Dear Reader -
this story is old now. I started writing it nearly two years ago, which is slightly batty. Somehow you've found your way to it - hello and welcome! I am writing a new introduction (yes, this is it) as I am updating this story to a polished version. I have made no changes that impact the story in any major ways so if you're someone returning to it you should still recognize it in full.
I wanted to take the opportunity with this update to add a mention of all the fantastic, amazing, brilliant reviewers who were a part of the journey as I was posting the story the first time around, and I thought I should add that mention right here, before the very first chapter, collected in all their glory, so that the read will then flow a little more easily. Or so I like to think. These fantastic, amazing, brilliant reviewers are:
chironsgirl, Mumriky, achievableformofflight, Trangl, stardotbrite, TM, Vhis, Ceanen, Howlynn, holmesian13, Guppyvis, animegirl1987, Not the Doctor, wrytingtyme, sockindexx, B-Elanna, lazy-shika, emmef203, ravantree, Rhyolight04, Mona Ogg, sevenpercent, Kloette, Constance, Magri, Warm-Glow as well as two anons who are, naturally, just as included.
And those who have commented after the fact:
Gemthest, InuChimera7410, A Drop in the Sea, Valerie, sami1010220, Asymmetrical Freak, Formidable Rain, LadyRogue15, Elendil-sama, Aralas Baggins, Liska, Magnetklaue, Potrix, sureaintmebabe, Nicole Collard, Miaka Mouse, The Happy Tree Frog, Raxacoriocofallapatorious, niruchari0701, Cora DeBlaere, Ralina and x-PinkPanther-x.
If your name is in here, that means you can stop doubting it or wondering about it or being in any way reluctant to own up to your own awesomeness. It means you have glowy things about your head and flappy things on your back and it undoubtedly means that you use your powers for good and not evil and nothing competes with that. I can never thank you enough for all your support and encouragement.
Love,
Annie.
The Emptied House
Chapter One
2012
February 7th
The room smells of a few weeks' old layer of dust, worn in leather and a lingering scent of burning chemicals. Have I noticed it there before? I can't remember. For some reason I value it now, as though the trace of it is a testimony to my friend having once moved through this space.
"I didn't want to disturb it," Mrs. Hudson says quietly behind me.
I don't answer. I don't need to. She has already turned and left me to my solitude. This place has stood for companionship, safety, home. Now it feels soulless. I steady myself at the bolt of pain that tears through me as my eyes land on the violin by the window. My jaw clenches into a tight grind and I turn to head into the kitchen.
I open the fridge. It's nearly empty, apart from a pint of milk and some broccoli. I remember buying the broccoli. Before.
I close the door, turning to the kitchen island that used to be filled with a chemistry set of bottles, glass tubes and dishes. I draw a soft breath, sliding my hand over the dusty surface, taking in the other empty countertops and practically hearing the echo of my friend's voice as he's reciting facts like someone possessed.
I bite the tears down and walk back into the sitting room.
I have known this would be hard, but I haven't expected it to feel like this. The week after the funeral is nothing but a black-swathed memory quietly tucked away somewhere indistinct, but I have done pretty well for the past seven days: I have gotten out of bed; read the newspaper before deciding I shouldn't read the newspaper since they keep writing about the incident; then I got a haircut, but was completely assaulted by press representatives and decided against going out for a while.
I found my refuge in a small hotel off Gower Street in the week after my friend's departure. The hotel stay has been more expensive than my depleted funds can actually afford, but I couldn't face the flat. I've never been so angry or disappointed or confused in my life and sitting in the silence he left behind only seemed to enhance the emotions. He left and for what? What for? I still don't understand. I still can't see the reason, and for him to leave he would have had to have had an astonishingly good one.
My hand goes in a fist to my mouth, pressing itself against my lips and I shake my head slowly at myself; at how the grief is like a living thing inside of me, gnawing at my bones, burrowing through my chest. It will nest there. I will never be rid of it.
My friend Sherlock Holmes is dead.
I haven't had a proper cry. I've been close, but I've been able to square my shoulders and remind myself that nothing good will come of it. It is useless. Tears are useless. They won't change a thing.
But now I sink down into the well-known chair opposite Sherlock's empty one and break down. Allow myself this moment of unreserved weakness, certain that Sherlock, if he could see me, would be utterly unimpressed. It makes me smile through the hurt.
Oh, do cheer up, John. Sentiment clouds judgment and your judgment is telling you that life will inevitably go on.
"Yes," I mumble, digging my fingers into my eyelids, unable to stop my sobbing. "Inevitably, Sherlock."
The sorrow is like a raw patch around my heart. It wakes me up at night, chaffing persistently at my dreams until the discomfort makes me rise. I'll walk up to the window of my hotel room to look down at the quiet ally below. I've spent hours at that window, watching the abandoned narrow street, waiting for Sherlock's silhouette to appear; for Sherlock's ghost to join me, reflect itself in the window. I'm too rational to believe in that sort of thing, but nevertheless I've longed for a spectre to allow me another glimpse; I've wanted Sherlock's presence to fill the room and choke the loneliness right out of me.
Now I feel Mrs. Hudson's hands on my shoulders. She's in front of me, gently pulling my head to her stomach as I wrap my arms around her waist, unable to compose myself, thankful I needn't in front of her because she feels my pain, is a part of it, like an extra limb attached to me for this brief moment. She's crying, too. She's lost him, too. She knows. She's known us both.
"It'll get better," she says softly, her hands brushing at my hair.
It would have annoyed me – I dislike being treated like a little boy – but now it's soothing. Motherly. Welcomed.
She's wrong, though. It will never get better. The grief will nest and thread through me until all that is left of me is a shell. I'll live – inevitably – but there will be no life left in me. I acknowledge this for one brilliant second before I push the melodrama of it away, shut it into a compartment somewhere at the back of my head and begin to regain control of myself.
"It'll get better with time," Mrs. Hudson repeats as we let each other go.
I pull my palms over my cheeks, wiping the wetness away, snivelling slightly before I nod.
"Yes, thank you, I'm sure it will," I tell her.
She seems to believe me.
February 19th
"I must tell you, John, your CV is quite impressive."
Dr. Morton looks at me over his thick glasses and I smile my thanks.
"But your connection with this stirring surrounding Sherlock Holmes…"
"Let me, please, if I may, stop you there. I have been to interviews at three other private practices, as I'm sure you already know, and I need work. I need something to do. I am dedicated. I am professional. And I am a very good surgeon. I would ask of you to set yourself apart from the rest of London and not bring my former colleague into this context."
Dr. Morton eyes me for another moment before sinking back in his leather chair.
The office is not very large, not very suave and doesn't speak at all of a bloated ego. It's filled with medical journals, textbooks and on the wall by the door it has a drawing of a human profile with its brain detailed within its confines. It looks old and inspirational. All this makes me think that Dr. Morton takes pride in the outcome of his work, not in what the outcome might do for his reputation. It makes me feel as though the doctor takes his profession seriously and if the stacked bookcases are anything to go by he is also very passionate about it. The doctor himself is slightly unkempt and looks sleep-deprived: clearly a workaholic, married to his work.
The phrase makes me think of my first dinner with Sherlock.
My own slow prowess at studying my surroundings and attempting to interpret it seems pale whenever my friend enters my head. And the gnawing intensifies. Little teeth along my aching bones. I clear my throat.
Dr. Morton takes it for a sign of impatience at having to wait for a reply, but doesn't seem to mind. Instead he smiles and nods.
"I believe you will fit in nicely here," he states, rising and reaching his hand across the desk.
I stand as well, taking the hand in a firm grip.
"Welcome," Dr. Morton adds.
I feel some sense of relief for the first time in months. This is a good thing I've managed. It will take my mind off of everything – including the media circus surrounding Sherlock's passing and all the subsequent question marks the eager tabloids are presenting the public with. It will allow me to feel some sort of purpose.
"Thank you," I say.
Dr. Morton might never know the depth of my gratitude.
An Hour Later
When I return to 221B I can hear the hoover before I've climbed the first set of stairs. I walk through the door of the sitting room and have to remind myself that cleaning is a good incentive on Mrs. Hudson's part: I know she's waited only for my sake. After all, Sherlock doesn't reside in dust mites or revered seat cushions – he breathed that laboratory and he stocked the fridge with unseemly things and all of that is gone already, what does it matter if Mrs. Hudson makes the place sparkle? Sherlock doesn't live here anymore.
Still, when she pushes my friend's chair out of position to get to the space underneath it I almost stalk up to it in order to have it back in its rightful place immediately.
"Oh," she says when she notices me in the doorway, a hand at her chest. "You gave me a fright."
"Sorry," I apologize sincerely.
We share a smile.
"I should do that," I add with a nod at her task, but she waves a hand.
"Just about finished. And? How did it go?" she wonders.
"It went well," I smile, heading into the kitchen. "It went very well."
"Good for you, dear," she says.
I open the fridge, but change my mind as the hunger I felt disappears at seeing all the fresh food; a part of me was apparently expecting toes or ears or tongues and the lack of them is an almost startling reminder. My brain keeps doing that – one moment's awareness is replaced with a string of them filled with pointless anticipation. I close the door again.
She turns the hoover off and I hear her shuffle towards the door, dragging it behind her.
"Perhaps we should paint the walls in this room, what do you think?" she asks from the doorway.
Everything in me shivers its protest through me, making goose bumps spread up my arms.
"Something bright," she adds. "Yellow, perhaps."
She disappears and I let out a soft sigh. Bright yellow walls? Sherlock would have broken down into a temper tantrum at the very idea. That makes me smirk in spite of the soft twirl of melancholy and I casually walk into the sitting room, beginning to gently push the furniture back into place.
I know I need to deal with putting Sherlock's belongings in boxes and sending them off to his brother, but Mycroft hasn't exactly shown any interest in collecting them and I've put it off. I can't imagine the sitting room without Sherlock's books, his desk, his sofa. And then his bedroom, his closet with his suits, the bathroom with his aftershave, the drawer in the kitchen with weird things to use when identifying means of murder. All of it boxed up, never to be seen again. I can't face it quite yet.
I stop by Sherlock's chair, pushing it into place with care, standing by it for a long moment, observing it thoughtfully.
Move.
I do.
March 10th
I accept the cup of tea from Harry. She looks at me, but I turn my eyes on the twirling steam of the hot liquid, scenting the mint, almost closing my eyes at the familiarity of it. These small everyday things have grown important to me in a way they've never been before, as though the yanking away of someone I had expected to be a constant in my life has heightened my need of routine items: they give me a strange sense of solace.
I arrived yesterday. I had to get away from the media, from the headlines plastered all over the city, from the fury I feel at one of them stating in bold letters "Mystery revealed – John Watson tells all!" Banging my head against the Daily Mail will do me no good, nor will it change anything of the perception of the public and the damage already done – I can't save Sherlock's good name, I'm much too late for that. It's sullied, as black as the ink the papers print it with. It's indescribably painful to me.
Work gave me a leave of absence, Dr. Morton not even hesitating. He's proving a very understanding, nonjudgmental and fair employer and I'm beginning to respect him more with every time we meet.
"Fuck the fuckers," Harry mutters, looking away from me and out the window at the stormy afternoon, rain pelting her small garden.
I can't help but smile and clink my cup against hers.
March 15th
I haven't checked my emails for weeks and am shocked to find the daunting number 531 by the Inbox icon. I grow hesitant, seated in the sofa of Harry's guestroom, the windows overlooking a chilly and crisp morning that promises to turn into a beautiful day. As I woke with something close to peace in my head, the sort of peace that I haven't experienced for a very long time – too long – I felt ready to tackle the social obligations I've neglected, but now I'm beginning to regret it.
My pragmatic side takes over. Better to have it over with.
I click to enter the Inbox and quickly scan the subjects. As I had feared most of them state re: Sherlock Holmes or Mr. Holmes. Some say Condolences. I decide to save them for last: most of them are bound to be somewhat sympathetic.
My heart is beating hard as I double click on the first email. It opens and reads:
Dear Dr. John Watson –
I had to write you this email because I had to tell you that I'm on your side. The despicability showed by the national press in this matter is absolutely abhorrent, possibly with the exception of some of the more respectable newspapers. Though I would rather they didn't even speculate in the matter. I hired the services of Mr. Holmes many years ago. While his proceedings were slightly startling, he found my brother who had gone missing when we were both children. I had lost all hope when I heard Mr. Holmes' name mentioned by a friend of mine and he proved a blessing. I wanted you to know that whatever lies have been spread about Mr. Holmes, I know I hired him out of my own pocket with no influence by him or anyone else and he found a person that no one else had been able to track down, allowing my brother to reconcile with his past and quite possibly saving his life. I am more than willing to come forward and tell this fact to the public. Please contact me.
Kind regards,
Priscilla Prince.
My hands are shaking. I've begun to sweat. I open twenty more emails in rapid succession: four of them are inconsequential, people simply wanting to ask direct questions about what happened; two of them are angry, upset, furious attacks at my friend and I barely glance at them; but the rest of them echo Priscilla Prince's sentiments and soon I feel an incredible sense of liberation fill me. Here it is. Here's the foundation I've needed. How could I not think of this? My blind faith in my friend made me not see how other people who had met him outside of Moriarty's web would share in that faith.
I lean back, closing my eyes.
"Thank God," I more or less moan.
May 29th
"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice says my name, making me look up from the front pages of the newspapers all piled on his desk.
"In here," I reply.
I'm standing in the study that once belonged to our father, in a house commissioned by his great grandfather. The study is smaller than one would expect comparing it to the rest of the large halls and broad hallways of the building, but it's still imposing. I've always disliked it. The dark wood panel is oppressive: a tomb rather than a place for reflection and decision making. My father made a lot of his decisions in the confines of these walls, many of them wise, all of them tenacious – once his mind was made up there was no changing it.
Mycroft enters through a side door, carrying what appears to be a fresh batch of morning papers.
"They'll be appointing you for sainthood if this continues," he says, tossing them onto the others before me.
I glance at them – "40 to stand as character witnesses for deceased Sleuth"; "'He found me, even when I didn't want to be found,' declares Peter Prince"; "Moriarty: hoax or hoaxer?"
John, I think to myself, look at what you've done.
Something twitches in my chest. Something nearly suffocated, something barely a glimmer, but relentless in its refusal to simply allow me to snuff it out. It twitches at the thought of you, in dying protest, and every time I think of you it finds another weak spot for its clutching hold on me.
"We'll keep Richard Brooks alive. Paint him out as the one with delusions of grandeur. Spin a tale of how he hatched his plan to bring down the great detective," Mycroft says, having a seat in the leather chair, which makes the exact same sound it made when we were children, standing sentinel before father's desk, waiting for him to lecture us or, very rarely, praise us. Mycroft brings me out of the memory by adding: "There should no longer be an immediate threat to anyone connected with you, but an eye will be kept on the matter, if you wish."
I cock an eyebrow.
"Should I take that offer as an apology?" I wonder.
"Depends on whether you desire one," he replies drily.
I realize I don't. He did what he thought was necessary. I wouldn't apologize for making a choice I found to be the only logical one to make.
"He is fiercely loyal," Mycroft comments.
I don't want to discuss you. I don't want to think about you or hear your name spoken or linger on anything connected with you. I simply want to release you. And yet my mouth quirks up in a small smile as I look at the heap of newspapers, all of them proclaiming the clearing of my name. You still refuse to give interviews, but you set this in motion. Lestrade has joined in as a representative of the police force, speaking out against the allegations as they find my casework consistent. It's a triumph over Moriarty that leaves me feeling cold – because I don't want to think or hear or linger on you.
"I'm travelling to Devon tonight," I say.
"On the chase, then," Mycroft replies. "Take care not to get spotted. You know if you're discovered it will undo all that your death has secured."
"Including your one shot at infiltrating Moriarty's network," I remark pointedly, my tone telling him to drop the faked concern. "It's easy to blend into a crowd once you know how to make people see what you want them to see," I add, heading up to the door and leaving the room without looking back.
I'll be careful. I know I have to be careful. I'm aware of how pivotal it is not to be careless now. Especially now, when everything is still recent and fresh in the minds of those I mean to hunt down.
I step out into the warm evening air and head for the car parked on the gravel driveway, feeling thoroughly relieved to finally be on the move instead of sitting cooped up in that poor excuse for a home. Mycroft has kept the house just as mother left it. Naturally. I always feel restless in its stuffy rooms with their tapestries and collectables. The fine furniture and the art. I think of Baker Street.
Then I don't.
I get in the car and start the engine, leaving the driveway, enjoying the darkness surrounding me, enjoying how the headlights chase it, making it part to the sides of the road. I push down on the gas and accelerate.
