John finds out that Sherlock ins’t dead, Sherlock
John finds out that Sherlock ins’t dead, Sherlock finds out that John is working as superspy
The rain hammered against the windows of 221B Baker Street, each drop a tiny drumbeat echoing John’s unease. He was in the flat, the familiar space strangely cold and empty. A year had passed since the incident at the Reichenbach Falls, a year since Sherlock had, as far as John knew, plunged to his death. John still woke each morning with the sharp pang of his absence, the emptiness gnawing at his heart.
But today was different.
Today, a cryptic email had arrived, a single line: “The game is afoot, John.” No sender, no name. Just that chilling message, a ghost from the past, a cruel reminder of the man he’d lost.
The phone rang, a jarring chime cutting through the silence. It was Molly Hooper. “John, I’ve been going through Sherlock’s things, you know, just trying to… well, I found something.”
Her voice, usually light and bubbly, was choked with emotion. “There’s a hidden compartment in his violin case. It’s… it’s a letter.”
John’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic tattoo of anticipation. “What does it say?”
“It’s… it’s addressed to you. He says to meet him at the old lighthouse on the coast. Tomorrow. At dawn.”
John hung up, his mind racing. The lighthouse. It was where they’d first met, where Sherlock, a whirlwind of deductions and brilliance, had pulled him into his world. Could it be true? Was Sherlock alive?
The next morning, the wind whipped at John’s face as he stood on the cliff, the lighthouse looming in the distance like a skeletal sentinel. He reached into his pocket, his hand closing around the worn leather case he’d kept close since Sherlock’s supposed death. Inside, a small, intricately carved box – Sherlock’s “memory palace.”
He opened the box, revealing a miniature model of 221B Baker Street. But it wasn’t just a model. It was a miniature version of the entire flat, with hidden compartments revealing a secret passageway, leading to a hidden laboratory. John’s breath hitched. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a small, almost invisible inscription beneath the model.
“The game is afoot. Find me. I’ve found you.”
John’s hand trembled as he touched the inscription. He felt a sudden, undeniable certainty. Sherlock was alive. He had been all along. He’d orchestrated this elaborate game, a masterfully constructed escape, all to test John.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the wind. “You’re a little late, John. But then again, you always were the slow one.”
John spun around. Standing on the cliff’s edge, bathed in the golden light of the rising sun, was Sherlock. He was thinner, his eyes shadowed with weariness, but the familiar smirk played at his lips. He was alive.
But what was even more startling was what Sherlock was wearing: a sleek black suit, a small, almost invisible earpiece peeking from his hair.
“You’re… working for MI6?” John breathed, his voice thick with disbelief.
Sherlock chuckled, a low, guttural sound. “Technically, I’m a consultant. And you, my dear John, seem to have a lot to explain.”
John swallowed hard, the memory of his last year flashing before his eyes. The covert missions, the exhilarating thrill of the hunt, the knowledge that he was working on the dark side, all for the sake of his country. He was a superspy, a secret agent, and Sherlock, the genius, had known all along.
“How… how did you know?” John asked, his voice trembling.
Sherlock smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You were a terrible spy, John. I had to help you.”
And as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the cliff, John knew that his life, and his relationship with Sherlock, would never be the same. The game was truly afoot, and it was only just beginning.
