Hello everybody :) I must say, this is my first fanfic EVER in english, so, please, feel free to correct me, point me any incongruence etc., because I'd love to get this well done.
This is also my first fic about Sherlock Holmes, ^^ I hope you like it as much as I do.
A Child's Laugh
I
It was a dark day for the inhabitants of 221B of Baker Street. A week have passed since their friend had died next to St. Bart's. Suicide, the newspapers would say. But no. No, they knew there was something more, something dreadful which made Sherlock Holmes jump from the roof of a hospital. They didn't know what, yet. They have no clue, but it must had been serious enough to make him take his own life away.
"The only one that mattered..." John muttered, sitting in the armchair in front of Sherlock's old one.
"What, dear? Are you thinking about him again?"
Mrs Hudson, who wasn't their housekeeper, was now acting like one. She felt it just as much as John did; the absence of the consulting detective. She loved him like a son, couldn't help being like a mother for the men who were living above her. Now that Sherlock was gone the flat remained still, quiet. He used to fill their lives with shoots to the wall, beautiful violin solos and cases. All those were gone but the boring silence Sherlock used to complain about had remained in every inch of the flat.
"Yeah... can't get it out my mind. Thank you, Mrs Hudson" he took the tea she was offering him.
"You're welcome, dear. But remember -"
" - you're not our housekeeper. We know" he stopped. There wasn't a we anymore.
"Oh... Mr. Watson."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. Come on, dear, it's normal to be sad. When my husband died -"
"He was executed, madam" he gave her a look.
"Yes, yes, he was! But listen to me. Did he or did he not commit that crime... I missed him, so much! And I miss him everyday since then, but we have to move on, dear!" Mrs Hudson rubbed her hand against John's shoulder, trying to comfort him. "You can't sit there every hour of everyday thinking about what you could have done. You need to rest. You need to be taken care of..."
"I don't need anybody!" he yelled suddenly. "... Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I don't know... I..." he sighed, frustrated.
"It's alright, dear. It's the pain talking for you. I'll let you rest now. I'll be back in an hour, see if you need anything."
"See you later..." he whispered, looking back to the chair.
"This phone call it's ah... it's my note. Is what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
Sherlock was telling him he was going to jump. John couldn't believe it, still couldn't. He felt that... guilt in his chest, pounding, demanding to do something about it, to make that horrible fact a lie, a mistake. Maybe Sherlock had changed the body, maybe he gave him drugs again to prove a theory. Something.
But he couldn't, could he? He had visited the graveyard everyday since what he considered Sherlock Holmes' murder and not suicide, hoping that the exact spot where he had been buried wasn't there, along with his body. But it was. It always was. That dream never came true.
"Why, Sherlock? What was - what made you - Moriarty? Did he make you jump? No... you wouldn't. I'm missing something. I know I'm missing it... You were right, you know? I see, but I don't observe." He couldn't go on talking out loud, his voice was cracking like a heated iceberg.
But observe what? Definitively, it was all Mycroft's fault. If he had protected HIS brother... He had power, for God's sake! He was the Britain Government, his name literally opens doors, why couldn't he do something about it? He told Moriarty all Sherlock's life in exchange for just a little bit of useless information, probably faked. He could have told Moriarty a lie, then arrest him and executed him. What kind of government was that if he couldn't preserve its citizens life?
He stood up and looked to Sherlock's armchair.
"I don't know if you are... dead or alive, but... I'll try to understand why" trying not to cry, John Watson left the room. He was determined to solve Sherlock Holmes' last case; his murder.
Walking slowly through the street, John Watson could see the leaves falling, covering the street the roads with their autumn blanket. It was October. People passed by, hurrying up to get the bus or the train they were about to miss. 'Time changes everything', had said Mrs Hudson one day, but for John, no one seemed to care about his friend's death. Routine never changes, so they say, but the greatest mind in the world have died a month earlier. Wasn't that enough to change it? A bit?
John knew he needed to cop, maybe he should just forget about everything, as everybody said, go on with his life like nothing had happened. But it did! Could nobody understand that?
John felt rage, the one who didn't understand anything was him. He felt as if someone had cut his heart in two pieces and took one of them far far away. Now he was so lonely... If he wanted to overcame it, well, he knew he would need answers.
Suddenly, it hit him. Those kids. Those who were kidnapped. A proper research was demanded. If you want to discover the truth, you'll have to start from that point, he said to himself.
He could have asked Molly if she knew something, though she wasn't who took care of Sherlock's body, but her new assistant. He didn't remember her name, but she had made a strong impression on him. Ginger, quite tall... She had entered while Molly cleaned the wound of his head. The girl rushed, not wanted to be interrupted. She described the injuries of the corpse: the skull, broken; the lungs, destroyed, and his brain... well. There was no need to remember that.
Molly had started to cry. Her assistant was talking about Sherlock's corpse, after all.
Since then, Molly had changed. Get her hair cut, a new style... and though her personality was the same, this was a brand new darker Molly. And she didn't want to talk about 'the fake genius'.
His eyes fixed a strange couple staying near of the police station. They weren't talking, looking around while eating ice cream. The boy, taller than the girl, was covering his face with sunglasses and a hat. He could not see the girl's face, but the redhead looked suspicious too.
It come from nowhere, a brilliant idea which popped into his head and John forgot about the couple. He could use Sherlock's homeless network!
He took a deep breath. He was calm, his hands weren't shaking. He was just fine.
The New Scotland Yard in front of him, waiting, boiling inside the walls. New cases, new lost people, new faces. Sure there was something for Sherlock Holmes inside there... the problem was that there wasn't any Sherlock Holmes to take the hard cases.
John Watson stepped inside the building, observing everything, at least pretending to. What was he doing there? What did he expect? That he would just enter, say Sherlock was alive and intend to open a investigation about it? Was he mad? Maybe. But it couldn't just pass, as if Sherlock had never existed. He was real. He wasn't a fake. His memory should be restored, his name cleaned. If Sherlock was alive... then John would have a little chat with him. But, if he was dead, then... his best friend would be able to go on with his life. For the most part, he hoped.
"Lestrade" he said, stepping into his office. "I think we need to talk."
"John! It's been a month since -"
"I know. We need to talk. Now."
"Is everything alright?"
"No, it isn't."
"Take a sit, please. Guys, get out" said Lestrade to a pair of cops that were standing in his office at the moment John had entered. Slowly, Lestrade sat down in front of John, waiting.
"It's about Sherlock" John said.
"Oh, come on, John, not again!"
"But he has to be alive! This just doesn't make any sense! Don't you see it?"
"He is DEAD, Watson! Face it!"
"This is not about he is or he isn't, Greg!" John was getting angry about everyone, all his friends, saying the same over and over again. "This is about Moriarty AND Sherlock. Something is wrong, Lestrade. I-I don't think this is over."
"Moriarty is dead, to" Lestrade sighed.
"I know, but... we still don't know why the kid screamed... do we?"
"Sherlock... he was a -"
"Don't. You. Dare. To say that, never again. You know, I KNOW YOU KNOW THAT IS A LIE!" he was so angry he had just stood, punching the desk.
"John, please, calm down."
"No, NO, I CAN'T. MY FRIEND, OUR FRIEND IS DEAD BECAUSE SOME IDIOT'S FAULT. See" he took a deep breath. "If you don't help me, I'll do it by myself."
"Fine" Lestrade wanted to believe, he truly wanted. "I'll give you whatever you need to carry on this... case of yours, but you'll be on your own. Any risks you may find..."
"I don't need anyone."
"Sure" Donovan walked in with a bunch of folders, "the light of the freak will guide you."
"Shut up, bitch" John replied with rage.