Promise to the Living- Part Fourteen
Promise to the Living
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Depression, suicide idealtion
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes
Summary: After the Reichenbach Fall, John doesn't want to go on without his best friend. Mycroft Holmes acts on his promise to keep John safe.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen
Six months later
As the Audi halted front of 221 Baker Street, John resolved to go to bed immediately. It had been a grueling day: Mycroft had received intel that three Romanian terrorists were holed up in a dodgy Ealing flat, and John's investigation not only confirmed it, but also resulted in his being tied to a chair (yet again) and pummeled until Mycroft's forces arrived.
He'd definitely had more painless days.
But despite the bruises and occasional broken bone, John loved working for the elder Holmes. He reviewed medical reports for suspicious deaths (which usually turned out to be assassinations), used his military experience to lead threat removal teams, and investigated reports of terrorist activity all over London. It wasn't very different from working cases with Sherlock: the element of danger prevailed and the consequences of failure could be far-reaching. But now John worked mostly alone, the only connection to his boss being the tiny Bluetooth earpiece that he wore constantly.
The two men still met regularly. Mycroft always called him into the office whenever a new mission began or an existing one underwent a challenging detour. They had lunch and dinner together several times a week. At any rate, Mycroft was only a text message away when John experienced the occasional emotional crisis.
John was doing better in that respect. After spending two months at the Holmes estate, he moved back to Baker Street. Mycroft had cleared the flat of any items that could trigger devastating memories and Mrs. Hudson was a loveable nuisance, fussing over John despite protests that she was "not your cook / housekeeper / whatever". He continued to take medication, but thanks to his supportive friends and new sense of purpose, he anticipated coming off it soon.
"You did well today," Mycroft said.
John rubbed one bruised cheek. "Does this mean I get a raise?"
He actually had no idea what the elder Holmes was paying him. He'd been given a new debit and credit card, and although he never saw statements for either, they always worked, even at the chip and pin machines that used to hate his own card on contact.
Mycroft chuckled and followed him out onto the pavement. "Do you mind if I come upstairs, John? I need to brief you on another assignment."
"Is it urgent?" John winced. Even his bruises had bruises.
"Yes. But it won't take up much of your time. Don't worry."
John shrugged acquiescence and let himself into the building. Mrs. Hudson was away for the weekend, so the place was unnaturally quiet. Otherwise he might not have heard the violin music that stopped playing the instant he and Mycroft stepped across the threshold.
John froze. "What was that?"
The elder Holmes looked in the direction of the staircase. "What was what?"
"I heard a- never mind, probably someone's radio or telly."
He flicked on the lights and climbed the stairs, with the other man following silently. Although he'd grown extremely fond of Mycroft during their months together, he still hoped that their discussion would be short. His head was starting to ache.
When he unlocked the door to 221b and stepped inside, the first thing he saw was a ghost.
A tall, pale ghost with curly dark hair and the most incisive stare he'd ever encountered.
"John. Good to see you."
The phantom might have said more, but John didn't hear it. His legs crumpled, the floor rushed up to meet him, and he knew nothing more.
When John woke up, his first thought was that his rescue had been a dream, and he was still tied to the chair in that grotty Ealing flat, waiting for the Romanians to start using him as a punching bag again. Desperate to stay pain-free as long as possible, he kept his eyes closed and pretended that he was still unconscious.
"Sherlock, he'll be fine." Mycroft. "It was just too much for him, is all."
"Was tying him up like this necessary though? John's not one of your 'guests of the government'."
Sherlock.
"You know I don't see him that way at all." Mycroft's voice hardened. "It's for his own safety- and possibly yours- until we know how he's going to react to you being alive after all."
John opened his eyes with a gasp. He was lying on the sofa, wrists and ankles handcuffed together. Sitting in the chairs, watching him like a pair of benign hawks, were the Holmes brothers.
Both of them.
"John!" Sherlock sprang out of his seat and knelt beside the sofa. His grey eyes scanned his one-time flatmate's face with something resembling joy. Mycroft remained in his chair, but watched the proceedings intently, gripping his umbrella handle with unusual force.
John's mouth was dry. "Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"H-how? I saw you fall; I felt your pulse…. You had NO pulse! You were dead!"
"I had to disappear for awhile. You were in danger, John. So were Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I had to let certain people believe I was dead."
"Moriarty's gunmen had all three of you under surveillance," Mycroft supplied, gaze never wavering from John's white face. "If Sherlock didn't commit suicide- or at least appear to- you'd have been killed. Moriarty's last game was his most vile."
"Molly and Mycroft helped me," Sherlock supplied. He continued to talk, saying something about falling onto a padded truck bed, an unclaimed corpse completing the deadly descent, and one of Mycroft's men knocking John down with a bicycle long enough for Sherlock to switch places with the corpse on the gore-spattered pavement.
"I put a rubber ball in my armpit and squeezed down- that's why you couldn't feel any pulse in my wrist," he concluded.
"And the medical team that took him off the street worked for me," Mycroft added.
John closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose. His heart pounded hotly but his entire body felt cold.
I'm in shock….
"Why now?" he whispered. It was all he could think of to say.
"Because it's safe for everyone concerned now."
John stared at him blankly. "What?"
"John," Mycroft said gently, "Moriarty left an empire behind. Sebastian Moran wanted you kept alive for self-serving reasons, but if Sherlock had made an appearance, Moran would have fixated on him instead and you'd have become disposable."
"Moran's been dead for months. You killed him!"
"He had successors. An organization that size would not have left its well-being in the hands of two individuals. It took time to track everyone down and neutralize them."
"John." Sherlock sounded surprised and a little hurt. "It's over. I'm back."
"You're not back. You never really went away. All those times I dreamt about you, thought I heard your voice at night or smelled your cologne in the morning… it was you, wasn't it? You were watching me."
The younger Holmes nodded. "I couldn't stay away. I… care… more for you than anyone else. I'd have lost my mind if I couldn't see you, touch you."
John exploded. Struggling against the cuffs, he yelled, "I did lose my mind, Sherlock! I nearly killed myself. Nice to know you thought you deserved opportunities that I didn't."
Mycroft stood up but said nothing. His eyes shot back and forth between the two men.
"And you!" John hollered at him. "I trusted you! And you kept this from me!"
"It was for your own good, John."
"Why the hell did you think I couldn't be told the truth?"
"Because you're not that good an actor. There's no way you could have kept up a façade that would have fooled Moriarty's successors."
John went limp against the sofa cushions and shook his head. "I can't believe it. You all kept me in the dark. Let me suffer. Christ, even fucking Molly knew."
"The entire situation was terrible, and unfair to you," Sherlock conceded. "But it's over."
Mycroft frowned at that, but John interrupted before he could speak.
"My God, Sherlock, I've been through hell. And you just say, "It's over"?"
Sherlock looked genuinely confused. "But it is. What's the problem?"
"Christ." John didn't know whether to scream, weep, or laugh. "You're a fucking detective without a fucking clue."
Sherlock's mouth twisted. Then he leaned forward and put his arms around John, gathering him close. Overwhelmed by the sight, scent, and touch of a man he'd long since mourned as dead, John burst into tears and yelled, "Fuck off! Let me go! Get out of here! Fuck off!"
Sherlock just held him.
"Fuck, you're alive, fuck, Sherlock…."
Finally John stopped struggling and went limp again. His face was red and tears soaked his cheeks, dripping onto his jumper.
"Fuck, Sherlock," he kept gasping over and over.
Mycroft took his Blackberry out. "I have to make a call," he said softly. "I'll leave the two of you alone."
He went into Sherlock's old bedroom, which now served as John's study. When the door closed, John whispered, "I need to hug you, you fucking selfish prick. I should break your neck, but all I want to do is hold you."
Sherlock drew back, took the handcuff keys out of his pocket, and released John's ankles first. When he removed the wrist restraints, John sat up and rubbed his skin, which had bruised and reddened during his hysterics.
"Thanks," he whispered. "Now excuse me while I get out of your life as easily as you did mine."
With that, he swung one tightly clenched fist and punched Sherlock in the face, catching his right cheek and sending him reeling to the floor. Then John was off the sofa, and heading for the door.
Or rather, he tried to. Instead, he ran right into Mycroft's waiting arms.
Part Fifteen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Depression, suicide idealtion
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes
Summary: After the Reichenbach Fall, John doesn't want to go on without his best friend. Mycroft Holmes acts on his promise to keep John safe.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen
Six months later
As the Audi halted front of 221 Baker Street, John resolved to go to bed immediately. It had been a grueling day: Mycroft had received intel that three Romanian terrorists were holed up in a dodgy Ealing flat, and John's investigation not only confirmed it, but also resulted in his being tied to a chair (yet again) and pummeled until Mycroft's forces arrived.
He'd definitely had more painless days.
But despite the bruises and occasional broken bone, John loved working for the elder Holmes. He reviewed medical reports for suspicious deaths (which usually turned out to be assassinations), used his military experience to lead threat removal teams, and investigated reports of terrorist activity all over London. It wasn't very different from working cases with Sherlock: the element of danger prevailed and the consequences of failure could be far-reaching. But now John worked mostly alone, the only connection to his boss being the tiny Bluetooth earpiece that he wore constantly.
The two men still met regularly. Mycroft always called him into the office whenever a new mission began or an existing one underwent a challenging detour. They had lunch and dinner together several times a week. At any rate, Mycroft was only a text message away when John experienced the occasional emotional crisis.
John was doing better in that respect. After spending two months at the Holmes estate, he moved back to Baker Street. Mycroft had cleared the flat of any items that could trigger devastating memories and Mrs. Hudson was a loveable nuisance, fussing over John despite protests that she was "not your cook / housekeeper / whatever". He continued to take medication, but thanks to his supportive friends and new sense of purpose, he anticipated coming off it soon.
"You did well today," Mycroft said.
John rubbed one bruised cheek. "Does this mean I get a raise?"
He actually had no idea what the elder Holmes was paying him. He'd been given a new debit and credit card, and although he never saw statements for either, they always worked, even at the chip and pin machines that used to hate his own card on contact.
Mycroft chuckled and followed him out onto the pavement. "Do you mind if I come upstairs, John? I need to brief you on another assignment."
"Is it urgent?" John winced. Even his bruises had bruises.
"Yes. But it won't take up much of your time. Don't worry."
John shrugged acquiescence and let himself into the building. Mrs. Hudson was away for the weekend, so the place was unnaturally quiet. Otherwise he might not have heard the violin music that stopped playing the instant he and Mycroft stepped across the threshold.
John froze. "What was that?"
The elder Holmes looked in the direction of the staircase. "What was what?"
"I heard a- never mind, probably someone's radio or telly."
He flicked on the lights and climbed the stairs, with the other man following silently. Although he'd grown extremely fond of Mycroft during their months together, he still hoped that their discussion would be short. His head was starting to ache.
When he unlocked the door to 221b and stepped inside, the first thing he saw was a ghost.
A tall, pale ghost with curly dark hair and the most incisive stare he'd ever encountered.
"John. Good to see you."
The phantom might have said more, but John didn't hear it. His legs crumpled, the floor rushed up to meet him, and he knew nothing more.
When John woke up, his first thought was that his rescue had been a dream, and he was still tied to the chair in that grotty Ealing flat, waiting for the Romanians to start using him as a punching bag again. Desperate to stay pain-free as long as possible, he kept his eyes closed and pretended that he was still unconscious.
"Sherlock, he'll be fine." Mycroft. "It was just too much for him, is all."
"Was tying him up like this necessary though? John's not one of your 'guests of the government'."
Sherlock.
"You know I don't see him that way at all." Mycroft's voice hardened. "It's for his own safety- and possibly yours- until we know how he's going to react to you being alive after all."
John opened his eyes with a gasp. He was lying on the sofa, wrists and ankles handcuffed together. Sitting in the chairs, watching him like a pair of benign hawks, were the Holmes brothers.
Both of them.
"John!" Sherlock sprang out of his seat and knelt beside the sofa. His grey eyes scanned his one-time flatmate's face with something resembling joy. Mycroft remained in his chair, but watched the proceedings intently, gripping his umbrella handle with unusual force.
John's mouth was dry. "Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"H-how? I saw you fall; I felt your pulse…. You had NO pulse! You were dead!"
"I had to disappear for awhile. You were in danger, John. So were Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I had to let certain people believe I was dead."
"Moriarty's gunmen had all three of you under surveillance," Mycroft supplied, gaze never wavering from John's white face. "If Sherlock didn't commit suicide- or at least appear to- you'd have been killed. Moriarty's last game was his most vile."
"Molly and Mycroft helped me," Sherlock supplied. He continued to talk, saying something about falling onto a padded truck bed, an unclaimed corpse completing the deadly descent, and one of Mycroft's men knocking John down with a bicycle long enough for Sherlock to switch places with the corpse on the gore-spattered pavement.
"I put a rubber ball in my armpit and squeezed down- that's why you couldn't feel any pulse in my wrist," he concluded.
"And the medical team that took him off the street worked for me," Mycroft added.
John closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose. His heart pounded hotly but his entire body felt cold.
I'm in shock….
"Why now?" he whispered. It was all he could think of to say.
"Because it's safe for everyone concerned now."
John stared at him blankly. "What?"
"John," Mycroft said gently, "Moriarty left an empire behind. Sebastian Moran wanted you kept alive for self-serving reasons, but if Sherlock had made an appearance, Moran would have fixated on him instead and you'd have become disposable."
"Moran's been dead for months. You killed him!"
"He had successors. An organization that size would not have left its well-being in the hands of two individuals. It took time to track everyone down and neutralize them."
"John." Sherlock sounded surprised and a little hurt. "It's over. I'm back."
"You're not back. You never really went away. All those times I dreamt about you, thought I heard your voice at night or smelled your cologne in the morning… it was you, wasn't it? You were watching me."
The younger Holmes nodded. "I couldn't stay away. I… care… more for you than anyone else. I'd have lost my mind if I couldn't see you, touch you."
John exploded. Struggling against the cuffs, he yelled, "I did lose my mind, Sherlock! I nearly killed myself. Nice to know you thought you deserved opportunities that I didn't."
Mycroft stood up but said nothing. His eyes shot back and forth between the two men.
"And you!" John hollered at him. "I trusted you! And you kept this from me!"
"It was for your own good, John."
"Why the hell did you think I couldn't be told the truth?"
"Because you're not that good an actor. There's no way you could have kept up a façade that would have fooled Moriarty's successors."
John went limp against the sofa cushions and shook his head. "I can't believe it. You all kept me in the dark. Let me suffer. Christ, even fucking Molly knew."
"The entire situation was terrible, and unfair to you," Sherlock conceded. "But it's over."
Mycroft frowned at that, but John interrupted before he could speak.
"My God, Sherlock, I've been through hell. And you just say, "It's over"?"
Sherlock looked genuinely confused. "But it is. What's the problem?"
"Christ." John didn't know whether to scream, weep, or laugh. "You're a fucking detective without a fucking clue."
Sherlock's mouth twisted. Then he leaned forward and put his arms around John, gathering him close. Overwhelmed by the sight, scent, and touch of a man he'd long since mourned as dead, John burst into tears and yelled, "Fuck off! Let me go! Get out of here! Fuck off!"
Sherlock just held him.
"Fuck, you're alive, fuck, Sherlock…."
Finally John stopped struggling and went limp again. His face was red and tears soaked his cheeks, dripping onto his jumper.
"Fuck, Sherlock," he kept gasping over and over.
Mycroft took his Blackberry out. "I have to make a call," he said softly. "I'll leave the two of you alone."
He went into Sherlock's old bedroom, which now served as John's study. When the door closed, John whispered, "I need to hug you, you fucking selfish prick. I should break your neck, but all I want to do is hold you."
Sherlock drew back, took the handcuff keys out of his pocket, and released John's ankles first. When he removed the wrist restraints, John sat up and rubbed his skin, which had bruised and reddened during his hysterics.
"Thanks," he whispered. "Now excuse me while I get out of your life as easily as you did mine."
With that, he swung one tightly clenched fist and punched Sherlock in the face, catching his right cheek and sending him reeling to the floor. Then John was off the sofa, and heading for the door.
Or rather, he tried to. Instead, he ran right into Mycroft's waiting arms.
Part Fifteen