"It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things."
-Lemony Snicket
The moment Sherlock had dropped his phone, John knew what was coming. Oh, he shouted, but the mindless terror took over the second Sherlock leaned forward and embraced gravity like an old friend. John started forwards, then got slammed from behind by that cyclist, his head slapping the pavement mercilessly and making everything just slightly more disorienting than it had been moments before.
The next clear thought he has is as he's grabbing Sherlock's wrist. His still-warm body was deceiving; the lack of pulse was not. There were no illusions, not with Sherlock's warm blood painting the pavement and sliding across his face. Those eyes-wondrous blue today, for the last time-were blank and cold. Nothing like when Sherlock was displeased and he would squint his deep blue eyes just a bit at the corners, or he was hiding something and his eyes would slide into a mischievous blue-green, or an impassive grey when people around him were being particularly stupid. But now those eyes were expressionless for the rest of time.
The rain mixes with Sherlock's blood on the pavement, diluting the life the detective had left in this world.
John's fingers fumble as he pulls out his phone. How long has he been standing in the rain? He's not sure. He dials up the one person who needs to be told, the one person who John cares enough to tell. It rings twice and is halfway through a third when he answers. "Greg," John chokes out.
"Jesus. Do you realize you're still a fugitive?" Greg asks, his hushed voice making the line crackle with static. "Where are you? Where's Sherlock?"
John chokes back a sob or a laugh, he's not sure which. "In the morgue," he answers.
"At Bart's?"
"Yeah," John sighs shakily. "I-you're not going to-you need to get here, Greg."
Over the line, John can hear a door close. "I'm coming; I'm on my way," Greg replies.
"No, you don't understand," John forces out. For some reason, it's important that he knows before he gets here. "He-he's dead."
There's silence on the line and John's staring at the pool of Sherlock's blood. "John, what?" Greg asks.
"He's dead. Sherlock."
"Christ, what happened? Jesus, Jesus," Greg inhales sharply before one last: "Jesus."
"I don't know, Greg. I don't know."
John knows he shouldn't be here, not really. Greg's already come and gone. But after he saw Sherlock jump, he had to see this to an end. So he's sitting out here, at the door beside the morgue, and he's been begging himself to get up and go inside for at least four hours. He doesn't want to see Sherlock laid out on a slab, but he feels like it's his duty to. And don't they need someone to identify the body? Could Molly do it, or would it be a conflict of interest?
The woman in question steps out into the hall with a box in her hands. She starts before making sure the door is fully closed. "John?" Molly asks, but doesn't follow it up with any other stupid questions.
"I need to see," John says, his voice small and cracked. He stops when he sees that Molly's lab coat is smeared with blood. She's buttoned it closed up to her neck, and the blood covers the expanse of her torso. John clenches his hands tight, his nails biting into his palms as he exhales and pushes whatever's left of his emotions away. Molly's watching him, her eyes full of compassion, but no ounce of pity, which is good. John can't stand pity right now. "I don't think," she says slowly, "that's a good idea."
"You-you didn't autopsy?" John asks.
"There wasn't a need to, but yes. I just-I had to put some things back in the right places. He-he needed to be put back together more than he needed to be taken apart," Molly replies. Her eyes are glassy and she looks down at the box. "These are his things. I was going to uhm, get rid of them, but please, you take them. He'd-he'd want you to have them."
She sets down the box next to John as if it were made of glass, and then touches John's hand as if it were just as fragile. "I'm so sorry, John," Molly chokes out before her tears spill over.
At any other time, John would have held Molly and let her cry, but he honestly can't think beyond his own stupid, breakable body except to think about Sherlock's stupid, broken body in the next room. John stands up, picks up the box and walks away from Molly. He can hear her still sobbing as she goes into the morgue.
Anthea catches John before he can leave the hospital. "I'm to take you home," she says, and it's a stupid parody of what she said the night this whole life started. But John lets Anthea lead him through the bowels of the hospital he remembers from his uni days until they're out on a side street. Once they're in the car and moving, John understands why: the hospital is literally swarming with press. His jaw clenches as he realizes that two-two-one-b will be, too.
It doesn't matter. Anthea takes him to Harry's flat without prompting. When John is sliding out of the car with the box clutched to his chest, she says idly, "We'll bring some of your things here tomorrow."
John nods, and goes to see if his sister's home.
John sits down that night, pressing his hands to his face in an effort to just keep it all in. He doesn't want to feel like this, numb but with pain, so much pain, but not enough to kill him like Sherlock. Sherlock who jumped off a building this morning and Sherlock whose blood is still on John's sleeve and Sherlock who lied to him, in those final moments, lied up on the roof and it split John open.
So he opens Harry's laptop and goes to his blog. Luckily, no one's commented on his old posts to ask what happened, though John suspects it might be Mycroft's doing. John types out, "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him" just to spite Sherlock one last time. He disables the comments and posts it.
He stands up and looks down at the stupid computer and shouts so loud that he thinks Sherlock can hear him from the drawer at Bart's, "I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE YOU!"
John stays with Harry for a bit. He's able to ignore her comings and goings while he stays in her spare room. He shouldn't really be here, but he can't go back to the flat. His lungs still seize up at the thought; he doesn't think he could handle seeing the place that Sherlock had filled to the brim with his vitality so empty.
It takes him a day, but in the end, John opens the box. The first thing he sees is Sherlock's scarf on top of his coat, both of them bloodstained. John lifts them and presses them to his face; underneath the coppery smell of blood is Sherlock's scent, a curious mix of chemicals and soap. It settles something inside of him a bit.
Next are Sherlock's keys and wallet and mobile. Seeing it, John stops. He doesn't know what to do; he feels like he might break if he touches it. It was the last thing Sherlock held before he died; it's his note. John can't look at it without his heart hammering. He stuffs everything back in the box and slams the flimsy cardboard lid on top.
As a second thought, John pulls out the scarf, smells it again, and puts it back.
Mycroft texts John a few days later.
The funeral is set for Wednesday. MH
John's phone is shaking in his hands when he replies.
I can't. JW
I know. MH
John's not surprised when his nightmares start up again. He has them one in every two nights, which is a lot more than usual. But then again, Sherlock never did anything by halves.
Sherlock is standing on the rooftop at Bart's. He calls John, and they talk before Sherlock falls.
Sherlock is at the pool, with Moriarty in front of him. He moves the gun and is shot by a sniper.
Sherlock is chasing after a suspect. An accomplice to the criminal manages to dent Sherlock's head with a baseball bat.
Sherlock is lying on the sofa in his pyjamas. He has a needle in his arm and his skin is waxy white.
Sherlock is at John's side, dressed in army fatigues. There's a firefight and Sherlock is hit, bleeding out onto the sand before John can get there.
After every dream, John gets up, pulls on his coat, and takes a walk. It doesn't help, but then again, nothing really does.
He doesn't go to the funeral, as promised. John doesn't want to see the fake grief outpouring from the people there. He knows Lestrade will go, and probably make Anderson and Donovan attend as well, rubbing their noses in the mess they had helped to create. John doesn't want to see that, either.
The worst thought is of Sherlock packed away in a box. Sherlock, with his whirling coat and quick run; the way he took the stairs two at a time; who caressed the violin like a long-lost lover; with smiles for John and quick retorts for Anderson; a harpoon in one hand and a beaker in the other; that Sherlock placed in a box and trapped under the earth forever.
The thought made John shudder.
Harry is trying, really she is, and John knows it. So it doesn't bother him when she tells their parents exactly how John's doing. John can't bring himself to feel much of anything these days, anyway.
John hears on the news that Lestrade was demoted and is being forced into taking unpaid time off. Every case Sherlock was ever brought in on is being re-examined, which makes him bristle in Harry's armchair. John even feels bad for Lestrade until he remembers how his doubt helped Sherlock jump. John doesn't feel bad after that.
John jumps out of his skin when he sees Sherlock's face (well, deerstalker and coat lapel) on the front page of The Times, along with a picture of Moriarty from the stupid trial. Moriarty's body was found in the early hours of the morning in a meat locker in London. Cameras from St. Bart's on the morning Sherlock kill-jumped, captured Moriarty entering but not leaving. The newspaper is reporting that Moriarty apparently shot himself in the mouth, but his body was smuggled from Bart's and apparently moved quite a lot before ending up at the meat locker. No one is quite buying the story about Richard Brooke.
John is frustrated. Where was Moriarty? On the roof? Did he die up there? Why wasn't his body found? Why was the crime scene cleaned? Who was doing all of this? He's frustrated, because if Sherlock were alive, he'd be ten steps ahead already, and John would be by his side. Sherlock would be flying about London, hunting and gathering. Sherlock would be annoying the police. Sherlock would be two hours away from catching whoever did this.
But if Sherlock were here, then this wouldn't even be happening.
He answers all of the Yard's questions once they think to ask him. He refuses to come down to New Scotland Yard, but two Sergeants he's never seen before come to Harry's flat. John's in his pyjamas and dressing robe even though it's past three in the afternoon. He gives them a lot of abuse in general before he settles onto his sister's couch and answers the questions as honestly and as fully as he can.
When he's showing them out, John remarks about how it would be nice if the police could actually do their fucking jobs instead of wasting everyone's time, like their usual idiotic procedure. The Sergeants look scandalized; they'd no doubt been told that he was the nice one.
John slams the door in their faces and immediately feels horrible.
It's pouring outside as he sits in Ella's office. He doesn't remember making the appointment, but he must have because here he is.
"Why today?"
Ella's words break the silence they've been sitting in for the past five minutes. John had answered all of her stupid, banal questions before, about where he was living and what exactly happened to lead John here. When he answered her before, she simply nodded, scribbling down what looked to be random words, as if she was making a shopping list.
But at this question, John pauses, looking at her. Is she that stupid? He knew that Mycroft had told him that she had his diagnosis backwards, but really. She read his blog; she had made him start it in the first place. She should know why and not have to go through the motions of hearing him tell her what happened.
"Do you want to hear me say it?"
"Eighteen months since our last appointment."
"You read the papers?"
"Sometimes."
"And you watch telly." He pauses, letting her think about his blog, too. "You know why I'm here."
She raises her eyebrows at him.
"I'm here beca-" he chokes, stopping himself from saying it.
Ella leans forward in her chair, genuinely seeming to listen to him for the first time today.
"What happened, John?"
I moved in with a madman. He brought me on cases. He brought me back to life, took care of my limp when you couldn't. He slotted into my life like he had been there all along. He became my best friend. He looked to me for expertise and help, sometimes, and that felt like the best thing in the world. He trusted me, or so I thought. He laughed with me. He ate with me. He drank tea with me. Our lives were simple. Not easy, God no, but simple. He ran and expected me to follow.
"Sher-" he started, throat catching again. There's a tightness in his chest that won't let him speak, though he takes in a breath and tries.
"You need to get it out," Ella gently prompts, which just makes John want to yell and vent, but he can't let himself do that.
"My best friend," he forces out, trying to will away the emotions he's feeling, "Sherlock Holmes." His fists clench; he can feel his fingernails bite into his palm and the physical pain feels so much better than the emotional. "Is dead."
Mycroft visits at Harry's. John supposes he should be surprised, but he really isn't.
"Sherlock willed most of his things to you," the older man says without preamble. "I haven't disturbed any of his things at your flat; and I have transferred the money in his accounts to yours, as his will specified."
John can't bring himself to say anything. What is there to say?
"I'll be needing his mobile for a week or so, but then you can have it back. In return, I brought these for you," Mycroft continues, holding up a manilla envelope and placing it on Harry's coffee table. John wordlessly goes into the spare room, digs out the phone, and gives it to Mycroft.
"Thank you," the Holmes brother says. John doesn't respond. Mycroft betrayed his brother to Moriarty for his own personal gain. He knows Mycroft's feeling guilty, if Holmeses can feel guilt, but that doesn't particularly matter to him.
John knows this is one thing he will never forgive. It will sit inside of him, burning him for the rest of his life. His anger is pointless and stupid, but John can't-won't-stop it. It's not for him, it's for Sherlock. Sherlock will never be able to forgive his brother if he had known what Mycroft did, so John will gladly hold that grudge for his best friend.
He doesn't want to go, but Mrs. Hudson needs him. So he gets in the cab with her and her flowers, because he knows he's like a second son to her. John knows she needs him by her side to visit her first son.
She says her goodbyes, tries to cover her grief with anger until she leaves John to say his goodbyes. He doesn't want to, but he also doesn't want to have to listen to an old woman try and deny that she adored Sherlock.
John tries to tell his best friend everything his therapist wants him to say, but he doesn't know that he does. He honestly doesn't remember what he says until he places his hand on the cold, black marble and says, "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."
He turns away. He doesn't know what to do now. Sherlock never liked sentiment; he scoffed at it. "There's just one more thing, one more thing, Sherlock," John says suddenly, turning back. "One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead. Could you do that? Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this."
John can almost see Sherlock sighing and shaking his head. John wants to shout, wants to yell, but they both know that won't bring the detective back to life. Sherlock stands by his grave, impassive, frowning slightly as if he doesn't understand. John can't help it; tears fill his eyes and he bends slightly, trying to contain the emotion. He allows himself three sobs and two tears before he wipes his eyes and stands straight and tall again. He pushes his grief deep, forcing it into a burning rage inside of him, because John can deal with rage, if he has to feel anything. He nods and turns away from the grave, marching off.
He doesn't notice the pain in his right leg, or the way he automatically adjusts his weight so he's limping ever so slightly.
John finally opens the manilla envelope Mycroft gave him with shaking hands. He tugs out the glossy photos, curious and dreading. He knows that there is only one man's photos that Mycroft could give him.
John actually thinks his heart stops beating when he looks at them. Sherlock's body, laying on the slab. Just seeing his best friend like that rips a hole in John's chest the size of a grapefruit. It physically (psychosomatically) hurts so much that John bends over and puts his hand on it, and stays like that on Harry's couch for a long time.
It feels like hours before John can straighten himself up again to actually look at the photos. They turn out to be after Molly stitched Sherlock up; he can see the thread in Sherlock's chest. The body is bruised, bloody, and destroyed. Molly did her best of course, but that doesn't mean she can magically fix a body from a seven story fall.
John wants to pack them away, but they are the only photos he has of Sherlock. The man was always so camera-shy, and anyway, their private lives didn't need many mementos. But John wishes he has one, just one, of Sherlock alive.
He clutches the morgue photos to that bleeding hole in his chest. This, a scarf, a coat, and a broken soldier are what Sherlock has left in the world.
"John, it's been two months," Harry's saying, and it startles John a bit. He doesn't remember it that way. He remembers bits and pieces, but not the steady progression of time. It feels like his life stopped when Sherlock's did, and now he's out of touch. The world dropped him outside of St. Bart's and it hasn't yet picked him up again.
"I know you're hurting a lot right now." Wrong, John doesn't feel anything anymore. "It's really difficult to watch you like this." Is it? "You don't talk anymore, you don't smile, you barely eat, you hardly come out of the spare room." That's all true, John supposes. His life isn't measured in smiles or meals anymore. "You're beginning to scare me." Wrong. John knows that Harry's been scared for a while now. "I know what it's like, to lose a loved one. When Clara-"
It's really that that makes John snap. It's like a switch has been flipped inside of him, because how dare Harry think she knows what this grief is? John doesn't even know and he's the one feeling it. John shouts, really yells at Harry, mostly because she's presumptuous, but also partly because she's there.
"You think you know everything, don't you? God, you have always done this, even when we were bloody kids! Well, let me tell you something, Harry: getting a divorce is not the same thing as watching your best friend commit suicide in front of you! Clara's still there, still alive, and you're still drinking yourself into a stupor every night, which, guess what, is why she left you in the first place!" John slams down a plate into Harry's sink; it shatters into pieces.
"Jesus! I got to watch Sherlock, the man who literally knew all of my bloody secrets, jump off a building, and you're sitting there, thinking that stupid divorce is worse? Oh, you and Clara had a few fights and decided to split up? Well, how sad for you, Harry, really. It must have broken your heart. I'm sure my grief can't possibly compare with Harriet Katherine Watson's! Obviously you were an angel sent here by God to suffer for all of us! One divorce after a year of marriage and you are suffering so much that you need to drown yourself every night!" Harry's shrunk down to sit on her couch under the force of John's words. She's clearly terrified of what she's unleashed and John can't find any fucks to give.
Harry's crying as John packs a bag and leaves.
John limps up the stairs, and Mrs. Hudson follows him. "I'll make you a cuppa," she offers, setting one of John's bags inside the door. John doesn't answer her as he looks about the sitting room. Their chairs are still there, as is Sherlock's violin and laptop. Mrs. Hudson has cleared out most of the mess of papers, straightened the books, but she's left the skull. What's missing is the sense of danger mingled with domesticity. Nothing's changed, and everything's changed.
"I'm so glad you're back," Mrs. Hudson says, handing John his mug. "I missed you."
"I-I missed you, too," John replies, because he knows it's the polite thing to say. At the same time, he doesn't know how to continue conversations anymore, so the silence stretches between John and Mrs. Hudson as they drink their tea.
She puts her mug in the sink and says, "I'll just leave you to it, I suppose. I'll bring up some dinner later, dear."
John nods and listens as she makes her way down the stairs. He stares at the black leather chair and can almost see Sherlock sitting in it. It's unnerving and it hurts in a way that it shouldn't, after all these months.
He limps over to the desk and pulls out the right hand drawer. John's gun is still there, inconspicuously hidden at the back, under some bank statements. He pulls it out, then fishes in the drawer for the magazine. He finds it and slides it into place. John levels it at the wall, where the yellow smiley face still looms. Slowly, his heart pounding furiously in his ears, he turns it to rest at his temple. He closes his eyes and breathes.
John puts the gun back in the drawer, still loaded, just in case.
The flat is so empty.
When John wakes up the next morning, he makes two cups of tea before he remembers that only one is needed.
Lestrade comes to the flat and waits until John acknowledges him with a glance before he starts speaking.
"John, I'm sorry, mate," he starts off. "For everything with Sherlock. I should have argued more, I should have done something, anything. I never wanted anything to happen to Sherlock, and I honestly didn't think that he had a part in any of those crimes he solved for us. My hands were tied but I should have tried to do more."
John doesn't say anything. He absolutely agrees with Lestrade, on all accounts. He got played by Moriarty, Donovan, and Anderson. One genius and two idiots led a smart man astray, and John places all of the blame squarely on Lestrade's shoulders.
"Look, let me buy you a drink," the older man sighs, which is how they end up at a pub, watching rugby on the telly.
"I used to play rugby," John says suddenly. It's the second thing he's said all night, the first being his drink order to the bartender.
"Really? I didn't pin you for a player. What position?" Lestrade asks.
John takes a sip of his lager. He hand is shaking again. It hasn't been steady for a while now. "Scrum half," he replies.
"No shit?" Lestrade looks impressed; John just shrugs. He doesn't know why people don't assume he's threatening; he was in the army and is a rather accomplished marksman. He's a younger brother and an older one, so he's been in his fair share of fights. Despite his relatively small stature, he can bring almost anyone down. Greg doesn't see all that, he never has. Sherlock took it all in at first glance and never let John forget it.
The flat is less empty after a few drinks.
The first time is an accident. John's cane slips and he stumbles over a fold in the rug, slamming his hip into his chair. He grits his teeth at the pain, and then realizes that he can actually feel something.
The second time is not an accident. John swings his leg out and slams his shin into the coffee table. And he's proud, actually proud of himself, because this is so much safer than a blade.
The third time is brutal. John slams himself into the doorframe of his bedroom. The pain lasts for days, and the memory of it lasts longer.
The fourth, fifth, sixth times are blurry. John loses count because he needs to hurt so often. Shins. Elbows. Knees. Feet. Fists. Hips. Shoulders. Arms. Eventually his body becomes peppered with bruises and it hurts, but feels like a satisfied sigh at the same time.
John tries to write on his blog, he really does. His older brother Thomas just called and asked him about it, chit chatting with him. It didn't make John feel less like a shell of a person; it didn't make him feel anything. It's been months now. How many? Three, perhaps four. Time doesn't move for John anymore. Thomas told him that his wife, Emma, is pregnant again. John congratulated them but felt like it didn't matter anyway.
John's coming back from Tesco when he sees one of the Homeless Network on the street. She's pretty banged up, so John takes her back to the flat, patches her up, and gives her some food. The next day, a young boy shows up, and John does the same. The day after, it happens again. People need his help, so he gives it. He's a doctor and that's what he's been trained to do.
He finds that he has more patients now than he did when he was working for the surgery.
Harry comes by every day, every damn day, to yell at John. John just closes and locks the door, ignoring Harry until he finally gets annoyed enough to throw something at the wall-usually a book, but whatever's in reach. Harry stops yelling and leaves then.
Sometimes Mrs. Hudson comes up afterwards, and they sit in silence for a while. She never says anything stupid, like it's going to be alright. They both know that it's not.
John goes for walks a lot now, even if he has to use his cane. The weather is colder, which makes him feel better. Nothing should be comfortable for him anymore. He doesn't deserve it, not when Sherlock's in the cold ground.
Sometimes he walks out to Sherlock's grave and spends the night there. He knows that the cemetery's off-limits at night, but he doesn't very much care. It feels right to John, to be using Sherlock's gravestone as a pillow. It feels right to know that he's as close as he can get to his best friend.
There's a particular kind of stillness that happens in only two incidents. The first is the stillness before battle. John's been through that many times over his two-and-a-half tours in Musa Qala. It's the quiet calm of knowing that the unknown is going to hurtle at you at any moment. You can check your weapons, go over your battle tactics, and pray. But in the end, you do not know if things are ever going to be quite this way or not.
The second time that stillness comes is after the battle. John counts this in many ways. It's after people have stopped fighting out in the desert, yes, but it's also after your patient dies. It's a terrible hollowness that won't stop eating at you and pestering you with what-ifs. John used to be very good at telling the what-ifs to bugger off.
He's not thinking of the what-ifs now because there was nothing he could do to help Sherlock. Everything happened according to Sherlock's plan and in the end, John doesn't want to change that. So no, there aren't any what-ifs. But there is the terrible hollowness, and it's been sticking around for months now.
John doesn't remember what it was like to live without it.
John stares at the page, trying to come up with something to blog about. He glares as if this will make the words suddenly appear. He realizes that he can see someone in the reflection of the computer. The person looks haggard, like they haven't been sleeping. Their skin is hanging a bit off their face as if there's too much skin and not enough fat. The hair is dirty and shaggy, from what he can see, but the eyes are the worst bit. With a start, he recognizes himself and slams the laptop closed.
John hates the way his eyes looked as blank as Sherlock's.
John's limping home from Tesco when he hears it. He follows it to the source, a player on the street with his case open for money. John looks at the violin tucked under the man's chin-it's very much like Sherlock's, but then again, John doesn't know the differences between makes and models. He holds the bow differently at least; Sherlock held it more naturally, like he was letting it guide him in the song. And the street player is younger, stockier, with ginger hair that falls flat in his eyes. He is nothing like Sherlock.
That doesn't stop the memories from coming. Sherlock at the window, playing thoughtfully. Sherlock pausing to write down the next bits of his composition. Sherlock sitting in his chair, plucking away as he thought. A million mundane memories hit John like a physical blow. He feels it in his chest, in his leg, in his head, in his shoulder. He staggers against the wall nearby so hard it bruises, which helps push the memories away and calms John at the same time.
He doesn't want to have to go back to the flat. He wants to walk away and never look back. He wants so badly to feel and not to feel. He wants to walk across the Afghan desert and let someone else decide if he lives or dies.
John limps back to the flat, leaning heavily on his cane. He gets into the building but can't force himself up the stairs, so he sits in foyer and watches the milk he just bought spoil.
Greg comes over to watch the football match and celebrate the fact that he's been promoted back and reinstated. Both of them know it's due to some of Mycroft's influence, but neither of them mentions it. John is coming out of the kitchen, clutching beers for them both, when he stumbles. His leg catches the corner of the telly stand and rips open his jeans and skin. John swears before asking, "Greg, could you get me a plaster? They're in the first aid kit under the sink."
Greg goes and returns in time to see John rolling up his jeans leg. John holds out his hand for the bandage, finally looking up when Greg doesn't put it in his hand. John opens his mouth to ask what's wrong before he realizes that Greg can see his leg. The cut is nothing, but the bruises are impressive. John bites down on his lip before he demands, "Plaster. Now, please."
"Holy fuck, John," Greg says, ignoring John's outstretched hand. "What are you doing?"
John pulls the bandage out of Greg's hold and applies it to the cut on his shin. Yes, his skin looked as if someone wanted to paint John with bruises, because someone did. "I put a plaster on my cut, that's all," John answers, rolling down the leg of his jeans once more.
"But John-"
"That's all," John says in his Captain's voice. Greg shuts his mouth and turns back to the telly. He doesn't say a word for the rest of the night and goes home at half-time. John is grateful; he needs to hurt again.
He stopped in the Criterion as a last ditch effort, and John is honestly surprised that he didn't think of trying this before. He orders his tea and sits down for the wait until he's called to get it.
John starts when someone places their hand on his shoulder, but he turns and sees that it's just Molly. She looks well, except if maybe a bit pale at seeing John. But still, she smiles at him and slides into the seat across from him.
"How are you, John?" she asks, and John looks at her like she's crazy. He hasn't cut his hair in five months, he rarely leaves his flat, he honestly can't remember the last time he's had a shower, and oh yeah he watched his best friend dive off a fucking roof.
Molly winces at what she sees on his face, but plows on. "I'm doing alright. Work is still...work. No new boyfriend or anything," she continues. She hesitates before she reaches for John's hand. "John," she says, her voice all compassion. "He wouldn't want you to live like this without him. If he knew how you were...not living, I think he would yell at you for it."
John blinks at her. Molly's right, of course. Sherlock would hate seeing John this way, seeing John use the cane. "He's not here," John replies, standing up and leaning on his cane. "He can't see what I do without him. Even when he was alive, he couldn't do that."
He leaves her there, thinking on the way back to Baker Street that he's probably not fit for company anymore.
You've ruined me, Sherlock.
John's washing dishes when a woman on the telly interrupts the commercial that's playing. "...James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, who was known for his manipulation of everyone he encountered," the news reporter is saying. "Tonight a sound recording of his, and the late Sherlock Holmes's, last moments was released. The recording released had Moriarty confessing that he had snipers trained on people close to Holmes who would shoot if the detective didn't commit suicide. More to this story at eleven."
He hears, as clearly as if Sherlock were in the room, "You, John. He was going to kill you."
John slams his hands over his ears and shakes his head, trying to dislodge Sherlock's voice. He knocks over his chair in his haste, but the pain that flares does nothing to comfort. Because Sherlock was supposed to live because of John. John was supposed to save Sherlock, to be his protector because God knows he needed one. Sherlock was not supposed to die because of John.
Mrs. Hudson appears by his side and pulls him into an embrace. She holds him as dry sobs wrack through his chest. It's okay to do this with her because she understands. Sherlock probably died to save her, too. Who else? Mycroft? Lestrade? Molly? The report had said that it was more than one person, hadn't it?
It's months later, but Moriarty still has a web, and he's still making the thread to John's world jump and spill over.
The only good thing about the report is that public opinion suddenly swings back to Sherlock's favor. The Yard has come out and said that none of the cases Sherlock closed were actually committed by him. People whom he helped are coming out of the woodwork, usually saying something like, "He was really rude, but utterly brilliant" to start off their admission.
The press descend on two-two-one-b again, so Mrs. Hudson is forced to use the back door to the flat once more. John doesn't go out, instead letting Mrs. Hudson nip down to the shops for him. He closes the drapes and hides in his own flat.
There's an outpouring of support on Sherlock's message boards. Fans are posting up pictures of graffiti or flyers that they've made. They all bear one of two phrases, "Moriarty was real" or "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." One or two get posted that say, "I'm a member of Watson's Warriors."
John honestly has no idea what to make of it, but he finally puts a message on his blog, thanking people for their support of his friend.
He goes home, back to Felixstowe for Christmas. John hasn't been in contact, real contact with his family since before he left for Afghanistan. So he lets his mother coddle him for a bit before his brothers and sister arrive, and then he smiles and shams that he's fine for his nieces. He takes them upstairs and reads to them a lot, putting on the voices for each character. It's the only family interaction he can stand.
He's sitting in his old bedroom, watching the snow fall one afternoon when Allison, his older niece, comes up to him. John reaches down and pulls her up onto his lap; she settles so that she is facing him. Allison puts her small hand on John's cheek, and in her infinite six year old wisdom says, "You're not crying, but you're sad."
John pulls her close for a hug and squeezes his eyes shut.
Sherlock's birthday is spent at the bottom of a bottle. It ends with John getting into a truly fantastic bar brawl and getting thrown out onto the street. A slick black car picks him up and takes him home, and John doesn't say a word.
It's late one January afternoon that John gets the call that Emma is in labor. He boards the next train and manages to arrive at the hospital before his new niece or nephew does. It's less than an hour in the waiting room with his parents, his nieces, Harry, and his younger brother Mike before Thomas announces the birth of their baby girl, Charlotte. The Watsons celebrate all around; John even manages a genuine smile.
Two hours later, and John is holding his newest niece. She's swaddled tightly, and her head is covered with a pink cap. Charlotte is sleeping, so John can't see her blue newborn eyes. Her nose, he thinks, is all Thomas but her lips are Emma's. She'll have a stunning smile when she's older and has teeth to show off.
It's with a jolt that John realizes today is the day, two years ago, that he met Sherlock. He hasn't thought about him all day, in fact. It seems surreal to John; Sherlock has been the focal point of his mind since they met in the lab at Bart's. He's a bit scared, if he's willing to admit it to himself, that he's losing his best friend a bit more. But at the same time, he's relieved that maybe that part of his life was over, since it just hurts to think about it now.
If any of his family members notice the tear or two that slips down his cheek, they don't say anything.
Thomas and Emma ask John to move in with them for a few weeks, just until they get adjusted to life with three daughters. John accepts, more than relieved to escape London a bit. Baker Street has gotten better, it honestly has, but it's still a bit of a mausoleum. No one from two-two-one-b has been living, really living there, in a long time. So John goes out to Islington to help his family. He does laundry and grabs groceries, gets the girls from school and makes sure that they both do their homework while Thomas and especially Emma get back in the swing of having a newborn.
Leah, now the middle child, has been running around the house for the past five minutes, and even though John told her to slow down, she won't. So he's not entirely surprised when he hears a bang come from the dining room. Instead, he grabs two of the plasters he'd pulled out and limps over to find Leah.
She's having a bit of a wobbly, but John just sighs, maneuvers himself onto the floor, and pulls her leg into his lap. "I told you you'd hurt yourself, remember?" he asks, rolling up his sleeves before exposing the cut on her ankle. Leah sniffles but nods, so John bandages her wound and pats her leg. "Next time, please remember to listen, alright?"
Leah nods again, and John brushes away the tears that have fallen. "Uncle John? Could you please kiss it?" she asks, clinging to John's jumper. John doesn't hesitate before lifting her ankle and pressing a kiss to the plaster. He tickles under her knee when he's done, and Leah shrieks happily. John moves to get up, but Leah stops him. "Wait wait, your turn, Uncle John," she says.
John's confused at first, but then Leah brings his bruised arm up to her lips, kisses each bruise, and does the same to his other arm. When she's done, she gives him a brief hug before going upstairs to show off her plasters.
Emma and John have long chats when they're alone, or at least, when they're holding Charlotte. Emma asks just the right questions to get John talking. What was Sherlock actually like? What was it like living with him all the time? These are the simple questions that are easy enough to answer; everyone asks them and it's honestly effortless to think about the mundane times they shared. Sometimes they make John laugh when he remembers certain things; like how Sherlock was the one to plop the Santa hat on the skull at Christmas, or how Sherlock always insisted that the victim killed himself in Cluedo.
Emma waits a few days before she asks the inevitable: "What happened? With the last adventure, I suppose."
It takes John a few minutes to answer. He delays it with picking up his niece's toys and putting them away. Emma's patient, she has to be with three girls, so she doesn't mind waiting while John puts his thoughts in order.
"Moriarty was always fascinated by Sherlock," he starts, settling next to his sister-in-law on the couch. "He broke into the three most secure places in London just so he would have a trial and Sherlock would testify against him. Sherlock helped him promote his business, in a way. But then Moriarty arranged for those kids to get kidnapped, the ambassador's ones, do you remember? Well, Sherlock found them, and the police started to think that Sherlock had a hand in it. They arrested him, and I went with him."
"You haven't told anyone that," Emma comments mildly. "Though Mummy Kate would have a fit if she knew, so I can see why you didn't."
John grins slightly. "Yeah, Mum would have a time of it. But we escaped custody-I know, I know, running from the Yard is never good-and we found out that Moriarty was being passed off as an actor, Richard Brooke. Moriarty convinced that woman who wrote the expose on Sherlock, and he was her 'source.' We split up after Moriarty escaped from the woman's flat, and we met up at Bart's.
"We were just waiting around, trying to figure everything out, when I got the call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot," John says slowly, squeezing his hands into fists. Emma looks shocked, so John shakes his head to hold back her questions. "I left immediately; Sherlock didn't come and I was furious. I-I called him a machine," he admits, and it feels like he just confessed to killing the Prime Minister. John can't bring himself to look at Emma, which is good because he thinks he's crying now.
"I went to our flat. When I got there, Mrs. Hudson was fine. It was all a set up, so I rushed back to Bart's, but by then, Sherlock was on the roof. He-he called me. Told me it was his note." Emma reaches out and grabs his hand. The slightest pressure fills him with enough strength to press forward. "He tried to tell me that it was a lie. That he was playing me the whole time. I told him I didn't believe him, and I still don't, but he dropped the phone and jumped anyway," John manages to get out before the pressure in his chest stops him from speaking more. It overwhelms him until Emma pulls him close and lets him rest his head on her shoulder. It feels a bit like she's coaxing the grief out of him as if she was the doctor and draining him of an infection.
If this is what moving on feels like, John thinks it might not be so bad.