Life After Death

Chapter 9: The Gift

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Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and the last of the guests had long gone, but it was mere minutes after John had sent Erika home that there was a tap on the door.

"What a coincidence," John greeted his friend drolly, hardly surprised by the godfather's tardiness. As Sherlock had expressed his reluctance to attend the child's party in the first place, John had held no expectations. To his friends' relentless inquiries about when the detective would be coming, John had responded that Sherlock would probably pull an after-party appearance. Feeling vindicated, John continued his welcome, "You've just happened by when everyone's already gone."

"I'm a busy man. No time for frivolities," Sherlock replied with a slight smirk and looked past John at the birthday girl.

Rosie, too, was busy—with 'frivolities'—happily playing with her new toys. Each time she pushed on a squeaky plush toy or pressed the lever on a plastic console to produce a sound, she broke into contagious giggles. John could not hide his delight in her amusement or the warmth that appeared in his eyes.

Sherlock shrugged out of his greatcoat and hung it on a peg. He studied the toddler on the floor who went gleefully from one honking attraction to the other. "You think this horrid racket will ever get old?"

Unable to take his eyes from his daughter, John watched as she pulled herself to a standing position and wobbled a short distance between the few items that had already become her favorite playthings. "No. She seems to love it."

"I meant for you?" Sherlock's eyes held their amusement long enough for John to see it, then turned to peer around the flat.

The party décor, vestiges of a modest one-year-old's celebration, were strewn about. Colorful balloons dangling from ribbons were tantalizingly out of baby's reach; discarded party hats laid every which way created a city of pointy towers on the coffee table. A sign, hung over the sheer curtains across the large window, wished the one-year-old a "Happy Birthday!" in multicolored, alphabet-block letters.

As satisfied as he was that Rosie had met her one-year developmental benchmarks, Sherlock thought the sign a bit grandiose—the child couldn't read it, after all—but he took it all in without offering any disparagements. "Have I missed much?" he turned to John in feigned innocence.

"Well, let's see: the guests, the food, the party in general, and of course, the cake," John offered in wry good humor.

"Missed the cake! Then what was the point in coming?" Sherlock address the little girl as he folded his long legs and sat on the floor to play with her. The child seemed eager to share the animal-shaped noisemaker in her dimpled fist by hitting her uncle in the shoulder with it.

"Next year, arrive on time," John half-heartedly scolded as he joined them on the carpet and guided his daughter's strikes to a nonhuman target.

Sherlock glared at the noisy toy in her grasp. "You should direct your Daddy to purchase you more worthy tools for play, Rosie! None of these boring, noisy, and useless things." Sherlock's perfected infant-directed falsetto earned a teething-drool smile from the baby. "You want books and lab equipment next year so we can make a foaming volcano. Smashing fun!"

John held his peace but thought that did sound like a smashing idea—when Rosie was about four or five.

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"Glad that's over; kiddie parties are not my thing. Erika was a trooper," John said later as he pulled the dish of party leftovers for Sherlock from the microwave and slid the plate of steaming stir-fry chicken with pak choi and spring onions across the table. "I'm glad Rosie finally got over her sugar-high and settled down to sleep."

Although John had shoved it a bit too hard, Sherlock's quick reflexes caught the moving plate before it passed him by. "Either you've forgotten your basic secondary school physics about force, mass and friction regarding sliding objects," Sherlock muttered and spurned the fork John had proffered him, "or your daughter's not the only one with a sugar high." From inside his blazer pocket, Sherlock produced carved, red lacquerware chopsticks—the pair he always preferred to the disposable ones that came with takeaway or catered affairs—and tucked in.

"My choice of party cuisine was that predictable," John pulled a face, his hands braced on the back of the kitchen chair, "that you brought your favorite chopsticks?"

"Not a prediction…rather, I anticipated…," Sherlock mumbled around a mouthful of chicken before swallowing. "Chinese and Thai are among your favorite cuisines, your party guests were probably too polite to complain if they thought the fare plebeian, and it is economical when you are serving a crowd. What?" Sherlock responded to John's raised eyebrows by raising his own. "It should come as no surprise to you that I can correctly anticipate the responses of people I know well …especially those who have less discerning palates." Sherlock had ducked his head but not before John had caught the teasing half-smile.

John snorted a laugh through his nose and turned toward the worktop. "You're lucky I saved you leftovers from the party," he chided over his shoulder as he began tidying up the kitchen. "Everyone enjoyed the buffet, and besides, since you weren't there, I am not going to let you tell me anything—."

"—That still holds, then?" Sherlock interrupted by clicking his chopsticks for attention.

"Huh?" Glancing around, John paused with a drinking glass and drying towel in his hands.

"My not telling you anything… you don't want to hear?"

John placed the dried glass in the cupboard then backed against the worktop and shrugged, "Maybe." He lifted the remaining glasses to the cupboard, expecting Sherlock to pester him for a definitive answer, but Sherlock continued eating without a word. Even when John turned back around, Sherlock did not acknowledge him.

"All right, then. I'll bite. You don't keep quiet unless you're thinking or there's something you want to tell me," John sighed.

The chopsticks stilled in midair; Sherlock looked up. "That you were right. I was right. We were both right…"

"About what? The baby-cam-hacking business?"

"No!" Sherlock shook his head. "I mean, yes, yes. We were right about that. Logan Pierce was a stalker, an idiot, a thief, and an amateur tech geek, not part of any big conspiracy. Even someone as stupid as he can commit identity fraud, violate privacy, and threaten the wellbeing of others, showing how incredibly vulnerable internet-connected devices make us. Fortunately, his ilk gets caught. However that was not the case to which I was referring…."

"Well?" John raised his brows impatiently.

"About the Kumar case."

"Oh, not that again!" John shuddered at the memory. "—I've been trying my damnedest to forget the whole thing!"

"It's a shame, as the investigation led to some interesting revelations, especially when the man named Mitchell—Jason Mitchell—came forward to help the authorities."

"God!" John protested with his eyes reading the ceiling. "Why won't this ever go away?"

Sherlock paused. There was a twinkle in his eye. "Are you praying for me to leave, John?"

"That would be a contradiction of miracles now, wouldn't it?" John replied with a straight face before chuckling softly, "although 'not being dead' is not the same thing as leaving, is it?" Giving Sherlock an impish grin, he turned back to replace the cutlery in the drawer and wipe down the worktop. "I guess I'm praying for patience this time."

"Have you considered, John, that you can't 'forget the whole thing,' as you say, because you have a propensity to be curious against your better judgment?"

It took a few more seconds, but as John threw the dish towel over his shoulders he exhaled. "Fine, Sherlock! Get it over with. What did you learn?"

Sherlock's broad smile was wasted on John's turned back, but in the detective's voice the smile could be clearly heard. "Mitchell expressed the same misgivings as Kumar about the 'celebratory' party at the Japanese restaurant. He says it was a large mix of local IT contract workers from a variety of companies, and although he had worked online with all of them on one project or other, a sizable gathering for colleagues who work remotely is hardly a regular occurrence. Mitchell claims he is shy—IT being a good occupation when you prefer to work alone—so he attended the affair very reluctantly. He arrived later than most, ate only appetizers from the bar, accepted a tokkuri of sake from the attentive bartender, and excused himself out before the dinner. He had not planned to eat there anyway."

"He didn't drink the poisoned tea, then?"

"Not everyone was supposed to and not everyone did. Mitchell, along with many of the other IT workers in attendance that night, was not targeted. Only the four, including Kumar, who were working on a specific cyber-security job, for what it later turned out were Russian state-agents, were victimized by their association. One of them had leaked data to WikiLeaks but all four paid for it. It was a cold-blooded assassination in a room full of unwitting witnesses. To the culprits, it hardly mattered that the other three were innocent."

"Still, the other groups were lucky not to have drunk from the wrong teapot…."

"It was carefully doled out, but FSB assassins would merely have considered the untargeted victims as collateral damage. The larger celebration was a cover, so the FSB or GRU agents could poison the specific group all at the same time."

"Bloody hell!" John slid into the chair opposite Sherlock, completely absorbed by the revelations.

"Mitchell admitted to the authorities that his motive for showing up that night was to meet Kumar." After Sherlock cleared the last morsels from his plate, he laid his chopsticks across the dish and dabbed his lips with the excessively cheery party napkin. "Mitchell is an expert hacker in his own right. He had uncovered Kumar's identity from their shared interests on a variety of niche sites, including the cases of Sherlock Holmes by his blogger John Watson." He folded his arms and leant back. "Like Kumar's SLEUTH, Mitchell is a follower of your blog. You remember I mentioned the handle MID HELL?"

"So… " John made the connection, "Mitchell was MID HELL! But how did he know Kumar was SLEUTH?"

"As I must have told you, Mitchell is something of a genius at tracking people's identities and locating their personal information and addresses. Although he was keen to meet SLEUTH in person, when he arrived at the Japanese restaurant, he was careful enough not to introduce himself as MID HELL to Kumar right away—he didn't want the man to fear he was stalker. They chatted about harmless topics they both enjoyed for a short while. When Mitchell finally disclosed who he was, Kumar was receptive and a friendship was born—although it was doomed to die rather soon. Kumar must have enjoyed the idea of a friend with mutual interests; estranged from family and enduring the isolation his secretive job required of him, his must have been a lonely life. They agreed to meet up sometime. It was at that point that Kumar was called away to join his specific IT group at their assigned table," Sherlock placed the stress to illustrate that the entire episode was a planned one. "It was the last supper for those four men who worked on the same assignment."

"Jesus!" John grimaced and pushed back in his chair.

"I assure you no deities were involved. Days later, Mitchell followed up, surprising Kumar by popping over at his flat since they had not exchanged addresses. However, Mitchell was the one in for the greater shock with how sick Kumar appeared. He fixed him tea and wanted to call an ambulance, but Kumar refused, although he did confide in Mitchell about what he thought had happened. Together they came up with the idea of formatting the laptop and hand-delivering it to the surgery of Dr. Watson, known associate of Sherlock Holmes. When Mitchell left the flat, that was the last they saw of each other."

"Goddammit! Fucking bloody bastards!" John slammed a fist hard on the table and bolted out of his seat. Turning away from Sherlock, he planted two hands on the worktop and bowed his head.

Too late Sherlock regretted causing John this additional distress. All the heartache John had endured since Mary died had left the good doctor much less calloused—less emotionally armored—than he had been before. To complicate matters, as he always seemed to do, Sherlock had underestimated the doctor-patient connection John had made with the terminally-ill Jay Kumar. He forgot that the gift of compassion that John possessed in such remarkable quantities was too often a double-edged sword.

Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock reverted to his usual and mistimed levity to soften the blow. "Yes, well, Mitchell has been indispensable with his excellent cyber-security expertise in teaching me to sharpen my hacking skills—they came in handy the other night with your baby cam. However, I've scolded him for his lack of imagination. Going by MID HELL seems uncreative to say the least and very unbecoming of a hacker of his level. I would have suggested a very different alias— if not a twenty-eight word phrase in French, perhaps a corrosive chemical element—"

"I don't care, Sherlock," John told him wearily, unable to rise to the goad despite Sherlock's attempt. When he finally turned back around to speak, his mood had shifted from exhaustion to irritation. "You feel better, now that you've told me, hmm?"

"It's not a matter of feeling better or feeling anything, John," Sherlock replied cautiously, his eyes narrowed as he recognized the tell-tale bulldog set of John's jaw. "It's a matter of being informed. If you expect me to protect you—"

"—It's not your bloody job to protect me! I'm quite capable of taking care of my own family…." The razor edge in John's words cut deep.

Stricken by John's immediate and undisguised rage, Sherlock pushed back from the table, preparing to stand; to leave—

"No! Stay!" With his palm raised to halt his friend, John choked backed his sudden bitterness. There were still moments—too many—when the empty anger over Mary's loss welled up despite the brittle peace he had made with the way things were.

Sherlock lingered in a state of obvious confusion.

"I'm sorry! Sherlock, I apologize! You didn't deserve that." Chagrined, John sank into his chair and sighed. "For Rosie's sake and mine, I do want your help. You are the first person I would go to—hell—you are the only person I would go to, even though I'd rather give help than ask for it." He shook his head and added in a hoarse whisper, "You know, were it still possible, it would be my privilege to continue helping you."

Conceding to his friend's request, Sherlock settled again in the kitchen chair. In John's admission Sherlock heard the contradiction to the firm and cautious choice the doctor and father had made more than a week ago—to remove himself from the dangers of solving crimes. Sherlock had not argued or debated John's decision back then—how could he when a baby's life was in the mix, not just John's? In light of what John had just said, however, Sherlock had to re-evaluate whether his own opinion—unvoiced that night—needed to be heard. He needed to ensure that John would not put his life and daughter at risk or feel their friendship, despite not working together, was in jeopardy by this decision.

"My arrogance in ignoring advice and warnings, especially those issued by Mycroft, is to blame for terrible errors I have made. However, your Mary drove home the lesson that I should have learnt sooner. I must pick my battles judiciously, John, for I am not invincible. Too often before, I have allowed hubris to delude me into making vows impossible to keep, causing more harm than good to those who trusted me and whom I desired to protect. So, you were right when you said that you don't need my protection. I have let you down. I cannot protect you—not completely—nor give you any certainty about the unforeseeable future. Yet you say you want my help. All I can offer is my powers of observation, my deductive reasoning, and the conclusions I can draw from the data I collect. If that is the help you want, it shall always be yours."

Sherlock pushed his empty plate aside and rested his elbows on the table. With fingers forming a steeple under his chin, he spoke softly; his eyes focused beyond John. "That said, you must be aware that your past association with me puts you in the crosshairs of my enemies regardless of whether you are an active partner, or even if you prefer to keep your distance from me. To make your new life work, however, I do believe it would be wiser for you to go your own way, and I mine." Sherlock's voice wavered slightly, "I have been reckless in involving my friend and his family in dangerous situations; for that I offer you my profound apologies, John, and deepest regrets. It would be downright unpardonable for me to continue to entice you with the Work when you have a fascinating case of your own. Her name is Rosie. This is and should always be your first focus."

"Sherlock—" John tried interrupting.

"Let me finish, John. Be assured, that although I may seem removed from your life, out of sight and out of touch, I will remain vigilant on your behalf. I will never let my guard down. Of course, you know that whenever you see fit to contact me, there is no need to hesitate; ring me, text me; I will come straightaway. Whether this happens hours from now or years from now it will not matter; it will be as if no time had elapsed."

Touched by Sherlock's raw honesty, John dropped his chin to his chest and pinched the bridge of his nose to hide his emotional turmoil. There was truth in Sherlock's words and it helped John make the decision he now knew would be one of the most important in his and Rosie's futures and their lives—a decision that was turning out not to be a difficult one to make.

Mere seconds later John cleared his throat and resumed in a steady voice, "Let me get this straight. You've just told me, whether we are actually working together or not, that your enemies—hopefully, arch-enemies are a thing of the past, at least—will always see our association as ongoing and can use me to get to you."

"True."

"Yet you think we should go our separate ways?"

Sherlock's "Yes" hissed like a leaky balloon, "to minimize risks."

"Why? What sense does that make?" John huffed. "If what you say is true, even if we lead separate lives, we can't fight public opinion or escape the past. We are and will always be linked, Sherlock—that's how public opinion works. You could publish the truth in The Times and no one would believe it—didn't you learn anything from our encounters with both Moriarty and Magnussen? Besides, I'm beginning to see this strategically. Divided we are weaker; separated we are vulnerable. And, I refuse to become the bait to trap you, especially unwittingly. That too has happened before because you chose to make a unilateral decision regarding protecting me than to confide in me. Your powers of observation, your deductive reasoning, and the conclusions you can draw from collected data are formidable defenses, more daunting than a twenty-eight-word chemical formula password in French. So, the way I see it, there is no point in our fighting perception; there is only one right decision here. We—Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson—must stick together."

Sherlock frowned in his struggle to understand John's logic, but even more, his change of heart.

"Don't you see?" John warmed to his argument. "Considering the dangers of being independent of each other, my decision to give it all up was rash, Sherlock. I got scared, okay? Now, I'm more convinced that there is a middle ground to be found here. You keep me in the loop about your cases, boring and interesting ones alike, and I will decide, for the good of my daughter, whether and to what extent I should get involved. At the least, I can be your sounding board, as much as I will miss the legwork. That way you can keep your friends close before you enemies draw closer," John swallowed, surprised by his own boldness in making such a pitch. "You must know I will always consider you my ally, but more importantly, my friend—my best friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock wore a bemused expression not unlike the one when John had said those very same words the last time.

"Oh, there's one more thing, mate. Charming as it was, I can do without the arrogant, in-my-face-git you were when we were still flatmates. You think you can handle that?"

Sherlock hesitated, trying to calculate all the possible scenarios and their permutations within John's proposal. "This negates the gift I had been prepared to offer your daughter for her birthday. You've noticed my deliberate timing—arriving to the party after everyone had gone? Anticipating that your guests would consider my coming empty-handed as further proof that you have been unwise in your choice of best friend and godfather, I stayed away. I did not want my actions to reflect poorly on you."

John shrugged and flicked a soft half-smile. "Oh, here I thought you were merely snubbing tradition or trying not to ruin Rosie's party by annoying everyone..."

"No, John, it's because…my gift..." Sherlock drew in a breath, "...my gift to Rosie would have been to allow her father a lifetime unimpeded by ridiculously idiotic situations that are needlessly life-threatening, so he can enjoy her into his old age."

John's eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped slightly open. It took him a moment longer to overcome his sudden speechlessness and consider the ramifications of Sherlock's gift. "Rosie… would love to..." he began but suddenly changed his mind in mid sentence, "...but no, she can't accept that—" he trailed out, having difficulty finding the right words. "Sherlock, you can't give her goodbye as a present, that's cruel and just like I said, I'll never accept it, at least not the way you are offering it."

"No?" Sherlock whispered so quietly that it was nearly inaudible.

"No. Especially as you've left off the other half of the gift," John said cagily.

"The other half?" Sherlock asked, now utterly bewildered.

"Yes, the other half, which is that Rosie deserves to enjoy a lifetime of learning from her Uncle Sherlock who will do his utmost, especially when on his great adventures, to stay out of needlessly dangerous and ridiculously idiotic situations and to avoid stupid stunts, such as jumping off buildings. This way he will ensure that her mother's ultimate sacrifice was worth it and that her father will have his friend into their old age."

Sherlock swiftly swept his gawp of disbelief under his dismissive demeanor. "You may be asking too much."

"I think not. Nothing is too much for you. I know you can do it. Promise?"

"I hesitate to promise, John … but I will… seriously undertake this commitment," Sherlock pronounced the words cautiously aware of his all-too human limitations, "to the best of my ability."

This time, when the friends locked eyes, they saw in each other a willingness to make things work.

As he rose from his chair, Sherlock felt like a phoenix rising from the ashes, renewed by their mutual decision and the resiliency of their friendship. "When it suits you and your schedule, John," a lopsided smile formed on his lips, "you must bring Rosie round to Baker Street so you can review the cases at hand and decide what might interest you." Spying his chopsticks on the table, Sherlock picked them up gently. With an air of calm satisfaction, he wiped them and wrapped them protectively in the party napkin and returned them to the safety of his blazer pocket.

John also stood, his chin lifted as he made another demand. "Since we've been harping on so much about safety lately, it's time you learn to child proof the damned place... " He cocked one eyebrow, never doubting Sherlock's concession. "Even if it means tidying up some of your clutter and shoving everything dangerous into cupboards."

"Now, you may be asking too much," Sherlock pretended to protest but a smile from ear to ear preceded his one-word reply. "Agreed," he said and turned to leave.

"Hold on!" John waved Sherlock to sit back down. "You've forgotten something." At Sherlock's puzzled frown, John simply said, "Cake. I saved you a slice."

"Yes. Cake! There was a point in coming! Happy Birthday, Rosamund Mary, and many more to come!" Sherlock laughed broadly and deeply. In that moment, the weight of all his most grievous errors, especially those that had so impacted his dear friend, seemed suddenly lifted by John's good graces. And while he had only recently come to acknowledge life's fragility and uncertainty, Sherlock was learning to appreciate what he had now that he had it.

"When all else fails, John," he cried gleefully in imitation of his brother, "there is always cake!"

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"…It's all about the legend, the stories, the adventures. There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. There is a final court of appeal for everyone. When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope. When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat, like they've always been there and they always will. The best and wisest men I have ever known…my Baker Street boys."

[Mary's Voiceover from "The Final Problem." Episode written by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and transcript by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan.]

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A.N. I originally intended to write a reflective, not a detective story, as I wanted to focus on how Sherlock and John would solve the 'business' of their futures. So, I apologize if the two cases in this story are not as tidy or tied neatly together as a reader may want (Real Life is not that way, and yes, sometimes coincidences are merely coincidences.) As I told one faithful reader, the two cases are meant to be plot devices to show character development. They present John with two options: dissolve his partnership with Sherlock to avoid risks or embrace his partnership to thwart other risks.

I hope you will feel that my focus on these personal issues between Sherlock and John along with the solutions to the two separate but equally important cases have successfully landed them in a better place- where Sherlock and John have cleared the air and can get on with their lives; where these characters can continue to be lifelong friends who mature, grow older and merge more closely with their legendary personas found in the timeless canon.

Special nod to englishtutor and her "A Watson When You Need One" AU series Chapter 16: For the Love of Lava in which Ian Watson and Uncle Sh'ock explore the wonders of how to make a foaming volcano. A delightful read that tickled my fancy, so I borrowed the idea from her fanciful mind.

Another special nod to my insightful beta baillierj who despite her busy life has been a willing sounding board. Last, but not least, I must add special thanks to my silent beta who afforded me the gifts of her exceptional advice and wisdom on all things Canon and the language of friendship.

A.N. Update: Even though I did not see this quote until 29 August 2017, it corroborates my premise in Life After Death:

In the Digital Spy entitled "Sherlock season 5 air date, cast, episodes, news and everything you need to know. Was 'The Final Problem' just the beginning?" by Morgan Jeffrery (8 August 2017), Jeffery writes: "Re: Sherlock's future - for those of you asking, it's definitely the end. Of Chapter One," Moffat later wrote in January 2017, after the fourth series had aired.

"Dr Watson is now Doyle's brave widower and Sherlock Holmes has become the wise and humane version of the main run of the stories (we've focused, so far, on the cold Holmes of the early days.) Whether we ever get to Chapter Two - our boys consciously living the myth and battling wrong-doers - rather depends on our two stars. I'd be slightly surprised if we never made it again. But I've been surprised before."