Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 18
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 50,360
Current Chapter Count: 18/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary: AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
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A/n: I am SO sorry about the HUGE gap in posting. Life was rather hectic. Please enjoy this chapter along with my sincerest apologies.
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Chapter 18
Working an entire shift was hard when John kept thinking about the CD case in his bag just waiting for him. John was a serious doctor, however, so he knew how to give his patients his full attention. It just happened that every time he left a patient, his mind was crawling back to his office. Eight hours later, John was still not free to return home and watch the newest piece of the Sherlock puzzle. He was off the clock, but Mondays had the added time of going to see Molly in the morgue to work on the case. It wasn't just Mondays, but Monday was the first day of the week where he had this time. He used to come during only lunches, but it was never enough time and he ended up not eating a lot. Not healthy.
"You seem distracted today," Molly said after John had been staring at the same document for twenty minutes.
John pulled back from the blurring paper and sighed. "My mind is in a million places at once, Molly."
"Maybe today just isn't a good day. You need fresh eyes, maybe." She was standing just far enough away that she probably couldn't read the information in front of John.
He appreciated the distance. He'd already told her he didn't want to get her involved. Beyond that, Lestrade had been anxious about leaving so much evidence where a morgue worker could look into it. This made two civilians who knew about it, and he wasn't keen on the idea.
"Maybe," he agreed and frowned down at the papers around him. He hadn't made any progress since coming down today. He knew no more than he had a month ago. Moriarty was after people Sherlock knew - but was he still doing it? Was there a way to stop him? Moriarty hadn't contacted John since March. It was August. Had anyone else related to Sherlock died? Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Anderson, Irene Adler, Angelo, and Mycroft. Why had none of them been targeted yet? Some of them definitely fit the bill of being involved in cases with Sherlock. At least two were even ex-cons. So far the deaths had been people Sherlock had caught or people who tried to rat on Moriarty... and at least one case of friendship with Sherlock had caused death. So why no one else?
Why hadn't he killed John when he'd had the chance?
"Take a break. You'll not think properly in the state you're in," Molly said, pulling him back from his thoughts once more.
John smiled at her, a tired grin. "You're right. I'm too distracted and too tired. I'll come back tomorrow... or whenever I have a spare moment next."
As John packed everything away again, Molly opened and closed her mouth several times, then she stood passively by an operating table. When John turned to her, he meant to ask if she wanted to say something, but she shook her head before he could and smiled encouragingly.
"Good luck, Dr. Watson," she said.
"Thanks." To say he wasn't confused would be a lie, but he didn't press her for information. If she didn't want to talk, he wouldn't force her to.
By the time John's taxi stopped by the flat, the rain was really coming down. The one day John neglected to bring his umbrella just in case and it rained like the sky itself was bloody falling. He paid the driver and scurried inside as fast as he could, but that didn't keep him from being soaked.
"Oh my," was the first thing Mrs. Hudson said when she saw him, and she put her hand to her mouth. Great. Not even a greeting. An exclamation.
"Evening to you too, Mrs. Hudson," John replied, shaking off his wet coat.
"Oh, Dear, I'm sorry," the old woman said and hurried to help him. She hung the dripping garment from a walled coat rack and tried to dry him off by making dusting motions on his shoulder. When she realized she was being silly, she backed off and waved her hand as though brushing away the idea. "You go upstairs, and I'll make you a nice cuppa."
"Thanks very much, but don't worry. I'll make something on my own," John said. It wasn't so much that he didn't want her to as it was him trying to be alone so he could watch or listen to Sherlock's next recording.
"Tish tosh. I'm going to go make you one right now." And the pink clad woman bustled off into her own section of the building.
John sighed, admiring the woman's care and affection. His own mother had never been so insistent, although she'd been plenty attentive to the needs of her children. John called out that he was heading upstairs and then moved quickly, trying to leave as little water as possible on the steps.
The first thing he did when he stepped into his flat was to immediately strip himself of his wet clothing. He hopped in the shower to rinse off the city smell that clung to raindrops and then dressed himself in sleep pants and a sweater. Mrs. Hudson appeared with tea through a towel wall as John was drying his hair. He hadn't even heard her coming.
"Thanks," he said, throwing the towel over his shoulder and taking the cup.
"Just this once. And you may want to put socks on, or you'll catch cold with the weather like this." She left with a cautionary wave over her shoulder, the one that held one finger higher than the rest as though saying 'mark my words' or 'don't say I didn't warn you.'
John chuckled and took a sip of his tea. Brilliant, as always. She always made a good cup of tea, and she always said 'just this once.' He wondered if she knew how often she said that line. John shrugged and settled himself down on the couch with a sigh. He rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat, and took another sip of tea before sliding the CD into the drive.
"Recording three of eight," Sherlock started. No video then.
In the pause Sherlock gave him, John did his count. He'd heard recording five, six, seven, two, four, and now three. That left one and eight. The beginning and the end. This hunt was almost over.
"Fear." Sherlock paused. A lighter clicked open, then shut. "I've said once before, in the last recording, recording two, that I have only been afraid of one thing since my mother died. When I was young, I feared quite a few things - pain being one of them. What child doesn't fear being hurt? A young boy scrapes his knee and calls for his mother. A baby grows hungry and cries for food until there is no longer a growling, painful feeling in its stomach. Children fear pain very much. Children fear being abandoned or getting lost. I am not a child."
John reached over for his towel, his hair dripping down the back of his neck. He took a sip of his steaming tea and shivered in the aftermath. It was so different from the cold rain out the windows and the solemn tone of Sherlock's voice.
"When my mother passed away, Mycroft and I became the final two of the Holmes family. I learned that day that death happens. My mother died, and I was unable to do anything about it. My parents were gone. That was the ultimate level of abandonment for a child. Mycroft liked to believe he wasn't affected, but even adults feel the loss of a parent. I decided then to not care about people the way I had as a child." The coldness of Sherlock's tone shouldn't have made John ache the way it did.
"After her death, I feared nothing. I pissed people off without worry. I purposefully rubbed police officers the wrong way, stopped locking my door when I went out, and my diet decreased immensely. Over the years I have improved thanks to Mycroft's meddling and Inspector Lestrade, but I am nowhere near the lifestyle I once took part in. But I have grown to feel fear again, and that is the one thing I regret. What I fear is so.... normal." It was as if the idea baffled him, that anything about himself could possibly be normal.
John smiled, but his chest felt tight. He wished his could tell Sherlock how much he loved Sherlock's normal, his humanity, his confusion as well as his brilliance. He could, his realized, if he just picked up the phone, but he didn't want to stop the recording early.
"My greatest fear is entirely about other people. I fear, and this is hard for me... I fear letting people down who really matter to me. I fear leaving behind some who will miss me, but I also fear leaving behind no one to miss me. I've tried all morning to think of how to word this recording, but I have, unfortunately, come up with nothing as elegant as I'd like. I simply fear disappointing those left behind. I don't have friends. I've got acquaintances all over - Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even some of those inept officers in the force like Anderson and Donovan. But I've just got one friend. That's you, John, and my greatest fear isn't dying or failing or being hurt. My greatest fear, believe it or not, is hurting you."
Shit. John pressed a hand over his mouth. His tea sat on the table beside him, forgotten.
"I couldn't believe it myself. I knew I feared something. I knew I feared hurting those I cared about, but until recently I thought I could ignore that fear. I have never had someone like you in my life, John. I have never before made a documentary of my life to share with someone else as I am doing for you right now. I have never cared who got involved in my cases so long as they didn't get in the way, but when I think of you involved I just wonder if you're going about it safely. I have no doubts in your skill, of course. It's just thoughts I keep having whenever I find new evidence. I find myself hoping, something I don't take part in on a regular basis - hoping you are safe at work or home."
His chest thrummed powerfully, causing him pain and warmth and joy all at once. What was Sherlock saying? John had often joked with himself that Sherlock cared, had found small clues to the idea that he cared, but this was direct and blatant. John wasn't sure he could handle it.
"I told myself twenty years ago that death was an absolute, something mankind had very little control over, especially in random acts of violence like a car crash. Still, I find myself worrying lately, fearing death as I have not feared it since childhood. Death is an absolute. People die - People have died," Sherlock said. He paused to breathe, a deep breath that barely made it through the microphone. John felt his throat closing up, felt the sticky sensation that precluded tears. When Sherlock spoke again, he sounded resigned. "But that's what people do. There's nothing you, I, or anyone else can do about it. Your fate is not in my hands, nor is mine in yours. Thus I have rediscovered fear, and I must live with it... just like every other normal person. I must live and hope, and one day I will face this fear. And wont that day just be spectacular."
John shut his eyes and took several deep breaths. He just kept hearing Mycroft in the pauses. He kept hearing that Sherlock was dead, kept hearing Irene Adler blaming him in her own way, and kept hearing Angelo saying it wasn't his fault. Would this recording hurt so much if he was still alive? Right now it might as well be John's killer.
"If we meet again," Sherlock said, his voice back to business. "Don't be surprised to find me guarding you... in my own way."
John turned off the recording ten seconds from the end.
"Shit," he muttered and sucked in a gasp of a breath.
The flat was silent besides his breathing as he tried to get hold of the feelings that had welled up so suddenly. He couldn't lose it like this. He couldn't. Sherlock didn't know the effect his words had, and John really shouldn't let them effect him so much. But the voices and memories of conversations wouldn't leave him. Everyone he'd met had liked Sherlock in some way, had been close to Sherlock. They had all looked at John with such sad eyes, like they knew the hole he was digging himself into, like they knew John had been living in denial. None of it had meant anything to John, but now Sherlock had to go and leave a message all about people dying.
Death is an absolute. There's nothing you can do about it.
John's mobile went off then, cutting off his thoughts violently. He shook his head and cleared his throat, trying to get control of his voice. It was a call from Sherlock. Of course. Perfect timing as always.
"Evening, John," Sherlock greeted without any acknowledgement. "I trust you had an uneventful day." John pressed his lips together. 'I find myself hoping you are safe at home.' Sherlock was worried about his safety. "I was involved with a multiple homicide. There was a woman dressed entirely in pink. Lestrade, of course, had no clues. I discovered she's had a string of lovers and is from out of town. As usual, Lestrade didn't understand, but I found her suitcase. I was just about to text a killer to lure him into the open, but I realized you may want to scold me first before I -"
"Stop talking," John said, voice thick. He hated how thick it was.
"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked. He didn't sound angry. He just sounded confused. Normally John would love that sound, but he'd heard it enough in that last recording.
"I think... we should stop calling each other," John continued, running his hand down the back of his neck and taking a deep, uneven breath.
"....Why?" Oh, there came the serious detective voice.
"I can't do this anymore," John said, voice so close to a whisper. "I can't -... I can't. Just... don't call me anymore. Please."
"John, what's happened?" Sherlock asked. "Did something happen?"
"I can't save you, Sherlock!" John shouted and covered his eyes with his hand. "I can't do anything! So please just leave me alone."
Sherlock didn't say anything at first, and John didn't wait to see if he had a response later. He ended the call and dropped the hand holding the mobile. Grown men don't cry, he told himself, but he knew that was a lie. He'd seen plenty of men cry in hospitals. Still, he tried to stop himself. It was like cutting out a piece of his own chest. He'd turned Sherlock away, and Sherlock wouldn't call him anymore. John had told him not to, so he wouldn't. And knowing that hurt too.
"One more thing," John said, voice breaking. He put the phone back to his ear. There was no call going through, no noise emitting from the speaker, no connection to anyone past or present. "Just one more miracle, Sherlock.... for me. Don't...." He stopped, his throat solid with tears that he bit back. "Don't be dead. Would you do that? Would you? Just for me?" He let out a sob and sucked in his breath. It hurt. His lungs stung. His chest burned. "Just stop it. Stop this."
He dropped the phone onto the cushion beside him and buried his face in his hands. He'd done this. He'd let it get out of hand. He'd known from the start that Sherlock was gone, that nothing good would happen here, and yet he'd persisted. He'd agreed to Mycroft's stupid plans, had let Sherlock woo him with puzzles and hunts and wit. Why had he done that? Why had he let it build so much? All it did was make this moment hurt worse.
"Just for me...," he said in a breath. "God... Don't die on me."
His flat felt far too dark and quiet, and his tea sat - cold. His mobile didn't ring.
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Preview, Chapter 19:
It was like detox from a drug addiction. He wasn't even listening to the tapes. He definitely wasn't watching the video. It all felt dangerous... and broken.
"I want to apologize, because I set you up to experience a greater pain than I ever did, and I knew it from the start." Mycroft and Sherlock didn't even look the same, but now John was noticing similarities. Damn it.
"You remember that kid who shot you in the shoulder last year? He made a request from prison. It's kind of peculiar, but the judge decided to grant it. He wants to give you something," Lestrade said.
"He was better with you."
He just wanted to forget about the Holmes family, but they kept coming back.
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