John couldn't believe that Sherlock was dead. It was… inconceivable. There was no way that a man that intelligent could have killed himself for no apparent reason. There was just no way.
He didn't believe that "I researched you, John," line either. Sherlock was no fraud. Sherlock's first words to John had been "Iraq or Afghanistan?" That was back when Sherlock hadn't even met him before. Mike Stamford wouldn't have lied to him about telling Sherlock beforehand. Sherlock Holmes was no fraud.
They had found Moriarty's body on the roof. He had shot himself. Why would the hired actor, Richard Brook, do that? No reason, that's why.
John searched and searched, looking for anything that would clear Sherlock's name. He lost his job. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson badgered him endlessly to stop. Donovan and Anderson snickered at him behind his back. He wouldn't give up. He wasn't paying his bills. John had asked Mrs. Hudson when their— his rent would expire. She told him that he could stay there as long as he liked, Mycroft was footing the bill. John, as noble as he was, thought that it was fitting after his betrayal of Sherlock, and so didn't object.
The searching really had been a waste of time. He found nothing, though it did give him something to focus on, to keep himself from falling into boredom or depression. It did no good to anyone, but it ended up not mattering. He read one morning, six months after the Sherlock's fall, in The Sun an article retracting Kitty Riley's, saying that Sherlock Holmes was no fraud and that Richard Brook really hadn't ever existed. James Moriarty had been a consulting criminal and the world should benefit from his death.
John was almost positive that it was by Mycroft's hand that Sherlock was brought back to the side of the light in the eyes of the public. Another proof that Sherlock was alive. There was no point in righting Sherlock's reputation if he wouldn't at some point be coming back. Gods, John missed his flat-mate.
For the first time since Sherlock's "death," John wrote in his blog.
My good friend, Sherlock Holmes, has finally had his reputation restored, thanks to a revealing article in The Sun. I know some will not trust in this article, naming him a trusted man, just as I know some did not trust in the previous article that called him a fraud. I am proud of him, as a friend. He was a great man, a smart man, a kind man. Perhaps he was not as full of tact as would have aided him. Perhaps he could have learned to hold his tongue when necessary. Perhaps he was not as "human" as some would have liked him to be. But human he was, and the least that we can do is remember him as the man he was, and not as the man the press has made him out to be.
John did not type out that he knew Sherlock to be alive. He was sure that Sherlock was pretending to be dead for a reason, and he didn't want to spoil it. And also, most others, or really, all others, thought Sherlock to be dead, and for him to keep saying that Sherlock was alive could only harm his reputation in the end.
The Scotland Yarders were annoying enough on their own, without him giving them more ammunition. Lestrade was decent to John, though the pity in his eyes cut at John. Molly (thought she wasn't really of Scotland Yard) avoided him steadily. Sgt. Donovan was annoying. She had never apologized for her hand in Sherlock's arrest, though she did not harp John like she used to, and he supposed that that was her own brand of apology.
Anderson though…Anderson was bloody irritating. He would not shut up. He just went on and on and on about the "freak" being a murder. John had taken avoiding them all, just so he wouldn't have to look at Anderson's face.
John would have given anything to hear Sherlock degrade the man using naught but his wit. John couldn't help but miss his, (dare he say it?) best friend. He wished to argue over the milk and lack-there-of. He wanted to taunt the man over his lack of knowledge of the solar system. He wanted to listen as the man rattled off information about anyone he came across. John could not help but wish for what he thought to be impossibility, at least for the time being.
A full year after Sherlock's death, John decided he had had enough. He, despite knowing Sherlock was not buried beneath that black headstone, was not able to fully concentrate. His mind was ever awhirl with the thoughts on Sherlock.
Was he safe?
Where was he?
Was he in danger?
When was he coming home?
Would he be coming home?
Could John help Sherlock in any way?
John could not keep a job. John did not need to keep a job. Stipends were put into his bank account each month. From Mycroft, he guessed. (Sherlock would hate that John would rely on guessing).
John was so bored he even briefly debated shooting up the wall. This however was quickly filed away as stupid, stupid! So bored, yet when he set his mind to doing something, he found that he could not concentrate over the angry (desperate, whimsical, melancholic) questions.
This is how John came to the decision, he had had enough. Sherlock would come home whether or not he had planned to. And anyone who had fought by the side of Captain Watson could attest to the fact that, when John Watson decided that something was going to happen, and that it was for the good of everyone, then it would happen.
Sherlock was gone a year before he received a text that was truly troubling.
Occasionally, Mycroft would relate to him a missive that Molly Hooper (the only friend of old that knew of his living) had written to him about something important from London. Usually it had to do with John, (how sad he was, how he couldn't keep a job) but sometimes it was about the Yarders.
Sherlock was, coincidentally, just finishing up, and was planning on returning to England. He had tracked down each part of Moriarty's web, and had unraveled it, thread by thread. He had travelled all over the world. His friends: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and most importantly, John, would be able to see him again, soon.
But then, he had gotten a short text from Mycroft ordering him to check on John's Blog. Sherlock had seen the post John had written about him six months past, but this one was such a stark contrast to that one that Sherlock, had he been ordinary, might have thought it was written by another person altogether. But, Sherlock had known John long enough to recognize his own flat-mate's writing style, and it tore at his heart. (Metaphorically).
I cannot live like this. He was my best friend, and I couldn't even stop him from taking his own life. The scene keeps playing itself over and over again in my head. He's a black silhouette against the sky, telling me to watch him, to keep my eyes on him. Is it a curse? That now, even when he has stopped falling, I keep seeing him. His arms spin, trying to grasp something to stop his fall. The final proof of his humanity. I hear the crunching splat as he hits the sidewalk. Blood. The blood is awful. I've been in war, I've killed people, I've amputated limbs, but nothing compares to the way the blood pooled around the detective's face. I feel so, inadequately pedestrian, as the first thought that crosses my mind is "Sherlock would love to examine that blood splatter pattern."
So, I have decided I cannot live like this. Is it not better to see my friend again, as a person, not a corpse? Or should I continue in this already half-dead state? The latter is not at all appealing, and I find that I leave myself with only one option.
So here is my note, because, isn't that what people do? Leave notes?
Good-bye.
It took an embarrassing long time for Sherlock to gain control once more over his emotions (a full 13.6 seconds) and to text Mycroft telling him that he was coming home. He would stop John. His only friend couldn't die.
Something in the back of his head was nagging at him, something he had missed, but he was sure that he would think of it later, and now, John was all that mattered.
The Scotland Yarders, Lestrade in particular, still checked Dr. Watson's blog occasionally. Lestrade wasn't sure why he even bothered. He knew that Sherlock wasn't coming back. There would be no more blog posts about the only consulting detective's cases. He worried about John, though, so he checked it just in case there was anything really important on it.
Six months after the detective's death, John posted something. Lestrade read it immediately and was pleased, in a sad sort of way. It seemed that John was finally accepting Sherlock's death and would hopefully move on.
Lestrade, if John had asked, would have told John that he should probably move out of the flat, maybe out of London altogether, so he could have a clean start at a new life. John hadn't asked, and Lestrade was surprisingly glad for it. He didn't want to see the look on John's face that the conversation would no doubt have caused. Perhaps, Lestrade hoped, John would get over it on his own. Secretly Lestrade did not think this was likely at all, but he tried to keep an optimistic outlook.
One year after Sherlock's suicide, Dr. Watson posted something that made Lestrade's blood run cold. It was a suicide note. Lestrade was shocked. He had thought that John was getting better. Granted, he hadn't seen him in a while, but he thought the good doctor had been stronger than this.
Lestrade put down the half of ham sandwich he had been holding and stood quickly. He needed to find Dr. Watson before he did anything drastic. On the way out he grabbed Sgt. Donovan. She may not be the most kind or tactful of police officers, but she was his second-in-command, and he needed someone to back him up in this.
They checked 221B first. No John. Mrs. Hudson said that John had left some time ago. He looked very determined, and hadn't even noticed when Mrs. Hudson had asked where he was going. Then they went to St. Bart's. They found him nowhere, not in the morgue, not in the lab, not on the roof that Sherlock had jumped off of.
"I don't think he'll be somewhere they frequented." Donovan put in, exasperation covering her worry.
"Well," Lestrade asked, irritated and concerned. "Where do you think he would have gone?"
"Sherlock's grave."
Lestrade groaned. "I should have thought of that. All right, let's go find him."
Sherlock knew where John would be. He would be Sherlock's grave, probably saying some sentimental goodbye before he swallowed enough pills to kill a rhino.
Sherlock knew it would be drugs.
John was too considerate to kill himself in a way that would leave a big mess that someone would have to clean up. That ruled out jumping off a building, shooting himself, slitting his wrist, and all of the like.
Plus, John was a doctor; he had access to any medicine that he could possibly want. It was just like John to be so sentimentally normal and ordinary as to commit suicide because Sherlock had "died."
Sherlock arrived at his grave at noon. Part of his mind had been worried that John would have already done it, but he shut that part down, knowing that it would not do anyone any good.
His first glimpse of John in a year was of his back. He knew it was John, he would never mistake anyone else for John. His posture was too severe, obviously military. He tilted slightly to the right, favoring his bad left shoulder. Not to mention he was wearing one of his many, easily-recognizable jumpers.
John was sitting in front of the headstone, blocking Sherlock's view of it. He was just sitting in silence, sipping something out of a thermos flask. He didn't seem worried about anything.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes as something clicked into place in his brain.
"It was a jab at me, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked, knowing the answer.
John turned slowly to look at Sherlock, and when at last the consulting detective saw John's full face, he could see him smiling widely.
John woke up early to get ready for his visit to Sherlock's grave. He showered and shaved. He dressed in his most comfortable clothes. He made two flasks of tea, one the way he liked it, and one the way Sherlock liked it. He grabbed whatever prescription drugs he had in the flat, just in case someone looking to stop him searched the flat. He also grabbed the can of yellow spray paint Sherlock had kept from the case with the Black Lotus.
John left the flat and at the bottom of the stairs ran into Mrs. Hudson. She asked him something, but he wasn't sure what. All of his insecurities were circling around in his brain.
What if Sherlock didn't show up?
What if someone from Scotland Yard read the post and came after him?
What if John wasn't important enough for Sherlock to come back?
What if Sherlock saw through John's lie and didn't come?
John made a noncommittal grunt and pushed past Mrs. Hudson. He was glad that she just took it in stride and wished him off with just a "So long, dear."
John went by taxi to the cemetery. He made his way quickly and easily to Sherlock's empty grave. John sat down in the space before it.
"I think that you and I need a heart to heart. So you had better show up soon."
John took out the yellow spray paint can and shook it, hearing the ball inside rattle against its tin sides. He did a test spray, then, below Sherlock's name, John sprayed in large letters the word: Liar, and in smaller letters: He's not dead.
John knew that if Sherlock didn't come, then people would find it rather an odd thing to write.
Actually, if Sherlock did come, Sherlock would find it weird.
John didn't care. He was tired of being lonely, and he was angry at Sherlock, but just a little. So, defacing Sherlock's headstone was kind of cathartic.
John leaned back, took out his flask, and began to sip his tea.
Not too much longer, a very familiar voice said "It was a jab at me, wasn't it?"
John couldn't help the huge smile that split his face. Hearing that melodious baritone was so achingly familiar that John couldn't help but smile. He turned to face the man slowly, afraid that if he moved too quickly, he would find Sherlock wasn't really there, and he had just been hallucinating.
But no, when he finally found himself facing the consulting detective, he saw that Sherlock was just as he remembered. He had his wool jacket around him, and even had that same blue scarf that he always wore, around his neck.
"Hello Sherlock."
"Wasn't it a jab at me? That second-to-last line? You said 'So here is my note, because, isn't that what people do? Leave note?' You weren't saying that in order to show that we shared something, both of us committing suicide. But no one else had heard that. No, that was a jab at me, personally. You knew that I wasn't dead, and you used that line to make fun of me, to make me come running."
"Well, you're not a consulting detective for nothing" John answered.
Sherlock's lips quirked in a quick sketch of a smirk before it he once again hid his amusement under a mask of boredom.
"Tea?" John asked, offering the flask he had made for Sherlock.
Sherlock took the offered flask.
"Care to come home?" John asked, avoiding eye contact and acting nonchalant.
"Yes. John, let's go home."
No one saw them on the way home, and once back at the flat, they had a total of forty minutes to themselves before someone came to interrupt them.
"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, coming up the stairs, "the police are at the door, should I let them in?"
She opened the door, and was half-way across the room, before realizing that Sherlock was sitting on the armchair, his elbows resting on the armrests, with his hands pressed together in a motion not unlike that of praying, beneath his chin.
Mrs. Hudson fainted.
John sprung forward, catching her before she had a chance to hit the ground.
John looked toward Sherlock and sighed in fond exasperation. "Would you go up to my room and fetch my first aid kit?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows imperiously.
John narrowed his eyes.
Sherlock sighed in a most put-upon manner, but gracefully levered himself out of the chair before heading up to John's room.
In the silence that followed in Sherlock's wake, John heard the tread of footsteps coming up the stairs. Lestrade and Donovan made their way through the open door to find John cradling the head of his unconscious landlady.
Lestrade ran his hand down his face. "Ok, will someone please tell me what's going on? John, you're not really thinking of ending your life, are you?"
"Not over the freak, at least." Donovan said smarmily.
John looked down sheepishly. "I don't plan on committing suicide, ever. Sorry for worrying you. I just was trying to make a point."
"To who?" Lestrade asked, tired and confused.
"To whom, Inspector Lestrade." A familiar baritone corrected from behind the two Scotland Yarders. "And I believe, he was trying to convince me to come back. Or to at least gain my attention."
Lestrade and Donovan turned to face a man they thought had died.
"You— you're dead!" Sgt. Donovan stuttered, a horrified look on her face.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously not, Sergeant."
Lestrade was staring at the very-much-not-dead-detective with something akin to wonder. "Dear God, Sherlock. What's going on."
"I should think it very obvious. I faked my death."
"Yes, but…why?"
John interrupted. "Perhaps we could do this another time?" He gave a pointed look at Mrs. Hudson. They could talk about this later, when their landlady had reawakened.
"Er…yes." Lestrade said, clearly out of his element. John thought that given some time, he would adapt to the situation. But for now, he needed some time to think. "Come by the stations sometime." He then led a still wide-eyed Sgt. Donovan out of the flat.
"Well, John," Sherlock said, dropping the first aid kit off with John before returning to his vacated armchair. "Tell me, what had been going on since I've left."
It didn't take long for word to spread about Sherlock being back. John was rather relieved that no one they talked to seemed to still think he was a fraud and murderer. In fact, the cases seemed to be rushing in.
Sherlock, at that very moment, was scanning over a case folder he had recently received. With an excited snap, he closed the file and stood up.
"John, get your coat."
He rushed around the flat, getting dressed himself.
"We're going out."
John followed Sherlock's lead and began getting ready to head out. He had no doubt that in due time, Sherlock would explain what was going on. They rushed down the stairs, Sherlock still putting his scarf on. They reached the front door, and with unrestrained glee, Sherlock wrenched it open.
"Come on John. The game is on."