Chapter Text
Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.
- John 11:44
For the twelfth day in a row, the cicadas were deafening.
Having little else to occupy his mind with while Mycroft was at work, the man once known as Sherlock Holmes had turned to the study of insects. There were certainly plenty on hand here. He was spending his second Australian summer collecting specimens of the shrieking cicadas that congregated in the trees along the fenceline of the house.
It was all to do with studying new things; if not criminals, then lesser creatures would have to do. Sherlock had always seen complexity in the most humble of creatures; a complexity that other people, including Mycroft, didn't seem to appreciate. Cicadas were advance-designed and fascinating to study, and he had no idea why they seemed to be taken for granted in this country.
The colonials did, to do them credit, have some interesting names for these creatures: Black Friday, Dark Sage, Forest Demon, Whisky Drinker, Yellow Monday. The cicadas spent most of their lives underground, dormant. And then, at the very last, they broke forth from the earth and from their dull brown pupae shells. The males climbed into the trees and screamed for a mate. The females responded. Birth. Sex. Death. Yet, every single evening, Mycroft would treat his brother to the odd disparaging comment on how insignificant he thought they were. Showed what he knew.
Still, they weren't the brightest of creatures, and ridiculously easy to catch, provided you knew how to climb a tree and didn't mind the occasional bite. The chirping turquoise cicada that Sherlock now brought into the house, cradled in his cupped hands, was a new find. This one they called Blue Moon. He placed it in its terrarium and watched it flutter about before finding footing on a small branch that he'd placed in there for it. Then he drew out a notepad and pen and, from memory, began to scribble the specifics:
Species: Australasiae
Genus: Cyclochila
Subfamily: Cicadinae
Family: Cicadidae
Superfamily: Cicadoidea
Infraorder: Cicadomorpha
Suborder: Auchenorryncha
Order: Hemiptera
Class: Insecta
Subphylum: Uniramia
Phylum: Arthopoda
Kingdom: Animalia
He'd keep this one alive. Cicadas only lived a few weeks anyway, so there'd be plenty of opportunity to pin it to an identification card when it died of natural causes. Besides, he wanted to experiment with whether cicadas reacted to noises at various different frequencies, and to examine the limitations of their sight. This beautiful blue creature was probably going to give itself an early death, bashing itself against the glass walls of the terrarium. But then, it was natural for all things wild to try to escape captivity.
Sherlock was interrupted in these musings by a knock on the door- one not expected and not welcome. Mycroft dealt with any visitors. His brother was the ghost of the house, sometimes perceived, rarely seen, never heard. The precaution was probably excessive: Mycroft's little brother Sherlock had committed suicide nearly three years ago, and he was Christian Yearsley now. But then… one couldn't be too careful.
Christian Yearsley went reluctantly to answer the door. So reluctantly, in fact, that by the time he opened it, it was just in time to see the Australia Post van drive away. But not without leaving a long blue, red and white envelope wedged under the mat; Sherlock picked it up, turned it over, and froze.
Sherlock Holmes
19 St James Place
Mosman 2088
NSW
Australia
He felt a jolt like a blow to the chest, and stood staring at the envelope in heart-thudding silence. It was postmarked from London.
The only person in London who knew—or was supposed to know—that Sherlock Holmes was not buried there was quiet, self-effacing Molly Hooper. Sherlock had not seen or heard from her her since his sudden flight from home over a year ago. And this was not her handwriting.
He ripped the envelope open in haste—that it could be poisoned or booby-trapped seemed not to occur to him. It was neither. Inside was a small scrap of paper, and on it, written in stark, swooping black lines:
John 11:44
Sherlock had been baptised into the Church of England at the age of four months, but both he and his brother were casually atheist. There had been a Bible at Baker Street, for reference, just as there had been a Qu'ran, a Book of Mormon, a Book of the Dead, and several other religious texts. But that had been long ago: most of Sherlock's books had remained behind at Baker Street on the day he'd orchestrated his 'death' off the roof of St Bartholomew's hospital. They had probably been carted off to be given to ungrateful charity, if John hadn't wanted to keep them for sentiment. There were few books in this house, and Sherlock felt sure that there was no Bible. He'd never seen one.
The solution to this problem was immediate and obvious: he pulled out his phone and entered the reference into Google. Google obliged, instantly spitting out thousands of hits. He opened the first:
And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.