Fic: One Step at a Time (1/?)
Title: One Step at a Time
Author: Gillian Taylor
Character/Pairing: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Harry Watson, Greg Lestrade (Hints at Sherlock/John, so far)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: AU from Series 1
Spoilers: S1:The Great Game
Summary: One step at a time, that’s what he needs to remind himself. Eventually, he’ll have his revenge.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I just like playing with them...a lot.
A/N: Thanks to nnwest for her encouragement and BRing. Thanks, too, to yamx and neadods for giving this a look over and miss_zedem for Brit-picking. This fic has been a LONG time coming. Once upon a time, there was a little LJ community called help_japan and I signed up. wendymr won me and asked for Sherlock fic. This is the much belated result. My apologies for the delay (life happened, killed the muse, and now it's back). As a note, this is an AU from Series 1. In this universe, S2 didn't happen. I anticipate having the next chapter up by the end of the week.
"One Step at a Time"
by Gillian Taylor
Chapter 1: Requiem for a Holmes
April 22, 2010:
“This is, quite frankly, the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Mycroft says. There is little to no inflection in his brother’s words, but there doesn’t have to be. His face, his stance and his eyes say it all for him.
“It is the only way.”
Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “The only way?” he echoes.
His brother is going to make him say it, isn’t he? Of course he is. Never could leave things well enough alone. Always meddling. He has analysed his choices and this is the only one that has the least probability of failing. “Obviously,” he snaps. “In all likelihood you will not have to tell -“ He pauses - only for a moment, but it is enough.
“John,” Mycroft says and it makes him wince.
He can’t think about...John. It might very well break him. “Yes. Two weeks. A month at the most.”
“You do not understand, Sherlock, just what you ask. I will be the only one who knows you are alive. You, of course, know what it will do to John should he-”
“Don’t say his name,” Sherlock snarls. “I am finished with this conversation, Mycroft.”
“Do you want to know if he wakes?” Mycroft asks and Sherlock stills, feeling as though all his breath has been forced from his body.
“Of course I’ll want to know.” This is the only way he’ll be able to save John.
“This will hurt him, Sherlock.”
“Goodbye, Mycroft,” he snaps with an impatient wave of his hand. He knows what this will do to John. Of course he knows that. He has to forget. Just until John’s awake, and until then he’ll do his best to forget about his friend. Better that way. Fewer distractions.
“You, too, I think,” Mycroft adds in an undertone.
He turns on his heel but, before he leaves the room, he pauses, bowing his head as he states. “Watch over him.”
Sherlock walks out the door, but not before he hears Mycroft’s, “Of course.”
***
April 25, 2010:
Hollywood loves to put a spin on comas. They like to think that someone wakes from it all at once, the name of a loved one on their lips or even a simple gasp. Most often, it starts in spurts. Slight movements, a twitch of a finger, a turn of the head. But there are the rare occasions where Hollywood gets it right.
John Watson’s life is a bit like a Hollywood film.
“SHERLOCK!”
The sound of his friend’s name reverberates through the room as John sits bolt upright, his heart doing its best to pound out of his chest. Pain shoots through him at the movement and he feels something detach from his arm and clatter onto the floor. “God,” he mutters, shutting his eyes as he tries to get his bearings.
He’s in hospital. Obviously. The heart rate monitor is sounding an alarm and there’s bound to be someone stopping in at any moment now. What the hell happened? There was...a pool. He can smell chlorine - faint, hardly noticeable over the antiseptic, but enough to tell him he must’ve... Oh, god.
The bomb. Moriarty. Sherlock!
“Welcome back, Dr Watson,” someone says.
John pulls in a shocked breath, opens his eyes and turns toward the source of the voice. “Mycroft.” His voice cracks on the name and he swallows painfully. His mouth feels like its been stuffed with cotton wool - a feeling generally produced by some of the better drugs.
The man looks tired. It’s not a familiar look for him. John’s used to seeing Mycroft unflappable, his suit immaculate, his expression eternally calm. That, above the circumstances, makes his heart drop somewhere near his feet. “Where’s Sherlock?” he asks.
“We’ll have to wait until after you’ve been checked out for any questions,” Mycroft replies, his face once again calm, as he reaches for the call button resting on the side of his bed.
A few moments later, the door opens - private room, Mycroft’s doing no doubt - and two people enter. From their dress, they’re undoubtedly medical personnel. “Mister Watson, you need to lie down. You could do yourself more damage this way,” the doctor - Powell, the nametag says - tells him.
“Doctor,” he replies.
“Pardon?”
“Doctor Watson,” he corrects.
“Of course,” Powell says and comes to his side, encouraging him to lie back down. “Sister Finley, 12 mls of morphine and another IV line.” That’s apparently what he pulled off when he first woke up.
The woman nods. “At once, Doctor.”
Powell shines a light in his eyes, measuring their dilation. “Doctor Watson, you have been seriously injured in an explosion. Upon your admission, our greatest concern was your head injury. Your skull was fractured in four places and swelling was a great concern for the first two days. It’s since gone down, but we will still need to monitor you for any adverse effects from your injury. You have been in a medically induced coma for three days.”
Three days? Oh, god.
The nurse returns with the medication and Powell administers it with a deft injection into the canula. The nurse fusses with the IV, reattaching it while Powell talks. “You’ve also suffered severe contusions on your abdomen and your arms. Your ankle bone is cracked and you will have to stay in a cast for the next four weeks. You will regain full mobility within the next six months provided you follow the physical therapy regime we will give you. Your latest scans have revealed that the swelling has gone down, so we expect a full recovery.”
“Thank you, doctor,” John says. The medication is starting to kick in. His head now feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool - a twin to his mouth.
“You’re welcome. Rest, now. If you need anything, press the call button.” Powell nods at Mycroft and he and the nurse leave the room.
“Where’s Sherlock?” John asks; no, it’s a demand. Asking implies that there is another answer besides ‘in the room next door’. Asking implies that he’s willing to tolerate bad news, because he isn’t, damnit.
Mycroft suddenly meets his gaze, startling him into realising that for the past several minutes, even before the doctor came in, the other man has been looking anywhere but at him. “What do you remember about that night?” A question in response to a question.
John glares at him and is surprised when Mycroft flinches - flinches.
“Please.”
It’s the please that does him in. “I...” The memories are hazy, now that he tries to think back to that night. He remembers Moriarty. And the pool. “Bomb. There was a bomb. It...went off? I got Sherlock and myself into the pool and...I don’t remember after that. Mycroft, where’s Sherlock?”
Mycroft sighs, suddenly looking far older than he is. “I’m sorry, John.”
No. Oh, god, no. “No.”
“We found him next to you. You must’ve pulled him out of the pool, but...”
No.
“He didn’t...”
NO.
“...make it.”
“No. No, no, no. He can’t be.”
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft repeats. “Sherlock’s dead.”
Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, but he’ll be damned if he lets them fall now. “And...Moriarty?”
“We didn’t find a body.”
***
April 28, 2010:
From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
I don’t know how to even start this. Many of you know I’ve been in hospital for the past few weeks, but what you don’t know is this:
There was a bomb. Sherlock died. I lived.
Sherlock Holmes is dead.
I used to say nothing happens to me. Too much has since then. And, god help me, I don’t know what’s supposed to happen now.
***
April 29, 2010:
His progress up the stairs is interrupted by frequent breaks and the smack of the cane as he uses it to keep the weight off his ankle. He forgot the annoyance of having to deal with a cast and everything else related to it. He thinks Sherlock would’ve laughed knowing that for now, at least, his limp isn’t so psychosomatic any more.
Sherlock. Bloody hell.
John grits his teeth and makes it to the landing, huffing like he’s just done a mile at full sprint than just seventeen stairs. His hand shakes a little as he slips his key into the lock, opening it and the door to their rooms.
His rooms, now. Not theirs. God.
Everything looks the same.
Strange. He would’ve thought something would feel different, would be different, after everything that’s happened. Besides a fine layer of dust that covers their belongings, it could be like any other day at 221B Baker Street.
He hobbles to his chair and settles into it with a weary sigh. His ankle is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and for a moment he has to fight off a slightly hysterical laugh. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end. It’s supposed to end with the two of them safe and secure in the knowledge that this was one more bullet dodged, one more time they were able to defeat the enemy and come home triumphant.
Doesn’t feel like a triumph now, does it?
John closes his eyes and tries to swallow the scream - or is it a sob? - that threatens to emerge with every breath. Damn this. Damn all of this.
“Whoo-oooh!” Mrs Hudson calls as she climbs the stairs. “John, love, I’ve brought the shopping in. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”
He grits his teeth to try to prevent the shout of ‘leave me the hell alone’ that threatens to leave his lips. Mrs Hudson means well, and he should let her fuss for a while. It’s cathartic, right? John sighs and buries his face into his hands. What’s he supposed to do now?
Oh. He’s an idiot. Just as much of an idiot as Sherlock always insisted he was. He can’t just sit here and mope. He won’t just give up. That isn’t the John Watson he is now.
Sherlock’s shown him the way. It’s up to John to follow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he replies absently.
Moriarty. It all comes back to that bastard. He’d love nothing more than to wrap his fingers around that man’s throat and strangle him for what he’s done. No, strangling is too easy. There are other options. He didn’t just learn how to be a soldier while he was in the army. He learned what it was like to be a prisoner of war, and the insurgents were rather inventive when it came to torture. John shakes his head, dismissing the violent thoughts.
Moriarty needs to be stopped, once and for all. He knows Mycroft is probably devoting his rather considerable resources to the matter, but that doesn’t count. It isn’t personal for Mycroft, not the way it is for John.
John’s clever enough to realise that he can’t start with Moriarty himself. That will be his final goal, of course, but he needs to start near the bottom, first. He’ll focus on the idiots who benefit from Moriarty’s “help”. One step at a time, that’s what he needs to remind himself. Eventually, he’ll have his revenge.
He flinches when someone - Mrs Hudson, he identifies. Finished with putting the shopping away, obviously - rests her hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she apologises.
“It’s fine,” he replies, turning his head to look at her. She looks older now, more careworn.
“Cuppa?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.”
“And some biscuits?” she offers.
He nods. “That would be lovely, thanks.”
“Just this once, mind. Not your housekeeper,” she says, though they both know it’s a lie.
“Right.”
She squeezes his shoulder once and moves into the kitchen. John covers his face with his hands and simply thinks. He has to find a starting point. Maybe Lestrade can help, or even Mycroft.
Tomorrow is Sherlock’s memorial service - thankfully delayed until he was considered fit to leave the hospital. He’ll ask them then.
***
May 5, 2010
He doesn’t know why he came here. No, that’s a lie. He knows exactly why he came here. It’s supposed to be calm and peaceful. He can almost hear Sherlock’s voice asking ‘isn’t it hateful?’ Sherlock would have hated this.
Hell, John hates this. The memorial service was bad enough. This, though. This is final. An end.
John’s throat closes on him and he feels tears gather in his eyes. He doesn’t let them fall. Instead, he forces himself to rest his hand on the cool stone. “Hello, Sherlock. I-I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner. No. That’s a lie. You know that’s a lie. Well, would’ve known. God. I just...Sod this. Sod all of this. I just want one thing from you. Just one. Please don’t let this be true. Just pinch my arm, wake me up from this nightmare. Be alive, damnit. Please. That’s all I ask.”
He swallows painfully. “You are...were...are the best friend I could ever have. I just...I wish. I miss you.”
John can’t continue. He wants to tell Sherlock his plans. He wants - what? A blessing? He’s not going to get one. He can’t. Sherlock’s...
A tear drops, trailing down his cheek, and he wipes it away angrily. His last regret is this. Sherlock’s dead - the pathologist’s report was conclusive. He didn’t have the chance to see the body at Mycroft’s insistence. It would’ve been too painful. He knows that. Intellectually, he knows that. However, despite the trauma of seeing a body burnt beyond all recognition, it would’ve been something more than a simple closed coffin.
There is no closure, not for him. There’s just this - a cold stone inscribed with Sherlock’s name and the memory of a man who helped him learn how to live again.
****
May 10, 2010:
Greg Lestrade’s expression is a study in concern. “Are you sure you want to do this, John?”
“What sort of question is that? I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” If John’s response is a bit sharp, he thinks it can be forgiven. It’s hard enough to be here, in Lestrade’s office, without Sherlock.
Greg sighs. “I had to ask. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. I know. Anything’ll be of use. Strange crimes. Deaths that seem too perfect. That sort of thing,” John replies.
“I’ll do what I can.” Greg rubs the bridge of his nose with one hand, suddenly looking far older than he truly is. “How...how’ve you been? We haven’t seen you at the pub.”
“Been a bit busy.” That’s a lie, though. Going to the pub, having a few drinks, stumbling home after? That’s a dangerous road to start travelling. God knows the Watsons have addictive personalities. No. It’s far easier to carry on as he has been.
He’s tried phoning Mycroft - but the bastard won’t return his calls. He’s tried going through newspapers for some indication of a Moriarty-like crime, but it’s not helped. He needs someone on the inside. He needs Greg Lestrade. John sighs. “I’ve not been up for much company as of late. I’m sorry, Greg. I know you and the others mean well, it’s just...”
“Too raw?” Greg offers.
“A bit,” he admits.
Greg smiles sympathetically. “I’ll give you a ring should anything come up. Since Sherlock...well, things have been a bit quiet since the pool.”
John swallows painfully. “Of course. Thanks, Lestrade.”
“Greg.”
“Greg.” John stands, brushing imaginary lint from his clothes.
“And John, Thursday night, half six, usual place?”
John tries to smile, but it sits oddly on his face. “I’ll try.” It’s all he can offer. Trying to promise something more than that would sit uneasily upon him when it inevitably turned out to be a lie. It’s hard enough on his own. If he has to deal with the sympathy - no, pity - of others, he’s likely to snap.
“That’s all I ask,” Greg says.
***
May 16, 2010
The sky is a dark grey, promising to drop rain on him at any moment. That’s London, though. Since the pool, he’s been convinced that even the weather is reflecting his mood. John shifts his grip on the bags, leans a little more heavily on the cane for a moment, and picks up the pace. He has at least five more streets to walk before he gets home and he certainly doesn’t fancy doing it in a downpour.
The weather, however, seems to have it out for him. A single drop that tracks a path down the side of his nose heralds the start of the storm. Judging by how quickly each drop is followed by another, this rain is going to turn into a deluge. Fantastic.
That is, of course, when the black car rolls to a stop beside him. It’s been several weeks since he last saw Mycroft. The man certainly hasn’t been returning his calls. Until, it seems, now.
“Get in, John,” Mycroft says from the depths of the interior.
“Now you acknowledge I exist?”
“John.” It’s always amazed him how much Mycroft can convey with just one word.
Fine.
He climbs into the car.
***
He’s let out at his front door twenty minutes later. John feels numb, to be honest. He expected Mycroft to tell him to leave it alone, to let Moriarty go. Instead, Mycroft handed him a thick folder containing a list of Moriarty’s current activities and gave him what amounted to his blessing.
He wonders when exactly he walked into the Twilight Zone. Admittedly, this is a Holmes. How can Mycroft be anything but unexpected?
***
May 20, 2010:
From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
I’m fine. Stop phoning me, Harry.
Comments (3):
Harry (Reply?)
You wanker. You absolute wanker. Like hell you’re fine! Answer your phone!
Anonymous (Reply?)
Poor puppy’s lost his master. How sad.
John Watson (Reply?)
Who are you? Who the hell are you?
Chapter 2: Rumours of My Demise
x-posted to: dark_aegis and sherlockbbc
Author: Gillian Taylor
Character/Pairing: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Harry Watson, Greg Lestrade (Hints at Sherlock/John, so far)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: AU from Series 1
Spoilers: S1:The Great Game
Summary: One step at a time, that’s what he needs to remind himself. Eventually, he’ll have his revenge.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I just like playing with them...a lot.
A/N: Thanks to nnwest for her encouragement and BRing. Thanks, too, to yamx and neadods for giving this a look over and miss_zedem for Brit-picking. This fic has been a LONG time coming. Once upon a time, there was a little LJ community called help_japan and I signed up. wendymr won me and asked for Sherlock fic. This is the much belated result. My apologies for the delay (life happened, killed the muse, and now it's back). As a note, this is an AU from Series 1. In this universe, S2 didn't happen. I anticipate having the next chapter up by the end of the week.
"One Step at a Time"
by Gillian Taylor
Chapter 1: Requiem for a Holmes
April 22, 2010:
“This is, quite frankly, the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Mycroft says. There is little to no inflection in his brother’s words, but there doesn’t have to be. His face, his stance and his eyes say it all for him.
“It is the only way.”
Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “The only way?” he echoes.
His brother is going to make him say it, isn’t he? Of course he is. Never could leave things well enough alone. Always meddling. He has analysed his choices and this is the only one that has the least probability of failing. “Obviously,” he snaps. “In all likelihood you will not have to tell -“ He pauses - only for a moment, but it is enough.
“John,” Mycroft says and it makes him wince.
He can’t think about...John. It might very well break him. “Yes. Two weeks. A month at the most.”
“You do not understand, Sherlock, just what you ask. I will be the only one who knows you are alive. You, of course, know what it will do to John should he-”
“Don’t say his name,” Sherlock snarls. “I am finished with this conversation, Mycroft.”
“Do you want to know if he wakes?” Mycroft asks and Sherlock stills, feeling as though all his breath has been forced from his body.
“Of course I’ll want to know.” This is the only way he’ll be able to save John.
“This will hurt him, Sherlock.”
“Goodbye, Mycroft,” he snaps with an impatient wave of his hand. He knows what this will do to John. Of course he knows that. He has to forget. Just until John’s awake, and until then he’ll do his best to forget about his friend. Better that way. Fewer distractions.
“You, too, I think,” Mycroft adds in an undertone.
He turns on his heel but, before he leaves the room, he pauses, bowing his head as he states. “Watch over him.”
Sherlock walks out the door, but not before he hears Mycroft’s, “Of course.”
***
April 25, 2010:
Hollywood loves to put a spin on comas. They like to think that someone wakes from it all at once, the name of a loved one on their lips or even a simple gasp. Most often, it starts in spurts. Slight movements, a twitch of a finger, a turn of the head. But there are the rare occasions where Hollywood gets it right.
John Watson’s life is a bit like a Hollywood film.
“SHERLOCK!”
The sound of his friend’s name reverberates through the room as John sits bolt upright, his heart doing its best to pound out of his chest. Pain shoots through him at the movement and he feels something detach from his arm and clatter onto the floor. “God,” he mutters, shutting his eyes as he tries to get his bearings.
He’s in hospital. Obviously. The heart rate monitor is sounding an alarm and there’s bound to be someone stopping in at any moment now. What the hell happened? There was...a pool. He can smell chlorine - faint, hardly noticeable over the antiseptic, but enough to tell him he must’ve... Oh, god.
The bomb. Moriarty. Sherlock!
“Welcome back, Dr Watson,” someone says.
John pulls in a shocked breath, opens his eyes and turns toward the source of the voice. “Mycroft.” His voice cracks on the name and he swallows painfully. His mouth feels like its been stuffed with cotton wool - a feeling generally produced by some of the better drugs.
The man looks tired. It’s not a familiar look for him. John’s used to seeing Mycroft unflappable, his suit immaculate, his expression eternally calm. That, above the circumstances, makes his heart drop somewhere near his feet. “Where’s Sherlock?” he asks.
“We’ll have to wait until after you’ve been checked out for any questions,” Mycroft replies, his face once again calm, as he reaches for the call button resting on the side of his bed.
A few moments later, the door opens - private room, Mycroft’s doing no doubt - and two people enter. From their dress, they’re undoubtedly medical personnel. “Mister Watson, you need to lie down. You could do yourself more damage this way,” the doctor - Powell, the nametag says - tells him.
“Doctor,” he replies.
“Pardon?”
“Doctor Watson,” he corrects.
“Of course,” Powell says and comes to his side, encouraging him to lie back down. “Sister Finley, 12 mls of morphine and another IV line.” That’s apparently what he pulled off when he first woke up.
The woman nods. “At once, Doctor.”
Powell shines a light in his eyes, measuring their dilation. “Doctor Watson, you have been seriously injured in an explosion. Upon your admission, our greatest concern was your head injury. Your skull was fractured in four places and swelling was a great concern for the first two days. It’s since gone down, but we will still need to monitor you for any adverse effects from your injury. You have been in a medically induced coma for three days.”
Three days? Oh, god.
The nurse returns with the medication and Powell administers it with a deft injection into the canula. The nurse fusses with the IV, reattaching it while Powell talks. “You’ve also suffered severe contusions on your abdomen and your arms. Your ankle bone is cracked and you will have to stay in a cast for the next four weeks. You will regain full mobility within the next six months provided you follow the physical therapy regime we will give you. Your latest scans have revealed that the swelling has gone down, so we expect a full recovery.”
“Thank you, doctor,” John says. The medication is starting to kick in. His head now feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool - a twin to his mouth.
“You’re welcome. Rest, now. If you need anything, press the call button.” Powell nods at Mycroft and he and the nurse leave the room.
“Where’s Sherlock?” John asks; no, it’s a demand. Asking implies that there is another answer besides ‘in the room next door’. Asking implies that he’s willing to tolerate bad news, because he isn’t, damnit.
Mycroft suddenly meets his gaze, startling him into realising that for the past several minutes, even before the doctor came in, the other man has been looking anywhere but at him. “What do you remember about that night?” A question in response to a question.
John glares at him and is surprised when Mycroft flinches - flinches.
“Please.”
It’s the please that does him in. “I...” The memories are hazy, now that he tries to think back to that night. He remembers Moriarty. And the pool. “Bomb. There was a bomb. It...went off? I got Sherlock and myself into the pool and...I don’t remember after that. Mycroft, where’s Sherlock?”
Mycroft sighs, suddenly looking far older than he is. “I’m sorry, John.”
No. Oh, god, no. “No.”
“We found him next to you. You must’ve pulled him out of the pool, but...”
No.
“He didn’t...”
NO.
“...make it.”
“No. No, no, no. He can’t be.”
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft repeats. “Sherlock’s dead.”
Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, but he’ll be damned if he lets them fall now. “And...Moriarty?”
“We didn’t find a body.”
***
April 28, 2010:
From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
I don’t know how to even start this. Many of you know I’ve been in hospital for the past few weeks, but what you don’t know is this:
There was a bomb. Sherlock died. I lived.
Sherlock Holmes is dead.
I used to say nothing happens to me. Too much has since then. And, god help me, I don’t know what’s supposed to happen now.
***
April 29, 2010:
His progress up the stairs is interrupted by frequent breaks and the smack of the cane as he uses it to keep the weight off his ankle. He forgot the annoyance of having to deal with a cast and everything else related to it. He thinks Sherlock would’ve laughed knowing that for now, at least, his limp isn’t so psychosomatic any more.
Sherlock. Bloody hell.
John grits his teeth and makes it to the landing, huffing like he’s just done a mile at full sprint than just seventeen stairs. His hand shakes a little as he slips his key into the lock, opening it and the door to their rooms.
His rooms, now. Not theirs. God.
Everything looks the same.
Strange. He would’ve thought something would feel different, would be different, after everything that’s happened. Besides a fine layer of dust that covers their belongings, it could be like any other day at 221B Baker Street.
He hobbles to his chair and settles into it with a weary sigh. His ankle is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and for a moment he has to fight off a slightly hysterical laugh. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end. It’s supposed to end with the two of them safe and secure in the knowledge that this was one more bullet dodged, one more time they were able to defeat the enemy and come home triumphant.
Doesn’t feel like a triumph now, does it?
John closes his eyes and tries to swallow the scream - or is it a sob? - that threatens to emerge with every breath. Damn this. Damn all of this.
“Whoo-oooh!” Mrs Hudson calls as she climbs the stairs. “John, love, I’ve brought the shopping in. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”
He grits his teeth to try to prevent the shout of ‘leave me the hell alone’ that threatens to leave his lips. Mrs Hudson means well, and he should let her fuss for a while. It’s cathartic, right? John sighs and buries his face into his hands. What’s he supposed to do now?
Oh. He’s an idiot. Just as much of an idiot as Sherlock always insisted he was. He can’t just sit here and mope. He won’t just give up. That isn’t the John Watson he is now.
Sherlock’s shown him the way. It’s up to John to follow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he replies absently.
Moriarty. It all comes back to that bastard. He’d love nothing more than to wrap his fingers around that man’s throat and strangle him for what he’s done. No, strangling is too easy. There are other options. He didn’t just learn how to be a soldier while he was in the army. He learned what it was like to be a prisoner of war, and the insurgents were rather inventive when it came to torture. John shakes his head, dismissing the violent thoughts.
Moriarty needs to be stopped, once and for all. He knows Mycroft is probably devoting his rather considerable resources to the matter, but that doesn’t count. It isn’t personal for Mycroft, not the way it is for John.
John’s clever enough to realise that he can’t start with Moriarty himself. That will be his final goal, of course, but he needs to start near the bottom, first. He’ll focus on the idiots who benefit from Moriarty’s “help”. One step at a time, that’s what he needs to remind himself. Eventually, he’ll have his revenge.
He flinches when someone - Mrs Hudson, he identifies. Finished with putting the shopping away, obviously - rests her hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she apologises.
“It’s fine,” he replies, turning his head to look at her. She looks older now, more careworn.
“Cuppa?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.”
“And some biscuits?” she offers.
He nods. “That would be lovely, thanks.”
“Just this once, mind. Not your housekeeper,” she says, though they both know it’s a lie.
“Right.”
She squeezes his shoulder once and moves into the kitchen. John covers his face with his hands and simply thinks. He has to find a starting point. Maybe Lestrade can help, or even Mycroft.
Tomorrow is Sherlock’s memorial service - thankfully delayed until he was considered fit to leave the hospital. He’ll ask them then.
***
May 5, 2010
He doesn’t know why he came here. No, that’s a lie. He knows exactly why he came here. It’s supposed to be calm and peaceful. He can almost hear Sherlock’s voice asking ‘isn’t it hateful?’ Sherlock would have hated this.
Hell, John hates this. The memorial service was bad enough. This, though. This is final. An end.
John’s throat closes on him and he feels tears gather in his eyes. He doesn’t let them fall. Instead, he forces himself to rest his hand on the cool stone. “Hello, Sherlock. I-I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner. No. That’s a lie. You know that’s a lie. Well, would’ve known. God. I just...Sod this. Sod all of this. I just want one thing from you. Just one. Please don’t let this be true. Just pinch my arm, wake me up from this nightmare. Be alive, damnit. Please. That’s all I ask.”
He swallows painfully. “You are...were...are the best friend I could ever have. I just...I wish. I miss you.”
John can’t continue. He wants to tell Sherlock his plans. He wants - what? A blessing? He’s not going to get one. He can’t. Sherlock’s...
A tear drops, trailing down his cheek, and he wipes it away angrily. His last regret is this. Sherlock’s dead - the pathologist’s report was conclusive. He didn’t have the chance to see the body at Mycroft’s insistence. It would’ve been too painful. He knows that. Intellectually, he knows that. However, despite the trauma of seeing a body burnt beyond all recognition, it would’ve been something more than a simple closed coffin.
There is no closure, not for him. There’s just this - a cold stone inscribed with Sherlock’s name and the memory of a man who helped him learn how to live again.
****
May 10, 2010:
Greg Lestrade’s expression is a study in concern. “Are you sure you want to do this, John?”
“What sort of question is that? I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” If John’s response is a bit sharp, he thinks it can be forgiven. It’s hard enough to be here, in Lestrade’s office, without Sherlock.
Greg sighs. “I had to ask. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. I know. Anything’ll be of use. Strange crimes. Deaths that seem too perfect. That sort of thing,” John replies.
“I’ll do what I can.” Greg rubs the bridge of his nose with one hand, suddenly looking far older than he truly is. “How...how’ve you been? We haven’t seen you at the pub.”
“Been a bit busy.” That’s a lie, though. Going to the pub, having a few drinks, stumbling home after? That’s a dangerous road to start travelling. God knows the Watsons have addictive personalities. No. It’s far easier to carry on as he has been.
He’s tried phoning Mycroft - but the bastard won’t return his calls. He’s tried going through newspapers for some indication of a Moriarty-like crime, but it’s not helped. He needs someone on the inside. He needs Greg Lestrade. John sighs. “I’ve not been up for much company as of late. I’m sorry, Greg. I know you and the others mean well, it’s just...”
“Too raw?” Greg offers.
“A bit,” he admits.
Greg smiles sympathetically. “I’ll give you a ring should anything come up. Since Sherlock...well, things have been a bit quiet since the pool.”
John swallows painfully. “Of course. Thanks, Lestrade.”
“Greg.”
“Greg.” John stands, brushing imaginary lint from his clothes.
“And John, Thursday night, half six, usual place?”
John tries to smile, but it sits oddly on his face. “I’ll try.” It’s all he can offer. Trying to promise something more than that would sit uneasily upon him when it inevitably turned out to be a lie. It’s hard enough on his own. If he has to deal with the sympathy - no, pity - of others, he’s likely to snap.
“That’s all I ask,” Greg says.
***
May 16, 2010
The sky is a dark grey, promising to drop rain on him at any moment. That’s London, though. Since the pool, he’s been convinced that even the weather is reflecting his mood. John shifts his grip on the bags, leans a little more heavily on the cane for a moment, and picks up the pace. He has at least five more streets to walk before he gets home and he certainly doesn’t fancy doing it in a downpour.
The weather, however, seems to have it out for him. A single drop that tracks a path down the side of his nose heralds the start of the storm. Judging by how quickly each drop is followed by another, this rain is going to turn into a deluge. Fantastic.
That is, of course, when the black car rolls to a stop beside him. It’s been several weeks since he last saw Mycroft. The man certainly hasn’t been returning his calls. Until, it seems, now.
“Get in, John,” Mycroft says from the depths of the interior.
“Now you acknowledge I exist?”
“John.” It’s always amazed him how much Mycroft can convey with just one word.
Fine.
He climbs into the car.
***
He’s let out at his front door twenty minutes later. John feels numb, to be honest. He expected Mycroft to tell him to leave it alone, to let Moriarty go. Instead, Mycroft handed him a thick folder containing a list of Moriarty’s current activities and gave him what amounted to his blessing.
He wonders when exactly he walked into the Twilight Zone. Admittedly, this is a Holmes. How can Mycroft be anything but unexpected?
***
May 20, 2010:
From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
I’m fine. Stop phoning me, Harry.
Comments (3):
Harry (Reply?)
You wanker. You absolute wanker. Like hell you’re fine! Answer your phone!
Anonymous (Reply?)
Poor puppy’s lost his master. How sad.
John Watson (Reply?)
Who are you? Who the hell are you?
Chapter 2: Rumours of My Demise
x-posted to: dark_aegis and sherlockbbc