Fic: Raison d'être (oneshot)
Title: Raison d'être {Part 5 of Series- Reichenbach to Return}
Author: missilemuse.
Part: 1/1
Wordcount: nearly 3000
Rating: PG
Warnings: none.
Spoilers: for season 2
Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.
Summary: Only with acceptance, can there be recovery...
Author's notes: This is me, finally giving up and getting on the band-wagon; writing a post-Reichenbach Series. Sherlock made me cry and John wouldn't let me stop. This is the result. Each story complete in itself. Enjoy!
It was early in the morning, but that was the way John had wanted to do it. He was here to unravel the mystery of Sherlock Holmes’ death. Not the mechanics of it; those few moments were going to haunt his living memory, till he died. He wanted to figure out what exactly had Sherlock been thinking.
It was so easy for Ella to say that John had to accept Sherlock’s death, in order to move on. After all, everything about his suicide was bloody textbook!
But HE had known the man. The one thing he knew for sure was that Sherlock didn’t do textbook. He was a sore-thumb, a zebra, a goddamned show-off; the man who travelled on the tube covered in pig’s blood, just to make a point.
So he had agreed with Ella, while silently deciding what he had to do. He hadn’t shared his plans with her. He had known very well how she would react, exactly what he would have done had their roles been reversed.
He had been Sherlock’s friend for a year and a half now, and had been privy to his flat-mate’s thoughts, a privilege allowed to very few people. He hoped that would give him an edge.
He took a deep breath as he hoisted himself onto the edge of Bart’s Roof…
***
Mycroft always found early morning Conference calls to be a painful evil. He was at Whitehall trying to convince the Russian Trade Secretary that the most recent amendment to the British Trade Law wouldn’t affect their interests. Thanks to growing up while looking after Sherlock; he had hitherto unheard of reserves of patience. He still found himself stifling a yawn, as he feigned interest.
Percy strode in without knocking, which was his first warning. Then the look in her eyes told Mycroft that anyone else in her place would have been screaming in panic. She only uttered two words, “Code Red.”
Mycroft cut the call. He would apologize for the faulty connection later. He got up, gathering his coat as he asked, “Where?”
“Bart’s roof.” He groaned as he thumbed the numbers on his phone while walking fast. She continued, “He slipped his tail within ten minutes of leaving the new flat, today morning. The cameras placed on the roof got him.”
Mycroft cursed Sherlock inwardly. His men had never been able to tail his brother, when he didn’t want them to. It seemed that the Doctor had picked up a few tricks. The continued surveillance of the roof had been his idea, though he hadn’t anticipated this particular development. He had two options. He prayed he was choosing the right one as he hit dial.
“Dr. Hooper, this is Mycroft Holmes, if you could do me just one more favour…”
***
He felt strange, a bit dizzy, a bit out of his body, as he stood there. For a moment, he felt like he was standing in two places… here and down on the road, hand outstretched. He blinked once to get rid of the surreal image, the rising sun bright on his closed eyelids.
This was Sherlock’s method. Put yourself in the place of the victim. What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?____ Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers - she WAS clever. She's trying to tell us something…
So he pictured it... Jim- already dead, his body lying behind him, blood running into the ground. Was that the reason? With Jim dead, no way to conclusively prove that Richard Brooke was a fraud. So he kills himself and tells John otherwise, to make it easier for him and the others to join the world.
He couldn’t help the laugh; a choked out giggle that sounded unnatural in the silence.
Sherlock would have never killed himself for public opinion. The world had consisted of brainless morons as far as he was concerned, and the few whose opinion mattered would have supported him through hell and high water.
No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.
From this vantage point, the words took on a different meaning. They sounded less like the hysterical cry of a desperate man, wanting a witness to his plunge. They sounded like a warning. They awakened old memories of a lighted pool, steady red dots, and an order through the wire in his ear. ‘Come out of the cubicle John and stand right there…Don’t move!’
“Oh!” The realisation was like a thousand knives being twisted into his skin. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, welcoming the ability to finally feel something other than the numb limbo he had been trapped in, since the fall.
Which was probably why he didn’t hear the terrace door open, before a shaking voice called his name, “John…”
He recognized the voice as Molly’s, but that was fine. She was one of them, one of the people Sherlock cared to mention before he jumped. He didn’t mind that she was a witness to his epiphany.
“It wasn’t suicide,” he whispered, still trapped in a vortex of emotions, churned up by the realisation that he owed his life to Sherlock’s death.
“What?” her voice sounded strained and a little desperate. “John… just… could you get off that ledge, and we’ll talk.”
John didn’t get off, didn’t even turn around, his voice getting louder, manic…
“IT WASN’T A SUICIDE. Can’t you see?”
HE could see now. He could almost see the invisible sniper who would have targeted him, had he walked right in front of Bart’s, before Sherlock jumped.
Friends protect people! The knives dug in harder as he gasped for breath and swayed.
“JOHN!” Molly shrieked. “Just get down here and I’ll tell you everything. Don’t…don’t…”
That made him look; that break in her voice. She was standing merely steps away from him now; her face horrified and one hand outstretched. He knew exactly what was going through her mind. He knew exactly what that hand had reached out for.
Don’t...SHERLOCK!
He got off the parapet. But the terror in her eyes didn’t fade. She was breathing hard and trembling all over. He approached her, his voice soothing. “It’s alright, Molly. I wasn’t going to jump. I just wanted to think…and it helped. I know now…”
He was close enough to see when the terror in her face crystallised to anger, before she raised a hand and slapped him hard across the face. Then she clapped the same hand to her mouth and collapsed to the ground, her shoulders heaving with sobs.
His cheek stung, but he barely noticed it, as he crouched down next to her. “Hey…It’s fine. I’m sorry, Molly. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
“You…you can’t do that, John,” she sobbed convulsively against his shoulder. “I can’t… I have to…He…”
“Thank you, Miss Hooper. I think I’ll take it from here.”
Both of them turned to the voice, John’s face instantly hardening into a look of utter contempt.
Mycroft didn’t bat an eyelid. “Percy, please escort Miss Hooper downstairs. Some tea to soothe the nerves would be called for, I think.”
Wordlessly, the assistant helped a still tearful Molly to her feet. She cast a frightened look in John’s direction, before she was led away.
John avoided looking at Mycroft, afraid that he would launch himself at the smarmy git. “It was you.”
The British Government wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “Of course, it was me. Do you think Dr. Hooper makes it a habit of coming up to the roof at the opportune moment?”
“I am surprised to see that you are still keeping tabs on me. Your arch-enemy is dead, remember? Why bother?”
“You answered that question for me, when you pulled this little stunt.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, if that’s what you are implying. Not that it would be any of your business, even if I intended to.” John spat out, knowing that this wasn’t the complete truth. He wondered what would have happened, if Molly hadn’t turned up. How easy it would have been to let the weight of his guilt and grief push him off the edge…
“Well, then you have my apologies for assuming that the man standing on the ledge of a building was about to jump off.”
John sighed, completely drained. “I have had enough of you and your APOLOGIES, Mycroft.”
But the self-righteous anger didn’t come naturally, as it had at the funeral, now that he had had his revelation. He was equally to blame. “Moriarty threatened me, had a sniper on me. That’s why he jumped…to protect me. That’s why he spouted all that rubbish, didn’t want me figuring it out. He was always a stubborn prick.” Damn his lacrimal glands! In the last few weeks, they had acquired a life of their own.
Mycroft’s face was utterly, terrifyingly blank. But John continued, his ruthless sense of justice was his own judge and jury. “You knew it at the funeral. You knew it all along. Why didn’t you say it? Why don’t you say it now? I’m the real reason, your brother’s dead.”
It was Mycroft’s turn to sigh. “Why do you do this, John? Why torture yourself like this?”
“I’m not like you, Mycroft. Actions have consequences; I need to take responsibility for mine.”
“Alright, have it your way. From where I’m standing, the only actions you took were meeting my brother, sharing a flat with him and becoming his first ever friend. I don’t think that I need to point out that without your presence in his life, he probably wouldn’t have survived long enough to kill himself. Do you regret any of it?”
He wouldn’t take it back for the world.
“So what’s the moral of the story? My brother died to protect you, sacrificed himself so that you could live. Are you living, John?”
“Don’t…”
“You have lost five pounds since the funeral. You’re wandering around London, avoiding therapy, talking to my brother’s grave. It’s only been a couple of months, so I understand that it’s a part of the grieving process. But today, you almost followed in his footsteps. Don’t bother denying it. So that’s how the story ends? Sherlock Holmes dies to save John Watson and John Watson dies for nothing.”
“Shut up, you bastard. For the love of God, SHUT UP!”
Mycroft’s voice was soft, but it held no pity. “John, I know that you are grasping at straws to find a reason to continue. Your intermittent tremor won’t let you be a surgeon. Moriarty’s dead. So it cannot be revenge. My brother’s gone, so it cannot be a life of adventure. You are a doctor and a resourceful man. If you truly want to end your life, I won’t be able to stop you. I still watch over you, as you are my brother’s only legacy; and I will be damned before I let his sacrifice have been in vain. But I cannot protect you from yourself. You have never denied Sherlock anything when he was alive. This was his last request of you; and it may not be a good enough reason, but could you try living again, for him?”
John said nothing, tears still flowing freely, as he turned and walked away.
***
Triage… in Mycroft’s work, everything was triage. Even while talking to John, he was aware that the next conversation was going to be considerably more uncomfortable and difficult.
He entered the morgue, his calm face back on. Percy shook her head slightly as she left, not a good sign.
When Molly Hooper faced him, he understood why. There were no tears now; her voice was tempered steel.
“The answer’s NO!” He just raised an eyebrow.
“I will not keep this a secret any longer, not from John. You can get me fired…you can arrest me. I don’t care. I’m through.”
He took a deep breath and perched on a stool so that she was the one standing. Still, they were both at eye-level. “Miss Hooper, you need to calm down.”
“He could have died.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“You can’t know for sure. Depression doesn’t work like that.”
“He says, he wasn’t going to jump.”
“Right!”
Alright, so this wasn’t the time for gentle persuasion.
“Sherlock needs John to be in the dark.” He knew he had hit the mark, when she involuntarily winced.
“Don’t bring him into this. He would never… It is for him. If he comes back, and John isn’t here… I will not be responsible for standing back and letting it happen. I won't.”
“Miss Hooper, let me make one thing clear. The only person who was a danger to John, who knew what he meant to my brother, was autopsied by you on this very table. Right now, John Watson is safe only because he believes that Sherlock is dead and he no longer has any association with him. It is the best protection he could have, under the circumstances. The work that Sherlock is doing is… my brother cannot afford any distractions at present.”
She hated it that his voice was calm, rational. “And what if John had died today? If I hadn’t been here on the graveyard shift? If you didn’t have cameras on the roof? Would you have expected me to cut him open too? Or would you have hidden the body? Hidden John’s death, from the world, from your own brother, so that the ‘WORK’ could continue uninterrupted?”
He could lie. He could pretend to care. He did care about John, in a way. But what she was asking him was so much more than that. Where did his loyalties lie? What were the limits to his capacity for deception? At what point would he tell himself, enough?
In this instance he decided that honesty would be the best policy. “I would do whatever it takes to get Sherlock back, safely home.”
Her eyes softened momentarily as they considered his answer. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Fine,” she conceded, before adding defiantly, “But, you will tell Sherlock what happened.”
There was nothing to be gained by distracting Sherlock with this. There was no point in trying to hide it either. Sherlock definitely had the Doctor under his own kind of surveillance; no doubt he had already been alerted through his channels. Molly mistook his pause for hesitation.
“He needs to know. He needs to make an informed decision whether to continue this charade, Mr. Holmes. Please tell me that you’ll tell him.”
He envied Molly Hooper her simple world-view; where she could easily sort her actions into neatly labelled boxes of right or wrong. He wondered if he would ever experience that certainty in this lifetime.
Triage, he reminds himself…
“Yes, I will.” He promises.
***
He wasn’t remotely surprised to see Sherlock at the designated safe-house on the outskirts of London, when he reached there in the evening after making sure that John was with Lestrade. He was sitting on a chair in front of the fire, thinking. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would have every right to take him to task for the morning’s slip-up. Despite John’s assumption to the contrary, Mycroft wasn’t a man to run from his mistakes. So he decided to open the conversation and get it over with.
“You’re supposed to be in Budapest.”
“Dead end.” Sherlock’s voice sounded hoarse. He would have little occasion to use it now.
“I see. What about…”
“I already tried that, Mycroft. Don’t be dense.”
“Fine. So, when are you…”
“Now, in about an hour.”
“You need to eat something. I got…”
“Not hungry.”
Mycroft knew better than to insist today. Sherlock didn’t look at him. His fingers twitched on the arm of the chair, and he blinked incessantly as he stared into the distance. Mycroft had expected hurled accusations, insults…something. All he got was a maddening silence.
He cursed himself for all those times when he had wished that Sherlock would just shut up.
They had been sitting in silence for three quarters of an hour, when Sherlock’s phone chimed in the semi-darkness. He got up to leave, pulling on his coat. Mycroft tried again.
“About John…”
Sherlock froze in the process of pulling up his collar. But Mycroft saw him swallow once before answering. “He wouldn’t have jumped.”
Mycroft frowned at the non-sequitur.
“You are wondering why I’m not angry with you, and I have given you the reason.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because, I know John Watson." Something about the quality of Sherlock's tone reminded Mycroft of the mercilessness of the Doctor's voice, when he had blamed himself.
"I know that he was suicidal when he had come back from Afghanistan and I have roughly replicated the same circumstances. I know why he went up to the roof. I also know what he must have deduced. You underestimate his courage, Mycroft. His guilt won’t let him commit suicide and take the easy way out. He will willingly choose to suffer through life. You are afraid that my machinations will drive John to kill himself. What I’ve done is far worse. His innate strength will be his worst enemy. He will live, but it will be a torture worse than death to constantly think that he was responsible for mine…”
He closed his eyes as he uttered the last words, almost like a prayer. “…but he’ll live.”
Mycroft sat thinking for a long time after Sherlock had left, John’s words echoing in his ears. I’m the reason your brother’s dead.
True enough, he mused. His brother of old, the man who hadn't cared was indeed dead. He died, when he decided to jump.
This was a re-incarnation and this new Sherlock was raw, tethered to the people he cared about, whether they knew it or not; struggling to come to terms with emotions, he had never bothered to comprehend.
Dead to the world…yes, but more alive than he had ever been before. It was his turn now, to pray for his brother's sake that it hadn't been a dangerous mistake to make...
THE END.
Series Masterpost HERE