Prompting Part XXIV
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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
I change one thing though - It has become a John/Lestrade and a Mycroft/Sherlock. (They fought because Myroft was kind of jealous of John).
THE SENSE OF GUILT - PART 1
Food tasted like ashes - His brother’s ashes ?
Mycroft raised his eyes toward Athenaïs - and she preferred Anthea, but she had to change every other months - and shook his head. She sighed but didn’t say a word as she took the tray meal with her. She walked across the large study and was about to get out when she stopped and turned around, staring at her employer.
“Mister Holmes, forgive me but you really have to eat more, it has been three months already. You…”
“Thank you Athenaïs, for your concern, but I am a grown up, and can perfectly take care of myself, thank you.”
“But - “
“You can leave now.”
She held her breath for five seconds before sighing again. She couldn't do it alone - not anymore. She needed help.
oo- -- --o- o-o o-
John Watson had met a lot of widows - because he was a doctor, because he was in the Army, because he was a son who had lost his mother and had seen his father drink his sorrow into every alcoholic's substances. John Watson knew what a widow or a widower looked like.
Then, why - why? - did he felt a thousand times worse than what all these people had seemed to be feeling?
Sherlock was not - John closed his eyes and again, his throat just seemed to close up and he couldn’t think about anything regarding Sherl -
“Mmh.”
“I know it’s hard, John. But you have to tell me how you are feeling. Not even about Sherlock per se, but maybe about what you have been doing since the funeral, or if your feelings have changed…I need to know, and you need to tell me, what it is you are feeling, for I can’t help you if you let me walk blind beside you.”
John kept his eyes close some more. “What if I don’t want to speak with you about hi - it?”
“You’re here John. I didn’t make you come - you came alone, on your own free will.”
A hard, hoarse, sad - so so sad - laugh slipped through his lips and he ran a hand over his face.
“No. Actually no.” He said as he raised his head with a condescending smile. “No, I didn’t came on my own free will, I came because our - my - landlady thought it would be best for me to come and try to - “ He breathed heavily and clenched his teeth. “To get better. And it won’t work. I have to go.” He then said, before standing up.
“John.”
“I am sorry Ella, but I can’t - I don’t believe you can help me. He was - - No, I can’t.” And before she could say anything more, John leaved the room.
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But even as he shook his head and crossed the street, the black car remained behind him, following him slowly, patiently.
Finally, John stopped and turned around. He got near the window and taped against it.
“I don’t want to talk to Mycroft, Miss not-Anthea, so tell him thank you for the invitation, or whatever you want, but please, leave me alone.” He hissed as politely as he could.
But then, Not-Anthea (“I am Athenaïs now”) held out an I-pad picturing some photographs. He sighed and took it, looking at it with evident annoyance.
Except that he looked almost right up at the woman when he saw of whom the pictures were.
“Why is…” And God yes it was Mycroft, but he looked like a ghost - a thin, sick, ghost of himself.
“He’s lost 36 pounds since Sherlock’s death and there is nothing I haven’t tried to make him eat, but he just doesn’t want to - or I think he can’t - I know you resent him for his mistake regarding Moriarty but god, please, please, help him. If you ever cared for Sherlock, and yes, of course I know you did, then please, save his brother. I know they always seemed to be insensitive about everything, but please, you know it was all just bullshit (she didn’t even blush at her words - she did seem exhausted), if he keep punishing himself like that, he’ll die. Please, John.”
And John couldn’t very well say no, could he? Because yes, he knew Sherlock well and he had never been fooled by the apparent hatred the late private detective felt toward his brother. Yes, he despised him, maybe, but Mycroft was above all Sherlock’s brother.
“Ok. But we’ll need to stop by DI Lestrade’s flat first.” Because, no, he couldn’t do it alone, even if he wanted to - he was still grieving (yelling, screaming, crying ‘please, don’t be dead’) after all.
“Thank you.” Athenaïs said as he got into the car.
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No - Why would he? He had just known Sherlock for five years, had been insulted, criticized, belittled and yelled at by the world only consulting detective. So, why, pray tell, should he feel depressed about him killing himself and -
Yeh, of course he was lying to himself, thank you very much.
Lestrade sighed heavily and put his glass back down on the table. Sherlock was dead, and it certainly was partly his fault, because he had let Donovan and Anderson convince him, make him doubt for maybe three seconds.
Three seconds which had already been too much, and now Sherlock was gone and buried and - and he had killed himself for god sake! How could he have done that?! He didn’t care about what people thought - it didn’t make any sense. And as a policeman - as a former policeman, he thought drinking a mouthful of scotch - as a former policeman with twenty years of experience; he fucking knew when something was off.
The doorbell shook him out of his musing and he stood up, walking slowly toward the door. And if it was Donovan apologizing again, he swore he would punch her, woman or not, she knew how to defend herself.
It wasn’t Donovan, it was John - and Lestrade would have preferred a thousand times more to be faced by his former colleague.
“Hello Greg.” John said, hands hidden in his jacket pocket - oh, and Lestrade could easily read there a wick attempt from John to try and restrain himself from jumping on Lestrade and beating the crap out of him.
Well, maybe Greg was seeing violence everywhere now - maybe he wanted so badly for someone to beat him, punch him, and make him pay for the loss of Sherlock’s amazing and extraordinary life, that he was seeing violence everywhere.
He would love for John to be the one beating him.
“John.” He said, his voice a little bit broken at the edge.
John breathed deeply and managed to smile at the elephant in the room. “I need you.”
The former DI stared wide-eyed at John before nodding eagerly. “Everything you need John, I - “ But he couldn’t say it - he couldn’t say ‘I am sorry’ because then it would lead to Sherlock and he was certain that neither of us was willing to talk about Sherlock.
He was not - he could not - not without crying and he hadn’t cried in years and - just no.
John smiled again - and maybe it was more open than the first very forced one.
“I am sorry for your job, Lestrade.”
Lestrade shook his head and chocked a little on his next words.
“It was not - I don’t care, John. It’s not - “
“I know.” John said and he took a step forward and placed one of his hands on Greg’s shoulder.
“I am beginning to understand that feeling guilty about what happened might be harder than just living with - “ he closed his eyes and swallowed and it had been four months, for god sake, when would it start hurting less? - “ - with his death.”
Lestrade nodded and the corner of his mouth just fell and he couldn’t - “John, I am so sorry -I never should have doubted, I knew he was not a fraud, I knew it - but it was - I had to - just -“ And he was fucking sobbing in front of John Watson and how dare he?
“Please, I am sorry, John.” He said again and looked at John and a tiny whimper escaped his eyes when he saw that John’s eyes were filled with tears.
But then John’s mouth formed a little smile and then - then he was laughing.
“Oh god, Greg, what would he think if he could see us?” He said, laughing and crying and Greg moved forward and put his arms around the crying, laughing, depressed soldier and hugged him.
And just like that John wasn’t so much laughing anymore but sobbing into Lestrade’s neck and maybe, it was what therapy was about - forgiving, and confronting your fears and all that crap.
When John stopped crying - and when Greg did as well - they sat close on the coach.
“So why can I help you with?” Lestrade asked, his voice row from crying.
“Well, you know what it is like to feel guilty about what happened, right? And you’ve been dealing with situations like this one before - “ Lestrade nodded and frowned, not understanding what John was saying.
“There is another person who has all the right to feel really very guilty Greg, and he is not dealing fine with at all.”
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She was also clenching her hands and looking positively frantic.
“He fainted.” She told them as soon as they were in earing distance.
John’s blood left his head in an instant and he hurried toward the car. “Fuck, did you take him to the hospital?” He asked. Athenaïs shook her head and watched the driver open the boot and place Lestrade’s bag in it.
“The doctor with him said it was unnecessary. It’s a sugar deficiency and he should be ok for now. But it’s the first warning of what is to come.” She explained quickly.
“Does he know you have contacted us?” Lestrade asked as they entered the car.
“No. No, he wouldn’t have let me.” She answered, and her voice wavered a little. “We’re going to Mister Holmes Manor.”
“Wasn’t it a castle?” John asked, raising his eyebrows. “That would be the Holmes estate, but his parent lives there and it wouldn’t be wise to -mmh - too much memories.”
Lestrade and John nodded but frowned when Athenaïs seemed to be hesitating about something else, something apparently harder to say.
“Anthea.” John asked - and he didn’t care if it wasn’t her name for the day, he liked it better - he was used to it.
“You have to know something about Sherlock and Mycroft.” She said, and she seemed less professional now - more open, more concerned. And she certainly seemed more worried all of a sudden. “You have to know about them or you won’t be able to help Mycroft - to understand.”
Lestrade and John exchanged a worried glance before turning their eyes back on Anthea.
She held out the I-pad to them and Lestrade took it.
It was a picture of a young version of Mycroft and Sherlock - and god, John wasn’t sure he wanted to see that because Sherlock, his best friend, was dead and - “Yes, and?” He said. But Anthea didn’t answer so John just kept looking at the picture.
Mycroft must have been 16 or 17, and Sherlock was a little boy of nine or ten, with a mop of black hair and serious grey-blue eyes. But they were both smiling at the camera, Mycroft with an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. The eldest brother was thinner than what he had been like before Sherlock’s death - and he had dark rings under his eyes.
Still he was smiling brightly.
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