In Between (15/16)
Title: In Between (15/16)
Author: Greens (marcal_92)
Artist: sarlyne
Beta: sachtastic
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Mary Morstan, Victor Trevor, Irene Adler, Jim Moriarty John/Mary, Sherlock/Victor
Warnings violence, character death a la Reichenbach
Summary: After Sherlock manages to get himself and John ejected from Harrods at Christmas, the boys make the acquaintance of Baker Street newcomer, Mary Morstan. At around the same time, a message from Jim Moriarty forces Sherlock to seek help from an ‘old friend’. As Mary and John grow closer, the question of who this ‘old friend’ may be rattles John’s brain. Just who was this man to Sherlock? How exactly was a man who Sherlock hadn’t been in contact with for years going to provide aid to the detective? And what sinister plan does Moriarty have up his sleeve this time? (AU starting during a Scandal in Belgravia)
Author Notes: Written forholmes_big_bang. This is the first time I’ve done a big bang and it’s by far the longest Sherlock fic I’ve ever written. I am in absolute love with this story and I hope you guys love it too. Make sure to check out sarlyne’s art, which is amazing! I also just want to say thanks to sachtastic who stuck with me through this process as my beta/brit-picker. I learned quite a bit. Comments=LOVE! I hope you enjoy this:)
January 13
The first thing he noticed was the searing pain as he attempted to slowly open his eyes to blinding sunlight. With a soft cry, he lifted his hand up to his left shoulder where his shirt was saturated with his own blood. His head ached from when he had fallen, but at that moment all he knew was that it didn’t matter how much pain he was in, or how bad is injuries were, John needed to get up. He needed to get down to the street and he needed to get to Sherlock.
As he pushed himself up, John didn’t want to imagine the carnage that he would see once he reached street level. With some difficulty, he inched himself along, his mind racing and shoulder burning as he headed down the way he had come up. John wished that he could will himself to move faster. He wished that he could run down those stairs but his trek was taking much longer than he had wanted.
As much as he wanted to keep the visions of Sherlock out of his mind, John found it much too difficult. There wasn’t any way that Sherlock could have survived that plunge. As he continued his way down the stairs, he did all he could to convince himself that Sherlock Holmes was not dead. John however, had always been a terrible liar. He couldn’t even lie to himself.
The buzz became more noticeable as John finally reached the street. The scene was cordoned off, but John could clearly see the deep red pools that stained the pavement. It was like he had tunnel vision. He could hear the voices around him in mumbled echoes as he dragged himself closer to where he had expected to find them both. The scene was already being cleared away; all that was left were police photographers and investigators.
John looked left and right at the official vehicles that lined the road, but his eyes settled on the one person who he had expected to be far from this place by now. He urged himself forward, out to the taxi that still sat on the side of the road.
Victor sat in the driver’s seat, his skin and clothing stained the colour crimson. He looked up at John, but said nothing. John knew whose blood Victor wore, but he needed to hear it anyway. He needed to hear the words that solidified his greatest fear.
“Is he…” John couldn’t manage to finish choking out his question. “Sherlock…”
Victor nodded, remaining silent for a moment before finally speaking. “He’s gone. He didn’t- he didn’t have a chance. Neither of them did.”
John shut his eyes, using all his might to keep himself standing upright. His shoulder was stinging and his head ached. The world around him was spinning and he was angry. He was angry with Sherlock and with Moriarty, he was angry with Victor and he was angry with himself.
“You’re hurt,” Victor said softly.
John’s laugh was painful, revealing everything he was feeling at that very moment. “So what,” he said, drawing the attention of Lestrade, who was still on the scene. “I’m hurt. So-what? Sherlock is dead. He’s dead, Victor. He needed to be some sort of hero, needed to settle some kind of vendetta against Moriarty. This was his fight and nobody else’s. He had to do this his way, just like everything else and now-he’s dead.”
John shook his head in a futile attempt to erase everything that had just happened, as if he could rewind time and have everything go back to the way things were before. He choked back the tears that were fighting to be released, calling on every ounce of strength he had left.
“I want to see him,” John said as Lestrade approached him from behind.
“We need to get you looked at,” Lestrade urged gently. His face was worn and his expression almost hopeless. For a man whose job involved him dealing with death on a regular basis, Lestrade was facing something different now, the death of a colleague, of a friend.
“Greg,” John added simply.
Lestrade took a deep breath. He knew that he wasn’t going to get John to agree to anything before seeing Sherlock.
“Come on,” Lestrade said, leading John slowly back towards St. Bart’s. He watched John’s pale, expressionless face as they reached the door to the morgue. John had been closer to Sherlock than anyone and Lestrade was unsure how he was going to react once he entered the room.
“That other friend of Sherlock’s, the cab driver,” Lestrade said as they stood outside the doors, “He managed to break through the crowd when Sherlock fell.” He paused. “He-died on impact.”
“Is Molly working the post-mortem?”
“We told her that she might want to pass this one on to somebody else, but she insisted.”
“She loved Sherlock.” John rested his hand on the mortuary doors.
“She’ll be present for a post-mortem,” Lestrade added, “If there even is one, which I doubt. As for an inquest- Mycroft might just want this whole thing to disappear.”
John was disgusted with this entire situation. Of course Mycroft would want to sweep this all under the rug as if it never happened. That way, he wouldn’t have to deal with any of it.
John couldn’t bear it any longer. He felt sick to his stomach, most likely due to the blood loss, and he just wanted to see Sherlock. He just wanted to say goodbye to his friend. He took a slow, deep, determined breath and pushed his way inside.
With the exception of the two covered examination tables, the morgue was empty. John moved slowly towards the table closest to him, knowing just by looking at it that the sheet covered Sherlock’s broken body.
John grabbed at his shoulder; the pain was becoming more and more unbearable. He stared absently at the sheet that covered his friend and waited a moment before reaching out and pulling it back slightly.
John’s breath caught in his throat as he looked down at Sherlock’s face. His usually lively, dark hair was plastered to the side of his head but he looked surprisingly at peace. John placed his hand down on Sherlock’s covered shoulder and left it there for a moment, studying his face, recalling each expression that had graced it.
“Sherlock?” John spoke softly. “If you just-open your eyes now. Maybe I’m still up on the roof, maybe this is all a hallucination, a nightmare. Maybe you’re still alive. Sherlock-can you just do something to tell me that none of this is real?”
He knew it was wishful thinking, but John couldn’t help it. He was not ready to live in a world without Sherlock Holmes. That was something unimaginable to him.
Sherlock wasn’t coming back. Death was permanent and Sherlock was undoubtedly dead. John felt himself becoming sick to his stomach. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and pursed his lips tightly. He slowly lifted the sheet back up and over Sherlock’s face. This was goodbye.
As he backed out of the mortuary, John had all but given in to the excruciating pain radiating though his arm. He looked down at it once again, pressing his fingers to the wound with a cringe.
“John?” Lestrade quickly approached him.
“Can we just-go?” he asked. “I’m in agony.”
Lestrade nodded, leading him away from the morgue and out into the hallway. “Do you want me to call anybody?” Lestrade asked as John settled himself down into a seat.
John shook his head.
“What the hell happened up there, John?” Lestrade asked, running his fingers back through his hair.
“I don’t know,” John replied honestly. “I really just-don’t know.”
“John?” a worried female voice called from the distance.
Both men turned their heads to see Mary rushing towards them. “I’m going to leave you two,” Lestrade said to John. “We’ll talk later.”
Mary hurried to where John sat, falling to her knees in front of him. “Oh my God,” she said. “I got a phone-call, they told me you were here, they told me you were hurt…”
“I’ll be fine.” John swallowed hard. “The doctors will fix me up, I’ll be…”
Mary reached out and grabbed his hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. She watched John’s face as he lost his composure. He simply couldn’t hold it back any longer.
“Sherlock…” John choked.
ldquo;I know.” She pulled John closer and he leaned forward against her, his tears finally breaking through.
John was overwhelmed, his emotions in overdrive. Between the physical and emotional pain, he wasn’t sure what to feel anymore. He longed for numbness. He didn’t want to feel anything.
“I’m going to have to-tell…” John could barely speak. Not only was Sherlock gone, but sooner or later, Mary was going to have to learn the truth about Richard. “What am I supposed to do, Mary?”
“Shh,” Mary soothed him. Her hands rubbed gently against his back as he shook in her arms. “You’re going to be OK. You’re going to be fine, John. Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”
“You can’t make that promise,” John said, pulling back so that he could look her in the eyes.
Mary lifted her hand and cupped John’s cheek. “Have I ever lied to you?”
John shook his head.
“I know you loved him. I know that he was your best friend. And even though Sherlock was-he never said it, but I know that he cared about you just as much as you cared about him.”
John thought back to what Victor had said earlier. Sherlock had never wanted him here. He had known that this showdown with Moriarty was not going to have a happy ending. He was trying to keep John safe. What Sherlock hadn’t foreseen however, was that even if John hadn’t been on that roof, he would still be broken. Sherlock wouldn’t have saved him after all.
“You’re strong, John,” Mary said, “Stronger than any man I know. You’re going to get through this. I’m going to help you.”
John leaned forward again, he forehead resting on Mary’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, securely.
“You still have me,” Mary spoke in a whisper. “We’ll make it together.”
Chapter Sixteen
Author: Greens (marcal_92)
Artist: sarlyne
Beta: sachtastic
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Mary Morstan, Victor Trevor, Irene Adler, Jim Moriarty John/Mary, Sherlock/Victor
Warnings violence, character death a la Reichenbach
Summary: After Sherlock manages to get himself and John ejected from Harrods at Christmas, the boys make the acquaintance of Baker Street newcomer, Mary Morstan. At around the same time, a message from Jim Moriarty forces Sherlock to seek help from an ‘old friend’. As Mary and John grow closer, the question of who this ‘old friend’ may be rattles John’s brain. Just who was this man to Sherlock? How exactly was a man who Sherlock hadn’t been in contact with for years going to provide aid to the detective? And what sinister plan does Moriarty have up his sleeve this time? (AU starting during a Scandal in Belgravia)
Author Notes: Written forholmes_big_bang. This is the first time I’ve done a big bang and it’s by far the longest Sherlock fic I’ve ever written. I am in absolute love with this story and I hope you guys love it too. Make sure to check out sarlyne’s art, which is amazing! I also just want to say thanks to sachtastic who stuck with me through this process as my beta/brit-picker. I learned quite a bit. Comments=LOVE! I hope you enjoy this:)
January 13
The first thing he noticed was the searing pain as he attempted to slowly open his eyes to blinding sunlight. With a soft cry, he lifted his hand up to his left shoulder where his shirt was saturated with his own blood. His head ached from when he had fallen, but at that moment all he knew was that it didn’t matter how much pain he was in, or how bad is injuries were, John needed to get up. He needed to get down to the street and he needed to get to Sherlock.
As he pushed himself up, John didn’t want to imagine the carnage that he would see once he reached street level. With some difficulty, he inched himself along, his mind racing and shoulder burning as he headed down the way he had come up. John wished that he could will himself to move faster. He wished that he could run down those stairs but his trek was taking much longer than he had wanted.
As much as he wanted to keep the visions of Sherlock out of his mind, John found it much too difficult. There wasn’t any way that Sherlock could have survived that plunge. As he continued his way down the stairs, he did all he could to convince himself that Sherlock Holmes was not dead. John however, had always been a terrible liar. He couldn’t even lie to himself.
The buzz became more noticeable as John finally reached the street. The scene was cordoned off, but John could clearly see the deep red pools that stained the pavement. It was like he had tunnel vision. He could hear the voices around him in mumbled echoes as he dragged himself closer to where he had expected to find them both. The scene was already being cleared away; all that was left were police photographers and investigators.
John looked left and right at the official vehicles that lined the road, but his eyes settled on the one person who he had expected to be far from this place by now. He urged himself forward, out to the taxi that still sat on the side of the road.
Victor sat in the driver’s seat, his skin and clothing stained the colour crimson. He looked up at John, but said nothing. John knew whose blood Victor wore, but he needed to hear it anyway. He needed to hear the words that solidified his greatest fear.
“Is he…” John couldn’t manage to finish choking out his question. “Sherlock…”
Victor nodded, remaining silent for a moment before finally speaking. “He’s gone. He didn’t- he didn’t have a chance. Neither of them did.”
John shut his eyes, using all his might to keep himself standing upright. His shoulder was stinging and his head ached. The world around him was spinning and he was angry. He was angry with Sherlock and with Moriarty, he was angry with Victor and he was angry with himself.
“You’re hurt,” Victor said softly.
John’s laugh was painful, revealing everything he was feeling at that very moment. “So what,” he said, drawing the attention of Lestrade, who was still on the scene. “I’m hurt. So-what? Sherlock is dead. He’s dead, Victor. He needed to be some sort of hero, needed to settle some kind of vendetta against Moriarty. This was his fight and nobody else’s. He had to do this his way, just like everything else and now-he’s dead.”
John shook his head in a futile attempt to erase everything that had just happened, as if he could rewind time and have everything go back to the way things were before. He choked back the tears that were fighting to be released, calling on every ounce of strength he had left.
“I want to see him,” John said as Lestrade approached him from behind.
“We need to get you looked at,” Lestrade urged gently. His face was worn and his expression almost hopeless. For a man whose job involved him dealing with death on a regular basis, Lestrade was facing something different now, the death of a colleague, of a friend.
“Greg,” John added simply.
Lestrade took a deep breath. He knew that he wasn’t going to get John to agree to anything before seeing Sherlock.
“Come on,” Lestrade said, leading John slowly back towards St. Bart’s. He watched John’s pale, expressionless face as they reached the door to the morgue. John had been closer to Sherlock than anyone and Lestrade was unsure how he was going to react once he entered the room.
“That other friend of Sherlock’s, the cab driver,” Lestrade said as they stood outside the doors, “He managed to break through the crowd when Sherlock fell.” He paused. “He-died on impact.”
“Is Molly working the post-mortem?”
“We told her that she might want to pass this one on to somebody else, but she insisted.”
“She loved Sherlock.” John rested his hand on the mortuary doors.
“She’ll be present for a post-mortem,” Lestrade added, “If there even is one, which I doubt. As for an inquest- Mycroft might just want this whole thing to disappear.”
John was disgusted with this entire situation. Of course Mycroft would want to sweep this all under the rug as if it never happened. That way, he wouldn’t have to deal with any of it.
John couldn’t bear it any longer. He felt sick to his stomach, most likely due to the blood loss, and he just wanted to see Sherlock. He just wanted to say goodbye to his friend. He took a slow, deep, determined breath and pushed his way inside.
With the exception of the two covered examination tables, the morgue was empty. John moved slowly towards the table closest to him, knowing just by looking at it that the sheet covered Sherlock’s broken body.
John grabbed at his shoulder; the pain was becoming more and more unbearable. He stared absently at the sheet that covered his friend and waited a moment before reaching out and pulling it back slightly.
John’s breath caught in his throat as he looked down at Sherlock’s face. His usually lively, dark hair was plastered to the side of his head but he looked surprisingly at peace. John placed his hand down on Sherlock’s covered shoulder and left it there for a moment, studying his face, recalling each expression that had graced it.
“Sherlock?” John spoke softly. “If you just-open your eyes now. Maybe I’m still up on the roof, maybe this is all a hallucination, a nightmare. Maybe you’re still alive. Sherlock-can you just do something to tell me that none of this is real?”
He knew it was wishful thinking, but John couldn’t help it. He was not ready to live in a world without Sherlock Holmes. That was something unimaginable to him.
Sherlock wasn’t coming back. Death was permanent and Sherlock was undoubtedly dead. John felt himself becoming sick to his stomach. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and pursed his lips tightly. He slowly lifted the sheet back up and over Sherlock’s face. This was goodbye.
As he backed out of the mortuary, John had all but given in to the excruciating pain radiating though his arm. He looked down at it once again, pressing his fingers to the wound with a cringe.
“John?” Lestrade quickly approached him.
“Can we just-go?” he asked. “I’m in agony.”
Lestrade nodded, leading him away from the morgue and out into the hallway. “Do you want me to call anybody?” Lestrade asked as John settled himself down into a seat.
John shook his head.
“What the hell happened up there, John?” Lestrade asked, running his fingers back through his hair.
“I don’t know,” John replied honestly. “I really just-don’t know.”
“John?” a worried female voice called from the distance.
Both men turned their heads to see Mary rushing towards them. “I’m going to leave you two,” Lestrade said to John. “We’ll talk later.”
Mary hurried to where John sat, falling to her knees in front of him. “Oh my God,” she said. “I got a phone-call, they told me you were here, they told me you were hurt…”
“I’ll be fine.” John swallowed hard. “The doctors will fix me up, I’ll be…”
Mary reached out and grabbed his hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. She watched John’s face as he lost his composure. He simply couldn’t hold it back any longer.
“Sherlock…” John choked.
ldquo;I know.” She pulled John closer and he leaned forward against her, his tears finally breaking through.
John was overwhelmed, his emotions in overdrive. Between the physical and emotional pain, he wasn’t sure what to feel anymore. He longed for numbness. He didn’t want to feel anything.
“I’m going to have to-tell…” John could barely speak. Not only was Sherlock gone, but sooner or later, Mary was going to have to learn the truth about Richard. “What am I supposed to do, Mary?”
“Shh,” Mary soothed him. Her hands rubbed gently against his back as he shook in her arms. “You’re going to be OK. You’re going to be fine, John. Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”
“You can’t make that promise,” John said, pulling back so that he could look her in the eyes.
Mary lifted her hand and cupped John’s cheek. “Have I ever lied to you?”
John shook his head.
“I know you loved him. I know that he was your best friend. And even though Sherlock was-he never said it, but I know that he cared about you just as much as you cared about him.”
John thought back to what Victor had said earlier. Sherlock had never wanted him here. He had known that this showdown with Moriarty was not going to have a happy ending. He was trying to keep John safe. What Sherlock hadn’t foreseen however, was that even if John hadn’t been on that roof, he would still be broken. Sherlock wouldn’t have saved him after all.
“You’re strong, John,” Mary said, “Stronger than any man I know. You’re going to get through this. I’m going to help you.”
John leaned forward again, he forehead resting on Mary’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, securely.
“You still have me,” Mary spoke in a whisper. “We’ll make it together.”
Chapter Sixteen