Disclaimer: Sherlock (although strictly speaking a fanfiction in it's own right) is absolutely not mine.
A/N: Inspired by another gifset; the one where there's several times from the show when Sherlock's with John but he fades away. I'm not too sure where it came from other than that. Let me know what you think.
Somebody I Know by thenameSherlock
Always certain that he's just heard Sherlock come in or sit down or say something John instinctively looks over, ready to put his oar in, tell him off, make him stop. Then he sees the empty space and remembers. Remembers that Sherlock is gone. Remembers that he's on his own, and sometime that evening he returns to 221B, walks into that empty room the detective left behind, sits on Sherlock's bed and cries.
And if he falls asleep there, he doesn't realise it until he awakes, fingers clutching desperately to the duvet beneath him.
John walks to the bathroom, wipes the tears away, washes away the sleep, ignores the dark rings beneath his eyes, leaves the room, closes the door and doesn't think on it again. He just can't.
Unbeknownst to him, on the other end of a hidden camera conveniently placed with a clear view of the bed, sits Mycroft who sighs at the slowly growing number of nights this is happening.
Carefully he reaches into his pocket for his mobile and quickly taps out a message before sending it to the necessary number.
He's done it again. Twelfth time this month. - MH
Within moments there was a reply.
Is he safe? - SH
He has shown no signs of being a risk to himself or others - MH
You've said that before. Forgive me if I don't trust you. - SH
Keeping him in the dark and letting him go through this is a necessary evil, Sherlock. In the pursuit of the greater good. – MH
Nothing about John is evil and it's certainly not necessary. I'm coming home. – SH
Approach this logically Sherlock. If you return to Baker Street now, everything you've done could be torn to pieces and you'll be back to where you were a year ago. – MH
I understand your anxiousness to return but I promise you, John and the others are perfectly fine and under the strictest guard possible. - MH
If you return now, John might well be killed. All of them might be killed and simply because you got 'itchy feet'. – MH
What is your plan? – MH
There has to be something I can do. – SH
You can finish your job, then you can return home and in the meantime I shall do my hardest to keep him going until your return. – MH
That's not enough. I need to do something else. – SH
Mycroft paused in thought for a few moments, childhood memories of Sherlock brimming with impatience floating across his mind before he smirked slightly and his fingers flew across his keypad again.
Do you still have your Belstaff jacket to hand? – MH
Of course. – SH
Why? – SH
I have an idea that might cure you of your need to help and could either make or break the good doctor. – MH
Make or break? – SH
Mycroft! – SH
I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm afraid it's a risk. But if it reassures you, I believe it to be minimal. – MH
Risk is bad Mycroft. I do not like risk of any size. Not with John. – SH
It's necessary. – MH
I'm beginning to hate that word, Mycroft. - SH
If anything happens to him, Mycroft, I will be coming home. Forget the plan, forget the web. I'll be holding you responsible and I'll be coming home. – SH
That remains to be seen. – MH
You won't stop me. – SH
I don't believe I will, but I'll certainly try. For your own sake. – MH
Why do you want my coat? – SH
You'll see. How soon can you ship it here? – MH
It had been another dreary day, grey cloud overshadowed the entire walk to and from the clinic. John's knuckle was aching and he caught himself inadvertently shaking it every few minutes before he'd clench his fist and hold it, painfully tight against his side.
It was bleeding lightly. Some "poor" would-be patient had been talking a bit too loudly in the waiting room about Sherlock. More than a year later and Sherlock's innocence proved but still there were people who scoffed and boasted and spoke of things they couldn't possibly hope to understand. How could they ever understand?
And so, said "poor" person had had a sudden and somewhat unfortunate meeting with the floor following a sudden smack and angered shout from the doctor. Chances were he didn't have a job anymore. Even if he hadn't been fired, he felt about ready to quit, if only to get away from the looks of pity and condescension.
It had been over a year. He ought to have moved on from this by now, he should have met a nice girl, moved in with her, taken her out, impressed her with stories, talked about children and all that general sort of life-thing he'd given up from moving in with Sherlock but no. He hadn't done it.
He still lived in 221B, not having the heart to move out, not able to face the thought of living in a little box flat on his own again. Besides, Sherlock's presence seemed to cling to the small flat, keeping it warm, even if the feeling was somewhat hollow, and allowing it to remain to feel like home.
Sherlock's half of the rent was now paid by Mycroft who constantly said the flat was much more homely than a storage block. Being the British government meant that money was hardly an object and as such it had been explained time and again that so long as John wished to remain at Baker Street, he would always be welcome.
John had paid very little attention to where his feet were leading him but even so, he was hardly surprised when he found himself at the door to Sherlock's room once more. Pushing the door open, it was still the same as every other time he'd walked in; the floor was still spotless, the periodic table still hung on the wall and no doubt the bed was still mussed from when he'd last spent the night in here.
He never had the chance to check however, his attention caught by an anomaly over on the door of Sherlock's wardrobe. The door itself was open slightly, not a lot but just enough for a coat to hang over the corner and hold it in place. Both navy and grey, long, dominating and with sharp looking red buttonholes; Sherlock's infamous, overly-dramatic coat hung on the door, half-in and half-out the wardrobe.
With barely any hesitation John crossed the room and reached out a tentative hand; a finger of which he ran along the length of the outside sleeve allowing the familiar texture to send exciting tingles racing up and down his arm and down into his very soul.
An impossible coat, the coat the detective had worn when-when he…
Sherlock's coat…? It couldn't be. Catching the cuff of the sleeve as his fingertips brushed against it, John raised the familiar material to his nose and inhaled the scent that had soaked into it.
Coffee.
Iodine.
Chinese take-away.
An underlying tint of bleach.
The deodorant John had once bought him when it had been blindingly obvious he didn't have the time or ability to concentrate that was necessary to buy anti-persiperant.
All of it combined and created a remarkably familiar scent that still clung to the sheets behind him. A smell that wasn't, and never could be, anything but Sherlock.
John took a few shaky steps back, allowing the sleeve to fall again and brought a hand to his mouth.
Sherlock's…
This coat was Sherlock's…
But-but where was the blood? Where was the mess? Where was the scent of dry cleaning fluid that it had to have come into contact with? How could something so familiar and yet so new smell so much like a man who was dead and buried and had been for a year?
It was then he noticed the small yellow note that was pinned to the coat's lapel, written, quite clearly, in Mycroft's handwriting. And he stepped forward, plucking it off and removing the pin before reading it.
I thought you might want this a bit more than I do.
Look after it for me?
-Mycroft
Reading and rereading the note John wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for. Probably some hidden message, some unseen riddle that would tell him it was all an elaborate lie and it would be alright soon. But there was nothing. Sherlock was dead. But his coat wasn't.
Stepping forward, John opened the door slightly, just enough that, with a gentle flick of the wrist, the coat easily slid off the door and crumpled into his waiting hands. Almost immediately he raised it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
He smiled.
That night, John slept on Sherlock's bed cradling the coat like a young child might cling to a teddy bear or a security blanket. And for a moment, a short, sweet, blissful moment. John allowed himself to believe Sherlock was still alive and laid out beside him.
On the other side of the camera, Mycroft smiled before tapping out another text.
The risk was worth it. John will be fine. - MH