One More Miracle

Mixed Messages

IOU. I could remember Moriarty's message to me quite clearly. I owe you a fall. But the fall had been mine. I had fallen from the roof of the hospital. I had lost everything. Moriarty had only lost his life. He must have known that there were worse things than dying; that's why he chose death. He was a clever man, after all. 

And now here he was again. In my flat -- where he had carved those exact same letters into my apple. How had I not noticed this when I walked in? Of course, I reminded myself. I had been so preoccupied with the task of finding out something about John that I hadn't thought to look for any signs of Moran. And here one was. This had to be him. It had to be. Moriarty was dead, and Moran was his faithful sidekick. It made sense, and I couldn't afford to accept anything else. 

I realized that I had been staring at the books on the floor for quite some time now, fantasizing about hunting down Sebastian Moran and stopping him from harming anyone else ever again. I snapped out of my reverie and headed down the stairs and to the door with everything that I needed: a phone charger, clean clothes, and John's new address. My work here was done. 

I knocked on the door from the inside, signaling that I was ready to leave. A few seconds later, four sharp knocks responded from the outside. I opened the door to see the man I had been talking to on the bench standing in front of me. 

"Where are the two girls?" I hissed under my breath. However, nobody was likely to hear. 

"Mrs. Hudson came back. They talked her into having lunch at the cafe," he responded. He looked me up and down, momentarily confused. Then, shock registered on his face. "Your disguise. Put it back on!" 

I quickly replace my sunglasses and hat, having taken them off upon entering the flat. "Right. Of course," I said, not liking to forget things. 

The other man flicked his head in the direction of his companion, who seemed to still be reading the same page of the newspaper as before, and the companion rose from his seat. The went into the cafe, returning a few moments later with the two girls and Mrs. Hudson. By then, I had already situated myself in the cab, below the window and out of sight. While I would have liked to get a glimpse of my old landlady and see how she was doing, I knew I would be jepordizing the success of this entire mission by doing so. She could have seen me, and that would have been the end of that. 

The girls reentered the cab. The lead one, the only one I had talked to, spoke up but didn't look at me. It would have looked odd had someone seen her talking to a seemingly empty street. "You said you'd pay me once we got you out of the flat," she said. 

I pulled 35 pounds out of my pocket. "Do I have your word that you can get me back to where we started this endeavor? That you won't just kick me out of this car right now because you have your money?" 

"I give you my word," the girl replied immediately, still not looking back at me. 

"Very well." I handed over the money, and we drove away from 221B Baker Street. 

~~~~~~~~

John's POV

 It had been a week since I had last visited Sherlock's grave, and I had barely slept a wink since. I was still keeping my promise to visit as much as possible, though. I had been slammed with work and had stayed up late into the night thinking about where Sherlock could possibly be. My best guess was the wooded are beside the cemetery. I had gotten a strange feeling about that place, like someone was watching me from the trees whenever I visited. 

I had visited Baker Street right after visiting Sherlock's grave just to leave a note with my new address in case anyone had stopped by my old room and happened to pick it up. Other than that, the only thing I saw that connected me to my old flatmate was his regular visit to my dreams. I had dreamed the same dream, the one where I saw him standing right in front of his gave, four times since visiting that very same grave. It killed me every morning when I woke up. 

Today, though, I decided to do something different. I was going to go back to the park and try to relive my past. I was going to go to the park and sit on the bench that my mate Mark had been sitting on the day I met Sherlock. Why, you ask? Because I was in a rut, and I was hoping my  good luck at the park would hold. 

I got to the park around noon. I sat down on that same bench, cane in hand (my old Afghanistan injury would flare up every now and then ever since Sherlock's fall), wishing that someone would come and turn my life around again. What I got was more than I bargained for. 

After sitting on that bench for half an hour, I was sure of two things. One, nobody was going to come around to offer me a new best friend, and two, I was being watched. I tried to play it off as my imagination running wild again, but I knew I was lying to myself. Someone had their eyes on me, and it wasn't Mycroft and his cameras this time. I was getting a sort of vibe from whoever was watching me, and it wasn't a pleasant one. 

I stood up to leave, and I started limping as soon as I put one foot in front of the other. I tried to act casual, but there was an urgency about the way I was walking, at least to me. My limp wasn't helping. It was only slowing me down. 

I had walked almost to the entrance to the park when I saw him. Well, it looked like a him. A tall, thin figure was following me (I could see him in the reflection on my phone), but to anyone else he would just look like another park-goer. To me, he was a threat. His build reminded me of Sherlock's, but I knew it wasn't him. This man walked somewhat hunched over, which only made him look more sinister. 

I picked up my pace. I was almost to the exit, to the busy streets of London, where I could get lost in a crowd, when I saw him start to run. Without hesitation, I began sprinting towards the exit, my injury forgotten. I burst out of the arch that signified the entrance to the park and emerged on the sidewalk of a busy London street. People were everywhere, blocking me from that man's view. 

"TAXI!" I yelled, waving my arms like a lunatic. Thankfully, one of them stopped for me, which was a miracle in itself. Cabs never stopped for me. They only stopped for Sherlock. I scrambled in, slamming the door shut behind me. "DRIVE!" I yelled. 

"Oi, calm down, mate, you're perfectly safe," he said with a voice that sounded eerily familiar. That's when he turned around to look at me. 

"No," I said. "Not you." I flung the cab's door open and started running again. I could see the man from the park stuck in the crowd, his head on a swivel looking for me. I found another cab, but before I got in I looked at the driver to make sure I didn't recognize him. When I didn't, I climbed in gratefully. 

I gave the cabbie my address, and he started to drive. My heart was slamming against my chest, threatening to break free. Luckily, I didn't see any other cars following me, and it was an uneventful ride back to my flat. When I got inside, I slammed the door shut and locked every lock I could find. I collapsed on my couch, exhausted, my head spinning. 

"It couldn't have been him. He would have followed me," I spoke into the silence. I hadn't even looked properly. Yes, that's it, I was so scared I was imagining my worst nightmare, I thought. With that, I drifted off to sleep, though I wasn't entirely convinced by my argument. I could only hope that I had been right....