Sherlock Fanfiction: Afterwards (Part I)
Title: Afterwards
Pairing: None
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, some others
Rating: PG for language and some violence
Warnings: Spoilers for the Great Game
Summary: "I’m just John Watson, nothing extraordinary. It took Afghanistan to make me extraordinary. It took-“
Sherlock Holmes. The aftermath of the Great Game. Loosely based on Reichenbach Falls. More parts to follow.
Probably my answer has crossed yours.
--
The hospital was cold. Fingers, check. Toes, check. Core, breathing. Good.
John Watson blinked hesitantly against the bright white light that came in from the windows. Eyesight, not blurry, good. No damage to the occipital lobe or cranial nerves.
“John?”
And then Sarah was beside him. Her eyes were red and puffy, and frankly she looked in worse shape than he felt. John felt a pang in his chest that was probably not due to injury. “I’m sorry to have worried you.” His throat was sore, lips were chapped, mouth was dry. He coughed. Breathing through the mouth. Blockage to the nose? Might be broken.
Sarah choked a laugh through her obvious distress. Relief spread across her tear-stained face. How beautiful.
“You idiot.” She said with a sad smile. “You disappear for days, and I get a call from the DI telling me you’d been found nearly dead in the ruins of a swimming pool.” A tear, a choke. “I don’t think I’m overreacting.”
John smiled. This is much better than last time. Then, there had been colleagues and friends, but not a Sarah to welcome him back from the dead. Drugs were better here, too. He felt light a feather, and was fairly certain the smile on his face must look ridiculous. “Well, then, let me overreact for you,” He said with a raspy-dry-throated voice. I’ll need a drink. He lifted his right hand to cup her cheek, bandaged, two fingers together, splintered joint, slight pain, good drugs, and she leaned forward and kissed his bruised lips. Chapstick later.
If John Watson had to die, this is how he would like to be welcomed back.
Her hair brushed his cheek as she moved back away, a tear drop landed on his cheek. “I’m ok,” He reassured her tenderly. “Actually, if you could hand me the chart at the foot of the bed, I could check-“
“Oh, John,” Sarah said, and bit her lip. “John, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” He asked, puzzled. “For that? No, that was fine. You could do it again if you want.”
She choked back a sob and shook her head. She reached with a trembling hand for the chart and handed it to him carefully. This isn’t her. She faced down a harpoon and certain death before she was scared. He raised an eyebrow. “Not good?”
“Hmm? No, no… they haven’t told me anything. But oh, John…” She shook her head. “No, it's nothing. You’ve just woken up.”
John flipped through the chart. A couple of cracked ribs, broken finger, lots of bruises and minor burns, dehydration, raw throat from exposure to chlorine, no head trauma, minor lasserations from debris, clean bullet flesh wound through his left arm. Recovery time: About six weeks with visit to the therapist.
“I’ve had worse,” He assured her.
Sarah was silent.
Knock, knock.
It was a welcome break from the fifteen minutes that had sat between Sarah and him. There wasn’t time for a yes, come in. The nurse bustled through and went about her business, followed by a man in a grey suite with a grave face.
“Detective Inspector? “ John asked. He wasn’t used to visits from Lestrade. Normally overlooked by anyone, always living in Sherlock’s shadow. “Hope I haven’t worried you, too.” Why else would you be here? “You weren’t the visitor I was expecting.” He concluded. Harry might be drunk around this time of the afternoon, of course. Or she’ll be waiting at the flat. That’s what I need.
Lestrade nodded. He opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it and closed it. John looked between him and Sarah, both of whom seemed to be unable to look him in the eye. It was infuriating.
“What in God’s name is going on?” Still has trust issues. Then speak to me straight. “I’m not lying on my deathbed - Oh, for crying out loud, nurse, that bandage is fine. Leave it. I can tell you all I need now is a glass of water.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Watson, but procedures are protocol. Have to change this bandage every four hours after surgery.”
“That’s Dr. Watson, actually, and I’m sure you’re very good with protocol but I’m telling you-“
“John.”
“ - that all I need at this exact moment in time is a glass of water, and once my guest have left, you’ll be welcome to come back and fuss over me-“
“John, we have to talk.”
Lestrade spoke. His voice was deep and grave, and there was something strange in his eyes. Grief? Remorse? No, pity?
“What is it?” John asked quietly. His eyes trained on the thin man in front of him. “Something you’re not telling me. Tell me. I’ve woken up in worse situations. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Why are you coming to me?” John asked again. “You wouldn’t come to me first.” A deep pit settled its way into his stomach. All the rest of his mind seemed to slip and sink. Wait.
“He’s gone, John.”
“Wait.” A wall of bricks. Heavy, hard and entirely crushing. “Wait, you… you can’t mean gone gone.” John heaved his chest in an attempt to refill his lungs and stern his face. This wasn’t what he was prepared for. Everything seemed to collapse, seemed to be crushed, seemed to be buried under those three words. “No, you can’t mean Sherlock Holmes is dead.” He managed to choke the words out from his closed throat. No, he wouldn’t die. It would be dull. That’s not him, Inspector, you don’t know him.
No one spoke.
“No,” He said. “No, I was there, he didn’t-” A quick breath in and out through his nose. “I grabbed him. I did, we went into the pool, I pulled him under.” He looked around for confirmation. Just look at me. His mind protested and raged against the pull of the deepening pit in his stomach. “I felt him.” He insisted. “My hand, around his arm. He was there.”
Lestrade sighed.
“Did you find a body?”
No answer from anyone. The nurse tugged at his bandage and did her very best not to turn her face towards the suddenly small man in the bed. Lestrade’s sad eyes locked with John’s.
“Did you find a body?” John demanded.
“…No.”
“Then how can you come in here and tell me--”
“John, the force of the explosion. You weren’t fifteen feet from the bomb. You made it into the water. Kept you safe. There wouldn’t be anything left.” The dectective grimaced. “Nothing left of either of them.”
“But I pushed him in and pulled him under. He was there. He was there with me.”
“John.”
“He was there!” The exclamation burst from his lips harder than he it to. The pit in his stomach filled with fire.
Sarah reached out her small hand and wrapped it around his good finger. The touch was cool. Cold. Don’t comfort me.
“We found blood, John. Spatters. His.”
John was silent. No. No. From a gunshot, maybe. Snipers. Flesh wound, like me.
“John, I’m sorry.”
I don’t believe you.
--
And so he was silent.
They released him from the hospital a day later, and Sarah took him back to the flat (their flat, his and the dead man’s,) in a wheel chair. Mrs. Hudson saw the taxi pull up in front of 221B Baker Street and bustled out of the door like a mix between a mother grizzly bear and a wearied traveler. She stopped in front of him, her eyes red, her teeth biting her lip, and she just broke down and sobbed and wrapped in him in the best hug she could manage. There were “Don’t you fret, love” and “dear God, have mercy” and “let’s get inside for a nice cup of tea, yeah?” in his ear, but John didn’t notice.
In truth, as he was helped up the stairs to the common room of the flat, he expected there to be a smug looking Sherlock seated in his favorite chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, using John’s laptop for something or other. Had a good one there, didn’t we John? You actually thought I was dead, didn’t you? It was hard getting our dear Mrs. Hudson to go along with it, but I convinced her it was for the sake of science. You see, I was experimenting about the effect of a psychological trauma on the healing of bruises.
You sod, John would have said, and they would have sat together, John would have turned on the telly, and Sherlock would have griped about how dull life was without explosions like that everyday until the next case turned up.
But there was no Sherlock in his chair, his laptop was in its proper place, and the apartment was beautifully, unbearably clean.
--
And so it stayed and the days passed. John sat in his chair and watched telly, went to work with Sarah and bought groceries. He returned home to everything in it’s proper place, real food in the refrigerator, and space on the table.
Sometimes he would check the website, but it wasn’t updated. The last post lay in cipher, Sherlock, I have found you. He’d text absentmindedly every once in a while. Could you pick up the milk while you’re out? I found some of your old papers while I was tidying. Where do you want them?
Each day he walked down the stairs to the kitchen, expecting to see him lounging in the chair, his lanky legs spread out on the floor, violin tucked under his elbow. Tea for me, thanks, he’d say. John made tea every morning. There was always a cup left over.
Harry came to see him his first day back home. She flew in the door, all tears and revenge, swearing to beat him dead if he ever tried something like that, fire and anger in her eyes for whoever did this to her brother. She tried to be sisterly, laid his head in her lap and petted his hair. He told her she fussed too much, but didn’t protest. Let her make an effort. It was a change from the hair pulling and insults he’d received as a child. She brought home some brandy (a gift for him, she claimed) and sipped it while they watched telly. She thoroughly drilled him on everything that happened, but he didn’t say much. There wasn’t much to tell. The world had gone wrong, and he had survived. When she asked about how he was coping with Sherlock being gone, he would shrug.
“I don’t know,” He said.
“… You know he’s gone, don’t you, John?”
He was silent. “Well, he’s not here. That’s for sure.”
Harry would pat him on the back and head home (to the bar) and would probably come back sometime the next week.
John got calls and emails from his therapist, please come see me. Write in your blog, it will help. John, you need someone to talk to. John, have I mentioned the possibility of medication?
There was one new post in his blog. Sherlock is out. No comments.
The most unbearable thing was the smell of him still lingered. Just the smell of regular soap, a dusty scarf, and violin rosin. It was imprinted in the couch, at the table, his untouched bedroom. John sat down on the sofa to a forlorn, longing, empty space.
Sarah was with him often. He would smile and talk, they would laugh about the small (dull) things at work, and once they even went to the cinema. She never pressed him, never asked, and made sure he did the exercises the therapist had given him. She administered Neosporin, gave the cuts delicate kisses, and cooked him dinner.
There were no troubles, no murders, no puzzles, no wars.
This was how it was supposed to be.
Or at least, how it should have been before.
Before he knew Sherlock Holmes.
It was five o’clock on a Monday (or Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, it didn’t matter) when he got a call from Mycroft Holmes.
“Hello?”
“John.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to meet. Can I come to your flat?”
“Sure, I suppose. No plans. What do you need?”
“…John. You know what this is about.”
“… Yeah. I suppose I do.”
“Thursday at seven o’clock. I’ll come to you.”
Knock, knock.
John limped down the stairs (damn the old leg) and opened the door to a much greyer, much wearier, Mycroft Holmes.
“I hope I’m not troubling you,” He greeted, a thin smile on his lips. He leaned heavily on the umbrella and his (much) thinner form sagged.
“Not at all.” John replied, holding the door wide and gesturing for the older man to come in. “Your diet is going well, then?” He tried to smile and be pleasant. Mycroft gave a slight grin and something of a grunt and continued up the stairs.
They sat at the table, one across from the other. “I’m not here for pleasantries.” Mycroft said, taking a sugar and plopping it into the teacup.
“I could have guessed.” John said.
“None of this ‘how are you’ or ‘how have you been coping’ nonsense. It’s obvious to us both. You don’t eat or sleep well, life seems to have stopped, doesn’t it? It’s so dull now. No wars. It’s like you’re back from Afghanistan all over again, isn’t it? Tremble in your left hand, your limp’s come back, and nothing’s right with the world.
“It’s much the same for me. Of course work, work, work, work, and jobs here and there and I can’t afford time to even grieve. Mummy is heartbroken of course. Beyond heartbroken.” Mycroft’s eyes became vacant. “She doesn’t even see me anymore when she looks.” He shook his head. “He was always hers, and he always hurt her the most. Running off into the woods in the middle of the night, getting into fights at school, and now this. I don’t know if she’ll recover.
“It seems funny to me now. I always felt something like this would happen. He was brilliant, of course, but had no regard for safety. He was always risking his life, and now he lost.”
This is what you do, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.
Why would I do that?
Because you’re an idiot.
Mycroft sniffed, a hint of tears in his eyes. “But there’s nothing as can be done.”
“They never found a body.” John said. The pit of fire in his stomach opened again.
Mycroft looked at him with sad eyes. “Oh, my dear doctor, how you cling to hope. You make me smile. I can see why he liked having you around.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ever the brave one. Listens when you talk, when you ramble, and isn’t afraid of you. Not afraid of contradiction. And you treat everyone as if they’re human. Not something he got from many people, I’m afraid. I have to admit, even I treated him as a child. I just wanted to protect him, you see. He took it the wrong way, of course. I’m glad he found you though. He accumulated at least one friend, and a good one at that.”
John said nothing.
“In any case,” Mycroft continued, stirring his tea but not drinking any. “enough chit-chat. I’m here for business.” He set his elbow on the table and locked keen eyes with the doctor across from him. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”
“I’ve already given Lestrade all the details.” John said wearily.
“No, no, not the criminal details. What happened to you. After the explosion. Tell me.”
“I-I jumped in the pool.” John said. He could feel it. “He- I mean, that is, Sherlock, fired the gun right into the bomb that I had been wearing. And then I guess the soldier in me took over. I jumped. Leapt, more like. I grabbed him, and we both fell into the pool. I had him. I had him by the arm and we were both under the water.” He was struggling for air as he spoke, the waves were pushing him under, he was pulling, dragging on Sherlock’s arm, and oh, God, he couldn’t breath. What air wasn’t pushed out by the force of the waves was buried in the hole in his stomach. “I could feel the wave of heat hit me, and then there were rocks, and smashes, and we were heaved upward.” He choked the sentence out in a sharp breath. “That’s it. That’s all.”
Breathe in.
Mycroft sighed, showing no signs of noticing the distress in his voice. “Doctor Watson,” John looked up from his cup. “Is there any way when- when the floor heaved you up, you lost hold of him?”
“I don’t know.” He put his head down. Can’t you see I’m drowning? “I don’t know, I don’t know.” He smacked his hand onto the table in anger. Anger at himself, anger at Mycroft, everyone, at not being able to breathe right since he’d been on his own. “Look, all I know is that jumping into the pool saved my life. And I know I had a hold on him. That’s it. I don’t know what you want from me. That’s all I can give you. I’m just me now. I’m just- I’m just John Watson.” He took quick breaths to try and quell the anger. “I’m just John Watson,” He repeated. “nothing extraordinary. It took Afghanistan to make me extraordinary. It took-“
“It took Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft finished.
John looked at him and gave a small nod.
“Do you miss him?” Mycroft asked.
It’s so quiet, and dark, and I come downstairs and have leftover tea, and I didn’t even know there was something I depended on in my life and now I can’t breathe. “I’m ok. I’ve got what I need and I’ll be fine. I can’t qualify what I’m feeling as sad, though.” He licked his lips. “I know that if- If I had had been the one who-“ Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Who left,” John finished. “He’d be right as rain the next day. Maybe think of it as a jolly puzzle.” He sighed. “Or not, because he’d already know the answer and the whole thing would be to dull for him.” He paused. “I miss him, yes, and I’m not right.”
“But?”
“But it’s not easy to say how you feel about a man like that being gone.”
“John.” Mycroft leaned in across the table, making emphasis on his first name. “You’re a terrible liar. I know you’re upset, and I know what you’re saying, but let me tell you this. If you had been the one who died, Sherlock would have turned the world upside-down if it meant he could find you and bring you back.”
John scoffed. “I’m serious,” Mycroft protested. “All his life, Sherlock has been unable to show affection towards anything. He hasn’t cared about anyone, not even his own mother. All he cared about were his puzzles and keeping himself from boredom. Once he met you, Doctor John Watson, he was, for the first time in his life, able to see value in a human being. You were, in reality, the only thing in his life that he considered worthwhile. He was still such a child. No more mature in social matters than a toddler. And you walked into his life, and he would fight to protect what he found with all of the viciousness of a determined child.”
John smiled sadly. “No wonder everyone thought we were a couple.”
“Well,” Mycroft said, standing up. “If he had ever become mature enough to sustain a romantic relationship with anyone - I expect the world would have been entirely unprepared for the consequences.”
Mycroft stood and propped himself up with his umbrella. “Well then, I have what I’ve come for. I’ll see myself off.” He put on his hat and walked out the door. “I expect we’ll be in contact, Doctor.”
John sat where he was for a long while before finally moving off to sleep. He never thought about the man who was leaning outside the flat when Mycroft left.
More to follow. =] [Part I] [ Part II] [Part III] [ Part IV]