Sherlock Holmes – After the Fall
'He still doesn't know. He's gone back to his therapist.'
'I know.'
'Are you sure about this? It has been three years.'
'He shouldn't know.'
Holding his phone, the texts fresh in his mind, he stood under the trees watching his friend, his... He was stood in the cemetery, over the headstone with Sherlock Holmes' name on it. Doctor John Watson, army doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Regiment, stood over the grave, absorbed in his own mind, his memories of the adventures the two of them had been on together, solving crimes and the most recent memory of their last conversation...
"That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"
John's eyes filled with tears, but he wouldn't let them fall. He couldn't let them fall. It would mean it's too real. Sherlock knew that John had been seeing him everywhere, calling his name in the middle of the night, waking from nightmares. His blog hadn't been updated much recently and his limp had returned, psychosomatic, yes, but it was still an indicator to his state of mind, his emotional state. It had been three years since he'd fallen.
Sherlock watched his friend turn away from the grave, his eyes red and sore, maybe that's what he felt like. Just like John, he couldn't understand these feelings he had when he had... When he had seen John start to fall apart at his funeral. John limped away, leaning heavily on his crutch and he rubbed at his face, trying to stop the tears before they rolled down his sunken cheeks. Sherlock didn't go after him, he knew exactly where his friend would be going and he knew that he had someone else to visit.
John found himself outside his therapist's office, he gripped his walking aid harder and limped into the building. He knew that seeing Sherlock running around through London was just his imagination, was just his memories showing him what adventures they'd been on in this city. At least that's what his therapist said. He wanted to believe Sherlock was alive, that this was all just a joke, and so he visited his grave on the anniversary of his death, to beg him to come back, to beg him not to be dead.
"Ahh, my dear younger brother." Mycroft Holmes was sat in his office chair, he had looked up when Sherlock had entered through the window of his office. "Not liking using doors these days?"
"People would see me, Mycroft, you know that. You also know what would happen if they did see me."
"Why are you here?"
"You know why." Mycroft smiled, it was like a tiger who'd just eaten his fill, twice.
"You should see him, Sherlock. When you fell, he was the one who broke. Not you. So, how did you do it? How did Sherlock Holmes survive the fall?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." Sherlock's voice remained neutral and calm, but really, he was annoyed with his brother.
"Really Sherlock, are you really still like that? See John, he needs you, he's not himself anymore."
"Mycroft, if you think that just asking me to see him will make me-"
"I don't."
"Then why-"
"Because you need to see the facts, Sherlock. To see that you're hurting John."
"Sherlock Holmes died that day 3 years ago, Mycroft. There is no way I can come back, and even if I did, my reputation has been ruined. Moriarty killed me, no matter what I could have done back then, I died." Sherlock's voice was suddenly louder, his words were faster and his breathing was heavier. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave."
"Sherlock, what have you been doing these last few years?" Sherlock didn't turn around, nor did he answer. He just left the way he had came through the window and out into the busy London afternoon.
John's conversation with his therapist had ended like many had for the last 3 years, with him getting angry with her not believing him about Sherlock not being dead, getting angry and storming out. Well, storming out as much as is possible with a psychosomatic limp. He walked to the curb of the pavement, hailing a taxi cab. He decided he was going back to his apartment, that Sherlock had left behind three years ago and make himself a cup of tea. If he didn't break down before he even got to 221B Baker Street.
"Oh, John. Come in, come in." Mrs Hudson's worried tones brought an emotionally numb although tearful Dr. Watson into 221A, "I've just put the kettle on, I'll make you a cuppa tea, you rest your leg."
"Damn my leg," John muttered. Just like the day when he and Sherlock had come to Baker Street to look at 221B. It brought back another flood of memories, but the doctor didn't know if he could keep on crying, his eyes felt so sore.