Find Me (BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Chapter 20

There was nowhere to hide. The flat had only one entry point and was high enough up that jumping out of the window wasn't going to be an option. Besides, Sherlock had always preferred a rather more refined form of suicide. The best he could hope for was that he was about to be burgled, although when the burglars noticed there was nothing to steal the best he could probably hope for was a shorter stay in hospital. He picked his way between the fallen mounds of library books, huddled on the sofa and prepared for disaster.

John strode into the living room full of concealed violence, his hands clenched at his sides, a determined set to his chin. 'Where is she?' he demanded. 'I want a word.'

Sherlock winced at his own stupidity. He'd allowed himself to be followed directly here from Hope Trelawney's residence without having taken even the most basic precautions. Belatedly, he checked that his cuffs were still fastened, and then realised that it was too late, even for this.

John gave him a second to answer and then marched into the bedrooms, and Sherlock could hear wardrobe doors being opened and drawers being searched. John had more trouble with the walk-in wardrobe, the door sticking on the clothes still scattered on the ground where he'd flung them on that first terrible evening of discovery. There was a rather more considered search going on in the hall, the distinctive noise of many heavy boots spreading out into the other rooms and then concentrating in the study. Then the boots retreated leaving a solitary pair of dress shoes to make their stately procession down the corridor.

Mycroft entered the room, with John on his right shoulder. Sherlock dropped his head, examining the familiar stains on the carpet. He had no defence – or rather, he did have a defence but it was unpalatable so instead he checked that the fortifications he'd built around himself over the last six months were still intact and awaited the attack.

'Where is she?' John dropped automatically into the chair on the left-hand side of the fireplace.

'She?' Mycroft's tone was incredulous. He swept a hand round, indicating the paper littering the floor, tumbled from drawers or ripped from books, the pictures hanging askew from the walls, the open kitchen cupboards, scattered pans and utensils, the still unwashed sheets and the dirty bathroom. 'There's no woman here. His bedroom at home always looked exactly the same.'

He brushed the seat on the right-hand side of the fireplace with a handkerchief, perched on it with a disgusted expression.

'There is,' John insisted. 'She lives here. Irene Adler. He's been sleeping with her for the last six months.'

Mycroft sniffed. 'He hasn't been sleeping with anyone.'

There was both scorn and certainty in his tone, both of which Sherlock found irritating.

'Yes, he has. She's not dead. He saved her in Karachi. I only found out just after Mary died but they've been in touch for years, he admitted it to me himself. And then she sent him a puzzle box with a key inside and he came around here to find her. He hasn't been the same since. That's why I called you this morning. I finally got the chance to follow him so I could have a word with his girlfriend.'

Mycroft turned his disdain on John. 'Sherlock Holmes does not have a 'girlfriend'.'

It only made John more stubborn. 'Yes, he does.' He nodded at Sherlock. 'Tell him.'

John deployed the same steady gaze he'd use on anyone sitting in the consulting chair and Sherlock recognised that meant his friend wouldn't give up. He was going to have to choose whom to answer.

'I am not in a relationship,' he demurred, noting John's scowl.

Mycroft jumped in before he could finish. 'I'm afraid my brother has gone to some lengths to conceal himself this time, Doctor Watson. Look at him. Observe him carefully. Do you see the dark rings around his eyes, the sweat on his forehead, the unwashed hair and the unironed shirt? Have you noted how he appears to have become disenchanted with what he laughingly calls work and has distanced himself even from you? More to the point, have you wondered why he's keeping his coat on, and his sleeves down over his wrists although the weather has been unseasonably hot? My brother has no significant other, no carefully hidden woman, or man, lurking about in his private life. Love is a chemical defect, as someone once told me, and Sherlock has always been more interested in the chemicals. Aren't you hot, by the way?' Mycroft gestured vaguely. 'Take that coat off so we can see what a mess you've made of yourself this time.'