Walking with Azrael - Chapter 12: Amelioration
TITLE: Walking with Azrael*
CHARCTERS: John, Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and pretty much everyone.
RATING: PG-13 (some swearing)
GENRE: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Resilience, Smatterings of Humour
WORDS: Overall 17,633. This chapter 379.
CHAPTER: 12/15 (complete) See my Journal for early chapters
DISCLAIMER: Nothing is mine, I am afraid, and I apologies to Steve Moffat/Mark Gatiss, the BBC and the Conan Doyle Estates for borrowing all their characters for a while. I promise to keep them warm, dry, well fed and safe from harm.
SUMMARY: How does John put his life back together without Sherlock? He won't fall to pieces, that's just not in his nature, but how does he navigate a way forwards?
Set post Reichenbach, this tracks John's own personal 'resurrection' after the fall - his reactions, doubts and decisions - but at times it almost seems he has a guardian angel leading the way.
Chapter 12 - In a place of conflict, John thinks he may have finally come to terms with loss.
*Azrael is often referred to as the Archangel of death (not to be confused with Azazel who also pops up later in this fic). Contrary to later portrayals as ‘the grim reaper’, he was not originally a figure of dread, but rather of comfort and salvation: teaching mortals to accept death, and consoling those grieving the loss of a loved one. Azrael is also an outcast, although not technically one of the fallen - ‘I may be on the side of the angels but don’t think for a second I am one of them’.
I owe a huge, enormous, colossal debt of thanks to my beta and friend draugdur who has patiently read through this at least twice and offered wonderful advice and encouragement. However, anything dodgy or incorrect is all my own.
Comments are really welcome.
Chapter 12 - Amelioration
The following spring, John was seconded for two weeks to the medical centre at Nablus. Ostensibly, the purpose of the trip was to train the teams on the ground in incident management using the Smart Incident Command System, but he had the distinct feeling that running through simulated emergency protocols with staff who had been operating pretty much in a war zone for years, was a little like trying to teach your grandmother to suck eggs.
He was also scheduled in to spend some time at one of the MSF trauma clinics in the city. This was largely in a surgical capacity - he already had a escharotomy, tibial osteotomy and several skin grafts on his list - though he had expressed an interest in shadowing one of the psychiatric support teams. They were implementing some pioneering new techniques in the treatment of those suffering from the long-term psychological impact of conflict and he was keen to see their work first hand. He couldn't deny that there was a bit more than just professional interest behind his request. The majority of his PTSD symptoms had subsided over the last three years or so, but elements had re-surfaced briefly after Sherlock’s death, and he still had the odd night when he’d wake up shouting, drenched in sweat. Oddly enough though, things had improved considerable since his arrival in Gaza: a place where conflict was endemic. His therapist would no doubt claim that placing himself in the firing line again, albeit at some distance, was helping to assuage the guilt he felt at having outlived all those he'd lost over the past ten years.
He still thought of Sherlock every day, but not every second of every day. That was progress. The way he thought about him had changed too. The images of the blood spattered pavements had now receded and been replaced by more convivial memories of shared companionship, peppered with moments of irritation and flashes of sheer bloody mindedness - Take him for all and all, I shall not look upon his like again. John no longer sought to control or escape from these remembrances. They weren’t painful any longer but quite welcome. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but at some stage the door of 221b had been unlocked for good, and it felt pretty liberating.
Chapter 11 - Diagnosis
On the first anniversary of Sherlock’s death, John had intended to hike out to the desert at Har Ramon, however, a bus bomb in Jerusalem two weeks earlier meant that his team were placed on special alert. All leave had been cancelled, fearing an escalation of hostilities. Oh, and the military reprisals came: six long days of air strikes, all along the strip, bringing a huge influx of casualties pouring into the city hospitals. John worked tirelessly, running on pure adrenaline and very strong Arabic coffee, which he had finally acquired a taste for - a bitter stimulant, laced with cardamom and made palatable only by spoonfuls of sugar.
Given his previous battlefield experience, John worked predominantly in triage, making split second decisions on priority and a pragmatic course of action. It was a balancing act between compassion and realism. His gut instinct was to first treat the most severe trauma cases but he had to keep his emotions in check and use his knowledge and experience to prioritise those with the highest potential for survival. If he failed to do this properly, it could mean that others would die needlessly.
His reactions were fast. He could run through a set of diagnostics in the blink of an eye: weighing up possible outcomes and assessing a myriad of variables in his head, calculating a range of different scenarios and prognosis. There were times, especially when faced with a particularly complicated or catastrophic array of injuries, when he would hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, as clearly as if he were standing right next to him.
‘Think John. Look at the angle of the entry wound. Good God, what is it like being you? It must be so taxing. You’re seeing but you are not observing what is plainly in front of your eyes! His fingers: look at the capillary dilation of the nail bed. Now, couple that together with the crust of dried spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth and the discolouration down the front of his shirt. Might be food, but looks more like drool. The shirt has been washed numerous times, but the staining on the front is still there, ingrained. Long-term malady then; a condition producing excess of saliva which would indicate a systemic problem, not trauma, something up and above the six inches of metal embedded in his chest. And look at his clothes, John, they’re old but everything is at least three sizes to big for him. They could be second-hand but in this part of the world it’s unlikely: people hang onto their clothes here. So the man has lost a lot of weight recently. All of this, together with the slight jaundice in his face, would suggest advance Acinic cell carcinoma. He’ll be a goner in less than two month - dead man walking - no point in surgery. NEXT.’
|
Chapter 10 - Forgiveness
On his return, he drove over to Sarah’s flat, only to find Mycroft already there waiting for him. John didn’t bother asking how or why, having long ago accepted that there was little that escaped the scrutiny of the elder Holmes brother. At some stage a dossier on John’s enquires at the Red Cross would have winged it way across Mycroft’s desk: it was inevitable.
The meeting was strained, even more so than usual. Mycroft purveyed his customary sagacity, although John thought there was a slight tremble in his voice. It was barely perceptible but betrayed his apparent equanimity. The older man sat in Sarah’s favourite armchair, the impeccable cut of his dark grey Saville Row suit, incongruous amongst the rich purples and reds of the scatter cushions.
John just stared at him, a rather abortive greeting having dissipating into awkward silence. Sarah made a swift exit into the kitchen, leaving the two men alone.
“John, I do hope your…” Mycroft searched for a word, “Retreat, proved restorative.”
John rankled at the use of the word ‘retreat’. Was Mycroft implying something? He was still furious with the man over his brother’s betrayal, and had refused to have anything to do with him since Sherlock’s death. Mycroft, to his credit, had not resorted to using his MI5 lackeys, but kept a respectful distance, even at the funeral. Later, John had noticed a wreath of white lilies placed in the Chapel of Remembrance, and a black edged card written in Mycroft’s elegant looping hand - ’S. Truly so very sorry for everything. M.’
Mycroft sat spinning the handle of his umbrella from one hand to the other, all the while looking at John expectantly. Glancing over at the one surviving Holmes brother, the doctor realised that he didn’t feel angry any longer, just sad. While he wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive this man for his role in Sherlock’s fall, John had the distinct feeling that whatever reproach he directed at him would be only fraction of the guilt and remorse Mycroft reserved for himself.
To anyone who knew them, it was obvious that the two siblings shared the same gene pool. Each, on the surface at least, having the emotive capacity of a jackdaw. Nevertheless, John never really doubted Mycroft’s deep seated affection for his younger brother. Theirs had been an odd relationship but, then again, don’t most families operate in a way that seems unfathomable to an outsider? Just look at him and Harry. He had no idea what made his sister tick and very little desire to find out. John wondered for a moment if he could bring himself to ‘bargain’ her secrets away for the good of the nation. No, maybe not, but then he wasn’t Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps a more pertinent question was whether Sherlock would have done the same if the positions had been reversed? The answer to that would be an unequivocal ‘Yes’ and, undoubtedly, with much less conscience than displayed by his more remorseful older brother.
In truth, Mycroft hadn’t really provided Moriaty with anything that any tabloid hack worth his salt couldn’t have pieced together from school records and hospital files, if given enough time and a sizeable budget for bribes. There was a staggering amount of personal information held digitally, and it was relatively easy to access if you knew where to look. Even someone as careful as Sherlock still left ‘virtual’ fingerprints everywhere, stored in little bits of codes littered across the internet and imprinted indelibly on government hard drives. All Mycroft had done was speed up the process, and John was pretty sure he must have known that before he had agreed to speak to Moriaty. It was just unfortunate that his timing was so bloody lousy. There was no way he could have anticipated that Sherlock would take it quite so hard. No one could have predicted that.
“I see that you have been looking at the prospect of gaining a position overseas, John. In a medical capacity that is,” Mycroft tried once more to engage him in conversation.
Lord, he looked like Sherlock at times. His face all hollows and angles and with the same slate blue eyes that could root you to the spot: at once penetrating and impassive, animate yet circumspect. But somehow Mycroft now seemed less than he was before. Not physically, on the contrary, he had become decidedly jowly over the past few months. It was just that he seemed fractionally less self-assured. The change would have been indiscernible to most, but to John it rang out louder than the bells of Southwark Cathedral. He couldn’t help but take pity on the man and accept the olive branch that Mycroft, in his own peculiar fashion, was so obviously offering.
“Yes, I’ve been asking around a bit Mycroft; as I am sure you’re aware,” he said, rather more acerbically than he intended. “Just testing the water really. Seeing what’s out there. You know, weighing up what my options are,” he shrugged and moved over to the sofa, sitting down just as Sarah returned with tea.
“Well, I may be able to help you there. I have only limited capacity, as you know, but there are one or two contacts who owe me a favour.”
John never quite understood Mycroft proffered humility regarding his role in the government, but he knew that ‘contacts’ could mean anything from the cloakroom attendant at the Diogenes club to the Director of the CIA.
“Well, that could be very useful, Mycroft” he replied.
“I would be glad to assist you in any way I can, John. I think this might be just the thing to help you get over…” he paused again considering the phrase. “Well, to help you get on.”
The three of them spent the next couple of hours formulating a plan. John didn’t think it would necessarily be a good idea to go back into a combat zone just yet, but was looking for something in the Middle East or Turkey, given that he was familiar with the culture and climate. He eventually settled on Gaza. Despite Mycroft’s deep seated reservations about the stability of the region, he remained true to his word, and the following day John was offered a position as doctor with Medecins Sans Frontieres, who ran a series of operation on the West Bank. By the end of the week he was packed and waiting at Heathrow for a flight to Tel Aviv.
It felt strange to be heading abroad again, especially to that part of the world. It stirred up mixed emotions. He remembered what life had been like when he had first arrived back from Afghanistan, before he had run into Stamford and met Sherlock. Fleetingly, he worried that he might be doing the wrong thing - just going backwards - but he soon dismissed the idea. This was something new, something exciting, and he was eager to see where it took him. Sarah had come to see him off which was kind of her, but he wished she hadn’t. He just wanted to leave England and put everything behind him.
After what seemed an age, his flight was finally called, and he could exchange the stifling heat of the departure lounge for the chill drizzle of the runway tarmac.
“Here we go then Sherlock,” he muttered to himself, “Wish me luck.”
He took a deep breath, tugged at the bottom of his jacket, adjusted his sleeves, and without glancing back, turned smartly on his heel and marched up the flight steps
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Chapter 9 - Decisions
Over the next few days he allowed James’s suggestion to percolate in his mind. His initial reaction had been one of fear. Contrary to what he had said, John was attracted by the idea of some form of foreign aid work. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made, given his past experience. It had the potential to be challenging and fulfilling work, something he could really excel at. That was what spooked him initially, it represented a tangible path to a new life: a step forward and away from the past. It would also mean leaving England, and part of him had panicked that if he left the country, left London, left 221b Baker Street, then Sherlock wouldn’t be able to find him. It was bloody stupid of course but, nevertheless, there it was.
He spent time recognising these fears for what they were and laying them to rest. He had also been worried that the old nightmares might return but they hadn’t. He did find it hard to sleep but only because night after night his thoughts were racing with new plans and ideas. He read up on the internet about the work of the British Red Cross and even took the bus into Newcastle to talk things through with staff at the office there. Unfortunately, they couldn’t help him very much regarding overseas work but suggested he contact their head office at Moorfields in London. It took him a further two weeks to finally reach an absolute decision, but early one morning, in the first week of April, he packed up the Landy, locked up the cottage and posted the keys through Rosabelle’s door. He sat in front of the wheel, composed himself for a moment, then turned the key in the ignition and set off on the five hour drive back to London.|
Chapter 8 - The Unwanted Attention of a Stranger
Thankfully, the WD40 did the trick and the old Landy gasped and spluttered back into life. John slammed the bonnet down, leapt into the driver’s seat and headed over to Thropton. Parking up on the grass verge, he finally set off walking at a keen pace; trying to make up some of the time he had lost. A bracing north-westerly was blowing in from the sea, cutting right though his jacket and making his skin tingle. The walk was invigorating, but he had to admit to being pretty glad when he at last spotted the pub in the distance, a thin column of smoke rising from its chimney.
Arriving a little after one, John made his way over to the bar. He didn’t recognise the landlord or any of the staff, the pub having changed hands at least twice since his day. It felt a bit strange to be back and his mind skittered briefly over everything that had happened since he had last stood there with a pint of Cumberland Ale in his hand. The main bar was much as he remembered it. A modest affair with green mock-leather vinyl seats and a fag burned carpet of indistinguishable colour. It seemed that little had changed at the Plant and Prickle despite the intervening years, and he found the familiarity rather reassuring.
Settling down at a corner table, John felt pleasantly tired and was looking forward to the prospect of lamb shank and all the trimmings. Pulling out yesterday’s newspaper from his rucksack, he casually skimmed thorough the front page, supping his pint contentedly. Concealed behind his broadsheet, he couldn’t stop himself from discretely scanning the room - old habits die hard. The place was pretty empty. There were a couple of old blokes propping up the far end of the bar and a small group of squaddies in the opposite corner, who all appeared slightly the worst for wear. The only other occupants were a family of six - four adults and a couple of kids - who were also in for lunch. The pubs at Otterburn must have all been fully booked too, he thought idly.
John had positioned himself, quite sub-consciously, in the only seat with a view of both the public bar and the saloon beyond. The lone inhabitant of the other room was a middle aged man, dressed in tan trousers and a green jumper, who was sitting staring directly at him. Startled, John put down his newspaper. The man, seeing his presence had been registered, rose from his seat and started to walk into the bar, carrying his pint. He wove around the tables, obviously heading in John’s direction. John, for his part, desperately looked around in the futile hope that the unwelcomed visitor was heading over to someone else. Unfortunately, the only thing he could see behind him was the window recess - the sky outside beginning to cloud over and turn grey.
The stranger was within a few feet of him now. John’s eyes darted around looking for an escape.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but is it Watson? John Watson?” the man asked proffering his hand forward but looking slightly embarrassed. Instinctively, John rose and shook his hand, nodding politely in response to the question while all the time fighting the urge to say ‘No. Piss off’.
“I thought it was you,” the man continued. “I recognised you from your picture in the papers,” he gestured his head towards the copy of the Guardian, folded on the table.
John recoiled slightly, ready to hurl abuse at his assailant, but the man swiftly interjected, “Absolutely dreadful business. That detective chap seemed a decent enough sort. All an awful bloody witch-hunt if you ask me.”
Relieved, John mumbled a response, but was saddened that his pleasant anonymity of a few moments ago was now lost. There was the sounds of chairs shifting at the adjoining table, the residents trying to surreptitiously catch a glimpse of the infamous ‘bachelor’, while at the other end of the bar the squaddies openly gorped.
“Dreadful, dreadful business…”the man lowered his voice mid sentence but then just tailed off. They stood in embarrassed silence for a few moments. “Terrible imposition, I know, but would you mind if I joined you? Only I am feeling a bit on my lonesome back through there.” John looked uneasy. “Oh I am sorry, I should have said before, I am a friend of Mike Stamford’s. He mentioned he knew you and your…your friend.” Faltering a little he suddenly blurted out, “Name’s Bryant, James Bryant. Chief Medical Officer, Royal Bucks. Hussars,” visibly stiffened at the mention of his rank and unit.
John felt a ridiculous urge to salute but instead gestured to a nearby seat, “Please sit down.”
They began a stilted conversation, exchanging a few vague pleasantries, during which James downed the dregs of his pint.
“Pint?” he offered, standing up and gesturing towards the bar.
“No thanks,” John replied. “I’m ok with this,” he held up his half full pint glass, “have to drive later.” This was partly true, although he had intended to have another swift half as it was a good three hours before he’d be picking up the car, however, he now felt he needed to keep all his wits about him, despite the apparently innoxiously nature of his new found companion.
The food arrived while James was at the bar. John picked at it half heartedly, his appetite tempered by an escalating bad mood. The day really wasn’t turning out how he had hoped. He rallied himself a little on his companions return, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “So, how do you know Stamford?” he asked with feigned interest.
“We’ve organised a few night courses together over the years. Simple field first aid mostly. You know the kind of thing - stemming bleeding, applying dressings, treatment for shock.”
“Not sure I get you,” John replied, puzzled. “Surely that kind of thing is usually covered in basic training for the…Signals I think you said you were in.” He leant forward, a spark of intrigue igniting in his brain.
“Territorial Army” James replied, in mid gulp. “Sorry, sorry, I should have made that clear. I am with the Reservists.” He set his pint down and continued, “I run courses across London and the Home Counties for the TA. Stamford gives me a hand when he can. Used to work with him at Barts.”
“Hmm, must have been after my time,” John mused, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “I don’t remember you. When were you there?”
“Oh yonks back,” James replied.
John was about to press him for a more definitive answer but thought better of it. What the hell did he think this was? A military tribunal? He had problems remembering what he did yesterday, so it was completely understandable if James was a bit vague on exact dates. There was no reason for all this suspicion and mistrust. He really needed to stop thinking that absolutely everything was duplicitous. It was a habit of a lifetime, honed to the point of paranoia by two years with Sherlock.
“So,” John continued, trying to sound a bit more cordial, “you just visiting, or are you on business at the camp?’
“The latter,” James replied, taking another gulp of beer. “The Terras are out on manoeuvres. Some talk about sending us out to Afghanistan.”
John couldn’t help it, he visibly winced.
Noticing the reaction, James asked, “You’ve been out there?”
John nodded pensively, “a couple of tours.”
“But you’re not on active duty now?”
“Invalided out just over two years ago,” John found himself rubbing his injured shoulder and stopped the instant he recognised he was doing it.
“I see,” James replied. “I am so sorry.”
“Just one of those things,” John continued. “I was lucky in some ways. At least I’m here”
There was an awkward silence.
“Do you miss it?”
“What, freezing my bollocks off on night manoeuvres in those hills?”
James smiled, “You know what I mean. I haven’t seen active service but I hear it’s a thing that gets in your blood. I know some of our lads are pretty keen to go.”
John inhaled. He felt he owed James an honest answer, given that the man could well be sent out there any day.
“Yes, I miss it.” He paused. “Not the constant fear of getting your bloody head shot off. No one misses that, well except for a few danger junkies, and I have met a fair few of them in the service. No, what I miss is being relevant, I guess, having to make those split second decisions that make a difference between life and death.” He looked over at the other man, “Bloody hell. That sounds a bit cliché doesn’t it?”
James angled his head slightly. “A bit, but I think understand what you mean. Can’t you get that in a civilian hospital, though? Just ask anyone working in A & E on a Saturday night.”
“Yes, but it is not the same thing. It is like everything is heightened a hundredfold out there.” John looked wistful for a moment. “A good friend of mine once likened it the rush of cocaine.”
“That’s a pretty distasteful simile,’ James retorted, rather taken aback
“Not if you knew the friend,” the other man smiled ruefully.
They both sat nursing their pints in silence, each caught up in their own thoughts.
“Do you think you will get a chance to go back?” James asked after a short while.
John laughed. “Not bloody likely. I said I missed it but I wouldn’t want to go back. I have lost the stomach for it. Seen the reality up way too close and, to be honest, I’m not sure why we are there anymore.”
James looked at him doubtfully. “So what do you do now?” He asked.
“Not much of late, not since… well,” John turned his head to look out of the window, wishing James would just vaporise.
“Yes, of course. Oh God, I am sorry, that was a bit tactless of me. It was just that what you said reminded me of one of my ex-army pals. He was invalided out of Basra after an IED exploded and took half his foot off. He came back and, well, sort of lost it for a while. Just couldn’t adjust he said. Had an awful time of it. It got so bad that his wife nearly left him. In the end they both decided to volunteer for the Red Cross overseas - she was a radiologist. They’re in Libya at the moment. Hospital in Tripoli. Been the making of them they say. Can’t get them to bloody shut them up about it! I just thought maybe…well…”
“No,” John retorted, rather too abruptly. “It’s just not me,” he gabbled, trying to explain away the vehemence of his initial response which had, frankly, come as a surprise even to him. “Look. Thanks for the thought and everything…but really no. “
James shrugged. John nodded and looked out the window again. Then he down the last of his beer and stood up.
“I really better get going. It’ll be dark in an hour or so and I’ve got a hell of a walk ahead of me.” He laughed awkwardly. “End up on those night manoeuvres after all if I’m not careful!” The fake joviality sounding so false it made him cringe. He offered his hand again. “It was nice meeting you, James. I hope it all works out for you.” Taking a step back, he nodded once then threw his coat on and grabbed his rucksack. Throwing a quick wave of thanks at the landlord, he beat a slightly shambolic retreat out through the door and back into the numbing cold air.
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Chapter 7 - Meeting Rosabelle
Gradually the weather improved; the snow melting into dirty grey patches of ice on the lower slopes, though the hilltops still remained capped with white. On the second Sunday in March, John made up his mind to make a pilgrimage to the Rose and Thistle at nearby Alwinton. It was Mother’s Day, and all of the great and good of Newcastle were bound to flood into Rothbury for Sunday lunch. The prospect of so much concentrated familial forbearance was daunting, so he decided to escape into the wilds. Alwinton was located at the arse-end of nowhere and was a likely safe bet to escape the throng.
He knew the Rose and Thistle - or ‘Plant and Prickle’ as it was known - from his days at the Military of Defence training camp at Otterburn. The pub was quite some distance from the barracks, but it had been a favourite of the Northumberlands, and the venue of the legendary ‘Fighting Fifth’ versus ‘The Durhams’, darts match. This was an annual contest between the Fusiliers and the Durham Light Infantry, though, generally marked by rather more drinking than darts playing. He vividly recalled one particularly heroic session, when there had been a lock-in at the pub and not a man from the Durham’s had been left standing by one o’clock. He winced slightly, remembering the carnage that had been his head the following day. At least he had managed to escape a charge on that occasion, while a number of men from both teams had not been so lucky.
The plan was to drive the Land Rover over to Thropton, walk the eight miles to the pub, have lunch and a pint or two and then walk back and pick up the car, or maybe hitch a lift. It would be quite a hike there and back in one day, but he had been walking quite a bit over the past month and felt he had some of his old army fitness back again. It was amazing to be back in shape; to know he could rely on his body again. He felt solid and grounded.
Early Sunday morning, with the dawn just cracking the horizon, he threw his rucksack into the back of the Landy and cranked the key in the ignition. It was a cold outside, his breath misting in the air and the frost crunching under his walking boots. The engine coughed momentary into life and then spluttered to a standstill. He tried again. The starter motor whirred and span but the engine refused to fire.
“Come on you bastard,” he shriek at the vehicle, turning the key futility in ignition but still no joy. Afraid of flooding the engine, he stopped, crossed his arms over the steering wheel and rested his head on the cold moulded plastic; his good mood dissipating along with the ice crystals on the windscreen.
After a few moments, he reached under the steering column and popped the bonnet catch. Hauling himself out of the car, he walked around to the front and peered into its innards, checking that all leads and wires were attached where they should be. He knew his way vaguely around an engine, well, at least enough to diagnose the more common ailment hindering internal combustion. He checked fluid levels - oil, water, break fluid - all seemed ok. Greg had ensured him that the vehicle had been fully serviced before the auction. “Well, so much for that!” he muttered to himself and wished a number of minor, but humiliating, medical inflictions on the police mechanics.
After five more minutes of freezing his fingers off, he concluded that the damp had probably seeped into the spark plugs, so headed back into the cottage to root about under the sink for a can of WD40. This search proved in vain, producing only a dried up bottle of Mr Muscle sink un-blocker and can of furniture polish. He had higher hopes for his dad’s shed but, unfortunately, it seemed to have been recently cleared out. Sighing, he went back out to see if the vehicle had miraculously fixed itself in his absence. It hadn’t. Leaning against the passenger door, the frustration welling up in his stomach, he cursed and awaited divine intervention.
“Having problems,” a female voice drifted over the small paddock which separated the cottage from the adjacent farmhouse.
John squinted, the morning mists partially obscuring a tall figure crossing the frosty grass. As they drew nearer, John made out the shape of a young woman - around mid thirties - with a small child hitched up on her left hip. Rosabelle Weiss, he thought.
“She won’t start,” he replied, gesturing towards the defuncted vehicle.
Expertly opening the paddock gate with her elbow, the young woman drew up beside him, swapped the baby to her other hip, and offered John her right hand.
“Rosebelle,” she said, introducing herself. “And I am assuming you’re John. You look quite a bit like your sister”.
John frowned.
“This is Gaby,” she continued, bouncing the blond haired girl on her hip. “Say hello darling,” she encouraged but the child just looked bemused and slightly wary.
John smiled, as politeness warranted. “Hello Gaby,” he cooed in the voice he reserved for Mother and Baby clinics. The infant, who must have been about eighteen months old, turned her head away, hiding her face in her mother’s neck. “Shy,” the woman mouthed as if uttering the word out loud might result in untold psychological damage to the infant.
Rosebelle walked over to the car, peering half-hearted under the open bonnet. “Any idea what’s up with the beast?’ she asked, her accent clearly more Home Counties than Borders.
“Damp,” John replied, shoving his hands in his pocket to try and warm them up a bit.
“I think Eric might have some WD40 in the workshop. If you want to come over to the house I’ll see if I can find it,” she nodded back across the paddock.
“You’re a life saver!” he ejaculated, relief clearly evident in his voice.
“We try,” she smiled. “Where were you heading off, this early in the morning?
As they walked over to the house, John explained his plans and they soon struck up a conversation about some of the best walking routes in the area. She had apparently seen him heading off out on a number of occasions but hadn’t liked to disturb him. Although she never mentioned it directly, John had the impression that Harry must have filled her in on his recent loss.
The farmhouse door was on the latched and she pushed it open with her foot, leading through a rather messy hall - strewn with boots and outdoor gear - into the welcoming warmth of an enormous kitchen. Gesturing for him to sit down in the chair in front of the agar, Rosebelle busied herself with Gaby, taking off her jacket, settling her in a wooden high chair and producing a rusk from an open packet on the kitchen counter.
“If Eric had been in he would have given you a lift to Thropton,” she noted. “But he’s been out since first light checking on the ewes in the top field.”
Ignoring the offer of a seat, John remained standing and nodded in a way which, he hoped, made him seem knowledgeable in the ways of animal husbandry.
“Would you like some tea?” she offered. “You must be frozen solid! How about some breakfast? Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine thanks,” he said, interrupting her stream of questions. “I think I need to get a crack on if I want to make Alwinton for lunch.” He flashed his best smile in the hope of not sounding too rude.
“Yes, right,” she said, “WD40. Can you look after Gaby for a minute while I pop out to the workshop? Won’t be long.”
She disappeared out a door at the opposite end of the kitchen which, presumably, led into the farmyard. He paced up and down in front of the agar, trying to restore some feeling to his frozen toes. Gaby let out a piercing high pitched laugh and he walked over to her high chair to see what was so amusing. Lowering his face down to her level, he received a sticky finger in his eye.
“Whoa there bruiser,” he smiled, taking a step back. The child gurgled in delight for a moment but then lost interest, turning instead to suck intently on her rusk.
The chair was positioned in front of a vast fridge-freezer, and John couldn’t help but cast his eye over the various notices and pictures pinned to its front by a variety of novelty magnets. There were bills for livestock feed, tradesmen’s cards and several children’s drawings. Unless Gaby was an infant protégé, John deduced that the Weisses must have at least one other child. This was confirmed by a holiday snap he found half hidden under a child’s drawing of a smiling pig, the size of elephant and basked under the rays of a super nova sun. The photograph showed Rosebelle, Gaby and two twin boys - about six years old - standing next to a man who must have been Eric Weiss. He was tall and lean; kitted out in a shabby Barbour jacket and worn hunter wellingtons, however, his hair looked neat and newly cut and his faced showing none of tell-tale weathering which marked out most of the farmers in the area.
That’s funny, thought John, and with his interest piqued he turned his attentions to the calendar on the wall next to the fridge. It was one of those monthly planners given away at the end of the year by suppliers to their clients. This one was from an agricultural equipment wholesaler and featured a rather impressive looking seed drill and accompanying tractor. The calendar was marked with the usual type of thing you would expect of a young family - clinic dates for the baby, school trips, dental appointments and a discreet little ‘P’ marked on the 10th of March. John turned back to the previous month and saw a similar annotation at around the same date. Rosebelle was obviously keeping a close eye on her cycles, he thought, so either they want more kids or are trying to avoid them.
After a quick glance towards the back door and a conspiratorial nod to Gaby - who was mashing bits of biscuit into her highchair tray - he flicked through the upcoming months. The first three pages were similarly filled with notes and reminders, but all the pages after were empty which struck him as a bit odd. You might expect the number of appointments to be reduced, but most busy families still marked key dates throughout the year - school term, holidays, anniversaries, clinics, car tax due, income tax returns, MOT - yet there was nothing. Unfortunately, before he could investigate any further, he heard the door handle turn and Rosebelle came back into the room.
“It’s still freezing out there,” she huffed, stamping her feet to restore circulation.
John stepped away from the fridge, trying not to look too furtive. He schooled his face in an expression of calm conviviality: a look he had mastered when dealing with civilians on the streets of Basra.
“Here you go,” she continued, proffering a can of WD40. “That should do the trick.”
He took the can. “Thanks, you really are a godsend.”
He felt a twinge of guilt about snooping around, particularly as the Weisses had gone out of their way to make him welcome.
“Are you sure you won’t have some breakfast, John?” Rosebelle asked as she scooped up the baby from the highchair.
“No thanks, I had something before I left,” he replied.
“Quick cup of tea then? It will warm you up for your walk.”
“No, really, I should go and see if this works,” he waved the can. “I’ll be cutting it fine as it is if I want to make Alwinton by two.”
“Ok then, but come back here if you have no joy,” she smiled. “You can keep the can. I am sure Eric has others,”
“Cheers. Oh, and thanks for the wine and wood and everything,” he added awkwardly.
“It was no trouble. You must come over for dinner or something one night - meet Eric. Are you ok seeing yourself out? Only I need to give this one her porridge, don’t I?” she jiggled the child who grinned and blew little bubbles of spittle.
“Yer, that would be nice. Thanks again for this,” he put the can in his pocket and headed out towards the hall.|
Chapter 6 - Conversing with Ghosts
It snowed on and off for about two weeks; the snow drifting thick and heavy or swirling in icy torrents on a bitter north wind. On brighter days, John would take long walks across the fells, finding solace in the isolation and needle sharp air. Sitting on an outcrop of the rock, overlooking the shrouded valley below, he sometimes mustered the strength to unlock the door in his mind and venture up the stairs of 221b, where he would find Sherlock pouring over a microscope or stretched out languidly on the sofa. Steeling himself, John would try in these moments to say all of the things he never got around to saying when his friend was alive. But even in the relatively safety of his own psyche, he found such conversations awkward and stilted, and more often than not they faltered as soon as they began. Instead, he would just sit and tell Sherlock about items in the news, or small observations he thought would peak the other man’s interest: the line of chalk drawn on the gatepost outside the Queen’s Head in Rothbury which would appear, without fail, every third day but had disappeared by mid afternoon; the empty 50 gallon vat of orange concentrate - marked ‘Exportación de Valencia’ - that he had found abandoned outside the ruined barn to the north of the village, and the perfect circle of newly turned soil - approximately 60m in diameter - which had recently appeared on the west face of Tosson Hill. He could envisage Sherlock pacing around the flat, pontificating on the ‘obvious’ reason behind these strange occurrences and bewailing, yet again, the lumbering tedium of having to endure such an average brain.
In the midst of these exchanges, John would sometimes question whether conducting an imaginary conversation with your dead friend - particularly one in which you were constantly insulted - was necessarily conducive to good mental health. Still, his therapist had told him to do ‘whatever felt right to get himself through’ and he couldn’t see any long-term harm in the practice. It was a mild psychosis, nothing more, although there were times when he genuinely felt that Sherlock was nearby: a palpable presence. More than once he could have sworn he had caught a glimpse of raven dark curls in the passenger seat of a passing car, or the swish of coat tails disappearing down one of the narrow village side streets.
Apparently, such hallucinations and visitation were a perfectly normal part of the grieving process, according to Dr Stewart. She had recounted how one of her patients had been so convinced that their dead husband was alive, that on their wedding anniversary had booked a room in the hotel where they had had spent their honeymoon, absolutely certain that he would turn up. Of course, the poor woman had ended up keeping a cold vigil alone and was forced in the morning to finally accept the reality of her situation. At least, thought John, he wasn’t that far gone. He just found these windswept chats a way of re-establishing a connection with the past. Of remembering Sherlock as he had been, rather than those images of the shattered body on the pavement of Bart’s. And, when the sky began to darken and the cold grew too much for him, John would make his apologies and leave the flat; mentally locking the door behind him. He would then hike back to his parent’s cottage and fall asleep, exhausted.|
Chapter 5 - Breathing Space
John went to stay with Harry for a few days, though it was never going to be a long term solution. She rallied round and did her best but after a week or so she had gradually begun to drive him up the wall. Initially, it had been her over concern and mollycoddling, then, bit-by-bit, her old self obsession and negativity began to resurface. Things eventually reached a crescendo when she told him how she wished her ex was ‘bloody dead’ because that was the only way the bitch would ever stop trying to get money out of her. John didn’t reply but the flash of anger he felt was like a slap.
To be fair, pretty much everything made him angry at the moment. He hated living with his sister; hated not having anywhere to go; hated being invalided out of the army; hated south London and more than anything he hated Sherlock. He hated him for being such a selfish, egotistical, hubristic bastard who, obviously, hadn’t given a damn about anyone else when he’d thrown himself off that roof. More than once he had found himself sincerely wishing he’d never gone to the Criterion coffee bar all those months ago, because then he might not have ended up passing that bloody park bench and running into Stamford, and just maybe this whole sorry tale would have never unravelled. Thankfully, these flashes of self-indulgent misery never lasted. It wasn’t really in John’s nature to feel sorry for himself for too long. Once they had subsided he would be left with an awful feeling of guilt for days.
It was after one particularly violent outburst - when he had spiralled off into a rant because he couldn’t find his house keys - that Dr Stapleton’s email came back to him. Sitting at Harry’s kitchen table, wondering how he was going to explain the fist hole in the living room door, he remembered her comments about Sherlock’s mind mapping techniques. It struck him that if the method could be used to recall information then it might as easily be applied to forgetting, or at least temporarily mislaying, certain memories.
Over the next few days he tried hard to put the technique into practice. Sherlock had previously spent one heinously long, and rather wet, Wednesday afternoon trying to explain the method to him. Although on that particular occasion John had ended up storming out of the flat in exacerbation, he felt he had a fairly good grasp of the basic tenets. Now he found that if he concentrated very hard on a location, he could construct the appropriate network of neural pathways necessary for the technique to work. However, for him it had to be a real place. No celestial ‘mind palace’ for John Watson then it seemed, but rather a quirky two bedroom London flat: 221b Baker Street to be exact. He smiled in a self effacing way and tried again to picture Sherlock folded up like a praying mantis in one of the armchairs. Over the next few hours, he repeatedly went over conversations, events and emotions, pinning each one down to a separate room, item or feature: the smiley face sprayed on the wall; the skull on the mantelpiece; the discarded Cluedo box; the harpoon in the corner. In this way, he ensured that every memory was assigned a safe place. That each was kept secure until the day he could face them all again. Then he locked the front door, put the key in his mental pocket, and walked away.
The technique worked pretty well in general. Well, at least it gave him breathing space and a way to start moving on. Damn it, he was using that bloody phrase now! Sarah was also a huge help. She had come to see him soon after the funeral and they had struck up a friendship again. She’d been a real mate, never pressing him to talk, but always there if he wanted some company, despite his mood swings; and he had been pretty surly with her at times. It had actually been her idea that he should take some time away from London. Just a short break to get his head together and work out what it was he wanted to do in the long term. She had offered him more locum work if he wanted it, but they had both agreed that he needed a bit of time and distance in order to make that kind of decision. Harry - no doubt in a desperate bid to put some distance between them before a familial Armageddon broke out - suggested he should use their parent’s old place up near the Borders. He had jumped at the offer, relishing the idea of some seclusion for a while.Lestrade gave him the heads-up on an ex police 4 x 4 going cheap at auction, and with that packed with the few belonging Mrs Hudson had retrieved for him from the flat, he set off for Rothbury. He had always enjoyed the drive up North, especially the final part of the journey where the road skirted around the edge of the of the Northumberland hills - bleak and unforgiving but utterly beautiful. He found the wild, blasted expanse of the place immensely cathartic, although, with a hint of sadness, it reminded him a little of Dartmoor.
By the time he reached the village it had begun to snow, not much, but it was starting to settle. His mum and dad had bought a place just on the edge of Rothbury back in the 1980s. Originally intended for family holidays, his folks had moved there permanently when his dad retired from Catterick Garrison. John had a handful of fond memories of the old place but it had never really been his home. The family had moved around a lot when he was a growing up, his dad being stationed all over the world, so John had never really developed an attachment to any single place or area. Harry had had more to do with the cottage than him, especially since their parents had died. There was evidence of her numerous visits in the hallway: two Gortex jackets hanging side-by-side to the left of the door, below which were matching pairs of hiking boots, one pair slightly more worn and larger than the other.
The inside of the cottage was surprising warm and aired. In the small living room a fire was banked up in the grate, the embers still glowing. On the table next to the TV there were several family photographs. Central was one of him in his Fusiliers uniform, taken at his passing out parade at Sandhurst. He looked absurdly young, his parents flanking him on each side and all three squinting slightly in the bright sunlight.
Slinging his bag down on the armchair, he hunted round for some wood to build up the fire. There was a small pile set neatly to the right of the grate, and he carefully threw on a couple of likely logs, stoking the fire back into life. After a few minutes warming his hands in front of the crackling flames, he took his coat off, threw it on his backpack and moved over to the dining room table where he noticed a bottle of red wine. There was a note propped up against it. Unfolding the crisp white paper he read the message, written in a neat schoolroom script:
Dear John,
Harry asked me to look in on the place and get a few things ready for you. There is milk in the fridge and bread in the cupboard. I have also put a few bits and bobs in the freezer to keep you going for a few days. Eric has chopped some wood and stacked it in the shed. There should be enough for a week or so and just give us a bell if you need any more. It looks as though the weather might turn, mind, so make sure you get yourself stocked up.
I have left our number on the notice board. Just call if you need anything. Feel free to pop over whenever you fancy. Eric is always up for any excuse for a pint.
Rosabelle Weiss
He was touched by the generosity of the note and the provisions. He wasn’t sure who the Weisses were but he made mental note to call in and thank them when he felt a bit more sociable. He unscrewed the wine and glugged a generous amount out into one of the enormous glasses he had found in the kitchen cupboard. Then, settling in front of the fire, he sat staring into the flames. Outside the snow had begun falling heavily, sealing the village off and shrouding the landscape in silence.
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Chapter 4 - Acceptance
After the funeral, John just couldn’t go back to Baker Street. He had finally faced up to the fact that there would be no sudden denouement, no graveside revelation, no waking up to find that he had dozed off in front of the fire and there was Sherlock, remarking on how deeply unattractive it was to see a grown man with drool running down his chin.
It was over. That brilliant man - his friend - was dead, and John really needed to accept it and get on with his life. He had to stop checking his phone every five minutes in the hope of a text message. Give up the relentless scrutiny of newspaper articles, train timetables and advertising hoardings. End the daily inspection of all surfaces for minute changes in accumulating dust. There was going to be no codicil, no messages written in lemon juice. The hero wouldn’t sweep in at the last moment and save the day with a dramatic swirl of his cloak. Justice didn’t need to prevail. After all, this was real life and not a Victorian crime novel. People died, and when they did, they stayed dead.
Sherlock was gone and he just had to deal with it, but he couldn’t do that at the flat. Without that tenuous hope of a resurrection, 221b Baker Street had become just a clutter shell, full of things he didn’t quite want to remember at this point in time. It was best to just walk away. His therapist didn’t agree of course. She believed that he had to face his guilt, embrace the loss and ‘experience his emotions fully’, only then could he get past them and ‘move on’. As a professional, John had the greatest respect for Dr Stewart. As a junior doctor, he had undertaken a rotation on a Pysch ward himself, and knew first-hand the physical and mental havoc that emotional stress could wreak upon the human body. Nevertheless, at this particular moment in time, he wished his esteemed colleague would shut the fuck up about ‘moving on’. If he heard the phrase again, he swore he would batter her to death with her own copy of Studies in Hysteria.
She kept trying to get him to talk to Sherlock. To say all those things he had failed to say when his friend was alive. Well, he had tried that after the funeral but it hadn’t helped. Yes, on one level he fully understood the significance of the cognitive approach she was advocating, but an appreciation of the validity of the therapy still didn’t stop him feeling like his guts had been eviscerated and stretched out in the air like the strings of an Aeolian harp. No thanks, he had he own ways of dealing with loss. It needed to be screwed down tight and packed away. It was his own personal coping mechanism and had always served him pretty well in the past.
CHARCTERS: John, Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and pretty much everyone.
RATING: PG-13 (some swearing)
GENRE: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Resilience, Smatterings of Humour
WORDS: Overall 17,633. This chapter 379.
CHAPTER: 12/15 (complete) See my Journal for early chapters
DISCLAIMER: Nothing is mine, I am afraid, and I apologies to Steve Moffat/Mark Gatiss, the BBC and the Conan Doyle Estates for borrowing all their characters for a while. I promise to keep them warm, dry, well fed and safe from harm.
SUMMARY: How does John put his life back together without Sherlock? He won't fall to pieces, that's just not in his nature, but how does he navigate a way forwards?
Set post Reichenbach, this tracks John's own personal 'resurrection' after the fall - his reactions, doubts and decisions - but at times it almost seems he has a guardian angel leading the way.
Chapter 12 - In a place of conflict, John thinks he may have finally come to terms with loss.
*Azrael is often referred to as the Archangel of death (not to be confused with Azazel who also pops up later in this fic). Contrary to later portrayals as ‘the grim reaper’, he was not originally a figure of dread, but rather of comfort and salvation: teaching mortals to accept death, and consoling those grieving the loss of a loved one. Azrael is also an outcast, although not technically one of the fallen - ‘I may be on the side of the angels but don’t think for a second I am one of them’.
I owe a huge, enormous, colossal debt of thanks to my beta and friend draugdur who has patiently read through this at least twice and offered wonderful advice and encouragement. However, anything dodgy or incorrect is all my own.
Comments are really welcome.
Chapter 12 - Amelioration
The following spring, John was seconded for two weeks to the medical centre at Nablus. Ostensibly, the purpose of the trip was to train the teams on the ground in incident management using the Smart Incident Command System, but he had the distinct feeling that running through simulated emergency protocols with staff who had been operating pretty much in a war zone for years, was a little like trying to teach your grandmother to suck eggs.
He was also scheduled in to spend some time at one of the MSF trauma clinics in the city. This was largely in a surgical capacity - he already had a escharotomy, tibial osteotomy and several skin grafts on his list - though he had expressed an interest in shadowing one of the psychiatric support teams. They were implementing some pioneering new techniques in the treatment of those suffering from the long-term psychological impact of conflict and he was keen to see their work first hand. He couldn't deny that there was a bit more than just professional interest behind his request. The majority of his PTSD symptoms had subsided over the last three years or so, but elements had re-surfaced briefly after Sherlock’s death, and he still had the odd night when he’d wake up shouting, drenched in sweat. Oddly enough though, things had improved considerable since his arrival in Gaza: a place where conflict was endemic. His therapist would no doubt claim that placing himself in the firing line again, albeit at some distance, was helping to assuage the guilt he felt at having outlived all those he'd lost over the past ten years.
He still thought of Sherlock every day, but not every second of every day. That was progress. The way he thought about him had changed too. The images of the blood spattered pavements had now receded and been replaced by more convivial memories of shared companionship, peppered with moments of irritation and flashes of sheer bloody mindedness - Take him for all and all, I shall not look upon his like again. John no longer sought to control or escape from these remembrances. They weren’t painful any longer but quite welcome. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but at some stage the door of 221b had been unlocked for good, and it felt pretty liberating.
Chapter 11 - Diagnosis
On the first anniversary of Sherlock’s death, John had intended to hike out to the desert at Har Ramon, however, a bus bomb in Jerusalem two weeks earlier meant that his team were placed on special alert. All leave had been cancelled, fearing an escalation of hostilities. Oh, and the military reprisals came: six long days of air strikes, all along the strip, bringing a huge influx of casualties pouring into the city hospitals. John worked tirelessly, running on pure adrenaline and very strong Arabic coffee, which he had finally acquired a taste for - a bitter stimulant, laced with cardamom and made palatable only by spoonfuls of sugar.
Given his previous battlefield experience, John worked predominantly in triage, making split second decisions on priority and a pragmatic course of action. It was a balancing act between compassion and realism. His gut instinct was to first treat the most severe trauma cases but he had to keep his emotions in check and use his knowledge and experience to prioritise those with the highest potential for survival. If he failed to do this properly, it could mean that others would die needlessly.
His reactions were fast. He could run through a set of diagnostics in the blink of an eye: weighing up possible outcomes and assessing a myriad of variables in his head, calculating a range of different scenarios and prognosis. There were times, especially when faced with a particularly complicated or catastrophic array of injuries, when he would hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, as clearly as if he were standing right next to him.
‘Think John. Look at the angle of the entry wound. Good God, what is it like being you? It must be so taxing. You’re seeing but you are not observing what is plainly in front of your eyes! His fingers: look at the capillary dilation of the nail bed. Now, couple that together with the crust of dried spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth and the discolouration down the front of his shirt. Might be food, but looks more like drool. The shirt has been washed numerous times, but the staining on the front is still there, ingrained. Long-term malady then; a condition producing excess of saliva which would indicate a systemic problem, not trauma, something up and above the six inches of metal embedded in his chest. And look at his clothes, John, they’re old but everything is at least three sizes to big for him. They could be second-hand but in this part of the world it’s unlikely: people hang onto their clothes here. So the man has lost a lot of weight recently. All of this, together with the slight jaundice in his face, would suggest advance Acinic cell carcinoma. He’ll be a goner in less than two month - dead man walking - no point in surgery. NEXT.’
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Chapter 10 - Forgiveness
On his return, he drove over to Sarah’s flat, only to find Mycroft already there waiting for him. John didn’t bother asking how or why, having long ago accepted that there was little that escaped the scrutiny of the elder Holmes brother. At some stage a dossier on John’s enquires at the Red Cross would have winged it way across Mycroft’s desk: it was inevitable.
The meeting was strained, even more so than usual. Mycroft purveyed his customary sagacity, although John thought there was a slight tremble in his voice. It was barely perceptible but betrayed his apparent equanimity. The older man sat in Sarah’s favourite armchair, the impeccable cut of his dark grey Saville Row suit, incongruous amongst the rich purples and reds of the scatter cushions.
John just stared at him, a rather abortive greeting having dissipating into awkward silence. Sarah made a swift exit into the kitchen, leaving the two men alone.
“John, I do hope your…” Mycroft searched for a word, “Retreat, proved restorative.”
John rankled at the use of the word ‘retreat’. Was Mycroft implying something? He was still furious with the man over his brother’s betrayal, and had refused to have anything to do with him since Sherlock’s death. Mycroft, to his credit, had not resorted to using his MI5 lackeys, but kept a respectful distance, even at the funeral. Later, John had noticed a wreath of white lilies placed in the Chapel of Remembrance, and a black edged card written in Mycroft’s elegant looping hand - ’S. Truly so very sorry for everything. M.’
Mycroft sat spinning the handle of his umbrella from one hand to the other, all the while looking at John expectantly. Glancing over at the one surviving Holmes brother, the doctor realised that he didn’t feel angry any longer, just sad. While he wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive this man for his role in Sherlock’s fall, John had the distinct feeling that whatever reproach he directed at him would be only fraction of the guilt and remorse Mycroft reserved for himself.
To anyone who knew them, it was obvious that the two siblings shared the same gene pool. Each, on the surface at least, having the emotive capacity of a jackdaw. Nevertheless, John never really doubted Mycroft’s deep seated affection for his younger brother. Theirs had been an odd relationship but, then again, don’t most families operate in a way that seems unfathomable to an outsider? Just look at him and Harry. He had no idea what made his sister tick and very little desire to find out. John wondered for a moment if he could bring himself to ‘bargain’ her secrets away for the good of the nation. No, maybe not, but then he wasn’t Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps a more pertinent question was whether Sherlock would have done the same if the positions had been reversed? The answer to that would be an unequivocal ‘Yes’ and, undoubtedly, with much less conscience than displayed by his more remorseful older brother.
In truth, Mycroft hadn’t really provided Moriaty with anything that any tabloid hack worth his salt couldn’t have pieced together from school records and hospital files, if given enough time and a sizeable budget for bribes. There was a staggering amount of personal information held digitally, and it was relatively easy to access if you knew where to look. Even someone as careful as Sherlock still left ‘virtual’ fingerprints everywhere, stored in little bits of codes littered across the internet and imprinted indelibly on government hard drives. All Mycroft had done was speed up the process, and John was pretty sure he must have known that before he had agreed to speak to Moriaty. It was just unfortunate that his timing was so bloody lousy. There was no way he could have anticipated that Sherlock would take it quite so hard. No one could have predicted that.
“I see that you have been looking at the prospect of gaining a position overseas, John. In a medical capacity that is,” Mycroft tried once more to engage him in conversation.
Lord, he looked like Sherlock at times. His face all hollows and angles and with the same slate blue eyes that could root you to the spot: at once penetrating and impassive, animate yet circumspect. But somehow Mycroft now seemed less than he was before. Not physically, on the contrary, he had become decidedly jowly over the past few months. It was just that he seemed fractionally less self-assured. The change would have been indiscernible to most, but to John it rang out louder than the bells of Southwark Cathedral. He couldn’t help but take pity on the man and accept the olive branch that Mycroft, in his own peculiar fashion, was so obviously offering.
“Yes, I’ve been asking around a bit Mycroft; as I am sure you’re aware,” he said, rather more acerbically than he intended. “Just testing the water really. Seeing what’s out there. You know, weighing up what my options are,” he shrugged and moved over to the sofa, sitting down just as Sarah returned with tea.
“Well, I may be able to help you there. I have only limited capacity, as you know, but there are one or two contacts who owe me a favour.”
John never quite understood Mycroft proffered humility regarding his role in the government, but he knew that ‘contacts’ could mean anything from the cloakroom attendant at the Diogenes club to the Director of the CIA.
“Well, that could be very useful, Mycroft” he replied.
“I would be glad to assist you in any way I can, John. I think this might be just the thing to help you get over…” he paused again considering the phrase. “Well, to help you get on.”
The three of them spent the next couple of hours formulating a plan. John didn’t think it would necessarily be a good idea to go back into a combat zone just yet, but was looking for something in the Middle East or Turkey, given that he was familiar with the culture and climate. He eventually settled on Gaza. Despite Mycroft’s deep seated reservations about the stability of the region, he remained true to his word, and the following day John was offered a position as doctor with Medecins Sans Frontieres, who ran a series of operation on the West Bank. By the end of the week he was packed and waiting at Heathrow for a flight to Tel Aviv.
It felt strange to be heading abroad again, especially to that part of the world. It stirred up mixed emotions. He remembered what life had been like when he had first arrived back from Afghanistan, before he had run into Stamford and met Sherlock. Fleetingly, he worried that he might be doing the wrong thing - just going backwards - but he soon dismissed the idea. This was something new, something exciting, and he was eager to see where it took him. Sarah had come to see him off which was kind of her, but he wished she hadn’t. He just wanted to leave England and put everything behind him.
After what seemed an age, his flight was finally called, and he could exchange the stifling heat of the departure lounge for the chill drizzle of the runway tarmac.
“Here we go then Sherlock,” he muttered to himself, “Wish me luck.”
He took a deep breath, tugged at the bottom of his jacket, adjusted his sleeves, and without glancing back, turned smartly on his heel and marched up the flight steps
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Chapter 9 - Decisions
Over the next few days he allowed James’s suggestion to percolate in his mind. His initial reaction had been one of fear. Contrary to what he had said, John was attracted by the idea of some form of foreign aid work. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made, given his past experience. It had the potential to be challenging and fulfilling work, something he could really excel at. That was what spooked him initially, it represented a tangible path to a new life: a step forward and away from the past. It would also mean leaving England, and part of him had panicked that if he left the country, left London, left 221b Baker Street, then Sherlock wouldn’t be able to find him. It was bloody stupid of course but, nevertheless, there it was.
He spent time recognising these fears for what they were and laying them to rest. He had also been worried that the old nightmares might return but they hadn’t. He did find it hard to sleep but only because night after night his thoughts were racing with new plans and ideas. He read up on the internet about the work of the British Red Cross and even took the bus into Newcastle to talk things through with staff at the office there. Unfortunately, they couldn’t help him very much regarding overseas work but suggested he contact their head office at Moorfields in London. It took him a further two weeks to finally reach an absolute decision, but early one morning, in the first week of April, he packed up the Landy, locked up the cottage and posted the keys through Rosabelle’s door. He sat in front of the wheel, composed himself for a moment, then turned the key in the ignition and set off on the five hour drive back to London.|
Chapter 8 - The Unwanted Attention of a Stranger
Thankfully, the WD40 did the trick and the old Landy gasped and spluttered back into life. John slammed the bonnet down, leapt into the driver’s seat and headed over to Thropton. Parking up on the grass verge, he finally set off walking at a keen pace; trying to make up some of the time he had lost. A bracing north-westerly was blowing in from the sea, cutting right though his jacket and making his skin tingle. The walk was invigorating, but he had to admit to being pretty glad when he at last spotted the pub in the distance, a thin column of smoke rising from its chimney.
Arriving a little after one, John made his way over to the bar. He didn’t recognise the landlord or any of the staff, the pub having changed hands at least twice since his day. It felt a bit strange to be back and his mind skittered briefly over everything that had happened since he had last stood there with a pint of Cumberland Ale in his hand. The main bar was much as he remembered it. A modest affair with green mock-leather vinyl seats and a fag burned carpet of indistinguishable colour. It seemed that little had changed at the Plant and Prickle despite the intervening years, and he found the familiarity rather reassuring.
Settling down at a corner table, John felt pleasantly tired and was looking forward to the prospect of lamb shank and all the trimmings. Pulling out yesterday’s newspaper from his rucksack, he casually skimmed thorough the front page, supping his pint contentedly. Concealed behind his broadsheet, he couldn’t stop himself from discretely scanning the room - old habits die hard. The place was pretty empty. There were a couple of old blokes propping up the far end of the bar and a small group of squaddies in the opposite corner, who all appeared slightly the worst for wear. The only other occupants were a family of six - four adults and a couple of kids - who were also in for lunch. The pubs at Otterburn must have all been fully booked too, he thought idly.
John had positioned himself, quite sub-consciously, in the only seat with a view of both the public bar and the saloon beyond. The lone inhabitant of the other room was a middle aged man, dressed in tan trousers and a green jumper, who was sitting staring directly at him. Startled, John put down his newspaper. The man, seeing his presence had been registered, rose from his seat and started to walk into the bar, carrying his pint. He wove around the tables, obviously heading in John’s direction. John, for his part, desperately looked around in the futile hope that the unwelcomed visitor was heading over to someone else. Unfortunately, the only thing he could see behind him was the window recess - the sky outside beginning to cloud over and turn grey.
The stranger was within a few feet of him now. John’s eyes darted around looking for an escape.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but is it Watson? John Watson?” the man asked proffering his hand forward but looking slightly embarrassed. Instinctively, John rose and shook his hand, nodding politely in response to the question while all the time fighting the urge to say ‘No. Piss off’.
“I thought it was you,” the man continued. “I recognised you from your picture in the papers,” he gestured his head towards the copy of the Guardian, folded on the table.
John recoiled slightly, ready to hurl abuse at his assailant, but the man swiftly interjected, “Absolutely dreadful business. That detective chap seemed a decent enough sort. All an awful bloody witch-hunt if you ask me.”
Relieved, John mumbled a response, but was saddened that his pleasant anonymity of a few moments ago was now lost. There was the sounds of chairs shifting at the adjoining table, the residents trying to surreptitiously catch a glimpse of the infamous ‘bachelor’, while at the other end of the bar the squaddies openly gorped.
“Dreadful, dreadful business…”the man lowered his voice mid sentence but then just tailed off. They stood in embarrassed silence for a few moments. “Terrible imposition, I know, but would you mind if I joined you? Only I am feeling a bit on my lonesome back through there.” John looked uneasy. “Oh I am sorry, I should have said before, I am a friend of Mike Stamford’s. He mentioned he knew you and your…your friend.” Faltering a little he suddenly blurted out, “Name’s Bryant, James Bryant. Chief Medical Officer, Royal Bucks. Hussars,” visibly stiffened at the mention of his rank and unit.
John felt a ridiculous urge to salute but instead gestured to a nearby seat, “Please sit down.”
They began a stilted conversation, exchanging a few vague pleasantries, during which James downed the dregs of his pint.
“Pint?” he offered, standing up and gesturing towards the bar.
“No thanks,” John replied. “I’m ok with this,” he held up his half full pint glass, “have to drive later.” This was partly true, although he had intended to have another swift half as it was a good three hours before he’d be picking up the car, however, he now felt he needed to keep all his wits about him, despite the apparently innoxiously nature of his new found companion.
The food arrived while James was at the bar. John picked at it half heartedly, his appetite tempered by an escalating bad mood. The day really wasn’t turning out how he had hoped. He rallied himself a little on his companions return, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “So, how do you know Stamford?” he asked with feigned interest.
“We’ve organised a few night courses together over the years. Simple field first aid mostly. You know the kind of thing - stemming bleeding, applying dressings, treatment for shock.”
“Not sure I get you,” John replied, puzzled. “Surely that kind of thing is usually covered in basic training for the…Signals I think you said you were in.” He leant forward, a spark of intrigue igniting in his brain.
“Territorial Army” James replied, in mid gulp. “Sorry, sorry, I should have made that clear. I am with the Reservists.” He set his pint down and continued, “I run courses across London and the Home Counties for the TA. Stamford gives me a hand when he can. Used to work with him at Barts.”
“Hmm, must have been after my time,” John mused, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “I don’t remember you. When were you there?”
“Oh yonks back,” James replied.
John was about to press him for a more definitive answer but thought better of it. What the hell did he think this was? A military tribunal? He had problems remembering what he did yesterday, so it was completely understandable if James was a bit vague on exact dates. There was no reason for all this suspicion and mistrust. He really needed to stop thinking that absolutely everything was duplicitous. It was a habit of a lifetime, honed to the point of paranoia by two years with Sherlock.
“So,” John continued, trying to sound a bit more cordial, “you just visiting, or are you on business at the camp?’
“The latter,” James replied, taking another gulp of beer. “The Terras are out on manoeuvres. Some talk about sending us out to Afghanistan.”
John couldn’t help it, he visibly winced.
Noticing the reaction, James asked, “You’ve been out there?”
John nodded pensively, “a couple of tours.”
“But you’re not on active duty now?”
“Invalided out just over two years ago,” John found himself rubbing his injured shoulder and stopped the instant he recognised he was doing it.
“I see,” James replied. “I am so sorry.”
“Just one of those things,” John continued. “I was lucky in some ways. At least I’m here”
There was an awkward silence.
“Do you miss it?”
“What, freezing my bollocks off on night manoeuvres in those hills?”
James smiled, “You know what I mean. I haven’t seen active service but I hear it’s a thing that gets in your blood. I know some of our lads are pretty keen to go.”
John inhaled. He felt he owed James an honest answer, given that the man could well be sent out there any day.
“Yes, I miss it.” He paused. “Not the constant fear of getting your bloody head shot off. No one misses that, well except for a few danger junkies, and I have met a fair few of them in the service. No, what I miss is being relevant, I guess, having to make those split second decisions that make a difference between life and death.” He looked over at the other man, “Bloody hell. That sounds a bit cliché doesn’t it?”
James angled his head slightly. “A bit, but I think understand what you mean. Can’t you get that in a civilian hospital, though? Just ask anyone working in A & E on a Saturday night.”
“Yes, but it is not the same thing. It is like everything is heightened a hundredfold out there.” John looked wistful for a moment. “A good friend of mine once likened it the rush of cocaine.”
“That’s a pretty distasteful simile,’ James retorted, rather taken aback
“Not if you knew the friend,” the other man smiled ruefully.
They both sat nursing their pints in silence, each caught up in their own thoughts.
“Do you think you will get a chance to go back?” James asked after a short while.
John laughed. “Not bloody likely. I said I missed it but I wouldn’t want to go back. I have lost the stomach for it. Seen the reality up way too close and, to be honest, I’m not sure why we are there anymore.”
James looked at him doubtfully. “So what do you do now?” He asked.
“Not much of late, not since… well,” John turned his head to look out of the window, wishing James would just vaporise.
“Yes, of course. Oh God, I am sorry, that was a bit tactless of me. It was just that what you said reminded me of one of my ex-army pals. He was invalided out of Basra after an IED exploded and took half his foot off. He came back and, well, sort of lost it for a while. Just couldn’t adjust he said. Had an awful time of it. It got so bad that his wife nearly left him. In the end they both decided to volunteer for the Red Cross overseas - she was a radiologist. They’re in Libya at the moment. Hospital in Tripoli. Been the making of them they say. Can’t get them to bloody shut them up about it! I just thought maybe…well…”
“No,” John retorted, rather too abruptly. “It’s just not me,” he gabbled, trying to explain away the vehemence of his initial response which had, frankly, come as a surprise even to him. “Look. Thanks for the thought and everything…but really no. “
James shrugged. John nodded and looked out the window again. Then he down the last of his beer and stood up.
“I really better get going. It’ll be dark in an hour or so and I’ve got a hell of a walk ahead of me.” He laughed awkwardly. “End up on those night manoeuvres after all if I’m not careful!” The fake joviality sounding so false it made him cringe. He offered his hand again. “It was nice meeting you, James. I hope it all works out for you.” Taking a step back, he nodded once then threw his coat on and grabbed his rucksack. Throwing a quick wave of thanks at the landlord, he beat a slightly shambolic retreat out through the door and back into the numbing cold air.
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Chapter 7 - Meeting Rosabelle
Gradually the weather improved; the snow melting into dirty grey patches of ice on the lower slopes, though the hilltops still remained capped with white. On the second Sunday in March, John made up his mind to make a pilgrimage to the Rose and Thistle at nearby Alwinton. It was Mother’s Day, and all of the great and good of Newcastle were bound to flood into Rothbury for Sunday lunch. The prospect of so much concentrated familial forbearance was daunting, so he decided to escape into the wilds. Alwinton was located at the arse-end of nowhere and was a likely safe bet to escape the throng.
He knew the Rose and Thistle - or ‘Plant and Prickle’ as it was known - from his days at the Military of Defence training camp at Otterburn. The pub was quite some distance from the barracks, but it had been a favourite of the Northumberlands, and the venue of the legendary ‘Fighting Fifth’ versus ‘The Durhams’, darts match. This was an annual contest between the Fusiliers and the Durham Light Infantry, though, generally marked by rather more drinking than darts playing. He vividly recalled one particularly heroic session, when there had been a lock-in at the pub and not a man from the Durham’s had been left standing by one o’clock. He winced slightly, remembering the carnage that had been his head the following day. At least he had managed to escape a charge on that occasion, while a number of men from both teams had not been so lucky.
The plan was to drive the Land Rover over to Thropton, walk the eight miles to the pub, have lunch and a pint or two and then walk back and pick up the car, or maybe hitch a lift. It would be quite a hike there and back in one day, but he had been walking quite a bit over the past month and felt he had some of his old army fitness back again. It was amazing to be back in shape; to know he could rely on his body again. He felt solid and grounded.
Early Sunday morning, with the dawn just cracking the horizon, he threw his rucksack into the back of the Landy and cranked the key in the ignition. It was a cold outside, his breath misting in the air and the frost crunching under his walking boots. The engine coughed momentary into life and then spluttered to a standstill. He tried again. The starter motor whirred and span but the engine refused to fire.
“Come on you bastard,” he shriek at the vehicle, turning the key futility in ignition but still no joy. Afraid of flooding the engine, he stopped, crossed his arms over the steering wheel and rested his head on the cold moulded plastic; his good mood dissipating along with the ice crystals on the windscreen.
After a few moments, he reached under the steering column and popped the bonnet catch. Hauling himself out of the car, he walked around to the front and peered into its innards, checking that all leads and wires were attached where they should be. He knew his way vaguely around an engine, well, at least enough to diagnose the more common ailment hindering internal combustion. He checked fluid levels - oil, water, break fluid - all seemed ok. Greg had ensured him that the vehicle had been fully serviced before the auction. “Well, so much for that!” he muttered to himself and wished a number of minor, but humiliating, medical inflictions on the police mechanics.
After five more minutes of freezing his fingers off, he concluded that the damp had probably seeped into the spark plugs, so headed back into the cottage to root about under the sink for a can of WD40. This search proved in vain, producing only a dried up bottle of Mr Muscle sink un-blocker and can of furniture polish. He had higher hopes for his dad’s shed but, unfortunately, it seemed to have been recently cleared out. Sighing, he went back out to see if the vehicle had miraculously fixed itself in his absence. It hadn’t. Leaning against the passenger door, the frustration welling up in his stomach, he cursed and awaited divine intervention.
“Having problems,” a female voice drifted over the small paddock which separated the cottage from the adjacent farmhouse.
John squinted, the morning mists partially obscuring a tall figure crossing the frosty grass. As they drew nearer, John made out the shape of a young woman - around mid thirties - with a small child hitched up on her left hip. Rosabelle Weiss, he thought.
“She won’t start,” he replied, gesturing towards the defuncted vehicle.
Expertly opening the paddock gate with her elbow, the young woman drew up beside him, swapped the baby to her other hip, and offered John her right hand.
“Rosebelle,” she said, introducing herself. “And I am assuming you’re John. You look quite a bit like your sister”.
John frowned.
“This is Gaby,” she continued, bouncing the blond haired girl on her hip. “Say hello darling,” she encouraged but the child just looked bemused and slightly wary.
John smiled, as politeness warranted. “Hello Gaby,” he cooed in the voice he reserved for Mother and Baby clinics. The infant, who must have been about eighteen months old, turned her head away, hiding her face in her mother’s neck. “Shy,” the woman mouthed as if uttering the word out loud might result in untold psychological damage to the infant.
Rosebelle walked over to the car, peering half-hearted under the open bonnet. “Any idea what’s up with the beast?’ she asked, her accent clearly more Home Counties than Borders.
“Damp,” John replied, shoving his hands in his pocket to try and warm them up a bit.
“I think Eric might have some WD40 in the workshop. If you want to come over to the house I’ll see if I can find it,” she nodded back across the paddock.
“You’re a life saver!” he ejaculated, relief clearly evident in his voice.
“We try,” she smiled. “Where were you heading off, this early in the morning?
As they walked over to the house, John explained his plans and they soon struck up a conversation about some of the best walking routes in the area. She had apparently seen him heading off out on a number of occasions but hadn’t liked to disturb him. Although she never mentioned it directly, John had the impression that Harry must have filled her in on his recent loss.
The farmhouse door was on the latched and she pushed it open with her foot, leading through a rather messy hall - strewn with boots and outdoor gear - into the welcoming warmth of an enormous kitchen. Gesturing for him to sit down in the chair in front of the agar, Rosebelle busied herself with Gaby, taking off her jacket, settling her in a wooden high chair and producing a rusk from an open packet on the kitchen counter.
“If Eric had been in he would have given you a lift to Thropton,” she noted. “But he’s been out since first light checking on the ewes in the top field.”
Ignoring the offer of a seat, John remained standing and nodded in a way which, he hoped, made him seem knowledgeable in the ways of animal husbandry.
“Would you like some tea?” she offered. “You must be frozen solid! How about some breakfast? Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine thanks,” he said, interrupting her stream of questions. “I think I need to get a crack on if I want to make Alwinton for lunch.” He flashed his best smile in the hope of not sounding too rude.
“Yes, right,” she said, “WD40. Can you look after Gaby for a minute while I pop out to the workshop? Won’t be long.”
She disappeared out a door at the opposite end of the kitchen which, presumably, led into the farmyard. He paced up and down in front of the agar, trying to restore some feeling to his frozen toes. Gaby let out a piercing high pitched laugh and he walked over to her high chair to see what was so amusing. Lowering his face down to her level, he received a sticky finger in his eye.
“Whoa there bruiser,” he smiled, taking a step back. The child gurgled in delight for a moment but then lost interest, turning instead to suck intently on her rusk.
The chair was positioned in front of a vast fridge-freezer, and John couldn’t help but cast his eye over the various notices and pictures pinned to its front by a variety of novelty magnets. There were bills for livestock feed, tradesmen’s cards and several children’s drawings. Unless Gaby was an infant protégé, John deduced that the Weisses must have at least one other child. This was confirmed by a holiday snap he found half hidden under a child’s drawing of a smiling pig, the size of elephant and basked under the rays of a super nova sun. The photograph showed Rosebelle, Gaby and two twin boys - about six years old - standing next to a man who must have been Eric Weiss. He was tall and lean; kitted out in a shabby Barbour jacket and worn hunter wellingtons, however, his hair looked neat and newly cut and his faced showing none of tell-tale weathering which marked out most of the farmers in the area.
That’s funny, thought John, and with his interest piqued he turned his attentions to the calendar on the wall next to the fridge. It was one of those monthly planners given away at the end of the year by suppliers to their clients. This one was from an agricultural equipment wholesaler and featured a rather impressive looking seed drill and accompanying tractor. The calendar was marked with the usual type of thing you would expect of a young family - clinic dates for the baby, school trips, dental appointments and a discreet little ‘P’ marked on the 10th of March. John turned back to the previous month and saw a similar annotation at around the same date. Rosebelle was obviously keeping a close eye on her cycles, he thought, so either they want more kids or are trying to avoid them.
After a quick glance towards the back door and a conspiratorial nod to Gaby - who was mashing bits of biscuit into her highchair tray - he flicked through the upcoming months. The first three pages were similarly filled with notes and reminders, but all the pages after were empty which struck him as a bit odd. You might expect the number of appointments to be reduced, but most busy families still marked key dates throughout the year - school term, holidays, anniversaries, clinics, car tax due, income tax returns, MOT - yet there was nothing. Unfortunately, before he could investigate any further, he heard the door handle turn and Rosebelle came back into the room.
“It’s still freezing out there,” she huffed, stamping her feet to restore circulation.
John stepped away from the fridge, trying not to look too furtive. He schooled his face in an expression of calm conviviality: a look he had mastered when dealing with civilians on the streets of Basra.
“Here you go,” she continued, proffering a can of WD40. “That should do the trick.”
He took the can. “Thanks, you really are a godsend.”
He felt a twinge of guilt about snooping around, particularly as the Weisses had gone out of their way to make him welcome.
“Are you sure you won’t have some breakfast, John?” Rosebelle asked as she scooped up the baby from the highchair.
“No thanks, I had something before I left,” he replied.
“Quick cup of tea then? It will warm you up for your walk.”
“No, really, I should go and see if this works,” he waved the can. “I’ll be cutting it fine as it is if I want to make Alwinton by two.”
“Ok then, but come back here if you have no joy,” she smiled. “You can keep the can. I am sure Eric has others,”
“Cheers. Oh, and thanks for the wine and wood and everything,” he added awkwardly.
“It was no trouble. You must come over for dinner or something one night - meet Eric. Are you ok seeing yourself out? Only I need to give this one her porridge, don’t I?” she jiggled the child who grinned and blew little bubbles of spittle.
“Yer, that would be nice. Thanks again for this,” he put the can in his pocket and headed out towards the hall.|
Chapter 6 - Conversing with Ghosts
It snowed on and off for about two weeks; the snow drifting thick and heavy or swirling in icy torrents on a bitter north wind. On brighter days, John would take long walks across the fells, finding solace in the isolation and needle sharp air. Sitting on an outcrop of the rock, overlooking the shrouded valley below, he sometimes mustered the strength to unlock the door in his mind and venture up the stairs of 221b, where he would find Sherlock pouring over a microscope or stretched out languidly on the sofa. Steeling himself, John would try in these moments to say all of the things he never got around to saying when his friend was alive. But even in the relatively safety of his own psyche, he found such conversations awkward and stilted, and more often than not they faltered as soon as they began. Instead, he would just sit and tell Sherlock about items in the news, or small observations he thought would peak the other man’s interest: the line of chalk drawn on the gatepost outside the Queen’s Head in Rothbury which would appear, without fail, every third day but had disappeared by mid afternoon; the empty 50 gallon vat of orange concentrate - marked ‘Exportación de Valencia’ - that he had found abandoned outside the ruined barn to the north of the village, and the perfect circle of newly turned soil - approximately 60m in diameter - which had recently appeared on the west face of Tosson Hill. He could envisage Sherlock pacing around the flat, pontificating on the ‘obvious’ reason behind these strange occurrences and bewailing, yet again, the lumbering tedium of having to endure such an average brain.
In the midst of these exchanges, John would sometimes question whether conducting an imaginary conversation with your dead friend - particularly one in which you were constantly insulted - was necessarily conducive to good mental health. Still, his therapist had told him to do ‘whatever felt right to get himself through’ and he couldn’t see any long-term harm in the practice. It was a mild psychosis, nothing more, although there were times when he genuinely felt that Sherlock was nearby: a palpable presence. More than once he could have sworn he had caught a glimpse of raven dark curls in the passenger seat of a passing car, or the swish of coat tails disappearing down one of the narrow village side streets.
Apparently, such hallucinations and visitation were a perfectly normal part of the grieving process, according to Dr Stewart. She had recounted how one of her patients had been so convinced that their dead husband was alive, that on their wedding anniversary had booked a room in the hotel where they had had spent their honeymoon, absolutely certain that he would turn up. Of course, the poor woman had ended up keeping a cold vigil alone and was forced in the morning to finally accept the reality of her situation. At least, thought John, he wasn’t that far gone. He just found these windswept chats a way of re-establishing a connection with the past. Of remembering Sherlock as he had been, rather than those images of the shattered body on the pavement of Bart’s. And, when the sky began to darken and the cold grew too much for him, John would make his apologies and leave the flat; mentally locking the door behind him. He would then hike back to his parent’s cottage and fall asleep, exhausted.|
Chapter 5 - Breathing Space
John went to stay with Harry for a few days, though it was never going to be a long term solution. She rallied round and did her best but after a week or so she had gradually begun to drive him up the wall. Initially, it had been her over concern and mollycoddling, then, bit-by-bit, her old self obsession and negativity began to resurface. Things eventually reached a crescendo when she told him how she wished her ex was ‘bloody dead’ because that was the only way the bitch would ever stop trying to get money out of her. John didn’t reply but the flash of anger he felt was like a slap.
To be fair, pretty much everything made him angry at the moment. He hated living with his sister; hated not having anywhere to go; hated being invalided out of the army; hated south London and more than anything he hated Sherlock. He hated him for being such a selfish, egotistical, hubristic bastard who, obviously, hadn’t given a damn about anyone else when he’d thrown himself off that roof. More than once he had found himself sincerely wishing he’d never gone to the Criterion coffee bar all those months ago, because then he might not have ended up passing that bloody park bench and running into Stamford, and just maybe this whole sorry tale would have never unravelled. Thankfully, these flashes of self-indulgent misery never lasted. It wasn’t really in John’s nature to feel sorry for himself for too long. Once they had subsided he would be left with an awful feeling of guilt for days.
It was after one particularly violent outburst - when he had spiralled off into a rant because he couldn’t find his house keys - that Dr Stapleton’s email came back to him. Sitting at Harry’s kitchen table, wondering how he was going to explain the fist hole in the living room door, he remembered her comments about Sherlock’s mind mapping techniques. It struck him that if the method could be used to recall information then it might as easily be applied to forgetting, or at least temporarily mislaying, certain memories.
Over the next few days he tried hard to put the technique into practice. Sherlock had previously spent one heinously long, and rather wet, Wednesday afternoon trying to explain the method to him. Although on that particular occasion John had ended up storming out of the flat in exacerbation, he felt he had a fairly good grasp of the basic tenets. Now he found that if he concentrated very hard on a location, he could construct the appropriate network of neural pathways necessary for the technique to work. However, for him it had to be a real place. No celestial ‘mind palace’ for John Watson then it seemed, but rather a quirky two bedroom London flat: 221b Baker Street to be exact. He smiled in a self effacing way and tried again to picture Sherlock folded up like a praying mantis in one of the armchairs. Over the next few hours, he repeatedly went over conversations, events and emotions, pinning each one down to a separate room, item or feature: the smiley face sprayed on the wall; the skull on the mantelpiece; the discarded Cluedo box; the harpoon in the corner. In this way, he ensured that every memory was assigned a safe place. That each was kept secure until the day he could face them all again. Then he locked the front door, put the key in his mental pocket, and walked away.
The technique worked pretty well in general. Well, at least it gave him breathing space and a way to start moving on. Damn it, he was using that bloody phrase now! Sarah was also a huge help. She had come to see him soon after the funeral and they had struck up a friendship again. She’d been a real mate, never pressing him to talk, but always there if he wanted some company, despite his mood swings; and he had been pretty surly with her at times. It had actually been her idea that he should take some time away from London. Just a short break to get his head together and work out what it was he wanted to do in the long term. She had offered him more locum work if he wanted it, but they had both agreed that he needed a bit of time and distance in order to make that kind of decision. Harry - no doubt in a desperate bid to put some distance between them before a familial Armageddon broke out - suggested he should use their parent’s old place up near the Borders. He had jumped at the offer, relishing the idea of some seclusion for a while.Lestrade gave him the heads-up on an ex police 4 x 4 going cheap at auction, and with that packed with the few belonging Mrs Hudson had retrieved for him from the flat, he set off for Rothbury. He had always enjoyed the drive up North, especially the final part of the journey where the road skirted around the edge of the of the Northumberland hills - bleak and unforgiving but utterly beautiful. He found the wild, blasted expanse of the place immensely cathartic, although, with a hint of sadness, it reminded him a little of Dartmoor.
By the time he reached the village it had begun to snow, not much, but it was starting to settle. His mum and dad had bought a place just on the edge of Rothbury back in the 1980s. Originally intended for family holidays, his folks had moved there permanently when his dad retired from Catterick Garrison. John had a handful of fond memories of the old place but it had never really been his home. The family had moved around a lot when he was a growing up, his dad being stationed all over the world, so John had never really developed an attachment to any single place or area. Harry had had more to do with the cottage than him, especially since their parents had died. There was evidence of her numerous visits in the hallway: two Gortex jackets hanging side-by-side to the left of the door, below which were matching pairs of hiking boots, one pair slightly more worn and larger than the other.
The inside of the cottage was surprising warm and aired. In the small living room a fire was banked up in the grate, the embers still glowing. On the table next to the TV there were several family photographs. Central was one of him in his Fusiliers uniform, taken at his passing out parade at Sandhurst. He looked absurdly young, his parents flanking him on each side and all three squinting slightly in the bright sunlight.
Slinging his bag down on the armchair, he hunted round for some wood to build up the fire. There was a small pile set neatly to the right of the grate, and he carefully threw on a couple of likely logs, stoking the fire back into life. After a few minutes warming his hands in front of the crackling flames, he took his coat off, threw it on his backpack and moved over to the dining room table where he noticed a bottle of red wine. There was a note propped up against it. Unfolding the crisp white paper he read the message, written in a neat schoolroom script:
Dear John,
Harry asked me to look in on the place and get a few things ready for you. There is milk in the fridge and bread in the cupboard. I have also put a few bits and bobs in the freezer to keep you going for a few days. Eric has chopped some wood and stacked it in the shed. There should be enough for a week or so and just give us a bell if you need any more. It looks as though the weather might turn, mind, so make sure you get yourself stocked up.
I have left our number on the notice board. Just call if you need anything. Feel free to pop over whenever you fancy. Eric is always up for any excuse for a pint.
Rosabelle Weiss
He was touched by the generosity of the note and the provisions. He wasn’t sure who the Weisses were but he made mental note to call in and thank them when he felt a bit more sociable. He unscrewed the wine and glugged a generous amount out into one of the enormous glasses he had found in the kitchen cupboard. Then, settling in front of the fire, he sat staring into the flames. Outside the snow had begun falling heavily, sealing the village off and shrouding the landscape in silence.
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Chapter 4 - Acceptance
After the funeral, John just couldn’t go back to Baker Street. He had finally faced up to the fact that there would be no sudden denouement, no graveside revelation, no waking up to find that he had dozed off in front of the fire and there was Sherlock, remarking on how deeply unattractive it was to see a grown man with drool running down his chin.
It was over. That brilliant man - his friend - was dead, and John really needed to accept it and get on with his life. He had to stop checking his phone every five minutes in the hope of a text message. Give up the relentless scrutiny of newspaper articles, train timetables and advertising hoardings. End the daily inspection of all surfaces for minute changes in accumulating dust. There was going to be no codicil, no messages written in lemon juice. The hero wouldn’t sweep in at the last moment and save the day with a dramatic swirl of his cloak. Justice didn’t need to prevail. After all, this was real life and not a Victorian crime novel. People died, and when they did, they stayed dead.
Sherlock was gone and he just had to deal with it, but he couldn’t do that at the flat. Without that tenuous hope of a resurrection, 221b Baker Street had become just a clutter shell, full of things he didn’t quite want to remember at this point in time. It was best to just walk away. His therapist didn’t agree of course. She believed that he had to face his guilt, embrace the loss and ‘experience his emotions fully’, only then could he get past them and ‘move on’. As a professional, John had the greatest respect for Dr Stewart. As a junior doctor, he had undertaken a rotation on a Pysch ward himself, and knew first-hand the physical and mental havoc that emotional stress could wreak upon the human body. Nevertheless, at this particular moment in time, he wished his esteemed colleague would shut the fuck up about ‘moving on’. If he heard the phrase again, he swore he would batter her to death with her own copy of Studies in Hysteria.
She kept trying to get him to talk to Sherlock. To say all those things he had failed to say when his friend was alive. Well, he had tried that after the funeral but it hadn’t helped. Yes, on one level he fully understood the significance of the cognitive approach she was advocating, but an appreciation of the validity of the therapy still didn’t stop him feeling like his guts had been eviscerated and stretched out in the air like the strings of an Aeolian harp. No thanks, he had he own ways of dealing with loss. It needed to be screwed down tight and packed away. It was his own personal coping mechanism and had always served him pretty well in the past.