Hi. Another post RF fic. Sherlock is having feeeeels.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. He is in the best possible hands.
Sherlock did not miss John.
Missing John was irrelevant.
Missing John was useless.
Missing John was dull.
Missing John would not bring down Moriarty's web of unsavory and malicious reprobates.
Missing John would not help him sleep.
Missing John would not improve his aim with a firearm.
Missing John would not help him crack codes, decipher clues or track criminals.
Missing John would not keep John, Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade safe.
Missing John would not keep Sherlock alive.
Missing John would not force him to eat.
Missing John would not deter him from shooting up.
Sherlock did not miss John.
At least not anymore.
After his vanishing act on the roof top of Bart's, his insides had squirmed as he'd watched John grieve for him.
He'd nearly winced and given the game away when, after speaking with Molly in the doorway of the morgue, John had spent twenty minutes in the hallway heaving into a bin.
He'd felt.. too much.
When Mycroft arrived later with a hearse to collect him, his brother had noticed Sherlock's emotional upheaval. Mycroft sighed tersely. "One week Sherlock."
Sherlock declined to respond, focusing his attention instead on the pain radiating through his right shoulder. His landing had not gone as planned.
The next day was torturous. Sherlock was confined in what he confirmed at a glance was his brother's personal nuclear fallout shelter. It was located beneath their family home and was no doubt constructed clandestinely, with no submitted building permit and would not appear in any existing blueprints.
Mycroft had left Sherlock with assurances that he would be quite safe and completely undetectable and, with that, had sealed him in with absolutely nothing to do.
Except miss John. And worry about him.
Had his limp returned? Likely, given his extreme reaction to the event and his proclivity for diverting emotional distress into his limb function.Had he eaten today? Was he staying at the flat? Had he touched the toxic mold Sherlock had been incubating on one of the radiators? Was he giving into his genetic predisposition for alcoholism? Had he recovered and gone on one of his consummately heterosexual outings with Sarah. No. Not Sarah. Janet? Jane? Martha? Donna? Amy? The string of females was dull, one-note, sophomoric and not worth wasting the precious memory in his hard drive. What if John had been taken by one of Moriarty's men?
Sherlock slammed the heel of his hand into his forehead, trying uselessly to end the torrent of thoughts ripping through his brain. He was done speculating. What he needed was data. It was too dangerous, trying to form a conclusion based purely on conjecture. There was a large red phone on the wall. Obviously this was a secure outside line. Sherlock ripped the phone, cradle and all, out of the wall. Upon examining the hardware, he was able to determine that this phone was not wired in a closed circuit. It would be possible to dial any number from this location. Next he cannibalized the security camera that was mounted on a far corner of the ceiling. After collecting a few other components, Sherlock was able to use an ancient television to tap into Mycroft's security feed from 221B.
John was sitting in his chair. He was... doing nothing? Staring at Sherlock's chair? Staring into middle distance or what is know as "spacing out"? -a thing which John had often accused him of..
Difficult to tell at this distance.
Sherlock scanned John with his eyes, trying to assess his mood, his needs, his physical condition.
John sat in his chair.
Sherlock watched, desperate for any scrap of data, any indication, any hint from John.
John sat in his chair.
He did not move.
He rarely blinked.
He barely breathed.
It got so dark in the flat, Sherlock could barely make out John's silhouette. Mrs. Hudson came up and turned on a light. She spoke to John. She made him tea. John looked at her. He held the tea-cup. He smiled weakly. After Mrs. Hudson left, John carefully set the tea on the table.
John sat in his chair.
John looked at his phone. It was ringing. He turned the ringer off and put the mobile in his pocket.
He turned the lamp off and shuffled up the stairs.
Sherlock cursed the picture quality, unable to determine if John was showing traces of a limp or not.
Sherlock spent the next two days writing John a letter. An explanation, for when the time was right. He kept the feed from 221B going, incase John should appear, but it was in vain.
Sherlock decided he was terrible at letters. He collected his failed attempts and burned them, necessitating his move upstairs while Mycroft and Anthea dealt with the smoldering wreckage.
On the fifth day, Mycroft gave Sherlock an untracible, prepaid phone for his exile from London. Sherlock texted Molly.
Where is He? -Me
Oh! Hi? He is staying at this hotel across town. -Molly
Have you spoken? -Me
Oh, yes. A bit yesterday. I came by with some things he'd forgotten. -Molly
What exactly did He say? -Me
Um. Hmm. He said "Thanks for this. You're a dear. " I asked how he was getting on and he said "Well, you know.. How are you holding up Molls? Need anything? Tea?" I said no, thanks and he said "I've no wish to be rude, but if you don't mind, I was just thinking about a nap." I told him of course and off I went. -Molly
How did he seem?-Me
Oh. Well. A bit sad. Quiet. -Molly
Call him -Me
What? Why? -Molly
Ask how he is. -Me
Umm.. -Molly
You're right. Better record it this time. Your description is useless, you missed everything of importance. -Me
Sherlock listened to the recording eighty-seven times. All he could determined was John found Molly's question inappropriate and irritating.
Mycroft agreed there should be no funeral.
A stone was erected.
Sherlock knew John would visit. Of course he would. Sentiment.
Sherlock demanded to be driven to the graveyard everyday. He sat in a car with blacked out windows and waited for John. When John finally came, on the seventh day after Sherlock's fall, Sherlock forced himself not to leap from the car and run to him. After Mycroft's men declared the area clear, Sherlock exited the vehicle and crept towards John. He carefully positioned several tall monuments and trees between them. From down-wind of John, Sherlock could hear everything.
It was just too much.
Without John, Sherlock could not function properly.
He would never be able to hunt down the traces of Moriarty's network in this condition.
But if he failed, he could never return to his former life.
Sherlock climbed into the black sedan that pulled along side him.
Mycroft eyed Sherlock critically. "Enough. Enough now."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded his assent.
Sherlock emerged from his mind-palace a few hours later. The car stopped at a dock, where a small fishing boat stood waiting.
Sherlock Holmes did not miss John Watson.
He did not.
He would not make that mistake.
And as long as he did not miss John, it was possible he might see him again someday.