Fic: You've Begun To Feel Like Home (3a/?)
Rating: Mature
Pairings: (in later chapters) Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: mentions of child abuse, drug abuse, character death(s), slash, sexuality issues, religious issues, angst, unrequited love. General warning: this features the Church quite heavily so if you have a problem with that for whatever reason, you might want to give this one a miss.
Spoilers: General spoilers for both seasons
Words: ~ 4300 (this part)
Beta: the incomparable
lady_t_220
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is everything Father John Watson should probably disapprove of. He's an atheist, a rationalist, an addict, and gay. But none of those things is enough to stop him from being the most fascinating person John's ever met.
Part Three: Fight The Good Fight
Turning forty felt like a significant milestone and it seemed somehow appropriate that John was moving again. His new parish was in South London and was the largest he had worked in, meaning he would share the duties with two other priests. It was also considerably less affluent than any of his previous parishes. It was what the Church administration referred to as a problem area and that became clear quite quickly when John found a juvenile offender, a gang member, and even a prostitute among the congregation.
Holly was a pretty little redhead who came to Mass every Sunday and confession every Thursday morning. Every Thursday she would be close to tears as she confessed and although John tried his best to soothe her, he knew that the only way she could truly find the comfort she sought was if she could stop prostituting herself. It was a difficult situation, and though he couldn’t exactly condone her actions he also understood the desperation that drove her to keep doing it.
“You know, the point of penance is to ask God for forgiveness, after you repent,” he said to her eventually. “I don’t have the power to forgive you, that’s up to our Lord, and he does forgive... but you have to know that you can’t honestly repent when you’re still planning to go out and do it again?”
He winced as he heard her hiccuping sobs on the other side of the screen. She’d seemed even more upset than usual this time and John checked his watch thoughtfully. His time was already over, Holly almost always the last to make her appearance, and he dithered for a moment before making his decision.
“Look, do you want a cup of tea?” he asked.
“W-what?” Holly stammered.
She sounded surprised but soon agreed with a hesitance that suggested she was not often acquainted with simple human kindness. John exited the booth and she gave him a weak smile, before following him through the back of the church and into the house he shared with the other priests.
John offered her a seat in the kitchen and busied himself making tea for the both of them. He finally sat down opposite the young woman, placing a slightly chipped mug in front of her, and letting his eyes be drawn to the bruise on her right cheek. Noticing the direction of his gaze, she raised a hand to her face, eyes flicking nervously to the table.
“It’s nothing. Just an accident," she mumbled with an awkward smile.
John frowned, but didn't comment. He settled in his chair and gave her a gentle smile as he sipped at his tea.
“So, are you originally from around here?” he asked.
Holly’s expression brightened with the change of topic. He wondered how often she actually had a chance to have a normal conversation - she seemed a little starved of normal human contact.
"No. I used to live in North London, with my mum. Erm, Ruislip. D'you know it?"
"I've heard of it."
"It's nice. Well, I mean, it's a bit rough," she said with a wry smile. "But I was used to it. It was home, you know."
"Why did you move?" John asked carefully.
"Had to," she answered with a little shrug. "My mum died."
"I'm sorry."
"Cancer," she said quietly. "It was... horrible."
"You must have been quite young," John guessed.
"Yeah,” she replied, fiddling with the handle of her mug. “I'd just left school when she got sick."
"Did you have any other family?"
"Nah," she said with another little shrug. "My dad left when I was little, and there wasn't really anyone else."
It was a story John had heard many times before, but it was still upsetting to hear what this young girl had gone through.
"What about Social Services?" he asked.
The girl laughed scornfully.
"I was 18 when my mum died so they really didn't give a toss," she said frankly, before blushing at her choice of words. "Sorry, Father."
"It's okay," John said with a laugh. "It takes a lot to scandalise me. I used to be an Army Chaplain, I can swear fluently in about nine different languages."
Holly giggled warmly, taking a sip of her drink before speaking up.
"You know, you're not like the other priests."
John raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue.
"I mean, Father Lawrence is nice," she explained, giving him a slightly sheepish smile. "But he's, like, really old."
John laughed and she looked a little relieved not to have offended him. Father Lawrence was only about fifty, but John supposed that for a young girl like Holly he seemed practically ancient.
"Father Simon's not much older than you," John said amiably.
Holly's brow furrowed and she bit her lip nervously, before finally daring to speak up.
"He's a bit... Well - you see, Father - he's, I dunno. He’s just not very nice, not to me,” she said hesitantly. “Not like you."
John wasn't terribly surprised by her comments. It had become clear in the early days after John's arrival that Simon - a priest fresh from the seminary - was a little over-zealous and somewhat inflexible in his beliefs. He hadn’t quite learned the difference between preaching and patronising yet, though John hoped for all their sakes it wouldn’t be long before he got the hang of it. Much as it wouldn't be proper for him to comment on a fellow priest however, John couldn’t help but agree with her. Taking a safer option instead, he John steered the conversation in a different direction.
"Were you raised Catholic?"
"Yeah,” Holly said with a tiny, fond smile. “My mum was really devout. We used to go every week before she got sick. Sometimes twice a week."
"You stayed though, after her death. Not many people your age do," John commented. "I think they get a bit bored," he added in a conspiratorial tone.
Holly smiled, but shook her head a little.
"I like coming to Church. It's... It's a bit like having a family again."
"I'm glad."
"And I, I know what I’m doing is wrong, but I feel like... like I can still be loved."
"Of course you can," John said vehemently.
She gave him a weak smile, eyes flicking between his face and the table.
"I know I have to stop, Father,” she said sadly. “I know I do. It's just hard."
"There must be another choice," John said. "A shelter, perhaps."
"They're always full," she explained. "I've tried before, loads of times. There's nowhere I can go."
"If I found somewhere for you, would you go?"
"Of course, Father. Of course I would. I... I hate living like this," she said, her tone turning hard with desperation. "I hate going out every night just so I can have something to eat the next day."
John didn't know what to say, so he reached out to squeeze her hand. She shook her head and met his worried gaze, sniffing back tears.
"I pray every night for God to help me, Father."
"I pray for you too, Holly."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Soon after, Holly left and John sat in the kitchen for some time, trying to think of a solution. It was such a widespread problem in London and the shelters often were full, but there had to be some way to keep these young people off the streets.
****
John saw Holly regularly over the next six months, until one Thursday morning she did not come for confession. She had been there every single Thursday since he started and John felt uneasy as soon as the morning passed with no sign of her. By early evening, it felt like his stomach was twisted in a knot. He finally dug out the contact number she had given him several months previously and rang her phone. It rang out and the voicemail clicked on as he hung up. John tried to reassure himself, but by nightfall, after several more attempts to reach Holly, he grabbed his coat and headed out.
John had been to Holly’s flat only once, just the week before, when he had offered to walk her home after she turned up with a bloody lip and a sprained wrist. He hadn't asked, but somehow it had all come out on the way home: the argument she’d had with her pimp when she had threatened to quit, his constant abusive behaviour, her fear. John had been angry, but had been helpless to do anything other than clean her up and bandage her wrist. He had left her with a burning in his throat and a sick feeling in his stomach, and had found himself ringing around shelters first thing the next morning, desperately trying to find a safe place for her to go - with no success.
John reached Holly’s flat and knocked on the door. He knocked again a minute later when there had still been no answer.
“Holly?” he called.
He thumped his fist against the door again, calling her name. A door to the right opened and a middle-aged woman regarded him in silence for a moment before speaking up.
“Haven’t heard her since last night,” the woman said. “She was havin’ a row with some bloke. Lots of banging around and screaming.”
John frowned at the door. He could not leave, not without knowing if Holly was alright. Suddenly, he remembered the key she had retrieved from under the flowerpot next to the door and he bent down, giving a little huff of triumph when he saw the key was there. He quickly unlocked the door and pushed it open, moving slowly into the flat.
“Holly?”
His voice echoed in the silence of the tiny hallway and he moved on, passing the empty kitchen and living room. He came to the closed bedroom door and called Holly’s name again. There was still nothing and he pushed the door open and stepped in.
He spotted her feet first, sticking out from behind the end of the bed, and his heart sank. He rushed across the room and froze when he caught sight of her still body, lifeless eyes staring into the darkness.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Santi,” John whispered, making the sign of the cross.
“What is it?” the neighbour called out from the doorway, making him jump.
“Call the police,” John answered. “She’s dead.”
****
The police arrived fifteen minutes later and John sat on the edge of the bed as he explained how he had found the body to a constable. A forensics technician was looking over the body and John watched him for a while before speaking up.
“Petechial haemorraghing in the eyes,” John said quietly. “She was asphyxiated, wasn’t she?”
Both the forensics technician and the constable looked at him in surprise.
“I trained as a doctor, originally,” he explained.
“Well, we’ll have to wait for the autopsy,” the technician said, frowning slightly.
“Okay, what have we got?” a voice said rather loudly from the doorway, startling them.
They all turned towards the door as a silver-haired detective entered the room. The constable quickly moved to his superior and flipped open his notebook.
“Holly James, twenty-five years old -”
“Twenty-six,” John corrected, and the detective turned to John as if just noticing him.
“And you are?” the detective asked with a frown.
“A friend of Holly’s. I found the body.”
The detective looked him up and down for a moment and John wondered if he was being considered as a suspect. He was tempted to unzip his jacket and reveal his collar, but he wasn’t sure it would do him any good. The detective finally turned his attention back to the constable and John sat praying for Holly in silence, his fingers clasped tightly around his rosary.
Several minutes later, a deep voice cut through the low buzz of noise in the flat.
"Where's Lestrade?"
John’s head jerked up in surprise. It sounded just like Sherlock Holmes. A moment later, the man himself appeared in the doorway and John shook his head in disbelief.
“I hope you haven’t moved anything,” Sherlock snapped at the forensics technician, who was just leaving.
“Sherlock, stop terrorising my forensics team,” the detective called, dismissing the constable at the same time.
Sherlock’s gaze finally swept over the room and he froze when he caught sight of John.
“Father!”
“Father?” the detective echoed.
Sherlock glanced at the detective and then rolled his eyes as he turned back to John.
“Not my father, Lestrade. He’s a priest.”
“Hello, Sherlock,” John said with a smile.
“Wait, how do you know a priest?” the detective - Lestrade - asked incredulously.
Five years, John thought, and Sherlock seemed largely unchanged. He was still pale and slim, but he looked healthier now. His wild curls were longer than John had ever seen them, and it made him look even younger than his twenty-seven years.
Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s outburst and turned back to John.
“What are you doing here?”
“I found the body.”
Sherlock eyes lit up and his attention finally turned to the body on the floor. He moved closer and crouched down beside the girl, eyes flicking over her. John watched him in fascination, wondering what he was doing.
“Anything?” Lestrade asked after only a few minutes.
“She was asphyxiated,” Sherlock said, looking quickly up towards the bed and back down to Holly’s body again. “Suffocated with one of those red pillows. She knew her killer, let him in to her home. Things turned nasty, she fought back - defensive wounds on her hands. Passionate attack, probably a boyfriend or -”
“Her pimp,” John interrupted and Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, as if he had forgotten John was even there. He stared at John and then jumped to his feet.
“Of course! Her clothes, those shoes, her make-up. Obvious.”
“Wait, wait,” Lestrade cut in. “She’s a call girl?”
“I did mention it to your constable,” John explained.
Lestrade sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“Really, Lestrade, this is all very pedestrian. I don’t know why you wasted my time.”
Lestrade sighed again and John turned back to Sherlock, who was now watching him intently.
“She was one of yours,” Sherlock said, no question in his tone.
“Yes. She didn’t come to confession this morning. I knew something was wrong. She comes every week.”
Sherlock smiled, mostly to himself, and turned to Lestrade.
“Find the pimp, Lestrade. I’m done here.”
Sherlock turned to John almost expectantly and John glanced at the body.
“I’d like to stay with her until the coroner comes,” John said, looking to the detective for permission.
“Father, I don’t think-”
“You don’t need to protect his sensibilities, Lestrade. He was in Bosnia. I’m sure he’s seen worse.”
John stared at Sherlock in surprise and Sherlock only smiled in reply.
“I’ll wait with you."
Lestrade looked surprised but finally shook his head and disappeared into the hallway, shouting orders at his team. Sherlock moved to the window and stood there in silence, staring out into the street as John prayed, the low murmur of his voice the only sound in the room.
****
On to Part 3b
Pairings: (in later chapters) Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: mentions of child abuse, drug abuse, character death(s), slash, sexuality issues, religious issues, angst, unrequited love. General warning: this features the Church quite heavily so if you have a problem with that for whatever reason, you might want to give this one a miss.
Spoilers: General spoilers for both seasons
Words: ~ 4300 (this part)
Beta: the incomparable
lady_t_220
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is everything Father John Watson should probably disapprove of. He's an atheist, a rationalist, an addict, and gay. But none of those things is enough to stop him from being the most fascinating person John's ever met.
Part Three: Fight The Good Fight
Turning forty felt like a significant milestone and it seemed somehow appropriate that John was moving again. His new parish was in South London and was the largest he had worked in, meaning he would share the duties with two other priests. It was also considerably less affluent than any of his previous parishes. It was what the Church administration referred to as a problem area and that became clear quite quickly when John found a juvenile offender, a gang member, and even a prostitute among the congregation.
Holly was a pretty little redhead who came to Mass every Sunday and confession every Thursday morning. Every Thursday she would be close to tears as she confessed and although John tried his best to soothe her, he knew that the only way she could truly find the comfort she sought was if she could stop prostituting herself. It was a difficult situation, and though he couldn’t exactly condone her actions he also understood the desperation that drove her to keep doing it.
“You know, the point of penance is to ask God for forgiveness, after you repent,” he said to her eventually. “I don’t have the power to forgive you, that’s up to our Lord, and he does forgive... but you have to know that you can’t honestly repent when you’re still planning to go out and do it again?”
He winced as he heard her hiccuping sobs on the other side of the screen. She’d seemed even more upset than usual this time and John checked his watch thoughtfully. His time was already over, Holly almost always the last to make her appearance, and he dithered for a moment before making his decision.
“Look, do you want a cup of tea?” he asked.
“W-what?” Holly stammered.
She sounded surprised but soon agreed with a hesitance that suggested she was not often acquainted with simple human kindness. John exited the booth and she gave him a weak smile, before following him through the back of the church and into the house he shared with the other priests.
John offered her a seat in the kitchen and busied himself making tea for the both of them. He finally sat down opposite the young woman, placing a slightly chipped mug in front of her, and letting his eyes be drawn to the bruise on her right cheek. Noticing the direction of his gaze, she raised a hand to her face, eyes flicking nervously to the table.
“It’s nothing. Just an accident," she mumbled with an awkward smile.
John frowned, but didn't comment. He settled in his chair and gave her a gentle smile as he sipped at his tea.
“So, are you originally from around here?” he asked.
Holly’s expression brightened with the change of topic. He wondered how often she actually had a chance to have a normal conversation - she seemed a little starved of normal human contact.
"No. I used to live in North London, with my mum. Erm, Ruislip. D'you know it?"
"I've heard of it."
"It's nice. Well, I mean, it's a bit rough," she said with a wry smile. "But I was used to it. It was home, you know."
"Why did you move?" John asked carefully.
"Had to," she answered with a little shrug. "My mum died."
"I'm sorry."
"Cancer," she said quietly. "It was... horrible."
"You must have been quite young," John guessed.
"Yeah,” she replied, fiddling with the handle of her mug. “I'd just left school when she got sick."
"Did you have any other family?"
"Nah," she said with another little shrug. "My dad left when I was little, and there wasn't really anyone else."
It was a story John had heard many times before, but it was still upsetting to hear what this young girl had gone through.
"What about Social Services?" he asked.
The girl laughed scornfully.
"I was 18 when my mum died so they really didn't give a toss," she said frankly, before blushing at her choice of words. "Sorry, Father."
"It's okay," John said with a laugh. "It takes a lot to scandalise me. I used to be an Army Chaplain, I can swear fluently in about nine different languages."
Holly giggled warmly, taking a sip of her drink before speaking up.
"You know, you're not like the other priests."
John raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue.
"I mean, Father Lawrence is nice," she explained, giving him a slightly sheepish smile. "But he's, like, really old."
John laughed and she looked a little relieved not to have offended him. Father Lawrence was only about fifty, but John supposed that for a young girl like Holly he seemed practically ancient.
"Father Simon's not much older than you," John said amiably.
Holly's brow furrowed and she bit her lip nervously, before finally daring to speak up.
"He's a bit... Well - you see, Father - he's, I dunno. He’s just not very nice, not to me,” she said hesitantly. “Not like you."
John wasn't terribly surprised by her comments. It had become clear in the early days after John's arrival that Simon - a priest fresh from the seminary - was a little over-zealous and somewhat inflexible in his beliefs. He hadn’t quite learned the difference between preaching and patronising yet, though John hoped for all their sakes it wouldn’t be long before he got the hang of it. Much as it wouldn't be proper for him to comment on a fellow priest however, John couldn’t help but agree with her. Taking a safer option instead, he John steered the conversation in a different direction.
"Were you raised Catholic?"
"Yeah,” Holly said with a tiny, fond smile. “My mum was really devout. We used to go every week before she got sick. Sometimes twice a week."
"You stayed though, after her death. Not many people your age do," John commented. "I think they get a bit bored," he added in a conspiratorial tone.
Holly smiled, but shook her head a little.
"I like coming to Church. It's... It's a bit like having a family again."
"I'm glad."
"And I, I know what I’m doing is wrong, but I feel like... like I can still be loved."
"Of course you can," John said vehemently.
She gave him a weak smile, eyes flicking between his face and the table.
"I know I have to stop, Father,” she said sadly. “I know I do. It's just hard."
"There must be another choice," John said. "A shelter, perhaps."
"They're always full," she explained. "I've tried before, loads of times. There's nowhere I can go."
"If I found somewhere for you, would you go?"
"Of course, Father. Of course I would. I... I hate living like this," she said, her tone turning hard with desperation. "I hate going out every night just so I can have something to eat the next day."
John didn't know what to say, so he reached out to squeeze her hand. She shook her head and met his worried gaze, sniffing back tears.
"I pray every night for God to help me, Father."
"I pray for you too, Holly."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Soon after, Holly left and John sat in the kitchen for some time, trying to think of a solution. It was such a widespread problem in London and the shelters often were full, but there had to be some way to keep these young people off the streets.
****
John saw Holly regularly over the next six months, until one Thursday morning she did not come for confession. She had been there every single Thursday since he started and John felt uneasy as soon as the morning passed with no sign of her. By early evening, it felt like his stomach was twisted in a knot. He finally dug out the contact number she had given him several months previously and rang her phone. It rang out and the voicemail clicked on as he hung up. John tried to reassure himself, but by nightfall, after several more attempts to reach Holly, he grabbed his coat and headed out.
John had been to Holly’s flat only once, just the week before, when he had offered to walk her home after she turned up with a bloody lip and a sprained wrist. He hadn't asked, but somehow it had all come out on the way home: the argument she’d had with her pimp when she had threatened to quit, his constant abusive behaviour, her fear. John had been angry, but had been helpless to do anything other than clean her up and bandage her wrist. He had left her with a burning in his throat and a sick feeling in his stomach, and had found himself ringing around shelters first thing the next morning, desperately trying to find a safe place for her to go - with no success.
John reached Holly’s flat and knocked on the door. He knocked again a minute later when there had still been no answer.
“Holly?” he called.
He thumped his fist against the door again, calling her name. A door to the right opened and a middle-aged woman regarded him in silence for a moment before speaking up.
“Haven’t heard her since last night,” the woman said. “She was havin’ a row with some bloke. Lots of banging around and screaming.”
John frowned at the door. He could not leave, not without knowing if Holly was alright. Suddenly, he remembered the key she had retrieved from under the flowerpot next to the door and he bent down, giving a little huff of triumph when he saw the key was there. He quickly unlocked the door and pushed it open, moving slowly into the flat.
“Holly?”
His voice echoed in the silence of the tiny hallway and he moved on, passing the empty kitchen and living room. He came to the closed bedroom door and called Holly’s name again. There was still nothing and he pushed the door open and stepped in.
He spotted her feet first, sticking out from behind the end of the bed, and his heart sank. He rushed across the room and froze when he caught sight of her still body, lifeless eyes staring into the darkness.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Santi,” John whispered, making the sign of the cross.
“What is it?” the neighbour called out from the doorway, making him jump.
“Call the police,” John answered. “She’s dead.”
****
The police arrived fifteen minutes later and John sat on the edge of the bed as he explained how he had found the body to a constable. A forensics technician was looking over the body and John watched him for a while before speaking up.
“Petechial haemorraghing in the eyes,” John said quietly. “She was asphyxiated, wasn’t she?”
Both the forensics technician and the constable looked at him in surprise.
“I trained as a doctor, originally,” he explained.
“Well, we’ll have to wait for the autopsy,” the technician said, frowning slightly.
“Okay, what have we got?” a voice said rather loudly from the doorway, startling them.
They all turned towards the door as a silver-haired detective entered the room. The constable quickly moved to his superior and flipped open his notebook.
“Holly James, twenty-five years old -”
“Twenty-six,” John corrected, and the detective turned to John as if just noticing him.
“And you are?” the detective asked with a frown.
“A friend of Holly’s. I found the body.”
The detective looked him up and down for a moment and John wondered if he was being considered as a suspect. He was tempted to unzip his jacket and reveal his collar, but he wasn’t sure it would do him any good. The detective finally turned his attention back to the constable and John sat praying for Holly in silence, his fingers clasped tightly around his rosary.
Several minutes later, a deep voice cut through the low buzz of noise in the flat.
"Where's Lestrade?"
John’s head jerked up in surprise. It sounded just like Sherlock Holmes. A moment later, the man himself appeared in the doorway and John shook his head in disbelief.
“I hope you haven’t moved anything,” Sherlock snapped at the forensics technician, who was just leaving.
“Sherlock, stop terrorising my forensics team,” the detective called, dismissing the constable at the same time.
Sherlock’s gaze finally swept over the room and he froze when he caught sight of John.
“Father!”
“Father?” the detective echoed.
Sherlock glanced at the detective and then rolled his eyes as he turned back to John.
“Not my father, Lestrade. He’s a priest.”
“Hello, Sherlock,” John said with a smile.
“Wait, how do you know a priest?” the detective - Lestrade - asked incredulously.
Five years, John thought, and Sherlock seemed largely unchanged. He was still pale and slim, but he looked healthier now. His wild curls were longer than John had ever seen them, and it made him look even younger than his twenty-seven years.
Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s outburst and turned back to John.
“What are you doing here?”
“I found the body.”
Sherlock eyes lit up and his attention finally turned to the body on the floor. He moved closer and crouched down beside the girl, eyes flicking over her. John watched him in fascination, wondering what he was doing.
“Anything?” Lestrade asked after only a few minutes.
“She was asphyxiated,” Sherlock said, looking quickly up towards the bed and back down to Holly’s body again. “Suffocated with one of those red pillows. She knew her killer, let him in to her home. Things turned nasty, she fought back - defensive wounds on her hands. Passionate attack, probably a boyfriend or -”
“Her pimp,” John interrupted and Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, as if he had forgotten John was even there. He stared at John and then jumped to his feet.
“Of course! Her clothes, those shoes, her make-up. Obvious.”
“Wait, wait,” Lestrade cut in. “She’s a call girl?”
“I did mention it to your constable,” John explained.
Lestrade sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“Really, Lestrade, this is all very pedestrian. I don’t know why you wasted my time.”
Lestrade sighed again and John turned back to Sherlock, who was now watching him intently.
“She was one of yours,” Sherlock said, no question in his tone.
“Yes. She didn’t come to confession this morning. I knew something was wrong. She comes every week.”
Sherlock smiled, mostly to himself, and turned to Lestrade.
“Find the pimp, Lestrade. I’m done here.”
Sherlock turned to John almost expectantly and John glanced at the body.
“I’d like to stay with her until the coroner comes,” John said, looking to the detective for permission.
“Father, I don’t think-”
“You don’t need to protect his sensibilities, Lestrade. He was in Bosnia. I’m sure he’s seen worse.”
John stared at Sherlock in surprise and Sherlock only smiled in reply.
“I’ll wait with you."
Lestrade looked surprised but finally shook his head and disappeared into the hallway, shouting orders at his team. Sherlock moved to the window and stood there in silence, staring out into the street as John prayed, the low murmur of his voice the only sound in the room.
****
On to Part 3b