AN: I have jumped onto the Reichbach-feelings train... Well, here we go: Enjoy the ride!
WARNINGS: mentions of suicidal thoughts and actions, although no actual death occurs
Disclaimer: Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Mr. John Watson belong not to me :(, but to BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle.
What else? Since I wrote from Sherlocks POV (from a "british" POV), I prefered the british spelling over the American. Found any mistakes? Please tell me.
Here was John, kneeling before me. Dr. John Hamish Watson. With a gun. On his temple. Ready to take his own life. In my bedroom.
But since stories usually start at the beginning, I will try to find a better opening.
Once upon a time… Okay, that is just silly.
Never mind. Let's try again.
It all began with me and a not-so-ordinary person who I found to be a highly entertaining change to my boring life. James Moriaty. He had set up a conspiracy to make me seem like an imposter. Sadly, everybody believed him. Luckily, I had seen through his great plan early enough to make one of my own.
I don't need to tell you how this all ended: Us on the roof of the hospital (how ironic, yet fortunate for me), him threatening me and my fall to save the people who were closest to being my friends.
My desperate death as a criminal who paid an actor to play a criminal I then could fight with my faked genius detective work so that nobody would noticed I was the one committing the crimes. Right. Who would think up such a twisted story? Anyhow - this was what the media told everyone.
Two things are the truth, however. One – he is the bad guy, I am not. Two - I survived. Obviously.
But I don't want to bore your simple brain with a long and complex story about how I jumped off a five story building, made John believe it was me laying there, got buried and am now typing this. You want to know why John was committing suicide, not how brilliant I am.
Anyway, I am getting off track here. John, 221B, gun, temple – right. Well, you see… When John came back from the war, he badly suffered from PTSD. Nightmares, triggers, trust issues: A field day for any psychologist. And then I came along. Being the normal me, it turned out we were a good match. Unlikely, but fitting.
He befriended me, because that is what ordinary people do. Okay, I admit it… From time to time, there were moments where he showed me that I was a caring, social, emotional, friendly person, too. When boredom didn't strike too bad, I actually became quite a normal guy around him. As normal as one with an IQ of 147 can be.
John and I were each other's medicines, we were colleagues, maybe even friends; many people actually thought us to be lovers – and then there was the incident I mentioned earlier. Me and Mr. Moriaty on the roof top of a hospital.
After "my" jump, while John was weeping over my dead body that wasn't me, I ran away. Moriaty had told me that there were three assassins out to kill John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and it sure won't surprise anyone that I planned to go after them.
Three murderers, six months to find and kill them. Simple math. Logic. Just the way I work.
Only two people knew where and that I was during those six months: Molly Hooper, who had been a great help faking my death, but proved herself intrusive and annoying once again in the time after, was the first. The second was my dearest brother. He had read the newspapers, but was not in the slightest bit shocked when I called him. I guess he stopped wondering about me a long time ago.
It was not like I didn't want to hear news from John and Mrs. Hudson and, admittedly, from Lestrade. Mycroft shared everything he thought important with me. The problem was: I was very busy with other things. And while my brain is often unchallenged and bored, when I do have a task to work on, I work on it to the process of deleting everything else.
Therefore, after business was taken care off, I went back home – completely oblivious to what had happened around 221B, Scotland Yard and the hospital during my absence. And here I am, casually wandering into an empty flat to put my bags into my room and then maybe leave again to meet Mycroft… And who has occupied the bed, his back turned on me, pressing a gun to his temple without shaking the slightest? Right, my roommate and … friend – John Watson.
I dropped my bag on the floor in surprise and the sound made John swirl around. He stared at me in shock, looking as if I were a ghost. He stumbled off the bed and slowly walked over to me. I was about to say something – after all, I knew he wanted to hear an apology, when he slapped me.
Really hard.
I felt the blood rush to my cheek and realized what I had done to him. I had hurt him and his feelings by leaving him alone and without a clue. But before I could open my mouth to express just how sorry I was, his fist hit my nose.
I deserved it, really. But I was not keen on being beaten. I caught John's fist in mid-air before it made contact with my face another time.
"Listen to me, John." I said, but his only reply was a hissed
"You bastard."
"John, I would not know how my – admittedly wrong – behaviour brings you to the conclusion that I am a child of an unmarried couple, but I – "
"SHERLOCK!"
"Oh, right. Sorry…"
We stood there in silence for a moment, glaring at each other. John still had the gun in his hand and I was completely lost for words. Nervously, I cleared my throat.
"So, how have you been?" John stared at me.
"How I have been? How I… Well, aren't you normally smart enough to find that out? Come on, go ahead, do your little magic trick on me. Let your brain work." I couldn't resist.
"Well, first of all, you said "my little magic trick", meaning you believed that I was really the good guy although I and the media have told you differently. Therefore, you also believe Moriaty was the criminal. You don't understand how I can be alive, because you have been at my grave; but you are also happy to see me, hence your strong reaction.
The answering machine of the phone in the hall showed 34 missed calls. If somebody called you this often while you were here, you could have simply pulled the phone out of the outlet. You didn't, but you also didn`t answer the calls. Considering that the Union Jack pillow is missing, the fact that there is dust everywhere and that there are fibres on your jacket that don't match any of the furniture in this flat, I would say you have slept somewhere else. Since a long time, too, because your suitcase is missing from the cabinet in the hall.
I would now say you have been at your sister's place, but she is your older sister, meaning she would worry about you and feed you good food to cheer you up. But since you look as if you hadn't eaten in a month and because your relationship with your sister has always been strained, you did not move in with her.
There is white fabric under your shoes and you're pretty pale, probably because you spent too much time indoors with the curtains closed. I would say you moved back to the place you lived at before we met, since the paleness and the white fibres match how you looked back then, too.
Your fingertips are not slightly calloused or chapped the way they get whenever you sit in front of your computer and type too much. I figure you did not write anything in your blog. However, the red line around your wrists that you get when you are wearing disposable gloves that are a size too small for you at your work is missing, too. So you haven't been doing any medical things either.
But how did you survive? Who financed you and your life? Ah… wait: You are wearing chequered socks. You never did that before. A gift? Unlikely, you hardly had any social interaction and it was neither your birthday nor Christmas. So somebody bought them for you. Well, my brother has a particular liking for chequer patterns, he is rich enough to give you financial aid once in a while and he has offered you money before.
Enough of the outsides; how about we work on the inside a bit, too? You are currently standing askew and I saw your crutch lying in the hall. So your – undoubtedly still psychosomatic – limb is back. Also, your hair is oily and, no offense, you reek – possibly because you have not showered in a couple of days, as your outer appearance is not of importance to you anymore.
You are seeing your psychologist again, which I approve off. Don't ask how I got this: One, it was unlikely that you wouldn't turn to one after losing your best friend and two, there is a piece of paper with her name on top and a new appointment below sticking out of your left pocket.
You've got a lot of nightmares, either about Afghanistan again or about me. Also, when waking up from these dreams, you reach for the gun on your nightstand, but you hit your hand on the edge of it a couple of times, because you're not used to its position. And while that indicates that you moved there recently, it also shows that you are always ready to use your gun – fears, trust issues… Do I need to go on?
With that, we are coming to the most important part – your attempted suicide. You always believed in me and my death stirred you up. You were happy to see me here alive, but angry because I let you in the dark about the secret. You moved out of 221B, possibly because you couldn't stand living in these rooms without me, as they reminded you of me too much. You stay inside for long times, you don't work and you don't care about your hygiene. My brother finances your life. Your psychotic problems are back again and you have nightmares.
I would say you reacted this strongly to my death because you really cared about me, a fact I can't understand for a great variety of reasons. You cared about me beyond the point of friendship, but don't get me started on how I want to proof that, it would take a while. With me being gone, your life was without reason, you had no social contacts and your brain was messed up. Since today marks the six-month-, let's call it anniversary, of my jump, you figured it would be a nice time to end your somewhat pointless life.
You would have done it in your home, but since there are lots of other veterans living there, a shot might trigger them. You, as a doctor, couldn't risk that, so you choose a different setting for your suicide. You came back here and went straight to my bed room – don't lie, the footprints in the dust proof it – probably because you felt like punishing me for what I have done to you."
I finished my deduction and drew in breath. John had stood before me motionless the whole time, but since he didn't object, I figured I was right about everything.
"That," he gulped, "that was amazing." I smiled.
"I am so sorry, John… It was absolutely necessary. Please, put the gun down and just listen. I can explain everything." And John did. He sat down on the foot end of my bed exhausted and put the gun on the pillow. Then he patted to the spot next to him and I obeyed.
I told him everything; about the conspiracy, about the conversation on the roof, about a mattress and a faked dead body, about Molly and the homeless network, about a bicycle and a truck, about rubber balls and masks. When I was done, John turned to me.
"You know what I like best about this whole story?" he asked and I shook my head because for once, I didn't know.
"The happy ending." he whispered.
Then John leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. I wasn't surprised; after all, his attraction for me went as far as him being ready to take his life if he couldn't be with me. I responded shyly, unsure of what to do, since I never done kissing before. But although I acted like a completely stupid teenage boy, it felt amazing.
When we separated, John looked me in the eye and said:
"I am so happy you didn't take a minute longer. We almost ended up like Romeo and Juliet." We both giggle at this, although it probably wasn't funny in the slightest, but we were happy the other one was there to hold us.
"Welcome home." John smiled at me.
A happy ending? Well, then:
…and they lived happily ever after.