Promise to the Living- Part Five
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
After the funeral, once the comfortable numbness had worn off and the soul-draining despair set in, John had started dialing Sherlock's mobile, just to hear the recorded voice haughtily requesting the caller to "leave a message, but only if you're offering something worth my time." Once the indicator beeped, he would weep and curl into a fetal position on the sofa (or bed, bathroom floor, wherever he happened to be), phone pressed to his ear and babbling all sorts of nonsense that gave voice to his grief and loneliness and distress.
"Hi Sherlock, it's me. You mind picking up milk and beans while you're out? And please- no more fingers in same fridge compartment as the fruit?"
"You bloody idiot. How am I supposed to sleep when you play the violin at all hours? Christ, we have to sort this before I go mad."
"Tell your brother to stop pulling up to me on the street. People are starting to think I'm for rent. AND that I don't have standards."
"Sherlock? I know you're not dead. You can't be. Pick up. Please."
John knew, of course, that Sherlock would not pick up. But that never stopped his heartbeat from accelerating whenever he dialed that familiar number and listened to the ringing. Finally, the recorded message lost its ability to soothe, and his despair was complete.
Now here was Mycroft, clutching a Blackberry that contained a message from the grave. One made before Sherlock jumped. About him. He leaned forward in his seat, fingers clutching the table's edge so tightly that color bled from his knuckles.
Mycroft, it's me. The time we both knew would eventually arrive is upon me at last. Dying's not the hard part, but leaving John is. Please, Mycroft- take care of him for me. He's going to take it hard, and he'll need you. More than I ever did. Keep him safe, and forgive me, brother. For I've already forgiven you.
John could feel painful fissures coursing through his heart, snapping it soundly in two before desiccating the rest of him, body and soul. He slid off the chair onto the richly embroidered rug, arms crossed over the invisible fractures in his chest and gasping. He wanted to cry- he was desperate to cry so that the agony would stop building, tightening his throat and suffocating him. But his eyes only burned without brimming over.
Someone touched his shoulder. Mycroft.
"FUCK OFF!" he yelled, lashing out and feeling his fist connect with a lean bicep. "Just leave me alone!"
Mycroft's hand remained in place. "John, I know objectively what grief is. I've seen it expressed, and I've been going through the closest version that I'm capable of feeling. It's painful. But it will pass."
"When I went back to Baker Street after he… died… Mrs. Hudson hadn't tidied up," John babbled. "All of Sherlock's chemistry gear was still on the kitchen table. On the table beside his chair there was a plate… with crumbs. Traces of his LAST MEAL for fuck's sakes."
Mycroft drew an audible breath but was otherwise silent.
"I not only saw him die, I had to pack him away!"
Strong arms gathered him up and held him against a warm, jumper-covered chest. John was on the verge of erupting when something made him go still. It felt like déjà vu, but that didn't make sense. He'd never been here before, and couldn't remember any tragedy or loss that had crushed him so completely. Frowning, he struggled to pinpoint its source.
Then he realized.
It was Mycroft.
Before now, the elder Holmes had never touched him except to shake his hand. Sherlock, on the other hand, John had known physically on a number of occasions, although never in the way that people seemed to think. He'd stitched Sherlock's cuts, prodded him for cracked ribs, dumped him on his bed to sleep off one drug or another, and on one occasion, punched him in the face at the detective's own request.
He realized that his familiarity with Sherlock's body made that of his older brother hauntingly familiar. Their appearances and personalities were different, but an identical basenote thrummed through them both. Feeling it now, John was strangely comforted.
"Let go of me," he said, although his weak voice lacked conviction.
But Mycroft only lifted him off the floor and gently placed him back on his chair.
"Eat, John. Please."
The doctor just shook his head and stared dully down at the plate of toast.
"This is not what Sherlock wanted for you."
"I didn't want him to jump, and he did it anyway. Why should I care what his plans for me were?"
Mycroft did not answer.
"It's all bullshit. Everything is. He calls you and asks you to watch over me? If he cared that much he wouldn't have killed himself and left me, would he? You're supposed to be a fucking genius, Mycroft. I'd love your bloody take on that one."
The elder Holmes drew back the chair next to John's instead of resuming his former place. "You're a soldier, John. You've been in battle. Surely you've had to follow game plans you didn't understand."
"Yeah. So?"
"So this is another one. Only it's for your own good instead of Britain's."
John stared across the table, out the window toward the lightening sky. "In Afghanistan, a soldier I knew lost his best mate on the battlefield. He said to me, 'It's the survivor who really dies.' He's right. I was the one who had to go back to Baker Street alone, to face the prospect of years without that sense of purpose, that intellectual companionship that Sherlock gave me. I had to walk through the flat and see his stuff everywhere and know that there'd be no more rooftop chases, no more body parts in the fridge, no more texts from Lestrade that made him do his own insane version of a happy dance. Bloody Sherlock was lucky. He never had to watch me suffer afterward."
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a strange expression flit across Mycroft's face. But the other man said nothing.
John banged his fist on the table.
"I had one friend, Mycroft. One best friend. And he jumped when I begged him not to. What's the greater purpose behind that? The game plan that's supposed to make me think that it's all right somehow?"
Mycroft just watched him. "There's more you need to say, isn't there?"
"Fucking right there is!" Tears were flowing freely at last and words shot from his mouth like shrapnel. "During the days after the funeral, moments from those eighteen months with Sherlock kept hitting me- him playing the violin, dragging me out of bed because there was a sudden case development, hailing a cab outside Baker Street to take us to a crime scene. And knowing that I'd never experience them again as anything but memories- it was torture."
"Yes, I imagine so," said Mycroft softly.
"Oh, I managed for awhile. I'd hear someone coming up the stairs- Lestrade, Molly, Sarah, you- and I'd pretend it was Sherlock. I'd tell myself that it was all a bad dream. Then the door opened and it wasn't him. People came and went and I kept hoping and-"
John buried his face in his hands.
"I think we're getting somewhere, John."
"Oh, so you're my therapist now? In addition to being my jailer? Fuck, you are versatile."
"No. but I do understand."
"How can you possibly? You only ever spied on your brother. You never spent time with him, probably never appreciated what a fantastic human being he was."
John got up. He needed to leave this room -and Mycroft. Now.
Mycroft intercepted him. John placed a hand on his chest to push him away, felt wet fabric, and exclaimed.
Drawing his fingers away, he saw that they were covered by blood.
And it wasn't his.
Part Six
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
After the funeral, once the comfortable numbness had worn off and the soul-draining despair set in, John had started dialing Sherlock's mobile, just to hear the recorded voice haughtily requesting the caller to "leave a message, but only if you're offering something worth my time." Once the indicator beeped, he would weep and curl into a fetal position on the sofa (or bed, bathroom floor, wherever he happened to be), phone pressed to his ear and babbling all sorts of nonsense that gave voice to his grief and loneliness and distress.
"Hi Sherlock, it's me. You mind picking up milk and beans while you're out? And please- no more fingers in same fridge compartment as the fruit?"
"You bloody idiot. How am I supposed to sleep when you play the violin at all hours? Christ, we have to sort this before I go mad."
"Tell your brother to stop pulling up to me on the street. People are starting to think I'm for rent. AND that I don't have standards."
"Sherlock? I know you're not dead. You can't be. Pick up. Please."
John knew, of course, that Sherlock would not pick up. But that never stopped his heartbeat from accelerating whenever he dialed that familiar number and listened to the ringing. Finally, the recorded message lost its ability to soothe, and his despair was complete.
Now here was Mycroft, clutching a Blackberry that contained a message from the grave. One made before Sherlock jumped. About him. He leaned forward in his seat, fingers clutching the table's edge so tightly that color bled from his knuckles.
Mycroft, it's me. The time we both knew would eventually arrive is upon me at last. Dying's not the hard part, but leaving John is. Please, Mycroft- take care of him for me. He's going to take it hard, and he'll need you. More than I ever did. Keep him safe, and forgive me, brother. For I've already forgiven you.
John could feel painful fissures coursing through his heart, snapping it soundly in two before desiccating the rest of him, body and soul. He slid off the chair onto the richly embroidered rug, arms crossed over the invisible fractures in his chest and gasping. He wanted to cry- he was desperate to cry so that the agony would stop building, tightening his throat and suffocating him. But his eyes only burned without brimming over.
Someone touched his shoulder. Mycroft.
"FUCK OFF!" he yelled, lashing out and feeling his fist connect with a lean bicep. "Just leave me alone!"
Mycroft's hand remained in place. "John, I know objectively what grief is. I've seen it expressed, and I've been going through the closest version that I'm capable of feeling. It's painful. But it will pass."
"When I went back to Baker Street after he… died… Mrs. Hudson hadn't tidied up," John babbled. "All of Sherlock's chemistry gear was still on the kitchen table. On the table beside his chair there was a plate… with crumbs. Traces of his LAST MEAL for fuck's sakes."
Mycroft drew an audible breath but was otherwise silent.
"I not only saw him die, I had to pack him away!"
Strong arms gathered him up and held him against a warm, jumper-covered chest. John was on the verge of erupting when something made him go still. It felt like déjà vu, but that didn't make sense. He'd never been here before, and couldn't remember any tragedy or loss that had crushed him so completely. Frowning, he struggled to pinpoint its source.
Then he realized.
It was Mycroft.
Before now, the elder Holmes had never touched him except to shake his hand. Sherlock, on the other hand, John had known physically on a number of occasions, although never in the way that people seemed to think. He'd stitched Sherlock's cuts, prodded him for cracked ribs, dumped him on his bed to sleep off one drug or another, and on one occasion, punched him in the face at the detective's own request.
He realized that his familiarity with Sherlock's body made that of his older brother hauntingly familiar. Their appearances and personalities were different, but an identical basenote thrummed through them both. Feeling it now, John was strangely comforted.
"Let go of me," he said, although his weak voice lacked conviction.
But Mycroft only lifted him off the floor and gently placed him back on his chair.
"Eat, John. Please."
The doctor just shook his head and stared dully down at the plate of toast.
"This is not what Sherlock wanted for you."
"I didn't want him to jump, and he did it anyway. Why should I care what his plans for me were?"
Mycroft did not answer.
"It's all bullshit. Everything is. He calls you and asks you to watch over me? If he cared that much he wouldn't have killed himself and left me, would he? You're supposed to be a fucking genius, Mycroft. I'd love your bloody take on that one."
The elder Holmes drew back the chair next to John's instead of resuming his former place. "You're a soldier, John. You've been in battle. Surely you've had to follow game plans you didn't understand."
"Yeah. So?"
"So this is another one. Only it's for your own good instead of Britain's."
John stared across the table, out the window toward the lightening sky. "In Afghanistan, a soldier I knew lost his best mate on the battlefield. He said to me, 'It's the survivor who really dies.' He's right. I was the one who had to go back to Baker Street alone, to face the prospect of years without that sense of purpose, that intellectual companionship that Sherlock gave me. I had to walk through the flat and see his stuff everywhere and know that there'd be no more rooftop chases, no more body parts in the fridge, no more texts from Lestrade that made him do his own insane version of a happy dance. Bloody Sherlock was lucky. He never had to watch me suffer afterward."
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a strange expression flit across Mycroft's face. But the other man said nothing.
John banged his fist on the table.
"I had one friend, Mycroft. One best friend. And he jumped when I begged him not to. What's the greater purpose behind that? The game plan that's supposed to make me think that it's all right somehow?"
Mycroft just watched him. "There's more you need to say, isn't there?"
"Fucking right there is!" Tears were flowing freely at last and words shot from his mouth like shrapnel. "During the days after the funeral, moments from those eighteen months with Sherlock kept hitting me- him playing the violin, dragging me out of bed because there was a sudden case development, hailing a cab outside Baker Street to take us to a crime scene. And knowing that I'd never experience them again as anything but memories- it was torture."
"Yes, I imagine so," said Mycroft softly.
"Oh, I managed for awhile. I'd hear someone coming up the stairs- Lestrade, Molly, Sarah, you- and I'd pretend it was Sherlock. I'd tell myself that it was all a bad dream. Then the door opened and it wasn't him. People came and went and I kept hoping and-"
John buried his face in his hands.
"I think we're getting somewhere, John."
"Oh, so you're my therapist now? In addition to being my jailer? Fuck, you are versatile."
"No. but I do understand."
"How can you possibly? You only ever spied on your brother. You never spent time with him, probably never appreciated what a fantastic human being he was."
John got up. He needed to leave this room -and Mycroft. Now.
Mycroft intercepted him. John placed a hand on his chest to push him away, felt wet fabric, and exclaimed.
Drawing his fingers away, he saw that they were covered by blood.
And it wasn't his.
Part Six