It had been two months since John had watched Sherlock die, and it felt like time had stopped.
John disliked being helpless, it was a state that made him sick in itself, and he really was trying to move on. He'd rented a new flat, closed the damn blog, and resumed his complicated relationship with his bloody therapist. He knew about grieving, he knew about human life escaping his hands, he knew all about being alone and powerless. He could do this, he told himself. He was a soldier, he was a doctor, and truly death was the only companion he'd ever managed to keep on a long-term basis. He could deal with it.
He walked for hours every day, kilometers of walk through every London street, it exhausted his body and made his mind empty. He kept track of the routes, trying new ones each time, never thinking beyond the walk, never reflecting on whatever his eyes were looking for, because that abyss was too deep and if he looked into it he might fall and never recover. He only came back to his apartment when he could hardly stand on his own legs anymore, all energy drained from him. It helped with the sleeping thing. He still hadn't got a very good grip on that, but he would just keep working on it. Just go forward and don't turn back and don't think.
If he had been honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was merely dancing with the darkness, not getting away from it, but he wasn't, despite the well-meant efforts of his therapist and his friends. John Watson was a veteran at self-deceiving, he'd had more than one occasion to train.
Unfortunately, there was no keeping the phantoms away when they really wanted to mess with your head. One day, in the middle of one of his morning walks, he crossed path with one of them. He didn't recognize it at first because of the unusual clothing, but one look at that smile and a river of unwanted memories flooded the mind he had so carefully kept blank.
"You're dead," he said, as if commenting on the weather.
"Evidence seems to prove otherwise."
"Well, I don't care anymore," he replied. "Go be alive or dead somewhere else." He walked away, but she followed him.
"Oh, no, you're not getting rid of me, Doctor Watson," said Irene Adler.
"Sherlock's not here," he hissed. He was painfully aware of how inappropriate that formulation was, but he didn't like to say Sherlock is dead. It felt so horribly wrong.
"I know," the woman answered, a hint of impatience in her voice. He had a quick look at her. She had the clothes and composure of a woman in her early fifties, not too posh, rather middle-class. Glasses were hanging around her neck and she was wearing low-quality jewelry. He had a sudden memory of Sherlock in disguise and his meticulous attention to detail. He pushed the thought away.
"You're hiding."
She smiled.
"Of course. Some of the most dangerous men in this country sleep happily at night believing I'm dead, I don't want to upset them if I can avoid it."
"Then why come here?" he asked, irritated. "I'm pretty sure I was happier when you were dead too."
"Because there are things I don't understand, for example those absurd newspapers stating that Sherlock Holmes jumped from a roof and killed himself," she retorted. "Sherlock Holmes the fake detective, they say. Couldn't stand facing the truth.Paid a third-rate actor to play Moriarty. Should I go on?"
John stopped dead and faced that oh, so beautiful woman, that devious creature who'd worked hand in hand with Moriarty and come so close to destroy Sherlock herself, not that long ago.
"What do you want from me?"
"The truth."
"Well, if you ever find it, be kind enough to tell me." He moved to turn around but she grabbed his arm.
"Please!"
He paused. Irene Adler, he knew, was as unlikely to beg as Sherlock himself. She'd lost pretty much everything thanks to the detective, yet she loved him. He knew that because in that respect, they had more in common than he cared to admit. Did she honestly want to know about Sherlock, or did she have some kind of hidden agenda? And if she did, did it matter? What did matter, now that Sherlock was… not here anymore? He sighed and gestured towards a nearby park.
They walked together to a bank facing a small lake and sat there in silence for a moment. Maybe Irene felt that she had to let John take his time. She showed no impatience or sign that she would speak first. He leaned forward, looking blankly at the water, as if he wasn't addressing anyone in particular. And he started telling. The Reichenbach case and its unexpected fame, the Tower of London, the trial of the century, the girl who screamed, the journalists turning against the now famous detective like bulldogs, getting arrested by Lestrade, hiding at Barts, and then…
And then…
And then.
When he'd finished telling her about Sherlock's confession on the roof of the hospital, he just kept watching at the sky, half expecting her to stand up and go. She stayed though, just quiet for a while.
"Why would Sherlock tell such a lie when he was about to die?" she finally asked.
John glanced at her, startled. He'd waited for weeks to hear those words from someone, anyone. All the newspapers had told the same ridiculous story and everyone, even those who'd witnessed Sherlock's talent for years, believed it. The reality, the one where Sherlock was the brilliant consulting detective, the genius who had successfully solved about a hundred cases, seemed buried and forgotten forever. As if Moriarty had hacked into people's minds and deleted it. Sometimes John couldn't even tell whether he was the only sane person in the area, or if he had lost his mind entirely and hallucinated everything.
"You don't doubt him then?" he asked.
"Don't be absurd. I know what I see. I knew exactly who Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were. It very much fits Moriarty to set up a stage of that magnitude just to prove he was the best one," she said thoughtfully.
He nodded.
"You don't seem to understand what it means, though," she added coldly.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about Sherlock Holmes' little monologue on the roof of the hospital."
John frowned.
"I don't understand."
"Then think!" she snapped. "Why would Sherlock tell such a lie when he was about to die? Why would he deny everything he was, admit Moriarty's tale, to you, of all people?"
John abruptly stood up and quickly walked away, suddenly wishing he'd never listened to her. Because this was so close, so very close to the darkness, and he felt if he kept looking into it he would be swallowed entirely. He had to be far, far away from here very quickly.
"Doctor Watson! Running away doesn't suit you."
He shivered and turned around. As she walked towards him, for an instant he remembered her standing in a living room entirely naked and absolutely at ease. In Irene Adler's world, she made the rules and anything else complied. John wasn't in any state to resist her. So what? Who cared if he just broke down to pieces on this rather untidy lawn? Did he really want to hide from the truth just to survive? Maybe she was right. Running away did not suit him.
"Tell me what you think," she demanded.
"Once you remove the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he whispered.
For an instant, she looked confused.
"Sorry, what?"
"That's what he always said," he told her in a breath. "It's simple, isn't it? His suicide and his… message, all of that belonged to Moriarty's story. It was the climax of those juicy revelations to the press. All part of his scheme. So the logic tells us that it was his doing. This… maniac got Sherlock on that bloody roof, made him make that phone call. He didn't commit suicide. He was forced to jump. Moriarty could have killed him, he could have just shot a bullet through his head, end of the story, but no, no, that was too easy, not imaginative enough, was it? Make him loose everything, all that made him who he was, even me, he tried to take my faith in him, and then make him kill himself."
He pressed his hands against his face, fighting the nausea. Irene Adler smiled and nodded approvingly.
"Good deduction. So what are you going to do now, Doctor Watson?"
"What do you expect me to do?" he roared. "What can I do except buy bloody flowers? I'll go and keep walking. Now go away."
"Do you not want revenge?"
He laughed and looked at the gray London sky, so close to burst into tears.
"Revenge from whom?"
He had a gesture towards the buildings around him.
"I mean, I could destroy some newspapers, burn down Scotland Yard, perhaps even set fire to the whole city, but what would be the point? Sherlock won't come back and Moriarty is dead already."
"Is he really?" she smiled quizzically. "Moriarty was much more than just a man."
"A spider," John whispered, remembering Sherlock's own words.
"Something like that, yes. The spider's gone but the net is still there. It might not work as smoothly without its head, but it works nonetheless. Without it, Moriarty could never have beaten Sherlock Holmes."
John sighed and shook his head. He felt so tired, he didn't want to keep talking about that, it was painful.
"You want me to take down Moriarty's network."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Personal reasons."
He looked at her in the eyes – those unreadable eyes.
"Do you expect me to trust you?"
"Listen," she sighed. "I've been hiding from Moriarty's people for the last year. It's boring and annoying. I want my life back, and before that happens I need to do a bit of... cleaning up. To be honest, I rather hoped that Sherlock Holmes would save me the trouble. I do have to thank him for Jim Moriarty's death, though. Mr. Homes' public rehabilitation would be an appreciated bonus to our little adventure."
"You do realize how ridiculous it is to go against a whole criminal organization on our own?"
She merely smiled. John nodded.
"Alright, then. Let's do it."