Not my characters.


I heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don't really care for music, do you?

It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth,

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing 'Hallelujah'…

Lestrade woke up to find Mycroft, in a dressing gown and slippers, playing on the grand piano. A soft tune he'd heard somewhere but couldn't quite place. "Good morning, Greg," Mycroft murmured, pausing the music for a moment but not turning to look at him.

By now the initial shyness of their relationship had waned, and Lestrade was comfortable interrupting the song by pulling him into a kiss. "Did you sleep all right?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I enjoy have you in bed with me, even when I can't sleep, but I tend to have too many nightmares since…"

Lestrade sighed and sagged just a little. "I feel awful for not letting him know that I didn't believe it. That he'd done all the crimes. Felt even worse when you told me about where Moriarty had gotten that information on Sherlock too."

"I'm sure he knew your faith in him," Mycroft replied, squeezing Lestrade's hand. He looked like he was about to say something else but thought better of it. "If you could bring me a cup of tea that would be wonderful."

"Yeah, yeah, sounds good." Lestrade wondered what Mycroft was going to say, but he didn't want to push a grieving brother into more than he was comfortable with.

Your faith was strong; she needed proof -

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.

She tied you to a kitchen chair,

She broke your throne, she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the 'Hallelujah'…

Irene Adler - though she was going by a different name now, with an entire new paper trail affirming this made-up woman's existence - liked Canada well enough. It was colder but not as damp. The government was more relaxed towards her trade than they would have been in, say, America. After setting up a website that showed everything but her face and showing up in a few of the relevant clubs and soirees, her schedule was as full as she wished.

When the news came it was easy enough to read between the lines - faked, clearly, with leaves taken out of her book; and dear old psychotic Jim could hoodwink the media at large but not she.

It was not particularly surprising when he showed up at her door. Instead of explaining anything, instead of asking anything, he blinked back something he didn't want to show and asked, "How much to make it stop hurting?"

She smiled, glad she'd worn the vermillion lipstick again. "For you, free."

They say that there's a God above,

But all I ever learned from love

Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you

This is no cry that you hear tonight

And it's not somebody whose seen the light

It's a cold and it's a broken 'Hallelujah'

The first thing Sebastian Moran did after It Happened was take Jim's body to be cremated. He wouldn't let anyone else poke at his boss and possibly find anything that could help them. He wouldn't let anyone else touch his boss, his fucking boss who killed himself because life wasn't interesting enough, because Sebastian couldn't make it interesting enough for him even with all they did and shared. The bastard.

The second thing he did was scatter the ashes in the municipal water supply, because he knew Jim would find it funny.

The third thing he did was go to the flat they'd lived in sometimes - though Jim had a few others just for himself - and smashed everything that could be smashed, regardless of price. Then he burned down the building for good measure.

The fourth thing he did was wager his last paycheck on a round of poker, win, and use the winnings to get drunk enough he could pretend that he was going to die too, even though he knew he didn't have the guts for it. Not yet. The only thing he remembered the next day was punching some hoodie who was spraypainting I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES on a wall.

Maybe I've been here before,

I've lived this room, I've walked this floor.

I used to live alone before I knew you.

I've seen your flag on the marble arch

But love is not a victory march

It's a cold and it's a broken 'Hallelujah'…

John Watson started limping again, and no matter what he did it wouldn't go away.

I did my best, it wasn't much,

I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch

I told the truth, I didn't come to fool you

And even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but 'Hallelujah'

It had been three years when Sherlock Holmes simply walked into Bart's and scooped Molly up into a big hug. She squeaked in surprise but hugged back. They had occasionally sent emails about how the others were doing - Molly was aware that Sherlock's brother had also been helping Sherlock but that Sherlock preferred not to talk to him more than he had to - but they hadn't seen each other since a few days after his supposed death.

"Do you still have John's number?" he asked when he let her go.

"I have it," she said, excited.

"Please, call him, tell him to come here."

She did.

He did.

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.