The idea for this short story came from the combination of listening to Bett Midler songs and reading A Collection of 211 Drabbles by Sunshine Though the Storm. Thanks for the inspiration!
I do not own Sherlock.
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John trudged up the stairs to his bed-sitter, the bag of takeaway banging against his hip. The first few hours after his twelve-hour shift always left him both exhausted and keyed up, and he looked forward to a cup of tea, dinner, and some kind of senseless telly before he dragged himself to bed. Or fell asleep in his chair, which happened with some regularity.
He turned on the telly, and a movie about a singer was on. As he made tea and put the takeaway in the microwave to heat up, the opening song began.
He looked forward to times like this, He didn't feel the ache as much. He didn't listen for the violin, or look to see if more shots were fired into the wall, or open the refrigerator carefully to check for experiments. Even in the bedsitter, so different from the apartment on Baker Street, his mind still shouted, "Why? Why did you jump, Sherlock?"
Unless he immersed himself in work, as he did at the ER in the worst part of London for twelve hours a day, four days a week, or walked the streets for hours while talking to the homeless, or visited his sister and had either a row over her drinking or listened to her promise for the six millionth time that she'd stop while he helped her clean up her apartment. Then, distracted by the pain of others and tired to the bone, he gained a short respite.
When his shoulder wound threw him out of the army, he felt so lost, drifting with no anchor, no purpose. When he met Sherlock, their friendship became his anchor.
Sherlock, with his brilliance, with his arrogance, with his difficulties dealing with people, needed him. So John blogged, bringing Sherlock business and challenges. John kept the house, collected payments , paid the bills, and acted as Sherlock's buffer to the rest of the world so that his friend could solve cases no one else could.
They were never more than friends, but they were the closest of friends. Despite that, John could never answer the question everyone asked, that John asked himself constantly in those first terrible weeks.
Why did Sherlock jump? All the reasons the press gave, the ones who never knew Sherlock- that his reputation was in tatters, that no one believed in him, that he was abandoned- no. Johns didn't believe any of them. Those reasons might send Sherlock to his drugs again, might send him careening into dangerous reckless behavior again, but not into jumping. There was another reason.
Why? Could John have stopped him with the right words, somehow? He would never know. So he worked and walked and argued with Harry to distract him from the question.
Just as he swallowed the last of his dinner and settled on the chair with the telly going, cup of tea in hand, his phone rang. He looked at the caller id and cursed. There went his peaceful evening. He debated not answering, but it was too late anyway, so just before the call went to voice mail he answered and said, "What is it, Greg?"
"I have to talk to you," the detective inspector said.
"Now?" John asked in disbelief.
"Tomorrow at the latest. It's important. " Greg's voice came over the phone as tired and urgent. "Please, John. The publicity's about to start again. You need to be prepared."
John was silent, dismayed at the idea of the media coming after him again. After the funeral, he made one last post to his blog, attended the funeral, and then the media hounding sent him underground. He would stock up on food and then stay in his bland bedsitter for weeks at a time. He stopped paying for the service on his phone. He let his beard and his hair grow.
"We don't need you going into hiding again. Please, John. I'm asking as your friend. "
Johns thought about what brought him out of that mindless depression. One of the homeless brigade stumbled across his path, staggering and talking nonsence. John recognized the signs of stroke. Fortunately, the victim had a working phone. John called for help, and rode in the ambulance with him to the nearest emergency room. It served the homeless and the poor in the area, and looking around, John saw they were desperately understaffed.
He went home and looked at himself in the mirror. Then he shaved, got his hair cut, and applied for a job there. The hours were long, the pay terrible, and the turnover unreal. He got the job.
Lestrade saw him when he came to question a victim. He came back and talked John into meeting for a drink in a pub, and now they met every two weeks or so. They never, ever spoke of Sherlock. They talked about their jobs, about Lestrade's cases and John's patients, about the weather, about their abysmal love lives.
"What happened, Greg?" he asked wearily.
"Someone got hold of Sherlock's phone and unlocked it. Mycroft just warned me. The results will be released in a few days. You have to know what was on it first. This isn't something you want to get from the media, John, trust me."
John forced words past his suddenly tight throat. "All right. I'm off tomorrow. " They made arrangements. He hung up and watched unseeing as the movie played and eventually credits scrolled on the telly. Then he got up and went to the bathroom. In the cabinet, he found the last two pills of his sleep aid, and took them.
He had nightmares anyway.
He saw Greg waiting for him outside the bedsitter, and they made their way to Baker Street. John saw Mrs. Hudson every few weeks to check up on her, so seeing the building was a dull ache rather than a sharp pain; her hip gave her more trouble now and she didn't get out much. The smell of scones met them as she opened the door, but she seemed subdued as she led them to the kitchen. The radio played.
She cut it off when Greg produced his own phone from his pocket. The tea cooled and the scones lay ignored as they listened to Sherlock and Moriarty. When the words stopped, John and Mrs. Hudson sat stunned as Greg looked at them.
Sherlock jumped for all of them. John remembered how Sherlock stood on the roof at St. Bart's, tears on his face, telling John what Moriarty demanded he say. The insane consulting criminal boxed Sherlock into two choices. Die, allowing his reputation to lie shredded with his last words, and let his friends live. Live, knowing that his choice killed them. Then the brilliant, twisted genius completed the trap with the shot that prevented him from releasing the trap.
And Sherlock made his choice.
John fled. He tore out of the door, heading for the streets, and just ran. He ignored Mrs. Hudson's shocked cry, Greg's shouts, and the buzzing phone in his pocket.
When he came to himself, it was late afternoon. Somehow he found himself in front of Sherlock's grave. And there, alone with only the sky and the other gravestones to see him, he broke down for the first time since his friend died.
The evidence on the phone cleared the consulting detective. John knew that the autopsy and the fingerprints on the gun showed that Moriarty killed himself. Now they knew why.
The words on the phone wiped the stain from Lestrade's career.
The evidence released John from the weight of his own doubt.
Sherlock died for an honorable reason, to spare his friends. The proof that Moriarty forced him into that choice made all the allegations and accusations suspect.
Now John could weep for his friend, because when he finished weeping, he could pick up his life and go on, no longer carrying the guilt for not stopping Sherlock from making that leap to his death.
John stood up and wiped his face. He felt hungry and tired. His feet hurt, and his face and throat were raw. He turned to go.
Mycroft stood waiting. Behind him, John saw a car. "Could you use a ride home?" the British Government asked. John nodded, and walked to the car with him.
He had a blog to write, and a life to rebuild. In the car, the radio played.