o000o
"One word, Sherlock. That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive."
oo
"I've nearly been in contact so many times, but ..."
o000o
Must be clever so it will not arouse suspicion; so it will do no harm… One clue, with a detail of something only the two of us could know.
On route to his next target, the undercover operative, filthy from his long travels, huddled in a dilapidated cabin, both for cover from exposure and some needed rest. For the rational man who had detached from his former life, enduring the challenges in Eastern Europe took full concentration. There was no time to dwell on the softer sentiments that motivated his mission. The longer he spent subverting Moriarty's underworld, the greater the distance were his memories of home. Bending his keen mind and tenacious will toward his goal, he had been an effective weapon thus far. However, it required great precision and extraordinary patience. Sometimes he could only pluck the spider's enormous web one thread at a time. It was tedious and all-consuming, but he was driven by a force he would not name, and after all this time, perhaps he could not name.
How long he had been submerged in this hellish life, he did not want to know. Eight months? Ten? Longer? It seemed a lifetime ago that the famous detective "jumped to his death from St. Bart's rooftop."
Full transformation had been necessary to achieve success. At first, with his adrenaline pumped and his focus entirely absorbed, he was spared any stray thoughts about those he had left behind; but lately, in the quieter moments alone, when all his plotting and calculations were done for a time, his overburdened intellect needed a release. He realized that the passage of time could not effectively bury his subconscious nor heal the wounds caused by this sacrifice. Sentimental loss still haunted him. It was a weakness, a flaw, because he had learned to care.
And caring about anything other than oneself was exceptionally dangerous where he was. Despite this knowledge and his practiced discipline to remove feelings from the equation, he had begun to suffer lapses. True, only when he was spent and utterly exhausted, but they occurred as momentary blinks during rest, sweeping down over his focus like his heavy eyelids.
Along with these memories, the temptations would resurface, urging him more times than he wanted to admit, so many times, to make contact. Resigned to suffer these moments, he would allow himself to play along, in a kind of mental game, and wonder how reaching back—to John—would make his ongoing mission just a little more bearable.
Must be clever …a clue, a detail…
After a while the game became addictive. Every time the playful ideas crept into the twilight of his sleep, thoughts of John would cascade over him like a cleansing, restorative shower. This sensation soothed and comforted him as even the deepest sleep could not.
What to choose for a clue? Something personal, simple, small?
Snippets of their former life—the daily routines—offered so many possibilities. His observations of John were endless:
The way he would spread the newspaper flat on the table and turn each page, his forehead furrowed as he reported a headline to entice me.
How he would point with two fingers, the index and middle fingers on his non-dominant (right) hand, to read the words from an article of interest.
Or the way his voice sounded when he recited the news. Hopeful. Encouraging. Patient. Expectant.
That delighted gleam in his eye when I would respond to his case suggestions with genuine interest.
His astonishment when I would 'solve' the case from a mere headline.
How he'd bellow about silly things, like experiments in the fridge, depleted groceries, unpaid cab fare, truthful remarks taken as cruelty even though I meant to prevent delusional thinking.
Oh, how he hated my 'knowing' look, because he didn't know what I had deduced and required my explanation.
How he accused me of posturing when I turned my collar up, wrapped my scarf just so, but how the bloody hell could I possibly have changed my cheekbones?
So many times, and lately with greater frequency, such thoughts would run their course, babbling through his memory to comfort and encourage him.
When he preferred coffee to tea —no sugar— a strong morning brew to reawaken his senses and start his day. "Right!" he would customarily say to no one in particular after he had drained the mug, shoved from the table or arisen from his armchair, and headed upstairs to change into one of his assorted plaid shirts, knitted jumpers, and sturdy trousers.
How well he could undercut hypocracy, and especially Mycroft's pomposity, with his dry sarcasm…we laughed and laughed...so many times.
That smile of his, but most memorably, that infectious laugh—genuine, heartfelt, guileless—affected me. He may not have been aware how it enriched me in ways that even The Work never could. It's been the only sound I miss more than my violin. It warmed my heart—this heart burnt by separation. Must continue to fight on and survive if I am to hear his laugh again!
However, this cold night, as he lay on a burlap cot, shivering in the darkness of the ramshackle cabin, the game was no longer enough. It was silly, inconsequential, and insubstantial. He didn't want to play anymore. He needed to dig deeper, to find something more, to make it real.
What I miss above all else is John's trust, the great loyalty he showed me—even when the world had turned against me, even when I had doubted him that last night before my arrest. There must be something in those moments we shared — a unique clue that only we would know—before I took the fall.
On the edge of sleep, he closed off all other thoughts and entered an area of his Mind Palace he had not visited in so long.
00000000000
"I don't care what people think." Sherlock summarily dismissed John's suggestion he cooperate with the police to offset public ridicule. It was only a matter of time before Lestrade would return with a warrant for Sherlock's arrest—standard procedure—based on bogus charges created by Moriarty. In the meantime, Sherlock sat at his desk, integrating a video program on his laptop with the hidden camera he discovered in the bookcase.
"You'd care," John made a stab at logic, "if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."
"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong."
"Sherlock!" Hurt and anger had worked their way into John's voice: "I don't want the world believing you're ..." Lips clenched tight, John couldn't finish.
Immediately Sherlock met John's eyes, arresting further comment between them.
In the ensuing silence, Sherlock studied the man who, since they had met, had stood by him in every crisis, who stood now at the window, hands in his pockets, watching through parted drapes as Lestrade and Donovan drove off. Was there doubt in John's mind now? Was he losing faith like everyone else? John was the man whose opinion mattered most…
Sherlock's impassive face did not betray the real dread that gripped him as he stared at his only friend. Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock squinted, arched his eyebrows, and tilted his head, daring John to speak what they both feared to hear. "That I am what?"
John braved the moment with a slight swallow and an expressionless face. A blink and a sigh preceded his quiet answer: "A fraud." His voice seemed now completely drained of emotion.
Recoiling with frustration, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and let his gaze sweep the room before landing once more on John. "You're worried they're right." Sherlock nodded as if he finally understood and looked away.
"What?" John shook his head in hurt disbelief, as though stunned that Sherlock could doubt him, sensing any mistrust between them would swiftly become critical.
"You're worried they're right about me." Sherlock had become introspective, the possibility and repercussions of John's doubt hemorrhaging his tremendous disappointment.
"No!" John protested quickly, like he was clamping a bleeding artery.
"That's why you're so upset." Sherlock was spouting assumptions that threatened to drain the life from their friendship. "You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."
Still shaking his head, John turned toward the window, binding the open wound with the truth, "No, I'm not."
"Moriarty is playing with your mind too! Can't you SEE what's going on?" Slamming his hand on the desktop, Sherlock erupted in fury.
For several seconds John's dark glower met and silenced Sherlock's passionate outburst. John turned once again to the window, his own simmering anger controlled with the calm he learned in combat. A soft swallow helped him keep his voice civil. "No, I know you're for real."
"A hundred percent?" Sherlock recovered, attempting to mask the genuine hurt he felt. He did not care what people thought. He only cared what John thought. Confounded by his own emotional turbulence, Sherlock's face fell, his eyes skirted the laptop screen as his vision turned inward. This is what Moriarty wants. We mustn't let doubt drive a wedge between us.
Yet John was not to be underestimated by Moriarty or Sherlock. He raised his eyes from the window and leveled a defiant glare on his brilliant partner. In a voice as cold as steel and equally unyielding, John declared unswerving commitment like no one else could do. "Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying DICK all the time."
Astonished, Sherlock stared speechless at his forthright friend. Under different circumstances he might have laughed. A shuddering breath nearly escaped him, but Sherlock stifled all signs of his relief. Rather, warmed with gratitude he had come to feel the longer their association continued, Sherlock's eyes lingered on the quietly amazing John Watson who again and again had demonstrated genuine courage and conviction.
Without another word, John merely turned back to the window, a soldier at his post waiting for the approach of their enemy.
00000000000
Not for the first nor last time had he been stirred by memories, but this was the first time the temptation to act seemed to have true merit.
"…nobody could fake being such an annoying DICK all the time."
What method should I use to deliver this clue? By anagram, cipher, crossword puzzle, skip code, or send one word at a time over a period of weeks…
nobody
could
fake
being
such
an
annoying
DICK
all
the
time.
By what mechanism should it be delivered? Email, text, post, carrier pigeon, printed advert, through Mycroft, through Molly, or better still, as a choice remark spoken by one—no, by eleven, one for each word—of the twenty-five among my homeless network who know the truth. These passers-by could quote in sequence each word of the phrase, mere whispers in the air, leaving no material proof to put John in danger.
Combining this clue with my actual clues spoken from the rooftop : "It's a trick. Just a magic trick," John might finally glean my message comes from beyond this grave that temporarily buries me in exile.
This real grave. Not that empty gravesite where he—the nearly departed—had stood listening to the murmurings of his grieving friend: "No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me." These echoes brought pangs of remorse even now. It made him suffer, he needed to suffer, for what John had endured, and he deduced, what John continued to endure in his absence. For this reason, he would not, could not, erase the haunting memory of John's voice, broken by tears and desolation: "Don't ... be ... dead..."
One perfect clue will give John hope.
...AND THE CONSEQUENCES? The sudden and clear internal voice intruded, the rational mind had returned, reintroducing reason and logic devoid of emotion, to thwart the dangerous delusions before they took hold.
Kindness or selfishness? Would it really be kind to give John hope? Would it really ease his grief, sustain him until I return, on hopes I will return. What if I don't return? Then he grieves again.
Think! The rational mind clamored. Examine all the possibilities:
What if my clue ignites a firestorm in him? John will not rest until he probes and pushes. His stubborn determination will propel him to inquire, discover the truth. He would be relentless—my admiration for this quality in him has only grown with time—and because he does not know the danger this doggedness bears, he would die. I will have killed my most loyal friend with a fool's kindness—no good deed goes unpunished.
Is there is no way I can reach out to assure him, to reward his trust in me? What message delivered so inconspicuously could even begin to convey my overwhelming regret that, because of me, he is in danger, that because of me, he is in pain?
And not for the first nor last time, the rational mind produced sound arguments as it deduced the consequences of sentiment.
There was no disputing that sentiment had changed him. Until he chose to care, the depths of sorrow had been a mystery he could not fathom. Caring had enabled him to respond to his friend's grief at the gravesite. As he had stood unseen in the shadows, a foretaste of the shadowed world he inhabited now, he not only observed but felt in equal measure John's pain. He had rarely experienced such anguish—empathy —as he had whilst stoically watching John stifle his sob, square his shoulders, and impose control over the shattering loss. Even John's final gesture, the military strut away, was a testament of utmost respect for his friend, Sherlock Holmes, who was now dead.
John was strong. Wouldn't John use that strength to overcome his pain? But, would a message help John, a man who gave his heart to someone who did not deserve it, recover his courage, his fortitude, his determination to live? And should John receive any clue—even one word—from beyond the grave, would it confound him even more, make him suspicious, obsessed, unhinged? Would it bring him more despair, driving him off the edge of paranoia —or worse—the rooftop of a building? What effect will my clue have on someone so vulnerable and deeply wounded by grief? Will it destroy the very man whose life I am attempting to save?
And the final argument seemed the most damning.
Should I succeed, and John learns the truth quietly, his mind at peace, his heart encouraged, and he is warned to keep the secret on pain of death, would he be able to mask his knowledge, his relief, his hope, and still appear aggrieved and bewildered by his best friend's inexplicable death?
The realization took his breath away.
The truth would be written plainly on John's face—an honest man who was horrible at lying—for all to see.
Perhaps I am doing my trustworthy friend an injustice by fearing his sentimental side. Whilst foremost a doctor, John has the heart of a soldier, a fighter. He is the strongest man I know, with nerves of steel, stalwart, formidable. He can be trusted. He would not betray my confidence. He would be willing to die rather than reveal the secret. But I am trying to keep him alive. What sense does it make to burden him with a dangerous truth?
Sadly, I will be putting him in great danger if I contact him. Do I dare take that gamble because I am weak and selfish and alone?
Even one word might cause my friend's death.
And then, from beyond the grave, Moriarty will have won. Perhaps Moriarty has already won. John's loyalty had been the greatest sacrifice in all this, betrayed by the fakery of two dead men—Moriarty and me.
And not for the first nor last time did the most logical conclusion negate contact.
Yielding to selfish temptations engendered by my debilitating sentiments puts the mission on dangerous ground and John, along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, in a marksman's sight. I must forget…and move on until this is done. If I am weak, they will die.
ooOOoo
ooOOoo
Sherlock may have decided against it, but to you, the reader of this story, the kindness of your review—even ONE word—would be greatly appreciated.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:Referencing the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan has been an enormous help in verifying dialog that I reused in this fanfiction. My eternal thanks to Ariane DeVere for this valuable resource.