One More Miracle

The Mysterious "M"

Chapter 11: Sherlock's POV

Ah, it was good to be back. Back in Scotland Yard, making fools of those whose intelligence didn't match mine (which was everybody); solving crimes deemed unsolvable by those I could make fun of. Back with my colleagues, back with my friends. Back with John. 

Focus, Sherlock. You've got a case. I looked from Lestrade, who still looked slightly shocked, to Anderson, who looked like he had just seen a ghost (which I guess he kind of had), and finally to Donovan, who was petrified. "Well?" I asked. "Are we going or not? I thought you wanted my help." 

Anderson finally found his voice, though he was still too shell-shocked to form complete sentences, just as Lestrade had been only a minute earlier. In fact, he said things very similar to those of his boss. "What...you...jump...fake..."

"Yes, Anderson, my suicide was fake. Very good. You must have gotten smarter since we last saw each other. Now, if you're referring to my being called a fake, I suggest you don't speak again," I said smoothly. This was not the time to discuss such matters. There would, of course, be a time and a place, but this wasn't it. The color rose in Anderson's face, and he looked down. I heard a muffled chuckle come from behind me, and I turned around to see John covering his mouth with his hand, shaking his head and trying not to laugh. I caught his eye and saw him smile from behind his fingers. The corner of my mouth turned upwards as well. Yes, it was good to be back. 

Donovan, on the other hand, had less trouble regaining the ability to speak. "So, Freak, I guess you're not dead, then?" she asked, crossing her arms. 

"That's right, Sergeant Donovan. I'm not dead," I replied calmly. 

"But you're still a fake?" 

I opened my mouth to respond, but Lestrade's words cut across mine. "Now's not the time for this," he said. "We have to focus; we'll discuss this later. We have a case." 

"And I have a few ideas," I said. 

"Which are?" demanded Donovan, impatience already creeping into her voice. 

"I'd rather not scare you before we actually get to the crime scene," I replied. 

"Fine, then you can scare me when we get there," she said. She turned to Lestrade. "Ready?" 

The detective inspector stood up. "Let's go." 

~~~~~~~~

"We could have walked, you know," I said to John as we sat down in the cab. "It would've saved time."

"Yes, but I like this way better. Less chance you'll be recognized," he responded, lowering his voice at the last part so the driver couldn't hear us. 

"Why's it a bad thing if I get recognized?" I asked. 

"Because people think you're dead, Sherlock, and I'd rather not have to answer questions." 

"I don't care what they think. And if we ignore them, we won't have to answer questions." John just rolled his eyes and looked out the window. Fine, I thought, whatever satisfies you. 

We sat in silence for the rest of the short ride to the crime scene. When we arrived, I got out, paid the cabbie, and climbed out to see that everyone else had already arrived. Some had obviously been there for a while, probably doing basic forensic work, but Anderson, Donovan, and Lestrade were just walking up to the others; they were only a few meters ahead of us. I saw Lestrade walk up to one of his officers, talk to her for a second, and then turn around and point at John and me. The officer's jaw dropped, so I put on my best fake innocent smile and waved. As if in a trance, she lifted her hand and waved back, slowly and uncertainly, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Once again, John had ducked behind me to hide his laughter from the others. I turned around and grinned down at him. This whole returning from the dead business was quite entertaining.