Hello! Before we begin, I would like to mention that I would highly suggest reading Armageddon, a one-shot I wrote not too long ago that acts as a prequel to this story. If you do not, the first few chapters of this will be very confusing. Just a thought:)
Anyway, hope you enjoy:
Side of the Angels
Chapter 1
~On the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital~
I don't have to die... if I've got you.
Oh! You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?
Yes. So do you.
Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to.
Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.
Naah. You talk big. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels.
Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them.
…
No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out.
…
Well, good luck with that.
-The Reichenbach Fall
-Two Weeks After the Fall-
John wasn't exactly keeping track of time. He figured it had been a couple weeks since Sherlock's death, only because of Mrs. Hudson's frequent visits. She came up to check on him every so often, just to be sure he was alright.
But of course, he wasn't. His best friend had fallen to his death. There was no other way to go about it.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.
John knew Sherlock more than anyone else. In fact, his supposed suicide note was directly given to him. It was out of character for Sherlock to be so…sentimental—but he did say that his sociopathic nature was just an act.
But, as John already knew, he was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend. He knew Sherlock's true nature. And it was certainly sociopathic. High-functioning, at that.
John refused to believe that Sherlock's entire identity was set up. It was all Richard Brooke—no, Jim Moriarty. He was the one who ruined Sherlock.
He didn't know how he came to this conclusion. Perhaps he had too much faith in his friend.
John was sure of this much, but even with his theory, he couldn't do anything about it. The media jumped on the 'fake genius' bit, and there was no point in trying to quell the rumors. Even if he could bring this information to the public's attention, he doesn't have any evidence to substantiate his claim. John cringed at the thought of Sherlock remaining as London's most notorious con artist.
So, he let it go. There was nothing to be done.
After Sherlock's death, John continued to live in 221B. It had become his home over the many months he spent here. The thought of leaving was more agonizing than staying—living—with Sherlock's ghost.
Most everything had been left the way it was, save a few family sentiments, which were given to Mycroft. Some of Sherlock's possessions were distributed to his various acquaintances—Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly.
The chessboard was still there, collecting dust.
Even after two weeks, John was trying to ignore it. He had noticed that one of the white pieces—Sherlock's pieces—had moved. However, he dismissed as a trick of the mind. It was impossible.
Eventually, he became so stressed over his impending insanity that he moved the chess set into Sherlock's old bedroom and carefully placed it in the closet. He wasn't going to allow it to enter his mind and infiltrate his memories. He was already going mad.
Though the board was out of sight, he couldn't help thinking about it, even as he mourned. He held onto it, as though it was the last connection he had with his best friend.
The white rook was absolutely bewildering; John had sworn that it had been on the other side of the board prior to Sherlock's death. It couldn't have been accidentally shifted, being that the chess pieces were magnetic.
John searched through the farthest corners of his mind, his memories, to replay the most recent game in his head, recounting each move. He had finally gotten the hang of the game-play, so he had a much better understanding of just about everything. He could recognize the various strategies Sherlock used, which he took note of. His memory of the game had improved significantly.
John did this for days, mostly to distract himself from the grief. But a part of him was incredibly curious. His theory of Moriarty's true identity, the chess piece—they somehow went together, but he didn't know how. This sort of thing required Sherlock's skills of deduction.
As he seemed to do with everything lately, John let it go. It was too far-fetched. There was no point in pursuing the matter further.
John actually checked the calendar one morning, realizing that it had been exactly two weeks since the Fall. He felt himself entering the five stages of grief, which was expected. He was trying to return to a normal life after the initial mourning. He barely spoke to anyone, and refused to have visitors. Stage once: denial.
Despite his realization, he went to the kitchen to make some tea. As the water was boiling, he pulled out an English muffin and sliced it in half—his usual breakfast.
Once he began steeping his tea, he spread a pat of butter on one half of the English muffin. On the other half, he would have honey.
As he reached into the cupboard to grab the honey, he stopped, his hand suspended in the air. The container holding the honey was transparent, displaying the golden substance inside. It was eerily similar to something…something that he had seen before.
Of course. My God, John, you're such an idiot sometimes.
He left his half-made breakfast to sit on the counter and rushed to Sherlock's room.
I see that bloody thing every day. Why didn't I notice?!
Once inside, he recovered the chessboard from the closet and set it on the bed. He grabbed the white king and hastily removed the magnetic disk on the bottom. While Sherlock was still alive, he found a vial hidden within this piece, which contained a mysterious substance: grayanotoxin, which resembled honey. It wasn't until John looked inside that he realized that it had disappeared after he died.
After he died…
John dwelled on this, repeating it over and over.
After he died…after Sherlock died…after he died…after…
Sherlock obviously knew about the vial, since he found the disk misplaced on more than one occasion, as if he was constantly checking to see if it was still there. But…
It went missing after he died…after…
No…before…before he died…
Sherlock had to have removed the vial before he died. No one entered the flat that day besides the two of them. Why would Sherlock take the vial that day…the day that happened to be the day he committed suicide?
John needed to find out what this 'grayanotoxin' actually was.