AN: Happy Early Birthday to Terri, who is a goddess but also yelled at me a lot until I finished this. Whatever, she's amazing. Next installment will be updated...eventually. I'm starting work on it now, but we'll see.
¡Disfrute!
Storm
It's a normal week, until John comes home without Sherlock one day, looking tired and world-weary and broken, and everything changes.
The morgue is quiet. Molly's lipstick is smudged, her eyes wet with tears, and she shakes as she pulls a sheet over the body. Alex doesn't say anything, just watches Molly from his perch, curled up in the stiff, uncomfortable chair. John doesn't speak, either.
"Well," Molly says, her bottom lip quivering like she's about to cry again. "I guess that's it, then. These are his things." She hands John the plastic bag, and Alex thinks, distantly, that it shouldn't be possible to reduce Sherlock Holmes to a number of possessions in a sealed baggie, because Sherlock Holmes is bright and intelligent and so much more.
Now, Sherlock Holmes is one blue scarf, one pea coat, one button-up shirt, one pair of trousers and one pair of pants, two shoes, and one red rubber ball.
Now, Sherlock is gone. And Alex doesn't know how he's supposed to survive another loss.
The funeral is bad—it's Alex and John and Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and Lestrade and Molly and even Donovan, but that's it. No one else comes.
John holds it together, barely, stumbles through his eulogy with wet eyes and a thick tongue, but he doesn't cry. Mrs. Hudson cries, hard, and tells a funny story that only makes her laugh through her tears and sound like a drowned cat. Molly cries too hard to get past "Sherlock was—" and Donovan wraps her arm around Molly's shoulders and pretends she's not tearing up, too. Lestrade fumbles his way through a eulogy, smells like cheep liquor and cigarette smoke, and no one says anything because they're all hurting, too. Mycroft is stone-faced on the sidelines, fingers clenched tight around an umbrella even though it's not raining.
Alex doesn't cry, but he doesn't speak, either. He stares listlessly at the tombstone marked Sherlock Holmes until the words blur together and John is standing beside him again, clutching to his hand like Alex is his lifeline, and Alex lets himself be pulled back to their car, back to Baker Street, back into the flat that still smells like Sherlock, where Sherlock's things are still piled high on every surface, where ears and eyes and microorganisms litter the counters and line the walls.
The funeral is bad, but the flat is worse.
The flat is too empty without Sherlock there, and Alex walks through it like Sherlock's ghost is following him. Runs his fingertips along the spines of Sherlock's books, picks up napkins that have notes scrawled on the back like Tell John to get more jam and the red jumper is the motive, finds Sherlock's bits and baubles, a pocket watch inscribed "Ally Jane" and a scrap of green silk. Pulls out Sherlock's old violin and plays the few creaky notes he remembers from what Ian taught him until John comes out of his room, eyes rimmed red, and sits down on the couch to watch.
They don't talk about what happened. John works longer hours, pushes himself harder than he did before. Alex doesn't go to school. The headmistress calls to check in on Alex and no one answers. She leaves three voicemails that John never listens to and John never asks Alex if he's okay. He just assumes that Alex isn't. He's not wrong.
"I got an interesting phone call today," John says when he comes home one day, going on a month after Sherlock's death, damp from the rain and face drawn, looking older than he has been. Alex sits up straighter, turning the television down, looking at John over his shoulder. He's still in his pajamas, hasn't moved from this spot on the couch since he sat down this morning. It's hard to convince himself to keep going right now. It's like everything is stagnant, with Sherlock gone—like there's nothing left to live for.
It wasn't like this when Ian died, nor Jack. With both of them, there was something immediate to focus on. Unraveling the mystery of Ian's death, finishing the mission after Jack's… Alex isn't sure how to just sit back and mourn.
"What about?" Alex asks, and John sits across from him in Sherlock's chair, frowning.
"Before Sherlock died," John says slowly, and Alex flinches. It's hard to hear him say it, it's hard to acknowledge that Sherlock is really gone, not just out on another case. "Before Sherlock died, we had filed to adopt you. It was supposed to be a surprise."
Alex sits bolt up right, mouth dropping open, heart pounding. "You didn't," he says, something sour twisting inside of him. John gives him a grim look, and Alex thinks, he knows.
"Edward and Claudia Pleasure," John says quietly, not a question. Alex sinks back into the couch, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and pretends this isn't happening. He just lost Sherlock. He can't lose John, too.
"My adoptive parents," Alex acknowledges. He doesn't want to, but John already knows. John already knows that he can never legally be Alex's guardian and Alex isn't sure John even wants to be Alex's adoptive father without Sherlock. "I didn't think you'd ever… I didn't think you were serious. About adopting me. I just assumed…"
Alex just assumed that something would happen and he would have to leave, that John and Sherlock wouldn't want him there anymore. And with Sherlock gone, Alex has been on edge, waiting. Waiting for John to tell him to leave.
"The man I spoke to," John says, "the social worker. He told me they adopted you after the death of your legal guardian, Jack Starbright. And that you went missing almost exactly a year ago, maybe a month and a half before I met Sherlock. He was legally required to notify both the police and the Pleasures of your presence here. The Pleasures are flying out now to get you. The social worker said someone would stop by this evening to pick you up. They'll have someone from Scotland Yard in to talk to you, as well. To discuss why you disappeared."
Alex nods, numbly. John is looking at him like he's not sure he recognizes him, and Alex feels—hollow. Hollow is the word for how he feels.
"Alex," John says, quietly. "You ran away from the—the Pleasures. Why?"
Alex shrugs, gaze locked on the floor, unable to meet John's gaze. "I did it for them," he mutters. "They didn't—I was having trouble adjusting. I got into fights at school, I made them uncomfortable. They only adopted me because Sabina and I were. Friends. They didn't need me there, making things harder than they needed to be."
Even he can hear how weak it sounds—and how similar it is to what he told Mycroft, when he ran away from John and Sherlock before Christmas.
Alex has been running for so long. He's not sure he knows how to stop. "It's different here," he says aloud. He needs to be clear on this. "The Pleasures… They were already a family. It—we. We made a family together, you and me and Sherlock. All of us a little bit broken and all of us needing someone to just…be there. It's different here."
He can feel the lump in his throat, but he doesn't cry. He can't, he hasn't cried in…in a long time.
"Sherlock is dead," John says. He sounds like he's crying, and he is, when Alex looks up at him. A little bit choked up and a little bit lost and so, so scared. "I don't know how to be a family without him."
"Yeah," Alex says, and his voice break. "Yeah, me, neither."
John comes to sit on the couch beside him, and that's where they are when the social worker comes by later, impassive and bored, and Alex hugs John, one last time, before he leaves behind…everything.
The world outside is washed in rain and Alex thinks that's fitting, the rain drowning out the long day and the world outside of the car. They've been driving for a while and Alex doesn't know where they're going but the social worker, who has a name Alex doesn't bother to remember, doesn't try to talk to him, and Alex is thankful. He's tired. He just wants to go home. But he's not sure where home is anymore.
He recognizes the surroundings outside of the blurry window too late, and he thinks about fighting, but he's. He's tired. He slumps further down in the seat and waits until they've pulled into the underground parking lot, follows the man up into the building like he's ordered to, and then he's sitting down in front of Tulip Jones and Benjamin Daniels and Mycroft Holmes, and Alex is too tired to fight about this.
"Alex," Mycroft greets, tipping his head forward marginally.
Alex flips him off, and he thinks Ben snorts, but Ben hides it behind a cough.
"Alex," Mrs. Jones reprimands, and Alex sighs.
"I thought you were done with me," he says, fixing his gaze on her. "That's what you said. You were done with me."
She has the decency to look a little bit guilty. "That was before you ran away from the Pleasures," she says uneasily. "We're not going to force you to do anything, Alex. But we could use your help."
Alex looks at Ben, who avoids his gaze, and then Mycroft, who meets his gaze head on but frowns and shakes his head, like he's acknowledging that he wants no part in this.
Mrs. Jones follows his gaze to Mycroft. "Ah, yes. Mr. Holmes conveniently did not mention that you were under his brother's care." She tips her head to the side. "We've exerted a fair amount of energy into finding you over the last year, Alex. We worried someone from Scorpia…"
She trails off, and Alex thinks about Yassen and almost laughs but he doesn't because it's not funny, not anymore.
"Nope," Alex says. "I was fine."
He doesn't say he is fine, because he's not. Ben makes some kind of sound in his throat, and Alex doesn't want his pity, he doesn't. He rolls his head back on his shoulder to look at Ben and says, "I ran into Wolf again. Have you kept up with him since leaving the SAS? I do tea with his fiancé every now and then. They're talking about naming the baby after me."
"Alex," Mrs. Jones interrupts. She sounds exasperated, but she also sounds…exhausted. Like she doesn't want to be doing this anymore than Alex does, and Alex wants to say let's just not do this then but he doesn't. "Will you do the mission, or not? Ben will be with you. Mr. Holmes volunteered to be your handler. You'll be safe. And then after, you'll go home with the Pleasures and return to normal life. Perhaps," and she hesitates, then continues, "you'll consider investing in therapy. I'm sure we could get you in touch with the therapist who works with members of the CIA."
Alex snorts, the sound raw and rough. It's too late for therapy, he thinks, but he says, "Okay. I'll do your stupid mission, and then I'll go back to America with the Pleasures."
They're in Germany and Ben gets shot and Alex has to do things himself, squirms his way out of the situation like in a Bond film, just like every time before, and when he and Ben return to London, Ben hugs him and says he did good and that he hopes Alex stays safe and says to have a nice life in America, and then Ben goes to the hospital because he's bleeding profusely from a wound in his shoulder and has been delirious for the last couple hours.
Then Alex has to go wait with an actual social worker, but it's not long before the Pleasures arrive.
Sabina looks older, and she should, because she's seventeen now. Her lipstick is darker and her hair is longer and her skirt is shorter, but she's still inherently Sabina. Her lips curl when she sees Alex and she says, "God, you're such an asshole," and then she flings herself at him, arms tight around his neck and her face buried into his shoulder. "I fucking missed you," she tells the fabric of his t-shirt, voice quiet so her parents don't hear because Mrs. Pleasure is already reprimanding her for calling Alex an asshole. "Had a fucking heart attack when I realized you'd left, didn't sleep for fucking weeks, how dare you."
Alex doesn't say anything, just wraps an arm around her waist and uses the other to wave at Mr. and Mrs. Pleasure.
After Sabina detaches (albeit reluctantly), Mrs. Pleasure hugs him, and Mr. Pleasure kind of pats his shoulder, and then they all sit down and the social worker says he'll give them a minute alone and leaves the room.
As soon as he's gone, Sabina turns to Alex, folding her arms over her chest. "They wouldn't tell us what happened to you after they called us. Was it MI6?"
Alex shakes his head. "No. I found some people to stay with. I don't think I would have been found at all, but they, uh, tried to adopt me. Found out I was already adopted. MI6 took care of all the social work, sent me on a mission, and now, here I am."
Sabina's eyes narrow, but it's Mr. Pleasure who speaks up. "So you ran away."
Alex nods. Mrs. Pleasure says, hurt, "But why?"
Alex thinks back to that night in Cornwall, so long ago now it feels like a dream, and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn't say I wasn't fitting into your ready-made family and everyone could tell, but he wants to. He just tips his head to the side and says, "I overheard you talking the night I left. I figured it was better this way."
Mrs. Pleasure's cheeks flush in shame, and Mr. Pleasure averts his gaze. Sabina's spine tightens and she twists to glare at her parents.
"What were you saying about him to make him leave?" she demands, and her voice wobbles a little despite the anger fueling it.
"It doesn't matter," Alex says, before anyone else can speak. "It doesn't matter. I have to go back with you now and it doesn't matter what happened then."
Sabina turns to face him, then. Eyebrow arched. "What about these people you're staying with? If you're close enough to them to actually want to be adopted by them, you should. Stay. With them." She sounds hurt, but unwavering.
Alex shakes his head slowly, dropping his gaze to wear he's picking at the fabric of the chair he's sitting in. "I don't know," he murmurs, after a long moment. "Things have changed. I don't know if he still wants me there."
Sabina rolls her eyes. "So call him, asshole. Find out if he still wants you here. We're not taking you home with us if you'd rather be with him and he's willing to keep you."
Alex expects protest from Mr. and Mrs. Pleasure, but they just nod and smile encouragingly, so Alex uses the desk phone to call John.
He picks up after the fourth ring, sounding tired and world weary. "'Lo?"
"John," Alex says, and sits back in his seat, forces his gaze skyward as he tries to speak around the lump that appears in his throat at the sound of John's voice. "John, it's Alex."
He can hear the difference in John's voice when he speaks again, more alert, concerned. "Alex? Are you okay? What's wrong?"
Alex could cry, but he doesn't. "I'm with the Pleasures. They said, if I wanted to stay with you and you were willing to keep me, I could. I can. I can stay. If you still want me."
John is quiet, for so long, too long. Then he says, "Alex, I want you to be happy. I don't know if you can be happy here, with me and with…with everything Sherlock left behind."
Alex closes his eyes, feels the sting in his nostrils that always comes before he cries but he refuses. "Okay," he says, his voice cracking. "I'll go with them."
"It's not that I don't want you here," John starts, and Alex doesn't want to hear excuses because he knows, he knows this is as hard for John as it is for him and he doesn't need John to justify his reasons. "I just. I think this would be better for you. To be raised by a proper family, not a man mourning over the death of his fiancé."
"I don't want to leave you alone," Alex admits and his voice breaks, hard, and that's it, he's crying, he tries not to but the tears are prickling the corners of his eyes and squeezing out through his shut eyelids and he reaches up to wipe them away but more keep coming. "I can't just leave you alone."
"I don't want you to stay for me," John replies, and he sounds firmer, more sure. "We'll keep in touch, Alex, I swear. It's okay. You need this."
Alex wants to argue, but he doesn't. He says, "Can I come say goodbye? Get my things?"
John laughs but it's wet and strained. "Of course. Come whenever."
Alex goes that afternoon. The Pleasures drive him, and Sabina offers to come in for support but he tells her to stay in the car and wait for him. John meets him at the door and pulls him into a long hug and then leads up back upstairs, thrusting a tea mug into Alex's hands once they step into the kitchen. It occurs to Alex that this is the last time he's ever going to be in this flat and it's like a punch to the gut all over again, but he breathes through it.
"We'll keep in touch," John is saying, firm and decisive. "I'll look into getting an international phone plan so we can talk on the phone, but until then, I'll email you. All the time. You'll get tired of hearing from me."
Alex smiles into his tea cup but it doesn't feel genuine. "Obviously," he says. "I've read your blog. You ramble."
John laughs but the sound breaks a little and then they're hugging again, Alex setting his mug down on the counter and knotting his fingers in the fabric of John's jumper.
When they part, they go to Alex's room, finish boxing up the few things John missed. He says he was going to ship it all to America if he ever got Alex's address from the adoption agency he'd spoken to, makes a snarky comment about the unhelpful social workers that make Alex crack a small smile because if only John knew.
He almost tells him, then. Almost, but doesn't, because right as he opens his mouth to say it, he catches sight of John's left hand.
"You took the ring off," he says, his voice leaving his mouth as something flat and hollow. "You took your engagement ring off."
John looks down at his hands with something like guilt, but he nods. "I can't just… I can't just keep the ring on. He's dead." He winces like he's aware of how tactless he's being, and maybe he is. "I can't move on if I'm still wearing his engagement ring. I'm sorry."
Alex gives one sharp, jerky nod. "I'm not going to expect you to, like, never date again. You were only together for a year. You weren't even married. Of course you'll find someone else eventually."
John nods, then sighs. "I just miss him," he says, voice quiet and broken. "God, I miss him."
"Yeah," Alex agrees. "Me, too." He leans into John's shoulder and maybe he cries a little bit, again, but John cries, too, and Alex knows that at least he's not alone.
Alex is seventeen when he calls John and a woman answers the phone.
It's ten a.m. on a Saturday in San Francisco and Alex is the only one in the house, and he knows John must be sitting down to dinner around now. But John doesn't pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
Alex pulls his phone away from his ear to make sure it was John's number he called. "Uh, who is this?" he asks, pressing it back to his ear.
"This is Mary." She sounds amused. "John's in the loo. Who's this?"
"Alex," he says. It feels like betrayal to even think it, even though he's sure Mary is nice, but he says, "Are you…you and John? Are you dating?"
"Yes," she says, and she sounds slightly less amused and slightly more concerned. "Why?"
"Sorry," Alex says, staring at the wall. "I wasn't expecting it. I talk to John on the phone every week, email him every day… It seems like something he would have mentioned."
"Oh." Mary sounds amused again. "We've only been dating for a couple of weeks. You're listed under his favorites in his contacts, though, so I assumed it was an important call."
There's a muffled voice on the other end of the phone, and Mary says, "Sorry, here's John now. Nice meeting you."
Then John is saying, "Hello?" and Alex says, "Normally it's common courtesy to tell your almost-adopted son when you start dating someone."
John sucks in a sharp breath, then releases it slowly. He's calm when he speaks again. "I didn't want to upset you. It's only been a year and a half since Sherlock…"
Alex thinks, so now you can't say it, and says it himself. "Since Sherlock died. That's what you mean. It's only been eighteen months since Sherlock died."
John sighs. "Yes, Alex, that's what I mean. I don't want you to feel like I'm replacing him. I like Mary, Alex. You will, too, when you meet her. You are still flying in for Christmas holidays, yeah?"
Alex almost doesn't let him get away with changing the subject, but in the end, he thinks it's not worth it. John is happy. That's what's important.
Sherlock would hate this, Alex thinks, and it makes him smile. Sherlock would hate that John moved on, because Sherlock was a selfish twat.
Before John hangs up, he says, "You know I'm not forgetting about Sherlock, right? I just think it's…time. It's time to stop mourning and be happy again."
"I know," Alex says. "I know."
Then the line cuts and Alex stares at the wall and wonders, for a long time, if maybe he's just been surrounded by too much death in his life to ever be happy again.