Remember Me Fondly

Sherlock Holmes was a master of deduction. No, he was the master of deduction. With a single look he could tell almost everything there was to know about a person. With one glance he could identify and interpret every clue present at a crime scene. Nobody else saw what he did. Nobody else could understand what he could. None was his equal.

Some individuals were, perhaps, more challenging for Sherlock to read than others, but no one had the skill to read him. Oh, they tried, but their guesses were weak and their presumptions were groundless. They thought they knew him, but really they had no hope of comprehending the vast and deep complexities of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Or so Sherlock thought. Until a man named Jim Moriarty came along and turned his world on its head.

Moriarty could read him.

Worse, Moriarty understood him – better, even, than Sherlock understood himself. Which gave him the advantage. He knew exactly how to play the game; how to control the playing field, how to manipulate the game pieces, how to set Sherlock up for the fall.

He knew that Sherlock had a weakness, and he knew what it was. He knew who it was.

Sherlock himself had not known, had not made the conscious realisation, until that night at the swimming pool. Until John Watson walked stiltedly out into the open wearing a thick winter coat that did not belong to him, was far from his usual style and looked bulkier than it should, with new scuff marks on his shoes indicative of a struggle, speaking in the deliberately stiff, halting manner of a military man under duress.

Sherlock knew what had happened immediately. He knew what was going on. He knew what lay beneath that ridiculous coat, and he knew who was using John's voice. But at the same time he was completely at a loss, his mind unable to compute, to understand… to cope. He couldn't cope.

Because John – John – had a bomb strapped to his chest and a sniper rifle trained on him. Because John was the fifth pawn, the fifth victim, in Moriarty's twisted game. Because John was in danger. At any moment Moriarty could end his life on a whim, and then John would be gone. Dead.

This was real. This was all too horribly real. And Sherlock didn't know why.

Why was his breathing quick and shallow? Why was his mouth dry? Why was his skin clammy? Why was his pulse racing? Why couldn't he think clearly? Why wasn't he enjoying the game, relishing in the challenge, embracing this chance to test his wits against a worthy opponent, thrilled that he was not bored for once, excited, energised to have been caught by surprise? Why did his symptoms suggest that he was panicking?

Why was he terrified?

Sherlock didn't know, and that in itself was something that was never supposed to happen. But he could tell that Moriarty knew. Sherlock hated it. He felt deeply… unsettled to be read so easily and played so well. To be afraid for the first time in a long time, and to not know why.

Yet another thing happened that he struggled to comprehend.

John offered to die for him, so that Sherlock might escape. The elevation in his panic was so sudden and intense that Sherlock was rendered frozen to the spot, unable to move or speak or run, or do anything but stare at John in shock.

It wasn't until after Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of him, when he claimed not to have one and Moriarty smugly replied with "We both know that's not quite true" that Sherlock realised.

He looked at John, and he realised.

Sherlock had made 'that' mistake. The man who was always cold, aloof, alienating, the man who remained detached and unemotional, the man who had built walls around his heart so long ago he wasn't even aware that it was there most of the time and had no idea how to use it, the man who did not have friends…. He had made the mistake of caring.

He cared about John Watson.

The realisation was like a sucker punch to his gut – painful, shocking. It knocked the wind out of him and threw him wildly off balance. It sent his mind into a chaotic whirlwind of confusion and panic and horror and fear.

There shouldn't be anything wrong with caring about John. John was steady and stalwart and stubborn and brave. He listened and was patient and put up with having body parts in their fridge while making sure there was always something edible in there too. He ensured that Sherlock ate and slept and stayed off the drugs and didn't go mad with boredom between cases. He had morals and was good with handling perplexingly normal people and stuck by Sherlock through everything.

John had made it clear time and again that Sherlock had his loyalty and his friendship. Hell, he had just offered to die for him. John cared.

Sherlock knew that it hurt and upset John to think that he didn't care and that these strange newfound emotions would make John happy and perhaps not so disappointed with him anymore.

But caring was not good. Caring was bad. Caring was dangerous.

Because Moriarty somehow knew that Sherlock cared – had known before even he himself knew – and he would not hesitate to use that knowledge against him. To break him. To 'burn the heart out of him'.

That was why John had been taken. That was why John was standing there wearing a vest laden with explosives.

John was Sherlock's weakness, and Moriarty was revelling in it. He was laughing at them. Sherlock Holmes, brought low and humbled by the friendship with John Watson that he had fallen into without his own knowledge or consent.

John was going to pay the price.

Sherlock could see it in Moriarty's eyes; he was going to make John suffer, and he was going to force Sherlock to watch him die.

Not yet, though. Of course not. What would be the fun in ending the game so quickly? Moriarty had already illustrated the ease with which he could bring John to harm. Now he could leave Sherlock to sweat, stewing in his fear for a – a friend. The danger would always be there, lurking in every shadow and around every corner. Moriarty would strike when he least expected it, and when the time came Sherlock would be helpless.

In the end, Moriarty walked away twice. The first rush of heady relief had rendered Sherlock practically nonsensical, the caring – caring – too strong, too much, impossible to restrain or to hide. John managed to calm him, though he would have been well within his rights to faint or freak out instead considering he had just been stripped of a bomb vest.

Sherlock had been steadier upon Moriarty's return, glad at least to have John behind him – further away from both the psychopath and the bomb – though logic tried to point out he was not much safer there. It was an anticlimax when Moriarty walked away for the second time; Sherlock had steeled himself to die taking his enemy out with him.

Events didn't really hit Sherlock again properly until they were home at 221B Baker Street.

John wearily trudged up the stairs, his legs trembling slightly. He made straight for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder "Do you want a cuppa?" Before Sherlock had the chance to reply, John had continued, "I'm making us tea. A good, strong, pot of tea. Should do the trick…" He started puttering around, fishing out the teapot and pulling the tea leaves out from behind the jar of fingernails. "A hot bath wouldn't hurt either," he muttered to himself as he put the kettle on to boil. "And a nice long sleep in… until next Tuesday. Maybe I should visit my therapist, too, just to say hi…"

It took until the tea was ready and poured for John to realise that Sherlock stood motionless in the doorway, watching him.

"Um, did you want something?" John asked, shifting awkwardly under the intense gaze of his flatmate. "A couple of biscuits to go with the tea? I was just thinking I might fancy some myself…"

Sherlock continued to stare at him until John pressed the mug into his hand and his fingers curled around it automatically. He glanced down at the liquid, calculating the ratio of tea leaves to water to milk and determining that John had prepared it perfectly. But he didn't take a sip, eyes flicking up to John's face again and remaining there.

"I'm going to go sit down," John said slowly, frowning a little and then edging past him into the living room. Sherlock followed, keeping him within eyesight, but while John sank into his armchair Sherlock did not do likewise.

John first offered a small smile, before returning his attention to his drink. When a cursory glance up a few minutes later revealed that Sherlock still stood there looking at him, John offered a sort of puzzled, questioning expression that received no response. He tried frowning next, then just sighed a little in resignation and tried to ignore him.

Sherlock expected that John would just attribute this latest, strange behaviour as a new outworking of his eccentricity and summarily dismiss it.

So he was startled when, an hour or so later, John spoke. "I am not going to vanish, you know."

"What?"

"I am not going to vanish if you stop looking at me," John repeated. "That's what you're worried about, isn't it?"

"I'm not worried," Sherlock denied, unnerved by this second occurrence in a single day of someone managing to read him successfully.

"'Course not," John said, though the knowing look in his eyes suggested that the lie had not been believed. "But you know that Moriarty is out there, somewhere, and you also know he isn't done with us yet. So you want to keep an eye on me. I'm touched, Sherlock."

"I'm not – that isn't what I'm doing."

John raised his eyebrows. "No? Then what are you doing?"

Ah. "Observing you for… scientific purposes."

"Post-Traumatic Stress has been thoroughly researched, and I am quite familiar with it, both professionally and personally. I doubt you will learn anything particularly illuminating. However, the effect that this ordeal is having on you is interesting."

"Me?" Sherlock scoffed. "I'm fine. My life is threatened on a regular basis; I am quite unconcerned by this repeat of the familiar."

John nodded. "Yes, I know you were not afraid for yourself. You are always reckless with your own safety, and find being in danger more thrilling than anything else. But today was different."

"No."

"You're not used to the bad guy threatening someone you care for."

Sherlock stiffened. "I don't care," he said flatly. "You found that out earlier, remember?"

"You struggle to empathise with people you have never met before, or to feel emotion about the death of someone who is not part of your life and whose absence you therefore would not notice. But I was wrong to be angry with you earlier; you're not heartless. You just save your affection for people like Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and-"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock exclaimed, about to launch into an adamant protest.

"-and me," John concluded.

Sherlock gaped at him.

"Is this the part where you deny it?" John asked. He shrugged. "You can if you want. I don't need to hear you say it to know that it is true. Actions speak louder, and all that."

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. He was at a loss for words.

People were not supposed to be able to read him like this. John wasn't even a man of above-average intelligence (doctors and astrophysicists were average, to Sherlock, and the rest of humanity were just exceptionally dim), but apparently at the moment Sherlock might as well have been a textbook plucked from a shelf and free for perusal by anyone.

"I'm your friend, Sherlock. And I've been living with you for a while. It'd be strange if I did not understand you at least a bit by now."

"Stop doing that!" Sherlock cried. "Only I can do that!"

John had the nerve to smirk at him. "Actually you're pretty rubbish at reading thoughts and emotions. Ink splatters, smudges of dirt, clothing stains, ties and thumbs are more your forte."

"They make much more sense," Sherlock muttered.

"To you. That's why you are feeling so out of sorts at the moment. You just went through a very emotional ordeal."

"I was not emotional," Sherlock retorted.

"Fine," John relented abruptly. "Can I tell you a story?"

Thrown by the change in topic, Sherlock simply nodded.

"My first week of deployment in Afghanistan," John said, and Sherlock was startled because John almost never spoke about the war, "I met a man called Graeme Morrison. We hit it off straight away. In between performing surgery on wounded soldiers and defending the compound, we discovered that we had loads in common, from having the same sense of humour to our similar backgrounds. He became the best friend I had ever had in a very short period of time."

"Why are you telling me this?"

John ignored him. "Three months and ten days after my arrival, our makeshift hospital was pinned down by snipers. The young lad who had been on sentry duty was badly wounded, screaming for help. Grae and I went to get him."

This time Sherlock did not interrupt, though he was struck anew by the remarkable courage of his companion and the fact that John clearly did not see that his actions had been heroic.

"I carried the boy while Grae provided cover fire… I guess they considered him more of a threat, because they let me make it back but-" he sucked in a sharp, pained breath, "-they killed Grae." His eyes were haunted, far away. "It was a clean shot. Bullet went straight through his heart – he was dead before he hit the ground."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly.

John looked at him and quirked a small, sad smile, perhaps surprised that Sherlock had not needed prompting to know what he was supposed to say.

"Yeah, I was too. Losing Grae hurt… rather a lot. So I decided that making friends in the army was a stupid idea."

Sherlock agreed. What was the point in getting emotionally attached to people who could be dead before the next sunrise?

"But an older soldier on his last tour of duty noticed that I was distancing myself from everyone, and he gave me a piece of advice that I will never forget." John's serious gaze pinned Sherlock to the spot. "People die. You never know how much time you have with them, so make the most of it. When they are gone, remember them fondly, and when you are gone, may others do the same."

Sherlock waited a few moments. "That's it?"

"You don't like the idea of me dying," John explained. "I don't fancy it much myself, but then, I never imagined myself dying old and grey either. I joined the army knowing the risks, and I hang around you knowing the risks."

"You could leave," Sherlock suggested, wondering why he had not thought of this solution earlier. "Move somewhere far away from me and never have any more contact. Moriarty would have no reason to come after you, then."

John shook his head. "You don't get it. I would rather have died tonight knowing that we were friends who had shared in many spectacular adventures, than to live having never known you at all."

Sherlock frowned. "But being my friend is dangerous."

John smiled. "You made sure I knew that from the beginning. But I am still here, and despite what happened tonight, I am not going anywhere."

Sherlock felt a strange sort of warmth in his chest, and was not sure what it meant. He thought he might be glad that he wasn't going to lose John's companionship after all. He would have missed him.

"If eventually my luck runs out," John went on, "and I end up dying for you, please don't… whinge about it. Just remember me fondly. Can you promise me that?"

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. He imagined that John would indeed risk his life to save him, as he had tonight, as he had done many times in the past. The worry and unease returned; John was the only friend he had, and the thought of his death was greatly distressing.

But then he thought that perhaps it could work both ways. John was a strong man who had been through much in his life and had proven that he could cope with a lot. Maybe Sherlock would have the opportunity to save his life instead. If the chance arose, he resolved to take it, even if it meant he would die in John's place. It was the sort of thing a friend should do.

And at least now Sherlock had a friend, who could remember him fondly.

"Alright," he said. "I promise."

ooOOoo

"Okay, let me give you a little more incentive," Moriarty said. They stood on the roof top of a tall building. Sherlock's reputation had been slashed to pieces, and Moriarty wanted this dramatic act to be the finale in his story.

He wanted Sherlock to die. But he was not just going to push him, oh no, that was too crass and it would mean getting his hands dirty. It lacked poetry.

No, he wanted Sherlock to jump.

But why should he? He did not care what the press, the public, or even what the police thought of him. He did not care about his reputation. John did not doubt him, and would never doubt him, and that was enough for Sherlock.

"Your friends will die if you don't," Moriarty said.

Sherlock's world slammed to a halt.

No.

The mind that usually danced and whirled with a thousand different thoughts and facts and connections and theories froze, narrowing his focus to one name.

"John," he gasped.

And Sherlock realised this was it. This was the moment. He had known it was coming ever since the incident at the swimming pool. Moriarty knew his weakness, and now it would be the death of him.

It was John's life, or Sherlock's.

Of course, of course a selfish part of him wanted to live. It made excuses, claiming that the world couldn't afford to lose his brilliant mind and that lives depended on his clever deductions, that the life of an ex-Army Doctor was not equal to his own.

But John was his friend. This was the sort of thing a friend should do.

And Sherlock was willing.

He looked for an escape, for a way out, a means by which all of their lives could be saved. But once Moriarty was dead, there was no other option.

John's life, or Sherlock's.

Sherlock stepped up to the edge.

Remember me fondly, dear friend.

"Goodbye, John."

ooOOoo

The End