London is grayer than usual today: towering sheets of white fog smother the city in the kind of eerie quiet that could drive a man mad if he spent too long in the thick of it. A mug of coffee raised half-way to his lips, John watches the mist drift like a great silent whale outside the window of 221B and listens to Sherlock Holmes crunch through a dead pigeon's breastbone with a pair of gleaming dissection scissors.
"Don't leave the entrails in the sink this time," John says absently. Sherlock does not reply, but then, John hadn't expected him to. He knows without glancing over at his flat-mate that Sherlock's attention is currently riveted on the unfortunate foul pinned to the wooden cutting board in front of him (John will have to throw that out later, replace the wood slab with one that won't absorb blood). Right now there is no room in Sherlock's world for anything save that which is pertinent to the task at hand, and neither John's concern over the proper disposal of internal organs nor the fluffy down feathers drifting through the air around his workspace qualify. He tosses the shears onto the table and seizes a pair of forceps which, John notes when he finally does look at his mad-scientist-cum-roommate, click in an ironically beak-like manner as they dive into the gory cavity Sherlock has opened. With his free hand Sherlock adjusts the nearby metal desk-lamp so that its light strikes the dead bird just so.
"What's that about, then?" asks John, speaking more to himself than to Sherlock. "Avian flu?" His lips quirk, not at his own half-joke, but at how many of the white down feathers have begun to cling to Sherlock's dark curls like fuzzy, unseasonal snow-flurries. Sherlock does not as much as grunt in response; with a quiet sigh, John sets his mug on the windowsill. "…Right. I'll just be in the shower."
A small but pointed squelch issues from the cadaver. John doesn't so much as grimace; between med school, Afghanistan, and the surplus of gore he's encountered since becoming Sherlock's partner-in-crimesolving, it takes far more than the sound of a dead pigeon's innards being picked apart to truly disgust him. Not that such things don't bother John on some level—being a doctor and a veteran does not imply that he enjoys the sight of blood and guts as a general rule—but the fact remains that a lack of squeamishness is rather convenient when one lives with the world's only consulting detective. John has learned over their months of cohabitation that the more he can let go in regards to Sherlock, the better things are for them both. So instead of remaining to debate aesthetic and hygienic sensibilities with his flatmate, John heads to the bath to make good on his prior announcement.
When he returns to the sitting room an hour later, warm and content in a fresh set of clothes, Sherlock is peering into a sleek black microscope—the exact same model as those at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, John can't help but note. Exasperated, he comes close to starting in on Sherlock for nicking the piece of expensive equipment, but Sherlock snaps at him without looking up, "Don't be absurd," before John can open his mouth.
John blinks. "Sorry?"
"What I'm working on has nothing to do with avian flu, John."
"Would I regret asking what it does have to do with?"
"I don't expect so. It's a rather simple issue. Almost mundane, really, but the straightforward problems are often the most difficult to solve in spite of themselves, you see." Sherlock glances up at him for the first time then. He wears no facemask or eye-goggles, and John notices with a start that a thin line of viscous red liquid is snaking slowly from his hairline down to the impossible juts of his cheekbones, tracing his face like a tear. Blood, John realizes, and not from the dove. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice it; he just murmurs, "It's the issue of flight, John."
John starts forward. "Sherlock—" he begins, but the scenery seems to warp around him all at once, folding in on itself like a collapsing sandcastle, and suddenly John is outside St. Bart's with his mobile in hand, eyes trained on the dark figure silhouetted against the tin-colored sky. The air is bracing. It has barely begun to snow.
"I've conducted extensive research," says Sherlock's voice in his ear. "But I need more data. Stay exactly where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me."
No.
"Please, will you to do this for me? See if I manage to fly. I'm not especially hopeful… I haven't any wings, you see."
No, don't— "Sherlock!"
John's best friend plummets, coat snapping in the wind. John wakes to the sound of bone striking concrete, the shredded remains of a pillow in his hands and the tickle of feathers and tears on his face.
The facts, John thinks, are these:
Eighteen months ago, Sherlock Holmes destroyed the ennui and loneliness that had nearly managed to consume John from the inside out. Sherlock was brilliant even when he was depressed, magnetic even when he was cruel; he solved crimes that no one else could solve and, left to his own devices, he rarely accepted payment or recognition for doing so. He could be exasperating and petulant and self-centered and unfeeling. He kept severed heads in the refrigerator and eyeballs in the microwave, and he thought nothing of using deceit or manipulation in order to reach his goals. He detested the laconic and the ordinary. He did brave, amazing, impossible things in the pursuit of truth. He claimed that there were no such things as heroes, but observing him, John knew better. He was John's best friend, and John will always believe in him.
He's not alive anymore, but John is.
People think he lied, but he didn't.
The world isn't fair, but then, it never claimed to be.
Opening up to Dr. Thompson is no easier now than it was following his invalidation from Afghanistan, but a part of him knows that he needs to try. So he holds his head high, like he's determined, like he's whole, and he does his best to break the silence when it stretches between him and his therapist for too long.
"Ever since I moved back into Baker Street, the…the dreams," he forces out now. "The, er, nightmares. They've. They've started up again."
Dr. Thompson's expression is the picture of neutrality. "They're not about the war this time, though, are they?" she asks quietly.
John shakes his head.
"Tell me about one of them. Any of them."
A steady drizzle mists the windows of her office, blurring the trees beyond. John's tongue flicks over his lower lip..
"I've forgotten them," he tells her. Crunch goes the dove's breastbone in his mind; crunch goes the detective's neck and skull. John's eyes to flutter shut for a heartbeat. He's made the wrong choice as always, and Dr. Thompson is no fool; John knows she can tell he's lying. But she doesn't push him, and while John's not passive-aggressive enough to hate her for not forcing him to speak, he comes pretty damn close as she makes a note on her yellow pad and continues impassively:
"Are these nightmares are better or worse than when you dreamt about the war?"
The clock ticks and the rain falls. It would be so easy to lie again, he thinks longingly, but the sharp taste of rue is fresh on his tongue, reminding him that he came to her, that he's here for a reason. So.
"They're worse," he tells her. The words are like glass shards in his throat-bright, sharp, and brittle. He swallows down the taste of blood that floods his mouth, ignores the sudden heat in his chest and eyes. "They're so much worse."
Dr. Thompson nods. Her pen is still.
"Alright," she says. "Alright."
John disabled the comments section of his blog shortly after the funeral service; perhaps not surprisingly, hundreds of messages had already been posted by the time he got there. He didn't read them right away, never planned to, but late one night when the prospect of nightmares tugs him one way and the siren song of sleep tugs him the other, leaving him at a fuzzy-brained impasse, he goes through each comment carefully before deleting them all, one by one.
I bet the guy who wrote all this got paid.
omg this is all fake? I cant believe it, could have sworn it was real, i feel so sorry for that moriarty guy.
Called it! Thank god for Kitty Riley, she didn't go along with the rest of you sheep! I bet the police were involved with it all, probably even set it up! Plus he was wrong about a lot of things and I have proof, I found Richard Brook's website & took screencaps before they deleted it…
wish that cunt was still around so i could get a shot at him
What a monster. He deserved to be tortured for lying the way he did!
street pizza motherfucker
And on and on. John reads until his vision blurs and the sky outside the flat begins to lighten. Somehow he manages to get through them all without chucking his laptop at the wall or unloading a round or two into its motherboard. Consigning the last of the hateful comments to its virtual grave with a click of a button, John can't stop his mind from drifting back to when he and Sherlock had encountered Moriarty at Kitty Riley's flat, can't stop himself from remembering how that soulless megalomaniac had possessed the gall to cringe and beg and lie after he had killed and threatened countless people, after he had wrapped John in semtex and used him as bait, after he had driven Sherlock half-mad and had forced Lestrade's hand and had tried to make John doubt…
John closes his eyes and breathes very slowly. The facts, John. Stick to the facts.
John is a soldier before he's a doctor. He's sworn to alleviate pain, to protect the helpless, yet he knows many more ways to hurt someone than he does to help them. If that makes him a failure or a hypocrite, John's fine with that; if killing for the sake of those he loves makes him a monster, he's fine with that too. He can't apologize for what he's done on this or any battlefield, because he's always been a soldier first and a doctor second. And now, as Captain John Watson imagines all the ways he and Sherlock were hurt and all the ways he could have hurt the one responsible, he thinks he might be happy to go to Hell when he dies, if they'll only give him ten minutes alone with Moriarty when he gets there.
Five minutes, even, if he can bring a handgun to the reunion.
Anger fading under the pall of grief once more, John types up his final blog entry. It doesn't take him long. From there expects he'll make some tea, eat a biscuit, and attempt to pack up Sherlock's things. He has already allowed Mrs. Hudson to donate some of the chemistry supplies to a high school like she said she might, but he won't let her touch the microscope or any of the more specialized equipment yet, because in John's mind, those things are still Sherlock's. John can just picture the comical triad of fury, incomprehension, and abject shock that would sweep over Sherlock's face if John dared give away the infrared spectrometer he'd smuggled out of Bart's that previous summer. John's mouth twitches as he remembers a similar scenario that had occurred during their early days as flatmates, when he, unaware of Sherlock's "don't-ask-don't-touch" policy regarding his experiments, had binned a particularly odorous study in tissue decay rates. The consulting detective's mouth had actually dropped when he'd realized what John had done, and the sight had been enough to send John into hysterics, which certainly hadn't endeared him to Sherlock any further…
John realizes he's laughing now. Shutting his laptop, he folds his arms onto the kitchen table and buries his head in them, trying not to snicker loudly enough to wake Mrs. Hudson. His shoulders jerk, tugging old, familiar scar-tissue that barely even hurts anymore.
"Your face…!" he gasps softly. "Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, it was just-just beautiful, classic, I mean, really…"
The tears take longer to start than he thought they would, but they come all the same, and expecting them doesn't make their presence any easier to bear. It takes every ounce of John's considerable self-control not to collapse into full-on sobs the moment they spring to his eyes. Dr. Thompson claims that having a good hard cry will help him work through the grief, and as a physician John knows better than most the positive effects shedding tears can have on a body's level of stress hormones. But as a soldier and a man he can't abide it, even if choking back the cries feels like swallowing poison.
Ten minutes. It's a bitter, ugly sort of hope, but there aren't many other kinds left to him nowadays. He'll soldier on, even if he never heals.
John closes his eyes and listens for the sound of wings.