Glass - A Sherlock Fan Fiction

Chapter Thirty One

November was bitter and cold with crisp mornings and dark, frosty nights. Even in the middle of the city amongst the tall buildings and heavy traffic, the scent of bonfires and fallen leaves travelled through the air; enriching every corner of London with the earthy perfume of autumn.

Mycroft stepped out of his house onto the doorstep laden with morning frost. His fingers felt stiff and cold as he locked the door behind him, his breath fogging in front of his face. He put on his expensive gloves and fixed his scarf around his neck before walking down the steps and onto the pavement as he waited for his driver to pull up. He glanced up the street as a dark grey Mini Countryman turned the corner sharply, halting beside the kerb in front of him. The passenger window rolled down smoothly. He leant forward, peering across to the driver's side.

"So, you finally took my advice and got a car. I knew you'd give in," he said.

"The bus was starting to get tedious," replied Margaux, her hands grasping the steering wheel.

"Nice choice. Very you," he nodded as he observed the car.

"Get in."

"Excuse me?"

"You like to roll up and force people into your car, I thought I'd return the favour. Get in."

He opened the door and reluctantly slipped into the passenger seat. He glanced over his shoulder to the back where Vaughan was strapped in his car seat.

"Hi," said Vaughan.

"Good morning," he replied formally.

Mycroft turned his attention back to Margaux as she pulled away from the kerb and began to drive.

"Well, Margaux, I must say this is all very MI6 of you. Though the toddler in the backseat does somewhat spoil the intrigue."

"I'm taking Vaughan to nursery and then we're going to talk."

III

It had been a little over one year since the resurrection of Sherlock Holmes. John sat at the table, typing on his laptop as steam rose from the mug of tea beside him. Sherlock sat in his armchair with his knees to his chest, still dressed in his pyjamas. His dressing gown was draped delicately over his lean shoulders, his bare feet crossed as they hung over the edge of the seat. He ran a hand through his hair as he sat quietly – thinking.

"Can I read this last paragraph to you?" asked John.

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock..."

"Hm?" He didn't move from his position, not even his eyes flickered in his friend's direction.

"The blog post? About you coming back from the dead? Can you listen to this last paragraph?"

"Sure."

John cleared his throat and began to read. "Now, over twelve months have passed since my friend's resurrection, and while it is easy to say that with time and forgiveness things have gone back to the way they were, I do not agree. In some ways, it is the same; he still solves crimes and I still write about them, he still clasps his hands together while interviewing clients – presses the same two fingers against his lips as he listens. The same clutter adorns the same walls in the same flat that we once shared, and his incredible mind is still sharp and logical, leaving all who interact with him utterly awestruck. But not everything is the way it was. I, and so many others who loved Sherlock are not the way we once were. We lived through two years of grief, loss, and above all, strength. We learned to exist without him. We found happiness and love in his absence, no matter how hard it may have been to find. Sherlock Holmes returned to stronger people, different people and new people. It is our resilience that has made the last year feel as though he never left. Because we know what it's like to lose him, we thought of all the things we wished we'd told him, the second chances we wished we could have had. And we were given them."