Summary: From the moment, John beat Sherlock in the mortuary, to the point of redemption for them both… This is John's story. Sort of an extended version of that part of The Lying Detective, seen from John's perspective.
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I would hold you in my arms
I would take the pain away
Thank you for all you've done
Forgive all your mistakes
….
I'm sorry for blaming you
For everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself
By hurting you
….
Christina Aguilera – Hurt
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Sorry for Blaming You
John came out of the mortuary, panting for breath.
"Let him do what he wants. I killed his wife."
"Yes, you did."
Sighing, he squeezed his eyes with his thumbs. It soon started hurting. He looked up and into the street, trying to think of what to do, and where to go. There were ambulances parked outside. Car noise. People passing by.
John pulled out his phone from his pocket.
"Can I get a cab, please? Saint Caedwalla's Hospital. I'm, uh…" John turned to look at the building. "At the front, yes. Yes, right away." He hung up and placed the phone back in his pocket.
There was nothing to do, except wait.
His knuckles hurt, and John looked down at them. Blood. His heart gave a twitch.
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In the afternoon, John was pulled in for questioning by his friend from New Scotland Yard.
"Ugh. Christ," Greg said, and paused the recorder after having interrogated John for a little while. "I keep wondering if we should have seen it coming."
"Not long ago he shot Charles Magnussen in the face. We did see it coming," John countered. "We always saw it coming. But it was fun."
That's what it always is, isn't it, Sherlock? Fun.
There was a knock on the door, and a female police officer came in.
"Sir. You'll probably wanna see this". She placed a laptop on the table. Culverton Smith was on the news, talking about today's incident.
"I don't really know what happened today. To be honest, I don't think I'd be standing here now if it wasn't for Doctor Watson."
John stared at the screen, something unpleasant settling in his stomach.
When the news flash ended, Greg said, "He's right, you know. You probably saved his life."
The knot in John's stomach grew harder.
"I really hit him, Greg," John admitted. "Hit him hard." The doctor flexed his aching fingers.
Lestrade looked at him with sympathy. "Yeah, well. You had to stop him."
John didn't reply.
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Back at home, he couldn't escape the sorrow that washed over him. Mary was gone. Sherlock… It just hurt too much to be around him.
"He needs you."
"Somebody else! Not me, not now."
"Now you just listen to me for once in your stupid life! I know Mary is dead, and I know your heart is broken, but if Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then?"
He had no one.
Except for Rosie. He needed to take better care of Rosie. Give her a life, even if he felt like it had left him.
"Why does everything have to be understandable? Why can't some things be unacceptable, and we just say that?"
It was unacceptable to John. Not just the way he neglected Rosie, but how he treated Sherlock as well. Mrs. Hudson was right; he was broken-hearted, and he took it out on Sherlock.
No more.
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An hour later, a weary John was standing by Sherlock's bedside in the hospital. The man looked so weak. Not at all like the cocky superhero he normally made himself out to be.
A nurse came in. John recognised her from earlier that day.
"Oh, hi," she greeted him with a warm smile.
John barely registered that he only mouthed a 'hi' in response.
"Just in to say hello?" The woman asked.
"No, I'm just in to say goodbye." The word weighed on him like a stone. Yet, it was all he could do.
The nurse replied, "I'm sure he'll pull through. Yeah, he's made a terrible mess of himself, but he's awfully strong, so we must look on the bright side."
He'll pull through. John had to believe that as well. Sherlock was strong. Additionally, he somehow had to alleviate himself of the guilt.
John gave a nod and walked over to a chair, on which he hung his old walking cane.
"Parting gift," he explained.
"Oh, that's nice," said the smiling lady. "A walking stick."
"Yeah, it was mine from… a long time ago."
Just as he was leaving, the phone rang.
John sighed heavily.
Mycroft.
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221b was a complete mess; worse than anything John had previously seen. Which was to be expected, of course, seeing as Sherlock was using a lethal amount of drugs.
When Mycroft asked him about Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson was the one to lead them to an envelope with a DVD labelled 'Miss me?'
Moriarty. God, no wonder Sherlock is on drugs.
John anxiously put on the DVD, but was not prepared for what turned up on the screen.
"Thought that would get your attention," Mary said.
And with a few words, John's world shattered all over again.
"If you're watching this, I'm probably dead."
He had been denying it for so long, but now the truth of it hit him.
Mrs. Hudson sent everyone away, until it was just the two of them. They continued watching Mary's message, and John listened – grief-stricken, but intently.
"When I'm gone, if I'm gone... I need you to do something for me. Save John Watson. Save him, Sherlock. Save him. Don't think anyone else is going to save him, because there isn't anyone. It's up to you. Save him. But I do think you're gonna need a little bit of help with that, because you're not exactly good with people, so here's a few things you need to know about the man we both love – and, more importantly, what you are going to need to do to save him. John Watson never accepts help, not from anyone, not ever. But, here's the thing: He never refuses it. So, here's what you are going to do: You can't save John, because he won't let you. He won't allow himself to be saved. The only way to save John is to make him save you."
Save Sherlock? Something started to surface in the corner of John's mind.
"Go to Hell, Sherlock. Go right into Hell, and make it look like you mean it."
His wife's words shocked him.
"Go and pick a fight with a bad guy. Put yourself in harm's way."
Dear God.
"If he thinks you need him, I swear, he will be there."
A twinge of guilt nagged him. Then the screen went black.
"I have to go to the hospital." John was nearly out of the flat, before finishing his sentence. He ran downstairs and out the front door. Mrs. Hudson caught up with him and gave him the keys to her car.
John drove as fast as he could without risking anyone's life – much. He immediately got on the phone with Greg and let him know what little he himself knew. As soon as the Inspector said, "I'll be there," John hung up and focused on his driving.
"Hurry up, John. He's dying."
Yeah, I am hurrying up.
He looked at the speedometer – he was going much too fast already – and sped up. His mind barely had time to catch up with what was happening, but John knew Sherlock was in danger, and that the man had put himself there.
Bloody idiot!
It was also becoming crystal clear to him that he had let Mr. Culverton Smith convince him that Sherlock had gone off the deep end.
Bloody idiot, yourself, John!
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John hurried out of the car and into the hospital, through the corridors to Sherlock's room. The door was locked. He searched frantically for –
A fire extinguisher. John grabbed it, ran back to Sherlock's room, and with one swift, powerful movement he broke the lock and forced the door open.
Culverton Smith stumbled away from Sherlock who was gasping air into his lungs. A fierce anger surged through John. He quickly marched over and grabbed a strong hold around Smith's neck and shoulders.
"What were you doing to him? What were you doing?" John shouted.
"He's in distress. I - I'm helping him!" Smith exclaimed.
"Restrain him now. Do it." John pushed him towards the police officer who had come in right behind John.
"I was trying to help him!" Smith lied.
John turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, what was he doing to you?"
"Suffocating me. Overdosing me," came the man's gasping reply.
"On what?" the doctor asked.
"Saline."
What? "Saline?"
"Yes, saline."
John went to the drip bottle. "What do you mean, saline?"
"Well, obviously," Sherlock panted," I got nurse Cornish to switch the bags. She's a big fan, you know. Loves my blog."
John looked at him and struggled not to smile. "You're okay?" he asked, breathing heavily himself from exertion.
"No, no, of course I'm not okay. Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly I've been off my tits for weeks. What kind of a doctor are you?" the detective accused with an amused frown.
The answer was just so typically Sherlock that John smiled inwardly.
Sherlock let out a painful moan. "I got my confession, though, didn't I?"
Smith tried to backtrack, of course. Pretend that he didn't know what Sherlock was talking about. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I don't know if this is relevant, but… we found three potential recording devices in the pockets of your coat. All your possessions were searched. Sorry."
John turned his gaze anxiously towards Sherlock. The man looked shocked.
Until he started speaking. "Must be something comforting about the number three. People always give up after three."
It was John's turn to look shocked. "What? What is it? What?"
Sherlock smirked.
No – bloody – way! However, Sherlock's attempt at hiding a smile confirmed his suspicion.
"Ugh. You cock." John was exasperated, but relieved.
"Yeah," Sherlock simply replied.
"Utter, utter cock."
"Heard you the first time."
John shook his head and went over to fetch his walking cane. Inside the top, a recording device had been implanted.
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It wasn't over, John knew that. Left to himself, Sherlock might not be able to keep off drugs. So he contacted Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Greg. They agreed that they would all take turns to be with Sherlock around the clock.
He didn't look forward to it. It still hurt, being around Sherlock, but he knew he had to, or he would never forgive himself.
Also, he owed him.
At 10 o'clock the next morning, he showed up in Baker Street. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, wearing his robe, a newspaper in hand. Mrs. Hudson was cleaning up in the kitchen. They both looked up when he walked in.
"Morning," he greeted them curtly, catching Sherlock's gaze for a brief, awkward moment.
"Hello, John," Mrs. Hudson said warmly. "Come in and sit down. Would you like some tea?"
"Uh, yes, please." John took off his jacket and went into the kitchen. "So how is he?" he said with a low voice, barely above a whisper. Might be good to get the landlady's tips before she left.
"He's okay, I think." Mrs. Hudson glanced at Sherlock. Then she patted John on his arm. "I'm glad you're here. That's what will really get him back on track."
The doctor didn't know how to reply to that, so he didn't. He just went to his chair, sat down, and looked at Sherlock, who was hunched over a paper he wasn't reading anymore. Just then, Sherlock put away the paper and looked back up.
"John," he smiled curtly.
"Hey," John replied.
"Do you want to – " Sherlock pointed at the paper.
"Uh, no. No, that's okay."
Sherlock nodded.
Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson broke the uncomfortable silence for a bit, as she brought them both tea and chatted with them. That eased the mood a little.
Eventually, she left them on their own. They took turns in instigating small talk for a little while, until John could not stand it anymore, and he grabbed the paper.
"Sorry, do you mind?" He opened the paper, before Sherlock could answer. Not that he expected Sherlock to object.
"No, not at all."
...
The courteous chatter went on and off for a couple of hours. Any guilt or blame, John pushed aside immediately. Finally, he was left with the option of talking about Smith.
"Sherlock, how did you realise that Smith was a serial killer?"
Sherlock seemed as relieved as John felt to have something to talk about. The detective took his time going through the case from start to finish.
"Still a bit troubled by the daughter. Did seem very real. She gave me information I couldn't have required elsewhere."
"But she wasn't ever here?" John asked.
"Interesting, isn't it?" Sherlock mused. "I have theorised before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost anything."
That sounded unbelievable to John. "So you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn't know?"
The response in his own mind was immediate. "That sounds about right to me. Possible, I'm biased."
Sherlock replied, "Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind. I'm intrigued." He took a sip of his teacup.
"I know you are, "John countered. "Which is why we're all taking turns to keep you off the sweeties."
"I thought we were just hanging out." The hint of a smile crossed Sherlock's features.
John felt alarmed and checked his watch. "Molly will be here in twenty minutes." Good, remind him that you're not staying.
Apparently, Sherlock took the hint. "Oh, I do think I can last twenty minutes without supervision," he said with an uncertain smile.
A mixture of relief and guilt washed over John. He hesitated, but then said, "Well, if you're sure."
Sherlock didn't look sure at all to John.
"Christ, John. Stay. Talk!" his inner Mary told him.
He didn't listen. "Sorry, it's just… uhm, you know, Rosie."
"Yes, of course. Rosie." The detective seemed to collect himself.
John still hesitated. "You'll be okay for twenty minutes?"
"Yes, yes," Sherlock assured him. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking of Rosie."
"No problem." John rose from his chair.
"I should, uh… come and see her soon," Sherlock said, seeking John's eyes.
He couldn't say no. Not now. "Yes." John turned and started walking out of the flat.
The other man's voice stopped him, as he told John that Smith could not stop confessing, apparently. It didn't matter to John, but he just said, "That's good."
Sherlock was stalling. John knew it. For a second he considered staying. Yet, not knowing what else to say, and how to say what he wanted to say, he turned to leave again.
Once again, Sherlock's voice stopped him. "Are you okay?"
He couldn't help but let out a bitter chuckle at the absurd question, as he faced Sherlock. "Uh, what? Am I – no. No, I'm not okay. I'm never gonna be okay. We'll just have to… accept that. It is what it is, and what it is, is… shit."
Sherlock looked down, and John chided himself. It wasn't the man's fault, despite what John had previously said. The doctor drew a deep breath, and said what he needed to get out.
"You didn't kill Mary."
Sherlock's uncertain gaze sought his.
John went on, "Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No one made her do it – no one could ever make her do anything – but the point is: You did not kill her."
Sherlock spoke gravely, his gaze faltering. "In saving my life she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend."
John ached, as he replied, "It is what it is." He tried to give Sherlock a small, reassuring smile, before he turned to leave again.
"I'm tomorrow, six 'till ten."
"Looking forward to it," Sherlock raised his cup in goodbye.
"Yeah," John answered, not sure if he meant it. He felt a little better now, though, as he started walking away.
"Ahhhhhhh."
What the hell?
John slowly walked back into the flat.
Irene Adler. Are you bloody kidding me?
A few inquiries made it clear that she was alive. Sherlock was reluctant to talk about it, of course. John called him a moron, chiding him for not texting The Woman back, and his temper flared. He had recently lost his wife, and here Sherlock was, too stubborn or whatever to get in contact with a woman, who clearly liked him!
The more John talked, the angrier he got – not just with Sherlock, but with himself as well. He had risked everything. And for what? Some stupid fling.
"She was wrong about me," he suddenly said.
Sherlock asked surprised, "Mary? How so?"
"She thought that if you put yourself in harm's way, I'd… I'd rescue you… or something. But I didn't. Not 'till she told me to," John realised with regret. "And that's how this works. That's what you're missing. She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Get yourself a piece of that."
At this point, Sherlock interrupted, "Look at me. You're doing yourself a disservice. I've know many people in this world, but made few friends, and I can safely say –"
"I cheated on her."
There. It was out.
Sherlock looked shocked.
"No clever comeback? I cheated on you, Mary." John turned his face to an invisible figure. Then he told the truth. All of it. He despised himself, but he managed to get it all out.
"I'm not the man you thought I was, I'm not that guy. I never could be. But that's the point." He felt tears burning their way into his eyes. "That's the whole point." The words came out on a choked whisper. "Who you thought I was… is the man who I want to be."
When it was all on the table, John felt Mary speak to him.
"Well, then. John Watson," she said with a warm, sad smile. "Get the hell on with it."
John fell apart. He bowed his head and wept. All of the guilt and agony that he had supressed now poured out of him.
He felt gentle hands wrap around him, and Sherlock spoke quietly, "It's okay."
"It's not okay," John sobbed.
"No," Sherlock's voice gently confirmed. "But it is what it is."
...
John kept crying until the pain started to subside. He felt… lighter… than he had for a long time. Eventually the awkwardness of the situation crept up on him. Sherlock seemed to understand, or maybe he just felt it too, because he gently took a step back while keeping a hand on one of John's arms. John wiped his eyes with his hands, giving them both a moment to regain composure. He felt Sherlock let go of his arm and heard him quietly retreat to the kitchen. Only then did he raise his head.
For a few seconds, he just stood there, staring at nothing. Then he went to his chair and lowered himself into it. He sat there, quietly, until Sherlock returned. In fact, his friend stopped right beside him and held out a handkerchief.
John let out a gurgling chuckle, as he accepted the handkerchief without looking up. He wiped his nose in it, as Sherlock walked over to his own chair and sat down. John fiddled with the piece of cloth, not knowing what to say. Sherlock was very quiet.
Finally, John looked up. "Thank you."
The other man nodded. "Keep it."
John shook his head. "No, I mean…" He struggled for words.
"It's alright," Sherlock said.
He looked at him.
It wasn't.
John knew it wasn't.
And he was not going to do all of this again another day.
"I'm sorry… for what happened yesterday." John looked down briefly and bit his lower lip. When he glanced back up, Sherlock was studying him, surprised.
"Don't be," was Sherlock's earnest reply.
John would not accept it. "Yeah, but I am. I – just…" He looked away, searching for words that did not come easily.
"John."
Reluctantly, John turned back to face Sherlock. I don't deserve forgiveness that easily.
"I practically goaded you to do it."
"What?" John asked confused.
Sherlock took a deep breath. "When Faith walked in, and I realised I had hallucinated meeting her… That's when I thought of you."
"Me?"
Sherlock nodded. "You were clearly doubting my mental abilities and questioning my motives – understandably." He paused and drew another big breath. "I knew that if I pressed the right buttons, you would get angry and, well, punch me…"
John flinched.
The detective went on, "Thereby speeding up the process of getting me in hospital. Which was very convenient, seeing as I was already in the hospital that I needed to be in."
"Convenient? Christ, Sherlock." John lifted a hand to support his head. It was a lot to take in.
He looked back up. "So you got me to beat the crap out of you?" he accused.
"Well, it served its' purpose, didn't it?" Sherlock said gravely.
"Jesus!" John exclaimed, exasperated with his friend. "Not everything is about solving a case –"
"That's not what I meant." Sherlock's words stopped him.
"What, then?"
Sherlock hesitated. "I knew what you were feeling. That a part of you, at least, blamed me. I knew you had to get it out."
Bloody hell.
John was breathing hard, as he rubbed his face with his hands, trying to digest everything Sherlock had just said.
After a while, he looked up at the man. Sherlock was wearing a slightly guilty expression.
Suddenly, John felt a warm bubble rising up quickly inside him. He tried to fight it, but soon gave in and just smiled.
Sherlock's expression turned from guilt to surprise.
"You bloody moron. You – are – impossible!" John chuckled. He watched, as a smile crept into Sherlock's eyes, and the corner of his mouth turned upwards.
"So I've been told," the man said.
John let out another chuckle and shook his head.
They both sat there in quiet for a while.
Tell him, John.
He swallowed. "Sorry. For… blaming you." He looked at Sherlock.
"Don't be. I've blamed myself," Sherlock replied.
"Why? It wasn't your fault." John could finally say that in complete honesty.
Sherlock shook his head. "I made a vow… that I failed to keep."
"Still wasn't your fault," John said with confidence.
The other man nodded. "I know."
They were quiet again for a moment, but now it was a comfortable silence.
John finally broke it. "We should have cake."
Sherlock frowned. "Cake?"
"It's your birthday. Let's go out for cake."
Sherlock looked at his watch. "Molly could be here any second."
John pulled out his phone and dialled Molly's number. "We'll have her meet us there."
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That's it, folks. Hope you enjoyed it!