A/N1: I wrote this for the Sherlock Mini-Bang Challenge, back in November/December, and only now realized I didn't post it over here when I posted it on AO3 before Series 3 aired. My bad! Anyway, here it is now, if any of you are looking for a break from the new series mania that's going around. ;)
A/N2: Art for this story credited to the lovely residentbunburyist. Take out all spaces, as usual for links on here. Lady, you are awesomely patient, as I have stated before, and a wonderfully talented artist. I was very lucky to get paired with you!
residentbunburyist . /post /71762948130/what- comes-of-grief-by- spaingal-for-the
It wasn't difficult to see the numerous advantages being dead gave him. It was a bit inconvenient, having to go everywhere in disguise lest he be recognized, but the benefits…oh, the benefits.
His "death" was only to have been a last resort, a blind so that Moriarty could be tricked into believing himself the victor of their extensive chess game. With Moriarty's check though, it had become the only ready means of saving John's life. Of saving Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's. The stakes had suddenly become distressingly real in a way they hadn't for anything that led up to that rooftop gamble. He hadn't doubted that there were snipers on all three of them. It would be frighteningly easy to get to Mrs. Hudson; Baker Street was only as secure as Sherlock's reputation made it. Paid assassins wouldn't care what hell Sherlock could reign down on them. The idiots at the Yard wouldn't know an assassin even if one walked up to them wearing a sign proclaiming his profession. They could hardly recognize the work of common criminals. So even within the Yard itself, Lestrade could hardly be counted as safe.
And John…oh, once John figured out that Mrs. Hudson had not in fact been shot…well. He would be coming back for Sherlock. The man might be slower on the uptake than Sherlock – and everyone was – but he was still sharper than most everyone else Sherlock knew. John would figure out that Sherlock had sent him away on purpose, and being the loyal man he was, his flatmate would be coming to provide backup. (And more yelling, likely, about the not good-ness of arranging it to seem as if your landlady had been shot just to get rid of someone.) And that very loyalty would make him the easiest target of all. Out in the open, or in a taxi…Sherlock shut down any analysis of how many fatal accidents could be arranged with the sort of notice the snipers must have been given.
No, the only surprise was that John had gotten back so quickly. He must have turned right around after seeing Mrs. Hudson whole and hale. Sherlock supposed he might even have hailed down the same cab he arrived in before it had gotten too far away. John Watson on a mission was not to be underestimated.
He hadn't expected to lose that round to Moriarty, but he had planned for it. It was impossible to play the Game if one didn't account for the possibility of loss; what was more important, though, was that it was a fatalistic lack of foresight. Not every battle had to be won – though it was certainly more satisfying when they were. The only battle that truly mattered was the final one. The victor who triumphed in that last battle, well, he won the war, didn't he?
Sherlock had yet to lose a war, and he didn't plan on starting now.
This battle couldn't be called a win for either side. Not conclusively. Moriarty had forced Sherlock off the roof, even gotten him to voice the hated words – I'm a fake, John. – but he hadn't succeeded in actually killing Sherlock. Sherlock himself had succeeded in saving all three of the lives that mattered most to him, but he had been forced to do so in a manner that left him legally dead.
Sherlock wasn't going to risk John's life, Mrs. Hudson's life, Lestrade's life, by coming back until he knew it was safe for them. That shouldn't take very long. Verifying that the assassins had left the country would be easy enough, even with the low profile he had to maintain for the moment. As soon as he had confirmation that they had moved onto other assignments and had no intentions of reneging on the deal for their most recent contracts – which they shouldn't. It wasn't likely they'd get paid now, with Moriarty dead, even if they did carry out the hits. – he could make his comeback.
Restoring his reputation would be tedious, but it could be done. Perhaps he'd let Mycroft do that bit. That sort of bureaucratic nonsense was his preferred method of control.
John Watson watched the hearse pull away, bearing his best friend's body to the cemetery, and knew he couldn't follow. Vaguely, he knew he made his excuses to Mrs. Hudson, but all he truly remembered was ducking into the funeral home again, and then out the back through a door most likely meant for supply deliveries, trying to simultaneously ignore and follow the phantom voice that murmured advice to him.
"A suit is conspicuous, but people don't observe. Simply remove the jacket, unbutton a few of the top fastenings of the shirt, roll up the sleeves. Muss your hair a bit – no, not quite that much, you aren't trying to look like a beggar, really – yes, there. Now you're simply a businessman finally off the clock, too tired to wait to arrive home to get rid of the uniform you despise. The average person doesn't see the difference between business and formal."
A sob choked in his throat, and John nearly threw his suit jacket into the first bin he passed.
It would have taken too much effort to actually do it, and he couldn't afford to throw out perfectly good clothing. Especially not…not now.
A few days. He just…he needed a few days to get his head on straight. He would just lay low for a while, until some of the media frenzy died down.
Two days later, an army doctor worriedly hung up after getting voicemail for the fifth time in a row.
"This is John Watson. I'm not able to reach the phone right now, being at work or – well, at the Work – please leave a name, number and message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
For a long moment, he stared at his phone and then his hand tightened around it. Right. Enough was enough. If John wanted to play it that way, he'd just have to play dirty.
Mike Stamford almost threw his stapler at his office door when the knock sounded.
Knock-knock-kn-knock.
He thought he'd made it clear to building security that he wasn't talking to reporters or curious fans or anyone about the fact that he had known the great – fake (as if) – detective. No one should have gotten to his door, but a few too enterprising reporters had managed to find him anyway.
To be honest, he was probably recognized more as someone who had stood by John Watson's side at the funeral than as a tolerated acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes, but it wasn't hard to leap from John Watson's friend to potential source of information. With John quite effectively avoiding everyone, Mike – and Mrs. Hudson, he was fairly certain – was fielding a lot more questions than he wanted to answer.
Knock-knock-kn-knock.
"I told you I'm not answering your questions! Go away!"
"Open the damn door, Stamford! I don't have time for this!"
Mike had never moved quite that fast before in his life. When he wrenched open the door, he was met with a very frustrated looking Bill Murray, fist raised to knock again.
"Where the bloody hell is John?"
Some of the weight of worry lifted from Mike's shoulders. Ever since John had joined the military, there had been a distance between the two of them that nothing seemed able to breach. They had still been friendly, but there wasn't much in common in their lives after graduation. Mike had honestly been surprised that John had put in the effort to reconnect with him after he was shot and sent home. They had had little in common any more than a shared dorm in university and old acquaintances neither of them saw anymore. But he had, and Mike knew from his stories it had at least some small reason to do with the man before him.
Bill Murray had poked and prodded at his squad mate and his friend, refusing to give up no matter how much it might have seemed that John himself had. And Bill Murray had done the one other thing for which Mike would be forever grateful.
It hadn't been coincidence that the civilian doctor had taken his lunch break in the park that day John Watson came limping by.
"He'll be looking for distraction. For something to spark excitement again. Even if you just catch his interest for a few minutes…that might be all it takes. John's always spoken well of you. Just try?"
"When did you get back?" he blurted, still trying to catch up. Murray sighed.
"Four days ago. I missed the funeral, and John isn't answering his mobile. Tell me you know where he is."
Stepping back – belatedly remembering his manners – Mike ushered the military doctor into his office. "Sadly, no. He won't answer me either. His landlady said he needed space after the funeral."
Bill's jaw clenched and he blew out a long slow breath, eyes shut. When he opened them again, Mike recognized the same look John got right before he went to pull Sherlock out of whatever stupidity the consulting detective had gotten himself into without John there to be the voice of reason.
"Alright. What else happened, then? John wouldn't retreat like this if it was just a suicide."
Mike sighed. He did not want to talk about this. The memory of John's stoic façade crumbling once he had reached the dubious safety of Mike's small house was far too recent to be anything but sharply painful.
"I couldn't…221 isn't…he…God, Mike, why did he have to do that?"
Gesturing at a chair, he shuffled over to his desk chair and dropped more than sat in it. "Make yourself comfortable. This will take a while."
John had moved through the last five days on autopilot. He would have been astonished he had remembered to eat and bathe had he the energy for such things at the moment. As it was, he was operating at half-capacity right now, pure survival instinct driving him to take at least marginal care of himself. Simply because Sher- because he had been such a massive, selfish, self-absorbed twit as to take his own life over what they BOTH knew were lies didn't mean John would follow the man into death.
No, he was far too confused and angry for that.
They had been lies. He knew that. Everyone with a brain knew that. Anyone who had met the man knew that. John didn't understand how any of those lies could stand up to any close sort of scrutiny, but he supposed that just went to show - get people angry enough at you, and they don't care if you were innocent or not.
And all those angry people had been so ready to believe Moriarty's lies, so ready to point fingers and feel vindicated. It had driven John's best friend to the roof of St. Bart's and over and John couldn't get that image out of his head.
"Why?" he implored of the chair opposite him, sitting empty, always empty now. Its owner buried and gone. What had that solved? Why had he done it? None of it made sense. "You idiot, why? It never would have stood up in court, no matter what pull Moriarty had. He couldn't have twisted the truth that much." He was starting to get angry now, his confusion and grief morphing into a feeling he was far too familiar with in relation to his flat mate. Former flat mate.
Flailing black trailing a pale streak...
The sickening crack-thud of a body hitting pavement at speed, audible even though John knew he was too far away to hear it…
"Why didn't you let me help you? Why couldn't you listen for once? Why did you lie to me? Nothing you said that first night, none of it was faked. I know that. You kno-knew that!"
John wasn't aware of when he'd gotten to his feet, but he was there now, standing in the small space between the chairs, fists clenched, feet bare, shouting at an inanimate object because the true target of his anger could no longer hear him. It was pathetic, but that only made him angrier.
Blood seeping from a head wound far too familiar to the doctor in John...
Eyes once sharp and clear now dead and sightless, no spark of life, of anything…
"Taking your life solved nothing! It only vindicated Moriarty and his twisted rumor campaign! You were too bloody competitive to let anyone win anything, even if it was the last word, so why, why did you let Moriarty win this?!"
Much later, John would recall this moment, and be thankful that he hadn't thrown something of more value. Right then, all he could feel was the need to break something, to find some physical outlet for his grief and anger. The ceramic mug he threw at Sherlock's chair barely skimmed the top edge - where the detective had so often slouched in a bad mood between cases - and crashed into the far wall with an almighty bang, shattering into pieces.
Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson's voice rose in surprised alarm, and much younger feet than hers pounded up the stairs, closely following a familiar voice shouting his name.
"JOHN?"
Bill Murray had never been one to avoid a confrontation in his life, but he found himself strangely reluctant to knock on the door of 221 Baker St. He'd barely been back in the country on his leave before the newspapers exploded with the news that Sherlock Holmes was a fake, and hardly a day later, that the fake detective had committed suicide by jumping from the roof of St. Bart's. Bill had never felt more useless in his life, stuck on base on a technicality for three days after that. He wasn't sure who had messed up his paperwork, but if Bill ever found them, they'd regret it. But he had not been able to find John even when he did get off base. His friend had obviously gone to Holmes' funeral, but from there, Bill hadn't been able to find him. It was entirely likely John had gone to ground somewhere that only he and the detective knew about to avoid the press for a few days to lick his wounds. ("He took to the idea of code words a little too readily, Bill. Would you believe he won't just tell me what they mean? I had to learn the code words for duck by getting things chucked at my head until I made the connection!) Holmes, by John's account, would have made quite the tactician if he'd been able to stomach Army discipline.
Bill had only met the man once, over a rather unforgettable Skype conversation with John where the detective had come bursting into the flat and dragged John out on some sort of case with barely a pause to explain anything. (Bill still suspected the man had only paused because he could not physically pull John away from his chair when the shorter man didn't want to be moved. It had been amusing to watch him try, though.) He still couldn't see how the sharp-eyed, too-knowing man could have been a fake. It didn't really make sense.
Whatever was true, though, he knew John wouldn't believe it, and would be devastated anyway. From what Mike had said when Bill had bullied his way into Bart's and to Mike Stamford's office – completely fed up with his inability to find John, and more than a little wary (scared) of going by 221B and finding it empty of all life - his friend had seen Holmes jump. Had been the one to receive the detective's final words. It had been all Bill needed to hear to kick his own discomfort fully to the curb. He'd bitten the bullet – to use a horribly trite cliché – and flagged down a taxi to take him to Baker Street, thoughts of John, alone in that flat, and hyper-focusing on every moment of that day as he had on missions gone wrong in Afghanistan, flashing through his head.
The bastard had made John his note.
It had to be eating Bill's friend. And even if John hadn't returned to 221 yet, he could at least let Mrs. Hudson know he'd stopped by. Maybe she'd agree to call him when John surfaced again -
"Are you looking for someone?"
Bill did not jump. But it was a close call. He turned, lecturing his battle ready reflexes that he was in bloody London, not Afghanistan, he met the weary, wary eyes of an older woman who could only be the landlady he'd just been thinking of.
"Ah, yes, actually. My friend lives here, and I wanted to come-" Bill sighed. "Well, give him a shoulder to lean on. It's too soon for comfort yet." He offered Mrs. Hudson a small nod. "I'm Bill Murray. Maybe John's mentioned me?"
The wariness disappeared off of her face as if it hadn't been there in the first place. "Oh, dearie," she said, relief lightening her expression. "I'm sure John would be happy to see you. Goodness knows he needs a friendly face after...everything." With a fluttering of hands, she opened the door to the flat and ushered him in, still talking. "He's not been himself, not that any of us have, since Sher-lock-" her voice broke on the name, but she continued gamely on. "Well, and that's only natural, isn't it? I don't think the poor boy's left the flat since he came back after the funeral. You go right on up. I'll make you a cuppa."
Bill was about to protest that it wasn't necessary - he knew John. As soon as he got the man talking, he wouldn't want to stop, and he wouldn't want any more witnesses to his grief than necessary. - when the sound of shouting reached both their ears, followed closely by the sound of breaking crockery from the upstairs flat. Mrs. Hudson let out a startled yelp, hands flying to her mouth and Bill was moving before he'd thought anything through, heart pounding in his throat. Holmes had made enemies with his cases, and John had been caught in the crossfire a couple of times. If someone had come here, looking to get revenge, the detective being dead already would hardly stop them from taking out their anger on John.
"JOHN?!" he yelled, even as he took the stairs two at a time.
When Bill Murray and John Watson finally stood in the same room, in the same country again, after nearly three years apart, neither could claim to be the most surprised. John stared at a friend he had honestly forgotten was due on leave soon, and Bill stared at a man doing battle with nothing more substantial than his own grief and anger at a dead man.
The shock caused John to huff a half-amused laugh and it reassured Bill that his friend wasn't as lost to grief as he had feared he'd be.
They could work out the rest together.
Bill smiled grimly as he watched John finally lose the battle to keep his eyes open. It had been hard walking the line between subtly encouraging John to let go a bit and release the feelings he'd been bottling up and a not-so-subtly trying to get him to sleep.
It was an old trick, one they'd both used on those under their care before. Get the patient annoyed enough about your secondary objective and the first was accomplished with hardly any trouble at all. It spoke to just how hard John was taking Holmes' death that he didn't recognize it. Bill was hoping – with probably too much optimism – that the trend would continue when John woke up.
More likely was that John would have a screaming fit at Bill this time, not at the late detective's chair. And while that would also be therapeutic for John, it would be hell on everyone's ears. Mrs. Hudson would probably appreciate a bit of quiet, he was sure. It hadn't been an easy week for either of the remaining occupants of 221 Baker Street.
John shifted in his chair, face twitching in the throes of a dream, and one arm fell off of the arm rest to land heavily in his lap. Bill froze, hardly daring to breath until John settled again, breathing still even and deep.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, and ran a hand over his face. He had not expected to come home to the aftermath of a war, however small it had been. He'd wanted to spend some time decompressing with a friend who had been there in Afghanistan, who knew what Bill was going through, and to hear about the latest crazy happenings in London, courtesy of his friend's crazy flatmate, maybe even finally meet the man in person. John hadn't been able to decide if Bill was going to punch Sherlock or think he was as brilliant as John did.
They'd both been looking forward to finding out. Holmes' had likely not thought anything about it. As John said often, the man was brilliant, but not the best with human interaction. He likely hadn't seen the point in spending time with his flatmate's friend, but Bill had wanted to meet the person who had dragged John back to the realm of the living with such ease. The last time Bill had spoken to John – before John met Holmes, before he came alive again – his friend had been listless, uninterested in his life and barely in anyone else's. It had been beyond maddening, knowing that John was in London, wounded more in mind than in body, and alone, while Bill was stuck in Afghanistan, unable to do more than hope that John would pick up the Skype calls he made whenever he got the chance, that he wouldn't be calling an empty room because John had taken the only way out he felt he had, the one Bill hadn't had the heart – or the proof, not outright, John had never been that clumsy – to take from him.
And now, Bill was afraid the cycle would start again, and he wasn't sure John was going to able to recover from losing such an important part of his life here in London.
Bill felt his own gaze drawn to the empty arm chair across from John. It seemed as good a place as any to direct his glare, in the absence of the proper recipient.
"You bloody bastard," he whispered, low and fierce, at the chair. "Did you even think about what your suicide was going to do to John? You knew how bad he was before you met. How could you throw him back into that?"
John's voice, exhausted and frustrated, echoed through Bill's memory. A video message sent not long after what Bill only later learned was John's abduction and forced service as a suicide bomber.
"He doesn't think he's capable of emotion. Calls himself a high functioning sociopath. But – it doesn't fit, Bill. I'm hardly a psychologist, but I – this latest case…I almost believed him for a while. But after what happened two days ago, I just can't. No sociopath would have reacted like he did to thinking I was Moriarty; that I'd played him, betrayed him like that. He feels. He cares. Sherlock…he hides it so well he's convinced himself, I think. I almost don't want to know what happened to him to cause that kind of retreat."
Bill shook his head, banishing the memory, looking back at John's exhausted form sprawled in the chair. He stood and carefully laid out a blanket taken from the sofa over his friend. It would be better for John to sleep in a bed, but there was no way Bill could get him there without waking John in the process. The blanket would have to do.
Throwing a last glare at the empty chair, Bill turned for the stairs. He'd keep Mrs. Hudson company while John slept. He needed to know a bit more about what had gone on last week, and with John out for at least a couple hours, Mrs. Hudson was his best bet.
"You may not have been a sociopath," Bill murmured as he passed the threshold of the doorway, refusing to turn around to look again at a room that only contained one man. In some way, it felt as if he would lose points in some unknown game if he did, "but you were never his friend. Not if you could just throw him back to this without a thought."
John woke slowly, his head pounding and his joints and muscles stiff. There were faint sounds coming from somewhere beyond whatever room he was in, and he thought he recognized the voice that didn't belong to Mrs. Hudson, but couldn't be sure. For a moment, his disoriented brain had him convinced that the baritone rumble was Sherlock's voice, but no.
No. That could never be again.
With a groan, John scrubbed one hand over his face, not feeling up to opening his eyes yet. Just what had –
"JOHN!"
With a start, John turned, hands that had already been half-way to forming fists closing the rest of the way and nearly lost his footing as he saw who had come barreling up the stairs at his outburst.
Worried brown eyes in a dark face. Military short haircut and civilian clothing that had obviously not been worn in at least six months – more like eight, since his last leave – and
Oh, God, stop it! He wasn't the one who picked up the little things like that. Sher-his – he had…
"Bill?"
Tension was slowly melting off of the other man as no obvious enemies presented themselves.
"All right?"
John couldn't help the laugh that came out, bitter and sharp and amused despite everything. "No. No, I'm not."
Bill shrugged acceptance, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I guess you're not."
Right. Bill was here.
"-appreciate the help, Mrs. Hudson, but I've got it from here. Really. John'll-"
Without bothering to move – he wasn't exactly comfortable, but he was warm. Everything had seemed to freeze when Sherlock had jumped off the roof at Bart's, so this was a welcome change, even if it was just as imaginary as his limp. – John raised his voice to be heard on the landing.
"-demand an explanation of what the hell you were doing, Murray, pulling med-school tricks on me."
There was a squeak John knew had to be Mrs. Hudson, and an amused laugh from Bill. When he opened his eyes, Mrs. Hudson was leaning down slightly to peer into his eyes.
"Are you feeling any better, John?" she asked quietly, sounding as if she believed he was suffering a hangover, her words quiet and hushed and careful.
John sat up, reluctantly pushing the blanket down and nodded at her. "I'm…okay."
Bill's skeptical expression over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder was welcome and infuriating at the same time. John sent a quick glare his way as Mrs. Hudson turned away, fusing with the blanket he'd pushed off of himself as he sat up.
"You need fluids and a good meal, in that order, preferably," Bill said, undeterred by his glare. "I don't know where you managed to disappear to, but I doubt it had a usable kitchen."
John could see Mrs. Hudson's alarm and sighed. "I was fine. No, it didn't have a kitchen, but protein bars and water bottles will do in a pinch. I'm fine."
This time, he was treated to a two-part skeptical look. Mrs. Hudson's was somehow more piercing than Bill's. He shook his head and got to his feet, steeling himself to walk past Sherlock's chair to pick up his mess. However much of an idiot he had been – a quick glance outside showed only a few hours had passed – this afternoon, it didn't mean he had to make Mrs. Hudson deal with his own poor coping mechanisms.
Mrs. Hudson's hand on his chest stopped him cold. He stared at her, slightly startled. She rarely touched him, or anyone. For all her hovering, she was not a very tactile woman.
"You sit, John Watson," she said, her voice firm and uncompromising. "I'm sure I don't know where you went…then, but you obviously haven't eaten properly. Ah-ah!" she said, as he opened his mouth to protest. "No. You sit, and visit with your friend and I'll make us all something to eat." When John still didn't move, she pushed gently against his chest and he finally took her hint and sat back down. He'd get the cup after she went downstairs.
"Yes'm," he said, giving her a sheepish grin. Mrs. Hudson nodded sharply and turned to Bill, giving him a twin of the firm look she had just unleashed on John. He grinned, raised his hands in surrender, and sat on the couch without protest.
"Coward," John mouthed at him.
Bill grinned, wide and amused. "Pot, kettle," he mouthed back.
John made a face back at him, and for a moment everything was fine. He was just visiting with Bill, Mrs. Hudson was going to bring them some of her excellent food and Sherlock –
John froze and his gaze was drawn back to the chair that had been the focus of his ranting earlier. It sat, still and empty and cold, as it ever would now. John could certainly not bring himself to sit in it.
With a sigh, he rubbed a hand across his face. This wasn't going to work. He'd thought that with a few days of grace in one of Sherlock's hidden safe-houses around London, he'd be okay. That he could stick out the month or so more he could afford of Baker Street, just until he found something else.
But it was just too much. Sherlock had been too much, and he had left too large an imprint on John's life. Now that he was gone…well, a fresh start was going to require as clean a break with this flat as he could get.
He couldn't quite make himself resolve to break off contact with Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, or even Mike.
Those friendships were going to be all that kept him going; he was aware enough of his own failings when dealing with grief and life changes to know that.
So. A clean break, or as close to it as he could manage.
It would start with visiting Sherlock's grave. He hadn't managed to go there, despite every effort he'd made for it. He knew that had hurt Mrs. Hudson, though she tried not to show it around him. He'd take her with him, maybe. Ask her to come with, and he'd have no good reason to back out of it.
It would end, though, somewhere, anywhere but at 221B Baker Street.