52 Weeks (Sherlock/John, Post Reichenbach) 4/4 part 1
Title: 52 Weeks
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Big Angst, horrid, horrid angst and bad things.
Word Count: 7,005
Disclaimer: None of this is mine ....
Summary: Post Reichenbach with spoilers for Reichenbach within. John is going through classic phases of grief ... badly. Divided into four parts, this fic chronicles his progress week by week, the (re)construction of his life. Can John find a happy ending?
Note from Author (addendum after first posting): thank you so, so much to people who have taken the time to review this, you have no idea how appreciated it is after writing til the early hours on so many nights! All and any reviews welcome!
Just a warning about this chapter. There is angst. A lot. A GREAT deal.
Winter
37
John doesn't tend to receive post. All his bills and admin are done online, and he prefers the immediacy and relative anonymity of email. Nobody writes. Why on Earth would they?
So when the postman hands him a package, to be signed by one John H Watson, early one morning in the middle of the week, it's certainly a surprise. And John pulls a little 'eh?' face as he carries it upstairs and deposits it on the table.
John holds it with a tentative fingers. It's a normal temperature, no ominous ticking, that's reassuring.
He huffs a breath. It looks innocuous enough, but then again the last thing deposited anonymously through his letterbox had contained a dirty bloody syringe.
John takes the risk, and takes the package back up the stairs.
John's noticed that when dealing with things he predicts are going to be difficult, he makes a cup of tea as a comfort blanket.
In Afghanistan, he'd found himself leading boys out, boys. Downing pints like they were water, just out of Sandhurst and Blackheath. University students, not soldiers. God he'd needed tea then, made it in his tranger religiously, every morning, bitter black stuff. But it was tea. The familiar tang of tannin, the warmth through his belly, even against the oppressive heat of an Afghan summer, the familiar taste of calm.
Anything to calm the terror of taking soldiers who had been children mere weeks ago, out to active service.
Now, he reverts to tea, as he always does. As a comma in life, a moment of pause and comfort and gathering together of the self.
John harnesses the whisper of panic in his mind, "At ease," he murmurs, taking a sip from his cup.
"Oh well, nothing for it," and he puts his tea down and tears open the package, pawing through the padding, to reveal it's innards.
A … little statue, of some sort.
John allows himself a flip little smile, "Anticlimactic."
He scrutinises it - it's cast bronze, he can tell that much, but what on earth is it a statue of? A sort of lion, dragonish thing, with a circular, open mouth and a fearsome glare. John turns the statue over in his hands, traces the words etched on the bottom, Made in Singapore.
Singapore? He knows next to nothing about Singapore. Has never travelled there. Has no friends, or even acquaintances, there.
He turns to Google, browsing through the first few pages of search results: Singapore Heritage Centre, plenty of tourism sites, a couple of articles about the growing financial sector in the country. And then, something that does pique his interest:
"Singaporean drug cartel, See Tong, brought to knees."
John reads the article thoughtfully. It's badly translated and melodramatic, but very recent.
He skims through it again: "Mysterious hero vanishes into the night, accepting no reward."
John gives the little statue one last perusal, and decides it will look well on Sherlock's windowsill. He places it there.
"No, actually, that's slightly creepy," he feels like the bloody thing's watching him. Knowing how his life seems to have turned out, it probably is.
He turns the statue slightly, so it's not staring directly at his head.
Two days later, another package. The postman gives him a streetwise nod, "Been doing some shopping, then? Never normally have anything for you."
John mumbles something about Amazon, and shuts the door as quickly as he can without seeming too rude.
Inside, a miniature Eiffel Tower made of cheap plastic, the sort you could buy at any street stall. Paris. Obvious. John puts it on the window behind the kitchen sink.
More interestingly, a macaroon wrapped in expensive looking tissue paper.
"Hmm."
Immediately, John turns to his computer, and Google. He taps the keys thoughtfully.
Paris; crime; solved
A few generic press releases from Police Nationale, but little else. Some Poirot clips from YouTube.
Paris; crime; dead
"Aha..." on the fourth page, John clicks, "Crime Lord Alphonse DuPointier, found dead in his bathtub. Cause of death unknown."
Apparently a man dressed all in black was seen leaving the scene. The French journalist calls him 'The Dark Knight'.
"No imagination," mutters John. He sniffs the macaroon suspiciously. Pistachio.
He eats it with his next cup of tea. It's delicious.
Two days later, another. This time he opens it without pause. A pair of cufflinks, they look like ivory, in an exotic design he has never come across before. No identifying marks.
It takes an afternoon of trawling around jewellery dealers in Mayfair before he hits on something. The well-groomed, slightly oily looking man behind the counter sniffs at John's tatty parka and beanie, but quickly becomes interested when John unwraps the cufflinks.
"Ohhhhhh, yes. How sweet. From Mali, I should think. Beautiful country. A fine example, antique, eighteenth century by the design."
John nods along, "You can tell all that? I have a friend who'd like you."
The man smiles, a flash of gold incisor,"Mmm, oh yes. Here, I have a book," he rummages around under the counter for a second, finding a large, hardback tome, "African artwork is something of an interest of mine, and naturally that extends to jewellery." He flicks through the book's thick pages,
"The design is based on a tribal pattern - Kel Tamasheq, or the Tuareg as you may know them."
He looks enquiringly at John, pointing to a picture of a man swathed in a white headdress, sitting on a camel. John shakes his head, he's never heard of them.
"Well, quite. This pattern denotes ... depending on the context, faithfulness, loyalty or fidelity. It can be given from a warrior to his chief before a battle, or more likely during a battle that is going badly, to reassure the chief that he still has a loyal soldier. It is also given by a husband to his wife, if the husband is to undertake a long journey. To symbolise his plan to return to her. A lovely gesture."
John thanks the man politely, wrapping the cufflinks carefully in their paper. As he leaves, the man says,
"I do hope you get good use out of them."
John shrugs, "Probably not. All my cuffs have buttons."
When John gets home, he logs straight on to his laptop, and looks up Mali. It takes an hour, but he finds it:
"International slave trading ring's headquarters mysteriously blown up. Police have no leads."
John leans back in his chair. After a while, the laptop's screen goes black. Night rolls in. Foxes fight and mate outside, he can hear them screaming. John sits in the jaundiced light of the lamp post outside. Thinking.
38
All is quiet on the Baker Street front.
John buys a shirt that requires cufflinks. Not that he wears shirts, anymore.
But still.
39
There is a difference, John has found, between drinking towards oblivion, and drinking towards that fleeting, magical, admittedly delusional state of mind in which he is able to conjure the spectre of Sherlock.
For this, beer won't do. It must be wine or preferably something sweeter. Port, if he can stand the pain. Tonight, port. Sweet and syrupy, like cough medicine, he drinks it by the tumbler, groaning as the thick weight of a headache begins to press behind his eyes.
He pours another, keeping the bottle close to hand, and settles down to watch Downton Abbey on the telly.
Smiles to himself, feeling as if he's conducting a rain dance.
Half of the bottle's downed before Sherlock appears, from his peripheral vision, as if stepping directly from John's optic nerve.
Spectre Sherlock leans against the mantelpiece, all louche, long limbs and dangerous sinew. His hair curls darkly over one eye.
"Alcoholic." But he's smiling, and stealing across the room to collapse next to John on the sofa, disregarding personal space entirely.
The sheen of Spectre Sherlock beats back the imposing night, and John is warmed through, feels his thought processes dissipate like a nimbus cloud. He draws Spectre Sherlock to him, strokes him, constructs him, a miracle.
Spectre Sherlock growls against his neck. Their bodies mould together in the darkness.
He quivers, shaky as a gelding about to take a jump. Feels Spectre Sherlock's lips brush almost imperceptibly against his exposed neck, a kiss. John's skin trembles with happiness.
"I'm not real, John, that's the beauty of it," Spectre Sherlock whispers, "What do you want me to be?"
"If you were real-"
Spectre Sherlock pulls away gently, resting his head on John's shoulder. "Which I'm not, patently."
"You're my fantasy," John objects, "could you not perhaps just-"
"On the contrary, I am your fantasy of myself. You can manipulate me to an extent, but some things are universally true."
"Like what?"
"I am universally unwilling to listen to your stupidities." Spectre Sherlock nuzzles John nonchalantly, smug and satisfied.
"Right. Well hypothetically, if you were real ... would you have ... you know. Kissed ... my..." he gestures ineffectually towards his torso, "Kissed me?"
Spectre Sherlock blinks up at him, "I haven't the foggiest, John. I'm not
real. Look, I'll prove it."
And with that, Spectre Sherlock transmogrifies into a giant, black moth, as big as a labrador, and flaps gently out of the window.
John awakes to the most disgusting hangover he has ever experienced. He's forgotten to turn the heating on. It's so very cold.
40
John, after ignoring almost twenty phone calls, grudgingly agrees to have coffee with Harry.
They meet at the Amphitheatre Restaurant, at the Royal Opera House. It's warm and comfortable, and Harry leverages this slyly, managing to turn 'coffee' into 'lunch' without John really noticing. He finds himself tucking into pan-fried salmon with pickled cauliflower, wondering why he eats beans on toast every day when there's this sort of food to be had in the world.
He manages to keep the sour look on his face, nonetheless.
Harry chats inanely about her job, Clara, the people at AA. John supplies grunts every now and again, to show he's compos mentis.
She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. John studiously avoids her eyes - he forgot to grunt at something, he realises, and has attracted her attention.
"John ... how are you? Is everything ... alright?"
John sighs, he knew this was coming.
"I'm fine, Harry. Just, you know, muddling along."
"You look exhausted."
"I spend most of my life sleeping!"
"Excessive sleep is a sign of depression, you know," she finally takes her mouthful, talking through the spinach, "and you're incredibly isolated. It hurts to see you living such a half life."
John lays down his cutlery with a sharp thud, "I am fine, Harry. I am where I want to be in my life."
Harry frowns, "Living with a ghost?" she asks.
And John nods.
"Quite."
41
Tonight, John dreams. Oh, he dreams.
The first time he met Sherlock. Iraq, or Aghanistan?
The first time he felt like that, about the man. Get OFF my sheet!
He dreams of advancing armies, trench warfare, dreams up Sherlock in a Major's greatcoat, at the head of a cavalry of spirited horses. His sabre drawn, carbines strapped up at his thighs.
The muffled burial beat, afterwards, the faceless soldiers with their moist eyes, straight backs, parade rest.
He wakes, overheated, and is surprised to find his eyes are leaking tears.
42
John goes for his morning walk. It's raining. He gets soaked through, everything saturated with water, chilled to the bone.
His teeth begin to chatter, still a mile from 221B. By the time he makes it back to the flat, the sneezing has already begun.
He trudges to Sherlock's bed and, still fully dressed and soaking, throws himself face first onto it. He stays there all day, and into the night, pretending he has drowned.
43
Molly comes over. John hasn't invited her, she just appears at his door, at about 2pm. John is never out of the flat at this time of day. And Molly seems certain he's in, banging on the door for five minutes,
"I know you're bloody in there, John Watson!"
A pause. He hears her voice murmuring, must be on the phone. Then,
"Bloody hell, fine! Though I hope you realise how ridiculous this is!"
The banging begins again. Alright, thinks John, the balance of the noise versus having to talk to Molly has just shifted, in favour of Molly. He wraps Sherlock's dressing gown more tightly around himself.
He swings the door open, gives her a glare, and turns back into the flat.
"Oh!" Molly quickly stuffs her phone into her pocket, and follows him inside.
They stand, awkwardly, for a moment. John, shooting daggers, Molly shifting nervously.
She speaks, eventually, "Got you some bits," too bright, too chirpy.
John's eyes flick to the ceiling. He sighs.
Molly reaches into her bag, "Here."
She's holding out an umbrella, "It's an umbrella," she says.
"Um. What?"
Molly continues talking, all of a rush, "So you don't get wet. On your walks? It's Scotts of Stowe. A proper gentleman's umbrella. Um. Apparently."
Realising he's not going to take it from her, she puts it on the table.
"I ... also ... some food. I ... get the impression that you're not really eating enough."
Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and again, like an angry bee. She ignores it, "Um. So. Orange marmalade biscuits."
The biscuits go on the table, next to the umbrella. John likes marmalade ... he resists looking at them.
"And, um, Shropshire cheese. It's got whisky in it." She shudders with delicate distaste. did she buy it for him if she thought it was so horrid?
Molly rummages around in her bag a bit more,
"Aha. There. Don't worry, it's wrapped." She brings out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper, "Beef wellingtons! From Fortnums, all you have to do is put them in the oven for half an hour."
John stares at Molly. He really likes beef wellington, has he ever told her that? And why on earth is she doing this? He's not had enough social interaction recently to remember how to be polite. So he continues to stand there, silently, scratching his ear absently.
Molly sighs, "I'll just pop it in the fridge."
Her phone buzzes again, a high-pitched trill of irritation. Molly closes the fridge. Checks her phone furtively.
"I'd better go."
She moves as if to give John a hug, but thinks better of it.
"Molly!" John stops her in her tracks, "Thanks."
Molly nods, smiles, gives him a jaunty wave. Her phone buzzes yet again, and as she closes the door behind her, she answers it,
"For god's sake, what's wrong with you? Yes, I'm just leaving. Yes, everything's fine. No, he isn't. No. No. Well you'll have to wait and see won't you? I do not know why I put up with you..."
Her voice gets quieter and quieter as she descends the stairs. John considers the umbrella. Picks up the cheese. He opens the jar and scoops out a bit of it, sucking the crumbling mess off his finger.
Mmm, whisky. He loves whisky.
44
John eats the biscuits in two sittings. His stomach pleasantly distended, he lies on the sofa savouring the taste of orange marmalade in his molars.
He browses through Sherlock's books, looking for something to entertain himself with before he can get to Gaunts to buy a new job lot of crime thrillers.
"dead every enormous piece
of nonsense which itself must call
a state submicroscopic is-
compared with pitying terrible
some alive individual"
John grimaces. No wonder Sherlock is - was - a bit funny in the head, if this is what he'd been reading.
45
The beef wellingtons last slightly longer. John has them for tea on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and the last for a desperate breakfast on Thursday when he's run out of milk. And muesli.
Molly has left a couple of messages, but John doesn't bother to get back to her. He does, however, venture into Fortnums on one of his morning walks, and buys another packet of biscuits.
46
Another Saturday night, another binge drinking session to dance in the rain of Spectre Sherlock.
John had been hoping for more teases, more strokes, more closeness. He is denied.
Spectre Sherlock looks grave, "Those who have found their cause are blessed, John. Animal rights, pensions for soldiers, the conservation of the wetlands. The righteous, the evangelists, may be deranged, but their fight restores their belief in goodness."
His gaze bores into John, torturing in its intensity, "What is your cause, John?"
John is uncomfortably aware that Spectre Sherlock is simply quoting the chorus his subconscious has been singing for a few weeks now. But hearing this, from the mouth ... from the image of the mouth of Sherlock, is very difficult.
Pain sustains John, digging the fingernails of one hand against the palm of the other.
"You," he pauses, thinking, "Your memory."
Spectre Sherlock raises his chin in challenge, "And what have you done to honour it, exactly?"
John drops his eyes to the floor, ashamed. He finds he has no answer.
Spectre Sherlock supplies one for him, "Nothing. You've shrouded my memory in a dropcloth, and hidden it in a dusty room. And you've created in yourself a shrine to me."
Footsteps ring out as Spectre Sherlock walks across the room, stopping just in front of John. His shoes were Sherlock's favourite pair - black leather, sleek and comfortable enough to run across London in. John looks up, up past Spectre Sherlock's unfeasibly long legs, his compact hips, chest, neck, chin, mouth, to those extra-terrestrial eyes.
"If you want to honour my memory, John Watson, be a man and live!"
John is angry, now - his endless ennui, a grey world, his continued devotion, and now this attack - "I've been grieving, Sherlock! FOR you, because - because -" he suddenly realises that he has stood, is toe-to-toe with Spectre Sherlock. He pauses, no, this is … good … cathartic.
"Because you filled my life. Everything that I did, every day, had you inside it, you were the salt in my blood. And once you were gone … it all fell away." He shakes his head, resisting the urge to cry, "I don't know if there's a word for that but 'love'".
Spectre Sherlock's eyes don't have quite the depth of the man himself. But the shape is there, and the colour is better than approximate. And the look in them is enough to make the first tear fall from John's right eye.
Spectre Sherlock touches the tear, gentle now, "What I didn't dare do in my life, dare in yours. Live. Please."
John resists the urge to squirm under the microscopic gaze - reaches up to knits his hand in Spectre Sherlock's hair, a convulsive movement, he doesn't even feel his arm move.
Spectre Sherlock's hands reach around him, stroking against the waistband of his jeans in soft, teasing movements. John hears himself groan, feels his mouth open, panting, his head thrown back neck exposed -
But Spectre Sherlock's skin is wrong. It's too smooth, feels like silicone, and is neither warm nor cool. Room temperature. The temperature of nothingness.
John needs another drink, to ward of reality. He is aware, more than ever, that Spectre Sherlock is not Sherlock, is not even the lingering ghost of Sherlock. That Sherlock, hisSherlock, is less even than bones, was burned, is nothing but ash. His vibrant, vital Sherlock is dust.
John's temples scream. He closes his eyes against the almost-perfect face of Spectre Sherlock, who watches him neutrally. And understanding grips him like a wolf-bite, grinding fangs. No Sherlock. No more. Not ever.
And, no longer able to delude himself through alcohol and determination, he opens his eyes.
There's nothing there. There never was.
Part 2 Here