Work Text:
I'm breaking the chain from the life I knew
Sum 41
"Where's Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asked as he entered the morgue.
A man, definitely not Dr. Molly Hooper was sitting at the desk, writing a report.
"On her honeymoon. I'm his replacement."
"Molly got married?" Sherlock asked, frowning.
"Yes, and she warned me that you would forget about it, even if she told you several times."
Sherlock waved a hand in the air: "It was an irrelevant information. Of course I deleted it."
The man stood up from the stool and held out his hand: "I’m John Watson."
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Yes, I know."
In the Empire, everyone knew the offspring of the Holmes clan, a family which held the monopoly on fuel and power, along with the Adler clan. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler had sealed the union between the two clans with their marriage.
Usually an ordinary citizen would have been denied access to the morgue, but in fact, no one would ever deny anything to a member of the Holmes-Adler clan. They were so powerful that even the authorities closed an eye, if they didn’t always respect the law, because they could have left the New British Empire without fuel or power.
John thought it strange that a rich and powerful man, who, like a prince, could have spent his life without doing anything,, was interested in corpses, but perhaps the rumor that all the aristocrats were a bit mad was true. Anyway, Dr. Hooper had warned him that Sherlock Holmes was a very particular man.
"Do you have some fresh corpses?"
"Yes, but…"
"What?"
"A man hit by a train, but it’s very gory."
"It's perfect: I haven’t yet had the chance to study that kind of wound."
"As you wish," John answered, opening one of the cells.
*
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked the next day, while he was examining necrotic tissue under a microscope.
"Afghanistan,” John muttered hostilely. “Did you question the Healthcare Director about me?"
"No, I deduced it."
John crossed his arms across his chest: he didn’t believe him. How could Holmes have deduced his military past? No, in spite of the privacy policy, he could have read about his post-traumatic stress disorder and his psychosomatic issues on his file.
His idea, however, crumbled a few moments later, when Sherlock explained to him how he had done his deductions, including many details on John’s life that weren’t on his file.
John had never known a man like Sherlock; he was extraordinary.
He told him.
Sherlock smiled.
*
On the third day, John put a paper bag next to the microscope: there were a sandwich and a cup of tea in it.
"I noticed that when you're here, you don’t eat and you never drink. Not good," John said, answering Sherlock's questioning look.
"... thank you," Sherlock replied hesitantly.
Usually, it was his stomach that reminded him that he absolutely had to introduce some nutrients into his body No one did it for him, not even his wife or their butlers, who had been working for them for seventeen years.
Nobody cared if he fed himself properly or fell unconscious to the ground because he had neglected his body too much.
But it took John only three days to start taking care of him.
“You’re welcome.”
*
"Why are you a coroner? A man with your experience could aspire to be a surgeon."
John extended his left hand in front of him.
It was shaking.
"It's psychosomatic," Sherlock told him.
"That's what my therapist says: that I have to learn to adapt to civilian life, and the tremor is a sign that I'm not succeeding."
"Your psychologist is an idiot. She’s wrong."
John shrugged.
"That’s the best that NHS offers to ordinary people, you know."
Sherlock was struck by his statement, but John wasn’t surprised: the Holmes-Adler clan has plenty of money, and they could afford the best doctors; they had no idea what life was like for those who weren’t like them.
They belonged to another world, John thought regretfully.
"Anyway, why do you say that my psychologist is wrong?"
"You were born to live on a battlefield, and if you can’t go back to Afghanistan, we'll find another one here."
"What do you mean?"
"Where do you keep the bodies that nobody claims?"
"In another room, why?"
"Let’s go."
There were invisible people in the Empire, people nobody cared for, whose murders were unsolved, because the police force was constantly understaffed and government funds were channeled elsewhere.
They wouldn’t have stepped on anyone's feet if they investigated those murders. And this would give John his battlefield.
"This man has been poisoned," Sherlock said, pointing to a corpse lying on the metal table.
"Yes, I know,” John replied, scrolling through the medical record, “but what can we do?"
"Find out who the killer is."
"It seems dangerous," John murmured, licking his lips.
"It is. Are you with me?"
"I’m ready when you are."
"And it’s done," Sherlock exclaimed with satisfaction, writing the report on the murder of the poisoned man.
"It's perfect, but what do we do now? According to law, private citizens can’t conduct private investigations on their own, without prior authorization from police."
"I’ll send all the evidence to the police anonymously. They only have to arrest the culprit, without having to spend time and resources to find him."
"What if they find out it was you?"
"It will not happen, I will move through the Dark Web."
"All right, I trust you," John said, handing him a cup of hot, strong coffee.
Sherlock smiled.
"Have you seen?"
"What?"
"Your hand doesn’t shake anymore."
"You are right!” John exclaimed, looking at it as if he was seeing it for the first time. “I don’t understand... "
"Adrenaline: that’s what you need. I was right."
"Wait, are you saying that you set up this… this investigation... for me?"
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
Sherlock couldn’t answer to that: he didn’t know why he had taken John's fate so seriously- he, who had never been interested in anyone.
"I don’t know," he replied candidly.
"You're a strange man, Sherlock Holmes," John said, looking fondly at him.
*
"Where will you go when Molly returns from her honeymoon?"
"To swell the ranks of the unemployed, until I find a clinic willing to hire me as a GP,, I assume," John replied, and a shadow of sadness crossed his face.
Sherlock frowned, realizing that this was unacceptable to him. He didn’t want to give up the hours he spent in the morgue with John, and the joy he felt when they were investigating a murder, or just standing there talking.
He had to find a solution immediately.
*
John greeted him with a beaming smile.
"It looks like I will be working here for good."
"Oh?"
"Didn’t you hear the news? There was a cut in funds to Middlesex Central hospital, and they closed their morgue. This hospital took care of it and it has hired me. I will alternate my shifts with Dr. Hooper."
"Good for you."
"Indeed."
*
"Do you have something to do tonight?"
"I never have anything to do in the evening."
"Then, would you like to go out with me? Let's go to the pub to see Scotland vs. England."
"To... see what?"
"Rugby!" John exclaimed, but Sherlock's expression was blank. "Match! Sport! Have you ever heard of one of these words?"
"No."
"Oh, so I guess you don’t care,” John sighed, scratching the back of his head. “Besides, the pub is a place for ordinary people, and I don’t think you..."
"NO!” He replied precipitously. “I’ll come... I’ll willingly come."
He hated when John emphasized the class differences between them, because in those moments he felt very distant from him, and he didn’t want to feel that way.
*
Sherlock had just came back home with Irene, after a forced visit to her parents, and was about to undress, when John sent him a message.
"I think I have another murder case."
"I'll be right there.
SH "
He left the house again without saying a word to his wife, who looked at him thoughtfully.
*
"Careful Sherlock, that acid is corrosive!" John cried, seeing that some liquid had leaked from the container onto the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt.
He rushed to tear off his sleeve and put his arm under the water, carefully checking that the skin wasn’t damaged, then wiped it and wrapped in a bandage to be safe.
"Bloody hell, you must be careful when handling chemicals," he scolded him again.
"Why do you care so much?"
John frowned.
"What kind of question is this? I'm your friend, so I worry about you."
"We are friends? Really?" Sherlock asked slowly.
"After all this time, I hope so. Unless you don’t want..."
"Of course I want it!"
John laughed, because Sherlock had raised his voice.
"I don’t understand why you react like that, though. I mean, you have so many friends..."
"No. You're wrong. The people you see in the photos with me on newspapers and magazines are relatives, work assistants, middle men, people who beg the Holmes-Adler clan for favours, but there isn’t any friend among them. I have no friends. Indeed, no-” he looked John in the eyes and smiled, “I only have one. "
John tightened his grip on Sherlock's arm: he was saddened by the fact that he lived in solitude, surrounded only by profiteers, but he was happy to be seen as a friend by Sherlock.
"It's a privilege."
"As it is for me, John."
*
"I'd like to ask you something: isn’t your wife annoyed?" John asked, holding out his usual lunch bag.
"About what?" Sherlock asked, without looking up from the microscope, as he reached out to take the bag.
"About you always being here. I don’t know… doesn’t she feel neglected?"
"Neglected by whom?"
"By you, of course! You're her husband," John exclaimed, exasperated by Sherlock's dullness.
Holmes just shrugged: "I don’t think so. We never talk to each other, even when I'm at home. And even then, she has other interests that keep her busy."
"Really? Yet when paparazzi take a picture of you two together, you look like a beautiful couple in love."
Sherlock was troubled at his words, and John backpedaled hastily.
"Sorry, it's none of my business: I have been inappropriate and intrusive."
John got up from the stool to walk away, but Sherlock held him by the arm. He bit his lip, as if he were making an important decision, and then took a deep breath.
"Irene and I are gay; our marriage is just a sham."
John gaped at him, shocked by the revelation: he would never have thought that the most photographed and envied couple of the Empire was actually a lie.
"It was our families who decided we had to get married, when we were only sixteen, for mere economic and political interests. My sexual orientation or Irene’s don’t matter to them, and anyway, we’re both closeted. In families like ours, homosexuality wouldn’t be accepted."
"God, that’s horrible," John murmured, taking his hands. "I'm so sorry."
"I know. We are the thread that keeps the two clans together, and they would never allow us to get divorced, but Irene and I soon realized that we felt nothing for each other, so I proposed this solution: that we act before our relatives and the press, pretending to be the perfect couple, but in private we do what we want, with whomever we want."
"So you two haven’t...? Not even once?"
Sherlock grimaced, as if the thought deeply disgusted him.
"Okay, got it,” John laughed. “Well, I don’t know what to say, except that you have found a brilliant solution for both of you."
He felt relieved by Sherlock's revelations, and he didn’t understand why.
Or maybe he did.
At the end of the day, Sherlock put on his coat and hesitated on the threshold of the morgue.
"John?"
"Hm?"
"Nobody knows that my marriage is a sham."
"I see. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me."
*
"Oh, hello, Sherlock, it's good to see you again. By now I thought you’d forever deserted me for John," Molly joked.
"You are married," Sherlock began, without answering her greeting.
"Yes, for four months now."
"Are you happy?"
"Yes, very."
Sherlock looked at her, deduced that she was telling the truth, and nodded.
"Very well, because I have to know something, and I can’t ask John."
"All... all right," she replied hesitantly.
"How did you understand that you were in love?"
"Sherlock, why are you asking me this question? You're married too; you should know."
"Please, Molly, answer me."
"It's very simple,” the girl brought a lock of hazel hair behind her ear and smiled, “He becomes the core of your life, when you're with him you feel better, you think of him at any time of day, you find every excuse to call him and hear his voice, or to spend time with him, and when you think about your future, he’s there. Obviously, it's different from person to person, but for me it was like that, and... Sherlock, where are you going?"
Holmes left the building and walked through the streets of London.
Since he had entered the morgue and had seen him, John had become a fixed point in his thoughts and in his world: he loved spending as much time as possible with John, and when they weren’t together, he thought about what they would do when together again. When he was at home and he looked up at Irene, his wife, he longed for John to be there.
So it was like that: he was in love with John Watson.
*
"Good morning Sherlock,” John greeted him when he entered the morgue. “Today I have a charred body. I seem to remember that you've never seen one. He was found in an alley... Sherlock, are you alright?"
Sherlock stepped steadily toward him, ignoring John’s personal space, then took his head in his hands, and kissed him.
Surprised, John dropped the folder he was holding, but he didn’t step back, and after a brief hesitation, he responded to the kiss, even though he placed a hand on Sherlock's chest and gently pushed him away after a while.
"We can’t- you're married," he murmured, lowering his head, even though he wanted it with every fiber of his body.
"I told you, it's a sham."
"But..."
It was complicated, it was a fucking mess. Even if Sherlock's marriage was a farce, it was legal, and homosexuality was looked down upon in the Empire.
"But you are a Holmes, while I am just..."
"You are everything, John."
John shook his head: "This is flattering, but..."
"I have that answer now."
"What answer?"
"Some time ago you asked me why I was doing something for you, and the answer is this."
He kissed John again, and this time John held him.
*
Kate stroked Irene's bare back as she got out of bed.
"Do you have to go already?"
"Kate..."
"I know, I know, your house is on the other side of the city. But, since you say that Sherlock is never there, we could stay at your place, from time to time."
"No, it’s out of question. Our house is off limits, for the sake of our sham; our relatives are used to visiting us, unannounced, and it would be awkward to explain to them what we do, don’t you think?"
"You have a point," she sighed.
"Let us be content with what we have."
"Are you really happy with it?"
"The alternative would be having nothing."
"You're right," Kate admitted. "Remember to thank your husband from me."
"Oh, no one is more pleased than him of our agreement: if he had a wife who forced him to respect marital duties, I think he would have committed suicide."
"Did he never touch you? Really?” She asked, kissing Irene’s shoulders. “It seems impossible to me that he could resist you."
"Well, yes: Sherlock is the only stain on my curriculum."
In the past, Irene had tried to seduce him, not because she was in love with him, but because it was in her nature to be a dominatrix and subdue anyone around her. But Sherlock had been so unresponsive to her advances and physical approaches that it had been humiliating, so she had admitted the defeat, and enthusiastically approved Sherlock's idea of living separate lives behind the appearance of a perfect marriage.
*
"Sherlock, wake up," John said, gently shaking him by the shoulder.
"Just another minute," he muttered, hiding his head under the pillow.
"I have to go to work, and you haven’t been home for almost two days."
Sherlock grumbled: if they lived in a better world, free from bonds and pressure from the clans, they could live together under the sun, go to work, on holiday, anywhere, always together, without worries...
Instead, they had to hide and avoid the paparazzi, because the Holmes clan would do anything to part them.
"I know," John whispered, stroking his hair. "In time, we'll find a way, I promise."
"You only say that to make me get up."
"I say it because I would like for it to be true. There is nothing I want more."
*
"Are you still in your pajamas?” Irene shouted, hands on her hips, at the sight of her husband lying on the couch. “They are expecting us at the Hilton in less than an hour."
"I don’t want to go," Sherlock answered, turning on his side: he had always hated the grand meetings of their clans, and he joined them with the glee of a prisoner sentenced to death. But that year was worse than usual, because his heart wanted be elsewhere.
He would give up all the comforts, the privileged position in the society, and the wealth he possessed to escape from that world, and live a simple life in the small studio apartment in the suburbs with John.
He just wanted to wake up with John by his side every morning of his life.
"You know it's not possible. Cousin Annette is coming, and she is undergoing chemotherapy,” Irene insisted. “I'll find an excuse to leave soon, but we have to go. You know that there will be consequences if we don’t show up."
Sherlock got up from the sofa, sighing, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Irene looked at him, narrowing her eyes: she knew that her husband hated these meetings, but she had never seen him so annoyed, and was immediately worried.
The driver opened the door of the car, and Sherlock looked at the luxurious hotel, where many clan members had already arrived.
He mused that if a missile had fallen on the building and killed all of them, he wouldn’t have shed a single tear . Indeed it would have been a good riddance. He couldn’t feel affection for people who had always considered him merely a pawn for their plans, and had decided on his destiny from the day of his birth.
Sherlock Holmes had married Irene Adler at the age of sixteen, and their marriage had created the most important oligarchical group of the Empire, the Holmes-Adler clan. Their relatives had carefully watched over their marriage, because it was the basis of their alliance, regardless of the eventual unhappiness of the spouses.
And, as he took Irene by the arm and smiled at the photographers, Sherlock was deeply unhappy.
Sherlock nodded to his brother Mycroft: he was the one relative Sherlock bore, and he believed that Mycroft hated their family, too. But unlike him, Mycroft had carved out a position in the government for himself, and was willing to accept some compromises in the name of peace and the maintenance of his status.
Which Sherlock no longer thought he could do, after meeting John.
Anthea, Mycroft’s wife, came forward and greeted them. She was pregnant again. What was this, fourth or fifth child? He had lost count by now.
"Prepare yourself,” Anthea said, “the next one is up to you."
"What?" Irene asked.
"Sherrinford has decided that it’s time to have a new generation of Holmes-Adler; he has been talking about it for a while."
Sherlock pursed his lips, feeling overwhelmed by a wave of nausea: their parents were very old and had long since retired from business, leaving everything in the hands of Sherrinford, the elder brother, who made decisions not only for the family companies, but also for the lives of clan members.
And it was unbearable for Sherlock, by now.
Once seated at the table, it was immediately clear to Sherlock that Sherrinford had targeted him.
"Sherlock, you came last as usual,” he sighed, shaking his head in disapproval. “You absolutely must change, because this is not the example that a father gives to his children."
And again, when Sherlock refused all the dishes that were placed in front of him, "How do you hope to convince your children to eat, if you are so whimsical in the first place? Irene, tell him something."
Irene, who, in front of her family, played the part of the beautiful but brainless doll, laughed foolishly and didn’t answer.
"Well, fortunately the Holmes-Adler clan can hire the best nannies in the Empire."
"Your children and those of Mycroft are not enough for you? Are you trying to put together a football team?" Sherlock barked. He had enough of that, his brother, everyone .
"I am thinking about our clan, something you seem disinterested in: you and Irene have been married for seventeen years. You must start to think about contributing to the next generation, for the sake of our alliance."
"And what are you going to do, Sherrinford? You're going to force us to fuck?" Sherlock cried, and everybody around him just froze .
"Lower your voice," hissed his brother, becoming purple in the face.
"No, Sherrinford, I'm really curious to know what you're going to do: take my penis and force it into Irene's vagina?"
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock got up and left the salon without saying a word: he shouldn’t have lost his temper, but he couldn’t stand it anymore, he couldn’t bear to have his brother manipulate his life.
In the garden in front of the hotel, Mycroft was smoking a cigarette.
"If you want to play against Sherrinford,” he said, when his brother passed behind him, “you must have a faultless plan, or he will destroy you."
"I know," Sherlock murmured, without stopping.
He had to think and he had to do it quickly: Sherrinford would ask questions about the state of his marriage, after his outburst, and would investigate.
He and John had been prudent, their relationship was a secret, but his brother had very powerful means to discover secrets.
Mycroft was right: he had to anticipate his brother’s every possible move.
Irene walked briskly into the house and into the room on the top floor that Sherlock used as his personal laboratory: her husband spent most of the time there, and had a cot where he slept. In fact she found him lying there.
"What the hell has gotten into you? Do you realize that your outburst threatens to destroy our facade?"
"Go away, Irene, I'm thinking."
"Oh my god, you're in love, aren’t you?" Irene sighed, sitting in a chair, and she had the face of someone preparing to deal with an out-of-proportions disaster.
"What if I am?"
"You're really in love," she pressed, taking the base of her nose between her fingers. "I was hoping this day would never come."
"Do you think you’ve ground to speak?"
"You and I are very different: I can be content with what I have and I stay within the limits, but for you it’s either black or white, all or nothing."
"Is that so wrong?"
"You will lose, Sherlock. You will lose and you will hurt yourself."
*
The next evening, Sherrinford showed up at Sherlock's house.
"Where's Irene?"
"At the cinema, at the theater, I don’t know."
"Is that how you care about your wife?"
"She's an adult woman who can take care of herself."
"More than you, for sure."
Sherrinford threw some photos on the table: they portrayed Sherlock and John under the snowfall, throwing snowballs at each other, and kissing.
Sherlock blanched and felt like he was suffocating: he thought he had more time;, he didn’t believe that Sherrinford could discover them so quickly.
But it was all his fault: he was the one who instilled doubts into his brother the night before, at dinner: he should have controlled himself, as Irene said.
"Care to explain, Sherlock?"
"There's nothing to explain, except that I'm sick of being considered a puppet in your hands."
"Individuals don’t count, only the clan counts, you should know. Our family has made you marry Irene Adler for a very specific reason, having the monopoly on fuel in the New British Empire: we will never allow you to divorce on a whim . Not to mention that the Empire's position on homosexuality is very clear. Don’t you care about the scandal that would overwhelm our family?"
"No, I don’t care about any of you."
"Well, I will make you care."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you want John Watson to live? Then you will have to stop seeing him immediately."
"Not even a member of the Holmes-Adler clan is so far above the law: you would end up in jail for murder."
"I’m not stupid- of course I would not do it in person."
"I would expose you, I'm much better than you at this."
"But you're alone, while I have the whole clan behind me: do you really want to put Watson's life at stake?"
No, he couldn’t. He had to protect John at all costs: that was the main point of his plan.
"I will tell you this only once, Sherlock: starting from tomorrow, you will stop with your games as a private detective, with distractions, with that man: you will come to work for me, like all our relatives, in our family business, or the death of John Watson will be upon you."
"You can’t force me to do something I hate."
"Yes, I can and I will : you have duties towards your clan, even if you have behaved like a spoiled child and ignored them- but now I have decided that it’s enough: I will force you to grow up, little brother, and to behave like a Holmes."
"I'm not your pawn, Sherrinford."
"Yes, you are."
"You don’t want to challenge me."
"You have no weapon to threaten or blackmail me, while I have many. I'll wait for you in the office tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. And I expect a new nephew by the end of the year," he said, leaving the room.
"Remember my words, Sherrinford. You will regret this."
"I don’t think so."
As soon as the door closed behind him, Sherlock took action.
John awoke with a start, hearing someone violently knocking on the door, put on his trousers, and opened the door.
"John!” Sherlock grabbed him by the arms, “are you okay?"
"It's three o'clock in the morning, I could ask you the same."
"Listen, I don’t have much time, and you don’t, either: your plane leaves in two hours."
"P-plane, what plane? I don’t understand…"
Sherlock kissed him almost desperately, thinking it would be the last time for a long time.
John answered the kiss, but when he felt Sherlock tremble, he looked at him in alarm.
"Sherlock, what's going on?"
"Forgive me John, it's my fault... I couldn’t bear it anymore."
"Oh, your family knows about us, don’t they ?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, I talked too much, and my brother Sherrinford found out."
"No!” John took his face in his hands, “you didn’t do anything wrong. They’re the ones who treated you inhumanly for all your life."
"But now you're in danger."
"I've been to war; I'm ready to face anything."
"No, this time it would be too dangerous, and if you stay here, I couldn’t protect you. But if I know that you’re safe, I can carry out my plan."
"But you would be in danger, too."
"No, don’t worry: my brother's weakness is that he would never raise a finger against me, for the sake of the clan, and this will be my weapon, because I’ll do, John. I’ll hurt him, if necessary.
John was torn: he didn’t want to leave Sherlock, not only because he was in love with him, but because he would be leaving him alone to fight something huge.
Anyway, in those months he had learned to know him and he knew he had extraordinary resources. Besides, Sherlock was right: the Holmes clan would have made him disappear in a flash. He was nobody, and he couldn’t beat them. Only a Holmes could beat another Holmes.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, John."
"All right, but I’m not happy about it and I still feel like a coward.”
“Please don’t talk like that,” Sherlock said, hugging him tight. “If something happened to you because of me, I would never forgive myself. So, if you love me, you must trust me and follow my plan."
“What should I do?"
Sherlock handed him an envelope containing some money and two air tickets.
"The first ticket is for the Neutral Territory of Swiss Overseas Islands," he explained. "From there, you'll take another plane to the New Canadian Republic. The flights leaving the Swiss Territory aren’t traceable and my family will not find you. In the Republic, I know someone through the Dark Web, you will find a letter of references waiting for you when you arrive, so you can resume your work in the hospital of the Capital."
John took the envelope and nodded slowly.
"But why don’t you come with me?"
"Because my family wouldn’t let me go right now, I’m still too important to them, so I’ve to do something to persuade them to let me go."
"Is this your plan?"
"Yes, but it will take time and..." Sherlock stopped and sighed.
"What's up?"
"Nothing."
"No Sherlock, I don’t want to leave, if there’s something unspoken between us."
"I want to get free from the strings that keep me tied to my family, and I’ll do everything I can to reach you as soon as possible, but they’re very powerful, and I don’t know how long it will take. A year, maybe more, and I know I can’t ask you to wait for me all this time, you have your life and..."
"I'll wait for you," John replied, "I'll wait for you all my life if necessary, I swear. My life will begin when our life together will begin, not before."
"John..."
"I love you, Sherlock, and I'll wait for you."
Sherlock helped him packi his suitcase, kissed him one last time, and watched him get in a cab and leave, until he disappeared in the dark night.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, and headed for Scotland Yard's headquarters.
*
Irene looked at her husband, sitting in the shower with his clothes still on, soaked like a black kitten abandoned in the rain. It was clear what he was doing: he let the tears merge with the water, so they went unnoticed.
She crossed her arms to her chest and sighed: she felt sorry for him, Sherlock had the idea of an open marriage, and had allowed her to have the life she wanted.
Unfortunately, he had decided to challenge a mountain, and he had lost.
"I warned you. You pulled the leash too much and now they will punish you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you: I told you that you had to be satisfied with what we had and keep on with our sham. But you wanted to believe you were free, and now you will pay."
Sherlock raised a feverish look to her, a look that Irene had never seen before, and for the first time in seventeen years, she was afraid of him.
"The war has just begun, Irene. And in this regard, I warn you to think carefully about which side you want to line up for, because I will stop in front of nothing."
"I'm not stupid: I don’t take any side, I build a bunker and wait until the war is over, then I decide what to do."
"That’s a good strategy. Just remember not to get in my way."
Irene nodded and put a towel on the floor before leaving the bathroom.
"Get out of there before you catch pneumonia."
*
Getting up at 8 a.m., having breakfast, waiting for the car, getting to the office, sitting at the computer, working, having lunch break, resuming work, leaving the office, going home, lying down in bed.
One day, then two, then a week, a month, two, a routine that repeated itself without any variation, always the same gestures performed with the cadence of a metronome.
People watching him from afar only saw that: for everyone, Sherlock Holmes was a work machine without a soul who never smiled, never got distracted, and didn’t talk to anyone except about work issues, and only if it was strictly necessary.
His colleagues were frightened, his bosses breathed a sigh of relief, because they believed that he would be difficult to manage. Instead, he turned out to be as meek as a little lamb.
But only because that was what Sherlock wanted them to think of him.
*
Five months. One hundred and fifty days.
"Green energy," Sherlock said at the breakfast table, when the waitress had finished clearing.
"Beg your pardon?" Irene answered, looking up from her phone.
"They say green energy is the future, and oil is the past. You have enough share of profits to be able to invest in this sector. You could even buy whole companies."
"I could. But should I?"
"In these years, have I ever given you bad advice, or done anything to harm you?"
"No,” she conceded, then looked into his eyes, worried, “Sherlock, what are you scheming?"
"I told you, Irene. I'm at war. "
"You haven’t given up yet, then?"
"No."
Irene drank her tea and shrugged.
"Do what you want, I will not be the one to stop you."
"Do you consider Anthea a friend of yours?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
"Yes,” she answered slowly, “I like her, she's a good friend."
"Then you should advise her to invest her and Mycroft’s money in green energy, too."
*
Seven months and three weeks. Two hundred and twenty-nine days.
The next one wouldn’t have been different.
Sherrinford was there for a board meeting, and joined Sherlock in the cafeteria during lunch break, sitting in front of him.
Sherlock didn’t greet him and continued to chew an apple slowly.
Sherrinford drummed his fingers on the table, then sighed and shook his head in a paternalistic manner.
"You’re still so childish... can’t you admit I was right?"
Sherlock didn’t answer.
"Whatever, the facts speak for themselves: you came to work here, exactly as I had decided."
Sherlock finished the apple and wiped his hands in the napkin, without looking at him.
"And the results of your work are so good, I will close an eye to your rudeness, and also to the fact that John Watson is nowhere to be found in the whole Empire, but I suppose he's not here anymore. Where is he, New Canadian Republic? Austral Kingdom?"
Sherlock took a sip of water and put the bottle into his suitcase.
"It doesn’t matter, he's far from here and it's enough for me. Oh, and for your information, the board has decided to increase your already high salary and benefits."
Sherlock looked at his watch and stood up, without saying goodbye to his brother.
"Remember, I'm still waiting for a happy announcement in a few months."
*
It had taken a little more that one year, three hundred and ninety-seven days to be precise, but now everything was ready.
"Get ready, it will happen tomorrow," Sherlock told Irene one night, and the woman jumped in surprise: in that last year Sherlock had spoken so few times, that she had almost forgotten the sound of his voice.
"Getting ready for what? Sherlock?" She asked, raising her voice when he didn’t answer.
"For the battle that will end the war."
"I don’t understand: during this year, you didn’t do anything, except to obey your brother's orders."
"Oh, I was very good, then, if I even deceived you."
"Sherlock, what did you do?"
"I hope you have invested your money in green energy, as I suggested."
"Obviously I covered my back, but now you're scaring me."
"For some reason that’s incomprehensible to me, you are fond of your parents, so I made sure to hit almost exclusively the Holmes clan, although I can’t rule out some side effects. And some members of your clan can’t be called good people, you know."
Sherlock handed her a blue folder; Irene opened it, read the papers, and twisted her mouth in a skeptical grimace.
"The divorce papers... what makes you think that my family or yours will consent?"
"Because what will happen tomorrow will have such repercussions that my family will disown me, and yours, and to save the little reputation it still has, will cut off all bonds with the Holmes clan."
"Don’t you think about me? If we divorce, my parents will want me to marry someone else."
"Are you telling me that a dominatrix like you isn’t able to find a puppet to be maneuvered at her will, and manipulate her parents into convincing them to let you marry him?"
"Is this what you think of me?" Irene asked, in a falsely offended voice.
"Yes, and I'm sure you and Kate will have fun looking for the ideal candidate."
*
"Ma’am! Ma’am, please wake up," the maid whimpered, kneeling beside Irene's bed.
"What's going on? Is the house on fire?" She answered, pushing back the covers: never, in seventeen years of service, had Clarice woken her up early .
"Oh ma’am, a terrible thing. Your husband…"
"He really did something big, after all" she murmured, wearing her powder pink chiffon robe.
She went into the living room and, at first, she thought that there was a violent thunderstorm with a lot of lightning, but then she realized that they were flashes of a camera.
"What…"
"Be careful not to get too close to the window, if you don’t want to see a photo of you without makeup in the newspapers," Sherlock told her laconically, as he watched the news.
Irene just peeped from behind the curtain and started: there were dozens, perhaps hundreds of photographers gathered around their villa, like a medieval army besieging a fortress.
She moved away from the window and took the remote control, raising the volume of the tv: a reporter was saying that Sherlock Holmes had worked for more than a year under cover, under the command of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard to bring to light all the crimes committed by his own clan: bribes, corruption, boycotting of competitors, tax evasion, environmental crimes.
All the papers gathered by Sherlock Holmes were already in the hands of the judges and, since dawn, search warrants and arrests were being carried out through the Empire. Sherrinford Holmes was already at Scotland Yard, while several members of the Adler clan were releasing interviews. They were distancing themselves from the other clan, and claiming to know nothing about their crimes, but many of them were likely to be involved in the investigation.
Irene turned off the television and sat down in front of her husband: even if Sherlock had provided her with a good parachute, what he had done would have enormous repercussions not only on his clan, but on the whole Empire.
"All this for an ordinary former soldier? Is he really worth it?"
"Yes, he is."
"I was right, then."
"On what?"
"You really are in love."
"I am."
His phone rang, and Sherlock smiled.
"It’s my mother: I think she wants to announce my disowning. And with this, I am free."
*
As soon as Sherlock crossed the exit gate of the airport, he found himself in John's arms.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..." John sang his name for long minutes, holding him tight.
And Sherlock, after resisting stoically for a year, after having forced himself not to think about John (or he would have gone mad), after enduring a job he hated and having spent countless sleepless nights gathering evidence against his family, collapsed on the floor.
"Easy, easy," John urged him, taking his face in his hands. "Are you okay?"
"Now, yes."
"I wanted to be by your side,” John murmured kissing his forehead, “but I thought of you every day."
"Me too: the thought of being able to reach you is what made me resist, day after day."
"Can you get up?"
"Yes."
"Then let's go. Our life is waiting for us."