Major spoilers for Sherlock Holmes Adventures through The Empty House. Seriously, go read the stories first if you haven't already. (This won't make sense without the background, anyway.)
This is a missing scene set in Arthur Conan Doyle's The Empty House but with the BBC's updated characters.
Thank you to my awesome beta reader, DreamingALife.
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's characters but if I did, this snippet would make it in.
John Watson's Medicine
"John. What can I do for you?" Mycroft stood and rounded the desk to shake his hand.
John. Mycroft had never called him that before. Not until Sherlock died. Died. John smiled politely. Tired. Mycroft greeted him cheerfully, or as cheerfully as Mycroft got.
"What's the matter, John?"
"I wanted to tell you myself."
"Tell me what? You look…drained. Are you feeling yourself?"
"Had a bit of a shock, actually. I'm going to check myself into a mental institution. After all you've done for Mrs. Hudson and myself, I didn't want you to find out through other channels."
"Why, John? What's happened?"
"I saw Sherlock today."
"Sherlock?" Mycroft's face switched from concern to neutral; adopting that blank mask he wore most of the time.
"It was an old, stooped-over man with a long beard and wrinkled face. But I saw him. I saw him, Mycroft, under the disguise. Remember how he used to dress up? I would have sworn it was him in a court of law. But it was just an old man selling books." John swallowed. "A few hours later, I was in the sitting room at Baker Street, alone. I was tired. I've been tired lately, Mycroft. Not of the body but of the mind. I heard a noise and realised I'd fallen asleep. Only, then I wasn't asleep. He was there."
"Sherlock?"
"No, the bookseller. He was standing there, hunched over, peering at me with his old face. I blinked and then it was Sherlock standing there, as if by magic. I must have passed out. The next thing I knew, I woke up in my chair, the taste of brandy on my lips. I don't remember drinking, Mycroft. I'm tired. Seeing my dead friend everywhere. Having blackouts and I don't remember drinking. And he was still there."
"John, I…I don't know what to say."
"You don't, huh? Well, that's all right. The doctors will, I hope. They're trained in these matters. They say alcoholism is hereditary. Maybe I have a problem so bad I'm not even aware."
"John, I don't think–"
"You're a good friend, Mycroft. You don't want to believe I'm cracking up. I appreciate that but you don't know the whole story."
"Why? What happened next, John?" Mycroft hesitated. "Why are you here?"
"I reached over and opened my drawer. I took out my gun and I shot him."
Mycroft jumped up. "You what?"
"Yeah, I know. He looked really surprised, too. He didn't vanish as I assumed he would. That's what figments of imagination are supposed to do. Sherlock can't even be normal in fevered dreams." John wiped his brow with the sleeve of his arm. "It's been too much for me. Afghanistan. Losing Harry to the bottle. Losing Sherlock. Then losing Mary. I guess it was only a matter of time before I lost it."
"You shot Sherlock?" Mycroft stared at him, unable to move.
"He's not real, Mycroft. He's dead. He died three years ago." John sighed heavily. "I went over to him and he was still lying there. A fantasy, still holding on. I never was good at letting go. He muttered something about it being all his fault for being so dramatic."
"John!" Mycroft whirled around and grabbed the phone on his desk. "Get an ambulance to 221B Baker Street immediately."
"You don't have to do that, Mycroft. I'm going to be cooperative."
"A man's been shot!" He slammed the phone down; clasping sad, desperate eyes on him. "John, you don't understand." He picked the receiver up again. "Get my driver now." He slammed it down shakily. "Oh, my God." He ran from the room.
John reached over to the desk, picked up Mycroft's umbrella and followed calmly.
Mycroft leapt out of the car before it stopped. He flew up the stairs of 221B Baker Street and flung open the door to the sitting room.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair, picking at the strings of his violin. He looked so calm, so serene. So alive.
"Sherlock!"
"Mycroft."
He rushed over and clawed at Sherlock's shirt, pushing fingers into his chest.
Sherlock pushed his hands away. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Sherlock? Sherlock! You're not dead!" Mycroft sank to his knees, his breaths coming in shallow, his face a ghostly white.
"You don't have to act, Mycroft. I told John you were the only one in the world who knew."
"Knew?" Mycroft turned to John.
John smiled. "Knew that Sherlock was alive. Oh, did I say something wrong? Did I lead you to believe Sherlock was dead when in reality I knew the entire time that he wasn't? My, this last half-hour must have been awful for you." John shook his head, lacing every syllable of every word with as much sarcasm as a human being could produce. "Must have been awful."
Mycroft's breathing hitched, the adrenaline rush and subsequent crash sending him into all kinds of physical and emotional trauma. "You are a cruel, cruel man."
Sherlock looked between the two of them, confused. "John? Cruel? He's the most patient, tolerant, forgiving man I've ever known."
"Cruel."
Sherlock narrowed his gaze, studying Mycroft at his feet before looking at John. "What did you do to him?"
John smiled again. "I gave him a taste of his own medicine. I'm a doctor. I can do that."