*** Author's Note***
My dear friend notjustmom and I were discussing the promo picture that was released for episode three, the one with Sherlock, John and Mycroft sitting at the table. The Holmes brothers have their focus trained on John, and John seems to be making a choice. We discussed it a LOT. And this is a result of that.
Here's to you my friends. May we all survive episode three.
"Feels like we're being called to the headmaster's office," John grumbled, keeping his voice low.
The atmosphere around them felt heavy, weighted with uncertainty. The mood had been grim for days. The long, dimly lit, intentionally shadowed corridor lent itself to John's unease. He paused a beat and leaned a little on his cane. Taking a slow, deep breath, he continued on, though a bit more slowly. Sherlock matched his pace.
With his right arm wrapped protectively around his tender midsection - the damn arm should have been in a sling, but John hadn't had the strength to engage in that particular battle of wills - Sherlock actually chuckled, then grimaced. "Have some experience?"
"Not as much as I suspect you had." Mouth quirked into a small smile, he glanced at Sherlock.
Sherlock hummed. "I was a model student."
Huffing a quiet laugh, John shook his head. "Nope. Don't believe it." It was an odd sensation, after everything, this familiarity, the bantering in hushed tones, even as they were being led through the dark labyrinth of corridors. "You were a horror. You won't convince me otherwise."
"I was a delight." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and John scoffed. "You on the other hand? Smallest in your class. Had to prove yourself. Bullies tried-"
"And failed."
"Hmm, indeed. You defended the underdog, and occasionally yourself." Sherlock looked almost proud, and John wasn't entirely certain if he was proud of younger John's fighting spirit or the fact that he'd gotten it right. Probably that he'd gotten it right. It wasn't a stretch from what he'd already known to be true.
"Well, I don't believe you didn't terrorize your teachers. You knowing all there is to know about everything." John grunted and slowly descended the stairs, leaning most of his weight on the handrail. Sherlock took a deep breath and carefully eased down them as well.
"I had to learn somewhere, John. Think."
"Lot of good it did you," John rolled his eyes. "Solar system?"
Sherlock leaned for just a moment against the wall to catch his breath, then opened his mouth to respond.
"Here we are, gentlemen," the guard knocked once on the door before them, and then pushed it open so they could enter.
"Doctor Watson. Brother." Mycroft stood from his desk. Without prelude he motioned to a side door, and led the way into the next room.
"How many offices does Mycroft have?" John mumbled. "And why is this one so... lair-like?"
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up briefly, but his features had hardened into something foreboding. He avoided making eye contact with John as he turned to close and lock the door behind them. Mycroft pulled out the chair at the head of the small conference table in the middle of the room and motioned for John to sit. He took the chair to John's left, and waited for Sherlock to sit across from him, and to John's right.
"What is this?" John eased himself onto the chair, glad to be off his leg, even as the burns and abrasions on his back and shoulders nearly brought him to tears. "Is it... did it work? The plan, was it..."
Sherlock groaned and breathed deeply as he sat, holding the edge of the table with a white knuckle grip. "It did."
"Good. That's good, yeah?" He glanced from Sherlock's stormy gaze to Mycroft's frustratingly blank expression.
The plan had been convoluted and complex. John still hadn't fully understood why most of what they'd done had to be done. He was sure there had to have been a more direct approach; but for Holmeses facing off against another Holmes. Well, nothing would ever be simple, would it? It all culminated with a bang. Literally.
Sherlock had only told John the planned finale for his own safety. He couldn't very well blow up Baker Street in good conscience, with them inside it, without a bit of advanced warning. It was really, incredibly decent of him, at least to hear Sherlock tell it. John wasn't so easily convinced. But they weren't dead, and apparently everyone who needed to be had been killed or caught. Top day's work, that. Except for the rubble heap that had once been 221b.
"It's done now, right? We've both been cleared by your doctors. The injuries aren't anything I can't manage for the both of us." John tapped his fingers on the table, and shifted slightly in his chair. The stony silence of his companions made him ill at ease. "We can go home now? I mean, not Sherlock, because, well... But I've got an extra room, if you'd want it. Unless you have... Of course. You've got that sorted already..."
"John," Sherlock's voice was so soft, John almost didn't hear him.
"Hmm?" John looked at him expectantly. Mycroft lifted a sleek black case from the chair beside him, and placed it carefully on the table. He popped it open with a click, and withdrew copies of the day's newspapers. He laid them on the table in front of John without a word.
"No." John shook his head with increasing vigor as he sifted through the sheets. "No. Not again. You... we aren't doing this again." He crushed some of the pages in his clenched left fist. "Not again," his breath hitched and he looked to Sherlock, pleading desperation in his eyes.
Sherlock clasped his hands in front of him, and stared at the space just over John's shoulder. "It's the only way."
"It's not!" John shouted. He smacked his hand on the table, causing both Holmes brothers to jump, and swiped the papers from in front of him. "This is... How could you?"
It was all there, in black and white. With full color photos. And continued on page six. Sherlock Holmes had perished in the explosion that destroyed his long time residence. His faithful companion, Doctor John Watson, condition critical, had been with him and was being treated for severe burns and trauma.
Mycroft cleared his throat. "John, what you must understand..."
"Fuck off." He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "I thought we were done with this sort of bullshit. Where are you going? For how long? Damn it, Sherlock."
"John," Sherlock still kept his voice low. "John, I need you to understand, please..."
"What, that you're leaving again?" John finally turned to Mycroft. "You. You can stop this. Fix it. That's... it's what you do. So fix it."
"This time, I'm afraid, there is no fixing it. Sherlock has used up the last bit of mercy the crown was willing to extend to him. We can use him as an asset elsewhere, but he is no longer welcome here at home. He's a liability." Mycroft had attempted his typical stoic demeanor, but John could see he was cracking under the weight of it all.
"But... When..."
"This is indefinite. Sherlock Holmes is dead." Mycroft spread his hands out in finality.
"Who else knows?" John realized he was still holding a few pages, and dropped them to the floor.
"No one either of you knows personally. Mummy and father are, as we speak, planning their son's funeral."
Sherlock made a pained noise, and exhaled deeply. "Stop," he whispered.
"And what about me? My sister? Fuck, Rosie. Oh god." He started to stand, but Sherlock laid his hand on John's forearm.
"She's fine. Molly has her," Sherlock leaned close and finally met John's tumultuous glare with his own eyes. "She's fine." John nodded once.
"No visitors are allowed on the unit at this time, but if you do recover, we can use the burns to hide the identity of the body double." Mycroft's words held very little of his usual condescension.
"I don't have burns. At least not visible ones."
"They can do wonders with plastic surgery, as I'm sure you're aware." Mycroft pulled a few more newspapers from his case.
John leaned back in his chair, despite the discomfort, and did his best to just breathe. "You said if I recover."
Mycroft hummed, and Sherlock looked proud again, if only for a fleeting moment. "Unlike the last time Sherlock 'died,' this time, you have a choice to make."
John nodded and waited.
Mycroft laid one of the newspapers in front of him. The headline reported that Doctor Watson was expected to make a full recovery from his injuries. "Option one: You return home. You raise your daughter, you work to retirement, and you live your life."
John huffed a sarcastic laugh at that. "Life?"
"You will be provided a constant security detail, and a fund will be set up for your daughter's schooling. You and Rosie will have a normal life, or a close approximation of it."
"So what's the choice?" Brow furrowed, John laid the paper on the table. "I'll know Sherlock's alive, so he can send me updates. We can arrange meetings."
"I'm afraid not, John." Mycroft shuffled some papers in his case. Nervous.
"Sherlock?" Shaking his head, John turned to face his friend.
"If I go, and you choose..." Sherlock motioned to the paper. "You'll never hear from me again. No contact. Ever. If something were to happen... You would never know."
"Never," John breathed, and his voice cracked.
"This goodbye would be final."
John shook his head in denial and grasped the armrests of his chair. "Option two?"
Mycroft gingerly laid out the paper with the new headline. Doctor Watson had died due to complications. John stared at the headline in disbelief. Sherlock closed his eyes tight and swallowed audibly.
"What?" John studied the paper with morbid fascination.
"Option two: You go with him." Mycroft offered simply.
"I... I go?" John blinked in surprise and looked from the paper to Mycroft and then to Sherlock.
"I'm sorry, John. I..." Sherlock sniffed. He looked up, and his eyes were red with tears. "I'm sorry that you have to choose."
"But, if I can..." He studied Sherlock intently, confused by his response.
"John, if you choose this option, you will have to leave everything behind. Everything. And everyone."
"Every..." He blanched as the meaning became clear. "Rosie?" John whispered.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled. "So sorry."
"You've already appointed Miss Hooper as potential guardian. They will be well provided for. Housing, basic needs, the best schooling, everything. Your daughter will be afforded absolutely every opportunity to thrive and succeed." Mycroft seemed to wilt under John's scrutiny.
"But?"
"No contact, John. Ever. You will never be able to see her again."
The air was forced from John's lungs, and he pressed his hands over his mouth in an effort to keep the emotional response inside. He sat, unsuccessfully trying to catch his breath, for long minutes with no other response. His life had long felt out of control, as if everyone he'd ever known was responsible for making his choices for him. But not this, this impossible, terrible choice, was for him and him alone. The Holmes brothers, blessedly, left him to his consideration in silence.
"This is..." With trembling hand, John picked up paper number two. "It's dated tomorrow."
"Evening edition," Mycroft nodded. "We have to move quickly, before minds are changed. I have used the last of my favors to broker this deal." He handed John a thick packet. Sherlock snatched the pages declaring John's death and tore it to pieces, a look of genuine disgust on his face. "Your new identity. If you so choose."
John held the envelope in a loose grip, running his thumbs along the seams. He tested the weight of it in his hands, and refused to look at either Holmes brother. He sat staring at the envelope, never opening it, just holding it, for ten excruciating minutes. "I need my daughter. Mycroft, get my daughter here now."
Sherlock released a shuddering breath, and nodded almost manically. "Yes John. Good. Good. You'll be safe. And Rosie. And..." He stopped and stood abruptly from the table, turning his back to John.
"Sherlock," John dropped the packet of documents on the table, and slowly pushed himself up to standing. "Sherlock, please. Look at me."
Slowly, Sherlock turned, though he kept his eyes turned down. "John, it has truly been my honor..."
"Sherlock." John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist. "Sherlock, listen to me. I've made my choice."
"I know, John. Please, let me..."
"It's you. I choose you."
Sherlock's knees buckled and he stumble-stepped forward. "John, no. Rosie..."
"Is my whole world. She is everything. But Mycroft can make sure she has everything I will never be able to give her."
"She won't have you. You fail to see how vital you are, John." Sherlock stared intently at John.
"As long as I know you are out in the world, somewhere, I would be miserable with concern. Rosie would never really, fully have me. Not really." John finally released Sherlock's wrist. He blinked rapidly, but it did nothing to cease the few errant tears. "I choose you, if you think you can stand to have me."
"Again, you fail to see your value," Sherlock offered a tremulous smile. He looked up to Mycroft. "You'll send him updates. Photographs. Videos of recitals and school plays."
"Sherlock, you know that isn't part of the deal," Mycroft started gathering the discarded newspapers. "There is just no way-"
"No." Sherlock barked. "This is non-negotiable. You make sure John sees his daughter succeed. And you will bring her here tonight so that he can say a proper goodbye."
"Sherlock." Exasperated, Mycroft clicked his case closed. "You know I cannot..."
"I know nothing of the sort. Bring Rosie here. John deserves that much."
"Mycroft. Please. Just a few hours?" John regretted taking a step without his cane. Sherlock offered his arm for support. "Please?"
"Very well. But you must both be prepared to leave at dawn."
John heaved a breath of relief, and Sherlock caught Mycroft's arm as he brushed past them. "Thank you, brother." With a single nod, Mycroft exited the room.
Leaning on Sherlock's arm, John let the weight of his choices, every decision he'd ever made, wash over him. He didn't cry anymore, he didn't have it in him. He held tight to Sherlock's arm and let his friend lead him from the room.
"Rosie will be fine. More than. Molly is perfect for her."
"I know," John took a deep breath in. "Better than I could ever be."
"Idiot," Sherlock huffed. "You must stop that, or I will leave you here."
"You wouldn't."
"Hmm, no. I couldn't. It's just the two of us now, John."
"The two of us against the world," John smiled up at him.
"The world and these damn steps," Sherlock groaned. "Everything hurts, John."
"I know. The cost of blowing ourselves up," John braced himself for the task. "C'mon then. Once more unto the breach."
"Are you sure about this, John?"
"It's just six steps up, Sherlock," John bumped his shoulder and they both grimaced.
"You know that's not what I meant," Sherlock huffed, and pulled himself up onto the first step. He made it halfway before he paused and turned back to John. "I would have understood. If you had... It would have been difficult, but I would have understood."
"I know," John nodded.
"But I wanted... Uhm... I truly am pleased..."
"Just the two of us against the world. As it should be."