Sherlock: Dancing with Death, Part One

Epilogue

Sherlock

The during the next few days, Sherlock, John and Beatrice stayed home at the flat--everyone, especially Sherlock, was exhausted both mentally and physically.  Beatrice insisted that Sherlock eat his meals with them, probably to make sure he was eating, and it called to mind a conversation that he and John had had once; a conversation during which Sherlock had been told that that's what girlfriends do--"feed you up".  In any case, Beatrice had been acting rather strangely ever since the night on the roof with Moriarty--Sherlock decided, two days later, to ask about it, since Beatrice hadn't brought it up herself.

It was an evening in which John had gone to work--with the specific instructions to not let anything exciting happen--that Sherlock decided this.  He was sitting in his armchair with his dressing gown over his usual dress shirt and trousers, quite comfortable as he pretended to read the newspaper, while actually watching Beatrice.

Beatrice was sitting in John's chair, since he was out, watching the television with the sound turned almost all the way down.

"Beatrice."

"You want me to turn the volume down?" Beatrice offered quickly, seeming a bit on edge.

"No, no it's fine," Sherlock assured her, looking at Beatrice carefully.  "You've been acting strangely."

"Have I?"  Beatrice gave what was obviously supposed to be a casual chuckle, but it turned into a nervous laugh.

"Yes."

Beatrice and Sherlock looked at each other for a moment, and finally, Beatrice sighed--but what followed was not what Sherlock expected.

"I'm going to leave, Sherlock."

"What?"  Sherlock couldn't believe his ears--and, for a reason that Sherlock was not entirely comfortable with, the thought of Beatrice leaving distressed him more than he'd like to admit.

"Not forever," Beatrice said quickly, "But just for a while.  I need a break from this...madness."

Sherlock stared at her intently, then frowned.  "You're hiding something."

Beatrice seemed not to hear him.  "I'll just go to Ireland for a few weeks, a month, maybe, and see my family--"

"Beatrice--"

 "We're getting a break from classes at Scotland Yard, anyway, and my parents will be missing me--"

"Beatrice--"

"And it's almost my dad's birthday, so I'll be there for that--"

"Beatrice!" Sherlock shouted, louder than he meant to.

Beatrice looked up, startled, but with a trace of guilt in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked softly, trying to read it in her large green eyes.

"Did I ever tell you what happened to my older brother?" Beatrice said, muting the television.

"No."

"My brother, James, was...well, he was my role model.  I loved him.  He had a job in the government, which he wasn't supposed to talk about, but I never asked him anyway.  Except for one day, when I was fifteen.  James came home from work, and he was scared--I've never seen anyone so scared, before or since.  But he was also excited.  He told me that he had found something--he was saying something about a code, but he was so nervous I could barely understand him.  Then he left, and I haven't seen him since--well, I say that, but..."

"But...what?" Sherlock said, already knowing the answer.

"I can't stay here anymore, Sherlock," Beatrice whispered.  "I'll only put you and John in danger."

"Why?"

"Because..."  Beatrice sighed.  "Because James Moriarty is my brother."