12.
Warning: character death
It was at the precise moment he realised he was dying that, for the first (and last) time in his life, Sherlock Holmes found himself running out of time. Not even time for himself (although - obviously - there were always more crimes to solve), but more time to spend with John.
Minutes.
Had he had a minute left, he would have used that time to tell John how important he was to him, how marvellous it felt to have a friend, someone he could trust and rely on. Or maybe he would have made a quick observation instead, some kind of joke, to see John’s eyes light up in astonishment and adoration and to see his achingly familiar smile one last time.
Hours
Had he had an hour left, maybe they could have gone to have dinner in one of the small, exquisite restaurants he occasionally produced much to John’s surprise (and delight). This time, he wouldn’t even have minded going to one of those slightly grubby and loud pubs John liked so much. Or they could simply have gone home, sat down in their chairs and enjoyed a quiet cup of tea.
Days
Had he had a day left, he would have made sure nobody could interrupt his perfect day with John. And nobody would have included Mycroft and Lestrade, even if the prospect of missing an interesting case was a devastating one. But he would have endured this to spend a whole day with John, locked in their flat, watching some of the ludicrous action films John was so fond of, and only muttering complaints under his breath.
Years
Had he had a year left, undoubtedly they would have spent most of it in action. They would have raced all around London, chased after the most dangerous criminals and solved the most difficult cases. Between their adventures there would have been periods of calm too, but with John they would have been acceptable. Because being with John was like living in the centre of a cyclone - one could experience constant excitement while staying perfectly still.
Decades
Had he had a whole lifetime left with John, he wouldn’t have had to worry about things like drinking tea or watching films or even chasing criminals. Oh, all of that would have played a part in their life - their life together, their lives tightly interwoven - but the best part of it would have come at the end. He could almost see their tiny house in the countryside, feel the warm breeze smelling of fruit from their garden and hear the calming buzzing of their bees. For a split-second he wondered whether John would actually have liked them. But yes, there most certainly would have been bees.
Seconds
Unfortunately, Sherlock didn’t have a lifetime left, nor a year; he didn’t have a month either, nor a week. He didn’t even have a minute to tell John all his plans for times that could have been, had he only had more time. He only had seconds left, so the only consolation he could offer his dearest friend was a smile that he hoped conveyed all the promises of their lives not yet spent.
Every single person who came to see the body of the world’s most famous consulting detective afterwards marvelled at how he looked happier in death than anyone had ever seen him when he had been alive. Only John understood that this wasn’t the smile of a man content with his life, but of one pleased with what would have been in store for him. His tears took merely seconds to well up, but a lifetime to dry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
13.
As he walked into the modest Catholic church where the service was about to begin, Lestrade got a text from John.
G
Out for the night. Sherlock at home. He dropped off info to brother earlier. Now waiting for next contact from bomber. Call me at Sarah’s if needed. Will leave mobile on just in case.
J
John caught a taxi.
Sherlock sent an email. Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.
Lestrade slipped into the seat nearest the aisle in the back pew. As the priest walked to the pulpit, a tall, fussily dressed man with a receding hairline begged his pardon and squeezed in beside the D.I.
Mycroft looked to his left and recognized Lestrade’s face immediately. All those press conferences. “Good afternoon, Inspector. I don’t believe we’ve met, but I know your work. I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother.” They shook hands.
Two men met John as he left the taxi. Pinned his arms behind his back. Gagged him. Pulled him into the waiting car.
Sherlock pulled John’s gun from its not-so-secret hiding place in the desk under three copies of The Lancet. Ran downstairs. Hailed a taxi.
As it happened, Lestrade and Mycroft had attended many funerals together over the course of five years, but had never met. Mycroft felt it his duty to attend services related to Sherlock’s cases. To show the reverence and respect his brother could not.
Mycroft bowed his head and listened to Lestrade repeat prayers in Latin for the old woman who had been blown to bits by a madman still on the loose.
John endured Moriarty’s taunts and did not tremble while they fastened the explosives to his body.
Sherlock smiled. He itched for the face-to-face encounter. Checked that the gun had a full clip.
During the eulogy, Lestrade felt Mycroft shaking, weeping. Unexpected. Lestrade leaned over to whisper, “You okay? Need to step outside?”
Mycroft hated to make a fool of himself in public, so he nodded and made a quiet exit. He didn’t expect Lestrade to follow him.
Mycroft stood on the pavement near the church, wiping his eyes with a linen handkerchief. Lestrade shifted awkwardly.
“I’m so sorry, Inspector. I don’t know what’s come over me. I feel such a sense of shame and tragedy-I wish there had been some way I could have stopped Sherlock from playing it all as a game instead of a matter of human life. But that’s his nature-to raise the stakes . .
“You think Sherlock caused her death? No-I mean, he’s not above game-playing-you’re right. But she died because she was going to reveal something about the bomber-the man behind all these crimes. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.”
Mycroft cried out in relief, “Oh thank God, thank God. I was afraid he’d gone over the edge-I didn’t know what to do . . . thank you for telling me, Inspector.”
John lay in the boot of the car, sweating, thinking. How could he warn Sherlock? Where were they going? "Please God, don’t let me die tonight.”
Sherlock tapped his foot nervously, excitement mounting as the taxi sped through the streets towards his rendezvous. He was glad John was safely tucked away with Sarah. Best not to put him in danger too-although it felt strange doing this all alone now.
“I hear Sherlock’s solved a case for you too, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “John said he’d brought you some information you needed. That should show he’s still in his right mind, if he can juggle your government work and this mad bomber.”
Mycroft frowned. Then his eyes began darting from side to side. Something was amiss. “Sherlock brought me nothing.” Had he found the memory stick? Why would John lie to Lestrade?
Mycroft pulled out his mobile and dialed John’s number. No answer. Showed it to Lestrade. The look of alarm on the D.I.’s face spoke volumes.
“Inspector, there is something terribly wrong, I fear. I need to trace my brother’s whereabouts immediately. Come with me, in case the police are needed?”
Lestrade nodded. Before he could blink, a long black car had appeared. He climbed in after Mycroft. Instinctively he crossed himself, thinking of the old woman, the others in her block of flats, Carl Powers . . . Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine
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14.
It happens over and over again through time. No matter what year, decade or era there is always a version of the story playing out. There is always the same pairing - strictly professional mind - but they are always drawn together somehow as if their subconsciouses know the story and are goading them into it.
Roman Londinium
The legionnaire was kicked out of the Roman army because of an injury that he had picked up while they crossed France, his leg did not function as it should and he was left in Londinium as his fellow soldiers traversed north, to fight the Scots and protect England. He met an old friend in his second week there, as he was looking for somewhere to stay when he was allowed to leave the Roman hospital. The friend said he knew someone. All the Roman doctors and nurses had said there was nothing to be done for his leg, but one evening with his new landlord and a short hop, skip and jump around Londinium and discovering the murder plot of the emperor and his leg was normal, no limp, no need for the cane, and he had the thrill back that he had lost many years ago.
Medieval Cheapside
The forgotten brother of the King’s aide roams Cheapside and somehow looks cleaner and more well presented than the other peasants of the area. The millers and brewers and butchers ignore him as they have been annoyed by his antics before. He somehow can read their secrets and he has only been saved from being burnt at the stake because of his powerful brother. Recently though, they’ve noticed him calmer and less aggressive towards them, although still knowing their hidden truths. Since that nice soldier came back from the Crusades in the Middle East. A place so far removed from Cheapside that no one really has the mind to be able to wrap around that idea. They are still in a “the world is flat” set of thinking. Somehow the soldier and the witch met, a rumour goes around the place that it was because the soldier needed lodgings and no one had warned him of the witch, but they seem to thrive with the other, rather than the terrible mismatch that most bet on.
Edwardian London
The doctor returned to London after the Boer war at the turn of the century, he had seen much death and destruction in Africa and wished for a quiet life. He lasted two weeks before he was bored and visited a friend he had trained with at Barts. Over afternoon tea the doctor had learnt of a boarding house in Baker Street and of its rather lunatic resident who believed he could solve crimes by sniffing and licking and reading people, and then the next day found himself in front of it, holding a letter that read “Doctor, British Library, come at once, could be dangerous.” The doctor was gone, all thoughts of lunatics aside as he rushed to the Library and helped stop a rather courageous gang of youths from making off with an ancient manuscript.
WW1 London
He was a conscientious objector, and wore his white feather proudly. He refused to be sent to France to order men to die by sacrificing themselves for King and country. He was not one to take orders that much was definite and though his schooling meant he could enter as an officer he did not wish the responsibility of other men to look after and send to their deaths. Instead he remained in London and experimented on corpses of the injured that had been brought back to hospital and had not survived. He learnt all manner of interesting things about mustard gas and mortar wounds. Then one day an injured doctor appeared, harassed and clearly missing the action. He had been in Italy by his tan and itched to be doing something better than just tending to the wounded here as he had been relegated to do. The doctor held back with his left arm, even though it was his strongest and the objector guessed a gunshot wound there, that had healed badly - clearly he had been the only doctor in the area. He spoke.
“Sherlock Holmes and I have to see a man about a murder. Will you join me, I might need a doctor's opinion? Could be dangerous...”
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15.
John ducked his head and eyed Sherlock askance. From the time John had woken that morning, the detective had been snapping at everyone and everything-more so than normal. No one had evaded his scathing tongue, not Lestrade, certainly not Anderson-not even John himself.
Realizing Sherlock was about to incite a mutiny, John started to walk forward, to either calm Sherlock down or pull him away-he wasn't certain-when his phone beeped. It was a text from Mycroft: Be patient with him.
John's grip tightened on his phone as Sherlock continued to harangue the entire London police force as well as their ancestry, but he did as requested and held back.
++++++++++++++
In the oppressively uncomfortable taxi ride home, John tried to stay still and appear as small as he could in order to avoid Sherlock's ire. He hoped Mrs Hudson was out, because she didn't deserve this kind of treatment from her lodger.
But Sherlock surprised him again when he greeted their landlady with a kiss to the cheek and a few kind words before running up the stairs to their flat.
John stood at the bottom, bewildered.
Mrs Hudson patted his cheek and said, "He'll be fine; don't you worry. Poor dear always has such trouble with the day." She disappeared into her flat before John could ask what she meant.
He spent the rest of the evening trying to stay out of Sherlock's line of fire, and ended up going to bed extraordinarily early.
++++++++++++++
John bolted upright, breathing heavily and trying to let the nightmare fade away. A cuppa sometimes helped, so he slid out of bed and walked carefully down the stairs. As he passed the sitting room, he heard a violin being played.
Instead of the usual discordant scratching, the sound was phenomenal. John was mesmerized by the tune. He'd never heard the song before, had no idea who the composer could be, but it was hauntingly beautiful.
Just as he was about to step into the room, John saw tears streaming down Sherlock's face from his closed eyes. John slowly backed out of the doorway and returned to his room.
It took him a long time to fall back asleep.
++++++++++++++
The next day, John struggled to make it through his time at the surgery after his nearly sleepless night. He just wanted to put in his hours, go home, and collapse.
He wearily called in the next patient. "How can I help you?" John asked.
"You can give me ten minutes of your time."
John whipped his head around to see Mycroft Holmes. "Oh my God, what's wrong?" He jumped up and his body started pumping adrenaline, ready for whatever Mycroft threw his way.
"Don't worry, Dr Watson." Mycroft waved a hand to have him retake his seat. "Everything's fine. I merely thought you deserved an explanation for my brother's behavior yesterday. I probably should have warned you, but I'll admit, I was curious as to how you would react."
John clenched his jaw together. Of course, the Holmes' brothers would share that particular trait.
"And I must say you did admirably," Mycroft went on as if he didn't see John's flash of anger. "Sherlock can be a bit rough on his best days never mind his worst."
"His worst?" John thought back to the previous day, and Sherlock's over-the-top reactions. He mused ,"The violin music."
"Ah, yes." Mycroft smiled sadly. "A piece he wrote for my mother's funeral. He replays it once a year on what would have been her birthday."
Which let the rest of the pieces fell into place.
Mycroft obviously saw he got the point across, and he stood. "I appreciate you taking care of my brother."
"I didn't do it for you," John snapped.
"And that," Mycroft said walking out the door, "is why you're so very good at it."
Before inviting the next person in, John made plans to pick up Sherlock's favorite takeaway on the way home. It was the best he could do knowing Sherlock wouldn't like being fussed over-even if he needed it.
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16.
**Timeless Requiem**
"You're doing it wrong."
Sherlock let down his bow and got ready to start a fight. Mycroft could - and he often did - lecture him on many subjects, but his own violin was not one of those subjects, and in face of the current situation, it was dangerous territory.
"Thank you for your input, Mycroft, now please, go to hell," he replied, collecting his sheets and shoving them carelessly in the violin case.
Mycroft intercepted them easily. There was no title but he could recognize the notes, "Is this Moonlight Sonata?"
"Yes!" Sherlock reached out aggressively but Mycroft turn before he could get the sheets.
"I've always loved this song," he said.
"Can I have them back?"
It was a last warning, not a request. He'd have jumped on his brother and taken the music back by force if Mycroft hadn't handed them to him, calmly saying, "Of course."
There was a click when the violin case was closed, half of one sheet still hanging out of the case, but Sherlock did not seem to care.
Mycroft found himself a seat and asked, "Going back to basics?"
Sherlock flexed his fingers without even noticing. His left hand felt stiff and his ring finger refused to bend.
"What do you want?"
"I came to see how you were doing, but if that song was any indication-"
"Is that all?" Sherlock asked, wanting to get rid of Mycroft so he could smash the violin to pieces.
"This must be really frustrating for you."
No mocking there, just honest concern.
Sherlock was still furious.
"Excruciating. Thank you for asking. Now-"
"It will get better, though."
"I heard the doctor, you didn't have to come here to remind me."
"I came here because you're getting worst."
"So?"
"So I came here to offer you good advice."
"I don't want your advice-"
"Stop playing with the left side of your brain and try using the right side."
Sherlock stopped. Mycroft remained impassive, waiting.
"I beg you pardon?"
"I said to start using the right side of your brain."
"I am."
"You're not."
"I am!" Sherlock said, louder. "I am using all of my bloody brain, Mycroft, and I still can't play it."
"You are thinking notes on a paper. You're not feeling the music."
Sherlock scoffed and made an attempt to leave the room, but marched back to the mantel like leaving was never his intention.
"And" Mycroft continued, once he was sure to have Sherlock's attention, "you're furious about what they did to you."
"It's hard not to think of Moran smashing my hand when you're trying to play the violin."
"Yes, and you're over thinking it. You're turning this into a rational problem when this has nothing to do with your mind."
Sherlock did not say a thing for a moment.
Then, "Are you suggesting I play with my heart, Mycroft?"
There was a lot of sarcasm and bitterness in his voice.
"Of course not," Mycroft replied, almost defensively. "The heart has no control whatsoever over your left arm. I am only suggesting you give up trying to perfect your technique - which was never lost, but is only momentarily impaired - and try listening to what you're playing. After all, I may be out of my element here, as you well know, but music is not just about notes on a paper. Even I know that."
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17.
Head pounding Sherlock took a step towards the sounds of the violin playing Danse Macabre and fell. Again. This time nearly taking John down with him. Only John's hard grip on Sherlock's arm and his quick grab at the beslimed brickwork saved them from the icy water. The knee deep rivulet running down the center of the dark sewer splashed and the noise of their scrambling back drowned out the song briefly. Obviously that had been the wrong clue. He should have known. Sherlock shook his head, trying to reorient himself but it only made him dizzy. John lifted Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and they continued forward. "Steady now." John murmured, using his soldier's voice.
Which if nothing else, indicated how much trouble he thought they were in.
Contrary to what some might think Sherlock was not incapable of recognizing that singular state. When absolutely necessary he might even admit to it out loud. Although admittedly to date it had rarely proven necessary to do so where others might actually be present to hear him. Most certainly never when Mycroft was around, Sherlock having long ago decided that exsanguination by leeches would be preferable to such a confession to his brother. Fortunately, John did not require such banal updates on the state of their well being. Which, Sherlock decided at that moment as John stalwartly helped him stumble through the pitch black and out of the freezing water was one of the qualities he most admired in him.
Because they most definitely were in trouble.
With a skirl Mad Tom of Bedlam increased in tempo behind them causing the throb in his temple to increase. The violin's execrable playing reminded Sherlock strongly of cats yowling. "I know we need to hurry." Sherlock snapped pushing them onward away from their pursuer.
Pointedly he ignored the song, although considering it wasn't real, it proved difficult.
Mad Tom increased in volume.
Sherlock hadn't reckoned his own brain could be quite so annoying.
"I think we're coming to an intersection." John grunted. "Right or left?"
Somewhere a gypsy began plucking at the strings. Playful and sly. "No." Sherlock halted them sharply. The word echoed painfully against the rounded walls adding to the cacophony of string work ringing in his ears. "We need to cross to the other side. Not another step."
"Booby trapped?" John asked far too calmly, like a man who'd seen a lot of them which of course he had, as he maneuvered them across.
"Yes." Sherlock said grimly. The gypsy harpy had been playing a military funeral dirge.
Blindly, Sherlock ran his free hand against rough brick and seam joints pacing them onward, John's solid weight under his arm the only warmth in the cold passage. His hand hit a recessed section. "This way," he said to John wrenched them towards the opening in the dark as Promontory obstinately insisted he follow it.
They scrambled their way past fallen rubble and into the new space. Sherlock hesitated turning the raw scraped side of his cheek one way and the other, not feeling any change in the damp air from one direction to the next. However, he could hear John's pained breathing as he moved beside him. Apparently John had decided in their escape from Moriarty not to mention the bullet graze currently spreading a widening damp spot under Sherlock's fingers. Which was fine, an equal bit of quid pro quo, considering Sherlock had equally decided not to mention that he was perhaps basing their escape route off of data born from concussive hallucinations.
At least Sherlock trusted that some part of his subconscious was noting the salient points of temperature, air pressure, and direction and was merely choosing to inform him via a less direct data route than traditional.
Or so he hoped.
He winced as an illustratory bow sawed its way across the opening cords of I Gotta Feeling. Although it would seem that his subconscious was exhibiting highly questionable taste.
Why it preferred to revisit John's music playlists rather than Sherlock's own more classical ones when they were in trouble was questionable.
John's grip abruptly tightened on his wrist in urgency as they both spotted the break of light up ahead and Viva La Vida started energetically up. At volume.
However, Sherlock swore as soon as they were out of this predicament he was most definitely deleting certain swaths out of John's iTunes list from his mental hard drive.
Subconscious preferences or not!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18.
It was almost music to him.
Highs and lows; fast and slow.
He could play what he saw when he looked at them with his violin. Perpetuate the violence they met at their ends with a hard pluck of a string when it was abrupt and messy or a mournful slow screech as they slowly lost their lives painfully to poison or bleeding out.
He could tell their life stories from a glance at their wardrobes and how they kept their hair, tell about their relationships by the state of their jewelry.
He could see how they lived their lives, visualize how the interacted with faceless people day after day.
The only way to exorcise these ghosts, the phantoms of the people whose murders he's solved, is to play.
So he plays.
He plays with his eyes closed and he watches them as they spin past his mind's eye, living out day to, watching as all of the clues fit together in a steam-lined life of monotony until it stutters to an unfortunate or sometimes earned death. Sometimes the deaths are deserved. Sometimes they were desired.
He watches as multitudes of scenarios play out in his head, see's the assailant as he stalks his pray.
Watches as sharp blades push through soft tissue and catch on bone, hears the trapped, strangled screams that try to make their way from throats only to die prematurely as blood fills the lungs and drips from the mouth in a signature of death.
His brain creates the phantom scents of cordite filling his nose and the spatter pattern left from the shot painting the inside of his eyelids with a morbid red and grey, shards of bone mixed within and sticking from what was once a white wall.
He plays, for hours and hours on end, putting all of the lives he's pieced together and pulled apart to rest. He ignores everything.
Even his family, those he could call friends.
John watches him as he sits and sketches, the scenes leaving his mind through charcoal and graphite.
Lestrade drinks and goes home to hold onto the memory of his late wife, fingering her wedding ring and remembering her laugh.
Mycroft is thankful for the disappearance of the drugs and the appearance of John, John who keeps his brother healthy and away from that poison his brother had once used to exorcise the ghosts. Mycroft watches his brother, aware he cannot get so close to the tragedies his brother does without losing himself to the ghosts, he listens to his brother exercise them through starvation and riddles and his violin; a violin that is soundlessly replaced and repaired when it's needed without question.
Mycroft thinks of their Father, so strong and stolid, wonder and imagines how he would react to his youngest son's coping mechanisms, to his oldest son's position and how he wields his power. He likes to think he would at least be proud of him, though he knows he would have wanted to berate Sherlock for his weakness, for having to exorcise them the way he does.
Still, Mycroft records them, each requiem, at the end of each case. He has a flash drive filled with the painful songs his brother plays after each death is investigated, each criminal incarcerated.
That violin continues to play its violent mournful tune, a timeless requiem that only Sherlock can hear and give voice to.
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19.
Trinity
Warnings: drug use
There are many who believe that there are a finite number of basic plots in the world. They are mistaken. There are an infinite number of plots. The human brain, however, isn't usually capable of parsing infinite possibilities. Those that can are sometimes lauded as visionaries. More often they are discredited for lunacy. The line between the two is often faint, blurred, and all too easy to cross.
Is it surprising, really? It is mirrored in so many things. Most children go through life thinking their path is set. They are expected to grow up and take on the professions of their parents, their neighbors, their friends. But with age they often regret the avenues they never explored, or even imagined
Novelty is such a hard road. It takes bravery, daring and just a bit of madness. The first man who dared to dream of flight died at the bottom of a rocky cliff. The 1000th man labored obsessively for 40 years to manage a "flight" mere feet off the ground for a few seconds.What is now routine was the folly of a fleet of anonymous dreamers now forgotten by time.
So it was for the detective. People read of his exploits in the late 19th century. He captivated the imaginations of the masses. They marveled at his intellect and imagined small ways in which they could apply his techniques in their own lives.
They never knew, however, of the many that came before him. The curious, impatient child whose busy mother added poppy juice to his milk to quiet him. The surly young man whose observations went unheard, unheeded and turned to the drug of forgetfulness to quiet his own bored, unchallenged mind forever. The detective could not survive alone.
The next evolution had a brother who was not just his intellectual equal but somebody far more clever. The detective, always competitive by nature, locked himself in his lab making discovery upon discovery always striving to best the brother. His work was lost with him, the greatest discoveries of an era still trapped in his mind upon his death.
The next detective found a partner in science. A man who was intellectual enough to understand beautiful depth of this one great mind, but meticulously scientific enough to chronicle their every step. Together they proved that poppy plant while medicinally useful was not magic. The detective grew eve more restless pent up in his lab and the opium helped still him for work until it stilled him forever.
His partner persisted. He used their methods for years afterwards. He found through careful observation that clubbed fingers often meant a patient was suffering from disease of the heart or lung. He chronicled his findings. He taught the next generation who taught the next. They dubbed this visionary the father of modern medicine.
But without the detective to constantly question his findings and push their research farther medicine stagnates. This doctor cannot work alone The detective cannot work only in pursuits of the mind.
The 19th centaury iteration of the detective found fame when he stumbled upon a police officer so desperate to solve the crimes that haunt his city that he listens. The modern daily press will not tolerate unsolved crimes and the detective is an asset.
It seems a perfect pairing, the detective, the brother, the doctor, the colleague. But the places the battle before the war and goes over the falls in a pyric victory. The brother might have saved him if not for his inherent laziness The doctor, desperate to carry on the detectives wok, inventing an alternate ending for the doctor if only in his journal.
In the 21st century the detective heads to the falls again. He takes with him the bother, the doctor, and the colleague. This time, however, they have worked together in holy trinity to turn one great detective into one good man.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
20.
Warning: Main character deaths. Suicide.
Dies illa, dies iræ, calamitatis et miseriæ,
dies magna et amara valde
[That day, day of wrath, calamity, and misery,
day of great and exceeding bitterness]
The dust swirls around Mycroft, sparkling in the light from the lamps brought in to help with the search for survivors. Teams of firemen work ceaselessly, moving the rubble to piles building up outside the leisure centre.
Lestrade approaches him. Tells him the search and rescue dog has arrived. Tells him that they will find the men, that they will find his brother.
Mycroft feels hollow, empty, as he watches the dog jump excitedly out of the van, ready to play the new game. He wills it to fail.
John and Sherlock should never have been here. He should never have used them as bait for Moriarty. Why was this the one time Sherlock actually went along with one of his plans?
Dies iræ! Dies illa
solvet sæclum in favilla!
[The day of wrath! That day
will dissolve the world in ashes!]
The dog goes rigid, nose pointing to an area of as yet uncleared debris by the corner of the pool.
As rubble is cleared to reveal the body of the brave, loyal Doctor Watson, Mycroft’s legs crumple beneath him and he falls to his knees.
As the firemen reveal the second body, its hand still clinging onto Watson’s, Mycroft's heart is ripped apart.
Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
[Tearful will be that day,
on which from the ashes arises
the guilty man who is to be judged.]
Moriarty’s body was not found among the wreckage of the swimming pool.
Mycroft eventually tracks him down to a chalet in Switzerland. This time Mycroft does not make a mistake. He catches Moriarty by surprise, killing his guards before coming face to face with the man himself.
Mycroft expects Moriarty to be armed, expects his own life to be forfeit, doesn’t care so long as he gets his own shot off accurately. He doesn’t expect Moriarty’s gun to misfire. He doesn’t expect to be left alive, standing over the body of one he has hated so intensely, the snow reddening beneath him.
It should feel satisfying.
It doesn’t.
Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis
[Grant them eternal rest, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon them]
Mycroft is nearly always joined in his daily vigil at the two gravestones by Lestrade. It seems neither of them can forget, neither move on. Once upon a time Mycroft thought he knew what was between his brother and the Detective Inspector. Now he thinks that maybe it was deeper than he ever realised. Another life ruined.
In memoria æterna erit iustus
[He shall be justified in everlasting memory]
They had never spoken to each other at the graveside. Mycroft never had the words.
As he watches the funeral procession across the road pass through the police guard of honour and move down through the graveyard he wishes that he had tried harder. Perhaps then there would be one fewer death on his conscience.
Oro supplex et acclinis,
cor contritum quasi cinis:
gere curam mei finis
[I meekly and humbly pray,
my heart is as crushed as the ashes:
perform the healing of mine end]
That evening, as Verdi’s requiem soars through the apartment, he runs his fingers over the knot one final time.
Then he kicks the chair away.
Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Dona eis requiem sempiternam
[Merciful Lord Jesus, grant them rest. Grant them eternal rest.]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
21.
2170
Violet picked up the violin from its case and held it up reverently. The violin caught the last rays of sunshine, the varnish was a warm red and it seemed to be on fire. It was perhaps the best instrument she ever held and she knew she could never love another more, so playing tonight was small price to pay. Her fingers plucked each of the strings and she listened carefully; everything had to be perfect tonight.
"It's time," her manager whispered.
She walked out onto the empty stage, no other instruments, no orchestra, just her and the violin. She looked out over the large crowd. She had practiced for this moment for a year and now it was time. She placed the bow on the strings and played.
The gentle sound of a lullaby, the song played to a young child, came to rest over the crowd like a warm blanket. They all fell silence at once.
Slowly the music became rowdier, the sound of children playing, of tree climbing of childhood. She could hear the audience move, wanting to join in, wanting to run too. Then, with an easy transition, the music became serious, studious.
This part always brought her back to when she just started to learn to play the violin. The music was technically perfect, difficult to play, but it lacked the joy of the first parts.
Once again perfectly smooth the music changed to a something loud, scary, bombastic. If she closed her eyes she could almost feel the war.
Then came the moment that always jarred, the music swelled and then just before the natural high it stopped and for several long seconds there was silence.
She played the part she hated to play. She could already feel the tears run down her face while she played the heavy, depressive, broken music.
She was always glad when the next part came, the part that brought back running, action, the utter joy of being life. It brought music that would not be misplaced in the car chase of an action movie.
The little interlude always made her think of roses, weddings and lovers was short. Then there were waterfalls, broken hearts, and joy again. The music seemed to become almost schizophrenic from that moment on. She always felt this was music written for two violins, but it was so closely entwined it was not clear where one began and the other ended.
Slowly, almost unnoticeable, the music became sedate, happy, the kind of music you would listen to while sitting on a sofa in the arms of your lover, the music to grow old on.
Violet let her thumb rest on the words painted on the neck.
For a good man
JW
And then without warning, brutally, the music stopped again, the violin fell silent. Just like it had done a hundred years ago at the grave of an old man.
2070
Sherlock stood at the foot of the fresh grave and played the last tones of John's life way. His thumb, crooked in age, rested on the words he knew were there on the neck of the violin. And he smiled because he knew it wouldn't be long.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
22.
John has known Sherlock for eight months on the night he loses him (then finds, loses, and finds him again).
*
John attended his medical school graduation with a bruise on his hip the size of an orange, the remnant of a particularly active scrum the previous day. When he sat back in his seat after receiving his diploma--Doctor Watson; it didn't even sound unfamiliar, not anymore--he'd had to grit his teeth. First against the pain, then against a grin.
*
He felt useful in the army. It wasn't the other medics he connected with--they were good enough people but too like the other students he remembered from school, not understanding why John turned down study groups and spent the time on the rugby pitch instead--but the infantry. They were boys, really, all of them too young for this, the endless sun baking squint lines into the skin around their eyes. They weren't allowed personal effects in boot camp and they're carried that ethos with them on deployment; wore their faces like armour, as tightly controlled as the laces in their boots, as impersonal as their camp beds.
Enough of them dropped their act in John's presence, though, that he let himself smile at them, let himself believe he was helping. On quiet days he bandaged their blisters; on unquiet days he applied tourniquets, ran alongside gurneys, shouted orders, passed along last words.
He slept well.
*
Then he ended flat on his back in a hospital bed himself and saw just how useless it all was, the doctors and the nurses smiling and smiling and thinking they're helping.
After that, he starts having nightmares.
*
He's back in London before he can force himself to really look at the mark on his shoulder--tight and shiny, inlaid like a carving in sculpture; irrevocably wrong--and he understands just how misguided he'd been, to suppose any of it had meant anything.
He touches the fingers of his right hand to the fresh pink skin of the developing scar, explores the even line of dots left by the stitches and staples. He'd been unconscious for those, of course, had failed to witness the tiny injuries demanded by the greater one, but his body remembers.
John sees himself transformed from a healer to a living memorial, his own flesh made witness to all of them, all the lives saved and lost.
(Or, too often, saved and then--)
This is all any of them ever leave with, he thinks, and he supposes, in a way, he's glad. This way he can't leave it behind.
*
It's almost a relief to be invalided. He isn't sure he'd have been able to go back, anyway, now that he knows.
*
By the night Sherlock falls, the scar in John's shoulder has faded to white, though it still grows purple in the cold.
It would have been purple that night, he supposes, if he'd bothered to look. Instead he kneels on the harsh pavement in the January wind, calling Sherlock's name again and again. But it isn't John's wound so it's Sherlock's shirt that he wrenches open. He tears off his own jacket and presses it against the place where the knife had been and gone, trying to stop the bleeding.
It helps, but Sherlock is still bleeding even after his pulse fades, when the skin stretched tight across the space for his heart falls still.
John does the only thing he can; forms his hands into fists and physically beats the life back into his friend's body, pressure against Sherlock's sternum that will crack ribs and leave bruises, and the hell of it is, it works.
Later, after the sirens and the ambulance and running alongside the gurney, after a nurse pulls him into the loo and makes him wash Sherlock's blood from his face and neck, after Sherlock is taken into surgery and John gives an official statement in the hallway, John is finally admitted back into the recovery room.
Sherlock is pale and bandaged and breathing. If this is all they're going to leave with, it's enough.
John folds himself into the visitor's chair and becomes aware of the ache in his chest and arms and back, his muscles' belated protest of being asked to do the work of keeping two hearts beating.
This time, John doesn't bother to swallow his grin.