After The Fall || A Sherlock Fanfiction

Chapter 26 - The Return Of An Old Friend

"Hello Mr Holmes." A voice called from the other end of the pool as Sherlock entered the dimly lit room. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your way."

"Stuck in traffic." Sherlock said, seemingly calm, like it was just any normal conversation, but inside his stomach was turning, and the conversation was far from normal. Moriarty sauntered towards Sherlock with a purposeful stride and a smirk playing on his lips.

"Let's get straight to it. Shall we?" He said, stopping just in front of Sherlock. He shivered slightly. Just being near Moriarty was enough to make him scared, but curiosity had got him here and it would get him through the conversation. Sherlock needed to know what his wife was hiding.

"If my wife was hiding something from me then why would you tell me about it?" Sherlock asked.

"Because I like to watch you burn." He replied simply, a phrase that made Sherlock's blood run cold.

"What is it she's hiding?" Sherlock said. "How could she burn me?"

"Well. I'm not going to tell you outright, am I? You see, I not only love you watch you burn, I love to watch you dance. I can get both at once with this. A two-in-one package." Moriarty grinned, walking around Sherlock as he spoke.

"How much do you know?" Sherlock asked.

"Enough. Do you want a clue?" Moriarty asked.

"Of course." Sherlock replied.

"Let's just say," Moriarty paused, as if he was taking a while to think about it. "You're going to get a visit from an old friend rather soon."

"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"You don't." Moriarty stated plainly, turning his back and beginning to walk away. "That's something you need to figure out for yourself."

Sherlock watched as Moriarty paced down beside the deserted pool and through the door. His mind was racing as he tried to decipher the cryptic message he'd just been delivered. It didn't take him long to snap out of his mind palace however; he realised that the only way he was going to solve this case, was to talk to the puzzle itself. He walked swiftly out of the pool, his feet making a faint splashing noise as he made his way over the wet tiles. The chlorine odour filled his nose and made him gald to get out and instead walk along the pavement under the dim light of the street lamps.

A taxi soon came past and Sherlock hopped in. He tented his fingers under his chin after sitting down in the back seat, trying to come up with possible solutions, trying to separate lies from truth. His stomach wrenched slightly as the taxi finally pulled up outside 221b. One part of him didn't want to know what his wife was hiding, another part of him wouldn't be able to survive not knowing. He handed the taxi driver the fee without a second glance and rushed inside, the door-knocker slamming against the shiny black wood as he threw it shut in his wake. Mrs Hudson quickly appeared at her door when she heard Sherlock's hurried footsteps, but on seeing his face she retreated back into the kitchen, expecting to soon hear signs of a 'domestic'.

Jemima was still sitting at the desk working on the computer when Sherlock came in. She looked up and smiled, but when she saw the coldness in her husband's eyes, it soon faded. She could almost see the anger bubbling up inside him as he stared her in the face.

"What's the matter?" She asked innocently. She knew something was very, very wrong.

"You know something about Beatrice, don't you?" He asked, cutting straight to the chase.

"Who?" She replied, her face a mask of confusion.

"The girl I told you about. The only one I loved before you. I told you about her. Don't pretend that you don't remember." He told her, his eyes cold and stern.

"I don't know what you mean. I've never met her. The first thing I heard about her was from you." Jemima told him, holding her hands up in mock surrender.

"What do you know about her?" Sherlock pushed.

"Nothing, I told you." Jemima said, slightly frustrated.

"I think you do know. It's something bad, I get that. I just want to know what it is." Sherlock said, hands balled into fists by his sides.

"There's really nothing to tell, I don't know anything about her." Jemima insisted.

"Don't lie to me. Moriarty wouldn't warn me about my own wife unless it was something bad. He said you were hiding something from me and he mentioned something about an old friend. He said he wanted to watch me burn." Sherlock said, relentless in his interrogation.

"Oh my God! You listened to Moriarty over me!" Jemima scoffed, laughing loudly. She got up from her chair to be at Sherlock's level so she could look him in the eye. Suddenly, he turned sinister.

"Tell me, now. Don't lie. What are you hiding?" He asked through gritted teeth. Jemima backed up away from him until she was against the wall. Sherlock just narrowed the gap again, staring her down.

"He's playing a game with you Sherlock. He knows that we talked about Bea. Somehow he's listening in and he's using what he's found to make you paranoid." She said calmly.

"No. I can see right through him, I know his methods. He's tried to trick me before and he knows it doesn't work."

"How do you know?" She challenged.

"He's already pleased with himself. He knows he's already won and he hasn't raised a finger. He kidnapped you for a reason. He said it was to get to me but he's obviously lying. He had an ulterior motive didn't he? He was threatening you! He wanted you to know that he knows what you're hiding and he used it to threaten you. If he'd wanted you dead you would be buried by now. What are you hiding from me?" He demanded, staring her down again. She seemed to buckle under his gaze and she gave in.

"Fine. Yes. I do know about Bea." She said looking at her shoes in disgrace. She slowly shifted away from Sherlock and made her way into the bedroom. Inside one of her drawers was a small trinket box with a small lock. She wore the key around her neck and quickly gained access. Inside were various small objects of importance, including a small picture. It was creased everywhere, torn at the edges, faded and battered but it still meant a lot to Jemima. She fished it carefully from the box and handed it to her husband with shaking hands. It showed two teenagers at about sixteen years old. They were laughing and had their arms around each other's waists and were pulling in close. The girl was average height, with shoulder-length golden brown hair. The boy she held was much taller and had dark black curls, piercing eyes and high, sharp cheekbones. He almost cried at the sight of the girl in the picture. He hadn't laid eyes on her in over twenty years. He still remembered her smell, her laugh, her smile. Every detail still etched into the walls of his mind palace no matter how many times he'd tried to scrub them away. He remembered the day she'd left him behind without warning, the way she'd disappeared and left him in the dust without a goodbye. He still hadn't  forgiven her. She was the one who broke his heart. Mycroft was left to pick up the pieces, teaching Sherlock how to shut himself away to keep control over his emotions. It still pained him just to look at the photo. Sherlock stared at himself and the girl smiling out at him and it suddenly struck him how alike Jemima and Bea were. Then he realised.

"It's me." Jemima said pitifully, looking ashamed of herself. "I'm Bea. I came back."