"I Believe In Sherlock Holmes!"
He saw it everywhere. Elaborate spray-paint artwork on the sides of buildings, hurried scrawls in bathroom stalls, emblazoned on t-shirts of men and women of all ages, little badges fastened on to coats and bags.
"I Believe In Sherlock Holmes!"
He heard it everywhere. Whispers in the subway tunnels he was now forced to use as streets, as though the rats themselves were carrying this message to him. Accidentally and sometimes not so accidentally overheard conversations, harmless little debates between people in cafés and shops, his reputation and life now nothing more than an interesting topic when asking about the family and how work was going had exhausted themselves.
His heart soared, even though only months ago he had confessed to not having one at all.
۞
That day at his own grave had set the precedent for the three years that would follow.
John Watson, military man and healer, a flickering shadow of the person he had rebuilt after Baker Street became his home, London his new battlefield. He mourned. He mourned in the way only the utterly broken can – silently, with a murmur and not a scream.
And Sherlock watched from a distance, forever hidden behind the trees as his friend – just one, John, just you – marched across the cemetery with a limp growing more distinct every week. It was that more than anything that struck something in Sherlock. The choked tears, which only happened once and once alone; the way John came at the same time, Sunday afternoon at quarter to three, every week like clockwork; the careful neatness of his appearance, doesn't want anybody to worry, doesn't even let stubble show, contrasted by the increasingly frayed state of his clothing, doesn't care, he doesn't care, just keeping up appearances. Those things hit Sherlock harder than the concrete pavement ever could but it was the day that John hobbled over the uneven grass with a hospital issue cane holding his weight that Sherlock fled, eyes burning uncomfortably for the first time since St. Bart's rooftop.
۞
John Watson never suspected a thing. Not because there wasn't adequate reason to suspect, but rather, the hope that still pulsed through him every time there was a creak on the stair or a figure in a sweeping black coat was too strong and the disappointment too bitter. If he allowed himself to suspect, how on Earth would he keep it up?
John Watson never suspected a thing, but he never missed a thing either. One did not live at the side of Sherlock Holmes without picking up an observational skill or two, after all.
A month after the funeral, he had found himself a nice little flat away from the centre of London. Baker Street was still his home, but 32 Windermere Road was a place to rest his head, a glad escape from the skull on the mantle that he had taken to shouting abuse at when its empty eyes seemed to accuse, and worse, the messy smiley face on the wall that had accumulated a few more bullet holes.
Mrs. Hudson was impossibly kind about the entire thing. It had been more than he could ask for that she not put the flat up for rent, losing out on the funds for expenses her pension didn't quite cover. Well, who understood the emptiness of the place better than her? She avoided their floor like a plague, the few times she had entered lasting only moments, and always with a sense of melancholy.
John returned to the flat every Sunday, after visiting the graveyard. It was a silly little ritual but one that had formed without John's permission and seemed impossible to break. All centred around the thought that Sherlock had hated Sundays – most boring day of the week, even burglars take Sundays off! – and John found himself wanting to make Sherlock's Sundays a little less boring now that Sherlock was lost to perpetual Sundays.
It was subtle things.
The cushion on his chair just off kilter, as though someone had flung themselves into it after a hard day.
The skull facing the right way – John had turned it to stare sightlessly at the wall after the last time he'd had a row with it, but someone had turned it back around so it watched him as he entered the living room.
There was always fresh milk in the fridge. That one hurt.
The amount of dust seemed... calculated. Too precise. John never bothered tidying up any more, Mrs. Hudson couldn't even look at the place without needing an immediate dose of tea, so dust should have been coating all the surfaces like a second skin. Yet it was unchanging. Just the right amount to make the place look untouched, but too little for John to not frown bemusedly.
John Watson certainly suspected, but he never made the mistake of hoping.
Miracles were more likely to happen when one didn't hope too hard.
۞
John Watson's blog was left online, but never updated again after June 16th. The comment section was closed after the newspapers and press got their hands on Moriarty's lies, but if people saw him in the street, they'd still comment to him. Sometimes it was condolences. More often than not, it was pity at being fooled for so long or scorn for being a fool for so long. He wasn't sure which was worse.
Still, he had gotten into something of a habit with the blogging. Venting without having to worry about being mollycoddled by his friends, something to pass the time and distract him from the now constant tedium.
When John came to Baker Street one Sunday about six months after the funeral and found an elegant wooden cane, expensive-looking yet sturdy, stuffed away in the shoe cupboard, he began 'blogging' again. Without the computer and the website and the audience, this time.
It started with post-it notes.
I don't care what anybody says; Sainsbury's semi-skimmed and ASDA's semi-skimmed taste different. Stick with Tesco – JW.
The floor is sticky in the kitchen. At least clean up after yourself, you insufferable arse – JW.
Harry's replacing booze with yoga. She's trying to get me to go to classes with her. Thinking of investing in a crate of Budweiser – JW.
As the walls of 221B became a map of inane thoughts in neon greens and yellows, the dust accumulation began to seem more natural, until John came into the flat a year after the funeral and found it spotless. The smell of artificial lemon stung the back of his throat, and he told himself that was the reason his eyes were watering.
Mrs. Hudson never used Cif, prepared store's own brands.
John couldn't stay that day.
۞
Sherlock found his anonymity much more productive to his work, but he began to forget his own name.
He had cleaned the flat as a bit of a farewell gift, though he'd done a piss-poor job and wondered if he'd only gone and broken whatever fragile understanding lay between them that kept John dancing to the tune of Sherlock's lie. He had to leave London, had to leave England, and Sundays without John at the closest distance he could allow would be agonizing.
He had taken care of all he could in England. The centre of Moriarty's web was destroyed and now Sherlock had to chase the eroding strands as they disappeared into all the corners of the world.
Places where Sherlock Holmes did not exist.
Places where John Watson and his blog were unknown.
Places he was not dead, but neither was he alive.
He had no name. He had left it behind on a marble headstone, on the lips of a friend. And as the second year wore on, even his own mind began to forget it.
After all, what good was a name when nobody spoke it?
In a desperate moment, he took up his new mobile phone and lashed out a text.
Say my name, John.
His finger hovered over the send button, the digit trembling in a way it never did when handling chemicals or holding a gun to someone's head. Time passed, the backlight flickered off leaving the message dull black on darkened white.
And then he remembered the post-it notes plastered across their living room, so many that they may as well have been a new wallpaper, and a little smile twisted at his lips.
Get odourless next time, Sherlock. It's rank in here. Have these people even smelt a lemon before? – JW.
His finger dropped away, the unsent message saved to drafts.
It was only the first of many.
۞
The post-it notes became letters.
Dear Sherlock,
I'm working at a new clinic. It's nine-to-five kind of stuff. Kids with colds, men going bald and hoping it means they're sick rather than just old. I feel awful but some days I just wish there was a five car pile-up or something. Just to get the blood running, y'know? Yeah, you know. Of course you know.
You're contagious. I hope you know that. You're a goddamn disease and now I've got it. Donovan was right; I should have took up golf. I miss it, you know. All of it. The crime scenes, the adrenalin, you being a bloody great show-off twirling around in that coat. I even miss having to correct you on basic human tact. That was a full time job, if nothing else.
I was sitting in my office the other day between appointments and actually found myself thinking, "A murder would spice things up." I'd worry I was losing it if I wasn't already talking to a dead man on a daily basis.
You've gone and infected me then just flounced off on an adventure without me. You selfish git.
Yours sincerely,
John Watson.
۞
By the third year, they had both settled comfortably into being only half of the men they were before. It was not acceptance so much as necessity. There was simply nothing else for it – Sherlock was working his way back to England, criminals at his heels and cogs whirring in his mind. John was writing letters he never sent and going through the motions, screaming silently as he was caged in normality.
221B Baker Street was still theirs, though John went with dwindling frequency as the dust thickened undisturbed.
It all ended with a text.
Received: 23/06/2015
From: unidentified number
Subject: n/a
Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. SH.
It all began once again with a punch.
Irene Adler had once commented on John's affection simply by the manner in which he had punched Sherlock. Avoiding the nose and teeth, "Somebody loves you." This time, John did no such thing. As he stalked up the seventeen steps to their rooms, taking them twice at a time, limp forgotten, consideration for his friend was the last thing on his mind.
Sherlock, standing like an illusion before the fireplace, had barely turned to face him before he'd been flung backwards by the force of John's fist. Hot blood spurted across John's knuckles, almost as hot as the pain in his hand.
"I should kill you," John said at the same time that he grasped Sherlock's face in his hands and assessed the damage he'd done to his nose. Blood streaked across his pale face, only making him seem more ghastly – the man was so thin, so much thinner than he had been before, and it was a wonder he wasn't blown away by John's breaths. The face between his hands was gaunt, but the expression was an oh so familiar smugness.
"I imagine that would be rather counter-productive, John," and fuck, had he really missed that obnoxious voice? Yes. So much. That self-assuredness thrumming in every syllable, even the most bizarre of statements spoken as utter fact. He had missed that voice.
He had missed that face, still framed in his hands, the blood growing sticky.
He had missed this man. This mad, impossible man who only bothered to get the milk in after he'd died. Who only bothered to clean after John had moved out. Who was turning his head and offering his cheek for another blow.
"No apology will suffice, so I won't insult you by trying. Even my grasp of the English language isn't good enough for this, I fear. Hit me, John. As many times as it takes. For every scrap of pain I've caused you these last three years."
John dropped his hands and stepped back, as though preparing for another attack, and Sherlock's eyes slipped shut as he braced himself. He jolted when, rather than a harsh fist, all he felt was the soft brush of fabric over his face.
"Clean yourself up. You look like a crime scene."
Sherlock gaped at him, and John laughed. The sound was ragged and unfamiliar, not the laugh Sherlock remembered, because John had had no cause for laughter in years. Still, something broke between them then and they were both giggling like children. Sherlock, with his bloodied nose and nasally voice; John, cradling his sore hand and gasping like a fish out of water as he remembered what it was like to feel anything other than numbness. They fell against each other in hysterics, tears streaming and it may not have been laughter any more at all, both the only thing keeping the other from collapsing to the floor.
۞
"I Believe In Sherlock Holmes!"
"Will you take that ridiculous thing off?" Sherlock snapped, eyeing the badge pinned to John's lapel disdainfully. He was in one of his darker moods that day, holed up in the flat while John went off to work, and everyone and everything was the subject of his temper. Luckily, any time he scrunched up his face to snarl, he was left to feel the residual sting of a bruised nose, reminder enough not to take out too much of his mood on John.
"No, don't think I will. Covers up the stain you left on my jacket," John replied, tone even and maybe even a little teasing.
At least until he caught a glance of Sherlock's expression, giving him pause. There was a flash of something in the man's eyes, something genuine that made John frown.
"What's wrong?"
He almost expected Sherlock to just brush it off, berate John for not being able to work it out himself, but there had been a small shift in their relationship since his return. Sherlock had trusted him before, that wasn't in doubt, but now... the man just seemed in constant disbelief at John's, well, dedication. Three years and still waiting, coming at the first call, so forgiving when forgiveness had been so much to expect. It was almost as if Sherlock was eager to repay him somehow, despite John not feeling the need to ask for anything at all, just having him back in Baker Street more than enough.
"You really do, don't you?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, not a whisper but more like he was talking to himself than to John, "Even after everything. You still... believe in me."
Such astonishment, so unable to believe it, even now.
John stepped away from the door, dropping into a kneel before the seated Sherlock, eyes intent on those of ice grey.
"I really do," John put as much sincerity as he could in the words, needing them to be believed just as much as Sherlock needed to believe them. Three years of waiting faithfully, never wavering in his loyalty, honesty clear on his face, "Who do you think got that friend of yours, Raz, to get the message spray-painted around?"
Sherlock snorted with laughter, disbelief evident, "And you acted so wrongly done over that ASBO."
John just rolled his eyes, getting back to his feet and making his way to the door, "I'll try and get an early dart so don't set the place on fire, okay?"
"So many rules," Sherlock sighed, but just before John left the room, he called out to him. John paused once more at the door, glancing back curiously. Sherlock was smiling. Not those carefully calculated smiles that he could throw on quicker than his scarf, but a real one, a little bashful and awkward but really quite charming, and he said with gravity, "Thank you, John."
۞
AN:
So apparently I am capable of writing a oneshot in less than a year. Wonders never cease! First thing I've posted to the Sherlock fandom even though I've started six oneshots since last year, and I started this an hour ago. I blame Reichenbach. It gave me all the feels. I hope this made some semblance of sense. I'm still in shock, y'see.