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Baker Street is a bit smoked.
And it probably says something about his current state that the first thing to cross his mind when he crests the landing of 221B is the petrol-soaked bonfire blazing before Saint James the Less.
It comes back in a crackling smutch of autumn: the bonfire and its writhing reds, its smoking greys, its smothering, orange-bright heat. All of it smears and smudges together until it coalesces into a pyre of assorted branches and pallets and logs, and a three-years-ago Sherlock realises with sickening clarity that John has been snared beneath the whole of it, stuffed down at the bottom to be unconscious kindling, and then he can feel the slam of tarmac under his feet as it gives way to earth and grass, feel the warm press of bodies as he barrels through the cheering crowd, feel the fire as it snaps and swells and seethes.
It definitely does say something, doesn’t it? It does. Yes, it does, of course it does, he’s sure of it, but whatever that something happens to be isn’t a thing he can currently afford to examine. Those thoughts are better left to the ethereal hours that haunt the long stretch between midnight and morning; daylight now breaks between the sills and the glass, and he knows there can be no room for such things here.
No, here must first be reassembled. His domain has been upended in more sense than one, and now it must be put to rights. Only then can he allow himself to dwell.
Three steps ahead, John stops at the sitting room threshold. His hands perch upon his hips as he surveys the damage, eyes drifting from the filthy leather sofa to the splintered slab of the table and then to the pair of armchairs upturned on either side of the mantelpiece. Debris of various sorts litters the scorched flooring; the once plush carpet has now become a refuge for burnt pages, fractured glass, and ashen artefacts. The garish wallpaper is most definitely ruined.
Still, thinks Sherlock, the flat’s not unsalvageable. The sitting room’s overall structure is good despite the shattered windows. Nothing collapsed or fell through into Mrs Hudson’s below. The kitchen has healthy amounts of detritus and broken glass beyond its dislocated gliding doors and it could use a thorough cleaning, but the incident appears to have inflicted no lasting damage beyond the melted lino.
A quick glance through the landing’s kitchen door reveals that Sherlock’s bedroom, its door wide open, had barely been touched. The bathroom, both doors firmly shut, couldn’t have suffered anything more than a few displaced hair products. Even though most of the sitting room’s décor has been rather wrecked, there do appear to be some things that were spared the worst of the blast.
Really, if he’s being honest, this is hardly the worst he’s seen.
“Well, we’ve certainly got our work cut out for us, haven’t we?” says John.
“Not as much as we could have had,” says Sherlock, crossing the landing to linger at John’s side. “Mycroft has people coming by tomorrow morning. They’ll do most of the heavy lifting.”
“Is that his version of an apology, then? Sending a clean-up crew to tidy the place after his criminally insane sister tries to blow it up?”
“Flowers and a card aren’t exactly his MO.”
John laughs. “Yeah, invading someone’s space with as little notice as possible is much more Mycroft. I’m surprised he didn’t have them pop by today.”
“He definitely tried,” says Sherlock. “Apparently things like this require more than twelve hours’ notice. Exact wallpaper matches take time to find when the manufacturer’s been out of business for ten years, not to mention replacements for custom upholstery.”
“It’s going to cost him, isn’t it?”
“Between the rush service and the tidying and additional expenses all for a thorough remodel?” Sherlock offers a smile. “Most certainly.”
John returns it. “I’d say he owes it to Missus Hudson, though. After all this.” He spares another glance at the sitting room. “Christ, what a mess.”
“It could have been worse,” says Sherlock. His voice sounds sombre to his ears, an unfortunate window to the bonfire that won’t quite douse. “Has been worse,” he amends. “I think Missus Hudson would prefer all this to the drugs.”
“Mm, not arguing there. Only consolation was that this place was a little less burnt when you were off your head.” John pulls a short sigh, all too audible in the muffled silence of the flat, and says, “Well, suppose we ought to give it a once over, yeah? See if there’s anything we can save before they bin it all.”
They both tread carefully amongst the wreckage. Sherlock follows John’s lead, avoiding charred remnants with measured steps. He swipes up one of the old magnifying glasses from atop a pile of blackened books as he goes; the wooden handle’s shape is a smooth comfort in the curve of his palm, solid and cool.
He then approaches the slanted table amidst the sea of debris, two of its legs thoroughly displaced and now treading waters unknown. The upturned armchairs and barren bookshelves splay before him in an ersatz portrait of the scene that once was, and as he combs it over, he catches a familiar sight peering out from amongst the mess.
Sherlock slows his steps. He leans down, grabs the cow skull by one curved horn, and hefts it up so that it hangs level with his waist. When he pivots on his foot, he finds John already there with the old pair of black and white noise-cancelling headphones, freshly brushed free of dust, and after a moment of wordless mutual decision, John slips them over its head with a flourish of the dangling cord.
The first of many pieces to slide back into place, Sherlock supposes. It’s all got to start somewhere, hasn’t it? Might as well start here.
The next half hour is spent sorting the surviving furniture and salvaging various mementos and miscellanea. Sherlock hauls his beloved leather armchair upright and flips the remaining chair that had been tucked by the table onto its thin legs. John pokes about the scattered clutter that collected by the table, the sofa, the windows, plucking varied items from amongst the rubbish to nest in the crook of his arm. Bookshelves get straightened, the sofa gets dusted, jagged glass gets discarded, and the floor gets a small path swept serpentine down its centre.
After the cow skull and magnifying glass have been taken into Sherlock’s room for safekeeping, other things soon begin to follow: not quite burnt books, the mate of the first magnifying glass, the pocketknife that had dislodged itself from the mantel, the glass-free frame of the beetles and the bat (minus a specimen or two), assorted case files that had somehow come through unscathed. They all assemble pell-mell in a pile on his duvet, the bigger things settling on the outskirts whilst the smaller ones migrate toward them by virtue of the slight dips in the mattress.
Sherlock is in the middle of letting another armful join the growing collection when he hears John calling him from down the corridor. He claps his hands free of dust and returns the way he came, stepping lightly round the kitchen mess before reentering the sitting room.
John stands over the black leather armchair with his jaw set and his arms folded. He stares intently at something set upon its cushion.
“What is it?” asks Sherlock. “Did you find something else?”
John meets his gaze, looking rather stricken. “Your violin.”
Sherlock steps over with a clot of dread settling lopsided in his chest. Even at a glance, he already knows the instrument is beyond repair. One of the strings seems to have persevered out of sheer bloody-mindedness, but the violin’s wooden body has been splintered and warped, the sides and top graced with long cracks that would split further under pressure. The bow, placed just at its side, doesn’t fare any better; the stick has snapped, the hair blackened and frayed.
It feels a bit weird, this. Mourning an instrument. That violin has been with him for the better part of ten years, has seen him through countless trials and tribulations after the last one had been lost in the midst of a deep stint into cocaine, and to see it in such a sorry state tugs sharply at his heartstrings.
“No hope for it, is there?” asks John.
“I’m afraid not,” Sherlock replies, pathing his hand down the roughened ridges of the fingerboard. The texture is good, familiar, if a bit dusty. “The damage is too extensive. Repair would be near impossible. It would be cheaper to buy a new one.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John rubs at his forearm through his powdered blue sleeve. “Will you, then? Buy a new one? After all this, I mean.”
“I’m not sure.” For a moment, Sherlock considers the weight of his mobile in his trouser pocket. “I might not have to, actually.”
“What? What do you mean you might not have to? Have you got others stashed away in a bolt-hole or something?”
Sherlock withdraws his phone, unlocks it, taps on his texts, and swipes down to Mycroft’s name. He stares at the perfunctory conversation from several months back, long before the events of the past few days had ever come to pass, and then at the short series of texts concerning their sister’s wellbeing after she was reinstated.
Unresponsive.
New failsafes in place.
All staff replaced.
Isolation resumed.
Still unresponsive.
Night watch uneventful.
No further changes.
“Did you know,” he says, pressing the cursor into the message box, “that Eurus had a Stradivarius at Sherrinford?”
“A what?” John blinks. “Wait. I know that name. That’s a type of violin, isn’t it? One of the rare ones?”
“One of the rare ones, yes, though the name isn’t restricted to just violins. Technically, a Stradivarius is any stringed instrument produced by the Stradivari family during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. They made a finite number of instruments numbering approximately one thousand one hundred or so, but only about six hundred and fifty of those still exist today. The most recent sale of a Stradivarius violin was just shy of three million pounds.”
“Three million? Jesus Christ. That’s—” John pauses, seeming lost for words. “Right. Okay. And Eurus just, you know, had this three million quid violin lying about. What for?”
“I don’t know. For show, I think. Maybe boredom. Proof she could get anything she wanted. But she had me play it. She gave it to me, put it through the cell’s item transfer. Said it was a gift.” Sherlock taps out a short message to Mycroft. “Of course, that was before I realised there wasn’t any glass separating us. She knocked me out not long after. I don’t know what happened to the Strad.”
John releases a breathy exhale. “Okay. So, you’re going to—what, see if she’s still got it? After everything that’s happened?”
“I’m going to have Mycroft ask after it.”
“And you think that’s wise? You trust her not to have done anything to it?”
Sherlock takes pause, thumb hovering over the send button, and looks at John.
“She said she taught me how to play,” he says quietly. “I’ve played for as long as I can remember, ever since I was a child. I practically grew up with a violin at my neck. I spent countless hours learning compositions I liked, songs that spoke to me, yet I never could recall how it all got started.”
“And you think it started with her.” John’s stare is cautious, questioning.
“Yeah,” Sherlock replies. “I think it did.”
“Was the Stradivarius genuine, then? The gift bit of it, I mean. D’you think she really wanted to give it to you because of whatever violin thing the two of you shared as children?”
“I honestly don’t know. I do think she was trying to feel me out, see how much I remembered. When that turned out to be nothing at all, things began to escalate. She seemed fascinated at what I’d done to my memories.” Absently, Sherlock rubs the thumb and forefinger of his free hand together. “By the end of it at Musgrave, I think she wanted a connection of some kind. When she initially offered me the Strad, she told me to ‘play me’.”
Sherlock turns his attention to his mobile. The message written in sharp black pixels reads: Stradivarius was in her cell. Gifted. Have the staff locate it.
After another moment, he presses send.
“I wonder if that’s something we did when we were young,” he says. “Played what was in ourselves rather than mimicking others’ work.”
John’s expression softens. “You still don’t remember everything, do you?”
“I don’t, no. Not completely. Everything that happened to Victor aside.” Sherlock takes one last look at his texts before slipping his phone back into his pocket. “There are fragments, images. Some I’ve managed to piece together into proper memories, but the rest I’ve yet to recognise. There are more now, though. Some of them clearer. That might be a good thing.”
“Might be, yeah. Do you—” John hesitates, as if carefully considering his words. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Sherlock continues to rub his fingers, eyes fixed on the remnants of his violin. “No,” he says. “At least not today. I think that’s something I’m still … processing.”
“Processing. Right. Okay.” John clears his throat. “Understandable. That’s— I can’t even imagine, honestly. What it must be like.”
“I haven’t got anything to compare it to,” says Sherlock. “If I ever had, I must have deleted it. I didn’t realise I was capable of rewriting an entire set of traumatic childhood memories into something less harmful.”
“Well, the brain is an incredible thing,” says John. “Yours especially.”
Sherlock affords him a sceptical look.
“What? I do mean that, you know.” John nudges Sherlock with his elbow. “At the risk of inflating your ego somewhere beyond its normal astronomical proportions, you’re actually quite brilliant.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asks, a smile threatening its way in.
“Professional and personal. God knows I’ve got enough experience to give both.” John draws a breath, lets his hands drop to his sides. “Ah. I’m going to regret saying that, aren’t I? I am. I know it. You’re going to use that against me the very second it suits you. I can see it now: you, repeating ‘I’m actually quite brilliant, John’ at every available opportunity.”
“It won’t be that bad,” says Sherlock. “I’ll simply mention it each time you get cross with me within the next six weeks.”
“Believe it or not, that is not actually a good way to prevent me from getting cross with you.”
“Didn’t say I wanted to prevent it. Past evidence suggests you’ll be cross with me at least a dozen times within the next six weeks regardless of what I do. I only said I would mention it if you were.”
“Right. Of course.” John drags a palm down his face. “You prat.”
“I’m actually quite brilliant, John.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Sherlock watches John’s face as it falls victim to grinning laughter, the sound as bright and infectious as anything, and he joins in without a second thought.
Because this is how things ought to be, he thinks. This is how everything ought to feel, how it ought to remain: John, here, exasperated yet amused, standing in the very place he most belongs. Baker Street may be in a right state and the unsettling events of the past few days may linger, but this small moment makes the lot of it feel miles and miles away. It makes the apprehension and disquiet bearable. It makes this cluttered, decimated wreck of a space feel like home.
(Home: the place where John is. Always, always where John is. Whether that is 221B Baker Street or a flat in the suburbs or a grotty island prison cell or a nightmare waiting at the bottom of a well, home will always be where John is.)
And the weight of that is pleasant. It’s comforting, pleasurable. Warmth suffuses the hollow of Sherlock’s chest in a slow, languorous glide, and it’s like the sun warming pocked brickwork as it pours over the rooftops, gradual and gentle but thorough in its sweep. The gnarled tension snared between his lungs loosens with its presence, a methodical unravelling that unspools string by delicate string.
The aftermath of Sherrinford and Musgrave Hall still feels too fresh, too raw, an uncomfortable gnawing somewhere down in the uncertain depths of him, but he knows (he knows) he’s got somewhere to begin.
It’s here. It’s right here in this rather smoked flat with John by his side. Really, where else would it be?
“Right.” John clears his throat again. “Well, I think I’m going to pop downstairs and check on Rosie. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, no. Of course not.” Sherlock flaps a hand toward the door. “Go on. I’ll be here.”
With a nod, John’s presence begins to fade with the curt footsteps of someone who wishes to be elsewhere.
When those same footsteps pause halfway across the sitting room (one beat, two, a tarrying third) and then proceed to come back the way they came, Sherlock can feel the entire scope of the world narrow and narrow until it closes in on the strong, warm hand that settles on his right shoulder.
Sherlock follows the peaks and ridges of knuckles (worn, weathered, capable) to the powdered blue cuff of a sleeve (crisp, starched, pressed), and then to the soft lineaments of John’s face (perfect, familiar, home). He is close enough to see the spikes of hazel threaded through each iris, close enough to see the silver in John’s hair and the laugh lines bracketing his mouth and the concern creased over his brow.
“Are you okay?” asks John. Sincerity lines his voice like golden filigree, the steady pressure of his palm an assuaging force.
It’s expected, of course. It’s natural, it’s normal; in the aftermath, however harrowing, this is what they do.
“Not exactly,” says Sherlock. “But I will be.”