Obvious disclaimers like "I don't own any characters" etc.
The blog of Dr. John H. Watson
22nd January.
Tomorrow marks three years since it happened.
I might go to Baker Street and see Mrs Hudson. I imagine we'll go to the cemetery.
He was the greatest man I knew. I'll have a few drinks on him tonight.
John Watson stepped out of 221B and on to the pavement of Baker Street. He had been dreading today. He had been dreading returning to the flat. Mrs Hudson had insisted on it, practically threatened him, so he had taken a taxi from the other side of London to accompany her to the grave of Sherlock Holmes.
Since the Fall, John had moved away from Baker Street and found himself a small bedsit, a cheap one, and spent his days doing menial tasks to busy himself. He wasn't able to do nothing because when he did nothing he thought of Sherlock. He thought of their times and adventures and oh, how that hurt. He just had to close his eyes and the image of Sherlock was embedded in the blackness behind his eyelids. He had never missed a man as much as he missed Sherlock Holmes.
Today had gone better than expected. He had tea with Mrs Hudson and while she prepared her coat he snuck upstairs to the flat. It hadn't been touched. Nothing had been moved. Mrs Hudson tried to clean up Sherlock's things soon after he died but John had stopped her; insisting that everything stay where it is. Packing away his possessions meant saying goodbye and that was something John was never prepared to do.
His friends and family repeatedly told him how important it was to say goodbye and move on but John didn't want to. He knew how painful it would be not to leave him behind but moving on felt like betrayal. Deep down he still believed Sherlock was alive. Which of course, was utterly ridiculous.
He went to the cemetery with Mrs Hudson to lay some flowers and say a few words. There was so much John wanted to say but didn't dare in front of someone else. All the things he wanted to say were only for Sherlock to hear and seeing as it would be near impossible to tell him, John kept those words to himself. The reason it was 'near impossible' and not fully impossible was because somehow, John believed, Sherlock was still here. Still alive. His psychiatrist told him that was utter nonsense and it was just what he wanted to believe but there was something that told him Sherlock was not quite dead.
"John Watson?"
The voice startled the doctor and brought him out of his daydream. He looked over to the woman stood a few metres away from him under the canopy of the cafe next door. The first thing he noticed was her hair. Bright red, dyed obviously, tied up in a messy bun with a few strands falling over her face. Next was her height. She wasn't wearing high heels yet she must have been at least six foot tall, if not, more. She wore a black pencil skirt and an untucked purple blouse. She looked very professional.
"Doctor John Watson?" she said again taking a few steps towards him while reaching out her hand, offering it to John. He took her hand and shook it tightly.
"Yes. Can I help you?" Believe it or not he was used to professional looking women finding him outside 221B as Mycroft often sent them to retrieve him. It had something to do with his bloody power complex he had. Most irritating.
"Yes. You're going to walk with me" she stated as she turned on her heels and walked down the street.
"I'm sorry but who are you?"
The woman turned around as she walked to see John attempting to catch up with her. His limp had returned since losing Sherlock. She smiled and replied "A friend".
"Okay. Well where the hell are we going?" He thought was a reasonable question but didn't expect her to answer. If she was one of Mycroft's then she wouldn't answer a lot of his questions, certainly ones relating to their destination as he was often kept in the dark about that as far as Mycroft was concerned.
"Belfast" she replied. John wasn't expecting an answer at all let alone one as far fetched as that. Although the woman had a strong Irish accent, he wouldn't have been able to even come close to guessing that.
"Why Belfast? Surely Mycroft's going out of his way this time." The woman turned around and raised an eyebrow. "I can't just leave London" continued John.
"Yes you can. I've called the surgery where you work and they've given you a holiday. Very kind of them." The last part of her sentence was interrupted by the beep of her phone which she took out of her pocket and stared at for a few seconds. Obviously a text. She rolled her eyes before tapping a reply. "Trust me Doctor Watson. It'll be worth it"
They continued walking another mile then got into a car which the woman drove herself to Heathrow airport.
"You've got your limp back" she stated. They were seated on a commercial flight to Belfast and she hadn't said a thing since the drive to the airport. John was beginning to think that following a strange redhead into a car and onto a plane wasn't such a good idea.
"Excuse me?"
"Your limp. You had it and then you didn't. Now it's back" she smiled at him. Then turned her attention back to her phone. John was pretty sure you weren't allowed to have your phone turned on during a flight but guessing from the amount of texts she seemed to be receiving the sender wasn't going to wait for her to land.
"How the hell did you know that?" He was reminded of his first encounter of Sherlock. He said the exact same words to him when he deducted his entire life story just by looking at his phone.
"A friend of mine. Told me to look out for your limp. He was right" she prodded his thigh with her little finger. "You're limping." She smiled again as she returned to the text she was half way through sending.
Two hours later they had landed in Belfast and were catching a taxi into the city. They stopped outside a terrace house numbered 11. John got out and looked up and down the street. The whole road had terraced housing of different pastel colours. The one he was stood outside was a pale blue.
The woman walked up to the front door and fumbled for the correct key. Just as she got the key in the door he phone went off again. This time a phone call. She brought it up to her ear and listened to the caller for a moment. "You've got to be kidding me..." she turned around to face John and mouthed the word 'sorry' to which John awkwardly smiled and nodded. "We're not going to stand on the doorstep while you get changed..." she continued talking on the phone. "Fine... Okay, bugger off, we'll see you in a second" She hung up the phone and placed it back in her pocket.
"Problem?" John rocked back and forth casually while she stared up at the house and into the windows.
"Just waiting a few minutes" she rolled her eyes.
"Where are we anyway? Are you even with Mycroft?"
"Mycroft? Lord, no. Haven't seen him in years. And this is my place" she followed the direction John was staring at. He seemed to be fixated on one of the third floor windows.
After a few minutes, the redhead stepped up to the front door again and turned the key muttering something about not wanting to wait any longer. She opened the door and stepped aside to let the doctor in first. Hesitantly he nodded and walked past her into the house.
He stood in the hallway for a few minutes. The first floor seemed small, used only for coats and shoes, more like a welcome hall than anything. The woman kicked off her shoes and casually threw them into the hall. She was starting to seem less and less professional by the minute.
John bent down to untie his shoes so they could join the pile gathering on the hall floor when he froze. The familiar sound of a violin filled the house. He looked up at the stairs to determine where it was coming from. He stood up and simply kicked off his shoes to hurry the process and started to climb the stairs never taking his eyes off the upper floors. He was aware that the woman was closely behind him. "Do you scare easy?" she said. John simply shook his head. "Good" she replied. "Just follow the music".
John quickly looked at her before almost breaking into a run up the stairs. He ended up on the third floor hallway and looked around. Three rooms were on the floor. One of which was a bathroom, the door stood wide open. He continued to follow the sounds of the violin and stopped at the door furthest from the stairs. The redhead woman was stood on the top step with her arms crossed watching him. She nodded for him the open the door before heading back downstairs.
The doctor paused to listen to the music for a few moments before turning the door handle and stepping inside.
He found himself in a fairly large bedroom. A messy bedroom at that. He looked around to identify the large bed in the corner which was unmade, the desk which was cluttered with paper and pots and different sized beakers and the tall figure stood with his back to John. The man was facing the window, watching the world go by as he finished the piece of music he was playing.
John's legs felt like jelly. He used his walking stick to hold most of his weight as he stared at the unforgettable form of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock peered over his right shoulder. "Ah, John. Nice of you to join me. Take a seat..." Sherlock turned around and waved his violin bow around the room quickly realising he was lacking a seat for John. He looked up at the doctor and attempted to deduce what was going through his head. Unfortunately the sheer number of emotions running across John's face was hard for Sherlock to read.
"You're alive? I mean... you're actually alive?" John's voice came out more like a whisper of disbelief.
"Obviously" Sherlock casually replied.
"You absolute git" John limped over closer to Sherlock so he was about a metre away. "You total and utter git. You..." he placed his palm against his own forehead as if trying to process what was happening.
"John... I know what you're thinking and frankly I -" Sherlock was cut off by John's fist colliding with his jaw. "Now that was expected". The detective stood tall again while flexing his jaw to inspect the damage.
"How? How the hell could you just... I don't understand, I saw you..." John let his walking stick fall to the floor as he placed his hands over his face and took deep breaths. "I said... I said you were alive. You had to be. It's what you do. You're smart. But then I – I... saw you... you fell..." he continued to take deep breaths while Sherlock simply watched him curiously. "You were gone. You fucking left me!" he became a mix of angry and on the edge of a breakdown.
Sherlock watched John, unsure of what to do. He predicted he would be angry, he had seen John angry plenty of times and it was easy to imagine but Sherlock found it hard to identify what else John was feeling. Frustration maybe? "John, would it help if I said I was sorry. What I did was essential. I had to do it in order to stop Moriarty"
John's hands fell from his face and reached out to Sherlock's chest. He laid his hand there for a few moments while keeping his head down facing the floor before grabbing a handful of Sherlock's shirt and pulling the detective towards himself, then, he buried his face in the man's chest. Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders and felt the doctors breathing become hitched and soon realised he was trying to hold back tears.
The redhead woman poked her head from behind the bedroom door to check on the men as they had fallen silent. Her eyes met Sherlock's who raised his eyebrows at her indicating his uncomfortability. She in return rolled her eyes and made a hugging motion with her arms as if she was playing a game of charades. The detective understood her and wrapped his arm's around John's back and pulled him closer against his chest. The woman gave Sherlock the thumbs up before slowly exiting the room and heading downstairs.
The two men remained that way for another minute or two before John pulled away, using the sleeves of his jacket to wipe his face of any evidence that he had just fallen apart. "I need a minute" he said before leaving the room and closing the door behind him without looking back at Sherlock. He stumbled through the hallway and had to use the stair banister to keep himself from keeling over. He placed a hand on his chest and took multiple deep breaths.
Sherlock was alive. Actually alive. I knew it thought John.
He slowly made his way downstairs in hope of a cup of tea or water or something to help calm himself. He wondered onto the second floor where he found the kitchen and large living room. He sat down on the nearest sofa and bent over to place his forehead to his knees.
A few minutes passed before the redheaded woman sat beside him. "I thought you said you didn't get easily shocked". John turned his head to look at her. She had changed into a pair of dark blue jeans and a scruffy jumper which was about two sizes too big for her. She held two cups of coffee in her hands and gave one to John who gratefully took it and sat up. "I'm Lena by the way. Lena Scott" she said before sipping her own coffee. "I had to guess how you take it" she motioned towards John's mug who sipped it to taste and smiled. It was fine.
He sat back and sighed. "How long has he been here for?" he asked Lena.
"Two years, eleven months and twenty something days". Lena forced a smile and continued to sip her coffee. "I had no choice in the matter. He turned up at my door and just announced that he would be living here. Which, as you can imagine, was fun". She rolled her eyes.
"How do you know him?" There were so many more questions he wanted to ask.
"University. I was assigned to be his research freshmen. You know, when first years get partnered up to help forth years. Yeah well I had the privilege to be his." She laughed to herself before getting up and returning shortly with a bottle of Jameson. "You look like you need something stronger; fancy making that coffee Irish?" she said while she poured some of the whiskey into her own coffee.
John held out his mug and frowned as she poured a little too much. He took a sip to try it. Definitely too strong. "So how've you managed to live with him for so long?"
"You mean without killing him? With great difficulty. He never left the house. Said it was too dangerous so I had him cooped up here with nothing to do and multiple bullet holes in my kitchen wall"
"So he couldn't solve any cases? Couldn't do anything? So, pretty much... you had Sherlock Holmes stuck in your house... being constantly bored? Wow" John sat back and settled more into the sofa, gulping down his coffee.
"Mmm. He tried to get himself a few cases but he couldn't get on the good side of the local police. It tortured him. Eventually he resorted to watching shows like CSI and Criminal Minds just to gain some sort of familiarity." She looked over at John who was laughing. "What? I didn't choose to live with him. You did that. How, I'll never know. But I've always been just stuck with him. I deserve some sort of pity." She laughed in return.
They both sat there laughing until Sherlock stepped into the room with his hands in his pockets, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, Sherlock. I just getting to know John" smiled Lena. "He's a lovely guy." She giggled as Sherlock stared daggers at her. "Fine. I'll leave." She stood up and took John's empty mug then left the room. Sherlock took her place on the sofa.
You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Eventually Sherlock cleared his throat to break the silence. "John, I... am deeply sorry. But you have to understand. It was completely necessary."
"How did you do it? How did you 'die'" John tried to show the least amount of emotion he could. He didn't want Sherlock to know just how much he could fall apart.
"It's quite simple really. But I'll give you the simplex version as it is obvious you are tired and need rest." Not a very difficult deduction. Even Anderson could do it. "I knew I had to die in order to defeat Moriarty. I had you leave the lab to go to Mrs Hudson's aid. Of course she was perfectly fine. While atop the roof I took a moment to stand on the edge to measure up my fall. I had my homeless network positioned below, some of which were operating and working around a laundry truck, it wasn't difficult to get them to position a laundry bin at the location of my fall. As you arrived from the taxi, I had you stand where I wanted you, out of view of the pavement where I would land. I had you keep your eyes on me to minimise your concentration on your environment. The fall was simple; just aim for the laundry bin and then position myself on the pavement before you reached me. I hired the bike rider to knock you down to ensure me a little more time. The people who came to me aid? Homeless network. I had one of them keep their hand on my neck to guarantee you would only be able to take the pulse on my wrist. But how did I get my pulse to slow down until it was non-existent I hear you ask? Simple. Rubber ball. Under my arm and pressed against my torso. Stopped the pulse to my wrist. I then had people escort me to Molly at the hospital who filled out the relevant paperwork. Of course I needed somewhere to stay so I tracked down my old friend, Lena." Sherlock smiled and looked at John, waiting for his usual 'brilliant' comment. But it didn't come. Instead John kept his eyes away from Sherlock and head down.
"Why now?"
"I presume you mean why did I choose now to tell you I'm alive? Now was the safest time. Moriarty still had his web spread across London, still had his assassins watching your every move. But it has been three years and I'm nearly positive there's only one left. But we'll deal with him at a later date." Sherlock tried his best to meet John's gaze. He eventually chose to kneel down on the floor and bend and twist so he could intercept John's eyes who still had his head down looking at the ground. "John?"
"You look ridiculous, Sherlock." He couldn't help but smile at the other man's undignified positioning.
"Have you forgiven me yet, John?" The detective remained in his bendy position seeing as John refused to move his head.
"Give me five minutes! I've only just found out my best friend, who I thought was dead for three years, has been hiding away in bloody Ireland!"
"Very well." Sherlock stood up, brushed himself off and walked out the room.
John ran his hands through his sandy hair and closed his eyes. He wasn't quite sure if this was actually happening. For so long he's imagined walking into 221b to find Sherlock sat in his usual chair as if nothing's happened or walking down the street past the man or even have the detective turn up at John's door shouting 'I'm alive!'. But never in his life did he think it would actually happen. He never believed that one day he would actually open the door to a room to find the man stood oh so proudly acting like no time has passed at all.
He was thinking of what to do next. He can't stay here for too long, he has a job to return to. Would he be able to go back to London without Sherlock? How long was Sherlock planning on staying here? Will Sherlock ever return to London? He mentioned that it was dangerous for him to go back. When would it be safe?
The doctor started to feel himself dozing off. He didn't realise quite how tired he was.
Before he knew it, Sherlock had strolled back into the room carrying armfuls of duvets and pillows and throwing them at John. "It's been exactly five minutes, John. You asked for five minutes. I gave you five minutes. Lena said you are to sleep on the sofa tonight." The detective sat himself on the armchair opposite John, placing his chin on his steepled fingertips. "I think we can return to Baker Street in two days" he never kept his eyes off John.
The other man sighed. "Okay. And why is that?"
John's question excited Sherlock. "Sebastian Moran! That's why, John! He was Moriarty's right hand man and was the reason I had to go into hiding for so long. Moriarty left him instructions that if I didn't carry out my instructions to kill myself, Moran was to shoot you. Once I completed the illusion that I was dead, I kept away from London, I hid in the shadows in hope that Moran would grow bored and believe I was indeed dead. However, my trusty homeless network has informed me that Moran is still lurking around London so maybe we should go back and confront the man, hopefully get rid of him altogether so I can finally return and get back to actually solving some real cases!"
"I take it you've been bored then." John received an exhausted glare from Sherlock as an answer. "All right then. What about the media? No one's going to want to have you solving their cases if they still believe you're a fraud. People don't forget."
"Oh please. It's easy enough to disprove Moriarty and prove that Richard Brooke never existed. In fact, I've already done it." He removed his old Blackberry from his pocket and throwing it at John who looked at the screen to find an audio file. "It's Moriarty's confession. On the rooftop at Bart's, I played dumb and had him explain his entire plan to me. I recorded the whole thing. Simple enough." The detective stretched over to the coffee table to pick up his laptop without having to stand up. He typed in a web address and turned it around so the screen was facing John. "Not to mention the poster campaign.." he continued clicking the 'next' button to show John a gallery of photos, each showing either a poster or graffiti showing once phrase. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'. "... they're all over London, John. A few are located around the nation. I won't have a hard time returning to work. People like me." Sherlock looked up at John, grinning.
John sighed. "Great, just what you need, another ego boost. And I know about the posters, Mrs Hudson's constantly having to remove them from her front door."
"Yes well the sooner I can return to Baker Street, the better. Lena wont let me keep a skull here." And with that, the detective stood up and exited the room leaving John alone under the pile of duvets Sherlock had previously thrown on him.
John was awoken by the sound of Sherlock murdering his violin. He turned to face the clock on the coffee table. It read 3:13 am. Bloody brilliant. He threw the duvet off him and stood up, stretching his back, before striding upstairs to Sherlock's room as fast as he could using whatever energy he had.
"Sherlock, what in God's name are you doing?" He had to shout over the music.
"Evidently, I'm playing my violin. I can't think and I'm bored" replied the other man who in turn, had to shout over what he called music.
"It's three in the bloody morning! I'm starting to wish you had stayed dead!"
Sherlock simply smiled knowing full well what he was doing to the doctor.
The door behind John was thrown open by a very unhappy Lena who strolled up to Sherlock, snatched his violin bow from his hands and snapped it in half before leaving the room, slamming the door shut so hard, John was surprised it didn't fall off the hinges. John turned around to face Sherlock expecting the other man to retaliate in some extravagant manner. But Sherlock merely sighed before bending down to his violin case and pulling out another bow. "After the third time she did that, I learnt to purchase a stash of them" he said as he brought the new bow up to the strings of his violin and continued to play.
"Sherlock... for the love of God. Stop" moaned John. Bloody hell, he was tired.
"Not good?" replied Sherlock as he lowered the violin.
"Definitely not good." As John turned to leave the room and retire to his makeshift bed downstairs, he looked at Sherlock who had placed the violin back in it's place and collapsed on his bed throwing a strop about how bored he was. John smiled. The last three years had been torture and boy, was he going to make Sherlock pay for what he did to John. But right now, the doctor was simply happy to have his friend back.
Okay, so the first chapter is up :) This took me a few days so expect the next one in around that time. I'm aiming to have each chapter this long.
Anyway, I hope you liked it :)
