I
Drift
Three years.
Thirty-five days.
Sixteen hours.
Twenty-four minutes.
Forty-five seconds and counting.
"Thank you, Doctor." The patient's mother - Lili Beilschmidt, thirty, here on vacation with her husband and daughter - smiled as she helped her little girl down from the examination table. John Watson smiled back and even leaned down to give a high-five to the toddler (right hand, left elbow was dislocated) before she giggled and left. "Thank you for helping us, especially with the insurance complications."
"Not a problem. Just keep an eye on Monica's condition, and I'll be faxing her paperwork to the hospital in Berlin," John said, holding the door open for Mrs. Beilschmidt. Monica was staring entranced at the recently - installed fish tank, but turned when her mother walked by. "Here is a pain prescription that should tide you over until you return to Berlin, just have Monica's doctor check her when you return. No strenuous physical activity until then."
"But I wanna play with Daddy's bird!" Monica whined as Mrs. Beilschmidt took the forms from John and began filling them out. "Birdie is going to be lonely!"
"My husband owns a small bird," Mrs. Beilschmidt said by way of explanation, a small smile teasing the edges of her face.
Not for the first time since the Fall, John had wondered what... what he would think of this particular patient. Happily married no doubt; wedding ring was clean, there were no signs of stress around her eyes that suggested a cheating husband, a green hair ribbon that showed happiness in that she still felt young and in as much love as when she first met her husband. The care she devoted to little Monica, even as the girl tugged on her mother's skirt with her good hand, begging to play with the father's pet bird. She worked with her hands - John could see the calluses, thicker on one hand than the other, so it was likely that perhaps at some point in her life, Mrs. Beilschmidt had picked up a gun and would not be afraid to do so again -
Stop.
Deducing wasn't John's thing, no; it was still too painful to take that up seriously with Scotland Yard (new staff, old 'colleagues' were still under close watch by the superintendent, who was also new) despite the intervening years. But he couldn't help it sometimes, especially when memories happened to be plaguing him. Those days were also marked with an increase in the severity of his limp (he'd gone back to using the cane again a while ago) and remembered pain. Deducing was just something he did when he thought of him. It helped the ease the pain sometimes, when it wasn't hurting, and he'd wonder how close or far from the mark he was.
Work – real, routine (dull, boring, tedious) work at the clinic - was the only thing that could occupy his mind and hands nowadays.
It kept his mind from dwelling on other things.
"So will that be all?" she asked, looking up at him.
"Yes, thank you. Just don't forget to check out with the receptionist, and she will help you with paperwork and payments."
She smiled. "Of course. Thank you, Doctor Watson, for being able to help us on short notice," she said before gently taking her daughter's smaller hand and guiding her out of the examination room.
John watched them leave before going back to his office to glance at his patient schedule. He was about to go see his last patient for the day when Sarah suddenly appeared at the door. "John, I can take your last patient. Your, er, friend is waiting outside the clinic. She says it's important," she said quietly.
John paused, frowning. He couldn't think of anyone who had stayed with him in the last two years, before Mrs. Hudson spent hours coaxing him out of his zombie-like state. HE especially couldn't think of a woman that bothered to care about him this long other than Sarah. "Um, who is she?"
"She didn't say, just that she wanted a chat," Sarah replied before turning around to leave. She paused in the doorway and repeated, "I can take your last patient, if you want."
John hesitated, tempted to say no, but he was also curious about his visitor. "I'm sorry," was all he was able to say before pushing the file labeled Henry Sigerson across the table to her.
"See you tomorrow," Sarah said finally before taking the file and leaving while John gathered his coat and cane.
It wasn't until he saw Anthea standing patiently at the entrance that he knew he was in for a long ride home
Despite having not seen the damn thing in a while, the black car was still extremely familiar as it waited patiently on the curbside when John finally left the building. He had half a mind to just keep walking, ignore the 'minor government official', but as he was reaching his decision, Anthea prodded him along to the open back door, and John sighed before limping toward the vehicle, mindful not to hit the other occupant with the cane 'by accident' as he slipped inside.
Mycroft Holmes looked as impeccable as ever, his ever-present umbrella resting across his knees. There were new faint stress lines around his eyes and mouth, but otherwise seemed as impenetrable as he did when the two first met. He nodded once in acknowledgement before the car door swung shut, leaving the two in sealed silence. John knew better than to speak first: to do so would be to secede conversation power over to Mycroft.
But -
John frowned as the car started up and pulled away from the curb. Mycroft looked exhausted, sad even, if the faint lines were looked at as a complete picture rather than just the recent changes.
But almost as soon as he spotted it, the lines vanished underneath the usual mask.
"Three years is a long time to mourn a dead man, don't you think?" he finally said, tilting his head.
"I'd hoped not to see you in just as long," John said steadily, swallowing down the unexpected flare of anger in his chest.
Mycroft pursed his lips. "As it were, if circumstances were different, we would not be talking to each other right now," he said, leaning back in his seat.
"You showing concern for my welfare. As… touched as I am, it's not necessary," John said curtly. "I stand by what I said that day."
No need to clarify. "As do I, it seems," Mycroft said, looking out the window. Before John could ask for clarification, Mycroft reached into his briefcase and pulled out a padded envelope. "I believe this belongs to you now, there's really no point in me keeping it further," he said, handing it over to John as though it burned him. "He only ever had your best interests at heart," he added as John ripped the tab open.
"I-" John's voice died when he gingerly pulled out a mobile… Sherlock's mobile.
"Like I said, there really is no point in me keeping it any longer," Mycroft said quietly, folding his hands on his lap.
"Is… is his last conversation recorded on here?" John asked hesitantly, wondering if he'd be forced to hear those awful last words – That's what people do, right? Leave a note – again. The first time was hard enough, a second time would be reopening old wounds.
"Any calls he ever made, and never erased, are still on there," Mycroft replied. "It has proved to be useless in clearing my brother's name or giving me the ease of knowledge of what precipitated… his death."
John managed to refrain from pointing out that Mycroft himself had had a hand in it. Although, if the fractional eyebrow lift from the politician was any indication, chances were good that Mycroft had heard the accusation anyway, even if John hadn't actually said the words out loud. Instead, he looked up at Mycroft and asked, "Is that all?"
"Of course, unless you have something to say."
Did he? Oh, right, he did. "My black jacket. It's gone, and I know you must have taken it when you were taking some of your brother's things from the flat. Mrs. Hudson is the only other person who ever comes into the flat anymore, and I know she would have never taken it," he said, ignoring the ever so slight wobble in his voice.
Mycroft sighed. "Honestly John, if I had your jacket, I would most certainly have given it back to you by now. But, since I do not have it, I cannot give it to you."
John tried not to sigh, but failed anyway. He'd only discovered the jacket missing recently since he hadn't left the flat very much for the first year and a half, and he usually wore jumpers and thick coats when leaving. He just never realized that it was missing until the one day he felt like wearing it and turned the flat inside out looking for it. He knew that Mycroft entered the flat once or twice before John chased him out for good, and Mrs. Hudson was the only other one who ever entered the flat on a regular basis. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't hold onto the jacket since she knew very well that it was John's, but one never knew with Mycroft. While Mycroft was also likely to have an ulterior motive for keeping it, it was also just as likely that he didn't genuinely have it.
"If you don't have it, then where is it?" John asked curtly. "I've already turned the flat inside and out looking for it.
"It's just an article of clothing, why keep it at all?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.
John closed his eyes and forced himself to count to ten; this was a Holmes, and the explanation 'sentimental purposes' might trigger a Holmes-esque lecture. "I had it before I ever met... met your brother, and I would like it back," he finally said, looking up at Mycroft, whose expression was unreadable.
"Well, I'm sorry to say this, but I don't have it," Mycroft said.
John nodded, looking out the window to distract himself.
"Anything else then, before I leave you at 221B for the last time?"
Really? John didn't voice that aloud. Instead he said, "There's one other thing, though that we need to talk about."
"Please proceed," Mycroft replied.
"My email program. I know you've been hacking into it and deleting emails, which in normal society is considered a blatant disregard of privacy. I know it's you because there's no one out there who would do it, and you have the means to do so," John said tiredly.
"Now, now, doctor, I was merely doing you a favor by eliminating emails that contained harmful viruses," Mycroft replied calmly. "The anti-virus program on your computer has been updated, so I have already stopped."
"How do I know that you didn't just install some kind of bugging software into my computer?" John asked, and scowled at Mycroft's soft chuckles.
"Because John, out of all of the members of the Holmes family, you're causing the least amount of trouble for me, and therefore do not require watching," Mycroft replied. "Mummy got in her head recently to perhaps get the family together next year, and asked me to gather the... wayward members. You'd be surprised at how many cousins I have been left to contact. But in other words, I have more important matters than to further intrude on your privacy."
John groaned; it was his and Lestrade's worst nightmare becoming a reality. There were more Holmeses than either man suspected. "Do they all do the deducing and examining that he could do?" he asked.
Mycroft shrugged. "I only know of one cousin who puts that talent to active use, but he lives in New York City. Other than him, the others find careers that take them elsewhere from detective and police work."
John waited for a few minutes, in case Mycroft had any more to say on the subject. When he didn't volunteer anything else, John said, "Well, then, please take me back to Baker Street. Now."
This was the end. John just had to take the final steps himself.
"Well, here we are at Baker Street," Mycroft said as the black car came up to the curb. "Do try to get some rest, doctor."
"I will." John didn't say anything more, didn't thank Mycroft for the (unnecessary, unwanted) ride and chat. Instead, he just grabbed his cane and opened the door once the car had come to a complete stop and stepped out. He closed the door and limped toward the achingly familiar black door with the three gold-plate numbers. He ignored the sound of the engine pulling away.
He was reaching for the door handle when someone accidentally slammed into him from the side, causing him to lose his cane and suddenly grab the stair railing for support. "What the-"
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" The female jogger pulled her earbuds out before leaning down to pick up the dropped cane. "I am so sorry, I wasn't paying attention," she said, handing John his cane. Her left hand came up to brush some dark hair from her eyes, and John noted the gold wedding ring.
"It's all right, I was just a little startled," he said as she paused the small iPod before tucking it back into her pocket.
"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly, unconsciously slipping back into an American accent. "I didn't hurt you or anything, did I?"
"No, I'm fine, don't worry. I've encountered worse, believe me," he said, half-jokingly as he reached for the doorknob again.
"I do," she said quietly, causing him to stop and look back at her. "I mean, I've read your blog, you know, when you blogged those cases. My husband introduced me to it, he heard about it from his employer, and he's interested in that sort of thing so, yeah, that's how he found it. But I mean it. That I do believe you. Still do."
John stared at her. He was used to virtual strangers approaching him out of the blue to assure him that they believed in Sherlock Holmes as did he, but it had been a year and a half since then. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Amy Falsworth. My husband's name is Colin; he's lived in London all his life. He never had a situation that required yours and Mr. Holmes's assistance, but he tells others that it's hard to come up with information like that on the fly."
"But if you remember, Miss Riley also pointed out that Holmes had it all pre-arranged. That's how he knew how each crime was solved." John hated being the Devil's Advocate, but he also didn't want someone to believe him just because they had incorrect facts.
Amy shrugged. "Colin actually didn't read The Sun until a few weeks after, er, the incident," she said, and John could sense the delicate sidestep at the end of her sentence. "He and I were in the United States for my mother's birthday and my parents' anniversary," she said. "We found out what happened through your blog."
"United States? Where are you from?" John asked, frowning slightly.
"An hour outside of Boston. I met Colin on an international internship after college, and we had a long-distance relationship until he asked me to come live with him. He does interior design, he's got a sharp eye for detail," she said, shrugging a little uncomfortably; John suspected she didn't want to remind him of his loss with talk of her own happy life.
"Ah. I should probably let you get back to your run," John said, unsure of what else to say.
She nodded. "Colin wants me back soon. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Watson."
"It was nice to meet you too, Mrs. Falsworth. Thank you for your support," he said quietly.
Amy gave him a brief smile before slipping the earbuds back in and continuing down the road.
John watched her go before finally entering the building.
221B Baker Street was his sanctuary.
After greeting an enthusiastic Gladstone, John made his way back up to his flat, the dog following close behind. Mrs. Hudson often watched the dog when John was at the clinic, but today she was out as well, and so Gladstone had been waiting patiently for John's return. Granted, the dog couldn't talk, but John needed the company more than anything at the moment.
"Easy there," he said as he leaned on his cane to get the keys out of his other pocket. Unlocking the door, he only smiled as Gladstone barreled straight into the flat and settled happily in his usual bed by the fireplace. John shooed him away long enough to get a fire going, and then settled down in his favorite chair, Gladstone settling back down in his own bed.
Here, Sherlock's memory was preserved the way John remembered him, untainted by the media and the disbelievers. It was the closest to normal that John could get without wrenching his heart to bits, even though it had taken a long time to accept it as such. It was the soothing balm on reality, which was probably why he always felt an odd sort of peace here; Sherlock's presence was still somehow ingrained in the furniture and walls, enough to allow John to slip into a private fantasy that he would wake up and it would all be gone and Sherlock would be puttering around the flat as he always did.
The rent turned out not to be an issue; despite John's offers to pay both rents, Mrs. Hudson insisted not to worry about Sherlock's half, something about an agreement worked out with Mycroft.
Drawn to the laptop's gravitational pull, John opened the computer to find it was still open to his last post, made several weeks ago:
Close Call at Regents Park
Went for a walk with Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone, it's the first time in a while we've spoken; she's been busy with her sister and I at the surgery. Thought a bit of fresh air would do us both some good. Apparently there was a bloody sniper in the building across the street, and tried to shoot us both when we were about to enter the park. I pulled Mrs. Hudson down, she's all right now - and fired back, but it didn't really end until Mycroft Holmes of all people arrived and the sniper stopped firing and took off. He didn't get far; Mycroft's henchmen were waiting for him in the back alley and chased him down the street until he was shot down. No one, except for the sniper, was hurt.
The timing was so impeccable it was... suspicious.
Mycroft, since I know you're reading this, please give me my black jacket back. Preferably unbugged. I just discovered it missing, and I think I lost it in the move out of 221B. You know, when you were being oh so helpful taking... taking your brother's things. Thank you.
Then, underneath it, was The Comment that had sparked a fresh wound in John's healing chest:
'He doesn't have the jacket. It's nice and warm, but will return it soon. -SH.'
The comment was otherwise unsigned, and John knew that it was either Mycroft (he can deny it as much as he wanted to) or an anonymous reader who didn't mind being cruel and pranking him.
The sniper was now dead; unbeknownst to Mycroft, Molly had shown John a copy of the autopsy report a couple days later. The cause of death was obvious: bullet to the back. He was still anonymous though, and John knew that it was going to stay that way as long as Mycroft had some say about it.
Mycroft Holmes was one person that John could never figure out, even when Sherlock lived. John hadn't spoken to Mycroft at all for the three years following Sherlock's death, especially when the pain was still raw. At the end of the first year, John stopped seeing Ella; she seemed intent on opening wounds that were trying to heal by John ignoring them. Anything that could be perceived as a weapon disappeared from the flat one day, and it wasn't until six months later that the gravity of his death finally hit John - no matter how much he thought about it, Sherlock Holmes was not going to walk into the flat and drag John into the next round of madness and adventure.
And there was nothing that could ever bring him back.
The other thing that John didn't understand was his apparent inclusion into the Holmes family. When he asked Mycroft, a week after the Fall, all the official said was that it was something that Sherlock would have wanted, seeing that he was attached to the doctor enough that he made John the executor of his will in the last few months before the Fall, just after the case in Baskerville. "He asked me anyway to keep an eye on you when he couldn't, just for his peace of mind," Mycroft had added before refusing to answer any further questions.
John could not have imagined when this conversation between the Holmes brothers took place, seeing that they (Sherlock at least) could not stand to be near each other for longer than necessary. The best John could come up with was that the two had texted each other, especially since John did not have either man's phone at the time (Sherlock's had disappeared almost right away, Molly said it was needed for possibly clearing Sherlock's name and never mentioned it again), he couldn't prove or disprove his theory. Even scanning through the recorded calls, some mundane, others interesting, and scrolling through old text messages, John couldn't find anything that gave away how Sherlock had communicated that much with his brother.
Well, he'd never know now.
For some odd reason, the resounding silence throughout 221B seemed to disagree, as did the dusty skull on the mantelpiece.
A/N: This is Part 2 in a short series... but can also be read as a stand-alone. If you're interested in Part 1, that would be Stranger, in my profile. Sherlock Holmes and all related media belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC adaptation belongs to Moffat and Gatiss (right?).
This is my first Sherlock fanfic...I apologize for mistakes!
NaNoWriMo permitting, updates to this story will be on Saturdays.
As a heads up, there is an autopsy in the next chapter. I tried to keep it non-graphic, but I think there's one little bit about that scene that might be squirm-worthy. I am considering making a 'safe for ' version, since I don't know much about specific triggers, but enough to know that warnings are necessary.
P.s. I apologize in advance for any errors with British terminology/London geography, and this has not been edited for things like that. I'm open to working with anyone on that.