Prompting Part XXIV
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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.
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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... )
They find a stack of unpaid bills at the ex-girlfriend’s flat, and a set of emails in her sent box organizing the sale of Nefertiti the ludicrously expensive cat. It turns out that the murderer had been up to her ears in both credit card debt and rent payments, and the £7000 that the buyer was offering would have taken most of the heat off her neck. It didn’t help that she’d borrowed money from her decidedly shady cousin and now he and his “friends” wanted it back. According to Lestrade, when they went to bring her in, she cried and pleaded and bribed with money she didn’t have, then tried to appeal to their sense of pity. Lestrade had given her a much deserved response about how premeditated murder in order to steal a cat was not cause for pity.
John is exhilarated by his success. His deductions are different: they are based on the years of medical training he’s received as opposed to a vast general knowledge base. But John knows how to look, now, how to look for patterns and aberrations and anomalies. He doesn’t think he would be of much use at a crime scene unless the body was still there. He is wrong about this: he starts being asked to crime scenes two months in and fits right in. But he knows now, with a fierce sense of pride, that he’s made the doubters think twice.
Now, Lestrade calls him in. It’s shocking, the dichotomy of excitement and jarring nostalgia that surges through him whenever it happens. The pain of missing Sherlock is worse now than before, actually, because John’s letting himself miss Sherlock. For months, he has blocked it all out, deadened the nerves and put on his blinders. He had put everything of Sherlock’s that wouldn’t moulder or spontaneously combust into the downstairs bedroom and closed it up. The door had remained closed for months.
John keeps it closed, still. Even as he works his way through six more months, these ones filled with more life and human interaction, John just can’t. While he is no longer in denial about everything, John still finds himself falling into old patterns: picking up the phone to text Sherlock (he even goes so far as to type We’re out of - into the text box one day before realizing), he buys too many groceries and finds himself making tea for two more often than not. So, John makes meals for Mrs. Hudson more frequently and drinks a lot of tea.
And the wanting is back, now. For months all John could think of was Sherlock falling and bleeding and broken and gone. Now, every so often, the way John used to think of Sherlock resurfaces. He goes dry-mouthed at the thought of a long, pale throat, of the lush curve of cupid’s bow lips, even sometimes allows himself to imagine placing gentle hands on slim hips and…
These imaginings are worse, almost, because they remind John of what he never had, will never have, now.
But even when John wearily realizes one day that yes, he was stupidly in love with Sherlock, it doesn’t change the everpresent weight in his chest that much. John had acknowledged that he loved Sherlock a long time ago, and the notion of being in love with him is just a new definition for the connection he felt. That, or John’s grief had always known how he felt about Sherlock.
The year anniversary comes far too quickly. John is splitting his time between locum work at the clinic and working for Scotland Yard, now in official capacity as consultant with a paycheque to go with it. He never really had to worry about losing the flat, Mrs. Hudson being who she was, but he hated to feel like he was taking advantage of her. He pays the full rent for the flat still, the rent he and Sherlock used to split. With his two jobs, now, it’s not really a problem. Lestrade and his higher ups are more than generous.
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When John idly mentions one day at a crime scene that he’ll be heading up to visit Sherlock in a couple days, it turns more than a few heads.
“John, mate, are you… feeling alright?” Lestrade hazards tentatively after a few tense, silent moments.
“Well, I mean, it’s hard to fathom, really. A year without him, I mean. And I suppose I’m alright at the moment, yeah. I just haven’t been back to his grave since…”
A collective breath is exhaled.
“Christ, John! Thought you’d gone off you nut, there, for a moment,” Lestrade says with a nervous smile.
“Greg, if he were alive, I’d know about it by now,” John says sadly. “I mean, I held out stupid hope for a bit, but when there was nothing… I knew him well enough to say that he wouldn’t have let me believe him dead for this long. Even he isn’t that cruel.”
John doesn’t notice Molly, who is on the scene to pick up the corpse, go stock-still and squeeze her eyes shut in anguish.
John also doesn’t see a CCTV camera, complete with microphone, pointed directly at him from a discrete corner. At the other end of the connection, Mycroft Holmes has to look away. The trust, still that damned unshakable faith, astounds and humbles him. It also makes him want to flay his brother’s hide from his flesh. But that would be hypocritical, because really, Mycroft is helping to keep Sherlock away. Encouraging it, even. The consequences - Mycroft glances back at the resigned, sad-eyed face on the screen - do not outweigh the benefits of Sherlock unravelling Moriarty’s web unhindered.
Mycroft sighs, picks up his mobile and sends two texts.
Hurry up.
You are missed.
Constantly.
MH
And the second, sent with a small, fond smile.
Shall I pick you up
at the Yard at 7?
MH
He receives a reply to the second one almost immediately, but then again, he had watched the recipient type it.
Sounds great, love.
By the way, your brother
is a massive twat
for subjecting John
to this.
GL
Mycroft doesn’t know what he would do without Greg to confide in.
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John goes to the grave, on the anniversary. He doesn’t go alone.
They fill the cab. Molly and Dimmock crush into the front with the cabbie, and Lestrade sits in the back with Mrs. Hudson and John. John isn’t positive how he feels about not being alone for this. On one hand, it is good to have his friends with him (it is good to have friends again, period.). But on the other hand, John doesn’t know what seeing the grave again will do to his self-control.
John gets the best of both worlds. He has people there, to stand with him at first, to place their flowers and remember. Then, in an unspoken agreement, they all leave John in peace to “pay his respects”.
The headstone has a dusting of pine needles spread across the top. Gently, so gently, John brushes them away. His fingertips linger on the cool marble.
“Last time I was here, I told you to stop being dead,” he says in a quiet, slightly incredulous voice. “God, I wish you’d listened.” He huffs a slight laugh. “You never were good at listening.”
He shuffles a bit closer, keeping contact with the stone and staring at the writing.
“There was a lot I didn’t get to say. I suppose you knew that. Ella - my therapist, you’d probably deleted that - asked me to say it when I went to see her almost a year ago. I couldn’t then. Frankly, I…” John’s breath hitches, catches on the mess of aches in his chest. “I can barely say it now, but no-one’s listening, so maybe it’s okay.” He pauses, takes a shaky breath. “First off, I am so angry with you. I said that before, with Mrs. Hudson. I told her I wasn’t that angry, but I am, God, Sherlock…”
His cheeks are wet.
“I’d probably punch you in the face, if you were to appear right now, to be honest, you wanker. You left me.”
“But really, after I get past the anger, and the hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to talk to me, to let me help you, I just miss you. Hear that? I miss you so much I can’t breathe some days.”
“Also, you probably knew this already, but I love you. Did from the start, probably. I wish I’d told you. I get the feeling it wasn’t something you heard enough, as much as you deserved.”
John quirks the sides of his mouth up, but it isn’t a smile. He’s too drained for that, at this point in this day.
“People are starting to believe again. In you, I mean. I didn’t do as you asked, and I’m sorry. It was a lie I couldn’t tell. I was too proud of you, of your huge mad brain. Am too proud. I keep seeing grafitti, and it’s becoming more widespread.” John pulls a flyer out of his pocket. It is black, with stencil-painted red letters on it. “’I believe in Sherlock’, they say, now. I never stopped.” He bends to tuck the corner of the flyer under one of the fresh bouquets.
John swipes one last errant needle from the headstone and starts to move away.
“You were the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says to his feet. It seems to great a challenge to look upon the tangible marble reminder again. “I just hope you knew.”
John straightens. His shoulders drop and push back, his chin lifts and he sets his jaw. The tears have dried to tacky trails on his face but he doesn’t touch them. John strides away across the graveyard, towards the huddle of people up on the drive.
This time, there is no-one watching from the shadow of the trees.
The #ibelieveinsherlock phenomenon on Twitter and tumblr is what I referenced in this part, I hope nobody minds.
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S: Please. I just want to go home, Myc.
M: I know. You can’t.
S: I haven’t heard his voice in a year. A year, Mycroft. Do you have any idea how that feels?
M: You survived over 30 years without hearing his voice, Lock. Survive a few more.
S: I can’t do this. I’m cold, my stitches ripped again and… I miss him. Just ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking.
M: Bargaining will get you nowhere, and you know you wouldn’t be satisfied with that. Besides, would it be worth it, to watch him get shot in front of your eyes?
S does not reply.
M: I thought not. It may help you to know, he went to the grave yesterday.
S: How… how did he look?
M: Happier. And sadder.
S: That is spectacularly unhelpful, Mycroft.
M: He’s still just as devastated, Sherlock, what the hell do you want me to say?
S: Is this line secure?
M: That was an asinine question.
S: The project I’m working on now, in Murmansk… I could use a hand with it.
M: You want me to come to Russia? I couldn’t, Sherlock. I am far too busy.
S: Please, Myc.
M: … I’ll see what I can do.
S: Thank you.
Sebastian Moran leans back in his chair and smiles, cutting off the recording.
“Gotcha, boys.”
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And lol, no line is secure, Sherlock, didn't you know?
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Also, my first thoughts about the last part were, in order: 1. D'aww, brothers. 2. MORAN! 3. Shit, Moran is going to kill them! 4. ...Wait, they have to be baiting Moran. 5. Nuts, I don't want him to die, either.
And all that took place in about the space of a second and a half. I love this fill, I love this fill, I love this fill. You're the best, author anon, because you give me all the feelings.
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And Watson is so utterly adorable, and sad, and I just want to hug him all over the place!
can't wait for the next part <3
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Also, MORAN!
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