Something I Need
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. Credit is given to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC Sherlock TV series.
Chapter 1
"Everybody dies at some point, John." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the chair, looking at his best friend. He scrunched his eyebrows together. "If you need anything, I'm here for you," he told John, but the words seemed useless. His friend was in a daze. "We'll figure out who did this."
"Don't you see?" John said suddenly, almost jumping up from his chair. "I don't care who did it. My wife is now dead because of the case." He raised his voice. "I don't think you understand at all." He trailed off and closed his eyes, letting his head lean back against his chair. John exhaled, and then sat back up. I already went through this once, his expression seemed to say. She was mine for three years, but of course it was too good to be true. His eyes slowly filled with tears, and John shook his head.
Signs of panic showed on Sherlock's face. John had only seen it happen once before, beside the fire during their Baskerville case.
"What?" John asked, his voice nearly cracking.
"Don't cry" he rushed. "Please don't cry. It usually means I've made a mistake." John's face softened. "And I hate seeing you this way."
John's tongue pushed the inside of his cheek like it did when he was thinking. "It's not your fault, Sherlock." With a shaking hand, John brought his cup up to his mouth and took a drink of water. "But I've been through so much in the past few years. You don't know what it's like to lose someone so close to you." Even when you know you shouldn't get close to them, he filled in in his mind. Because Sherlock didn't understand. John, who had went along believing his best friend was dead for two years, was now widowed. If Sherlock tried to sympathize, he wouldn't get very far.
"You know what?" John said, standing up slowly, gripping the chair for support. "Mrs. Hudson needs a break. She's been wonderful, but she deserves a rest, too."
When John left the room and went downstairs to check on his daughter, Sherlock's shoulders fell. Did John think Mary was going to come back? Sherlock knew Mary was smart, but not clever enough to perform her own fake-suicide. Not dumb enough to. It would only tear John apart, and from what he learned, that was far from her goal in life. Sherlock's heart sunk, knowing all too well that John believed it to be true. His Mary couldn't be dead. She would return, like a hero, in two years' time.
That was Sherlock's biggest worry. That John would go on believing Mary would come back. Hope was a dangerous thing, and caring was not an advantage.
He didn't have time to dwell on Mary because his phone rang. The caller: Ella Thompson. John's therapist. What reason did she have to call? His mouth opened to call for John down the stairs, but then thought better of it. It would be about his situation.
"Hello?"
"Sherlock?" she asked. Her voice was soft. "How is everything? I heard about Mary…" Sherlock had never spoken to John's therapist before. He could be snarky, rude, but it would just unsettle her more. She probably wasn't used to talking to sociopaths. Her voice was cautious, though. Worried? Disconcerted? She'd be calling about John.
"John gave me your number for an emergency contact a while ago."
"I know," he said. "Er, yes, thank you. I figured."
"I saw the article online about Mary. I talked with him after your death. Fake suicide."
Get to the point.
"He wasn't put in a good place after last time."
"How do you mean?" he asked her. The noises from the hallway indicated John was coming back up with Lizbeth. Sherlock sprung up and closed the door in his face. "Just a moment John." An audible sigh was heard from the other side of the door. "Go on."
Ella continued. "All I'm saying is keep a close eye after him. Often times, returned soldiers get depression, eating disorders, or develop self-destructive behaviors." Sherlock didn't have time to ask about specifics. He understood. And John was on the other side of the door, waiting to come inside the flat. "Goodbye, Sherlock. Let John know he's always welcome back if he needs to talk." And Ella hung up.
Sherlock pressed his thin lips into a straight line and whirled around. He pocketed his phone and opened the door, trying to look cheery.
"Good to see you, John. Elizabeth." A fake smile. He was right, Sherlock didn't understand. But perhaps it would be contagious. "John, say, how would you like to come back and live at 221B?"