In Between (16/16)
Title: In Between (16/16)
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:)
THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON
July 10
Six Months Later
I’ve been rather absent lately. Each time I sit down and try to write something, it usually ends one of three ways:
More times than not, I’m stuck with option three. It’s not that I don’t know what to say, it’s that I can never find the right words to convey exactly how I feel. I honestly don’t think that those words exist and if they do, somebody needs to teach them to me because ever since January, I’ve felt, for lack of a better term, lost.
Whoever it was that said time makes things easier was a liar. It has been 179 days and I still wake up some nights in a cold sweat. It’s been half a year and still I wonder if things would have ended differently if I had never gone up on that roof. And, although Mary is constantly telling me that it’s not true, I often blame myself for Sherlock’s death.
For a long time, I was angry with other people. I was angry with Sherlock for going up on that rooftop alone. I was angry with Moriarty for being the evil, bastard that he was. I was angry with Victor for allowing Sherlock to confront the criminal on his own. But in the end, I am angry with myself. I’m angry that I couldn’t do something to save him, I’m angry that all I could do was look down at my best friend, laying on a slab in the mortuary and wonder ‘what if.’
Physically, my wounds have healed. I only have another scar to add to my collection. Having Mary around has helped a lot. We’ve been a help each other to be honest. Learning the truth about what had happened to her cousin Richard was difficult for her, but she grieved and I am grateful that she was able to do that. Moriarty took a lot of things from a lot of people, but allowing Mary the time she needed to mourn was one of the positive things that came from his death.
I have since left 221B. With Sherlock gone, it simply didn’t feel like home any more. To be quite honest, I was beginning to feel like a grieving widow holed up inside that flat. While I was thankful for the cooked dinners and the invitations to tea or the pub, I knew that for me to begin moving forward with my life I needed to leave that place. It broke my heart to say goodbye to that part of my life, but I welcome what the future may hold for me.
Mary and I are getting married in autumn. I don’t know what I would do without her. She has been brilliant in dealing with me over the last few months. Her patience and understanding know no bounds and I am a lucky man. All things considered, I am truly a lucky man.
Looking back now, I remember making my very first entry to this blog. ‘Nothing happens to me.’ I was a different man then. I was lost in a world that should have been familiar, caught in between who I was before Afghanistan and who I had become and nothing made sense. I was unhappy and what I wrote was true. Nothing ever did happen to me-until I met Sherlock. My life changed forever that day and I’ve never looked back. Not having him here hurts. He was my best friend and I owe him so much more than he knew. He saved me from myself, rescued me from an uneventful life. Because of Sherlock Holmes, everything happened. My life wouldn’t be what it is today if it hadn’t been for him. There will never be a day that goes by when I don’t think of Sherlock. My life is better for having known him.
I suppose it’s about time I wrap this up. Greg has finally convinced me to go out for a pint and Mary has been on me to spend some time with my old friends. It might be nice to get out for a change. I guess we’ll see how things go. (Read More)
John moved the mouse, hovering over the ‘post’ button, looking back at what he had just written. He wavered between clicking or not, arguing with himself internally. Finally, with a deep breath and a determined nod, John clicked the button, sending his post into cyberspace.
He shut his laptop and stood from his seat, giving his neck a roll. Slowly, John stepped out of the room and into the lobby. He checked his trouser pockets for his keys and mobile before turning back.
“Mary!” he called back into the flat. “I’m going to meet Greg at the pub.”
John really didn’t want to go, but knew that he needed to at least make an effort to return to some sort of normalcy.
Lestrade had called him at least once a week since Sherlock’s death, most likely in an attempt to ensure John hadn’t done something rash in his depression. Mrs. Hudson stopped by regularly for the first few weeks after John moved out of 221B. He knew that Mary had kept in constant contact with her, even when the visits slowly came to a stop.
Mycroft, however, never contacted John. Through Molly, he had learned that there had been no post-mortem and Mycroft refused the inquest on Sherlock. John had been correct in his thinking that Mycroft would just make everything disappear. He was notorious for that. Since that day in January, there were no calls, no texts and no unexpected visits. Mycroft did not surface and now, six months later, John still didn’t know what had become of the elder Holmes.
Mary hurried to meet John by the door, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. John smiled when he saw her, he always did and it was always genuine.
“Are you going to be alright?” Mary asked. “I know it’s been a while.”
John nodded, pushing Mary’s hair behind her ears. “Of course,” he smiled, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Mary took John’s face in her hands and kissed him gingerly before resting her forehead against his. “Try to have some fun tonight.”
John nodded once again, pausing a moment before he turned and headed out the door.
Down the road, a cab pulled to the kerb, idled for a moment and then drove off. It made a series of random rights and lefts for about fifteen minutes before beginning to drive out of London. Victor reclined in the back seat, leaning his head back and watching out the window as the view slowly changed. He was much too familiar with the trek by now, but something about that night was different. It forced a smile to his face and he felt surprisingly at ease with himself.
Victor lost track of time after an hour and the cab continued driving. With a deep sigh, he rolled down the rear window just slightly as he continued to stare out. He inhaled deeply, memorizing the scent of his approaching destination. It was much different than the city, there was a crisper smell in the air and it put Victor at peace.
The night was surprisingly tranquil and clear, the moon lighting up the sky as Victor neared his final destination. The taxi crawled stop and Victor stepped out of the back. He walked for an additional ten minutes, following path that he knew by memory before shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and coming up with a set of keys. With one turn, Victor made his way up to the front door of the flat.
It was dark as Victor stepped inside, but he didn’t put on the lights. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and padded into the sitting room, where the armchairs were arranged in front of the window. Victor smiled, made his way towards them and quietly took a seat. There was silence for a moment and Victor turned his head to the left, resting it on the back of his chair.
“He’s gone out for the night,” Victor said gently. “I think Mary’s finally convinced him that hiding away isn’t going to help.” He paused. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock went unmoved; his head leaned back as he gazed out the window. His hair was cropped short and his arms were folded across his chest. He shifted his weight gently to face him, cringing slightly as he moved in his chair.
“Good,” Sherlock finally responded. “John’s going out, he’s moving forward. Good. Things need to continue this way. It’s needs to be as if I truly am dead.”
Victor took a deep breath. “No problem there,” he said. “Nobody suspects anything. I’ve been watching for months. Believe me, Sherlock-you’re dead.”
“What about Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.
“He’s still in Yorkshire with your mum,” Victor said. “It’s been harder on him than you think.”
“This is the way it needs to be,” Sherlock repeated.
They fell into silence again. Victor noticed that for someone driven by such determination, there was a deep sadness in Sherlock’s eyes. Sometimes, he seemed lost within himself, cursed by the task he had decided to take on alone.
“Are you going back out?” Sherlock asked, twisting in his seat to look out the window once more.
“No,” Victor said, leaning back in his own chair, mimicking Sherlock’s position. “It’s a clear night. I thought it might be nice to stay in.”
Silence fell again as their eyes focused on the night sky, the stars burning brightly against a dark canvas. It had been years since Sherlock simply stared out at the sky. He had forgotten what he found so pleasurable about it. It was in that moment that he finally remembered.
Out of the corner of his eye, Victor would swear, that for the first time in months, he saw Sherlock smile.
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:)
THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON
July 10
Six Months Later
I’ve been rather absent lately. Each time I sit down and try to write something, it usually ends one of three ways:
- I delete the entire thing.
- I end up keeping my entry private
- I can’t think of anything to write at all
More times than not, I’m stuck with option three. It’s not that I don’t know what to say, it’s that I can never find the right words to convey exactly how I feel. I honestly don’t think that those words exist and if they do, somebody needs to teach them to me because ever since January, I’ve felt, for lack of a better term, lost.
Whoever it was that said time makes things easier was a liar. It has been 179 days and I still wake up some nights in a cold sweat. It’s been half a year and still I wonder if things would have ended differently if I had never gone up on that roof. And, although Mary is constantly telling me that it’s not true, I often blame myself for Sherlock’s death.
For a long time, I was angry with other people. I was angry with Sherlock for going up on that rooftop alone. I was angry with Moriarty for being the evil, bastard that he was. I was angry with Victor for allowing Sherlock to confront the criminal on his own. But in the end, I am angry with myself. I’m angry that I couldn’t do something to save him, I’m angry that all I could do was look down at my best friend, laying on a slab in the mortuary and wonder ‘what if.’
Physically, my wounds have healed. I only have another scar to add to my collection. Having Mary around has helped a lot. We’ve been a help each other to be honest. Learning the truth about what had happened to her cousin Richard was difficult for her, but she grieved and I am grateful that she was able to do that. Moriarty took a lot of things from a lot of people, but allowing Mary the time she needed to mourn was one of the positive things that came from his death.
I have since left 221B. With Sherlock gone, it simply didn’t feel like home any more. To be quite honest, I was beginning to feel like a grieving widow holed up inside that flat. While I was thankful for the cooked dinners and the invitations to tea or the pub, I knew that for me to begin moving forward with my life I needed to leave that place. It broke my heart to say goodbye to that part of my life, but I welcome what the future may hold for me.
Mary and I are getting married in autumn. I don’t know what I would do without her. She has been brilliant in dealing with me over the last few months. Her patience and understanding know no bounds and I am a lucky man. All things considered, I am truly a lucky man.
Looking back now, I remember making my very first entry to this blog. ‘Nothing happens to me.’ I was a different man then. I was lost in a world that should have been familiar, caught in between who I was before Afghanistan and who I had become and nothing made sense. I was unhappy and what I wrote was true. Nothing ever did happen to me-until I met Sherlock. My life changed forever that day and I’ve never looked back. Not having him here hurts. He was my best friend and I owe him so much more than he knew. He saved me from myself, rescued me from an uneventful life. Because of Sherlock Holmes, everything happened. My life wouldn’t be what it is today if it hadn’t been for him. There will never be a day that goes by when I don’t think of Sherlock. My life is better for having known him.
I suppose it’s about time I wrap this up. Greg has finally convinced me to go out for a pint and Mary has been on me to spend some time with my old friends. It might be nice to get out for a change. I guess we’ll see how things go. (Read More)
John moved the mouse, hovering over the ‘post’ button, looking back at what he had just written. He wavered between clicking or not, arguing with himself internally. Finally, with a deep breath and a determined nod, John clicked the button, sending his post into cyberspace.
He shut his laptop and stood from his seat, giving his neck a roll. Slowly, John stepped out of the room and into the lobby. He checked his trouser pockets for his keys and mobile before turning back.
“Mary!” he called back into the flat. “I’m going to meet Greg at the pub.”
John really didn’t want to go, but knew that he needed to at least make an effort to return to some sort of normalcy.
Lestrade had called him at least once a week since Sherlock’s death, most likely in an attempt to ensure John hadn’t done something rash in his depression. Mrs. Hudson stopped by regularly for the first few weeks after John moved out of 221B. He knew that Mary had kept in constant contact with her, even when the visits slowly came to a stop.
Mycroft, however, never contacted John. Through Molly, he had learned that there had been no post-mortem and Mycroft refused the inquest on Sherlock. John had been correct in his thinking that Mycroft would just make everything disappear. He was notorious for that. Since that day in January, there were no calls, no texts and no unexpected visits. Mycroft did not surface and now, six months later, John still didn’t know what had become of the elder Holmes.
Mary hurried to meet John by the door, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. John smiled when he saw her, he always did and it was always genuine.
“Are you going to be alright?” Mary asked. “I know it’s been a while.”
John nodded, pushing Mary’s hair behind her ears. “Of course,” he smiled, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Mary took John’s face in her hands and kissed him gingerly before resting her forehead against his. “Try to have some fun tonight.”
John nodded once again, pausing a moment before he turned and headed out the door.
Down the road, a cab pulled to the kerb, idled for a moment and then drove off. It made a series of random rights and lefts for about fifteen minutes before beginning to drive out of London. Victor reclined in the back seat, leaning his head back and watching out the window as the view slowly changed. He was much too familiar with the trek by now, but something about that night was different. It forced a smile to his face and he felt surprisingly at ease with himself.
Victor lost track of time after an hour and the cab continued driving. With a deep sigh, he rolled down the rear window just slightly as he continued to stare out. He inhaled deeply, memorizing the scent of his approaching destination. It was much different than the city, there was a crisper smell in the air and it put Victor at peace.
The night was surprisingly tranquil and clear, the moon lighting up the sky as Victor neared his final destination. The taxi crawled stop and Victor stepped out of the back. He walked for an additional ten minutes, following path that he knew by memory before shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and coming up with a set of keys. With one turn, Victor made his way up to the front door of the flat.
It was dark as Victor stepped inside, but he didn’t put on the lights. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and padded into the sitting room, where the armchairs were arranged in front of the window. Victor smiled, made his way towards them and quietly took a seat. There was silence for a moment and Victor turned his head to the left, resting it on the back of his chair.
“He’s gone out for the night,” Victor said gently. “I think Mary’s finally convinced him that hiding away isn’t going to help.” He paused. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock went unmoved; his head leaned back as he gazed out the window. His hair was cropped short and his arms were folded across his chest. He shifted his weight gently to face him, cringing slightly as he moved in his chair.
“Good,” Sherlock finally responded. “John’s going out, he’s moving forward. Good. Things need to continue this way. It’s needs to be as if I truly am dead.”
Victor took a deep breath. “No problem there,” he said. “Nobody suspects anything. I’ve been watching for months. Believe me, Sherlock-you’re dead.”
“What about Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.
“He’s still in Yorkshire with your mum,” Victor said. “It’s been harder on him than you think.”
“This is the way it needs to be,” Sherlock repeated.
They fell into silence again. Victor noticed that for someone driven by such determination, there was a deep sadness in Sherlock’s eyes. Sometimes, he seemed lost within himself, cursed by the task he had decided to take on alone.
“Are you going back out?” Sherlock asked, twisting in his seat to look out the window once more.
“No,” Victor said, leaning back in his own chair, mimicking Sherlock’s position. “It’s a clear night. I thought it might be nice to stay in.”
Silence fell again as their eyes focused on the night sky, the stars burning brightly against a dark canvas. It had been years since Sherlock simply stared out at the sky. He had forgotten what he found so pleasurable about it. It was in that moment that he finally remembered.
Out of the corner of his eye, Victor would swear, that for the first time in months, he saw Sherlock smile.