Sherlock fic: Regret, Shared
His assistant had already notified him, so Mycroft was
prepared for John's entry into his study. What he wasn't prepared for was the
sheer exhaustion that emanated from every ounce of John's body. He had
dutifully studied the CCTV images to keep up with Sherlock's friend, but those grainy
views could little prepare him for the deep lines of grief that had prematurely
aged the former soldier.
Mycroft expected rage. John had hardly spoken to him at the
funeral, and their conversation previous to that had been distressing in so many
ways that Mycroft felt deep lines of regret etched into his memory, every bit
as deep as the sleep-deprived crevasses of John's solemn face. Yet, beneath the
pain, the doctor was calm, a kind of preternatural calm that sent warning bells
ringing through Mycroft's mind.
John seated himself in the chair opposite Mycroft's,
bringing up almost unbearable memories of their previous contentious encounter.
The door closed behind him, leaving them alone.
Mycroft was at a loss to begin. He could hardly ask,
"How are you?” when the wretched answer was so readily apparent in front
of him. John would quite likely resent the question to begin with; he well knew
that he was often under Mycroft’s eye.
So they merely stared at one another for a long quarter of a
minute, holding each other's gaze. Something was different. Beyond the grief,
something had changed; an energy, an intention. Mycroft couldn't put his finger
on it. Then John opened his mouth, and solved it for him.
“I just want to know where he is.”
Through long practice, Mycroft held his face still, though
his mind worked furiously. This could be a bluff-yet there was nothing sharp in
John's manner that would hint of a bluff. There was only the pervasive
weariness, a patient curiosity, and a well of remorse to rival Mycroft's own.
“Sherlock told me himself,” John continued, when it became
apparent that Mycroft wasn't going to speak. “I didn't figure out what he was
trying to tell me until much later-not until this morning, in fact. Then it
burst upon me like a thunderclap, how he'd done it. It was so… clear.”
If John expected Mycroft to react to that statement, he
would be disappointed. Yet he didn’t seem to need a response, just continued on
in that same, deadpan voice. “So I know it was all staged. What I don't yet
know is why. I imagine he’ll have told you. I have my guesses, but I'd really
rather have Sherlock tell me myself. Well, verify my suspicions, actually.” He
shrugged his shoulders in almost humorous resignation. “Surely I’ve played my
part. No one who was watching me these last days could doubt that I believed
Sherlock was dead, since that's obviously the effect he was going after.”
Mycroft weighed it all carefully: John's words, his
attitude, the emotion behind it. John had convinced himself that Sherlock was
alive. But the danger was so real, so pressing, that Mycroft had to probe
further. Perhaps he could find a flaw in the information that Sherlock
supposedly gave John; it shouldn't be too hard to convince him that he was
grasping at straws, if Mycroft could prove a fault in the data.
“What did Sherlock tell you?”
“He said he was a fake. Now, you know and I know that his
gift was real. So why would he say that?”
“He was giving you the reason-“
“He was giving me the public reason, the one that
ended up in the papers, the one that was part of the illusion he was trying to
create. The private reason was very different, wasn't it?”
Mycroft opted to dissemble. “If we knew what goes on in the
mind of the man about to commit suicide-”
“But he didn't commit suicide. He told me the deductions
he'd made had all been a ‘magic trick’. But nothing he’d done previous to this
was trickery. This was his magic trick-this was the fake. This act.”
“A swan dive off a five-story building is hardly an act.”
“I never saw him land, you know? He had me stand back, round
the corner of another building where I couldn't see the pavement below him.
Somehow, I don't know how, he cushioned his fall. I was knocked down coming toward
him-a cyclist I didn't see. All part of his plot, I expect. So plenty of other
people got to him first. People he could have paid, his friends in the homeless
network, friends at Bart's. They could have put the blood on him, given him
something-curare, perhaps-to stop his breathing. That's why they rushed him off
so quickly. They couldn't wait for the police to examine the scene; they had to
get his breathing going again. But the real trick-the magic trick-was
the little rubber ball. If you were to squeeze one hard in your armpit, you can
stop your pulse. I felt his wrist myself; first thing I checked. But he was
lying on that side, with the full weight of his body pressing against it, and
people holding him in position. He did that to fool me. He had to fool
me; I don't know why. I’d very much appreciate it if you would tell me-or let
Sherlock do it.”
Mycroft looked at the carpet. This wasn't his secret to
tell, and he'd already let Sherlock down in so many ways. Then again, there's
no telling what John might do if Mycroft refused to level with him. And, as the
doctor said, he did figure it out himself. Mycroft was well aware of the flash
of inspiration that lets you know that you've got the answer, such clarity that
you don't need any other external verification. You know. Looking at
John, Mycroft was aware that he knew.
A weight he didn't realize he'd been carrying suddenly
lifted, so quickly he actually sighed. John, watching him through narrowed
eyes, smiled. “I believe you just confirmed my theory.”
Mycroft rushed an imaginary speck from his trousers. “Yes,
you're right. Of course you're right. You knew that already.”
“I knew that Sherlock wouldn’t lie to me. That is, he lies
all the time, but not about the big things. Not this. It was the kernel of
truth wrapped in the bigger lie. He told me he was a fake. I suppose I
am slow, compared to him. But I got it now; I saw through his magic trick.”
“Then for your continued existence, I suggest you not share
that information with a single soul.”
John smiled grimly. “I knew it. He was protecting me.” The
longing in John’s eyes went straight to Mycroft’s heart. “Can you tell me?”
Mycroft sighed and pushed himself back in his chair. “I
didn't know in advance. Sherlock chose not to involve me in his scheme. I don't
think we need to go into the reasons why.”
John nodded gravely.
“The first I heard of it was a report through channels,
expedited to my attention, naturally. I watched it, everything the cameras on
the neighboring street corners had captured. Not the roof, unfortunately; we don’t
waste time patrolling it, for obvious reasons. But I saw the body fall-saw
Sherlock…”
To Mycroft's embarrassment, his voice broke. John merely waited
for him to continue.
Mycroft began rubbing the material against his knee, an old
trick he’d learned to redirect his emotion through incidental nonrelated
stimulus. From the tightening in his throat, he seemed to need that assistance
now. “I didn't see him hit, either. Sherlock chose his location well. It was his
choice, you know-to meet Moriarty at St. Bart’s. That way, he could take
advantage of Miss Hooper's services, as well as the other hospital facilities
which you just pointed out. But I didn't know that, at the time. I only knew my
brother was dead. As the genuine nature of his gifts was never a question for
me, I could only ask myself why he'd done it. Like you, I came to the
conclusion that someone had forced his hand.”
“By threatening me,” John said quietly.
“That was what I had supposed.” Mycroft brushed the material
back into place, it having served its purpose. “It turns out I was only 33%
correct.”
John narrowed his brows.
“Yes, John, you weren't the only target. Mrs. Hudson and DI
Lestrade were also targeted, should Sherlock fail to take his deadly plunge.”
John drew back, momentarily breathless.
“I sympathize with the feeling. Hard to believe, isn't it?
Two years ago I can't think of a single person Sherlock would have sacrificed
himself for. And now we have three. That's progress, isn't it?”
John was still processing Mycroft's earlier statement. “Mrs.
Hudson. Then he knew-“
“He didn't know until Moriarty told him so on the roof. But
if you're asking whether he knew the message that called you away was a fake,
yes. He'd arranged it himself.”
“To get me out of the line of fire.” John looked at his
hands; the left one was trembling. “And I had the nerve to tell him he was a machine.”
“He would take that as a compliment, I think.”
“Our last few minutes together, our last encounter face to
face, I was shouting at him. ‘Friends protect people,’ I told him. And all the
time he was planning to do this.”
“Sherlock set up the deception. He knew how you’d react.”
“It doesn't make me feel any better.”
“We all of us say things we regret.”
Mycroft met John's eye. For a moment the tension balanced
between them. Then John heaved a shaky breath and looked down. Mycroft felt it;
the moment of absolution. In their shared guilt, they had found mutual
forgiveness. It was a very raw experience; Mycroft shied from the dangerous
ground.
In a louder voice, he said, “I'm certain Sherlock would be
very happy to explain his motives himself, but he's away on the Continent at
the moment.”
John's head snapped up. “Why?”
“Tracking down the men who wouldn't make your life worth
living.”
“But, I thought-“
“Moriarty was one man. But he headed an entire organization.
A lucrative one. His assassins are bound by their sworn word not to harm you if
Sherlock followed through with Moriarty's plan. If it becomes known that
Sherlock in fact deceived Moriarty along with the rest of us, your life, and
the lives of the others, probably would not extend beyond the next 24 hours.
Can you imagine their rage in being outmaneuvered by a single man who took down
a criminal empire, who used their loyalty for his own purposes? In their
madness for revenge, I can easily see them not stopping at three-can you?”
John breathed heavily. “Yes. Yes, I can see it.”
“Sherlock is taking advantage of his death to try to catch
these men in a mistake. He theorizes that they may grow careless, now that they
think he's removed from the picture. I hope so. Sherlock has never killed. He's
far from home, with no hope of backup. Let us hope he is as clever as he thinks
he is.”
“He doesn't have to be without backup,” John growled.
“My dear John, how do you expect to find him?”
“You know where he is.”
“I do not.”
“Then how...?”
“I gave Sherlock ample funds for an extended absence when we
parted. He says he will contact me when he needs more.”
John looked at his hands. “I see.”
“John, the best thing you can do right now is to get on with
your life. Not too happily for a while; you must still appear publicly to be in
mourning. But I do recommend you continue in your regular habits. Buy a dog, or
a practice. Get married. Move on.”
John laughed humorlessly, then looked up. “Will you tell me,
if he calls?”
“After the fact, if you like. I don't trust you not to go
charging across the Channel to his aid, so don't be put out if I don't give you
an exact location.”
From the way John clenched his jaw, Mycroft knew that
charging across Channel had been exactly what he'd been planning. “Will you
give him a message, at least?”
“Certainly.”
“Tell him I knew he never lied to me.”
Mycroft nodded solemnly.
John rose. “I've taken enough of your time. Thank you for
telling me.”
“Thank you for your visit. I hope… I would like for this to
not be your only one.”
John smiled. “Pick the board game you’re worst at, and I'll
play you some evening.”
“I look forward to it.”
John nodded, then let himself out. Mycroft felt the silence
of the room enfold him, but it wasn't an empty silence. Not anymore. Odd, how so
many nights of recriminations and regret could be shattered by a soft word and
a simple smile.
He closed his eyes in gratitude.
The End
prepared for John's entry into his study. What he wasn't prepared for was the
sheer exhaustion that emanated from every ounce of John's body. He had
dutifully studied the CCTV images to keep up with Sherlock's friend, but those grainy
views could little prepare him for the deep lines of grief that had prematurely
aged the former soldier.
Mycroft expected rage. John had hardly spoken to him at the
funeral, and their conversation previous to that had been distressing in so many
ways that Mycroft felt deep lines of regret etched into his memory, every bit
as deep as the sleep-deprived crevasses of John's solemn face. Yet, beneath the
pain, the doctor was calm, a kind of preternatural calm that sent warning bells
ringing through Mycroft's mind.
John seated himself in the chair opposite Mycroft's,
bringing up almost unbearable memories of their previous contentious encounter.
The door closed behind him, leaving them alone.
Mycroft was at a loss to begin. He could hardly ask,
"How are you?” when the wretched answer was so readily apparent in front
of him. John would quite likely resent the question to begin with; he well knew
that he was often under Mycroft’s eye.
So they merely stared at one another for a long quarter of a
minute, holding each other's gaze. Something was different. Beyond the grief,
something had changed; an energy, an intention. Mycroft couldn't put his finger
on it. Then John opened his mouth, and solved it for him.
“I just want to know where he is.”
Through long practice, Mycroft held his face still, though
his mind worked furiously. This could be a bluff-yet there was nothing sharp in
John's manner that would hint of a bluff. There was only the pervasive
weariness, a patient curiosity, and a well of remorse to rival Mycroft's own.
“Sherlock told me himself,” John continued, when it became
apparent that Mycroft wasn't going to speak. “I didn't figure out what he was
trying to tell me until much later-not until this morning, in fact. Then it
burst upon me like a thunderclap, how he'd done it. It was so… clear.”
If John expected Mycroft to react to that statement, he
would be disappointed. Yet he didn’t seem to need a response, just continued on
in that same, deadpan voice. “So I know it was all staged. What I don't yet
know is why. I imagine he’ll have told you. I have my guesses, but I'd really
rather have Sherlock tell me myself. Well, verify my suspicions, actually.” He
shrugged his shoulders in almost humorous resignation. “Surely I’ve played my
part. No one who was watching me these last days could doubt that I believed
Sherlock was dead, since that's obviously the effect he was going after.”
Mycroft weighed it all carefully: John's words, his
attitude, the emotion behind it. John had convinced himself that Sherlock was
alive. But the danger was so real, so pressing, that Mycroft had to probe
further. Perhaps he could find a flaw in the information that Sherlock
supposedly gave John; it shouldn't be too hard to convince him that he was
grasping at straws, if Mycroft could prove a fault in the data.
“What did Sherlock tell you?”
“He said he was a fake. Now, you know and I know that his
gift was real. So why would he say that?”
“He was giving you the reason-“
“He was giving me the public reason, the one that
ended up in the papers, the one that was part of the illusion he was trying to
create. The private reason was very different, wasn't it?”
Mycroft opted to dissemble. “If we knew what goes on in the
mind of the man about to commit suicide-”
“But he didn't commit suicide. He told me the deductions
he'd made had all been a ‘magic trick’. But nothing he’d done previous to this
was trickery. This was his magic trick-this was the fake. This act.”
“A swan dive off a five-story building is hardly an act.”
“I never saw him land, you know? He had me stand back, round
the corner of another building where I couldn't see the pavement below him.
Somehow, I don't know how, he cushioned his fall. I was knocked down coming toward
him-a cyclist I didn't see. All part of his plot, I expect. So plenty of other
people got to him first. People he could have paid, his friends in the homeless
network, friends at Bart's. They could have put the blood on him, given him
something-curare, perhaps-to stop his breathing. That's why they rushed him off
so quickly. They couldn't wait for the police to examine the scene; they had to
get his breathing going again. But the real trick-the magic trick-was
the little rubber ball. If you were to squeeze one hard in your armpit, you can
stop your pulse. I felt his wrist myself; first thing I checked. But he was
lying on that side, with the full weight of his body pressing against it, and
people holding him in position. He did that to fool me. He had to fool
me; I don't know why. I’d very much appreciate it if you would tell me-or let
Sherlock do it.”
Mycroft looked at the carpet. This wasn't his secret to
tell, and he'd already let Sherlock down in so many ways. Then again, there's
no telling what John might do if Mycroft refused to level with him. And, as the
doctor said, he did figure it out himself. Mycroft was well aware of the flash
of inspiration that lets you know that you've got the answer, such clarity that
you don't need any other external verification. You know. Looking at
John, Mycroft was aware that he knew.
A weight he didn't realize he'd been carrying suddenly
lifted, so quickly he actually sighed. John, watching him through narrowed
eyes, smiled. “I believe you just confirmed my theory.”
Mycroft rushed an imaginary speck from his trousers. “Yes,
you're right. Of course you're right. You knew that already.”
“I knew that Sherlock wouldn’t lie to me. That is, he lies
all the time, but not about the big things. Not this. It was the kernel of
truth wrapped in the bigger lie. He told me he was a fake. I suppose I
am slow, compared to him. But I got it now; I saw through his magic trick.”
“Then for your continued existence, I suggest you not share
that information with a single soul.”
John smiled grimly. “I knew it. He was protecting me.” The
longing in John’s eyes went straight to Mycroft’s heart. “Can you tell me?”
Mycroft sighed and pushed himself back in his chair. “I
didn't know in advance. Sherlock chose not to involve me in his scheme. I don't
think we need to go into the reasons why.”
John nodded gravely.
“The first I heard of it was a report through channels,
expedited to my attention, naturally. I watched it, everything the cameras on
the neighboring street corners had captured. Not the roof, unfortunately; we don’t
waste time patrolling it, for obvious reasons. But I saw the body fall-saw
Sherlock…”
To Mycroft's embarrassment, his voice broke. John merely waited
for him to continue.
Mycroft began rubbing the material against his knee, an old
trick he’d learned to redirect his emotion through incidental nonrelated
stimulus. From the tightening in his throat, he seemed to need that assistance
now. “I didn't see him hit, either. Sherlock chose his location well. It was his
choice, you know-to meet Moriarty at St. Bart’s. That way, he could take
advantage of Miss Hooper's services, as well as the other hospital facilities
which you just pointed out. But I didn't know that, at the time. I only knew my
brother was dead. As the genuine nature of his gifts was never a question for
me, I could only ask myself why he'd done it. Like you, I came to the
conclusion that someone had forced his hand.”
“By threatening me,” John said quietly.
“That was what I had supposed.” Mycroft brushed the material
back into place, it having served its purpose. “It turns out I was only 33%
correct.”
John narrowed his brows.
“Yes, John, you weren't the only target. Mrs. Hudson and DI
Lestrade were also targeted, should Sherlock fail to take his deadly plunge.”
John drew back, momentarily breathless.
“I sympathize with the feeling. Hard to believe, isn't it?
Two years ago I can't think of a single person Sherlock would have sacrificed
himself for. And now we have three. That's progress, isn't it?”
John was still processing Mycroft's earlier statement. “Mrs.
Hudson. Then he knew-“
“He didn't know until Moriarty told him so on the roof. But
if you're asking whether he knew the message that called you away was a fake,
yes. He'd arranged it himself.”
“To get me out of the line of fire.” John looked at his
hands; the left one was trembling. “And I had the nerve to tell him he was a machine.”
“He would take that as a compliment, I think.”
“Our last few minutes together, our last encounter face to
face, I was shouting at him. ‘Friends protect people,’ I told him. And all the
time he was planning to do this.”
“Sherlock set up the deception. He knew how you’d react.”
“It doesn't make me feel any better.”
“We all of us say things we regret.”
Mycroft met John's eye. For a moment the tension balanced
between them. Then John heaved a shaky breath and looked down. Mycroft felt it;
the moment of absolution. In their shared guilt, they had found mutual
forgiveness. It was a very raw experience; Mycroft shied from the dangerous
ground.
In a louder voice, he said, “I'm certain Sherlock would be
very happy to explain his motives himself, but he's away on the Continent at
the moment.”
John's head snapped up. “Why?”
“Tracking down the men who wouldn't make your life worth
living.”
“But, I thought-“
“Moriarty was one man. But he headed an entire organization.
A lucrative one. His assassins are bound by their sworn word not to harm you if
Sherlock followed through with Moriarty's plan. If it becomes known that
Sherlock in fact deceived Moriarty along with the rest of us, your life, and
the lives of the others, probably would not extend beyond the next 24 hours.
Can you imagine their rage in being outmaneuvered by a single man who took down
a criminal empire, who used their loyalty for his own purposes? In their
madness for revenge, I can easily see them not stopping at three-can you?”
John breathed heavily. “Yes. Yes, I can see it.”
“Sherlock is taking advantage of his death to try to catch
these men in a mistake. He theorizes that they may grow careless, now that they
think he's removed from the picture. I hope so. Sherlock has never killed. He's
far from home, with no hope of backup. Let us hope he is as clever as he thinks
he is.”
“He doesn't have to be without backup,” John growled.
“My dear John, how do you expect to find him?”
“You know where he is.”
“I do not.”
“Then how...?”
“I gave Sherlock ample funds for an extended absence when we
parted. He says he will contact me when he needs more.”
John looked at his hands. “I see.”
“John, the best thing you can do right now is to get on with
your life. Not too happily for a while; you must still appear publicly to be in
mourning. But I do recommend you continue in your regular habits. Buy a dog, or
a practice. Get married. Move on.”
John laughed humorlessly, then looked up. “Will you tell me,
if he calls?”
“After the fact, if you like. I don't trust you not to go
charging across the Channel to his aid, so don't be put out if I don't give you
an exact location.”
From the way John clenched his jaw, Mycroft knew that
charging across Channel had been exactly what he'd been planning. “Will you
give him a message, at least?”
“Certainly.”
“Tell him I knew he never lied to me.”
Mycroft nodded solemnly.
John rose. “I've taken enough of your time. Thank you for
telling me.”
“Thank you for your visit. I hope… I would like for this to
not be your only one.”
John smiled. “Pick the board game you’re worst at, and I'll
play you some evening.”
“I look forward to it.”
John nodded, then let himself out. Mycroft felt the silence
of the room enfold him, but it wasn't an empty silence. Not anymore. Odd, how so
many nights of recriminations and regret could be shattered by a soft word and
a simple smile.
He closed his eyes in gratitude.
The End