He didn't believe it.
Even when Lestrade insisted, cried out his name in disappointment, put a shock blanket over Sherlock's shoulders…
Sherlock simply refused to believe a word coming from the DI's mouth.
Instead he insisted, he cried out Lestrade's name in spite, he threw the shock blanket to the mud covered ground.
The DI sighed and ran his fingers threw his hair, obviously out of his depth. From his shifting eyes, his sigh and his posture it was obvious he didn't want to be the one to be talking with Sherlock about this whole situation.
"Look, why don't you save your breath. I'm not believing this absurd joke, so you may stop it now. Right now. You're not fooling me." Sherlock said confidently with a roll of his eyes.
"Sher—Sherl—" Lestrade tried to begin, but his voice seemed to give up on him when he needed it the most.
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. This was new. He's never seen Detective Investigator Greg Lestrade ever falter. It came with the job description that you simply couldn't. So, why…?
The first thought that came to his mind that maybe he was losing it slightly was because it was all real; that meant it was a real emotion reaction Lestrade was happening, which meant—
No. I will not go there. The moment I do, most likely it shall trigger terrible…sentiment in me and then they'll win.
"Detective…I'll give him proof if you like. You can go back to handling everything here."
Sherlock and Lestrade looked up and there was Sally Donovan, looking at them both with pity in her eyes.
Wow…they've even got Sally helping with this terrible trick? No surprise there; I'm sure her and her lover are dying for an action that they will gossip about and mock me for for the rest of time. I will not fall for it.
But curiosity ruled his mind and he asked, "What proof?"
"Uttermost proof. Undeniable." She said. It seemed that she desperately wanted to be oh so smug about having one up on Sherlock Holmes…but she couldn't bring herself to it. Pity was clouding her mind.
Oh so sickening…pity. A detestable emotion…well, it isn't when Sally is feeling it. I'll actually have one up on her.
"Sure…Bring me this proof, quickly, so I may debunk your joke."
Sally just sighed and indicated for him to follow her. Normally he'd outright refuse and mock her (Are you and Anderson having a domestic?)…but again his curiosity was way too much for him and he followed her.
~~~~::~~~~
The car ride was awkward to say the least, but thankfully the ride to Scotland Yard wasn't very long. The moment they got there he instantly trekked up the many stairs and pressed the elevator button, in his desperate attempt to get away from Sally.
Unfortunately though soon he found out this "evidence" she had was in her possession…therefore before he could break into her office she was already there unlocking the door.
"You're not a patient man are you?" She asked as they entered the office together.
"It is not that I'm impatient; it is that I desperately want to be finished with this whole joke and find John." Sherlock muttered, his hand outreached, waiting for the so-called evidence.
She just looked at him for a moment sadly (do I detect pity again?) before reaching over and grabbing a clear plastic bag from the drawer nearest to her.
Wait, not just one plastic bag; several.
"This is the gun," she began, laying out one of the bags in his palm,
A revolver. From the late 80's, early 90's. The last person to use it; male, late 30's, short blonde hair according to the loose piece attached.
"The bullets that went into—" she started but Sherlock just grabbed the bullets before she could finish,
Obviously this bullet belongs to the gun. A quick check proves so. Besides, Sally isn't as dense as to let me debunk this joke in such an obvious matter. One or two is coated in blood. Need to test further to prove whose blood it is.
"And finally the clothes he wore." She finished, taking out the largest bag of them all. Inside were obviously dark brown pants, black socks and an oatmeal jumper.
These…well this is interesting. He thought curiously, grabbing the bag from her and opening it, ignoring her cries for him to stop.
It seems from the fabric (wool) and color (beige—more rightly, oatmeal) of this sweater, this is John's favorite. To make sure—
He sniffed the sweater lightly, making Sally frown.
Ahh yes, tea, oatmeal and cinnamon. More correctly, John's favorite tea, the breakfast John ate this morning and the spice he put it to make it taste better. But…why would John give up his favorite sweater? All for a joke? He's very sentimental towards this sweater (it was his father's when he was John's age; given to John by his mother). So he would never give it up like this. Not to do something so utterly cruel to me. So, why…?
"If you have not noticed already, there is blood on the trousers and the jumper." Sally pointed out quietly, staring sadly at the clothes in Sherlock's hands.
Instantly intrigued, he looked closer at the jumper…and there it was. She was right.
Blood coated the lower half of the jumper that he wasn't holding. When he looked back down at the bag, he saw indeed that also the trousers were coated in them.
Blood leaked quickly and coated the trousers before the victim could fall to the ground in agony—He deduced quickly in his detached way…before remembering.
These are John's jumper and trousers.
For the splitest of a second, he was—dare he say—concerned. After all, his mind was immediately assuming at the moment that because he was holding John's bloody clothes in his hands, John must be hurt.
Then he remembered.
This was all a joke. Most likely this was ketchup—
Nope. They want this to be as convincing as possible. It's probably some blood from the hospital. John could've gotten that easily enough…but to waste precious blood that could be used to save a life to play a sick joke is not like John at all. Maybe he was offered a generous amount of money?
"You can get a sample and bring it to the lab if you like. But you'll get the same results as we did; this is John Watson's blood."
Ahh, that would explain why John does not mind using real blood. Because it's his, so nothing wasted and it's even more convincing. Stupid. Stupid Sherlock. Clever of John though.
"I do wish to do that; just to confirm." Sherlock said snidely, obviously just to spite her.
Meanwhile Sally just narrowed her eyes but indicated for him to go ahead. He quickly took the excuse and left the room, not caring that Sally quickly followed behind.
~~~~::~~~~
"Molly!" Sherlock cried as he entered the mortuary, Sally following breathlessly behind him.
Molly meanwhile startled when she heard her name and looked away from the body on the table—
Female. Age 36. One child, no husband. Divorced. A redheaded sister and mother. Her natural hair color is red but she has dyed it brown to prove subconsciously that she is not her mother. She detests her mother and doesn't let her daughter see her grandmother. Misses her husband, has a string of lovers to make up for him. She is a journalist if the notes on her hands, her impeccable make up and the hidden bags under her eyes are any indication. Or the bags could be because of waking up with a 2 year old with nightmares every other night.
"Sherlock! W-What's going on? Are-are-aren't you sup-p-posed to be um, m-mour—" Molly stuttered, turning away from the body in front of her.
"I need use of the lab." He interrupted, his eyebrows narrowing.
Molly? Of all of the people I know, they have gotten her on it too? I don't understand…she's so sentimental, like John. Why on earth would she get in on this?
"Why?" she questioned, a frown appearing on her face as well.
"I need to prove this joke wrong. As quickly as possible." Sherlock announced.
He didn't miss the look Molly gave Sally; absolutely confused and conflicted. Sally gave an answering shrug and turned away from them both.
"What joke?" Molly asked, covering up the single mother before turning back to Sherlock.
"That John's de—not okay." He answered with a roll of his eyes.
Molly seemed to panic slightly before doing a slight gulp and whispered, "You don't have to do that."
"What? Why ever not?"
"I have a body."
The room seemed to freeze. Sherlock stared at Molly, trying to find a hint of deception in her. Molly stared back, tears in her eyes.
"Fine then. If you insist." Sherlock said stiffly, trying to ignore the way Molly was looking at him. Honestly, with pity and a hint of sorrow.
"Come with me. You…"
"Sally."
"Sally, you can go. Or stay. Anyway it's fine." Molly smiled shyly.
"I'll stay…so I can drive him home after." Sally said with a nod of resolution.
"I'm right here you know." Sherlock commented, rolling his eyes.
"Whatever Fr—Holmes."
Molly nodded once before indicating for Sherlock to follow her. He did so obediently…a feeling of dread settling in his stomach.
~~~~::~~~~
"He-he was sent here an hour or two ago. Couldn't bring myself t-to work on h-him right away." Molly tried to start, teary-eyed.
"No need for idle chit chat Molly. Let me see this body." Was all he said, sounding very detached.
"Al-al-alright."
She opened the door to the mortuary and he saw her body was shaking slightly as she walked over to one of the body drawers.
She's obviously dreading this. This can have many implications—she's dreading either telling me John's de—passed, or she's dreading telling me the truth. Am not surprised. Knew she would give in eventually. She's too sensitive for her own good.
The went up to one labeled 221—
Ironic
—and unlocked it with shaking hands.
Not letting herself think too hard over it, she quickly opened it with a loud shrieking coming from the slab.
Sherlock quickly came forward, his eyes quickly scanning the scene—
Male. 30's-40's, according to his wrinkles and body shape. Blonde hair with brown speckled in it. Pale skin. He's a couple of pounds over the healthy weight because of his recent surroundings—he's quite comfortable where he is, possibly married. Definitely has a woman in his life who feeds him sweets—obvious from his weight and the crumb of the biscuit he ate after lunch. He has been keeping himself from gaining too much weight obviously if the slight muscle in his arms and stomach is any indication. There's an old scar on his shoulder, most likely a gunshot wound. Puckered so he was recently bathed. There's a new wound as well, on his stomach and chest—actually several. Sown up bullet wounds. Obviously fatal—
Oh. This man…fits all the credentials. But that means—
Without warning, he threw a punch the man's way. Right on the jaw. If the man was alive, he would be crying in pain and holding his jaw…but he wasn't.
No.
He again through a punch, this time at his stomach. If the man were alive, he'd be doubled over in agony.
No. No no NO!
Sherlock grabbed the nearest heavy object (his riding crop ironically enough; he must've left it last week when he first began the case) and poised it in the air, ready to strike down—
"SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES!"
The voice brought him out of his reverie. He looked up and there was Molly, horror on her face.
"Sherlock you-you can't do that to him—Sherlock. You just c-can't! He was so-so nice—" Tears began streaming down her face.
Sherlock lowered his riding crop and looked away from Molly. If past experience stood correctly, this should be a private moment for her. It usually was for Jo—
Sherlock cringed and couldn't help but look down at his lover. He frowned as he just stared.
John's beautiful blue eyes that were almost always sparkling were closed tightly. His cheeks were gaunt. He looked…too pale. Too weak. Too dead.
"He—he can't—he can't do this, he can't—" Sherlock muttered distractedly, looking down at the body in front of him in dismay.
"But observe Sherlock! He has. He has!" Molly cried, her eyes begging him to accept the truth.
"But-but no Molly! Were you dropped on your head as a child? He's supposed to live until the end of me, don't you see?! He's supposed to bring me to the country when he retires so we can raise bees. He—he's supposed to be at home with me right now, asking if he can fuck me! He's supposed to be my audience, my only friend, my-my husband even! He's not supposed to—Not here, not tonight, not ever if I have any say in it. And believe me, I would." Sherlock cried back, his eyes conveying the disbelief and anger in his heart.
"Sherlock, please—!"
"No Molly! NO! He's alive damn it! He promised me he'd never leave me!" Sherlock practically shrieked, throwing the riding crop to the ground in the heat of his anger.
"Please stop!" Molly shrieked right back before sobbing even harder.
Her shriek startled poor Sherlock into silence. The quiet girl never raised her voice. Yet…here she was, obviously on her last of her rope. So he remained quiet even though his mind was still reeling.
"Sherl-Sherlock, we're all—You need to stop. You n-need to accept." Molly whispered brokenly, trembling softly.
"I can't. I won't." Sherlock said stubbornly.
"Sherlock—" Molly sobbed, coming forward and before said man knew it the petite brunette had taken him in he arms. He stood there tensely and awkwardly, trying not to think about the tears that now soaked his scarf.
He honestly had no idea what he was doing.
John would know, John knew all about these social cues—
John's not here. Might not ever be here again.
Sherlock told the voice in his head to shut up as the two heard a door open. They both looked up and Molly quickly separated herself from Sherlock.
"Really Sherlock, so soon?" Mycroft said dryly as he entered the mortuary, he nose crinkled in disgust.
"Shut up Mycroft." Sherlock spat, annoyed by his brother's presence already.
"Ms Hooper, may I speak with Sherlock? Alone?" was all his brother said in reply.
"Of-of course." She stuttered, looking intimidated by the older Holmes.
Before Sherlock could protest, just so he could spite his brother, she was gone. Most likely to wipe away her tears and inform Sally what was going on.
Brilliant…he thought sarcastically.
"What are you doing here?" Mycroft suddenly asked, going over to John—the corpse.
"I'm here to disprove this cruel joke. You were the instigator weren't you? Wouldn't be surprised." Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.
"Brother, you're normally mad, but this…this is frightening. Even John could've deduced that indeed this is a dead corpse, nonetheless his lover."
"Relax brother dear. I figured you out. Give it up."
"Sherlock, come here." Mycroft muttered under his breath, indicating for him to come forward. Despite Sherlock's better judgment, he complied.
"Look at this body. Imagine it to be another man, a random man. Look it over."
"I have."
"Tell me about him then."
Sherlock sighed and began to mutter, "Male. 30's-40's. He's a couple of pounds over the healthy weight because of his recent surroundings—he's quite comfortable where he is, possibly m—" His voice broke. Mycroft looked at him expectantly though, so he continued, "There's an old scar on his shoulder, most likely a gunshot wound. That's what obviously gave him leave of the military. Which was…a couple of years ago...There's a new wound as well. On his stomach and chest—actually, several. Sown up bullet wounds. F-fa…"
He couldn't continue. He couldn't.
Mycroft sighed pityingly and whispered with something akin to gentleness (but obviously not gentleness because putting Mycroft and gentle in the same sentence was laughable), "You've deduced enough. Don't be stupid now Sherlock…You've already figured out the truth. You just have accept it now."
"I can't Mycroft. John was clever. Cleverer then he bloody well knew. He must've devised a plan, must've tricked me. Maybe for me to do something? Admit something? Fine; he is clever. He is kind. He is smart. I care for him. I lo—"
He choked again.
"Sherlock, Sherlock…caring for that man wasn't the smartest things you have ever done." Mycroft whispered, almost under his breath. It was so low that Sherlock almost didn't hear it…but he did.
"Mycroft…you're an idiot."
The man's eyebrows rose.
"Caring is not an advantage, no…But it can be seen as being worth the heartbreak it puts you through. John explained that to me, and I think…I think I can understand that. I can understand how that blubbering idiot is fucking worth all the wounds." Sherlock whispered, looking down at John almost with disgust. As if the dead man underneath him didn't have the right to make him feel like this.
"Of all the people in world, and I chose the one who…" his voice caught for a split second before continuing, "the one who was not smart enough to leave me while he had the chance."
"I think…" Mycroft began, waiting for the seething Shut up Mycroft, but it never came. So he continued, "His genius showed through the decision of staying with you."
Sherlock scoffed, "How can that possibly be? Look where…" He didn't finish the thought.
"He would've died either way brother. He wouldn't have survived all that long without you. But by joining you…he saved his own life. And yours in the process. For that I am thankful."
Before Sherlock could suppress it, a sob broke through his throat. He brought his fist to his mouth and bit down, trying to ignore it; the urge, the need, the pain in his gut worse then any withdrawal symptom.
"It's okay brother; mourn the way you see fit."
He hated his body for betraying him but he could no longer help himself; he put his head in his hands and wept.
As he did so, as Mycroft laid a consoling hand on his shaking shoulder and as John's body deteriorated agonizingly slowly beside him, he couldn't help but think…
He believed it now.
And that didn't make the pain go away.
This was my first Sherlock story, so please review and let me know how I did! I love feedback