“Uh, Bryant, think I can have a minute alone with Sherlock?”

Like hell I'm hanging around a moment longer.

“Sure. Past my bedtime anyway. Good night.” He slipped past John, grabbed his suitcase and headed upstairs. He paused when he heard John speak.

“He is leaving sometime, right?”

Not soon enough.

 

“Stop all your melodramatic posturing, John.” Sherlock stood in front of him.“You’re drunk and I’m practically an invalid. We both need sleep.”

“I’m not that drunk.” John muttered. “And don’t act like this is all part of your grand plan, hmm? I had a wife and baby five minutes ago.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Now shut up and go to sleep."


Bryant woke early. Barely six.  Sleeping upstairs was strange – the bed was comfortable enough, but the room was a depressing shrine to John’s unhappiness. His wedding ring in an ashtray on the dresser, his shirts and sweaters spilling out of an open suitcase, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor by the bed. The walls were bare, dark outlines on the wallpaper where pictures had previously hung. He’d told Bryant he’d moved out after Sherlock died, then returned after he found out about Mary. How long would it have taken him to return if Mary had been exactly who she claimed to be? Bryant suspected John would have ended up back in Sherlock’s bed eventually.

 

Bryant was showered and dressed before John and Sherlock made an appearance. It had snowed during the night – barely a centimeter – but it was coming down fiercely now – big heavy flakes that carpeted the parked cars and balanced on the branches of the bare trees.

He was starving. He opened the fridge and weighed his choices. A few slices of dried cheddar, some eggs, three samosas, a jar of something liquid and suspiciously yellow, moldy fruit and two brownies on a chipped saucer. “My special recipe. Brought it back from America,” Mrs. Hudson had explained. It had only taken a few bites for Bryant to realize what was so special about them. He picked one up, reconsidered, and put it back on the saucer. He couldn’t get buzzed on an empty stomach.

There was a breakfast restaurant a couple of blocks away. Made a decent cheese omelet, even better coffee. He’d give John and Sherlock some morning after privacy. Maybe he’d bring back some muffins and coffee for them if he felt generous.

He wrapped one of John’s scarves around his neck and tucked his still-damp hair into Sherlock’s ridiculous hat, the one he wore for interviews. Bryant looked around for his wallet and noticed the file still sitting on the table. The one John said was from Mycroft. It was heavy, at least three inches thick, a blue satin ribbon tying it together. He found a shopping bag to protect it from the snow and tucked it under his arm – he’d read it while he ate breakfast. Most likely none of his business, but what the hell? 

 

Bryant waited until he finished eating before retrieving the file from the bag. The breakfast rush was over and the restaurant was nearly empty – a couple in one corner holding hands across the table, a woman in a wool coat drinking her third pot of tea.

He untied the ribbon and opened the file. Sarah smiled up at him. Dammit... This was Sarah’s file. He recognized the photo, he’d taken it a month before Sarah died. She was standing under a tree by the canal, not far from where she was attacked. How did Mycroft get hold of it? Sarah looked so young, was it really only five years ago? Bryant flipped quickly through the pages – each one a piece of the puzzle of Sarah’s life – photos and bank statements and school records. The flyer for her first exhibition (My first show, Daniel, can you believe it? I know the space is shit, but it’s a start, right?), a copy of the obituary (Sarah Whitehall, beloved daughter of Charles and Linda. Cherished older sister to Justin, friend to Daniel...) He closed the file, hands shaking. Did he really want to do this? Sarah was dead.

But what had he told John? Families had the right to know what happened to their loved ones. No matter how painful the truth. Bryant believed that, it was why he had joined the Cold Case Unit. But the truth had only brought John unhappiness. Would he have been better off not knowing about Mary’s past? About the baby?

He rearranged the file and re-tied the blue ribbon. He paid the bill and stepped out into the snow. He was suddenly inexplicably homesick and leaned up against a lamp post covered with frost. His bare hands sunk into the snow on the surface, and he felt his fingers numb and freeze. Something twisted in his chest and he half-sobbed, covering his face with his frozen hands. “I miss you so much, Sarah.”

But Sarah was always there, in the corner of his mind, in the tracks of his memory, close enough to touch. You don't have to do this alone.

It was time to go home.

There was the smell of bacon. And no Sherlock. And the smell of bacon. Even his pedestrian deduction skills could suss this one out. Was he going to find Sherlock in the kitchen, cooking bacon in a proper skillet, apron wrapped around him. The kitchen not in flames.

Daniel. Dammit. It was probably Daniel. I’m never leaving Bryant. Fixing them some kind of weird celebration/condolence breakfast. Surely Sherlock would never allow...

“Oh, you’re awake.” Sherlock stood in the doorway, wrapped in an apron. And a robe. “I don’t have the correct spatula, and Mrs. Hudson will not answer my queries, so I hope you like scrambled.” He stepped into the room. “Do you think this juice is juice?” He held up a jar of yellowish liquid.

John didn’t know what to answer first. He pulled himself up on his elbows and started to speak, but Sherlock had already crossed the room and was leaning down toward him, eyebrow raised.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock murmured.

“Yeah, good morning to you.” Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. “Definitely not juice.”

John peeked over the bed at the spilled jar, the liquid turning the wood floor an interesting green color. It wasn't eating through the floor. Yet.

“Any sign of Bryant yet?” John asked.

“He’s oot,” Sherlock answered in his best Canadian accent. “Nicked the file from the table on his way.”

“The one Mycroft gave me? What was it – his Christmas list?” He slipped into one of Sherlock’s robes and looked down. It came depressingly down to his ankles.

“Mine, actually. The Inspector has given me a lovely little case to solve –his other significant other. Murdered five years ago. A case that in normal circumstances would merit no more than a five. But I’ve decided to help him. And I’ve cooked breakfast for us, John. It’s the dawn of a new age.”

They’d finished their toast (burnt) and eggs (John had never seen scrambled eggs that color) and bacon (perfect) and traded sections of the newspaper back and forth until Sherlock finally said what he’d been waiting to say all morning. Or at least that was John’s take on it.

“My mother rang. While you were sleeping. She’s invited us for Christmas.”

“Us?”

“Well, not us us, of course. Me. And well, you. Do you have plans for Christmas?”

“Plans?”

“She suggested you make your famous plum pudding. Why she believes you make Christmas pudding is beyond me.”

John cleared his throat. “They invited me the first Christmas you were dead. I almost didn’t go – but I felt sorry for them.  Almost as sorry as I felt for myself.  I bought a plum pudding at Harrod’s – then momentarily lost my mind and pretended I’d made it.  I suppose I wanted them to think I was getting on with things...”

“Did they?” he asked, and then more quietly, “Were you?”

John shrugged. “I managed not to blubber into my mash, if that’s what you’re asking. I did wonder at the time why they seemed to be handling it so well.”

“Sorry.”

“Another thousand of those and I might begin to believe you.” John stood and started clearing the dishes.

“Sorry,” he said again.

John nodded and carried the plates to the kitchen. The phone rang as he walked back to the table. He picked it up and before he could even get a word in he was hit with a flurry of words before the call was disconnected. He blinked and stared. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low growl.

“Sherlock Holmes. What have the bloody hell have you done now?”

Sherlock looked up from the newspaper. “Sorry?”

John pointed to the phone. “Mary. She’s accepted my invitation to spend Christmas at your parents.”

“Wonderful.” He turned back to the newspaper.

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” He began pacing. “Please pass the turkey, Mary. More pudding, Mary? Shot anyone lately, Mary?”

“Goose.”

“What?”

“Goose. My mother always serves goose.”

John grabbed the newspaper from Sherlock and tossed it to the floor. He leaned over, palms pressed flat against the table and hissed, “What are you playing at, Sherlock?”

“Last night. You said things. Things I choose to believe.”

John sighed and felt the anger blow out of him. He sat, put his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands. It had taken so long to get back here and now Sherlock was scheming to throw it all away.

“But this? This is your plan? I don’t know if I can...” John’s voice collapsed. He looked up and Sherlock was watching him.

He trusted him.

John trusted Sherlock.

"Okay."

Ottawa Citizen

Wednesday, December 12th.

Two senior executives of an Alberta mining company were arrested yesterday and charged with conspiracy and first-degree murder in the death of Peter Goodale. At the time of his death, Mr. Goodale, 38, was Conservative Member of Parliament for Peace River, Alberta. Mr. Goodale was shot and killed outside the Elgin Fitness Centre in Ottawa on February 20. Investigators initially concluded that the murder was a failed carjacking attempt. At the time of Mr. Goodale’s death, the suspects, Matthew Hunter, 47, and Gordon Shevchenko, 52, were employed by Wild Rose Mining Corporation. No motive for the murder was disclosed by investigators.

The case was recently transferred to the Cold Case Unit of the Ottawa Division of the RCMP.  Superintendent Mark McPherson credits the hard work of his team in identifying the “smoking gun” – money transfers from one of the accused’s bank accounts to a numbered company in Ottawa. The numbered company was traced to Irish national James Moriarty. Mr. Moriarty, who had an extensive criminal history in Great Britain, disappeared in two years ago and is presumed dead.

A preliminary hearing is scheduled for January 1st in Ottawa. Martin Ayton, lawyer for Gordon Shevchenko, says his client will plead not guilty. Mr. Hunter could not be reached for comment.

//

Ottawa Citizen

Friday, December 28th.

A spokesperson from CM Global News announced the death on Christmas Day of the company’s founder and CEO, Charles Magnussen, from an apparent heart attack at his country estate eighty kilometers east of London. An autopsy will be performed, but no foul play is suspected.

Charles Magnussen, aged 48, was born in Denmark and educated at Cambridge. He began his career...

//

"Just found out about CAM. Heart attack, eh? Anything you need to tell me?"

"Nope"

"What I thought. Where are you?"

"London. For now."

"John?"

"Safe"

"Mary?"

"With John"

"Dammit."

"Precisely"

"Have you talked to him?"

"No"

"Mycroft?"

"Playing chess"

"Do I need to come back?"

"In 6 months. Good-bye Inspector Bryant."

Bryant stared at the phone in frustration and annoyance. Sherlock bloody Holmes had hung up on him.

Again.

The waitress set down the pot of tea and plate of lemon scones in front of Bryant. “Anything else, sir?”

“No, that’s all, thanks.”

“It’s still a bit chilly out here. There’s an empty table inside if you change your mind.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Bryant warmed his hands around the pot. The waitress was right, it was too soon to be dining al fresco.  But it had been a long winter and he longed for any sign that spring had finally arrived.  It was the first mild day and everyone was out walking, like prisoners released from months in solitary.

He sipped his tea and read the note from their real estate agent. If you want to make an offer on the Glendale house, you better decide soon. It will go quickly.  Let me know by the end of the day.

Toronto. New city. New job. And in three months, if he survived the wedding, a new wife. Everything he wanted. Sometimes though, it was all a bit... much. So he escaped to The Scone Witch to drink tea and eat scones and just breathe.   

The tea was cooling quickly in the cold air and he asked the waitress for another pot. God, look at me. Tea and scones in the middle of the afternoon. Mrs. Hudson would be pleased. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. It was wonderful to feel the warmth of the sun on his face again.

“May I?”

Bryant opened his eyes and watched the rest of his scone disappear into Sherlock’s mouth.

He slid into the chair opposite, unwinding his scarf. “I’d pay a small fortune if I could get them to ship these overseas.” He lifted another one off the plate.

Bryant managed to find his voice. “I’ve killed for less.”

He lowered the scone back to the plate. Raised an eyebrow. Waited.

The two hundred questions swirling in Bryant’s brain settled into just one.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Twenty minutes, six scones and two pots of tea later, he had told him almost every single detail of his life and had gotten precisely four pieces of information from him: Mrs. Hudson was fine, Lestrade sent his best wishes, Magnussen had no vaults, and Mary was gone.

“No leads on where she might have gone?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“And Moriarty?” Bryant wondered if his bladder could take another round of non-answers.

“Other than that ridiculous display in January, for which I should be grateful I suppose, not a trace.”

“Grateful?”

Sherlock looked at Bryant and took another sip of tea. Where he was putting it at this point was a mystery.

“It’s classified.”

“Which is Sherlock speak for too personal or too painful or both.”

“Sherlock-speak? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. It’s irritating.”

Sherlock smiled and set the teacup on the table. “There are consequences to shooting a man in cold blood on Christmas in front of a dozen witnesses including ones own brother who is a high ranking British Government official.”

“You did not.”

“Mais oui. Not my best plan, I admit.”

Bryant shook his head. “You think? I tried to tell you that, if you recall.” He stood and waved at the waitress. “I’m cold. Let’s walk.”

Sherlock nodded, stood up and walked inside.

Sherlock opened the gate to the terrace and gestured Bryant through. He waited as he closed the gate and they walked down the sidewalk. His apartment was three blocks in the opposite direction, but he didn’t think he should spring Sherlock on Chloe as a surprise – best to give her time to prepare. After Bryant’s return from London, Chloe’s favorite response to anything he said about the trip had been, ‘Screw Sherlock Holmes’”.

Yes, the Parliament buildings were a better destination.

“So, go on,” Bryant said as they walked down the street, the sun still sneaking between the buildings, “why are you grateful to Moriarty for his little trick? Is that why Mary left? What about John? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t mentioned him yet.”

Sherlock sighed. “Can we sit? I am not prepared to lay bare all the bits of my soul while walking these streets.”

“What’s wrong with the streets?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just led them across the street – against the lights, to a chorus of honks, and onto a small bench next to a tree, a trash can, and a statue. The Parliament buildings loomed in the near distance and a handful of tourists walked by chatting.

Bryant looked closely at Sherlock. “You’re different. I mean, you seem, well, happier.”

“Your way of fishing for more personal information?”

“Always, but no. I mean it. You look good, Sherlock. That’s good. I’m glad.”

“I accept the compliment. Now, I know you are just waiting to spring more questions upon me, so...”

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock sighed and folded his hands together in his lap. “John is fine.”

“No, not how is John... where is John?”

“Mary’s disappearance was a shock for him. And in many ways, a relief.”

Not an answer, but he’d try to be patient a bit longer. “When did she leave?”

Sherlock frowned. “Less than 24 hours after Moriarty’s broadcast.”

“Your phone call said John was with her.”

“He was... until he wasn’t.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Sherlock. Just tell me what the hell happened.”

“What the hell happened, as you put it, was that the siren call of her old lover slash boss proved too much for the former Mrs. Watson, and she was on the first flight out of London. John and I were a bit distracted, what with the threat of a returning Moriarty, and Mycroft was adamant we find him first.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. But I am not convinced he survived the rooftop. I witnessed his death.”

“Like John witnessed yours. Yet here you sit.”

“Touché.”

“And John?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“He stayed with you through all of this?”

“He continues to reside at Baker Street, yes-“

“Really? You think I want his address?”

“I think you want to know what we may not know ourselves.”

“Are you together or not?”

“We are forging ahead.”

Bryant had no idea what that meant. “And.. . ?”

“And he knows my feelings have not changed and we, we are working through our issues.”

“Working through your issues?  Did you read that somewhere?”

“Of course. But it describes the situation accurately. John is and will be forever questioning his decisions, his motives and not to mention mine."

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a single piece of paper, folded. “Aren’t you a bit curious as to why I’m in Ottawa, Inspector?”

Bryant recognized that move. Get too close to an uncomfortable truth and Sherlock deflected. Bryant looked at the paper. “Of course I just...”

“Apart from the first words you said to me, you’ve never questioned my presence in your city. Very sloppy detective work.”

“The opposite– I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.” Bryant held out his hand for the paper. “Do you want to tell me or are you going to watch me read it?”

“Your choice.”

“Is it about Sarah? You found something?”

“Yes.”

He sounded sympathetic and that frightened Bryant. “Just tell me.” He sat up straighter. Closed his eyes and held his breath. He’d waited almost six years for this moment.

“Jean-Guy Therrien is an inmate at Archambault Prison near Montreal. Eighteen months ago, he was two years into a ten year sentence for the sexual assault of his ex-girlfriend’s daughter when a second woman came forward and accused Therrien of the same crime. Given the overwhelming evidence against him, he knew he would be convicted if the case went to trial. So he attempted to negotiate.”

“What was he offering?”

“Information about an unsolved murder.”

“Sarah’s?”

“Yes. His former cellmate – Paul Diorio – had boasted to Therrien that he’d killed a girl and gotten away with it.” 

Bryant shook his head. “Inmates talk. Maybe he heard about it from someone else. It was all over the news.” 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded white envelope. He opened it and lifted out a gold ring. He held it out to Bryant in the palm of his hand. “Diorio always wore this on his pinkie finger. Do you recognize it?”

Bryant took it from him with shaking fingers. He held it up and found it – "me and thee" – engraved on the inside of the ring. "It was corny but it suited us.” Bryant closed his hand tightly around the ring. “I don’t understand. If all this came out – what did you say – eighteen months ago, why did I never hear about it?”

“Two weeks after Therrien told his lawyer this story, Diorio was killed in a fight with another inmate. His lawyer expected that no one would believe Therrien, especially since Diorio was dead, so he never went to the police. I’m sorry, Inspector.”

“And you’re sure it was him?”

“Yes. The ring was not the only evidence. My investigation was quite thorough. I could've gone to the police, but I’m not sure what purpose it would've served especially since the authorities outside of England absolutely abhor me and I likewise them."

“So it’s over?”

“Not the outcome you had hoped for, I expect, but you may find a certain peace in knowing the man who killed Sarah is dead.”

Bryant was suddenly cold, and pulled his coat tight around himself. “Do you have a picture of Diorio?”

“Not with me, no.”

“What about the money? The US account you found?”

“Are you sure you really wish to know?”

Bryant wasn’t sure at all. But he nodded.

“She was smuggling stolen art across the US-Canada border. Her contact would pass a canvas to her in New York and she would simply carry it across the border mixed in with her own work. She was young and attractive and no one paid attention.  She was paid $5,000 for each delivery – a pittance compared to how much the paintings later sold for. Someone else would pick them up from her in Ottawa. She died before she was able to drop off the last one.”

“Two weeks after she was killed, someone broke into our apartment. Nothing seemed to be missing except her portfolio case. I never reported it. Why would she do it, Sherlock?”

“It was easy and rather exciting.”

Bryant was still holding the ring in his hand and now he opened his fist and stared at it. “Thank you, Sherlock. For everything. If you will now excuse me, though, I'm going to go home. I've got a lot of thinking to do."

“Inspector Bryant?”

Bryant didn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the phone. Older woman. Maybe from the homicide he’d started on last week. Young woman, found strangled in the local park not far from Bryant's apartment.

“This is Beverly Ashcroft.”

No way.

“Inspector?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ashcroft. Uh, how are you?”

“Well, I know it’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”

Almost a year, but who’s counting. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m not sure I should be talking to you, but you did say if there was anything...”

Bryant chose to ignore the skittering of something very bad along his spine. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ashcroft, there is still no development in your daughter’s case-“

“She’s here.”

Bryant gripped the phone too tight and it almost slipped out of his hand. “Pardon?”

“Well, not here right now exactly.”

“Wait, you mean Anna – you’ve had contact with Anna?” Oh Mary what game are you playing now?

“I wanted to call you right away, you were so kind to Richard and me, but Anna said-“

“Are you sure? How do you know it was your daughter?” Grasping at straws of course – he knew damn well it was Anna/Mary.

“I saw her with my own eyes, Inspector. She came to visit us.”

“When?” He knew the answer. He just needed confirmation.  Identity.  Location. Sherlock would just have to get in line.

“Right after Christmas. In January. It was quite a surprise.”

Oh I’m sure. “Wait, you’re certain it was Anna, your daughter? It’s been a long time.”

“I know my own daughter, Inspector.”

Bryant needed to be careful. Right now Mrs. Ashcroft saw him as an ally. He needed to keep it that way.

“That’s amazing. You must be over the moon. I can’t believe it.”

“I knew you’d understand. Apparently Anna’s work is very confidential. For the government, you know. She told me not to tell anyone she was here, but I knew you’d want to know.”

Bryant closed his eyes. He and Mrs. Ashcroft had initially bonded over a shared loss – the pain of so many unanswered questions. But now she wanted Bryant to share in her good fortune. But why had Mary risked getting in contact with her parents? After all these years?

“Where is she now?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. She’s been to visit twice.”

“The baby?”

“Oh yes, the baby. Tragic that. Poor Anna lost the baby. She was devastated and broke down when she told us. My heart still breaks thinking about it.” Mrs. Ashcroft spoke softer, as if she thought someone could hear. “Her husband works in counter-terrorism. He couldn’t come with her – Anna was very upset when she got here. I was quite worried. But he’ll be here soon, so it’s all going to be fine.”

“Who will? Her husband?” 

There was no answer and Bryant looked at the phone, thinking he had lost the call. “Mrs. Ashcroft?”

“I think I’ve said too much already.”

Bryant frowned. Did he say something to spook her? Obviously Mary/Anna had instructed her parents not to tell anyone about her. But her life as an international assassin had not prepared her to deal with a mother who knows best about her daughter.

Fatal flaw it would seem.

“No, no I’m happy for you. It’s just such a... surprise.”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know you can stop looking. We’ve found our Anna. Or she found us, I should say.”

And Sherlock just happens to show up at the Scone Witch. Dammit, he bloody knew all along.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t talked to her in a few weeks. She sends us letters, though.”

Bryant heard a noise in the background and someone speaking.

“Mrs. Ashcroft? Maybe I can come over – talk to you about this in person.”

“Oh, no dear, that won’t be necessary. Really. It’s all fine. You can just close up that file on Anna. She’s fine and we’re fine and it’s been nice to talk to you but I have to go. Goodbye.”

Bryant stared at his phone. So Mary was alive. And had been in contact with her parents she hadn’t seen in over ten years. And had apparently "lost the baby" that wasn't John's. Then suddenly disappeared again. If he could believe her parents, which he knew he couldn’t. Every bit of his intuition was screaming at him, reaffirming everything he already knew.

Anna/Mary was in or headed to England. 

Sherlock once again knew far more than he was letting on.

And John was definitely in danger.