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Life Kept On

Chapter Text

 

John doesn’t know what he expected to be on the other side of the door. He just got up from his chair and opened it, because that’s what you do when someone knocks. You get up from the table where you’ve been drinking tea and grading papers before heading to work and, because nothing interesting or dangerous happens to John anymore, you open the door without checking who it is first.

It’s not a total surprise, though. In the split second before he turns the knob, a faint scent or premonition or hint that only his subconscious knows about tips him off. For a brief moment, his body considers recoiling from the door as though he’d been shocked, but there is no time for the instinct to follow through. He gives the door a small tug and steps back to allow it to swing open, showing its contents like a perverse game show.

Sherlock has a few strands of gray in his hair. Sherlock’s hair is close-cropped much like John’s. Sherlock’s face has more lines and Sherlock’s skin has more freckles and Sherlock’s cheek has a scar because Sherlock is standing right on the other side of the doorframe, and it occurs to John that the only reason this doesn’t completely break him is that his mind is already completely broken, has already exhausted its defense mechanisms. He could pass out, but much like a skydiver with a faulty parachute, John knows that even giving up and shutting down still involves falling and hitting the ground.

John’s body shudders once, as Sherlock inhales to prepare for words that he reconsiders and hastily abandons. John clenches his teeth so hard his ears ring and his eyes water as he shakes, because the presence of the man on the other side of the door is so dissonant, is so ridiculously out of sync with the rest of the doctor’s reality. If this were a neat little story meant for a stage or a chapter in a book or a television show, he’d lunge forward and hug Sherlock in a moment, or perhaps step back, bring his hand to his mouth, and begin to cry.

Instead, this is John’s life and he barely makes it to the kitchen sink before he gets sick.

Sherlock has followed him in, probably out of concern. As John rinses his mouth and the sink out, the older man’s posture shifts to broadcast a message of don’t you dare fucking touch me and he reels back.

John realizes that he’s going to have to say something when he finally turns around, so he takes his time facing the counter. He gets out a glass and a few paracetamol, washes his mouth out again, fills the glass, takes the pills, and drinks the rest of the water at a leisurely pace before turning around again.

When he does, Sherlock’s raw voice simply says “John,” and the closeness of him is just too much. John finds himself on the couch with his head in his hands and only the broken plate on the floor and the once-neat stack of papers still drifting through the air to remind him how he’d gotten there.  The mere presence of that man had caused John to rely on every fixed object in his path for support and John is angry about it.

Sherlock is dead. Sherlock LEFT HIM. The Great Consulting Detective who claimed he never gave a shit about what people thought had given up under the pressure of Richard Brook and walked out the door and off a building. Richard Brook— really, Moriarty— hadn’t even been alive at that point! They knew the crazy bastard had offed himself first because they’d found a spot where Sherlock had accidentally stepped in the man’s blood. So when he jumped, it couldn’t have been because Moriarty was forcing him to. But with Moriarty dead, he could no longer prove he was a genius, and living in a world where people didn’t believe he was smarter than everyone else was just too much for the detective. Just having John believe in him hadn’t been enough.

John hadn’t wanted to believe it, but as the detective was fond of saying in the most condescending and degrading manner possible, “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” And it was the highly improbable truth that Sherlock Holmes had not cared enough about John Hamish Watson to live for him.

For a moment, John is carried back to the morgue, where someone convinced him not to look at the body. Molly walked out of the autopsy looking like she’d tried to scrub her skin off, and he wasn’t able to blame her. That she’d even been allowed to do the autopsy was obviously Mycroft’s doing, and time in Afghanistan had taught John that there was no dirtier feeling than being covered in the blood of someone you cared about but couldn’t save. He’d tried to tell her she didn’t have to, that he knew it would be hard, but it had all been a rush and she’d just squeaked something back about knowing that he didn’t like— hadn’t liked— to be touched and he wouldn’t have wanted a stranger to do it. The hollow look in her eyes as she stared at John’s knees and told him that, “he died immediately. His neck broke the moment he hit the pavement. Not much pain at all,” hit him like a blow. Until that point, he’d been on autopilot, soldier mode. Nothing had actually been happening to him, just to a person named John he had the ability to control. Most importantly, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t actually dead because he was too smart to die, and this was London, where people he cared about didn’t die, were in fact very good at almost but not actually dying. John just had to get though this mess until things calmed down and he could figure out what was really happening.

But as Molly, one of the few people he would trust with his life, came out into the hall and said those words, his defensive disconnect faltered. He slammed himself back against the wall and slid down until he was on the floor, tears blinding him because Sherlock Holmes was dead and it was entirely John’s fault. Molly joined him on the floor, but didn’t touch him because she was just as disgusted by his failure as he was.

He should have figured out what was going on sooner. He ought to have known that Sherlock would never so thoughtlessly ignore Mrs. Hudson if he thought her in any actual danger. He should have stayed with him, or gotten there faster, or said something different while they were on the phone, or something because now Sherlock was dead and not coming back.

It wasn’t until a month later, after the funeral and everything that John began to see that there wasn’t anything he could have done differently. It was Sherlock that had made the choice to jump, after all. Sherlock had decided for whatever twisted reason that he needed to be on that roof alone, and it was unlikely that John would ever have been able to change his mind about it. This was Sherlock’s doing, and it was only the faint recognition that Sherlock had probably thought he’d had a good reason for it all that kept John from hating him.

One week after that revelation, John swore off alcohol. He refused to let himself fall to a condition he was clearly genetically predisposed to. Harry applauded him for it, causing John to contemplate the irony of a person who supported responsibility and good choices in everyone but herself.

One month later, he was able to sleep through the night, and had begun working at the practice again as a result.  Sarah was the perfect co-worker and friend, careful not to pity him or expect anything less than his best.

Two more months passed and John moved back to Baker Street and got a dog. He loved Gladstone, an amicably lazy English bulldog that had made fast friends with Mrs. Hudson. The landlady insisted she had no clue why the dog liked her so much, but John had a feeling it had something to do with Gladstone’s developing weight problem and newly-found penchant for begging.

And life had gone on. Sherlock’s deductive skills may have been called into question, but John’s medical and writing skills never had, and all the press (positive or otherwise) meant that within six months he’d left the practice to begin teaching a new class at King’s college on medical writing. He was even doing some work for the BBC as a medical correspondent, and began a serious relationship with one of the other journalists. The aching loss of Sherlock had settled into an ignorable, resentment-tinged throb and life had gone on.

But now, sitting on the couch, John feels the reality of the past three years disintegrate, and his mind stutters as he looks at each event with new perspective.

Mycroft must have known. He must have been the one to pull the strings so that Molly— Molly. Molly KNEW. She must have done. Her actions shift meaning: arms scrubbed raw against the blood of a dead man are now scrubbed in an overzealous attempt to make the faked autopsy convincing. She’d sat apart from him because she hadn’t felt a need for the comfort he’d craved. How could she live with herself? How could someone as sweet and caring as Molly needlessly cause so much pain?

John watches the story fall into place in front of him. Molly would never have done something so terrible if there wasn’t a need. Not only that, but she would have tried to minimize the amount of sadness by telling him the truth as soon as possible. So it wasn’t Sherlock dying that was important; it was what he could accomplish whilst the world thought him dead.

Hope starts swelling in John’s stomach, but he can’t explain exactly why or what for. After what must have been an age, he looks up at Sherlock, who has tears in his eyes— Jesus Christ— and simply asks, “Why?”

Sherlock lets out a breath in what might be half of a sob. “Moriarty’s men were going to kill you, John. He had men. If I hadn’t died— if they hadn’t thought I’d died— a sniper would have shot you.”

All the air is knocked out of John’s lungs as the last vestiges of the reality John had lived in since that day at St. Bart’s exploded. Sherlock Holmes had not cared enough about John Hamish Watson to live for him, because Sherlock Holmes had cared enough about John Hamish Watson to die for him. 

Chapter Text

Peregrinus

Molly is not at all surprised when Sherlock shows up in her kitchen; he has a key to her flat, after all.

"Right then," she says with a sigh, moving with subconscious automation to put the kettle on. She's learned not to bother with questions these past few years, and if Sherlock looks a little more drained than normal, it's none of her business.

"I went to see John today." The breech of silence is violent in its abruptness and causes Molly whip her head around to look at him. He's perched on her counter, cross-legged in a position that is almost comically juxtaposed to his elegant form but perfectly in sync with his character.

She fights to keep calm; with Moriarty's organization all but extinguished, she'd known this would have to happen soon. "Oh?" she blurts in her best nonchalant voice.

"Don't worry. He figured out you were involved all on his own, shockingly, but he doesn't blame you."

Molly can't help but relax at those words, but she immediately feels bad about it. It's so much more important that John forgive Sherlock; that he accepts her part in it should hardly count as a victory. "A-and you?"

Sherlock is slow to answer the question. "John," he begins, as if experimenting with the way the name feels on his tongue. "Is rather shaken. He has requested that I give him a few days to... process the situation."

She marvels at the total lack of distain in his voice. Anyone else on the face of the Earth that needed a "few days to process the situation" would surely be met with derision. But John. John, Sherlock could never truly think ill of.

Molly hadn't realized how much Sherlock and John loved each other until after the detective "jumped". The look on John's face when she walked out to meet him in the hall that day made her hate herself even more. She'd already spent too long washing up, trying to scrub the disgusting feeling of her impending lies from her skin. John's agony made her feel unworthy of human contact; she couldn't even bring herself to hug him.

Sherlock was even worse, though. He spent the next forty hours or so lying on her couch, staring at the ceiling and refusing to drink, eat, or move at all, really. Then, he just sat up, pulled on his coat, and left.

She wishes every day that she had realized what he was doing, because returning from a late visit with a very broken John to find an irritable Sherlock, pupils blown wide and latex band still wrapped around his arm was almost more than she could stand. She waited until the next day, when she was completely sure that he was down, to let him have it. Or at least, she came as close as she ever would to letting someone have it.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" she demanded. She immediately felt awful and pulled it back. "I've helped you do this terrible thing to John because you need to be dead to do the things you need to do. No— not dead; y- you know what I mean. But you can't piss your life away getting high on my couch. I- I won't let you."

He didn't respond for long minutes, and when he finally did, it certainly wasn't in any way she was expecting. He stood up and walked to the loo, stopping in the kitchen to grab something from a drawer.

Molly followed him, just in time to see him saw away at a lock of hair, a small pile already standing out against the white of the sink. She must have taken too long to work out what was happening, because he said, "so people won't recognize me so easily."

For any other person, this was a ridiculous response, but Molly knew that Sherlock was trying to say that he would be productive, was thinking rationally again. He couldn't be Sherlock anymore; he needed to look like someone else. She nodded and reached up to take the shears from him. "Let me. You're making a mess of it, and looking ridiculous won't help anything."

Sherlock had never cared about his hair. He'd kept it long because he understood that it made him look attractive, or at least more approachable and boyish, which he could use to his advantage during cases. So changing his appearance to be less noticeable was simply logical. There would be no more cases for the foreseeable future.

But it broke something in Molly, to see the curls land on her bathroom floor. She didn't say anything as she worked, but it seemed like his face changed as she removed bulk from around first the left side of his head, then the right. He seemed to lose some of the alien elegance, and gained rough humanity in its place. When she finished by using some sort of product she had lying around to slick the remainder of his hair back, the result made tears well up in her eyes. He wasn't extraordinary Sherlock anymore. He was any man with a name like Mark and a wife, two kids, and an office job. He looked… normal. That hit Molly like a blow. She'd expected him to get colder, maybe gain the distant look of a sniper or ex-military. This was so much more of a change than she'd expected and it scared her.

"You should probably change the color, too," she croaked out, turning to put something away so he wouldn't see her face. "I'll stop by the chemists tomorrow if you like."

"That would be best, yes." With a curt nod, he strode back out to the living room. Molly almost laughed in relief.

They fucked that night.

It wasn't even sex, which would imply an emotional connection. Molly certainly didn't bother to imagine that it was any sort of-love making— just pure, cold, pleasurable fucking. He'd been pacing the living room, tearing a piece of paper to bits in his irritated state.

"Molly," he'd said. "I need to go out and get some one last time. Just one last time. After I start in on Moriarty's men tomorrow, I'll be fine. I can't just sit here and to nothing though. I am going mad and I don't even have my violin oh my GOD." He'd spit the last bit out through gritted teeth as he reached for his coat. She'd moved in between the man and the door, leaned up, and kissed him.

It had been a last resort for Molly, not something she'd been sure would even work. She'd been aware that the best he could offer in return for her love was tenuous respect. But it hadn't been about Molly or their relationship. It had been about distracting Sherlock, because making sure that he stayed sane was more important than Molly would ever be.

So they fucked, because though he had never been particularly interested in sex, he was far from asexual. Because he needed to be distracted by something that wouldn't kill him or get him killed. Because she wasn't a virgin anyway, so it didn't really matter. Because neither of them could claim it didn't feel extremely good. Because she'd done terrible things for him, and she needed him to follow through with his plan so that she could live with herself.

It was paced, like a medical procedure, neither hurried along by mutual attraction nor extended by mutual affection. Both of them were fairly inexperienced, so the whole process was awkward and stilted. They learned little things about each other— Sherlock liked it when she ran her hands through his newly-shorn hair, Molly couldn't help but gasp when his mouth ghosted over her throat. But when they did those things, she was just making the solution a little stronger, making the high a little more captivating. He was just taking a crack at the Rubik's cube, seeing what reaction went with which twist. He was her charge, to be taken care of, and she was a puzzle, a series of nerve endings and reactions he could apply his mind to. It was ironic in a cosmic sort of way, Molly thought, that she finally fell out of love with Sherlock while he was sleeping next to her.

The next morning, he was gone when she woke up, and she got dressed only so she could go to the chemist's for hair dye and the pawnshop for a violin.

He was an intermittent presence in her life for the next three years. Molly was never quite sure when she would unlock the door to her flat after a day at work to hear Sherlock playing the violin or sitting in some random corner. She got used to putting her mask on around others, first the Sherlock-is-dead-and-I'm-appropriately-devastated mask, then the Sherlock-is-dead-but-I'm-getting-better mask, and finally the Sherlock-is-dead-but-I'm-doing-alright-now mask. That was her least favorite, because she wasn't all right. In fact, by that point she was less fine than the people who actually thought Sherlock was dead. But she knew she was the only constant or reliable thing in the man's life and she wasn't about to betray him. That meant that she never dated and almost never got close to people, because she didn't think she could explain away a brooding pile of violinist sitting in her flat, and didn't care to test her skills.

He would wander in every few days, or weeks, or months. They never discussed what he was doing, although Molly could never figure out whether it was his attempt to keep her ignorant and therefore safe, or if he just didn't think she was smart enough to bother with. She would sew up wounds, run errands, and mend clothes. It was irritatingly domestic, but she was alright with it because of the times she turned on the news to see a report on the death of some awful terrorist or gangster or human trafficker, and he would only respond by nodding. Molly thought she probably ought to disapprove of a man who'd had his fingers in the deaths of so many others, but all she wanted or bothered to see was that each death was one step closer to a return to normal. They fucked a few more times, when he needed it and she wanted it, and occasionally when she needed it and he didn't have anything better to do.

Now, though, she approaches Sherlock and does something she's never done before. She hugs him. She hugs him, and the man on her counter unwinds himself to drape over her, letting her hold him up. They eventually migrate to the couch, where she just sits there, holding him. He is sitting forward, hands tented in that familiar gesture. He would never do anything so plebian as hug her back, but his pose— ever so slightly angled her way with his shoulder pressing back— makes it clear that he doesn't want her to leave.

"What if he doesn't forgive me?" The rumble of his voice is familiar, but for a moment Molly isn't sure if he's actually talking to her, or if he's just talking to himself like he used to do at the lab.

She decides to answer anyways. "He will forgive you."

"How could you possibly know that?" he scoffs. "It might be too difficult for someone of your intelligence to see the change, since it happened over the course of years for you, but John has moved on. I died and he grieved, but then he did what anyone would do and kept living! He's going to propose to his girlfriend, for God's sake!"

"What? No he isn't; he hasn't said a thing about it!" Molly protests.

"Don't be ridiculous. It was obvious from the state of his flat!"

"Well excuse me!" Molly is proud that she's gotten better at standing up to Sherlock during this whole ordeal. The whole not-being-in-love-with-him-anymore bit had certainly helped. "But I might have been a little busy with my job and looking after your sorry self to keep close tabs on John's relationsh—"

"Yes, of course. You're right. I'm sorry, Molly." Just as Molly had gotten better at standing up to Sherlock, Sherlock had gotten better at manners. It had been a necessity, because he couldn't afford to be noticed, and nothing makes a person stand out like being a constant, massive asshole. It's unclear whether Sherlock actually means any of these niceties, but then it's really unclear whether anybody ever means them, so she doesn't ask.

"But Sherlock, I really think… I really think that you and John will work it out. It might never be like it was before, really, but something will work out. That's all life is, really. Things work out, and they keep working out, until one day they don't and you die."

It's a classic case of Molly's foot being directly inserted into her mouth, but for once she doesn't rush to rephrase it. It's not as if there's a much cheerier way of talking about their reality anymore.

Chapter Text

Greg is sitting at his desk in Scotland Yard when it happens. It’s the same desk he’s had for the past seven years, in the same office he’s had for just as long.  The fallout from the scandal had dissipated when the higher-ups realized they couldn’t fire the guilty party if the guilty party was most of the force, but he was under no illusion that he would be offered a promotion anytime soon. Or ever.

                  So Greg’s life has been pretty static. Same work, same murders fueled by love, money, or drugs. Same late nights, same arguments with the wife over what he gets and what she gets in the divorce. He doesn’t even call her by her name when he thinks of her. Just “the wife”, like a secondary character in some shit play. Greg is pretty sure he’s a secondary character in a shit play.

                  Whatever— there’s waiting to do, and staring at his teacup won’t do a damned thing, but it’s all there is. He needs those files he requested from the archives, the reports back from the lab, and for Donovan to stop chatting up the new officer, because he’s less of a tit than Anderson but she is supposed to be earning her paycheck still. He sighs, running his hands over his face and reclining back to put his feet on his desk.  He picks up his cup to finish off the last few sips of his tea.

                  “Lestrade.” The voice is slightly familiar, and distinct; he looks up to identify the speaker.

                  Bloody fucking hell. The cup falls out of his hand and smatters on the floor, the relatively quiet crash covered up by the relatively larger crash of his chair falling forwards and his feet slipping off the desk. All at once, he’s standing up and out from behind his desk. It takes a bit for his mind and body to sync up again so he can react.

                  “You bloody fuck!” he roars, slamming Sherlock against the wall by the lapels; his forearm comes up to pin him there. Greg is unsure why he’s done it, but it seems like the right thing to do. The hold lasts just a few seconds, Sherlock remaining surprisingly passive and Lestrade shakes as he looks into his eyes. The DI backs away, letting the other man down.

“Get out.” Greg’s words are low and quiet, a tactic he rarely uses. He hopes it will get Sherlock to leave, because Greg’s eyes are stinging and he can’t cry in front of this man.

Sherlock nods and says, “of course,” in an equally low and quiet voice.

He waits until he hears the door latch click before his head falls forward into his hands and he starts gasping for breath. Sherlock. Is. Alive. That’s really the easiest bit to deal with. Honestly, of all the people Greg has ever met, Sherlock would be the one to fake his own death. Drama queen. Didn’t that man stop to think about how it would screw up other peoples’ lives? How it would destroy John? How it would hit Greg?

It was far too long before he could collect himself, and as he shook his head to clear it, his cheeks felt cool with drying tears.

He’d dragged the man’s ass back from the very pits of Hell and through rehab because fuck if the police force hadn’t desperately needed someone with his skills. They still do.

It didn’t take very long after Sherlock jumped for everyone to realize there was no possible way he was a fake. There were obviously idiots blowing steam and trying to say he wouldn’t have killed himself if he’d been genuine, but the phrase “I believe in Sherlock Holmes” had become something of an Internet phenomenon, and public opinion of the man had quickly bounced back.

Things at the Yard were shit, though. Sherlock may have been real, but Greg had still allowed a civilian access to evidence and crime scenes without permission from higher up. He was put on probation, but more importantly, every case Sherlock had ever worked on was now in question. Dozens of cases were called for appeal, and two convictions were overturned. One of them killed her ex-husband just days after her release.

Everything went a bit mad. The month after Sherlock killed himself, there were fifteen murders—well over a 50 percent increase over the average. No one could prove that the spike was because of the detective’s death, but it was quietly accepted as the truth.

Even worse than the general trends were the single cases where Sherlock could have obviously saved a person, or brought in a criminal that escaped the rest of them.

Four months after Sherlock’s death, Greg needed to look two sets of parents in the eyes and tell them their sons were dead because his team failed to find them quickly enough. The kids had gotten mixed up with drugs and the sorts of people that come with them. A third boy had already been killed, which was how Lestrade’s team got involved. Sherlock definitely would have found them in time; they were held for at least thirty-six hours before they were shot.

Greg wipes off his face and picks up a stack of files on his way out to the hall. Sherlock and Sally are having a truly impressive row—rather, Sally is taking an impressive piss out of a worryingly passive Sherlock.

God, he’s changed, Lestrade thinks. The world must’ve beat one hell of a lesson into him. Don’t even want to know where he’s been and why he did it if that’s what happened to him.

“Oy, Donovan,” he yells over the din. “He deserves it, but not this minute. Go check on the status of those files I wanted from the archives.”

Sally turns to him, and he sees that her eyes are red. After a moment, she nods and walks away slowly.

Lestrade is closer to Sherlock, now, and he can see that the man’s eyes are red as well, which shocks the hell out of Greg. But then, Sherlock calls after Sally, “You’re right. You are right about all of it. I know it won’t do much, but I am truly sorry.”

Sally stops for a second, before keeping on like she hadn’t heard him at all.

Jesus fucking Christ, Greg thinks. The world broke him like a horse.

“Come with me,” he says. “And close the door behind you.” He lets Sherlock follow through before shoving the files he still holds at the younger man’s chest. “Double homicide in Kensington. Just your type.”

Sherlock looks shocked, and Greg thinks shock might just be the theme of the day. “This is exactly what I was hoping for. Thank y—“

“Don’t you dare thank me, Holmes. Don’t you dare. Thanks are for people that do good things by choice, out of the goodness of their hearts. I wasn’t given a choice, Sherlock. I was handed your mess out of the blue and all but forced to deal with it. All of it: the public response, the overturned cases, the uptick in crime after all the… everything that happened when you… Whatever words you use can’t even scratch the surface of what I’ve done for you or the pain you’ve caused others. Don’t even try. “

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his hair, breathing in and out slowly, once, before saying, “Sally was just explaining the impact my death had on this city, including the spikes in crime, the overturned court rulings, and the chaos within Scotland Yard, particularly. I must admit, these are consequences I did not foresee…”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Greg put his hands on his desk, leaning over it and toward the consulting detective. “IF you want to try to even begin to make up for the suffering you’ve caused, start working on that case. “ Greg hits the files Sherlock has clutched to his chest, causing him to stumble. Greg doesn’t apologize because he isn’t sorry.

Sherlock nods and turns to leave, saying, “Perhaps John would be amenable to assisting me.”

“Have you been to see him, then?” Greg hears himself asking.

Sherlock stops and turns around. “I… Yes, I have. He took it as well as could be expected. He asked me to give him time. I can hardly deny him that.”

“He’s made a good life while you were gone, Sherlock.” Greg hates to say it, because this new, worn Sherlock is a person he’s capable of feeling sorry for.  “Not saying stay away from him or anything, but—“

“I will be part of John’s life in accordance with his wishes and no more. He wants to propose to his girlfriend and start a family, and I am well aware of that. I have no grounds for endangering his comfort.” The younger man seems angry, but it’s a tired anger, with no fight left in it.

“You know what endangered his comfort? Watching you dive off the bloody roof of Bart’s!” Greg hadn’t planned to say it until he’d already done. Seeing Sherlock act this way is throwing him off-kilter; he doesn’t like it because it makes his temper short and his remarks cruel.

“John’s comfort was not my primary concern at the time; I was—”

“Not your primary concern? What exactly WAS your primary concern, then? Going out with a bang? No, you know what? I don’t want to know.”

“I’m going to tell you anyway! You need to know. You all need to know, Lestrade. Because apparently you all think I faked my death because I felt like it. That I somehow enjoyed spending the last three years hiding, cut off from almost everyone. I realize that I tend to operate outside of social norms, but even your deductive skills must ascertain that I am a human being. I can’t be anything more; this is something I’ve come to terms with over the past few years. What sort of person must you think I am to believe I faked my death for personal gain? I did it to save your life,” he spat. “Yours, and John’s, and Mrs. Hudson’s. Moriarty had a sniper targeting each of you, instructed to fire if I failed to jump to my death, which could not be allowed.”

Greg drops into his chair, rubbing his face. After a few seconds, he trusts himself to speak. “Kensington. I’ll get you access to the crime scene. Do you have a place to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Not with John, though.” It’s not a question.

“No. Molly’s.”

“MOLLY’S?” Greg asks incredulously. “And how long has she known?”

“She’s known all along, Lestrade. How do you think the autopsy worked?”

“Leave,” Greg orders quietly. He isn’t even really angry with Sherlock anymore. But the barrage of emotions fucking around with his mind is just a little too much and the DI needs some quiet to pick through it all.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Who’d of thought?