A/N: Here we are at last. I must say that after all this time, it is both a relief and a shock to finish this story. I hope you have all enjoyed the journey. Thank you to all reviewers for their interest and support: I am infinitely grateful for the time each of you took to write a review, or reviews.
I also wanted to let you know that I will be editing this story quite massively now that it is complete, if only to level up all chapters. It is almost impossible to find a beta reader for such a long project, so if anyone is interested... :) More realistically, if you enjoyed this story, there is a very simple way to help me make it better: tell me five to ten elements that put you off, be it a recurring spelling mistake, some inconsistency in the storyline, or perhaps some passages that confused you. Many of those shortcomings I might be aware of, and already plan on fixing; but maybe you'll point out something that I wouldn't have thought of at all. In any case, all critiques are most welcome and greatly appreciated.
Thank you for following this story to the end! I hope that you enjoy the very last chapter.
NB: The cipher at the end is a Vigenère Square. I'll let you guess the keyword ;)
Nutrisco et extinguo:"I feed upon it and extinguish it"
A quick note on the title: I did not want to bother you with this until the last chapter. But you might want to know that nutrisco can be read both as "I feed upon it" and "I feed it". Francis I of France used the expression as his motto, with both meanings. His coat of arms was a salamander, and the motto went with it: "I feed upon the good fire and extinguish the bad one" or "I feed the good fire and extinguish the bad one".
Except that technically, what's interesting in this expression out of context is that the object of both verbs ("it") is not actually mentioned, and could as well be one and the same: "I feed (upon) the good fire and I extinguish it" or "I feed (upon) the bad fire and extinguish it". Or, even if we make it two different objects, "I feed (upon) the bad fire and extinguish the good one". Now don't get me wrong: clearly the king's motto did not mean that and was directly borrowed from the Italian "Nudrisco il buono e spengo it reo" ("I nourish the good and extinguish the bad", i.e. "Fire purifies good metal, but consumes rubbish"). But it remains that the Latin version of the motto, Nutrisco et extinguo, is much more ambiguous, in many ways. You may now deduce the many links with this story and its various characters, and understand why I chose this as a title.
Aere perennius: "more lasting than bronze"
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is K+
Chapter LII: Aere perennius
Morning lullabies, by Ingrid Michaelson
Yesterday I woke up with your head on my arm
My hand was numb, circulation gone
But I dared not move the pretty sleeping one
June 13, 9am
I woke up this morning to the sight of your sleeping form beside me. I think I haven't got used to it yet: you, being alive. Being there.
It's been two days – almost two days. 36 hours, maybe. So much has happened I haven't had time to write anything down, when this is clearly the most exciting and miraculous thing that's happened to me in three years. Miraculous, that's the word. You finally performed that miracle, Sherlock. But it sure took you long enough.
I'm glad we didn't draw the curtains last night; you look beautiful in the morning light, almost peaceful. I don't think I ever saw you look so young and defenceless. Oh I know you won't like the word, but that's the first impression I got. It didn't feel real. When I woke up I had to reach and touch you, just to check. And then I felt your skin under my fingers. It was warm, Sherlock. Your body is warm again. For how long? I don't know. But now we know how to make it warm, and if I have to blow-dry you every night until we die, I certainly will. Three years of thinking I would never see you again have made me much more tolerant, I think. Much more willing to baby-sit you. I'm not sure you'll enjoy the attention all that much, but it's your fault for letting me believe you were dead for so long.
Sometimes I'm terrified I've invented it all. That I made up the scene at the school with Seb, invented the shot he received in the shoulder, invented his suicide… and your return. I don't think you could have made it any more dramatic. Shooting Seb, giving him my gun, ignoring me; and then, running away. Good thing there was no bullet left in the gun, believe me. I could have shot you. In the legs, of course. I would have done anything to catch you at that time.
I wish I could post it on the blog - you'll have to admit this is a scene you'd definitely find in adventure novels. But we don't want to mention the gun, or a supposedly common bloke shooting himself in the mouth. Especially when illustrations drawn by said bloke are on the blog. I just looked at them again. They're not bad, you know. He was good at sketching. I really wish it didn't have to come down to that.
It's funny. I've been awake for half an hour, got out of bed and went to get my laptop and this notebook, and still, you're sleeping. To be fair, last night was pretty intense. I mean the cab chase to the cemetery and Mycroft rescuing us thanks to CCTVs, of course, not... never mind. You're bound to be tired. But I never thought I'd see the day.
Speaking of Mycroft, you'll have to contact him first. He seems to be keeping his distance — didn't even show up in person last night. It's thanks to him that we had a car to go back, so I suppose his not respecting our privacy does have some good points. Still, I don't think I can see his face again without punching it. But you never know: three years ago I thought I wouldn't be able to see him without putting a bullet in his head.
Yours is so soft. Your head. How can you have such soft hair? Not just your hair. Your face, too. Your cheek. Your lips. Your chin.
Right. I'm getting side-tracked. But you're just... never mind. I'm babbling. Did you babble in your notebook? I wonder. Probably not. It didn't look like babbling to me. You're not the type. Though I wish I could see you babbling at least once in my life — ideally because of me. How was it that you put it, again? A "begging mess". I swear I will turn you into one too, Sherlock. Some day.
I'm still not sure about last night. Maybe I shouldn't have been so obvious. But it's you we're talking about. I don't see how I could have possibly hid anything from you. And yet... Was it too soon? You didn't seem to mind. In fact, I didn't expect you to be so… keen. It was a tiny bit embarrassing, you know.
On another note, I went to get my laptop just for you: so I could post that message on my blog.
How should I say it?
Sherlock is back. He is alive. I'll post more about it later, but he's dying for a case, so if anyone has a nice little murder he could investigate...
Maybe I shouldn't put dying. Considering the situation, that's a bit... Yeah. But he craves a case. That's better. I'm sure you'll say something about the tone, but if we do get a case because of it, you'll be happy enough.
I'm certainly happy enough.
When I read again what I've written up to now in this journal, this is clearly the happiest entry. It will be the last, too. I won't be needing this notebook anymore. Soon, I'm sure I'll have more than enough to blog about.I really hope no wacko just commits a crime to celebrate your return, though — we can never be sure with your fans.
Before you said you wanted a case, I had been thinking (don't make that face, it happens); if you didn't want to be a consulting detective anymore, I was going to suggest bee keeping. Are you still as fascinated with bees as you were when you wrote your notebook? Seriously, anyone reading it would think you'd have studied entomology in college rather than Chemistry. Not my cup of tea, I have to say. But I don't mind bees. And Mary likes them because they're yellow.
We'll have to talk about her, some time. You know we do. I think you would get along, and also get on each other's nerves quite badly, if that makes sense. She kept saying she wished she could have met you.
As for Blake... Well. That's another talk we'll need to have. But I don't want you to worry about it now. You'll get used to Mary and Blake just fine, I'm sure. With time.
...Are you really sleeping? Not faking it?
…OK. Not faking it. You would definitely bite if you were awake and I poked your cheek like that.
The sun had painted patterns on your face
As you breathe Sunday air
Rode on to my open arms
I became your pillow
You lost weight. Did you even notice? But your face didn't change.
Still, you'll have to eat more from now on. I'll make sure you do. Good thing my paternity leave starts tomorrow. I don't want to make it sound like I'll treat you like a child. It's really not my intention. God knows I've been needing you around for so long it'd be somehow hypocritical of me to pretend you're the one who needs me most. I just... I think I haven't quite realized my luck yet. It's taking time to sink in. You are alive. You are alive, Sherlock.
If somebody had told me, when I came back from Afghanistan, that five years later I would have a kid, an ex-wife and a male partner with whom I would live solving crimes (all right, you do the solving, I do the blogging; still, how was it that you put it? I'm perfect as a conductor of light?) I would have thought the person raving mad.
But here I am. Life is full of surprises.
The skin of your face is warm. I imagine the rest of your body is, too. It was, last time I checked. But I won't check again. I don't want to wake you. I should probably stop touching you in your sleep, too; what would you say? But you look so innocent. Childlike. It reminds me of when we met - the way you struck me as a twelve-year-old-looking genius. You look lovely when you sleep, Sherlock. It might have to do with you not speaking.
Did Irene Adler ever see you like this? No, probably not. I don't know what I'm saying.
...Did Seb ever see you like this?
God, I can't believe the guy actually dared hit on me when he... Never mind. You probably don't need to know that. I should cross it out.
...Are you the jealous type, I wonder? You're definitely bossy and self-centred, or rather, case-centred, but I'm not sure about jealous. Especially jealous of Seb. Doesn't seem likely to me.
Seb. I think I'll miss him. Some part of him. But honestly, can you picture him as a devoted bodyguard and henchman? I can't.
I don't feel like I only know a character he built to deceive me; I believe that he was himself, with Chris, with Mary, with me. With you, too, perhaps, though I wouldn't know. I don't think he lied to me about his personality. Hell, he didn't even lie about his job, technically. We just didn't take him seriously when he said he was going around shooting people.
I know he would have killed me then and there if I had refused to take the pill; and still I don't hold it against him. Maybe because he's dead, and I regret losing him as a friend — although if he had lived, I would have punched him for not telling me you were alive. Or maybe because it's me he targeted, and not you. Had it been you, I don't know how I would feel about it. Perhaps I still wouldn't hate him. But I wouldn't have hesitated to shoot him.
It's strange. I think I just understood how you must have felt towards Jim Moriarty.
I was always jealous of the attention you gave him, of how happy you looked when his name came up; of how thrilled you were when you guys played the game. You changed a bit after the Pool. From a sparring partner he truly became the enemy. But still. There was something between you two: some kind of connivance, some kind of affinity. I couldn't understand your bond.
Now, I think I do. He sure chose his John Watson well.
Seb. Funny how he managed to get so close to you and so close to me and yet we still have a hard time answering this very simple question:
In the end, who was Sebastian Moran?
A white page. The last letter was a white page. Was it the last thing Moriarty wrote before he killed himself? Did Seb know it was blank? I have a feeling he did. A final way to cock a snoot.
A blank page. There will be many blank pages left in this journal. In your notebook there were none. Even the last. "I have no idea."
Beware of the dog.
I have no idea.
Your brother said your notebook wasn't a cipher, but a question mark. That there was no key to it, because there was no keyhole. At first I thought he was just giving me his smartass reasoning. But in the end, I think he was right.
A question mark.
A blank page.
You let me smooth your hair
I will sing you morning lullabies
You are beautiful, and peaceful this way
You open your eyes to the whiteness of the sheets, and blink. The room is so bright.
What time is it?
John is awake. How come is John awake before you?
"Don't," you groan before he can say something stupid.
Sunshine. There's too much sunshine in the room.
How late is it?
The sheet is rough around you, but you feel warm. John is still lying in bed, so close to you it might be his body heat that you're feeling and not yours. Still, it's warm.
Shutting your eyes, you grab John's arm and pull him down towards you.
"Sherlock, I was writing!" he dares to protest.
"Well, yes, about–"
"That wasn't a question, John."
His arm stiffens slightly in your embrace. Too curt, perhaps? You half open your eyes to check, but catch his smile. His hand comes to stroke your cheek. Not too curt, then.
"I've missed you," he murmurs, leaning in to place a kiss on your temple. He'll want to shave this morning, you note absently, although you don't mind his prickling skin.
"How long have you been awake?" you ask. Now that you're slightly more awake, you wonder why you pulled him down towards you; you're not quite sure what to do with this loving, willing bundle of warmth in your arms.
"Half an hour, maybe."
"You've missed me for half an hour."
"I've missed you for three years."
You fall silent.
What can you say to that? Your hand searches for John's on the bed sheet, and when you find it, you start rubbing your thumb on his palm awkwardly. His smile broadens.
"How did you sleep?"
"Without dreams," you say.
"Well, that's... good, isn't it?"
"Certainly. Kiss me."
You pull again and bring his lips to yours. They're soft and warm. You slip your tongue and try to part them. The warmth really isn't helping you to wake up, you muse. When John finally grants you access, you smirk into his mouth. That is, until you feel his fingers in your hair, caressing, his other hand in the nape of your neck, massaging, and his tongue, invading boldly. This leaves you with only one option.
You fight back.
Perhaps John wasn't as awake as you thought, or perhaps he did not expect you to resist and fight for dominance. And win, naturally. You must admit that you would be quite at a loss if John did nothing and waited passively for you to do everything; but luckily he isn't that type of man. If he were, he wouldn't come with you on cases, wouldn't kill to save your life, wouldn't tend to your wounds and keep an eye on your health. If he were, you realize, it wouldn't be as gratifying to have him submitting to you.
In any case there is something very enjoyable about kissing John – possibly the fact that he cannot speak while doing so. Not that you don't like his voice. But...
Your eyes fall on John's laptop, lying on the bedside table, and you break the kiss instantly.
"Did you post the message?"
I know you have to close your eyes
On everyone, let me help you,
I'll sing you to sleep
With morning lullabies
"Yes," he says, his breath short.
You glance at him.
He doesn't seem very happy about the interruption. John's flushed face does not technically arouse you, but for some reason, it pleases you very much.
"I only posted it ten minutes ago, Sherlock!"
You shrug. "Well some people aren't slow."
"Not many, according to your criteria," he mumbles. You smile.
Strangely enough, you're not in a hurry to get up. You close your eyes. Something doesn't feel right. It takes you a few seconds to understand what exactly.
You are not bored.
You blink, nonplussed. You're lying in bed with someone who is neither a victim nor a criminal nor a witness nor a suspect; and you're not bored. Maybe you will be, in a few hours, or in a few minutes. But here is the incredible yet undeniable fact: for now, you are not bored. You look at John with wonder.
"It might be fine."
"If I don't get a case within the hour. Maybe."
John chuckles and shakes his head. He doesn't even look tired; only blissful and doting. Slowly the images of last night come back to you, and your eyes widen. Moriarty's voice. Seb's voice. Even John's. They're quiet now. Your head is filled with silence. You catch John's eye, and he searches your gaze.
"How do you feel?"
For a second you fear this answer will fail to convince him, but he snuggles up closer to you and rests his cheek against yours.
"Yes. You're warm."
You swallow. John had to run out after you in the night; he had to take a cab, chase you, and bring you back home...
"Did you pay the cab?"
"My cab. Last night."
"Oh. Yes. Don't worry about that."
"Good. That's... good."
You feel stupid. There's no other word for it. John said that even if you had other night terrors he would run after you, always, and catch you. But you don't feel like reiterating the experience. At all. You liked it much better when you were doing the comforting following Google's advice, even if that too was a little awkward. In fact, you would rather there be no need for comforting either way.
"You were writing in a notebook," you comment to dispel your sense of unease.
"Tired of technology?"
"Don't be silly, I just wanted... Never mind."
"To do like me. With my notebook."
"Yes," John concedes.
"You are aware that this was twenty years ago. If I could have had a laptop back then–"
"Oh, shut up."
He kisses you again. Apparently, you have the same method to make one another silent now; except that he does it when you are pointing out the truth, and you, when he spouts nonsense.
You have a feeling that you'll be doing a lot of kissing from now on.
"Well, don't mind me, then," you say once you've got your mouth back. "On you write."
You lie back and close your eyes, trying to concentrate on John's scent; on the warmth surrounding you; on the feel of the clean, rough sheet around you. You'll have to take a shower after that. And John, too. You might want to save some time and water by doing it both at the same time.
"You mean you're going to lie there while I finish writing?"
Your eyes snap open. John sounds befuddled. You frown.
"If you're implying I should go down and prepare breakfast or something of the like–"
"No! No." He laughs. "I'm just... surprised."
"Just be quiet and write. We're taking a shower afterwards."
Let me lie in the curve of your body tonight
And I will hear you tumble into sleep
I will watch you heal
I will watch you heal with me
You just woke up, interrupting me. Not that I mind, don't take me wrong. I'd give any notebook in the world to have you waking up beside me every morning.
...all right, that did sound corny.
But look at the bright side: I'm not writing you a poem. Although considering how much fun you had reading them, I might consider writing you one if you ever feel down. Maybe. You'll have to find some other way to stroke my ego, though. I found that it's something that greatly suffers from being with you most of the time – my ego.
But I was talking about Seb. What I really wanted to say about him... You'll make fun of me for using ellipses in a journal, I know. But if I just cross out the sentence you'll read it anyway, so I don't see the point.
There are so many things I can't discuss with you right now because it's not the right time. But to me, Seb was truly a friend. Since I believed that he had never met you, at the beginning it was easier for me to talk to him, to go to the pub with him. He didn't give me the look full of sympathy the others did. Even Greg.
Greg was a wreck, you know? I'm not sure you realize. You'll have to try and be a little nicer to him from now on. It's thanks to him that your name was cleared, after all. Mycroft did nothing. I did nothing. I regret that I wasn't the one who did it for you, but I don't think I was capable of it. Truth is, I was more touched by your death than I dare say here. I didn't give a damn about your reputation: it's you that I wanted back. Maybe you've seen it. Surely, you must have seen it.
But back to Seb.
I've been thinking about what he said at the very end – his last words to the world. To us. He talked about the symmetry, and I wonder how he could possibly have felt, not knowing exactly what Moriarty had in mind for the grand finale. Maybe in the end, it was all improvised.
Could Moriarty have been sure of the choices you'd make? What about Seb? Did either of them know, really know, that you would make it on time? I don't think so. Jim, maybe. But not Seb.
So why did he do it? Out of what kind of sick devotion did he do it? Or maybe he knew. Maybe he had an inkling. Both of them might have known from the beginning what you would choose, and just took the dramatic way out. What if it wasn't so much devotion as a sense of harmony or beauty? Symmetry. In the end, this could just be the way they chose to live and die.
I wonder to what extent we can really speak of madness. Somehow it doesn't feel like a relevant way to categorize them. "They were mad", period. Sounds a bit too easy to me.
All right, maybe I'm just saying this in the light of the past three years. I suppose that having been considered mad myself, it is somewhat easier to sympathize with Seb. Having been to war, too. Having met a crazy genius. Though to me you are nothing like Moriarty. And I guess that to you, I am nothing like Seb.
Did you understand his last words, Sherlock? Not the part about the eggplant – you'll have to explain to me what that was all about, some day – but just before that.
"Owe no man any thing, but to love one another: for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law."
That was a surprisingly appropriate quote, wasn't it? Key words. Owe. Love. Law. And maybe fulfilled too. Yet I'm no closer to understanding what he meant than back then. It might be because there is no keyhole.
Or, it could just be that I'm too stupid to see it.
Just like I was too stupid to see through you three years ago. I can't even feel guilty about it because even if I should have, even if I regret that I haven't, the truth is, I couldn't have seen through you. Not if you hadn't wanted me to. Not if the part of you that wanted me to notice was stifled by the part that wanted to fool me.
Just a magic trick, was it? And I fell for it. No matter what I say now, I would have still fallen for it. I was bound to.
And so the fact remains that if you want to manipulate me, you can. Even if now I'll be more suspicious, I don't have your massive intellect. Nothing I can do about that.
No, the one thing I cannot forgive myself, even after those years, isn't so much that I was fooled as how I was fooled ultimately.
I couldn't have noticed that you were planning to fake your own death even if I had paid all the attention in the world. But I should have seen something was wrong when you didn't react to Mrs. Hudson being attacked and possibly dying. I even told you. You threw a man out the window because he had manhandled her a little, and yet you wouldn't move when...
I was stupid then. Not only stupid. Blind. That is something I should have seen. It didn't require a massive intellect. Only some knowledge of you. Some knowledge who you were. Some faith.
I'm sorry I called you a machine.
You're not. You never were. I don't know if you bugged your grave, so I'll write it again here in case you never heard: you are the best human being I ever met. The most human. I do not only admire your brain, but your heart too. Because no matter what you or Mycroft say on the matter, you do have one. You're a great man, Sherlock.
When I met Greg the first time, that's what he said about you. That you were a great man, and that he hoped, one day, you would even become a good one.
I think that you have now.
Deep down, you're good, Sherlock. I won't tell you out loud now, because you might decide that I'm only saying it to make you feel better after what happened last night.
But never doubt it for a second: you are good. You can never be Moriarty, because you are a good man. And anyone who believes otherwise is a fool.
I will sing you morning lullabies
You are beautiful, and peaceful this way
I know you have to close your eyes on everyone
Let me help you
"Oh." He does not look surprise. Only slightly disappointed, perhaps. "Well, go take your shower then, if you like."
"Wouldn't that be a problem?"
"Me, no longer being in your field of vision," you develop patiently.
He lets out a nervous little laugh. "I'll have to learn to live with that, so..."
Oh please. "Just drop the notebook and come with me."
"I'm nearly done."
You let your head fall back on the pillow with a pout. Even if you know that he is writing about you, there is something unnerving in him not paying any attention to you when you're lying right next to him.
He doesn't even look at you. You frown.
"I can take this room if you want."
Now he's paying attention. "I imagine it is better for the crib to be on the first floor, near the bathroom and toilet and kitchen."
"The crib? What are you–"
"Yes, the crib, John. Your son's crib. My room... I mean, the room downstairs is larger than this one. And I don't like the smell in it anyway."
"Sherlock, what are talking about?"
"Settling in. I know I don't sleep much, but I'd still like to have a room."
Finally John puts down the notebook. Sure took him long enough. "Of course you'll have a room. You'll have your room Sherlock."
"This can be my room."
"But it's mine."
"We both know you've grown used to sleeping in the other one. It's fine. I don't mind."
"We could put the crib in the living-room."
"Near the sofa? No, certainly not! And I intend to resume my experiments in the kitchen, John."
"God help me."
"You don't need God. I'm here. And don't blush."
"Now you are."
John's lips are warm. The smell of his skin engulfs you. Yes. This room might be just fine. It is filled with John's scent, and nothing else. No baby smell or woman perfume. Not perfume, you amend. Mrs. Watson doesn't wear perfume. But still her scent is quite different from John's. Different shampoo, different shower gel, different deodorant, probably.
"Sherlock," John murmurs against your mouth. "The room downstairs is yours."
"It has your scent. It holds your memories."
"This one holds better ones."
"Really? Irene Adler slept in the other bed."
"Are you being jealous?"
"You are. You're being jealous."
"There's no reason for me to be jealous, is there?"
"None at all."
He gives you a small smile. "We'll talk about rooms later. But I think it's good that you keep yours."
"Isn't it that you want to keep yours?"
"Because we can share, you know."
I'll sing you to sleep
With morning lullabies
Close your eyes
"We can... I beg your pardon?"
"I've been sleeping with Seb for more than a year, John."
His eyes widen. You groan.
"Not like that. What I mean is that I have been... trained, one could say. Now I can stand sleeping in the same bed as someone else."
"Sherlock, I don't want you to have to stand anything."
"Perfect. Let's go shower then."
He shakes his head. "You're impossible."
You exchange a knowing smile. "Let's go," you repeat quietly.
"All right, give me a second. I need to check something online."
You sigh and fall back onto the bed with a groan.
"What can you possibly need to check online?"
You snort. "Ciphers? You?"
"Exactly. That's why I need the internet."
You shrug and start playing with the hair on John's chest.
"What are you doing?"
"Occupying myself. Where is your scar?"
"You know where it is."
"Can I touch it?"
He gives you a look.
"Yes, of course."
You run your fingers over it lightly. John shivers.
"Hypertrophic with keloids," you comment.
"Quite disgusting, huh?"
"I don't know. I'm not the one who had to stitch you back."
John looks at you strangely, then averts his gaze.
"I meant now. It's still disgusting now," he says. You arch an eyebrow.
"Clearly you've never experimented with eyeballs."
This makes John chuckle, but he still shakes his head. Then he freezes and stares at his screen with round eyes.
"We got an answer."
"You've got a case."
You jump. "Show me."
I've been looking for a competent investigator for days. My boyfriend has just been taken into custody for the murder of his father – but I know, I know he isn't guilty! I am on my way to London and should be at your place before noon. Mr. Holmes might be our last hope. -A. Turner
"Brilliant! Oh, John, murder, she said murder! It's Christmas!"
"No, John!" You take his face in your hands and give him a brief, enthusiastic kiss. "I'm not waiting. I'm taking a shower, now, with or without you." You put on your dressing gown, jump out of bed, and turn back to him as you open the door. "We have a case, John! A case."
Maybe you're not a good person. That's why you need John. He is the good in you. But to elucidate crimes, you are unbeatable.
This is what you do. This is the job you created for yourself. The last and highest court of appeal in detection.
Consulting detective, the only one in the world.
A unique job, for a unique mind. One that wouldn't settle for philosophy or scientific research or politics or even crime. What one man can invent another can always discover. You are the discoverer. As for John... Nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person. John is that person.
Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o.
One's enough, I tell you! One's enough.
"Come on, just wait a minute!" you hear him protest from the bedroom as you hurtle down the stairs.
You smile, but do not wait. You know he will be right behind you.
And I will sing you
There we go.
You get a case and you're already on fire, leaving me behind. Always the same old story. You think it'll never change, do you? But I'm not letting you run off by yourself this time. I will be right beside you.
Time to finish. I know you'll read this notebook eventually. So here's a message for you, Sherlock:
This is the short and the long of it.