A/N Hello Everyone! Okay so this is my first fanfic so please review. Seeing as the description is slightly cryptic (sorry) this is about John figuring out what happened in 'The Reichenback Fall' so spoilers for that episode. DFTBA!
The Improbable Truth- Chapter one.
"Happy birthday Sherlock," John sighed mournfully as he stared down at the black marble headstone. The cold January wind bit through John's thin coat as he dropped the pathetic looking bunch of daisies in front of the stone, leaning heavily on his cane as he did. John would have like to buy a better bunch but the rent was high despite Mrs Hudson lowering it for him and the job at the clinic didn't pay too well, also he doubted Sherlock would have minded. Harry had suggested that he move in with her but John couldn't leave Baker Street, not yet; if he did he would have finally given up on the idea that Sherlock would come waltzing through that door clutching a harpoon, covered in blood complaining about the tediousness of the tube. (Or harpooning the pig, John had never been sure.) That image of his best friend just made him think of the fall and those large, lifeless, grey eyes staring into nothing as the world dissolved into chaos around him.
Something still didn't sit right with Sherlock's suicide, there were too many lose ends. Why did Sherlock tell John he was a fake even though it was blindingly obvious he wasn't? Why had John been ordered to stay in that one place? Why had those people stopped him even though he had told them he was a doctor? And then there was Mycroft's indifference to Sherlock's death, for someone who worried about his brother constantly he seemed pretty quick to betray and forget him, hell he didn't even attended the funeral!
John banished the thoughts with a frown; he had to forget this, he had to move on. Sherlock was dead, dead as a door nail... Dead, dead, dead.
"Good day Dr. Watson," a high, posh voice came from behind him, shoving him out of his thoughts. John turned in shock and looked at the woman behind him and swore he was looking at a ghost; she was tall and thin, looking to be somewhere in her sixties, with brunet hair that had been tied in a bun, piercing grey eyes and pronounced cheek bones. In her arms she held a large bouquet of white lilies that would put John's flowers to shame when she put them next to his. It was obvious who this woman was, no one could look so much like a person and not be related to them. And those eyes...
"Mrs Holmes," John greeted, sounding utterly shocked, he stuck a hand out for her to shake which she did with a firm grip and soft skin.
"Well deduced," Mrs Holmes smiled weakly as she drew her hand back and used it to brush down her black skirt "Please call me Martha,"
"Hardly a deduction Martha, Sherlock is the spit of you," John replied smoothly, falling easily into conversation with her. "How are you this morning?"
"Quite well thank you," She replied smoothly. Martha stepped towards the headstone and placed the lilies next to the daisies, arranging them so that they looked better than how John had done it. "I take it the job at the clinic isn't paying too well,"
John chuckled, "I see the Holmes gift isn't limited to the men in the family,"
Martha laughed, it was a high, sharp sound and John couldn't decide if it was nice or not then said bitterly, "Who do you think taught the boys how to deduce? It was most certainly not their father,"
John was wise enough not to ask, "So why are you here Martha?"
Martha Holmes raised an eye brow as she moved away from the grave side and came to stand next to the doctor who was standing a few feet away, "What am I doing at my sons grave on his birthday?"
"Sorry, I meant why now? You didn't come to his funeral or his burial, and I've been come here most weeks and I've never seen you here before,"
"Before I met Sherlock's father I had agoraphobia," Martha told him with a blank expression, "When I heard the news it made a comeback, I couldn't leave the house, terrified that Moriarty would come after me. However Mycroft visited me the other day, and utterly assured me that there was no danger,"
"Awfully good of him," John spoke bitterly, kicking the ground.
Martha looked at him suspiciously, "Shall we take a walk?" John nodded and followed Martha as she made her way towards the main path. "You have a problem with my eldest son, I can guess I know why but I must ask you to put it behind you,"
John shook his head, "He might be responsible for the death of my best friend, I can't just 'put it behind me',"
Martha sighed and stopped walking; she regarded him with a critical eye for a moment. "Listen, John, can I ask you to do something for me? Can you just listen to what I am about to tell you and not make any comments until I've finished?"
"Okay..." he replied with a wary smile.
"I don't believe for one moment that my son is actually dead," she told him, John sighed and shook his head, "John, I know my son better than he thinks I do, and I know he hasn't died, he loves himself far too much for that. Please, Mycroft treated me the same way as you are, but if you ask him to get the CCTV footage for you I know he will. He would do anything to make peace with you John, even if he doesn't act like it,"
"Why though?" John asked, "It's not as if I'm important."
Martha sighed, "Because you made Sherlock better, you protected him as best you could, hell, you even killed a man for him. Mycroft won't forget that,"
John scratched his head and winced, she was in denial, and encouraging it would only make it worse, but she was right; Sherlock had loved himself too much to perform suicide. "Fine, I'll talk to Mycroft."
Martha stared at him with those too familiar eyes that were suddenly full of barley suppressed hope, suddenly frantic she scrambled in her bag and pulled out a notepad and a pen. "This is Mycroft's personal mobile number, very few people know it so I trust you will keep it safe," Martha told him as she wrote his number in her elegant script and handed it to him.
"Mrs Holmes..." John started as he folded the paper and put it in his wallet, he tried to chose the words as carefully as possible, not meaning to offend her, "Should we not just let this go, it's highly likely that Sherlock is dead,"
"I'm not asking for much John," she sighed, !I'm not even asking for you to believe that Sherlock isn't actually dead, I'm just asking you to get the CCTV footage," Martha shook her head, "Look, I just can't believe Sherlock would willingly kill himself, I need to see that footage, maybe then I can get some closure,"
John nodded and took the piece of paper from Martha's hands. He took out his phone and added Mycroft as a contact, "I'll get them for you, hell, I think I need to get some closure too,"
"Thank you John," Martha smiled gently, "Tell me, did my son teach you anything about deduction?"
"He tried, but Sherlock has a tendency to teach big," John replied with an uneasy smile.
Martha laughed, "Yes, Sherlock always was like that. He picked it up so much quicker than his brother, however Mycroft is much more through in his observations; there used to be a lot of competition about it when they were younger,"
John nodded, "I better get home. How can I contact you when I get the footage?"
"Ask Mycroft for my number, I don't have the wretched thing on me and I'm not the sort of person to memorise my number," She told him with a small smile, "Be safe John,"
"I'll try Mrs Holmes," John replied, as he walked towards the road, leaving Martha standing still in the middle of the path. "I'll call you when I have the footage,"
John caught a cab back to 221b, his thoughts a tangle. He knew Martha Holmes was just a mother in mourning, but there was some truth to what she believed. He himself thought that there were too many things that didn't quite add up and she was right; Sherlock really wasn't the suicide type. John knew that getting too tangled up in this could harm his own chances of moving on, but he couldn't just let this pass him by without knowing weather Sherlock was dead or not; maybe the CCTV footage would show nothing and he would be able to finally move on. Or maybe it would show Sherlock with a twin that supposedly died at birth, he didn't know, but what he did know was that he was feeling the same things Martha was; six months on he still couldn't imagine a work without Sherlock Holmes.
By the time he got home John's emotions and thoughts were even more messy and he was so confused, his shoulders felt heavier than ever before and all he really wanted to do was collapse into his chair and watch some bad TV program. John stepped in to the flat and winced as he stared into the empty living room, all this time and John still hadn't gotten used to the emptiness that had settled without Sherlock. No more strange smells, no more random burn marks, no more moping consulting detective and no more mournful violin at three o'clock in the morning; he still expected to see Sherlock draped across the sofa, moping about the lack of a case. John dropped his cane onto the sofa and moved into the kitchen, he grabbed a cup from the cupboard, wincing slightly as he spotted the half eaten pot of honey, and began making tea. He returned to the living room and sat within the unchanged chaos that Sherlock had left behind; staring vacantly at the violin on top of his chair and wishing fiercely that it was the owner sat there, instead of the instrument. After a while John sighed and decided to stop moping, he turned on the TV, watching the first thing he found.
John was just thinking about asking Mrs Hudson if she wanted to eat with him tonight when a sharp tapping on the door pulled John out of his chair, he limped over to the door and opened it to find Greg Lestrade; he stood in his usual suit jacket, looking sheepish and holding a bottle of white wine in his left hand.
"Please don't slam the door in my face John," he pleaded while rubbing his neck, "I can't let you be alone today,"
"I have no idea why you think that," John replied with a snort, "You've let me be alone the last six months,"
Lestrade winced, "I'm sorry John, I shouldn't have abandoned you like I did, I know that. So when I realised it was Sherlock's birthday, I thought there was never a better chance for us all to meet back up again, so I asked Molly to come over and I'm sure Mrs Hudson will join in, I think we should celebrate his birthday together."
John opened the door wide enough to let the DI in and walked back to his seat; Lestrade put the wine in the fridge and sat down in Sherlock's chair. The two men watch each other for a while, each of them searching for a conversation topic that was suitable for the mood. John ran a critical eye over Lestrade, he looked thinner and much more stressed than before, the wedding ring was totally gone from his figure now and his clothes were creased.
"You broke up with your wife," John stated simply.
Lestrade winced, "She was cheating on me, just like Sherlock told me, the divorce was finalised in November."
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," John told him honestly.
"Thanks John," Lestrade replied.
The door knocked again and John moved to go and answer it, "It'll only be Molly," Lestrade told him before he stood, "Save your leg, I'll get it."
Molly held more wine in her arms, Lestrade said something about getting drunk as he hugged her and pressed a kiss to her cheek, he took the bottle and walked back into the kitchen. "Where's your glasses John?" he asked.
"Left hand cupboard closest to the fridge," John called then thought for a moment, "Careful though, there may still be god knows what in that one,"
"Hello John," Molly smiled as she took the chair from the desk and sat down gingerly.
"Hey Molly, how've you been?" John asked politely, he liked Molly; there was a bizarre innocence and calm surrounding her.
"Oh you know, good days and bad days," she shrugged, "It's weird knowing he's not going to be running into the lab asking for a cadaver to test on,"
"I know what you mean," John replied, "How's work?"
"Oh you know, dead boring," Molly replied, bit her lip, then hastily added, "The pun was intended, I wasn't just being insensitive,"
"I guessed,"
Lestrade came in at that point, carefully balancing four wine glasses on a tray. "I'll just go get Mrs Hudson," he told them as he passed the glasses round to Molly and John, he put the last two glasses on the desk and left the flat.
"Where are you working then John?" Molly asked as she brushed a stray strand of her hair to the side, holding the glass of white wine on her leg.
"Just the local clinic," John told her with a shrug, "It's a bit boring and doesn't pay well, but at least it's a job, god knows it tough getting work out there at the moment,"
"Compared with running round London catching criminals I suppose anything would seem boring now," Molly said with small laugh, John grinned and nodded; finally relaxing back into the routine of being with friends.
"Yeah it does," John agreed, lifting his glass to take sip, the wine was cool and sweet, Lestrade had obviously bought an expensive brand.
"Don't drink too much, I think Greg wants to do toasts," Molly told him.
"What, is he trying to push the whole moving on thing?" John asked with a roll of his eyes.
Molly shifted in her seat, "Yeah I think so,"
John sighed and debated telling Molly about meeting Mrs Holmes, "I met Sherlock's mother today,"
Molly seemed to freeze, her doe brown eyes flicking to Johns face. "Really, what did she say?"
"She thinks Sherlock isn't dead," John told the mortician. He watched her bite the inside of her mouth before she finally answered.
"What do you think?" her voice shaking slightly.
"I can't imagine a world without Sherlock," he confessed, "I honestly can't, but I saw him fall, no one can come back from that, can they?"
Molly opened her mouth to say something when Mrs Hudson and Lestrade walked in, talking animatedly about how he managed to keep his job at Scotland Yard, unsurprisingly it had a lot to do with Mycroft. Mrs Hudson took Sherlock's seat, sitting on the edge gingerly, Lestrade handed her a glass of wine and cleared his throat.
"So," Greg began, "I thought we could use tonight as a way to move on, lord knows we should have already! Anyone want to say anything?"
Molly stood up, licking her lips as she smoothed down her skirt and cleared her throat.
"To Sherlock, because if he was here he would be utterly touched and hate us for it," she said and sat down as Lestrade and John laughed at the idea.
"Cheers!" they chorused.
While Lestrade said his piece about putting knock backs behind them and focusing on new hopes and goals for the future John wondered what he was going to say, after all he would have to say something, otherwise they would all start worrying that he was resenting the idea of moving on. To be honest he was, god know he wanted to move on, but something was holding him back; that was why he was going to talk to Mycroft tomorrow, he needed closure. Mrs Hudson spoke about how Sherlock had been like the son she had always wanted, not the carbon copy of his father she actually had and how she finally ready to just stop fighting and accept that he was dead. Then it was Johns turn.
"I'm not going to lie, I'm not ready yet," John admitted, Molly was watching him carefully with a masked expression that looked so close to cracking, "There's something holding me back, but I promise you all tonight that I'm going to find out what that is,"
"Cheers," Lestrade said, his expression unreadable, and they finally began to drink their drinks.
The rest of the evening passes quickly; jokes were passed, stories were told and support given by people who actually meant it. However John couldn't help feeling like an outsider, as if a glass wall was between him and his friends, he tried to not let it stop him from being social but sometimes he often felt like he was being more silent than anything. It was ten o'clock before the conversation began to slow and yawns began to pass, Mrs Hudson was the first one to leave, apologising profusely but assuring them all she couldn't possibly keep her eyes open for five more minutes.
Lestrade and Molly left together because he had offered to drive her home. The two of them had begun to grow close and John wondered if they might get together some time, god knows, Molly needed a boyfriend who wasn't a psychopath.
John lay awake in bed a while that night, his thoughts straying for ideas as to how Sherlock might have survived to the lack of tea in the cupboard. Surprisingly, he slept better than he had for a while.
