Sherlock (BBC) Fanfiction: #believeinsherlock [4/4]
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The tone of the media begins to change as they investigate Brook’s sudden and mysterious disappearance. The phone number he had given is no longer in service and his email address only returns a generic message telling the sender that Brook is out of town without access to his email or phone. It has been over two months and the tabloids are tentatively exploring just how legitimate Richard Brook really is.
It also helps that a few media outlets have found the website, believeinsherlock.org, still kindly being funded by Henry Knight. A divide is starting to appear, a debate over which side to take in this war of reputation. The battle is not just limited to the papers or the television, arguments spilling over into Internet forums and splashed across the sides of buildings.
Unlike with the I believe in Sherlock graffiti campaign, the Brook is Innocent tags are appearing in residential districts, in violent blues and reds, resulting in a five minute spot on the six o’clock news. John has been accosted by so many reporters wishing for a sound bite that he had to release a statement on his blog and prepare a comment if confronted in person. So far, they have respected his wishes to refrain from disturbing him at work, but that doesn’t stop them attempting to bother him after his shift. He no longer walks home, instead spending money on taxi rides there and back.
When he asks the cab driver to drive around aimlessly for fifteen minutes, the man gives him a strange look but obligingly humours him. They pass the London Eye and Big Ben before John feels assured he is not being followed. He gives the instructions to be taken to New Scotland Yard and hopes that there aren’t any paparazzi watching the entrances.
Thankfully, he makes it inside without any drama and finds Lestrade waiting for him.
“What is it?” John asks, referring to the cryptic text he had received earlier. Come see me at 3:30pm, don’t be late. “Is this another round of questioning? Because you really need to stop scheduling them after I’m tired from work.”
Lestrade shakes his head. “Rufus Bruhl and his daughter want to talk to you. He’s moved his entire family back to Washington after what happened, so we’re doing a video chat.”
“Bruhl...” It takes John only a second to place the name. “The American ambassador whose kids were abducted?”
Lestrade nods but his expression is grim. “Max has recovered mostly from the ordeal, but he isn’t taking part in the video call. However, Claudette, the little girl, apparently insists on joining her dad. Bruhl has warned us about that in advance.”
As they walk towards the elevator, John can’t help but think: The abducted daughter who screamed at the mere sight of Sherlock insists on a conversation?
They eventually arrive in small clean room, a window open wide to let in a cool breeze; the only furnishings a table and several chairs, a framed photo of the seaside on the cream-coloured walls. A laptop is already set up, but the screen remains dark. John takes the middle seat directly in front of the laptop, sliding his cane underneath, whilst Lestrade sits to his right.
The door of the room opens and Sally Donovan slides in. John doesn’t stop himself shooting her a dirty look, but says nothing when she sits beside him on his left. It had been her suspicions about the screaming that had led to Sherlock’s arrest and she would undoubtedly have her own curiosity regarding the call. Whether she belongs here is ultimately Lestrade’s decision, and the detective inspector hasn’t turned her away.
“Ready?” Lestrade asks, and John nods. Lestrade taps a few keys and the laptop screen reveals a gruff, heavy-set man dressed in a suit, dark brown hair and neatly trimmed moustache. He is squinting at them, as if they aren’t quite in focus for him, and John notices a small, shiny American flag pinned to his lapel.
“Good morning-or well, afternoon, over there,” he says in a lower voice than John expected. There is a trace of an accent that is neither American nor British. “My name is Rufus Bruhl, and I do apologise about the inconvenient timing of the call. My schedule is rather busy in the afternoons and my daughter has school, so this is the only free time we have that coincides.”
“It’s no trouble,” Lestrade hurries to say, but Bruhl waves him off. Before either of them can say anything, a little girl appears, brunette hair tied back neatly into small pigtails. She is unsmiling, but there is a healthy colour to her cheeks that was missing the last time they saw her. She climbs onto her father’s lap, and he lets her, looking fondly at his daughter.
There is no hint of warmth in his expression when he turns back to the screen.
Bruhl clears his throat and there is a bit of strained formality in his tone when he speaks. “Let me start off by saying whilst I do have complete faith in the British justice system-”
John quickly interrupts, saying, “Mr Bruhl, we appreciate the effort but you really don’t need to. These aren’t peace talks.”
From beside him, John can feel Lestrade and Sally’s mild shock, but Bruhl nods firmly and says, “Yes, right, we’ll just move on from the pleasantries then. I’ll get straight to the point. Sherlock Holmes didn’t abduct my children.”
John’s eyes widen and there is a quick intake of breath from Lestrade. He’s pretty sure neither of them really ever thought Sherlock did it, but to hear such a confident declaration against the notion is still quite astonishing.
“With all due respect, sir,” Sally says, “how can you know that for sure? Your daughter did scream the moment she laid eyes on him.”
Bruhl looks at them all coolly, stroking the side of Claudette’s head gently. “My daughter couldn’t speak properly for weeks afterwards. Any mention of the incident would cause her to clam up and break into a cold sweat. So when you told me that the likely perpetrator was the man I had requested to find them, I had to take you at your word. I would hardly force my daughter to answer a series of questions about her captor when she was not ready. However, I did have several of my own men researching what happened that night and they showed me several clips of CCTV footage that acted as a solid alibi.”
“Easily could have hired someone to take them,” Sally counters.
“Yes, he could have,” Bruhl agrees. “But if he were really the fraud you papers so readily claim him to be, wouldn’t he have told the man to leave more clues behind than a footprint in linseed oil?”
“Sherlock had always been a show-off,” John says in neutral voice, but his heart is beating double time. This had been the one thing he had been truly curious about, a constant aching thorn in his side. What could have Moriarty done to make a child react so negatively towards Sherlock?
“You must be Doctor Watson.” Bruhl turns to him and smiles pleasantly. “The reason I had requested Sherlock Holmes attend to the case of my missing children was due to both your blog and my son, Max. He loves your stories; always called to talk to me about Sherlock Holmes and his latest solved case. That boy has quite the avid imagination, always telling me he wishes to grow up to be the next James Bond.”
“Certainly he would be clever enough,” John says. “Leaving a trail with oil was really quite an inspired idea.”
“Undoubtedly he read that in one of his spy books,” Bruhl says with pride. “Though yes, he was very smart for him to take that and apply it to a real world scenario. Anyway, while I was away in Washington, he would send me newspaper clippings of Sherlock, and I dutifully read them and filed them away for safekeeping.”
The connection falters for a second, the image pixelating and the sound distorting. It realigns quickly, though the miss out on the beginning of Bruhl’s sentence.
“-pletely forgot about them until the other day,” he says. “My daughter found them though, and I found her crying over one of the articles.”
Bruhl holds up a newspaper clipping. JEWEL THIEF UNDERGOES TRIAL, the headline reads, and there is a photo of Sherlock in his suit and one of Moriarty breaking in to steal the Crown Jewels amongst the text.
“My daughter did not recognise Sherlock here, but pointed out that this man-” Bruhl taps the grainy image of Moriarty, “-had been the one to offer the poisonous sweets to her and her brother.”
“Moriarty,” John exhales, sound less than a whisper, and slumps back into his chair.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Sally says. “We know that Brook was paid to act as Moriarty.”
“Not quite,” Lestrade corrects, side-eyeing John. “There is evidence coming to light that Brook never existed.”
Bruhl nods and nudges his daughter softly. “Claudette, sweetheart, would you like to tell the police officers what the man said to you?”
For the first time, Claudette looks up directly at the screen. She swallows hard before speaking. Her voice is so faint they all need to lean forward to catch her words.
“He came to us after we were dropped off at the place,” she says, and John remembers the dark cold rooms of the warehouse and wonders how afraid they would have been. “Gave us candy and told us we could eat as much as we wanted, but if we left the place he would-he would hurt us.”
Claudette’s breaths are coming in short, panicked bursts, and John’s training kicks in. “Claudette, put your hands on your knees and look at the ground, concentrate on taking big deep breaths. You don’t have to tell us this story if it’s upsetting you.”
The little girl shakes her head, pigtails swinging, but obligingly carries out John’s instructions. She gathers herself up a moment later, and continues.
“The bad man told us to call him the Storyteller,” she says, and John shares a significant look with Lestrade, “and he warned us that if we saw anyone else in those big coats that they were coming to kill us because we broke the rules. I didn’t want to break the rules! But she-” Claudette points at Sally, “-took us away from the place and then we couldn’t get back!”
Sally’s face has grown worryingly pale, but Lestrade asks softly, “‘Big coats’? Could you describe that to me?”
Claudette looks at her father, who holds up another article. It’s a shot of Sherlock with the deerstalker and his coat with the collar drawn up high. She points at it and says, “This one. Not the Storyteller, not this person with the silly hat in the photo, but a brown-haired man wearing the same coat took us that night. He smelled of cigarette smoke. It wasn’t nice.”
“Thank you, Claudette, for being so brave and telling us all these things,” John says, smiling at her, and she nods back. She still doesn’t smile and he wonders how long this incident will stay with her.
“One more thing,” Claudette says. “Max told me I screamed at the wrong person. That Sherly was a good guy and he was wearing the coat because he was an undercover spy. Is that true?”
John speaks around the lump in his throat, voice thick with emotion. “Yes, it’s true. He was a very good man. He found you both and saved you from the Storyteller.”
“Oh,” Claudette says. “Can I see him and tell him I’m sorry and thank you?”
Bruhl shoots them all a warning look over the top of her head and says to her, “Sorry, sweetheart. Mr Sherly is not there right now. He’s overseas, doing work.”
“Like you, daddy?”
“Just like me, sweetheart.”
“Okay, just make sure he knows I said thank you. Mummy always says to mind my manners,” Claudette says, and there is the sound of knocking from their end of the call. For a moment, both of them disappear from the screen, but John can’t bring himself to say anything just yet.
Bruhl comes back to his desk, brow set in a stern line. “I keep up with the news in England. It’s my job, I have to. I know what happened, I know about the fall and accusations, and God save that man’s soul.” He sighs heavily. “If I understand correctly, the main reason he’s still under criminal investigation is because of my daughter’s scream, and though none of it is her fault at all, I felt obligated to clear this entire mess up.”
“Thank you, Mr Bruhl,” Lestrade says, “for taking the time to call us and explain everything.”
He waves the words away irritably, rubbing at the spot between his eyes, his moustache bristling. “I owe Mr Holmes a great debt for saving my children from a slow and painful death. Feel free to take the recording of this conversation and put it on the record if need be.” His eyes slide over to John, adding, “Doctor Watson, if you ever need to contact me about this case, feel free to do so. I’ve read a few of your stories and you must have been close friends with the detective. I’m sorry for your loss.”
John nods mutely, and Lestrade exchanges final farewells before the screen cuts to black once again. He turns to Sally, who is looking at him, wide-eyed.
“I can’t believe it though,” she says. “It made sense! He was such a-”
In a calm voice, John says, “Have you ever considered the fact that calling Sherlock a freak doesn’t automatically make you a better human being? Just because he sometimes acted heartless didn’t mean he was.”
“I didn’t-” Sally begins to say, but John shakes his head, standing up to leave without looking back at her. He does not have anything more to say to her at this point, and thankfully she doesn’t make an attempt to follow him through the halls. Lestrade does though, but his company is infinitely more tolerable at the moment.
“I’ll draft up a press release about Sherlock and we’ll publicly request Brook-Moriarty-to turn himself in for possible criminal charges.”
“Good,” John says, feeling a little faint now that the indignation has faded and only fatigue is replacing it. “That sounds good.”
Lestrade asks whether John needs any help getting home, John firmly, but politely, declines the offer. He is finally alone once the elevator doors close and his shaky legs give out from under him, his entire body flooded with relief.
John’s faith had never wavered, not even when Sherlock professed being a fake in the final phone call, but it is one thing to believe in a man, another entirely to get an entire country on board. People believing in Sherlock won’t bring him back, but John thinks that Sherlock, of all people, deserves to leave a legacy, not to die in shrouded infamy and scandal.
Even seeing a Brook is Innocent tag when flagging down a cab can’t bring his spirits down. The tide is turning, finally, and for the better.
-
A few days later, John comes home to see Mycroft sitting on the sofa with a relaxed air and a pot of tea sitting in front of him, a cup and saucer in hand. It seems as though he has taken out the fine china, gold rim and patterned with the delicate rendition of small wildflowers. Anthea is standing beside him, skin a shade darker than his memory recalls, her fingers flying across the screen of a new touch screen phone. She ignores him but John isn’t exactly in the mood to have a flirt.
“Helped yourself, have you?” John asks Mycroft, too used to the antics of the Holmes brothers to even bat an eye on what is technically breaking and entering. Neither he nor Sherlock ever gave Mycroft a key, though that never stopped him before.
“I’ve made some for you,” Mycroft says mildly, indeed sliding over another cup of hot tea, swirls of steam rising from it. John nods and grunts out a thank you as he sits, but makes the mental note not to drink it. He didn’t see Mycroft make it, so there’s no telling what’s in it.
“Next time, would it be so hard to just call me?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Mycroft asks with a plastic smile.
John rolls his eyes. “What do you want?”
“I happened to let it slip to the editor of a particular newspaper that I could possibly sue them for slander,” Mycroft says. “Whatever the evidence, I did consider the terms psychopath and the like to be a little excessive. My lawyers, of course, agreed with me, especially with all of the new information surfacing from your little Internet movement. I believe in Sherlock, an admirable message to spread.”
“Mycroft,” John says reprovingly, “you can’t sue news outlets for reporting on things you don’t like. That defeats the purpose of free speech.”
“Oh, we worked out an accord of sorts that did not require me to send my lawyers to the courtroom,” Mycroft says agreeably, voice otherwise calmly bland. “I merely suggested that if they allowed me to submit an interview with John Watson, it would counter-balance the damage they’ve done to my dear little brother’s name.”
“Did it ever occur to you to ask me first?”
“I merely assumed you would like a chance to set the record straight.”
“I write in my blog.”
“And pray tell, how many direct quotes do the journalists use from that, John?”
For all the physical differences Mycroft and Sherlock have, there is an eerie similarity to the quickness of the gaze, something bright and sharp burning behind dark pupils. Something in his nose, the curls of his hair, perhaps merely the way he holds himself, comfortable and smug in the knowledge that he is smarter than you.
Sometimes it’s like Mycroft forgets that John is not quite like everybody else. John purses his lips and then frowns. He knows what question to ask.
“Why are you doing this?” and something shutters over Mycroft’s expression, closing it down and raising walls to guard him. Sherlock does something similar, except with long silences and aggressive sulking sessions.
“My position in the government allows me certain luxuries, such as a particularly skilled assistant and the command of a small army,” Mycroft says in a soft, faraway voice. Without prompt, Anthea stands and leaves the room, walking downstairs. John thinks he can hear the front door open and close. “However, those benefits come along with restrictions. There are the usual safeguards, such as changing my citizenship without the correct authorisation could invoke a lifelong jail sentence, or the fact that my estate is closely monitored in the case of corruption. Those are hardly trials, and if I so wanted, blockades I could circumvent with relative ease.”
John bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from asking questions. In all honesty, he’d really prefer not to know.
“One limitation is that I must, at all costs, prevent my person from undergoing any public attention, even if only mentioned in the passing,” Mycroft says, and John thinks he is beginning to understand. “I have stopped my name from appearing in several articles in the past year wishing to mention my relation to Sherlock. That effort does not stop with Sherlock’s death. If you can recall, I allowed you to present the eulogy at Sherlock’s funeral because I knew such a position would be reported.
“Regardless, Sherlock considered you his friend and I, his enemy. It would hardly be fitting for me to-ah, but never mind that now. I briefly considered creating a false identity and using that to write an interview, not difficult and much cleaner, but that felt horribly impersonal. It also struck me that I may have already done enough damage talking about Sherlock. You, John, are the logical conclusion to this problem.”
“Me?”
“As I said, you considered Sherlock your best friend, and still retain such a commendable sense of loyalty that I believe I could trust you with his story.” His smile widens a fraction to show teeth, and he pauses to drink some tea.
“I-well, um-you just manipulated me there, didn’t you?” John asks, finally, torn between annoyance and sympathy.
Mycroft laughs. “It only counts as manipulation if it works. Did it?”
“Yes,” John admits after a pause. “Damn you. How much of that spiel was even real?”
“That is up for you to decide, I’m afraid,” Mycroft says and John shakes his head, not even bothering to swim through that particular sea of ambiguity. There are footsteps coming from the stairs and Anthea appears through the door, phone out of sight and her hands clasped awkwardly in front of her, as if she isn’t quite sure of what to do with them without them busy typing or tapping away. She hovers in the doorway, awaiting instructions.
“My assistant will play the role of inquisitive journalist,” Mycroft explains. “No one more reliable with secrets and quite a good writer in her own right.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I think I shall leave you to it then,” Mycroft says, standing smoothly and tucking his umbrella into the crook of his arm. “Until next time, John.”
Anthea moves to Mycroft’s recently vacated seat and sits down. She reaches for John’s untouched tea-eyes asking for permission-and he nods, letting her have it. As she drinks, John realises Mycroft hadn’t done anything to it after all.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” John says to break the silence.
“The Libyan revolution needed attending to,” she answers flatly and he isn’t sure whether to take that at face value or interpret it as a joke.
After she has taken her phone out, she looks up at John and smiles faintly. “If you were wondering, no, that wasn’t a joke.”
“Right, then,” John says, very purposefully stopping himself from probing. The faster they finish this interview, the faster John can fall asleep, shower and eat, in that order.
“Anything you’d like to clarify before we start?” Anthea asks, sitting up straight, phone at the ready to type; almost a picturesque model of professionalism.
John pauses to think, and he can only come up with one thing. “Don’t make Sherlock sound like an idiot,” he says. “One paper called him an amateur detective and he sulked for an entire day.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve done PR releases,” Anthea says, tucking a stray piece of hair neatly behind her ear. She looks far too modern to be sitting in John’s shabby little flat.
“One more question, actually,” John says as the thought occurs to him. “What name are you crediting? Am I right in guessing you wouldn’t put down something like Anthea?”
“Very good,” she says, nodding. “None of the names on my work roster are put through. As I said though, this isn’t my first time doing something like this. Normally I use the penname Mary Morstan, though, if you’re interested in trying to have a search.”
“If you were cleared to tell me that information, I strongly doubt there would be anything very interesting for me to find using it,” John says.
Anthea only smiles before indicating to the phone. “Now, John, please tell me a little about yourself...”
-
Walking past newsagents, John pauses to look at the warring headlines on display. Sherlock’s name is shown in a more positive light than a negative one these days, and the media is beginning to move on from the entire scandal altogether. To be honest, John’s surprised it has gone on this long, three long months to strip away the lies and rebuild the legend. His interview, as short as it was, helped people see the human side to Sherlock.
He smiles, faintly. The ache in his chest is not so persistent now, thoughts of Sherlock not making a tidal wave of grief hit at him again. If John could never move on from death, he could never have been an army doctor in the first place. A light rain starts to fall in a sunshower, and John tugs his leather coat around him tighter, holding a hand to shield his eyes from the heavens.
As he walks home, not quite paying attention to his surroundings, John is bumped into by an excessively tall young man. Their hair is a strange ginger shade, falling down over his face in greasy locks. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, a silver patterned scarf, and purple jeans so tight they look like they’re cutting off circulation. John would normally be more annoyed, but the bloke is stumbling around and stinks of alcohol and John can sympathise with the hangover of a serious bender. Instead of letting the man fall, John grips his upper arm and helps stabilise him.
“Hey mate,” John says, letting go once they didn’t look like they were about to fall face first into the concrete. “Do you want me to call you a cab to help you get back home?”
The man shakes his head, but murmurs a hoarse-sounding, “Thanks so much, but just let me go. I’ll be right on my own.”
John lets him leave, but only turns away when he sees that the stranger doesn’t appear in any immediate danger. The sunshower changes from a light spray to a heavy downfall, and John rushes to catch one of the last free cabs before he’s trapped walking home.
Later that night he forgets about the bump in the street-he won’t remember it for a long, long time afterwards-and it takes several more days before John wears that coat again, slipping his hands into the pockets to keep himself warm. His fingers brush against something metal and foreign, and he pulls it out in surprise.
The object is a large round button pin, handmade with a glossy cover. John blinks, stunned, tries to figure out where it came from but coming up blank. His grip around it tightens. The pin reads:
I believe in John Watson
⌘
A/N: ... How did this get so damn long? O_O No, seriously, how? 22,000 words in five days equals 4,400 words a day, holy crap!
Side note: In The Blind Banker, the graffiti artist was credited as “Raz”, but I preferred to think of that as his tag and used “Raziah” as a name (as stolen from my The Art of the Reasoner head canon).
Anyway, I never intended this to be a complete “fix-it-bring-Sherlock-back” fic or a shipping fic. I think Sherlock will not show his face for at least a year and John is certainly in no state of mind to start another meaningful emotional connection just yet. I just wanted John proving Sherlock’s innocence and redeeming his reputation and hopefully I delivered adequately. Hope you enjoyed~!