Title: In Absentia
Disclaimer: Nope, I still own nothing.
Spoilers: (tangentially) seasons 1 and 2
Pairings: S/J, briefly.
Rating: K+/T
Warnings: References to murders and violence.
Wordcount: ~1500
Summary: The return is preceded by messages and ghosts.
These are the things that Sherlock Holmes believes in:
The ground beneath his feet, and the air that he breathes.
Crime.
Forgetting the unimportant.
Chemistry; biology (applied to everything but himself); physics (what little he recalls).
Truth.
The chase.
—
These are the things that Sherlock doesn't believe in:
Apologies.
The point of no return.
Losing.
Prayers and ghosts. (Moriarty is dead.)
Restraint.
Love.
—
There is a gunshot, and Sherlock is on his knees with one hand clamped over his mouth, to muffle the breaths coming short and sharp from his lungs. It's pitch-black save a jagged sliver of light at his feet, and Sherlock shrinks against the wall like a man covered in guilt.
There is a gunshot, and Sherlock's grasp is perfectly steady on the butt of a pistol. Blood spills darkly across the floor, and he observes accusing flecks decorate the top of his shoes before turning and walking away in measured steps.
There is a gunshot—no, there are gunshots, shots that echo and fracture and splinter. The ringing in Sherlock's ears lasts long after the dust has settled.
This is a war; this is a hunt.
Sherlock runs.
—
There is a man. He is a hand-written note, an address scribbled in smudged black ink, a cheap biro with bite-marks deep on one end. He is the promise of information and a favour owed.
When Sherlock finds him, his eyes are not quite shut and his throat is slit. Sherlock's expression never changes as he leaves, silent; dead men have no need for regret.
There is a man. He is a hundred-character text, a number withheld, fingers tapping at a disposable phone. He is Schrödinger's trap, knowledge on one side and death on the other.
When Sherlock finds him, his laughter is danger-laced and his words hold a knife's gleam. Sherlock walks in with his eyes wide open and smiles back.
Scars shine white across Sherlock's body, a coded map. He doesn't remember how they came to be.
—
Sherlock Holmes is deep in REM sleep. Monoamines have stopped flooding his brain; his motor neurons lie inactive; his heart-rate and breathing pattern have turned irregular.
He is dreaming.
John Watson stands in front of Sherlock in a heavy winter coat.
The composition of Semtex: explosives, pentaerythritol tetranitrate (79%) and cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine (4.6%); plasticiser, n-octyl phthalate (9%); binder, styrene-butadiene (9.6%); antioxidant, n-phenyl-two-naphthylamine (0.5%); dye, Sudan IV (0.5%).
The composition of a nightmare: John with one forearm across Jim Moriarty's throat; a bullet that does not miss.
Semtex detonates at 3800 degrees Celsius. They drown and they burn and the last of Sherlock to evaporate is (useless) guilt.
John Watson stands in front of a headstone with "Sherlock Holmes" etched across its centre.
The composition of a human body: hydrogen (63%); oxygen (24%); carbon (12%); other (1%).
The composition of grief: a break in a voice; a salute; a limp.
There are no such things as miracles. Sherlock swallows his "I'm sorry" and slips away.
—
This is a lie: London has forgotten about Sherlock Holmes.
The graffiti climbs over brick and concrete, overflows from shadowed corners, until it bursts into public consciousness in full bloom. Some are tributes from those who pride themselves artists - intricate designs, detailed portraits, and, in one case, a breath-taking rendering of a crime scene (signed proudly, RAZ). Others aspire less to art and settle for blunt meaning. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty was real. See through the lies.
A detective inspector named Greg Lestrade sighs, bone-weary, as he examines the stack of cold-case files on his desk. A detective sergeant named Sally Donovan comes bearing a cup of black coffee and a day-old murder without a motive (yet).
"Ready?"
No. "Yes."
A woman named Martha Hudson takes out a "To Let" advert for a two-bedroom flat on Baker Street. A man named John Watson stands on the front steps with his belongings packed neatly in one box.
"You will come visit, won't you, dear?"
Sorry. I can't. "Of course."
This is a lie: Sherlock Holmes has forgotten about London.
Sherlock switches tailored suits for jeans and t-shirts and crops most of his hair. He picks up one language, then another, his plummy vowels clipped short. He is called many names, and none of them is "Sherlock".
He turns on a hostel shower and plunges into the heat. The water swirling down the drain slowly reddens with blood; Sherlock, with his eyes closed, can almost feel London being stripped from his skin.
He is forging a blood-stained trail through the heart of a thousand cities, but London is the only one he has offered his tears.
—
You're looking in all the wrong places, John. (As usual.)
Case one: Sherlock Holmes is dead. He may be found a) in the morgue (stiff under Molly's gloved, trembling hands), b) at a crime scene (cordoned off and lit by flashing red-and-blue lights), or c) buried, under a headstone, in the graveyard.
Case two: Sherlock Holmes is alive. He may be found—well, where?
(Now you're asking the right questions.)
—
In the autumn, John finds a plain, unaddressed envelope in his mailbox, and stares in confusion at the picture that falls out. It is on slightly yellowed newsprint, the photo black-and-white, and the man in the centre has one forearm raised against the sun, casting dark shadows across his face.
On the back, in neatly printed block capitals, it says "H. Sigerson, Sep. 2012".
John doesn't know anyone named Sigerson. He shrugs the whole thing off and the picture is eventually lost.
In the winter, John receives an envelope with no return address and pulls out a clipped article from Le Monde. He dredges up memories of secondary school, of Madame Duval expounding on the differences between the preterite and the imperfect, of Bill cracking a grin at his atrocious pronunciation.
The article is about a man called Vernet and the end of a crime ring. The name sounds familiar; it takes him a couple of days to remember why. Vernet is the name of Sherlock's maternal grandmother. John hurriedly runs a Google search and finds...nothing.
Well, he's not sure what he expected, anyway.
In the spring, John visits a cemetery and finds a canary yellow sticky note on top of gleaming stone. It says, in unmistakably familiar handwriting, "Crime in progress: please disturb."
His legs give out and he sinks down onto the ground, hand automatically closing tight around the note, and John has to take a couple of deep breaths before he can uncurl his fingers and smooth the note flat on his thigh.
"This isn't real," John says.
"You aren't real," John says.
The headstone stands in front of him, solid and imposing.
"Are you?"
—
I don't understand, Sherlock.
You never do.
What do you want from me, then?
Just you.
—
Here are some things that John believes:
He has learned how to mourn for the dead.
Some things are left unsaid out of necessity.
There is life, and death, and the precipice in between; and when one has looked across a dozen times, the snap of danger evolves into something infinitely more alluring.
Here are some things that John has never believed:
Caring is a weakness.
It's enough, the art of medicine and an oath that lies heavy on his tongue, his two (steady) hands with a fragile life in between.
The impossible must also be unthinkable.
—
If.
If.
"If" is a dangerous word – a misleading word – a seductive word –
But. What if.
Suspension of disbelief. For a moment (less than a moment), just enough for a fleeting thought.
What if. Sherlock Holmes is alive?
—
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
"But I don't know what's impossible anymore, Sherlock."
Come on. Think.
—
London listens, and learns.
Sherlock Holmes stumbles back into its embrace, and his mind whispers, "Sebastian Moran," but his heart is beating, "John."
John Watson breathes in tandem with the rhythm of the city, and through his sharp-edged and fragmented thoughts comes "Sherlock," in bright bursts of wonder.
They meet at the base of the London Eye, and John's steps falter while almost imperceptible quivers run through Sherlock's frame. Their gazes skitter past each other and return in quick, broken jerks.
But underneath it all London is humming in approval. In contentment.
—
"Why?" John asks. "Why did you do it?" And maybe he's asking, why did you leave? And maybe he's asking, why did you lie?
And maybe he's asking about the note still clutched in his left hand, the article from Le Monde tacked somewhere on his wall.
"John." Sherlock swallows. "I..." His hands are raised and open, trying to pull together the right words (language is such an inadequate medium) —
And then John offers a ragged smile and reaches up, his palm warm and flat against the back of Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock has just time enough to give up on explanations and tip his head down, his soft oh lost inside John's mouth.
Perhaps John already knows the answers. Perhaps he has always known them.
—
It is summer, and John is holding a gun he ought not to have, and a man named Sebastian Moran is dead.
Sherlock takes John's hand in his own and feels warmth creeping up in his chest.
—
Here is something Sherlock believes in:
John.
A/N: Indirect inspiration for this fic comes from a passage in DH Lawrence's "Women in Love" (believing in the unseen hosts), gyzym's "we were emergencies" and waldorph's "RED" (for lists and playing with what it means for something to be true), and silverpard's sentient London stories (for bringing the city alive).