In the Footsteps of The Master. Chapter Eleven: Life Clock.
Title: In the Footsteps of The Master. Chapter Eleven: Life Clock.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5,400
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, et al.
Summary: Sherlock and John return to London to help DI Lestrade catch a serial killer who may not be what he seems.
Warnings: Explicit violence, graphic gore and depictions of brutality, non-con, murder, explicit sex
I took a walk around the world
To ease my troubled mind -
I left my body laying somewhere
In the sands of time.
But I watched the world float
To the dark side of the moon -
I feel there is nothing I can do.
I watched the world float
To the dark side of the moon.
After all, I knew it had to be
Something to do with you -
I really don’t mind what happens now and then -
As long as you’ll be my friend at the end.
Lyrics to Kryptonite, all rights reserved Universal Music and 3 Doors Down
Sherlock doubled up in pain on the floor of 221b, clutching his side.
"Where’s Jack Ramsay?" Lestrade shouted, still holding his gun. Sherlock did not answer.
"What’s hurting you," John asked urgently, pulling up Sherlock’s shirt and gently moving Sherlock’s hands. He did not resist, and John was horrified to see a badly healed wound under just above his pelvic bone.
"What is this?"
Sherlock would not, or could not answer. He was biting his lips as if against sharp pain.
"Lestrade, did you hit him," John asked, voice shaking.
"Of course I bloody did! He came at me out of nowhere - it’s a lucky thing I didn’t shoot him!"
"Shut up, Greg. How - how dare you - anyone can see he’s very sick. Call an ambulance - NOW. I’m taking him to Barts."
Lestrade knew better than to defend himself. Especially now. He made the call.
"Sherlock, you have to tell us, where is Jack Ramsay?" he asked again. Sherlock was slow to respond, but finally nodded his head toward the opening in the wall. Then Sherlock seemed to drift off to another place. Lestrade radioed for Donovan. And with one last glance at John, who was ministering to Sherlock with such blazing love written in his face that it hurt him, deeply, even to look upon it, Lestrade bent down with his gun drawn and climbed through the passage into 223b. He ignored the blood dripping from his face.
He would tend to his own wounds.
He always did.
Time to do his job.
* * *
At Barts, it was quickly determined that Sherlock had unresolved peritonitis with acute abdominal sepsis, and that in his furious brawl with Lestrade had reopened an internal infectious wound and that he had internal bleeding.
Sherlock’s condition was complicated by the long-term drugs he had been forced to ingest, a very new synthetic club drug that was both sedating and hallucinogenic, and his generally underfed and dehydrated condition. He was quickly prepared for surgery.
John insisted on assisting the finest specialist surgeon available; he shook off his own sleep deprivation, a common enough factor during his years doing field surgery in Afghanistan. He could cope. But his heart was wrung by Sherlock’s pathetic condition, which occasionally made his eyes fill with tears that he had to blink away, hard.
* * *
Sergeant Donovan had a dilemma. The duffle bag John had found in Mike Ramsay’s house, which contained Jack’s ‘murder kit’ had, after some jurisdictional wrangling, been delivered into the custody of the Yard. And had thence made its way, ultimately, to her desk. The techies had broken the rather sophisticated passcode encryption to the portable hard drive, but it was her task to make a preliminary inventory of the contents of the drive.
And having done so, she had found films of what seemed to be surveillance of the murder victims from before their abduction; horrible films of the murders themselves; films of Sherlock in the stark cellar; and surveillance of the comings and goings from 221b Baker Street. And then, shockingly, surveillance of the inside of 221b. The murderer had been quite the peeping Tom. What she saw in these films surprised her.
But in some ways the most shocking of all, was surveillance footage of the inside of Lestrade’s flat. She not been there often, but she recognized it clearly. And what she saw was so intimate, so delicate, that she simply could not bring herself to just pass this video on as part of the chain of evidence in this case. For everyone to see: the Yard, the Crown Prosecutors, defense counsel, the judge, and jury. Worst of all, Lestrade. John Watson.
And Sherlock Holmes.
Sally had fleeting, conflicting feelings of - malice? - that she pushed aside as unworthy. As arrogant, insufferable, and unstable as the man was, Sherlock didn’t deserve this, not on top of what she understood he had suffered already.
Tempting as it was, she also knew she could not just delete it. That would come back to haunt her, quite easily. Everything left an electronic trail; everyone knew that.
No, things were not that simple.
Who could she trust? She knew she could not involve Lestrade himself; he must be protected.
Finally, with great trepidation, she dialed a number that she had been given to use, just once.
"This is an unexpected . . . pleasure, Sergeant Donovan. How can I help? Because I am very sure you would not be calling me unless you desperately needed it. Or is it - someone close to you?" Mycroft said.
"I need to see you," she said. "And you’re right. It’s not for me. Not exactly."
* * *
Sherlock’s condition was quite stubborn. He did not greatly improve after surgery. Once he awoke, he remained feverish and did not seem to really know, or care, where he was.
John stayed with him constantly, and brought a reclining chair into the room to use as a makeshift bed. He quickly became very alarmed at Sherlock’s failure to rally. He was afraid he knew the cause. John had seen this, often enough, in Afghanistan. A soldier that lost the will to live would slip away, even if he might well have been saved. Others, with much worse injuries, might live - if they just remained determined to hang on.
When Sherlock slept, John held his hand, kissed his forehead, and declared passionately, over, and over, and over again how much he loved him, how sorry he was, how he would do everything in his power to make everything up to him, make everything right, if only Sherlock would just try to be well again. Sometimes, in his sleep, Sherlock would open his eyes, unseeing, like a sleepwalker. "John, why don’t you come? When are you coming?" He said plaintively, more than once, shattering John’s spirit. When he reached out to him and said, "I’m here, Sherlock, it’s John," he would wake - and pull away.
But when Sherlock was awake, he coldly told John to leave him alone, and turned his face to the wall as well as he was able, hooked as he was to various tubes. At those times, he refused to listen at all to anything John had to say, and buzzed the emergency button over and over for the nurse to demand with as much strength as he possessed that he be left alone by Doctor Watson. Confused, the nurses looked questioningly to John. Sometimes, John did leave, just so that Sherlock would be calm again.
Usually Lady Holmes would sit with them, too. She would take his place when John felt compelled leave in the face of Sherlock’s steadfast rejection. One morning, though, after Sherlock had been in hospital about a week, Lady Holmes stopped John in the hall on the way to Sherlock’s room.
"Is he all right?" John asked anxiously. Sherlock’s fever had come back a little in the night. Lady Holmes took John’s hand. As always, he was struck by how much Lady Holmes and Sherlock were alike. At least in Lady Holmes’ face, John could still find love.
"John, I don’t quite know how to tell you this. I’m afraid that Sherlock has . . . well, he’s discharged you. As his doctor. He has a new doctor, Doctor Browne, I believe. Sherlock refuses to let anyone into his room but immediate family; well, me really- I don’t think he really wants to see Mycroft, either; he never does. He caused strict instructions to be left at the desk . . .John, I did try to speak to him, to reason with him. I can’t get through to him at all. I think, after all, you should give him some time to himself," she said carefully. "He needs to get well. And . . .well, I think that you are upsetting him."
There was a long, empty silence.
"John, I love you like a son. I know you know that. But Sherlock is my son, and I must get him through this. You’ve done all you could. But . . ."
John swallowed hard over the huge lump in his throat. "Please don’t trouble yourself, Lady Holmes," he said quite formally. "Of course I shall do as Sherlock asks. May I call you, sometimes, to see how he is?"
Lady Holmes embraced him, her eyes finally spilling pent-up tears on his shoulder. "Every day, John. Every hour, if you like. I’m so sorry."
"No," John said brokenly. "I’m the one who’s sorry."
He left Barts and after walking the streets in grey London drizzle for what seemed hours, he took the tube to the Baker Street station. It was time for John Watson to find new lodgings.
* * *
Mycroft had quickly appreciated Donovan’s dilemma. "I must applaud you for your discretion and loyalty," he said. Sally frowned. "Doesn’t mean I want Lestrade to know anything about it, though, does it?" She said defiantly. She had been afraid that Mycroft might not be willing to involve himself in this rather personal problem that did not, in any way that she could readily identify, affect him.
In fact, she had always understood that Mycroft and his brother enjoyed the frostiest of filial relations. Yet, her instinct had been that Mycroft would wish to spare Sherlock this. Mycroft only watched the merest few seconds of John and Lestrade, entering the flat and almost tumbling into the bedroom, before shutting the video off. He was very still for a long minute.
"Come back in half an hour," Mycroft finally said. "You can’t afford to have tagged evidence out of the Yard for this long. Leave now. When you come back, I shall return this to you. No one must know you came to me," he said. Sally nodded curtly and stalked off. He looked after speculatively for a moment, wondering at her reasons for wanting to protect Lestrade from this.
Did she harbor . . .feelings for Lestrade? That would be truly unfortunate.
Mycroft quickly manipulated the video through a complex scrubbing program. Soon, it was quite gone.
Not, however, before Mycroft had been (almost, but not really inadvertently) able to see a fair sample of John and Lestrade’s passionate encounter. He identified that John was very conflicted and thought he even saw the glitter of tears in his eyes. The lighting was quite good.
He also identified, finally, that watching Greg Lestrade like this caused him to experience an exquisitely painful sensation that he immediately knew he must bury, and bury deep.
Mycroft had a strict policy to never, ever torment himself over something that he knew was out of his reach.
And it had been very clear, for a very long time, that Greg Lestrade’s heart belonged entirely to Doctor John Watson.
* * *
Lestrade stopped at 221b Baker Street to find John carefully packing his things. He hadn’t phoned ahead, knowing that John wouldn’t agree to see him. Hadn’t, in fact, since the return of Sherlock Holmes. Matters relating to the investigation, he had been forced to channel through Donovan. John would not answer his mobile, and ignored his endless messages. He had understood (or rather, tried to) when John had been at Barts, tending to Sherlock’s illness.
Now, however, he had learned that John had somehow been evicted from the medical team treating Sherlock. Lady Holmes had told him that so far as she knew, John had been staying at 221b.
The stack of suitcases by the door brought back the bittersweet moment, the single happiest in his life, when John had turned to him, and had come into his arms. He knew now that would never happen again. He had struggled to try and accept this, to master his feelings, to get to the other side of it, somehow. But nothing seemed to help.
"John, where will you go?" He asked.
"I’m going to stay with Harry. For a bit," John said. "She’s been having a bit of trouble, and, well, frankly, so am I. To say the least." He gave a short, painful laugh. "We’re going to give it a go."
"John -"
John held up his hands. "No, Greg. Don’t. It’s my fault. It’s not your fault. I know I should have called you back, I should have spoken to you before now. I just - I can’t believe what a mess I’ve made. Of all of our lives. I’m so sorry."
Lestrade’s heart sank even lower. "Sorry? Fault? I’m not sorry, damn you. I love you, I don’t understand why that’s not enough. Why it’s never been enough. I’m not sorry, I’ll never be sorry," he said impetuously. "We thought he was dead, you did, and I did. You know that. We’ve nothing to be ashamed of."
John just shook his head. They would never feel the same about this. "Greg. Please don’t. Just don’t. I don’t want to make anything worse than it already is. It’s my fault, I never should have been weak. I should have been stronger. For all of us."
"Can you honestly say you wish we had never - " John was silent, but his face said everything. "God. John. I can’t believe -"
"Believe it!" John fairly shouted with anguish. "Because I will never stop loving Sherlock, and that’s all that there is. It’s all that I have left. Please, let it go, let it go now, let me go, Greg. I’m begging you."
Lestrade made a step as though to try and embrace John, but John stepped resolutely back.
Crushed, Lestrade stormed out of 221b for what he swore was the last time.
* * *
A week later, back at Barts Hospital, Sherlock was hovering in a weak and feverish state, not improving much, but not getting worse either. Lady Holmes sat patiently with him, actually encouraged whenever he became snappish. That, she knew, was a sign that he was feeling stronger. But always, he reverted to frightening silences.
No one had told her why Sherlock had closed his heart to John. Eugenia Holmes was a very observant woman, easily as observant as her brilliant sons, and possibly even more so. No one had to tell her. She had seen John and Lestrade together, lately. And had seen the expressions on each of John, Lestrade, and Sherlock’s faces.
She knew precisely what the difficulty was. And she also knew who was going to have to repair it.
Sherlock was staring listlessly at the television news. Lady Holmes did not want him following news of the investigation and upcoming murder trial of Mike Ramsay, it kept him mired in the evil memories of his ordeal.
Mike Ramsay had been determined to have been an accessory after the fact to the murders of the four female victims, as well as a prime actor in the kidnaping of Sherlock Holmes - all crimes originating in London - and accordingly, the entire investigation had been brought under Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction. This was entirely agreeable to the populace of Mann, whose peaceful and prosperous shores had been deeply shaken by these pitiless crimes.
It had been quickly discovered that Mike Ramsay had been temporarily assigned to London’s Metropolitan Police for a six month period, just prior to the first murder. He had been part of an interchange program for talented officers from more remote jurisdictions to acquire experience with fighting urban crime. Mike Ramsay had been attached to the Met’s vice unit. This, it was deduced, was where he had acquired the large quantity of drugs that had kept Sherlock subdued for so long.
This was how also how Jack Ramsay had been able to identify his ideal female victims, all of whom strongly resembled each other. Jack had been a computer genius of sorts. He had worked in Naval Intelligence before his dishonorable discharge for sexually assaulting a woman on base - a crime for which he narrowly escaped jail time due to the intervention of his brother Mike, pulling a few strings.
During his short tenure with the Met, Mike Ramsay had access to the Met’s photo database of criminals, including prostitutes. Jack had been able to use his digital photo profile of his ideal victim, the lovely silent actress Anny Ondra, to sort through the hundreds of mug shot photos to find the women who most closely resembled Ondra. Hair dye, makeup, and a very particular short white nightdress completed the transformation.
And so, Sherlock’s deduction all those months ago, that the killer had an accomplice, was proved correct.
It would be a long time before Mike Ramsay was willing to tell the entire story, though.
Lady Holmes took the remote away from Sherlock and switched off the television. Sherlock paid her no attention, but merely looked absently at the ceiling and plucked at his IV line.
"Sherlock."
He tilted his head, just slightly, to indicate that he was deigning to listen to his mother.
"Sherlock. I have something to say to you."
There was a deep, tragic-sounding sigh. Lady Holmes tried to be forbearing. She knew that he was truly suffering.
But, enough was enough.
"I know you don’t like to speak of your father. But I must."
Sherlock scowled.
"You were very young when he disappeared. Borneo was very wild and dangerous then, I believe it still is. And you know, I hoped for a long time that there was an explanation for why he could not contact me, to tell me he was all right. The uncertainty, the not knowing, was an unbearable torment. I was so afraid I had lost your father. I never slept, I didn’t eat, I saw no one. Including you and Mycroft, I’m afraid. During those first months, I don’t know what I would have done without Fredericka, my maid, and McLeod, the housekeeper. They took care of you and your brother, and helped me keep my strength up, as well. I believe I might have gone straight out of my mind, if it hadn’t been for them."
Sherlock said, "How did you know he was dead?"
"Well, you know they never found his body. And for a long time, I kept hope alive, but . . . everyone said he had to be dead. We did everything we could - but found nothing at all, not a single trace. And finally, I just came to accept it. Your father would never have put us through this if he had lived. No, I don’t believe we will ever know what became of him, but I do know he is dead."
"And?" Sherlock said almost arrogantly, defying her to try and affect him with this old tale. He refused to be moved.
"And, there came a day, when I was so very alone, lonely, and frightened, that I did something that I regret very much."
Now Sherlock was looking at her with a strained expression - he wanted to know, and yet he did not.
"No, listen. This is not easy for me to say. This is such a long time ago, now. You remember Edward Mallory, your father’s colleague." Sherlock nodded. A fellow ethnobotanist, he had come sometimes to visit their household both before and after his father’s disappearance. "Well. You never knew, but Edward was in love with me. As much as a man can be, without encouragement. I never gave him any. I would admit it, if I had. One day, Edward came up to Yorkshire - some plants for the greenhouse, he said; but really, he wanted . . .me. You and Mycroft were away at school. Your father had been gone, without a word, for months. And - well, I needed someone. Something. Something to hold onto. Someone to help me not be alone. Something to make me feel . . . .alive."
Sherlock’s frosty gaze gave no sign of comprehending in the slightest what she meant. She sighed. Sherlock truly was not like other people. Feelings were often far from him, and hard for him to understand, let alone access.
But she knew one thing. He loved John Watson. And yet, he was doing everything in his power to deny this love.
"Please do not try to excuse your lack of faith, Mother. Or John’s," he said sharply.
"Oh, Sherlock, don’t you understand? I regretted it every moment, then and since. I hurt a very fine man. And I hurt myself, too. We both thought your father was dead . . . but . . . it was wrong of me to do that, to Edward, who cared for me so . . .and to myself, because my heart belonged to your father, then, and always will. The time I had with him was all there will ever be. But I understand what happened between Edward and I, and why. And I suppose you could say, with the distance of time . . . I can even forgive myself.
"I have a question for you, Sherlock: When have you ever forgiven anyone? Yourself, or anyone else? Because unless you learn to forgive, you will be alone for the rest of your life."
"That," Sherlock said coldly, "Is perfectly acceptable."
Lady Holmes shook her head sadly at Sherlock. "It never will be, and you know it," she said, her voice trembling, and rose to leave him alone in his hospital room.
When she came back a while later, a little more composed, the bed was empty.
Sherlock was gone.
* * *
Winter was beginning to give way to a cold and dismal London spring. John tried constantly to call Sherlock, but he had apparently thrown his mobile away. It eventually stopped even ringing. He wrote letters, actual love letters, full of remorse, that were returned unopened. He went around often to Lady Holmes’ London home, and she always made John very welcome, but said only that Sherlock was safe but did not want to see him.
"Just tell me where he is," John begged. His head ached. He had taken to drinking too much at The Gunmaker’s and was afraid that Lady Holmes would find his generally pathetic and semi-inebriated state unsavory. But she gave no sign of minding, just handing him cups of strong coffee rather than her customary tea.
"Well, I have to admit that at first, I didn’t know. But McLeod called me yesterday. Sherlock is in Yorkshire. At Riddleston Hall."
Riddleston Hall. John and Sherlock had missed the promised Christmas, last year, during Sherlock’s long captivity. Lady Holmes had gone up to Yorkshire alone. Despite her urging, John had stayed behind, unable to face any sort of Christmas cheer.
"He won’t speak to me, you know," John said for the hundredth time. Lady Holmes didn’t know what to say any more. He put down his coffee, half-finished. "I have to go now," he said, shrugging into his jacket and going back out into the damp evening. She offered to have her driver take him back to Harry’s, but he declined.
He made a stop back at 221b, to which he still had a key. There was something there that he needed.
* * *
Kings Cross station had a nightly train to Harrogate, the nearest station to Riddleston Hall. That night, John took it. He carried no luggage, but clutched a paper bag containing a wrapped parcel. He watched the city lights give way to suburbs, then towns, then open countryside. Every mile was taking him closer to Sherlock and he tried to feel hopeful.
It was very late when he arrived at the station, but there was a car agent still open and he hired a car, hoping he could find the way. He called McLeod on his mobile from the station.
"Captain Watson!" She exclaimed. "I never was so glad to hear a voice in my life! Lady Holmes told me about your trouble," she said solemnly. "I’m sorry to say that Mister Sherlock has always been quite heartless, you know. Always. Before you, sir, I should have said," she amended.
"I’m in Harrogate, McLeod. I have to see him. Will you let me in the gates? I’m coming down now," he said. She did not protest about the hour, and said she would send the stableboy down to unlock the great iron gates of Riddleston Hall. "Shall I tell Mister Sherlock you’re coming?" she asked uncertainly.
"No. I want to at least get my foot in the door. If he throws me out, well - I’ll find a hotel."
McLeod began tisking, scandalized at this, but John rung off. There were still miles to go until he got to Riddleston Hall. To Sherlock.
This time, he would have his say.
* * *
The lamps on the gates of Riddleston Hall shone brightly at the end of the long country lane, and he climbed out of the car to push them open. There was a steady freezing rain over Yorkshire. Snow still dotted the ground and hilltops here and there. He was immediately soaked to the skin, but drove on.
McLeod had told him that Sherlock had been staying in Smith’s Cottage, the former blacksmith’s cottage in the wood behind the great house. Soon his headlamps were shining against the windowpanes of the little stone cottage. A dim light shone through the curtains and smoke was coming from the chimney. John was making no effort to be quiet and slammed the car door. He banged on the door to the cottage, but there was no answer. His heart was skiddering with some electric thrill, just to see Sherlock’s face, hear his voice - even if it was only to throw him out again. But only after he had his say.
He tried the door handle, and was surprised that the door opened. The heavy old wooden door bolted from the inside, but Sherlock hadn’t bolted it. He threw the door open wide, and stepped into the cottage, freezing water dripping everywhere. His paper bag was sodden and tearing.
Sherlock was here, standing in front of the fireplace, staring at the open door. He gave no sign of being surprised, though. He looked as if he had just been waiting there for a long time, for John to come. John’s heart swelled, praying that this might be true.
"I have something to give you," John said, very fast in case Sherlock should toss him out. But Sherlock just looked at him, almost curiously. He made no move either toward him, or to throw him out. John tore away the wet paper bag and gave Sherlock the little parcel, which he had carefully wrapped in gift paper. The ribbon had fallen off somewhere. He didn’t think Sherlock would notice, though.
Sherlock accepted it, and stared at it in his hands.
"What is it?" He said. His voice sounded as empty and lost as that very first day, when he returned, as if from the dead, through the wall of 221b.
"Just open it," John said. And so Sherlock did, tearing off the paper to reveal the black glass box of his life clock, glowing red digits running down the second, minutes, and hours remaining of Sherlock’s life span.
"I want you to know that when you were gone, I took this from your room and I looked at it every night before I went to sleep. When I slept. Anyway, it’s every minute, every second that I was never going to get to have with you, and - it helped me somehow.
But one day, I just couldn’t bear any more. Do you see how many there are, Sherlock? So many. It’s almost inconceivable. And that day, I couldn’t do it alone. Anymore. And that’s when I fell. With Lestrade. I know now that you’ll never forgive me. I’m not saying you should. And so, I wanted you to have this back. Because I think it’s you that should have it. It’s all the minutes of the rest of your life on this earth. That we’ll be apart. That I won’t have you. And you won’t have me. Maybe you’ll just throw it away. But maybe you’ll keep it. If you do, I hope you'll think of me. Sometimes."
Sherlock just looked at him, speechless. He held the box tightly, watching the running numbers. But he didn’t say anything, either. John nodded. He understood. But he had had his say. He opened the door to go back out into the rain.
"I just wish . . ..you could try to forget, Sherlock. I don’t even ask you to forgive me. But I would do anything in the world, anything at all, to help you forget what we did - what I did - and start again. But you won’t forget, will you?"
Silence.
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
He closed the door gently behind him and didn’t even notice his tears in the rain.
* * *
He stopped at Riddleston Hall on the way out, because McLeod had implored him not to go without seeing her. She was standing out under the enormous front portico with a huge umbrella, looking out for his car. He pulled up to the door and let McLeod draw him inside.
She brought him straight to the kitchen that he had so loved, when he had stayed here last. A time that had brought much trouble as well as happiness, because this was where he had recovered from amnesia, and also when he had realized that, memory or not, he was madly, hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes. Well, that still was something that would never change, but that he would have to learn to live with.
McLeod gave him a glass of red wine. He drank it down slowly as they talked about simple things, avoiding the terrible topic foremost in both their thoughts. Instead, they spoke of the new foal expected from Mephisto and Czarina; the prospects for his foxhound pup, Lucky. He doubted very much if he would ever see Lucky run with the hunt. McLeod told him about changes in Riddleston Hall since Sherlock had returned.
"He’s not going back to London, he says. He’s going to stay here and help Lady Holmes manage the estate," she said dubiously. John had never heard anything that expressed how fully Sherlock intended to make a break from the past than this; and so, he left the last of his wine and kissed McLeod on her rosy cheek, thanking her for all her many kindnesses to him.
"Won’t you stay, sir? It’s a crime for you to go back out in this awful rain, you can have your old green room," She begged.
"No, McLeod, I think it’s better I don’t overstay my welcome. I can still catch a train back to London. If I hurry," He said. This was actually not true. Possibly he would just drive all the way back to London.
It really didn’t matter.
* * *
He drove slowly in driving rain back down the great alley of ancient elms to the gates of Riddleston Hall, and climbed back out again to pull them open. But when he did, they were locked on him again. He cursed, the northern rain was threatening to turn to sleet. He turned to climb into the car and call back up to the house for the stableboy to bring the key. He was shivering.
There was a shout, and he looked around.
"John!! John !!"
Through the trees he saw a huge black horse with a tall rider galloping. It was Sherlock. He flung himself off and ran to John, his face white and somehow desperate. John thought he would never forget this moment. They stood, just looking, and Sherlock shouted over the torrential rain,
"John - John, you have to teach me. How to forget. Because I can’t, I can’t. But I - want to try. I have to try. Please, John - show me how to forget," and John took him in his arms then, and kissed him tenderly, with all the love that had so long been denied, everything he had and was and ever would be.
To be continued . . .
Listen to Kryptonite here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1RzSm2z2Yg
back: Ten next: Twelve