Mycroft:
They wanted him to come down to the morgue to identify his brother's body.
No need.
He knew it was Sherlock.
Mycroft hung up, leaned back in his chair. He knew before the story would hit the front pages. Sherlock Holmes. 'Fake Genius' they would say. Suicide.
He shuddered.
Sherlock Holmes had made his bed. Playing with this devil. Now he would lie in it. Permanently.
Only. That wasn't quite true. Was it, Mycroft.
His fingers clenched around each other until the knuckles turned white.
No.
Mycroft had made the bed that Sherlock lay in.
Mycroft was at fault.
He stood and stared around at the office into which he poured all of his energy, grabbed his blazer off the back of his chair, his jacket, his umbrella, and headed downstairs for his car to take him home.
Beatrice greeted him at the door with a smile that faded as she watched his face. Then she took his coat, his umbrella, his blazer, his shoes and smiled again briefly before drawing him to the sofa where she pulled him down, pressed his head to her breast and stroked his hair until the tension left.
"Bad day?" she asked, quiet and perfect. "That's fine," she said when he didn't respond. One of her hands moved to take his, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. "I know you can't talk about it."
He let the silence stretch before he just sighed and said into the dimming light of evening, "My brother died."
At that, Beatrice jerked and pulled back to look at his face. "Mycroft!"
He made a small noise of impatience. "It'll be in the papers tomorrow. You can read all about it."
"Is there anything you can tell me?"
"It wasn't suicide. And he obviously wasn't a fake." He stood and drew away from her comfort, denying himself that luxury. He didn't deserve it. "It was..." Beatrice waited for him to explain. Always waiting. Always listening. Always patient. His face twisted into impatience and he quelled the urge to knock something over or yell. Or something. "I'm sorry. I can't," he said blandly.
"That's fine."
Never curious. That was his Beatrice. Always waiting. Never asking. Never taking more than he could give her.
"Are you hungry? We could go out for dinner—no. No, that would be gauche, wouldn't it. I'll bake something for dessert though. To cheer you up. When is the funeral?"
"I...don't know," he sighed, the anger leaving him weak and empty, like a husk. Pressing his thumb and middle fingers to opposite temples, Mycroft shook his head. "I'm going to go change."
"Of course, dear. Dinner will be on the table soon. Wine?"
"No. No thank you."
She smiled and brushed past him, leaving only the lightest touch of her lips on his cheek.
John:
The first few weeks—first months—are the hardest. Not because it's still fresh and his heart is still raw, but because John still has hope.
It doesn't make sense.
None of it.
But that's exactly why John has hope. Because none of it makes sense, and it's exactly the type of elaborate ruse that Sherlock would use to flush out a guilty party. Escalated, of course, from crocodile tears, fresh bruises, and bloodied harpoons, but none-the-less...
So even after the funeral and his own stilted words over the headstone, John has hope.
That Sherlock might just be alive and might come back to him to relieve this infernal endless boredom of sitting at home and waiting. John was ready to bang his head against a wall. Or maybe just fire new rounds into it.
He even held out when Mycroft came by and shook his head, telling him flatly to give up. Here's a copy of Sherlock's will. You've everything. John half expected, 'I hope you're happy now.'
But it didn't come.
And Mycroft would know. Sherlock, despite their rivalries and bitter words, Mycroft would know that Sherlock was still alive, and Sherlock would have told him to lie to John. Because otherwise John's hope would be too strong and...
John had kicked Mycroft out, bellowing at him. And then he'd snuck into Sherlock's room and curled up on the bed and cried ad then cried some more because he was wetting Sherlock's pillow and he wouldn't be happy.
He didn't tell his therapist about that. And after a final meeting, he didn't go back. She didn't help. Sherlock was right. If he wanted a therapist, he should find a new one.
John kept the job at the clinic, asked for more hours. Stared at the wallpaper of their flat. His flat. It was all his. As well as a large portion of Sherlock's money, all of his belongings, and the permission to do what he wanted with all of it. As he sat on the sofa and stared around at all of Sherlock's things, everything exactly the way Sherlock had left it, John's fists clenched and unclenched more and more, tighter and tighter, harder and harder. "FUCK!" he finally yelled, jumping to his feet. "Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes! What the hell do you want me to do with all of your bloody shit! What good is it to me now!" He kicked a pile of books, half of him giddy with the satisfaction of watching them fly across the room, the other half of him terrified because he'd changed something and now it was all different and he scrambled to pick them up and put them back in the same order. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I won't change anything..." He got up off his hands and knees and carried himself to the shower and then to bed. Nothing would be different in the morning. Sherlock would still be gone—didn't matter where, gone was gone, wasn't it? And John would be left with a flat with one bedroom too many and no one to share it with.
There wasn't much to do, John discovered with Sherlock gone. And with hope haunting each of the small corners, there wasn't much John could do about his heart beating fast each time the door opened downstairs. Never mind that John could always tell Sherlock's footsteps from Mrs. Hudson's. Never mind that he sometimes got lost in the what-if moments of those footsteps actually being Sherlock's. He'd glance at the clock, sigh, and pause for a second to lament the time that was suddenly gone. He spent most of his morning on what-if musings and when the clock startled him out of it at 1:00, he got up, changed, and thumped, heavy, down the steps to do the shopping.
Mrs. Hudson:
It was too quiet upstairs. Virginia Hudson had made tea, watched her recorded telly programs, read the next chapter of her (frankly dull) novel, and dusted the mantle for a lack of anything better to do. Poor John sounded like he hadn't moved from the sofa where he'd thrown himself early that morning.
She'd heard Sherlock do it often enough to recognise that particular squeak and thump.
Her tea was cold.
Maybe a fresh brew to take up to John?
She busied herself with that goal and tutted over her cups. Maybe she should look into a new set now that she had a spot of money. Sherlock had lef...
Shaking herself out of the sorrowful daze, she put the cups and pot on a tray along with some ginger biscuits. Sherlock never liked them, but John would be persuaded.
She just made it to the door and nearly ran into the man in question, flying down the stairs, jacket half on.
"Oh. Mrs. Hudson..."
"Going out?" She smiled.
He eyed the tray. "I was... Did you want..."
"Oh no. Go on, dear. I was just going to keep you company."
He looked tired. The poor attempt at a smile faded and he glanced at the front door. "Would you like some?"
"Go ahead. You were obviously on your way out. I won't keep you." She paused. "Would you like some boxes?"
He looked at her sharply, confusion writ in the creases on his forehead. "Boxes?"
"Yes," she replied patiently. "For his things."
"His...Sherlock's." John's expression darkened and his gaze fell to his feet. "No. No boxes. I'll see you later, Mrs. Hudson. I have to go."
"Of course. You have a nice rest of our day..." She set the tray down on a sideboard and watched him leave, shoulders tight but stride sure. Poor man was taking it hard. Surely it would be better if Sherlock's things weren't there, reminding him constantly. Why, the first thing she had done once her ex-husband was behind bars was burn his things. Cathartic. Not that John would ever burn Sherlock's things...
She sighed.
Perhaps Laura Turner was available. And better company. Even if she did have to listen to her bragging on about her grandchildren. They were lovely people, she'd met them, but she didn't so much care to hear about their accomplishments today.
Virginia sighed and brought her tea back inside before she lifted the phone.
John:
When he took the time to walk the room, feeling particularly masochistic, he shuddered at just how empty their flat would be if John got rid of all of Sherlock's things. The thought alone made him grip the desk to steady himself against the sudden vertigo.
The books? Save for a few, Sherlock's.
The paper's? Sherlock's.
The furniture? Sherlock's of course. John had had nothing to contribute.
The decour? Mostly Sherlock's. Specifically the spray paint and bullet holes, of course.
Everything, God, everything was Sherlock's. John gripped the desk tighter. Until he felt the pressure in his nail beds.
Eager, apparently, for more emotional distress, John wandered to Sherlock's room. Not in. No, he hovered in the doorway, afraid if he entered, he would break the spell and make it real. Sherlock wasn't coming back. But then he saw the unmade bed and had to turn away. Shut the door behind him, eyes squeezed shut, waiting until the wood hit his back and the latch clicked until he let go of the knob and stagger away. It isn't enough. He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes until they bled colour and then gasped for breath.
Too much.
John went up to his room and shut the door, shut the drapes, and then wrapped himself up in his bed, shutting out all light, all sound that wasn't there.
Molly:
Mycroft refused to come identify the body. That was fine. That was how it was supposed to be, yeah? Even if it did make all of her hard work go to waste. Gathering up her coat and purse, Molly pulled her keys out to hold in her hand like an anchor, stepping onto the tube to make her way home.
Watching all of the people in her car, she wondered what cutting remarks Sherlock would have to say about their plainness. How ordinary and simple they were. Would he ever see them? No. They were merely signal flashes of information, facts that he could glean that no one else could. They weren't important save for the means to an end. She sighed and shut her eyes against it all.
How tiring. To make someone dead. Molly folded her hands over her purse in her lap, half-listening for her station. All of the paperwork. Sherlock had forged the necessary signatures that weren't hers and then, once bandaged, skipped out. She'd grabbed his sleeve before she vanished and stammered out that he should come to her. If he needed anything. If he needed somewhere to stay. If he needed anything. Anything that she could do. He'd looked surprised, but hesitated a moment, patted her hand awkwardly and nodded. Then disappeared into the world to become a ghost on the wind.
After her eyes drifted shut several times, she took her mobile out to check messages so that she wouldn't fall asleep on the way home. One from her mother, asking her for dinner. One from her cousin, requesting a place to sleep while in town for two days. Accepted the former, declined the latter. Just in case. In case he needed a place to stay.
The illicitness was exciting. Lonely, but terribly exciting. She was the only one who knew. But she couldn't tell a soul. And that was the loneliest. But worse still was that she would have to face John and Greg at the funeral. Mycroft too, she imagined. She would have to face them all, knowing she could relieve their pain, but would never. She was Sherlock's lifeline. His secret-keeper. And she could never betray that gift, even if it meant watching John hurt. She shuddered. This secret was a terrible thing. But she would keep it. Because she had agreed. And it was the least she could do to help the world. Do her part. More than she ever imagined. Here was her chance. Help Sherlock be the hero he denied he was. Well. He wasn't, really. He was a great brat of a man who tore others down without a thought sometimes. But he did great things. And now... well now he tried. He cared. She'd seen it. This proved it. So she would keep his secret and suffer her part.
Molly got off the train and walked the four and a half blocks to her flat and knelt to pet Toby and Moira. "Hello. Hello," she whispered softly, stretching her fingers through their long fur. "Hello my dears. Today was a sad day." She stood again, hung her coat. Put her purse on the table and went to make a hot cuppa. Mission accomplished, Molly sat on her sofa, in her quiet flat, with her cats and her secret.
Lestrade:
He sat slowly at his desk that was still his. For the time being. Greg looked heavenward and heaved a great sigh, gripping the top, fingers pressing into the desk blotter. Glancing out into the general office, Sally was frowning at her desk. They'd gotten the news almost immediately.
Sally's face had blanched before shutting down and turning into a blank mask that even after all of his years working with her, Greg couldn't read. Anderson's face had turned blank with a kind of wondering horror. Sally got her body after all.
Grabbing his coat, keys, badge, and mobile, Greg swept out of the office, mumbling something about leaving early to whoever might listen. His feet took him to the pub down the street, rather than go home and face his wife. He couldn't deal with that just yet. But three hours and five missed calls from Jessica and he slapped notes down on the counter before sauntering out and hailing a taxi for home.
"Jess...?" he called as soon as he pushed the door open.
"Greg? Greg where the fuck have you been?"
"I—"
She rounded the corner and took one look at him before curling a lip. "Oh God. The pub again?"
He snorted and hung his jacket on the second try. "Sorry. I just needed to—"
"You just needed to what? Drink your problems away?" Ah there they were. Hands on the hips.
"Yes! I needed some time for me!"
"Oh yes." Hands up in the air. "Time for you. How selfish of me. Never mind then. I'll just give you some time for you then, shall I?"
"Jess, that's not what I meant." He pushed a hand through his hair. No wonder it'd gone grey so early.
"Well then what, Greg? Sorry, love, but it seems to be the same old story every time. Rough day at work, I'll spend some time at the pub. Hard day today, pub time!"
"That's not it!" he roared. Felt a little bit better when Jess took a step back, brows flying up. "Today... We lost a..." God, was he going to be able to get it out without breaking? "We lost a good man today."
Some of the ire left Jess's face, and her hands folded around her middle as if to stop them from reaching towards him. They didn't touch so much these days. "I'm sorry."
"It... It was partially my fault. I should have believed him from the beginning. I've always believed him. I just..." Now the words wouldn't stop coming, rough, voice harsh through his lips. "I should have stood by him. He's always been right in the end, and this wasn't... I shouldn't have believed. He's always helped out when we needed... He's—was, God, a good man. I've always tried to help him, even if he didn't want it. I watched him grow up... Fuck, Jess. I feel responsible for him. And now...he's..." He shook his head. "Fuck, he's dead. He didn't...deserve that..." He dropped his gaze to the floor, shoulders hunched. This was the last thing their relationship needed.
"I'm sorry, Greg. That's awful. Do you...tea?"
He shook his head. "No. No, I'm fine. I just... I'm sorry I'm late and didn't call," he said tiredly.
"It's fine. I'll reheat dinner."
He nodded. "Sure. Sure, I'll go...change." He trudged his way upstairs and dropped his clothes into the dirty bin and threw on his old uni t-shirt and a pair of sweats before washing his face and joining his wife for a silent miserable dinner.
Mrs. Hudson:
She started a collection of boxes. All empty. She would send them up to John when he was ready. When he stopped jumping at shadows and looking over his shoulder, poor dear. Virginia listened carefully, spending more time at home to pay attention to John. She worried about him some days. He spent too much time in that flat with no visitors.
At least three times a week she visited him, bringing tea and they sat amidst Sherlock's mess, mostly silent. Whenever she tried asking questions, John didn't, or couldn't?, answer.
Little memories floated around in her head of Sherlock. Good ones. Bad ones. Whichever, they passed the days. Made his absence a little easier in her old heart. Some days she'd sit amongst Sherlock's things with John and feel so small in the realm of the things he'd done. Some days it would warm her heart to be close to those things, knowing he'd helped her out of a bad way and done his best for her. Sherlock cared in the strangest ways. But he always knew when to press a kiss to her temple on the worst days and shout into her flat when he'd not been round in a while. Her dear boys.
Now they were broken. Like those silly necklaces that the young girls all had, the ones that came as a pair, one half fitting into the other. The Sherlock half was lost.
John:
Some days, John still made tea for two. To punish himself, he drank Sherlock's awful sweet concoction anyway. It happened more often when he was still full of hope.
These days, though, he sat amongst Sherlock's things, back where he'd started, save the limp and cane. A blinking cursor. Nothing left to type. No new stories. What was there to write when nothing happened anymore. It was one of these days that Mycroft came up and turned the chair—turned the chair—to face him, sitting, staring, assessing.
"What do you want?" John asked, in no mood for playing games.
"I stopped by to see you."
"I don't want to see you."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
Mycroft stared at him some more, and John felt the slow bubble of anger stirring beneath his skin, forgotten, but willing to come to life.
"What do you want, Mycroft?"
"You still blame me?"
"Of course I fucking blame you," John snorted, folding his arms across his chest, not summoning the energy for a glare.
Sighing like it was no more than a tiny irritant, Mycroft blinked slowly. "I can understa—"
"Sorry, but I don't think you can. If you're here to tell me to get over it again, then you can leave. I blame you. It's your fault." For once, he saw some emotion pass through the mask. Subtle. Small. Anguish. John sat forward. "Fuck. You know that, don't you!"
"Of course I know that." Mycroft's voice carried a harsher tone to it than usual. Vindication.
He sagged back into the cushions, letting his jaw hang. "You bloody cold-minded, utter bastard."
Mycroft dropped his eyes.
"Get out. Get out right now. I don't want to see your face unless I call it here. Fuck." He fairly trembled with the anger now.
"John—"
"Get out, or so help me, Mycroft, I will punch you in the face," he said, voice low. He gripped his hands tight in his lap.
The elder Holmes stood and gave a jerky nod and then left.
John sat, for a long time, staring at the turned chair.
Lestrade:
He knew he should kick the habit of leaving work early. But he was already on probation and had one citation. Why not leave early. Anderson glared sullenly at him daily, Sally held her chin high despite the shame in her eyes. It was all going to shit anyway. Why not round out the deal with doing a crap job at work.
Jess had been patient with him a week and a half—four days longer than he expected. But then it was back to the sniping and tetchy behaviour. That, if he were honest, he actually deserved this time around.
He should call John.
Fuck.
He didn't want to call John. He had all the misery he could stomach in his life. He didn't need to bear witness to John's too.
He sighed down into his pint. The pub was noisy. Better for him not to think then. Things didn't seem so sharp when he was buzzed. The world was softer. Less his fault. Well there was inspiration to become an alcoholic.
And maybe it wasn't his fault. No way to tell. He worked too often in the land of fault to suss it out in his own life.
"Greg?"
He started, looking up at one John Watson. Apparently thought summoned the man. He tried a smile, but, given the grimace on John's face, it hadn't quite succeeded. "So. You come here often?"
John grimaced again, the expression making him look more like an addict. He looked away and dropped his eyes, sinking onto a stool next to him.
Greg snorted once into his pint, John raising a hand.
"Didn't expect to see you here."
"Didn't expect to see you."
John's face twisted into something dark and wry. "Watsons. We know how to responsibly handle our problems."
He didn't nod. Didn't ask how John was. Didn't pass judgement on how quickly he drank down his pint and asked for another.
"You know..." John slurred finally. "He's a vicious bastard..."
"I know."
John swivelled unsteadily towards him. "He made me fucking watch, Greg. I watched," John said hollowly, eyes gazing off somewhere only John could see. "What do I do with that?"
Greg winced. "I..."
"There isn't anything," John said flatly. "Don't even bother. There's nothing to say. God, that fucking wanker."
"I know."
John jerked alarmingly and dropped his head into his hand, one broken sob heard over the noise of the pub.
Greg just felt uncomfortable.
"God. Sorry, I—" John stood and nearly fell over. "I need to...home. Fuck. Fuck."
Greg sighed, drained his mug and then slid off his own stool, wobbling slightly. "Lemme help you..."
John waved him off, but Greg slipped an arm beneath John's, mentally reeling as he felt just how thin John Watson was. Then staggering out of the pub, he walked John back to 221B, waving to Mrs. Hudson on his way down. Then caught a taxi to bring him home.
The quiet house was a relief. Until he got to the kitchen, gripping the doorway tight to stay upright. The note was simple: Get your shit together. Until then I'm saying with my brother. -Jess
He crumpled it up and missed the rubbish bin. Dropping clothes on his way to the bed, he flicked off the light and fell into bed.
John:
He woke up to noise downstairs, dismissing it over his imploded head. Until he could tell, even in his still-drunk state that it didn't sound like Mrs. Hudson.
Cursing mentally, John, reached beneath the mattress to grab his gun and rolled off of his bed where Lestrade must have dumped him the night before. Creeping down the stairs, avoiding the left edge of the sixth and the third stair all together, he had his weapon steady, exhaling noisily once he saw Mrs. Hudson's grape dress. He dropped it on the stairs behind him and then shrieked as he noticed what she was doing.
She shrieked in turn and fell back as John dove for the piles of things she was tucking away in boxes.
"No! No what are you doing?" He fell amongst the boxes, tipping the over, pouring Sherlock's things out on the floor to take up the space again.
"John!" Mrs. Hudson cried.
When he stilled, breath coming fast, blood still cold, she looked down at him, eyes wide. Her hands trembled, lifted to cover her mouth. She stepped back.
He felt feral.
He opened his mouth.
"I'm sorry. Dear. I'll just..." She fumbled around for something to say and then turned and left his flat rather quickly, shutting the door behind her.
John dropped his head, sagging onto the pile of Sherlock's things he was currently hunched over like a caveman over the last bit of meat. His lip quirked before he was on his feet and in the loo, heaving his guts into the toilet.
Mrs. Hudson:
Virginia didn't even make it all the way down the stairs before the tears slid down her cheeks. She did wait until she'd shut her door and was supported by it in her own flat to let herself shudder and shake. John had never scared her before. She sank down to the floor, hand covering her mouth as the tears dripped down her face.
She stayed there, hunched over against her door for as long as her old knees could take it, and then tottered off to shower and sleep, hoping she might forget the whole wretched incident. Especially the way John's eyes had stared up at her, wide and animalistic. She made herself tea and then sat in front of the telly to calm down before she went to bed.
The next morning, she called up Laura and spent the day away from John. She returned that evening to a note on her door. She'd just ripped it off when the door upstairs flew open and John's harried face appeared.
"Mrs. Hudson!"
She blinked up at John, frozen.
"God, Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry." John sagged in the doorway a second before hurrying down the stairs.
She took a step and then forced her feet still when John's face flashed panic and horror.
"Oh my God. Please. Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. Please. Forgive me?"
She folded her arms and then dropped them to her sides again. "John dear."
"Oh Mrs. Hudson, please. I'm sorry. I can't say it enough. Please forgive me." He came forward further, hands out in supplication.
"Oh John..." The tension leeched away and she sagged, holding her arms open for the boy. "I forgive you. Of course I forgive you, dear, but you scared me! You..." She trembled. "You were..."
"I know. I know," John said, hurrying forward into her arms. "I'm really... I'm really sorry. It was unacceptable. It'd just been... It was a bad night. Morning. And I'm...I'm sorry."
He was sobbing on her shoulder now. Virginia patted his back, switching to long strokes up and down his back. "It's okay, love. It's okay. You're my boy. The only one I've got left." She clung to him. "You're my boy. It's okay, John. You're my boy..."
They stood there for a long time. Until John had stopped crying. Until Virginia stopped crying.
Mycroft:
Mycroft would never admit to thinking he saw his brother on the street. That would be too irrational of him. Sherlock was dead. And none of the niggling doubt that said otherwise could be proved. He snorted, startling his wife out of her reverie.
"Something wrong?" she asked, looking up from her book.
Mycroft smiled blandly at her. "No. Nothing." And then returned to his computer. The curser blinked at him mockingly. He refrained from the next sigh bubbling up within him.
"Mycroft..."
"Not now, Beatrice." His wife's face softened out of the corner of his eye.
"Still upset about Sherlock, dear?"
"Don't."
She sighed. "You've hardly said anything at all about him. I haven't heard you say his name. You used to complain about his antics all the time."
He ignored her.
"Mycroft..."
"Beatrice," he barked.
She stood and dropped her book on the loveseat. "Fine, Mycroft. Fine. You don't have to talk about him. I just think... I think you should."
He pressed his lips together.
"Fine." She stomped off and went to bed, slamming the door to their bedroom.
Mycroft stayed up for eight more hours, allowing himself a brief nap on the sofa before showering and dressing to go to work.
The cameras told him that John Watson was still alive. If unmotivated and rather sedentary. And, frankly depressing. The good DI's life was falling apart at the seams. In fact, everyone that his brother's life had touched was fairly falling apart. Except for that woman. The one from whom his brother always commandeered body parts. She was the only one who seemed to be sustaining her life.
He frowned.
Even his own.
The shadows cast on his wall from his blinds slowly tracked their way up the wall as he stared at papers and documents. Plans and deeds and contracts.
He shoved them all away around noon and called Anthea to bring him dessert and to make a note to visit Miss Molly Hooper when he had time.