P.S.
"Ooh, John! Something's come in the post for you," Mrs. Hudson stopped John before he could walk up to Sherlock and his flat.
She gave the envelope to John and she smiled at him. He smiled back at her before looking at it and began to walk up the stairs. Pulling out the letter he stopped in the middle of the staircase. He scanned its content.
"Shit," John softly said to himself.
Putting the letter back in the envelope and into his rear jean's pocket he walked up the rest of the way and into the living area of 221b. Sherlock was sitting at the desk typing up what John could assume was a report of his latest experiment.
"What's happened?" Sherlock asked once he saw John emerge in the doorway.
"What do you mean?" John paused at the doorway and then walked to the kitchen.
Sherlock saw the envelope in John's pocket, "you stopped in the middle of the stairs. Only something urgent could cause you to stop and read. And I can see that it must be in the envelope sticking out of your pocket. Now seeing as you placed it in your rear pocket instead of holding it, it must be something you don't want to read again."
John poured himself a cup of tea and pulled out a box of biscuits from the pantry. He shoved a few in his mouth deliberately so that he didn't have to talk for a length of time.
"It's nothing," John mumbled.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "John, you can either give me the liberty of telling me now, or I'll have to unfortunately make an effort of finding out later."
John took a sip of his tea, pulled out the envelope, and dropped it on the keyboard before sitting down in his chair.
Sherlock couldn't help but comment before picking it up, "Not enough care to physically hand it to me? Must be bad news."
John sat in the uncomfortable silence as Sherlock took out the letter and read. John shifted in his seat a few times, took a few bites out of the biscuits, and sipped his tea.
"I'm being redrafted, Sherlock," John said once he noticed that Sherlock was reading the letter over and over. "They need me to go back to Afghanistan."
"No," Sherlock put the letter down.
"It's not a choice. They need me there. They don't have enough medical doctors," John retorted.
"I need you here," Sherlock looked at the letter instead of John and unemotionally spoke. "We have cases."
"I'm no use to you," John scoffed. "It's only eight weeks, anyways. Good pay and it looks like I'll be away from the actual warzone."
Sherlock got up and walked to his room without a word. John watched as he left and then got up to get his letter. That night he had everything packed for his departure the next morning.
John looked in the mirror. His uniform still fit him. He hadn't put it on for so long and it felt odd. He took his duffle bag in hand and walked out of his room and downstairs to bid farewell to Sherlock. The consulting detective was in his robe and lying on the couch thinking with his head facing away from the doorway.
"Well, I'll see you in a few weeks, Sherlock," John spoke to the top of Sherlock's head. "I'll email, I guess. Let you know how I'm doing."
Sherlock didn't even move to get up. He couldn't even be bothered to look at John. The only acknowledgement of John's farewell was a small nod. John rolled his eyes and turned to walk out the door. John didn't know it, but Sherlock stood at the window to watch as John drove away.
The first week and a half were quite manic for the doctor. The letter was right – the amount of doctors they had in the army was minimal and the wounded soldiers definitely benefitted from John's help. Unlike what John hoped, which was to mainly help in the confines of hospitals, he would sometimes find himself in the middle of firefights and battlefields. He didn't remember it as being this bad the first time he was deployed, but at least this time he knew what to look out for. The men and women that John got along with actually knew about Sherlock when he told stories during their downtime. The time to relax was certainly very precious to John, and he found that a week had gone by without a word to Sherlock.
Sherlock's eyelids flickered when he heard the notification that he received a new email. For the past week and a half, Sherlock had been eagerly anticipating something to fill the void of John's absence. There was a case that he was working on, but the first email he received helped tremendously as well.
Sherlock,
Everything's fine so far. Lot's to help with. Keeping myself from getting shot, so that's a plus. Afghanistan is just as I remembered. How is everything in London? Mrs. Hudson doing well? Working on any cases?
- J.W
P.S. Don't forget to pay the bills.
Sherlock stared at it blankly for a moment and contemplated if he should reply to the email. There wasn't much to reply to, but to some degree Sherlock felt obligated.
John,
It's fine. She's well. Yes, I have a case.
SH
Sherlock pressed 'send' and went back to work on the case. He could suspect that John would ask about the case, but by the time John would respond he assumed he would have finished it by then. It wasn't a difficult case – someone was pretending to be a 'tooth fairy' and killing kids and their parents at night.
It would be close to two weeks until John read the reply, but in that time he came extremely close to getting shot. He wasn't as fast as he was and he just narrowly missed the bullet. Unfortunately for him, one of the men he was with got shot in a vital spot on the body and bled out. This was what John was hoping he wouldn't have to experience again, and as a doctor, he was duty-bound to try and help him. John loathed one thing: the moment when someone was wounded and they realized that they had no hope of surviving. He hated watching them, trying to keep the blood from gushing out, and seeing the utmost terror and sadness in their eyes. That first death in the field wasn't the first that John ever experienced, but it was the first coming back after being wounded. Something in John changed watching the man, who was one of Sherlock's fan, die and having his last sight be John trying to stop the bleeding.
When the firing had ceased, he and some fellow soldiers carried the fallen men and women to the hum-vee where John drove them back to the camp. During the drive there, John remembered what Sherlock said about emotion and how he managed to keep it from influencing himself. If only John could do that. At the camp, they placed the bodies on the stretchers and covered them with white sheets. A little while later John found himself in front of a computer screen. John read the email and rolled his eyes – how typical of Sherlock to respond in that manner.
Sherlock,
Well I almost got shot. They're putting me out in the field. Medical work comes with more fighting – not the other way around, apparently. I didn't expect to see this much of the battlefield. What's the case about? I'm guessing by now you would have figured it out. Sorry I can't reply sooner.
J.W
P.S. One of the men who died was a fan of yours if you can believe it.
True to his word Sherlock finished the case before John could respond. To Sherlock, the case was quite easy to solve. The murderer was a dental assistant who had an odd fetish with teeth. He was onto his next case that he got from Lestrade, and John's noticeable disappearance had some members of Scotland Yard, including Lestrade, Anderson, and Sally, sarcastically worried for Sherlock. Sherlock was reading up on the organ trade to help with the current case when he received the latest email from John.
As Sherlock read the first few sentences, he immediately became worried for his friend. Unlike what some particular members of Scotland Yard and a few of John's ex-girlfriends would say, there was no romantic inclinations between them, but Sherlock did genuinely worry for his friend's safety to the point where someone could have thought that there was something more than just a friendship between Sherlock and John. It was natural for Sherlock to feel this – he was human after all, but not natural for observers to watch.
John,
Tooth fairy taking teeth under children's beds and then killing them. Solved.
New one: cannibalistic serial killer or black market organ harvester? I'm leaning towards the first.
Be more careful.
SH
John managed to avoid the battlefield for just about three weeks, but in that time he found himself with no free time. He'd act as a surgeon's assistant, emergency room worker, and other things that he was qualified for in order to save people. Four died over the course of those three weeks, but it could have been much, much worse if John wasn't there to help. If John hadn't experienced this before, he would have probably gone insane.
Sherlock,
Sorry for not replying, suicide bomber kept me busy with all the injuries he caused. Thanks for the advice. It'd be a good idea if you listened to your own advice once in a while. What was it in the end seeing as you must have solved it? Organ harvester or cannibal?
John
P.S. They might be extending my stay to a total of ten weeks instead of eight. Will keep you updated.
"How's John doing?" Lestrade asked when he visited Sherlock.
Sherlock was reading the case file that Lestrade had brought over. This one dealt with someone murdering past killers. Just earlier, Sherlock watched a news report of a suicide bombing where John would have been – the reporter mentioned a few dead, but no names. He attempted to keep himself from assuming that John had died.
"I don't know. Haven't heard from him in three weeks," Sherlock plainly replied. "These killers. Convicted?"
"Most of them were either suspected or found not guilty, but whoever's killing 'em seems to think that they deserve punishment," Lestrade responded to his question. "Hope he's doing alright over there. Hasn't got shot yet, I hope."
Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows and realized the latter was talking about John. Sherlock was now curious as to what John's status was. He couldn't have died – they would have let Sherlock know by now, but there was something in Sherlock's mind that told him that there was something wrong.
"Right, well we have a crime scene. Are you ready to go?" Lestrade asked.
"Give me the address, I'll follow in a few minutes," Sherlock handed the file back.
"I'll text it," Lestrade said as he led himself out of the flat.
The moment that Lestrade left Sherlock heard a notification coming from his laptop. He let out a relieved sigh when he saw who the sender was. He had only minutes to respond before he had to leave.
John,
Cannibal. New case: killer killing killers.
Any updates?
Lestrade is asking how you are doing.
SH
Speaking to his commander, John found out that they were extending his stay to ten weeks at the minimum – so an extra 4 weeks it seemed. John couldn't disobey orders, so he reluctantly accepted his fate. When he reached the camp, he was debriefed with more details about the mission – they were to extract a friendly that was held as a hostage. The only problem was that the mission leader was a bit of a safety freak. It took weeks just to plan something as simple as an extraction, but he wanted to make sure that nothing could go wrong. Although John appreciated the precautions, including the sewn in trackers, he was more anxious to return home. John found time to send an email to Sherlock to tell him about the details.
Sherlock,
Here's the deal: we have a mission (can't disclose plans over email, though) and depending on how long we take, I might be here for a min of ten weeks. It's dangerous. You might not hear back from me for a while. Hopefully we won't get killed. Our commander is taking every precaution that he can to keep us safe. Speaking of getting killed, did you catch the killer?
John
P.S. Say hello to Lestrade for me. And to Mrs. Hudson.
"Come on, John! Time to head out," one of his fellow soldiers told him.
"Yeah, just sending an email," John looked back at the man.
"Well, make it good, doesn't look like there's going to be any internet where we're going."
John looked at the computer screen and found that he had nothing else to say. From the replies he got from Sherlock, it didn't seem that he cared too much about John. Then again, John knew that Sherlock never did his best at expressing emotions whether it is vocally or through email. Would he dare to say goodbye?
There weren't any cases this week or the last, so Sherlock was bored. Four weeks had gone by since John's last email. Today, the detective reread the email and looked at the entranceway of the flat. Sherlock hoped that he would be back by now. Looking back at the computer screen he looked at the blank space where his reply should have been. There was nothing to say to John – he knew to be safe, so there was no point in telling him once more. But on his behalf, he did say 'hello' to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.
John's absence from the flat over the last few months felt very unusual for Sherlock. It felt unsettling for Sherlock to not hear John's insistence at things such as eating and sleeping. The skull became his friend once more. The fact that he missed John, which was something he would never admit to anyone, made him laugh especially since he spent most of his life alone. This time, though, he was feeling nervous at the lack of emails detailing John's life in Afghanistan.
John finally found himself homesick and thinking about how Sherlock was getting along. He missed the comforts of his flat, even if Sherlock presented to be a constant annoyance. At the moment, he was crouched beside a vehicle. He and his team were ready to move in. After the signal, they found themselves running quietly towards a decrepit building. Another hand signal and they had the door kicked down. Armed with his gun, John and his team searched the building. Gunshots were fired from both sides. A few friendlies fell to the ground, wounded, but it didn't stop the rest of the team and John.
They found the hostage and untied him. They quickly ran out still firing, but something just a few feet away from John exploded and he found himself flying in the air. He landed with a hard thump on the ground. He was starting to losing consciousness, and the ringing in his ears stopped him from getting up. He looked and saw that blood began to seep through his uniform in various places where the shrapnel was embedded. The pain hit him in a strong constant burst, but he couldn't determine from the number of wounds where it was coming from. He tried to reach out for his gun with his right hand and saw that his arm was nearly blown to bits. He could see the bone as it bled profusely. His eyes began to close, and he watched as the last of his surviving squad ran to pick up the survivors.
"Stay with us, John," the faint sound of a fellow soldier was trying to keep John conscious. "Come on, we're almost there."
John tried to open his eyes, but they would just roll back into his head.
"Start him on the IV drip."
"We need a ventilator."
Darkness.
John woke up groggily and disoriented. He felt pain all over his body but the morphine pumping through his system was just barely helping. The nurse standing over him saw him wake and she alerted the doctor. Waiting for him, John looked around at his surroundings. He wasn't in a mobile surgery unit, so hospital was the next best guess. Touching his face, he realized he was only looking out through one eye. Looking down, he saw gauze and bandages everywhere. His eyes went from his leg to torso, and then to his now missing most of his right arm. He found it hard to breathe.
"Captain John Watson," his military doctor walked in.
The doctor wasn't in a cheery disposition; rather, he looked quite disappointed.
"We have some bad news," the doctor looked at John's chart.
"I'm missing half my arm, what else could there be?" John retorted weakly, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice.
"I think, as a doctor yourself, you'll understand that we tried our best…"
"But?" John was curious where the doctor was going.
"We couldn't get the shrapnel out of your chest, it's too close to your heart. It'll be a matter of a few days before it reaches," the doctor said.
John looked at him with eyes filling with tears and then at the wall, "so you're saying I'm going to die."
The doctor's silence confirmed it.
John lied in his bed for a few hours anticipating when his last breath would be. He was eerily calm with his fate. The nurse came in to do some checkups.
"Is there a mobile I can borrow?" John asked.
The nurse dug into her pocket and pulled one out for him, "You can use mine."
"It'll be long distance. Is that alright?" John made sure.
She nodded. He looked at the phone for a little bit. He began to press on the buttons, but hesitated. Confused for a moment he wasn't sure if he forgot the number from lack of calling it or if he had brain damage. After a few seconds, he confidently dialed the number. It rang and rang until John gave up on the hope that he'd be able to talk to Sherlock.
"Here," a defeated John said, handing the phone back to the nurse. "Probably no laptops around?"
She shook her head, but before she could go out, John quietly requested one more thing, "Would you write a letter for me?"
"Sure," she smiled. "Let me get some paper."
"Out of the way!" the nurse yelled as she and a few others pushed the stretcher down the halls.
He could feel the sharp pain piercing his chest. John's breathing was laboured ending in a wheeze. When they came to an abrupt stop, John could see the surgeons rushing about. As he stared at the ceiling attempting to fight the fear that was creeping up on him, a figure appeared before him looming over his bed. It was the man with the stupid cheekbones and turned up coat collar.
"Sher-," John tried to talk but the nurse put a breathing mask on.
"It's going to be fine," Sherlock smiled down at John.
"I'm going to die," John spoke labouredly in his mask, tears developing in his eyes. "I'm scared, Sherlock."
Sherlock's image flickered when John tried to get a look of what was happening.
"Oh, God, let me live," John prayed silently.
One of the nurses restrained John's head. Sherlock's face appeared above.
"You'll be fine, John," a faint, but reassuring smile appeared on Sherlock's face.
John's hallucination of Sherlock began to blur when John got more oxygen in his system. The nurse replaced the mask and the anesthesia took hold of John.
"Hello?" it was just about three in the afternoon when Sherlock picked up his phone.
"Sherlock, are you alone? Where are you?"
Looking at the blocked number Sherlock couldn't recognize the voice, "who is this?"
"We've recovered a body," the voice was slightly muffled with other voices in the background.
"What?" Sherlock completely stopped what he was working on. "Who is this?"
"Sherlock, it's your brother," Mycroft spoke more clearly.
"I'm in the middle of a case," Sherlock was irritated. "Sod off, Mycroft."
"You need to see this," Mycroft spoke unemotionally. "A car is waiting for you outside."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back from his microscope, "I'm busy. Send the body to Molly at St. Bart's. I'll look at it later."
There was a long silence, "It's John."
Blinking a few times to process that information Sherlock stood up with his phone held at his ear. He didn't know what to say to that.
"He died three days ago," Mycroft spoke quietly. "His body arrived this morning."
"Are you sure it's him?" Sherlock was choking on his words.
"He was checked into the hospital and his tags were on him."
Sherlock walked quickly to the main entrance of his flat forgetting about the chemicals sizzling on his kitchen table and the bacteria growing in the petri dish in the microwave.
"What happened?" Sherlock got into the car.
"Shrapnel got into his heart. Surgery couldn't save him."
"Shrapnel?"
"According to the report, there was an explosion. He lost his arm among other things," there was silence. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock found his throat and chest to be tight. He hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He placed both his hands on his face. His breathing was short and an ache was developing all over his body. Sherlock once told John that he was always been able to keep himself distant and divorced from feelings and emotions. This time, however, it seemed like Sherlock needed these feelings in order to remind himself that what was happening – this nightmare – was real.
He arrived at the morgue in a timely fashion. Mycroft wasn't there, but Molly was. Sherlock had to annoyingly face her attempt at comforting him. She didn't need to direct him to where John's body laid on the slab of metal, but she did leave him alone when he walked over.
Sherlock looked down at John's body. True to Mycroft's word, John's arm up to his elbow was missing. There were wound marks on John's skin but the blood completely cleaned off. Sherlock touched the one on his collarbone and pulled back at how cold John's skin felt. He began to feel lightheaded and struggled to find a seat. He forced himself to breathe calmly. Tears were filling his eyes automatically, but he wiped them off quickly. Rubbing his nose, he stood up and looked at the body from where he was. He composed himself before walking out the morgue, not looking back at his deceased friend.
Two weeks had gone by and Sherlock had barely eaten anything, nor did he sleep. He was alone once again. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried to help, but he wasn't accepting any cases and he would lessen contact with anyone to the minimum. He wouldn't go out unless he ran out of food, but he'd try to get Mrs. Hudson to do it for him.
He reread the emails that John sent him using John's voice to narrate them in his head. Sherlock questioned the constant and ridiculous "p.s." at the end of the emails, but he ignored it and kept on reading. Finally, the exhaustion set in from all those sleepless nights and he collapsed in his chair with his head on the desk.
The sound of knocking on the door alerted him but he was adamant in not unlocking the door for anyone. Lestrade knew to call before, like it even mattered, and Mycroft knew his brother enough to not visit anyways. If it was someone looking for Sherlock to complete a case, they would either go to Mrs. Hudson – who wouldn't unlock the door anyway – or leave. Sherlock was counting on the second one.
The person outside the door walked back down the stairs. Sherlock stood up and began to walk to his bedroom, but the two sets of footsteps that were walking up made him stand still. The knob began to wiggle telling Sherlock that Mrs. Hudson was opening the door. Wanting to see who it was Sherlock stayed in the living area. After the jiggling ended, Sherlock heard a pair of lighter footsteps walking down – Mrs. Hudson.
The door opened. A uniformed John Watson stood in the doorway bending over in an awkward position trying to grab his duffle bag with his left hand.
Seeing Sherlock standing in the living room, John spoke first, "Sherlock. Hey. Mind helping me with my bag?"
John was trying to motion to his bag with his right arm, which was in a sling, and became slightly disappointed that there weren't any fingers to point, but was surprised when he found the body of Sherlock pressed up against him in an embrace. John wrapped his free arm around Sherlock's back.
"Jesus, Sherlock. My arm," John said muffled.
Sherlock stepped back, picked up the bag, and flung it over to one side of the flat.
"Are there actual tears in your eyes?" John looked closely at Sherlock.
Sherlock analyzed John's face. He looked aged, a bit gaunt, but it was irrevocably John.
"You were dead," Sherlock's mouth moved faster than his brain. "How are you here?"
"I sent you a letter," John looked at him. "Didn't you get it?"
"A letter?" Sherlock looked back at him and sheepishly wiped his wet eyes. "No. Why a letter?"
"You wouldn't pick up your bloody phone," John laughed.
John made his way to his seat and sat down, sighing in comfort. Sherlock followed him like a puppy dog, both confused and excited that he was home.
"God, I missed London, and this flat, and solving cases," John started with that when Sherlock sat down in front. It's good to see you, Sherlock."
"It's good to see you too, John," Sherlock smirked.
Someone was knocking on the door. John instinctively got up to go and answer it, but was surprised when Sherlock offered to.
"You're being so … so…"
Sherlock was nearing the door but turned to look at John, "so … so what?"
"So nice. A man with manners," John laughed. "It's weird. Why are you being so nice?"
The door kept on knocking and Sherlock reached for the door knob, "Am I not allowed to be?"
"You aren't usually."
"Well, too bad."
John laughed once more, "It's good to be home."
The sound of knocking on the door woke up Sherlock. He found his cheek on his desk and rubbed his eyes. He was surprised to find them wet from tears shed. Looking around the flat, he wished that John's presence could somehow occupy the emptiness that filled the space. But he couldn't, and it was then that Sherlock Holmes finally accepted that his best friend, John Watson, was dead. Sherlock begrudgingly trudged to the door.
"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson compensated her lack of comforting Sherlock by calling out too cheerily. "Sherlock?"
"Go away, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock responded by turning his back at the closed door.
"I have a letter for you!" Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door again.
Sherlock nearly fell over turning around so quickly, but he opened the door with a frazzled expression on his face, "say that again."
"Letter?" Mrs. Hudson waved the piece of parcel in his face.
Sherlock rudely snatched it out of her hand and shut the door, quickly opened it again, and curtly apologized to a shocked Mrs. Hudson. He walked over furniture to get to his chair and looked at the envelope. Its stamps signalled its international postage and the return address from the Middle East. The address on the front was definitely not written by John, and that little detail placed an inkling of doubt to the contents of the envelope. Sherlock attempted to swallow as his throat tightened. Using his mail opener he slowly ripped the top lip apart. Fingering the edge he pulled the piece of paper out and opened up the folds. There was a moment where he wasn't going to read the letter due to the feminine writing – not John's – but he remembered the dream: John's writing hand was missing. Rubbing his eyes he started to read.
Dear Sherlock,
I've lost my writing hand, so please forgive the fact that this isn't my penmanship. By the time you read this, I'll most likely be dead.
(The woman's penmanship changes as if John needed a moment to compose himself.)
I don't think I'll need to explain what happened to me as you'll probably see the damage when my body comes home. I'm sorry that this is how I'm saying good bye.
Whatever I have, keep. I know I don't have much, but it's yours, Sherlock. Anything else that's left you can give to Harry. Or donate. It doesn't matter.
You need to know this before I die: you were the best man, and the most human being that I've ever known. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But Sherlock, one more thing, mate, one more thing for me: promise me that you won't be alone. You're a good person and the best friend and you should never be alone.
I'm sorry I can't be there in person, but I know you'll be fine and you'll keep working on cases. You won't be lost without your blogger.
Goodbye, Sherlock.
Your friend,
John H. Watson
P.S. For making my life exciting again, thank you.
Sherlock stared blankly at the single piece of paper. This time, he wasn't surprised to find actual tears in his eyes falling onto the letter. Wiping his eyes, he cautiously but swiftly folded the letter back and placed it in the envelope. Standing up, he held the letter to his lips and looked at where John used to sit. He kept his eyes fixed on the ghost of a past friendship. After about twenty minutes of staring and finding his legs to be weak, he looked around the empty flat and felt a paralyzing loneliness in his heart while he watched the dust settle onto John's laptop.