Afterwards (Part 2/7)
Title: Afterwards
Pairing: None
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, some others
Rating: PG for language and some violence
Warnings: Spoilers for the Great Game
Summary: John Watson is left alone in 221b Baker St after Sherlock's apparent death. Mild angsting.
Words: 1056
It was another two weeks (and twelve hours) before he received a call from DI Lestrade. Not a checkup/how-are-you-doing call, but a Doctor-Watson-you-were-a-friend-of-his- and-so-maybe-you-picked-up-on-some-of-his-stuff-and-we-could-really-use-your-help call.
He showed up at the hospital as he was called, although he didn’t have any idea what he could possibly do to help. He may have been, as Mycroft had implied, the closest person in the world to him, but he was not, and never could be Sherlock Holmes. He tried to count the blessings in that fact (I have real friends, I’m capable of relationships, I keep a tidy kitchen, I care about humanity, I don’t steal people’s laptops or put body parts in the refrigerator, I remember things from primary school, I don’t interrupt other people’s dates, and I don’t become physically violent when I’m bored), but they were little comfort as he walked into a situation where he would be expected to tell a dead man’s story after looking at his thumb and fingernails.
Sally Donovan met him in the lobby.
“Hey.” She said, a sort of nervous nonchalant note in her voice.
“Hi.” He replied, leaning on his cane.
“You alright?” She asked.
“I’m sorry?” He asked, taking a step forward. She gestured to his limp. “Oh, yeah.” He said dismissively. “It’s nothing.” Literally nothing. But I’m alone and can’t breathe and can’t walk and nothing has happened to me.
“So what is it? You say you need my help.”
“Yeah.” She pushed her curls back from her face. “I’ll take you to Lestrade. This way.”
Sally led him down to the mortuary, where the Detective Inspector was speaking to a very nervous Molly Hooper. She turned as the newcomers entered, and caught sight of John. He smiled nervously at her, and all the color drained from her face. Tears welled up in her eyes, and muttering a small “excuse me” to Lestrade, rushed out of the room quietly sobbing.
Lestrade pushed his hair back and turned to John. “This is a wreck.” He said. “Poor thing can barely speak to me, then you show up and she’s off.”
John shrugged. “Well… here I am.”
“Yeah. How you been?”
He shrugged again and pursed his lips. “Not bad.” He said.
“Eh well, that’s one of us.” Lestrade folded his arms. “It’s been hell for us. Higherups aren’t happy. They think we can’t deal without our little “pet”, and without him we might as well just pack up.” He sighed. “Well, we’re having problems that’s for sure.” Donovan scoffed. Lestrade shot her a glare. “Like this poor fella.” He gestured to the body in front of him. It was a man in his mid forties, just starting to bald. He was terribly thin, as if he had lost a lot of weight very quickly.“His wife wants us to investigate. Thinks it’s suspicious.”
John felt a thrill welling up inside of him. An excitement. He could feel his face flush. “Who is he?” He asked.
“His name’s Geoff Carting. He’s from London, and a really big activist in the effort to stop the drug trade. Big name among prevention and rehabilitation groups. One day he comes down sick and doesn’t get better. Each day he wastes away into nothing and finally he died. They held him here.”
“Do you mind if I...?” John gestured to the body.
“Be my guest.”
He walked around the body. Everything was atrophied. He looked just like a man who had died of pneumonia or a similar disease. He glanced through the medical reports. His health had failed incredibly quickly. All diagnoses were negative. He had no cancer, no viruses, no reason to die. He just did.
“Nothing. Everyone just reckons he died of natural causes.”
And then something happened.
Something that was entirely, extraordinarily, and unbelievably normal.
John’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Not even thinking, he pulled it out and opened the text message.
Wrong.
John stopped breathing, just for a moment. Wrong. His heart sped up, and he clutched his phone in his hand. Wrong.
“You alright?” Lestrade asked, peering over at him.
“Yeah.” John said, shoving the phone into his pocket. “It’s nothing. Just a text message.”
“Yeah, alright. You got anything?”
“It’s not natural.” He said. “I just… I don’t know how yet. But it’s definitely something got him.”
“Something?”
“Yeah, or someone.” He looked over his shoulder, just hoping- somehow pleadingly hoping, that Sherlock would be there and with a scoff and shake of his head he would explain in a few sentences exactly how Carting had died and why the murderer would have to be exactly six feet tall and be employed by a tailor. But he wasn’t there. It was just him. Just John. Just John and an anonymous text message.
Lestrade sighed. “I know you’re upset, Watson.” He said. “But you can’t just proclaim murder without any proof. Now, don’t get me wrong, I trust your gut feeling, but I need proof, and I’ve got enough on my back already.”
“I’ll find it.” John said. He had no idea if he would. But there was something inside of him, a spark. A drive was there that he hadn’t felt in a month and he could feel there was color in his face again. The game is on.
That night, there were nightmares. Vivid and gorgeous and blood blossomed on the chest of an old cabbie and John Watson had a gun in his hand, warm and steady and shouting, shouting at a man who wouldn’t turn. Then panic and adrenaline and rushing through the museum and gunshots in his ear and foot steps ahead of him, around him, and one was the assassin and one was a man in a coa. atd the girl spread out before him, eyes open never blinking, one hand beautifully outstretched to clasp her death. And then a harpoon in the chest of her killer and he was safe and Sarah was safe and he went home to an empty house, but someone was supposed to be there too. And finally the water springing out of darkness, light reflected onto his face and heavy jacket, and beautiful sweet relief burying him to the floor and someone fired a gun.
He woke with a strangled shout (he’s alive, he’s alive) and sat silent until sunrise.
More to come. =]
[Part I] [Part II] [ Part III] [ Part IV]