you up.

By the time you came back that weekend I’ve made up my mind. I couldn’t let things go out of control like this any longer. I knew what Baker Street meant to you and I knew what would discourage you the most, so that’s what I did. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at you as you were separating the keys. I sat on my couch, and I had to tap on the chair arm to keep my hands from stuffing the keys back into your hands. Then everything would go to waste.

As you ran down the stairs I looked into the direction in which you left through the window and I followed. I knew you were upset, so I had to make sure nothing happened to you. You hadn’t even been properly dressed when you ran down; your arm hadn’t even been in your sleeve, yet you didn’t even notice. You wandered on the streets driven to distraction. Countless times I almost found myself running towards you to hold you in my arms and bring you back to Baker Street, but I contained myself. I followed you into the bar, and when you got into that fight with the two blokes I almost hurried towards you, but I didn’t. That night gave me a whole new impression on my self-control abilities.

Then you were kicked out, and if you had turned around you would have seen me. I had given up on covering my tracks, and made up my mind that if you turned around I’d tell you everything. But you didn’t. Not once.

The way you squatted under that shop window looked like a sad teddy bear, or are you already gigantic for a teddy bear? You cuddled yourself up and fell asleep like one. And you woke up as the snow fell and stared at it for a bit. Then it came to me that one Christmas I put you in a wagon like one would a teddy bear and ran around in the garden of my house. The memory seemed so sweet, yet so distant.

Then finally you were ready to go home and I followed you home on the subway. I stood behind the tree opposite your house and watched you take out your keys, and the door opened, the lights spilled out of the door. Mary hugged you, and then she started kissing you. You hugged her, too.

That’s when Mycroft appeared. He pulled me up and silently thrust me into his car. I didn’t resist. I lacked the strength even if I wanted to.

After a few months with Moriarty, the battle was finally coming to a head. Mycroft was planning on keeping me in one of their safe-houses for protection, but I refused without a second thought.

“You can’t deprive me of the fun in my battles.”

“Then leave England for now,” He said.

We made arrangements for me to leave the next day. But John, please forgive me for my self-will, I knew I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. But I couldn’t resist the thought of seeing you one last time.

I went to see you and surprisingly, Mary wasn’t home. And you, my dear, faithful, brave John, you made me take you. How could I resist? I knew I’d regret it, but my will wasn’t strong enough to refuse.

When you hugged me my lips rested on your hair. It made me happier than anything, John.

The week we spent together might as well had been the happiest time of my life- even better than the days we had before. Because in the past, I didn’t know I was in love with you.

Yes, love. I suppose it’s safe for me to use this word. I used to have a lopsided and improper view on it, and the dictionary explanation was: 1, A strong sense of affection; 2, A heartwarming hobby, pleasure, attraction, and habit. Much as it wasn’t all-rounded, it described my feelings for you just fine.

The day before yesterday you told me on our way uphill that I was a real hero. It was the best thing I have ever heard in my life, John. If I had to be honest I never wanted to be a hero. But if it made you proud and happy, then I guess, being a hero wouldn’t hurt.

Moriarty has got in contact with me. Such an interesting person- he wanted us to end things through a duel. It’s scheduled tomorrow.

John, I wouldn’t let you be there to witness it. Because if he threatens me with you I really wouldn’t know what to do.

If I could return safely I’ll delete this letter once and for all. But if I couldn’t, John, then I guess you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to crack the password, on which you’ll never succeed. But if in a one-out-of-a-million chance you do, John, I guess it would happen many years after when you’re surrounded by kids and grandchildren, and ready to peacefully accept the fact that I was in love with you.

You’ve given me many presents, John, but I didn’t bring any. I left that photo at Baker Street. I couldn’t risk you finding out, though it kept me company throughout these years. I also have a pair of clean wool socks you gave me one Christmas. I’ll be wearing those tomorrow. Ah, yes, and the hat you bought me in Brussels. As for the five pounds you gave that old gypsy lady, I’ll return them to you tomorrow- I have to say that I lack reasonable self-control on things with regards to you, so I didn’t want to take what should’ve been yours to my trial, in case my soul should haunt you and disturb your happy life.

My dearest John, I have never actually kissed your lips. But I have kissed your hand, and your hair. I’ve never been kissed by anybody, and I don’t know what it feels like. It’s a minor regret of mine. So I hurt my hand on purpose yesterday so that I could swing my hand up when you helped me treat the wound, and my fingers touched your lips. Please forgive me for my little ruse.

I’m fortunate to have met you and lived with you for seven years. And to have been together with you the last week of my life.

That would be enough.

I still remember a sentence from the silly book you read me:

“’It has done me good,’ said the fox, ‘because of the color of the wheat fields.’”

Indeed, John, I now posses the color of the wheat fields.

This letter is coming to an end. You’d probably be shocked that I was capable of writing something like this. But never doubt, My dear John. Music, with it’s utmost scientific and logical composition, also possesses the strongest and deepest emotions. This law works also on men.

Best regards

Yours,

Sherlock

Chapter Text

March 29th, 2023

When someone's suddenly suffered heavily, it doesn't usually hurt at first, which is a protective mechanism of the body, where large amounts of adrenaline is released, making you feel energetic instead of pain.

I guess that's what I was experiencing two days ago.

I saw Sherlock's letter on March 24th. I didn't feel much grief the first few days. I went to work in peace, posting the advertisement of renting out my clinic. I'll let my employers find their own way out. But I'd give them three months' salary in advance. I put up a notice for my patients that my clinc would no longer be in business. Harry came to confront me upon hearing the news of my divorce. I told her that Mary agreed to let me go, and that I was heading off to find Sherlock.

She stared at me and went: "So you suddenly realized you were gay?"

"I don't know," I replied, "I just love Sherlock."

This peace ended on the night of March 27th. I had finished my tea and went to wash the teacup in the kitchen, when all of a sudden I remembered the time when Sherlock rang the doorbell and Mary argued with me who should answer it. And that's where she kissed me and Sherlock saw us from the window.

I turend around slowly, and there was nothing there.

And in the split of a second my legs seemed to have melted. I sat on the floor, the teacup shattered to pieces. I felt a sting in my eyes and an itch on my face, and when I wiped it, it was wet.

I've shouted and acted crazy after Sherlock's disappearance, but I've never cried. It seemed that the tears streaking from my heart could never reach my eyes, and slipped into a secret container sealed with a hard metalic exterior inside of me instead. But each word in the letter Sherlock wrote me, the letter that I have now read thousands of times, seemed like acid, corroding that layer of metal over and over again, until finally today, it was penetrated.

My dear Sherlock was dead, since three years ago. Yet he had to give me a linger of hope in the note and the encrypted letter he left me. He knew that with even a string of hope I wouldn't give up. It never occurred to him that I might actually read it, so he confessed to me like a child in it. With childlike eagerness and joy he told me that he had always loved me, and with childlike hurt and sadness he told me how upset I made him. I never knew that underneath that arrogant, aloof, stoic, emotionally-repellent facade of Sherlock's, there existed such a child, a child I'd never know of if it weren't for his death. Because even in a state of grief and despair he was always proud, and even if he loved to his fullest he would never express it. You must look into his eyes or listen to his music to see it.

My dearest Sherlock was dead, and I'd never see him again. I've lived for 42 years, and I've only spent one sixth of that time with him. But those times before that felt as blurry as a past life, and after that... after that, every memory I had was about him. My Sherlock, as bright as a devil, as proud as a God, as petulant as a child, as cold as the ice, as burning as the fire... he was sweet like honey yet bitter like coffee. He shined bright like diamonds but had the gentleness of starlight... he was the best and wisest man that I had ever known.

He played his violin to me lowering his eyes on the tall stage, as if I was the only person he's ever seen; he played his violin to me on Christmas Eve, his grey, translucent eyes aglow with pure pride; he played the violin to me with his eyes closed on the corner of the street, his eye lashes shuddering ever so slightly; he played his violin with his back turned, his silhouette in front of the bonfire as beautiful as a mirage; he played his violin to me underneath the giant birch tree on the green grass, golden leaves falling into his hair; he played his violin to me in our bedroom, restless like a jukebox of the mind; he played his violin to me in the hotel where we last lived, as he stared at me in the warm candlelight, telling me that the scientific and logical composition also possesses the strongest and deepest emotions.

He walked and ran with me on the London streets; we cuddled together sleeping in the cold cement pipes; he pulled me around with the cart, running in the snowy garden; he directed me building that snowman; he took my arms as the ATMs performed for us... he lay on the snowfiled looking at me; he lay on my knees looking at me; he lay on the bed with his fingers in a fist, afraid that I'd go home and leave him alone there; he slept with my hand in his, lying on top of a mountain, chin up looking at the stars, yet the prettiest stars I saw was in his eyes.

I hurt him again and again. I thought of how he must have felt, his supressed breathing, the way he looked at me, the way he walked away. He was such a strong person, so if there's a pain that even he cannot tolerate, what kind of pain would it be? I thought of him tossing and turning in an unfamiliar hotel room, pacing back and ofrth in his room; I thought of him in Baker Street, burning up with a high fever and a severe stomachache, but he wouldn't let me know; I thought of him looking at my house under the tree outside, how the snow got heavier and heavier, but he stayed ever so still...

I thought of how I've never kissed him. I never even hugged him many times. I tried hard to remember the few times we did, how he went rigid and how he pulled me tight, how he rubbed his chin against my hair, and his entire torso trembled. How he comforted me, whispering "my poor John". How he always said, "Sure, John, whatever you like." Why I never thought of asking him what could comfort him, and what did he need.

And now he lay under the freezing water far away in Switzerland. Wouldn't he feel cold? Wouldn't he feel bored? He's most terrified of being bored, yet now he lay there alone, with no one to talk to, no one there to cook for him, no one there to keep him company... Only the streaming water brushing against his body in an eternal motion... I couldn't think about it anymore. How could I leave him there for three years?

I should've gone to him a long time ago, I should've jumped down there the second day when I went back to the falls. If I had, perhaps I could have seen the whole of him. But now, I'm not even sure if I could find a bone of his.

No, no... could I even dream of seeing him at this point? No, I wasn't worthy of it. I deserve to suffer, to feel the pain in everything. I suppose he had gone to heaven, because of all the people he helped. And I, probably should go to hell, because of hurting someone like him. Even if I had jumped off the falls, I probably wouldn't see him. But at least I had to let him know that I had wanted to go down there with him. I couldn't just leave him there. If God didn't allow, then at least I tried.

I wept bitterly until I was literally screaming uncontrollably; I couldn't move, only my chest heaved violently. It felt as though my organs had melted into liquid, flowing out of my eyes. Finally, I collapsed on the kitchen floor like a heap of goo. But this time, no one would come to comfort me.

...

I knew what I had to do. But I won't let Harry and Mary know-they'd still think I was going around the world searching for Sherlock.

I've ordered the tickets to Switzerland and I will leave on April 1st. I won't let Sherlock wait any longer.

Chapter Text

March 30th, 2023, 14:03

Sherlock,

I met John today. He's divorced, and he's changed significantly. I think he's cracked your code. I believe that he would not harm himself in anyway, because it is your request, and he's a strong man himself. But if you can see him with your own eyes, you won't be willing to let him live on like this.

He wouldn't last long in this state. Soon you won't be alone.

Mycroft

March 31st, 2023, 18:42

Mycroft,

I'm still alive. Cannot keep in contact. Coordinates: XX XX.

Sherlock

March 31st, 19:01

My God!

Stay put. The plane arrives in 6 hours.

Mycroft

Chapter Text

April 1st, 2023

Today was... I don't even know how I should start. Till this point I'm terrified that it could only be a dream.

I cannot control myself. I need to stand up once in a while and walk towards the sofa 2 meters away from me to ruffle the hair of the person sleeping there so I know he really exists, and is not an illusion.

My laptop isn't around, but I found my pen and pencil. I needed to write something to calm me down, or else I may start dancing or burst into tears any second.

This morning's free clinic for the homeless was held in a building with bright, large windows in each room, which didn't cause much discomfort for those with claustrophobia.

My third patient was Old Jack again. He walked in greeting me in a loud voice and closed the door behind him. But when he saw me, he froze.

"Sit down!" I called out.

He stood there for a moment before slowly coming over to sit.

"How have you been lately?" I asked.

"Same old," he mumbled, looking up at me. "What about you, Dr. Watson?"

"I'm fine," I replied. But his expression made me think he must look utterly exhausted and terrifying.

I had the sterile cotton and the needle ready, and as I gestured for him to roll up his sleeve, his eyes fell behind me. "Doctor, are you going on a trip?"

I turned back in puzzlement, but saw no luggage. When I looked again, it was Sherlock who sat across from me.

I jumped to my feet, staring at him in shock for a few seconds before a white mist began swirling around me. As the fog dissipated, I noticed my collar was undone and a lingering brandy kick hit my lips. There he stood, leaning against my chair with a bottle of brandy clutched in his hand.

I closed my eyes, counted three in my mind, then opened them again.

He remained there.

I stared at him without blinking, until he started, lips shaking: "It's me, John."

My mind went blank, neither terrified nor excited. Yet my hands instinctively reached out to grasp his arm. Through his sleeve, I felt his lean, muscular arm, then smiled at him: "You're real."

This was the most authentic dream I'd ever had - tactically tangible, with the warmth of his skin through the fabric. In all my previous dreams, whenever I reached out, he vanished.

His gaze fixed on me as his throat tightened. For a moment, I saw something sparkling in his eyes, almost about to spill. But he took a deep breath and brought the bottle close again: "Take another sip." As I swallowed obediently, he said: "John, you're not dreaming."

The alcohol's power gradually brought blood back to my head. I regained enough clarity to question whether this was a dream. I remembered a movie line from long ago: "You never know where dreams begin. You arrive somewhere suddenly, but never remember how." But I remembered this place, how I arrived this morning, how Old Jack entered the room, and I see a gray wig tossed on the table, so...

Then came a sharp headache, my temples throbbing like a storm. It felt as if I had been dead for ages, then suddenly someone forcibly revived me. In my lifeless body, the heart that had stopped beating for so long began pounding wildly, blood roaring through my hardened veins and nerves. My muscles went numb, skin swelled, and I stood with my mouth agape, unable to speak. Clutching Sherlock's sleeve tightly, I heard my own bellows-like ragged breathing. Straining to blink, I tried to wipe away the thick fog before me.

I heard Sherlock's voice: "John, relax, John! Breathe!"

What gradually calmed me was the urgency in his voice and his trembling hands cradling my face. I ordered myself to breathe deeply, focusing on counting breaths. When I reached seven, I finally saw him again.

His gaze lingered with a lingering fear I'd never seen before, then he suddenly pulled his hand away as if waking from a nightmare.

"No," I said, grabbing his arm just in time. After so long, I finally held those hands again—the same hands I'd known intimately, with fingers longer, stronger, and more dexterous than any I'd ever seen. They could play the most beautiful melodies on strings or bend an iron rod straight with their grip. I turned them palm-up, though their surface wasn't perfect—soaked in chemicals had altered their color—but in my eyes, there was no pair of hands more exquisite. I bowed my head and kissed his palms reverently. He shrank back slightly, but I still clung to his trembling fingers. I heard the voice above me: "John!"

I looked up at him, his pale face flushed with a faint blush, his sharp gaze now clouded. "John -" he called my name again, leaning forward slightly. Then we heard someone knocking at the door.

While examining the next patient, Sherlock lay sleeping on the extra examination bed. I lifted the curtain for him. After each patient, I would move to that corner, pull back the curtain, and check if he remained there.

At noon, I finally finished all patients. Approaching him, I whispered his name. The ever-alert Sherlock showed no response—clearly exhausted. Gently stroking his hair, soft as I remembered it though much shorter now, I traced its texture while gazing at his sleeping face. I felt I could dedicate my life to this task, finding supreme fulfillment. My fingers grew bold as I began caressing his scalp, then I touched something uneven. Repeatedly probing before smoothing the hair, what I saw made me dizzy.

Sherlock opened his eyes then, half-awake, his extraordinary mind suddenly sharp.

"It's nothing," he said, having already grasped my discovery.

"What happened these past three years?" I asked with difficulty.

He sat up on the bed, stretching his arms. "I'll tell you everything, John. We have plenty of time. But tonight, we have an important matter to attend to." He waved me off, "Now I'm hungry," he said, glancing at me and adding: "I haven't eaten anything for over ten hours."

He always knew the most effective way to deal with me.

We had dinner together and returned to Baker Street around two o'clock. Mrs.Hudson, who had clearly met Sherlock that morning, had mostly regained her composure. Yet when she saw us together, she burst into tears uncontrollably anyway. I had to hold her securely in an armchair while comforting her, as Sherlock paced restlessly, his hands tangled in his hair.

By three o'clock, we finally reached the familiar drawing room. Sherlock immediately claimed his favorite armchair, sprawled out on it, and watched me pace back and forth as I boiled water for tea. He remained silent until I placed the cup beside him, then said, "John, it feels like we've never left this place."

My throat tightened as I looked at him.

He quickly changed the subject. "Have you heard of Colonel Moran?"

I shook my head.

"His other name must be familiar to you."  

"What is it?"

"The Daughter of Time."

I stared up at him abruptly.

"No, John. I haven't been able to contact you or find any news about you." He immediately understood my confusion: "Mycroft told me about him last night."

 "He's one of Moriarty's most dangerous henchmen, but has eluded justice due to lack of evidence. Mycroft has been keeping tabs on him. His frequent appearances on your blog over the past year certainly didn't escape my brother's notice."

"Why -" I paused, recalling the turmoil he had stirred. The first time was when he slandered Sherlock as a "bloody murderer." The second was defending Moriaty. The third... what about that third time? What was that for?

Sherlock's gaze swept across my face, his mind as precise as ever in reading my thoughts. "Clearly, John, when you thought I was dead, he finally received news of my escape. He knew I'd return sooner or later, and nothing would strike me harder than finding you back in London - overwhelmed by guilt..." He paused, turning away before resuming: "When I returned to Baker Street, they knew immediately. This morning I spotted their sentry through the window. It's a harmless guy, Barker, who makes a living from murder and robbery, an excellent Jewish harmonica player. I don't care about him, but I'm deeply concerned about the more formidable man behind him. As long as he breathes freely in London, neither your nor my safety is assured."

He rose from the sofa.

"What do you intend to do?" I felt the warrior's blood stirring within me. Sherlock looked at me, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Will you come with me tonight?"

"Any time, anywhere." I answered without hesitation.

He gazed at me intently, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Just like the old times." He said.

Our gazes locked, and neither spoke. My heart raced as I felt rooted to the spot. "John -" Sherlock's breathing grew labored as he approached me with a gleam in his eyes.

Just then, the doorbell downstairs rang.

He sprang up like a startled dreamer and dashed down the stairs. I eased from tension, sinking into my chair with trembling legs. I heard Sherlock exchange brief words with someone downstairs before the door closed. He rushed back, reappearing at the doorway clutching a medium-sized cardboard box.

Watching him toss it on the floor, I watched with rapt attention as he ripped open the packaging with childlike excitement. "What is it? Sherlock?"

His flushed face showed. He carefully unboxed an odd machine, speaking rapidly: "John, this is extraordinary—you've never seen anything like it. But you'll soon." He pulled out a pamphlet, scanned it quickly, then tossed it aside. "Extraordinary," he said, "truly remarkable, John. Come here!" He ordered me while connecting the power.

"Press this button when I tell you later," he instructed. Rising abruptly, he swiftly moved to the window, snapped the curtains shut, then leaped to the switch to flip the lights on. His urgency permeated every action. Turning to face me, he declared: "Now."

I pressed the button, and the machine's lights lit up as it began operating. Sherlock paced back and forth directly opposite the device. After ten seconds, he told me, "Press again." I complied.

He lunged forward, pushed me away, pressed another key, then turned to me: "John, close your eyes!"  

"Sherlock!" I finally grew impatient.

"Please!"

I failed again. I closed my eyes.

He tapped the controls rhythmically, then paused his breathing. After a brief hold of labored breath, he urged: "Now, John! Open your eyes."

When I opened them, Sherlock stood by the window. This startled me. Instinctively, I reached out to grab him, only to grasp a warm arm. Turning to look at him, he laughed. "Now, John! Come to the window and touch the other me."

I stiffened and approached the window. My hand tentatively touched Sherlock——but only air.

Turning to face the real Sherlock, I momentarily thought I was dreaming. But he immediately said: "This isn't a dream! John," he declared, "this is a holographic projector."

For the rest of the afternoon, Sherlock used this device to record his own image. He experimented with different positions and poses, testing various combinations until three hours later when he finally completed the experiment. We ate a light meal, and Sherlock, unusually, decided to take a nap. He said he needed his full strength to face this formidable foe.

For the past three hours, he had lain on his sofa with blankets pulled over his forehead, revealing only a tuft of curly hair.

The room was lit by a single small lamp. As I bent down to write these words, I felt his gaze.

He must have woken up at some point and lay there quietly watching me. Though I couldn't see his face clearly, I could read the gleam in his eyes.

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" I finally snapped. "If you want to kiss me, do it now. If you dare waste another minute, I'll strike." He chuckled as if choking on something. "Ah, John, you're the only one who can surprise me like that."  

"So your decision is - ?" I interrupted.

"I reserve my right," he said. "Not now. A few more hours, a few more hours. My dear John, if I haven't done it by midnight's bell, then after Colonel Morland's death knell, believe me—I won't waste any more time. Do you think you can wait until then? John."

"Piss off!" I felt my face flush.

Damn it, with him staring at me like that, I can't continue writing. I must stop. It's time to go.

Our plan for tonight is brilliant. We will employ holographic projectors (though the outside world remains unaware of this technology's successful trials) to project Sherlock's shadow across the room, creating the illusion that he is present. Meanwhile, we'll hide in a nearby empty house, awaiting the villain who might attempt assassination or ambush Sherlock.

As Sherlock deduced through his analysis with Mycroft, Colonel Moran would inevitably act on impulse—having recently committed a crime and being convinced that Sherlock's return would bring catastrophic destruction. Whether driven by vengeance or self-preservation, he would find himself compelled to strike prematurely.

I'm certain if these two brothers reach a consensus on this conclusion, there will be no room for error. After tonight, Moriarty's remaining followers will be completely eradicated, and our greatest security threat will vanish.

I eagerly anticipate this moment.

And of course, there's still the promise Sherlock made afterward.

Chapter Text

April 4th, 2023

Once I thought that if I could consider everything thoroughly then everything can be under control. But after what happened three years ago, and what happened three days agao, I feel like I may have been too arrogant.

I rarely use this notebook, because I nearly always keep my emotions under control. I've used it two times in the past three yeras, and four days ago, just after I sent Sherlock on the plane, alive, I thought I'll never use it again. It never ocurred to me that I should be needing it so soon.

Three nights ago, after receiving the news that Colonel Moran had been successfully arrested, I went to bed with ease. However, I only got two hours of peaceful sleep. My phone rang at four in the morning. Checking the time, I read the message which instructed me to get dressed within three minutes and head downstairs. 

My most reliable assistant was waiting by the car, looking very distressed. "Sir, I'm sorry," she said.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Scott is in the car," she replied.

I nodded, got into the car, and my assistant followed. The car immediately started moving.

"Scott, speak up," I said to the person opposite me.

Scott's face was pale, but he remained composed. This man responsible for protecting my brother is one of my most capable subordinates.

"After Colonel Moran was arrested, the target did not go home. They went to a 24-hour restaurant for dinner. As we were about to follow them, Target A turned towards us, ordering us to stay outside. It was clear he had discovered us long ago. His attitude was very firm, so we had to stay outside on patrol. The dinner went smoothly until they stood up to leave, when suddenly a staff member emerged from the kitchen and shot at us. Target B pushed A aside and drew his gun to kill the staff member. By the time we rushed into the restaurant, we found that Target B had already been shot in the back when he pushed A. We immediately took him to the hospital. B was conscious then, but fell into a coma ten minutes later. He is currently undergoing surgery."He paused and said, "I'm sorry, sir."

I was silent for a moment. "No," I replied, "you're not to blame. Go rest."

I tapped on the glass, and the car stopped.

"Good night, Scott," I said.

"Good night, sir," Scott opened the car door.

When I saw Sherlock, the entire corridor was empty except for him. I had expected him to be pacing frantically, but he was just sitting lifelessly on a bench. This was even worse.

I went over and stood before him. He was staring at the ground, his lips trembling, as if whispering to himself in silence. He didn't even realize that I had arrived. I had to kneel down and grab his arms in mine. "Sherlock!" I said, using a bit more strength.

He looked up at me.

For a moment I thought that he didn't recognize me, but then his eyeballs moved slightly. "Mycroft!" he whispered. I let out a breath in relief.

The next second, his hand flipped over, gripping my arm like steel pincers. I noticed dried blood on his fingers, and judging by the bloodstains on his cuffs, he must have pressed down on John's wound to stop the bleeding.

"Mycroft, can you save him?" He managed to squeeze out through gritted teeth. The apocalyptic fear on his face even made me feel a pang of panic. I was certain that such an expression had never graced his features before; even the most ruthless criminals couldn't achieve what a righteous and loyal doctor had done now.

"Of course," I said calmly, "I certainly can."

He stared at me, still retaining his pride in his judgment even under such circumstances. "You're lying," he said, letting his arms drop, looking more despondent than angry.

"Listen," I said, gripping his shoulders with my most authoritative voice, "I will save him. But you need to tell me everything that happened tonight."

I didn't actually need to know all the details, but I knew that right now, his mind was probably racing with countless thoughts that could drive him mad. I had to bring his focus back.

My brother stared at me as if he was struggling to understand English. I had to repeat the latter part of my sentence.

He nodded, opened his mouth, but failed to speak, which was the first time I had ever seen his brain unable to smoothly command his mouth.

I helped him start. "The empty house you were hiding was opposite your apartment in Baker Street. Two in the morning Colonel Moran entered that house unexpectedly. He attempted to take you down with a sniper rifle. Of course he only saw your hologram. After he took the shot you brought hin down, and Lestrade's people ambushing around the place arrested him. What happened after that?" I squeezed my hand and asked him to continue saying the rest of the story.

"We went for dinner," he said, his pace noticably slower than usual. But the training he's received in his life allowed him to start to focus even in times like these. "I knew we were followed so I presumed it was your men. I wasn't wrong about this, but I overlooked the other person following us."

"Barker," I said.

He nodded. "Another mistake of mine. I thought Barker required minimum attention, and that if we got rid of Colonel Moran he'd be too scared to move. I didn't think..." his expression became blank.

I cannot allow him to continue in that direction. "Go on, Sherlock," I said, "You were saying that you were off for dinner."

He paused for a few seconds before continuing. "We found a restaurant. The lights were dim. I thought that it was perfect for... so I told your men not to follow me inside. That was my third mistake."

"It's good to realize your mistakes." I said, "proceed."

"We had dinner together, and I did the thing I've always wanted to do - " he smiled, if only momentarily, and I knew what he meant by that. Then he continued, "John was surprised, but then he repayed me. Then he kept smiling at me, and I didn't even remember what we had for dinner. I only wanted to go back to Baker Street with him. I couldn't even wait for them to get the bill, so I put a fifty on the table and stood up with John. That's when a waiter walked towards us. I saw him, noticing that the clothes didn't fit, and that his mustache, and the band-aid and glasses on his face were strange. I observed all of this but my brain made no judgement. I was just thinking of... that was another mistake - " he closed his eyes.

Tell me," I interrupted him in time, "if you didn't notice even when facing him, how did John, who was behind him, discover it?" I had to make him use logic as much as possible rather than letting his mind drown in regret and guilt.

He shook his head, "I don't know, maybe John has been to the battlefield and has a strange sixth sense for danger, maybe he saw the man's gun reflected in the glass opposite him... I didn't have a chance to ask him... Just when that person pulled out the gun, he threw himself at me. We fell together, and he already had the gun out. Without hesitation, he returned fire, killing Barker, who was rushing towards us to finish him off. All of this happened within five seconds. By the time I realized what was happening, Barker was already on the ground, and John was patting my face asking if I was hurt. I kept assuring him that I was fine. Then, then—" He stopped, staring blankly at his own hands.

"What happened next?" I asked.

"Then John collapsed, and I felt blood on his back. He swore to me that he wouldn't die, saying he was sorry but he couldn't lose me again."

"And what did you do?" I asked.

"I pressed my hand tightly against his wound, hoping it would stop the bleeding. Later, your people rushed in, trying to pull him away. The leader splashed a cup of ice water on my face and told me that if I wanted him to live, they had to take him to the hospital."

I mentally gave Scott an extra point.

"In the car, John regained consciousness for a while, constantly repeating those words, but by the time we reached the hospital, he had lost consciousness. They wheeled him into that room—" He turned his head to look at the operating room, then looked back blankly. He stared at the wall in front of him for a moment, letting out a long breath. "I've told you everything."

"The things you told me are very important," I said, "especially when you mentioned that he swore he would be alright."

My brother stared at me, his mind struggling to process, but he finally nodded: "He swore..." The uncertainty in that sentence made it sound like a question.

"He swore," I affirmed, reassuring him once more, "John Watson always keeps his word, and you should know this better than anyone else."

He looked at me blankly for a while.

"He's in the hands of the best doctors now." I said, "You cannot give up before him."

He finally nodded.

He sat silently for the next while, his face not much better than before, but at least he had stopped his neurotic muttering. I left for a short moment and returned holding wet wipes. I took his hand and wiped off the blood stains on it. Then I threw away the wipes and sat down beside him, hugging his shoulder.

"Now, my dear boy," I said, "let's wait together." I looked out of the window at the night sky turning blue, "Dawn is almost here," I said.

Two hours later, the surgery was over. Sherlock jumped up from his chair the instant the door opened. He had been sitting too long and his legs were stiff, nearly causing him to fall, but he pushed past my arm and rushed to John's side. Then he followed John into his hospital room.

For the first time in nearly thirty years, I thanked God for saving John Watson and my brother.

Of course, I couldn't leave Sherlock alone here with John still in his critical condition, so I found a seat in the corner of the room. To prepare for any possible worst-case scenario, I needed to ensure I had enough mental and physical strength, so I managed to get some sleep. Every time I woke up, I saw Sherlock sitting in the same position in the chair beside John's bed, until eventually, that image appeared in my dreams: Sherlock sitting rigidly there, his gaze fixed on John's unconscious face. His face was pale, like a lifeless statue.

Twelve hours later, John woke up. Before I could stand up and walk over, Sherlock had already stood up, looking down at him and gripping his hand tightly. John blinked a few times, then he recognized Sherlock, and they quietly gazed at each other, the room silent. This scene made me stop in my tracks.

John smiled softly, "I told you, you idiot." he said in a low voice.

A second later, I watched in horror as my brother's tears flowed. I hadn't seen Sherlock cry since he was six, not even when he argued with John, nor when he later distanced himself from John. This made me turn away, closing my eyes.

I thought their ordeal was finally over, but things were far from smooth.

Eight hours later, John started to vomit violently while Sherlock was feeding him water. Then he lost consciousness, falling back onto his pillow, his limbs convulsing. The surrounding machines blared alarms, and doctors and nurses rushed in. I had to forcibly pull Sherlock away from his bedside so they could work.

While listening to the various dire-sounding rescue efforts inside (including the damn CPR), I tried to restrain Sherlock, who struggled silently, fighting so hard that even with the help of two of my subordinates, his punch to my nose made me regret ever sending him to learn those combat techniques.

Finally, I had to say, "Sherlock, calm down! Or I'll find a way to sedate you, ensuring you can't even attend his funeral. You know I mean it!"

He stared at me with bloodshot eyes, glaring at me like an enemy, his entire body trembling as if struck by electricity. Then he gave up his fight completely. I signaled for my men to let him go, and he stumbled back into his chair. He lowered his head, and started pulling his hair as if his head hurt too much.

He had lost his judgment for good and even belived in a stupid lie like this.

Later, the doctor told me that John had developed dangerous complications from his thoracic surgery. His condition was temporarily stable, but the prognosis was uncertain. The next 72 hours were critical.

My work did not allow me to leave for long, but I couldn't abandon Sherlock at this time. For the next three days, I had to work at the hospital.

Sherlock once again stayed by John's side while he was unconscious. He completely ignored his own physical needs, so I had to have someone give him an IV drip of glucose. Fortunately, he didn't refuse.

At 2 AM today, John finally woke up again. The doctor conducted a thorough examination and determined that he was mostly out of danger. However, John was extremely tired and soon fell back into a deep sleep. Sherlock watched him for a while longer, then stood up and walked to the bathroom door, opening it and going inside.

Ten minutes later, I started to feel uneasy. He never left John for such a long time. Fifteen minutes later, we had to break the door open. Sherlock was found face down on the floor, his hands digging into the gaps between the tiles.

...

And now I'm writing this beside Sherlock's bed.

I can't believe I didn't notice he had undergone a craniotomy. The doctor told me that judging by the healing of the scar, the surgery was probably done about two months ago. In recent days, his mood swings have been too extreme, causing some issues. For now, there doesn't seem to be any serious danger, but we still need to observe him for a few more days. The doctor said he should have been experiencing severe headaches recently and blamed me for not noticing it earlier.

I carefully recalled that Sherlock only showed symptoms of headache when he gave up struggling, and after that, he stayed by John's bedside without showing any physical discomfort.

Just thinking about how he has been enduring with nerves of steel over the past several dozen hours makes me want to do something crazy.

...

Three hours ago, I went to see John, and he was fully awake by then. The moment he saw me, it seemed as though he had a premonition, and a trace of fear flashed across his eyes. I immediately told him that Sherlock was just extremely tired and had been given a sedative to rest. This seemed to dispel his doubts. But when I left, he told me that Sherlock had undergone brain surgery and asked me to inform the doctor about it. I pretended to be surprised and asked a couple of questions, then agreed to do so.

I am not an ignorant person. However, the bond between my brother and Dr. Watson deeply moved me. It was incredibly powerful and wondrous, capable of placing both of them in paradise at any moment or sending them both to hell. They were inseparable, like a single entity, something even I could not change, let alone God.

Chapter Text

We have been back at Baker Street from the hospital for several days now.

Sherlock insisted that I move into his room, and he temporarily moved upstairs. He said this way I wouldn't have to go downstairs again for meals and such.

I was still easily tired, so I spent half the day sleeping. Once, after I came in, I accidentally locked the door, and an hour later I was startled by knocking. When I opened the door, Sherlock stood there, breathing heavily. From then on, I was very careful not to lock the door. Although he never said so, it was obvious that my injury had frightened him greatly, and I needed to give him time to adjust.

I knew that whenever I was asleep, he would check on me at intervals, even at night. So one night, when I woke up again in the dark with no reason, I reached out toward the side of the bed, and as expected, felt Sherlock's smooth nightshirt. I sighed, let my hand fall, and carefully shifted over to make enough room for him.

"Come up," I said.

"...What?" He sounded so lacking in confidence, almost unlike the Sherlock I knew.

"Oh, come on," I said, "It is your bed after all."

After a while, he climbed into bed, but he didn't get under the covers. He just lay quietly beside me, not even a single corner of his clothing touching me.

We lay in silence for a while. I laughed softly, carefully turned over, and faced him sideways. I stared at him in the dark, but the curtains were drawn so tightly that I couldn't actually see anything.

"Are you really Sherlock Holmes?" I said. "Or did I just invite some monster into bed?"

He huffed, and a warm breath blew onto my face.

I felt an uncontrollable urge to touch him. I reached out toward him, and when I touched his smooth skin, I stopped. "I think I need to identify you," I said, and my hand moved gently.

His breathing paused, then quickened significantly. But he remained lying still.

My fingers gently rubbed for a moment, gradually realizing I was touching his neck. I remembered there was a small mole on the side of his neck, and for some reason, the image of that small mole on his fair skin was so vivid and dazzling in my mind that I reached for that spot, but I couldn't be sure if my fingertips were in the right place. But then I felt a faint vibration, and when I slid an inch to the side, I discovered his carotid artery pulsing happily and vigorously under my fingers. I stopped, fascinated by the rhythm of the beating. I was incredibly eager to press my lips there too, but I decided with the will of an Afghan veteran to hold on for now.

My fingers continued upward, touching his jaw. I knew that beyond that was his lips, and just thinking about their shape was enough to make me feel thirsty. I calmed myself down, ordered my fingers to take a detour, going under his ear root—this time, I think I touched his perfect cheekbones, and my fingers lingered there, drawing small circles, immediately feeling the skin temperature there begin to rise.

That made me unable to control myself. I had to switch directions, my flingers climbing up, and I felt a sudden wirl of air on my fingertips. I thought for a moment, suddenly realizing that it was the airflow caused by his eyelashes when he closed his eyes. Thinking of cold and proud Sherlock behaving like a cat, closing his eyes in obedience under my touch, my breathing began to become a bit unsteady, and so did my fingers. I trembled slightly as I brushed his eyelashes with the pads of my fingers; they felt so long, with a slight tremor... Moving upward, I touched the tiny moving eyeballs beneath his thin eyelids. Thinking of the color of his eyes, I suddenly felt a bolt of lightning inside me. But damn it! I was just touching his eyes.

I took a deep breath, moving up to his brow ridge, then his smooth forehead. Then I went down along his nose bridge, pausing below his nose. His breathing was as disordered as mine, and those breaths blowing on my hand were unbearable. My fingers moved automatically downward—and at the instant I touched his soft lips, we both shivered. This finally pushed my patience to the limit.

I propped myself up with my arm, leaned down, and kissed his lips, but apparently my sense of direction was terrible; I kissed his neck instead. For a moment, my nose and mouth were buried in his warm skin, and I stuck out my tongue to lick the small patch of skin right next to me. This made him gasp, and his neck immediately stiffened. I couldn't see anything, but the image of him lifting his chin, closing his eyes, and tilting his head back in my mind was almost making me crazy.

I mumbled his name, then found his lips and pressed hard against them, grinding my lips on his. At first, he had his mouth closed, breathing rapidly through his nose, but when I gently flicked his lower lip with my tongue, his lips parted slightly. My tongue immediately darted in, licking his gums. He shuddered violently, breathing heavily, and suddenly I realized he had never been kissed like this before.

Our first kiss was at that restaurant. We had already ordered our dishes, and when I bent down to check my text messages, he suddenly leaned over and kissed my lips. When I realized it was a kiss, he had already returned to his upright, proper posture, but he quickly glanced at me, his eyes sparkling brightly. That look of pure joy on his face almost made me sad. I quickly kissed him back, and for the entire meal, he sat restlessly, like a child waiting to open presents at home. I kept smiling at him, partly to calm him down and partly because the smiles just kept coming, and I couldn't suppress them.

That was probably his only kissing experience, and he never watched those love dramas or romantic movies he thought were utterly stupid. I think I shouldn't have rushed things, so I forced myself to stop. But he interpreted my action as me giving up control.

Suddenly he extended both hands and tightly fixed my face. Then he sat up from the bed, and his kisses fell densely and disorderly on my face. At first, he was still somewhat careful; those were all pure and soft kisses, like warm summer raindrops falling on my forehead, eyelids, and cheeks. But later, he became more and more unable to control himself, and those kisses became increasingly moist and frenzied. His scorching skin pressed tightly against mine, his hot breath blowing over me. He kept his abdominal muscles tense to support his leaning posture, and shivers surged through his body wave after wave, whether from exertion or excitement, and then through his hands and lips to me—this made me dizzy, excited to the point of exploding, and he hadn't even kissed my lips yet.

He suddenly stopped, pulled back a bit, so that he could lean half against the headboard. He carefully dragged me, along with the blanket, upward, making me lie on top of him. Even though there was a thick blanket between us, lying on top of him like this still made me feel very excited.

His impatient nature didn't let him pause for long. He used both hands to lift my head, placing his thumb on my cheekbone and the remaining fingers hooked behind my head. I saw the picture of his pale, slender, strong fingers sinking into my hair, and I couldn't help but moan. He paused for a moment, as if surprised, and then, as if unable to endure anymore, his fingers tightened suddenly, and he forcefully pressed his lips onto mine.

Ah, his lips—they are usually arrogant and restrained, pressed together, and when opened, they would spit out various excellent and cutting words, but they are actually so full and soft. They attack me with a pressure that can leave bruises one moment, and then switch to unparalleled gentleness, gently rubbing. At first, he imitated my earlier actions, but soon he began to experiment with all kinds of new tricks. He was really a genius; this was only his first tongue kiss! But even if others had kissed a thousand times, they couldn't have such techniques. He was improving every second, and after a series of experiments that left my mind confused, he quickly discovered the way that made me most responsive, and then he mercilessly repeated them again and again, until I could do nothing but gasp for breath. The room was already dark enough, but I still felt black mist in front of my eyes from time to time. My heartbeat was so fast that it almost became a continuous sound. Before I felt like I was about to faint, I emitted a suffocated moan and tried to push him away with the last of my strength.

He immediately went rigid, his breath stopping for a moment. Then I heard him call out to me tentatively: "John!"

His low, hoarse voice made me shiver again. I was too out of breath to answer immediately.

He called my name again, this time with a hint of panic.

He reached for the desk lamp by the bed. "No!" I gasped, "I'm fine!"

He touched my face anxiously, which did nothing to calm me down. I angrily pushed his hand away.

He withdrew slightly, looking somewhat at a loss. "Are you angry?" he asked cautiously after a while, and the faint hurt in his tone made my heart skip a beat.

Fortunately, by then I could finally form a complete sentence. "I'm not angry," I said, "just... just that was such an embarrassing humiliation!"

Yes, it was a humiliating shame. Me, the more experienced one of us two, almost fainted from a kiss from a second-timer rookie.

He thought for a moment, longer than usual, and I suppose the kiss had affected him too. Then, of course, my ever-so-clever Sherlock always knew exactly what I was thinking. He fully understood and started to snicker.

I protested awkwardly, "After all, I'm not completely recovered yet."

He didn't reply, just laughed harder. I was still lying on top of him, and the laughter in his chest tossed me up and down like a ship on the crest of a wave. I started to laugh too, first stiflingly, then I couldn't hold back and laughed until tears streamed down my face, laughing hysterically and unable to stop. It was just like that time when we chased a taxi impersonating a London police officer, got caught, and ran frantically back to Baker Street, laughing softly against the wall in the dark staircase.

I cupped his face with both hands and commanded him, "Stop laughing!" two inches from his face.

He retorted with a laugh, "You have to earn it!"

This time I found his lips accurately and covered his mouth with mine. I had to make him feel my strength.

He completely gave up control and just followed my rhythm. He was completely different from before; he was proud and soft like a cat. When I kissed his ear, he shivered, then he panted and turned gently to avoid my lips, rubbing his burning face against the pillow. That lazy, relaxing and submissive feeling almost made me swoon.

After a round of chasing and dodging, I successfully circled his head with my forearm, preventing him from moving. I bit his earlobe contentedly, and he didn't make a sound but trembled as if he couldn't bear it. I heard rustling sounds, I think he was gripping the sheets tightly with his pale, long fingers, and the image in my mind made me dizzy like I was having a stroke. The next second, he finally gasped my name as if he couldn't catch his breath—I had to stop because I was about to faint again.

I vowed fiercely in my heart that I would get better soon. All of this was so damn humiliating! So damn humiliating!