Paste your
For John
John sat in the quiet restaurant, patiently waiting for the detective. He was always late. John reached for his glass when he received a text. There weren't a lot of people who he talked to and even fewer who would text him this late at night. It could only be one person, Sherlock Holmes.
"St. Barts. Come immediately. –SH"
"Oh no." whispered John. St. Barts meant a case and him and Sherlock had something very important to talk about.
At the morgue, Sherlock stood towering over Molly. He reached his large hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the small magnifying glass he carried at all times. He leaned down, getting closer to the body than anyone else would care to and examined the corpse.
Salon dyed hair
Professional manicure
Green stains on both palms (works with her hands?)
No makeup
Un-married
"Got anything?" The chief inspector asked. He knew he should ask that differently. He was Sherlock; of course he did, still every time he used those two words.
"Sorry, I was across town." John came through the door looking out of breath.
"Lestrade. Moll-"He froze mid-sentence. Molly's mouse brown hair was softly highlighted and framed her face perfectly. Her plain eyes glittered, rimmed with jet black liner and soft gold eye shadow. Under her white lab coat, she wore the same slinky black dress John had seen once before at Christmas a couple of years ago.
"John?" Molly's voice snapped him out of his trance.
"Yes, sorry. I- You look beautiful."
"Oh. Thank you." A slight blush crept up to her cheeks.
Sherlock's rumbling voice interrupted.
"Yes, when the body came in Molly was on her way to a date, Lestrade was buying vodka and I was playing violin. Shall we continue?" Impatience crept into his voice.
"Hold on! How did you know I was buying-"
"Your wallet is in your pants instead of your coat. It was put away in a hurry, when you received the call. You prefer Crystal Skull which costs 42.38 after tax. You never carry change or bills smaller than 10 meaning you would have to have given the cashier 50 leaving you 7.62 in change which is the approximate amount jingling around in your pockets."
"Alright then." Said a slightly embarrassed Lestrade.
"Now to the body," an exasperated Sherlock began, "Young woman in her mid twenties, going to be maid of honor in her sister's upcoming wedding, probably tomorrow at 's on church on 5th street."
"Do explain." Prompted the Chief inspector.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Her hair and nails are made up, but not her face. If she truly kept up a good appearance she would never go outside in that state, suggesting that she was getting ready for a special occasion. In my life I have only ever seen that nail pattern on bridal parties, must be social convention, so in a wedding. Both of her hands have traces of flower stems from bouquets. The proper way to hold one in one hand on top of the other," He gripped his hands as if he were holding an imaginary bouquets. "Stains on both hands indicate she held two bouquets in separate hands. Hers and the bride's during the ceremony so maid of honor."
"Well, how do you know it's her sister? It could be a friend or something." asked Molly.
"Her necklace that states "sister" is from Danny's. They went out of business two years ago, but the necklace looks brand new meaning she put it on for the wedding. Tell me, would you wear a necklace that declared sister if your sister was not around? No. Necklace also break uniformity of bridesmaids, meaning it would have to be acceptable to the bride. Her hair and nails are expensive, the bride put a lot of thought into this wedding and anyone wearing a necklace that said sister if you were not the sister would most likely raise trouble so she is the sister of the bride."
"Okay but how do you know the wedding is tomorrow? What did you get an invitation?" Lestrade taunted.
"Nails grow out relatively fast and break easily, especially for someone who is not used to them. She would have gotten them done as close to the wedding as possible so they would look their best. Also, we know she doesn't do her nails meaning she works with her hands and doesn't wear jewelry often. She put it on the day before the wedding so in the hectic hours before the big day, she would not forget it. Now onto 's. She has a tattoo on her hip "ora et labora" pray and work, the motto of the church. Growing up with her sister it is likely they chose the same religion and unlikely she married out of the faith. Not many Roman Catholic churches in the area so they will be married at 's."
Everyone habitually waited for the amazed responses of John. After a couple of seconds of silence, everyone turned to look at him. They found him, staring at Molly.
"John?"
"Hm?" he looked up at Sherlock and felt they eyes of everyone in the room. "What?" He was as confused as everyone else. He had not been listening the whole time, but rather observing Molly, trying to identify the new feelings he felt for her.
"Take a look at the body." Sherlock was hurt but tried not to show it. People always ignored him, so why was he mad at John?
John was still slightly out of it but started examining the corpse. There was no sign of trauma or struggle.
"No wounds or apparent physical injuries suggesting poison."
Suddenly, Sherlock turned and started out of the room. John sighed.
"Greg, bye." He gave Lestrade a small nod then turned to face Molly and stood close as he said softly, "Goodbye Molly." He soon followed the tall Detective out.
The cab ride home was silent, but not the usual comfortable silence they usually enjoyed. It was awkward. They arrived at 221B and Sherlock began slowly walking up the stairs followed by John.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?" Sherlock exploded, pinning John against the wall by his shoulders. John's army instincts kicked in and he drove his knee into the man right below his ribs. He doubled over; trying to breathe and John ran from the wall to the far side of the kitchen table. This was not Sherlock, and John was afraid. He didn't know if the man would come after him again and he didn't want to take any chances. His body remained ready to run and fight if necessary. John could already feel painful bruises forming where the man's hands were. He knew the man was strong, but this was adrenaline strength. The kind of strength that made small women lift trucks off children, or what made men kill whole battalions in war. If war was hell, what was this, when violence followed him home in the one man he loved? The man stood straight and tall, regaining his breath. John wanted to yell the words the man had yelled at the beginning of all this but he knew it might provoke him and put John in serious danger.
"Sherlock?" John's voice quaked with fear.
All of the sudden, as if awoken from a dream, Sherlock returned to reality. He seemed to be slowly realizing what he just did and as the events played out in his mind; his fear grew so strong it was pouring out of him. He looked desperately at John as if he would hold the answers. He reached out his hand and took a small step forwards, but was greeted with an according step back from John. He realized he was not the only one afraid of the danger Sherlock could be.
"John..." he whispered, confusion dancing in his voice. John remained silent and motionless as he watched Sherlock speed out of 221B into the dark night.
John didn't know what to do. He was shaking and couldn't catch his breath. His body walked him over to the phone and began to dial. He didn't know who the number belonged to and all he could do was hope it wasn't Sherlock's.
" 's, Molly Hooper." Rang out of the phone.
"Oh Molly." He whimpered.
"Wait who is this? John? What's wrong?"
"Molly, please. Please come to Baker Street."
"I'll be right there." The phone was already half hung up when she said this and she grabbed her coat and ran out the door.
She was in the cab when she recalled the terror in John's voice. She didn't know why and felt she should call Lestrade just to be safe.
"John?"
"John where are you?"
The two familiar voices called out from downstairs.
"Upstairs. I'm up here."
Lestrade came up first, his gun drawn. He didn't know what to expect and wanted to be prepared in case of a hostage situation. He climbed the top step and John managed to tell him to put the bloody thing away before breaking down into silent sobs. Holstering his gun, Greg called out for Molly to come up. When she saw John she ran over and sat next to him on the old sofa. She reached around his shoulders to hold him but he jolted away.
"What's wrong?" Molly was very concerned.
"Where's Sherlock?" Greg found it very odd that Sherlock wasn't there for his lover.
"Sherlock. He—"John choked on the words and found himself gesturing towards the door, trying to show that Sherlock left. Instead, he heard sharp gasps from the people in the room. He raised his eyes to see what they were so surprised by. It was not hard to guess. A large crack rose four feet up the wall, two small ones on both sides where his shoulders were and a crater where his head was.
"What the hell happened here?" Lestrade spoke as he inspected the wall.
John had just planned on telling Molly that him and Sherlock had gotten into a fight and Sherlock left, but with Lestrade here and the wall in such a state, he saw no way out of the truth. He reached up and gently pulled down the shoulder of his jumper to reveal a very large hand shaped bruise. The color was a deep purple and black with broken blood vessels dotting it. His back where he was slammed against the wall was the same, but not contained to a handprint. It stretched across his shoulder blade at least seven inches in every direction.
"Jesus." Escaped Lestrade.
Molly's hand flew to cover her mouth as she stared horrified. She quickly removed his jumper to reveal matching bruises on the other side. Lestrade was in the kitchen making a cuppa to soothe his nerves before asking him to tell them what happened. Molly checked him and found two broken ribs and a fractured collarbone. He was in desperate need of attention.
"We need to take you to the-"
"No." john interrupted sharply. "If I go to the hospital they will know someone else did this and call the police and I can't let them do that. And what if Sherlock comes back and I'm not here. No." Molly rose to get the bandages John kept in his old footlocker.
"John, what is going on? Why don't you want us to call the police? What happened?" Lestrade handed him his tea. Molly returned with the bandages and began wrapping his shoulders as John explained. By the end of the story Molly stopped wrapping, frozen in shock and Lestrade occasionally whispered "Jesus."
"John, if Sherlock did this to you, he could injure someone else. He is now a threat to everyone in this city. I have to call it in."
"No! He didn't mean to! At least I think he didn't." John put his head in his hands.
"John, he attacked you without provocation-"
"Well he was obviously provoked and you are not going to arrest Sherlock. Not without giving him a chance to explain." John's words were strong and final. Sherlock was not be hunted.
"He needs more support or his ribs could puncture his lungs." Molly whispered to Lestrade. "I have those kinds of bandages at 's. I'll be right back."
"Please hurry Molly." Fear was the common denominator in 221B.
Sherlock was lost in his mind. How could he do that to John? He was so distraught, he that he went where ever his feet took him and it brought him to 's. His home away from home as Mycroft had once put it. It was very late or very early and he assumed no one was there. He walked down the cold corridors straight into the lab. Grabbing the knob, he pushed in the door remembering this was where he first met John. He winced, for even though it was his happiest memory, it made him think of John in the present, what he had just done. In slow steps he went towards his preferred microscope when he sensed another presence. His eyes shot up to find Molly. She was still in her dress but it was as disheveled as her hair. The makeup around her eyes was smudged as if she had been crying. Sherlock sighed inwardly. He hated talking about relationships and feeling but he also needed a distraction.
"Hello Molly." The low voice was scratchy and it startled Sherlock to realize he sounded angry.
"Sherlock." Molly was terrified. She was in the middle of leaving when he came in and she had just enough time to hide the bandages under the counter and now she wished she was hiding with them.
"Relationship troubles I imagine." Sherlock attempted casual tone.
Molly thought fast. He didn't know that she knew. Sherlock thought it was her relationship but it was not. Molly thought that he and John were in love, but people who love each other don't harm one another.
"Very. I thought it was love but he surprised me, not in a good way." Molly believed that if Sherlock did not know she possessed information about tonight's events, he would not be compelled to keep her quiet.
"It is never love, Molly. All lives end and all hearts are broken." Sherlock knew he was truly upset when he had to resort to quoting Mycroft.
"I suppose." Molly was afraid to ask the next question, but she was supposed to be ignorant, and ignorant Molly would ask. "What are you doing here?"
With this question, reality flooded Sherlock's mind. How he had attacked the man he loved and why. Why. Why. The why. He knew why. It was her. She was the why. John was his and when he was deducting, John was ogling the woman in front of him. He wasn't mad at John, he was jealous. Because of her. When he shouted at John, and asked what the hell was that? he was talking about the attention he gave to Molly instead of him.
"I—"he began. Even Sherlock did not know how he was going to handle this sudden realization.
"I needed some air." He managed to stay calm.
"What happened?" She was shaking even though there were two counters between them. Images of John's broken body flashed across the mind and no distance would be far enough.
"Molly, can I trust you?" he whispered as he came around the counters. He was mere inches from her and he softly grabbed he wrist.
Elevated pulse
Slight tremor (cold? No.)
"Sherlock. Please." She was on the verge of tears. If he could hurt an army man so, killing her would be easier than snapping a thread.
Sherlock inhaled deeply to calm him and smelled the familiar scent of 221B Baker Street. It relaxed him, until he noticed; the scent was coming from Molly. His hand tightened around her delicate wrist and he pulled her in.
"Molly, where were you just? Why are you here?" tears streamed down Molly's face and she thought of everyone she loved.
He voice shook and cracked as she whispered, almost inaudibly, "I was with John."
The silence was so loud; Molly was sure her eardrums were going to burst.
"Say something." Soft thuds echoed as her tears hit the floor.
"What happened?" Sherlock's voice glided across the air. He looked like a child who had just lost everything he ever loved.
"Severe bruising. Two broken ribs and a fractured collarbone." Molly spoke as if she were reading a list of the injuries of a deceased. It was minutes before he said anything.
"Does-Do you know why?" He asked quietly.
She carefully shook her head no. She still had no idea why this man in front of her would attack the only man she thought he would ever love.
Sherlock bent slowly, lowering himself until his lips met her ear.
"You." He stood as slow as he had bent until he was full height, towering over the tiny woman.
"Me? Why me?"
"John and I..." he paused. Had he not just said that it was never love? No. this was different. This time, it was true. "Are in love. Maybe it was unclear to your small mind, but it is true. Tonight we were going to official become a couple and tell everyone." Sherlock thought of all the times him and John had been together and how every time it ended, John would remark "Let's tell everyone. Even you cannot say that this is not true love."
"I was-"his voice cracked. "I was overcome by jealousy. It was if he had not even noticed I was there!"
"Sherlock, John loves you. He has since the first moment you met and that love has not wavered tonight. He has refused to go to the hospital because he wanted to be there if you came back."
Sherlock looked up urgently his hand still around Molly's wrist.
"WHO IS WITH HIM? WHO IS WITH JOHN?" he roared.
Molly's knees buckled in fright and Sherlock grabbed her other elbow and held her an inch off the ground.
"Greg! Lestrade is!"
"Molly, I need you to listen. John needs you. Take care of him. Never tell him about our meeting here.
"Sherlock this is madness. He still loves you."
"Don't you understand? I was slightly jealous because he looked at you the way he looks at me and I could have killed him. He could have been one of the corpses down stairs." He turned his head slowly to the left as he talked boring though her skull with his eyes. The fear was growing in Molly just a Sherlock wanted it to. He wanted her to realize what could happen if he stayed. "You would have to cut open his chest and determine the cause of death was me. His cold body on the metal slab that held dozens of bodies from cases I worked. He would be just another death."
"Stop It!" Molly was crying again and she did understand.
"Please, do this for me." Molly had never heard him beg before and that was what made her the most uncomfortable all night. She had to do this for him.
"I swear."
With that, Sherlock released her and stepped towards the door. He paused, only for a moment to whisper
"Goodbye, Molly Hooper."
The doors shut behind him with a final click and Molly could breathe again. She ran to grab the bandages and raced to get a cab, address given, 221B Baker Street.
"Molly? Is that you?" cried out Lestrade.
"Yes, it's me!"
Greg rounded the corner and watched her come up the stairs.
"Christ, where were you? He's in a lot of pain and won't take anything because it might make him drowsy and he wants to be awake in case Sherlock comes home."
"Sorry, the traffic was mad." She finished climbing the stairs and entered the flat. John was sprawled across the brown couch his face twisted with pain.
"John, if he comes we will wake you up, please!" after ten minutes of pleading he took a sedative and Molly wrapped his shoulder and ribs.
Molly and Lestrade sat at the table watching over John.
"What do we do Molly?"
"First we should fix the wall so Mrs. Hudson doesn't see."
"Good idea. What about John's injuries though?"
"We could say…" she trailed off quietly.
"A patient could have become frightened and attacked him. That could work."
"What can we say about Sherlock?"
"We'll say he's on a case and when he comes back, we'll confront him and keep a close eye on them."
Molly shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She knew he wasn't going to be back but couldn't say anything without letting him know.
"Hoo! Anyone home?"
"Yes Mrs. Hudson, I'm upstairs."
Where else would he be, he thought silently. He listened to the uneven steps on the stairs.
"I've got your mail." Chirped his landlady as she handed his the pile.
"Thank you."
"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper." John smiled to himself. She had been saying since he met her.
"Hello John!" Molly appeared in the doorway. She smiled brightly and hung her coat on the rack behind the door. Though the wall was repaired days after the incident, the memory still burned hot in her mind like an iron.
John was sifting through bills and junk mail when he saw it. A crisp white envelope with jet black writing that spoke two words, John Watson.
"Mrs. Hudson, could you excuse us for a moment?"
"Sure dear." She walked out and smiled as she passed Molly.
Molly looked at John.
"What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He flipped up the letter to show her the writing. He had.
"Oh." It was the unmistakable handwriting of the man. She practically ran to his chair and stood beside him as he painstakingly opened the letter, or what they thought was a letter. Knowing him, it could be finger or something. This time however it was just a letter, of sorts. In the middle of the white sheet John read the small print aloud.
"Goodbye."
So that was it. He was gone. John's world collapsed around him. His heart felt like it had an ever tightening fist around it, crushing it until it was just pieces. For the first time since the incident, John wept; his harsh breaths shook his whole body. Molly held his shoulders trying to comfort him but she knew it was no use; the man he loved was dead.
He stopped after an eternity and Molly walked to the kitchen to make him a cuppa. She wanted to cry too but she knew she had to stay strong, for John. She decided to phone Lestrade, he was here at the beginning, and he should be here at the end. His phone rang out and she left a babbling message.
"Greg, hi, it's me, Molly. Listen, John got a letter and, we-he needs you. Just come over now, please."
She watched bubbles rise to the top of the kettle. It soothed her. The switch clicked and Molly poured three steaming cups, bring one to john and drinking one. She began sitting on the chair opposite then stopped herself. This was his chair, and she didn't want John to think she was trying to replace him. She settled on the couch just as Lestrade burst through the door. He was out of breath and worry covered his face like a veil.
"Lestrade." John was unsurprised.
"Your tea is in the kitchen. Come on." Said Molly leading him.
"How did you know I was coming?" said Lestrade taking a sip.
"How do you mean? I called you?"
"You did?" Lestrade was very confused.
"Yes, isn't that why you're here?"
"No, what happened?"
"John received a letter from him. All it said was Goodbye."
"Jesus Molly. We found him."
"Oh god." Whispered the girl. She was so shocked she nearly dropped her tea. She began crying and pulled her close gently kissing her head.
"We found a deerstalker with an address at the station. No one saw who dropped it off. I have it sealed off, no one has been in there but I can't keep it that way for long. If he wants to see, it has to be now."
"He isn't strong enough." Said Molly pulling away.
"Yes I am." They spun around to see John. "I want to go. He would have wanted it."
"Alright then, let's go." Lestrade turned towards the door.
"No! John, you don't have to do this, the police will be the—"
"I'm going. I have to make sure Anderson doesn't screw up anything." He said this with a sly smile.
The three of them climbed into the squad car ten minutes later and set off to the scene. It was a short ride and when the car stopped John was the last to get out, slowly as if he had forgotten how to walk. They stood at the door for a moment then John reached out and pulled up the crime scene tape for Lestrade and Molly. It felt foreign in his hand and he realized in all the years of being at crime scenes, he never lifted the yellow tape; the man always did it for him. He pondered this as he walked into the flat.
It was awful. A small amount of light streamed into the lamp less room. The grey walls and dark carpets were covered in a layer of dirt and dust. There was no bed, only a small sofa and a round wooden table. The whole room was covered in dirty clothes, old Chinese containers and many items that used to decorate 221B Baker Street. It smelled like home used to smell, God-awful. He glanced around a second time and saw what they had come for.
A long arm slid onto the floor and the other lay across his stomach. His head was bent up by the arm and his legs hung off the other side, long exceeding the length. John stepped close and fell to his knees in front of the body. The man's face was paler than he had ever seen it, his sharp cheekbones now protruded grotesquely from malnourishment. His thick black curls seemed dull and lifeless and his eyes were closed. He might have been sleeping. John wanted to call his name and have the man moan softly, awake and look at him. Just look with those kaleidoscope eyes and see what he has done. How much John loved him, and how much he still needed him.
"John. Look. The wall." He turned and saw three matching envelopes with the same black handwriting he saw earlier that day. Molly spoke the addresses.
"For Molly, For Lestrade, For-"
"Me." John interrupted, rising to grab his letter followed by the others. They hadn't noticed before, but they were numbered. Lestrade was first and read it loudly with a stone voice.
"It was the groom and the sister. They were twins, identical twins, Elizabeth and Catherine. Catherine was the original bride, but when the groom realized he wanted to marry Elizabeth, he killed Catherine with the help of her sister and switched identities. These are not true murderers and if you interview them, they should confess and DNA tests will prove me right. Since I am dead, I will tell you. Moriarty targeted my friends on that roof all those years ago, which was why I had to jump. On that day, a gun was trained on you. Good bye Lestrade.
-SH"
Greg pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from crying. Molly opened hers quietly and began to read.
"Dear Molly, as you might remind me, I should say thank you. Thank you for keeping my secret and being there for me in my hardest times. You may now tell John, he should know. Thank you Molly Hooper. Goodbye.
-SH"
Molly saw John's soft face and explained.
"When I went to St. Bart's on that night to get you bandages, he was there. He told me everything. He attacked you because you looked at me and…he was jealous. He wanted you to be only his and couldn't stand the fact that he had to share. But that's not why he left. He left because he said that he could have killed you over such a small thing and couldn't put you in that danger. He would rather live alone and have you safe than hurt you ever again."
John didn't cry. He couldn't, there were no more tears left. He simply looked at his own letter and violently opened it, tearing the delicately written "For John" in half.
"John, by now I'm sure Molly has explained to you why I did what I did and I am sorry. Love is truly what began my life, when I met you, and what ended it. Do not mourn me John, I took my life so you can live yours and love again. Know that my last thought was of you, know that my last breath spoke your name, and know this John; I will always love you.
-Sherlock Holmes"
The plain silver vase sat in front of him on the thick wood pedestal. He would have liked that. John gave the eulogy and his army uniform stood out against the officers behind him.
"Sherlock was the most beautiful, most clever man I have ever known. He cared about people and no one will ever convince me he didn't." Sherlock's official cause of death was accidental overdose and it was clear that he fell to his old habits long before his suicide. "I have a poem I would like to read." John cleared his throat and began to read.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Though I am there in eternal sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the stars that shine at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
Though I'll be there when I die.
"Sherlock told me once that heroes don't exist, but he saved people his whole life. So in honor of this hero, my hero-"John clicked his heels, faced the urn, and led a salute to the man.
"Rest well my love, we will meet again."
Epilogue
John kept Sherlock's ashes next to the skull. In lonely moments, he would talk to the mantelpiece. I do not know if he was talking to the skull like Sherlock did, or Sherlock himself.
Lestrade allowed John to continue working cases as a consulting medical examiner.
Molly and Lestrade dated for two years. They married with John as the best man. They had a little girl and named her Sheryl, after Sherlock. John was made the godfather.
When Mrs. Hudson passed, John bought 221 baker street and lived in unit B. He left the building to Sheryl Lestrade-Hooper.
John died at the age of 79. Due to his PTSD, john suffered hallucinations and lived his last years with the man he loved at his side.