Title: Médecins Sans Frontières
Summary:After the fall John Watson is left a bereft and broken man. The people in his life are suffocating him and he finds that he can no longer stay in a place so tainted with memories of what he has lost. Extensive spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Sadly, I own no part of the BBC's Sherlock, nor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's eternal characters Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I just like to play with them.
His neck is wet with sweat and burnt from the blistering sun hanging high above his head. The weight of a gun slows him down as he runs, weaving in-between the crumbling buildings placed around him. There is the sound of explosions and gunfire behind him, in front of him, all around, but he doesn't stop, knowing that if he pauses for even a second that he'll be too late. Too late. Too late.
A whimper draws his attention and he sees a small form curled up in the shadow of a broken building. He slows, and steps up to the quivering body cautiously. As he nears he sees a small Afghani boy, lost and forgotten when the citizens were evacuated. The boy is clutching at his stomach and the doctor in John is surging forward before his fogged mind can make the connection. The boy was shot. Time moves forward again and John's hands are pressing on the wound and checking his pulse. The boy is young, much too young to live through this and John doesn't know what he was doing before but now it doesn't matter because he has to save this life.
As he tries to assess the damage the body beneath his hands begins to morph and terror grips at his chest. Tan skin becomes ghostly pale, chubby limbs become long and firm, a childish face changes into something ethereal. His breath catches in his throat as the body in his arms falls to land on the hot sand, no, not sand, concrete, blood pooling around empty, lifeless eyes. And he can't stop it. He can't fix it. He can't. He can't. He can't.
There's a shout, not English, and a sharp pain pierces him then wracks through him, but he's too far gone to discern if the unnatural agony ripping him is in his shoulder or his heart.
John wakes with a gasp, his hand clutching at his racing heart, his chest heaving even though he can't quite seem to catch his breath. This was too much. Every day he was plagued with thoughts of him, of his best friend, flashbacks of both the… fall, and his time in Afghanistan, worse than ever before, worse than they've ever been and yet, even at night, even in sleep, he could not find peace. There was never any peace.
"It's good to see you again John." The voice is timid but cheery, it's owner trying much too hard for a hint of normalcy, of happiness. She always tries too hard.
His eyes lift and John levels a glare at the speaker, his eyes softening just a bit because her expression is too earnest, too well meaning, for anger.
He sighs, "I saw you two days ago Molly. Here, in the same coffee shop you make me meet you every week."
She blushes and stammers a bit, trying for a coherent response. "Y-yes, bu-but, it's just, it's always nice to see you, um, up and about."
He doesn't deem this with a proper response, instead raising his eyebrows at the woman in front of him.
"Oh. Oh. No! I meant, um, it's just always nice to see you John." Molly says hurriedly, trying to cover up her mistake, hoping she hasn't crossed a line. Hoping she hasn't messed this up again.
"Goodbye Molly." He stands and turns away from her, leaving without a backward glance.
He hasn't walked more than a few blocks before he is accosted again. This time it is by a sleek black car that is pulling up to the curb next to him. He knows that he should have noticed it's slowing progress on the street nearby, but John hasn't been noticing a lot of things lately.
"Dr. Watson." The greeting is formal, but lacking in its former stiffness.
He supposes that on some level he should be flattered that Mycroft has come on his own this time. He should be pleased that the British Government deemed him important enough to make room in his busy schedule to get off his lazy arse and make an appearance, but he can't be bothered. The sight has happened far to often for John to feel any emotion, positive or negative, about it. He feels that way about most things these days.
"Piss off Mycroft." He continues walking, his eyes firmly fixed on the ground in front of him. He hears an irritated huff from the direction of the car and the vehicle resumes it's sluggish pace.
"Come now, John. I have nothing but-"
"My best interests at heart, yeah. I get it." John interrupts, still refusing to meet the overly familiar grey gaze aimed at him. He halts his step and hears Mycroft's driver curse as he hits the brakes and puts the car into reverse, pulling up to John once again. John can almost see in his mind the scathing look Mycroft surely flashes the chauffeur, and he almost pities the man who may lose his job for that little slip. Almost.
He lifts up his head and smirks in the direction of the car, still refusing for his eyes to focus on the man leaning out of the window. He snaps off a cheeky salute and fades into the alleyway behind his back. He walks backwards for a few steps before he turns around, giving himself a few seconds to judge his surroundings before he sets off in a run.
"John!" The voice is indignant and he's sure to have offended the older man but he can't bring himself to care. He falls into a familiar pace as he winds his way through alley after alley, taking back streets only when necessary. It's really quite nice, he's able to channel his thoughts in a way he hasn't been able to in a long time. He's focusing on placing one foot in front of the other like he's been forcing himself to do for the past three months, but this time he has a better purpose. He has to watch out for obstacles, dodging each one that gets in his way, all the while keeping track of where he's going, of the labyrinth that is London that he's spent the last two years mapping out with the only person that's ever mattered. It's clearing his mind in the most pleasant way and he is inherently grateful for the numbing silence that is his thoughts in this small moment of bliss.
He hasn't run for long before he feels a burn in his chest, a strain in his legs and he slows his pace, but they're more comforting than anything so he keeps going until he nears an alleyway he'd know in his sleep. He runs under the stone arch, through the small garden, and up the steps and he's crashing through the door of 221 before his mind has time to tell his legs to stop. They pull him forward further into the hall and when he finally comes to a halt he leans against the wall there in the entryway, trying to catch his breath, his head bent forward and his hands on his knees. He looks over to his left, a chuckle on his lips that almost bubbles out, but it disappears with his breath, as if they were both suddenly sucked harshly from his lungs at the sight that greets his eyes. There is no one beside him, no body heaving with the need to catch his breath and giggles to match his own, pale eyes alight with the chase.
There is no one there to share this with.
There is no one there at all.
He stumbles up the stairs in a trance, for the better part numb to the world, numb to the pain. He pushes his way into the flat, but the sight of the overly cluttered living room hits him hard, stealing his breath away. He stands there gasping in the doorway, shaking his head from side to side, faster faster, one word on his lips and tears in his eyes. No. No, no, no, no no nonononononono. He's still shaking his head and he can't catch his breath and he turns and he runs down the hall and up the stairs and he doesn't stop moving until he's under the covers of his bed, quenching out the light with a pillow over his head. That's when the sobs come and they wrack his frame, and there's something clawing at his chest and he grips it tight, trying to hold himself together, to fix whatever has been broken deep inside. He holds on for dear life but nothing can stop this pain inside of him and it's all he can do to stop himself from tearing apart.
He wakes hours later with a sore throat and puffy eyes. His head hurts, his chest aches, and it's all he can do to drag himself out of bed and down the stairs. His throat is dry and the need to soothe it overcomes every other. His mind is fogged over and his eyes refuse to focus on anything around him, he stumbles through the sitting room, into the kitchen, moving by memory, not by sight. His hands move of their own volition, dragging the tea bags out of their cupboard, filling the teapot with water.
A shrill whistle cuts through the air and he snaps his attention to it, unsure of when he put it on to boil. He pulls it off its burner before he turns his back on the stove, reaching for a mug-
His arm is stretched, reaching for something he cannot grasp, for someone that has always been just out of his reach.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me." The voice is frantic, desperate and broken. "Please will you do this for me?"
"Do what?"
"This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"
He shakes his head, the full understanding of this moment hitting him hard. He's frozen with fear but he still manages to croak out his next sentence, his voice shaking, "Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John."
He's still shaking his head but he can't stop this moment from happening, no matter what he does it just won't stop. "No. Don't."
Sherlock drops the phone somewhere behind him, spreading his arms to either side, then he's falling, falling.
A scream rips out of his chest, "No. SHERLOCK!"
"SHERLOCK!" He shouts the name into the empty flat, and his hand grips his chest, just over his heart as the sudden realisation of the past few months hits him hard. His gaze drops to the floor and the shattered remains of his mug, and his breath comes out in a soft "Oh."
"John?"
He looks up to find Mrs Hudson with a pink dressing grown clutched to her thin frame, eyes full of gentle concern. She takes in the mess he's made of the floor and she takes a cautious step forward, angling her slipper clad feet between the shards of broken glass.
"Oh John." She reaches her frail arms out and cradles the doctor to her chest, running a soothing hand down his neck and back. She doesn't say anything more, just holds him close and he lets her, his body shaking from the force of his sobs. They stand there until it's too much for John and he sags with exhaustion. Mrs Hudson gently ushers him up the stairs and into bed, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
He stares with empty eyes at the wall that runs opposite his bed. Tears fall in thick clumps onto his much abused pillow. His eyes fall shut as a pained moan claws it's way out of his throat and he's sobbing in earnest now, nothing in the dark stopping the pain that haunts his every moment.
His voice is cracking, and he's whimpering, but that doesn't stop him from saying the name to the shadows of his room, chanting it as broken sobs wrack through him. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
The light hurts his sensitive eyes, making him cringe as he comes back into consciousness. He turns, tries to block it out, but it's no use. Waking up never used to be this hard.
John is sure that he'd rather never wake again.
He has no choice today as the clucking voice of his mothering landlady cuts through the haze. She's pushing her way into the room and chiding him for sleeping in so late, hustling him out of bed and down the stairs. She allows him to make a stop at the bathroom, but before long she's ushering him into his chair, a tray of tea and pastries pushed into his hands. The chair is angled so that it is no longer facing it's companion, and they both ignore the empty seat, avoiding even the most accidental of glances towards the absurd sight of his now always-empty chair. Mrs Hudson hovers as he nibbles at the food, dithering on about how thin he is.
He still doesn't say anything. He hasn't talked much in the past few months.
When he finishes the platter Mrs Hudson heaves a contented little sigh and pats him on the shoulder before leaving the room.
He sleeps the rest of the day away.
His life is filled with monotony, a broken routine lived in a daze. He's sure there is some predictable pattern to his days, something that would have earned him a scathing glare for John having the gall to pretend to be anything resembling boring, but he no longer thinks that way. No longer tries to find patterns in human behaviour that were only so evident to the man he would have followed blindly to the ends of the earth.
In truth, he does not give much thought at all to the passing of time, the ticking of the clock chiming his life away. Sixty minutes does not mark another hour that he has survived. It marks another hour he has been left broken and alone. Another hour that he has lived without Sherlock Holmes by his side.
John never looks at the clock anymore.
He wakes at three, at noon, and at three again, not living his life by the light of day but by the exhaustion that threatens to envelop his existence.
He eats when he is forced to, and only leaves the flat when a particularly persistent person persuades him to do so. He talks only when spoken to.
He does not go in for shifts at the surgery. He does not go out for pub nights full of laughter and memories with Mike or Greg. He does not date.
He does not live.
John has stopped going to see his therapist. He went to her two or three times before he noticed that she had started writing down things like withdrawn, depressed, suicidal.
Sherlock was right. She was terrible at her job. John didn't need her.
Not once did he think that she might have been even a little bit right, not even when the number of Mycroft's 'visits' changed in frequency that coincided much too perfectly with her prognosis. He should have noticed that, should have made that connection. He never did.
.
John's patient file spoke legions more than the words he had seen hastily scrawled upside-down on a clipboard in a lonely room. They spoke of a man that has lost everything, lost hope, and the will to continue on, the will to live. It spoke of a man that has fallen. A man that is broken beyond repair.
It is needless to say that when the files graced Mycroft's desk he immediately ordered the surveillance on one Dr John H. Watson to be upgraded to top priority. He will not let the doctor lose himself in this. He will not fail his brother again.
He supposes that Molly is the most well-meaning, Mycroft the most persistent, Mrs. Hudson the kindest. But Lestrade was the most understanding.
When John came to him, drunk and full of vengeance, he stood there and let the doctor throw everything he had at him, every shout, tear, and insult, until there was no fight left. He stood there and took the abuse because he knew; knew he deserved this and knew John needed this. He had turned his back on a damaged man in his time of need, taken away the structural support of a crumbling life, and it was something he could never take back. Something he would do anything to take back. So he let John attack him with words and with his fists, and later they drank the pain away, not bothering to clean their wounds because they were left with a deeper heartache that would not heal.
After, Lestrade was the only one John did not mind seeing regularly. He did not push. He did not ask for more than what John could give, but he in turn gave John exactly what he needed. It did not matter what that entailed, whether he needed a person to listen while he would rant and shout, stopping him from crashing his fists into the walls, or someone to get pissed-poor drunk with that would ensure he made it home alive. Most of the time he just needed someone to be there, and Greg always was.
He wasn't like Mrs Hudson who tried to get him to talk, or like Molly who only talked. Sometimes him and Greg didn't speak at all.
Sometimes they did.
Greg had been married once before, to a woman named Julia. She was beautiful and witty, and she never put up with his crap. She was his first love and everything he never knew he wanted. It was years and years ago, before his hair was specked with grey, and they were newlyweds, young and in love, blissfully happy. A few months after their marriage they discovered she was with child, a bundle of joy that they would come to love and cherish.
This is the part in the story that Lestrade laughs darkly and takes another swig of his beer, trying to drown the bittersweet memories of his past. Of a love and life lost.
He hadn't worked for the Yard back then, and isn't it just hilarious that he would fall into that cliché? Living his life to serve and protect the lives of thousands in the name of the ones he could not save.
They had been out to dinner, to celebrate the news. He had had champagne, she water, and after they did not catch a cab home, instead favouring a leisurely stroll in the moonlight. It was supposed to be romantic. It was supposed to be perfect.
It happened much too fast. It was too dark and he never saw them coming. The fist that slammed into his gut knocked the wind out of him, he had clutched his hands to his stomach as the man raised something to his head, causing Greg to fall to the ground. A boot collided with his abdomen as hands rifled through his pockets. He saw through bleary eyes another man pulling on the straps of his Julia's purse, and he saw his wife fight her attacker for control of the bag, yelling his name as two men worked on holding him down. A gun was raised and he called out for her in a shout, as he was knocked unconscious, falling into the darkness with her name on his lips.
There were three of them, destructive men that left a trail of muggings in their wake, escalating in frequency and violence. Their victims were random. Their actions unpredictable.
It could have been anyone.
But it wasn't. Gregory lost his wife that day.
A pedestrian heard her scream and called for help. The two men that attacked him were found in a hideout a few blocks away. The shooter was not. The men would not give up their accomplice.
When Greg enrolled in the police academy, he did so with only one person in mind, and he threw himself into it, graduating at the top of his class. But something else happened. He found out he was good at it. He enjoyed being a detective, and he rose through the ranks before he was ever allowed the time to go over a case now gone cold. Her murderer was never found.
But he will never forget the face of the man that took away the love of his life and his unborn child.
It was the motivation behind his work. Why he poured himself into cases, and wasn't afraid to turn to others for help. He could not let another killer go free.
He understood. He knew what it was like to lose the most important thing in your life. To feel like the world stopped only to have it all coming crashing down around you. He knew what it was like to lose the person you love.
John still isn't sure how he feels about that. Greg relating to his pain by recounting how he had lost. It feels too much and not enough. He and Sherlock were not in love, and he feels intrusive and guilty that Greg might share in his closely guarded pain under false pretences, believing them to be the same. Yet at the same time, he is angry, because Greg does not know. They do not know what he has lost. They do not understand, they can never understand this pain.
He does not need someone to relate, someone to sympathise and pity him. He does not need this. So he leaves again, and when they meet Lestrade no longer tries to share in John's pain, and he goes back to being the steadying hand on his shoulder, the non-judgemental pat on the back.
John both hates and craves these meetings, but Lestrade is the least painful to see. He is easier than the tears he finds on Mrs. Hudson's bony cheeks, the heartbreak he sees in Molly's face, the familiarity in Mycroft's eyes. Lestrade is just close enough, yet just far enough away that he can let himself get lost in their easy banter and pretend for a moment that they're just normal mates out for a pint. Pretend that he doesn't see the way Lestrade watches him, that he hasn't noticed him scanning the flat for god-knows-what on the rare occurrences he's let inside. He ignores it because he thinks the truth would be too much to bear.
His bedroom is darkly lit with the shine of the evening light. The old box of memories has been pulled from underneath his bed, and documents and medals are strewn across his tidy floor. In his right hand is a letter, in his left a photograph. And as he looks into the smiling faces of the men pictured and tries not to think, (two dead, one crippled, all irreparably damaged from war) a memory comes to him, one of the better ones from his time in service.
"So Johnny, where you going after the war?" Bill gives him a few good natured jabs in the ribs, bypassing the arm that tries to slap him away and mussing up a sandy blonde head. "Got a bird back home do ya? She prettier than I am?" His eyes are alight with mischief and it looks decidedly wicked with his bright red head.
"Nah, she's not, but I'm not sure your sister would like to hear that." John shoots back teasingly.
"Bet she's better than him in the sack though." Jack pipes in.
"Oi! None of that! You lot don't get to talk about my sister! Specially you Jack. Damn horny Yank." He scoffs, his tone betraying his words.
Jack gives them both an exaggerated wink. "You know you like it."
"If we did we would have bedded you months ago you great flirt," comes a voice from the other side of the tent before a young face with startling green eyes and dark brown hair pops in through the slit of a door. "Oh hello, the gang's all here. Come on George, Frank, I've found them."
Jack's face lights up with delight. "Roberts! Come to mesmerize us all with those gorgeous eyes of yours? I know I could do with getting lost."
John just rolls his eyes as the two joke back and forth, firing clever quips while Bill and Frank make bets in the background. This is the one good thing he'll take home with him after the war.
After everything is settled and Jack has stopped trying to pull the young brunette into his lap, the talk turns back to what they're all going to do after the war. It does no good to acknowledge what might happen if they don't all make it so they don't even try, talking as if tomorrow is as sure as it was when they were kids.
Bill does have a girl back home, Hannah, and he plans to put a ring on her finger the minute he's able. Frank is the only one of them that is married already and his main concern is making sure his wife doesn't become a widow before forty. George is going to go back to school, and Jack is as cocky as ever, sure as hell that he's either going to 'wing it' or travel the world. Roberts is the only one with a real plan of a career and a future, but he always was bright, one of the best medics on John's team.
"I'm going to join the Doctors without Borders program." He states, as if everything is finalized already.
"This kid and his saving lives kink. Hero's complex if I ever saw one." Jack says with a shake of his head and a friendly twinkle in his eye. "Going to go save some kids from malaria, Sammy?"
"Hey! I've saved more lives than you you smug bastard!"
"Yeah, and Johnny here's saved more than the both of you combined but you don't see him bragging." George chips in, giving John a pat on the back.
"Right. We musn't forget our darling Captain. All shall bow down to the merciful Watson!" Jack exclaims before getting up to do exactly that, kneeling at John's feet with a cheeky grin on his face.
"Get up, you nutter, before you have to remove merciful from my name." John kicks out, his boot softly connecting with the man's stomach before Jack snaps off a salute and stands as swiftly as if it were an order.
They're all laughing now, Bill is practically bent over with the force of it, and the memory fades away with a faint voice asking, "So, Doctors without Borders yeah?"
And just like that John knows. Knows what he has to do and who he has to call. He rifles through the contents of the small box and pulls out a slip of paper with nothing more than a number and the name Roberts printed on it in a neat script.
Please leave some feedback, I would like to know if this is worth continuing or not. Thank you for reading.
Next time:
He does not venture out of the flat more than what has been his norm for the past few months, he does not change his routine in the slightest, and to an outsider it would seem that nothing of importance has happened at all. Yet on his infrequent excursions into the land of the living, John begins cataloging. His sharp military-trained eyes catch every CCTV camera, every sleek government vehicle, every cleverly concealed agent. He opens up his eyes, and he observes.
If there was one thing Sherlock knew that he did not delete for the sheer value it had in aggravating his older brother, it was his extensive knowledge of Mycroft's blind spots.
Everyone he knows has been coddling him like a precious China doll, handing him off seamlessly to the next person in their silent game of pass the John, treating him as damning-ly fragile as he knows he is inside.
"You need to stop blaming yourself."