A/N: Hello! Recently got into Sherlock and I had to write about it. I specifically wanted to deal with the aftermath of Sherlock's death and how John handles it. Thus, this fanfiction! Apologies ahead of times; I am American, so some Britishisms might be lost (TV vs. telly, cell vs. mobile, etc.) although I'll try to be consistent.
Hope you enjoy!
Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts and actions ahead.
The gun rested on the side table, where it had been placed twenty minutes ago. John sat opposite, in his armchair, observing it. Curiously quiet, the whole affair. Wasn't suicide supposed to be a desperate, ragged act, punctuated by sobs and heartfelt soliloquies? This, his suicide, was quite the opposite; John had placed the gun there and set about making tea, and was now sipping it with an air of introspection, his right ankle resting on his left knee.
The note—for there were always notes, seemed standard procedure—blinked on his laptop screen, calmly absolving his family, friends, and acquaintances—such as they were—from all guilt or wrong-doing. The door to the flat was locked; he hardly wanted to traumatize Mrs Hudson with a gruesome discovery. No, he'd phone the police right before he pulled the trigger. Let them take him away in a body bag, nice, tidy, and zipped up.
Case closed.
The conclusion seemed rational for, as much as Sherlock had liked to argue to the contrary, John Watson considered himself a rational man. He was a doctor, first and foremost, and for every illness, there was a treatment. This was simply the only treatment remaining for his current affliction. No amount of therapy or drugs had induced any feelings of life into him after his friend's death. And now, six months later, he was beyond the point of crying and finger-point; never had been much for it to begin with. He was tired. Tired and numb. Even feeling pain might have prompted hope in him—hope that he might learn to feel again. But even that basic instinct was remiss.
He took a sip of his tea.
Deciding the method had been relatively easy. John didn't particularly care to languish in pain, nor did he want his suicide to fail. That meant a gun. He would have been inclined to put a bullet through his brain, but he didn't feel that was fair to the people who would find him. Lestrade might arrive on the scene and Molly might do the autopsy. No matter how professional they were, or how hardened they'd become from the job, he didn't want to put them through the sight of his head being blown apart. So bullet to the chest it was. He was confident about being able to find his own heart.
Cup empty, he set it down beside him. He brushed off his jeans and stood, military-straight. The gun was heavier than he remembered, but then again he didn't normally keep it loaded. He returned to his seat, discharging the clip, checking and rechecking the trigger action. Flawless. He reloaded it and set it aside and began probing his chest with expert fingers.
His mobile lit up and chirped.
John glanced at it, not pausing the examination of his chest.
1 New Message: DI LESTRADE
He returned his attention to his chest, pressing a thumb down where he thought the aortic arch was.
The phone chimed again.
2 New Messages: DI LESTRADE
John paused. The detective inspector didn't usually text twice. John noted the spot on his jumper where he'd decided to shoot and checked his mobile.
Crime scene, HM Prison Belmarsh. Could use a second opinion.- GL
You're really going to like this one. Let me know. – GL
John sat back in his chair, frowning. Now and then, Lestrade would still call him in to consult. Usually John couldn't tell him anymore than Anderson had already told him. He figured Lestrade hoped some of Sherlock had rubbed off on his flatmate. That, and it seemed it was Lestrade's tenuous way of maintaining some sort of friendship with John after Sherlock had died.
John looked at the gun and sighed.
It would be there when he got back.
The prison was larger than John had imagined. Tucked away on the southeastern outskirts of London, it was a multi-building complex that sprawled across ten acres, encompassed by a towering brick wall and barbed wire.
"Visiting someone, yeah?" the cabbie said as he pulled up the drive, armed guards scrutinizing their progress.
"Not quite," John replied, distracted by the looming structures.
Donovan met him at the first security check point as he was paying the cabbie. Accompanying her was a large guard carrying a shotgun, his lips pressed into a firm line.
"Lestrade's waiting for you," she said, not one for idle chitchat.
The guard stepped forward. "Arms out, legs spread, please, sir."
John complied, receiving a one-handed, yet thorough, pat-down. When the guard nodded, Donovan took the lead.
"Victim was in solitary at the time of his death," she said over her shoulder. "Guards come by every thirty minutes to check on the prisoners. At 9:00 AM, the prisoner was alert and responsive. When the next check came at 9:30 AM, he was unconscious. Paramedics were called for, and he was pronounced dead at 9:52. The security footage shows no one entering or leaving the corridor during the thirty minute window prior to the discovery."
John struggled to keep up with Donovan's brisk pace. "Natural causes and suicide have been ruled out?"
"Not wholly," she replied, "but this is the second death this week in solitary. The first was ruled a natural death by heart failure. Wasn't much looked into, not until it happened again today."
They passed through a series of secured doors, which the guard bypassed with a card. They walked through an administration building, office workers hunched over desks, before entering a secure wing where prisoners were kept. They passed through a metal detector, Donovan and the guard setting it off.
It began to look like a crime scene when they approached a bunch of medical and police personnel standing about. Some of them nodded to John, who returned their nods with a little wave.
The solitary corridor they went down was still mostly full. John was surprised, although he supposed he shouldn't have been. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare to have all the other prisoners transferred away from the crime scene. The floors and walls were whitewashed, marked by shoe scuffs and suspicious stains.
A ring of personnel loitered around an open cell, where Donovan deposited him. She hesitated, before murmuring, not unkindly, "The freak probably would've liked this one."
John didn't know how to respond, so he gave her a stiff nod and entered the cell.
Lestrade and Anderson stood talking in the center. Three other forensics people were inspecting the walls and floor. A disgruntled looking man sat on the cement cot, his hands cuffed, as two paramedics spoke with him and an armed guard hovered nearby.
"Where's the body?" asked John, approaching Lestrade.
The detective inspector smiled at him. "John! Thanks for coming. Uh, well, technically there's no body."
At this, the cuffed man grunted. "I'm sitting right here, you cunts."
"Inmate, watch it," grumbled the guard.
John looked between the prisoner and Lestrade. "So he's not dead?"
"He's fucking brilliant," snapped the inmate.
Lestrade made a helpless gesture. "He was. Medically, legally, he was dead for almost half an hour. No pulse. No breathing. Dead."
John blinked. "And now he's not."
"Right."
John considered the prisoner again. "So… you want me to examine him?"
"Right."
Clearing his throat, John turned to the prisoner, who was eyeing him none too kindly. The man was large, well-muscled and covered in scars and tattoos. His bald head gleamed in the fluorescent light.
John walked over to him, placing his medical bag on the floor. First time he'd needed a stethoscope on a case. Or anything to check vitals.
"I don't want any bloody pigs touching me," the man groused.
John put the ear pieces in and knelt, the scope in his hand. "I'm not with the police. I'm an independent medical consultant. I'm a doctor."
This cheered the prisoner considerably. "Why didn't you say so?"
He tried to smile in that reassuring-doctor sort of way. "Mind if I examine you? Check your vitals?"
The prisoner looked to the guard, who nodded. John bent forward, placing the scope just to the right of the man's sternum. Just where he was going to shoot himself earlier. He shook his head, trying to focus on the man's heartbeat.
It was steady and clear. No murmurs, no signs of heart disease. John moved to check his lungs, which also proved clear.
"Doc, I'm healthy as a horse. Never been sick in my life. I was fucking poisoned or something."
John nodded to the man, removing his stethoscope. He checked his lymph nodes, all of which were small and clear. He continued his exam, checking blood pressure, pulse, reflexes, and pupil dilation response. All perfectly normal.
"There's nothing wrong with him, as far as I can tell," John said, Lestrade standing over him. "He's in incredibly good shape for having been dead for thirty minutes. No sign of residual brain damage from the lack of oxygen and all his nerves seem to be functioning. If he came into my clinic, I'd give him a clean bill of health."
"So, not a heart attack," Lestrade ventured.
John shook his head. "Even if a patient survives a heart attack without treatment, you still see symptoms of it. The heart isn't pumping blood as well, so the patient usually struggles to breathe. More oxygen to compensate for the heart not working properly. His heart sounds fine, and he's not struggling for breath."
Lestrade nodded, taking in the information. "Anything that could have caused it that you can think of?"
"There are some drugs out there that induce a death-like state. It causes a sort of torpor in the body, makes breathing too shallow and pulse too low to detect. But it's rare, expensive, and dangerous. Not something I imagine you could get on the streets. Or, in prison, if you will."
"Anything else?"
John frowned. "Was there a tox report or autopsy on the other victim?"
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. It was ruled as death by natural causes. But I'll order them as part of this investigation."
John nodded. "Good. Well, I don't think I'll be of any more use here. I'll head back if you don't need me for anything else."
The detective inspector mumbled an affirmative, still deep in thought. John grabbed his medical bag and left the cell. As he passed the second group of idling personnel, a guard flanked him. A different man from the one that followed him in, but the same grim line on his lips. He left John at the security point where the cab had dropped him off, leaving him stranded until his cab arrived.
As soon as John opened the door to the flat, he knew something was off. He scanned the room, hesitating in the doorway, looking for something that was out of place. When nothing obvious jumped out at him, he shut the door behind him and did a circuit around the living room, ghosting over Sherlock's many odd possessions. But, again, everything seemed as it should be.
John listened to his instincts; it had saved him many times in Afghanistan. But without any evidence of something being wrong, he had to shove the nagging feeling aside. Shortly, it wouldn't matter if a burglar had been through the flat or not. Nothing would matter.
The gun was right where he'd left it, and for some reason that was an immense relief to him. He allowed his fingertips to brush the barrel, as if to assure himself of its existence. It was still here.
John sighed, crossed the room, and locked the door. He sat himself in his armchair as before. A cuppa sounded nice, but he didn't think he had to patience to brew tea. It was already late afternoon, far later than he'd planned on doing it, and he didn't want to give time for doubt to creep into his mind. His suicide was a certainty, and that's how it would stay.
He picked the gun up. It felt lighter now. As if the burden of his task had become acceptable in some unseen deity's eyes. With his left hand, he sussed out the aortic arch once more, using a stitch on his jumper to mark it, and planted the muzzle against it.
Was he supposed to pray before he did it? John didn't believe in God. Not in the strictest sense. The world was far too messed up for an omnipotent god to be floating about the cosmos. But the universe was fantastic, like a perfect machine, governed by laws that repeated themselves predictably throughout the tapestry of existence. Too perfect to be an accident.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't pontificate, yet there was, becoming an amateur philosopher in the hour of his death. It was too melodramatic. Too… Sherlock.
John closed his eyes, finger on the trigger.
"Really, John, could you not make a mess of our flat?"
John's eyes snapped open.
That voice.
His eyes refused to focus on the dark figure in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Refused to process what was before them. It was impossible.
"You're… dead," John said.
The man looked down at himself, then wriggled his fingers. "Hm. No I'm not."
"A dream, then. A hallucination."
"Please don't say ghost."
"A ghost."
The figure sighed and approached slowly. "I'm quite real, John. And not dead."
John felt his throat tightening. "You were dead. I saw you fall. I checked your pulse."
The man was too near now for John's eyes to ignore him. Tall, pale skin and dark, curly hair. Cheekbones like flying buttresses. Piercing blue eyes. "I can explain it all in detail. Just put down the gun, hm?"
The gun, quite forgotten, was limp in John's hands. He stared at it now, pointing haphazardly at his midsection. His whole body was shaking and he felt far away.
"John, the gun."
John looked back up. The person before him was undeniably Sherlock, real or not. Unbidden, tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. "I've gone completely insane," he mumbled to himself. He pressed the gun tighter to his chest.
"No, you're not insane. I'm real. I'm here. Just put down the gun and we can talk."
John flinched at his words. Of course his mind would make a last ditch effort to avoid the suicide. What he wanted most, the only thing that could save him—Sherlock—he had manifested for himself. "So damn pathetic," he whispered, voice cracking. He began to squeeze the trigger.
"John, no! Put it down!" Sherlock lunged for him, but he was too late.
John Watson had already pulled the trigger.