In Medias Res
Before Sherlock went to the roof of Bart's, he recorded a video message for John.
This is my gift for casablancainthetardis, with the prompt 'post-reichenbach reunion purple shirt'
Without further ado, let the Reichenfeels commence.
John resolutely continued to stare out the window. The workers on the building site nearby were taking a break, laughing loudly amongst themselves as they passed a lighter around the group. The cold air made the smoke from their cigarettes billow about themselves, casting crepuscular shadows, crawling and licking and creeping. The Doctor in John made him want to go down there and snatch the cigarettes from the group. The impulse had nothing to do with the fact that they seemed cheerful - without a care in the world. Not at all.
If…he were still here, John thought to himself, he would know their life stories. He'd know that they'd never felt the same pain as John, they'd never experienced the mental emptiness deepen, like falling into a pit, like wanting to curl up inside yourself and not have to face another day of feeling because why can't people just think, John?
"John."
He shifted in his seat, moved to cross one leg over the other but stopped when the familiar throb down one side reasserted itself. With the slightest of winces, John grasped the cane tighter in his hand, a constant reminder of how he had been before, almost as if he had never happened.
"It's perfectly natural to not want to talk, John."
Good, John thought bitterly. You may as well piss off then.
He regretted the thought as soon as it crossed his mind.
The woman across from him pursed her lips ever so slightly. John noticed the movement from the corner of his eye and immediately his mind was crammed full. Stressed, annoyed, irritated, problem at home?
His eyes slipped down to her hands, neatly resting on the notebook on her lap. John was suddenly transported back to one year ago.
It that all it'd been? Just a year? A year since he'd been invalided. A year since he first met…him.
He briefly wondered if th is therapist had also written down trust issues, just like the last.
Pushing that thought aside, John's eyes roamed over her hands.
No ring. Single?
He turned to look at her desk.
No photos of kids. Photo of dog. No ring and no family photos. Single probable. Work related issue then. Argument with a co-worker?
"It's okay, John."
The statement jarred against the stoic silence and interrupted John's thoughts.
No, it's not. It's not okay.
He begrudgingly looked away from the desk towards her, his eyes passing over the clock behind her head.
45 minutes left. Damn.
She studied him for a moment, head tilted to one side. He shifted again, the piercing look causing discomfort. It was the look of pity John had become well accustomed to and John hated it.
"John, the mind works in mysterious ways."
John let his eyes focus on her, a silent sign that he was listening for once.
The counsellor afforded a small smile.
"When we experience a loss, it can feel like our memories become blurred, out of focus. Do you remember a lot about him?"
She let the question drift and John could tell that he could sit there in silence as long as he liked, but she wouldn't be the one to speak first.
He fiddled with the cane in his hands, moving it from hand to hand as if the motion would render him able to talk. Like moving a gun when crouched, prepared for a war he could barely recall.
Except nowadays it wasn't nightmares of gunfire that woke him in the night.
"Sometimes," John started and stopped as his voice cracked. He looked to his hands, gripping the cane and willed himself to stop being so stupid, you are a soldier, John Watson.
"Sometimes, I think I see him in the street," he began. "I can see him so clearly. But I can't think about anything that happened before. It's like one giant blurry mess. So I see him in the street and for a moment," he paused, taking a breath to steady himself. "I think it's him. Really him."
The therapist (John really couldn't recall her name for the life of him) nodded. "Memories are extraordinary things, John. They can reassert themselves at any given moment, completely out of the blue. Do you dream of him often?"
Yes, John thought. I see him standing at the top of that god forsaken building. I see him reach out his arms and then fall.
I can't move. I'm helpless. Useless.
But when I eventually reach him and pull him towards me, I don't see his face. I see the face of a monster staring back at me.
Moriarty.
"No."
The woman tilted her head slightly. "You never dream of him at all?"
"Never," John lied.
She made a noncommittal sound from the back of her throat and John could see the way her pen moved across the page.
Trust Issues.
(((())))
He'd kept the flat. No one understood why.
"You should move, you know. It'd do you good to get away."
I don't want to get away.
I don't want to leave in case…
"In case of what, John?"
I…I don't know.
He had spent the first few weeks in a state of shock, half expecting to hear a slow crescendo lull him gently from slumber or to hear the shower running like it would after an experiment went wrong and John had to spend hours mopping up the kitchen. His things had still been exactly where he'd left them before he'd left. The git. Never tidies up.
Never tidied up.
The lump in John's throat worsened until he couldn't hold back the sobs. They came on suddenly, like a hurricane that you hear so much about yet ignore until it's too late, unable to conceive of the devastation it creates. But John wouldn't let himself cry, wouldn't let anyone hear him shatter. But the cracks had been creeping up on him. And he honestly didn't know how long he could keep the fragments from falling apart.
John limped across the room to open to window. He thought that the sounds from the street below might help him to forget. It was a ritual he repeated every night before bed.
It did nothing to stave off the nightmares.
In the midst of the busy London town, he'd never felt so alone.
(((())))
You're a right git, you know that? -JW
Leaving me. Alone. -JW
I can't breathe. You're everywhere I look. Every time I close my eyes, I can see you on that godforsaken roof. - JW
I don't understand.-JW
Richard Brookes. Moriarty. No one will convince me you ever told a lie. -JW
But I don't know anything anymore. -JW
Nothing makes any sense. -JW
When I saw you on that roof
John pauses and closes his eyes. His hands instinctively come up towards his face, just like they had when he'd been looking up at Sherlock all those years ago . As if he could transcend the distance between them and just stop it. Just stop it. Stop it.
Stop it - JW
Please, Sherlock – JW
You would have laughed at that. Made a scathing remark about how pleading for you won't convince anyone I'm straight – JW
God, Sherlock, please answer – JW
I won't ever stop this. Texting you. Even though I know you're not there – JW
I know it's crazy, but maybe you're out there somewhere. Reading these – JW
STOP IT – JW
In the beginning, when he first texted, selecting the first entry on his phone with the solitary '1' next to his name, he'd almost collapsed on the spot when he'd heard the sound of a reply. His phone had chimed Vivaldi and he'd thrust his hand into his pocket, unlocking the screen and looking down as tears threatened to fall.
Message not delivered.
(((())))
It was three long years before John felt ready to leave 221b.
He'd yet to pack, and with the removal van set to come in a few days' time, he couldn't put it off any longer.
The bulk of the packing had already been done for him. 221b had been boxed away one day whilst John was trying to carry out the actions of a civilian life at the surgery. He'd returned late and just about managed to stay upright, bracing himself against the entryway, when he'd walked through the door and seen an almost empty flat. No clutter on the tables, books neatly stacked in corners and boxes. Boxes everywhere. Boxes that held everything of his once-flatmate's life, all stowed away, out of sight. John had immediately whipped out his phone and punched a vulgar text to Mycroft that would have made a sailor blush because how dare he do this but stopped himself. It would be a cold day in Hell before John made contact with him again.
So upon limping out of the rain just five days before he was set to leave London for good, John stood in the hallway and debated for the hundredth time whether he truly wanted to go.
He didn't know what he wanted anymore.
Turning his gaze downwards, away from the stairs leading to 221b and towards the door on his left, his fingers rose of their own accord to stroke along the doorframe.
Mrs Hudson would have wanted him to stay.
Would have.
He had no reason to stay anymore.
(((())))
The last five hours had been spent ignoring the inevitable. John Watson desperately needed to pack, but every time he set aside his tea and made up one of the cardboard boxes, he was hit by the enormity of it all. Of the emptiness. Of the sadness. Of the pain.
On what felt like the hundredth attempt, John finally set aside the medical journal he'd been reading, gripped his cane and hauled himself to his feet. Making his way across the room, he grabbed one of the videos from the bottom shelf, hands roaming past the books that Mycroft's men had stacked neatly away. Books John had never noticed before caught his eye. Beekeeping? Really?
Having pulled a video out at random – a blank one, no doubt a copy from John's teenage years spent at Uni – he moved to put it into the video player hooked up to the TV. He'd held onto those Monty Python videos. Couldn't envisage getting rid of them. Not now. They held too many memories of slow nights with no work, usually just after a case when they'd shared a takeaway and had a few hours to kill. To pre-emptively strike against the boredom, Oh God, don't let him get bored, John would pop in a video and sit with a contented look on his face. It never took long for the mess of curls to roll over and slowly stretch out his limbs, eyes fixed on the screen. He rarely spoke during these moments, but John knew his actions were appreciated by the small smile afforded from across the room.
Now, three years later, John Watson put the tape in.
But for the first time, John watched it alone.
(((())))
John was finally getting the swing of this. Open box, salvage anything useful, repack into new box. How Mycroft's men had managed to pack everything away was beyond him. It seemed like there were boxes upon boxes of undetectable remnants of past experiments (bloody hell, is that a pig's head?), intermingled with medical equipment and some not so medical equipment (what kind of case required an axe?) For the most part, John would rummage through, picking out an item here or there, but then ultimately push the box aside with the conviction that it could go. Because, really, John knew that if he saved everything he wanted to, he would never be able to fit into his new one-bed flat.
Well-known jokes emanated from the screen behind him, soothing John as he methodically worked. Pulling the next box towards him, John shifted his legs, pausing for a moment as the pain shot through them. He'd ended up on the floor – easier on his back, since he didn't have to lean down – but now his legs were feeling the brunt of being sat in the same place for hours.
John picked up the knife to his left, ready to cut open the box's seal, but stopped. This box was the first one he'd brought out from his bedroom. John wasn't sure he even wanted to open it, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it out, at least not before he checked for anything important. But to John, everything about him seemed important. Then again, it was likely to be just another box of bizarre items John couldn't even name.
John opened the box.
And promptly dropped the knife.
Inside were clothes, neatly folded, looking just as they had all those years ago. John reached in with shaking hands and ran warm fingers over the material. Shirts, trousers, jackets. It was all here.
John felt sick.
Gingerly, he pulled out each item individually, remembering the times when they were worn and lovingly caressing the buttons, the collar, the cuffs. Clothes upon clothes were slowly taken out, unfolded, held, refolded, repacked. Because there was no way John would be able to leave them behind. And he was equal parts comforted and angry that he couldn't bring himself to add this box to the rubbish pile. He tried to sort the clothes, from those that were meaningless to those that held the most powerful memories, but he couldn't do it. They were all a part of him.
John was nearing the bottom of the box when he happened upon it. His breath caught in his throat and tears burned at the corner of his eyes. A lone sob escaped and before he knew it, he was cradling that purple shirt to his face, burying his nose in its comforting scent. Since when had John Watson the soldier crumbled like this? John knew there was no one below to hear him cry, but he still pressed the shirt against his mouth, stifling the sounds. He should have been able to stop himself, that's what he told himself over and over as he sat desolate on the floor of 221b. But how could he when the shirt had brought on an onslaught of memory?
They'd been chasing a suspect across London for the better part of two hours, constantly losing him in the heavy rain and unable to hear his movements over the sound of thunder. By the time they'd managed to apprehend the murderer, John was less than thrilled at the prospect of a cold, whereas his flatmate was still riding high on the delirium of the puzzle pieces finally coming together. Lestrade had let them both go on the promise of a statement in the morning and John had nodded, too tired and too cold to reply.
It was only in the cab on the way back that John had noticed the wincing, almost imperceptible. As soon as they were through the front door, John blocked the way and reached out tentatively. Cobalt eyes traced his hands as he gently pulled open the coat and
"Bloody Hell."
The idiot hadn't been as quick as John had thought. The murderer had given him more than a black eye as a parting present.
The Doctor in John suddenly awoke, pulling his patient firmly by the hand to the bathroom. Pushing him down onto the closed lid of the toilet, John took out his medical kit from the cupboard and set to work. The purple shirt had acted like a sponge, soaking up most of blood and sticking to his stomach, but when John moved to rip it off, cold hands had stopped him.
"Daft sod." Of course he wouldn't let him rip his favourite shirt.
Within ten minutes, he'd managed to unbutton the shirt and disinfect the wound – stop squirming – and apply a bandage over the worst affected area – don't even think about a case until that's healed.
Then John had looked up, hands holding the shirt open and pulled to the sides.
Right before they fell away as deliciously plump lips crashed down on his.
And now, sitting in the empty flat with his lover's blood-stained shirt in his hands, John Watson shattered.
(((())))
After what felt like an eternity, a knock broke through his sobs. John didn't move. This time it was louder, more insistent. John scrambled to his feet, wiped his face on his shirt sleeve and stumbled to the door.
Molly's bright-eyed face greeted him.
"Oh, John, hi."
He was always amused by how she seemed so startled, but something was off. There was a nervous energy about her, different from normal.
"How are you?"
He blinked.
"Oh, sorry, stupid question." She smiled, but it seemed forced.
"Look, I've um, got something for you. A parting present. Oh, not parting, that's so sad, more like happy moving!" She laughed awkwardly and handed John a video tape.
"What-"
"I've got to go. Just. Just watch that, okay?"
Before John could ask, she'd turned and walked away.
Into the rain.
Without an umbrella.
John stood on the front step, startled and confused.
Looking down, he noted the blank tape in his hands. He turned it over to look for a label but found none.
Searching eyes scanned the street outside, but John could find nothing amiss.
So he dutifully limped his way back up to 221b, pausing half way up the stairs to catch his breath and rub his damned leg.
He paced over to the TV, ejected the Monty Python video and put the blank tape into the VCR.
Sherlock's face filled the screen.
(((())))
"I don't really know what to say, John.
This is an absurd idea.
I don't suppose you have any suggestions?
No, of course not, you're still asleep.
You snore, by the way.
Probably goes some way to explaining why you've yet to find a mate.
Irrelevant."
Slender fingers brushed across the air in front of him. Sea-green eyes stared down the barrel of the lens.
"John.
There's a very real chance I won't be able to come back home.
Moriarty…
He's playing a game.
I'm not so sure I can win this time.
And you, with your amazing and brilliant and fantastic."
Shoulders slump forward as hands come up to ruffle through unruly curls.
"I don't want to leave you like this.
I am sorry."
But John can't watch this, can't listen to a voice he hasn't heard in three years.
Three years.
"Three years, you fucking twat!"
And suddenly John doesn't feel sad anymore; he feels rage and it comes spilling out of him, overflowing and overpowering. He tips the box of clothes up and scatters them across the room, grabbing and throwing and ripping.
And crying. Because he's just ripped the purple shirt.
The Sherlock on the screen – my Sherlock, my insufferable Sherlock – keeps talking, but John feels like he's underwater. Nothing makes any sense and he balls the torn shirt up in his hands.
There's another knock at the door and John's still angry. How could Molly have kept this from him for so long?
He flies down the stairs, leg be damned, and in his rage he doesn't hear his phone chime Vivaldi from the kitchen table.
Open the door, John. I'm home - SH