CHAPTER 9: "GOOD SHOT"

oooOOOOOOOooo

"…Unlike the embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat; I don't know who is behind all this, but I will find out, I promise you." Sherlock preceded John down the stairs while stuffing his arms into the sleeves of his beloved Belstaff, then shrugging it over his shoulders. Beyond the front door of 221B Baker Street, the press was waiting for "the story."

As he spoke, the consulting detective listened intently to the echoing footfalls of his friend's descent, but the rhythmic pattern of 17 steps was interrupted. John has stopped on step 15. Sherlock was acutely aware what this hesitation indicated. An emotional shift! John has something more to say…hmmm. Nothing to do with the terrorist threat we just averted… we have controlled our amused shock over Molly's boyfriend, Tom… our conversation about his abduction just ended… So, what?

John paused. You're the proverbial cat, Sherlock, spitting out canary feathers right now. You like showing me up about how much I miss The Work. Maybe it's true, but here's another bit of truth. As much as you denounce public opinion, you're a love-starved genius! You have missed your adoring audience… "Don't pretend you're not enjoying this," he finally said, deepening the pitch of his voice for a more intimate and confidential effect.

"Huh?" Sherlock inclined his head, only his left ear tilted toward his partner behind him.

"Being back. Being a hero again." With a marksman's eye, the army man 'fired' two shots across the bow. I challenge you to refute this!

"Hmm! Don't be stupid!" Evasive action wasn't going to deflect John's unerring sight, but Sherlock tried anyway.

"You'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it!" Bull's eye!

The target yielded. A puzzled and prolonged sidelong glance was all the consulting detective could give his friend in defense. …"Love what?"

"Being Sherlock Holmes." The clipped statement recoiled and ended like a question. Once he had discharged the thought, John completed the final two steps to the floor and studied the reaction on his friend's face.

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean." Sherlock leveled his gaze at John with a dismissive shake of his head and a slightly furrowed brow before he turned back around, removed his gloves from his pocket, and pulled them on.

Hang on!You know exactly what I mean…! John noted, mentally preparing a description for his next blog. "You, with your signature long coat…your cheekbones, the upturned collar corralling that cascade of black curls…You're only missing the deerstalker!"

The famous, albeit hat-less, detective had taken three paces closer to the door when another question rang out and halted him.

"Sherlock, you aren't going to tell me how you did it." John had reloaded, muting his queries by making them declarations of fact.

Still turned away, Sherlock emotionally ducked from the subtle barrage of inflections in John's voice.

"How you jumped off that building and survived." John was speaking to the back of the coat, the collar, the curls—the master of disguise and prestidigitation—hoping to reach his friend within.

"You know my methods, John." The army doctor's diffused emotions stung like pellets. Sherlock felt wounded by remorse, unable to return the volley. His lame reply, "I'm known to be indestructible," sadly missed its mark.

John was not ready to let up. "No, but seriously. When you were 'dead,' I went to your grave…"

"I should hope so." His reply was soft, but now Sherlock anticipated the direction of this round. Relied on it. Knew you would be there.

"I made a little speech." John had finally mastered his words and his emotions, his steady voice, unrelenting and purposeful, aimed—a crack shot—straight for his friend's heart.

Absorbing the shock of genuine feelings, Sherlock flinched with the memory of his grieving friend at the headstone.

"I actually spoke to you." My heart was breaking…because until I met you, I was so alone. I owed you so much. It killed me to think that I had failed you.

"I know." Set free by a truth he could actually speak, the resurrected detective turned toward his faithful doctor and friend. Crystal blue-gray eyes kindled warmly, the usual mask of indifference and cold reason fell away. Without pretense he replied. "I was there." As I am now!

Rendered speechless by the profound honesty in Sherlock's expression, John wavered slightly. Aah! May be why I felt you were listening…So it wasn't the wishful thinking of a delusional man?

John swallowed, determined to fight through his usual fear of verbalizing intimacy. "I asked you for one more miracle." He quelled a slight quiver in his lips. "I asked you to stop being dead."

"I heard you."

Like a gunsight shifting slightly to get a better view of its target, John saw what he could not see before. He had not been alone at the gravesite, he had not become invisible. Sherlock had witnessed his grief. They had both experienced loss. They had both suffered. Each in our own way, I not knowing, you not be able to explain. His aim all along had been to understand, to get past his pain, and to move on. With the succinct report of Sherlock's three words, John achieved his mark.

Watching the subtlest body language of his friend—the ripple of a gentle swallow in his throat, the slightest irrepressible expansion of his pupils, the catch of his breath—as they stood facing each other in the lobby of 221B, Sherlock realized his ability to see and value the real John Watson—the soldier, the doctor, his friend—had grown since that night nearly four years ago when with two words, "good shot," he acknowledged that it was John who had saved his life. And John was validated by his recognition. A strange new loyalty galvanized both men in that moment and produced an unspoken commitment to protect and defend each other, whatever it takes, whatever happens. It's the two of us against the world. Headlines: Detective Needs His Blogger. On that last thought, Sherlock drew in a deep breath, clapped his gloved hands resolutely, and spoke with unveiled enthusiasm. "Anyway, time to be Sherlock Holmes!"

With John watching his back, the consulting detective stepped toward the door, hesitated, and then took one step back. To prove his partner right, he grabbed his deer stalker from the hall peg and fitted it rakishly over his curls. Then he pulled opened the door.

Flash bulbs went off in rapid succession as the hat detective, Sherlock Holmes—recently returned from the dead—accompanied by his stalwart companion Dr. John H. Watson greeted the journalists and photographers.

Highlighting the evening story that broke across all print and internet media was a good shot of London's famous crime-fighting team; Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

oooOOOOOOOooo

Please consider leaving a review. Feedback is always appreciated.