I read about it in the papers first.
Mad Detective Shoots Media Magnate. Sherlock Holmes Murders Magnussen. Sherlock’s Shoot-Out: CAM Dead, Magnate Murder – is This Man Responsible?
Pages and pages of print and conspiracy theories conjured up by The Daily Mail. Photographs of a long, bony wrist holding up his collar, and headlines until the name Sherlock Holmes was synonymous with the word slander.
I sat and read and sat and watched until I couldn’t sit or watch or read anymore.
I took the first available flight from Jaipur to London, Heathrow.
I didn’t see him until a few days later – but when I did –
He was coming down the steps of the Old Bailey, long elegant legs eating up the distance, striding past the last of the photographers, worn out by the same repeated questions.
He pulled his collar upwards with a careful flick, nicotine patches sticking out from underneath his cuffs.
He was beautiful.
“Hello, Sherlock,” I said, warmly.
“Hello, Victor,” he replied, in a thick, rumbling baritone I’d glimpses of in Eton. He didn’t need to ask why I was here. He knew.
Philip Trevor – The Multi-Million Dollar Lie. Trevor the Embezzler, His Son the Beneficiary. Trevor the Traitor: ‘Loans’ All a Lie. Phil Trevor – Was Victor the Accountant?
Sherlock put his arms around me, and I put my arms around him.
“I’m surprised they let you into the Old Bailey after what happened when you tried to testify for me,” I smiled into his coat.
“I am too – although they did bring up a few of the other incidents,” he murmured thoughtfully.
I let go, however reluctantly, and he summoned a cab effortlessly to his side.
“221b Baker Street, please,” he instructed, and kept his features towards the window.
I counted thirteen I Believe in Sherlock Holmeses along the way.
He took the stairs two at a time and removed his scarf and coat with brilliant efficiency.
“It’s…not entirely tidy at the moment,” he admitted sheepishly, moving a cushion from one chair to the other. “I’ve been meaning to neaten things up.” He started to gesticulate while picking up a pile of papers. I held onto his wrist until he lowered it.
“Sherlock,” I said, waiting until he met my eyes. “Are you moving?”
“Mm. Can’t afford the rent. Apparently nobody wants to room with a murderer. Haven’t quite told Mrs. Hudson yet; I’m quite sure she’d hit me rather hard.”
I paused. Then I held my breath. Then I spoke.