Sherlock (BBC) Fanfiction: #believeinsherlock [3/4]
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-
“Oh, John! I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Sarah says, and John shakes his head.
“I’m sorry for not being in sooner. Time sort of slipped away from me for a while,” he says and she nods along sympathetically. Sarah really is too kind; she called John in the days after the fall-the jump-and told him to take as much time as he needed.
(“It’s hard to lose someone you love,” she had said over the phone, and John didn’t bother correcting her assumption that he and Sherlock were together because John was too tired to bother and what did it matter anyway? They were flatmates and best friends, falling into a comfortable stasis point where they both understood one another, and they had each been willing to die for each other so many times over the year and a half-and Sherlock was dead and perhaps John did love Sherlock, in his own way, not quite family, not quite simple friendship, something other entirely, because otherwise that fact wouldn’t have hurt him as much as it did right now.)
Sarah looks worried, and John knows he looks a little haggard, but he’s really feeling a bit better. Not fixed, but he’s slowly getting a few more minutes of sleep each night, and his nightmares aren’t all about Sherlock plummeting to his death, more memories of Afghanistan surfacing and it’s close to balancing, to becoming another tragedy in his history to shoulder; it’s just not a bullet or a leg, but a heavy weight on his heart. Still, he can walk and life is less of simple going through the motions as it was a month ago.
Despite that, John wasn’t lying when he said time had been slipping away from him, water from cupped hands, dripping before he could catch them. It had only been when John had been buying groceries the other day that he realised something was different with his bank account and for a moment he feared he had gone broke, having missed work for so long, spending not compatible with his income, but instead he checked and his savings had trebled, if not more.
The ATM’s screen froze and a message popped up: For a man who acted like he could outlive death, Sherlock kept his will surprisingly up to date. Part of his trust fund has been left to you, along with the majority of his belongings. Keep well, doctor. Whilst it was unsigned, it wasn’t difficult for John to figure out who had done this, and he had spent the rest of the night within 221B Baker Street, alternating between checking the website, his blog, and reading various medical journals he’d forgotten about.
John didn’t need to work, but he decided without it, he would probably go mad. It’s been a month and life needs to move on.
“I’m fine,” he tells Sarah, and they both know he’s lying, or at least lying by omission, but she nods anyway, lets him through to do his job. It is never quite tedious, being a doctor. Of course, it could never match the excitement of chasing after a criminal on foot in the dead of night, but the job has its own merits, talking to people and helping them with whatever problems they may have. One young woman asks about using contraceptives to alleviate the flow of menstrual cycles, an old man makes him laugh as they talk about Viagra, and an expectant mother drags in a little boy who has a rash on his arm and John prescribes a cream and gives them both a lollipop and a wide smile.
During his quick lunch break, Sarah knocks on the door and holds two turkey sandwiches as a sort of peace offering. John agrees and they have lunch together, sitting outside on a bench close to the clinic. There is a smog layer in the air but the sun shines brightly enough, and John feels a little freer. As they eat quietly, John can’t help but eye up strangers who pass and wonder what Sherlock could have seen from them, the ladders in stockings and breadcrumbs on collars and the signs of habitually chewed fingernails-
“John,” Sarah begins cautiously. “I want you to know despite the fact our relationship fell through, I still consider you my friend, and if you need to talk, or anything, please don’t hesitate.”
“I’ve got a therapist,” John replies without thinking. He quickly backtracks when he sees the hurt expression on Sarah’s face. “No, I didn’t-look, I really appreciate the offer, I really do, and I consider you my friend, too, but I still don’t feel comfortable talking about Sherlock yet.” It’s different with Mrs Hudson, who knew Sherlock, but Sarah was barely an acquaintance with the man when he was alive.
“Of course, I understand.” She places her hand over his, the gesture platonic but comforting nonetheless, and adds, “I don’t think he lied.”
“You don’t?”
“If I thought he were a fraud, it would mean you were flatmates with a man insane enough to hire a troupe of Chinese performers to steal something then lose it, only to kidnap us to find it,” Sarah laughs, the sound sweet in the air. “He was a bit deranged at times, but hardly psychotic.”
“Never going to let that go, are you?” John replies, but his tone is light.
“As first dates go, that was pretty memorable,” Sarah agrees, finishing the last bite of her sandwich. She smiles, and it’s nice to see how she can finally joke about that night, as though the terror of nearly dying has faded enough with time.
“Now,” Sarah says, “how about you choose the topic of conversation?”
John thinks for a moment before bringing up a recent article he had read only the other night, and they spend the rest of the lunch discussing the possible medical uses of Rhododendron ponticum. After that, apart from sending one patient with severe chest pains to A&E, John has a quiet afternoon. It’s nice, as much as it is familiar, and it reminds him he can function without Sherlock.
-
It’s not dark by the time John is let out, so he decides to walk home, see how much he can test out his leg. The pain comes and goes, psychosomatic limp, and for the beginning of the walk, he doesn’t need the cane, but as he draws closer to home, he finds himself leaning against it heavily, feet dragging a fraction longer with every step. He’s done this for the past fortnight after work, and sometimes thinks there may be the smallest signs of improvement. Really too soon to tell.
He is looking at his feet as he walks, so he doesn’t notice until the very last moment that someone is sitting on the steps to his home, half dozing. It takes him a moment to place the face, but when he recognises her he feels his entire disposition souring.
“Miss Kitty Riley,” he says loudly, and the reporter jumps up suddenly, awake and alert and her eyes narrow when she sees John.
“Doctor Watson,” she replies, somehow managing to place an accusation within two words. “Did you do this?”
“Do what?” John asks tiredly.
“Don’t play coy with me,” Kitty barks back, enraged, thrusting a newspaper into John’s hands. “It’s your fault!”
Blinking several times, John’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead with increasing surprise as he reads the headlines: RICH BROOK, MISSING. In a smaller print underneath, reads: Sherlock Holmes, possibly innocent? That last sentence makes John swallow heavily, but Kitty’s burning gaze stops him from reading the article in full.
“My fault Moriarty has gone back underground?” John says calmly as he hands back the newspaper. He can buy his own copy later, tomorrow, or maybe the article’s up online at the website already. “I don’t remember doing that, sorry.”
“Not Moriarty,” she hisses. “Brook. I saw you and Sherlock chase after him that night. You did something to him!”
“I didn’t get a chance to see Moriarty after he disappeared from your place.” John’s grip of his cane turns almost painful, but he does not lose control of his voice for a second.
“He’s been missing for roughly the same amount of time that Sherlock’s been dead.”
She spits out the word like a curse, and it takes a lot of John’s self control to prevent himself from growling at her. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “Well hurrah for you then. I guess you can write up some radical conspiracy story for the headlines and cash in on it. Now, I’m tired, please let me go home.”
Kitty stands and spreads her arms out, blocking the path. It wouldn’t be difficult to push past her and go inside, but the last thing he needs is to be accused with a blown up charge of assault. He maintains his distance.
“No,” Kitty says. “I need answers.”
That stops John for a moment. He mentally rewinds her words; need instead of want, and his eyes take in the bags under hers, dark smudges, the way of collar is skewed awkwardly and that she was so tired that she was half-asleep when John finally arrived. Perhaps he will never have the rapid fire intelligence or observational skills of the world’s only consulting detective, but there is something to be said about a methodical approach.
“Your sources don’t check out anymore, do they?” John asks. More and more people have contributed to believeinsherlock.org, to disproving the lie of Richard Brook’s existence, and it was nearly enough that John was going to approach New Scotland Yard with the information. In all honesty, those sources never should have checked up in the first place, but now Moriarty is done with Sherlock, John supposes there’s no need to maintain the cover.
“How-” she starts before cutting herself off. “That isn’t relevant. What is relevant is what you’ve done to Richard!”
“I’ve done nothing to ‘Richard’; I haven’t even done anything to Moriarty,” John repeats. “But I’m guessing that your boss wants another interview to counter all the stuff on the Internet calling you-and your newspaper-a liar and you can’t deliver.” Kitty’s face pales even further and her eyes are blown wide. “I’m guessing you might be fired, so you come and bother me about it in the hopes of finding something else to write about.”
John grins, purposefully showing enough teeth to be predatory. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Miss Riley, but you’ll find nothing interesting happens to me.”
“You know what, Doctor Watson?” Kitty challenges whilst drawing herself up to her full height. “The truth cannot be stopped. You can try deny Sherlock’s a fraud for as long as you want, it doesn’t stop that fact that-”
“-he’s no longer here, and apparently neither is Brook, meaning that you’re in deep trouble?” John finishes. Sighing, he rubs his temples and says, “I’m asking one last time. Will you please move so I can go inside?”
She doesn’t move, so John pulls out his phone and calls Lestrade.
He answers promptly with, “John, I was about to call you.”
“Good, because I need your advice.”
“What on?” Lestrade seems surprised, and John is reminded that they haven’t spoken since that call and email weeks before. There was a time they spoke at least three times a week for over an hour at a time, not even always about cases. Sometimes it’s like Sherlock isn’t the only person John lost.
“If I have an annoyingly persistent reporter refusing to allow me access into my own property, can she be arrested?” John shoots Kitty a dirty look and she frowns, staring at him intensely as if that would allow her to suddenly hear the other side of the conversation.
“Maybe,” Lestrade says. “Depends how aggressive she is. Do you need me to come down?”
“Give me another five minutes to try convince her to move and we’ll see,” John says. He is about to hang up before he remembers, “What did you need to talk to me about?”
“We need you to come into the station,” Lestrade says grimly.
“Is this going to be a scenario where I call you detective inspector?”
“Sorry, mate,” Lestrade says, sounding sincerely apologetic. “It turns out-”
“That the so-called ‘Brook’ is missing, right?” John guesses. “That’s what this reporter is harassing me about.”
“Yeah,” and Lestrade’s tone is almost pleased to hear John is on top of things. “Again, sorry, but-”
“Understandably I’m a suspect, yes, I get it,” John says. Kitty is smiling triumphantly, but John only gives her a disinterested shrug. “If you want me to come to the station, can you come pick me up? I’m flat out of cash to flag down a cab and I don’t think Miss Riley here would let me pass to grab some more.”
“Sure, no problems. I’ll see you in a tick, John.”
“‘Bye, Greg.”
Slipping his phone back into his pocket, John asks Kitty, “Can you budge over a bit on the steps? I want to sit down. My leg’s cramping up a bit.”
Kitty laughs, high and tinny, and says, “See? Even the police are onto you. Sherlock was one thing, but you, a doctor and war veteran?”
“So, you’re not going to move then?” John asks, ignoring her accusations. “Right, well. I’m just going to sit down on the floor then, don’t mind me.”
The ground is cold, but sitting down removes the weight from his leg and gives him a chance to rub some feeling back into the muscles. His jeans are old and won’t mind getting a little dirty. He props his cane against the stairs and watches the passing traffic. The café besides them were having a relatively quiet evening, and John wonders absently about whether the owner ever did address the issue of having two wives to his respective spouses. If Mrs Hudson’s attitude towards the man is any indicator, he hasn’t. Good on her, he thought. She deserves better anyway.
“How did you live with him and not know?” Kitty asks, voice stripped of its aggression and dissolving to pure curiosity. “You don’t strike me as particularly naïve-”
“Miss,” John starts politely but firmly. “Either we spend this time waiting in a peaceful silence, or I give you a real piece of my mind on that article you wrote. To be quite frank, I don’t want to do the latter, I really am tired, so don’t test me.”
“I just want to know.”
John sighs. The woman is persistent, he’ll give her that. “You went out of your way to slander the name of my now dead best friend. Forgive me for not believing that you ‘just want to know’.”
“It’s hardly slander if it’s true.”
“Look,” John says, turning around to face her properly. She is still standing, so he has to crane his neck. “From the way you spoke to him, that night, it seems like he’d spoken to you before. He probably looked at your shoes or your makeup and insulted you. Chances are, since your reporting seems very in-your-face, you had annoyed him. Am I right?”
Kitty nods mutely and John continues.
“I can apologise for him making you feel three-inches tall. He does-did-that quite a bit, and he could be a bit of a prick at times. Still, journalists are meant to remain unbiased. But didn’t you ever think it was odd that his ‘Brook’ fellow-Moriarty-went to you for the ‘reveal all’ interview?” John can’t keep the derision out of his voice. “That he went for a reporter who had a standing grudge against Sherlock and something to prove? That he conveniently held onto all this information for months after his trial to release to you just before Sherlock kills himself?”
“I-” Kitty starts, but John holds up his hand.
“Stop,” he says. “I don’t need to hear you tell me that your sources were all viable when you published. You’re smart enough to properly doubt them now anyway. Just - please stop.”
They spend the rest of the wait in silence. It is a relief to see finally Lestrade, who smiles at John and then shoots a questioning glance at Kitty.
“Now, ma’am, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you really can’t stop a man from entering his own property,” Lestrade says.
“This is Kitty Riley on the scene. Is it true you’re taking Doctor Watson in for questioning over Brook’s disappearance?” Kitty demands, recording stick outstretched. Blimey, she’s a fast one, John thinks. “Anything you’d like to say, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
John stands and grabs his cane, making his way to the car. As he slides into the passenger side seat, he can hear Lestrade say exasperatedly, “The police are just going through all the possibilities, but there is no evidence pointing towards foul play. Good day, miss, and I hope you won’t be here when John gets back.” Lestrade nods briskly at her and gets into the car, and Kitty watches them until they turn a corner and disappear out of sight.
After a moment of driving, Lestrade says, “I’ve never liked reporters.”
“I’m starting to see why,” John says.
Lestrade muses at a set of lights, “Kitty Riley... the name rings a bell.”
“She’s the journo who had the big tell-all story about Sherlock,” John explains. Shaking his head, he asks, “So, Lestrade, are you the one questioning me or what?”
“Sorry, it’s not my department,” Lestrade confesses a little apologetically. “But bringing people in for questioning is pretty standard, and I figured you’d prefer a familiar face.”
“That’s all right,” John says. “You still have that crappy coffee machine in the staff room?”
“Yeah.” John thinks he can see a hint of a smile in Lestrade’s profile.
“Unfortunate, but hopefully I won’t be kept long,” John says. “So how is your search for the elusive ‘Richard Brook’ going?”
“All I’m going to say is that the paper trail is starting to run dry,” Lestrade replies, scratching his eyebrow. “I overheard someone the other day saying ‘Moriarty was real’, which was pretty brilliant. Anyway, an innocent man would have shown up by now.”
“Unless they were dead,” John says, but Lestrade doesn’t say anything.
John’s fingers trace the edges of the leather seat, smooth and coloured copper brown. “Did you see the website people have made?”
“Believeinsherlock.org?”
“That’d be the one.”
“It’s impressive,” Lestrade says. “I wonder how much my team would’ve gotten if I’d put them on the same case, digging up all this garbage.”
“When people on the Internet band together, it’s a force to be reckoned with.”
Lestrade pauses to change gears and then says, “The graffiti is getting a little out of hand, though.”
“They’re still doing that?” John is surprised that it’s been going on for so long, actually, Raziah’s support notwithstanding, surely people would want to spend their money and paint on more creative outlets. He had assumed it had stopped a while back.
“Oh yeah,” Lestrade says. “When one gets painted over, it feels like three spring up to replace it. The same message over and over. I believe in Sherlock or Moriarty was real. Soon enough they’re going to sell these things on shirts and mugs.”
“Has there been anything really damaging?” John asks as they drive around a roundabout. Traffic is fairly busy at this time of day and their progress is hindered several times. It isn’t too bad though, neither of them in any particular rush for once.
“So far they’ve kept it in the industrial or commercial zones,” Lestrade says, “so it hasn’t been too bad. The police are keeping a closer eye on the situation, but really, we don’t have enough manpower to actively hunt down a spot of property damage.”
John feels himself grinning. Casually, he asks, “Do you happen to be the only officer who doesn’t think it’s too bad to leave these taggers alone?”
“Dimmock seems to be unquestioning in his support,” Lestrade says. “After all, there are real criminals on the streets. Yesterday we got another call that Sandford’s swan has gotten loose again.”
“A swan?” John repeats, incredulous.
“Serious business, that swan,” Lestrade affirms, biting the inside of his cheek, completely deadpan delivery.
For a moment they sit completely still before John barks out in surprised laughter, Lestrade soon following. John’s forgotten how nice it is to fall into fits of laughter with someone else, how you can feel breathless in a good way, a hum of amusement running all over his body like a live current.
“Sorry to break the mood,” John says faintly, “but you never answered me earlier. Is this a scenario where I can still call you detective inspector?”
“What?” Lestrade asks. “Didn’t I tell you that I’m not going to be questioning you?”
“No, I’m trying to ask with a bit of tact whether or not you’ve still got your job.”
“Oh yeah, I guess my brain’s starting to switch off, I’ve had a long shift.” Lestrade twists his head and cricks his neck. He still looks tired, but not completely drained. “I think the chief superintendant is starting to see how much Sherlock helped over the years. There’s a damn lot of paperwork for him to go through and he’s honestly getting a bit sick of it.”
They finally arrive at New Scotland Yard, and it doesn’t look any different to all the other times John has been dragged here. It feels different though, something in the air, like seeing a world in colour until it has been washed to a dirty greyscale, like music missing from a movie scene, a gap that should be filled but isn’t. Perhaps it’s the distinct lack of panic, of danger, of the need to rush whilst adrenalin floods his veins and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. More likely it’s due to the absence of a tall, imposing companion, whose presence drew the attention of all those in the area; more than just a man, he was a commanding figure who could knock people down with his eyes alone. John needs a moment to adjust, closing his eyes tightly against the wave of memories that threaten to flood him, but he breathes deeply and retrieves his cane, closing the door with a gentle click.
Living with Sherlock Holmes had been a constant learning experience, and one thing John learned was to fine tune his self-control. He quickly plasters on a neutral expression as he walks beside Lestrade through the doors and asks, “Have you reviewed a single case where Sherlock’s been wrong yet?”
“Not one,” Lestrade says, and there is the faintest trace of pride in his voice. Most of their walk is in companionable silence when John notices Lestrade eyeing his cane. It’s the silver-grey metal model he had received from the hospital but never quite found himself returning. He likes it better than a wooden one, but it does occasionally give the impression he’s just returned from being invalid.
“Psychosomatic limp,” John explains unashamedly. “Shot in the shoulder whilst deployed in Afghanistan, came back home to find out the brain works in mysterious ways.”
Lestrade’s eyes never hint at pity, only a mild curiosity. “How come I’ve never seen you with it before?”
“In a strange way, Sherlock... fixed me,” John says, shrugging. He recognises the path they’re walking and knows they’ve nearly arrived; they’ve just passed the staff room and John has seen the ancient coffee maker and laments the lack of decent caffeine.
“Sherlock knew something you didn’t, doctor?”
“When did Sherlock not know something I didn’t? The man was a walking encyclopaedia with holes missing for pop culture, the solar system and politics,” John says fondly, and he does not think about how it’s getting easier to refer to the man in the past tense. “But that wasn’t it. He tricked me into leaving my cane whilst pursuing a criminal and I guess I forgot that I was meant to have a limp at all. He outsmarted my bloody subconscious, would you believe it?”
“Without him, it’s back, the limp?” Lestrade asks, pushing open a door and letting John walk through first.
“Yeah,” John replies, speaking a little thickly past the sudden lump in his throat. “Never mind it though. We’re here?”
“Yep,” Lestrade says. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
John moves over to one of the empty chairs and sits. There is an officer in uniform sitting across from him, stern faced with narrow pale eyes and an angular jawline, and only vaguely familiar, as though seen from the peripheral of his vision in a long gone memory. They slide over a folder with several pictures of Moriarty playing ‘The Storyteller’.
“Tell me, John,” the officer says, “what do you know about this man?”
“His name is James Moriarty and he’s one of the biggest criminal masterminds on earth,” John says without hesitation.
“Actually, records say his name is Richard ‘Rich’ Brook,” the officer corrects, “and he’s been missing for just less than seven weeks now.” They nudge the folder of images closer to John and clear their throat. “Please take a good look through these.”
John suppresses a sigh and turns it into a heavy exhale. He straightens up in his seat and makes an effort to look attentive. So it begins, he thinks tiredly.
-
It turns out the bread has long passed its use-by date, and John can see the beginnings of mould, a fuzzy pale grey-green patch on the crusts. Looks like he wouldn’t be having toast for breakfast this morning. He hesitates before throwing out the entire loaf.
“Hey, Sherlock, do you want thi-”
John cuts himself off and can only hope that Mrs Hudson didn’t hear. A stinging sensation builds behind his eyes and he has to blink several times before it leaves. He chucks the bread away with a little more force than necessary and searches the kitchen for something edible, gritting his teeth and trying to think of other things; he has work again today, and this evening there’s meant to be a documentary on reptiles narrated by David Attenborough on the BBC.
The bland cereal is soggy after soaking in too much milk, ultimately tasteless mush. The tea is tepid, the tap is still leaking, and the house still echoes with the knowledge that there is something missing. This morning, John had a shower that lasted longer than five minutes because there was no one to use up all the hot water. This morning, John was able to eat at the kitchen table because it had been cleared of all the scientific laboratory equipment; the morning peaceful as it lacked the surprise discovery of human body parts. This morning, John woke to the sounds of his alarm, rather than Sherlock’s racket.
Most would think that sounds better, but John thinks of it as reverting to the mundane, and he wonders how long he can stand this... normality.
Life has been this way for over a month now and he should be getting used to it, but there are times, moments throughout the day that he forgets, for a heartbeat, about what happened at St. Barts, and he reaches for his phone, listens for a text, sees something horrifically idiotic on the television and thinks of Sherlock. The ghost of his flatmate haunts him, like a phantom limb, so much of John rewired to live around Sherlock that he still hasn’t discovered all of his little ticks yet; the way his eyes flit upwards, sideways, searching for piercing blue eyes and a cocky expression; the way he always opens his laptop with the grumbling thought, he better not have guessed my password again; and there is the way he brings out two mugs every morning when he just needs the one now.
The doorbell rings, followed by a sharp rap on the door. John leaves his breakfast and hurries down the stairs. It is with no little surprise that he opens the door to find Molly standing there, hair up in a ponytail, bag slung diagonally across her chest and shivering slightly despite her thick cream cardigan.
“John,” she says with evident relief. “Good. He-I was worried about you.”
“Worried? Whatever for?” John asks, surprised, and then quickly shakes his head. “Where are my manners? Come inside. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Molly declines the tea but accepts a glass of water. When John sits down at the table, she rummages through her bag and brings out a newspaper, handing it over to John. He gets a wave of déjà vu, and opens his mouth to say, I’ve seen the story about Moriarty, when he catches a glimpse of his name in the headline with today’s date on the front page.
JOHN WATSON: PARTNER IN CRIME? Below it in smaller font reads, Blogger John Watson taken for questioning over Richard Brook’s disappearance. The picture they chose is when he was wearing a hat, a shadow casted over his face like a caricature of a criminal, completing the article. He is not surprised to see Kitty Riley’s name attached to the story.
“I checked your blog, but you hadn’t commented on it or anything, and I was worried you’d been taken into custody,” Molly explains quickly, a nervous tremor in her voice. Her cheeks are still a little flushed from the cold, though she looks a little peaky, perhaps stressed. “There were a whole bunch of people at the other website saying you’d been arrested with murder charges.”
“Don’t worry, Molly,” John says. “I was just asked a few questions. I wasn’t charged with anything. Let alone something as serious as murder.”
“Oh, thank God,” Molly says, her frame slumping into the chair like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Her eyes quickly glance over the flat, taking in the small changes since Christmas. A notable lack of clutter, for one, though she pauses on the violin case still resting on Sherlock’s seat.
“Must be a slow news day,” John muses, looking away from her face, opening the paper and rifling through the pages. There’s a double spread chronicling Sherlock’s time in the limelight decorated with various pictures of Sherlock in a deerstalker, the sight of his friend’s face making something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He quickly turns to the article regarding him, which is relatively sparse in terms of concrete information and is padded with a lot of hearsay.
He closes it and puts it on the table face down, but Molly doesn’t move to take it back.
“How have you been, John?” she asks, pulling on a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I have seen you since the funeral. Closed casket, wasn’t that a bit odd? Normally closed caskets are for corpses that don’t look human anymore-oh dear, sorry, I shouldn’t talk sometimes, it’s like my brain-to-mouth filter’s a bit broken-”
“No, no,” John says. “It’s fine.” He was used to the disjointed way of speaking, a train barrelling down the tracks, a bit like Sherlock but not as eloquent or alarming. “Mycroft asked for it to be closed casket, for a cremation, and something about everyone remembering how he was when he was alive.”
That, in hindsight, had probably been a decision for the best. John still remembers the ghostly white pallor stark against rivulets of dark cherry red, and if he saw Sherlock cleaned up, eyes closed and arms crossed in some strange mimicry of sleep, well, it might have been too much. He might have snapped and shaken the man then and there, demanding for him to just wake up, just not be dead. Clearing his throat, John drinks the last of his tea, ignoring how it tastes how it is stone cold.
“What about you, Molly?” John asks, purposefully changing the subject. “How’s work?”
“Dead boring,” Molly says, a choked half-giggle in her voice, and John has to smile. The conversation shifts to where they studied and stories about the cadavers in Med school and John talks to Molly in a way they should have months ago, except Sherlock had always been there, a blazing sun that outshone the rest of the stars in the sky.
They spend about half an hour talking before Molly excuses herself, and it’s nice to talk to someone about life before the army, and she is not quite the same as Sarah because Molly was always there when Sherlock was around, a fly on the wall. It was interesting to speak to her without Sherlock dividing both their attentions. Perhaps it’s good to be able to occasionally peer up at the wonders of the Milky Way, red giants and white dwarf stars and the rings of Saturn, but John really wishes for the sun to come out and blind him once more.
-
25th July
MORIARTY WAS REAL
But Richard Brook certainly wasn’t.
To address the concerns, yes, I was taken in for questioning last night about Brook’s disappearance. I had nothing to tell them. At this point in time, I think the police aren’t going to find him until they start searching for Moriarty again; it looks like Jim is bored of playing mind games now Sherlock is dead.
The police didn’t do anything but keep me for a while; in fact, the worst they did was give me some really crap coffee, but that isn’t their fault, they’ve needed a new coffee maker for a while now.
But hey, let’s see if we can give those at New Scotland Yard a hand. There are a couple hundred of you with impressive searching skills. Can any of you find “Richard ‘Rich’ Brook” (a.k.a. James ‘Jim’ Moriarty) for them? Credit cards, passports, sightings, etc. Stay safe though, I don’t want any of you digging too deep and getting into trouble.
Thanks for all your support, everyone. It means a lot to me.
-
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