A/N: Awwww kids I'm so chuffed with all the reviews, thanks muchly. Loving how much you all love Mummy Holmes, she was a lot of fun to write.
Thanks again to the beautiful and talented WitchRavenFox who is my marvellous beta and wondrous bestest mate. Couldn't be doing this without you sweetie!
Standard disclaimers apply
LettersThe September air was particularly thick and sticky, even the sophisticated air conditioning of Bart's hospital doing nothing to relieve the humidity of the Indian Summer. John had been working as a consultant for almost two months, Molly having put him onto the role just after he had returned to Baker Street. She had been most insistent that he apply but since he had been given the position she had kept her distance, only bumping into her occasionally in the corridors or in the queue at lunch. He didn't blame her for avoiding him, he too avoided many of the acquaintances he had made during his friendship with Sherlock, the feeling that there was always something missing from the dynamic all too apparent when he was with them.
He rubbed his neck as he looked up from his case notes, the heat doing little for his concentration so he was glad when the clock read only half an hour until he could leave for the day. He had had many offers to join colleagues at various beer gardens across London but home had been calling him since lunch time, the cool interior of Baker Street far more appealing than the sun drenched bars along the river. A hangover was not an option either when he had to travel the next morning, his fortnightly visits to see Evangeline Holmes having been firmly established and he did not plan to disappoint her.
Finally the clock read a desirable time and John left the building with a sigh of relief, even the stifling streets unable to remove his good mood at the thought of a quiet evening in. The route to Baker Street was delightfully stress free and he was more than happy to push open the heavy front door, smiling as he heard his landlady singing from behind her own. He began to climb the stairs but had clearly been heard as the door below opened.
"John, is that you?"
"Hello Mrs Hudson," he said, crouching on the stairs rather than walking back down them.
"I'm glad you're home," she said, reaching into the pocket of her apron and drawing out an envelope, "This got mixed up in my mail. You might want to tell whoever it is that they can address the mail directly to you."
John took the envelope, addressed to him but delivered care of Mrs Hudson, 221A Baker Street. The script was elegant and flowing, showing the penmanship despite the cheap ballpoint of the pen. He regarded it quizzically, a small hint of recognition tugging his mind but he couldn't place a finger on it.
"I'll be sure to tell them," he said, "Thanks for keeping it for me."
Mrs Hudson looked slightly disappointed as he pocketed the letter rather than opening it but smiled all the same, bustling back into her own flat with a call of farewell. John continued up to the flat, opening the door that separated it from the stairwell and stepping inside. He dropped his bag and headed directly for his chair, gratefully sinking into it with a sigh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialling a now familiar number.
He was glad he had grown used to Holmes' eccentricities during his acquaintance with both Sherlock and Mycroft, unsurprised when the housekeeper rather than Evangeline answered the phone. He had felt a little odd at first when even a phone call needed to be announced but now he waited patiently until a familiar voice reverberated in his ear.
"Hello John dear."
"Just a call to see that everything is still ok for tomorrow."
"Of course, I'm looking forward to seeing you and the gardens are so pretty, I can't wait for you to see them," said Evangeline, "Why not come for the whole weekend? I can have Mycroft send a car tonight and you'll be hear before ten thirty, make a holiday of it. You need a break John dear, you've been working so hard."
"I wouldn't want to put you out," he said, hearing soft laughter from the end of the line.
"I rattle around this old pile by myself and you worry I'll be put out by your company. Your room is always ready for you John. Come up tonight and make an old lady happy."
John smiled, "You're hardly old Evangeline Holmes," he said, "And I'll come up if it really won't be a problem but let me get the train."
"Now John darling, what is the point in me having a son in the higher echelons of this country's government if I cannot exploit it now and then? I'll have a car there in half an hour, can you be ready?"
"Definitely," said John, knowing there was little point going against a Holmes when their mind was made up, "I'll see you in a while."
"Safe trip John."
He chucked his phone onto the arm of the chair as the line clicked off, allowing himself a moment of quiet before he got to his feet and began hastily packing a bag to leave Baker Street, the letter forgotten in his coat pocket.
xxxx
John woke, momentarily disoriented by the jumble of sheets that cocooned him rather than his familiar duvet but he smiled as he remembered where he was, the rich décor of the Holmes mansion familiar to him now rather than daunting. He had arrived at just gone ten, lights pouring from the large windows of the house to greet him as the familiar figure of the butler stepped down the front steps to open the door of Mycroft's limousine. John had greeted him warmly but had been swiftly pulled into a familiar embrace, Evangeline as affectionate as ever and welcoming him as warmly as she would have one of her own. He was soon shown into one of Evangeline's favoured parlours, pausing briefly to look at the photos spread out on top of the grand piano. So many of them were of Sherlock and it had always amused him from the first moment of stepping into the house how cherub-like his childhood pictures were. The day had soon caught up with John however and Evangeline had ushered him to bed with promises of a tour of the gardens in the morning.
John stretched, reaching a little blindly for his phone as the sun poured in through the lace drapes at the windows. He looked at the time, having to double take as it registered in his mind. He all but fell out of bed and hurried through his morning routine, thundering down the stairs almost as soon as he was dressed and bursting into the parlour with far less grace than the house demanded.
"Evangeline, I am so sorry," he said, "I never meant to sleep so late."
The older woman's serene expression didn't falter as she neatly returned several letters to a box open on the table before her, "You were tired so I left you to sleep," she said.
"We had made plans."
"A walk in the garden," said Evangeline, "Hardly a great adventure and one that is easily postponed. It just so happens that the roses look all the better in the afternoon anyway."
John smiled in gratitude as he took the seat she offered him and gratefully accepting the cup of tea she pressed into his hands. He lost himself for a moment in the beverage before he looked up to find a pair of familiar steel blue turned on him in rapt study. He met the penetrating gaze and could almost feel the layers being peeled away, Sherlock clearly having inherited many of his gifts from his mother.
"You've not been sleeping properly John," said Evangeline gently.
"The heat," he said, though even he knew the excuse was flimsy and smiled in spite of himself, "I'm still not used to being alone at Baker Street. I used to moan about Sherlock banging about down stairs at all hours but I almost can't rest without the noise now."
Evangeline peered a little closer at him and frowned, "No that's not it," she said, "There's something else bothering you."
John matched her frown, "I don't think there's anything else," he said, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze and dropping his own to the table between them, "That's one I've not seen before."
He set down his cup on its saucer and picked up the photograph from the small piles stacked by the ornate wooden box Evangeline had been looking through. The photo showed Sherlock in the same room as John now sat in, violin in hand as he stood beside his mother at the piano.
"This can't be that old," said John, "He doesn't look so different."
Evangeline leaned over and smiled, "Two Christmases ago. It would take me and his Granny hours of nagging but he'd finally relent and play for us," she said, "He was always so happy when he was playing."
John smiled, "Yes he was, even in his worst moods he seemed happy to be playing," he said going to place the picture back down but a pale hand stopped him.
"Keep it," said Evangeline.
John shook his head, "I can't, its clearly special to you."
"Every picture of my Sherlock is special to me but I have many and you have so few," she said, "You two met not long after that picture was taken, I want you to remember him at his happiest."
John picked the picture up once more, looking more closely at the image of his friend; dark hair spilled in curls over one eye as he focused on the bow in his hand mid piece. He looked lost in the music and happy, a small smile on his face that John had seen so many times after mad chases across London or when they had joined forces in laughing at Mycroft. He felt tears prick the back of his eyes and cleared his throat in the hope he could chase of the remorse that was threatening him.
"Cry if you need to John," said Evangeline, her pale fingers curling once more around his, "Its alright."
John shook his head, "Crying won't help."
"Now that's Sherlock talking, not you," said Evangeline, "And let me tell you something, for all his bluster my boy cried too. He gave in and he cried when he needed to. He hid it, hid it from everyone but me, but he cried John. You and I are good friends; if you can't cry in front of me then who can you cry with? We have both lost someone we loved."
John laughed in spite of himself, "I'd hardly compare my friendship with Sherlock to your love for him," he said.
"I would," said Evangeline, picking up one of the letters from her box and moving to sit beside him, "He loved you John."
John took the letter she held out to him, his eyes scanning the page and reading the oddly sentimental script in his friend's hand. His friend opened by asking after his mother's health and then of family members before he began speaking of the various cases they had undertaken. John smiled as he remembered the particular case, a bunch of counterfeiters forging Bank of England bonds. It remained particularly bright in his mind as it had been he who had matched the dye on the forged bonds to a local newspaper press, the bothersome transfer to his hands and clothes having triggered the memory in his mind. As he read the letter it seemed Sherlock was willing to share the credit for their final victory but it was his wording as he wrote of it to his mother that startled John.
'…for a while I didn't believe it but my John had found the clue we'd been so desperate for. I never imagined that the answer would be so close to Baker Street but he saw it without a moment of input from me. Of course he still has so much to learn but he has a brilliance of mind that removes him from the others I am forced to surround myself with. You would like him, Mummy, if you were to meet him. He is quite a singular person and I am glad to be able to call him my friend.'
"My John," he echoed, feeling the tears prick his eyes once more.
Evangeline curled her hand around his trembling one, "He always called you that," she said, "The first few times he wrote you were John or Doctor Watson of course but after that it was always my John. I have so many letters and each one is full of you. He loved you John, even if he didn't say it. You meant everything to him and it didn't surprise me. I knew from when he was very small that he'd only ever bring one person home to me. He'd started to promise to bring you here though."
John sighed, using his free hand to rub at his eyes, "Please don't see anything romantic in this Evangeline," he said, "We weren't…I'm not gay."
"Neither was Sherlock."
"But you just said…"
"That he loved you," she said, "Does that mean he or you need some sort of label applied to you? Sherlock was Sherlock and he fell in love."
John felt his throat constrict as his mind threw up unbidden so many images of his friend, simple looks given a new meaning, every touch however subtle reanalysed. He remembered most vividly running through the streets of London when they had both been arrested, Moriarty and his lies having undermined Sherlock so far as to turn even Lestrade against him. Handcuffed to one another it had been nearly impossible for them to keep in time until Sherlock had told him to take his hand. As friends they'd barely even shaken hands and hugs were rare at best, more a moment of relief when they had escaped injury or fatality than a conscious expression of friendship.
John's heart stuttered in his chest and he set both the letter and the photograph down on the table before he got quickly to his feet, "You have to excuse me," he said hurrying passed Evangeline, "I'm sorry."
"John!" said Evangeline, hurrying after him, "John please come back."
Instinct almost forced him to turn but he knew he could not look into Evangeline's eyes and not see Sherlock looking back at him. He hurried from the house into the familiar winding pathways of the vast sprawling gardens but for once the walk did not bring him comfort. He trawled through the grounds for hours but soon his body reminded him that he had missed both breakfast and lunch and he forced himself to return to the house if only to stave off a fainting fit.
Evangeline had been waiting for him as he returned inside, her expression anxious and John was reminded once more of her son, the worry so similar to the expression he had seen on his face when John had stood before him wearing the waistcoat covered in explosives. He had pushed aside his discomfort though, wanting to comfort Evangeline as he saw the grief in her eyes and for once he was better able to read her than she him; the woman before him terrified of losing someone else she cared for. They had both put on a brave face over dinner but John had never been more glad than when the butler had entered to inform his mistress that she had a visitor.
John didn't catch the visitor's name but he knew it came with a title and double barrel and chose to beat a swift retreat above stairs while he left his hostess to entertain. The house once more felt too huge to him as he lay back on the ornate bed, his mind spinning over the revelations of the day, his thoughts tempered by the grief that still threatened him every time he thought of his lost friend. His mind turned back to Sherlock's letter to his mother, two words from it standing out more than others. My John. His name in Sherlock's elegant hand.
Another image flashed in John's mind, stood on the stairs at Baker Street as Mrs Hudson handed him a letter bearing his name. His mind took the two pieces of text, his name on the envelope and his name on the letter. He opened his eyes, adrenaline rushing his veins as he tumbled off the bed and scrambled for his jacket. He tore the letter from the pocket, his eyes filling as he looked down at the strong handwriting. He tore open the envelope and pulled out the insides, surprised to find not a letter but a piece of normal printer paper and a scrap of lined paper clearly torn from a notebook. He saw handwriting on the note paper and opened that first, finding nothing but directions.
'The Cottage under the hill and by the well. Dún Chaoin, Co. Kerry.'
The final four words were familiar to John, remembering the text before he smashed his old phone. With his heart in his throat he opened the folded piece of printer paper, surprised when he saw an airline ticket made out in his own name, a flight booked from Gatwick to Farranfore, Co. Kerry on the approaching Monday morning. He stared down at the print in shock, his hands trembling as he thought of his friend having sent him a way to reach him. He felt the smile on his face but it swiftly fell as he pulled his wallet from his pocket, pulling out the folded newspaper obituary Mycroft had sent to The Times days after Sherlock's death. Sherlock was dead and however similar the writing on the letter was he knew his friend couldn't be waiting for him on the other end of the flight.
He folded the ticket and the letter and headed to his bag, stuffing them into a pocket with a promise to himself that whatever was in his own head he would not give Evangeline Holmes any false hope that her son was alive.
A/N: Reviews are love. Nx