A short story I wrote for a friend.
'So, without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you,' the story!
"You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you."
Haruki Murakami
John dreamt of Sherlock every single night, though the dreams themselves varied. The first night, and every night after that for three weeks, consisted of his fall to the pavement from the top of St. Bart's. After that, the dreams started to change, to twist and contort into visions that John had never wanted to see. At least, he had never wanted to see them in a world where he couldn't truly have them.
This past night was the worst John had experienced yet so far. He remembered kneeling beside Sherlock on the sofa as his best friend looked up at him, eyebrows knit together in confusion. John had laid a hand on his shoulder and bent down, Sherlock's eyes piercing into his own. The dream had evaporated then, dissipating before his very eyes.
He had woken up sweating, tangled in his sheets, a dying shout on his lips as he sat bolt upright. He let himself fall back down against the mattress, gasping for air. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and sobbed once, rubbing the warm saltwater away from his eyes desperately. Two years wasn't enough time, but, in all honesty, there would never be enough time to heal the wound of Sherlock's death.
John let his hands fall from his face, noting in the back of his mind each feature of the room, a skill long ago taught to him by Sherlock. The tilt of the sun entering his room let him know that it was early in the morning, and the shade of the color of the sunlight informed him that it was yet another cloudy London day. A knock at the front door of his flat told him that he'd have to get out of bed today.
The army doctor pulled himself out of his bed, bypassing slippers and a robe as though they weren't even there. He knew enough of social conventions to know that answering the door in just pajama bottoms isn't entirely acceptable, but he also knew that he didn't care a whole lot. Especially when it was Greg Lestrade at the door.
"John, before you can shut us out, we could really use your help." Lestrade said in a rush, putting his hand on the door to prevent John from shutting it on him. "Please. I know he taught you at least something."
"And what if he just taught me one thing, and it's "Don't help when you don't want to"?" John snapped. When Lestrade just stared him down pleadingly, John released his own grip on the door and stepped back to allow the Detective Inspector inside. "Please be quiet, alright? He's still asleep."
"Yes, of course." Lestrade played absently with the corner of his jacket as John shut the door and moved around the cleanly dressed figure to make his way into the kitchen.
"Would you like some tea, then?" John spoke up finally. Lestrade followed his path into the pristinely kept kitchen and sat down at the table.
"Yes, sure, if you're making some." Lestrade answered as he pulled out a file folder. "Our case is a strange one, it's certainly one we would have brought to Sherlock's attention." Lestrade waited as John set the kettle on the stove and made his way to poke through the file. When John sat down across from Lestrade, flipping through the pages, Lestrade began again. "Reports have been tumbling in for a little while now about a strange man doing some sort of... let's say vigilante justice."
"Like a superhero?" John asked, skimming one of the many reports. Lestrade laughed.
"Kind of, I suppose. Just without the superpowers themselves." Lestrade took some of the pages and shuffled through them, searching for one in particular. When he found it, he handed the stack back over. "See there? This man causes nearly as many crimes as he solves. Nobody knows who he is, but criminals are practically throwing themselves out there for a chance to fight him."
"If this man's bringing all the criminals out, what do you need me for? It seems he's doing a wonderful job at doing your job." John commented dryly, setting the papers back down.
"We want to know who he is. Sherlock was an excellent profiler, John. You must've picked up something." Lestrade's voice was nearly begging. John sat back in his chair, looking Lestrade over.
"You had a cheese danish for breakfast yesterday." John said after a long moment of silence. Lestrade let out a breath he hadn't known he was even holding.
"I did." The Detective Inspector's voice was low; John leaned forward to hear better. "Does that mean you'll do it?"
John put his face in his hands, scrubbing his palms across his skin and through his hair. "Yes, fine, I'll do it."
"Wonderful." Lestrade began gathering the papers up again, stacking them back into the folder.
"No ridiculous hours, though. I can't just leave him with Mrs. Hudson for days on end." John said firmly. Lestrade nodded.
"Yes, of course." Lestrade finished his gatherings and left the folder in the middle of the table. "I assume you'd like to go through those."
"Sure, yes." John shut the folder and looked up at the clock. "Well, it's nearly-"
The tea kettle went off then, steam flying out of the spout, accompanied by a loud whistling. John hurried to catch it and turn off the burner, but was too late; a screaming started somewhere in the back of the flat. John sighed and shut the burner off, motioning vaguely towards it as he turned to leave.
"Make yourself some tea, I'll get him." John mumbled as he left, wandering through the flat until he came to Sherlock's old room. The screamer in question, Sherlock's two-year-old son, was still laying down in his cot. John flicked the light on as he entered and crossed over to the boy.
"Hey, Johnny." John said softly, lifting the child up and out of his cot. "Sorry to wake you."
The brunette, curly-haired little boy quieted at John's touch, pressing his face into his adopted father's neck. The boy, affectionately named John Hamish Holmes and dumped on his doorstep four months after Sherlock's death by one Irene Adler, was the product of a semi-meaningless night between Irene and Sherlock. At least, that's what Irene's letter told him. The boy had been a week old when he came into John's care, and John would be lying if he said he'd still be alive now without Johnny.
Johnny didn't answer, choosing instead to cling to John weakly. John supported his weight and led him back out to the kitchen, where Lestrade had successfully made two cups of tea and was setting them on the table.
"Hello, Johnny." Lestrade grinned at the little boy as the two of them entered the room. Johnny turned his head to see who was in his home and smiled when he saw a familiar face. Lestrade reached out and John willingly handed his son over. "You're getting very big, huh?"
"He grows like a weed, you can't even imagine, Greg." John smiled slightly and sat down in front of his cup of tea. "I think he'll need to get another haircut soon."
Lestrade fell back into his own chair, still gripping the boy. He leaned back to look over Johnny's hair, a mass of tight, tumbling black curls. "Yes, maybe."
Johnny frowned at his father and turned his face into Lestrade's shoulder. John picked up his mug and laughed. "I don't need your approval to cut your hair, Johnny. Greg may be the DI, but even he can't save you."
"I don't know about that." Lestrade set Johnny down when the boy started squirming in his grasp; he hurried over to the fridge and reached desperately for the handle. John got up to retrieve something for his breakfast.
"You can leave, if you'd like. We're not going to be doing much today." John looked over at the clock on the wall again. "I can come by at two, how's that?"
"That sounds like a plan, then." Lestrade finished off his tea and stood, gathering his jacket off the back of his chair. Johnny noticed him and immediately hurled himself at Lestrade's leg, hugging him tightly. Lestrade ruffled the boy's hair and bid both him and his father farewell before leaving.
"Looks like we're going to solve one of Sherlock's cases, Johnny." John commented to his son as he dug eggs out of the fridge. Johnny looked up at his father like a lost duckling and nodded as though he agreed completely.
The man strode down the side street, trying and succeeding at acting like nothing was exactly going on with him. He pressed himself flat against the wall at the end of the alley, peering around the corner to time his attack just right. He pulled back slightly before casually hurling himself into the path of a jogging woman.
Luckily for the man, this jogging woman got caught up in his coat and stumbled, tripping onto the ground just in time for the policeman chasing her to catch up. The man stood, brushing himself off, rubbing at a new gash on his palm.
"Thanks, sir." The policeman thanked the man, but he had already took back off down the alley, making himself scarce so he wouldn't be brought it for questioning. He thanked his lucky stars, though there were very few of them, that this policeman hadn't been one that he'd met before; surely they would have recognized his face. As it was, he tried to keep his face hidden from passersby, lest they recognize him from the newspaper or a blog photo.
He leaned against the dirty brick wall and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, though the cloth wasn't much cleaner than even the wall itself. He pressed it against the flow of blood from his palm and sighed, wishing he still had the doctor that used to sew him up after he received an injury on the job. He shut his eyes, breathing through his nose and resisting the urge to admire the painfully familiar, star-speckled night sky.
"Now, this is the only photo you have of this vigilante man?" John asked, squinting at the fuzzy black-and-white picture Lestrade had handed him. The photo held a mess of a figure, blurred by movement and poor camera quality.
"Yes, unfortunately." Lestrade took a sip from a coffee mug and leaned back in his desk chair. John crossed his legs at the ankles as he set the blown-up photo back onto the desk in front of him. "He usually just runs away before anyone can even get a good look at him, let alone get a picture of him. This is just taken off a security camera outside a tea shop."
John sighed and rubbed his hands over his eyes to refocus before picking the photo back up again. He studied the person's characteristics closer, the way they held their body and the way their head was turned. He looked like he didn't want to be caught; Clearly, John thought. He held the photo close to his face, and Lestrade pointedly kept his eyes down in his mug, trying to will himself into invisibility so John could work.
"It's going to be hard to get this man if he doesn't want to be caught, that much is obvious." John looked over the photo as he spoke, scanning it again for anything he might have missed. He took a deep breath and studied the photo again for anything that Sherlock would have seen. "He hasn't been living in a very clean place, for sure. He knows the way he has to go to get back to his home, and he's turned that way, so I'd guess it's close by to wherever this was."
"That's something to go off of. I'll call Donovan for this immediately." Lestrade scribbled notes down on his notepad quickly as he spoke before looking up to John. "Anything else?"
John turned his gaze back to the photo before shaking his head. "No, not anything I can see yet... I'll take this with me, and you'll call me if there's anything new, yeah?"
"Yes, of course." Lestrade stood up, prompting John to do the same, and the two men shook hands. "Running home?"
"Actually, I have to go see Harry tonight. Johnny and I are taking her out to dinner." John smiled at Lestrade before ducking to pick up his jacket and slide it on. "I haven't seen her in too long."
"Tell her I said hello." Lestrade said, and John nodded before making his leave.
The man was in a more populated part of London than he usually chose to hang around; no cases had yet presented themselves to him today, so he was only just poking around for something to do. Unfortunately, these opportunities will usually show up where there is a lot of people, so he was forced to make his way into the densely populated streets. He kept his collar up and his face down, struggling not to touch anyone or be recognized.
He paced down the street, old shoes clicking against the sidewalk, coat flapping out behind him as he moved, swift as a ghost. He pulled his collar higher against the sharp wind that was hitting his face like knives cutting into his skin.
In the back of the man's mind, he knew that he couldn't lead this life forever. Logically, he knew that he'd eventually have to give up and either return to his true home or leave altogether. Though he had considered it, death was no longer an option, and he had to make his decision soon, before it was made for him. Unfortunately, it seemed as though the latter was going to be the one happening as the man caught a glimpse of a woman running down the street.
Immediately, he took off after the woman, not sure if she was simply hurrying home, running from a threat, or trying to escape the police, but not willing to assume and be wrong. He was jogging quickly, trying not to draw too much attention to himself, when he accidentally collided with a young boy.
Though the man only stumbled, the young boy hit the ground, and his eyes filled up with tears at once. The man hurried down to the boy's side, trying to stop him from bursting out sobbing and drawing attention to them.
"No, don't cry, okay? Don't cry." The man picked the little boy up, righting him. Once he was on his feet, the boy looked into the man's eyes and fell silent.
"Hi." The little boy said softly. The man frowned and studied the boy's face.
"Stop acting like you know me. You don't know me." The man muttered as another man jogged up.
"I'm so sorry, he got away from me. I hope he's not bothering you." This new man was fussing over the boy, lifting him up into his arms, though the boy's eyes remained fixated on the man.
"No, no bother." The man was completely distracted by the boy, and thusly didn't notice the complete look of shock on this new man's face.
"No." The man whispered.
"John, I've missed you so much!" Harry Watson was practically cooing in her brother's ear as she hugged him.
"I only saw you a couple weeks ago, Harry." John laughed as Johnny reached out for his aunt. Harry exclaimed happily and took her nephew into her arms.
"Hey there, sugar." Harry bounced the little boy on her hip and looked up at John. "Looks just like Sherlock, doesn't he? Even got the eyes."
"It's a little eerie. He's got the brains, too. Be talking down at me in a couple years, demanding pens and feet and silly things." John laid a hand on his son's head fondly. "I'm glad he's like Sherlock, though. That means it's almost like …"
"I know, John." Harry pressed a kiss to her brother's cheek and started to move into the diner, but Johnny started squirming to be let down. Harry lowered him down to the ground, and, before John could take his hand, the little boy took off down the street.
"Johnny!" John shouted before giving Harry a quick, apologetic look and shooting off after his son. The little boy threw himself in the path of a jogging man who wasn't paying attention to anyone who might be only at the height of his knees, and John picked up the speed. Luckily, the man was trying to calm Johnny down when John got there.
"I'm so sorry, he got away from me." John knelt down and hefted Johnny up, checking him over for any injuries while he spoke. Johnny remained fixated on the stranger he had collided with. "I hope he's not bothering you."
"No, no bother." The strange man's voice was deep and familiar, and John immediately recognized it and froze in his examination of Johnny as he listened. He looked up, meeting the eyes of the man. The man's eyes widened in recognition, and his muscles all tensed, as though he were preparing to flee.
"No." John wavered on his feet, taking a step back before taking three forward. "Sh...Sherlock?"
"John, you didn't see me." Sherlock hissed before turning and fleeing down the street. John immediately took off after him, clutching Johnny to him closely. The jostled boy shifted, and John moved him to his back, where the boy clung to his father's neck contentedly as they ran. Harry stayed behind in the diner, confused; John could always call her back later.
"Stop!" John shouted pleadingly, trying to will his voice to stop breaking so he could be louder. Sherlock turned down an alley, and John almost wanted to cheer; he could stop Sherlock easily there.
Sherlock was trying to scale a brick wall when John turned into the alley, having been stopped from going any further by a tall fence. John adjusted Johnny on his back quickly before hurrying to the end of the alley and yanking Sherlock down by his coat from what little progress he'd made.
"Sherlock, what have you done?" John shouted as soon as Sherlock was down on the ground on steady feet. Johnny slid off his father's back and hurled himself at Sherlock's leg, hugging him tightly. "Where have you... I can't... You're dead!"
"John, I'm clearly not. Stop shouting." Sherlock's tone was just as John remembered it; it was though nothing had changed. "You'll attract unwanted attention."
"I'll attract..." John pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, desperately attempting to calm himself down. "Sherlock. What did you do."
"We have to leave the country, John." Sherlock announced in a hushed voice. John blinked rapidly, trying to get his brain to understand what was happening. "Or, at least, I do, and you have to forget you ever saw me. Or we-"
"Sherlock, Sherlock, stop." John held a hand out to silence Sherlock; both Sherlock and Johnny looked at him. "What have you done?"
"Shlock." Johnny supplied helpfully, and Sherlock seemed to remember that the little boy was there.
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, looking down at the little boy before turning his eyes back up to John. "John, who is this?"
"This is your son, Sherlock." John told him bluntly. The most incredible look of shock flashed across Sherlock's face as he turned back down to look at Johnny. Johnny tipped his head up to meet Sherlock's eyes that matched his own perfectly.
"My son. Irene." Sherlock's brow furrowed as he and Johnny engaged in a staring contest. "Irene brought him. I assume she's no longer around."
"Yeah, you assume correctly." John ran a hand through his hair. "What's this about having to leave?"
"I can't have anyone know I'm here, John. Moriarty would ..." Sherlock reached down and laid a hand on the boy's head of curly hair. "It's just not good. And with you, and... him, here." Sherlock took a deep breath; John held the same breath with him, nervous to the point that even Sherlock was starting to feel the waves of it as he looked up. "We have to leave."
"Okay." John nodded. "Yeah, okay, we'll just go back to Baker Street, we'll get our things, we'll leave."
"John." Sherlock breathed, and John shook his head; Sherlock understood and shut his mouth.
"You're the man who's been stopping all the criminals, right? You've been bringing them all out." John's lips tilted upward slightly. "I should've known, really."
"How'd you know about that?" Sherlock asked, a frown creasing his features. "That hasn't even been in the newspaper."
"Funny story, actually. That's the first case Lestrade's been able to get me to take." John told him; Sherlock nodded.
"I've been waiting for you to realize I actually did leave something behind for you besides my books." Sherlock shifted and pulled his arm into his coat. Before John could ask what on earth it was that Sherlock was doing, he had bent down and lifted Johnny, tucking the little boy into the coat. After making sure Johnny was hidden by the coat, and Sherlock's face was hidden by the collar, the taller man took back off down the alley, leaving John to catch up.
"Why have you been doing this? Moriarty could have easily recognized you." John asked as they paced briskly back towards the diner where Harry was to let her know he had to cut the evening short.
"I'd rather die than not be able to do what I'm meant to, John." Sherlock replied. John nodded.
"I get it." John agreed softly. Johnny whimpered and pressed his face into Sherlock's chest.
"What's his name?" Sherlock asked after a moment of silence. John looked down at his son's face.
"John Hamish Holmes. Irene named him before she left him with me." John informed him. Sherlock turned his head down to look at his son.
"That's a brilliant name." Sherlock commented. John simply smiled.
"We are not going to McDonalds, Johnny." Sherlock told his son without even looking up. Johnny sighed and threw himself on the floor at his father's feet.
"I need proper stimuli if I'm to do this work correctly, Papa." Johnny contrasted, crossing his legs nimbly and tipping his head up. "Can't we just get milkshakes?"
"Go ask John for a small something before dinner, but not a milkshake. You'll spoil your appetite." Sherlock murmured, long since past the point of being disappointed with himself over how much he sounded like a stereotypical father. Johnny jumped away from his papers and took off towards the kitchen. Once the boy was gone, Sherlock bent down and picked up a few of the sheets, flipping through them. Johnny was clearly brilliant for a boy his age, but, judging from the extensive doodling in the margins, he had also picked up a lot of John's habits, as well.
The boy came hurtling back into the room, jumping up onto the couch beside Sherlock and munching on a fistful of animal crackers. He stuck his hand out, offering crackers to Sherlock, and his father took one.
"Thank you, Johnny." Sherlock said to his son. The boy grinned happily and turned to look at his papers again; the second his eyes were averted, Sherlock held the cookie up. John snatched it from Sherlock as he walked behind the back of the sofa, eating it quickly before Johnny could notice in a move that Sherlock and John had rehearsed long ago.
"What's this work you're so eager to abandon, then?" John asked, falling onto the sofa beside Johnny and taking the papers. Johnny readjusted his position between his fathers so that he could better see the words on the papers.
"It's just algebra. It's easy, Dad, but I don't like to do it. I want to draw." Johnny leaned his head on John's arm, pointing at one of the more elaborate doodles. "See? And I can go to the New England Institute of Art, Miss Robinson said so."
"Did she?" John asked, looking over the drawings on the pages instead of the math work. "Miss Robinson may be right. But do you really want to leave the blissful warmth and sunshine here in Colorado for New England?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Dad." Johnny laughed, taking the papers back from John and throwing himself back on the ground to get back to work. Sherlock brought his legs up onto the sofa, tucking them under his body.
"You still have a good nine years until you have to decide, Johnny. You have time." Sherlock reminded him. "You have all the time in the world, don't waste it."
"I won't, Papa." Johnny assured him absently as he started doodling again, easily and quickly distracted from his work. John scooted over on the sofa until he was beside Sherlock, and the slender man shifted down, laying on his back with his head in John's lap and his legs thrown over the back of the sofa.
"Do you ever regret this, John?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes of silence and the sound of Johnny's pencil scribbling on paper. "Living in America, barely contacting Harry, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson... Mycroft..."
"We're safe, aren't we?" John asked. When Sherlock nodded against John's lap, John just shrugged, picking up his hand and pulling his fingers through Sherlock's curls absently. "That's all that really matters. I try not to think about the rest."
"Logical." Sherlock agreed, shutting his eyes and stretching like a cat. John leaned his head back and hummed, finally satisfied and no longer afraid of the dark.