Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had just gone 12 am when Sherlock’s phone rang. A quick glance told him it was Lestrade. The temptation to let it ring out was strong; he was in the midst of an experiment, of course. But a call in the middle of the night meant exciting, interesting by even Sherlock’s standards. 

Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to say hello, he was greeted with the words, “There’s been a dead body found at the airport in an, uh... unfortunate way. Definitely your kind of case.” 

Sherlock smiled. Interesting indeed.

“John, come look at this. I need your eyes,” Sherlock called over his shoulder, eyes fixed on the corpse. She appeared to be in her 80’s, judging by the wrinkles and age spots adorning her face. She’s practically swimming in an enormous wedding dress that consumes her delicate frame, and one white shoe that looks as though it would fall off with the slightest movement. What strikes Sherlock as odd were the dozens of sewing needles placed haphazardly along the material. That, however, wasn’t nearly as odd as the fact that the body had been discovered in a suitcase at the baggage carousel of the airport. 

When no response comes forth, Sherlock rises from his crouched position and spins, searching for the familiar jacket amongst the few officers milling around the airport. “John?”

“John's not here, Sherlock, remember?” Sherlock spins once more to see Lestrade strolling over, takeaway coffee clutched in his hand. “He had to go see his parents, remember? His father’s sick.”

Sherlock stills for a moment, a slight tilt to his head and a quizzical look on his features as he thinks back over the past couple days. “He’s been gone, what? Two days?”

“Try five,” Lestrade corrects. 

“Oh, right.” Sherlock stares at the victim for a brief moment before looking back at the Detective Inspector. “Well in that case, come stand here,” Sherlock gestures to beside him. “I need an ordinary pair of eyes to provide insight.”

“You what?”

“I need someone without my level of intellect to tell me what they see. It helps me think, process.”

“Am I just going to be a replacement for John while he's gone?” Lestrade’s tone is of one who thinks he should be offended but doesn’t have the energy to be. It’s easier to do as the consulting detective commands. 

“Don't look so surprised, Lestrade. It was either you or Anderson, and God knows the case would cease to a halt if he tried to assist.”

“I suppose you’re right.” 

Lestrade’s referring to the fact that without Sherlock’s assistance, Scotland Yard wouldn’t be as exceptional as they appear to his superiors and the public eye, but Sherlock takes the response at face value. “I’m always right.”

A scoff escapes Lestrade, mostly out of shock at Sherlock’s ego (which he can’t believe he’s still surprised by), but Sherlock’s mind has already latched back onto the deliberate rip in the victim’s skirt, mind racing as he scrutinises all the possibilities, the conversation already deleted from his memory. “Focusing solely on the sewing needles, tell me what you see.”

“I imagine that she wanted to take the dress size in.” 

Sherlock scoffs. “What would give you that idea? Surely not the size of the victim. And you know how much I despise that word, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock sneers at the title, as though he doesn’t believe Greg is worthy of the title after an observation like that. “We’re looking for the facts, not trying to invent the plot for a bad movie. Now if you could please tell me what you see, this investigation would proceed a lot quicker.”

Lestrade exhales loudly, fingers tensing beside him in agitation. Just one punch. One swing at him is all Lestrade needs, and then he’d happily listen to Sherlock correct every single sentence he’s ever spoken. He rolls his shoulders to relieve the built-up tension, then crouches for a closer look, placing his cup beside him as he perches over the body. 

“Well, I can see the sewing pins are put practically everywhere. That doesn’t seem like a logical thing to do if you’re trying to take a dress in.”

“Good. Now, if we ignore for the moment that the sewing needles are placed as such, why would they use a dress that is clearly too large for a woman this size? Wouldn’t it be easier to find a dress that’s closer to her size and go from there? That’d be more practical, wouldn’t you agree?”

“True,” Lestrade nods. “Could be sentiment, though. Maybe it belonged to her from a previous marriage or to a family member.”

Sherlock hummed in response, eyes darting about the room, before staring again at the deceased. “Did you manage to find any identification?”

“No,” Lestrade coughed as he rose, “but we’ve got the lab running DNA so we should know something soon.” 

“All the airport staff is still here, I presume,” Sherlock asks, though it’s more of a statement than a question, moving in the direction of the nearest security guard.

Lestrade hurries to grab his takeaway cup, chasing to catch up to Sherlock. “We’ve already questioned them all, Sherlock. Got everything we need to know.” He even adds a smile for good measure, though he instantly regrets it when Sherlock stops on the spot and stares blankly at him.

“Do you really think I’m going to leave without speaking to a single member of airport personnel? At a scene of which our victim was found in a suitcase, might I add? Thought you would've known me better after six years, Lestrade.” 

Sherlock resumes his determined stride, flipping the collar of his coat up for good measure, and Lestrade sighs. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s just gone 2 am. It’s going to be a long night.

The flat is dismally quiet when Sherlock returns home at 4 am. How it escaped him for such a length of time that John’s presence was gone, Sherlock is unsure. The flat has a bizarre feel of abandonment to it—and if Sherlock were to pay more attention to his emotions, he would sense that same aura of abandonment radiating off himself in waves. 

But Sherlock had never given much regard to his feelings. Rather, he liked to pretend he didn't have any. Emotions only got in the way of his work, of his mind's ability to function optimally. He wouldn't, couldn't, compromise that for anything or anyone. It just wouldn’t be logical in the slightest. 

(But then again, Sherlock had never been all that logical when it came to John.)

He makes a vow, then, to use John’s absence for the better. John’s absence would be a good thing. Of this, Sherlock was certain. 

It’s quiet. 

Too quiet. 

John doesn’t like it. It sets him on edge, and he can’t relax, no matter how hard he tries.

Five days in his parent’s house, and his insides feel hollow, as though the silence is draining his emotions, dampening them down, leaving him in a horrible mix of being restrained yet floating away with zero control. He never pictured there coming a day where he missed the sound of gunfire. God knows he’d endured plenty during his time in Afghanistan. 

But late at night, when the silence is at it’s loudest and sleep eludes him, he’s almost anticipating the ringing of gunshots filling the flat or a small explosion from whatever experiment Sherlock’s working on at the time. It provides him with a lingering sense of nostalgia he doesn’t dare to admit to anyone, not even Sherlock. Shame bites at his ankles whenever the thought arises. Although Sherlock would probably be able to deduce it by some minuscule detail in his features or the way he holds the newspaper or something equally pretentious and unbelievable. 

But how can John even think about the pull of exhilaration that gunfire still holds over him? He’s supposed to be completely and utterly focused on helping his father recover. And of course the thought of gunfire draws his thoughts elsewhere, longing for home, for Sherlock, overtaking him. 

Guilt grips him, twisting and wrenching his insides into tight coils until he can barely draw breath—which he finds sickeningly ironic given that’s how it tends to feel when he thinks of Sherlock for too long. 

A quick shake of the head (John’s pathetic attempt to prohibit Sherlock from taking an even deeper root in his mind) and he settles further into the chair situated by the window. 

It’s odd, John finds, to be back in his childhood bedroom. Everything was still the way it had been throughout his teenage years, jarring him upon his arrival. He’d stood in the doorway, unable to enter as his childhood flashed through his mind. It was as though he’d been forcibly thrown back into adolescence: into the awkward body of a teen struggling with his sexuality. He hadn’t expected his parents to leave his room untouched after all these years, with the bedspread the same dark blue he remembers curling into after petty arguments with his father. Even his clothes were still hidden away where he’d left them all those years ago. 

He’d initially found it reminiscent of those movies where the child dies and the room is left as a memorial for grieving parents. And now, five days later, he supposes his mother was right to leave it in commemoration of the person he used to be. He’s pretty sure a piece of him, his connection to his family, died when he left for war. Symbolic, perhaps. 

He has no idea how to return to the person they knew, and, he thinks with a tinge of guilt, it’s been so long that he’s not sure he wants to. 

“Sherlock, you’ll like this one.”

Curiosity prickles at Sherlock’s insides, the words coaxing his attention from the slides he’s studying. He moves away from the eyepiece lens of the microscope to avoid any distractions. “Something came up then?”

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it…” Lestrade trails off in a way that irritates Sherlock immensely, the reception crackling slightly through the phone due to the heavy rain currently covering London. 

“Well?” he huffs out, glaring at the wall, imagining Lestrade’s face there. “What is it?”

“That body we found? We found out who she is. Name’s Edythe Carter, she’s aged 79, but get this.” Lestrade pauses for dramatic effect and if Sherlock’s not mistaken, he sounds a little mystified. “She died 52 years ago.”

“52 years ago? That’s impossible. She’d only been dead a matter of days when she was found. Anderson ran the tests, correct?” Sherlock doesn’t wait for a response, eager for any opportunity to insult Anderson. “I’ve been telling you to fire that imbecile for years.”

A heavy sigh flows through the phone as Lestrade pointedly chooses to ignore the remark, “We reran the tests three times and they all state the same thing. She’s Edythe Carter, 79 years old, and has been officially dead 52 years.”

“How’d she die?”

“Blunt instrument to the side of the head.”

“What? No. No, I know that already. How did she die 52 years ago?”

“Oh, hang on. I have it here somewhere.” The sound of paper rustling is audible through the line. “Aha! Found it. Right, it says she died when a building she was in collapsed in 1960. Body was identified by her fiancé and both her parents. They required multiple identifications due to the impact of the building.”

“Are any of them still alive?”

“Uh, her father passed away in ‘95 but her mother is still alive, and so’s her fiancé.”

“Okay, keep me updated and be sure to send me through that information and their contact details.”

Sherlock hangs up the phone, drowning out Lestrade’s protests that he can’t. His mind’s moving a million miles a minute as he processes this new revelation. He might require his mind palace for this. 

Four days have passed at an inconceivably slow pace since Sherlock became aware of John’s absence, and it has arguably been the worst four days of his life. How is he expected to focus on a case as interesting, as bizarre, as one such as this, when the silence surrounding his every waking moment in the flat is deafening?

Granted, it had actually been just under nine days since John received the call from his mother, the worry and urgency seeping through to the surface of her words had sent John flying up the stairs to his bedroom, hastily tossing clothes in a duffle bag and offering a rushed explanation to Sherlock before he fled. An entire two hundred and eleven hours—not that Sherlock was counting, of course. No, no, he had more pressing matters at hand. 

He finds himself humming that morning, the sounds complimenting the ones he recalls John humming as he’d updated his blog time and time again, the melody simple yet sweet in his head as he studies the blood samples under the microscope. Though it isn’t until Mrs Hudson enters the kitchen carrying a tray of tea that he notices. 

“It’s so lovely to hear the sound of music in this flat again,” she comments, her hand coming to rest against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock adds another tally to his mental list of times Mrs Hudson has made that remark in the past two days (this instance makes six), and then as if she’s trying to add salt to his wounds, she adds, “It’s such a nice change from all that dreadful silence.”

Sherlock finds himself agreeing, the eyepiece hiding the hint of sadness he suspects she’d find in his eyes. “Yes, the silence has been awfully dreadful, hasn’t it?”

She squeezes his shoulder, her voice gentle as she knowingly says, “I do hope John returns soon.”

“Thank you for the tea, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock says in place of the as do I that’s resting on the edge of his tongue. Her retreating steps sound down the stairs and he raises the cup to his lips, taking a sip as his mind wanders from the case. 

Sherlock had never had a best friend, or even a friend, really, for that matter. Not one he can remember, that is. He supposes his early years might tell a different story. He’d had colleagues, acquaintances, sure, but even referring to people in his life as such would be a stretch. He had never had someone who was willing to be close to him, to put up with him and everything that his level of intellect and lack of outward emotions consisted of. And God knows Sherlock never needed that, especially something as trivial as a friend in his life. He was perfectly fine solving cases, proving his intelligence to anyone in the vicinity, regardless of whether they wanted to listen. 

And then he’d met John. 

In came someone who listened to his deductions with a sense of astonishment and wonder, even after all this time. Someone who moves in with him and puts up with his (admittedly) insane experiments and body parts in the fridge and guns firing at all hours of the morning and to top it off, hours upon hours, sometimes days of silence, and John takes this in his stride as though it’s the most normal of situations to find himself in. And maybe it’s this… acceptance that Sherlock had never received wholeheartedly before that causes him to push and prod, to find and test the limits and edges to John’s tolerance that he just doesn’t appear to have when it comes to Sherlock. It’s been years and Sherlock still doesn’t have an answer for how that makes him feel. 

But now John had been gone for eight days. Eight days without his flatmate. Eight days without someone willing to be impressed by even the simplest of his deductions. Eight days without John and his music, his soft singing no longer filling the apartment, and the silence had begun to make Sherlock feel dreadfully lonely. 

Not having John around made his heart ache in a unique way he’s never before known, but it was the silence that got to him the most, intensifying that ache and leaving behind an emptiness that begged to be noticed. 

“Damn you, Lestrade.” Sherlock hurls the words out into the apartment, illogically praying they’d reach the Detective Inspector in Scotland Yard. He had been perfectly fine speaking to the empty apartment he’d thought John’s presence had been occupying. 

Before he could think better of it, or even think at all, Sherlock retrieves his mobile from his inner suit pocket and quickly types out a message to John. 

It’s a simple How are you? SH and the bzz he feels to signify it’s been sent makes Sherlock feel the bizarre desire to erase himself from existence. Never, in his entire life, has he sincerely asked that question, let alone thought to. It’s a pointless question, a conversation starter really. It’s not something people mean. So what on earth compelled him to send such a text, and one that he found he meant?

The device vibrates in his hand and Sherlock feels a strange, warm sensation begin to swell in his chest. The warmth turns to a chill, however, when the words Piss off. stare back at him. The screen fades and Sherlock blinks. Had he missed something? Some kind of indication of John’s mood? Out of all the responses he could have anticipated (Missing the thrill of the chase with you., Bored. Even a simple I’ll be home soon. was high on the list), he hadn’t expected those two words.  

Before Sherlock can begin to formulate a response, another text comes through. 

Like you even care, Sherlock. You’ve never cared or given a shit about how people are, especially me. You really want to know how I am? My father is dying, Harry won’t even talk to me except to fight, and now you want to start small talk? After 9 days? Piss off. 

Sherlock sends I’m sorry, John. My condolences. and switches his device off. This is a good thing, if he thinks about it. He can’t afford any more distractions. He has a case to solve and if there’s a heaviness in his chest after reading that message… Well, that’ll have to wait to be examined once he’s uncovered the truth behind the lady in the suitcase. 

But try as he may, his mind lingers on John, an ever present thought hiding in the recesses of his mind, begging to be noticed in the midst of the case that should be occupying him. 

He cannot, for the life of him, comprehend why his mind continues to remain fixated on John when he’s finally been presented with a case as extraordinary as this. How often would he encounter a woman who was supposed to have been dead for 52 years, only to turn up in a suitcase days after her death. He supposes there’s an exact percentage, but he finds his thoughts drifting back to John before he can calculate it.  

Maybe that’s why, despite stealing the file from Lestrade’s desk that night and studying it extensively to no avail, he makes the five hour drive to John’s parents’ house a couple days later, certain that John’s absence is the reason for his inability to piece together this case. Once John’s around, he’ll be able to focus.

It’s only when he’s parked the car in the drive that he starts to second guess his endeavour, his reasoning—his actual reasoning—behind coming to see John, but then the front door swings open and out steps a bewildered John. Sherlock exits the vehicle, taking one, two, three steps towards John, the other instinctively closing the rest of the distance. A mere metre lies between them and it’s almost too much. 

“Sherlock?” John’s eyebrows furrow at the unexpected sight of Sherlock, his gaze darting between the man before him and the house. The presence of Sherlock makes the familiarity of his childhood home suddenly feel empty and it almost overwhelms him. “What in the bloody hell are you doing here? Who’s car is that?” 

“No time to explain, John. I need your assistance.” His response comes out clipped, autopilot taking over in the face of something that threatens to engulf him. He gestures to the car, turning around with what John perceives to be an unspoken expectation for him to follow. 

“What? No, no no I can’t leave now,” John says, exasperated as he places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to stop him from entering the vehicle. “My father needs me, Sherlock. I can’t just leave.”

“Oh really, John?” Harry calls from the front door, her eyes narrowed as she advances towards them, gravel crunching beneath her determined gait. “What about when you left for Afghanistan? Dad had a health scare back then and you just left like it was nothing.”

Sherlock notes the way John’s jaw tenses, his knuckles turning white with repeated clenching. “You know it wasn’t like that, Harry.”

“Do I just?” Harry bitterly laughs, years of resentment glaringly obvious. “You couldn’t wait to get away! You’d been looking for an out from this family for years and took the first opportunity you could. I mean, who picks war over their own family, John?”

An irrational need to step in, to protect John, almost overtakes Sherlock, but something about the ice radiating from both siblings keeps his feet in place. 

“I didn’t find out Dad was sick until after we were deployed.” John’s voice starts hard and stubborn, but morphs into an awful quiet, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his guilt. “I am sorry, Harry.”

Harry’s expression is unreadable, even for Sherlock. “You can apologise all you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that you haven’t visited Dad once before this week. And you’ve been back, what? Close to two years now? Meanwhile any time Dad showed signs of being unwell, I’m the one who’s here, no matter what. You can shove your apology right up your ass for all I care.” 

She fixes John with one last glare before her eyes flitter to Sherlock, an almost curious look to them, before she’s swiftly moving towards the door. 

“Harry?” John tries, his hand outstretched with the need to follow, but the uncertainty of not quite knowing how keeping him frozen.  

“Just go,” Harry calls over her shoulder, refusing to turn back. 

The front door closes soundlessly despite her angry retreat, and a layer of unease settles in his stomach. John stares at the house, calculating; hesitant, and Sherlock can’t determine his next move. A moment passes before he spins towards the car, as though the sudden gust of wind is pushing him, and silently gets in. Sherlock falters for a brief moment before doing the same. 

Sherlock doesn’t start the car right away, hands remaining clasped in his lap. John stares at him questioningly. “Wh–”

“Are you okay?” Sherlock interrupts. He doesn’t fully understand his desire to know how John is currently feeling; how John's been feeling the last eleven days (those eleven days without him). All he knows is that he can’t move forward, physically or mentally, without knowing.  

John’s laugh in response startles Sherlock—he finds it peculiar given the heated situation from just moments prior, especially when John flips the question around on him. “Are you?”

“What?” 

“You do realise that that’s the second time you’ve asked me how I am in the past 40 hours?” John turns his gaze out the window, keeping his eyes trained on the gravel. He doesn’t have the emotional strength to keep his guard up and the idea of having Sherlock verbally scrutinise every emotion he’s currently experiencing isn’t appealing in the slightest. 

“Well… Are you okay?” 

There’s a sincerity there, in Sherlock’s words. A quietness, too, that John hadn’t expected. He lets out a sigh, exhausted; his body drooping further into the seat. “I… I don’t know.” 

“Okay.”

John swivels in his seat, eyes scouring every inch of Sherlock’s face, unsure of what he’s looking for but that he’ll know it when he sees it. “Okay?” 

“Yes?” John’s confused and Sherlock is a perfect parallel to it. 

“You’ve got no deductions for me about what just happened? No ‘Harry’s scared so that’s why she exploded at me’? No ‘you hate that she’s right’? Nothing?”

“I do, but I figured you wouldn’t appreciate it at the current time.” John can only stare at him incredulously. “It’s also because you’ve summed up what I would have stated.” 

Sherlock starts the car without another word and John appreciates it. He needs a moment, just one, to catch his thoughts, to analyse that interaction. It was odd. Just so… different. This Sherlock was different. But why? It ate at him, the way he couldn’t understand why. Sherlock had never asked if John was okay, unless he was visibly injured or rattled, nor had he ever kept quiet to allow John to recuperate from emotional fatigue. What had changed? Why was Sherlock suddenly acting human? It can’t be due to John’s absence. Sherlock has made it known time and time again he loved his own company, infinitely preferring it to John’s. Was it because of John’s text? Texting was rare for them, save for the few Can you get milk while you’re out? or Come home. We’ve got a case. SH. But it also remains the only reason John can think of for the bizarre shift in Sherlock’s behaviour. 

They’ve been driving for close to ten minutes when John clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Sherlock’s tone is one of indifference, his eyes focused on the road, and John’s immensely grateful for it. 

“For those texts,” John says. “When you messaged, asking how I was… I don’t know. That had been a really difficult day. Dad’s health had been looking good the past couple days, but then it took a turn for the worst… We’d just gotten to the hospital when your text came through, and uh, I just… I just couldn’t get a handle on my emotions. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Well, not all of it. You deserved it a bit.”

Sherlock hums to indicate he’s right. “I apologise for not checking in with you sooner. To be honest, I didn’t even notice your absence for the first five days until Lestrade brought it up.” Sherlock briefly wonders whether John can sense the silent and it’s all I’ve been able to think about since.

“Sounds about right,” John chimes in. “Anyways, it’s not like I expected you to message me.”

Something about the dismissive tone of John’s voice stings, for reasons Sherlock cannot fully comprehend, and he doesn’t respond. Whether John picks up on it remains to be seen. 

A few moments of silence pass before John speaks again, facing Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. “So? Where are we going? What are we doing?”

“Oh, right. Well, I received a call from Lestrade the other night, saying they’d found a dead body in an unattended suitcase at the airport’s baggage carousel.” Sherlock pulls his phone from his inner coat pocket and opens the Photos app, pulling up a picture of Edythe in the oversized wedding dress before passing the device to John. He half-expects John to chastise him for using his phone while driving. 

“Jesus,” John breathes out. His eyes analyse the photograph, taking in her crumpled form, the almost resigned look to her, if that were possible to convey in death. “That poor woman. She’s, what, 70? 80?”

“79,” Sherlock confirms.

John nods distractedly. He swipes across to view the other photos, zooming in on the wound on her head. “How’d she die? Judging from the picture, I’d say it looks like blunt force to the head.”

“She was crushed by a building.”

“What?” John’s brow furrows, confusion clouding his mind. “Aside from her head, she looks fine.” 

“Oh, I forgot to mention one small thing.” There’s a flicker of a smile on Sherlock’s lips and a glint in his eye as he glances at John.  “Edythe died at the age of 27 in 1960.” 

It’s said so casually, with such nonchalance, that John is certain Sherlock is messing with him. Surely he’s joking, right? But one look at his flatmate tells him it’s the truth. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, putting the phone in the inner console. “Are... are you sure?”

“I asked Lestrade the same thing, because surely Anderson messed something up with the DNA, but no. It’s definitely the Edythe Carter who died in 1960. Lestrade did some digging and discovered that both Edythe’s parents and her fiancé had correctly identified her.”

“Right...” The information flurries about John’s head, and despite all the mysterious and odd cases he’d previously covered with Sherlock, it’s a difficulty to fully wrap his mind around it. “So, what are we doing now, then?”

Sherlock gestures to the glovebox in front of John. “There’s a file in there.” 

John retrieves it, reading aloud the words printed on the front. “‘Property of Scotland Yard’?”

“Lestrade wouldn’t hand over the file,” Sherlock replies simply. “Open it up and read over the information.”

John lifts the cover and scans over the information regarding Edythe’s death in 1960, brushing over it and coming to a stop at the people who identified her. “A Mr. Thomas Richards, aged 83, lives at– Wait, previously engaged to Edythe Carter? We’re visiting her fiancé from 52 years ago?”

“Yes. We need to find out whether he knew she was alive.”

“But you said he’d correctly identified her.”

“If she survived, which we know she did, wouldn’t you suppose her fiancé would be the one person she would confide in?”

“Yes, but why hide it?” Confusion etches itself over John’s face as he stares at the pages, as though he’ll find the answer written there. This case is making less and less sense with the more information revealed. “If he knew she was alive, why tell the police it was her body found? And whose body did they find?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Even for Sherlock, this case is causing some confusion, some uncertainty he hadn’t expected. He provides silence, ready for as much as John might require, in order to allow John to process. (It only takes twenty seconds.) 

“Okay, so you know who to talk to and you’ve got their address, so why am I here? You’ve questioned people with less information on your own before.”

“I might need back-up,” Sherlock says airily, fighting the temptation to look over at John. 

“Against an 83 year old man? Wow, I’m gone for eleven days and you lose your edge,” John laughs. 

“I…”  Sherlock pauses, tensing his fingers briefly against the steering wheel, and for a moment, he’s worried about what might leave his mouth. He settles on something safer than the thoughts that have run rampant through his mind the past few days. “I thought you might be bored.”

“I hate to admit it, but I kind of was.” John licks his lips, his gaze lingering on Sherlock’s profile and the way the light through the window enhances his lashes, before he catches himself and rushes to change the subject. “So, who’s car is this?” 

“It’s Mycroft’s.”

Makes sense, John thinks, running his hand over the leather seat, noting the vehicle’s cleanliness and the way it exudes an obvious air of luxury. “And he just let you borrow it?”

“Uh, not exactly.”

“Sherlock, did you steal his car?”

“Mycroft would say so. I, however, would classify it as temporarily being in my possession.”

John laughs softly, turning to watch the flower fields peeking out through the treeline. “I didn’t even know you could drive,” John mentions off-handedly, his mind already pulling him back to the days of his childhood when he and Harry would race through similar fields—back when they were still on decent terms, back when they were okay. 

Sherlock shrugs. “You turn the steering wheel, press the accelerator to go, press the brake to stop. Quite simple, really.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m aware of the basics of driving. So, you’re telling me all this time we could’ve had a car of our own?”

“Well, no. I don’t have a licence.”

“What?” John’s head whips around so swiftly Sherlock is momentarily concerned he may have whiplash. But when he looks over, he’s met with an expression similar to the many he recalls from their Hounds of Baskerville case: open mouth, the whites of his eyes visible, disapproval accentuating it all. 

“It’s too time-consuming, taking the test and learning all the silly little rules.” 

“Ignoring the fact that you’re a complete idiot for just a moment... I’ve seen you spend days investigating the bloody decay rates of limbs in different temperatures.”

“That was important! Besides,” he adds quickly, cutting John off from whatever reprimand he was about to administer, “there’s hardly a time where my driving is called upon, so it’s easier to just forfeit the licence.” 

John’s shock surprises himself. This is a prime example of Sherlock being Sherlock. “So Mycroft knows about your lack of licence, obviously, and he still lets you borrow his car? Incredible.”

“Well, Mycroft is the British Government. And besides, he hardly notices his car is missing half the time.”

“Oh,” John scoffs, an edge of annoyance creeping into his tone, “cause that makes it better.”

“I really don’t see what the issue is. I mean, obviously I’m aware it’s technically not legal, but I do know how to drive and I’ve never been in a collision. I’m a safe driver. Not even once did you appear uneasy during this drive, up until a minute ago, that is.”

“That’s besides the bloody point, Sherlock! It’s still against the law!”

“As is the police allowing two citizens access to private information regarding crimes currently under investigation.”

John shifts in his seat. He sets his gaze out the window. “That’s different…”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he says, his tone now stern and appealing; determined to be the voice of reason. “We do that to help people, the police. We do that to catch criminals.”

“And what is it we’re doing now, John?”

“Oh, no no no,” John says, waving his hands in the air. “Don’t you try to flip this situation around, to make yourself be in the right.”

“You’ve never stopped me from doing that before,” Sherlock points out. 

“Because it never works.” John sighs, running a hand over his face. He fixes his sight on Sherlock, staring almost long enough for Sherlock to feel the need to shift in his seat or draw John’s attention elsewhere. “Okay, enough of that before I lose my mind… Wanna tell me what our game plan is?”

Sherlock meets his gaze, the subtle intensity hiding behind his eyes striking him. “Game plan?” 

“For when we talk to Thomas. Are we gonna storm in there and accuse him of helping Edythe or what?”

“No, don’t you worry. We’re just going to talk to him, see what he knows. He’s one of the only leads we have, aside from the mother, but my money’s on Thomas.”

John grabs the file he’d placed back in the glove box, and runs a thumb down until he finds the mother’s name. “Have you spoken to Helen yet?” 

“Lestrade has, but I haven’t yet. Was planning to do that if Thomas proved pointless.”

“You’ve got the address?”

Sherlock’s knuckles rap swiftly on the door, providing a sense of urgency for those inside of the house. He notes the array of flower bushes and assorted pot plants that appear to be in dire need of tending to. The front door opens and they’re met by a middle-aged man of a height that could rival John’s. 

“Hello? Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, pulling out one of the many police badges he’s taken from Lestrade over the years, flashing it briefly in front of his face. “I’m Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague John Watson. We’re looking for a Thomas Richards. Does he live here?”

The man nods dazedly, his eyes moving between the two, his fingers anxiously twisting one of his rings lining his hand. “Uh, yeah. That’s my dad. I’m, uh, I’m Ethan.” 

He holds his hand out for a handshake, and Sherlock obliges, his eyes subtly scanning over his face and clothes, noting the grip of his hand and the way he leans heavily on his left leg. “Is he here? We were hoping to talk with him about a current police investigation.”

“Investigation?” Ethan withdraws his hand, pulling his jacket tighter around him, a shield against the wind bringing a chill around them. 

“Yes,” John chimes in, drawing Ethan’s attention towards him, allowing Sherlock to peer into the entrance to the house. “Someone your father used to know was involved, so we were hoping he could help provide some clarity.”

“He’s not–”

“Ethan?” A weak, gravelly voice calls from inside the house, a head peering out a moment later, eyes squinting against the light. “You’re letting all the heat out. Who are you talking to?”

“Sorry, Dad. I was just talking with these officers.”

“Officers, huh?” Thomas says, trudging his way closer. “How can I help you boys?”

“We’re investigating the recent death of someone you knew, and were wondering about the last time you saw or spoke to her.”

Thomas leans into his son, Ethan’s arm coming around to support his weight. “Who was it? Oh, God, it wasn’t Lydia, was it?”

“No no, it wasn’t Lydia. It was your ex-fiancé: Edythe Carter.”

“I don’t…” Several emotions flicker across Thomas’ face, confusion highlighting through it all. “I don’t understand. Recent…?”

“A body was discovered at the Heathrow Airport close to a week ago, and DNA revealed it to be Edythe Carter, aged 79 and evidently not the body they determined to be Edythe in 1960.”

Thomas’s legs begin to buckle under his weight, and he mumbles something along the lines of “I need to sit down”, an ashen expression falling over his face. Ethan, with a firm hand around his father, leads him inside with Sherlock and John following closely behind. 

Sherlock’s keen eyes analyse the situation, momentarily glancing at Ethan settling his father into a chair before turning to take in the surroundings. Crowded around them are boxes upon boxes stacked in precarious piles, creating narrow pathways throughout the loungeroom. The closest box is filled with books and newspapers, and the one just to the right holds photographs. Family photos—many of Ethan in his youth, a few of Thomas working on his car, one of a wedding. A golden frame in particular catches Sherlock’s eye, displaying Thomas in his late 20’s on the front steps of the house they’re currently standing in, enclosing someone Sherlock deduces to be a young Edythe in a hug. Scrawled on the side of the box in chunky letters are the words ‘throw away’.

Once his father is seated, Ethan faces the two, spying Sherlock’s curious gaze as it flitters about the room. “We’re in the middle of sorting through his stuff,” he explains. “He was diagnosed with dementia a few years back, but these past few months have just gotten really bad… He’s really struggling, even with me basically living here again to help him. We’re moving him into a care facility so most of his stuff’s going to charity.” 

Sherlock nods. “Is he alright to talk to us?”

“Should be. Just give ’im a minute. Quite a shock you gave him, telling him ’bout Edythe. I didn’t even know her and that shocked even me. I mean, it’s insane when you think about it,” Ethan rambles. “You think your fiancé’s dead for, what, more than fifty years? And then you find out she’s been alive this whole time?”

“Well, she’s not alive now,” Sherlock deadpans, “but yes, it is ‘insane’, as you put it.”

John steps closer and digs his hand in the left pocket of Sherlock’s coat, rummaging around until he retrieves a pocket-sized notebook. He catches the befuddled expression on Sherlock’s face when he glances up. “What? I know you keep one in your coat, and I didn’t bring mine.”

Taking a seat opposite Thomas, situated between two precarious piles of newspapers, John flips through the pages until he comes across a page that isn’t filled with scribblings that vaguely resemble words and numerous calculations. “Okay, Thomas,” he begins, his voice steady. “I know this is all very confusing, but it’s really important. When was the last time you saw Edythe?”

A croak is all that leaves Thomas’s mouth when he goes to answer. He gestures to Ethan for the glass of water on the cabinet, a slight tremor in his hands when his hands raise the glass to his lips. 

Sherlock takes the moment to glance about the room, the sight of John catching him, and he pauses. The last few glimmers of sunlight streaming in through the open curtains illuminates the concerned yet concentrated look on his face, highlighting the few greys littered about his hair. It strikes him suddenly, the longing he’d experienced in John’s absence increasing tenfold, threatening to weigh him down. He tries to deflect it, force it to the back of his mind, in order to listen as Thomas recounts that fateful morning. 

“Last time I saw her was back in 1960, the morning she died. Or when I thought she died, I guess… She left that morning, dressed in her favourite red coat. God, she looked beautiful,” he says, a wistful look on his face as he stares at the wall. “She said she was meeting someone but wouldn’t tell me who. Figured it was to do with the wedding. We were getting married in a couple weeks. I got the call a couple hours later to come identify her. It hurt to look at her, see her lying there. There was so much blood, all over her hair, on her blue coat… At least the impact killed her instantly.”

“She was wearing a blue coat when you identified her?” Sherlock asks, his interest piqued.

Thomas nods, the distant memory taking hold. “Remember thinking about how they’d never be able to get the blood out of it.”

“You said she left in a red coat.”

“She did.” Thomas goes quiet for a moment, shaking his head gently before lifting it to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “I don’t know why she had a blue one on when she died.” 

John looks down at the notebook, using the pen to help him scan through his notes. “Do you remember thinking anything was different or, I don’t know, off about her body?”

“Nothing ’sides the coat.”

“And you’re certain it was her?”

“Right down to the freckle above her right eyebrow.”

“Did she have any siblings or cousins?” Sherlock interjects.

“No, she was an only child, jus’ like her parents. Nothing like the six siblings I had or the five my wife had.”

“Your wife?”

“Ethan’s mum, Dorothy,” he says, gesturing behind him to his son. “We met in ‘63, were married a year later, until she, God rest her soul, killed herself when Ethan was 8. It’s jus’ been the two of us since then.”

Ethan gives his father’s shoulder a squeeze, his eyes downcast for a moment, before they find the clock on the wall. “Time for your afternoon pills.”

He enters the kitchen and returns almost immediately, handing his father the tablets and ensuring he swallows them. He announces to John and Sherlock that it’s time for his father to lie down, helping him to his feet and leading him with a steady arm to a room across the hall. 

Sherlock takes this opportunity to investigate some of the other belongings, gesturing for John to do the same. Behind the box filled with photos sits a bag overflowing with women’s clothing, all distinctly from the 1970’s. He makes a mental note to look into Dorothy’s police report. 

John coughs to draw his attention to a solitary white heeled shoe peeking out from under a pile—a perfect match to the one found on Edythe’s body. Sherlock slips his phone from his pocket and snaps a photo. 

A door clicks shut and Ethan’s figure appears in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. “The pills tend to make ’im drowsy. Sorry if that messes with your questioning.”

John’s body is stiff with anticipation, ready to let adrenaline fuel his body should a chase give way. He glances at Sherlock, who gives a subtle shake of his head, and he flexes his hands, shaking out the tension. “No, uh, I think we got everything we needed, anyway. It was mainly to see if your father had any clues that could help us work out what happened to her.”

“You said she was found at the airport, right? That’s horrible. I can’t even imagine what kind of person would do that to an old lady, shoving her in a suitcase like that.”

John shakes his head, a solemn look on his face as he recalls the images. He scrawls his number onto a blank piece of paper and hands it to Ethan. “If your father remembers anything else, anything at all, you can reach me on that number.”

Ethan glances at it before folding it in half and slipping it into his pocket, giving him a curt nod. “Will do.”

John starts for the door, but Sherlock reaches into the box of photographs, holding up the golden frame featuring Edythe and Thomas in an embrace. “Do you mind if we take this? It’d be good to have a nice photo for the report.”

“Sure,” Ethan shrugs. “S’only going to be tossed, anyway.”

They leave then, the harsh chill that’s now settled in the air for the night following them as they slip into the car. Ethan waves them off from the front door, and John gives an obligatory wave back. 

“I don’t trust him,” John says, a different chill running up his spine. 

“That’ll have to wait,” Sherlock says as he puts the car into drive and pulls out onto the road. “I don’t know whose body they identified as Edythe back in 1960 because the Edythe we found didn’t have a freckle above her eyebrow.”

“Meaning what? Thomas had something to do with the body back then?”

Sherlock shakes his head, a concentrated pinch to his face. “I don’t think so.”

“So what now?”

“I wanna talk with Helen. It’s getting late now, though, so I’ll do it tomorrow. Hopefully she can fill in some information about Edythe.”

The ride back to John’s father’s house consists of a few observations of the surrounding area, almost all coming from Sherlock. He notes the cleanliness of the air, how quiet it is amongst the small towns—a complete contrast to the busy, bustling city he’s always known. 

He also notes, though only mentally, the quiet humming coming from his left, a gentle companion to the low volume of the radio he’d flicked on. Another wave of emotion overtakes him and he finds himself wanting, wanting something, but what exactly, he isn’t even sure. (Wanting to bottle the sound of John’s voice so he never has to endure another eleven days without hearing it? Wanting to be back in their flat, mindless noise coming from the TV as they sit, where they’re okay because they’re together again? Wanting to draw him into a kiss that conveys all he regrets never telling him? (That last one might be the winner.))

Perhaps it’s because he’s only really known John in London, but as the house comes into view, looming over them, Sherlock can’t help thinking that John doesn’t seem to fit in here. That he instead belongs in their flat with the smile on the wall, the skull on the mantelpiece… That he belongs with him. Though that may just be the part of him that’s constantly anticipating the day John leaves him, never wanting to be taken by surprise when it inevitably happens. 

“You were right,” John breathes out, breaking the silence that had settled over them. “It’s only been eleven days, but I have missed this.” There’s a hint of longing in his voice, something John hadn’t expected to come through, so before he can inadvertently admit to anything that could possibly condemn him, he exits the vehicle. He makes for the house, but stops when he doesn’t hear the sound of the engine. Cautiously, he steps around the car and waits for Sherlock to roll down the window. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Right…” John licks his lips, glancing at the house and back. “And what are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.” Sherlock sounds as though he’s stating the obvious, which John supposes it would be for him. 

“Waiting for me? Why?”

“Why? You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

“No, I... I told you earlier. My father’s still not well. I can’t leave, not yet anyway.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s grip on the steering wheel tightens just long enough for John to notice. (He pretends not to.) “Right.”

“Yeah,” John breathes out. He should probably head inside, check on his father, check on something. But he’s trapped. His legs are unresponsive, feet stuck in place as though he’s glued to the ground. 

Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s, lingering on him for longer than either would deem necessary. For those brief twenty seconds—brief in the grand scheme of things, of life, John would argue—time seemed to slow. Background noise washed away, the quiet lull of their stilted breathing and their quickening heartbeats taking over. John’s thoughts are replaced with nothing but Sherlock, and he swears, he swears hand on heart, that Sherlock’s eyes drift to his lips for just the briefest of seconds before darting up and away, the softest red dusting his cheeks. 

Sherlock needs to leave. He’d never before noticed how little his self control around John is, and he can feel it slipping away rapidly, like water through helpless fingers, and he just needs to leave. 

Gravel and dust propel through the air as the vehicle vacates the premises, but John can’t think, can’t move, can’t process any of what just occurred. He’s frozen. 

And for the love of everything John knew, what was that moment they just shared? There is no way John can begin to dissect whatever that was without the slight (massive) risk of going insane. But allowing it to run free in his mind would be just as, if not more, detrimental for his sanity. 

The rain comes then, quick and sudden, and it’s only once he feels the steady stream of water down his back that he makes a move to head inside. 

John’s going to need a drink. Or maybe two or three. 

Sherlock briefly considers driving to the hospital to demand brain scans, but quickly brushes the idea aside. He’s just being absurd. It was simply a momentary mind blank. He’s fine… If John happens to question him later on, he can simply feign having gone to his mind palace. 

The cause for their moment—his mind blank, Sherlock hurries to correct himself—was a little more difficult to place. John was standing there, last glimmers of sun shining around him, and he’d intended to say something. What it was, though, Sherlock cannot recall. 

(Perhaps, if Sherlock was less robotic, more… poetic, he would have thought John akin to an angel, what with the light that surrounded John like a halo. But, then again, it was John who shone. It was John who dazzled him with that glimmer in his eyes that warmed Sherlock to even the tips of his toes. It was John who filled his mind, his heart, his body, not a single crevice spared. It was always John. Always.)

The car was warm, he was warm. That’s all there was to it. Certainly nothing more. Sherlock winds the window down a fraction more, pointedly ignoring the flurrying of rain and the chill down his spine that intensifies. 

The countryside rolls by, Sherlock practically on autopilot as his mind flashes moment upon moment of John. John laughing, smiling, grinning in response to someone—all the times John gazed or glanced or outright stared at Sherlock when he thought he couldn’t see him. Memories of John flash by, increasing in speed as his mind races. 

Sherlock had flicked the indicator on and was pulling off to the side of the road before the memory of doing so catches up to him. The words John John John are being screamed at him, over and over and over, and oh, how he wishes he could scold himself for not focusing on the case, on something else, on anything that isn’t John. 

The urge to hide away in his mind palace is strong, the temptation almost overpowering him. But despite how desperately he needs the flimsy veil of self-control, Sherlock cannot run the risk of the police catching him without a licence. Mycroft may be the British Government but Sherlock certainly doesn’t want to deal with him if he can help it. 

He starts the car without a further thought, attempting (and failing) to keep his mind trained on the road, to leave his thoughts behind—and if Sherlock happens to add a little more pressure to the accelerator when he feels those thoughts creeping up… well, that’s between him and his mind. 

There is one thought, however, lingering to the side, threatening to pop out of hiding if Sherlock pays it so much as an iota of attention; one that Sherlock smothers whenever it rears it’s head. It’s like a game of Whac-A-Mole. Sherlock poised, tense, ready, the mallet gripped tightly, grooves of the handle familiar. He can sense it coming, can sense the change in atmosphere, the destruction it teases to inflict.  

But even so, it still manages to catch him by surprise. Not the thought, no… Sherlock had already acknowledged it, however uneasily. No, it’s the intensity that startles him, the severity of the realisation that John feels like home. That John is his home. 

That idea sets his nerves on fire more than any treacherous case could. 

The familiar message tone chimes and Sherlock unlocks his phone to read the words Have you spoken to the mother yet?, his lips twitching up. He types a message out one-handed, consisting of Not yet. I’m leaving shortly if you want to tag along as he grabs his coat and strides out onto the street. 

The chill in the air hits his flushed cheeks, draping it’s tendrils around his neck, forcing him to tighten his scarf as he strolls towards Mycroft’s car. It starts with a powerful thrum and Sherlock stretches his fingers around the steering wheel, briefly relishing in the power lying beneath his grip. 

His phone chimes again, the single word Definitely. sending inklings of joy through his bloodstream. He pulls into traffic, maybe breaking a couple of speed limits as he drives to John’s parents’. (He makes a mental note to send Mycroft a text should any speeding fines occur.) 

His mind drifts to thoughts of John, though these days, they never linger far. There’s an almost comfort in it now, in the way it settles in his bones, throughout his whole body, like it’s always lived there. He’s starting to suspect it has. 

The sight of John standing there, waiting for him already, accelerates his heart rate. Then his eyes slide over his body and he takes note of his rigid form, the way he’s holding himself: straight back, eyes straight ahead, hands partially clenched by his side. A duffel bag rests at his feet and is the final piece for Sherlock to know that something’s different, that something happened in the 14 hours since they parted. And it can’t be anything good. 

“Ready?” Sherlock asks when John slides into the passenger seat. He purposely avoids pushing further, not wanting to disrupt the progress they’ve made—it’s only been a day since they’ve properly spoken.

John holds up his own notebook in response, pointedly ignoring both his sister standing on the doorstep with an unreadable expression on her face and Sherlock’s glance towards the bag resting at his feet. “What’s our plan?”

“Just follow my lead.” 

Sherlock puts the vehicle into drive, and they head in a similar direction to yesterday. A wave of relief washes over him when he realises whatever the reason for this change in John has nothing to do with him. He’d been dreading the thought of returning to the silence of 221B on his own after this case is solved, but now, he’s not sure he’ll have to. He makes a mental note to check in on John later.

The hour drive passes with the majority heavily featuring rolling hills and winding roads. Helen’s house is hidden by expansive trees and blooming flowers of practically every kind spread across the front lawn. A blue door is nestled behind an array of pot plants, and a frail woman answers the door when Sherlock knocks. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carter,” Sherlock greets with a warm smile. “We’re with Scotland Yard as part of the investigation surrounding Edythe. We had a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”

There’s a slight sway to her as she strains to look up at his tall figure. She nods shakily, stepping back to guide them to the kitchen and gesturing to the seats. “Please, call me Helen. Can I get you anything? Drinks? Biscuits?”

They kindly decline her offer, and she takes a seat at the kitchen table opposite John, her hands clasped in front of her to still the tremor running down her arm. 

“Mrs. Carter,” John begins gently, before he clears his throat and corrects himself. “Sorry, Helen. Are you sure you’re comfortable speaking more about Edythe? We completely understand if it’s too much for you.”

Helen nods, her throat tight. Her clutch on her handkerchief tightens, her knuckles pale against the vibrant material of her blouse. “It’s all just so confusing…”

John nods solemnly. “We’re truly sorry for the loss you’re going through, again. Let us know at any point if you need a break or want to stop, okay?”

“You’re very sweet, dear.” Helen reaches a hand out, resting it gently atop John’s, her gaze gesturing to Sherlock standing behind him, his arm resting on the chair, just out of reach of John’s shoulder. “He’s lucky to have you.”

John stares at her dazedly for a second before it clicks. He chooses not to deny her assumption but instead offers her a kind smile. He opens his mouth to ask a question, but Sherlock speaks first. 

“We were wondering what Edythe was like as a child.”

There’s a crinkle in her brow as she processes the question. “I don’t understand how that would be part of the investigation.” 

“I noticed the photo frames along the windowsill,” he says in way of an answer. “Just being sure to cover all bases. You never know what could prove useful or give us a new lead.”

Helen follows his gaze, her eyes lingering on the one of Edythe as a baby in the arms of William, her late husband. Under his curious and watchful eyes, she hesitantly starts. “Uh, well, she was rather quiet as a child. Obedient, grades close to perfect. She always aimed to please her father, to live up to his expectations, high as they were.”

“Did she have many friends growing up, or in her adult life?”

“She never really formed close bonds with people, at least as a child, and I don’t think she’d ever had a boyfriend until she met Thomas. Even then, she seemed closed off; always so quiet. Such a contrast to when she was a baby. She would always cry or scream or just sit in her crib, babbling away. She was always constantly waking Agatha up…” There’s a heaviness to her shoulders, the exhaustion of the case weighing her down, unknowingly drawing her guard down. “She kept her personal life private, hardly ever speaking of any issues. Though, there was this one moment, one of the last times I ever saw her, where she’d come to me and insisted that Thomas was abusing her…”

“In what way?”

Helen swallows thickly and dabs at the tears brimming her eyes. “Uh, physically, mostly, but he also made it so she could hardly be alone without him. She said he’d threatened to kill her if she ever tried to leave him.”

“And what did you tell her, or do?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it quickly upon looking at the photo of William. “I, uh, I didn’t get a chance to do anything, because William, my late husband, had just returned home and she rushed out the door…” She clears her throat. “We never saw Thomas after Edythe’s passing, aside from the odd occasion in town or at the cemetery. Can’t say I wasn’t glad. There was always something about him that… unsettled me. Something about his eyes. When the police first told us about Edythe, I was so scared he’d done something to her.”

Sherlock nods, his mind turning at all the pieces of information, forming links. He takes a moment to allow John to absorb the information. “Just before, you mentioned someone, an Agatha. Who was she?”

Helen whips her head up, her mouth agape as her panicked eyes meet Sherlock’s. “I must’ve misspoke.”

“Are you sure?”

She tightens her lips as she nods, her arms withdrawing close to her body, her thumb absentmindedly twisting her wedding ring around. Her eyes flicker again to the photograph of William. “Edythe’s an only child.”

“I never said she wasn’t,” Sherlock adds. “But the way you responded, the phrasing, leads me to believe that’s not correct.”

“I…” Her breath is coming rapidly now, her chest heaving as years of lies and guilt threaten to crash down around her, with William’s eyes watching her like a hawk from the windowsill. John reaches for her hand in an attempt to calm her down, his notebook forgotten on the table.

“Helen,” Sherlock broaches cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal. “I’ve noticed your gaze keeps going back to the photo of your husband, William. You don’t have to hide behind him anymore, to be scared of his controlling ways. Whatever it is, you can tell us. We just want to find out what happened to your daughter, to Edythe, and we can’t do that without you.”

She grips John’s hand tightly, her eyes surveying Sherlock’s face in search of something—of hope, of refuge maybe. Tears drip down her cheeks, a slow but steady stream. “Edythe had a twin sister, Agatha…” she admits through a sob, her voice strained as she continues. “They were so beautiful. I loved them more than anything, the way their little hands grasped mine, and their sweet, innocent eyes…”

“What happened to Agatha?”

“I– It was in the 30’s when the girls were born, during the Great Depression, and William just couldn’t find any work. Some days, we were so hungry. I don’t know how we managed…” Her eyes are downcast at the table, a crease in her brow. “It got so bad that William forced us to give up Agatha. I… He came home from another endless day of searching for work, and he announced he had a solution to all our money problems. I can still picture that horrible smile on his face as he told me he’d found someone to adopt Agatha. I–” She chokes out a sob. “I tried so hard to forget about it, to pretend Agatha never existed, but every day, every single day, I would see her in Edythe. How are you meant to forget someone who never really leaves you?”

“Do you know what happened to Agatha afterwards? Where she ended up?”

She shakes her head pitifully. “I tried asking William a couple of times over the years, but he always said it wouldn’t do anyone any good, especially me. So eventually, I just tried to move on and forget about it all.”

John glances up at Sherlock, then looks back to Helen, to the pale of her face, the shake of hands, of her whole body. He squeezes her hand to draw her attention. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

“Please,” she breathes out shakily. 

John rises from his chair, filling one of the clean glasses resting on the dish rack and placing it on the table. Still standing, he takes the moment to look at Sherlock. He’s unsure whether his brief glimpse was able to convey his theory, even when Sherlock nods at him, but he takes his seat across from Helen and waits for her to look up. 

“How are you feeling now?” he asks gently. 

“Better, thank you. I’d, uh, never told anyone about it—I’d been too embarrassed of how weak I was… am. But I guess I have you to thank for this feeling in my chest,” she says, her hand curled inward. “This lightness. One time, I wrote about it all in a diary, but I guess the wounds were still too fresh for it to have any effect.”

Sherlock takes a seat beside John. “Helen, do you have any idea why Edythe was in that particular building that day?”

She shakes her head, her eyes involuntarily filling with tears. 

“We spoke with Thomas yesterday,” John takes over, “and he said he remembers she’d mentioned going to meet someone, but she never revealed who it was.” He glances at Sherlock, who nods once again, and he presses on. “Do you think there’s a chance Edythe found out about Agatha and somehow tracked her down?”

Her gasp in response rings out throughout the room and a stricken expression falls over Helen’s face. Her hands tremble for a brief moment before stilling as a distant look settles into her features. 

“Piecing together from what you’ve told us, about Agatha and Thomas, I think it’s possible that Edythe discovered your journal entry about Agatha and arranged to meet with her. And when the building collapsed, it was Agatha and not Edythe who got hit and crushed.” John pauses briefly, then hurries to continue, cursing himself for his word choices. “I think with them being twins, and the shock of the situation and the impact on her body, any of the notable differences you might’ve picked up on when identifying her, had the situation been different, were overlooked. The police received positive identification from three different people: you, your husband, and Thomas, and that seemed to be plenty for the case to be closed. I’ve looked through the police report, and they didn’t run any DNA tests or anything further.”

Helen’s quiet; still hasn’t moved except for the rise and fall of her chest, for almost long enough that even Sherlock feels concern begin to rise. She lets out a shaky exhale, and when she speaks, her voice is hushed, practically a mutter to herself. 

“I’ve never been able to live down the guilt of not being able to stand up to William, of knowing that my babies grew up separately, and oh God, I’m the reason she’s dead, aren’t I?” Tears fall down her cheeks, dropping to the table and seep into the linen tablecloth. 

John shakes his head, reaching over again to hold one of her hands. “You couldn’t’ve possibly known, especially with more than twenty years in between.”

“There was… so much blood, the police said. When we went to… identify her,” she says, her throat thickening with the memory, “there was still so much blood in her hair, on her hands. Her beautiful hands… God, how could I not recognise that it wasn’t Edythe’s hands? That it wasn’t her?”

“You were still in shock, faced with the most horrible situation any parent could find themselves in. You can’t blame yourself.” John lets the moment settle before shifting the conversation. “I think that given all you’ve just gone through, it’d be best if we stopped, gave you time to rest and adjust. Do you have anyone we can call for you? A friend, a family member? I don’t think it’s best for you to be alone after learning all this.”

“Uh,” she sniffs, “there’s Beverly next door. She should, uh, she should be home. I…”

John nods and instructs Sherlock to find Beverly. He sits with Helen, holding her hand while they wait for their return. They leave her after promising to return when they’re certain of what occurred on that fateful day and on Edythe’s life afterwards.  

The car holds a chill from where it sat in the shade. Sherlock turns on the car to start the heaters, but leaves it parked as he turns to face John. 

“Now that we know how Edythe was still alive when she supposedly died 52 years ago, the question is what led to her ending up in that suitcase?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I kind of wanted to hear your thoughts. I’m very impressed with your deductive skills back there, the whole piecing together about Agatha and it being her body they discovered.” John opens his mouth and Sherlock rushes to add, “I– I don’t mean that in a condescending way. I just meant that I do value your input and your involvement and–”

“Sherlock, it’s fine,” John says, holding up his hands. “I’m guessing the reason no one ever heard of or from Edythe after the building collapsed is that she used the opportunity to escape and assumed the life of her sister. Helen mentioned about Thomas’s abusiveness so it would’ve been an almost perfect way to get away. It’s the only thing I can think of that makes sense to me.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. “That’s my hypothesis, too. I think we should talk to Thomas again. Maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll divulge about the abuse or if he knew about Agatha or any plan to escape.”

“Is your father in?”

“Uh, no, my aunt’s taken him to the shops,” Ethan stammers out, the sight of the detectives on his doorstep so soon shocking him. “He’ll be back soon, though.”

“Oh, that’s alright, Ethan,” Sherlock says, stepping to the side of Ethan to enter the house. “We also were hoping to talk to you, too.”

Ethan follows along, throwing questioning looks to John a few steps behind him. “Me? Why me?”

Sherlock glances around the lounge room, eyes searching for the pieces of evidence he’d spied yesterday. “Sometimes speaking with a relative can help us solve a case. You know, get their point of view, find out what secrets they may or may not realise they’re hiding, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t have any secrets to hide.”

“Well, if you’re sure… I’ve noticed you’ve been favouring your left leg quite heavily,” Sherlock mentions, drawing John’s attention towards where Ethan had absentmindedly lifted the pant sleeve to scratch at his right shin, revealing a small, slowly healing wound above the ankle. “Nasty injury you’ve got there, Ethan. Looks like you’ve been kicked by, say, the pointed heel of a wedding shoe.” 

Ethan lets out a weak chuckle, the pant sleeve falling back into place as he stands, and he moves towards the kitchen. “Must’ve ran into something hiding amongst the mess of my father’s belongings.”

“Right, right. Like the lone wedding shoe hiding over there, perhaps.” Sherlock follows at a close distance, his eyes memorising the intricate routes between the piles of boxes. “Have you noticed that you tend to ramble, Ethan?”

Ethan’s mouth opens to respond, but instead he just stares, his eyes darting about the kitchen to the points of exit. 

“You rambled quite a bit about how ‘insane’ the whole situation was before your father recounted the supposed last time he saw Edythe, and there’s also the fact that neither John nor myself mentioned how her body had been found, yet you somehow knew she’d been put into a suitcase. Quite interesting.” 

Sherlock glances at John, who nods, moving slightly to guard the exit that leads to the backyard. Sherlock remains in front of the entrance to the living room.

Ethan shrugs with shoulders filled with tension, turning to the sink and filling one of the glasses with water to sip at. The slight shake in his hand jostles the water, and he sets the glass on the basin, crossing his arms instead. “Must’ve read it in the paper or something.”

“That would make sense, if the police had disclosed the details of her discovery to the public. But there’s also the fact that we found Edythe in a wedding dress that’s identical to the dress your mother, Dorothy, wore on her wedding day,” Sherlock says, holding up one of the photographs he’d spied yesterday alongside his phone displaying the pictures of Edythe’s body in the suitcase. 

The blood drains from Ethan’s face, his features distorting with disbelief. “Where’d you get that?”

“From the box titled ‘throw away’.”

“You stole from us?”

“I thought everything in that box was going to be tossed? Besides, you did say I could take the photo. Oh, wait, I must’ve accidentally hidden this photo behind the framed one of your father with Edythe. My mistake.”

It happens in a flash, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it move. Ethan turns towards the sink, John snapping to action, racing to stop him while Ethan’s hand finds a knife lying in the sink. He spins quicker than either had anticipated, seizing John in his tight grip, holding him captive. 

Sherlock’s gaze trails the knife’s edge pressed against John’s throat, his own constricting in fear. He remains where he is, his hands held up to prevent a tragedy. He forces the words out, “Are you alright, John?”, taking in the wide movement of his eyes, the harsh, panicked breaths escaping through the cracks of Ethan’s hand pressed to his mouth.

There’s the minutest of a nod, a reassurance as his breathing settles, and Sherlock feels his worry easing, if only fleetingly. His mind races as he runs through the scenarios that could take place, each second slipping by is a second closer to Ethan acting. He can’t lose John, not like this, not now, not ever. That would be a fate worse than death. 

“How did you find Edythe?” The words rush out of his mouth, catching everyone in the room by surprise, including himself. 

Ethan’s eyes narrow in suspicion, his grip tightening on John as he presses his lips tighter, adamant in his belief this is a ruse. 

“C’mon. You’ve clearly got the upper hand here and this is the one thing I can’t figure out,” Sherlock coaxes. He can practically see the wheels turning in Ethan’s head as he weighs up his options. “It must’ve been by chance that you found her, surely.”

“At the cemetery,” Ethan allows, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, the tone behind his words almost begging for Sherlock to slip up, to give him the opportunity to dig the knife in just that little bit deeper. “We were visiting Mum like we do each month, and Dad spies her a few plots over.”

“What was she doing there?”

“Visiting her father, Dad said. ’Membered when he read ’bout his passing in the paper.” 

“So you approached her and what? Kidnapped her?” Sherlock spies Ethan’s jaw tensing, the simmering rage hiding behind his piercing stare. “Ah, but it wasn’t your idea.”

“Dad’d mentioned over the years how he use’ to be engaged, ’fore he met Mum and all.”

“But why did you believe him? That the lady at the cemetery was his late fiancé? Surely he would’ve mentioned that she’d died.”

“Yeah. I use’ to hate her for how much she’d hurt him. ’Sides, he called out her name and she turned like she’d seen a ghost, which I guess is how Dad must’ve felt. She started to run and he pushed me to get ’er.”

Sherlock nods, pushing to keep his voice level, to placate him. “So you bring her back here and put her in a wedding dress. Why?”

“Dad had this insane idea that he would finally get to marry her.” Disgust is heavy with every word. “Said how that’d show her she’d never’ve been able to hide from ’im forever.”

“You didn’t agree with it, though.”

“Agree with it?” Anger flashes through Ethan, the knife inadvertently piercing John’s skin and drawing a drop of blood, causing him to wince. “It was insane. It was like he was trying to replace Mum. He puts her in Mum’s wedding dress and shoes, starts going on and on ’bout how he’d dreamt of this day for years and tells me to fix her dress while he gets ready. ’S when she started spewing lies upon lies about how he abused her and how the only way she could get away was faking her death and taking the place of her twin sister and all this other crazy shit. And she wouldn’t stop. ‘He hit me constantly’ and ‘threatened to kill me if I tried to leave’ and she just wouldn’t stop so I hit ’er, again and again for all the lies and hurt she caused.”

Ethan’s shoulders tense, the veins in his neck becoming more prominent as anger overflows. “My father was heartbroken after he thought she died. She caused him so much pain, and now she’s telling all these lies about him? I… She couldn’t be allowed to marry him!”

“Ethan,” Sherlock says, taking miniscule steps closer, his hands steady in front of him. “Your father was an abusive man. We spoke with Edythe’s mother, and she told us about how much Edythe had insisted on the abuse she endured at your father’s hands.”

Ethan bristles, his eyes narrowing. “You’re lying.”

“What about your mother?”

“What?” Ethan’s focus faltered, the knife shifting away from John’s neck, but coming back forcefully—a warning for Sherlock to stay where he is. “What about my mother?”

“You were eight when she died, right? You remember their fights, don’t you? Screaming matches that resulted in the police being called numerous times. Don’t you think that if your father is capable of kidnapping a woman he abused decades ago, that he would be capable of killing your mother?”

“No. He wouldn’t do that. He loved her. She killed herself. I remember comin’ home from school and they were still documenting the scene.”

“Your father had killed her and staged it to look like a suicide. Surely you’ve heard the rumors from her friends and–”

The sound of the front door opening echoes throughout the house, cutting through the tension as the slightly unsteady steps of Thomas can be heard as he draws closer. He freezes in place upon entering the kitchen, the sight of his son holding John hostage sobering him. “Ethan? What… What are you doing?”

“They– They came ’round again, saying they had some more questions for you, then this one,” he says, jutting his chin in the direction of Sherlock, “started spouting off about my leg and showing off that picture of Mum in her wedding dress, which I told you we should’ve burned, and then he started talking shit about how you used to hit Edythe and how you killed Mum when it clearly was a suicide and–”

He cuts himself off, his stare at his father filling with despair. Sherlock glances over at Thomas, spies the tiredness around his eyes, the truth seeping through. 

“Son…”

A sharp intake of air fills Ethan’s lungs. “No…”

Thomas’s shoulders droop slightly, the bag in his hand crinkling slightly. “She was gonna take you away from me.”

“No.” Ethan’s grip around John’s mouth loosens, his hand falling against his shoulder, the knife still pressed dangerously against his throat. “You killed her?”

“I couldn’t lose you, too,” Thomas admits, sorrow dripping from his voice. 

“How could you? How could you take her away from me? I was eight! A child!”

The knife shifts from John’s neck, who’s focus had been fixed on trying to calculate the risk involved in moving away, that he misses when Ethan’s entire demeanour slips into one of fury and resentment as he charges at his father. The knife finds a home in the base of his throat, buried to the hilt as their bodies hit the floor, a sickening thump. Blood pools on the ground, a gurgling sound filling the air as Thomas fights for breath. 

John watches in shock, trying to keep his guard up in case Ethan makes for either of them, even when the scene brings forth memories he’s tried to bury: soldiers dying on surgery tables despite his vow to protect them, hands gripping his as fear overtakes them in their last final moments. 

But Ethan remains frozen on the floor as he takes in the sight of his father’s unmoving body. He releases his grip on the knife and lets his body sag as the depth of the situation dawns on him. He doesn’t resist as John grabs his wrists and restrains him. 

The front door flies open then, multiple footsteps pounding the ground, Lestrade’s voice loud as he announces the police’s presence.

“In here, Lestrade!” Sherlock calls. 

“Jesus…” Lestrade breathes out, his eyes taking in Thomas’s lifeless body on the linoleum, a distraught Ethan held in place by John. “What happened?”

“My father’s a murderer, that’s what,” Ethan dejectedly says. 

“As are you,” Sherlock points out.

Lestrade looks between the three of them before settling on Sherlock, his face twisted as he struggles to absorb the scene before him. “Mind filling me in?”

They’re seated on the front step, police milling around as the temperature starts to dwindle. An emergency shock blanket is draped around their shoulders, much to Sherlock’s insistence it’s not required. John holds a tissue against the small cut on his neck, his mind reeling as he thinks over the last few days, analysing everything he thought he knew. “How long had you known Ethan had killed Edythe?”

“Since he first opened the door.”

“What? The moment we met him? You knew and you didn’t do anything? And– wait a minute. How on earth could you possibly have known it was him?”

“Easy. I noticed that he favoured his left leg but not in a way that seemed natural for him, indicating a recent injury, the cause being the wedding shoes they forced Edythe into, which you discovered in the living room. Upon examining Edythe’s body, there were indents on her wrists that matched the design of the ring he’d been twisting anxiously. His rambling was another sign, as well as forcing his father to have his medication when the conversation veered towards his mother. The photograph of Dorothy in the wedding dress was merely the icing on the cake. Lestrade’s always on me to find evidence that even Anderson could understand.”

“Then why on earth did we go through the hassle of speaking with Thomas and Helen and then whatever that mess we just experienced instead of sending Lestrade after him?” Sherlock fixes him with a pointed look, one that says really?, and John sighs. “Because you wouldn’t have been able to sleep if you didn’t figure out how Edythe had been alive after all these years. Right?”

“Precisely.”

“Mind filling me in next time you figure stuff out straight away?” John attempts fruitlessly, already knowing the answer. 

“Ah,” Sherlock grins at him. “But where’s the fun in that, Dr. Watson?” 

John shakes his head, fighting to keep the smile from his face. The front door opens behind them, revealing Lestrade escorting a disheveled Ethan towards the police car. 

“And I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids!” Ethan shouts, a manic chuckle escaping him despite the events that had just unfolded; despite having just killed his father. 

“Kids?” Sherlock turns to John, his eyebrows furrowed, disbelief clouding his features and filling his voice. “We’re very clearly adults. The man commits murder, twice, and he isn’t even able to classify us as the right age.”

“No, Sherlock,” John laughs, an easy one that fills the air with warmth, “he’s quoting Scooby Doo.”

Sherlock cheeks flush slightly and he turns his gaze to the distance, attempting to appear nonchalant. “Oh, right. I knew that.”

“No, you didn’t.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

Sherlock glances out of the corner of his eye and catches the soft smile on John’s face, the mirth in his eyes highlighted by the setting sun. A similar smile adorns his face at the sight, one that stays when John meets his gaze. 

“Right,” Sherlock says when the moment is close to being too much. He gathers his hands. “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling peckish. Dinner?”

John’s smile widens as he recalls the line from after the first case. There had been so much intensity, so much adrenaline pumping through his veins that night; the exhilaration keeping him on his feet. But then he’d looked at Sherlock, and those feelings paled in comparison to what he felt then, to what he feels now. 

“Starving.” 

“I… I really missed you while you were gone.”

The bustle of strangers—of lovers celebrating anniversaries or having their first dates, of friends catching up, of families celebrating birthdays—fills the pub they’ve found, yet the moment between them feels oddly intimate. The soft lighting washes over them, their little booth providing a sense of comfort. 

“Even though it took you, what was it? Five days to notice?” There’s an easy tone to John’s voice, the wine easing any unresolved tension. “I almost want to be offended that it took you that long, but it’s not all that surprising, to be honest.”

“Admittedly it did take me a while to notice, but then it was like a switch had flipped, because after then, I couldn’t stop noticing your absence. The flat’s so quiet without you there, without your singing. I know in the past it’s gotten to me, especially when I’m trying to concentrate, but then I had two weeks without it and that’s infinitely worse.”

“I’ll be sure to do more of that, then.” There’s a tender smile on John’s face, his gaze steady as he stares at Sherlock. “I don’t think I could stand to be away from the city that much, anyway.”

“Too quiet?”

“Too boring.” 

There’s a glint in his eye, an intensity that beckons him closer yet threatens to overwhelm him. The dim lighting washing over them softens John’s features in such a way that Sherlock has to plant his feet to stop himself from leaning in. (He does, however, make a mental note to eat at more soft-lit cafés and restaurants.)

Strangers pass by their table, their own conversations filling in the comfortable lull that’s settled over the pair. They spend the next little while sharing a meal and communicating with unabashed smiles that convey what they’re still a little scared to admit aloud just yet. But maybe, just maybe, their time spent apart and everything that lead to this moment will give them the courage to be a little brave; to say what they’ve kept buried, what they’ve tried to hide from everyone, including themselves. 

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you something…” John trails off. He reaches across the table for Sherlock’s hand, his fingertips feather light, sending chills up his spine. Sherlock’s lips part, his gaze lingering on John, quiet but ultimately captivated. “How does it feel to be wrong?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker a few times in confusion as the question registers. “Wrong? What are you talking about?”

“It was twins. You’ve said it numerous times over the years that it’s never twins.”

It’s a moment before Sherlock speaks. He scans over John’s face, noting the soft crinkle around the corners of his eyes, the warmth behind the gloat, the adoration that’s unmistakable. He leans close, drawing John near with the look in his eye, his voice just a murmur, a mere breath against John’s lips. “I don’t mind being wrong if it means I have you by my side. If... it means I can kiss you.”

“Well, I almost hope you’re wrong more often, then,” John says, closing the distance between them.

Maybe one day, Sherlock thinks, he’ll reveal how John’s absence affected him; how it brought him to his knees and refused to release it’s tight grip on him. Maybe he’ll recite the moments and instances, regardless of how silly he deems them to be, that led him to discover the intensity of his feelings, and how he’d never before experienced emotions that somehow both set him on fire and provided him with comfort. But for now, in this moment, he settles for savouring the feel of John here, in front of him, more connected than they’ve ever been. 

And when he feels John’s thumb brush against his cheek and rest there, gentle and wholly natural, he thinks that maybe this kiss is revealing it for him.