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When Lestrade was younger, his father told him fairy tales.
As a boy, he eagerly awaited the evening, when his mother would tuck him into bed and his father would open the big, old fairytale book with the red letters. Lestrade loved the stories about beautiful princesses, dangerous dragons, evil witches and heroic knights. These are very fond memories and he still remembers the cover of the fairytale book. It showed Snow-White, her long dark hair spread out on a pillow, her eyes closed and her hands holding flowers. The seven dwarves standing around her, bowing their heads in their shared grief and of course the Prince, kneeling down next to his princess, preparing for one final kiss.
Lestrade looked down at the glass casket in front of him. A few officers were also in the room, frozen in shock. Sally and Stella were handcuffing the two murderers, who had waited for the arrival of Scotland Yard. Everyone seemed to wait for something, but for what?
‘Oh, right.’ Lestrade realized. I am supposed to do something. Tell the murderers their rights, like he had done dozens of times before. Tell someone to call the paramedics for the victim. Call in Anderson. Look through the crime scene for more proof.
However, Lestrade could not do any of that. For the first time, he allowed himself to look closer at their victim. Like Snow-White, he was laying in a glass casket, with lots of flowers around him and in his hands. Deathly pale and with no movement whatsoever, he appeared almost to be sleeping.
Lestrade sank down to his knees and put his hands on top of the casket. Just one minute of weakness, he promised himself. Only one minute, then he can continue being the strong one.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” One of the murderer, the sister, says to her brother. “We have chosen well.”
“Sir!” Someone from forensic is sprinting up the stairs disrupting his virgil. Lestrade looks up. It is Gregson, and he is holding his phone.
“Sir, I just received a call. He is coming up the stairs, I don’t know who told him that there has been another murder, but he is coming up the stairs.”
Shit.
Now Lestrade can hear the quick steps of one of his closest friends, someone who still believes this to be a regular crime scene, just another link in their latest serial killer case. Lestrade wishes he could continue his friends illusion, the detective inspector wishes he could give him more time before his friend’s whole life was about to crash down around him.
He turns back to his other close friend, who is oblivious to all the surrounding action.
“I am so sorry. I failed you.” Lestrade whispers before standing up. His one minute was over, he could continue to grief when the case is wrapped up. For now, he had to ruin someone’s life.
10 hours before
Sherlock was waiting at the restaurant table for his parents. It was a nice Chinese restaurant, only a street away from the hotel they are staying in. He nervously played with his wine glass, running his fingers over the glass rim. Sherlock wished John was here, but he had been close to drop dead into bed after a ten-hour emergency shift in his stupid clinic. He still could have needed his best friends for this. It was Sherlock’s first meeting with his parents since Mycroft’s funeral two weeks ago, and it was bound to be emotional and therefore difficult.
“Hello, darling.” His mother greeted him with a smile, his father close behind.
Sherlock got up swiftly and gave her an awkward hug and greeted his father with a handshake. He had promised himself to make more of an effort as his parent’s only surviving child.
They all sat down and a waitress handed them three menus.
“So, how is John?” His father asks.
“He is fine. He had a hard day at the clinic, he did not say but I assume at least two children threw up on him, so he wished to go to bed early.”
His mother perked up: “Does this mean you and John finally got your act together?”
Sherlock snorted.
“What does that even mean? He is back at home, where he belongs, and we are best friends. That has to be enough.”
“Oh, darling.” His mother repeats and tries to put her hand on top of his. Sherlock pulls his arm away.
“Don’t tease the boy, Violet.” His father says. “Just this morning we read about this new serial killer in The Guardian. Are you working on it?”
The waitress arrives and takes their order. Sherlock chooses dumplings, spring rolls and noddles, his mother and father both take the duck with fried rice and lots of soy sauce.
They continue their conversation.
“Lestrade called us on it right after Scotland Yard found the first victim.”
“The reporter said they are calling him a dark wizard, because he designs his crime scenes like fairytales.”
“The murderers are actually siblings, a sister and a brother, and after the whole…” Sherlock swallows and notices his mothers eyebrow twitching. “Women can be serial killers too.” He ends pathetically.
The waitress comes back to their table and hands them their drinks.
“So what about the fairy tale stuff?” His father asks him.
Sherlock takes his napkin and spreads it out over his lap, not really sure about the conversation. His parents usually never cared so much about the gory details. They were clearly trying to establish a new bond with him this evening.
“Well, John told me that they are obviously fans of the tale ‘Snow White and The Seven Dwarves’. The two victims were put into a glass casket, with flowers all around their bodies…”
His mother gasped: “What a dreadful sight!”
“The two murderers had kidnapped their victims and then put them into a coma with a drug no one has heard of before. The victims looked death, were barely breathing, with pale skin and frozen features. They looked dead.”
His father started cutting into his duck with relish: “But they weren’t dead, right? So how did they come out of the coma?”
“That’s where this mysterious drug is involved. When the husband - Mr. Rogers - arrived at the crime scene where they were in the process of putting his dying wife into the ambulance, he went completely hysterical. He screamed for a bit and ran in circles and finally he kissed his wife on the mouth.”
“The kiss made her wake up from the coma?” His mother exclaimed.
Sherlock took a sip of his wine.
“As far as we know, yes. Apparently the kiss sets hormones free, which combined from the drug created enough adrenaline for her to power through.”
“The kiss of true love!” His mother exclaimed happily.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“When three days ago, Scotland Yard found the next victim, she was called Mrs. Hugo, they immediately contacted her husband. We told him what to do, and he kissed her as well, but she didn’t wake up and died only three hours later.”
“Oh dear god. That poor woman.” His father whispered.
“So Mrs Hugo did not love her husband enough for the kiss to work?” His mother asked him.
“This is all nonsense, it must be. The murderers would have to be excellent chemists to come up with a drug like that, and we only had two cases to prove it. I don’t believe the true love theory.”
“Does John believe it?”
Sherlock snorted: “Yes, unfortunately he does, although John is a medical man, he is a romantic person at heart.”
His parents look at each other pointedly, which Sherlock decides to ignore.
“You have to wait for the next victim to find out more.” His mother concludes.
“It looks that way. At one point, every serial killer makes a mistake. We just have to wait.”
“Your mother and I just want you to be careful.” His father sighs, then continues: “Now that your brother is gone, it feels much more dangerous out there.”
“Yes, now that Mycroft can no longer stick his noise into everything I do, my life has truly become more difficult.” Sherlock spits out, frustration rolling in his stomach.
“Sherlock!” His mother gasps. “Mycroft only wanted the best for you, we all do! At least listen to John.”
“I don’t need someone to look after me.” Sherlock growls.
His father takes his mothers hand, who is hiding her face behind the napkin, and squeezes: “We know that Sherlock, of course we do, and we are both very proud of you.”
His mother puts the napkin away. Her eyes are red-rimmed and Sherlock immediately feels guilty.
“I already buried one of my sons. I will not survive losing you as well.” She says.
The Holmes family finishes their meal in mostly silence, only returning to harmless conversation about the neighbours garden during dessert.
Out of the restaurant, Sherlock organizes them a cab and holds open the door for his mother, which earns him a quick hug. He waves after them after having promised them a cup of tea the next afternoon at Baker Street (“John will be delighted to see you again.”).
Sherlock turns around and decides to walk back to Baker Street, it is only about 20 minutes anyway. It is already late and there are only a few people out on the streets, either already drunk or going to parties to get drunk. Sherlock ignores them all and walks purposefully, his head full of new ideas for his liver experiment, when someone approaches him.
“Mr Holmes?”
That is when everything goes dark.
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have arrived in their hotel room. Mr. Holmes has opened the small fridge in their room and looks through the bag of overpriced crisps and small water bottles.
“Darling, we have just eaten dinner.” Mrs. Holmes admonishes him. “You ate half a duck!”
“I know, but I need something for the rest of the evening.” He picks out the salt and vinegar crisps.
Mrs. Holmes sighs: “Those are not good for you.” He doesn’t answer, and they both sit down on the chairs. She opens the window to let some fresh air in, and they both drink in the London breeze.
After a while, Mrs. Holmes says: “Every day, I am more thankful for John Watson.”
Mr. Holmes take a bite and answers with his whole heart: “Yes, me too.”
“I think he is waking up.” A female voice exclaims, the sound coming directly in front of him.
Sherlock lets out a small groan. His head hurts and his eyes cannot see clearly in the too brightly lit room.
“Right, I forgot.” A male voice says and the room turns darker. “It should be better now, it helped the others.”
Sherlock finally manages to get both of his eyes open and blinks a few times. He is laying on his back on a hard surface, a table, probably. He tests his arms and legs movement. They are both strapped down to the table and even if not, he still feels too drowsy to fight back.
A woman is standing to his right, fiddling with something out of Sherlock’s view. The man must be in the small kitchen, it sounds like he is cooking something. Sherlock is held captive in their living room, and he can see another door which supposedly leads to their bedroom.
The identity of his two captors becomes clear when Sherlock manages to turn his pounding head to the side, and he spies a glass casket and a mountain of fresh flowers next to it.
“You!” He spits out and tries instantly to get up, but his restraints keep him down.
“Us.” The woman cheekily replies and finally stops fiddling. Now Sherlock can see that she has prepared an IV - this is how they inject their poison into the victim.
Oh god. These are not some petty criminals who he can easily overpower with his wit, but two serial killers who are not only extremely efficient but also have an almost magical killing method.
He feels panic well up in his stomach. John knows he went to the restaurant to meet his parents, and he probably expected him back right after. How many hours have passed? At what hour will John contact Scotland Yard and start a search for him?
“I’m assuming you want to know what is in our drug.” The woman asks him and winks.
Sherlock stares at her. She seems remarkable giddy for someone who is about to kill again.
“Yes, please.” He rasps. His lips are dry.
“Well, we are not going to tell you.” The man shouts and appears in the living room. He is holding a medication bag and begins to attach it to the IV.
“You are a nurse.” Sherlock nods at him. “And you are a chemist. You are happily married, for approximately ten years ago, probably met at university. You own a guinea pig, maybe the cage is in the bedroom. You are not murderers.”
“That is too true, we aren’t.” The nurse says and kisses his wife. She beams at her husband, then continues. “The divorce rates are very high, so we came up with an idea that helps other people find the love of their lives. Like we did!”
“A woman died because of you.” Sherlock exclaims. He had met dozens of serial killers in his life, but these two definitely unnerved him. Maybe because he is at their mercy and there is no big brother to pull him out.
The woman shrugs: “We gave them a chance, but apparently they failed to marry someone they really loved. We are still in the test phase anyway.”
“Do you want to sell it at the drug store next?” Surely they cannot be serious about this.
“It will be much too expensive for that.” She pats Sherlocks’ shoulder and he hisses at her.
“After we are done with you, we will try to finish the antidote, so people will not die anymore if they stay in the coma longer than seven hours.”
“I take it the seven hours are based on the seven dwarves in the fairytale.” Sherlock says.
“Correct. Our drug is called Snow White. It fits the theme.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes: “How nice. I do have to disappoint you, I’m afraid. I’m neither married nor in a relationship and I’m sure a second death will not do favours for you… product.” He smirks at them.
The woman readies the syringe to Sherlock’s horror.
“I’m sure there is someone who loves you, Sherlock Holmes.”
“There really isn’t.” Sherlock says, his eyes wide. His heart is racing so fast it may jump out of his throat. If they inject him, no one will be able to help him. Sherlock has only ever loved one person and this person would never kiss Sherlock.
This is it then. He was going to die and his parents would bury both her sons after all.
This woman pushes everything that is in the syringe into the IV bag. Sherlock watches the poison run into his body.
There is no time for a last special thought.
An image of John Watson’s kind face flashes before his eyes, then everything goes dark.
It is still very early in the morning, but John Watson is already on his way to the graveyard. It had become a bit of a tradition for him. John fiddles with the flowers on his lap and watches the City of London go by through the foggy window.
“Here we are.” The cab driver announces a few minutes later. John pays her and walks up the now almost familiar road to the lonely black gravestone.
“Good morning.” John says and starts working on the flowers. There are only John’s old ones from a few days ago and fairly new ones, probably from the parents.
“I’m pretty sure you never cared for flowers. Too much sentimentality for you probably, but it is a tradition. So bear with us.” He pulls out a handkerchief and starts rubbing the stone so the engraving will become more clear.
The name ‘Holmes’ can now be seen more clearly and John starts working on the name above it. He is done after a couple of minutes. Before he leaves, he hesitates for a moment.
“You don’t have to worry about him, the latest case has kept him busy. I’m sure he will come visit after he solved it. Your parents are in town right there. They went out late yesterday, I did not even hear him come home and he is still sleeping.”
John stops. Why is he babbling to a gravestone? It is not like Mycroft can answer.
“I’ll better return now and wake him up, he needs to eat.”
John starts walking back to the entry of the graveyard. He stops one last time: “I will protect him, don’t worry.”
In the cab, his phone pings with a new message.
There has been another murderer, Sally and I are on our way. I can text you the address in a minute. See you there.
G. Lestrade
John grins and sends Sherlock the news and the address.
You better get up now, they found a new victim. I will meet you at the address.
J. Watson
Detective Inspector Lestrade has seen many crimes scenes, two others in the past days alone. He has encountered numerous victims, grieving friends and family members, nervous neighbours and both guilty accusers and innocent murderers.
A crime scene with the two murderers still present is still fairly uncommon.
“Did they really call us to arrest themselves?” Sally asks him quietly.
“Sherlock will surely be disappointed.” Greg says, then turns his attention to the casket.
“They got one last victim.” Lestrade says grimly and he and Sally approach the casket.
Then everything goes to hell.
“Greg, you really need to talk with your colleagues if they have recently joined. They just tried to stop me right at the door.”
John Watson appears on the doorstep, his tone a bit annoyed and his back straight. He picks up on the room’s atmosphere a second later. His brow furrows. He points at the casket.
“Have you identified the victim? I can check for heartbeat and breathing, although it is probably the same as with the two others. Do you want me too…” He doesn’t wait for an answer and walks right up to the casket.
Lestrade between them: “John, wait a moment. You should not have to see this.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m sure I have seen much worse than you.” He shoves Lestrade gently aside and kneels down next to the victim.
Lestrade recognizes the moment when John truly takes it in. John’s shoulder stiffens. The inspector turns quickly around and gestures at the rest of his team. This does not need an audience. Sally starts to lead the two murderers down the stairs when suddenly the woman starts cackling.
“Snow White, soon in a shop close to you!” Her shouting can still be heard from the hall. Lestrade head pounds.
John is now grappling with the heavy top of the casket, shoving it aside.
“Come on, come on.” John swears, then growls at Lestrade: “Fucking help me!”
Together they manage to open the glass casket and John’s shaking hands wander over Sherlock shoulders, searching for his pulse.
“Fuck.” John curses, then pulls Sherlock’s sleeve aside. They find an IV mark. John checks his heartbeat and breathing as well, pressing his head against Sherlock’s chest with his eyes closed. A moment passes.
John claws his hands into Sherlock’s shirt until the material crunches under his fist and he screams against Sherlock’s chest. The fabric is absorbing most of the sound but it pulls at Lestrade’s heartstrings. He wants to join in.
Lestrade is abruptly pulled away from his mourning when he notices John attempting to march out of the room.
“What are you doing?” Lestrade stops him with his arm.
John’s teeth are clenched: “I am going to kill these monsters.” He snarls and pulls his gun out.
“John, stop! You being arrested for murder will not help Sherlock at all.” He grabs John’s shoulders and wants to force some sense back into him.
“You really don’t get it, do you? Sherlock is in a coma and will die in a couple of hours.” He makes his way to the door.
“No, you don’t get it! There is still time.” John shows no sign of stopping. “Sherlock needs you.” Lestrade pleads with him and finally, John listens.
The soldier takes a deep breath. He slowly hides the gun back in his trousers and directs his attention back to their mutual, dying friend. John carefully puts one arm behind Sherlock’s neck and the other arm under the detectives knees.
Lestrade is confused: “What are you doing?”
John, now with Sherlock in his arms, staggers to his feet: “We are going back home. He will be comfortable and safe there and I can take care of him.”
“So you just are going to wait for him to die?! What's wrong with you?”
“Don't you dare. The doctors failed with Mrs. Hugo, and she had to die in an uncomfortable hospital bed. I won't let this happen to him. What else is there to do?” John shouts back, his face turning red. Where it not for Sherlock in his arms, Lestrade would probably be shot right now by a furious army doctor.
“You need to kiss him, you fucking idiot!”
John shakes his head furiously: “You know he doesn’t feel things that way.” He looks down in Sherlock’s slack face. “Besides, we don’t know if the kiss theory works for sure!”
“But we do! The criminals confessed to it when we arrived. You must kiss him.”
Lestrade sees tears in John’s eyes.
“I can’t kiss him without permission.”
“You have too. Otherwise, he will die.”
John slowly sits down on the ground and puts Sherlock’s head carefully in his lap.
Lestrade notices that Sherlock’s face is a bit wet. It is wet from John’s hidden tears. In other (normal) circumstances, Lestrade would allow John to work through his crises by himself, but now, there just isn’t time. Sherlock is slowly dying in front of them and the only chance he has is John.
“Alright, then.” John whispers to Sherlock. The doctor closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “If this doesn’t work, I will kill you myself.”
John presses his lips on Sherlock, his whole body shaking. The kiss seems to take ages, until John lets go.
Lestrade and John wait with racing hearts.
Nothing happens.
John lets out a small sob and presses Sherlock’s head against his shoulder. He rubs Sherlock’s back and whispers soothing words to him.
Lestrade has to sit down. This is it. There is no hope left. John would have been better off bringing Sherlock back to Baker Street immediately.
Suddenly, John gasped. Lestrade stared at the couple. Sherlock’s eyes have opened, and he is coughing his lungs out. John quickly puts him into the recovery position, not letting go off the detective for one second.
“Kiss me again.” Sherlock whispers and John happily obliges.