Bloomsday
This happened after I noticed that John Watson's blog implied The Reichenbach Fall concluded on June 16, aka Bloomsday, the date on which James Joyce's Ulysses is set, as celebrated all over Radio Four today (confusingly, Andrew Scott plays Stephen Dedalus though in my mind he is Blazes Boylan). In fact the newspapers shown on-screen in Sherlock suggest the blog is six months out; the evidence is inconsistent but the climax seems to occur on a Saturday about two months after October 11, which I have chosen to identify as December 17, 2011.
But the combination of the Bloomsday blog and a character called Molly meant that TRF and Ulysses tangled in my mind, resulting in this fic. It isn't a crossover, as such; more a casting of events later on December 17 in a form roughly approximating to that of Ulysses. Yes, I'm totally out of my depth, so just imagine that there is a Platonic Form of the story which this dimly reflects. The 18 episodes sometimes adapt Joyce's opening lines, or attempt to echo styles or themes in his chapters, and sometimes head off elsewhere. They are sadly short on sex, scatology, depictions of anti-semitism, Latin, Love's Old Sweet Song and game-changing genius. Little of it makes sense. Any good bits are Joyce. My only selling point is brevity.
Grateful thanks to
dc for medical expertise, not all of which made the final version; to
quarryquest for location advice; to marysutherland for permission to borrow her name for the Chief Superintendant; and to fengirl88 for numerous helpful suggestions and infinite patience with my frequent whinging about the whole project. None of them is to blame because as usual I finished too close to the deadline to ask for a beta.
Now with added 1922-style cover art by tiggerallyn!
ULYSSES HOLMES
Telemachus
Stately, plump Mike Stamford looked up the stairs to 221b and tried to move John forward.
- Come up, mate, he said. You need some rest. You look terrible. Shall I help you shave?
John let Mike steer him up the stairs. Last time he'd climbed them - was it really only last night? - Sherlock had been with him, and they were hunting for something hidden in their flat. A camera in the bookcase. And then they'd come down again, both of them under arrest.
The room looked much the same, except that Sherlock wasn't in it any more.
An old woman came forward and stood by John's elbow. After a few seconds he realised it was Mrs Hudson, offering him tea. He'd come back here a few hours ago fearing he'd find her dead, but it hadn't been her on the brink of death after all. She'd been fine. She didn't look fine now.
- Thank you, he said. She went off to the kitchen, and Mike started urging him to come to the bathroom and wash. Better than being here, in a room that should be alive with Sherlock's presence, but not much. The whole flat lifeless. I will not sleep here tonight.
Moriarty had infiltrated even here, with his cameras and his insinuations, and driven them out of their own home.
Banished.
Nestor
- Where did you do it?
- Archbishop's Park - football, said the boy. Got tackled and jolted my arm as I fell.
- Lucky that's so close to Tommy's, said John. The hand was pushed back like the neck of a fork.
- There's obviously a break just above the wrist, what we call a Colles' Fracture. Hopefully we'll be able to reduce it under sedation. We'll need to X-ray it first, though. Did you hit your head?
- No.
- Does it hurt anywhere else?
- No, just the arm.
- Good, we'll get that X-rayed, then see about fixing it.
The boy despatched, John wandered into the A&E office and sat down to write his notes.
- John, what are you doing here?
Nesta Deasy stood over him.
- My shift.
- I know what happened this morning. You shouldn't be here.
- I've nowhere else to be. And you're short of cover.
- And you're in no state to provide it. You're in shock. That makes you dangerous. Get some rest.
She looked at him and sighed.
- You can't, can you? Look, it's not your field, but I've a paper on recent BSE-vCJD research, and I could do with a non-specialist reading it to see if it makes sense. No rush, after Christmas will do.
- Mad cows. Just the thing, said John, as he hauled himself up and left the hospital. Bullshit.
Proteus
John tried not to limp as he left St Thomas'. Walking's the only thing you can still control. He marched along the embankment, glaring at the Thames under County Hall. The tide was out.
The London Eye, turning so slowly you could barely see it. He'd once told Sherlock it reminded him of the climax of that production of the York Mysteries, when the curtain had dropped to reveal the damned, trapped and struggling in the spokes of a giant wheel. Had to explain they weren't the sort of mysteries Sherlock liked. I know how the damned felt now.
The Royal Festival Hall. Try not to think about that concert last month. The Dutch violinist, what was her name, playing Tchaikovsky; Sherlock loved her pianissimo. Passing the National Theatre: Juno and the Paycock. Set in Dublin, wasn't it? The Oxo Tower looming ahead.
He stopped at Gabriel's Wharf. Angel from the Mysteries. Where that gallery attendant was found. John climbed down the metal stairs. It must have been about here, maybe a little further up; the tide was lower today. He stared down, picturing the dead man laid out on the shale and the mud, but it was Sherlock he saw, his coat heavy with water and his pale eyes staring, just the latest bag of corpsegas washed up on the beach.
Kalypso
Mr Sherlock Holmes ate with relish Chinese takeaways at the conclusion of a case. He liked hot and sour soup, crispy squid, roast duck in plum sauce, peppers stuffed with prawn meat, egg fried rice, and lashings of monosodium glutamate.
Most of all he liked to wash it down with mugs of tea brewed by Dr John Watson.
John might never make him tea again, and Sherlock was hunched on a bench in Soho Square, listening to the snoring of a rough sleeper and gulping coffee from a paper cup. News-stands proclaimed the suicide of a fake genius as he rose and headed down Frith Street, but no one looked at a tall man in a red fleece, tucking a stray curl into his beanie. He crossed Shaftesbury Avenue to Chinatown, even though most of it wouldn't open until noon.
Shiny cats waved from windows. The Lucky Cat had closed after he'd exposed its link to the Black Lotus ring, but the cats were everywhere. Some superstition about beckoning good fortune.
A bakery, open. He bought two barbecue pork buns.
- Mrkgnao!
A cat staring at him. Real one, thin and black. More superstition. Still, he wasn't enjoying the bun. He put one down for her, but she gave it one sniff and stalked off in disgust. Sherlock shrugged. So much for brunch.
Lotus Eaters
By Gerrard Street and Newport Place Sherlock made his way to Charing Cross Road, and turned south. There was an internet cafe behind the National Portrait Gallery, where he settled by a screen and started searching.
Great Escape. Nothing obvious there. Houdini. No. Resurrection... Lazarus? A couple of tweets from someone using the name Martha Homebody. Oh, really.
- MarthaHomebody @martha_homebody
Hi @lazarus, get over here soon or answer the phone. You ignore letters, that's so antisocial and just naughty of you. Even if you (cont'd)
@lazarus can't reply promptly I'm eager to know my little brother's news. Don't be 'orrible to your old sis, write now xxx Martha
Every third word. Hoop Lane crem, noon. Half an hour by Tube. Plenty of time. Find a chemist.
Hurrying up Charing Cross Road, Sherlock located Superdrug's hair-care section. Cream peroxide and powder bleach. Test for skin allergies 48 hours before... no way, can't stand wearing a hat much longer. Need to cut it, too, maybe make it spikier. He sauntered into the Mercer Street Hotel, walking briskly through reception to the lift. Second floor. A cleaner's trolley by an open door. Suitcase visible; guest not checked out.
- Sorry to disturb you, have you nearly finished?
She had. Left alone, Sherlock locked the bathroom door, unloaded his hair products and set about becoming a blond.
Hades
Mycroft Holmes, first, poked his head through the doors. The chapel was empty, except for the coffin. McIntosh, officially. Advancing down the aisle, he took a seat in the front pew.
He heard the doors open again, and footsteps approaching. Sherlock sat down beside him.
- What happened?
- He'd got people ready to kill John unless I jumped. And Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.
- But he's dead.
- Shot himself.
- Why?
- He was mad. Over-excited about checkmating me.
- Hm. But he's dead.
- His minions aren't. They'll still act if I'm not dead and disgraced. I need to find them first.
- You need my help.
- I'll let you know. Ostentatious, isn't it, opening the crematorium on Saturday?
- It's ostentatious leaving dead assassins all over the streets.
- I didn't shoot them.
- I was referring to him, actually. I thought you were dramatic, but he should have won an award for over-acting.
Sherlock snorted.
- What should I arrange for you?
- I said I'll let you know.
- I mean your funeral.
- Whatever you like. Whatever you think John would like.
- You aren't telling him?
- I can't until it's over.
They watched the curtains close around the coffin.
- Take this.
- Moriarty's phone?
- It was on the roof. There's not much on it, but you might find something.
- OK. Sherlock stood up, then paused. Bury me. I'm not ready to burn.
Aeolus
WAPPING WHOPPER
The news editor scrutinised Kitty Riley.
- So, topping himself makes it bigger news, that's good, as long as the great British public decide he's the villain, not you.
- It's fine, no phone-hacking, it's from this friend...
- Where's Brook now?
- I've been trying to reach him...
She'd been trying since the news broke.
WHERE'S THE MAN?
A phone rang.
- Kitty Riley? There's a man in reception, wants to see you, won't give a name...
She smiled triumphantly.
- I think he's just arrived.
Her mobile buzzed as the lift door opened. Text from Rich Brook.
- OMG its terrible!!! He was my friend no matter what he did! Its all true but i better hide till this blows over BFN!
Kitty frowned. Why text if he... She looked round. Oh no. John Watson.
WATS-UP DOC?
Watson eyeballed her from about two inches.
- Have you any idea...
Be polite but firm.
- I'm sorry you learned the truth this way.
- Truth? he yelled. You're Moriarty's dupe!
- If Sherlock could clear himself, why jump?
Got him there.
- OK, leave the lady alone, we've called the police.
Thank god, security.
- You've killed the best man I ever met! There's blood on your hands, I'll prove it!
A police car pulled up. Watson kept shouting, but Kitty was fine. He'd just given her more copy with his bluster.
Laestrygonians
Strawberry chewits, fudge fingers, chocolate bubbly bars. Two kids shovelling them into their mouths. Won't be poisoned like the children last night. Just hyperactive.
Sherlock re-emerged from the Underground at Tottenham Court Road. A boy dressed in long sleeves, tights and a cardboard box advertising Domino's Pizza wandered in front of him. Probably should eat something. John would tell him. Only that bun since... crisps with Molly yesterday lunchtime?
He headed south and turned into the Montagu Pyke. A huge TV screen displayed the soundless news. Me in that hat. No one recognises...? Reporter outside Barts. Breaking news at bottom. Ambassador's son still critical. What will happen when Max Bruhl wakes? Might say I didn't kidnap them. Risk of Moriarty's henchmen reacting. But probably same as the girl. Same as Henry Knight, too. Drug-induced suggestibility. Moriarty exposed them to my face. Conditioned terror when they see it again.
Customers shovelling rump steak. Like kids with sweets, only smellier. Meatjuice dripping from their lips. Stink of beer. Brook's whereabouts unknown. Sticky clattering plates. Sensory overload. Get out of here.
The cold air back on Charing Cross Road was a relief. Sherlock walked towards Leicester Square, remembering that deli John liked. Just what he needed. A small table in the corner. Blackcurrant and soda, with a sandwich of rye bread and Gaby's salt beef.
Scylla and Charybdis
Urbane DI Lestrade thanked the desk sergeant and escorted John Watson out of Wapping police station to his car.
- Don't know why I was there, muttered John. Didn't lay a finger on Riley.
- But you did lay a fist on the Chief Super, before absconding with Sherlock.
Last night… almost forgotten. Before they ran handcuffed through the streets, trying to find an escape between the devil and the boys in deep blue.
- John, I'm sorry.
- You've less to be sorry about than most. You warned him.
- Oh shit. Can you not mention that? I shouldn't really be talking to you.
- Thanks for coming.
- I could hardly send Donovan. Look, have you a theory? What happened?
- I'm not Sherlock... Moriarty kept sending cryptic messages and pouring poison in your ears. He pretended to be an actor.
- I've read that bit.
- Everyone has. Then I heard Mrs Hudson had been shot, but it was a trick to get me away. I came back and saw Sherlock up there...
Not going to repeat what he said.
- I blame Mycroft.
- What?
- The false brother. Moriarty was a monster, but Mycroft fed him. He wanted to crack Moriarty, but Moriarty cracked him. Got the details about Sherlock that were in The Sun. John shook his head. You expect a monster to betray you, not your own brother.
Wandering Rocks
Chief Superintendent Hamilton left Scotland Yard and hailed a taxi. Should just make the carol service, despite the Assistant Commissioner demanding an explanation of Lestrade's games with that suicidal weirdo. Crawling up Whitehall, behind a big black car. Still swanking around in this recession.
Mycroft Holmes studied Assistant Commissioner Kernan's comments. He couldn't be seen to intervene, given his connection, but Kernan clearly disliked Hamilton. His driver turned left, gliding down Pall Mall towards the Diogenes.
Hamilton rode round Piccadilly Circus and through Soho, passing a tall fair-haired man absorbed in his phone. Never see what's around them.
Sherlock's side-glance registered the bruise on Hamilton's face. Hard to see details in fading light. Hard to read Moriarty's phone. Go indoors. Lucky Voice karaoke bar ahead?
Hamilton watched the Oxford Street shoppers. Must get Janet's present. Car dropping a passenger. Short man, like that lunatic last night. Napoleon complex, over-aggressive.
John nodded at Lestrade's reminder that his bail required him to come in on Monday. Hell knew how he'd survive Sunday. Collect some things from Baker Street, then get out of town.
- John?
- Harry?
- Thank god I've found you. Your phone's off. You OK?
- No.
- I'm not surprised. Know what you need?
His sister. Always the same solution. But this time, she might be right. Get smashed, and drown memory in a bottle.
Sirens
Bronze by gold smiled glossily from the screen as words scrolled over their faces for a steel-haired woman to sing.
The drinks were pricy, but it was busy; no one noticed a man nursing a coke.
He scanned the contacts again. Despite his growing recklessness, Moriarty might never have contacted his snipers by phone. But there were names Sherlock knew: Irene, Kitty, Molly.
Bronzeannifrid by Agnethagold.
The love you gave me, nothing else can save me, SOS.
Messages to Kitty, but that text should explain Brook's sudden silence. Nothing recent to Irene. Nor Molly. Oddly disturbing, seeing her name. Moriarty might have had further plans for her. But she wasn't one of the three doomed friends. He hadn't seen her as Sherlock's friend at all. No reason to. Miscalculated there. Underestimated both of us.
You seem so far away though you are standing near.
Rising to go, Sherlock saw John again, staring up at him, struggling to understand his last words.
You made me feel alive, but something died I fear.
Wish I could... But he can't know.
Molly knows already. Can't use Jim's phone, it'd frighten her. Use Irene's, she won't recognise that. Text her. If safe, ring once.
When you're gone
How can I even try to go on?
You can. You're stronger than I am.
The phone vibrated.
Brrbrr.
Cyclops
We were just heading into the Green Man for a pint, and squashed in next to a customer with a bulldog tattoo.
- What's yours? asks Joe.
- EPA, I say.
The footie highlights were on: Fulham v Bolton.
Then was it shown how Bryan son of Ruy repaid the gold which had lured him from the Rich Coast to the Cottage of Craven. For first he crossed the ball to mighty Clinton Dempsey, champion of the New World, who nodded it into the net of the Wanderers, before Bryan himself with skilful foot lifted it over the sad-eyed keeper.
A tall bloke yawned.
News headlines. More about that phony taking a flyer. Biggest mystery was sleuth himself, she says.
- Obvious, innit, says the customer. Kiddy-fiddler.
- Interesting, says the tall guy. I only heard about kidnapping and poisoning.
- Think about it. Their dad's loaded, but no ransom demand. Why would he want 'em?
- Your logic isn't entirely faulty. But your imagination is non-existent.
- Imagine this, mate!
The customer hurled his glass.
All eyes were raised in wonder as the well-crafted crystal goblet flew forth, holding nectar styled Pride of London bright as the sun, and fell like a meteor crashing to earth.
And the tall bloke just smiled at his drunken aim and walked out, while the barmaid mopped up broken glass and beer.
Nausicaa
The winter evening had begun to fold London in its chilly embrace. The Christmas lights cast a garish glitter over Oxford Street. The three fangirls lingered, still reluctant to rejoin the mundane suburbs after an afternoon queuing for autographs at the comic con.
Sysi and eD were arguing again about whether RTD or Moffat should be taken out and shot. But Gerti was silent, basking in the knowledge that the Jack/Ianto Tshirt under her jacket was now adorned with the scrawl Gareth David-Lloyd.
And so it was only she who noticed the stranger paused under a lamp-post. His light hair haloed his face, for a moment recalling Spike in Buffy. But then he looked up and she saw his pale but brilliant blue eyes, and they were perfect - his hair was wrong, but colour it black, and he would just be Raffles, the gentleman thief. And as for his adoring sidekick Bunny - who but Gareth? Together they would steal every heart in fandom, and become the OTP of the decade.
He was walking towards her now, and his eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and through, and as he passed he said:
- Lloyd's not my type, but you won't let that stop you. I draw the line at ungrammatical English, however. You'd be lost without your beta.
Oxen of the Sun
Mr Sherlock Holmes faced a singular predicament. Much as he regretted distressing Dr Watson, he believed his friend's survival depended on the ruin of his own reputation. So on learning of the improved condition of young Max Bruhl, whom he had rescued the previous night, he turned his mind to whether the boy shared his sister's conviction that he himself had abducted them.
Infiltrating University College Hospital, he stood in the child's dimly lit room.
- Mr Holmes?
- I'm not...
- I've read everything about you. You're England's greatest detective!
An admirer. He remembered the boy's collection of spy stories.
- Max, can you keep a secret?
- Of course!
- Do you know who kidnapped you?
- No. He pretended it was you... I didn't believe him.
- You must pretend that was true.
- Why?
- Because we have been waging a war of the imagination, he and I, and it's not done yet. To win, it must appear he's won. So blacken my name - one day we'll tell them the truth together.
Max's eyes shone. You're a true hero, Mr Holmes, he exclaimed, shaking his hand.
Why did people want heroes, Sherlock wondered yet again as he left the hospital. Even when John called him a dick, his voice belied him. John's voice... A couple reeled past him. No, not-couple. The Watsons, on the mother of all benders.
Circe
- I hear you're dead.
- Correct.
- Welcome to the club. I'm touched you kept my phone.
- Only spare to hand. I'll change it soon.
- Good boy. I advise changing phones twice a week.
- No you don't. You want to keep texting me.
- Of course I do. But I'll always find you. We have met. You are mine. It is fate.
- Until you fly off after something shinier. Don't be melodramatic.
- Look who's talking! And you haven't my excuse.
- You're going to tell me whether I ask or not.
- You already know, you researched my career. How I used to sing opera. La ci darem la mano...
- You were a baritone?
- If only. The Don has all the best tunes. I'd have made a magnificent Giovanni.
- The catalogue aria would fit you well enough. If your friend Kate sings bass she can play Leporello.
- I'm casting you as a soprano.
- Donna Anna, hunting you down? With Mycroft as the commendatore.
- No, silly, you're Zerlina. The virgin whose heart trembles at the thought of a good time. Tell me what's wrong?
- Wrong? Apart from being dead?
- You keep replying. For you this is garrulous. You're trying to distract yourself.
- My life being so uneventful.
- It's John, isn't it?
- Goodbye. I won't be in touch.
- Don't say that, Zerlina. It's lonely being dead. Let's have breakfast.
Eumaeus
Sherlock was shadowing the Watsons during these exchanges; the phone could have been useful cover, but neither sibling looked likely to notice anything not waving in their faces. They staggered noisily down Gower Street. Harry was trying to think of somewhere that served drinks after midnight; John, sounding more blurred than usual, suggested they return to Baker Street for a whisky.
SOS. They might open any bottle, and some could be lethal. But John seemed sufficiently unfocused for Sherlock to risk showing his face.
- Are yous OK?
Harry stared at him heavily.
- Are you OK? she mimicked.
- Blooming.
- Booming! She laughed. You're Irish. What's your name?
Sherlock smiled politely.
- Hunter. You'll be wanting a taxi. There's a rank in Russell Square.
Could drive taxis, like Jeff Hope. Detective cabbie instead of killer cabbie. Already have the Knowledge.
- Do you know any clubs round here?
- No. You'd best get home.
He took her elbow, John trailing in their wake. Cab ahead. Sherlock calculated his moves. Open cab door; pull Harry's wallet from her bag as she climbs in.
- This lady's going home. This is her address. Here's the money. He dropped the wallet into Harry's bag and slammed the door. The cab pulled off.
- Hey, complained John, belatedly realising he'd been left behind.
- I heard you say Baker Street. I'll walk you back.
Ithaca
What course did Sherlock and John follow returning?
Starting from Russell Square, they cut behind the British Museum, skirting the north-west of Bedford Square to Tottenham Court Road; turning right, then left into Goodge Street, they proceeded straight on to Wigmore Street before swinging right at Portman Square to join Baker Street.
Of what did they discourse on their itinerary?
At first John just grunted at occasional enquiries. Gradually becoming more responsive, he apologised for putting a stranger to such trouble, explaining that he was mourning a recently-deceased friend. He described his friend as a remarkable man with near-miraculous abilities. Asked whether one might expect a further miracle, John said he was a soldier and knew the dead did not return.
What occurred on arrival at their destination?
John invited his companion in, saying he did not wish to be alone there and planned to move out shortly. Reluctant to test John's recovering faculties under full lighting, Sherlock declined. He advised against hasty decisions, urging John to wait.
Alone, what did Sherlock feel?
The cold on Baker Street, where he paused watching the light upstairs. Tiredness as he walked to Paddington for the night bus to Molly's, a temporary bolt-hole kindly offered. Resolve that if it took ten years - twenty - he would come home to John and the place where they belonged.
Penelope
Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get my help well not like that he often takes it without thanking and when he wants something big he plays at flirting stupid compliments and I see through them and I do it anyway because Im an idiot like he says but he never asked this way just looking straight at me and asking as if I was a proper person as if I was John Watson someone he trusted only this time John couldnt help him only I could do what he needed and it was really hard and its awful now having to pretend and seeing John and the rest all grieving and not being able to tell them its OK hes not dead but I promised and I owe him after that time Jim fooled me so he could get close to Sherlock or maybe he owes me Im not sure but it doesnt matter none of that matters only I felt like the most important person in the world because he was asking me for help and no one else could give it and Id been right when I saw he was sad and he was sadder now and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. But...
Musical notes:
The Dutch violinist was Janine Jansen, who played the Royal Festival Hall with the Royal Philharmonic in November 2011.
S.O.S. is a song by Abba, oddly enough not mentioned in Ulysses, where Joyce prefers J. L. Molloy's Love's Old Sweet Song.
La ci darem la mano is a duet from Mozart's Don Giovanni in which DG attempts to seduce the bride Zerlina. It is mentioned several times in Ulysses, because Bloom's wife is preparing to sing it on a concert tour organised by her lover Blazes Boylan. The Don's servant Leporello catalogues his master's conquests; Donna Anna's father the Commendatore eventually conducts Giovanni to his doom.
Football notes:
Fulham 2 - 0 Bolton (Dempsey 32, Ruiz 34)
Punctuation notes:
Molly Hooper could punctuate but Molly Bloom doesnt.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.
But the combination of the Bloomsday blog and a character called Molly meant that TRF and Ulysses tangled in my mind, resulting in this fic. It isn't a crossover, as such; more a casting of events later on December 17 in a form roughly approximating to that of Ulysses. Yes, I'm totally out of my depth, so just imagine that there is a Platonic Form of the story which this dimly reflects. The 18 episodes sometimes adapt Joyce's opening lines, or attempt to echo styles or themes in his chapters, and sometimes head off elsewhere. They are sadly short on sex, scatology, depictions of anti-semitism, Latin, Love's Old Sweet Song and game-changing genius. Little of it makes sense. Any good bits are Joyce. My only selling point is brevity.
Grateful thanks to
dc for medical expertise, not all of which made the final version; to
quarryquest for location advice; to marysutherland for permission to borrow her name for the Chief Superintendant; and to fengirl88 for numerous helpful suggestions and infinite patience with my frequent whinging about the whole project. None of them is to blame because as usual I finished too close to the deadline to ask for a beta.
Now with added 1922-style cover art by tiggerallyn!
ULYSSES HOLMES
Telemachus
Stately, plump Mike Stamford looked up the stairs to 221b and tried to move John forward.
- Come up, mate, he said. You need some rest. You look terrible. Shall I help you shave?
John let Mike steer him up the stairs. Last time he'd climbed them - was it really only last night? - Sherlock had been with him, and they were hunting for something hidden in their flat. A camera in the bookcase. And then they'd come down again, both of them under arrest.
The room looked much the same, except that Sherlock wasn't in it any more.
An old woman came forward and stood by John's elbow. After a few seconds he realised it was Mrs Hudson, offering him tea. He'd come back here a few hours ago fearing he'd find her dead, but it hadn't been her on the brink of death after all. She'd been fine. She didn't look fine now.
- Thank you, he said. She went off to the kitchen, and Mike started urging him to come to the bathroom and wash. Better than being here, in a room that should be alive with Sherlock's presence, but not much. The whole flat lifeless. I will not sleep here tonight.
Moriarty had infiltrated even here, with his cameras and his insinuations, and driven them out of their own home.
Banished.
Nestor
- Where did you do it?
- Archbishop's Park - football, said the boy. Got tackled and jolted my arm as I fell.
- Lucky that's so close to Tommy's, said John. The hand was pushed back like the neck of a fork.
- There's obviously a break just above the wrist, what we call a Colles' Fracture. Hopefully we'll be able to reduce it under sedation. We'll need to X-ray it first, though. Did you hit your head?
- No.
- Does it hurt anywhere else?
- No, just the arm.
- Good, we'll get that X-rayed, then see about fixing it.
The boy despatched, John wandered into the A&E office and sat down to write his notes.
- John, what are you doing here?
Nesta Deasy stood over him.
- My shift.
- I know what happened this morning. You shouldn't be here.
- I've nowhere else to be. And you're short of cover.
- And you're in no state to provide it. You're in shock. That makes you dangerous. Get some rest.
She looked at him and sighed.
- You can't, can you? Look, it's not your field, but I've a paper on recent BSE-vCJD research, and I could do with a non-specialist reading it to see if it makes sense. No rush, after Christmas will do.
- Mad cows. Just the thing, said John, as he hauled himself up and left the hospital. Bullshit.
Proteus
John tried not to limp as he left St Thomas'. Walking's the only thing you can still control. He marched along the embankment, glaring at the Thames under County Hall. The tide was out.
The London Eye, turning so slowly you could barely see it. He'd once told Sherlock it reminded him of the climax of that production of the York Mysteries, when the curtain had dropped to reveal the damned, trapped and struggling in the spokes of a giant wheel. Had to explain they weren't the sort of mysteries Sherlock liked. I know how the damned felt now.
The Royal Festival Hall. Try not to think about that concert last month. The Dutch violinist, what was her name, playing Tchaikovsky; Sherlock loved her pianissimo. Passing the National Theatre: Juno and the Paycock. Set in Dublin, wasn't it? The Oxo Tower looming ahead.
He stopped at Gabriel's Wharf. Angel from the Mysteries. Where that gallery attendant was found. John climbed down the metal stairs. It must have been about here, maybe a little further up; the tide was lower today. He stared down, picturing the dead man laid out on the shale and the mud, but it was Sherlock he saw, his coat heavy with water and his pale eyes staring, just the latest bag of corpsegas washed up on the beach.
Kalypso
Mr Sherlock Holmes ate with relish Chinese takeaways at the conclusion of a case. He liked hot and sour soup, crispy squid, roast duck in plum sauce, peppers stuffed with prawn meat, egg fried rice, and lashings of monosodium glutamate.
Most of all he liked to wash it down with mugs of tea brewed by Dr John Watson.
John might never make him tea again, and Sherlock was hunched on a bench in Soho Square, listening to the snoring of a rough sleeper and gulping coffee from a paper cup. News-stands proclaimed the suicide of a fake genius as he rose and headed down Frith Street, but no one looked at a tall man in a red fleece, tucking a stray curl into his beanie. He crossed Shaftesbury Avenue to Chinatown, even though most of it wouldn't open until noon.
Shiny cats waved from windows. The Lucky Cat had closed after he'd exposed its link to the Black Lotus ring, but the cats were everywhere. Some superstition about beckoning good fortune.
A bakery, open. He bought two barbecue pork buns.
- Mrkgnao!
A cat staring at him. Real one, thin and black. More superstition. Still, he wasn't enjoying the bun. He put one down for her, but she gave it one sniff and stalked off in disgust. Sherlock shrugged. So much for brunch.
Lotus Eaters
By Gerrard Street and Newport Place Sherlock made his way to Charing Cross Road, and turned south. There was an internet cafe behind the National Portrait Gallery, where he settled by a screen and started searching.
Great Escape. Nothing obvious there. Houdini. No. Resurrection... Lazarus? A couple of tweets from someone using the name Martha Homebody. Oh, really.
- MarthaHomebody @martha_homebody
Hi @lazarus, get over here soon or answer the phone. You ignore letters, that's so antisocial and just naughty of you. Even if you (cont'd)
@lazarus can't reply promptly I'm eager to know my little brother's news. Don't be 'orrible to your old sis, write now xxx Martha
Every third word. Hoop Lane crem, noon. Half an hour by Tube. Plenty of time. Find a chemist.
Hurrying up Charing Cross Road, Sherlock located Superdrug's hair-care section. Cream peroxide and powder bleach. Test for skin allergies 48 hours before... no way, can't stand wearing a hat much longer. Need to cut it, too, maybe make it spikier. He sauntered into the Mercer Street Hotel, walking briskly through reception to the lift. Second floor. A cleaner's trolley by an open door. Suitcase visible; guest not checked out.
- Sorry to disturb you, have you nearly finished?
She had. Left alone, Sherlock locked the bathroom door, unloaded his hair products and set about becoming a blond.
Hades
Mycroft Holmes, first, poked his head through the doors. The chapel was empty, except for the coffin. McIntosh, officially. Advancing down the aisle, he took a seat in the front pew.
He heard the doors open again, and footsteps approaching. Sherlock sat down beside him.
- What happened?
- He'd got people ready to kill John unless I jumped. And Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.
- But he's dead.
- Shot himself.
- Why?
- He was mad. Over-excited about checkmating me.
- Hm. But he's dead.
- His minions aren't. They'll still act if I'm not dead and disgraced. I need to find them first.
- You need my help.
- I'll let you know. Ostentatious, isn't it, opening the crematorium on Saturday?
- It's ostentatious leaving dead assassins all over the streets.
- I didn't shoot them.
- I was referring to him, actually. I thought you were dramatic, but he should have won an award for over-acting.
Sherlock snorted.
- What should I arrange for you?
- I said I'll let you know.
- I mean your funeral.
- Whatever you like. Whatever you think John would like.
- You aren't telling him?
- I can't until it's over.
They watched the curtains close around the coffin.
- Take this.
- Moriarty's phone?
- It was on the roof. There's not much on it, but you might find something.
- OK. Sherlock stood up, then paused. Bury me. I'm not ready to burn.
Aeolus
WAPPING WHOPPER
The news editor scrutinised Kitty Riley.
- So, topping himself makes it bigger news, that's good, as long as the great British public decide he's the villain, not you.
- It's fine, no phone-hacking, it's from this friend...
- Where's Brook now?
- I've been trying to reach him...
She'd been trying since the news broke.
WHERE'S THE MAN?
A phone rang.
- Kitty Riley? There's a man in reception, wants to see you, won't give a name...
She smiled triumphantly.
- I think he's just arrived.
Her mobile buzzed as the lift door opened. Text from Rich Brook.
- OMG its terrible!!! He was my friend no matter what he did! Its all true but i better hide till this blows over BFN!
Kitty frowned. Why text if he... She looked round. Oh no. John Watson.
WATS-UP DOC?
Watson eyeballed her from about two inches.
- Have you any idea...
Be polite but firm.
- I'm sorry you learned the truth this way.
- Truth? he yelled. You're Moriarty's dupe!
- If Sherlock could clear himself, why jump?
Got him there.
- OK, leave the lady alone, we've called the police.
Thank god, security.
- You've killed the best man I ever met! There's blood on your hands, I'll prove it!
A police car pulled up. Watson kept shouting, but Kitty was fine. He'd just given her more copy with his bluster.
Laestrygonians
Strawberry chewits, fudge fingers, chocolate bubbly bars. Two kids shovelling them into their mouths. Won't be poisoned like the children last night. Just hyperactive.
Sherlock re-emerged from the Underground at Tottenham Court Road. A boy dressed in long sleeves, tights and a cardboard box advertising Domino's Pizza wandered in front of him. Probably should eat something. John would tell him. Only that bun since... crisps with Molly yesterday lunchtime?
He headed south and turned into the Montagu Pyke. A huge TV screen displayed the soundless news. Me in that hat. No one recognises...? Reporter outside Barts. Breaking news at bottom. Ambassador's son still critical. What will happen when Max Bruhl wakes? Might say I didn't kidnap them. Risk of Moriarty's henchmen reacting. But probably same as the girl. Same as Henry Knight, too. Drug-induced suggestibility. Moriarty exposed them to my face. Conditioned terror when they see it again.
Customers shovelling rump steak. Like kids with sweets, only smellier. Meatjuice dripping from their lips. Stink of beer. Brook's whereabouts unknown. Sticky clattering plates. Sensory overload. Get out of here.
The cold air back on Charing Cross Road was a relief. Sherlock walked towards Leicester Square, remembering that deli John liked. Just what he needed. A small table in the corner. Blackcurrant and soda, with a sandwich of rye bread and Gaby's salt beef.
Scylla and Charybdis
Urbane DI Lestrade thanked the desk sergeant and escorted John Watson out of Wapping police station to his car.
- Don't know why I was there, muttered John. Didn't lay a finger on Riley.
- But you did lay a fist on the Chief Super, before absconding with Sherlock.
Last night… almost forgotten. Before they ran handcuffed through the streets, trying to find an escape between the devil and the boys in deep blue.
- John, I'm sorry.
- You've less to be sorry about than most. You warned him.
- Oh shit. Can you not mention that? I shouldn't really be talking to you.
- Thanks for coming.
- I could hardly send Donovan. Look, have you a theory? What happened?
- I'm not Sherlock... Moriarty kept sending cryptic messages and pouring poison in your ears. He pretended to be an actor.
- I've read that bit.
- Everyone has. Then I heard Mrs Hudson had been shot, but it was a trick to get me away. I came back and saw Sherlock up there...
Not going to repeat what he said.
- I blame Mycroft.
- What?
- The false brother. Moriarty was a monster, but Mycroft fed him. He wanted to crack Moriarty, but Moriarty cracked him. Got the details about Sherlock that were in The Sun. John shook his head. You expect a monster to betray you, not your own brother.
Wandering Rocks
Chief Superintendent Hamilton left Scotland Yard and hailed a taxi. Should just make the carol service, despite the Assistant Commissioner demanding an explanation of Lestrade's games with that suicidal weirdo. Crawling up Whitehall, behind a big black car. Still swanking around in this recession.
Mycroft Holmes studied Assistant Commissioner Kernan's comments. He couldn't be seen to intervene, given his connection, but Kernan clearly disliked Hamilton. His driver turned left, gliding down Pall Mall towards the Diogenes.
Hamilton rode round Piccadilly Circus and through Soho, passing a tall fair-haired man absorbed in his phone. Never see what's around them.
Sherlock's side-glance registered the bruise on Hamilton's face. Hard to see details in fading light. Hard to read Moriarty's phone. Go indoors. Lucky Voice karaoke bar ahead?
Hamilton watched the Oxford Street shoppers. Must get Janet's present. Car dropping a passenger. Short man, like that lunatic last night. Napoleon complex, over-aggressive.
John nodded at Lestrade's reminder that his bail required him to come in on Monday. Hell knew how he'd survive Sunday. Collect some things from Baker Street, then get out of town.
- John?
- Harry?
- Thank god I've found you. Your phone's off. You OK?
- No.
- I'm not surprised. Know what you need?
His sister. Always the same solution. But this time, she might be right. Get smashed, and drown memory in a bottle.
Sirens
Bronze by gold smiled glossily from the screen as words scrolled over their faces for a steel-haired woman to sing.
The drinks were pricy, but it was busy; no one noticed a man nursing a coke.
He scanned the contacts again. Despite his growing recklessness, Moriarty might never have contacted his snipers by phone. But there were names Sherlock knew: Irene, Kitty, Molly.
Bronzeannifrid by Agnethagold.
The love you gave me, nothing else can save me, SOS.
Messages to Kitty, but that text should explain Brook's sudden silence. Nothing recent to Irene. Nor Molly. Oddly disturbing, seeing her name. Moriarty might have had further plans for her. But she wasn't one of the three doomed friends. He hadn't seen her as Sherlock's friend at all. No reason to. Miscalculated there. Underestimated both of us.
You seem so far away though you are standing near.
Rising to go, Sherlock saw John again, staring up at him, struggling to understand his last words.
You made me feel alive, but something died I fear.
Wish I could... But he can't know.
Molly knows already. Can't use Jim's phone, it'd frighten her. Use Irene's, she won't recognise that. Text her. If safe, ring once.
When you're gone
How can I even try to go on?
You can. You're stronger than I am.
The phone vibrated.
Brrbrr.
Cyclops
We were just heading into the Green Man for a pint, and squashed in next to a customer with a bulldog tattoo.
- What's yours? asks Joe.
- EPA, I say.
The footie highlights were on: Fulham v Bolton.
Then was it shown how Bryan son of Ruy repaid the gold which had lured him from the Rich Coast to the Cottage of Craven. For first he crossed the ball to mighty Clinton Dempsey, champion of the New World, who nodded it into the net of the Wanderers, before Bryan himself with skilful foot lifted it over the sad-eyed keeper.
A tall bloke yawned.
News headlines. More about that phony taking a flyer. Biggest mystery was sleuth himself, she says.
- Obvious, innit, says the customer. Kiddy-fiddler.
- Interesting, says the tall guy. I only heard about kidnapping and poisoning.
- Think about it. Their dad's loaded, but no ransom demand. Why would he want 'em?
- Your logic isn't entirely faulty. But your imagination is non-existent.
- Imagine this, mate!
The customer hurled his glass.
All eyes were raised in wonder as the well-crafted crystal goblet flew forth, holding nectar styled Pride of London bright as the sun, and fell like a meteor crashing to earth.
And the tall bloke just smiled at his drunken aim and walked out, while the barmaid mopped up broken glass and beer.
Nausicaa
The winter evening had begun to fold London in its chilly embrace. The Christmas lights cast a garish glitter over Oxford Street. The three fangirls lingered, still reluctant to rejoin the mundane suburbs after an afternoon queuing for autographs at the comic con.
Sysi and eD were arguing again about whether RTD or Moffat should be taken out and shot. But Gerti was silent, basking in the knowledge that the Jack/Ianto Tshirt under her jacket was now adorned with the scrawl Gareth David-Lloyd.
And so it was only she who noticed the stranger paused under a lamp-post. His light hair haloed his face, for a moment recalling Spike in Buffy. But then he looked up and she saw his pale but brilliant blue eyes, and they were perfect - his hair was wrong, but colour it black, and he would just be Raffles, the gentleman thief. And as for his adoring sidekick Bunny - who but Gareth? Together they would steal every heart in fandom, and become the OTP of the decade.
He was walking towards her now, and his eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and through, and as he passed he said:
- Lloyd's not my type, but you won't let that stop you. I draw the line at ungrammatical English, however. You'd be lost without your beta.
Oxen of the Sun
Mr Sherlock Holmes faced a singular predicament. Much as he regretted distressing Dr Watson, he believed his friend's survival depended on the ruin of his own reputation. So on learning of the improved condition of young Max Bruhl, whom he had rescued the previous night, he turned his mind to whether the boy shared his sister's conviction that he himself had abducted them.
Infiltrating University College Hospital, he stood in the child's dimly lit room.
- Mr Holmes?
- I'm not...
- I've read everything about you. You're England's greatest detective!
An admirer. He remembered the boy's collection of spy stories.
- Max, can you keep a secret?
- Of course!
- Do you know who kidnapped you?
- No. He pretended it was you... I didn't believe him.
- You must pretend that was true.
- Why?
- Because we have been waging a war of the imagination, he and I, and it's not done yet. To win, it must appear he's won. So blacken my name - one day we'll tell them the truth together.
Max's eyes shone. You're a true hero, Mr Holmes, he exclaimed, shaking his hand.
Why did people want heroes, Sherlock wondered yet again as he left the hospital. Even when John called him a dick, his voice belied him. John's voice... A couple reeled past him. No, not-couple. The Watsons, on the mother of all benders.
Circe
- I hear you're dead.
- Correct.
- Welcome to the club. I'm touched you kept my phone.
- Only spare to hand. I'll change it soon.
- Good boy. I advise changing phones twice a week.
- No you don't. You want to keep texting me.
- Of course I do. But I'll always find you. We have met. You are mine. It is fate.
- Until you fly off after something shinier. Don't be melodramatic.
- Look who's talking! And you haven't my excuse.
- You're going to tell me whether I ask or not.
- You already know, you researched my career. How I used to sing opera. La ci darem la mano...
- You were a baritone?
- If only. The Don has all the best tunes. I'd have made a magnificent Giovanni.
- The catalogue aria would fit you well enough. If your friend Kate sings bass she can play Leporello.
- I'm casting you as a soprano.
- Donna Anna, hunting you down? With Mycroft as the commendatore.
- No, silly, you're Zerlina. The virgin whose heart trembles at the thought of a good time. Tell me what's wrong?
- Wrong? Apart from being dead?
- You keep replying. For you this is garrulous. You're trying to distract yourself.
- My life being so uneventful.
- It's John, isn't it?
- Goodbye. I won't be in touch.
- Don't say that, Zerlina. It's lonely being dead. Let's have breakfast.
Eumaeus
Sherlock was shadowing the Watsons during these exchanges; the phone could have been useful cover, but neither sibling looked likely to notice anything not waving in their faces. They staggered noisily down Gower Street. Harry was trying to think of somewhere that served drinks after midnight; John, sounding more blurred than usual, suggested they return to Baker Street for a whisky.
SOS. They might open any bottle, and some could be lethal. But John seemed sufficiently unfocused for Sherlock to risk showing his face.
- Are yous OK?
Harry stared at him heavily.
- Are you OK? she mimicked.
- Blooming.
- Booming! She laughed. You're Irish. What's your name?
Sherlock smiled politely.
- Hunter. You'll be wanting a taxi. There's a rank in Russell Square.
Could drive taxis, like Jeff Hope. Detective cabbie instead of killer cabbie. Already have the Knowledge.
- Do you know any clubs round here?
- No. You'd best get home.
He took her elbow, John trailing in their wake. Cab ahead. Sherlock calculated his moves. Open cab door; pull Harry's wallet from her bag as she climbs in.
- This lady's going home. This is her address. Here's the money. He dropped the wallet into Harry's bag and slammed the door. The cab pulled off.
- Hey, complained John, belatedly realising he'd been left behind.
- I heard you say Baker Street. I'll walk you back.
Ithaca
What course did Sherlock and John follow returning?
Starting from Russell Square, they cut behind the British Museum, skirting the north-west of Bedford Square to Tottenham Court Road; turning right, then left into Goodge Street, they proceeded straight on to Wigmore Street before swinging right at Portman Square to join Baker Street.
Of what did they discourse on their itinerary?
At first John just grunted at occasional enquiries. Gradually becoming more responsive, he apologised for putting a stranger to such trouble, explaining that he was mourning a recently-deceased friend. He described his friend as a remarkable man with near-miraculous abilities. Asked whether one might expect a further miracle, John said he was a soldier and knew the dead did not return.
What occurred on arrival at their destination?
John invited his companion in, saying he did not wish to be alone there and planned to move out shortly. Reluctant to test John's recovering faculties under full lighting, Sherlock declined. He advised against hasty decisions, urging John to wait.
Alone, what did Sherlock feel?
The cold on Baker Street, where he paused watching the light upstairs. Tiredness as he walked to Paddington for the night bus to Molly's, a temporary bolt-hole kindly offered. Resolve that if it took ten years - twenty - he would come home to John and the place where they belonged.
Penelope
Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get my help well not like that he often takes it without thanking and when he wants something big he plays at flirting stupid compliments and I see through them and I do it anyway because Im an idiot like he says but he never asked this way just looking straight at me and asking as if I was a proper person as if I was John Watson someone he trusted only this time John couldnt help him only I could do what he needed and it was really hard and its awful now having to pretend and seeing John and the rest all grieving and not being able to tell them its OK hes not dead but I promised and I owe him after that time Jim fooled me so he could get close to Sherlock or maybe he owes me Im not sure but it doesnt matter none of that matters only I felt like the most important person in the world because he was asking me for help and no one else could give it and Id been right when I saw he was sad and he was sadder now and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. But...
Musical notes:
The Dutch violinist was Janine Jansen, who played the Royal Festival Hall with the Royal Philharmonic in November 2011.
S.O.S. is a song by Abba, oddly enough not mentioned in Ulysses, where Joyce prefers J. L. Molloy's Love's Old Sweet Song.
La ci darem la mano is a duet from Mozart's Don Giovanni in which DG attempts to seduce the bride Zerlina. It is mentioned several times in Ulysses, because Bloom's wife is preparing to sing it on a concert tour organised by her lover Blazes Boylan. The Don's servant Leporello catalogues his master's conquests; Donna Anna's father the Commendatore eventually conducts Giovanni to his doom.
Football notes:
Fulham 2 - 0 Bolton (Dempsey 32, Ruiz 34)
Punctuation notes:
Molly Hooper could punctuate but Molly Bloom doesnt.
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