One More Miracle Chapter 1, a sherlock fanfic

This is a post-RBF fiction. One more of dozens, I'm sure, but hopefully it will keep you entertained. I have done the best I can to be accurate with my use of British colloquialisms and spelling, but I am a Yank, so please forgive any glaring mistakes.

This will likely turn into a slash fiction at some point which would be a first for me, but it feels right.

I hope that you enjoy and feel compelled to leave constructive and/or positive reviews. Without feedback, there's really no reason to write, after all.

Cheers!

~ Sarah

P.S. Oh, and no, I don't own Sherlock or anything associated with it, though I would happily claim Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman if they'd be so accommodating. Unlikely, but I'm ever hopeful. Tah for now!

"One More Miracle"

Part One

The back street into which he stepped was dark, lonely and … wet.

Bollocks!

No umbrella. Again.

He had missed the forecast, apparently. Not the first time. Unlikely to be the last. He didn't really even watch crap telly anymore. He turned up the short collar of his coat against the increasing cascade of rain, forcing back memories of another pair of hands – fingers elegant, slender, and refined – that turned up the woolen collar of another coat, not as a barrier against the wind and water but as a shield against the obtuse, the ignorant, the mundane.

It was late. So late that he could call it early. It had taken far longer than usual for him to finish up his paperwork that night. The 24-hour surgery where he volunteered his time and skills three nights a week typically saw a great deal of traffic, but the weeks-long wet and cold had brought with them an increase of lung infections and pneumonia to the population of Greater London; the surgery had been teeming with patients long before he had arrived. The Lead GP had also cornered him – again – all but begging him to accept the full-time, paid position that had opened up a fortnight ago. He thanked the woman for her high regard of his skill, but reminded her of all the reasons why he had turned her down the first four times: he travelled frequently and sometimes unexpectedly, he had an aged friend to care for when he was in town, he was involved with a number of charitable committees assisting military veterans, to say nothing of the small brood of nieces and nephews that he saw whenever he could.

All reasonable. All plausible.

All lies.

He doubted that Mrs. Hudson would think kindly on him by referring to her as "aged;" the odds of Harry finding a partner who would stay with her long enough to even consider having kids made that point moot; the sum total of his involvement with the war veterans' charities was the 350 quid he had donated last New Year; and he had not left London since returning from his "holiday" 18 months ago, three weeks after he had told Mrs. Hudson that he couldn't go back to the flat just yet.

Four weeks after his life had gone into … free fall.

He hadn't been about to explain to the young physician that the only reason he volunteered in the first place was that he was being blackmailed. That six months ago, Mycroft had threatened to stop paying rent to Mrs. Hudson – there were several loopholes in the will, apparently – unless he got "out of the bloody flat once in awhile!"

It was a form of coercion that would have been completely ineffective had he lived anywhere other than 221B Baker Street; Mycroft knew it, so the prat had dragged Mrs. Hudson along for the "intervention." The moment he had heard her teary greeting from the doorway, he had started to submit; three minutes later when she was in his arms, crying into the wool of his jumper that she couldn't "bear to lose the both of you!" he had caved utterly. Arms full of weeping landlady, he had glared up at the knowing smile on the hawkish face.

"Smug bastard!" he mouthed. It hadn't been enough that Mycroft had betrayed his brother in the worst possible way, now he had resorted to emotional extortion to manipulate those left behind.

Though later, when he was alone again, staring blindly at the empty leather chair across from him as the ghosts of things left unsaid whispered in his ear, he grudgingly acknowledged to himself that Mrs. Hudson or no, he would have given in to Mycroft's scheme. He hated himself for that.

He couldn't leave. It wasn't really home anymore, but something compelled him to stay.

Stretching his dodgy leg which ached even more of late thanks to the endless rain, he gripped the handle of his cane a bit more tightly in his gloved hand and started for the main road. Taxis would be hard to come by at this hour, and it was too late to catch The Tube to Marylebone Station. It was a long walk, but it didn't really matter to him. In many ways, he had become so numb to the world around him that the pain was sometimes the only thing that reminded him he was still a part of it.

It had started up again shortly after he had returned to London, increasing to the point where he could barely put weight on his leg by the end of the day. Psychosomatic, to be sure, but as he had once been told by a dear friend, psychosomatic pain was still real pain. He had tried to shake it off as he had done before, but the motivation was gone. It was foolish, he knew, this fog he had been living in. However, each time he tried to clear it away, it was only a matter of time before he realised that his heart wasn't in it. That he was just "going through the motions" as the Americans liked to say.

Mrs. Hudson had produced the aluminium cane he had used when he first arrived at 221B, but he preferred the black walnut walking stick with the silver lion-head handle that had been presented to "the consulting detective" by the Bulgarian ambassador as a personal thank you for help clearing up an incident of a "most delicate matter." He appreciated its durability. Its strength. Its symbolism; representing as it did all the inspiration, confidence, and wisdom that had flowed out of his life as a pool of blood on the sidewalk outside of St. Bart's.

He hobbled perhaps 100 paces down the narrow street before a familiar black car pulled up to the curb and proceeded to move slowly along next to him. He heard the near silent hum of the motor, felt its heat radiating out toward him, but he continued on his path without so much as a glance behind.

The rear window rolled down. He could hear the clicking keys of her mobile even over the pattering of the rain.

"Dr. Watson, your presence has been requested."

He ignored her.

"Dr. Watson. You know how this works." More clicking.

He kept walking.

"Dr. Wat …"

"You can tell that bloody bastard whatever you want, but I'm NOT coming!" he shouted to the rain above. "I've done what he's demanded. I'm living a life! Such as it is. There should be no reason for him to call on me again."

The clicking stopped. The car door opened, and he heard the clip of her heels on the wet cobblestones behind him as he crossed the deserted street.

"John!"

That got his attention. He stopped and turned.

In the glare of the headlamps, Anthea stood beneath an umbrella. "It's Lestrade who's asked for you."

His laugh was bitter. "Bugger off!"

Undeterred by his uncharacteristic rudeness, she extended her hand across the great distance between them. "Please."

Well, that was a first.

Eyes narrowing with suspicion, he wiped at the rain on his face. "Greg phones. Mycroft sends you."

"Check your mobile."

Watson huffed a bit but reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out the device and turned it on. He rarely received calls anymore, and text messages were …

Well, he'd gotten in the habit of turning off the phone while at work. And at home.

Three missed calls since 9 o'clock.

Four missed texts. A fifth popped up as he looked at the screen.

Get into the car, Doctor. I don't care if it's convenient or not, get your arse to The Yard. – GL

Right.

He and Lestrade had drinks every now and again, but Watson hadn't been summoned to DI's office since he was questioned about what he had witnessed at St. Bart's.

Watson raised his eyes to Anthea's. She nodded, turned, and opened the car door for him. The only sound in the street was that of his cane on the cobbles and the rain. Leaning his head against the heated leather of the back seat as the sedan accelerated through the deserted streets of London, the words of a pair of similar texts he had received long ago flashed through his memory.

Come at once if convenient.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

Watson sighed. What he wouldn't give to have even five more minutes of that "inconvenience" back in his life.

The inner offices of The New Scotland Yard were nearly as deserted as the streets the car had taken to get him there. A quiet night for crime in London, apparently, Watson thought as he walked slowly through the sea of desks and partitions. An increasingly rare thing in an age where terrorist plots seemed to outnumber petty thefts. He was leaning heavily on his cane now, maneuvering carefully through the maze to Lestrade's office lest he catch an edge here or there and fall. The subdued lighting reflected the time of the night as did the low murmurs of conversation from the cubicles around him.

John suppressed a groan as he eased into the chair Detective Inspector Lestrade offered him. He was still soaked to the skin and his whole body ached. Forties are the new 20s he'd heard once. Clearly the idiot who'd said that hadn't been thorough in his research; John felt closer to 90, in mind and body.

"This had better be important," he said. "I've been up for …" blinking hard, he focused his eyes on his watch. Dear God, "… thirty-two hours, if you don't count the 40 minute lie down I had before surgery."

"It is important," Lestrade promised. He perched on the desk corner closest to Watson. "We're just waiting on someone to arrive. Can I get you a cuppa to help take the chill off?"

"Lestrade, I don't want tea. I want to go to bed! I want my life to get back to –" John stopped himself short. The irritation that had been simmering since Anthea intercepted him was threatening to boil over completely. John took a deep breath and then another, collecting himself before speaking again "I'm sorry, Greg." I want the impossible. "Tea would be … lovely. Thank you."

"Look, John –"

"No, it's me. I'm sorry, my friend. I'm tired." Hooking the cane around the arm of the chair, Watson pressed his fingers against his closed eyes before looking back wearily at the DI. "I'm just so very tired, you see."

"Of course we see, John. That's why we've brought you here."

John rose slowly from the chair, his spine stiffening soldier straight at the sound of the nasally voice that replied. John had once asked if arch-enemies existed in real life. He had been assured that they did, and now here was his: tall, immaculate, and shameless as he oozed through side the door to Lestrade's office. Their dispute was not the result of a childish squabble, but rather one born of treachery and deceit. At least that's how Watson saw things.

"It's not what you think, Doctor," Lestrade protested when John flicked his angry eyes toward his 'friend.' "Mycroft's here for a reason. A good one."

"You know where I stand on this issue," John growled.

"So do you honestly think that I'd bring him in for some petty –"

"I don't know what to think!" John shouted. He slammed his hands on the wooden top of Lestrade's desk. "Not anymore! Nothing makes sense anymore." He pointed accusingly at the elder Holmes. "Mycroft gave Moriarty everything he needed to ruin him. One lie wrapped in a shroud of truth. Giving him no choice but to jump. Sher –" The name he hadn't spoken aloud in over a year stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and bit his lip, desperate for some measure of control, but it wasn't to be his. He was losing the battle with the anger and the fear he had kept in check for far too long. "Innocent people have died. Countless lives ruined by the choices this man made, and you want me to think that there's a good reason for all of that?!"

"I told you it was a war, John," Mycroft said altogether too casually. "We may not like it, but wars have casualties. I love my brother very much, but he had to jump. Lives were –"

"Had to … " John couldn't believe what was coming from Mycroft's mouth. "Had to jump?!" He stumbled, grasping at the edge of the desk, desperate for something solid beneath him to counter the absolute incredulity that caused his mind to swim. "God save you, you cold-blooded bastard. Love?! You know n-n-nothing about it! People fight to protect the ones they love. They don't sell them out for a couple of lines of computer code. They don't … don't make a deal with the Devil and offer up a brother as collateral for when the Devil comes to collect!" John spun toward the windows, unable to stomach the sight of Mycroft any longer.

Oh, dear God! I accused him of being a machine!

He had to fall …

Had to …

Fall …

No! Nonononononononono!

At first, the painful tickling at the edge of his consciousness was the only warning John had of the attack that was taking root, but it blossomed quickly. It had been years since the last one, but he recognized the signs as though it had been yesterday.

No. Not here. Please. Not now.

John's heart pounded painfully in his chest. He couldn't breathe. His skin went cold. He sunk to the floor beside Lestrade's desk, legs unable to support him – support this weight – any longer.

Watson's mind reeled with flashes of that last conversation, and he gripped his head between his hands as each remembered phrase stabbed at his soul. The memories and the horror had him fully within their control now, and John would be forced to go along for the ride.

We'll just have to do it like this.

Have to do it like this.

What's going on?

An apology. It's all true. I'm a fake.

An apology … an apology …

Shut up!

Nobody could be that clever.

Nobody … that clever …

You could.

You. Could.

I discovered everything I could to impress you. This phone call. It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?

Impress you … It's my note …

When?

Goodbye John.

Goodbye … Goodbye, John

No! SHERLOCK!

Goodbye, John.

No! No! No! No!

SHERLOCK!

Goodbye, John.

SHERLOCK!

John's mind screamed the name over and over again.

"Jesus … no," he moaned. Pushing weakly at the hands of those that held him, he tried to reach the body of his friend. John gripped the pale wrist, its pulse fading beneath his probing fingers.

The dark, loose curls soaked through with blood. The animated hands, limp … still. Lips, ever twitching with the deduction at hand or the observation missed by the "average intelligence," slack and silent. Piercing gray eyes, now flat and sightless, turned toward the leaden heavens above.

Disjointed snippets of conversation floated around him, but the riot in his mind would not allow John to make sense of them.

Never seen one that bad before, poor sod. What do we do?

Wait it out, I'm afraid. With his history of PTSD, it's surprising that it hasn't happened before now.

How could you let him get to this point, Mycroft? His mind is tearing him apart.

You'd know more about that than I do. Under the circumstances, there was only so much that I –

Get out. GET OUT! Now!

"Sherlock!" The tortured whisper of his friend's name issued from John's lips again and again as he gripped his knees, tightening in on himself, desperate to avoid reliving that pain again.

It was many moments before John finally felt the comforting hand at the back of his neck. It quickly became two arms that wrapped securely around him. Their warmth gradually lured John from his tight ball of cramped limbs, and he was eased back against the body of the one who held him. His exhaustion at trying to keep the grief and dread at bay for all these long months had finally become more than John could control.

"God … no," he murmured, submitting to the never-ending tug of memories. But as they dragged him under, a soothing whisper followed him into the void, shielding him from the daggers of his own mind.

"It will be all right. I'm here, John," it said.

"I'm here."

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