"He's not dead."
You slowly replace on the table the drink that was halfway towards your mouth when he strode in unannounced. He walks forward – steadily, you register in surprise, with no trace of the limp that has resurfaced – and he seats himself without preamble across from you.
He has you effectively trapped in his gaze that is equal parts confident and challenging. Even after all this time, there has never been any molecule of doubt in his body.
How troublesome Dr. Watson is.
His words all come out in a rush. "He's not dead, I'm not mad, he told me so, I have proof, and I dare you," he inhales sharply, "I dare you to prove me wrong."
You refuse to rise to the bait and you instead calmly latch on to the most interesting phrase in that statement. "He told you?"
His lips tighten. "Yes."
Your eyebrows furrow. "When?"
He stares at you for a while longer. You shift in your seat as the silence stretches on for an uncomfortable period, and for a brief moment you wonder if Dr. Watson has indeed finally cracked. Yet with one look at those clear blue eyes, it can be deduced that not only are they indicators of sobriety and sanity, but they are also the bright eyes of one who has finally discovered the truth.
And that… is dangerous.
"That phone call," he says eventually. "It was his note."
Unnecessary and sentimental, you can't help but think.
"Not his suicide note," he interjects, apparently reading your mind – and how did that happen? "That phone call was his clue."
You raise your eyebrows dubiously.
A small, sad smile graces his mouth. "He'd always get annoyed whenever I fail to catch up. 'You see, John, but you don't observe,' he'd say, before he goes on to prove how much of an idiot I am."
His features harden as his hands tighten on the papers he's carrying. "But not this time. Not when it counts the most."
He presses his lips together as he stiffly hands the first folder to you. "I didn't just observe," he declares. "I listened."
You hold his gaze steadily as you reach out perfectly manicured fingers to take the folder. From your peripheral vision, you take note of the numerous scrapes and bruises on his hands. They were marks of how he has successfully defended himself from covert attacks in the past several weeks; yet they were also reminders of how he hadn't escaped those skirmishes unscathed.
Yet his hands, though battered and broken, are steady.
"His first clue," he begins as you open the folder, "is when he told me to look up."
On top of the file is a photograph of St. Bart's rooftop.
You recognize this part. The Pledge.
"He could've chosen any building and any angle to execute his jump," he says, and you note how his voice doesn't waver, how there is no hesitation in discussing the suicide of his flatmate – a suicide he was forced to witness. "But he chose that particular building, and more importantly, he chose that particular side of the roof."
Your gaze travels across the letters engraved across the white wall near the rooftop.
"'Pathology,'" he reads out as he watches your expression closely. "He was standing on the side of the hospital where that word is engraved, because it's the first important clue he wanted me to see."
Damn, you think in restrained awe. Dr. Watson has been exceptional in figuring it out.
"There is only one connection between St. Bart's and Pathology. Because there is one important person who works in that department."
You look up at him expectantly, and he meets your gaze. "Molly."
He nods at the papers in your hands, and you shuffle them to reveal the photograph of a body on a slab.
A very familiar dead body.
"That is not… his body," he says, and this time you hear the momentary catch in his voice. "Molly specializes in investigative and forensic pathology, and she therefore has access to all kinds of cadavers."
He looks at you meaningfully. "Including tall, pale, slim cadavers of males in their 30's with dark curly hair, high cheekbones, attached earlobes and blank, grey eyes."
You bring your steepled fingers your lips; it's a tellingly-familiar gesture that makes him narrow his eyes. "He needed Molly's help in preparing the most important prop for the stage in his final act," he continues. "And for him to execute it convincingly…"
He hands over another folder to you.
"He needed a lot of stage hands."
You open the folder and you see several stolen shots of numerous individuals dressed in common clothes and living in poor conditions. None of them looks familiar.
"His homeless network," he explains. "They were his stage hands for his final act. They were there that day, dressed as paramedics and bystanders, all there to play their respective roles."
The Turn, you think to yourself.
"The way they all came rushing towards the body was a bit too quick, considering that the human psyche needs time to process shock."
You take the photo of the body and juxtapose it with the photos of these ordinary looking civilians.
None of these photos are what they seem.
"They needed to stop me from getting too close to the body, so it can be immediately whisked away before I can examine it more properly." His tone turns wry. "I'm still a doctor after all, no matter how average or mediocre my skills are. I only managed to catch hold of his—the body's wrist, but it was enough."
Your stomach drops with realization and dread.
"There was no pulse. Obviously," he smirks as he uses the word so often thrown at him, "Because it was a dead body."
He leans forward meaningfully. "A very cold, very dead body."
Your own pulse jumps at that incredibly small margin of error that he has managed to catch.
His smirk widens as he seems to have read your expression. "Human body temperature is supposed to be elevated in the early postmortem period. It's not supposed to drop in just a span of a few minutes."
"What are you trying to say, Dr. Watson?" you interject as you attempt to project a calm façade amidst your rattled nerves.
"It means," he says slowly, "that Sherlock Holmes has just done a very successful job of convincing the world that he's dead, and that he is somewhere out there, being his usual arrogant and brilliant self, and that he is very, very much alive."
That incredible statement hangs heavily in the air for a long moment. You lean back slowly on your chair as you shift to cross your legs. "And you're saying he told you all of these during… his last phone call?"
"Yes. …No. Not exactly." He frowns. "All of these had been the fruit of my own… investigations, you might call it," he says as he gestures at the papers on the table.
You drum your fingers against the armrests. "And what… inspired you to do these investigations?"
He leans forward determinedly. "Because he told me the most important clue in that phone call. He wanted to let me know."
Your eyes narrow. "And what did he say?"
His face breaks into the first genuine smile you have seen on him in weeks. "'It's a trick. Just a magic trick.' That's what he's been trying to tell me all along."
He leans back in his seat, looking triumphant. You look at him for a moment longer before you set aside the laptop that has been in front of you so you can now face him directly.
"Tell me, Dr. Watson. Why weren't you in on the trick?"
He blinks. "What?"
"If what you say is true, then why didn't he inform you beforehand that he was going to fake his death? Why were you a part of the audience, instead of having the honor of being… the magician's assistant?"
He looks like he has just taken a punch to the gut, and you lean forward to deliver the final blow. "Are you saying that Sherlock didn't trust you?"
You see him balling his fists tightly, and you can't help but admire his restraint and self-control. "It wasn't Sherlock who didn't trust me," he says lowly. "It was you."
It's your turn to have the breath knocked out of your lungs. "I beg your pardon?"
"That cyclist," he says as he narrows his eyes. "The one who ran over me just as I was approaching the body. He wasn't part of the homeless network, so he wasn't working for Sherlock. But he didn't kill me, so he wasn't working for Moriarty either."
You straighten in your seat as you struggle not to smile in surprised admiration.
"That left only one other option." He looks straight into your eyes. "He was working for you, Mycroft."
The smile appears on your face anyway before you manage to quickly cover it with a cough. "And what purpose do you think I have in hiring someone to hurt you in that moment?"
"The purpose wasn't to hurt me," he counters as your mobile phone chimes suddenly. You both ignore it. "The purpose was to simply disorient me, because you didn't want me anywhere near that bleeding body on the concrete. You were afraid of how I might react if I knew the truth. And you were afraid of how Moriarty's men might act if they knew that I knew."
His features suddenly soften unexpectedly. "Because just like your brother, you were trying to protect me. You Holmeses are idiots that way."
You cough louder this time, shifting uneasily at his unexplainable expression – tenderness mixed with amusement. "His homeless network was there as well, you know," you point out. "They were trying to keep you away too."
He shakes his head. "That's not precisely true. They all rushed to crowd around the body because they were trying to keep other people out. I was the only one they let in, because they had to let me touch the body at least once before taking it away immediately. They had to make sure they leave me one vital clue without letting Moriarty's men suspect anything."
Impressive, you think as you watch him stare you down confidently, waiting for your reaction. You can see now why he works so well in tandem with your brother. "But why do you think he needed to leave you all of these clues for you to figure out? If you were in on the trick, it would've saved you both the effort."
His face softened once more, but this time it was tinged with a deep, unfathomable sadness. "He didn't have time. We were being closely watched. He couldn't risk revealing his magic trick before the curtain was even up. And…" he trails off.
He is unable to meet your gaze this time. You frown. "And?" you prompt him.
He sighs heavily. "I was too close to him. My name is plastered next to his all over the news, for god's sake. And I'm with him wherever he goes. It's obvious to everyone that—"
His voice breaks, and in that moment, you understand. And you suddenly wish you didn't ask, to have spared him this.
"It's obvious that I matter. To him," he finishes in a whisper.
You look at your hands, careful to not look at him as you let him have his moment of privacy to pull himself together. You hear him take a deep breath as he continues.
"He knows that his enemies know my… worth, to him. He knows that they'll use me as leverage. And he knows that in this particular game, he has to call the bluff."
He closes his eyes and inhales slowly.
"In order to execute his magic trick successfully, he has to convince his audience – his enemies – that they can use me." His thumb distractedly strokes a dark bruise blooming on the back of his hand. "He has to convince them that I'm his weakness."
He swallows as he struggles to say the next words. "He has to convince them that… he has succeeded in breaking me. Because they know. They know that… he matters to me too."
He links his fingers tightly together to stop his hands from trembling. "He matters so… so much," he whispers.
Every thread of sorrow was woven into that tiny fabric of breath. At that moment, you make the fatal mistake of looking at him – a fallen soldier, alone in the midst of his greatest war – and something inside your chest, something that you have long-ago deliberately frozen both for protection and preservation, suddenly burns with searing, scorching pain.
In that split-second moment when he lets his guard down, John Watson looks more dead than Sherlock Holmes ever did.
Caring, you remind yourself, is not an advantage. And you have never before hated so much to be right.
Your mobile phone chimes in another message. You reach out to turn it off. Your quiet voice matches his, though yours is steadier, calmer. "And what purpose will that serve?"
The movement seems to have somewhat revived him as he visibly shakes himself and clears his throat. "He has to break me, genuinely and… temporarily… because it has to be convincing. Because if Moriarty's men think I'm broken… then they have nothing to fear from me. It has to be believable that I'm not a threat, so that everyone else," he looks at you pointedly, "will make the mistake of underestimating me."
He hands over another folder to you.
"And he is counting on that mistake."
You open it… and you are unable to mask your surprise as your eyes widen at its contents. You look at him in genuine amazement, and he smiles wryly at your expression.
"I'm not sure if I should be insulted that you look so shocked," he says good-naturedly. "I know that I'm not naturally a genius like both of you. That's why it took me this long to figure it all out."
You spread out the folder's contents on the table.
"But as you can see," he says with undisguised pride, "Even though I'm not a genius, I study very, very hard to make up for it."
There are dozens of photographs of St. Bart's from numerous angles, multiple hand-drawn diagrams meticulously calculated and measured with lines and angles, and photographs of a homemade diorama accurately depicting the surrounding area of St. Bart's.
"Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts."
And just when you think he has no more tricks up his sleeve, Dr. Watson completely floors you as he begins reciting the lesson you once taught your brother – the lesson your brother has learned by heart ever since he was a little boy.
"The first part is called 'The Pledge.' The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man."
The photographs of St. Bart's all focus on the area where your brother was standing before he let himself fall.
"He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course, it probably isn't."
The hand-drawn diagrams are carefully sketched to reveal the numerous angles in which the visibility of the audience – the people about to witness the magic of your brother's fake death – is either limited or completely blocked.
"The second act is called 'The Turn.' The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary."
The diorama is carefully constructed to demonstrate what these hindrances to the audience's visibility were.
And there were two major obstacles.
"Now you're looking for the secret… but you won't find it, because of course, you're not really looking."
The first was the smaller building located between St. Bart's and the point where Dr. Watson took the call – the point where your brother directed him to stand.
The building effectively blocked Dr. Watson's view of the ground where your brother supposedly fell.
"You don't really want to know."
The second obstacle was the garbage truck that drove by on the road in between the smaller building and St. Bart's; the garbage truck that was carefully hiding the cadaver Ms. Hooper had prepared; the garbage truck that was strategically positioned to catch your brother and allow him to push the cadaver onto the pavement as soon as he lands on the numerous garbage bags designed to cushion his fall; the garbage truck that brought your brother to safety while everyone else was distracted by the body on the ground.
"You want to be fooled."
And if it was enough to fool John Watson, it was enough to fool the snipers.
"But you wouldn't clap yet."
He holds one last folder in his hands. Slowly, he places it on the table and pushes it towards you.
"Because making something disappear isn't enough."
He locks his gaze intently with yours.
"You have to bring it back."
The words are aimed directly at you, and you suddenly know for certain that he knows it was you who was driving the garbage truck that day.
"That's why every magic trick has a third act."
Without breaking eye contact, you reach out to take the folder.
"The hardest part."
You open it slowly. Your eyes scan the contents, taking in every single detail, and your mind is thrown into multiple paths of causes and effects until it grinds to a halt in a single, inevitable conclusion.
"The part we call… 'The Prestige.'"
You lean back in slowly dawning realization. It isn't the photograph on top of the file that catches you off guard and forces you to reassess all of your preconceived ideas.
It is the accompanying papers detailing everything Dr. Watson knows about the man in the photograph that completely topples all of your meticulously constructed plans.
"You knew him." It's not a question, but a declaration of truth.
His answer is straightforward and simple. "Yes."
"You knew him very well, in fact." You struggle to keep your voice even as you shuffle the papers in your hands, each new discovery more astounding than the last. "Only someone close to him can provide this kind of… information. Not even our intelligence department can dig up something this… in-depth."
He calmly meets your calculating gaze. "Yes. I do."
He makes use of the present tense, instead of the past. Your eyes narrow. Of all the complications you prepared for… this is the one possibility you didn't expect.
"Please enlighten me, Captain John Watson," you stress the title as your expression hardens, "What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Colonel Sebastian Moran?"
You take the photograph of the sniper assigned by James Moriarty to put a bullet through John Watson's head on the day Sherlock Holmes fell. You slide it across the table.
He catches it neatly.
You curl your fingers into a fist to hide how much they're shaking.
His eyes flicker momentarily at the photograph before he returns his gaze to you. "I saved his life."
Your mind blanks out for several, horrifying seconds, and your view of the world is completely overturned. "What?"
He slowly slides the photograph back to you. "Colonel Moran and I served in Afghanistan together, although we were initially assigned to lead different regiments. The one and only time our respective troops were assigned to the same area was when the al-Qaeda forces initiated an ambush attack we weren't prepared for."
He pauses, waiting patiently for you to make the connection, and the final puzzle piece slots neatly into place.
You breathe out slowly in wonder. "You took that bullet for him. You were shot in the shoulder because you shielded him. Moran is the reason you were sent back to London."
Your laptop begins beeping relentlessly. You frown at it before you press a key to effectively silence it.
He watches your actions curiously before he nods at you. "He was the best and most efficient marksman on the team. We couldn't afford to lose him. It's what I remember thinking at the time."
He lapses into wistful silence, his bitter smile tinged with regret. And that is the one thing you absolutely cannot stand.
"Stop that train of thought this instant, Dr. Watson," you command sharply.
He bristles, clearly not intimidated. "I didn't even say anything!"
"You didn't need to," you say crisply. "Don't let self-pity trap you, Dr. Watson. You of all people should know better."
His face suddenly crumples. It's a pathetic sight. "But if I hadn't saved Moran's life, then right now we wouldn't be—and Sherlock wouldn't be—"
"If you're going to argue using cause and effect, then logically speaking, if it wasn't for Moran, you wouldn't have been shot and you wouldn't have been sent home. And Sherlock wouldn't have met you. So unless you're going to argue that you also regret meeting my brother—"
"No." The statement was swift and firm as he shakes his head vigorously. "Never."
"—then stop blaming yourself," you finish, your voice less steady now. "It's not your fault. In fact, I may have to thank Colonel Moran. Because frankly speaking, Dr. Watson, you're the best thing that ever happened to my brother, so don't you dare blame yourself for my failure to protect him."
You conclude your words with a sharply-drawn breath. He watches you impassively as you reach out a shaking hand to finally take your drink and gulp it down in one shot. He doesn't jump even when you slam the glass back on the table.
He lets you breathe for several moments before quietly speaking. "It's not your fault either, Mycroft. You know that too, right? Sherlock is lucky to have you."
You don't answer. Your fingers stroke the rim of the glass as you will the wild beating of your heart to slow. You already regret losing your composure. You close your eyes and take one final calming breath.
"I have one last question for you, Dr. Watson," you say carefully, and he visibly schools his features as he braces himself. He nods his assent, and after a brief pause, you finally ask the one question which you have been most curious about all this time.
"What do you have to gain in knowing Sherlock is alive?"
The question takes him completely by surprise, as if he truly cannot fathom its intent or meaning. Then he looks at you incredulously, as if the answer should be obvious.
And yet even to you, the one whom your own brother has bitterly dubbed as the smartest man in London, the answer is not obvious at all.
And that fascinates you like nothing else.
"Everything. God, everything," he breathes. "I asked him for this miracle, and he gave it to me even before I realized I needed it."
You tilt your head to one side thoughtfully. "And what is it that you needed from him?"
"Redemption. A second chance to save him."
He doesn't bother to hide the way his bright eyes are brimming with unshed tears, and you find that you don't want to look away. "You're not the only one who failed to protect him, Mycroft. And you're not the only one who made it a duty – a pledge – to be by his side no matter what."
"But you're not his brother," you gently point out. "He's not your responsibility."
That prompts a watery laugh out of him. "No, I'm not. And no, he isn't. Though I have to correct you on one note, Mycroft."
You raise your eyebrows questioningly. He smiles. "I'm not his assistant."
"Oh?" you remark softly. "Who are you then?"
His harried features gentles into the most peaceful expression you have ever seen. "I'm his friend. And he trusts that I know that he will never – ever – lie to me. He knows that I know him. One hundred percent."
The papers and diagrams and photographs are all spread across your desk, bearing the fruits of all his hard work and perseverance and stubborn loyalty. "And he's counting on that."
This, you think, is sentiment. And yet it seems that in Dr. Watson, it is not a chemical defect. It is not even a disadvantage.
Rather, sentiment seems to give him… strength.
How… unusual.
A chiming sound breaks the silence, and you both glance briefly at the phone on your table before you both realize that the sound came from his pocket. He reaches inside his jacket and fishes out his mobile phone. You correctly interpret his torn expression as he reads the message he has received.
"Go home to Baker Street, John," you gently prompt him. "I'll take it from here. Mrs. Hudson will have a fit if you don't attend her birthday dinner. I hear her meatball spaghetti is divine."
He looks up at you and smiles back. "It is," he readily agrees. "Even better than Angelo's, though you can't let him know that. I'll make sure to save some for you. Forget about that diet for the meantime."
You open your mouth to retort before you realize that he's teasing. You clear your throat instead. "Thank you."
He stands and spares one last sweeping look at the papers on your table before turning to leave. He pauses as he opens the door of your office.
"He knows I saved him." He looks back at you. "Moran."
You nod minutely. "It's why he can't kill you."
"And why he can't kill Sherlock." His face, caught in shadow, is unreadable. "He knows he owes me."
Your gaze travels back to the photograph of the Colonel in his fatigue uniform, laughing at the camera with his arm slung over the Captain's shoulders, who is smiling at him.
The Prestige.
"Thank you."
You let your fingers hover over the sincere warmth and affection in John's face in the picture as he watches Sebastian.
His friend.
"Thank you, John, for saving my brother long before he has even met you."
You don't look up even as you hear the sound of the door closing. He's gone.
"There's no such thing as coincidence," you murmur.
You take a moment to pull yourself together before gathering the papers together in a neat stack as you prepare to leave. "It's like what I told you before," you tell the empty room. "He and I are the only two people you cannot fool. The difference is, he wasn't even in on the trick. And yet he still managed to figure it out." You smirk wryly. "He really isn't the idiot you have made him believe he is."
You pick up your phone from the table. "And I'm going to turn my mobile back on if you desist being petty and stop texting me. Especially when I'm talking to him."
You start to head out.
"Mycroft."
You stop short at the voice that suddenly breaks through your laptop's speakers.
"Tell him…" the deep, rumbling baritone wavers, and you pretend it's because of the poor connection.
After all, your laptop has been on all this time, recording the entire conversation and sending it to an unknown location.
"Tell him… I'm coming home soon."
Sentiment, you think, is not always a chemical defect.
And it is not always found on the losing side.
You smile. "I will, Sherlock."
Direct quote from The Prestige (2006) by Christopher Nolan:
"Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called 'The Pledge.' The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course... it probably isn't. The second act is called 'The Turn.' The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret... but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call 'The Prestige.'"