# St. Bartholomew's Hospital – Chemistry Lab – 1:30 PM
The chemistry lab at Bart's resembled what would happen if a tornado had swept through the Royal Institution's lecture hall during a particularly volatile demonstration. Glass beakers balanced precariously on towers of textbooks, pipettes jutted from beakers like quills from an inkwell, and Bunsen burners flickered with an almost sentient malevolence. The periodic table on the wall had several elements crossed out in red ink with "BORING" scrawled beside them, while others were circled with "USEFUL FOR EXPLOSIONS" written in what appeared to be a ten-year-old's handwriting.
The air itself seemed to shimmer with possibility—or possibly just chemical vapors that would have sent any reasonable health inspector screaming into the Thames.
Sherlock Holmes commanded the space like a hurricane given human form and an excellent tailor. His dark curls were in complete rebellion against any attempt at grooming, testament to hours of absentminded tugging while his mind raced through possibilities at light speed. The sleeves of his purple shirt were rolled up past his elbows, revealing arms that were surprisingly muscular for someone who subsisted primarily on nicotine patches and the occasional biscuit.
He held a pipette with the reverence other men reserved for Stradivarius violins, each drop he released onto the slide calculated with mathematical precision.
"Fascinating," he murmured, his voice carrying that particular cadence that suggested the rest of humanity had temporarily ceased to exist. "The crystalline structure suggests arsenic trioxide, but the dissolution rate is all wrong. Far too slow."
Perched on a tall stool like a young professor surveying his domain sat Harry Potter. At ten years old, he possessed the sort of preternatural composure that made adults slightly uncomfortable. His emerald eyes—the kind of green that made jewelers weep with envy—were fixed on Sherlock's work with the intensity of a hawk watching field mice. His notebook was open to a page covered in neat diagrams and observations written in the precise block lettering of someone who had learned early that illegible handwriting was the enemy of good science.
"Third application, delayed reaction pattern consistent," Harry announced, his pencil moving across the page with practiced efficiency. "Approximately forty-seven seconds from contact to visible crystallization."
"Forty-six point eight," Sherlock corrected automatically.
"Right. Forty-six point eight." Harry made the correction without a trace of annoyance. "Which confirms your hypothesis about the masking agent."
Sherlock straightened, a smile flickering across his features—the kind of expression a chess master might wear upon discovering his opponent wasn't completely hopeless. "Precisely. Someone wanted to disguise not just the presence of arsenic, but the timing of its administration. Clever. Very clever."
"Bit elaborate though, isn't it?" Harry observed, tapping his pencil against his lips in a gesture that was pure unconscious mimicry of his mentor. "I mean, if you're going to poison someone, why not just use something that works faster? Less chance of them realizing what's happening and seeking treatment."
"Ah, but that's where you're thinking like a mere murderer instead of an artist," Sherlock said, adding another drop to his slide with theatrical flourish. "This wasn't about efficiency—it was about alibi. Our killer needed time to be somewhere else, to establish their innocence. The delayed action gives them a window of several hours to be seen by witnesses, create a paper trail."
"Alibis are overrated," Harry muttered. "People lie. Documents can be forged. Physical evidence doesn't."
"Spoken like a true scientist." Sherlock's grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Though I suspect Mrs. Hudson would prefer you not apply that philosophy to household accidents."
"That vase was already cracked. I merely hastened the inevitable."
A soft knock interrupted their chemical communion. Through the reinforced glass window appeared Mike Stamford's perpetually cheerful face, round and benevolent as a well-fed Buddha. Behind him stood a second figure—taller, broader through the shoulders, with the kind of upright bearing that screamed military training even while leaning heavily on a walking stick.
Sherlock and Harry executed identical glances toward the door—two seconds of rapid-fire observation and cataloging—before returning to their experiment with the dismissive synchronization of a well-rehearsed dance troupe.
The door swung open, admitting Mike's boundless enthusiasm along with his mysterious companion.
"Good afternoon, Sherlock! Harry!" Mike called out with the sort of aggressive cheer that suggested he'd either had excellent news or far too much coffee. "Hope we're not interrupting anything explosive."
"Only metaphorically," Harry replied without looking up from his notebook. "Though give us another hour and that could change."
The stranger—John Watson, though introductions hadn't yet been made—stepped carefully around a bunsen burner that appeared to be heating nothing but air, his military training evident in the way he automatically assessed the room for exits and potential hazards. His limp was pronounced but steady, the gait of someone who'd learned to work with his limitations rather than against them.
"Blimey," John muttered, taking in the chaos. "I've seen field hospitals in Helmand that were better organized than this. And they were under mortar fire at the time."
"Mortars follow ballistic principles," Harry observed dryly, still scribbling notes. "Completely predictable once you know the math. Chemistry, on the other hand, occasionally decides to surprise you. Usually when you're not wearing safety goggles."
Mike's beam could have powered the National Grid. "See, John? I told you you'd find them interesting."
Sherlock suddenly straightened, setting down his pipette with exaggerated care. "Mike, I need your phone. Mine's not getting signal in here—something about the building's magnetic interference and the proximity to the MRI department."
"There's a perfectly serviceable landline on the wall," Mike pointed out reasonably, gesturing toward an ancient-looking telephone that appeared to have been installed sometime during the Thatcher administration.
Harry snorted. "He doesn't do phones. Voice calls require linear conversation, which disrupts his thought processes. He thinks approximately four times faster than normal people can speak, so waiting for responses is physically painful for him. It's like being forced to watch television in slow motion while someone reads you the subtitles."
"That's... oddly specific," John observed.
"You spend enough time with him, you learn to translate," Harry replied with the weary patience of someone who'd been doing exactly that for quite some time. "Also, he has this theory that most people are fundamentally boring, so limiting his exposure to their voices is a form of self-preservation."
"I can hear you," Sherlock said mildly, though he didn't sound particularly offended.
"Yes, well, you're standing three feet away and you have excellent hearing. It would be remarkable if you couldn't."
Mike chuckled. "My phone's up in my office, I'm afraid."
John reached into his jacket with practiced ease. "You can use mine if it's urgent."
The offer hung in the air for precisely half a second before Sherlock moved. He crossed the lab in three long strides, coat tails swirling dramatically, and plucked the phone from John's outstretched hand with the casual confidence of someone who'd never been refused anything in his life.
His fingers flew across the screen as he began typing, his entire being focused on the device as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked without looking up, his voice carrying that particular tone of casual certainty that suggested the answer was already known.
John blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated, still typing. "Your military service. Which theater of operations?"
Mike's expression shifted from amused to anticipatory, like a man settling in to watch his favorite film for the dozenth time.
Harry glanced up from his notes with interest. "Oh, this should be good. He's been practicing his deduction routine."
"Practicing?" John sputtered.
"Well, refining it, really. He's got the basic technique down pat, but the delivery could use work. Sometimes he comes across as showing off rather than genuinely helpful."
"I am standing right here," Sherlock pointed out.
"Yes, and you're ignoring us in favor of whoever you're texting, so I assumed commentary was acceptable."
John looked between them, bewildered. "How could you possibly know I was in the military? We've never met."
Before Sherlock could launch into what was undoubtedly a prepared lecture, the door burst open again, admitting Molly Hooper in a whirlwind of lab coat and nervous energy. She carried two steaming cups with the careful precision of someone who'd learned that spilling hot liquids in a chemistry lab could have consequences beyond simple embarrassment.
"Coffee for the consulting detective," she announced, offering one cup to Sherlock, "and hot chocolate for his apprentice."
"Ah, Molly. Your timing is, as always, impeccable." Sherlock accepted the coffee without looking away from the phone, though he did manage a brief smile in her direction.
Harry hopped down from his stool to collect his hot chocolate, wrapping both hands around the warm mug. "Thanks, Miss Hooper. You're a saint."
"It's no trouble at all," Molly replied, then hesitated. "How's the experiment going?"
"Brilliantly murderous," Harry said cheerfully. "We've nearly worked out how someone managed to poison a victim with arsenic while maintaining an airtight alibi. Quite clever, really."
Molly paled slightly. "Right. Well, that's... good?"
Sherlock finally looked up from the phone, his gaze immediately fixing on Molly's face with the intensity of a laser scanner. "What happened to the lipstick?"
Molly's hand flew to her mouth self-consciously. "Oh, that. I tried it this morning, but it didn't really... I mean, I didn't think it worked for me."
"On the contrary, it was a considerable improvement," Sherlock said with characteristic bluntness. "The color complemented your skin tone and drew attention to what is actually your best feature. Without it, your mouth appears disproportionately small relative to your other facial features."
The silence that followed was the kind that made innocent bystanders wish they were anywhere else.
Harry sighed deeply, the sound containing worlds of exasperation. "What my socially challenged friend here is trying to say, Miss Hooper, is that you looked very nice this morning and he was sorry to see you'd removed it. He has the emotional intelligence of a particularly obtuse laboratory instrument, but his intentions are usually sound."
Molly's flush deepened, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "Thank you, Harry. That's very kind."
"Someone in this room needs to maintain basic human decency standards," Harry replied. "Apparently that someone is the ten-year-old."
Sherlock handed John his phone back without ceremony, already turning away. "Tell me, John—you don't mind if I call you John? Dr. Watson seems unnecessarily formal for someone who's about to become our flatmate—how do you feel about the violin?"
John's eyebrows shot up. "The... violin?"
"I play when I'm thinking. Sometimes for hours at a time. Occasionally I don't speak for days on end. Potential cohabitants should be made aware of the worst-case scenarios before committing to shared living arrangements."
Sherlock's smile was so artificially bright it could have been used as a weapon. The kind of expression that suggested he was either being deliberately provocative or testing John's psychological limits.
John stared at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted a second head. "Did you tell him about me?" he asked Mike, his tone suggesting he was beginning to suspect some elaborate practical joke.
"Not a single word," Mike replied, his grin threatening to split his face in half. "This is just how Sherlock operates."
Sherlock was already bundling himself into his coat with the sort of dramatic efficiency that suggested he'd practiced the movement in front of a mirror. The long black wool swirled around him like liquid shadow, and his scarf—a length of fabric that appeared to have been designed for someone significantly taller—wound around his neck with operatic flair.
"Harry and I have located a flat in central London," he announced, as if this were perfectly normal first-meeting conversation. "Three bedrooms, one bathroom, reasonable rent if split two ways. Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock sharp."
Harry slipped down from his stool and shouldered his bag with practiced ease. Despite being ten years old, he moved with the casual competence of someone who'd learned to keep pace with a force of nature. "Fair warning, Dr. Watson—when you arrive, try not to favor the leg too obviously. He'll comment on it, and his observations tend toward the tactless side of accurate."
John's mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment. "Hold on. That's it? We've known each other for all of five minutes and you're... what, offering me a place to live?"
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, pausing in the doorway with one eyebrow arched in genuine curiosity.
"Well, yes! We don't know anything about each other. I don't even know if you bothered to learn my name before deciding we should be flatmates!"
Sherlock stopped completely, turned, and fixed Harry with a look that clearly said 'your turn.'
Harry snapped his notebook shut with theatrical precision. "Army doctor, medical corps. Recently invalided home from Afghanistan—Helmand Province, most likely, based on the particular way you favor that leg and the slight hesitation in your left hand. Someone close to you is worried sick—sibling, I'd guess, probably older. Married with at least one child, which is why you won't go to them despite needing the support. You'd rather be miserable on your own than feel like a burden on their family unit."
John's face had gone very still.
"Your therapist has suggested the limp is psychosomatic rather than purely physical, which is partially correct but not entirely helpful since phantom pain is still pain. And your full name is John Hamish Watson, though you probably only use the middle name on official documents because you think it sounds pretentious."
The silence stretched like taffy.
John's voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper. "How in God's name could you possibly know any of that?"
"Details, John," Sherlock interjected smoothly, his smile sharp enough to perform surgery. "It's always about the details. Harry's simply learned to read them more efficiently than most people."
He swept toward the door with renewed purpose, Harry falling into step beside him with the easy synchronization of long practice.
"Afternoon, Mike," Sherlock called over his shoulder as the door began to swing shut. "Do try to keep John from having a complete nervous breakdown before tomorrow. We'll need him functional if he's going to contribute to the rent."
"And Dr. Watson?" Harry's voice carried back through the narrowing gap. "Bring tea. We're out, and Mrs. Hudson gets cross when we ask to borrow hers too often. Earl Grey preferably, though English Breakfast will suffice in a pinch."
The door slammed shut with finality, leaving John and Mike alone in the chemical chaos.
John stood frozen for a long moment, staring at the closed door as if expecting it to provide explanations.
"Well," he said finally. "That was..."
"Fun?" Mike suggested hopefully.
John turned to look at him with the expression of a man who'd just been informed that gravity was optional and asked if he'd like to try floating.
"I was going to say 'completely mental,' but I suppose 'fun' works too."
Mike clapped him on the shoulder with paternal affection. "Trust me, John. After what you've been through, a bit of mental might be exactly what the doctor ordered."
John considered this, testing the weight of the walking stick in his hand. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint echo of rapid footsteps and what sounded like a ten-year-old explaining the proper technique for detecting trace amounts of blood on fabric.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow?" he asked.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow," Mike confirmed. "And John?"
"Yeah?"
"Bring the tea. That wasn't a joke."
—
# Later That Evening – John's Bedsit – 6:45 PM
The bedsit existed in that uniquely British state of determined shabbiness that managed to be both depressing and oddly comforting, like a worn jumper that had seen better decades but still did the job. John Watson sat heavily on the narrow bed, which had clearly been designed by someone who believed comfort was a character flaw. The springs creaked a protest that seemed to echo his own internal monologue about life choices.
His phone sat in his palm like evidence of a crime he wasn't entirely sure he'd committed. The screen's glow cast his face in pale blue light as he navigated to his sent messages with the methodical precision that eighteen years of military service had beaten into his bones. Check and double-check. Assume nothing. Trust but verify.
The last message sat there like a riddle wrapped in an enigma and dunked in confusion:
*If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH*
John stared at it, his eyebrows performing a slow climb toward his hairline. He read it again. Then once more, because surely the third time would make it sensible.
It didn't.
"Right," he muttered to the empty room, his voice carrying that particular tone of resignation that came standard with military service. "Because obviously that's a perfectly normal thing to find on one's phone."
He pushed himself to his feet, his left leg immediately registering its formal complaint. The phantom pain shot up from his supposedly healed wound with the reliability of British weather – unpredictable in timing but utterly dependable in its ability to ruin his day. His therapist, Dr. Thompson, would have a field day with this. *The limp is psychosomatic, John. Your body is holding onto the trauma.*
Well, his body could hold onto whatever it liked, as long as it kept him upright.
The walking stick – a sturdy affair that had become as much a part of him as his left hand – bore his weight without complaint as he made his way to the small table that served as desk, dining surface, and general catchment area for the detritus of his carefully limited existence.
His laptop whirred to life with mechanical determination, the fan spinning with the sort of persistent optimism that suggested it hadn't quite given up hope despite being older than some of the soldiers he'd treated in Helmand. The Quest search page loaded with its characteristic efficiency, offering him the combined knowledge of the entire internet in exchange for a few keystrokes.
A reasonable trade, all things considered.
*Sherlock Holmes* went into the search box. John paused for a moment before hitting enter, suddenly aware that he was about to open a door he might not be able to close again. Something about the afternoon's encounter had left him feeling oddly unmoored, as if the careful equilibrium he'd built around his new civilian life had been thoroughly disrupted by a consulting detective and his impossibly observant ten-year-old companion.
He pressed enter anyway.
The results populated instantly, and John's eyebrows completed their journey toward his hairline and began considering a permanent relocation.
**The Science of Deduction – Blog by S. Holmes**
*"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes." Latest post: The Adventure of the Green Ladder. Posted 2 hours ago.*
"You have got to be joking," John said aloud, though there was no one to hear him except Mrs. Chen's television next door, which was currently broadcasting what sounded like a particularly dramatic episode of EastEnders.
He clicked the link before his rational mind could mount a proper objection.
The blog loaded with the sort of stark, minimalist design that suggested its author had no patience for frivolous decoration. Clean black text on white background, no advertisements, no social media integration, no comments section begging for validation. Just information, presented with surgical precision.
**The Adventure of the Green Ladder**
*Posted today at 4:32 PM*
*This afternoon's chemical analysis confirmed what simple observation had already suggested: Mr. Marcus Pemberton's death was neither accident nor suicide, but murder most carefully planned.*
John stopped reading and looked at his phone, then back at the laptop screen, then at his phone again. The text message suddenly made a horrifying sort of sense.
*The delayed-action arsenic trioxide, cleverly masked with copper sulfate to alter its crystalline appearance, provided our killer with a window of approximately six hours between administration and effect. Long enough to establish what appeared to be an unshakeable alibi.*
"Christ," John breathed. The man had actually solved a murder. With chemistry. While John was standing three feet away making small talk about laboratory organization.
*However, as I have often observed, criminals rarely account for the small details that ultimately betray them.*
The writing had a particular cadence to it, John realized. He could almost hear Sherlock's voice in the words – that precise, rapid-fire delivery that suggested patience was a limited resource and he had better things to do than wait for slower minds to catch up.
*Mr. Pemberton's brother, David, claimed to have been at his country home in Surrey throughout the relevant timeframe, supported by no fewer than three witnesses. His alibi would have been perfect, were it not for a single photograph posted to his social media account at 2:47 PM – a selfie taken in his garden, boasting of his afternoon pruning efforts.*
John found himself leaning closer to the screen, drawn into the narrative despite himself. It was like watching a magic trick performed in reverse – seeing the solution laid out in meticulous detail, each piece of evidence clicking into place with mechanical precision.
*The photograph clearly shows, in the background, a distinctive green ladder leaning against the garden shed. Nothing unusual in that, one might think. Except that the same green ladder appears in the inventory of tools stolen from Mr. Pemberton's garage exactly eight days prior to his death.*
"The ladder," John said quietly, the pieces falling into place in his own mind with satisfying clicks. "If brother has green ladder..."
*A ladder that, according to the police report, was valued at £127 and described as "distinctive green paint with orange safety stripes" – precisely matching the ladder visible in David Pemberton's photograph.*
The text message had been instructions. Not to John, but to someone else – probably that Detective Inspector Lestrade whose name had appeared in the comments. Sherlock had used John's phone to send operational intelligence to the police while simultaneously solving the case in real time.
*The mathematics are elementary: to have stolen the ladder, David must have been in London within the past eight days. To have the ladder in Surrey by 2:47 PM today, he must have traveled there sometime between the theft and the photograph. This timeline makes his claimed continuous residence in Surrey a physical impossibility.*
John scrolled down, reading with the sort of fascination usually reserved for train wrecks and reality television. Each paragraph built the case with relentless logic, stripping away lies and misdirection until only truth remained.
*More damning still, David's phone records show three calls to his brother's home number between 11:30 AM and 12:15 PM today – calls made from a London cell tower, not Surrey.*
*The delayed poison gave David time to drive to Surrey and establish his alibi. The stolen ladder provided the final proof of his movements.*
*As predicted, Metropolitan Police arrested David Pemberton at 5:23 PM this evening. He confessed within the hour.*
*-SH*
John stared at the screen for a long moment, processing what he'd just read. Sherlock Holmes had solved a murder, directed a police arrest, and written up the case for his blog, all before John had managed to get home and figure out what was in his sent messages folder.
"Bloody hell," he whispered.
The comments section below was sparse but telling:
*Anonymous: How is this even possible?*
*ReadyReader47: Are you actually psychic or do you just want us to think you are?*
*CrimeFan_London: This is the fourth case this month. How does Scotland Yard function without you?*
*Anonymous: Fake. No one is this good at deduction.*
*Anonymous: @Anonymous Previous – Check the Met Police press releases. Pemberton was arrested exactly when Holmes said he would be.*
John clicked through to the blog's main page, noting the sidebar full of archived cases stretching back over what appeared to be nearly two years. "The Case of the Missing Thumb" sat next to "A Study in Crimson Lipstick" and "The Vanishing Violinist," each title suggesting the sort of impossible puzzle that belonged in detective novels rather than real life.
He clicked on "The Blackmail Photographs" almost at random and found himself reading about a Cabinet minister, a series of compromising images, and a solution that hinged on identifying a rare breed of orchid visible in the background of one photograph. The case had been solved not through traditional detective work but through botanical expertise and an encyclopedic knowledge of London's private gardens.
"This is mental," John said to his empty bedsit. "Completely, utterly mental."
But he kept reading.
The next case involved a kidnapping solved by analyzing the mineral content of mud found on the victim's shoes. Sherlock had apparently identified not just the general location but the specific street corner where the victim had been held, all from trace evidence that would have escaped notice from anyone else.
Each case was presented with the same matter-of-fact precision, as if solving impossible crimes through microscopic observation was not only normal but mildly tedious for the author. There was no false modesty, no attempt to downplay the brilliance on display. Just facts, presented with surgical efficiency.
John scrolled back to the top of the blog, looking for some sort of explanation – an "About" page, a bio, something that might explain how any of this was possible. Instead, he found a brief description that managed to be both informative and utterly unhelpful:
*S. Holmes – Consulting Detective. The world's only one. I solve problems others can't, or won't, solve. Physical evidence never lies. People always do. Both are equally useful if you know how to read them.*
*Currently accepting cases that meet the following criteria: 1) Sufficiently complex to maintain my interest, 2) Legally sanctioned by relevant authorities, 3) Do not involve divorce proceedings (tedious and rarely instructive).*
*Consultations by appointment only. Standard fee applies unless the case proves genuinely entertaining, in which case I may waive charges in exchange for blog material.*
Below this was a contact form and a view counter showing over 50,000 hits. Fifty thousand people following the adventures of a consulting detective who solved crimes with the sort of casual brilliance that made Agatha Christie look realistic.
John sat back in his chair, the laptop screen painting his face in pale blue light. Outside his window, London carried on its evening business – traffic humming, sirens wailing in the distance, the eternal urban symphony that never quite stopped. Inside his bedsit, the silence felt profound.
He clicked on another post: "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle." A stolen jewel, a Christmas goose, and a solution that apparently hinged on understanding the migratory patterns of urban wildlife. The comments section on this one was more active:
*DI_Lestrade: Once again, Mr. Holmes, your assistance proved invaluable. The arrest was made exactly as you predicted.*
*MollyH_Barts: The chemical analysis you requested is attached to this message. Results confirm your theory about the synthetic diamonds.*
*MrsH_Baker: Sherlock, you've left your violin strings all over the kitchen again. Some of us have to eat there.*
*SH: @MrsH_Baker – The kitchen table provides optimal resonance for testing string tension. This is basic acoustics.*
*MrsH_Baker: This is basic hygiene, dear. Clean up after yourself or I'm confiscating the bow.*
*Anonymous_Admirer: Mr. Holmes, I've been following your work for months. Would you consider taking on a case involving—*
*SH: @Anonymous_Admirer – If your case involves a cheating spouse, missing cat, or insurance fraud, the answer is no. I am not a private investigator. I am a consulting detective. There is a significant difference.*
John found himself smiling despite everything. The exchange revealed more about Sherlock Holmes than any formal biography could have managed – brilliant but domestic, theatrical but practical, surrounded by people who seemed to find his eccentricities more endearing than irritating.
He scrolled through more posts, each one more impossible than the last. Murders solved by analyzing tobacco ash. Art forgeries detected through brushstroke analysis. Missing persons located by examining the wear patterns on their shoes.
And running through all of it like a persistent musical theme were occasional references to "my colleague H" – brief mentions of chemical analyses, evidence cataloguing, and what appeared to be an ongoing project to classify the effects of various poisons on different fabric types.
Harry. The ten-year-old boy who catalogued crime scenes and took notes on murder techniques with the same casual competence other children brought to collecting football cards.
John clicked through to the blog's archive section, noting that the posts stretched back nearly two years. Two years of impossible cases solved with casual brilliance. Two years of making Scotland Yard look like they were operating with crayons and construction paper. Two years of a ten-year-old boy learning to read crime scenes like other children learned to read picture books.
The most recent post before today's Green Ladder case was titled "The Reichenbach Experiment" and dated just three days ago. John clicked on it, expecting another impossible crime solved with theatrical flair.
Instead, he found something that made his blood run cold:
*Moriarty is back.*
*Three deaths in the past fortnight, each one displaying his characteristic signatures: elaborate planning, theatrical presentation, and a fundamental misunderstanding of what constitutes entertainment. The victims appear unconnected, but the methodology is unmistakable.*
*The game has begun again.*
*-SH*
*Comments have been disabled for this post.*
The entry was unlike all the others – shorter, grimmer, with none of the intellectual playfulness that characterized Sherlock's usual writing. It felt like a declaration of war, or perhaps a recognition that war had already been declared.
John scrolled down looking for more information, but found only a series of increasingly worried comments from regular readers:
*DI_Lestrade: Sherlock, if this is what I think it is, you need to contact me immediately.*
*MollyH_Barts: Should I be worried? This sounds serious.*
*ReadyReader47: Who is Moriarty? This doesn't sound like your usual cases.*
*MrsH_Baker: Sherlock, dear, please be careful. Come home for dinner tonight.*
None of the comments had received replies.
John closed the laptop and sat in the gathering darkness of his bedsit. The silence seemed heavier now, weighted with implications he didn't fully understand. Through the thin walls, he could hear Mrs. Chen's television – the familiar voices of soap opera characters living their fictional lives, dealing with fictional problems that could be resolved in thirty-minute installments.
His phone buzzed once against the table, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
*Unknown Number: Hope the blog was educational. See you at seven tomorrow. Bring Earl Grey if possible. We're completely out and Mrs. Hudson has threatened to withhold biscuits if we borrow hers again. -SH*
John stared at the message for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of him wanted to delete the number, pretend the afternoon had never happened, go back to his carefully constructed routine of therapy appointments and afternoon walks and long evenings with nothing but his own thoughts for company.
Instead, he found himself typing: *How did you get this number?*
The reply came back almost instantly:
*You handed me your phone, remember? I added my number to your contacts while composing the text about the green ladder. Elementary data management. Also took the liberty of subscribing you to the blog's RSS feed. You'll want to stay current if you're joining the team. -SH*
*The team?*
*Tomorrow, seven o'clock. Mrs. Hudson will want to meet you first – she's our landlady and takes a maternal interest in our general wellbeing. Fair warning: she'll ask about your war service and may attempt to feed you cake. Accept the cake. Refusing Mrs. Hudson's cake is considered a capital offense in most civilized societies.*
John found himself typing before he could think better of it: *What makes you think I'm actually going to show up?*
The response took longer this time, long enough that John began to wonder if he'd finally asked a question that Sherlock Holmes couldn't answer with casual certainty.
*Because you've been living half a life since you came back from Afghanistan, and you know it. Because sitting in that bedsit every evening is slowly killing you from the inside out, and your therapist's well-meaning platitudes about adjustment and acceptance are about as useful as a chocolate teapot.*
*Because when Mike asked what you missed most about the war, you didn't say the excitement or the camaraderie or even the sense of purpose – you said the work. The immediate, life-or-death decision making. The feeling that what you were doing actually mattered.*
*The work we do is the closest thing to frontline medicine you'll find in civilian London. The stakes are just as high, the decisions just as critical, and the satisfaction of success just as immediate.*
*But mostly because you've spent the last hour reading my blog instead of deleting my number from your phone, which means some part of you – probably the part that kept you alive in Helmand – recognizes an opportunity when it sees one.*
*221B Baker Street. Seven o'clock. Don't be late – Harry gets cranky when dinner is delayed, and cranky ten-year-olds are remarkably creative when it comes to revenge. Trust me, you don't want to know what he did to the last person who made us wait for Chinese takeaway.*
The conversation ended there, leaving John alone with his phone and the growing realization that his carefully constructed solitude had just been thoroughly demolished by a consulting detective who read people the way other men read newspapers.
He looked around his bedsit – at the narrow bed with its lumpy mattress, at the ancient radiator that clanked like a dying steam engine, at the window that offered a view of nothing more inspiring than the brick wall of the building next door. At the life he'd built for himself that wasn't really a life so much as an extended pause between one existence and whatever came next.
His laptop sat closed on the table, but he could still see that last blog post in his mind. *Moriarty is back.* Three deaths. Elaborate planning. The game has begun again.
Whatever Sherlock Holmes was involved in, it was dangerous. The kind of dangerous that made Afghanistan look like a peaceful posting. The sensible thing – the safe thing – would be to stay away, to stick to his therapy appointments and his disability pension and his quiet, predictable routine.
But John Watson had never been particularly good at sensible.
He picked up his laptop and started researching tea shops that stayed open late. If he was going to walk into whatever insanity awaited him at 221B Baker Street, he was going to do it properly.
After all, he had Earl Grey to buy. And perhaps, for the first time since he'd come back from the war, he had something to look forward to.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!