AN: So this is an uncharacteristically long and angsty one-shot. I'm not really sure where this came from; I've just been building on it since I got the original inspiration about two weeks ago. The original idea was just a bittersweet pub conversation between the three of them about Sherlock and their struggles to cope with his death; but also remembering some good times. That's not how it turned out at all – but I still think it works. And no – I still haven't seen the Fall yet. I'm almost scarred to with how depressed I already am from just reading fanfics/spoilers. Anyway – let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: I'm praying to Santa to bring me the rights to Sherlock. Until he does so I own nothing.
They all drink for different reasons.
Greg Lestrade seeks a moment of reprieve from those sharp, gnawing claws of guilt that tear at him day and night. For a sliver in time he can pretend that he is not responsible; even partially, for the death of the greatest man that London - hell the entire world, had seen for a very long time. Sherlock Holmes. He likes to think that they had a "friendship" of some sorts. Not that Sherlock would ever consider him a friend. But what sort of friend betrays the other? What sort of friend allows seeds of doubt to be planted, to take root within their mind and to question the authenticity of the other? It's no wonder Sherlock didn't want friends, if that is all they had to offer. Distrust and doubt. That's all he offered in the end. Shouldn't friends be better? Yes. They should. And most are.
Which brings us to the matter of Lestrade's other friend - Dr. John Watson. Managed to destroy him as well. Indirectly; but it still counts in his mind. He'd felt a certain kinship with the friendly ex-soldier almost immediately, when Sherlock first drug the poor man on to a crime scene. They formed a fast friendship built upon commiseration and appreciation when it came to Sherlock. They would laugh and complain together; offer moral support when Sherlock was being particularly difficult. There were a number of times he and John ended up together at a pub, because John needed to get out of the crossfire of a battle between Sherlock and boredom. John was a good man. Friendly, hard-working, funny and the only one who could keep up with Sherlock. The only one on their side anyway. But now he's entirely different. Empty. Silent. Soldiering on trying to pretend that he is managing. Pretending that he isn't irreparably broken. But Greg sees through it. He's one of the few who can; with Molly and Ms. Hudson being the only others. He sees that John has been reduced to just a husk of the man he'd known.
And it was his fault. He drinks to escape.
Molly Hooper drinks because they need her to.
Greg and John; two men struggling against depression and despondency. Failing miserably. They need her; a third, to balance them out. To be there as support. Because the three of them are all that's left of Sherlock. So far as they know. The three of them were some of the closest to him and they seek refuge within his memory. She draws them together, reminds them that they aren't alone in their misery. Holds their trio together like glue. Takes care of them. She promised Sherlock that she would. Well she promised him she'd care for John. He was the only one Sherlock was concerned with at the end. And she understands. He loves John; and to him, the only one that matters in all of this. But she cares for Greg too and she won't let him fall. So she kills two birds with one stone. Or heals them with one pill. Maybe that's a better analogy. But she also battles her own guilt and grief. Sherlock is alive and well. Okay, not well, but he's alive. But John isn't. Well he is technically alive, his heart is beating. No, maybe it's not. Sherlock was his heart and now he's gone. But John is breathing. So medically he is alive. But that doesn't really mean much. He is wasting away; dying right before her eyes. He is fighting it, of course. This desolate apathy rooted in all-encompassing grief. Trying to continue valiantly on with his life. Struggling against it; he is a soldier to the end. But he's losing.
And Molly has to watch; knowing she holds the key to his salvation. A whispered assurance would do it. "He is alive." And she's so tempted. But she can't. That's something else she promised to Sherlock; her silence.
She drinks because they hurt. She drinks because she can't stop it.
John doesn't drink for the reason most people assume. He hates assumptions. They think he drinks to forget. That he wants to drown Sherlock from his memories. Drive away the nagging voice in his head that rings out in a familiar baritone a hundred times each day. Proclaiming "Boring" "Dull." "Idiot" within his mind. But that's not it. He doesn't want to forget Sherlock. It would be so easy; a convenient escapes, to abandon his memory in a drunken stupor. But that would be a grave dishonor to his legacy. The lowest insult he could offer. He is not seeking to forget. He doesn't ever want to forget Sherlock. Not for a moment. He's not seeking salvation; or peace, at the bottom of a bottle. He is not his sister. But there is a dull ache. It throbs constantly within him; created by a void in his life and soul that will never be filled again. It drains his energy; his resolve. The alcohol dulls it just a bit; softening the sharper edges. Giving him the strength to keep on fighting another day. He's not seeking numbness; he just needs to lessen the intensity. He actually wants to hurt, just a bit. Because Sherlock is worth the pain. He views it as a strange sort of offering to his memory, his legacy. He wants Sherlock to know; wherever he is, that he is still on the battlefield. That he is still a soldier. Because that is what Sherlock would want; he's sure. Sherlock wouldn't want to see him to crumble over his death; and he wouldn't want Sherlock to see him in pieces. He can't stand the idea of Sherlock seeing him destroyed, by his own heart at that. Keep it together, he reminds himself constantly. For Sherlock's sake. For his memory. Fight off the grief and it's accompanying madness; lingering like a phantom within his peripheral. And the drinks help. They soothe; like a balm, allowing his facade to continue. Because that's all it is. A farce. John's become a rather polished actor and sometimes he even manages to convince himself that he is managing. That one day he will be okay.
He drinks for strength.
They all drink for different reasons; but they drink together.
It's an unspoken pact the three of them have formed. It would be so easy for one of them to drown in their sorrows; so easy to just let it all go and fall. So they keep each other afloat in their respective seas of wretchedness. Temper each other's intake.
Temper each other's misery.
It's like clockwork. Every Saturday night; almost without fail Molly strolls into the pub at 6:25 on the dot. Greg comes shortly after; usually around 6:30. They order their drinks and John's as well; then find a secluded booth, usually tucked in the back. John limps in a while later; around sits and there are a round of greetings. Pleasantries are exchanged; weather, work, news ect. Not that any of them really care for it. But they a struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy; its one of the things that helps to keep them sane. And they sip at their drinks. They have just enough to dim bitter reality and loosen their tongues. Then they talk; about him. They allow the memories to flow and wind about them in a bittersweet comfort.
Greg starts tonight.
"I remember the first time I met you, John." John tries for a smile at the memory, but instead manages a wry grimace. "A Study in Pink." he murmurs, recalling his first blog posting about a case. "Yeah. I didn't know what to think at first; Sherlock bringing a partner to the crime scene. I was so pissed. But I shouldn't have been surprised I guess. Since he didn't like the Yarders he just found his own partner. Makes sense. But still; I never expected to see him with anyone. Never expected anyone to voluntarily be around him. Isn't that horrible?" "Well he was rather intolerable back then." Molly offers as reassurance. John doesn't nod; but doesn't disagree either. "Yeah. Well anyway, I knew you were..." he trails off for a moment searching for a word. "Different, I guess." He finally decides. "Sherlock had taken a liking to you it seemed. And you to him." This earns an empty chuckle from John; who is recalling the conversation that led him to follow Sherlock to the crime scene. "Wanna see some more?" "Oh god, yes."
"I knew there was something different, something special, about you. You were so amazed by him. Made me remember just how extraordinary he was. Kind of forget it dealing with him being such a prat sometimes; you know?" he looks to John for assurance on this; but John refuses to grant it. "I could never forget how extraordinary he was." It holds no anger; nor rebuke though. Just a statement; a fact.
Greg lets out a heavy sigh before he continues. "Well I did. Shouldn't have. Ever. But I did." He trails off into silence and Molly sees it creeping onto his face; that woeful shadow. Quickly she intervenes. "Tell me more about John's first day." and Greg takes the distraction, gratefully. "Yeah. Well as I was saying, I knew he was different. Even Sherlock treated him differently. Told me to stop thinking but let John talk, compliment him. Let him examine the body. Then we went to his flat to retrieve some evidence." John snorts at this; recalling the "drugs bust" ploy Greg used against Sherlock. Greg looks a bit guilty; knowing what John is thinking, but continues on. "It was so weird. It was like he was looking to you for approval or something." John raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "Where did you get that idea?" Greg shrugs. "I don't know. Just they way he was explaining everything to you. The way he was about that stillborn girl." John recalls the moment; searching it for the sort of approval Greg was referring to.
"Not good?" "Bit not good." He was right. It was as though he was looking to John in some way. Maybe not for approval; but certainly for understanding.
"I knew right then you would be good for him. Wasn't sure how or even why. Just knew you would be." Greg continues, unaware of John's wandering mind. "He was good for me." is John's soft response. Molly and Greg both smile; in a sort of bittersweet way. "I guess he must have been. For you to put up with him like you did." Greg says; trying for a lighter mood. Some nights they banter about Sherlock; complain about all his eccentricities because in a weird way it helps. But John clearly isn't up for that tonight.
"It had nothing to do with 'putting up' with him. I loved him." he furrows his brow in thought. "Love, loved, love, loved." he lets the words chase circles in the air as he tries to determine the most fitting version of it.
Past. Present. Past. Present.
"Love." he says finally; having made his decision. The announcement is met with no surprise. "We know." Molly says. "You do?" John says. There isn't much surprise in the question; more curiosity as to how they could tell. "Sure. It was hard to miss." Greg supplies. "It was?" "Yeah. When he was alive everyone suspected something. You two were so close; always seemed in sync. And how you followed him everywhere. Then he died and it became so clear. We see how it's broken you." Molly sucks in a breath as Greg continues. They've never mentioned John's facade or the fact that they can see through it. He's treading on dangerous territory. John's face is unreadable as he listens. "We've been worried for you. Thought you might..." and he trails off.
Even through his slightly drunken haze he knows he's going too far. John scans his face for a moment; deciphering the rest of his sentence. "I won't follow him." he murmurs finally. "I'm not suicidal." Greg looks sheepish, yet relieved. "Neither was he." The words slip from her mouth before Molly even realizes her mistake. Clearly she's had more than she should. "I mean, no one thought he was. So you've got to understand why we're worried about you." She quickly covers. They both just nod in understanding; accepting her lie. She pushed away the rest of her drink resolutely. No more mistakes. She couldn't let something slip. The table had gone silent. Greg was toying with his empty glass; clearly wanting more, but restraining himself. John was aimlessly tracing patterns in the dark wood of their table; lost in thought. Moments later he broke the silence. "Do you think he knew?" Pulled from their individual musings; they direct confused gazes at him. "Who knew what?" Greg asks. "Sherlock. That I loved him." John clarifies; scanning their faces. They both shrink from his question and his searching gaze.
Greg shrinks because he doesn't know the answer but wishes he did so that he might offer it as a form of comfort. Molly shrinks because she knows the answer but can not reveal it; though she wants nothing more than to reassure him. Greg simply shrugs his shoulders. Molly answers "Maybe. Probably." It's the best she can offer.
John nods; unsatisfied but complacent. "I hope he did." he murmurs more to himself than anyone else. "No - I hope he does." he corrects himself. "Wherever he is." And Molly feels a sense of panic rising. What prompted such a re-phrasing? She opens her mouth to inquire over it, but Greg beats her to it. "What like Heaven or something?" "I don't know. I'm not religious, but he's got to be out there somewhere, somehow. Someone that amazing can't just disappear from the world. I don't know about Heaven or ghosts or anything but there has to be something left of him." and she lets out a sigh of relief. "It's certainly a nice thought." Greg murmurs in agreement.
Silence resumes because no one is really sure how to continue the conversation. But sometimes silence is the best thing. They just take a few moments to breath in each other's presences. The support; the friendship is almost palpable around them. And it's the only thing keeping them together.
Finally John breaks the silence again, saying "I guess I need to get back to the flat." he never says "home" Molly notes. Not anymore. "Got an early shift at the clinic." Work has become his obsession. He's always at the clinic it seems; taking all the extra time he can get. Its void of memories related to Sherlock and offers a convenient hiding place for him. It's not good for him to work so much; but it's a coping mechanism. They both say "Good night" as he stands and leaves his share on the table. Molly looks at the table as he walks away; she can't stand to see him limping slowly out of the pub. Greg offers to take her home but she declines. Although it would be nice, she can't take the risk. Sherlock is prone to showing up at her flat unannounced. So she just bids him good night with a hug before hailing a cab.
On her ride home she receives a text. "At your flat."
It comes from an untraceable number and there is no signature, but she knows who it's from. Unusual though. He's never texted before. Just shows up. But the last time he did was late at night and he nearly gave her a heart attack. And she nearly clubbed him with a fry-pan. So that must have had some effect.
She texts back "Be there soon." She slips it back into her purse and allows her mind to wander. She's glad that she has something pleasant to report to him. The conversation from the pub will be good for him. Might even make him smile again. At least she hopes so. His lips haven't quirked upward in far too long. When he's just dismantled another piece of Moriarty's web he start instantly on the next allowing no sense of celebration or achievement. Just continues on with a look of deep concentration strangely akin to desperation. When she reported that London is in the midst of a graffiti spree with "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" plastering the city she thought that would at least earn a grin from him. But it didn't. He barely reacted. Just nodded as though filing it away. Surely this will break through the shadows and pull a smile onto his face.
But it doesn't.
She's fixing tea when she brings it up.
His back is to her; staring out the window. "I was just out with Greg and John." she starts. "I know. You go to the pub with them every Saturday." She doesn't bother to ask how he knows that. "The conversation was rather interesting. Started off about the first crime you and John solved." Sherlock stiffens at the mention of John's name. Molly takes no notice of this as she approaches him with two mugs of tea in hand. "Mainly Greg talking about his first impression of John and the two of you together." she says, handing him a mug. He takes it, murmuring "Thank you." But he doesn't drink. Just holds the mug; staring out her window. She waits for a moment to see if he will say anything else.
When he doesn't she takes the initiative and says "John admitted it you know."
She does her best to act nonchalant about it; trying to conceal the near giddiness she feels. She loves bringing good news; especially when it's something this wonderful.
Of course Sherlock already knows that John loves him. But it's different to hear that he has said it aloud. And she waits anxiously for the thrilled reaction she is sure will come. That broad, contagious grin will surely claim his face. Perhaps a triumphant glimmer in his eye as he proclaims happily "I knew it."
But he doesn't respond. "Sherlock?" she murmurs curious at his silence.
And when he finally turns to face her she nearly drops her mug. There are tears in his eyes. Glittering coldly as he stares back at her with nothing but desolation. She's never seen him like this; so pained. "Oh Sherlock." Her voice comes out in a sympathetic whisper. "I – What? Why're you upset?" she doesn't understand why he's crying. Isn't this good news? Has he misunderstood? She tries to explain herself. "He said that he lov -" "Stop." the word is snapped out sharply; cutting her sentence midstream.
She's completely lost. Doesn't he want to hear, to know that John loves him? That he has openly admitted it? Why won't he let her finish. She tries again; desperate to share this hope with him. To see him smile.
"But he said he -" "No." he insists severely. "Don't -" he falters. "Don't tell me about him. Watch him. Care for him like you've been doing. But I don't want to hear about it. About him." What in the world? This doesn't make any sense. Doesn't he miss John? Shouldn't he cling to this connection like a lifeline?
She tries just once more "But Sherlock -" "Don't" he insists stopping her. His voice is just a whisper. Raw and hollow; etched with anguish. His eyes show the internal struggle and Molly thinks her heart just might break when a tear slips from his eye; despite his efforts to maintain control.
"Don't tempt me." he finally murmurs quietly and suddenly she understands.
"Okay." she says with a nod and a sigh. "I'll just go fix up the guest room for you." "Thank you." comes his quiet response before he returns his gaze to the window.
She's fighting tears of her own as she goes down the hall.
A smile. That's all she wants to see. But its not going to happen. She knows that now. Not until this is all over and he is free to see John.
John is the only one who will be able to make him smile again. Which is only fair considering Sherlock is the only one who will ever make John smile again.
If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.
KP
