"How could you do this to me, Sherlock?!" John shouted at him in the middle of the restaurant, "HOW?!"
Out of sheer anger, and to teach the overgrown man-child pain-in-the-arse that was Sherlock bloody Holmes (John's words, not mine) a lesson, John decides to pull off a fake-suiciding stunt at him while Sherlock watches, just like Sherlock had pulled off the Reichenbach Fall.
Of course, after John had been planning on how to tell Sherlock that he was in love with the mad genius, and that he was sorry for calling him a machine on the day he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's, he was going to make him pay for the torture he had endured for two years, wasn't he?
I.
John Watson.
The only man in the world who sat alone in a corner in a pub on a Friday night, tossing a coin and muttering to himself.
"Heads means he killed himself because I called him a machine."
"Tails means he killed himself because he thought I didn't trust enough in him."
This ritual would continue till one of John's friends, either Bill Murray or Gregory Lestrade spotted him alone in a corner. They would put up an insincere stretch of lips across their cheeks, and wave at John, come up to him and put a jolly arm around his shoulder, arms that were sturdy and muscular, nothing like the wiry arms of his late friend, wiry arms that grabbed his shoulders with extraordinary strength in the hour of emergency like they intended to crush his shoulders into dust right under his grip, or when he had performed on him that bleeding experiment by locking him in that stupid sodding lab or when he had declared that the average human memory on visual matters was about 62%
That was one of the rare statistics where Sherlock had gone wrong. Even after eighteen months since The Fall, every night, in every nightmare, his memory replayed those moments with unrealistic clarity in 5D, those last moments in which he watched as the detective willingly plunged to his death from the roof of St. Bart's.
The game is over, John thought, without Sherlock it was.
John still regretted his last words to Sherlock, the last words he had said to his face. He had called him a machine, when he was supposed to tell him that he was slowly falling in love with him. All throughout the night, as Sherlock and John tried to escape the clutches of the world that had suddenly started to spin in the opposite direction as theirs, he had said a lot of things. He had said that 'now people will definitely talk'. He had taken Sherlock's hand and he had run with him, risked everything for him, even jumped in front of a bus without a single thought because he had to do that. He was tied to him, by all kinds of bonds, of friendship, love, adrenaline and of course, handcuffs that a couple of police officers had put upon their wrists.
He looked up at the multitude of happy, inebriated people around him. Some of them had noticed him, and were openly pointing to him and talking. John didn't like it, people around him, anymore. During the years he had spent with Sherlock in Baker Street, he and Sherlock had becomes two halves of a whole. John felt it, he marvelled at it when it should've been obvious, and if there was anything that was Sherlock's and that that had rubbed off on him, it was his dislike of people, the general idea of crowds and throngs. People used to point at him, calling him the psycho fake detective's live-in. Now that Sherlock had gone from the world, the people who used to throw their mocking at him, now threw them at John, in streets and public places and mostly his blog, well except Anderson, who had gone completely loony with guilt. John knew it was cruel of him to think that he had got what he had deserved, but cruelty didn't matter to him, not when Sherlock was gone.
A man came near him, settling two seats away from him. He seemed friendly, and for a change, did not throw him a forcefully sympathetic look like others did. Maybe he was new in town, judging by how carefully he had kept the taxi receipt in his pocket. Yes, definitely new in London, who had actually gone through the pain of reading about the London cabs, and how you could register a complaint about the cabbie with the taxi company by showing the receipt. John tried not to smile at how sweet that sounded, despite himself.
Sherlock would've liked that deduction, he thought.
He did not realise that the man was making a beeline for him.
"Hello," said the man. He was about his height, above-average looking, had blond hair, the sort of blond that makes you think that their hair colour was fake.
"Hi," John said unenthusiastically, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "New in London?" Sherlock had really rubbed off on him. His heart gave a bitter twinge at that.
The man looked surprised for a moment, and then looked down at his clothes and found the taxi receipt sticking out of his pocket. Smiling guiltily, he tucked it back into the pocket of his jeans, "Wow, you've got really good eyes."
John forgot the cynicism with which he had been viewing the world until then. Was his "deduction" really that obvious?
"And I mean both ways when I say that you've got really good eyes," said the man with a cheeky smile. John's eyes widened at that. Good Lord, it was not a gay bar he had been sitting in, and the man had already known and was now already flirting with him?
"Oh, sorry," the stranger apologized at once, "That was a little lame. It's just that I don't do this stuff easily - "
"No, it's alright," John found himself smiling warmly, the sort he hadn't smiled since the day the tabloids had dubbed Sherlock 'Boffin Sherlock Holmes'. He found himself opening up already. Maybe he needed a stranger, someone who didn't know who he or Sherlock was, or whatever happened to them, "I'm John, by the way. John Watson," he wasn't sure if he was unknown after that ridiculous "Bachelor John Watson" issue, and so he pronounced out his full name.
The stranger didn't seem to know anyone by that name, because he relaxed and smiled back, like he had only been anxious that his pretty straightforward remarks about John's eyes were being regarded as bordering on strange, "Mark."
II.
Mark Morstan was a nice departure from John's now-boring-mind-numbing-tedious life. By the time they parted ways that night, John found that they had many shared interests. Mark had run away from home to become a stage actor, and he had a brother in the army, who happened to have once served under John. John remembered the name of every soldier he had served with, and he was pretty sure that Mark's brother, Arthur Morstan had served under him. He was a brave Lieutenant, and always followed orders to the point. John found out that Mark was also a mad fan of Man U, almost to the point where he had travelled to Manchester from halfway across the world, just to see the team and Old Trafford with his own eyes. Then, after having stayed in London for a couple of days, he thought that the city suited him and he moved in there, just like that. Seeing as John had nothing productive to do, he offered to show him around London and its various amusements.
Mark intrigued John, just like Sherlock had intrigued him in the beginning. And it also confirmed the hypothesis upon which he had once had a wager with Sherlock: No less-than-good-looking man in the world had the name 'Mark'. Sherlock had scoffed at that, saying that such a thing was impossible. John had, in turn quoted the Marks from History that he knew were good-looking (or thought to be so): Mark Antony...
So, John showed him the Westminster Bridge, Westminster Palace, Hyde Park, Tower of London, everything that he could. He didn't pretend to himself that he didn't enjoy Mark's company. He did, but the other reason he found was that he needed to stay away from Baker Street as long as possible.
The thing about Mark was he was ordinary, and yet he was so completely different from anyone John had ever met. He was, as he called himself, mad on the inside. John wished he could be like Mark, who could just sail on for whatever he desired and whenever he did, like the way he decided to move to London from Australia on simply a whim, a whim that brought him to John. He wished he could be like Mark, and move on from anything whenever he liked to, even Sherlock.
The ice broke after three months when Mark suddenly led him into a gambling den. Mark was an expert in blackjack and poker (he was banned from entering a couple of casinos in Vegas, or so he claimed), and John's greatest weakness (apart from Sherlock Holmes) was gambling. He always found a perverse thrill in putting up his life on a plate and grab the risk, and it was no wonder that this made its way into his money as well. By the end of the day, Mark had gained 223 bucks, whereas John had lost 20. John was laughing at his losses, and Mark laughed with him, putting a comfortable arm around his shoulder, and letting a very drunk John make himself comfortable. And then, before John understood, Mark leaned in and kissed him.
John instantly broke away, or however well he could in his inebriated state. Mark seemed to sense his agitation and pulled away too, breathless and his face flushed with colour from the kiss rather than alcohol.
"I - erm..."
"No, I - I'm sorry Mark, I just - "
John wondered why he pulled away. Mark was certainly not a bad kisser, and it did make him feel good, the feeling of his full pink lips against his thinner ones. And he didn't try to deny to himself that he liked Mark. But it felt like... he should have moved on from Sherlock after eighteen months since his absence, but as it turned out, he hadn't. The moment Mark pressed his lips against his, John felt like he was kissing Sherlock. Maybe, if he had kept the kiss a little longer, Mark would have proved not to be Sherlock, because frankly, no one could be him. No one could pay attention to minutiae like he did.
And Sherlock was dead. And Sherlock did not love him back, because if he did, he never would have jumped off that roof. He would have performed an experiment on him instead.
But nevertheless, John still pulled away, "I - I have to go," John swallowed, his blurred vision still able to perceive Mark's disappointed face.
"I'll drop you," said he slowly, after collecting himself from the rejection, "You can't go in this state."
III.
The bomb dropped after two months.
John had moved in with Mark after he realised that some time away from Baker Street would be good, and Mark was more than amenable to the idea. Till then, John was okay only with kissing and some cuddling on Saturday nights while watching telly. Mark was a decent fellow, and he was ready to wait for as long as it took John. He was glad for it, because it was still taking him some time to adjust to a flatmate who had some sense of privacy and personal space unlike the previous one.
John told him everything about Sherlock, and why he was so depressed and why he needed more time. Mark deserved honesty, the way he stuck with him after everything, and so he told him that Mark had changed him, and that he was thankful for that. Mark simply smiled, and plopped down on the sofa, telling him not to get so sentimental during a Man City vs Chelsea match. John simply made them tea, and Mark chastised him again for bringing tea instead of beer during a soccer match.
After two months of dating Mark, John decided that his boyfriend shouldn't have to wait for so long. He told Mrs. Hudson that he was moving on, and also told her that his name was Mark. He had planned an entire evening, starting with a surprise dinner at a nice little restaurant. He would have gone for Angelo's because Angelo extended him the same courtesy as he used to for Sherlock, but because of some painful memories, he opted for one near Marylebone. They were all set and comfortable, and laughing and talking about a girl who followed Mark around in his office or who to vote for the next elections and which team to bet on and other normal stuff that blokes talk about (and other crazy stuff that John and Mark both agreed on keeping under whispers lest the waiter should think that they were probably mad), when it happened.
Sherlock was standing there. At first John thought that he was hallucinating because it was officially the day where he was moving on from Sherlock, but when he saw that Mark was looking at him too in undisguised amazement, he pushed his chair back noisily and rose, sucking in a long painful breath that stuck like a knife in his pinhole-thin throat.
How could he look just the same like he looked two years ago? How dare he look like the person who had tumbled John's life upside down, lifted him up in a crest of a wave and then let him go down in the worst possible way? How dare he not look changed or broken or aged?
But Sherlock wasn't looking at John. His eyes were fixed on Mark with the coldest expression John had ever seen on him.
And something happened. One time, John remembered slamming his fist painfully on the table to stop Sherlock's banter and his accusing questions about who Mark was and what he was doing with John in what seemed like a very romantic candlelight dinner, and then he remembered Mark's placating words, and then John was saying something to Sherlock about how he could do this to him, and how he could stay dead for two bloody years.
And the next thing was what John remembered clearly. Somehow, Sherlock had ended up beneath him on the restaurant floor, the veins on his forehead standing up clearly as he tried to slacken the grip that John had on his collar. After a punch to those ridiculous cheekbones, he stormed off, with Mark behind him. He did not pause to see Sherlock's face contorted with cold anger at Mark, as if he were responsible for John's outburst.
John couldn't sleep that night, feeling angry, betrayed and tricked. But mostly, it was the onslaught of emotions he felt when he saw Sherlock's sharp face in contrast to the blurred surroundings. Even after two years, even if he had changed, his treacherous heart hadn't. Most of his anger was directed towards himself, for being so traitorous. Sherlock fucking faked his death. Only one word would've been okay, just to let him know that he was alive. Or even a message, or even a glimpse, or even a text saying "I'm not dead, I was just fucking kidding". No, he let him grieve, he let him break down in front of the tombstone and cry, cry for his loss and the unfulfilled future that he had in hope a few days earlier, and that he had been undeniably denied.
John was right. Sherlock never loved him. If he did, he wouldn't have done that to him. Did he even realise how much pain he had caused John? Well, he would now.
Mark stirred beside him, and John pretended to be fast asleep, but Mark was clever enough to not be fooled, "I'm sorry."
John's eyes flew open, "Why is that?"
Mark withdrew his arm from around John, his voice sleep-roughened, "John, you... do you think we should be doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Being in a relationship, when you're clearly still in love with Sherlock."
Something dislodged in John's chest. it might have been his heart, "I'm not, Mark. I just... I was..." for the extreme lack of a better word, "shocked I guess."
"You can't sleep," said he quietly. John simply emitted a hum in response.
"Well then, I can't either. Tea?"
"Mark, it's two now and you've got work in the morning. You should sleep - "
"And you've got eight plus hours of shift in A&E where you can't afford to even take a nap," Mark rose and draped a dressing gown around his shoulders, "It's better that we talk this out and not let it disturb us tomorrow."
IV.
John had not expected Mark to ask him to straighten things out with Sherlock. Which, in his cryptic way, meant that they were done. Mark kissed him in the end, and took the bed and let John take the sofa in order to not make him feel guilty. It was the first signal that they were done indeed, because he could hear Mark's heart breaking in his voice as he made John understand that a little time apart to sort things out would work wonders. John admired him for being so upfront and so stoic about it. He himself never took breakups well, and only God knew what had happened to him after Sherlock "died".
"I'll be seeing you around, John," said Mark, as he left for work. John wanted to go to the hospital as well, and pretend that nothing out-of-the-ordinary had happened. Sherlock had just come back from dead as if he had been to Brighton on holiday, no big deal. It should be a perfectly simple thing, because if it was that easy for Sherlock, it should be easy for him as well. So, according to that, he should've gotten to the shaving mirror, taken the razor between his fingers and run it along his cheeks which were now dusted with stubble, read the newspaper while sitting on the WC and then taken a shower, maybe even washed his hair.
But instead, he went inside and shaved his moustache off. The tremor in his left hand had gone away again. Sherlock was doing that again, turning his life around. But John was in control. He wasn't going to let that insensitive man get to him again.
He had faked his death with the help of his "Homeless Network". John would create his own.
V.
"Sir?" Anthea poked her head into Mycroft's study, and then barged straight in, a white I-Phone instead of a Blackberry in her hands, and a complexion to match, "There's a - "
She stopped short at his desk and started to open her mouth, but Mycroft put up one forestalling finger as he went through a file recording Sherlock's latest conquests, and to his expectation and satisfaction, it shut again immediately.
"Not now, please," he said in a patient but non-negotiating tone. "I'm going through - "
"There's a John Watson on the line for you, sir - "
"Yes yes," now his tone became dismissive, and irritated and surprised. Mycroft's eyebrows jumped involuntarily, more in surprise than displeasure, and he scanned his memory to determine whether she had ever interrupted him. She had not, "Keep him on hold, and send him through - "
"The John Watson, sir."
Her words struck him all of a sudden, with the force of a hurricane. So Sherlock had officially declared himself alive, and now John was probably asking him for explanations. He wondered why John hadn't called his personal number. And then he remembered that Mummy had insisted on the new I-Phone 5, much to his displeasure. He liked Blackberry. Mycroft heaved a sigh, and took the phone from Anthea, who hurried away, "To what do I owe this pleasure, John?"
"You knew, didn't you? Why did you never tell me?"
"And congratulations on getting rid of that moustache, by the way," Mycroft crowed on, anything to change the subject, "Sherlock told me that he needed, or rather to put it in his words, 'we' needed to get rid of it."
There was a beat for a second where John was silent, as if he were about to ask him how he knew that. Mycroft gave him credit that he didn't as his voice came again, now calm and angry, "What else did he say?"
"Do we really need to - "
"What else did he say?" his voice would burst out of calmness now. Mycroft knew that there was no getting out of this, not out of the man who was a stringent ex-soldier, "He described it as 'jumping out of a cake', but that's the dramatic Sherlock for you..."
VI.
"Oh hello dear!" said Mrs. Hudson as she welcomed John in, "Come to see Sherlock?! He's out with Molly."
John found his heart failing outstandingly. He had found a replacement already? "Molly? Molly Hooper?!"
Mrs. Hudson rubbed his arm sympathetically, "Oh yes, that sweet morgue girl. And he's bringing in dead things again. And I'm beginning to miss the silence again. Tea?"
"Er, yes, thank you."
"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper," said she jokingly, winking at John, "Ah, such wonderful times! And now he's back, I just can't believe it! And you should've seen the look on Mycroft's face when he arrived here yesterday. I've never seen Sherlock stand up to him with anything expect that poor soul's diet."
"Yeah, me too."
"So," Mrs. Hudson pinched his arm playfully, "How is Mark?"
John's face did not fall. He simply watched her as she went away to prepare the kettle. A wonderful person like Mark did not deserve him at all, "We're - uh, good, I guess. Thank you. Anyway, I have a favour to ask of you."
"Yeah?"
"Would it be possible for you to go to Mrs. Turner's after two days, around seven, and stay there till Greg came around for you, if you don't mind? It's just we're having a surprise party for Sherlock's birthday party, and - "
"Oh yes!" she clapped her hands happily, about to announce it to everyone, and then understood why John was dumping her to Mrs. Turner, "I understand dear." Suspecting nothing from merely his strangely normal voice, she just went on like the dear old housekeeper she was, "You should bring Mark along, you know. I don't know how Sherlock would react to it - "
"Mrs. Hudson," John began, "What happened to Mr. Hudson?"
She frowned a little wondering why John was asking her that, "Are you asking how his trial - ?"
"Oh no," John shook his head, trying his best not to stir unpleasant memories in her mind, "What did he do?"
"Blew someone's head off in a fit. Quite a relief to get away from him, to be honest," she put down the tea in front of him, "but it was never serious anyway. We just couldn't keep our hands off each other. There was this one time when I accidently dropped Superglue on his testi - "
But John put up one finger, grimacing at the mental image that was starting to creep up into his head, "I think that's Sherlock."
She strained her ears, "Is it?"
They stayed quiet for some time. Even though no sound came, John rose from his chair, "I'll go meet him. Lovely to talk to you, Mrs. Hudson."
"John, you should finish your tea!"
John simply walked out promptly, forgetting tea or any eatables, with the revolting mental picture at least.
VII.
"Spare change?"
John walked up to the homeless girl sitting under the Waterloo Bridge, "Why?"
"God bless you?"
John did not roll his eyes, because he never did that, "Have Bluetooth?"
"Have spare change?"
He sighed and pulled out his wallet, "All your contacts. Don't tell Mr. Holmes about this."
She frowned, "Who?"
John wondered if he had walked up to the wrong girl, "The idiot man in the big black coat?"
She smiled as she looked at her gift, a hundred pound bill, "Oh yes, sure."
It took him five minutes to transfer all the contacts. There were numbers of big names in there, names the girl didn't know the significance of, but he knew how much they meant to Sherlock. He would find one of them there. He read news after all. He knew just how to give Sherlock a big bad fright, so that he would never pull a stunt on him like this again. He knew just how Jim Moriarty had died.
Maybe Sherlock needed to be reminded that he wasn't a housecat wrapped up in cable-knit, and festive and badly-patterned jumpers. He was a bloody (in every sense of the word) soldier.
VIII.
"Hello?" came a gruff voice from John's mobile phone.
"Out of business now?"
A perfectly surprised voice, "Who's this?"
"Two years ago, you pointed a rifle at me. On two separate occasions. Remember? In the pool, and then outside St. Bart's?"
A sigh, "I left that work, Mr. Watson - "
"It's Doctor, Colonel," came John's strict voice, while trying not to feel good at pulling ranks, "Dr. Watson."
"Very well, Dr. Watson. I left that ages ago. I'm just a security guard now."
"Good. Because I need your help," said he, now in full-army mode as if barking his orders to his juniors, "Report after two working days right where you had set your sniper gun when you had focussed on Baker Street. Don't ask me how I know it. I'll tell you the time later."
"But - "
"The pay will be good enough," John ordered, and promptly cut the phone, wondering if he could have been something more than just an army doctor.
IX.
Greg picked up the phone, "Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"It's me."
A pause, "Are you okay? I mean after..."
"Yeah," John replied, "Sherlock's driving me nuts."
John could hear Greg frowning on the other side of the line, "Really? I thought - "
"Yeah, he's taking Molly for now."
"Yeah... Is, erm, Mark okay with this?"
John smiled to himself. Greg was always the man, always came to the point, "Yeah, why wouldn't he be?"
"I don't know, I thought Sherlock was your ex - "
"Greg," John heaved a sigh, "Sherlock wasn't my boyfriend, you know."
"You sure?"
John frowned, "Pretty sure."
"So, you up for drinks tonight? You could bring Mark, I guess," he sounded expectant, "Haven't met him properly."
"Alright. By the way, there's Tottenham vs Stoke City today. You sure about Mark?"
Greg shrugged on the other side of the line, "No, maybe. Alright, I'll fix that Murray fellow up for drinks too."
This was the hardest part of the plan, John thought, because he had to allow Greg into the plan, and talk him into it. But at any rate, Greg was just as angry as John was.
X.
"Hello, you've reached Molly Hooper. I can't receive your call because I'm busy, so leave a message at the tone and I'll get back to you!"
John sighed. She was probably still out with Sherlock, and then a realisation hit him. What if Sherlock started to develop feelings for Molly just because she helped him fake his death?
Would he do that? Was he on a date with her?
Unlikely. His idea of a date was wrestling Chinese gangsters and following murderous taxi drivers across London on foot.
Mark was right. He was still pining for Sherlock, but that didn't mean that he was going to welcome him with open arms. He wanted to get back at him, although he didn't know if Sherlock would fall for it. There was no way he could, because he just couldn't expect it...
His phone rang out, a blocked number. Hesitating, John spoke into it, "Hello?"
"What you're doing is wrong, John," came Mycroft's voice. Hot anger swelled up in him.
"Oh, so you think me trying to fake my death is wrong? And what Sherlock did was so bloody right that you had to sponsor his endeavours?!"
There was a guilty silence for a moment. John thought, horror-struck, that Mycroft would tell Sherlock, "You might get... injured."
"I'm not jumping off a roof, Mycroft," John snapped, pleased that Mycroft hadn't figured it out yet. If the cleverer one hadn't, then Sherlock certainly wouldn't. At any rate, he wanted to make Sherlock feel guilty, because he knew that Sherlock had nothing else for him. And that made him feel even more bitter in his heart. But he shoved the pounding in his chest away, and spoke a goodbye into the phone before hanging up. He was a soldier for God's sake. He had learnt how not to feel things. And now for the two final phone calls for help in this strange mission: one to Philip Anderson, and another to Mark Morstan. He didn't know what Mark would feel when he told him this. He would probably think that John had gone mad with the excitement or maybe he was heartless. But he needed him, because he trusted Mark's supreme acting skills.
He simply buried his head into his arms as he stared at the beige walls of the hotel room.
XI.
Sherlock twisted his key into the door and slipped into the apartment. He knew the date and he knew that John was in there, with a surprise birthday cake perhaps. Tedious John, after everything they went through! After all, why would Mark accompany him, telling him that John and he had broken up and that if he needed to patch things up, he should apologize to him? Truth be told, he was happy that John had broken up with that Mark guy. He could never keep John happy without the onslaught of cases and adventure like nighttime sentinels through London. John was his, not some random guy who just happened to know how Sherlock worked his deductions out. Sherlock hated the fact that he had to give Mark some credit for that.
Mrs. Hudson wasn't there downstairs. Ha! Got ya, Sherlock thought. She was obviously upstairs, planning how to sing the birthday song perhaps. Maybe he could embarrass her by playing one of those exotic dancing videos on YouTube, and maybe she would shut up then.
Sherlock threw Mark a cold glance. Whatever he was doing, he was still his enemy, a threat. He had taken John away from him, and he had been on a date with him, laughing away with him, and perhaps talking about uninteresting things such as cows and sheep probably.
"Don't touch me," he growled. Mark recoiled at the slightly murderous gaze which he gave him, but he managed his cheerful expression admirably, and it was driving Sherlock on edge. Mark was perfection. He was someone every person would want to be with. He was the perfect combination of domesticity, intelligence and adrenaline, as far as Sherlock had deduced. Who would want him compared to Mark? It had driven Sherlock mad just to see John laughing away with him. To come back to him after two years only to find him playing "Romeo" to another man?!
The steps creaked under his weight. Sherlock smiled to himself. He bested Mark in the field when it came to not creating noises under his feet, even though the latter appeared to be very sure-footed.
At any time, as he ascended the steps to his flat, he knew he would see John in a ridiculous birthday hat, and a new jumper for the occasion, and maybe Mrs. Hudson in a birthday hat too. Sherlock remembered how Mummy threw the predictable surprise birthday parties for Mycroft and him when they were younger. Sherlock would take the trouble to appear surprised, while Mycroft would make a face and go off to his bedroom, maybe to count his prizes. Sherlock did not admit, but he liked having small parties to his name, where all people would focus on him and him alone, and not say "hello" to each other instead. He always got excited. The childhood habit had not left him, and although Sherlock had grown up, his childishness still remained, and hence his habits too.
But instead, he found John alone in the room. For the first time, Sherlock was surprised because there was no surprise birthday party. There was only John sitting alone on the chair, and then he stood up. His face was blanched, and his gun was now in his mouth.
"I can't live like this," John spoke in a zombie-like voice to himself.
Sherlock was haunted by another image, the image of Moriarty, the gun in his mouth, the worst scenario he had ever had the misfortune to witness. Instinctively he reached out, but before he could cry for John to put the gun down, a gunshot rang out in the air, and John's empty eyes remained fixed on Sherlock as he watched horrified, before John's limp body fell backwards, tumbling down and down, taking the gravity with him as Sherlock felt himself falling with him as well.
John had just pulled the trigger. The gun was in his mouth and the shot rang out. He thought he was falling down several levels down too, to save John, like he had done two years ago. In a parallel universe, he might have been. But right there, in the universe where John had killed himself in front of Sherlock's eyes, Sherlock remained rooted to his spot, frozen with shock. How could John kill himself? Had he no regard for Sherlock? And how would Sherlock remain alone? And how would he live without him? Had John considered none of that?! He had endured so much pain and loneliness, only hoping that when he got back to 221B Baker Street, John would welcome him with open arms with that same kind, radiant smile as if John were a housewife welcoming her husband after a weary day from work.
All that was gone now.
And then he saw Mark approaching John carefully, with a subtle hitch in his step, and although he wanted to tear him away from John, he couldn't. His whole world was spiralling inwards, creating a void impossible to fill, no matter what. His fingers were shaking, almost like he was going into a seizure from shock. John's blank eyes were on him, and then the view was obscured by Mark's figure.
"No," was all Sherlock could breathe out. Of all impossible things he had seen and experienced, John committing suicide in front of him was completely surpassing all knowledge. And when Sherlock's brain finally booted, when he saw the horrible splatter of John's blood across the mantelpiece mirror, he grabbed Mark by the collar of his shirt and pulled him away from John's body. Apparently he had reached out and closed John's eyes. His shaking fingers reached out for the gun still in his throat and he removed it from his fingers. He stepped back, and unloaded it. It was half-loaded. He looked upwards, feeling the gun slip from his fingers as he looked up at the mantelpiece. The bullet was fixed there above the mirror guiltily, coated in John's precious blood.
He felt arms around his shoulders, and Mark's equally shocked face as he tried to pull him away. Sherlock reached out foolishly for John's wrist. His hand was still warm, his pulse was still fluttering, and then, right under Sherlock's fingers it slowed and finally died down. John was as still as a stone.
"John," came Sherlock's hoarse voice, as he violently shook Mark off him, and he cupped John's face, feeling the warm stubbly cheek beneath his fingers, "John, wake up... the game is on..."
John's face was still and he looked like he was sleeping peacefully in a pool of his own blood.
"John, wake up!" came Sherlock's now-broken voice as he shook him violently, almost in the danger of dislocating his shoulder bone, "John, wake up!"
His face screwed up in agitation and disbelief and annoyance that John wasn't listening to him, not trusting the evidence right in front of his eyes. He shook him by the shoulder and by his face, and then his whole body like he was a doll. When he couldn't take it anymore, he slapped John hard on his cheeks. Mark pulled him away at this point, "All right, that's enough," but Sherlock pushed him away again, "It's all your fault!" he roared, now anger coming up in him in full measure. Mark said nothing, looking up at him in bewilderment, not expecting such a strong reaction from Sherlock.
"John, John, please!" Sherlock croaked helplessly, not caring that John's blood was on his hands, "Wake up. It's not April the First, you have no right to crack jokes on me, you stupid ignorant jumper man!" And Sherlock hit John again, but this time, his blow fell only very light, because he knew that John was gone, but he still kept on going, "Please John... I came here and I - I thought you would say that I was brilliant!" He cupped John's still warm face in his nervous fingers. He didn't process the fact that Mark was gone from the room, and he didn't care, "Wake up, John, or else I'll - "
But John's face was still the same. It was not real. The world was still spinning on its axis, a fact that Sherlock only knew because John told him.
And finally he broke down, the first tears escaping his eyes, "I'll hate you forever, John. I'll wish you had never come into my life!"
Those untrue words pierced Sherlock's heart like an ice shard and he escaped into tears once again, as he looked behind him. No one was there. There was a deep pit in his chest, in his ribcage a wide, yawning chasm where his heart used to be there, beating, beating for John and longing for the faint scent of the tea he made. He knew just how Sherlock liked it, sweet and frankly, a sugary concoction. John took everything without sugar, as if that were his life too. He did not want things to be sugar-coated for him. He liked coffee just as its true taste was.
He must have been saying something, but he did not know what it was, and the next thing he knew, his lips were pressed against John's cheek as he held on to his lifeless body, perhaps using the rare assortment of curses that only Mycroft had had the misfortune to listen to. Sherlock did not dare tell him that he loved him. If John had to leave him without listening to him, so be it. He simply wrapped himself around him, and just pressed his lips to John's, not knowing why he even was going down that road. His hands did not dare travel to his chest just to see how fast his heart was beating, because it wouldn't. And besides Sherlock's had broken already. Or at least it would have, if it were even present in his rib cage.
And then, John kissed him back.
At first, Sherlock thought that even he had probably died out of grief. As adorably naive he used to find that before he left John to go on the suicide mission that was dismantling Moriarty's network, he had come to seriously consider it, seeing as the amount of pain he felt on seeing John's previously - lively eyes dead were way beyond the level of pain he could bear. Just to confirm his theory, his fingers slid to pulse point above John's carotid artery. It was fluttering, and Sherlock broke away from the wet kiss at once, wiping the tears off his face proudly.
John was blinking up at him, his face completely flushed and his breathing gone horribly wrong.
"What the - ?"
And before he could understand what was going on, John's lips were against his again, and his tongue wrapped in John's. Greg snooped up on the snogging couple on the floor, and sighed exasperatedly. Sherlock always had his way, even when an angry John was involved.
"Damn," he swore under his breath, thinking about the paramedics gathered in Baker Street, "Now I'm gonna have to explain it all to Gregson." He instantly turned Mark around and away as he approached the flat, "No, no," said Greg, his lips twitching downwards in disappointment when he saw how sad Mark looked, like he knew just what was happening inside, "They're um..."
But Mark just shrugged gracelessly as he walked downwards with the DI, "It's okay, I guess. John and I broke up before all this anyway."
"You did?!" The DI sounded hopeful, something that Mark did not miss at all as he eyed him suspiciously.
"Yeah, and I, um, I'm single now...?"
XII.
It took Sherlock surprisingly less time to forgive John for the unforgivable joke he played on him. But all of that melted away under John's passionate kisses. They lay together in Sherlock's bed after a week as Sherlock pressed tender kisses on the sensitive spot on John's neck. John simply sighed in satisfaction, remembering the feel of Sherlock inside him. He had not expected Sherlock to break down in front of him and cry his heart out, as he claimed and as Sherlock vehemently protested that he did not. He still remembered the whole plan, how he would be dragged out of there, and carted off to the hospital and then morgue where Philip Anderson (who had been reinstated to his previous status after all his theories about Sherlock being alive proved to be correct) would declare him dead. Mark had done his role most admirably, as had Sebastian Moran and YouTube. He vowed to give that homeless girl some spare change every time he saw her for giving him Sebastian Moran's old contact number, and for bringing Sherlock and him together.
And later, when they would celebrate Sherlock's birthday again, he would 'jump out of a cake' like Mycroft had supplied him with. But he hadn't expected Sherlock to kiss him at all. And when he did, John forgot about his plan entirely, and simply concentrated on the plethora of feelings it arose within him to feel Sherlock in his arms.
"How did you do it?" Sherlock asked softly. In truth, John had beat Sherlock when it came to faking death. When Sherlock had faked his death, all John had touched was Sherlock's wrist, where his pulse ran. John had allowed Sherlock to slobber all over him.
"You know your methods, Sherlock," John teased, "Work it out."
"I certainly will when I see your browser history."
He heaved an exaggerated sigh, "You broke in again?!"
"If you insist on leaving your laptop on your desk with a mere system of three passwords, two anti-spambot filters and another two passwords, then really you're just asking for me to have a bit of fun, aren't you?"
John simply smiled against his skin, "And the password is?"
THE END