Fic--Can We Believe (2/11)
Title: Can We Believe (2/11[?])
Rating: M
Warnings: Spoilers for RBF, Mentions of 'supposed' character death, angst, men being silly and stubborn.
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Raz, Various OC's, Mentions of Sebastian Moran
Pairings: John/Sherlock, Greg/Molly, Raz/OFC
Notes: Looks like this is going to be a lot longer then We Believe, around 11 chapters if everything goes to plan. Which it often doesn't, so we'll see what happens. Standing betas princess_aleeraand jademac2442 are to praise for making it readable. Love you guys! Giant thanks to all of you for reading (And waiting while Real Life made it hard to update).
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?
Summary: One sentence started a movement. A movement John's not sure he believes in anymore
The Reveal--Part One
The Reveal--Part Two
John can’t help but think that this is a really, really bad idea.
It’d be bad enough if he and Greg looked healthy, but Greg’s face is pale and he keeps absently covering his eyes with one hand as if that’s going to help his hangover. John knows how he himself looks too; ashen skin and red-rimmed eyes, but at least he’s not throwing up anymore so he counts that as a bonus.
Mrs. Hudson sits quietly in front of him at her kitchen table, looking apprehensive. She’s biting her bottom lip slightly and looking between the two of them. She’s only just gotten back from her sisters and John practically pounced on her when she walked in the door, taking her bag and setting it by the stove before asking her to please sit, because he and Greg had something important to tell her. Now she just looks worried. She fiddles with the cuff of a rather nice green dress and shifts in her seat.
“Did someone pass on while I was away?” She asks, and John shakes his head. His stomach rolls in protest at the motion. “John, you can tell me. I’m not going to break.” Tears well in her eyes. “Who?”
“No one passed away, Mrs. Hudson.” Greg’s pressing his palm against one eye again, talking as softly as he can while still being heard. John’s head throbs. “We promise, all right? We just need to tell you something and we thought it’d be better to hear…”
“Sitting down.” John finishes. It’s not a great reason, but he and Greg agreed (while brushing the taste of yesterday’s lunch out of their mouths) that they are not going to let Sherlock swoop in and give poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.
She looks between them before settling her gaze on John. “Dear, have you been drinking? You look awful.” He nearly giggles at absurdity of it all, but she puts a hand over his and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Let me make you a cuppa, hmm? You both look like you could use one. Earl Grey?”
He catches her hand before she gets out of her seat. “No, Mrs. Hudson. It’s fine. Just…Let us tell you what’s going on, and then Greg will put the kettle on and we can all have some tea.” John gives her a shaky smile. Greg nods absently from behind his hand.
“…All right.” She sits back a little in her seat and stares at them, and suddenly her face brightens. “Oh, I see!”
John blinks at her, confused, then looks at Greg, who’s lowered a hand enough to see her properly.
“See…What?” Greg sounds about as confused as John feels.
“Well, I’ve been wondering how long it was going to take you two, you’ve been living together long enough.” Her face becomes stern, and she shakes a thin finger in Greg’s direction. “Though I do hope you’ve broken it off with poor Molly before doing anything indecent, Greg Lestrade. No one deserves that kind of heartbreak, especially not a lovely girl like her.”
“I…What?” Greg’s jaw is actually hanging open, and it looks like he’s not shutting it any time soon. “I’m sorry, what?”
John feels a bit of private glee that the Detective-Inspector is on the receiving end of this for once. Watching the other man splutter and desperately try to say something is almost worth Mrs. Hudson thinking John’s gay. Again.
Though he can’t stop thinking about that… whatever that was, in Molly’s kitchen, with Sherlock looking so tired it was a shock in itself and his soft, unmoving lips. Not stiff, more… Tentative? Unknowing? John’s always wondered if Sherlock had ever had a relationship, and that… Well. It does nothing to answer his questions.
He holds back a shiver and forces himself to pay attention to what his landlady is saying.
“Well Sher-…” She blinks, goes quiet for a second, then continues. John holds back a wince of sympathy. “He’s been gone for so long now that it’s about time you found someone, John.” She’s got a firm, reassuring grip on his hand and he wonders how much longer he can just smile at her before Greg manages something coherent.
The rising colour in the DI’s face and the way he’s sputtering like an overfilled kettle says not much longer, so he decides to just come out with it.
“No, Mrs. Hudson, that’s not it.” He still feels like death, and the venom churns in his stomach like cement in a mixer, but at least he’s gotten some amusement out of this whole thing. “Greg and I are just friends, and he’s still with Molly.”
Greg’s mouth clicks shut, and the red in his cheeks gets a little darker, but he doesn’t say anything against the statement and John sees that as a good sign for Molly.
He takes a deep breath. John has toyed with how to tell her since Greg had first brought up the idea, after they’d both finished throwing up but before the eighth glass of water. All sorts of ideas have come to mind, but in the end he decides on the direct approach.
“It’s about Sherlock.” Well almost direct. He can’t be blamed for not just blurting out ‘Sherlock’s alive’.
“…John.” Her face gets that odd, wary look it always does when her former tenant is mentioned, and she moves her hand away from his. Anger at Sherlock flares in his chest but he quells it.
“He’s… Ah… alive.”
Greg’s moved his hand so he can look at their landlady, and John’s gaze is unwaveringly fixed on her expression. The expression that fades from wary to surprised, to confused, then becomes… Pitying. This is what he’s expected.
“Is he now?” She gives a smile that isn’t quite there and pats his hand. “And how is he doing?”
“I’ve not gone insane, Mrs. Hudson.” John sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, shooting Greg a look. Though to be honest, he’s been worried that this is all some sort of elaborate plot to make him feel better about having finally cracked. Just a few moments of concern here and there, but he’s still not entirely convinced this whole thing is real.
Greg takes the hint. “It’s true. The git has been tromping all over the UK for months.” The detective waves a hand in John’s direction. “John found out about it yesterday morning and I stumbled across it ‘round two in the afternoon. It’s why we decided to drink on a Monday.” He mutters something about being lucky he had today off and slowly sets his forehead on the table. John tries to smile at Mrs. Hudson but only manages to make his frown less intense.
Mrs. Hudson looks from the DI to John and back, then pushes her kitchen chair away from the table. “John, sweetheart, I’m going to take the Detective-Inspector and get him to help me get my bag to my room. My hip, you know.” She stands up, and Greg follows, but when John goes to stand up she very gently pushes him back into his chair. “Oh no, I don’t need the both of you. You just sit, rest your leg. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.” She turns and leads Greg into the hall. John rolls his eyes as the door shuts.
He sits for about half a minute before grabbing his cane and quietly limping to the kitchen door. He presses his ear against it.
“…Call me. I could’ve been home right away to help convince him to go, and I’m sure Mycroft will pay the expenses if we ask politely enough, he feels so terrible about all the unpleasantness. But going along with the delusions of someone who needs professional help is wrong, Detective-Inspector. I can’t even imagine why you’d do such a thing.” She sounds more upset than angry. John sighs from behind the door.
“Mrs. Hudson-” Greg starts. John is grateful for the detective’s attempt at support.
“-The poor boy, he’s been through so much. I can’t imagine what he’s going through right now. I expected him to be upset-It’s almost been one year, you know-But I thought we’d gotten past the time when he’d break down like this.” Now she sounds like she’s on the verge of tears, and it makes John’s heart break a little. “I was so worried for a while there, but then you moved in and he got much better. But now-”
“-Mrs. Hudson, look, he’s not barking, all right? He’s fine. Sherlock really is alive, I swear-”
“-You don’t have to play along for me, young man, I understand mental illness. Now, I think the best thing to do would be to call Mycroft. He can be brisk at times but he always comes ‘round to say hello to me, and I’m sure he’ll know somewhere nice and clean.”
There is another sound, a familiar sound, which overlaps the tail end of her sentence. John strains to figure out what it is.
“Bollocks.” Greg mutters. The hallway outside has gotten very quiet so John decides he’s had enough of hiding and pushes the door open.
Three people are standing in the hallway, because the sound was the front door opening.
Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are both staring at the entrance, where Sherlock stands in silence and observes them all with cold eyes (which are blue today, because why not?). They warm a bit when he takes in Mrs. Hudson’s shocked face, the way her mouth is open ever so slightly.
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says, as if nothing at all has happened, as if he didn’t spend the past year pretending to be dead. His lips tilt in a tiny smile. John wishes he could just turn and walk off, because despite himself, he wants to walk across the hall and show Sherlock Holmes what a real bloody kiss is like. After smacking him a few times with something heavy. Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s and they stare at each other for the briefest of moments. John can see emotion there. A bit of concern, a bit of warmth, and overwhelming interest.
He wonders what Sherlock sees in his gaze, and desperately hopes the answer is nothing at all.
Mrs. Hudson’s face loses all colour and her hand clutches the left side of her chest in a desperate, terrified way. And while John and Greg had been joking (for the most part) about their landlady having a heart attack, it suddenly becomes a very real fear in John’s mind.
Greg is by her side in an instant, one hand on her elbow and the other curled around her waist, and John hobbles close in case he’s needed and pushes his own conflicting thoughts away-venom and want, duelling in his mind. Sherlock looks a little concerned and takes a half-step closer, hand extending towards his former landlady.
“Mrs. Hudson?” John hears the edge of panic in Greg’s tone and can’t help but echo it in his own head. “Are you all right? Come on, let’s sit you down.” He tries to move her towards the kitchen but she is firmly planted, refusing to move. Her usually clear eyes are hazy with emotion.
John watches her face clear, her hand lower from its place over her heart, and feels a surge of relief.
“I’m fine, Greg. Don’t you worry.” She sounds shaky, but she shrugs Greg’s arm off and steps closer to Sherlock, who hasn’t budged.
She walks slower than is absolutely necessary until she’s standing right in front of Sherlock, whose frown is intense and guarded. He lowers his hand back to his side. Mrs. Hudson raises a finger and jabs him in the chest once, firm and poignant.
John resists the urge to step closer.
“I assure you Mrs, Hudson, I’m not the by-product of one of your soothers.” Sherlock’s tone is smooth. His lips twitch into a soft smile.
John sees what’s about to happen and winces just before her hand flies up and slaps Sherlock across the face. It’s not hard enough to send him staggering like Greg’s punch, but it’s firm and must have stung. Sherlock’s expression changes to one of baffled distress.
“Knew there was a reason I loved her,” Greg says. Sherlock is blinking rapidly at his former landlady, who immediately grabs onto Sherlock’s sleeve and pulls him towards the kitchen.
“You look awful, dear. Haven’t you eaten while you’ve been away?” She opens the door and Sherlock disappears behind it, leaving John and Greg holding back dual grins in the hall. “I’ll fix you some stew, and then we can talk about where you’ve been. I’m sure it’s quite the tale.”
***
Mycroft Holmes has never been in this particular position before.
He watches his little brother walk towards his office on the screen that shows the hallway’s CCTV, fingers tented together, eyes fixed on the swirling coat and easy strides. Mycroft is modestly proud at how well his little brother hides the severity of his injuries, the look of impolite dismissal as he passes others in the hall, the way he barely falters when a messenger crashes into his wounded right shoulder.
Mycroft shuts the laptop screen just as his office door opens and Sherlock breezes in.
The brothers stare at one another in absolute silence, Sherlock standing in the doorway and Mycroft studying him from behind his massive mahogany desk. It’s a strange feeling, doing something that he never thought would happen again, seeing someone he buried in the earth almost a year ago standing in his office.
He inwardly wishes he’d put more surveillance on Molly Hooper, but considering the brisk way his brother had spoken to the demure woman… Well. Mycroft had considered her a non-event. As it was, they’d stuck to infrequent monthly drive-bys and the occasional false door-to-door salesman. He makes a mental note to get a camera installed.
“Drink?” He finally asks, standing to get the whiskey. Whiskey that is infinitely more expensive than the four bottles purchased by Greg Lestrade on Monday.
“If it’s decent, yes. If not you can keep it, I’m not in the mood for anything less than utter sophistication.”
Now Sherlock is just being difficult. They both know Mycroft Holmes would only buy whiskey of the highest quality. He decants the clear amber liquid with a slight smile. “Seen enough debauchery from the owners of 221B, have you?”
“John has impressive aim, even when heavily intoxicated.” Sherlock takes the glass in his long, thin fingers and swirls the contents before taking a brief sip, lowering himself into one of the luxurious leather chairs Mycroft offers for guests. The older Holmes doesn’t miss the way Sherlock lists to his left, nor does he overlook the slight hitch in his breathing as he jostles a tender spot, but Mycroft refrains from commenting.
“So you’re alive.” He sips his own drink, eyebrows raised. Sherlock gives a sharp nod.
“It would seem so. No thanks to you.” Mycroft doesn’t comment on that either, in part because there’s nothing he can say to appease his sibling but mainly because he is very, very aware that what Sherlock says is the truth. He refuses to admit that, however.
“Have you told mummy?” He already knows the answer, but stalling for time to think is necessary when one isn’t sure how to proceed.
“Not yet. I suppose I’ll have to before I go public.”
They’re quiet for a moment.
“Your hair looks atrocious,” he snipes. And it really, truly does.
“Your diet still isn’t working,” Sherlock retorts.
They sip their whiskey in silence, staring at one another. The feeling in the room is…strange. Unlike them. It’s quiet and reserved and reminds Mycroft of when they were younger, before the resentments built up to the point where neither man was willing to indulge the other in any respect and the only time they were truly civil to one another was during forced reunions initiated by their mother.
“Am I correct in deducing that you are the ‘rogue element’ that’s been destroying Moriarty’s empire?” The reports have been crossing his desks with increasing frequency the past few months, and each time he’d felt an odd pang of satisfaction. He’d held back orders for his teams to search for the person because of that pang, the little hint that he still cared despite himself.
“Quite. Though all the important parts have been dealt with. I’m sure your underlings can handle the fringe outposts without too much trouble.” Sherlock crosses his legs, and Mycroft wonders if his brother is pleased to be in his own clothes once again. The first glimpse of him on file had been him walking down Baker Street in the dead of night wearing street clothes, then leaving 221B about ten minutes later with an intense frown. The footage follows him all the way to Molly Hooper’s apartment complex.
Mycroft has watched that footage far more than he cares to think about.
“I wonder, brother.” Mycroft sets his drink down on his desk, leaning forwards with a frown. “If you’ve eliminated all the important players?”
“If you’re attempting to extract information on Sebastian Moran, you may as well just ask.” Sherlock seems suddenly engrossed in his glass.
Mycroft sighs. “Did you manage to dispatch the Colonel?”
“When I said all of the important parts had been dealt with, I meant it, Mycroft.” Sherlock says it a little sharply, and it’s almost like they’ve gone back in time; Sherlock sounding venomous and haughty while Mycroft struggles to maintain his composure. “Sebastian Moran has been reduced to his basic particles. A gunshot to the temple is hardly something one recovers from.”
“Much like a four-story fall.”
“The fall isn’t what causes the physical damage that leads to death,” Sherlock responds. “It’s the landing.”
“You were very convincing. Even doctor Watson believed your death was legitimate.”
Sherlock’s body goes perfectly still. “I’m aware.”
Mycroft files that away for another time, when he can give it the attention it deserves. Very few things in this world make Sherlock Holmes slow down, let alone stop. “I doubt he was interested in your methods.”
“That is an extraordinary understatement.”
“If you have the time, I’m rather ardent to hear how you managed it.”
They sit for two hours while Sherlock explains the whole affair with an air of snobbish enthusiasm. Mycroft misses an important meeting (the Prime Minister has an issue with the new Government reforms) and one conference call with the Syrian Ambassador.
Mycroft Holmes isn’t terribly bothered.
***
Mel’s pale green eyes are bright Raz pulls back from their kiss and wiggles his eyebrows, and she swats playfully at his arm.
“Bloody wanker, stop lookin’ so chuffed.”
“Why? I am chuffed, ain’t I?” She snorts at that and shakes her head, and he tilts her chin to give her a quick snog before she opens the door and disappears into her flat. “Can’t help lookin’ like I am.”
“Yeah, Whateva’.” She grins at him. “Go on, go keep Holmes alive. ‘M sure that Sheppard bloke’ll be just as chuffed as you.”
“Nope. It ain’t possible.”
She laughs and vanishes behind the door, back to her flat mates and pot-smoking landlord. She lives in a pretty bad neighbourhood with really good people.
Raz turns and fills his lungs with the cold air of early morning. It’s been a good fuckin’ night so far. Mel finally let him take her out for dinner and she spent the whole night laughing at his jokes and grinning her wicked little grin when he made fun of the other people eating. And then, when he’d been content to leave it at that and wait for the next date to try anything, she kissed him.
He picks up his bag from where he dropped it when they kissed and slings it over one shoulder, slouching off but whistling into the otherwise silent streets.
He notices he’s being followed about ten minutes into his wandering, but doesn’t turn to tussle with the guy just yet. He’s a tall bloke who’s far enough away that if Raz turned to try and get his stalker before they did anything he’d be able to run off pretty easy. Raz jerks his hood over his head and tries to make himself smaller then he is-it’s always best to look less threatening than you are. Makes whoever’s gonna jump you overconfident.
So he slows his pace from a quick walk to a slow one and waits.
Sure enough, the loud echo of footsteps starts to catch up with him about five minutes later. Raz makes a quick turn into an alley off of Mel’s street. It’s seedy and dirty and Raz immediately feels at home.
He presses against the wall and waits for the footsteps to pause outside the mouth of the alley, trying not to breathe too loud in case he tips the fucker off. He waits till the bloke is a few steps in before springing out, dropping his bag on the ground and pulling out a paint can to use as a weapon.
The taller bloke ducks as Raz brings the can to eye level and knocks it out of his hand like it was nothing. He straightens and pulls back his own hood with a bit of a smile. He’s a thin guy, his hair is peroxide blonde and pretty short, but he looks a lot like…
“Raz, you really must stop being so lazy,” Sherlock says, and Raz blinks at him. “Weapons can never be trusted to turn the tide during a real fight.”
“Ain’t you supposed to be six foot under righ’ now?” Raz narrows his eyes at this bloke who might be Sherlock.
“That’s the misconception, yes.” And yeah, that sounds a hell of a lot like the detective.
“But you…Ain’t?” Raz turns this idea around in his head a bit before deciding yeah, no one in their right mind would pretend to be Sherlock Holmes. They’d have to be barking.
“Correct.” Sherlock gives a short, sharp nod, and he looks a bit put off. Like he’s expecting Raz to yell at him or cuss him out.
“Well.” Raz just looks at him, then breaks into a grin. “Welcome back, Holmes.” He sticks out a hand that the detective takes, then pulls the dead man into a one-armed hug. When he lets go Holmes looks pretty bloody pleased with it all.
“Thank you, Raz.” He claps a hand on Raz’s shoulder and smiles.
***
Sherlock has timed it perfectly, it seems. He’s just managed to settle himself in the comfortable chair and turn to face the window when the elevator in The Planet’s offices slides open behind him. He shifts a bit and listens, glancing sideways at the clock on the office’s wall. Five thirty-two. Short, quick steps. Rhys Sheppard is a morning person.
The door to Sheppard’s office opens but the footsteps end there. Wary. Which means Sheppard has noticed someone resting comfortably in his chair, looking out over pre-dawn London from his picture windows. Interesting.
“Morning,” Sherlock drawls, and fights to keep the amusement from his voice. Talking with Raz had been a good warm-up to speaking with the vocal reporter-not being hit in some fashion was encouraging.
Lights flare to life around him, and Sherlock takes a moment to let his eyes adjust. The soft blue of the walls makes the office a cheery place, which seems to fit his loyal reporter’s personality well.
“Sitting alone in the dark’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” The reporter sounds wary but amused, and Sherlock can’t help the smirk on his face.
“I’ve been called worse.” Sheppard doesn’t say anything to that, so Sherlock takes the opportunity to comment on something both appealing and highly entertaining. “I find it interesting that you’ve got Kitty Reilly’s ‘farewell article’ framed on your wall. Seems a bit vindictive, don’t you think?”
Rhys sounds pleased when he answers. “It makes me laugh on a rough day.” There’s a half step between sentences-The reporter is less wary and more intrigued. Good. Sherlock’s grand reveal will have more impact the more interested this reporter is. “And I particularly love how she claims she’s leaving because of personal problems, and not because the paper dropped her like a sack of rancid garbage.” ‘Rancid Garbage’ is a rather good line; Sherlock files it away for a later date. Perhaps when talking about Anderson’s work. “Which says to me they finally got around actually reading her articles, but that’s just a personal belief.”
“Yes, I did notice the line about ‘private issues’ was highlighted.” In orange. And underlined with a blue pen.
“It’s nice to know exactly where to look when you want a good laugh.” There’s a rustle behind him, which is either the other man crossing his arms or putting his hands in his pockets. Sherlock thinks it’s the first option presented. He stares silently out the window and watches the ever-present traffic coast along London’s roadways. “So, why exactly are you sitting in my chair? I worked hard for that chair, it swivels and everything.”
Sherlock keeps his tone light, the way John does when he’s pointing out something obvious. People seem to respond better then when Sherlock indicates the correct answer, so he’s learnt to emulate that when he wants to give a good impression. “I thought you might be all right with standing for a bit, considering I’ve made your career.”
“Funny, you don’t sound like John Watson.” Sheppard sounds a bit put off, but the curiosity of an investigative journalist cannot be sated. And if anyone can appreciate his dramatic nature (besides John), it will be this ginger-haired man from Northern England.
The chair turns smoothly and without a sound. Sherlock steeples his fingers and peers at the reporter, whose freckled face has become exceptionally sallow. It makes his red hair that much more noticeable. “He would be rather pleased to hear you say that,” Sherlock quips, which is true enough. He’s not sure of an instance where John would be pleased to be compared to his former flatmate.
For a brief moment he’s concerned that Sheppard is going to lose consciousness, but the younger man grips his desk tightly and blinks a few times. Colour returns to his cheeks.
“Either I’ve been misinformed, or you’re a zombie,” Sheppard says softly. “And while you look beaten up enough, zombies usually show up in hordes.”
Sherlock didn’t think the bruises were still so prominent, but it has only been three days and fourteen hours since his tussle with Moran, so he supposes it’s possible he looks worse than previously assumed. He raises an eyebrow. “I can assure you, I am not a zombie. If I were, there would be quite a bit more decay and possibly rigor mortis.” He hasn’t researched many manners of reanimation in dead tissue, but can think of a few experiments to try when this whole ‘reveal’ is finished.
“Then I’ve been misinformed?” Sheppard drops into a chair across from Sherlock and stares at him. Sherlock wonders if it is the same chair John sat in when giving his interview. “Along with the entire country?”
“Grossly misinformed,” Sherlock smirks.
Rhys nods at that. He still looks as if he’s in shock, but seems to slowly be regaining himself. “Am I right in guessing you’re here to set the record straight regarding your ‘untimely and public demise’?”
Oh, this reporter is clever. Sherlock feels himself grinning. “I quite like that, actually.”
“What about…” The reporter seems to chew on something for a moment, then raises his hands as if framing a headline. They tremble slightly, but the man himself is grinning. “ ‘The Resurrection of a legend--My conversation with Sherlock Holmes.’ As a headline?”
“It’s not terrible.” Sherlock tries to sound less pleased then he is and fails. “Though I must say, it’s a little verbose for my taste.”
“I’m a reporter? It’s bound to be long-winded.” Sheppard grins. “So, Mr. Holmes. Care to give me the exclusive?”
“Best take notes.”
The immediate click of a Dictaphone is all the answer Sherlock needs, and he settles himself into Rhys Sheppard’s swivel chair with a slow, amused smile.