"Sherlock, episode 3x01: The Empty Hearse (with prologue "Many 
Happy Returns")"

Starring: Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman, Rupert Graves, 
Jonathan Aris, Mark Gatiss, Una Stubbs, Louise Brealey, Amanda 
Abbington and the ghost of Andrew Scott 

Uncredited: Benedict’s actual parents and Lars Mikkelsen as the 
new Moriarty.

 
At the turn of the last century, Arthur Conan Doyle decided to 
write a few detective stories for amusement between works he 
considered real literature. Unfortunately (at least he probably 
considered it unfortunate) his lead detective became one of the 
most beloved and well-recognized characters in English 
literature. After a couple novels and some short stories he 
decided he'd had enough of this nonsense fluff and began to 
fear this was all he was going to be remembered for. So he 
tried to stop it before it got out of control by killing 
Sherlock Holmes. He wrote an essay in something called “Tit-
Bits” in 1900 defending his decision and voicing the firm 
belief that his readers would agree that it was for the best as 
now he could concentrate on much better projects that 
challenged the readers' intelligence. Readers responded by 
publicly mourning Sherlock Holmes and basically telling Doyle 
he was an idiot (this included his own mother).

Ten years later (after Hound of the Baskerville's failed to 
placate angry fans for very long), he grudgingly walked back 
Sherlock's death as best he could. Given that he never intended 
for Sherlock to survive, the explanation and reasoning behind 
how he staged his death and went into hiding for a number of 
years was full of plot holes (all of which are laid out in the 
first chapter of "Moriarty" by Anthony Horowitz). 
   Chrissy: And just as he feared would happen, he is 
    primarily remembered as "the guy who wrote Sherlock 
    Holmes". 
   Diandra: Yep. When people who have giant sticks up their 
    asses get upset about those of us read slashy subtext 
    into Sherlock and John's interactions ask "what would 
    Arthur Conan Doyle think of the way you are treating 
    his characters?" I like to respond with "he'd probably 
    say 'what year did you say it is again? WHY ARE YOU 
    STILL TELLING STORIES ABOUT SHERLOCK FUCKING HOLMES?!" 
    He practically HATED these characters and tried many 
    different avenues of quitting writing them including 
    asking for more money than reasonable from the 
    publisher in the hopes that they would reject him. I’m 
    pretty sure the sexuality of the characters wouldn’t be 
    his biggest concern.
   Chrissy: And really, there is a reason why literally 
    every recent adaptation (including “House”) has teased 
    about the possibility that they could be more than just 
    friends.
   Diandra: Yes. It is the ultimate bromance. What’s 
    frustrating about the people who ask that question is 
    that they expend so much more energy and go through 
    contortions to prove that the characters AREN’T gay 
    than the people who say ‘well, why can’t you read it 
    that way?’ It’s like the people who say “I’m not a 
    racist, but [insert incredibly offensive, mildly racist 
    statement here].” No, those of us who are realistic 
    know that they are not actually sexually attracted to 
    each other canonically, but would it really matter that 
    much if they were? What would it change? WHO THE FUCK 
    CARES?!

Anyway. The result of all this bullshit is that every 
adaptation over the past century has had to deal with the fact 
that the most famous Sherlock Holmes story (featuring the best 
remembered villain) ends with a fight that Sherlock has to at 
least appear to not survive. At least Doyle had a very 
significant loophole: Watson never actually saw what happened. 
This apparently not presenting enough of a challenge for either 
the Mulroneys or Mofftis, both the Guy Ritchie movies and this 
series insisted on making John an actual witness to Sherlock's 
death, making the explanation for how he managed to survive 
even more potentially absurd. If there was originally an 
explanation planned (as evidenced by clues about renovations 
and scaffolding), Mofftiss scrapped it entirely in favor of 
embracing the absurdity of the whole situation and never quite 
fully explaining anything, ultimately pointing out that it 
doesn't matter HOW he did it. All that matters is THAT he did 
it and WHY.

But before that, they did this little teaser originally 
intended to be the first act but cut from the actual episode.

Somewhere in the mountains of Tibet. Or somewhere. It's not 
really clear. A monk is lighting candles and another one is 
going down a line of people in robes blessing them. Or 
something. I believe we have established I know next to nothing 
about religious rituals. He flips back the hood on the last 
"monk" in the line to reveal a blonde woman who looks up and 
spits "you bastard," in a thick British accent. The "monk" 
straightens as the show's main melody trills and...

Lestrade, sitting in one of England’s many, many pubs with 
Anderson, asks how the hell a blonde drug smuggler could 
possibly infiltrate a warrior sect of Buddhist monks. Or, come 
to think of it, how that entire scenario could exist outside of 
a John Woo or Quentin Tarrantino movie. Anderson, who has spent 
the intervening years devolving into a crazy mountain man, says 
but see...she was exposed by an abbot with UNUSUAL POWERS OF 
DEDUCTION. Lestrade is like 'yeah, because nobody but Sherlock 
Holmes could possibly identify a blonde white woman hiding 
among bald Asian men. Sure. Don't make me do a surprise drug 
bust on your flat.' Anderson's like 'yeah, but what if...' 
Lestrade says no. This needs to stop. As much as he wishes 
Sherlock Holmes was still alive, he's really very much dead. 
Undeterred, Anderson points to an "x" on a map and offers the 
"incident" in New Delhi as further evidence.

In India, an investigator is explaining to the press corp that 
he worked out who the killer was and was able to apprehend him 
by working out the depth to which the chocolate flake had 
sunken in the victim's ice cream cone. This is, presumably, a 
variation on the parsley in the butter deduction from “The Six 
Napoleons” (which was just a throwaway reference and not in any 
way tied to a case). After the conference, he goes through a 
door into a badly lit hallway where he tells somebody in the 
shadows who clearly has Sherlock's silhouette that the case 
couldn't possibly have been solved without him and won't he 
take SOME of the credit?

Lestrade suggests the inspector was just very clever. Anderson 
scoffs and asks how any mere inspector could POSSIBLY have made 
that deduction. No, clearly this is the work of Sherlock 
Holmes, who is in hiding but just can't resist the temptation 
to get involved in weird cases. Lestrade grumbles that there 
are plenty of cases HE solved all by himself, thank you very 
much. Anderson is like yeah, whatever boss, like that one that 
you totally got wrong? Yeah, good job. Now, how about this one 
in Denmark... Lestrade literally bangs his head on the table.

Somewhere in Denmark, a jury is convened to determine whether 
some guy is guilty of murdering his wife. The twelfth juror at 
the end of the table - unseen except for some familiar black 
curls poised over a flipped up coat collar - drums impatiently 
at the table while all the other jurors declare the guy not 
guilty. The foreman gets to him and there's a long pause before 
we cut to a newspaper declaring the verdict "guilty".

Anderson insists that it HAD to be Sherlock. Nobody else could 
possibly have pulled a reverse "12 Angry Men" like that. Oh, 
wait. Except for the part where they totally could because it's 
easier to convince people of someone's guilt than it is to 
prove beyond reasonable doubt that they are innocent. Yeah, 
that one's pretty weak. Lestrade says he understands why 
Anderson wants so badly for Sherlock to still be alive that 
he's lost his job because he was spending all his energy on 
these conspiracy theories. Anderson blames himself for 
Sherlock's death. But it's not going to bring him back. 
Lestrade says he has to go see a "friend" right now, but he'll 
try to get the force to review Anderson's case again...put a 
good word in. "Just look at the map," Anderson mumbles 
dejectedly. He points out how all the cases he's identified as 
being possibly solved by Sherlock in secret seem to be tracing 
a line across Europe in the direction of England. "It's like 
he's coming back." Lestrade sighs and slips out of the pub.

The friend turns out to be John, who is now living in an 
entirely different place. He asks how John has been as he takes 
a seat in a chair in the living room. John sits on the couch 
and says good. Much better, actually.
   Chrissy: I finally stopped crying into that dressing 
    gown he used to wear all the time. 
   Diandra: Then I realized that was because it didn't 
    smell like him anymore and I started crying again. 
John asks what's in the box Lestrade brought over. Lestrade 
says he had some of Sherlock's stuff at the office still and 
apologizes that he should probably have just thrown it out. 
"NO," John says entirely too eagerly. "Fine. Yeah." Lestrade 
nervously says there's one thing in there...he gets up to fish 
out a dvd. "You remember the video message he made for your 
birthday?"
   Chrissy: How do YOU know about that?! Oh, wait, I 
    mean...which one?
   Diandra: Yeah, like he would have allowed LESTRADE 
    anywhere near THAT one.
He hands the disc to John, saying this is the uncut version. 
John accepts it awkwardly. Lestrade apologetically says maybe 
he shouldn't have brought it. John says no, it's fine. Really. 
He probably won't even watch it.

Sometime later, John pours himself a big glass of whisky and 
stares at the dvd for a while before deciding to just play the 
damn thing. It starts with a camera pointed at the wall in 221b 
with the smiley face. Sherlock comes from off screen, talking 
to somebody about what he should say and what he should do at 
the end. Should he smile and wink? He does that sometimes 
although he has no idea why. People seem to like it, but then 
people like that stupid hat so what do people know? Maybe it's 
because it humanizes him or some sentimental bullshit. "Why am 
I doing this again?" Lestrade groans from somewhere behind the 
camera and says he's doing it because he's going to miss the 
dinner. "Of course I'm gonna miss the dinner, there'll be 
people." He rambles about how John could possibly be having a 
birthday dinner since all his friends clearly hate him. In 
fact, Sherlock wrote a paper about repressed hatred in close 
proximity and his research subjects were all John's friends. 
"On reflection, it probably wasn't a very good choice of gift." 
John's mouth quirks a couple times, sadly. 
   Chrissy: Oh, come on. Why would JOHN’S friends hate him?
   Diandra: Because he moved in with a psychotic jerk who 
    he’s now calling his best friend?
   Chrissy: ......okay, that would make sense.

Sherlock asks what his excuse was again. Lestrade says he said 
he had "a thing". Maybe he could elaborate on that a little? 
Sherlock says no, definitely not because "only lies have 
detail". He stares at the camera for a second and says he needs 
another moment to figure out what he's going to do. This next 
bit of dialogue only really makes sense when you realize it was 
probably written by the same person who wrote "Blink".
   John: I can tell you what you can do. You can stop being 
    dead.
   Sherlock: Okay.
John nearly chokes on his mouthful of whiskey as Sherlock adds 
that he's ready and sits in his chair while Lestrade 
(presumably) moves the camera. 

Sherlock smiles at the camera and says the part of the message 
John has probably already heard. Hi. Sorry I couldn't be there. 
Many happy returns. "Oh, and don't worry. I'm going to be with 
you again very soon." 
   Chrissy: Yes, because that totally makes sense to put in 
    a birthday message.
   Diandra: Well, I suppose if this was supposed to have 
    been done sometime during the last episode and he knew 
    the Moriarty thing would lead to his “death”...no, it 
    still doesn’t work. Okay, so this is totally contrived.
The doorbell rings and John pauses the video to go answer it. 

Back in the pub, Anderson repeats that Sherlock is "coming 
back" and chuckles in a somewhat unhinged manner.

Out on the sidewalk, Lestrade passes a guy with a newspaper 
featuring a sports headline "the game is back on!" He does a 
double take.

Back at John's place, the video spontaneously restarts itself 
so Sherlock can smile and wink at the camera.
   Chrissy: And then we cut away again before he can talk 
    about how he’s always loved John even if he’s terrible 
    at showing it.
   Diandra: Are we practicing writing fan fiction right 
    now?
   Chrissy: Well, maybe I should. That way at least one of 
    us would be writing.
   Diandra: Isn’t it a little clichéd to do a scene where 
    the deceased partner leaves a sappy video message? I 
    mean, I wrote an “Alias” story once with one of those. 
    Also? Shut up.
   Chrissy: Yeah, but it’s closer to actually being cannon 
    here, so it’s justified. And I’ll shut up when I see 
    some actual proof that you’re really writing and not 
    just talking about it.

This video was released a good two months before season three 
began because Moffat and Gatiss are cruel bastards.
   Chrissy: Well, at least it was only two years and we 
    KNEW he was still alive. As you pointed out, Doyle 
    intended for him to actually be dead and only 
    reluctantly brought him back TEN years later.
   Diandra: Yeah, Mofftiss are cruel in a funny way. I 
    remember Mark answering questions on Twitter before the 
    Christmas special (that became a New Year’s special). 
    Somebody asked what the episode would be about. He 
    replied “it will be about ninety minutes”.
   Chrissy: Hahaha...jerk.

And now – five pages in – we begin the actual episode. We pan 
toward Sherlock’s headstone, now strewn with flowers, and hear 
an echo of John screaming his name from the last episode. We 
jump back to Moriarty shooting himself and fast forward to the 
words “it’s just a magic trick.” We replay most of the 
conversation/suicide call, but this time we see somebody 
dragging Moriarty’s body in the background. The body is dragged 
inside and whoever it is opens a case containing a mask of 
Sherlock’s face and some contact lenses. 

Outside, Sherlock jumps and this time we see a very visible 
cord attached to him. While John is being knocked down by the 
bicyclist, he reaches the end of the rope, bounces and goes 
flying through a window into a room where Molly is waiting. He 
unhooks the cord, shakes glass from his coat and hair and 
kisses her like he just stepped off the cover of a romance 
novel. Here is where everybody should be able to tell this 
explanation is bullshit as this scenario could ONLY exist in 
Molly’s head. Moffat and Gatiss even pointed out in the 
commentary that this could never happen and WILL NEVER HAPPEN.
   Chrissy: We just put it in because Louise Brealy made it 
    a condition of her contract for the season.
   Diandra: Ha. No. But they did have to do the scene a few 
    times because she kept claiming she messed up.

The guys with Moriarty-as-Sherlock’s body drag him out onto the 
street and squirt fake blood all around his head. John, who has 
FINALLY gotten up, is approached by somebody who calls him by 
name and puts him in some sort of hypnotic trance incredibly 
easily...
   Chrissy: Well, he IS highly suggestible.
...lays him back on the ground and sets his watch back a few 
minutes. Yeah, because he’s looking at his watch right now. He 
wakes him up again and slips away. John gets up...again...and 
goes to check the body while Sherlock saunters right out the 
back door of the hospital.

“Bollocks,” Lestrade shouts. He’s talking to Anderson again. 
Anderson babbles that it makes PERFECT SENSE. It’s the only way 
he could have done it. Lestrade begs him to let it go and 
accept that Sherlock is dead. Anderson’s like ‘are we sure? I 
mean...did YOU see the body?’ Lestrade says Molly identified 
his body herself. And since we already know Sherlock brought 
her in on the plan, this is obviously one of the details 
Anderson has right: she lied. Lestrade still thinks this may be 
the stupidest theory Anderson has floated in the past two 
years. He asks if Anderson has any more. Anderson says 
well...it’s possible that the pavement in the area or at least 
the ones he landed on were really... Lestrade interrupts like 
‘yeah, I wasn’t actually asking, Loony Tunes.’ He says this is 
all just a manifestation of his guilt. He and Donovan convinced 
them all that Sherlock was a fraud committing crimes just so he 
could solve them and it led to his death. But no amount of 
stupid theories is going to bring him back, so, you know, suck 
on that one. He goes to walk away and Anderson calls “I believe 
in Sherlock Holmes.” 
   Chrissy: Should put that on a T-shirt.

Lestrade walks past a news reporter, who is explaining to the 
camera that after extensive investigations (going on two years 
I guess), it turns out that Richard Brook really was just a 
character James Moriarty invented. We have a funky little 
montage of other reporters adding on to this. Apparently a 
court just rendered a decision clearing Sherlock of all 
suspicion. But...you know...too late. Our bad. Now they’re 
turning their attention to the police who let it get so out of 
hand in the first place. 

Apparently this is what Lestrade and Anderson were hanging 
around a coffee cart waiting for as they’re standing with take 
out cups close to the original reporter. Lestrade holds up his 
cup and says “to absent friends. Sherlock. And may God rest his 
soul.” Anderson sullenly toasts him and they drink.

Cut to John standing in front of Sherlock’s grave, just staring 
at it. He’s gone a bit greyer in the past two years, but more 
importantly he seems to have given up on his appearance a bit 
as evidenced by the fact that he looks like a caterpillar 
crawled onto his face and died. 
   Chrissy: Are you sure it’s dead? I think I just saw it 
   move.
A woman – as yet unseen – comes up beside him and holds his 
hand.

Somewhere in Serbia. A helicopter is following a guy with long 
hair who is running through the woods. After a couple minutes 
of running and tracking him on infrared, some men on the ground 
with guns finally cut him off and he falls to the ground.

At a secret facility somewhere, a kid with a rifle is listening 
to loud music on his ipod so he can’t hear the noises of the 
“enhanced interrogation” coming from some sort of dungeon room 
below. We follow the noises until we find presumably the same 
long haired man chained in the middle of the room with some 
beefy guy using him as a punching bag and shouting in 
unsubtitled Serbian. The subtitles kick in and he notes that 
the prisoner must have broken in for a reason and if he tells 
them maybe they’ll stop depriving him of sleep. He raises a 
pipe over his shoulder and goes to clobber the prisoner with it 
when the prisoner starts whispering something. He says come 
again and leans in so he can hear. After a few seconds he backs 
up, looking confused. Another guy in the corner asks what he 
said. “He said that I used to work in the Navy where I had an 
unhappy love affair.” The prisoner is apparently still 
muttering around strings of drool and the interrogator adds 
that the electricity isn’t working in his bathroom and his wife 
is sleeping with the neighbor, who is a coffin maker. Right now 
in fact. If he goes home he might be able to catch them going 
at it. They’re taking great pains to hide the prisoner’s face 
from view – as they were in the little mini episode – and focus 
instead on various whip marks and bruises on his back and arms 
but if you don’t know who he is by now you have clearly never 
seen this show.
   Chrissy: Also, presumably you don’t use any form of 
    social media. Or Google. 
   Diandra: In fact, if you don’t recognize who Benedict 
    Cumberbatch is by now, I’m just going to assume you are 
    new to the Internet. Welcome.

The interrogator yelps that he KNEW it. He just KNEW there was 
something between those two. He runs out of the room. The other 
man drawls well, guess it’s just you and me then. He saunters 
over, rambling about just how HARD it was to track him down and 
the trouble they went through. He grabs the prisoner by the 
hair and bends to mutter in his ear, switching from loud 
Serbian to whispered English. He says there’s an underground 
terrorist network in London and they’re preparing an imminent 
attack. We focus on his face. It’s Mycroft. He says sorry, 
brother dear, but your little vacation in Eastern Europe is 
over and you’re going to have to return to Baker Street. We 
barely get a glimpse of Sherlock’s face, framed by that 
ridiculous wig, before we go to the opening credits.

We’re back with John, who is riding the subway and staring 
numbly into space again. 
   Chrissy: He’s just given up on life entirely.
   Diandra: The mustache is really a subtle cry for help.
   Chrissy: Oh, he was going for subtle? Yeah, he may have 
    overshot that a little then.
He’s headed for 221b. He hovers in the entrance for a while as 
he recalls standing there with Sherlock after chasing the cab 
driver in the first episode. “That was the most ridiculous 
thing I’ve ever done,” his echoed voice over laughs. 
   Chrissy: Now the second most ridiculous behind growing 
   that thing on his face.
Mrs. Hudson sticks her head out of her apartment downstairs and 
frowns at him.

A black car pulls up in front of the Diogene’s Club and 
sometime later we’re in what looks like another underground 
dungeon, but this one has a desk in the corner where Mycroft, 
dressed in his normal suit, is sitting. In the commentary, this 
whole segment of the episode featured a running joke between 
Moffat and Gatiss that both this and the previous dungeon scene 
were actually the same place (since they probably were filmed 
in the same place) and Mycroft was behind the whole thing. He 
just made Sherlock THINK he was in Serbia. I swear, these guys 
are trying to actively drive the fan fiction for their show. 
Sherlock is in the corner being tended to by a barber, 
which...yeah, this scene is weirdly staged. Mycroft notes that 
Sherlock has certainly been busy. Sherlock grumbles that it 
took him two years to dismantle Moriarty’s network. Mycroft 
asks if he’s sure he really has. Sherlock says the Serbians 
were the last of it. Mycroft notes that he certainly “got in 
deep” with Baron Mauperitus.
   Diandra: ...............
   Chrissy: You’re waiting for me to say “that’s what she 
    said”, aren’t you?
   Diandra: Isn’t that what you were thinking?
   Chrissy: No. 
   Diandra: Oh. Well. Good.
   Chrissy: Mostly because I would think the BARON would be 
    the one who was “in deep”. 
   Diandra: And there it is.
“Colossal,” Sherlock mutters. 
   Diandra: Don’t. Just...don’t.
   Chrissy: Okay, but two words: honey pot.
   Diandra: You really think he would sleep with a guy for 
    the sake of a mission?
   Chrissy: Considering basically the only thing that makes 
    that scenario different from the one he’s actually 
    going to do in two episodes (which I’m pretty sure was 
    in the original stories, but I read them so long ago I 
    can’t be sure) is the gender of the target? Yes. 
   Diandra: Oh...right.
   Chrissy: Speaking of trying to guide the fan fiction, 
    that plot bunny’s free. 
   Diandra: Why don’t you write it yourself?
   Chrissy: Because I’m not the writer. I’m the one who 
    comes up with the ideas and lights fires under the 
    writer’s lazy ass.

Mycroft says anyhow, Sherlock is home safe now and he could 
maybe show a little gratitude to Mycroft for dragging his ass 
out of that hellhole. Because, you know, he just loathes 
getting his hands dirty with fieldwork. Sherlock waves the 
barber aside and struggles upright to ask if he’s fucking 
kidding because he just sat there and watched the guy beat him 
for HOW LONG?! Mycroft says yeah, but...he got him out 
eventually. Sherlock snarls that he got HIMSELF out, actually. 
He asks why the HELL Mycroft didn’t intervene sooner. Mycroft 
babbles that he was deep undercover and infiltrating their 
ranks and he couldn’t risk giving himself away because the 
whole thing would have unraveled... Sherlock grumbles that he 
was actually ENJOYING it and slumps back in the chair so the 
barber can finish. “Didn’t know you spoke Serbian,” he says, 
changing the subject. Mycroft says he didn’t, but it’s a Slavic 
language full of German and Turkish like words so it only took 
him a couple hours to learn it. Yeah, I’m willing to suspend 
disbelief that these two are smart enough and know enough 
languages as it is that this is actually possible for them, 
but...don’t try that at home, kids. Sherlock snits that Mycroft 
is “slipping”. Mycroft says, syrupy sweet, that he’s getting 
middle aged and so is Sherlock, so...you know...

Mrs. Hudson bangs a tea cup and plate of biscuits in front of 
John, who is sitting at her kitchen table. John frowns at the 
obvious passive aggressive behavior. She belatedly notes that 
he doesn’t take sugar, does he? She must have forgotten. What 
with him NEVER BEING AROUND ANYMORE. Also, that mustache is 
hideous. What was he thinking? I may be paraphrasing a little. 
John says he’s just “trying out” the mustache. Mrs. Hudson says 
yeah, well, it makes him look old.
   Chrissy: I love Mrs. Hudson. 
   Diandra: We all do.
John’s face twitches a bit before he finally opens his mouth to 
reply. Mrs. Hudson cuts him off, saying she’s not his mother so 
she understands that she has no right to expect him to call her 
once in a while, but HE NEVER GODDAMN CALLED HER. Like, once. 
Ever. Seriously, dude? John says yes, and he’s sorry about 
that. Really. She slumps into a chair and says she understands 
how difficult this must have been for him. He says no, he’s 
learned to let it all “slide”. But that kind of made it harder 
over time to pick up the phone actually. She puts a hand on his 
arm and sighs.

Meanwhile, back in Mycroft’s personal dungeon, Mycroft is 
telling Sherlock that he expects him to give this matter his 
full attention. Is that clear? Sherlock, who is fixing his 
clothes in front of a mirror, asks what Mycroft thinks of his 
shirt. So no, basically. Mycroft visibly gears up to tell him 
just what he can do with this insolent attitude of his and 
Sherlock sighs that he’ll find the underground terrorist cell. 
He just really needs to get back to London, which he proceeds 
to describe in the very romantic terms of somebody who has been 
in some armpit of a country for way too long. Anthea, who just 
appeared in this scene, says that one of their men died getting 
this information and basically everything is pointing to a very 
big, imminent terrorist attack somewhere in London. Sherlock’s 
like yeah yeah, what about John? Has Mycroft seen him lately? 
Mycroft snarks oh, sure, “we meet up every Friday for fish and 
chips.” No, but of course he’s been keeping an eye on him 
because...well...Big Brother. Anthea hands Sherlock a slim file 
and a picture of John with the mustache nearly falls out. He 
stares at it like ‘what the hell is THAT THING?!’ “Well, we’ll 
have to get rid of that,” he says. “He looks ancient.” Mycroft 
says they haven’t been in touch with John, so they haven’t had 
a chance to prepare him for...wait, what does Sherlock mean 
“we”?
   Chrissy: Do you have any idea how much those things 
   chaffe? I can’t be walking around with whisker burns. 
   People will talk!

Back at 221b, John steps into the room hesitantly. It looks 
just like it did before, but there’s dust on everything and the 
curtains are drawn. Mrs. Hudson goes to pull the curtains and 
coughs, saying she just couldn’t bear the thought of renting 
the place since. She asks why John came back NOW. “What changed 
your mind?” John takes a deep breath and says actually...he has 
some news. Mrs. Hudson looks alarmed and asks if it’s serious. 
How many months does he have left? John splutters that he’s not 
sick, he’s...um...he’s moving on. She says oh, he’s emigrating? 
John, obviously remembering how frustrating conversations with 
Mrs. Hudson are just now, says nope. He’s met somebody. Mrs. 
Hudson gets all fluttery, clapping her hands excitedly and John 
adds that he’s planning to propose. “So soon after Sherlock,” 
Mrs. Hudson marvels. “What’s his name?” John sighs and says 
it’s a she, actually. “You really have moved on, haven’t you,” 
Mrs. Hudson laughs. John says for the hundredth time, Sherlock 
was not his boyfriend.
   Chrissy: Only because you weren’t even trying.

Mycroft’s dungeon. Sherlock is making plans to surprise John. 
Obviously he’ll be delighted to learn that Sherlock is still 
alive. Mycroft smirks and says oh, really? Is he sure about 
that? Sherlock keeps spitballing ideas. Should he just show up 
at the flat or jump out of a cake or something? Mycroft bursts 
his bubble by revealing that John isn’t AT the Baker Street 
flat anymore because it’s been two years and he’s moved on with 
his life. “What life,” Sherlock asks, genuinely confused, “I’ve 
been away.” Mycroft just grinds his teeth. Sherlock asks where 
John is going to be tonight then. Mycroft claims he has no 
idea. Sherlock says of course he does and Mycroft sighs and 
says John has dinner reservations at a place on Marylebon Road. 
Sherlock says he’ll just drop by then. Mycroft suggests that 
it’s possible Sherlock won’t be welcome. Sherlock makes a face 
and says no, it isn’t.
   Chrissy: Why would I be unwelcome anywhere? I have such 
    a charming personality! Everybody loves me!
   Diandra: I’m impressed you were able to say that with a 
    straight face.
Anthea comes in with Sherlock’s coat, which he eagerly slips 
into, flipping the collar up and sighing happily. “Welcome 
back, Mr. Holmes,” she says. He says thank you, then turns to 
Mycroft and tosses the following acknowledgement: “blood”. He 
saunters off and Mycroft no doubt orders Anthea to pull 
surveillance footage on that restaurant for the next couple 
hours or so because this is going to be a doozy.

Fast forward to nighttime. Sherlock arrives at the restaurant 
and somebody takes the coat. The host – or maybe just a waiter 
– asks if he can help him. Sherlockvision notes that he’s an 
expectant father and his phone just bleated. Sherlock says his 
wife just texted him and her contractions have probably 
started. The guy runs off to check on that. Sherlock sees John 
sitting at a table and his face lights up. Then he looks around 
at a waitress and the couple sitting near the door and comes up 
with a plan. He grabs the man’s water glass and dumps it all 
over his front, babbling apologies and handing him a napkin to 
dab at the water while lifting his bowtie (which happens to 
match the ones the wait staff are wearing). A guy at the next 
table puts down his menu, setting his glasses on top of it and 
Sherlock grabs both and puts the glasses on, somehow managing 
to not wobble into the nearest wall immediately. 
   Chrissy: Just because that’s what I did when I tried on 
    YOUR glasses.
   Diandra: Yeah. That was hilarious.
He leans close to a woman at a third table and hands her the 
menu with one hand while lifting the eyeliner visibly sticking 
out of her purse with the other. He uses this to draw a tiny 
mustache on his upper lip. 

Now looking like one of the waiters with glasses and a 
halfhearted Hitler mustache, he leans over John’s shoulder and 
adopts a thick French accent, asking if he can get him 
anything. John barely looks up from the wine list and asks if 
he can recommend a good champagne. Sherlock says the ones he’s 
looking at are all excellent vintages, but if he’d like a 
personal recommendation the last one on the list is always 
good. “It is, you might in fact say, like a face from the 
past.” He takes off the glasses with a flourish as he finishes 
the sentence. John doesn’t even look at him and says okay, 
sure, he’ll take it. Sherlock stares and tries again, adding 
that it is “familiar” but with a quality of “surprise”. John, 
still not looking, shoves the menu at him and says “surprise me 
then”. Sherlock grumbles that he’s TRYING and slinks off to do 
god knows what for the next few minutes. 

So now we have come to the introduction of Mary Morstan. 
Obviously, being a character from the books, we’ve known for 
some time that she would likely factor into the story at some 
point. And as we’ve pointed out in a previous recap, this show 
is not above a little nepotism. Frankly, it would be 
hypocritical if it was since the producer is married to Stephen 
Moffat. So after an exhaustive search of everybody’s various 
family members who also happen to be actresses, they hired 
Martin’s actual partner Amanda to play Mary. I’m sure this will 
be quite a stretch of her abilities.

John fidgets, checking the engagement ring and trying to decide 
where he should put it, until Mary returns from the bathroom at 
which point he jams it back into his pocket and grins like 
‘nothing! I wasn’t doing anything!’ She asks if he’s okay. He 
babbles that yeah, he’s fine. Fine. Great, actually. She says 
oooookay, so...what was it you were going to ask me earlier? He 
gulps and asks if she wants more wine. She says no. He 
awkwardly begins that he knows they haven’t been together that 
long. 
   Chrissy: Although I feel like I’ve known you for at 
   least ten years.
He trails off and she has to prompt him to keep going. “As you 
know these last couple years haven’t been easy for me. And 
meeting you...” He seems to consider this next point a little 
before going with it. “Yeah, meeting you has been the best 
thing that could have possibly happened.” Mary, in an instant 
bid to oust Mrs. Hudson as the best female character on the 
show, agrees that she is, in fact, the best thing that’s ever 
happened to him. He laughs and she apologizes. 
   Chrissy: No, but really. You needed a lot of help.
   Diandra: And I am really awesome. Not to mention modest.
He starts fumbling his way through a proposal and she giggles 
like ‘oh my god, you are so ADORABLE’. 

And then Sherlock returns with a bottle of champagne before he 
can finish. John stares at the bottle like ‘are you fucking 
serious? NOW?’ while Sherlock babbles that he’ll really like 
this vintage because it has “all the qualities of the old with 
some of the color of the new.” Mary hides her face from 
Sherlock’s view and makes ‘holy crap’ faces at John. John tries 
to dismiss him but Sherlock keeps babbling about looking into a 
crowd of strangers and suddenly seeing an old friend. He takes 
the glasses off again like ‘tada!’ John finally looks up, 
midway through asking him to please fuck off, and freezes. 
Sherlock, dropping the ridiculous accent, says the interesting 
thing about a tuxedo is that it gives the waiter a sort of 
anonymity. John wobbles to his feet and stares at him, jaw 
clenched, breathing heavily through his nose. Mary, seeing the 
obvious distress on his face, asks what’s wrong. Sherlock says 
the short version is: “not dead.” John just continues to stare 
at him silently, alternately looking angry, surprised, hurt and 
maybe like he might cry. Sherlock says um...er...okay, so...I 
just realized surprising you like this might have been a bad 
idea because you look like you might be having a heart attack, 
“but in my defense, it was very funny.” John glares. Sherlock 
says okay, “not a great defense.” Mary pipes up with the 
realization that HE is the guy who killed himself. Sherlock 
says he’s very much alive, actually. Obviously. He dips a 
napkin in a water glass and wipes off his “mustache”, asking if 
John’s wipes off too. John doesn’t even twitch. “I’m suddenly 
realizing that I probably owe you some sort of apology” Captain 
Oblivious says.
   Chrissy: Jesus, you really are hopeless when you don’t 
    have anyone to socialize you.
   Diandra: Yep. I think Stephen Moffat pointed out that 
    this would be a factor coming in to this season: being 
    away from John for two years has sent Sherlock into a 
    major backslide.

John slams his fist into the table and Mary starts babbling 
pleas for John to stay calm. “Two years,” John chokes out, 
visibly struggling to speak. “Two years. I thought...” And here 
we have a lovely little possibly unintentional but brilliant 
emotional moment. The camera switches to Amanda as Martin is 
groaning and leaning on the table like he’s trying to rally 
himself and just generally killing it and her face just falls 
into this pained sympathy that clearly says ‘oh, honey.’ It 
doesn’t last very long, but it’s just so genuine. It’s great. 
John looks up at Sherlock, rallies himself, and says he thought 
Sherlock was DEAD and Sherlock let him believe it and grieve 
for two fucking years. How could he? Sherlock says um...before 
John does anything he might regret, he just has one question. 
He points to his own upper lip, laughs and says “are you really 
going to keep that?”
   Chrissy: Yeah, I just realized I’m going to get punched 
   in the face no matter what I say, so I figured the 
   least I could do is give you just cause.

John inhales deeply, grabs Sherlock’s lapels and tackles him to 
the floor. Several other waiters rush to grab him before he can 
get his hands around Sherlock’s neck.
   Chrissy: And then presumably Sherlock curls up in a ball 
    whimpering in pain because John just aggravated his 
    injuries.
   Diandra: Pffft. I’m sure everybody’s already forgotten 
    about that by now.
   Chrissy: I mean, why bother making him move around 
    stiffly, grunting in pain, only to pretend like nothing 
    happened a couple hours later? 
   Diandra: Plot convenience? I don’t know. This is why we 
    write fan fiction. To fill in little ignored details 
    like that. And before you say anything: yes, I know I 
    just totally opened myself up for you to nag me about 
    how slow I write again. Shut up.
   Chrissy: Who me? What makes you think I would do that?

So now that they’ve been kicked out of that nice, swanky 
restaurant, we catch up with them again sitting at a table in a 
diner. Sherlock says he calculated thirteen possible strategies 
for getting off the roof of St. Barts. He thought about jumping 
into a nearby truck filled with laundry bags, but the angle was 
too steep. He starts rambling about a system of Japanese 
wrestling when John interrupts to say he doesn’t fucking CARE 
how he did it. He just wants to know WHY. Sherlock says 
well...Moriarty needed to be stopped. Duh. John just stares at 
him, arms folded, until Sherlock realizes that he’s asking why 
he couldn’t know about it. Sherlock says oh, um...that’s a 
little more difficult to explain. “I’ve got all night,” John 
growls. Sherlock says it was mostly Mycroft’s idea. John is 
like really? Your brother came up with this? Mary pipes up that 
actually Sherlock would have needed a confidant, right? John 
gives her a look and she apologizes and shuts up again. John 
says so Mycroft was the only one who knew then? Sherlock 
reluctantly says well, and a couple others because it was a 
very elaborate plan. He starts explaining the next of the 
thirteen options, but John is determinedly sticking to this 
point. He asks who else knew. Sherlock says Molly and some of 
his homeless network, but that’s it. Really. John says okay, 
cool. So just Mycroft, Molly and a hundred tramps then. 
Sherlock laughs and says no, twenty-five at most. John launches 
across the table at him.

So now they’re standing in a tiny take out place that has 
exactly two tables. Jesus, John, try to control your temper 
before you end up standing beside a falafel truck. Sherlock is 
dabbing at a split lip, but has obviously not learned to stop 
poking the bear as he says no really, he wasn’t kidding when he 
asked if John was keeping that ridiculous mustache. John says 
yes. Yes, he is. Because once you commit to growing ridiculous 
facial hair, nobody can talk you out of it apparently. He 
claims Mary likes it. Sherlock scoffs that she doesn’t. John 
says yes she does. Sherlock says no, she really doesn’t. John 
looks to Mary for support and she winces and says she didn’t 
know how to tell him... John snaps that this is just fucking 
PERFECT. He really missed this aspect of having Sherlock in his 
life. Then he switches gears and says all he needed from 
Sherlock is ONE WORD to let him know he was alive. Sherlock 
mutters that he came very close to contacting him several 
times, but he was afraid John would say or do something to give 
it away. “Oh, so this is my fault,” John snaps. Mary groans and 
he continues shouting that he seems to be the only one taking 
issue with this whole scenario. “Why am I the only one reacting 
like a human being?” Sherlock mutters that he’s overreacting, 
actually. “OVERREACTING,” John shouts and, now that the four 
people in the place are staring at them, rants that Sherlock 
faked his own death and he thinks he can just WALTZ back into 
John’s life and he won’t have a fucking PROBLEM with it because 
he’s Sherlock bloody Holmes and he can do anything? Sherlock 
snaps at him to shut up because he doesn’t want everyone to 
know he’s alive yet. John says oh, so it’s still a secret then? 
Sherlock says yes, it’s still a fucking secret and I’m telling 
you. Are you happy? He lowers his voice back down and says he 
needs John to not tell anyone else. There’s a terrorist attack 
happening in London sometime soon and he needs John’s help. 
John looks at Mary like ‘is he fucking serious?’ and says oh, 
he needs his help? Sherlock says yeah, doesn’t he miss the 
thrill of the chase? Weren’t they having so much fun before? 
And for some reason, of all points in this conversation, THIS 
is when John chooses to head butt him.

So now Sherlock and Mary are standing outside the sandwich 
place while John hails a cab. Sherlock, nursing a bloody nose, 
mutters that he doesn’t understand. “I said I’m sorry...” Mary 
marvels that he knows absolutely nothing about human nature. 
Sherlock says um...no? Mary sighs and promises to talk to John. 
Sherlock looks at her and Sherlockvision offers an explosion of 
descriptors including things like “nurse”, “guardian”, 
“linguist”, “clever”, “bakes”, “only child”, “size 12”, 
“disillusioned liberal”. Also, interestingly, “cat”, 
“shortsighted”, “tattoo”, “appendix scar” and “liar”. 
   Chrissy: How can we be sure of the wording of that 
    random, swirling mess? I mean, it could just as easily 
    say “guardian tattoo” and “bakes cat”.
   Diandra: No, just...no. 
The cab arrives and John calls her. She smiles kindly at 
Sherlock and runs to get in.

In the cab, John grumbles about the nerve of that idiot. She 
smiles and says she likes him, actually. John sputters a bit 
and wonders when he became the bad guy in this scenario. 
   Chrissy: Well, with that mustache, you certainly LOOK 
   the part.

Sherlock, meanwhile, apparently didn’t want everyone to know he 
was alive so he could be the one to tell them. Except he starts 
with Molly, who he JUST SAID already knew, but I guess that’s 
why she’s only mildly startled when he appears in the locker 
room at St. Bart’s behind her.
   Chrissy: He just needed to see her so she can tend to 
    the wounds John reopened and make sure his nose resets 
    properly.
   Diandra: I doubt that’s the actual reason since, as I 
    said, we’ve probably long forgotten about details like 
    that by now, but it actually makes sense so it will be 
    my headcannon from now on. Thank you.
   Chrissy: That’s what I’m here for. Well...partly.

Lestrade is in a parking garage, fumbling to light a cigarette, 
hesitating when something metal drops on the ground in the 
distance. He goes to actually light the cigarette and 
Sherlock’s voice comes out of the shadows. “Those things will 
kill you.” Lestrade freezes for a couple beats as he realizes 
Anderson was right all along. “Oh, you bastard,” he spits. 
Sherlock steps out of the shadows and says he had to come back 
because “Graham” has been letting things slide lately. “Greg,” 
Greg corrects. Then he lunges at Sherlock and Sherlock flinches 
for a second like he’s expecting to get another punch. But 
Lestrade just hugs him enthusiastically.
   Chrissy: Awww.
   Diandra: Okay, that’s enough human contact for one day. 
    Let go.

Mrs. Hudson is washing a pot in her sink when the outside door 
opens. She turns down the BBC radio she was listening to and 
goes to the door, wielding the pot. Sherlock’s silhouette 
appears on the inside door before he opens it, but she screams 
like she’s being murdered anyway and the camera lunges down her 
throat.

And we’re back to the fall scene with the second and stupidest 
theory. Well, actually, I guess technically the stupidest 
theory was probably the one Benedict mentioned in the extras 
that involved Sherlock’s coat functioning in the same way as 
Batman’s cape, but I’m pretty sure that was meant to be a joke.
   Chrissy: Or was it?
“Sherlock” is not moving this time because he’s just a very 
haphazardly rigged dummy with a picture of Sherlock’s face 
stapled to it. We swoop past it to see Sherlock and Moriarty 
sitting beside a chimney in the background, Sherlock holding a 
rope tied to the dummy in one hand and the actual phone in the 
other. Moriarty giggles when Sherlock talks about leaving a 
note and Sherlock makes a ‘shut up or he’ll hear you’ face. 
Sherlock says goodbye, hangs up and lets go of the rope. John 
screams Sherlock’s name from below and Sherlock and Moriarty 
giggle like schoolboys who played an epic prank. I suppose this 
is the one part of this scenario that kind of makes sense 
because they are both psychotic. They look at each other and 
slowly stop laughing. And then they’re just leaning in for a 
kiss when we suddenly switch to Anderson asking some girl with 
a nose ring if she’s lost her fucking mind.

Okay, so...two things. Or...one thing. I have no idea how to 
interpret that bullshit. I mean, it’s funny, yes, but...what 
the hell are Mofftiss saying with that? It is so unimaginably 
stupid that I can’t imagine anyone actually floated this idea 
as anything other than a joke. Are they just acknowledging it 
because it’s funny or because they think there were people who 
actually thought it was viable?
   Chrissy: I’m going to go with the first one because 
   fangirl slashers are hilarious and it’s fun to taunt 
   them with pretty boys kissing. Also because I’m not sure 
   the people involved with this show understand that 
   sometimes fan fiction writers deliberately write 
   nonsense to file under the category of “so bad it 
   becomes kinda good”.

The girl kind of validates the theory that she is deliberately 
screwing with Anderson by grumbling that it’s just as plausible 
as some of the crap theories HE’S come up with, so why not? At 
least hers could potentially lead to some hot, semi-public sex. 
Anderson says if “Laura” isn’t going to take this seriously, 
she can leave. Laura says SHE’S taking it perfectly seriously, 
thank you, but she’s not so sure about them. We see there are a 
half a dozen other people in the room and half of them are 
wearing deerstalker hats. Anderson rants that he founded The 
Empty Hearse so that people like them could get together and 
discuss theories because he’s SURE Sherlock is still out there 
somewhere. Her eyes drift over to a television that is tuned to 
a local news channel just as a banner across the bottom of the 
screen announces Sherlock’s return from the dead. All their 
phones start beeping and variations on #SherlockLives! float 
all over the screen.

Elsewhere, Mary is reading John’s blog on a tablet. 
Specifically, a paragraph from the actual Doyle stories about 
how Sherlock would make an excellent criminal if he put his 
talents to more sinister use. Yes, and that is why the whole 
“Moriarty is made up and it’s actually Sherlock” theory was 
able to fly. John, shaving cream slathered all over his lower 
face, sticks his head into the bedroom and asks her to not read 
that.
   Chrissy: She might read between the lines and realize 
   how much I’m secretly in love with him.
She looks up and grins. “You’re shaving it off.” He grumbles 
yeah, well, she said she hated it. She says SHERLOCK hates it. 
John says apparently EVERYBODY hates it and nobody told him, 
so...whatever. “Are you going to see him again,” she asks. He 
says no, he’s going to work. She says oh, right. And after work 
he’s totally going to see him again. She rambles about how she 
had six months of bristle burn from kissing him but suddenly 
“His Nibs turns up” and he rushes to get rid of it. 
   Chrissy: Well, skin flutes are generally more sensitive 
    to bristle burn than honey pots.
   Diandra: Yeah, I would have gone the angle of not 
    leaving VISIBLE evidence, but okay. By the way? You’re 
    gross.
   Chrissy: This from the woman who sent me a fan pic of a 
    mustached John rimming Sherlock.
   Diandra: I said I was sorry about that.

“I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes,” John says, going back to 
the bathroom mirror and picking up a razor. Mary laughs and 
says he should totally put that on a t-shirt. Oh, don’t worry. 
Somebody was working on that before you even finished that 
sentence. “Shut up,” he grumbles. “Or what,” she fires back. 
“Or I’ll marry you,” he says. 
   Chrissy: What? To prove that you’re not doing things 
    because Sherlock wants you to? And then what? You’ll 
    screw her on every available surface to prove that 
    you’re not attracted to him?
   Diandra: You're assuming he's not already doing that.

Back in 221b, Sherlock is back to tacking things to the wall 
above the couch while his voice over talks about London being a 
cesspool of every kind of criminal possible. We get a few 
snapshots of presumably his homeless network taking pictures of 
various people he’s tracking as he puts their pictures on the 
wall. He says some people are “markers” whose movements alert 
him to certain activities. He draws x’s through a few pictures 
and makes corresponding marks on a map also tacked to the wall. 

Sometime later, he and Mycroft are sitting in the chairs by the 
fireplace and we get a brief shot of them from across the room 
to establish that they seem to have a chess board set up 
between them. Then we focus on their faces. Mycroft says the 
threat level has been raised to “critical”, which...what 
happened to colors? “Boring,” Sherlock says. “Your move.” 
Mycroft says they have solid information that an attack is 
imminent. Sherlock scoffs at his idea of “solid information”: a 
secret terrorist organization is planning an attack. Stop the 
presses. That’s NEVER happened before in the history of secret 
terrorist organizations. Mycroft says one of their men died 
bringing them that information. Sherlock thinks he was just 
trying to “show off”. Mycroft asks if any of Sherlock’s “marks” 
is behaving suspiciously. Also, it’s his move. Sherlock says 
no, but if something happens he’ll find it. “Your move,” he 
adds without having even looked down at the table between them. 
Mycroft says he’s personally assured the PM his brother is on 
the case. Sherlock says they’re BOTH on it, really. And then a 
buzzer goes off and the camera switches angle so we can see 
that the chess board is actually on the coffee table over by 
the couch and Mycroft has just lost their actual game of 
Operation. “Oh, bugger,” he blurts and drops the piece he was 
picking up. “Can’t handle a broken heart. How very telling,” 
Sherlock gloats. 
   Chrissy: Speaking of which, I see John didn’t handle you 
   being back very well. 

Mycroft snits at him to not be “smart”. Sherlock slouches back 
in his chair and notes that that’s hardly the first time he’s 
heard that. “Don’t be smart, Sherlock,” he mimics creepily. 
“I’m the smart one.” Mycroft glares at him and says he IS the 
smart one, actually. Sherlock grumbles that he used to think he 
was an idiot. Mycroft says that made two of them. At least 
until they got out and met other children. “Oh, yes, that was a 
mistake,” Sherlock musses. “Ghastly,” Mycroft agrees. “What 
were they thinking of?” Sherlock says something about making 
“friends”. Mycroft says oh, right, well...obviously Sherlock is 
making efforts to that end on his own now. Sherlock says what? 
He doesn’t? Like, ever? Mycroft says if SHERLOCK is slow and 
dimwitted to him, how could he possibly stand other people? 
“I’m living in a world of goldfish.” Sherlock says yeah, 
but...he’s been gone for two years. Couldn’t he have...you 
know...found himself a goldfish? 
   Chrissy: John was in mourning...Lestrade is taken... 
   Molly is...well...no. Who else would put up with an even 
   more antisocial version of Sherlock?

Mycroft orders Sherlock to change the subject already. Sherlock 
says whatever this underground network is planning, it will 
present itself as something insignificant or bizarre. Mrs. 
Hudson enters the room and Mycroft mutters “speaking of 
which...”
   Chrissy: Hey. Leave the Huddles out of it.
Mrs. Hudson burbles about how wonderful it is to have Sherlock 
sitting in his chair again. “Can you believe it Mr. Holmes?” 
Mycroft smirks and says he can barely contain himself. Mrs. 
Hudson brushes off the obvious sarcasm and assures Sherlock 
that he’s secretly happy to have him back. She skips off. 
Sherlock suggests they try a different game. Mycroft asks why 
they’re playing games anyway. Sherlock says he’s passing the 
time and springs out of his chair with an offer to play 
“deductions”. He picks up a wool hat with pom poms and ear 
flaps from the desk and says a client left it while he was out. 
He tosses it at Mycroft. Mycroft catches it, but grumbles that 
he’s busy. Sherlock pouts that it’s been “ages” since they 
played this one. Mycroft sniffs at the hat and ponders why 
Sherlock would even want to play this one because Mycroft (the 
smart one) always wins. Sherlock says yes, which is why he 
can’t resist playing. Mycroft says there’s nothing 
“irresistible” about a hat belonging to a “well-traveled, 
anxious, sentimental, unfit creature of habit with appalling 
halitosis.” He blinks, grumbles “damn” and tosses the hat back 
at Sherlock. Sherlock adds that the wearer is isolated too, 
wouldn’t he say? Mycroft asks why he would be isolated. 
Sherlock notes that he’s assuming it’s a he. Why? It’s a unisex 
hat. Mycroft says because he recently had his hair cut and some 
hairs are still adhered to the sweat stain on the inside of the 
hat. Sherlock makes faces as he checks this like he missed that 
completely. He grumbles that some women have short hair too. 
Mycroft says yes, well...law of averages. Also, given 
everything else... Sherlock grumbles that it’s not like Mycroft 
has spoken to a lot of women with short hair. Or, you know, 
women in general. Just like a younger sibling to lash out with 
underhanded stuff that is just as true of themselves.
   Chrissy: ...says the woman who is herself the younger 
    sibling.
   Diandra: I do not. Shut up.

Mycroft says the stains suggest HE is “out of condition”, he’s 
sentimental because the hat has been repaired three... “Five 
times,” Sherlock interjects impatiently, tossing the hat back, 
adding that the cost of the repairs would have been more than 
the original cost of the hat so...he’s also an idiot. One or 
two patches would indicate sentimentality. Five indicates 
obsessive compulsive behavior. Mycroft asks what sort of 
obsessive-compulsive would just LEAVE the hat with Sherlock. 
Mycroft tosses the hat again and redirects that the sun 
bleaching indicates wear abroad. Specifically Peru since it’s 
classic wear in the Andes and made of Alpaca. Sherlock says 
wrong, it’s actually Icelandic sheep wool which is very 
similar. Oh, and he would know a lot about the difference as 
he’s written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of natural 
fibers. 
   Chrissy: It’s gotten just as many hits as the one about 
    different types of tobacco. So, none, practically.
   Diandra: Apparently people aren't as interested in the 
    tensile strengths of natural fibers as they are 
    unnatural ones. I kept getting requests to "do one on 
    different brands of condoms".
   Chrissy: And why don’t you?
   Diandra: I considered it, but John refused to help with 
    the experiment.

Sherlock continues that Mycroft said the guy was anxious. 
Mycroft notes that the pom pom (or “bobble”) on the left has 
been chewed, so he’s obviously a nervous person...but a 
creature of habit because he ONLY chews on the left one, 
Sherlock adds. Sherlock sniffs at the chewed pom, winces and 
says the state of his breath is obvious. “Elementary,” Mycroft 
says because of course SOMEBODY was going to say that 
eventually. Sherlock says but Mycroft missed the isolation bit. 
Mycroft says he doesn’t see any indication of it. Sherlock 
gloats a bit until Mycroft loses his patience, then says that 
obviously anybody who would wear a hat “as stupid as this” 
doesn’t spend much time around other people. Mycroft doesn’t 
think that means isolation really and suggests he might not 
mind being “different”. “Exactly,” Sherlock says. Mycroft 
blinks and says um...what? “He’s different, so what? Why would 
he mind,” Sherlock asks defensively.
   Chrissy: And we’ve wandered into a minefield.
Sherlock puts the hat on his own head, where it barely covers 
half of his hair and looks fucking ridiculous and asks why 
anyone would mind. “I’m not lonely, Sherlock,” Mycroft laughs. 
Sherlock gets right up in his face and asks how he would know 
that. Mycroft sighs, decides he’s had enough of this bullshit 
and announces that he’s going back to work. 
   Chrissy: He’s just projecting because he misses John.
   Diandra: Picked up on that, did you?

Mary is a nurse at the same clinic John works at, which 
explains how they met. She sticks her head in his office and 
announces that Mr. Sommerson with the undescended testicle is 
here. As an aside, I would like to thank autocorrect for trying 
to change that to “undecided”, like maybe the guy’s genitalia 
hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a testicle or an ovary. 
   Chrissy: Which is perfectly fine as long as he doesn't 
   try to use a public toilet in North Carolina.

And now we’re going to flip back and forth for a brief comedy 
act. Mrs. Hudson hovers by the kitchen doorway, watching 
Sherlock mark up the pictures on the wall. She begs him to talk 
to John. Sherlock grumbles that he tried that already and John 
was quite clear.

Switch to John pulling on a latex glove, his middle finger 
extended in wanton defiance of any logic to putting those 
things on.

Mrs. Hudson asks what John said. Sherlock turns around and says 
“fu-“

“Cough,” John says, his hand between Mr. Sommerson’s legs. 

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hudson whimpers, scampering off.

Sometime later, Molly arrives at 221b, having apparently been 
summoned. Sherlock awkwardly begins to ask her a question. 
“Would you...would you like to...” and at the same time that 
she tries to complete the question with “have dinner?” he says 
“solve crimes?” He looks at her like ‘the what now?’ and she 
pretends she didn’t say anything.
   Chrissy: Sigh. No, Molly. Just...no.

Okay, so we’re not done with the comedy act. John is talking to 
another patient while he writes a prescription. He says her 
problem is nothing to be ashamed of and he’s recommending a 
course of...

“Monkey glands,” Sherlock blurts. “But enough about Professor 
Presbury.”
   Chrissy: I like to think Mark and Stephen just sat 
    around brainstorming the most ridiculous bullshit they 
    could make Benedict say just there. 
   Diandra: And after they came up with that one, they 
    giggled like twelve year old girls.
He turns to “Mr. Harcourt” and prompts him for more details 
about HIS case. Molly, perched in a chair beside Sherlock’s, 
asks if he’s sure about this. Should she be taking notes or 
something? He says sure if it makes her feel better. She says 
okay, but that’s what John says he does and if she’s being John 
right now... Sherlock grumbles that she’s NOT being John. She 
can be herself. Mr. Harcourt says nobody should have had access 
to the bank account except him and Helen, who may or may not be 
the woman sitting in John’s usual chair. Sherlock squints at 
him and asks why he doesn’t assume it was his wife. Almost 
before he can answer, Sherlock launches out of the chair and 
starts pointing at various “clues” on his person while 
announcing “weight loss, hair dye, botox, affair.” He hands the 
woman a card and adds “lawyer...next!”

Mary sends a “Mr. Blake” in and stage whispers to John that he 
has piles. Getting all the fun ones today are we?

Sherlock is holding a woman’s hands and saying so her pen pal’s 
emails just stopped then, didn’t they? She whimpers and her 
face screws up. He says she really thought he was the “one”, 
the love of her life. He sidles over to Molly and mutters that 
the stepfather is posing as an online boyfriend in the hopes of 
tricking her into swearing off relationships and staying home 
by breaking her heart. “He still has her wage coming in.” He 
whirls on the “stepfather” and barks that he has been a 
complete...

“Piss pot,” John announces, holding up a urine sample jar. He 
adds that it’s nothing to worry about because it sounds like 
it’s just a small infection. He hands it to the hobo/ZZ Top 
looking man sitting in front of him and says Verner is his 
usual doctor, right? The man, in a seemingly overdone accent, 
says yes, ever since he was a boy and now he runs a little shop 
on the corner of Church Street, selling magazines and DVDs. In 
fact, he brought some items along he thought might interest 
John. He pulls a DVD titled “Tree Worshipers” out of a plastic 
bag and declares it “saucy”. Then he pulls out a girly mag 
titled “British birds”, which is basically the same sort of 
thing. John says um...that’s nice, but... The crazy man holds 
up another DVD titled “The Holy War”. He says he knows it 
sounds a bit dry, but “there’s a nun with all these holes in 
her habit.” John groans and says okay, Sherlock, what do you 
want? Just come by to pester me? The crazy man asks what he’s 
talking about. John repeats the question, mocking his accent, 
and says what? Did he really think John would be fooled by that 
stupid beard? And what the hell is that accent? It’s not as 
good as the French one and this isn’t even a good disguise. He 
rips off the guy’s hat and glasses and trails off as he sees 
the now terrified face of a stranger. He apologizes and jams 
the hat and glasses back on, assuring Mary that everything is 
fine when she sticks her head in to see what all the yelling is 
about.
   Chrissy: Fine. Everything’s fine. Um...could you call 
   our lawyer?

Lestrade removes crime scene tape from a door so Sherlock and 
Molly can enter. He says this case has them baffled. “I don’t 
doubt it,” Sherlock mutters.
   Chrissy: And the first sign that Molly makes a poor 
    substitute for John: she says absolutely nothing to 
    that.
   Diandra: Yeah, well...it’s not like she has a lot of 
    ammunition. John can just give him a dirty look and 
    he’d KNOW he did something wrong. Molly doesn’t exactly 
    strike fear in anyone and she has yet to stand up to 
    anybody, ESPECIALLY Sherlock, who can walk all over her 
    like a doormat.

They go into this underground lair where a skeleton in 19th 
century dress and covered in cobwebs and dust is propped in a 
chair behind a desk. Lestrade turns the light on and stands 
back so Sherlock can look. Sherlock frowns and crouches closer, 
pulling out his tiny magnifying glass and sniffing at the body, 
Sherlockvision providing that there is some sort of tree scent 
(pine? Spruce? Cedar?) combined with mothballs. Also fire 
damage. He straightens and tries to get a signal on his phone. 
Molly, notepad and pencil at ready, asks what it is because he 
looks like he’s on to SOMETHING. He says maybe. John’s voice 
hisses “show off” and he whispers “shut up, John.” Molly is 
like um...what? Are you confusing me with John again? He says 
nothing, nothing, just...um...talking to the voices in my head. 
He bends back over the body, poking at the clothing. Lestrade 
bends close to him and asks if this is his new “arrangement” 
then. Sherlock mutters that he’s trying it out. Lestrade eyes 
Molly, who is scribbling in the notebook and says sure, 
so...um...where is John? Sherlock says he’s “not really in the 
picture anymore”.
   Chrissy: Like, literally. I burned all the pictures I 
   had of him after I drank a whole bottle of wine. Then I 
   cried myself to sleep.

Sherlock steps back and they all freeze as a low rumbling in 
the distance unsettles all the dust in the room. “Trains,” 
Molly offers. Sherlock confirms. Sherlockvision apparently uses 
this to figure out which cardinal direction everything is 
pointing in. Molly bends over the body and determines that it 
is male between the ages of 40 and 50. Sherlock comes up behind 
her and she apologizes, thinking she’s overstepped or 
something. Sherlock says no, go ahead. “Jealous?” John’s voice 
taunts in his head. Wait...what? He snarls at the voice to shut 
up again. Molly frowns but apparently decides to ignore this 
new Tourrette’s he’s developed. She says this doesn’t make any 
sense because the skeleton can’t be any more than... “six month 
old,” Sherlock says at the same time as her. He pulls open a 
drawer in the desk and removes a dusty copy of “How I Did It” 
by Jack the Ripper. While Lestrade and Molly are boggling at 
the impossibility of that, he starts going through the wallet 
on the desk, grunting and waving away John’s voice sneering 
“smart arse”.
   Chrissy: It’s cute how John has basically become the 
    voice of his conscience now.
   Diandra: That’s one way of looking at it. 

Sherlock says he won’t insult Lestrade’s intelligence by 
explaining what this all means to him. Lestrade says no, by all 
means, go ahead. Sherlock starts to leave, then hesitates 
because John’s voice notes that he forgot to flip his collar 
up. 
   Chrissy: Okay, so since John was annoyed by him doing 
    that we can assume either that it isn’t really JOHN 
    he’s hearing in his head, but some version of John he’s 
    created in his mind to bounce ideas off of or that the 
    John in head is mocking him.
   Diandra: Eh, he’s probably been hearing that voice in 
    his head for the past two years. Kept him sane while he 
    was infiltrating terrorist cells, being tortured and, 
    according to your little head cannon, sleeping with 
    sadistic brutes to gain access or information.
   Chrissy: When did I say he was sadistic?
   Diandra: Oh. Maybe I just heard that.
   Chrissy: Admit it. You have a whole fanfic going on in 
    your head right now.
   Diandra: Actually, I probably already read that fic 
    somewhere. Except for the part about sleeping with 
    whatshisface for information. That’s all you.
   Chrissy: You’re welcome.

Sherlock turns to Lestrade and Molly and says the body is only 
six months old and the Victorian costume looks like it came 
from a museum where it was kept on a dummy in a case facing 
southeast going by the fading on the fabric. He pulls out his 
phone and waves a record of it having been sold in a fire 
damage sale a week ago. Lestrade says so...it was staged? 
Sherlock says obviously and goes to leave. Molly asks the 
obvious question here: why the hell would somebody stage the 
body this elaborately? “Why indeed, John,” he calls over his 
shoulder.
   Chrissy: And you’re calling me John again. Seriously, 
    I’m starting to think that you would still be calling 
    me John if I ever did manage to lure you into BED.
   Diandra: Starting to?

So for some reason, Sherlock and Molly go to return the hat to 
its owner. The portly man who answers the door thanks him for 
hanging on to it and escorts them inside past a whole bunch of 
model trains. Sherlock asks what “Mr. Shillcott” wanted to see 
him about then. Shillcott begins by saying his girlfriend is a 
big fan of Sherlock’s. Sherlock laughs at the word girlfriend, 
notices both Shillcott and Molly giving him a withering look 
and apologizes. “I like trains,” Sillcott says. Sherlock eyes 
all the paraphernalia in the room like ‘gee, really?’ And I 
will now call him Sheldon for the rest of this scene for 
obvious reasons. Sheldon says he works on the subway. District 
line. Part of his job involves wiping old security footage, 
which is what he was doing when he found something weird. He 
sits at a laptop and pulls up a video. He says it was taken 
last Friday and shows the last train from Westminster Station. 
He points out the man climbing into the last car, then switches 
to footage of the same train pulling into the next stop at St. 
James Station. 

Sherlock, who has been rolling his eyes at Molly like 'get a 
load of THIS guy' basically since they entered the house, perks 
up as the doors on the train open on empty cars. Sheldon says 
yep, he thought Sherlock would be interested and runs the video 
again to show the guy – the only passenger at that time of 
night – getting into the car at one station and completely 
disappearing by the time the train reaches the next one. Molly 
offers the possibility that the man jumped. From a speeding 
subway? Someone would have had to scrape what was left of him 
from the inside of a tunnel somewhere. Besides, Sheldon notes 
that there’s a security mechanism that prevents the doors from 
opening while the train is moving. Oh, and the driver of the 
train hasn’t been seen since that day either. His flatmate 
claims he’s on vacation after he came into some money suddenly. 
Sherlock looks at Molly and says “bought off?” She blinks at 
him like “huh?” Sherlock sighs and says if the driver was in on 
it, the passenger probably did get off somewhere. Sheldon says 
that would make sense if there was anywhere he COULD have gone. 
The district line runs straight between those two stations. 
There aren’t even any maintenance tunnels in that area. “The 
train never stops and a man vanishes,” he intones. “Good, 
innit?” 

Sherlockvision zooms in on the face of the passenger and he 
mutters that he recognizes him from somewhere. We zoom in on 
either some basic version of his mind palace or the inner 
computer workings of his brain, scrolling through maps, names 
and faces with the dizzying visuals that are apparently going 
to characterize this season.

But before that goes anywhere, we cut back to 221b. John is 
standing in front of the door, staring at it. A guy bumps into 
him as he walks by. “Scuse you,” he grumbles after him. While 
he’s distracted, another guy comes up behind him and injects 
something into his neck.
   Chrissy: Why take a risk of somebody seeing this? You 
    could have just pulled up in a black car and he would 
    have gotten in assuming Mycroft sent you.
   Diandra: Presumably they don’t know that. 
   Chrissy: Pfft. Well, they didn’t research their target 
    very well then.

Molly finds Sherlock standing in the stairwell with his eyes 
closed. She starts to approach him warily. His eyes pop open 
and he babbles that the distance between the stations normally 
takes five minutes to cover but in this case it took ten. He 
says he’s going to need maps. Like, all of them. 
   Chrissy: Including one of Middle Earth. Specifically 
    Lake Town. I need to know the most strategic way it can 
    be destroyed by fire. Revenge will be mine!
   Diandra: .............
   Chrissy: You look like you have no idea what I’m talking 
    about.
   Diandra: The Hobbit?
   Chrissy: Oh my God, honey, you recapped it, like, a year 
    ago.  
   Diandra: Yeah, well...you can’t expect me to actually 
    REMEMBER shit I write.

He asks if she’d fancy some chips because he knows this great 
fish place off of Marylebon. The owner is always really 
generous with his orders. She says what? Did he get the guy off 
a murder charge? Sherlock says no, he helped him put up some 
shelves. Molly smiles and says no, wait, seriously, what was 
today about? This taking her along to play detective’s 
assistant? He says it was his way of saying thank you for 
everything she did for him. She shrugs and says it wasn’t a big 
deal. He says no, he means it. “Moriarty slipped up, he made a 
mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all 
to me was the one person that mattered the most.” He says she 
can’t do it again, though, can she? She says no, I mean...today 
was lovely and all, but... He nods at the engagement ring on 
her finger and says congratulations, by the way. She mutters 
that he’s not from work this time – they met through friends 
the old-fashioned way.
   Chrissy: My family is giving him three goats and a cow.
   Diandra: Not THAT old fashioned.

She keeps babbling about his parents and his dog and finally 
wonders aloud why the hell she’s telling Sherlock all of this. 
He says he hopes she will be happy because she deserves it. 
“Not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths,” 
he adds. He leans over and kisses her on the cheek before 
brushing past her out the door. “Maybe it’s just my type,” she 
mutters at his retreating back.
   Chrissy: Yeah, I um...wouldn’t go around advertising 
    that.
   Diandra: Especially since she dated Moriarty for a bit 
    there.

Mary is walking down the street somewhere when she gets a text 
message. “Save souls now! John or James Watson? Saint or 
sinner? James or John? The more is Less?”
   Diandra: Jesus. You forget your fiance’s name ONCE and 
    some people just never let it go.
   Chrissy: Wasn’t that supposedly a nickname?
   Diandra: Yes. Yes, the writer who couldn’t remember 
    Lestrade’s first name or whether or not John needed a 
    cane to walk left the apparent mistake of John’s wife 
    calling him “James” as a clue that his middle name was 
    actually the old Scottish variant “Hamish”.
   Chrissy: Was this before or after sending her to visit 
    her mother who was already dead?
   Diandra: Probably after, but before she and John 
    supposedly met. Timelines are HARD.

Mary goes to 221b. Mrs. Hudson answers the door. Mary 
apologizes that she thinks somebody has John and hurries past 
her. Mrs. Hudson has no idea who she is and protests until Mary 
explains that she’s his fiancée. 
   Chrissy: Oh my god, you’re actually real!
Sherlock is for some reason standing in the middle of his part 
of the flat with the door wide open, still in his coat, eating 
chips from a paper wrap. He wanders out to the stairwell to ask 
what’s wrong. Mary shows him her phone, babbling that she 
thought it was just Bible spam or some nonsense, but it’s 
actually a skip code. He frowns at her like ‘a what now?’ then 
focuses on the message, reading only every third word. Save 
John Watson. Saint James the Less. He drops the chips on the 
floor and bounds down the stairs. Mary follows, asking where 
he’s going. He says Saint James the Less is a church and it’s a 
twenty minute car ride away, but that’s too slow. He stands in 
the middle of the street, forcing cars to veer around him. Mary 
asks what the hell he’s doing just as a motorcycle comes at 
them. 

So then the next scene features them on a commandeered 
motorcycle speeding around London. “Getting warmer Mr. Holmes,” 
a hovertext reads. “You have about ten minutes.” Wait...this is 
still going to Mary’s phone, right? Mary frantically asks what 
this means and what they’re planning to do to John. Sherlock is 
like ‘I can’t hear you because we’re both wearing helmets and 
the wind is whipping by at 60MPH’. 
   Chrissy: There you go trying to apply Earth logic to 
    movies and television again.
   Diandra: I’m just saying.

Elsewhere, John wakes up...sort of...and looks around 
frantically but everything is blurry and dark so all we can see 
is grass and maybe a little light coming through from somewhere 
above him.

Mary holds up the phone for Sherlock to see, which is 
announcing that they only have eight minutes. Somewhere in the 
real world this nearly causes a crash and the phone just whips 
right out of her hand to shatter into a million pieces. They 
run into a police blockade and Sherlock takes a short cut down 
a big flight of stairs.

And now we see where John is. So it turns out that a 
traditional way of commemorating Guy Fawke’s failed attempt to 
overthrow the government and institute a Christian theocracy 
involves burning effigies of him. I’m not sure if it’s always 
designed in a way that evokes burning witches at the stake, but 
this one apparently is. John is trapped inside the wood scraps 
part around the scarecrow looking effigy where the fire goes. 
Did somebody see “The Wicker Man” too many times? A guy with a 
torch approaches the pyre and Mary gets a text warning them to 
hurry up. Luckily, Sherlock apparently finds a wormhole 
somewhere along the mall leading away from Buckingham Palace 
that instantly transports them over to Westminster Bridge.

The guy lighting the pyre notes that the wood is too damp to 
catch and he’s going to need to help it along a little. Because 
tension! It is smoking a bit though, and John starts coughing 
and choking and calling for help. A little girl hovering near 
the ritualistic reminder of horrible death by execution 
(because this is fun for the whole family!) frowns at the pyre 
like she thought she heard something. Except she seems to think 
it’s coming from the scarecrow.

Mary gets a message that they just gained two minutes. 

“He doesn’t like it, Daddy,” the little girl whines to the guy 
trying to light the pyre.
   Chrissy: Well, of course he doesn’t, honey. But this is 
    what happens when you question the will of God. 
   Diandra: Or, as far as you are concerned, your parents. 
    Now hand me that lighter and shut up.
Daddy tells her to stay back and starts throwing gasoline on 
the pyre.

Sherlock and Mary are just arriving at the square when Mary 
gets a message: “what a shame, Mr. Holmes! John is quite a 
guy!” The father of the little girl who will probably be 
traumatized for life now lights the pyre and she screams as the 
distressed noises from inside get louder and everybody figures 
out something is wrong. Sherlock drives onto the square, jumps 
off the bike and runs at the pyre, flinging burning wood aside 
until he can drag John out. Mary trails behind him but mostly 
stands back and shouts encouragements. They both hover over him 
once he’s clear while he blinks up at them dazedly. 

And now we go back to Baker Street for some comic relief. 
Continuing with this year’s theme of nepotism as proof that 
England is a very small country, after an exhaustive search to 
find people to play Sherlock’s parents somebody apparently 
stuck their head in Benedict’s trailer and asked “hey, Ben, are 
your parents busy?” And so we now find Sherlock sitting in his 
chair seemingly doing meditation exercises while Wanda Ventham 
babbles from the couch about something going missing and she 
wouldn’t be surprised if it just fell down the back of the 
couch because HE’S always losing things that way. Beside her, 
Timothy Carlton is like ‘yes dear, whatever you say, dear’. 
   Chrissy: It’s really quite a stretch for them.
She keeps going on about ALL the things he loses and how she’s 
told him he should get one of those chain things for his 
glasses and Sherlock finally cuts her off to ask if she found 
the lottery ticket then. He gets up, climbs over the coffee 
table and stands on the couch between them, fussing with his 
evidence wall. 

Mum basically shrugs at this behavior and continues talking 
about how they’ve been to St. Paul’s and the Tower but they 
couldn’t get into Parliament because there’s some sort of 
debate going on. John comes in the door and hesitates when he 
sees the strangers on the couch, offering to come back later if 
Sherlock has a case. Sherlock jumps at this opportunity like 
‘no! No, I have no case! Thank god you’re here! Save me!’ and 
starts herding the couple toward the door, claiming they were 
just leaving. Mum says oh, we were? Okay, well, we’re here ‘til 
Saturday. Sherlock says yes, yes, fine, GET OUT. She sticks her 
foot in the door before he can slam it in her face and whispers 
that they were SO GLAD the whole ordeal is over after people 
thought the worst of him for so long. Sherlock looks back at 
John and tries to shut the door again. Dad begs him to call 
more often because, you know, “she worries.” Sherlock mutters 
yes, I promise and Mum reaches to cup his cheek. He grumbles 
and launches back into the room, slamming the door.

Sherlock awkwardly apologizes to John. John says no, that’s 
fine. “Clients?” Sherlock says um...no. Parents. They’re in 
town for a few days and Mycroft promised to take them to “Les 
Miz” or some bullshit, but... John splutters like wait, 
no...what? Those were your parents?! Sherlock’s like duh, John, 
can’t you see the resemblance? Like, literally. I look exactly 
like them. John peeks out the window to watch them leave and 
says um...well...they’re certainly not what he...um... “I mean 
they’re just so...ordinary.” Sherlock says it’s a “cross” he 
has to bear. John chuckles and then asks if THEY knew about his 
two years in hiding. Sherlock doesn’t look him in the eye as he 
mutters uh...maybe? John triumphantly declares that THAT must 
be why they didn’t come to the funeral. Sherlock says yes, 
again, he said he was SORRY ABOUT THAT. Then, even though it’s 
been a couple scenes, he notes that John shaved the mustache 
off. 
   Chrissy: Yeah, but I kept the beard.
   Diandra: Been eagerly waiting for a chance to use that, 
    haven’t you?
   Chrissy: Maybe.
John says yeah, it wasn’t working for him. Sherlock gloats that 
he likes it because “I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.” John 
blinks at him and notes that that’s not a sentence you often 
hear people say.
   Chrissy: Yeah, I didn’t mean your face.
   Diandra: And there it is.
   Chrissy: Although as I mentioned before, it is nice to 
    not have to worry about whisker burn on my...
   Diandra: Yes, MOVING ON.

John flops into his chair and Sherlock winces and asks how he’s 
feeling. John says yeah, a bit “smoked”, but otherwise fine. 
The more important question of course is: who the hell did that 
and why? Is somebody trying to get to Sherlock THROUGH John? Is 
it related to that terrorist thing he wanted John to help with? 
Sherlock grumbles that he has no idea because the whole thing 
is so “nebulous”. He can’t understand why an agent would die 
trying to tell them something so vague as ‘an underground 
network is planning an attack on London’. He waves at the 
evidence wall and announces that these are his “rats”: low-
lives and criminal types. Like in a coal mine, they are the 
first line of defense. If something happens to them, it serves 
as a warning.
   Chrissy: That’s canaries you’re thinking of.
   Diandra: Yeah, well, I’m not really seeing how the 
    sinking ship analogy works here, so whatever.
He says five of the six are behaving normally, but the sixth... 
We focus on blurred images of what looks like the same man who 
was getting into that subway car. John pipes up that he 
recognizes the guy. Sherlock says yep, he’s Lord Moran, 
Minister of Overseas Development. Also, he’s been working for 
North Korea since the late nineties, which absolutely can’t 
under any circumstances be a good thing. Basically he’s the 
biggest of the rats and he’s just done something really 
suspicious. Also, did we mention his name is Moran? As in the 
guy who was still chasing Sherlock after Moriarty died in the 
original stories? Yeah. Probably significant.

Cut to Sherlock showing John the train footage. John agrees 
that it’s weird and confirms that there is nowhere he could 
possibly have gotten off. Sherlock grumbles that he’s missing 
something and it has to be just staring him in the face. John 
tries a different tack: do they know anything about who might 
be in this underground network? Intelligence must have some 
idea...
   Chrissy: We sent our best agent to check on it, but he 
    kept getting drunk on martinis and he was distracted 
    every time a pretty woman crossed his path.
   Diandra: Also, he leaves a ridiculous amount of 
    destruction in his wake so we try to ask as little of 
    him as possible. We really don’t want to have to 
    rebuild MI-6 again.
John is throwing out names like Al Qaeda and the IRA until 
Sherlock, who just got a picture of Moran coming out of 
Westminster station on his phone apparently, starts yelping 
excitedly and pacing the room, babbling about how he’s been 
such an idiot and this is BRILLIANT. John is like okay, 
um...slow down and start from the top. Sherlock says it’s not 
an underground network it’s a network that is LITERALLY 
UNDERGROUND. He plays the video on the laptop again and points 
out that when the train left Westminster it had seven cars, but 
it only had six when it got to St James Park. Moran didn’t 
disappear. The entire compartment he was in did because it was 
somehow detached between stations.

Okay, so there are two stories this plot could be a reference 
to. The first is a story called “The Lost Special” written in 
1898 by Arthur Conan Doyle. The problem is that it is only 
IMPLIED that Sherlock Holmes had anything to do with it and the 
plot involves an entire TRAIN vanishing between two stations 
because some thieves redirected it onto some disused track 
somewhere while they stole its cargo. The other story was 
written by John Taylor in 2010, who has a whole series of 
“rediscovered” and “lost” Sherlock Holmes stories that are only 
available in audio form. This story – “The Conundrum of 
Carriage 13” – involves cargo mysteriously disappearing from a 
train car between stations because nobody bothered to count the 
number of cars it left with (since its name was the Bad Luck 
Special and it was known to have 13 cars). Sherlock figures out 
that this one time it had 14 cars and lost one between 
stations. The weird thing about this is that Moffat and Gatiss 
claim they were referencing Doyle’s story even though Taylor’s 
clearly has more in common with it and Taylor’s was READ BY 
BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH so it’s not like they can claim they 
weren’t aware it existed.
   Chrissy: Yeah, they probably could. Also, it’s possible 
    Taylor was referencing Doyle’s story himself, adding 
    more detail to make it a proper Sherlock Holmes story.
   Diandra: Yeah. Whatever. By the way, if you want a laugh 
    “The Conundrum of Carriage 13” also features an 
    American character named Benedict Masterson. You can 
    practically feel Benedict struggling with the shifting 
    accents and silently cursing John Taylor every time he 
    has to say his own name with an American accent. 

John says that’s a nice theory, but he just said there’s 
NOTHING between those stations, so where could the last car 
have been detached TO? Sherlock says there’s nothing on the 
MAPS, but...you know...once you eliminate the impossible blah 
blah improbable Spock. John says fine, but why? What reason 
would somebody have to detach an entire train car and hide it? 
Sherlock is straining to put all the pieces together: a train 
car disappears between stations. Moran disappears at the same 
time. John is kidnapped and nearly set on fire... his face 
lights up and he asks John what the date is. John – despite 
having been inside the damn effigy – has to think about this. 
November something...he looks at the computer screen and his 
face falls. 
   Chrissy: Remember...um...remember...damnit.
Sherlock says there’s a vote tonight on an anti-terrorism bill 
and Moran is supposed to be sitting in, but he won’t show up. 

So they call Sheldon, who reminds Sherlock that there is 
NOTHING between those two stations. No ghost stations, no side 
tunnels. Sherlock, frantically laying out maps, orders him to 
check again because there is SOMETHING. John notes that the 
entire area is a chaotic mix of old and new construction. 
Charing Cross is basically cobbled together out of parts of old 
stations just like Trafalgar Square and Strand. Sherlock 
brushes this off. It isn’t any of those. He starts listing 
other streets in the vicinity. Sheldon, who has started chewing 
on the one pom of his hat just like Mycroft and Sherlock said 
he does, suddenly spits it out and says wait...did he say 
Sumatra Road? Yeah, that rings a bell. There USED to be a 
station there. John asks why it isn’t on any of the maps. 
Sheldon says it was closed before it ever even opened. They got 
the platforms and staircases all built before some legal 
dispute rendered it impossible to actually open the station up 
on the surface. But it’s right under Westminster Palace. John 
wonders aloud what they could possibly have put down there...a 
bomb?
   Chrissy: Um...duh?
   Diandra: Yeah, I mean...it’s the fifth of November and 
    terrorists are plotting to put something in a tunnel 
    under Parliament. What else would it be? An illegal 
    weapons stash?
Sherlock is already headed out the door and John scrambles to 
follow.

We cut to a television tuned to BBC news where the anchor is 
talking about MPs heading to Parliament for what is being 
called the “most important vote” of this session which they 
think might be “too close to call”. The television is in 
Moran’s hotel room. He switches to a talking head ranting about 
how the government spying on people via some Orwellian police 
state doesn’t “protect” their freedoms. 

Sherlock and John duck into the subway station across from Big 
Ben. “So it’s a bomb then,” John says as they’re winding their 
way down to the tracks. “The Tube carriage is carrying a bomb.” 
Um...John? There are people around. Maybe don’t talk about 
bombs in a public place unless you want someone to sic security 
on you. Sherlock says uh, yeah, probably. John pulls out his 
phone to call the police because they NEED to evacuate 
parliament, which is something I would think he should have 
done earlier. Sherlock says no, they’d just get in the way like 
they usually do. This is more efficient. He pulls a crowbar 
from somewhere on his coat and jams it in a gate off the main 
walkway. John notes that this is also “illegal”. “A bit,” 
Sherlock admits. He jimmies the gate open and they go through 
right in front of a whole pack of passersby who don’t look the 
least bit alarmed.
   Chrissy: Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

John checks his phone as they go down into the tunnel. Of 
course, in this case Earth logic actually applies as he has no 
signal. Sherlock asks what he’s doing and he says “nothing” and 
jams it back in his pocket. They wind down through tunnels and 
stairways until they come to the abandoned station. They wave 
their flashlights in both directions, but there is no train 
car. “I don’t understand,” Sherlock says. “Hold on, I’m pretty 
sure my phone still has recording capacity. Can you say that 
again? I want to make it my ringtone,” John says, only it comes 
out as the much milder “that’s a first.” Sherlock says there’s 
nowhere else it could possibly be and closes his eyes, 
visualizing himself in the train as it is consumed by the 
fireball of an explosion. The fireball goes out into the tunnel 
and up a vent above. And we switch to a shot of Parliament/Big 
Ben from above ground for something that the special effects 
team gleefully blew a good chunk of the budget for this episode 
on. The entirety of Parliament blows up and the clock tower 
starts collapsing in on itself. 
   Chrissy: And somewhere Michael Bay gets an erection.
   Diandra: I thought that was Jerry Bruckheimer.
   Chrissy: It's both.
Sherlock gasp/shouts in a totally orgasmic manner and starts 
running for the end of the platform. John follows, but stops 
when he realizes Sherlock just jumped down next to a live rail. 
Sherlock assures him that it’s perfectly safe as long as they 
don’t touch the rails. Or, you know, at least the third one, 
whichever that is.

Once the car is in sight, Sherlock points out the vent to the 
surface, which John notes has demolition charges attached to 
the inside of. Sherlock opens the door and feels around it for 
a second to make sure there aren’t any booby traps. They search 
the interior, but there’s no bomb in sight. Sherlock frowns at 
a wire running down one wall and into a seat while John notes 
that there’s nothing here. Sherlock pulls up the seat to reveal 
the C4 the wires are connected to. Then he pulls up the next 
several seats to find them all set up the same way. He says 
there isn’t a bomb inside the car. The whole CAR is rigged to 
explode.

In his hotel, Moran opens a briefcase to reveal an antique 
keypad bomb trigger probably used in some Bond movie back in 
the Sean Connery era.

Sherlock pokes around until he finds a floor panel that seems 
unsupported and pulls it up to find the main part of the bomb 
that all the wires are coming from. John breathes deeply and 
says they need to call bomb disposal. Sherlock says they may 
not have time for that anymore. 
   Chrissy: Yeah, which is why I was trying to call BEFORE 
    we went down the tunnel with no cell service.
   Diandra: Jesus, I leave you alone for two years and I 
    come back to find you have completely lost your sense 
    of adventure and gained some spectacularly ridiculous 
    facial hair. Not to mention the beard.
   Chrissy: Aaaaaand we’re finally back into the 
    roleplaying groove. That only took two-thirds of the 
    episode.

John asks what they’re supposed to do now then. “I have no 
idea,” Sherlock says. 
   Chrissy: Okay, nice as it is that you’re finally 
   admitting your limitations, um...NOW IS NOT THE BEST 
   TIME.
John growls at him to THINK of something then because he’s the 
genius here. Sherlock’s like who, me? Why the hell would I know 
how to defuse a bomb? You were the soldier! John reminds him 
that he was the DOCTOR. You know, the guy they tried to keep as 
far AWAY from things that might explode as possible because he 
needed to stem the bleeding after the other guys got their 
limbs blown off. He offers the suggestion of ripping the timer 
off. Sherlock says no, dummy, that would set it off. John says 
see? He does know something about bombs.

Moran punches a code in his suitcase, turns a key and pushes a 
button.

The lights in the car all come on and the display on the bomb 
starts counting down from 2:30. Sherlock and John both start 
pacing and freaking out. John yells at Sherlock for not letting 
him call the police. Sherlock says well, there’s no point NOW, 
is there? John says just to repeat: you can’t do anything to 
defuse the bomb and you neglected to call the people who maybe 
could. Sherlock stills and orders John to leave now. John says 
why? There’s not enough time to get away. Plus, now if they 
can’t figure out a way to stop it, a whole lot of other people 
will die. “Mind palace,” he says suddenly. Sherlock says what? 
How is that supposed to help? John says because he’s stored 
away every other fact under the Sun in there. Except, 
apparently for the fact that the Earth orbits said Sun and not 
the other way around. 
   Chrissy: Hey, you expect him to think critically right 
   now?
Sherlock sarcastically asks if he really thinks he has some 
sort of instruction manual for how to defuse a bomb tucked away 
in there somewhere. “YES,” John yelps. Sherlock shrugs, says 
“maybe” and closes his eyes. After a few seconds of grunting 
and straining he opens his eyes again and yells that he can’t 
do it. John stares at him and starts moaning about how this is 
it. This is how they’re going to die. 
   Chrissy: Well, to be fair, I always suspected it would 
    involve a big fireball.
   Diandra: That or some horribly clichéd thing where a 
    criminal makes us kill each other or watch each other 
    being tortured to death or something.
   Chrissy: Well, you’ve just got all sorts of story ideas 
    going now, don’t you?
   Diandra: Shut up. I hate you.
   Chrissy: No, you don’t.

He staggers away and tries very hard not to lose his shit while 
Sherlock kneels over the bomb, feeling frantically all around 
it and making distressed noises. He gives up and looks up at 
John, apologizing that he really doesn’t know how to do this. 
He gets teary eyed and begs John to forgive him for all the 
pain he’s caused him. John says no, this has to be some sort of 
trick. “You’re just trying to make me say something nice.” Or, 
you know, show off. Sherlock, literally on his knees and making 
a pleading gesture with his hands, says no, not this time. John 
grinds his teeth and grabs the nearest handhold. “I wanted you 
not to be dead,” he hisses. Sherlock says yeah, well, wish 
granted, but if he hadn’t come back John wouldn’t be here right 
now, so... He starts tearing up at the thought of the future 
John could have had. John grumbles that he finds this sort of 
thing difficult to say to an actual person. He rallies and 
delivers a variation on his speech in front of the gravestone 
last season: “you were the best and the wisest man that I have 
ever known. Yes, of course I forgive you.” He closes his eyes 
and the screen fades to white and black. Because of all things, 
we are going to draw out the tension of this scene that can 
only have one possible ending given that this was the first of 
THREE scheduled episodes. The bomb obviously can’t go off. I 
mean, I love this show, but the blocking of this entire episode 
is just weird.

Anderson’s apartment. Sherlock is sitting on the couch, looking 
at a camera as he explains that Moriarty’s network was BIG so 
they needed a really elaborate plan. We flash back on Mycroft 
going into Moriarty’s torture cha...sorry, holding cell. 
Sherlock says Mycroft fed him information about Sherlock. He 
gave them a few little details about his criminal web in 
return. They let him go so he would think he had one up on them 
and then let him destroy Sherlock’s reputation over the course 
of the last episode, convincing everyone that HE was the real 
criminal. 
   Chrissy: Oh, sure. Because that’s not the excuse 
    everyone uses. “That was the plan all along! Really!”
   Diandra: He played right into my hand!
   Chrissy: That’s what she said.
   Diandra: God damnit.

We’re back on the roof, with Sherlock in present-day voice over 
saying there were 13 possible scenarios for him to get down. 
They worked them all out and gave them code names. We repeat 
the conversation between Sherlock and Moriarty wherein he 
stresses that Sherlock’s only three friends will die if he 
doesn’t kill himself for the, like, three people who hadn’t 
seen it yet. Voiceover Sherlock says the one thing he didn’t 
anticipate was how far Moriarty was willing to go just as 
Moriarty shoots himself. Sherlock turns back to the ledge and 
pauses long enough to type “LAZARUS” into his phone.

As he steps up onto the ledge, Molly comes to a window below 
and a group of people unroll and inflate a crash mattress on 
the sidewalk. Several “pedestrians” hover nearby obviously 
waiting for their cue, including the guy on the bicycle. John’s 
car pulls up just as Mycroft sends the reply “LAZARUS IS GO”. 
   Chrissy: I love how neither of them apparently knows 
    about texting etiquette. 
   Diandra: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT. AM I 
    SHOUTING RIGHT NOW?
We go right back to the line “It’s just a magic trick”. Except 
now we can see the guys getting the mattress set up as he yells 
at John to stay right where he is on the other side of the low 
building – ambulance station, apparently - blocking his view of 
the sidewalk. Everyone starts moving as they’re scripted as 
Sherlock tosses his phone and tips over the edge. Molly gasps 
as he goes sailing past her window. He hits the air bag and 
hands help him roll off so they can move the bag before John 
gets around the ambulance station. 

But, voice over Sherlock notes, John needed to see a body. This 
is where he needed Molly. Molly and a couple assistants shove a 
body out of the window and we go to the street level view of a 
body hitting the pavement that we saw happen with absolutely no 
time for any of that air mattress bullshit to have taken place 
before but whatever. Sherlock and his crew of street performers 
run around one side of the ambulance station while John runs 
around the other and sees the body in the distance. The guy on 
the bicycle knocks John over, giving Sherlock enough time to 
get a “head wound” painted on him by a make up guy and run 
back, switching places with the body as it is dragged out of 
sight. The gathering crowd of people finish covering him in 
blood and he pulls a squash ball from his pocket to jam under 
his arm, which he explains to Anderson would cut off the pulse 
at the wrist when enough pressure is applied.
   Chrissy: Which is why they were preventing John from 
    checking anything but that one arm. 
   Diandra: Obviously.

After a partial replay of John arriving and Sherlock being 
hauled onto a gurney, we’re back in Anderson’s apartment. 
Sherlock says they very carefully planned it and allowed for 
every possible variable. It worked just as well as they had 
hoped. Anderson says so Molly Hooper WAS in on this? Sherlock 
says yes, the little girl who was abducted by Moriarty who 
Anderson assumed was screaming at the sight of Sherlock because 
HE was her kidnapper? Yeah, obviously Moriarty had found 
somebody who looked enough like him to achieve that effect. 
Since that man obviously outlived his usefulness they must have 
needed to get him out of the way, so there had to be a man in a 
morgue somewhere that looked a lot like him. Molly found him 
and faked some records. And Sherlock provided the second coat 
because of course he has more than one of that exact same coat. 
Anderson asks what about the sniper aiming at John. Which...is 
a good question because we saw him fold up his gun and leave 
and why would he do that if he could OBVIOUSLY see what was 
going on? Sherlock says Mycroft’s men shot HIM before he could 
shoot John. Uh-huh. 
   Chrissy: Shut up! Patching plot holes is EXHAUSTING!

Anderson says sure, sure...okay. But the homeless network? 
Sherlock says the whole street was barred off for their little 
stage performance. Anderson hums and looks at all the stuff on 
his walls representing two years of work on various theories. 
“Not the way I’d have done it,” he grumbles. Sherlock folds his 
arms haughtily and says “oh, really?” Anderson says it’s 
clever, but a bit... disappointing. Sherlock sighs and says 
whatever, that’s not why he came here. “I think you know why 
I’m here, Phillip. How I Did It by Jack the Ripper?” Anderson 
smiles and asks if he was intrigued. Sherlock says yes, he 
obviously hoped to draw him with such a sensational case, but 
he overdid it a little. Anderson says he couldn’t live with 
himself knowing he’d driven Sherlock to kill himself. Sherlock 
says he didn’t though. He was right all along: Sherlock Lives. 
Anderson says yeah, and everything is okay now, isn’t it? 
Sherlock says sure. Except that he wasted the police’s time, 
distracted Sherlock from solving a possibly very important 
terrorist plot that could have killed hundreds and “perverted 
the course of justice”.
   Chrissy: Okay, so we’re admitting that we know that’s 
    the outcome and this scene is supposed to come after it 
    but we’re moving it here because it draws out the 
    tension or some bullshit?
   Diandra: I mean...it’s either that or the editor fucked 
    up.

Anderson starts sobbing hysterically and lunges at Sherlock, 
burying his face in the coat. Sherlock looks down at him like 
‘damnit. Now I’m going to have to burn this one’ and gives him 
a brief, tentative pat on the shoulder. Anderson stops crying 
and jumps up to look at his evidence wall because “hang on! 
That doesn’t make sense!” How did he know John would stay on 
that exact spot? What if the bike hadn’t hit him at exactly the 
right time? And how could he possibly have done all of that so 
quickly? What, did they practice? Besides, why is he telling 
Anderson all of this? Wouldn’t he be the LAST person he would 
want to tell this to? Anderson spins around to find out that 
Sherlock slipped out the door in the middle of that rant. He 
starts giggling hysterically and ripping his evidence wall 
apart, falling on the floor in his wild enthusiasm.
   Chrissy: This is what Stephen and Mark look like after 
    spending several hours trying to smooth out the 
    inconsistencies in a Doyle plot and beat it into 
    coherence.
   Diandra: That would explain a lot, actually.

And we fade back to the train car where John is standing with 
his eyes closed waiting to be blown apart. Sherlock makes a 
noise like pfffffftttttt and starts giggling. John opens his 
eyes, still wincing and then peeks down at the bomb. The timer 
is stuck blinking rapidly between 1:28 and 1:29. We flash back 
to when Sherlock was frantically waving his hands around the 
bomb. He sees a little toggle switch along the side beneath the 
timer, smirks and flips it. Yes, the bomb has an off switch. 
Because when you’re setting up a device that can only be 
deliberately triggered via a complicated suitcase remote that 
only you know the code to, it’s important to make sure you 
install a little “on/off” button in case of an emergency. Or, 
you know, so the people who happen to find it can just switch 
it off. Because once you go the “Bond villain” route, you might 
as well just throw all reason out the window.
   Chrissy: I feel like there was an episode of 
    “Elementary” recently that featured a line that could 
    have been a direct retort to this. Something along the 
    lines of “they’re not supposed to be complicated. 
    They’re supposed to go BANG.”
   Diandra: Yes. But whatever. Deus ex machina.

“Oh, your face,” Sherlock gasps between giggles. “I totally had 
you.” John, who could probably have saved some of that overflow 
of anger from their first meeting for this because if there was 
EVER a better justification for beating the shit out of him I 
don’t know what it would be, just yells that Sherlock is a 
bastard and he KNEW he could dismantle the damn thing. Sherlock 
says no, really, those were such sweet things he was saying and 
he didn’t know John cared... John says he’ll kill him if he 
ever even thinks about telling anyone any of this. He asks why 
the HELL Sherlock let him go through all of that if he knew how 
to turn it off all along. Sherlock shows him the off switch and 
says he didn’t lie because he really doesn’t have any clue how 
to “turn any of these silly little lights off”, but luckily 
their terrorist gets his bombs from ACME or a similar company 
that designs ridiculous weapons for idiots destined for 
failure. Lights appear at the end of the car from some 
flashlights wielded by guys in tactical gear and John notes 
that Sherlock did actually call the police. Sherlock says duh. 
What does John take him for? John grumbles that he’s DEFINITELY 
going to kill him. “Oh, please,” Sherlock sniffs. “Killing me. 
That’s so two years ago.” He grins at John and walks away while 
John huffs out a reluctant, dazed laugh.

Back in the hotel, Moran comes out of his hotel room, looks 
nervously up and down the hall and heads for the elevator. 
Before it can reach his floor, a maid drops the cart she was 
pushing past and holds a gun to his head. Two more agents leap 
around the corner brandishing their own guns. 

Back at 221b, sometime later, Sherlock is on the phone with 
Mycroft. There’s singing in the background that we can probably 
assume is from Les Miserables.
   Chrissy: Probably? Oh my god, you don’t know Les Miz.
   Diandra: No?
   Chrissy: How are we friends?
Mycroft is begging Sherlock to just take over at the “interval” 
which is what British people call halftime.
   Chrissy: Or “intermission” for those of us who don’t mix 
   our terminology and confuse musicals with sports.
Sherlock says no, sorry brother dear, you promised. Can’t help. 
Mycroft whines about the “pain” and the “horror” of it all. 
Sherlock just hangs up on him, grining as John approaches to 
announce that the people outside are waiting for the story. 
Sherlock says yeah, they can wait a minute. 

He goes into the living room where Mary and Mrs. Hudson are 
chatting about setting a date for the wedding and pops a bottle 
of champagne. Also, Lestrade is there for some reason, sitting 
in John’s chair. Mary says yeah, they finally actually got 
engaged even though they were interrupted the first time. She 
looks at Sherlock pointedly and says he will be there, though. 
Sherlock groans and says no, weddings aren’t really his thing. 
Molly arrives, her fiancé “Tom” in tow. John’s eyes immediately 
pop out of his head as he looks back and forth between Sherlock 
and this tall man with curly dark hair, a familiar-looking coat 
and a scarf around his neck. Sherlock has his back to them so 
he doesn’t notice. John stammers out an introduction and shakes 
Tom’s hand. Sherlock says he’s ready now and starts for the 
door, stopping in front of Tom and blinking in surprise. He 
looks him up and down, glances at a smirking John and shakes 
Tom’s hand. Sherlock and John leave and Lestrade sidles up to 
Molly to ask if she and Tom are serious then. She says yeah, 
and isn’t it great that she’s moved on?
   Chrissy: Yeah. Great. You’re really branching out. 
   Diandra: YOU’RE GOING TO DIE ALONE SURROUNDED BY CATS.
   Chrissy: Actually, I would think she would die the 
    victim of a serial killer. Possibly Tom since we know 
    her “type” is psychopaths.

Outside, Sherlock is putting on his own scarf. John says so, 
um...did you... Sherlock says he’s NOT saying anything about 
that. John says no, that’s probably a good idea, but, you know, 
“I’m still waiting”.
   Chrissy: For a better offer. Or at the very least for 
   you to put up some sort of fight over me.
No, he wants to know why somebody was trying to kill him. If 
they knew SHERLOCK was after them, why did they put JOHN in a 
bonfire?
   Chrissy: Haven’t we been over this already? Moriarty 
    figured out, like, right away that they are each 
    other’s biggest weakness. He was always able to get 
    Sherlock to do whatever he wanted by threatening John. 
    It is reasonable to assume that another criminal could 
    have figured that out.
   Diandra: Isn’t that the other justification for Sherlock 
    needing John to think he was really dead? Because if he 
    knew the truth, the bad guys could use him to try to 
    flush Sherlock out?
   Chrissy: See? You have all sorts of potential stories 
    you could be exploring.
   Diandra: What story? The one where Sherlock is talking 
    to an imaginary John while he’s being tortured to keep 
    himself sane – possibly meeting him in his mind palace? 
    The one where he comes home after two years of deep 
    cover work where he had to do terrible things but 
    consoled himself that it was all to protect John? 
    Pretty sure those have been done.
   Chrissy: How about one where Sherlock has to lie back 
    and think of John safe at home in England while he lets 
    Baron von Honey Pot have his way with him?
   Diandra: You are never going to let that idea go, are 
    you?
   Chrissy: Um...no.

Sherlock says he doesn’t know and he doesn’t LIKE not knowing 
things, but unlike the “nicely embellished fictions” John puts 
on his blog, life is messy. He puts his coat on (flipping the 
collar up, of course) as he promises he’ll figure out who is 
behind it eventually. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this,” 
John says. “Being back. Being a hero again.” Sherlock scoffs. 
John says no, it’s obvious. He loves this. “Being Sherlock 
Holmes.” Sherlock frowns at him, says he has no idea what that 
even means and starts heading for the door. John says he is 
planning on telling him how he really survived that fall, 
right? “You know my methods, John,” Sherlock says cryptically. 
“I am known to be indestructible.” John says ha, no seriously. 
He went to his grave and made a little speech. Sherlock says 
yes, he knows. He was there. “I asked you to stop being dead,” 
John continues for some reason. “I heard you,” Sherlock says 
quietly. And here is where some people apparently decided that 
the best explanation was that he did, in fact, die in the fall 
and John somehow WILLED him back into life through supernatural 
means.
   Chrissy: Makes about as much sense as any other 
    explanation. 
   Diandra: Yeah, in that none of them make any sense 
    because Doyle never meant for him to come back and 
    unburning the bridge just highlighted his hilariously 
    tenuous relationship with consistency.
Sherlock shakes that weird little emotional moment off and 
announces that it’s time to go “be Sherlock Holmes.” He starts 
out the door, hesitates, grabs the deerstalker hat from a hook 
and jams it on his head before going out to face the wall of 
shouting reporters and flashing camera bulbs.

In a cluttered storage space somewhere, a blue-eyed man with 
glasses watches footage of Sherlock pulling John from the 
bonfire. He keeps watching the same few seconds over and over 
so we just hear Mary screaming “John” repeatedly while Sherlock 
paws at the burning wood. He freezes the image on Sherlock’s 
distressed face and we don’t see his mouth, but judging by his 
eyes he’s smiling. And credits.
   Chrissy: Was that a record? I think that might well have 
    been your longest recap yet.
   Diandra: Pretty sure “Return of the King” was longer, 
    what with the never-ending goodbyes.
   Chrissy: Eh. Probably debatable. Regardless, maybe you 
    should take a break for a while and write something 
    else.
   Diandra: Subtle, Chris.
   Chrissy: What? I didn’t say it had to be fan fiction. 
    But seriously, if you want some more ideas for that 
    story about the sadistic Baron and the way Sherlock 
    could only fake it with him by going deep into his mind 
    palace and picturing John in his army uniform...
   Diandra: Oh, dear god, STOP IT.