A/N: So… Wow. Episode 1. I did guess that Mary was going to die at some point the moment she was introduced to us. But to have her perish this way, leaving John and baby Rosie behind…! (whimpers) HEARTBREAKING! And look at what it's doing to the friendship of Sherlock and John!
SO… THIS FIC CONTAINS MASSIVE SPOILERS TO SEASON 4, EPISODE 1. Along with some VERY dark thoughts and adult themes.
For the record… I don't believe for even a second that John would've CHEATED on Mary. Because it wouldn't be the John Watson we know and love. Yes, he might've been tempted, yes, he may have had some interaction with the stranger. But anything further? NO. I REFUSE to believe it. It'd be unforgivably OOC in my book. Just mentioning this, because the topic will be brushed briefly in this fic.
What else…? OOOH, yes! DISCLAIMER: OH PLEASE…! Like I'd be lucky enough to own ANYTHING about 'Sherlock'. Nope. Just borrowing the characters for a bit.
Awkay, before I change my mind… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.
The Victims of East Wind
The sound of a baby crying echoed through the flat, loud, insistent and desperate. Breaking the deathly quiet that would've lingered otherwise. The only source of light in the whole apartment was a tiny lamp by the crib. A baby monitor reported the child's distress but there was no response. No other sign of life.
In the bedroom a lone and pale, ghost like figure sat on the edge of the bed that was far too big for just one person. A finger twitched as the shell of a man attempted to react to his daughter's distress. But in the end he couldn't even get up and what little of him still understood what was happening hated himself for it.
Dr. John Watson hated himself for a lot of things these days.
For being pathetic and useless. For being so angry that he'd probably succeeded in driving away everyone who once cared about him. For failing as a father. For failing as a husband.
It was never Sherlock's responsibility to protect Mary. It was John's. But those he loved always seemed to make all the decisions for him.
In John's mind the loss of Mary mixed with Sherlock's fall, and the familiar anger surged yet again.
Anger was easier to bear than the longing that threatened to tear him apart. He missed his wife and the mother of his child. And he missed Sherlock, too, no matter how little he liked to face that thought.
Guilt was another familiar emotion. It took turns and blended together with anger, one fueling the other. Both taking up so much room that in the end he could only feel nothing, or the intensity would've driven him out of his mind. If he wasn't out of his mind already.
He was furious with Sherlock because he couldn't shake off the thought that if the bloody moron hadn't been so Sherlock, hadn't pushed and poked, Mary might still be alive. He was furious because Sherlock went and made that vow and failed to keep it. Furious, to a point where he couldn't even look at his friend, for Sherlock was only there because Mary wasn't. He also couldn't look at Sherlock without seeing Mary's face. They were far too alike, those two.
He was mad at Mary, too, and hated himself for it because he wasn't supposed to feel something like that towards someone who was already gone. He was still angry that she nearly killed Sherlock, despite knowing full well how badly the detective's fake death shattered him. It infuriated him that since then he struggled, horribly, to trust her like a husband was supposed to trust their wife. He was wounded by the fact that he married someone he didn't know properly, and fought to remind himself that he knew the parts of her that mattered. And most of all he was furious with her over dying, over leaving him alone to raise their little girl.
'You chose her.' Yes, he did, both of them. So why was he angry all the time, before and now? And how pathetic was it that it infuriated him how his best friend understood his wife in a way he never could? How vain was it that sometimes he felt like a third wheel in his own marriage? He was mad at them both for all the secrets and lies, for the betrayals, for shattering his heart. He hated them for being so similar that he wasn't sure how to deal with one being in his life without the other, because the missing presence would never stop haunting him. He hated them for leaving him behind, even though Sherlock returned eventually. And his anger was fueled by the knowledge that Mary wouldn't be coming back like Sherlock did. No clever magic tricks this time.
But most of all John hated himself. Loathed what he'd become. How useless he was.
He failed as a best friend. He didn't see the Fall coming. He didn't see Sherlock falling back into drugs, right in front of his eyes. He couldn't see how horribly Sherlock was freefalling after his return from the dead. And now he couldn't forgive, wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to spend time in the same room with the man he used to share a flat with. What kind of a friend was he?
He failed as a husband. Perhaps he forgave Mary, at least he wanted to imagine that he did. But the trust… It wasn't so easily regained. Whenever Mary received texts he wondered, whenever he caught her staring into nothingness with that haunted expression, whenever she woke up in the middle of the night and made nauseatingly strong coffee, he wondered. Because he wasn't as blind and stupid as Mary and Sherlock seemed to imagine – he saw and deduced as well, in his own way. His wife had a side to her that was a stranger to him, a former life creeping somewhere in the background like a second shadow. Sometimes he felt like he was married to someone he didn't even know; as he watched how she handled a knife while cooking, as he saw how her eyes flashed sometimes and the face he'd come to know transformed to the one of A.G.R.A. There were days when he felt like he was trapped, when all the lies he'd been told weighed almost more than the vows he gave to a woman he'd known as Mary Morstan. He wasn't sure how to feel when all of a sudden, he encountered someone who provided a distraction from the far too many, complicated emotions. He loathed himself for liking the flirting and talking with the strange woman he met suddenly. He would've never, ever let things go further. There was no emotional or physical connection. But even that level of communication made him stay awake through several endless nights. It was something he couldn't talk to Mary about, no matter how many times he tried. He told himself that one day he would, swore to himself until his wife died. Unlike Mary and Sherlock he hated having secrets. John wasn't sure if it made things better or worse that he was almost certain Mary and Sherlock knew or at least suspected, anyway. She shouldn't have had to suspect, he should've told her. Until the day she died there were too many secrets between them, and he'd hate himself for his until his last breath. He could only imagine how horrible Mary must've felt, squashed by the weight of her past, and the fact that he never thought about it until she was gone made him loathe himself a little more.
Well, Mary was gone, now. Never coming back, because apparently she made a vow of her own when Sherlock survived her shot. His wife was gone, even though the scent of her perfume still lingered in the flat and taunted him. Their little girl would grow up without her mother. And somehow John was supposed to deal with that.
He wasn't dealing with it, really. Instead he was failing as a father, too. His baby was crying and he would've given a lot if he would've been able to do the same. Maybe after that he would've been able to move on. To be the parent he needed to be.
It was like all the anger, grief, lies, losses, disappointments and deceit had carved him hollow.
Eventually John stood and after remaining perfectly still for a few moments walked as soundlessly as a ghost. Operating like the machine he once accused Sherlock on being he made his way to where his daughter was whimpering, begging for comfort. The second he took her to his arms she calmed down and clung to him tightly, desperately.
In the beginning, right after, she kept crying and crying. Wanting her mother, no doubt. It took a while before she settled for him. Accepted her fate.
The poor child…!
John closed his eyes and held her a little tighter. "I'm sorry", he whispered, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He swallowed with difficulty. "I'm so sorry that it wasn't me instead. That I'm all you've got."
The scent of Mary's perfume wrapped even more tightly around him, suffocating him. Somewhere in the distance his phone bleeped, without a doubt receiving a yet another message from Sherlock. And there, in the company of ghosts of someone deceased and another one still alive, John felt himself turn into nothing but a ghost as well.
Rosie whimpered a one more time with sorrow, then sighed and fell asleep.
End
A/N: Poor John! So much sorrow and heartbreak. (winces) Let's hope that episode 2 comes with some much needed comfort!
Soooo… Thoughts? Comments? PLEASE, do leave a note to the box down below! I'd LOVE to hear from you.
THANK YOU, so much, for reading! Whoever knows. Maybe I'll see you again?
Take care, of yourselves and all the heartbroken Sherlocks and Johns out there!