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Many people believe in the concept of a multiverse. It creates infinite possibilities of infinite realities, with yet again infinite results...
“Well, well! I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and -”
He picked a revolver from his chest and shot twice. One of the gunshots hit good old dr. Watson, while the other missed entirely. Evans fell down as Holmes hit his head. Holmes ran towards his fallen friend as Evans remained unconscious, dismay all over him. He wrapped dr. Watson with his long and wry arms, sitting him on a chair, and demanding to know if he was hurt. His voice and members trembled as his eyes went down where the bullet hit his friend, too scared of what he could discover.
“Holmes…” Watson whispered, ignorant as to how he could deliver the news.
John Watson had been a doctor for a considerable amount of time and always imagined he would know when he would be done for. He hadn’t even begun to bleed when he knew the shot had been fatal. The bullet hit his carotid on his left leg, and it was only a matter of time before his body ran out of it’s vital liquid. What he never expected, be it for being too accustomed to seeing his flatmate serious-faced or be it for keeping himself in so low of a consideration, was meeting his demise under eyes of which the ice had melted down into concerned blue flames.
Holmes learned last that it was the end. He used his pocket-knife to make a hole big enough to check on the wound on Watson’s trousers, and once he realized the inevitable, his expression grew even worse. He held Watson’s shoulders with great strength, as if he believed that holding him hard enough would prevent him from slipping away. “I’m getting help, you stay here and don't move! For all that’s sacred, don’t move!”
“Holmes, it will not do…”
“Alright, I'll take you there then!”
“Holmes, you know as well as I do it is only a matter of time… and time’s running out.” he added once he saw the pool of blood forming under him. “And to imagine I thought I’d be dead in Afghanistan, ey…”
He found no humour on Holmes’ face when he looked at him again. No, in fact he found tears, trapped under his lower eyelids. His face was contorted in horror, as fighting the urge to beg vainly like many other persons do. Watson could feel his strong hand holding the wound, the only vain attempt on keeping him alive that wasn’t below him to try, and he held his already soaked hand in a reassuring shake. He hoped, although knew it to be the false kind of hope, that this would let him know he didn’t blame him at all for the situation.
“Is there anything,” Holmes forced himself to say, in-between deep breaths. “I could do?”
“I’m afraid,” Watson replied with simplicity. His eyes were getting heavier by the moment. “I half-wish we’d brought the violin with us.”
Holmes closed his eyes, unable to hold the tears for much longer. It wasn’t only his mask as a cold man that fell down, but also his of a gentleman, for Watson didn’t know any other instance where he heard him say such an obscene set of words to express his emotions. He almost thought of it as funny. Almost.
His head started falling. His vision started fading. He held Holmes’ hand tighter, terror suddenly kicking in. Death had an odd feeling to it and, even if he knew there was no use in fighting it, he still felt the impulse to stay, if not for any other person for his dearest. Only when he accepted heart and soul that the darkness would be all he would know for the rest of time, he mumbled softly: “Thank you, Sherlock, for making my life memorable…”
And there he died, unsure if Holmes was able to understand his words.
Evans was starting to be aware of his surroundings. He looked at the man he had just shot and his friend, kneeling over him quietly. He hadn’t broken down, hadn’t begun to shout to let it all out, called or shook him. He just kept quietly staring at the vision of death, and for one reason or another the image was scary to Evans, especially when the grief-stricken face turned to him. Evans had lost the gun in his fall and searched for it eagerly now, his heart pounding fast, his hands sweating, his mind racing.
In a millisecond, Holmes had picked his gun from the ground, picked him up by his collar and put the trigger inside his mouth. His eyes searched fear on Evans and fear he found, and rage blinded him of the terrible thought that spotting the fear he intended was pleasurable.
“ You shouldn’t have done that… ” he growled, and then he shot.
And he shot again. And again. Until the bullets ran out and he realized Killer Evans’ death hadn’t been in self-defense at all; it had been an execution.
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“Are you sure you want to go in?” Jones asked, walking besides Lestrade. “He isn’t exactly on his right senses there. He attacked Hopkins of all people when he got in!”
“Hopkins isn’t as close to Mr Holmes as I am, Jones,” Lestrade replied, walking faster.
“He just lost the only person he was close to, Lestrade! And you can’t exactly defend yourself against him.”
Lestrade gave him a murderous glare. Did he just imply he was too small and scrawny to fight?
Lestrade entered the cell despite Jones’ protests and found Sherlock Holmes sitting on the ground, his back to the door. He didn’t turn around and Lestrade wondered if he even listened to him. He cleared his throat, “Mr Holmes?” he called.
Some seconds went by before “ Lestrade… ” came out of the defendant’s mouth.
“Could I take a few steps closer, Mr Holmes?”
“ If you don’t mind being killed for it… ”
“It’s good to know you keep some shadow of your old sense of humour, sir.”
That comment nearly took a chuckle out of him, and Lestrade noticed it. He slightly turned his head to him. “Why are you here?”
“I guess I just wanted to see you. We worked together for many years, you know, even longer than… Well, nevermind. I wanted to check on you.”
He sighed and slowly stood up, turning around to see him.. “What is there to check? I just killed a man, Lestrade, and God knows I’d do it again.”
“I know you said you’d kill a man if he killed someone you loved, Mr Holmes. You may be a murderer now, but I know you did it because you loved too much. I can’t help but pity the loss.”
“Am I going to the gallows?”
“I’ll do my best to not allow the matter to get to this point.”
“Why bother?”
Lestrade fell silent for a second. He knew Sherlock Holmes was prone to depressive states, but he’d never seen him reach his rock bottom before.
“Because you are the best agent this force has ever had,” he admitted at last.
The confession caught Holmes off-guard. He knew Lestrade meant it, but never expected Lestrade to admit it so easily. He quickly deflected it by saying: “Please, I already wept enough for a day.”
“Alright, Mr Holmes. I’ll leave you now, I have important matters at hand; I am not exclusive to you.”
“Ah, Lestrade…”
“Yes, Mr Holmes?”
“If it wouldn’t be much to ask, could you… could you see how my boys are doing without me?”
Lestrade grinned. “They aren’t boys anymore, Mr Holmes. But I shall do it when I’m done here.”
“Right. Thank you, Lestrade…”
“May I ask why are you smiling?” he asked as he locked the cell once again.
“Oh, it’s nothing really, just… I know he wasn’t really a gentle person for descriptions and that he created some mean nicknames for myself, but... you really do look like a rat.”
“You say that again and I leave your boys by their own luck.”
With that, Lestrade left.
-----------------------------
Lestrade stood in the interrogation room, watching as the convicted man walked back and forth. His energy had slowly come back to him as time went on, and he was finally showing pleasure in hearing about the macabre details of human nature again. Hopefully, I can prove to the Yard that you’re not worth hanging , he thought to himself.
“It’s a pity I can’t leave and just have a look at the crime scene for myself,” Holmes commented.
“Why? Do you not trust the force?”
“Why else do you think I perfected my job?”
Lestrade thought about saying that he liked him more when he was quiet and sad, but thought twice and realized it was a lie.
“It can’t be helped, you know.” Lestrade spoke.
Holmes stopped walking for a moment, his energy appearing to leave him for some moments. Lestrade tensed up for a second, keeping his hand close to his police club out of caution, fearing he had triggered a negative reaction. Then, suddenly, Holmes shrugged and said: “Yes, it can’t be helped.” and kept on going.
“It’s hard asking for his help without remembering what he did to Killer Evans.” Gregson commented to the others in a corner of the Yard.
“Not to mention the outbursts,” Hopkins commented, shivering. “I guess this is what people mean when they say meeting your hero ruins them.”
“Hopkins, dear boy, he could’ve killed you now and then! I thought he might, actually.”
“The newspapers still hadn’t forgotten, you know,” Inspector Morton said as he held one. “Look at this article on The Times - Scotland Yard asks convicted criminals for help: has the police force become too inefficient? This, my friends, is what the public thinks of us.”
“Why do you read this sort of garbage, Morton?”
“It helps me sleep at night knowing those citizens care as little about me as I do about them. You know who’s probably happy about this?”
“Forbes.” all said in unison.
“Forbes,” Morton agreed “from The Naval Treaty .”
Silent fell among them. Then Hopkins commented: “I miss dr. Watson…”
“Just make sure it won’t make you kill anyone.” Morton pushed him lightly with his shoulder.
Lestrade ran towards the group, panting. “He discovered, he discovered it all! It’s the young Answorth, the perpetrator of such horrendous deaths! We ought to hurry!”
“Wait a moment, Lestrade,” Gregson said, “you still believe in him?”
“How could I not when I owe him half of my career, and so do you ! I’m going to get a warrant and one of you, lazy asses, go straight up to the Answorth house; I’ll catch up!”
Lestrade ran off. The two older inspectors stared at Hopkins. He rolled his eyes and yelled: “I’m coming, Lestrade, wait up!”
Morton said: “He’s the only one that keeps listening to him. The Yard would be a lot better seen if Mr Holmes went to the gallows, I tell you.”
“While I agree,” Gregson said “Lestrade has a point. Most of us owe him half of our careers. We haven’t arrested him when he commited his other minor crimes, have we? Oh, and keep that Times to yourself; we don’t want to cause a panic here.”
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Sherlock Holmes managed to be released after 14 months. The short amount of time being arrested was thanks to his still increasing contributions to the police force and his brother Mycroft’s hands, of which he was oblivious of the participation. He hesitated going back to Baker Street upon release, not only out of fear of being recognized by familiar faces, but also out of dread of seeing the flat without his familiar friend sitting on his armchair. The detective still mourned deeply and avoided speaking of the subject as much as the sinner avoided the church, and therefore he spent some days living at a much smaller house he rented right across Montague Street.
The Irregulars quickly found him, and sent in Wiggins to pay a visit. His presence seemed to slightly brighten up his mood, and they talked for a while. The young man apologised for having kept his deerstalker to himself, but Holmes did not mind. In fact, he found the deerstalker to really suit him.
“Oh, ye lost a lot, Mr ‘Olmes!” Wiggins said as he sipped some of the tea Holmes had prepared for the two of them “I tell ye, death lurked ‘round ‘ere during yer sentence! The boys and I got ‘round ‘elping, y’know, ‘elping the confused bobbies, but it just ain’t the same without the Great Commander.”
“The Irregulars? On a murder case?”
“Surprising, innit? George’s idea. ‘E said we could be of some assistance to ‘em, said we ‘ad experience with ye, and t’was ‘nuff for us to be convinced we should be doin’ sumthin’. T’was ‘ard convincing the bobbies, though… little shits.”
“Language.”
“Sorry, guv. Anywey,”
“Have you figured it out?”
“Oh, I ‘ave, sir! But the bobbies just don’t listen! And I doubt they’d listen to ye, no offense.”
Holmes shrugged. “We should try. It gives me something to do rather than thinking…”
Wiggins didn’t ask him why he hadn’t gotten back to Baker Street. It would be insensible to rub salt in the wound of a friend, even for a street man like himself. He agreed.
There were only 3 Irregulars by now. The original 6 had scattered, either due to death or illness or whatever other reason, and only Wiggins, George and John had remained behind. Sherlock Holmes was surprised when learning that the three of them were staying at Baker Street ever since the incident with Killer Evans, and that Mrs Hudson had stopped complaining about them.
“I think she misses you, guv.” John presumed upon seeing the confusion on his face.
Reentering the flat was an odd experience to him. Everything was moved, and yet the architecture that welcomed him was the same. Watson’s armchair remained the same, as well as his own; the boys explained that they couldn’t just touch the untouchable. They chatted for a while, as Holmes tried to keep his composure so as to not get overwhelmed by memories.
It was during this tour that anxious footsteps came from the staircase. Sherlock Holmes turned away and saw Inspector Lestrade, standing on the front door as he had done many times before. He greeted them and started speaking of the vanishing of a prime suspect in a recent crime, asking if Holmes could help him.
“You want my assistance?” he asked.
“As I have wanted all these times before,” Lestrade, or as Watson would call him the ferret-faced inspector, replied.
“But- Well, I don’t even live here!”
Wiggins took a few steps closer to the inspector. “We can ‘elp ye if ye say all the details on the matter.”
“Wiggins?”
“Come on, Mr ‘Olmes, t’will be fun! Better than stayin’ ‘ere all sad, and Mr Bob always ‘as good cases!”
For a moment, Holmes couldn’t help but remember the time where it was Dr Watson who insisted to him to go on a case and how it led them to Lauriston Gardens, where it all began. And, for this moment, he felt something similar to bittersweet closure. All was changed - his companionship, his reputation and even himself; and, yet, crime remained and crime needed a specialist. He then gestured to Lestrade to have a seat.