The Swan Queen | Sherlock

The Journalist

 "I must admit, it was very unexpected seeing your name pop up on my phone after months of radio silence. How have you been?"

Mathew was sitting opposite me in a cafe, two cooling coffees and a slice of chocolate cake between us.

"Fine," I replied, "I started a new job."

"Oh nice, where at?"

"My friend's dad's firm. Never thought I'd be one of those people to enjoy the nine to five grind, but I guess the novelty of a new job hasn't worn off yet."

"Good, that's good."

I sipped on my coffee and debated taking a fork to the cake. It would be wasted otherwise. Conversations with my birthfather were starting to dry up, and we hadn't been here for very long. It was hard finding things to talk about when I'd already decided not to mention the chaos, the carnage, the car crash. We touched briefly on the trial, it was hard not to seeing as it had been reported everywhere in the country. Sherlock's face plastered on the front beside Moriarty.

"He's quite the character, that Moriarty," remarked Mathew. It was weird hearing that name come from his lips. "How he got away with it, I'll never know."

"Cable network," I said without a second thought. A mistake, but then I figured, who would he tell? "He got to the jury through the televisions in their hotel rooms. Threaten them with their weaknesses, boom, easy peasy, get out of jail free card."

"Huh," he said, staring at me strangely. "You truly are one of them. A Holmes."

That was oddly comforting to hear him say.

We both sipped our coffee, another silence passing. My phone was on the table, facedown, and it buzzed. Notifications haven't scared me for a while now, not since the trial. All had been quiet. All was well. I didn't feel the need to check it.

"Do you go then?" he asked, making me lookup. "To the trial I mean."

I nodded.

"How was it? Seeing him in the flesh."

Telling him the true extent of my relationship with Moriarty didn't feel right so I made up a story about going once.

"He came into our apartment after the verdict," I began, stirring my coffee slowly. "I came downstairs and acted like I hadn't seen him sitting in Sherlock's chair."

"What did he do?" Mathew asked.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Only Sherlock spoke to me, and when I went back upstairs I presume the conversation continued as if nothing had happened."

"And then what?"

I stopped stirring, looking my father straight in the eye. "And then he left. And no one has heard anything about him since."

It was a relief to many, of course, that it was over. But to Sherlock and I, it felt like only the beginning. Something big was coming, there was no way that was the end of it.

"You'll be hoping you hear nothing ever again from him, eh?"

Funny you should say that Mathew, I'm hoping for exactly the opposite...

*

He paid for the coffees and we parted ways, both promising to keep in touch with the other but who knows if we will. I don't really feel anything towards him, he's a stranger, who just so happens to be my father. Maybe we'll meet up regularly and maybe I'll begin to feel differently about him. It might even be nice. Maybe one day I'll meet his kids, my half-siblings...