Author's note: Well, this is what happens when I try going for "minimalistic", but my inborn effusiveness gets in the way. I had a completely different plan with this story, but once I started writing it simply started shaping up by itself. I guess I was going for something a bit more...abstract, let say.
Once again, dedicated to L. spam sensei and my conductor of light :)
Considering the fact that I have already covered the reunion, and its aftermath, in "What A Tender World That Would Be", my intention with this story wasn't to focus on that. Also, while WATWTAB was rather close to canon, in terms of taking in consideration all that is known about S3, this story is completely different in that aspect. I wanted to try a different take on what Sherlock's absence would look like, and what would happen if John actually realised Sherlock was alive, at some point. So, the reunion doesn't feature as heavily here.
As for other notes, there will be a point in the story where dates will be important, so a word of warning to any US readers – I am European, so I write my dates in a dd/mm/yy form, instead of mm/dd/yy, just to avoid confusion.
Also, there will be mentions of drug use, but warped into oblivion through metaphors.
(The site keeps on messing up the summary by not showing the last word, so the summary is supposed to go like this:
'He is using a telephone box for written correspondence. Voiceless conversations and mute phone calls. Ridiculous, isn't it?.' During his exile, Sherlock stands a covert vigil over John by using the one thing he holds in the highest regard – his mind.
Also, it keeps on erasing the dividing lines in the story, so sorry about that, there are actually lines betwen the parts that are supposed to be separated in order to make sense)
I guess that's all...
Enjoy your reading! :)
John Watson's day is nothing but an all-day-round festival of frustration. His alarm clock fails go off, causing him to sleep in late, which further leads to having to skip tea and breakfast, in order to make it to the surgery in time. Once there, he trudges through a mass of uninteresting cases (uninteresting cases? When did he start calling his patients that?), only to be treated to a patient keeping a secret (and doing a horrible job at hiding the fact), at the end of his shift.
After clocking out, he starts to walk back towards Baker Street. There is a red phone box on the corner, an old model that hasn't been replaced yet. There are scribbles on the glass, and the paint is chipping, but the box still stands bright, contrasting against the gray of the pavement and the sky (there seems to be no clear distinction where one ends and the other begins – a seamless transition). John's eyes are drawn to the kiosk, as he walks toward it. The box is vivid, loud – a red stain on colourless tissue. A blood stain on grey pavement. No. Stop it. It's the frustration talking, the long day and the patients and the fact that the sky hasn't cleared for a week now. It's just the weather affecting his psyche. There's no blood on the pavement, it has been washed away, repeatedly, over the last six months. Plus, blood is darker, a richer shade of red, so no – the phone box is not like a blood stain. Nothing like a blood stain. How in heaven's name has he managed to turn a phone box into a trigger for grief? John hopes the weather improves soon.
The phone rings just as he walks past it. Oh, what a déjà vu. He doesn't believe for a second that this is a coincidence. Living with Sherlock Holmes for two years will do that to a man – John Watson no longer believes in coincidences. He stops, as he recalls another time to his mind, when the same sound followed him through London. For a moment he contemplates picking up and telling Mycroft to bugger off, and save himself an abduction. He already makes a step towards the box when he changes his mind. He can't. If he starts talking, he might never stop, and he just can't. He ignores the ringing and continues to walk. To his surprise, he makes it home without a car stopping to pick him up or another phone ringing along the way. Is Mycroft getting soft?
A week later, the lying patient is back again, presenting with the same symptoms, only aggravated. Itching, rash, redness of skin, scaly skin, all combined with mild respiratory problems. Obvious signs of an allergy. From her patient history John knows she has tested negative to all the common allergens, so this must be something she has been in contact with recently and repeatedly, seeing as the symptoms are getting worse despite the general-use topical cream he prescribed last times. She is still adamant that she doesn't know what could have caused it, a claim that drives John to the edges of his (rather extensive) patience, since he can clearly tell the woman is lying. It's not the lie that bothers the doctor (he got used to half-truths and strange excuses from embarrassed patients long ago), but the fact that he cannot help her unless she tells him exactly what she's been handling. After another futile attempt at getting her to be honest, he simply prescribes the same cream again, agitated by this whole interaction.
The phone box is still there (of course it is, it's not like it can just up and leave), still red. John still walks past it every day. When the phone rings again, this time he has no doubts about what to do. The sound seems like an invitation, a perfect opportunity to release some of his frustration, and he doesn't plan on missing out on it. A good old angry shouting may just be what he needs, and Mycroft seems to be offering himself as target. He lifts the phone, words already galloping over his tongue, when he sees it.
There is a white square of paper stuck to the part of the phone that would usually find residence next to John's ear.
Allergy patient – allergen: marijuana. Has been growing it in her basement for two weeks now.
Only after he has read it twice, can John make sense of what he is seeing. The words are in Times New Roman (not that John knows this, to him it's just type), black and stark against the white of the paper. The paper itself is generic – relatively thick, not very heavy, medium quality. Nothing telling about either the print or the stationary. No, what is telling are the words, ones informing him of his patient's diagnosis – diagnosis that could only be made if a) whoever posed it examined the woman from a relative proximity, or b) if that same someone gained access to her (confidential) medical records. Seeing as she lives alone and, by her own admission, hasn't left her house in weeks, except to come for a check up, John is leaning toward option b.
There are only two people in this world capable of doing something like this. No, wrong. There were only two people. Now, there's only one. But why would he do that? It doesn't make sense...still, once you've ruled out the impossible (and John knows that the only other option is indeed impossible), whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. Out of the only two people capable of doing this, only one is still alive to actually do it. The remaining Holmes – Mycroft.
John's stomach churns as he contemplates his choices:
One – confront Mycroft. (He isn't all too crazy about this one)
Two – ignore the note, and any others that might appear. (Seems easy enough, unless Mycroft decides he doesn't like being ignored and decides to arrange a meeting regardless of John's wishes. Not good, either.)
Three – read the note(s), and then ignore it/them as efficiently as possible. (John is leaning towards this choice, as it seems to be a perfect compromise – he still gets to ignore, but Mycroft gets to see him read the notes, which should, hopefully, serve as satisfaction enough for him to leave John alone)
Yes, choice no. 3 seems to be the best one, for now. John wonders about Mycroft's reasons, but gives up that line of thought quickly. It's too draining, and he has had enough for one day. He has had enough for one week. Or a lifetime.
(The note proves to be correct, of course. A week after it appears, Sarah tells him, with wide eyes, that the woman was arrested, after the police found a whole basement full of marijuana seedlings. John doesn't even bother to look surprised.)
Sherlock Holmes' week is nothing but an all-day-round festival of frustration. That is, until something happens and suddenly all his effort and frustration seem to pay off – three days into the week (exactly seven days after the first note was left and, consequently, ignored) John picks up the phone. Sherlock watches through the third-floor window of a building across the phone box, as John reads the note – once, twice – and then looks around until his eyes settle on the nearest traffic camera, a grim realisation settling in his expression, like dust. Sherlock knows what that look means – Mycroft. John thinks the notes are from Mycroft. Excellent.
Half a year after his "death", Sherlock is back in London for the sixth time in as many months. Every time he takes a trip abroad, leads that he finds there somehow point back to London.
London –lead: Paris – go to Paris (kill two people) – lead: London
London –lead: Bucharest – go to Bucharest (sniper for Mrs. Hudson – dead) – lead: London
London –lead: Sarajevo – go to Sarajevo (get answers; method: not pleasant) – lead: London
London, London, London...John.
Despite knowing better, he can't resist the urge to check up on John every chance he gets. He has no doubt John will pull through this – this charade that is all too real – but he finds himself dwelling in a state of unease that only seems to be alleviated by somehow convincing himself John is fine. He finds passive observation surprisingly unsatisfying in that regard, so he devises a plan. A reckless, stupid, dangerous plan based solely on sentiment (no matter how many logical reasons Sherlock gives himself to persuade his own mind of the plan's necessity). He is risking too much. He is going against his better judgement (really, is there a judgement of his that is bad? He only ever has good ideas, after all. Well, apparently there is a first time for everything...).Why? Easy question. Easy answer. To help John, even if in a way so minute that it is almost insignificant. But why? Another easy question. Easy answer (easy but hard; paradox). He cares. Horrible answer.
Caring is not an advantage, indeed. Not in this case, anyway. God, he hates it when Mycroft is right.
He can't let John know he is alive. It's still dangerous, there are still many loose ends waiting to be tied up, and he has just started the process of eliminating threats. It makes for one of those rare moments when Sherlock is able to see the benefit of him and Mycroft being more similar than he likes to admit. He knows he can go on like this for a while, leaving notes, embedding himself in John's life, albeit invisible, because John's suspicion will fall on Mycroft. He can't inform Mycroft of his ministrations, knowing that his brother would advise him against them and, following Sherlock's refusal of such advice, proceed to ensure Sherlock's attempts of going through with his plan were hindered. Thus, he just hopes his brother uses that significant intellect of his to make the right call regarding his reaction when John confronts him about, what John will presume to be Mycroft's, actions. Sherlock hopes that confrontation will take place later, rather than sooner, but either way he knows this part of his plan is entirely at Mycroft's mercy. How hateful.
Remaining anonymous (and true to Mycroft's character) is crucial, so Sherlock always makes sure to only leave notes related to John's work, or similar matters that can be found out about through public (and private) records, traffic cameras and other sources available to his brother. If he ventured too far, left a note about something private, something intimate – something only Sherlock could observe on John – his Mycroft-cover would be destroyed.
He uses a different member of his homeless network to print (handwriting – too revealing) and deliver the notes, each time, and a copy place on the other side of town from where John usually goes. The locations playing the role of unusual inboxes constantly vary. Once it's the rail in front of 221B, another time the door pendant. One note finds its way into John's locker at the surgery, and even the shelf in Tesco that stores John's favourite tea becomes an impromptu mailbox (even though, Sherlock has to admit that, in retrospect, that one was a bit of a risk – but then again, what isn't these days?). Variation and randomness (well, not real randomness, but one that appears to be that to John) are key, because John is smart and could spot a pattern if Sherlock allowed himself to develop one.
It is in these moments that Sherlock wishes John really was an idiot. It would make matters so much easier. But that wouldn't be John, now would it? John's mind is part of who John is, a vital part. Sherlock would never wish for it to be different. So, he realises, he doesn't really wish John to be an idiot. What he really wishes for is for none of this to be necessary. He wishes he could simply tell John his deductions, instead of being forced to print them out. He wishes he could share his knowledge of patterns with John, instead of using it to remain invisible to the one man who always managed to see him for exactly what he was. What he still is (with an addition of few more...experiences).
So, Sherlock doesn't really wish for John to be an idiot. He just wishes he could have his life back. Their life.
Yet, he is exiled out of his own life, and John is not an idiot, and wishes are but a fool's pastime, all of which means he can never develop a pattern with the places to which he has the notes delivered. Still, every now and then, one note finds its way to the red phone box. It's never in regular intervals, the number of messages left elsewhere and the time period between them always varying, but eventually the phone in the phone box always rings again.
Every time there is a puzzle troubling enough to burden John, a note appears. John wonders what is prompting Mycroft to constantly interfere in his life – is it that he really thinks John to be so incompetent to deal with his own problems, or is it some sort of weird penance he believes he is doing? Who would know...Mycroft is a Holmes, and John fears to venture into his state of mind. It must be a dark and scary place. So, he simply continues with his practice of reading the notes (simply to avoid being snatched away in a black car) and, on occasion, actually using the information provided, mostly if the problem poses a danger to a patient of his. Other than that, he makes no effort to acknowledge that this little ritual is in any way affecting him. If Mycroft feels he needs to be redeemed for something, John is not the one willing to grant him that redemption.
After a few months, the boy Sherlock sends out gets spotted by John – nearly caught, too. He loses his post as Sherlock's occasional currier, immediately. It might be cruel – after all, mistakes happen, (they even happen to Sherlock, no matter how much he hates to admit it) – but there is no place for mistakes here. Not when this much is at stake. Not when John is at stake (risky, too risky). The boy's mistake means that, now, Sherlock has to be even more cautious than before. His messages will have to be shorter, fewer and further apart. John will be on alert, having come so close to answers, and this means Sherlock has to lay low for a while if he wishes to remain hidden. Remain dead. (Death is so tiring, it smells like dust)
The phone rings again. It hasn't done so in a while, not for months now. Ever since he last heard the shrill tone filtering through the glass and red metal, and lifted the receiver to find the solution of his latest mundane conundrum instead of a greeting, the notes have become sparse – planted every so often, but in greater intervals scheduled more erratically than ever. Last time he almost caught the boy leaving the note in the box, spotting him from a distance. By the time he got to the red kiosk, the boy was already fleeing, and the phone was ringing. Knowing he had little chance of catching up with the swift-legged messenger, John opted for seeing what the boy left in his wake, picking up the phone and reading the note.
To John, the notes are like the sudden English rain; a gray cloud blown in, without a word of warning, from the Atlantic, bringing torrents that wash away illusion after illusion, until there is little of what John might consider to be a mystery, while at the same time making him question all that he has ever considered unquestionable about his reality. Uncalled-for truths, revelations he never gets to choose to have. Involuntary education about the matters of his own life. The last one of such, almost force-fed enlightenments, is left for him underneath the coaster placed in front of his usual seat in his favourite pub, weeks prior to the phone call he now steps into the box to answer. He grabs the receiver, but doesn't lift it to his ear (he no longer expects an actual call), turning the receiver so that he can take the note taped to it, instead. Only, this time, there is no note. For a moment, John stands in confusion, looking rather ridiculous – a man, holding a telephone, seemingly at loss about what he is supposed to do about it. It is only when a passing cyclist shouts in a mocking voice "You're s'posed to put it to your ear, mate!", that he flinches and proceeds to do as suggested.
"Hello?"
There is only silence on the other side. Nothing is heard, not even breathing.
"Who is this?" John licks his lips, and tries hard to detect any sound coming from the device – a task made significantly more difficult than it should be, by his own raspy breaths and deafening heartbeat playing a cacophonous concert in his ears. After forty-two seconds of silence, he gives up. With a sigh, he leans against the payphone, lowering the receiver from his ear, so that it rests in the crook of his neck. He closes his eyes, as he puts his forehead to the cool glass in the corner of the box, attempting desperately to regain something resembling composure. He is so tired.
As he heads back towards Baker Street, he doesn't see a traffic camera that turns away from the telephone box, rotating so to face the road again.
Across London, Sherlock presses the end call button on his burn-phone, dropping it into his pocket, eyes never leaving the screen of the laptop placed on a simple desk in front of him. John's voice is still spilling all over the inside of his mind, lapping and licking against the concavities of Sherlock's skull like the sea. Stormy, salty sea.
He imagines he can hear John's heartbeat, as if its sound is strong enough to pass the barriers of John's body – blood, muscle, bone, fat tissue, skin – and leap into the holes made in the worn plastic, in order to travel down a wire and into Sherlock's ear. He knows it's impossible, utterly irrational and of absolutely no practical use to imagine things like that. And yet...With John's voice soaking his mind, and John's imaginary heartbeat creating tremors in the dusty air that fights its way down Sherlock's trachea, Sherlock finds rationality and pragmatism to be more abstract than ever. There is only one other thing that has ever gotten him in such an...unusual...state, and that one included chemical compounds of questionable legality. (Well, to be fair, to say there wasn't some bending of rules in order to hear John's voice would not be true, but Sherlock still considers it a preferable alternative to the first option.)
There is, however, an effect, weaving its way through this experience, that is unique – something that was never present in his chemically-induced highs. He wonders why he feels something akin to pain in that space which doesn't (cannot) exist inside his chest. There is an ache in the virtual hollow somewhere between his sternum, just above the diaphragm, just in front of his heart and lungs. How can there be anything there? The space is imaginary... there is no hollow there, only organs, tissue and blood, all packed up tightly and tidily within the cage of bones, leaving only infinitesimal gaps. How is it possible then, that such a non-hollow space feels like a barren wasteland full of ache? Interesting. Troublesome, but interesting nonetheless. After struggling with the sensation for a while, Sherlock decides he needs more data. More data, and some time to think. He can feel his fingers starting to itch with the need to dial the number of the next public phone in John's path – repeat the process, see if the sensation changes (abates? intensifies?) – but he hasn't lost his mind, no matter how compromised the said mind might be at the moment. He turns away from the desk and heads towards the corner of the bleak room, directing his itching fingers towards the only two things that can be found in the room, apart from a bare mattress and the aforementioned desk. Taking his violin in one hand, and the bow in the other, he starts composing, as he always does when his thoughts start to misbehave. Compose them into obedience.
He plays with John's pulse tapping the beat for the tune. A living metronome.
The call becomes the tipping point. John knows that he has to put a stop to this ridiculous game of "(No) Words with (invisible) friends". A very one-sided, twisted game. How is he supposed to move on, when there are ghosts made of paper, and printer ink, and silence on the other side of the telephone line, ambushing him in places he simply cannot avoid?
John remembers his first thoughts when the notes started appearing – that there is only one man (where there used to be two) who can access patient records, control public surveillance and shadow John so that the ex-soldier doesn't notice. John groans at the implication contained within that fact. It's time to see Mycroft.
It is highly likely that he should have acted on this sooner. So, why didn't he?
If he were being honest with himself, he would admit that giving this up felt too much like giving up some sort of insane hope. He doesn't even know what it is precisely he is hoping for. No, wrong, again. He knows exactly what – he is hoping for a miracle, and for a second, when he saw that first message attached to the phone receiver, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he was being granted that one desperate wish. If he were being completely honest with himself, he would admit to not really wanting to move on, because what would he be moving onto, exactly? A life of mundane routines and small, bleak pleasures? A life in which London is just another city? A life in which the greatest thrill comes from tackling a drunken patient at work? He isn't sure that's something in which he is interested, but the truth is that that's the only option he has left, now. If he decides to move on, John knows he will be moving onto a life without Sherlock Holmes. That is something in which he surely isn't interested.
So, if John were being completely honest with himself, he would admit to clinging to the notes and the prospect of a miracle that became reality. He would admit to gripping the type-covered paper bits the way he wishes he could have gripped Sherlock's coat in order to pull him back from that fateful ledge. But such honesty entails acceptance of the fact that, by severing this last thread linking him to his dead friend, he is truly and irrevocably abandoning his vigil for just one more miracle. That is a relinquishment he is neither prepared nor willing to endure, which is precisely why John Watson forgoes all honesty when it comes to the matter at hand, and proceeds to convince himself of reasons much less emotionally harrowing.
This doesn't necessarily make these reasons untrue – on the contrary, they underlie his decision as much as the ones he is unwilling to admit. Well, perhaps not as much, but certainly to some extent.
He tells himself he hasn't acted sooner because there was the possibility Mycroft would simply give up after a while (well...he did say possibility and not probability). He tries to convince himself that he just hasn't felt like dealing with the man who betrayed his own brother, who betrayed John's best friend. This is only partly true – one part of him never wants to see Mycroft Holmes, and that bloody umbrella of his, ever again. The other part, however, wants to see him, and very much so. That part wants to scream at the man, force him to react, for just once in his life, react like a proper human being, like a mourning sibling. That part of John wants to see his own pain reflected and multiplied on Mycroft's face. John doesn't like that part of himself very much, but he can't force himself to judge it, either.
Thus, he lists these two parts of himself (neither of which provides a very fortunate way of dealing with the older of the two Holmes brothers) as another reason for postponing his actions. If John were being honest with himself (alas, it has already been established that this is not the case), he would also credit a third part, a small sliver wedged between the first and the second, between the disappointment and the rage, as a factor in his reluctance. That third, minute part of him wants to confront Mycroft just to see a flicker of his brother's genius reflected somewhere in those cutting eyes – catch a glimpse of Sherlock in the man who worried about him, constantly. That same part fears that if he did, he would never stand a chance of moving on, ever again. But, as previously stated, John is currently completely uninterested in being honest with himself, so that third part stays denied, buried under layers of rage, denial and other passionate, strong-worded feelings that help mask its existence.
His second reason is completely true, and that irks John a bit. Well, more than a bit, but living with Sherlock has completely redefined "irksome" for John, so this particular annoyance doesn't rank high on the scale of things that cause his blood pressure to rise. He hasn't done anything sooner because the messages have always proven to be spot-on, and he would be a hypocrite if he were to claim they didn't help. At times when his inner turmoil is treading on overwhelming, an answer to a puzzling question that must be solved, an answer which comes with no request of reciprocity or payment certainly isn't unwelcomed. John might be a proud man, even a stubborn one (well, definitely a stubborn one), but at times pride and obstinacy simply take up too much energy – energy he doesn't possess in abundance to start with – so at such times John allows himself to take the easier path. He thinks he deserves it, if only occasionally. Where is all this self-pity coming from? Snap out of it, Watson.
There are other reasons, John is sure. Trivial but reasonable ones, logical. Well, it's not as if they matter now, is it? For whatever reasons prevented him from acting sooner are no longer relevant. He must act now.
As he walks towards the Diogenes club, he refuses to acknowledge the fact that it feels like going to a funeral, all over again.
John finds Mycroft in his study, reading a file, several other ones splayed in front of him on a small coffee table. He doesn't waste time on pleasantries, investing all his energy into maintaining a normal volume of voice. Mycroft looks at him expectantly, his face unreadable, as always.
"John."
The calm sound of Mycroft's voice, so out of place in these circumstances, is unacceptable. It's unacceptable, because John is angry, and sad, and tired, and he wants the calm, wants to extract it from Mycroft and Mycroft's voice, and cast it over himself like a shroud. The unattainable calm bothers him endlessly, and he knows no good will come from spending any more time in Mycroft's company than necessary, so he says what he came to say. Best get this over with.
"I don't know what you are trying to do here, with these little stunts of yours, and to be honest, I don't really care. Just stop it."
He knows there is no need to elaborate – Mycroft probably knew he was coming, knew exactly why, too. Hell, Mycroft probably knew John was coming even before John knew he was. For a moment Mycroft looks surprised, but then his face once again gains its usual impenetrable quality and he nods in consent.
"Very well. I was simply trying to assist you. I see now that my actions might have been crossing a line."
Of course Mycroft was aware of his brothers little written...excursions into his former flatmates life, all this time, but he did expect him to be smarter than pushing the man over the edge. Still, he knew a time would come when he would be faced with John Watson again, and despite frowning upon his brother's actions, he knew what role he would assume when the encounter happened. No matter what, he will always worry and always look out for Sherlock. It's what brothers do. Sometimes, with Mycroft being the Government and Sherlock being the Brilliant Detective, the fact that they are first and foremost (always) brothers, can slip one's mind. Oh, what a complicated bond that is – brotherhood –so much history and mutual resentment of qualities that, in the end, make up for a great part of what they have in common.
Still, among all other titles he might wear, some as a crown and some as a mask, Mycroft never forgets the one he has worn the longest. Brother. It's the same one he finds most challenging, simply because, among all the important-sounding ones, this one ranks the highest. If he fails to live up the expectations that come hand in hand with all his other aliases, countries would crumble and wars would ensue, but if he fails to live up to this one...well, let's just say not living up to it is not an option. He is the British Government, the British Secret Service, the CIA, but above all he is his brother's keeper.
After John turns and leaves, shoulders squared and step indicating full soldier-mode, Mycroft pulls out his phone.
See me – MH
Sherlock has been acting reckless.
It's the one-year anniversary of his death.
Sherlock is in London again.
London –lead: Podgorica– go to Podgorica (sniper for Lestrade: dead) – lead: London
London –lead: Minsk – go to Minsk (waste of time) – lead: London – just in time
He is seated in a vacant flat across from 221B. Hiding in plain sight. Sitting in the dark, his face is illuminated only by the eerie blue shine of a computer screen. It is a composition of skeletal ridges, deep shadows, and cadaverous pallor. Just then, in all his momentary immobility, he is a stunning wax doll, just on the other side of life. Flickers of light emitted by the screen create an illusion of perpetual movement on Sherlock's face, making his skin a strangely shifting canvas. The scintillation of the computer's cold radiance gives the Consulting Detective an appearance of a living statue, and in the end the flickers prompt the man out of his trance.
He hasn't left John a note in weeks now, not since that phone call, not since Mycroft scolded him for being reckless (although Mycroft's scolding has absolutely no influence on Sherlock's decision. Of course it didn't), but tonight is different. He can't remain passive, not tonight, not when the air is thick with unwanted recollections and detrimental memories. He doesn't worry about John doing something rash – he knows him better than that, he knows John is stronger than that – but he feels a need to do something, all the same. Just because John is strong, that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve a reprieve.
He needs to remind John, distract him. It's the wretched date and he needs another one, a different date. He chooses the only one that seems appropriate, the only one that can contend with today's on the scale of significance. Fight fire with fire, is it? Fight numbers with numbers.
Looking at the live feed from a camera hidden behind a row of books in 221B (the same one that was once used to spy on him – he likes to think of it as recycling), he wonders which one of his attention-diverting plans will be put in action tonight. The image on the screen has an almost hypnotic effect on him, as he watches John rummage around the place aimlessly for several minutes, only to settle in his chair with a laptop perched in his lap – the same laptop Sherlock so many times confiscated, for various reasons (it was closer, it was more convenient, he just felt like it, it was John's). Sherlock wonders if his fingerprints are still on the lid, or if they have already been covered up, lost underneath John's. What a silly thought... Useless. He focuses his attention back on the screen and, thanks to the angle of the camera in relation to where John is sitting, is able to train his eyes on the contents of John's screen. The image is grainy and in monochrome (foreign assassins don't really invest in high-quality equipment any more, apparently), but from the layout of the page displayed on John's laptop Sherlock is able to make out what his friend is looking at, and when he does, he knows which plan to carry out.
He doesn't know what prompts John to open his blog for the first time in almost a year, but he is thankful for it nonetheless.
John doesn't write an entry, reading through the old posts and comments, instead (he doesn't know what to think of this masochistic need to read the blog...maybe it's because of the date). His eyes flit over the hit counter that shows the daily number of views. The site maintenance fixed it, and the number is currently at 3891. After a year's time, people are still fascinated by the phenomenon that is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective. No, not the phenomenon that is Sherlock Holmes. Was. There is no such thing as a Consulting Detective anymore –an extinct profession.
John is just about to look away, when the count drops down to 2901. How is that possible? Had 990 people just unseen his blog? Something's not right. He refreshes the site. No change. Again. Still 2901. Something about the number rings a bell somewhere deep in some remote part of John's mind. In some obscure crevice, in the darkness of a single swirl of his brain, he knows this is significant. 2901 – a number? A code? A password? A date?
As if on cue, a memory about a conversation pertaining to numbers penetrates his consciousness.
- The count on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.
-Yes, it's faulty. Can't seem to fix it.
- Faulty. Or you've been hacked and it's a message.
No. It was a coincidence then, and it's a coincidence now. No.
He refreshes the page again, hoping desperately for his sanity. As the olive-green of his blog reappears once again, he is greeted with the numerals 3891 perching proudly, as they mark the pairs of eyes that took it upon themselves to explore what was once John's life, converted into pixels and typeface.
A blip, a mistake. That's all it was. He decides not to investigate the feeling, one closely resembling disappointment, that follows the change on the hit counter.
Sherlock's fingers linger over the keyboard of his laptop. No. Not his laptop. A new one, simple, light, practical.
2901. Think about that day, John, and not about today. 29.01. Think about that day instead of the other one. Think about the days that followed, the early days.
Think Afghanistan or Iraq, and brilliant, and pink, and could be dangerous, and that was ridiculous. It was good then, was it not? Think about then.
He knows his stunt is a dangerous one and that it cannot go on for much longer. The silent countdown in his mind is approaching zero, and he knows the numbers on John's screen will soon have to be changed back to their original state. Thirty seconds, that's as long as he can allow. He both hopes and fears that thirty seconds will be enough, be all it takes for John to figure it all out.
It would be so easy to just leave the altered count on John's screen, wait for him to come to terms with the fact that it is not a coincidence or an error. Wait for him to find Sherlock. It would be incredibly easy to do so. It wouldn't really require much effort; all it would take is simple inaction. He wouldn't even have to do anything. He would simply have to not do anything.
It would be so easy, like a knife slicing through butter. Or a bullet through a skull. John's skull. (Risky, too risky)
Sherlock hits enter, and the digits revert to their original value. It's the most laborious movement he has ever made. He smirks at the thought of a labouring dead man. Liberty in death, was it?For him, there is no such thing. Self-pity is unbecoming on him, and Sherlock is very much aware of this, yet he can't help but dwell on a thought, one that keeps on finding its way back to the front of his mind. As he stares at the date in the bottom right corner of the screen, he can't help but think that John isn't the only one who deserves a distraction tonight.
It's the one year anniversary of his death, and he is standing in front of his own gravestone.
Strange, the stone itself seems appropriate enough – black, elegant, sleek, yet slightly imposing – but there is something off about it. For a moment he feels like a character in R.L. Stevenson's "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde", trying to pin-point what exactly is wrong with the face of Edward Hyde, and failing to do so. (What is it? What are you? Oh.)The letters, or more precisely, their colour. Gold. Really, if anything, they should have been silver. Gold is Mycroft's colour. He wonders why it bothers him so much – it's not as if he is really buried underneath the slate, so what difference does it make if the letters are the right colour? Maybe it's just childish petulance. Maybe it's the fact that the colour reminds him that he isn't really dead, that he still has a life to return to – a life that can be lost – so why is he standing here, now? What is he trying to achieve? Why did he get himself here? (How did he get here?)
He isn't alone. There is a company of six standing around him in a formation alike to a circle, but not quite a full one. They are an odd, expressionless lot. Human, but not really so. They resemble mannequins, the sort found in store windows. They are like three sets of identical twins, clones, except each has one prominent feature to differentiate it from the rest. Sherlock deduces each, and them deduces them as a whole. He knows who they are. He has been distancing himself from them for a very long time, so he knows very well who they are. In order to avoid your enemy, you first must know what to avoid.
They don't have real names, or more precisely, they have many. Count the languages that are currently spoken in the world, add the few dead ones used for academic purposes, and you will get the initial number of names for each. Then multiply that number by the number of synonyms for each, and then again by six – that is the amount of names that can be given to the eerie members of Sherlock's entourage. Sherlock runs those he knows, in all the languages he has ever had a chance to speak or study. In the end, he settles for his mother-tongue. Maybe he does so because the figures are familiar and not foreign, so it is only fit to address them in English. Maybe it makes them sound (and feel) less exotic, less mysterious.
Anger, Sorrow, Worry, Despair, Guilt , Fear.
Sherlock feels his own anger, directed at himself. Anger doesn't shout, its voice a plain monotone, indistinctive, but Sherlock knows it is Anger, all the same. "How could you? How is this helping anyone? How will this help save anyone?" The words are ambiguous, but somehow, Sherlock knows Anger isn't referring to the Fall. Strange. The Fall would be the logical topic, and yet it is somehow obvious that Anger is addressing an entirely different matter, one much more recent. Sherlock can't really deduce what that might be, and it frustrates him to no end.
Feeling his frustration getting the better of him, he stops dealing with that particular puzzle for a moment, searching instead for what gave away Anger's identity. It could have easily been another emotion, if its voice or words were anything to go by – Disappointment, Resentment. But it's not. It's Anger, and Sherlock is certain of it. He peruses the figure's face in search of a distinctive mark. Just as Anger mouths it's next accusatory question, Sherlock's eyes zero in on what stands out. The way the mouth is set. The lines of it, the lips, the way it morphs and bends around syllables. There is no mistaking it.
Anger has John's mouth.
Sherlock flinches, almost imperceptibly (but not quite), before getting a hold of himself. His eyes scan over this vexing syndicate, whose sole order of business is to unsettle him. A knowing feeling rears its head – the thrill of deduction, the rapture of spotting a pattern. Yes, a pattern. He is pretty sure there will be a pattern among this band of phantoms, and he can start to theorise about what sort of pattern it will be. Considering he has only faced one of the figures, it is still too early to form any firm theories, but he feels rather certain of his predicament. Data, he needs more data. He positions himself so he is facing the next figure.
The figure opens its mouth to speak, but Sherlock already knows who it is. Sorrow is about to set off into its soliloquy, but Sherlock knows that there are no words in the English language (or any other, for that matter) that could match the intensity of the one feature that allows him identify Sorrow the moment he lays his eyes on it. Saddening – that's what Sorrow is telling him without speaking a word – his actions are saddening. Again, Sherlock knows the saddening action is not the Fall. It's something he has done recently, the thing that landed him in this melancholic place. He finds Sorrow's distinctive feature almost immediately. It doesn't take him as long as the first time to find what he is looking for, mostly because what he is looking for is looking right back at him.
Sorrow has John's eyes.
Theories start to dissipate as new data is collected and the set of variables expands. A single theory starts to emerge, crystallising, its edges becoming more defined by the minute. Still, it is too early for anything conclusive. More data is needed.
The third figure doesn't have a smooth mannequin face. Its generic features are surrounded by lines, some deep, others minute and barely there. They form a map, with roads, rivers and mountain chains drawn on it. They are topography of a soul. They are the longitude and latitude of a heart. If they were set in a different way, Sherlock would long to travel along them, navigate through their unique layout, but not now, not when they are aligned in such a way to form Worry. He has seen this particular geography too many times, on another face. He loathes this blueprint – it's a copy of the one that is too often caused by Sherlock himself. Sherlock looks at Worry and observes the landscape he helped form on that other face, the face which lent its lines to this dummy.
Worry has John's wrinkles – his frown lines.
He is accumulating data, drawing nearer to a single theory that accounts for all the facts. Still, there is more evidence to investigate. Next figure, then.
Eyes – mannequin. Mouth – mannequin. Face – smooth, but...The jaw and the brow, the depth at which the eyes are set and the way the nostrils flutter. There is something about the contours of this face that emits hopelessness in waves, like heat, like radiation. Sherlock looks at Despair's face, recognising its ridges and angles, despite the fact that they are misplaced on this bland canvas of a countenance, out of place without all the rest of the features that are meant to be there to create the full context. There is something about Despair that reminds Sherlock of a newborn. It's fresh, new, current. As if Despair was born for specifically for this occasion. It's not as old as the Fall. Why? Why is it that none of these creatures seems to be in any way related to the one thing Sherlock would expect them to be related them to? That's a matter that requires a theory of its own, but Sherlock hasn't yet confirmed the theory at hand, so he leaves it for later. He focuses his attention back to Despair's face. It's a face he knows as well as his own. There are no sharp cheekbones, no slanted eyes, but Sherlock never thinks those contours to be anything short of extraordinary.
Despair has the contours of John's face.
He has all he needs to confirm his theory, but a good detective – a good scientist – never draws conclusions without surveying all the data at hand, and Sherlock is a good detective. The best. Two more sets of data are yet to be examined, and Sherlock's natural meticulousness prohibits him from neglecting them.
He looks to the fifth figure, and identifies it as Guilt, but finds no visible mark of John on it. He is about to scan the face again when Guilt starts to speak. Guilt doesn't speak of the Fall, either. Guilt has nothing to do with it, the Fall is not its territory. The Fall seems to be completely unimportant in this setting – how odd.
Instead, Guilt speaks of vices and relapses. "Why are you here?" it asks, "You know better than to come here, you know better than this. I thought you were better than this." The voice permeates Sherlock, and he wants to run. He can't, though, so he just stands, impassive, and lets Guilt's voice resonate. "Why did you do this? You were doing so well." There is only one person who has ever had to power to make him feel guilty.
Guilt has John's voice.
When he can stand it no more, he rotates his body for a few degrees and faces the last figure in the crescent-shaped assembly. Guilt's voice is drowned out immediately as he confronts the still being on the right tip of the not-quite-a-circle. He doesn't need any more data. He doesn't want any more. He doesn't remember the last time he didn't want new data during an investigation (he isn't even sure there ever was a time like that). Because that's all this is – an investigation. Isn't it? Still, he turns, if only to bar Guilt's narration. Please, no more data. No more. He already has enough – his theory is confirmed. He knows there are pieces of John everywhere. What more evidence is required, what more torture must he endure in the name of scientific proof? The last figure in the curved line stands as still as all the others.
Fear doesn't speak, its face numb and perfect – creaseless, smooth. Sherlock wonders for a second if there is nothing to be said. After all, Sherlock is not a faint-hearted man, and the category hosting things that scare him is a remarkably narrow one. Just as Sherlock is about to let the feeling of slight triumph and immense relief wash over him, Fear raises its hands and starts signing. Sherlock doesn't understand. Fear signs the same few signs, over and over, but the message is lost on Sherlock, as he stares at the hands, and the language he doesn't speak. Triumph is a distant echo as Sherlock remembers another set of hands, a non-matching pair. One his, and one...well, another one's. Hands that were reaching out to each other over a distance – vertical, horizontal and diagonal. A non-matching pair, separated. One half on a roof, the other on the ground. And yet, Fear seems, like all the others, related only to the present tense, this precise moment. What has Sherlock done that lead him here? He wanted a distraction...Maybe...well, that's a possible hypothesis...but he'll deal with that later.
Fear is still signing, but Sherlock is no closer to deciphering the meaning of finger-flutter shapes. He doesn't understand, and that makes him uncomfortable. In that narrow category of things Sherlock Holmes may consider frightening there aren't many items, and yet, here is one that belongs there, being dragged out into the diffused grey light of his death-day. He doesn't understand, and that frightens him.
He can't look at the signing hands anymore, so he looks back up to Fear's face, trying to find which feature is prominent in this one. He surveys every detail, but Fear seems to have a perfect mannequin face – no prominent eyes or mouth, lines smooth and bland – and since it doesn't seem to speak, Sherlock cannot hear his voice. Yet, there has to be something, something special, something unique, something...Oh. He was distracted by not understanding, so he missed it. Stupid. His thoughts catch up, and he can feel dread coming in like the tide. Before he can control his own movements, he looks back at the ceaselessly signing hands.
Fear has John's hands.
Final proof; his theory is confirmed. Yet, there is a lack of that air of finality, that feeling of closure that comes with a confirmed theory. It feels as if there is still a piece of the puzzle missing, hidden somewhere in the grass, half-way between the dead, below, and the living, above. What is it? Where is it? Sherlock observes, but the piece is cunning and elusive. The line of figures remains unchanged. Anger, Sorrow, Worry, Despair, Guilt, Fear. After Fear, there is no one else. Six figures. Something is amiss. Six doesn't make sense, six means nothing to Sherlock. Seven is the magical number. People are so intent on assigning symbolic value to everything, that it is easy for killers to pick something as their signature. Symbolism is so often key to solving a mystery that Sherlock can't afford to erase it. There are seven Wonders of the ancient world, seven Sages of Greece and seven Liberal Arts. Seven features as a meaningful number in various belief systems, from Ancient Egyptian religion to Modern Christianity. It is the number of cervical vertebrae in almost all mammals, and the neutral value of pH. Seven is the atomic number of nitrogen, which makes for the greatest part (precisely 78.09%) of Earth's atmosphere. Seven is significant, so Sherlock keeps it stored in his memory, which is why six figures don't really make any sense. Six is just a number. Seven is symbolic.
Six. One is missing. Anger – one, Sorrow – two, Worry – three, Despair – four, Guilt – five, Fear – six. One is missing. Where is it? Sherlock looks around, searching for the seventh figure, wondering (dreading) what feature of John's will adorn this one. The seventh figure is nowhere to be found. No, wrong. Wrong. This is all wrong – everything has a meaning, and six doesn't. Seven is a meaningful number, and six isn't, so there must be a seventh figure. Where is it?
Oh. Of course. Obvious. He realises that they are, in fact, standing in a circle. A full circle. There is a seventh figure closing the formation. It stands in equidistance from Anger on his left, and Fear on his right. It stands in Sherlock's place. (But how is that possible? Two bodies cannot occupy the exact same space at the same time.) Sherlock takes in the six figures for the last time, knowing that he is the one who finishes the set. He turns a mere six into a meaningful seven. He also breaks the pattern, because all features displayed on him are entirely, solely his.
Death has Sherlock's hands, Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock's voice. It has Sherlock's mouth, contours of Sherlock's face, and Sherlock's wrinkles – his frown lines.
Hello, Sherlock. Hello, Death.
It's the one year anniversary of his death, and he is lying on his back, in the ghoulish embrace of a bad hit of his beloved 7% solution. He doesn't die that night, but when he wakes up the next morning, he wakes with ghosts. It was never about the Fall, any of it. It was about this, this self-administered distraction of his.
As he emerges from the crash that always follows the high, his blood is stale (full of dust) and he is a creature burdened with six other souls clinging to the back of his mind, whispering, taunting. They are all his; they are all him.
A year and a half pass, and the entire time Sherlock abstains from sending John another note. His self-restraint is aided by his constant travels out of the country.
London –lead: Reykjavík– go to Reykjavík (two people dead; broken ribs: his) – lead: London
London –lead: Haag– go to Haag (bullet wound: superficial; sniper for John: escaped, NOT GOOD) – lead: London
London –lead: Stockholm– go to Stockholm (meet sources, gather intel; dead ends) – lead: London
Still, every time he comes back, breathing the familiar smoggy air, he checks on John, who seems to be doing fine most of the time – still working at the surgery, still living in 221B. He meets Mike Stamford for drinks every now and then, dates on occasion (it's never serious, though). He doesn't use his cane, but at times there is an almost imperceptible limp (psychosomatic – come on John, mind over body; it's just transport). Other than that, he seems to be getting along just fine. He seems to be living an ordinary life, and Sherlock loathes the idea of that adjective having any place in the description of John's state.
Well, maybe he would seem all this to an average observer, but Sherlock Holmes is not average. He sees John's actions for what they are – mere existence, not really a full life. He wishes he could leave just one note, bring a sliver of excitement to John, but he doesn't. He stays away, because wishing is a barren sport, and he has more important matters to tend to.
The same process of inner turmoil, which always ends equally, repeats itself for a year and a half, until one day a variable changes. A variable called "John's latest romantic interest" (Sherlock never bothers to remember their names).
She is cheating (with a co-work; meetings Tuesdays and Thursdays, during John's afternoon shifts), and Sherlock knows this right from the start, but it doesn't seem serious between her and John, at first, so he stays put (no use endangering John over such a trivial thing as infidelity). But when John buys a ring, he knows he can't just stand on the sidelines. He might not be very skilled when dealing with matters of such nature, but Sherlock knows what this means, knows John and what this would mean to him (pain, emotional distress – John has had enough of that), which means an exception to his no-notes rule is warranted (or maybe this is just a very good excuse to break his rule, as he has longed to do for so long, but Sherlock stands by his logical line of reasoning). It is an exception which has to be executed delicately, if his previous experiences are any indication.
He isn't one to make mistakes, and even when he does, he tries very hard not to repeat the same mistake twice. He shortly recalls one of the times he considered his actions, much similar in nature to the ones he is about to engage in, a kind thing to do. In his mind he sees Molly fleeing the lab, gripping her new (gay...well, playing gay) boyfriend's phone number (left for Sherlock, under a tray) in her hand, just after Sherlock informed her of his deductions. He hears John's words and his own response:
-Charming. Well done.
-Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?
- Kinder? No. No, Sherlock. That wasn't kind.
Lesson learned. So this time, he does the kind (?) thing. He writes the address and time of the next meeting John's girlfriend has arranged with her lover. Is this the kind thing to do, then?
He doesn't end the relationship for John. He gives John a choice.
(Pain, emotional distress – John has had enough of that; is he really helping? Yes. Yes?)
John finds the note in his white coat – breast pocket – and, at first, doesn't know which reaction is appropriate. On one hand, Mycroft promised he would stop, so another note – breaking of said promise – must mean something big has happened. On the other hand, John isn't sure he wants to get dragged into this again. A year and a half without notes, no matter how difficult it has been in the beginning, has proven a rather stabilising time in John's life. Things are still not good, they can't be (they will never be – no, don't think like that), but he is making the most of what he has. He has a job which pays the bills (one that used to provide him with some pleasure, once, before), he has several friends who keep him company when needed, and a girlfriend who could soon become more. Things are working out. Boring, dull, ordinary. No. Not boring, not dull – life, moving on. That's what he is doing now.
So, the note is a disruption of this routine he managed to settle himself into. A disruption, but not a completely unwelcomed one, though John tries very hard not to admit to this. After agonising over the possible options, he decides to leave it be for a while. The time on the note places whatever is supposed to happen at 4 pm tomorrow, so he has time to decide about what he wants to do. He was supposed to be working then, but Sarah has suddenly given him an afternoon off tomorrow, saying there is a new doctor in for training who would be taking the shift, just for the day. It's a week full of unexpected happenings, it would seem.
John keeps the note, delaying his decision.
The ring he bought a few days prior sits heavy in his jacket as he makes it to the place denoted in the latest message. They are scheduled to meet later tonight and he is already planning on how to ask her, so he hopes whatever it is that awaits him now, won't take up too much of his time. When he arrives and catches her with another man, the ring seems like a mockery, a chirping irony singing its nasty tune into his ear. It sits even heavier as he makes his way back. When he decided to see where the note would take him, he was prepared for criminal masterminds and threats to national security. He would prefer those.
He returns the ring and gets the money back. He is about to call Mycroft – even though whether it is to thank him or to curse him, he hasn't really decided yet – when it dawns on him. Why would Mycroft interfere like this, especially after promising to stop? Why now, why this? Mycroft only ever intruded John's life when it was in relation to Sherlock, and later, with the notes, it was never this personal, the messages pertaining mostly to lying patients and such things. That leaves only one conclusion.
This wasn't Mycroft. So, who was it then? And what about all the other times?
As John startles into action, a pen and some paper seem like two most elusive things on the planet.
John chooses the place of the first and the last message as the designated venue for his note. It is the phone box, only this time the process is reversed. As he smoothes two centimetres of tape over the perforated pattern of the receiver, with a raggedly torn piece of an old bank notice attached to the other end, he feels a strange mixture of anticipation and trepidation. There are only two things that could come as result of this. He doesn't know which option scares him more – that it won't work, or that it will.
During their entire one-sided correspondence, Sherlock never expects a reply.
Still, he instructs his street-inhabiting lackeys to periodically check the places usually reserved for leaving covert cellulose touches of Sherlock in John's life. It isn't hope that prompts him to do so, no, nothing so irrational. It's simply precaution, designed to cover all bases. His thinking is proven ever so far-sighted (of course it has) when John leaves a note in the red phone box, the initial ground for their communication (for lack of a better word). As the girl, whose patrol perimeter includes the phone box, hands him the note, Sherlock tries to anticipate what it will say. The simple question he finds on it is one he doesn't quite know how to answer.
Who are you?
Who is he? Sherlock Holmes, Consulting detective, the only one in the world. Sherlock Holmes, ex-tenant of 221B, Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes, a dead man walking. Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's colleague, patient, and, currently (always), his watch-guard. There are other things he is, things he wishes he was, but they are not suitable for this purpose, so he shuns them.
Of all the things, he writes the one he knows to be true.
Who are you?
A friend.
A friend.
The answer awaits John the next day, stuck to the grimy receiver. This time he doesn't wait for the phone to ring, entering the phone box before work, lifting the black plastic and ripping off the note.
As he stares at the two words, written in the same typeface as all the others, John Watson is forced to re-examine his concepts of possible and impossible. A hope he banished after that mute phone call more than two and a half years ago, when he decided to put a stop to Mycroft's (no, not Mycroft's – he knows that now) meddling, comes rushing back. It comes in like the tide, splashing against him. Hope splashes at John like the sea. Stormy, salty sea.
A friend.
John has many friends, and yet, he instantly knows none of them are behind this note. He has many friends, and yet, when he reads those two words, there is only one person of whom he thinks.
Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.
John knows what impossible means in terms of ordinary people. He realises that he was going about this whole thing in a completely wrong way. Of course he must rule out the impossible, but his thought process was flawed right at the start, because he defined impossible in terms of ordinary people. And then he applied that impossible to Sherlock Holmes.
Idiot.
Hope (fresh, old but new, revived – resurrected) is like the sea. Stormy, salty sea. John wishes he could drown in it.
London –lead: Madrid– go to Madrid (new leads, final steps to ending this) – lead: London
London (Sebastian Moran, sniper for John – dead; bruises, lacerations: his - irrelevant) – lead: no more leads. Home. John.
Three years after being banished from his life, Sherlock Holmes walks back into it. There is no dramatic entrance; none of his usual theatrics are employed to announce his return. It's 9:32 in the evening when he knocks on the door of 221B. When the door opens, with John on the other side, Sherlock feels those three years everywhere around him. He is ancient and ageless at the same time. He is exhausted. (Mind over body; it's all just transport – no giving in to transport's wishes; wishing... It's over now, can he wish for things now?)
"Took you long enough." John's eyes are soft and his remark carries no bite. (Took you long enough – welcome home.)
Sherlock follows his (doctor, colleague, confidant, counterpart, soul mate, John) friend up the 17 stairs, that have so long missed his steps. He expects several reactions, seeing as he has accounted for several scenarios while planning his revival. None of them is what greets him as he settles himself on the sofa, beneath the screamingly yellow smiley face on the wall. He expects demands of explanations or lectures about grief and sentiment. He hopes for each of those to end with John saying he understands Sherlock's actions, but he prepares for the opposite of it, just in case. He has an answer prepared for each of the options. He is still in his state of vigilance, still protecting John – from harm, from pain, from himself. (Pain, emotional distress – John has had enough of that; Sherlock has had enough, too)
However, it appears his efforts aren't needed.
Instead of reacting in any of the ways Sherlock expects him to, John hands him a box. In it, there are all the notes Sherlock has ever left him. Sherlock knows the exact number by heart. He knows where each was left, on what date, and why. He skims through them, aware that John's eyes are trained steadily on him.
One is missing. The one that gave him the most trouble, the most difficult answer he has ever provided. (Who are you?) A friend. He leafs through the notes once again, but the missing piece is nowhere to be found. Is it lost? He is about to ask John about it, raising his gaze from the contents of the box, when John extends his hand, offering Sherlock its contents. On John's palm, a piece of paper with black print contrasting strongly against the now-yellowed white perches like a return ticket to his old life. A friend. But it isn't the same note. Oh, surely, it's the one Sherlock left, but altered, amended. It no longer contains just two words, but seven (seven is significant, symbolic). There is a hand-written (handwriting – revealing, familiar: John) scribble underneath the print.
A friend. (in print)
(handwritten) More. So much more, Sherlock. (wishes granted in letters)
Maybe wishing isn't such a barren sport, after all. Sherlock looks up.
"When did you work it out?"
"I started having my suspicions when that note about...well, the note that saved me quite a lot of embarrassment and wedding-planning, appeared. At first I thought Mycroft simply couldn't help himself, but then I realised Mycroft wouldn't ..." He trails off, knowing Sherlock already knows what he is about to explain. He looks at the man in front of him, his quiet sentinel of these past three years.
"You answer to my note was the final confirmation."
Sherlock nods, acknowledging John's statement, but offers no further explanation. He is so tired. He knows he will have to explain, but not tonight. The room is full of questions, ones requiring spoken answers, as opposed to written ones. It smells of three-year-old paper, and ink, and dust. There is no closure, the dust is still swirling and nothing is settled. Both men are aware of this fact, but tonight is a hiatus, a respite between exile and reclamation of a life that was put on hold.
Sherlock is tired, so tired, from standing vigil for the last three years. He hasn't slept in three years – not properly, anyway. He feels the way the room smells – like old paper, smudged with ink (red, turning brown), and dust. So, for that reason (as well as many other ones), tonight they let the dust swirl with question marks. Sherlock's watch finally draws to its end - it's John's turn now. He settles himself on the sofa, next to Sherlock, taking the box from the detective's hands and placing on the floor. Sherlock is still gripping the note John handed him, when John voices Sherlock's greatest wish at the moment (he can now, wishes are ok now).
"Sleep, Sherlock."
He never wanted to sleep as much as he does now. Sleep was always a waste of time, but now he craves it. He is so tired. As he leans his head back on the headrest (he feels as if he would dissipate into dust grains if he tried to get himself to bed), Sherlock senses John's hand fall just next to his. John doesn't take his hand, but instead takes hold of the note Sherlock is still pinching between his fingers. They both hold on to it, the words "A friend." and "More. So much more, Sherlock" nestled between them.
Sherlock rolls his head and faces John, only to find the other man already looking at him. There is no trace of sleepiness in John's eyes.
"Sleep, Sherlock" John says again, and Sherlock complies, knowing that tonight it's (finally) his turn to be watched over.
Three years after he falls off a rooftop, Sherlock Holmes falls asleep. He dreams.
It is the six-year anniversary of their first meeting, and he is standing in the lab in st. Bart's. He is alone – that is, if you don't count six reflections that keep him company. Six full-length mirrors arranged in an incomplete heptagon, so that one side is missing – the side behind Sherlock's back, are reflecting Sherlock back at him. He looks at one of his reflections, and then another, and then the next, working his way clockwise, until he has seen all of them. He knows who they are, and they know him. One even laughs at him, (or maybe with him). Other than that, they are quiet.
Happiness has Sherlock's eyes. Courage has Sherlock's hands. Atonement has Sherlock's voice (his laughter). Tranquillity has Sherlock's mouth. Hope has the contours Sherlock's face. Relief has Sherlock's wrinkles – his laugher lines.
Six. One is missing. This time Sherlock instantly knows where to look.
As he turns around, he knows what to expect. He wills his body to turn faster as he faces the empty space left by the missing mirror. Sherlock isn't alone any more (maybe he never really was). There is a second figure standing in the opening between two reflective panels.
Love has John's eyes, John's hands, and John's voice. It has John's mouth, contours of John's face, and John's wrinkles – his laughter lines.
Hello, John. Hello, Love.
Have I lost you among all the parentheses? :)
A bit of trivia: I arrived to the number on the hit counter (3891) by adding the year 1881 – year SH and JW meet in in the Study in Scarlett - and 2010 - the year of their first meeting in Study in Pink. Also, if it remanied unclear, 2901 stands for 29.01., the date of John's and Sherlock's first meeting in st. Bart's.
Thanks for reading! :)