So, here's my little post-Reichenbch story. What if John wasn't kept in the dark? What if Sherlock left behind clues for the good Doctor?
John had never been so angry. It was no wonder, too, with his phone buzzing for the third time in the last five minutes. It was Mycroft, again. John was tired of slinking around and trying to avoid him, tired of glaring out the window as a familiar black car waited by the curb, engine still running. They showed up day after day and John had taken to locking the front door, warning Ms. Hudson not to let anyone in. All John wanted was to rot away in the empty hollowness of the flat.
Silence. John had casually used that word many times before and had never fully gripped the painfully deep meaning of it. Not until now, of course. Silence was a shadow, swollen and black, looming over him and dripping soundlessly into every corner of the flat, seeping into his brain and driving him mad. There was no early morning violin, no scribbling sounds of pen on paper or clicking fingers on a keyboard. Most importantly, there was definitely no Sherlock Holmes. No Holmes at all, until Mycroft began stalking him about. John didn't want to see him, it made him remember, and that was exactly what he had been trying to avoid. He didn't want to remember that Sherlock was gone.
It had been over a month. Five weeks, thirty-eight days to be exact. John hadn't expected the world to move on so quickly. It all seemed to move ahead of him and now John was left standing alone, stumbling to catch up even as the ground moved beneath him, constantly pulling him backwards. Sherlock is dead, John.
John had been assured that so many times, and each was as if there was a dagger in his heart getting slowly turned more and more painfully. Dead. It echoed with such finality, an entire friendship shattered in that one little word. John wanted to close his eyes, hoping in vain that if he slowed himself down enough he could find himself moving back into the past.
BANG! John ducked down instinctively, hands flying up to cover his head. Suddenly there were muffled shouts coming from the stairway and John heard Ms. Hudson's panicky voice,
"Oh, my! You can't be barging in like this! Excuse me? Excuse me!" She trailed on in a string of angry arguments, telling the intruders to get out and saying they had no business in her house. There was a ferocious knock on the door to the flat and John practically flew to it, hastily fumbling with the deadbolt and whipping it open, eyes darting around until they rested on Ms. Hudson's face. She didn't fail to notice the flood of relief that washed over him as he took her in, eyes roving over every inch of her as he scoured for any injuries. Satisfied, he stabbed a glare at the offending men before him, noticing with disdain that they were wearing matching suits and that he had met them before.
"Tell Mycroft to stop calling me." John hissed, straightening his back in an effort to make the most of his small stature. Mycroft's "Lackeys", as John called them, towered over him, looking down with a cocktail mix of sympathy and irritation.
"Not this time, Doctor Watson." One of them answered, his voice loud and authoritative, "It seems that we are done playing games." Playing games. Yes that's right, John was done with games.
"Get out." He growled, "Sherlock is dead. Mycroft and I have no business together." So many times John hadn't been able to admit that to himself. He much preferred not to say Sherlock's name aloud, preferred to say gone instead of dead. Yet loneliness can harden a man, and if not for Ms. Hudson John was scared of what he could have become. He had a shred of his gentleness left, enough that he was slightly taken aback by the ferocity in his own voice.
In answer the men seized him, hands shooting out and grabbing an arm each. Ms. Hudson cried out in terror, hands flying to her horrified mouth. She didn't know these men, didn't know that these were just puppets sent by Sherlock's over-bearing brother. To her this was real, two men breaking in through the front door, stomping upstairs to try and drag John away from her. It was terrifying. What would she do? She had no massively annoying yet adorable detective to call to save her, to save John. John was all she had left. She considered what might happen if she if she tried to sneak away and call the police. Who was that young man who had always stopped by before? Lestrade?
One of the men leaned forward so that his mouth was by John's ear.
"Unless you want her to see something unpleasant," He whispered, eyes glancing at were Ms. Hudson stood, "I suggest you come with us willingly, Doctor Watson." John stiffened.
"Fine." John hissed, jerking himself loose and taking a slow breath to steady himself.
"Ms. Hudson," He said, already starting to feel like an arse for putting her through the mess instead of just getting it over with, "I'll be going now, but not to worry. I'll be back for dinner." He cast a glare at Mycroft's lackeys, daring them to argue with that. They simply nodded. Ms. Hudson watched them go, John following after, and couldn't escape the feeling that she was going to lose him, too.
As soon as she heard the front door (or what was left of it) slam shut, she nearly ran for the phone, her shaky hands stilled by her determination. Sherlock had put the number on the fridge for her, just in case she'd ever need it. She held her breath while it rang until, finally, she heard a very resounding,
"Hello?"
"Yes, Is this Mr. Lestrade?"
The car ride was awkward, so much so that uncomfortable was a huge understatement. The two men sat in the back, with John between them as though they didn't trust him not to fling himself out of the moving vehicle. He decided that he much preferred Anthea and her cell phone over these two. Being whisked away by Mycroft gave John a bit of a nostalgic feeling, sad but a little nice. Not that'd he'd admit it. What daft idiot enjoys being kidnapped? They rode in silence for what felt like an eternity until they pulled up outside an enormous warehouse, deceptively empty, the door propped open. John narrowed his eyes as he stared through the car's front windshield. He remembered this place, how could he forget? This was where he and Mycroft and first met, the first place his kidnappers had unceremoniously dumped him. The man on his right got out and offered a hand down, but John ignored it and brushed past him. He knew it was childish, but he was sulking a bit as he carefully made his way to the door, ignoring the scrape of tires as the black car slunk away.
"Mycroft." John called, his voice echoing in the warehouse, "Mycroft I'm at my wits end. I'm tired of running from you so just get out here and give me whatever threatening I'm-so-disappointed-in-you speech you have planned!" John finished at a shout, panting. There was sudden sound to his left that practically made John jump out of his skin. He set his eyes on where Mycroft sat, legs crossed and umbrella in hand, the tip lightly tapping the floor with impatience.
"I was starting to get tired of waiting." Mycroft informed, watching John with blatant distaste. His condescending voice was somehow soft like velvet yet sly, reminding John of a snake. He was wearing a suit as usual, his hair styled professionally and his tie probably worth more money than John himself. John never really saw much family resemblance, but as he cautiously approached he noticed some small similarities that made his heart ache for his friend. The same blank face, the same slight dip at the corner of his lips, and the same eyes. They were a shade darker than Sherlock's, but they watched with the same scrutiny, no doubt already having flicked through John's entire life for the past month. There was a an empty chair a cross from him, and between the two there was a small round table, an iron box resting on it. John frowned.
"Please," Mycroft offered, "Sit."
"I'd rather stand." John shot back. Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, waiting. With a sigh, he eased himself into the chair, watching the other man warily. Once, John would have refused, but he had lost the desire to be anything more than a man along for the ride. Sherlock had brought him back to life, he had trusted the feeling, leaned on it to prop himself up but he had to move on. Now he was just John, renting a flat from Ms. Hudson, helping her make dinner and having movie nights with her on Fridays, working at the Surgery during the afternoons. I just want to be John.
"Why am I here?" He finally asked, "Ms. Hudson will be waiting for me." Mycroft smirked.
"Yes, she's not so patient as she seems, dear John."
"What do you mean?" John demanded.
"Well, she's got Greg Lestrade and half the Yard scouring the streets of London for you at the moment."
"oh, God." John breathed, putting his head in his hands. He was anxious to get back to her, assure her that he was fine. Lately she'd been nervous, getting in a flurry over even the smallest paper cut. John wondered if this was how it was to be around him when he was in his "Doctor Watson" mode.
"To the point then, shall we?" John nodded and Mycroft continued, "Sherlock seems to have constructed a Will." Silence.
"A…Will?" Sherlock had never struck him as the type to think ahead, certainly not the one to leave things behind for others. What did he have? There was no money, nothing but the items he'd held and an empty space where he had been.
"Not exactly a will, so to speak, but, he had left something for you." Mycroft studied his reaction with mild interest as he leaned forward to the table and slid the metal box towards the Doctor, settling back in the chair. John looked at it for only a moment.
"It's locked." He said simply.
"So it seems."
"Is there a-?"
"I think…that if there is a key, it will be with you."
"What does that mean?" John demanded.
"It means that I'm counting on you, Doctor Watson, to find out what's hiding in this box."