A/N: So this is my first ever Sherlock story, and I don't think it's too far off canon for a John/Sherlock relationship. I plan to do my best to keep to the characterizations, and in saying that, I don't want the expectation that this story is heavily slash (i.e. graphic or extremely sexual in nature). It's more an exploratory version of how John and Sherlock realize what they mean to each other, etc. I don't write a lot of fanfic, I'm working on my second novel, so fanfic sort of fills in the breaks I take from writing in my own world. Plan for this particular story to have somewhere around four or five chapters, longer than some, but most definitely not a novel in its own right.
Reviews are always appreciated, as well as constructive criticism. I crave that sort of thing, I like to know where I'm at with a story. So without further ado, here are our favorite boys on their latest adventures!
Warnings: post The Reichenbach Fall- full of spoilers, so beware.
It was Molly who eventually gave it all away, Molly who always meant well, but was a terrible liar. She showed up at 221B Baker Street a few days before John had a charity scheduled to take away all of Sherlock's things.
You see, John wasn't ready, in any capacity, to part with his things. He wasn't ready, despite countless therapy sessions, visits to the cemetery, photos of the autopsy and frankly, having watched him jump, to believe that Sherlock Holmes was dead. John Watson was a man of very little faith in things beyond science and the things he could touch, but he still, somehow, believed that Sherlock Holmes was capable of that last miracle.
He was sitting down to tea when he heard the buzz. He was alone in the Bakers Street flat, his sweet little landlady was actually visiting her sister for a spell because the death of her most favorite tenant had taken a much harder toll on her than many believed it would. Though John knew Sherlock would be rolling in his grave, he sent her off. For her health, of course.
It didn't hurt that John wanted, no needed, some time alone. She had helped pack Sherlocks things neatly in boxes. No one had dared touch his coat, though, nor did they lay a finger on his scarves, or those sometimes painfully bright colored shirts he kept in neat rows on a rack near the window in his room.
John could still smell him around the flat, the bitter smell of his soaps, the coffee, because frankly John only took tea unless it was a dire emergency. He could smell his odd science experiments around the kitchen, and occasionally when he went in the cupboard for tea, he'd find a stray beaker or a bottle of clear, unmarked liquid that was most definitely hazardous.
He cried, in private, for the first week. It was when he cried in front of Gregory Lestrade that he realized he needed to be alone. He sent Mrs. Hudson off on holiday under the guise that she needed to mourn the loss of her, for all intents and purposes, caretaker. Because he was, wasn't he? Sherlock took care of everyone, including John. Sherlock never bothered with bank statements, rent, utilities, or groceries. He never bothered with cab fare or paying the dinner bill, but he kept everyone alive, and safe, and he kept John whole.
Now he was gone and John was so very, very alone. So very alone and so very, achingly, desperately sad. John, as before, was sitting down for tea, staring at the window where Sherlock's violin sat on the edge.
When the buzz came, John immediately looked down at his state of dress and blushed. He sat on the chair, his dressing gown dirty, to put it lightly, his slippers worn, his hair unwashed and all over the place. He realized he had no idea when the last time he had brushed his teeth was, or had a proper meal to be honest.
What did it matter though, John thought as he ambled down the stairs, trying not to picture Sherlock bounding up and down, taking strides of two and three stairs at a time. He tried not to picture Sherlock's excited leap over the banister when they had a particularly good case, when Sherlock knew he wouldn't be "bored" by the events of the day.
John was surprised, to say the least, to see Molly standing at his doorstep. It was raining, and her hair had fallen flat and wet against her forehead. She looked well though, which surprised John. Molly had always been desperately in love with Sherlock, to the point of obsession and willingness to Sherlock's particularly cruel brand of humiliation when he picked her apart far too often.
John assumed Molly would be a mess, at least as poor as him if not worse, so to see her there looking just so in her skirt and trendy wellies covering her grey tights and her tight blouse tucked under a rain jacket.
She smiled a little at John, looking sad and curious at the state of him. "All right, John?"
"Never better," he said bitterly. "How are you doing?"
"I um... well fine, you know, considering," she said in her waify, quiet voice. "Do you mind if I come in? I'm afraid I forgot my umbrella, and I was in a hurry to see you."
Perplexed but curious, John stepped aside and let the girl in. He led the way up the stairs and made a sort of lame attempt of apology at the state of the place. "Haven't really got round to tidying up since... you know..." his voice broke and he stopped. No, no he still wasn't ready to say it out loud.
"Er, right," Molly said. She had her hands in her pockets and she didn't complain about the smell, though it wasn't very pleasant.
John showed her to a seat and folded his arms as he sat back in his chair. "What can I do for you, Molly? If you're here to talk about Sherlock, I confess I'm just not ready."
"No, it's not that... er... I mean, well sort of, but not really," she stammered. She reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope, but didn't hand it over. John immediately noted that it was blank, sealed with moisture because of the wrinkled edges, and a bit bent from her pocket.
If Sherlock were here, he'd already know the contents of that envelope, John thought to himself as he watched her fiddle with it in her hands. "So why are you here?" John pressed. "I suppose if you'd like to rifle though his things and see if there's any keepsakes, you're welcome to."
"Oh no, he'd kill me," Molly said and then immediately stammered, "I mean... you know... if he were still here."
John frowned. Molly was a terrible liar, but what could she be lying about? Sherlock was dead. John had seen it with his own eyes, touched his dead body as it lay on the pavement. John shook his head and cleared his throat. "Well he's dead now, so you don't have to fear his reprimand anymore."
"Right, yes," Molly said. "Well you see, I came here to give you this letter. It's from Sherlock, actually, to you. He um he says... I mean said, he said, before he died, that if anything were to happen to him, you should have this letter." She put it on the table and pushed it across to John.
John stared at it but didn't pick it up. His throat constricted, his hands trembling against his sides as he hugged himself even closer. "He gave this to you? When?"
Molly flushed and bowed her head. "Um at the hospital. The night before he uh... he jumped. He came to see me, to um... well I guess to give me this."
John's frown deepened. He could tell she was hiding something, but he wasn't sure exactly what she was hiding and why. He was feeling overwhelmed and very alone right then. He hesitated and then slowly reached out to take the envelope from the table. As he did, he noticed something odd in the corner of his eye. Near one of Sherlock's many bookcases was a vent, and for a brief moment, John swore he saw a light flash behind it.
Shaking his head, he picked up the envelope, tore it open and unfolded the small card inside. It was white, blank, and scrawled across it read, IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH, WHICH SEEMS LIKELY NOW MORE THAN EVER, I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU JOHN, THAT YOU HAVE BEEN MY ONLY TRUE FRIEND MY ENTIRE LIFE, AND I WILL GO TO MY DEATH TREASURING THAT. ALSO, IN MEMORY OF ME, PLEASE KEEP ALL OF MY THINGS EXACTLY AS THEY ARE, AND DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND STAY AT BAKER STREET. MRS. HUDSON WILL NEED YOU WHEN I AM GONE.
SH
John stared at the note and then back up at Molly. "You said he gave this to you the night before he died?"
She nodded. "Yes. He came to me and said... he said he needed help with something. Then he said that should he ever, you know, not make it, to give you this letter."
John nodded. "Thank you. Thank you for bringing it to me, Molly. I hate to be so rude but I'd like to be alone now."
"Right, yes," she said and got up quickly, nearly tripping over the leg of the table. "I'll be on my way then, John. Good to see you."
John saw her out and then immediately went back upstairs. The rain suddenly grew heavier, pounding on the roof, echoing through the nearly empty flat. John put the note back on the table and went over to the vent he had seen the light.
There was nothing now, just darkness behind it, but John wasn't satisfied. He grabbed the edge of the bookshelf and tried to pull it, but oddly, it didn't budge. With a frown, John went with his gut instinct and started touching every book, shifting them each to one side. They all moved, until he came to one.
The book was Treasure Island. It was an old copy, worn and frayed on the edges, the spine nearly torn down the middle. John flashed to a conversation he'd had with Mycroft once. "You know what Sherlock wanted to be when he was little? He wanted to be a pirate."
John smiled, not because of the memory, but because he suddenly got it. He got it, he had figured it out, and he was about to unleash a wave of rage and anger. He tugged on the book and the shelf gave a huge groan, shifting to the side.
Beyond was a room, empty save for a camp bed, a lamp, a small window, and... Sherlock Holmes. Years later, John wouldn't really know how he had managed to remain calm enough to walk into the room, approach his should-be-dead friend and say, "Feeling better, are we?"
Sherlock, of course, didn't get a second to reply before John hit him right in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. He was on him in an instant, grabbing the scarf with two hands and tightening it around his friend's neck as he straddled his middle.
"You son of a bitch! You dirty, filthy, rotten bastard! How could you do this to me? How? How could you let me think you were dead, for even a moment! How could you? Do you realize what I've been through, you bloody tosser?"
Sherlock, who had gone from a normal pasty white to bright red, finally managed to shove John off and stand up. He pulled the scarf off, and with deft skill, managed to dodge John's second strike. Sherlock's lip was bleeding, and he darted his tongue out to catch a bit before it made a mess.
"Calm yourself, John," he said sharply.
"Calm myself? Calm myself? I mourned you, you bastard. I cried. I cried five times today! I sobbed like a child when I found a stray sock you had left on the bathroom floor! How can you tell me to calm myself?" His voice was high, hysterical and near tears.
Sherlock, for his part, looked ashamed and somewhat relieved. "If you'd let me explain without trying to actually kill me, I'd be happy to offer you the story of what happened and why I did what I did."
John was shaking, muttering curses under his breath. He paced the floor in front of Sherlock a few times, and then, before either man spoke, he lunged at Sherlock again, only this time pulling him into a fierce, impossibly tight embrace.
"You... you asshole," John sobbed into Sherlock's shoulder. "I hate you, so much."
Sherlock awkwardly returned the hug, patting John until John let go and wiped his face, clearing his throat loudly. "I am sorry, John, truly, but it was an absolute necessity that you believe I was dead for at least this long. I was hoping for longer." For his part, Sherlock sounded genuinely apologetic, which was rare for the detective.
"Why, Sherlock? Why? Why put me through this? And Mrs. Hudson? The woman is nearly beside herself with grief. What about your brother, eh? Does he know what you've done? What stupid, thoughtless, idiotic thing you've gone and done this time?" John shook his head angrily and started to pace again. "The whole world read your story, Sherlock. The fraud who couldn't take it anymore leaps from a building. You had every opportunity to prove everyone wrong, and yet you chose death? Please explain it to me so I lose my urge to actually kill you where you stand."
Sherlock sat down on the camp bed, his elbows on his knees, the tips of his fingers pressed together under his chin. "You see John, if I hadn't jumped, if I hadn't, you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you all would have died. I was beginning to see what Moriarty was up to before we found him with that reporter woman, and when she told me his name I immediately understood."
"Richard Brook," John said with a nod. "Reichen Bach."
"You worked it out," Sherlock said, sounding very mildly impressed.
"It wasn't hard, once I had a moment to actually think," John said with a hint of bitterness. He had stopped pacing and leaned against the wall. "So what, exactly, did you work out that I couldn't?"
"The assassins," Sherlock said. "At first I thought they were meant for me, but it didn't take me long to realize what Moriarty wanted. He wanted me dead, and he wanted me dead at my own hand. It was the solution to the final problem, John. He had destroyed me, but the story couldn't end with my humiliation, that would never be enough for him."
"So... so you faked your death, why? They found his body, you know. Gun shot right through the roof of his mouth, dead instantly, and they said it was done before you jumped. So why bother?"
"Because if I hadn't jumped, you would have died. The assassins weren't after anything at all, John, not really. He had paid them to kill everyone I cared about, and I couldn't let that happen," Sherlock said with stoic determination. "I couldn't let dear old Jim know I had worked out his plan. I had to let him think he'd won, that I figured it out only at the end. It was the only way I could take him down with me."
"So why did I need to think you were dead, Sherlock? Why me?" John's voice was still angry, full of grief and betrayal. His hands balled into fists and he hit the wall. "Why let me go through that?"
"Because if I hadn't, they would come after you!" Sherlock all-but shouted.
"The assassins?"
"Don't be a fool, John," Sherlock hissed. "The assassins were men for hire, and once my little stunt had passed they could have been easily paid off. You need to realize something, John. Jim Moriarty did not work alone. He has a network, a network so large I can barely begin to imagine. It extends across the globe, John, and there are others that are smarter, more dangerous and more mad than Jim Moriarty. If you believed I was alive, if you didn't properly mourn for even a second, they would have known I was alive and they would have come after you."
"So why now? Why tell me you're alive now?" John demanded.
"I didn't tell you now," Sherlock said and glared at John. "You found me."
"I'm not the idiot you think I am, Sherlock. If you wanted to stay dead, you would have. You sent over Molly, who is the worst liar. She kept slipping tenses, as you knew she would. You moved across the vent there," John said and pointed up to the other end of the vent in the room. "I saw the light from it. And the note. Sherlock, you didn't write that note before you died. If you were really gone, you wouldn't have cared about any of your things. You're like a child sometimes, you really are." John rubbed is face tiredly and let himself slide to the ground, sitting with one knee up.
Sherlock watched him for a moment and then laughed. "Fine. I let you know, John."
"Why?" John demanded. "If we're still not safe, then why?"
"Because I..." Sherlock stopped and shook his head. "Boring, life is boring. Boring without you, John. When you're dead, life is dull and boring and I miss the hunt. I miss your stupid questions, and your rubbish tea, and you telling me not to smoke. I miss the stupid children with their lost rabbits, and that moron Anderson telling me that I'm rubbish."
"You missed me?" John asked with a small grin.
"Don't. Don't push it John, I'm not giving you more than that."
John chuckled and then stood up. "So what now, Sherlock?"
Sherlock stared at John and then said, "For you, Watson, a shower, a tooth brush and a comb. For me, a decent meal, my coat, and a chartered ship to the new world."
John blushed at the state of himself. "The new world?"
"America, John!" Sherlock said and did a little spin.
"What the hell is in America?" John complained.
Sherlock reached into his coat, pulled out a mobile and tossed it to John. On the screen read a text message, "Want to catch a murdering art thief? Xx"
John looked up at Sherlock and said, "Kiss kiss? How did she... you know what, never mind. Never mind at all. You really expect me to go running around in a foreign country with a couple of people the world believe to be dead?"
Sherlock grinned at John and surprising John, pulled him in for an embrace, kissing John on both cheeks. "Yes I do, John, yes I do."