Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XVI: Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis

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Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"

Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis: "Where you are worth nothing, you will wish for nothing"

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T

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Chapter XVI: Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis

song: End of the world, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

December 27, 5am.

John doesn't know why he woke up so early in the morning, especially when he hasn't been having nightmares for days now. He lies in bed, and when he understands sleep won't come back because he is no longer tired, he gets up.

His routine hasn't changed much. He eats a little less but three times a day, and doesn't pay any face-to-face visits to his smiley friend anymore. He finds he doesn't miss him - perhaps because the grin seems to follow him everywhere he goes. He goes walking more often, and reads less newspapers, as he checks the news online more regularly now - at least that is free. His laptop doesn't remain closed all day as it used to, and even though he doesn't bother with most emails (not to mention his blog), he no longer avoids the internet altogether, and feels that it's a progress. In fact, he does answer some emails: he finally accepted Bill Murray's invitation for aperitifs at his house, to meet his wife. Not that he cares about the wife, regardless of Bill's tendency to call him Casanova every time they meet. He wouldn't go for a woman already married to a friend anyway.

As he serves himself a cup of tea, he thinks idly that he wouldn't go for a married woman, period. Except, maybe, if it were the love of his life. He laughs a little bitterly: can't say he's expecting that any time soon.

Sitting down at the table, he unfolds the newspaper of the previous day - no declaration from the Met in that one, but still this bewildering 'Snow White' serial killer. Every day they seem to have a different lead, and John wonders when they'll add Little Riding Hood or Sleeping Beauty to their theories. This is getting so out of proportions that it's ridiculous - even the murderer seems quite ridiculous to John. Why not use a poisoned spinning wheel, while they're at it? Seriously, apples...

Soon the newspaper bores him and he gets up to shave. He never understood why people in grief didn't take care of their appearances: but maybe that's just the military man speaking in him. Regardless of the situation, John doesn't deem letting oneself go to be the appropriate attitude: one must keep one's chin up no matter what. That he always firmly believed, even before going to Afghanistan - and even when he came back and couldn't deal with how dull his civilian life was.

Looking his own reflection in the mirror as he shaves, he ponders the thought. If he hadn't met Sherlock at that time, if 'nothing' had kept happening to him, he probably would have ended up shooting himself. Thanks to the consulting detective, he probably will never put his handgun to such use - because now "handgun" is linked to cases, adventures, near-death situations with crazy cabbies and giant, vampire-like assassins.

After he's done having a wash, John decides to tidy his room. Newspapers are still lying around, even if he tried to set in order his few possessions some weeks ago. Tidying up isn't part of the routine, but sometimes he just feels like it and takes the opportunity to clean up the whole place perfectly. It doesn't take much time - not as much as cleaning 221B would have taken in any case - but it still delays his morning walk and when he finally goes out, it is already noon.

When the sun runs out
And there's no one to save you
Will you go to our favorite place
And try to say goodbye?

Today he must stop by the chemist's to buy his sleeping pills. He goes once a month, and is now well-known among the pharmacists who fortunately are very friendly and do not bother with gossip and whatnot about Sherlock being a fake and himself an idiot or an accomplice.

"Here we go, Mr. Watson!"

"Dr., Emily, he's a doctor."

"Oh, that's right! I'm sorry."

"There is really no need to be," John answered with a smile.

The young woman apparently named Emily blushes slightly.

"I'm sorry to see you're still suffering from insomnia, Dr. Watson. Of course as a doctor you know what you're doing, but taking sleeping pills for such a long period of time..."

"I know, Mr. Caldwell. It hasn't even been six months, though. And as you say, as a doctor, I also know how undermining sleeping problems can be to health, and I'd rather take the pills than..."

"Of course, of course. Well, have a very nice day, and see you next month I guess."

"Thank you, nice day to you too."

He sends a last smile to Emily and makes a mental note to stop doing that and give hope to women when they don't stand a chance. He sighs. Such a pity. She was very pretty.

At the end of, at the end of the world
Will you find me, will you find me?
At the end of, at the end of the world
Will you find me so that we can go
Together, together, together

His next stop is the wine and spirits' store: he knows Bill enjoys drinking wine, and so decided to bring some good bottle tonight. He isn't staying for dinner, but still doesn't wish to arrive empty-handed.

"May I help you?"

"I'm looking for something to drink before dinner, I believe some white wine would be better..."

"Well, what about this Côte du Jura? Or perhaps..."

"Perfect. The Côte du Jura is perfect."

The woman seems surprised by his indifference, but he pays it no heed. His eyes stop on the red wines. Unlike Bill who always preferred rosé, a good Bordeaux was more to John's liking. Considering the different bottles, he picks a Saint-Emilion and a Brocard Bourgogne. It's not every day he indulges in such delicacies, but this is just the occasion. He wouldn't bother coming to this store just to buy himself a good bottle of wine. As he pays, he wonders absent-mindedly what Sherlock's favourite wine could have been.

When the moon breaks up
And the tide goes out of control
Will you find me in the water
And swim me to the stars?

The weather is good enough to walk back home, and so John takes his time strolling down the streets of London towards his room. The appointment with Bill is only at 6 in the afternoon, he's still got a few hours. As he stops to buy the paper, a woman bumps into him.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!"

"No problem..."

"Lucy! I thought you were waiting by the car."

John turns towards the voice and his eyes widen in surprise.

"Clara."

"John! It's been so long."

"It has, really."

She seems a little uneasy, and he can't help but wonder what she believed about the whole Sherlock scandal.

"I'm sorry I haven't been calling or writing."

"No, don't be. It's fine. I'm fine."

She smiles at him with something like pity in her gaze, and he can barely stand it.

"So, how have you been?"

"Great, great! Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced you. Lucy, this is John, my ex brother-in-law. John, Lucy, my partner."

"Nice to meet you."

"My pleasure."

They all keep silent and a sense of unease settles in.

"Listen, John..." Clara begins.

"I'll be going then. It was nice to see you. I'm glad to know you're doing well." He eyed Lucy.

"Let's keep in touch!"

"Of course."

As he walks away briskly, he forgets all about the paper he intended to buy, and doesn't notice the front page displayed on the kiosk: How many huntsmen to the Evil Queen?

At the end of, at the end of the world
Will you find me, will you find me?

Having met Clara reminds John of Harry and for the first time since they quarrelled and stopped talking, he feels something like shame. Not guilt, because he's beyond that now. But as a man and a soldier, he feels ashamed of his behaviour towards her: he still believes he only stated true facts, but it wasn't very kind of him nonetheless, and he was always the kind and responsible one.

So he turns his laptop on, and decides to send an email. It's good today isn't Christmas, because they never spent Christmas together, nor wrote, since they were adults - they only spent a few days together sometimes afterwards. Rarely. Last time was special, and it was all because of Sherlock: John needed a break. He also believed at the time Harry really had stopped drinking, and had hated Sherlock for pointing out he was wrong - again. For being right, too.

He shrugs. It isn't like he'll get another chance at hating the mad detective. He starts typing.

Hi Harry. I'm sorry I

He frowns slightly, and deletes.

Hi Harry. Sorry I haven't been giving much news.

Frowns more, and deletes again.

Hi Harry. How are you doing?

Sighs exasperatedly and deletes.

Hi Harry. Sorry I didn't write sooner. How have you been doing?

Sitting back, he relaxes a bit.

I've been thinking about what you told me, and enrolled in DWB. I'm leaving for Chad tomorrow.

He thinks a second about apologizing again, but decides against it: they never apologized much to each other, and one occurrence in the mail is enough already.

Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. I'm sorry I couldn't properly meet Chris

Deletes.

Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. I'll be fine, so you just have a good life and please keep up the no-drinking.

Deletes.

Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. I'll be fine, so you just focus on being fine, too. Be happy with Chris and don't screw it because of alcohol.

Deletes.

Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. Thank you for trying to be there. Please drop the alcohol and be happy with Chris - you deserve it.

Deletes.

Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news.

Love, John.

At the end of, at the end of the world
Will you find me so that we can go
Together, together, together

"John! Great to see you again, mate, come in, come in!"

"Hello, John, I'm Sophia. It's a pleasure meeting you, I've been hearing from you for so long!"

"Nice meeting you too."

"Bill, take his coat while I prepare the appetizers."

"Oh, what did you bring here? Ah, a Côte du Jura! Did I say that right?"

"How would I know? I haven't become a French speaker since the last time we met, you know."

They enter the living-room and John takes in the warmth of their home. He doesn't even feel a twinge of sadness or envy, thinking this is something he'll never have.

"I know, but I thought your flatmate was, right? Ah, sorry..."

"Come on mate, if you start apologizing now, you'll be on your knees before the end of the evening."

"He's right Bill, won't you try to stop putting your foot in your mouth just for today?"

"It's all right," John smiles back. "I think Sherlock did speak French, but it's not like he spoke much French to me. I only heard him a few times."

"I see. Wasn't one to share his knowledge, was he?"

"Bill!"

"Ha ha, not really. He usually expected you to know, period. If you didn't, you were just an idiot, and he wouldn't bother explaining - or he would, but just to show off."

"Right. Quite a character!"

"Oh yeah."

"Come on, boys, let's sit down. John, would you like a glass of vermouth?"

"Sure."

He observes her as she serves him. She is a tall and well-built woman with fair blond hair and a mouth too big for her face, but that isn't without its charms. Bill catches his eye.

"Sophia's pregnant."

"Really? That's great, mate! Congratulations!"

She blushes and her grin is dazzling.

"Thank you."

"So, girl or boy?"

"We don't know yet. Hopefully we'll have twins, so we won't fight."

John arches an eyebrow.

"Why's that?"

"Sophia wants a boy. I want a girl."

"Ha ha, well, you can always have two even if they're not twins, you know."

Bill frowns comically.

"I know. But still. The first one, y'know, mate? It's the first one..."

John chuckles. Their joy is infectious, and he is sincerely happy for them. Bill seems to think otherwise, though.

"So, no girlfriend recently?"

"Nope. Not interested."

"Right."

"Really, I'm not. I don't want a long-term relationship..."

Bill and Sophia exchange glances.

"You know, mate, at this point in your life, if you want to built a fam..."

"... because I'm leaving for Chad tomorrow."

They stare.

"What?"

"I've enrolled in Doctors Without Borders."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I'm really not," John laughs.

"Wow. I mean... wow. It's not so you can just get killed there or something, right?"

"Bill..." mutters his wife.

"No, I mean it, mate."

"They're suffering from malnutrition and deadly epidemics, Bill, it's not a war."

"Right, but..."

"I'm fine, mate, really. This was Harry's idea originally. She thought finding me a job was a priority because I'd go bonkers if I remained idle all day, and maybe she's right. I think it'll be good."

"That's very different from Afghanistan, you know that..."

"Really? I had no idea."

Bill guffaws and shakes his head.

"I think you're already bonkers, mate, really... completely bonkers."

"Yeah. We invaded Afghanistan together, remember?"

They laugh. This time, John feels the twinge.

Together, together, together...

When the sun breaks up
And there's no one to save you

...

Oh course John ends up staying for a well-lubricated dinner and comes home later than expected. He isn't drunk though, not even tipsy: he could hold his drink perfectly fine, thank you.

His thoughts are clear as he showers and changes his clothes. He doesn't put his pyjamas on, just jeans and one of his jumpers. One he believes Sherlock liked - or rather, the only one he didn't overtly criticize. As he walks past the dresser, he grabs a notepad and a pen. His handgun is put away in one of the drawers, and John hasn't opened it in weeks. He never intends to open it again - unless Mycroft gets the very bad idea to pay him a surprise visit.

Sitting at the table on top of which he left his two wine bottles and a glass before going out, he starts scribbling something down on the notepad, and stops only to serve himself a glass of wine - he doesn't pay attention which he opens, but knows once his lips touch the liquid - the Bordeaux. He should have opened the Bourgogne first. Oh well.

He scribbles, then rips the page and crumples it, before scribbling again. It seems like he can't get his words straight today.

Mycroft. I'd really hoped I'd be the one to bury you. Too bad.

Rips and crumples.

Mycroft. You're obnoxious, but you're supposedly clever, too. So I hope you cleverly hush this up, and if you'd be so kind as to get rid of the body so no one finds it...

Rips and crumples.

Mycroft. I'm not forgiving you. But if you clean this up and erase all traces, I won't haunt you. Deal?

He groans in frustration, rips and crumples.

Mycroft. I took care of your bloody brother for 18 months, and you're the only reason he still managed to off himself in the end. Well, maybe not the only reason, but you see what I mean. So you owe me this at least.

Rips, crumples and throws.

Mycroft.

He stops and stares at the piece of paper. Rips it slowly, then rips another page. He puts it in the middle of the table, and leaves it blank. There. Picking all the crumpled balls, he goes to the kitchen, burns them with the matches he uses for the gas, and throws away the ashes.

As he sits back down at the table, he fills himself another glass of wine and drinks it unhurriedly, appreciating it to its fullest. Sherlock would have certainly preferred red wine, too - something fancy, like a Château Margaux.

Putting down the glass of wine, he goes into the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. Inside, several boxes of sleeping pills are lined up, nice and tidy. He considers them a second before grabbing three boxes and going back to the living room. Refilling his glass, he wonders idly whether he'll pass out before he gets to open the other bottle - he really wanted to try that Bourgogne.

At the end of, at the end of the world
Will you find me, will you find me?
At the end of, at the end of the world
Will you find me,

Will you find me?

He passes out while opening the third box of pills, and manages a smile: he got to taste the Bourgogne after all.

.

xXx

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End of the world, by Ingrid Michaelson

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