The personal blog of Dr John H. Watson, March 04th
It is harder to start this than I imagined it would be. Partially, it is so hard because it opens wounds I hoped closed. But also…I do not remember much.
If you have ever been in a state of absolute shock, then you know what I mean. You see everything, but you see nothing. You hear someone talking to you, but the words are lost the second you hear them. You are cold, completely numb. Your time sense goes awry, everything moves in slow motion, and hour pass in minutes.
It is as if the world is nothing but a screen and you are only watching. Nothing seems real anymore, but you know it is.
And you remember, but you don't.
Is that too philosophical? Maybe. But I find no better words to tell you how I felt left standing at the hospital's entrance while Sherlock's body was wheeled inside. I know I must have stood there for a while, staring at the blood on the concrete. I know Lestrade came, and I know he tried talking to me. I barely remember what he said…I know I told him Sherlock's dead…I know I walked inside at some point…getting treated…and them I remember the NSY, being in an interrogation room, and I remember that I noticed only three hours had passed, while I thought it must have been at least ten.
I remember they questioned me for days….I remember I was home the same evening.
I don't know much about the questions they asked me, and to this very day I wonder why they questioned my when I suffered from a light concussion and an obvious shock.
To be fair, it wasn't that obvious after all. I looked into the protocol when the Chief Superintendent threatened me with a hearing because of my attack, and, surprisingly, my answers were all very coherent and detailed. A little coarse, maybe, when they wouldn't shut up about the fraud-bullshit, but I think I can be forgiven for that, can't I?
Anyways, the only thing I do remember clearly is that Dimmock, who was questioning me then, told me they had found Moriarty's body…he said Richard Brook, but I guess, it all meant the same…and I remember saying 'good'.
It wasn't the smartest move, maybe, but it was the full, honest truth.
And here I went, writing a full summary when I tried writing an introduction. But I promised myself...this will not be another story. I have had enough of stories and fairy tales. This is what my psychologist told me to do. I write what comes into my head, and I hope it changes some opinions out there…or, at least, fastens the believe of the smart people out there, those who know it all was true.
Well then, let me begin….
June 10th, St. Bartholomew's Hospital
What brought them to Saint Bartholomew's were two calls: One, there had been a jumper. Second, a security officer had seen John Watson standing at the back gate.
A connection between the two calls, only two minutes apart, seemed so far-fetched Lestrade never made it.
He didn't even made it when he reached John and tried to speak to him and got nothing but a blank stare going through him, still trying to look at the blood the jumper (Dimmock had rushed past them, gone inside to take the case) had left on the concrete.
"Where's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, but John didn't answer. He simply stared past them. "John, where's Sherlock?" This silence was disturbing him and he grabbed John's arm in an almost desperate attempt to catch his attention. "Is he inside?"
Finally, there was a reaction. John looked up from the puddles of blood he had been staring at, but still, the eyes that looked at Lestrade now were barely focused, nothing but glassy, lifeless marbles…though they shimmered with a veil of tears.
Lestrade felt guilt clamping his stomach, but nevertheless, when John jerkily nodded, a small part of him couldn't help but to be relived. His job was saved if he brought Sherlock in…and Sherlock surely would be able to prove he was not guilty. "Where?" he pressed on, giving John a small shake as he didn't answer. "John, don't make this worse for you. Where is he?"
John looked at him, at the floor, and shook his head. Lestrade thought it meant 'I won't tell.'
Cursing silently, he let go of the other man's shoulders. Something, he called it guilt even though he knew it was a form of self-disgust - John, wounded and bleeding and in trouble and still so loyal and it tore his heart apart that he couldn't be like this - tried to paralyze him, but he turned away and towards the door…
His hand was on the door handle when John finally spoke up, his voice flat and small. "You're too late."
Lestrade looked at him. John's eyes were still glassy, but at least, he had lifted his gaze. "What do you mean, we're too late?" Had Sherlock just dropped John off after he had gotten wounded somehow? "Where did he go? Did he tell you, John?"
"Lestrade…"
"John, I know you only want to help him, but letting him become a fugitive won't…"
"Greg. Sherlock, he…" John broke of and swallowed, his voice became shaky, high, and Lestrade still didn't get it. "He's dead."
Lestrade stood there, gaping. He could feel his mouth opening and closing like a fish – and that was almost exactly how he felt, like a trout that had been dragged out of the water and thrown onto the cold floor, the world a place he didn't understand, because it couldn't be…
"He's dead," John repeated, as if he had to convince himself. "He jum…he fell."
Fell. And suddenly, everything clicked into place. The jumper. Sherlock was the dead jumper.
Except, he couldn't be. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible.
He was still standing there, just staring, when a nurse shoved him aside to usher John inside – the blood in his hair that Lestrade had noticed, but ignored, apparently was from a wound on his head – he still stood there when Dimmock came back out with obvious shock contorting his features and helplessly stared back, and he still stood like this when a car came to a stop with screeching tires and Donovan jumped out.
He was not clear enough to tell her what had happened, but, luckily, a headshake kept her from asking anything. At least so far.
She even was silent when the entrance doors swung open again, revealing John in his old leather jacket, staring into the world as if he wasn't seeing it…except, he seemed to see them. And then, something about him…changed.
Slumped shoulders straightened. His head rose. His back stiffened. His chest puffed out just a bit. And then, John walked up to them, stopped, stood still and folded his hands behind his back, completing the stiff, but somehow natural-looking military posture he had schooled his body into. His face was neutral and calm, perfecting the picture of the calm soldier. It was so far from the shocked, pained horror that had twisted his face earlier that Lestrade was worried about how deep exactly John had gone into shock.
Before he could say anything, though, John already nodded at the newcomers and turned to Dimmock. "You will bring me in, then?"
For a moment, both men could only stand there gaping, then Dimmock managed to find his voice. "I don't…No, I won't. I'm here about…another case, .but I'll have to debrief you once we're at the station."
"Right." Even John's voice had become calm and clipped. "Can we put it behind us, then?"
"Now, just…just wait a second." Donovan stepped forward and Lestrade willed her, with all the power he had left, to keep quiet. He didn't have much power left, though. She still spoke, asking what had been going through her mind since she had arrived. "Just you? Where's the freak?"
Something flickered over John's face at that, but he kept calm. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle with the sidekick, Detective," he friendly said. "Sherlock's dead. Congratulations."
And then, while Donovan was still sputtering in shock, gaping at him and at the three men openly, disbelievingly –the last curveball Sherlock would ever throw them, and it was one hell of a throw – he turned back at Lestrade, openly looked into his face (though his eyes did not look, his eyes were still distant, still glassy, still seeing something invisible to everyone else) and raised his chin.
"Shall we go, then?"
Incapable of speaking, Lestrade gestured to the car and as he watched John open the back door with unshaking hands, definitely retreating into his famous we-versus-them military calm, he suddenly wondered not how, but when exactly they had become John's enemies.
The personal blog of Dr John H. Watson, March 04th, cdt.
I brought Mrs Hudson home after she was done being questioned. It was hard to wait. I stood in the foyer and everybody who passed me stared at me. Anderson even stopped for a moment when he came in, looked at me as if he wanted to say something, but then, he didn't.
I think it was for the better. If he had said something disrespectful, I might have hit him, too…and I think, even 'sorry' would have seemed disrespectful to me in that moment. What right would he have had? I have to hand it to him, though: He restrained himself even though I know he wanted to rub my face in it. Later, he did…but I'll tell you about that when I get there. Back then, he looked at me for a moment and walked away.
Anyways, when I was allowed, I brought her back to Baker Street. In a taxi, of course. I think I ended up in a taxi every time I went anywhere with Sherlock…I remember thinking, 'it started with a taxi ride, now it ends with one'. It didn't end there, of course.
I don't remember who paid the driver. It might have been Lestrade at the station, but I don't know.
We were in her flat, first. I made us tea. While I did it, it found fingers in the fridge, grey powder in the sugar box and chemically distorted spoons and I first began recognizing what would still take me a while to fully grasp: I would not be able to stay here for long. Not without him. I could never bear to see all the signs that he had been here, the bullet holes, the burn holes, the occasional holey body parts (weird as that may sound).
We talked little – she said she expected him to barge though the doors any second now and I said I couldn't believe it because he was supposed to outlive god – and then, we both felt like crying. Neither of us managed to finish their tea. We both felt too sick.
The silence was pressing down on me, but I didn't want to leave her alone, so we just sat there, trying to wrap our minds around the fact that Sherlock Holmes was gone. It was not before midnight that I finally found it in me to excuse myself, remove the dishes and hug Mrs Hudson tightly before leaving her alone.
Back then, I pretended it was because I felt she needed to be alone…but in fact, it was me who needed to mourn by myself.
I swayed on my way up the stairs. My left hand was almost trembling too hard to shove the key into the hole. It worried me a little, I feared I might slip back into what I was before Sherlock, but a look on my right confirmed that it was shaking just as hard. Actually, my whole body was. It is normal, but I never thought I would ever experience it again.
I'm still not sure how, but I managed to get into the living room without falling over something, even though my vision was completely blurred. I think I just stood there, taking in the scenery, the stuff cluttered over the table, the violin on the windowsill, the empty armchair, the blanket he had worn wrapped around his shoulders yesterday morning now hanging down over its back.
It was too much.
It is a bit of a blur, but I think I picked up the stupid Union Jack pillow first and threw it against the wall, closely followed by books, a remote, my cell and everything else I could reach. A glass, a newspaper, my gun, it didn't matter. It wasn't really helping, but I went on, screaming and yelling and cursing everyone without realizing it then and when there was nothing left to throw around but the ashtray he had taken from Buckingham Palace, I dropped down right where I stood.
I'm not ashamed to say I cried. I cried for hours, in fact, until the sun rose again.
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