"John! Come on, John…"
'Give me a sodding break' was John's first thought as he found himself being heaved into a sitting position. He was aware that someone was bringing him back, a large hand reaching down over his shoulder from behind and kneading gently against his solar plexus, but he didn't want his mind to clear... right now he was still able to feel Sherlock's presence all around him.
"Come on, John, please."
The pain was agonising, each breath a huge effort, and for long minutes John leaned back against the body supporting him as he gasped for air. Gradually his strength began to return and he was able to focus, seeing his recent opponent lying face down on the floor with the hilt of something deadly protruding from the back of his neck.
'Who on earth...?' John twisted his head around and peered over his shoulder. What he saw could not be there.
He closed his eyes. 'Dreaming,' he decided. 'I'm dreaming.' He didn't want to wake up.
"John!"
He forced his eyes open again. "Am I dead?"
"Far too nearly, you idiot!" The voice was sharp with the anger of profound relief.
He was tipped forwards, then the man moved around, dropping into a crouch beside him and gripping his shoulders.
"We have to move."
John stared at him stupidly.
"John! Look, I know it's a shock, but..."
John held out a hand. The man took it immediately and tugged, but John resisted and he fell forward instead, dropping to his knees. They stared at each other, neither letting go, then John slowly raised his other hand and pushed back the hood which shadowed his rescuer's face. There was no mistaking those cheekbones.
"You're dead." His voice was the merest whisper of a croak.
"Evidently not."
'Hallucinations... lack of oxygen to the brain...' John's thoughts flew to the man who had attacked him, but his eyes refused to follow them.
"We really need to go now, John."
"You're dead. I saw you... I watched you... I... Sherl..." John's vision was blurring again. The man - Sherlock - tried to ease himself away but John couldn't let go. He had one hand holding Sherlock's own and the other clenched around the lowered hood of his sweatshirt, and he couldn't let go.
"Seriously, we have to..."
John pulled him forwards.
There was a moment when Sherlock was tense and awkward against him, but then his free arm came up and John felt long fingers tighten in the fabric of his jacket.
"It's good to see you." His voice was low against the side of John's neck.
He smelled like Sherlock. John had probably never been this close to him before, but he smelled... right. He felt right. Too thin, but solid... He felt...
"Really you?"
Sherlock pulled back a little and grinned at him. "Really me," he promised. "Even without a coat collar to turn up."
John almost laughed, but it threatened to turn into a sob and he bit it back. "Can't believe... survived that fall!" he managed. He pushed Sherlock's head to the side, looking for scars, trying to get his brain to accept what he was seeing.
Sherlock's grin faded. "I..." He frowned. "Come on." He got to his feet as John released him, then pulled John up too. "Can you walk?"
John stared at him, taking in the rather ratty hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans and struggling to tally the image with his memories of his friend. But it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock. It was Sherlock. He nodded. "Course I can walk."
oOo
"Suppose bloody Mycroft set it up," John complained hoarsely an hour later. "Pretending you were dead, I mean. Just the sort of thing that wanker would do."
"Don't try to talk."
John took another painful sip of the tea Sherlock had made him and grinned across their kitchen table. "What, no brother-bashing? Thought you said you'd recovered?"
His smile slipped as his eyes moved over Sherlock again. "Have you recovered? You look all right, you're not limping, your joints seem fine… but that fall… I saw you…" He reached across the table and gripped Sherlock's forearm. "I saw you… I felt…" His fingers moved to Sherlock's wrist and he looked down as he counted the steady beats. The pulse was a little fast but so very much there… John had to force himself to let go. "Sorry." He shrugged apologetically.
"You need to rest your throat."
"I've been talking to myself for six months, you'll just have to put up with it." John hesitated. "Look… we got your name cleared, you know. It wasn't even that hard; Moriarty's story was full of holes and he didn't defend it - seems to have vanished, actually." He leaned forward, gazing at Sherlock earnestly and forcing his voice to last… to get out the words he had to say. "I don't know why you felt you had to do… what you did. But there was no need, honestly - that's never the answer. You have friends, Sherlock – people who'll stand by you no matter what; you don't ever need to…"
"John, please stop talking."
John raised his hands in the air. "Well, you talk then. Obviously, they must have revived you but what happened after that? Where have you been recovering for all this time and how…?" His voice finally gave out and he picked up his tea, waving to indicate that a response was most definitely required.
"I need a shower."
John made a noise of protest.
"I… Look, the text I received after we got home?"
John nodded.
"That was good news. I believe the danger is now over. I can stay… if that's what you want."
John gaped at him. What else would he want? He opened his mouth but Sherlock held up a hand.
"No more talking for you. I am going to shower, and then I will... explain, and after that…" He hesitated. "After that, it's up to you."
He rose to his feet and John frowned in confusion, watching him walk down the corridor and suppressing the urge to follow.
'Well, that was weird.'
He sat for a moment, listening to the sounds of another person in the flat. The other person. In their flat. Feeling slightly foolish he pinched his own arm, then smiled at the resultant 'ouch'.
Rolling his eyes at himself he got up, carrying his tea in one hand and massaging his throat with the other - thankfully the painkillers Sherlock had forced on him as soon as they got home were kicking in and he no longer felt quite so much like a portable bruise. Well, it was either the drugs or the euphoria, one or the other. Probably both. He shook his head at the rather random thoughts firing in his brain – there were a thousand questions vying for his attention but none of them could hold it for long. He kept looking at the knife Sherlock had retrieved from the sniper's neck, which now lay on the kitchen table. Evidence of reality, it drew his gaze repeatedly.
Reassured further by the sound of splashing from the bathroom, he wandered to the living room window and looked out, idly trying to locate the room in the abandoned house where everything had taken such a dramatic turn. A movement from the street caught his eye and he looked down to see Billy shivering by the railings, his thin face relaxing as John gave him a wave. Billy nodded back and half turned to leave, and John suddenly felt bad for not thinking of him sooner - how long had the poor lad been standing out there? He held up a hand in a 'wait!' gesture and set his tea down on the table before heading for the door - pausing to check he could still hear Sherlock - then running quickly down the stairs.
"Why won't you lot ever just ring the bloody doorbell?" he demanded, with a smile to take the sting out of his words.
Billy's eyes widened. "Are you all right, Doctor Watson? You sound awful!"
John shook off the concern. "I'm fine, Billy. Better than fine." His grin could not be contained. He wanted to croak his news to the rooftops but he'd best wait and check with Sherlock first. "You got away all right, then?"
Billy blinked at him and John realised that he must look completely deranged - a bruised and battered man who just couldn't stop smiling.
"I called Mr Wiggins," Billy blurted out. "I know you said to leave it an hour and to go to the police, but I couldn't just… that guy was huge… I shouldn't have left you and now you look… well…" He eyed John worriedly.
John stepped forward and patted him on the shoulder. "You did the right thing." He got stuck between nodding his head in approval and shaking it in ongoing disbelief, the resultant motion making Billy look more nervous than ever.
John tried to control his features, but it was impossible. He laughed, the happiness bursting from him. "To be honest, you could probably confess to eating the last jammie dodger and get away with it right now!"
The tension eased from Billy's frame and he grinned back. "I hoped it would be all right, but Mr Wiggins just hung up on me… then his friend went belting past ten minutes later like a rat out of an aqueduct!"
John chuckled in approval at the Monty Python reference. Billy had taken a beating from a couple of yuppies on Halloween which had led to John dragging him up to the flat for treatment. Ever since seeing the DVD collection, he had started randomly quoting Python to try to make John smile. He'd not had a lot of success with it until now.
"Listen, I've got to get back inside, OK? Do you have somewhere sorted for tonight?" John reached into his pocket, but Billy immediately backed away, holding up his hands.
"I'm fine, Doctor Watson," he insisted. "Not about to start taking your money now, with everything you do for us."
John didn't push it. "You take care, all right? I'll see you soon." He was halfway through the door when something struck him. "Billy!"
The lad trotted back towards him.
"'His friend'?" he queried. "You said 'his friend' belted past you?"
Billy nodded.
"Whose friend did you mean?"
"Um… Mr Wiggins'." Billy's tone had an 'of course' in it.
"From the homeless network?"
Billy nodded again and John frowned. "You've only been in London since the end of June, right?" He got another puzzled nod. "So, how do you know that Sher… that the man who went past you is a friend of Wiggins'?"
Billy looked confused. "Well, maybe 'friend' is the wrong word, but I've seen them together," he explained. "Not often, but every now and then. Thick as thieves, they are."
John stared at him. "Going back how long?"
"Um… nearly as long as I've been here," Billy reported. He frowned in thought. "Back in July, for sure, because it was Phil's birthday and Mr Wiggins gave him two packets of fags and I saw him get them from Siggy."
"Siggy?"
Billy looked a little embarrassed. "It's what I call him in my head – because of the fags, really. He always has them. I asked Mr Wiggins about him one time, but he told me to mind my own bleedin' business."
John reached out a hand to the door frame as it seemed to quiver around him. "So, you're telling me that… Siggy has been around since July? And he wasn't… I don't know… on crutches, or anything?"
Billy shrugged. "Seemed all right to me. I mean, he kept to himself, never really talked to anyone apart from Mr Wiggins and he only popped up now and then. Sometimes he looked like he might have been in a fight, but never anything serious."
"Right..." John shook his head. "Right."
"You sure you're OK, Doctor Watson? Do you need me to…?"
John dredged up a smile. "Everything's fine, Billy. You get going."
He didn't remember much more until he was tearing back the shower curtain.
oOo
Sherlock had heard the bathroom door bang open, of course, but he chose not to brace himself as he registered John's expression. If there was a punch coming, he would take it.
Slowly, he lowered his arms from where he'd been rinsing the shampoo from his hair – his favoured brand, he had noted, although not the bottle he had left behind.
"Turn around." John described a circle with one finger and Sherlock slowly made a 360 degree rotation as directed, conscious of all the evidence John wasn't finding.
"Not a mark on you," John observed. "Nothing significant, anyway. Certainly nothing six months old that would suggest a fall from a high building."
Sherlock remained silent, giving John time to work through it… which he did.
"Just a magic trick."
Sherlock nodded.
"Right then." John dropped the curtain back into place and walked out.
Sherlock closed his eyes and wished he'd closed them a half second earlier; before he'd seen the look he had just put onto the face of his very best friend.
oOo
It was some ten minutes later when Sherlock returned to the living room, back in his own clothes for the first time in far too long. He had considered wearing just his dressing gown in order to appear more vulnerable, but John might recognise such a deliberate ploy. He opted for a black suit and a dark grey shirt, which seemed suitably regretful attire.
John was sitting in his armchair and Sherlock took his place opposite and debated how to break the ice.
"Moriarty is dead," he started, which certainly got a reaction.
"What? When?"
"Six months ago. Shot himself on Barts' rooftop, not long before you got there."
"I've been looking for him."
"I know."
"So what happened to the body? Nothing in the papers, no one knows any…" John stopped, shaking his head. "Mycroft."
"Mycroft," Sherlock agreed.
"So that whole 'not speaking' thing – which did seem a bit sudden, actually – that was just…"
"A front. Yes." Sherlock tried a small smile. "Although quite a refreshing one."
John didn't smile back. "I blamed him for your death, you know. Nearly hit him at the... at your funeral." He sighed. "Almost wish I had now."
"Why didn't you?"
"Wasn't sure I could stop." John looked away, retreating inside his head, his thoughts clearly unhappy ones.
Sherlock took a deep breath. Time to bite the bullet – if he couldn't gain John's understanding, he had no hope of his forgiveness.
"When Moriarty came here after the trial, I asked him how he intended to do it - to 'burn' me." John was listening, but he didn't seem completely focused.
"He called it the 'final problem'. Said he'd already told me the answer…" In his mind he heard Moriarty's sing-song, 'but did you listen?' "After the girl screamed, and the net tightened around me, I told Lestrade that Moriarty wanted to destroy me inch by inch – I assumed that he was attempting to ruin me professionally and the delivery of that burned gingerbread man seemed like confirmation."
John's gaze began to wander… Sherlock was losing him. He leaned forward.
"But he'd already made it clear in the cab that discrediting me wasn't his 'final problem'." Sherlock allowed his self-disgust to sound in his voice. "I heard, but I didn't listen!"
John turned his head away and Sherlock got up from his chair and squatted down in front of John's, bringing them to eye-level. "John! Are you paying attention? I am trying to explain this to you!"
"No need." John shrugged. "I get it. You decided to fake your death. Not many people could know - I didn't make the inner circle. That's what it boils down to, right?"
"Wrong."
"You didn't trust me."
"Completely wrong."
"If you say so."
"John! You must let me explain… I did it for you!"
That seemed to get through, at least. John's eyes narrowed and Sherlock edged back slightly, rising to his feet.
"You did it… for me?"
How could he get so much anger into such a diminished voice?
"Do you have the slightest idea…?"
Such a fast reaction; feelings so close to the surface. Already John was shaking, his breathing fast and laboured.
"You were my life, Sherlock… my life! It's not as if I had a girlfriend… or my own place… or even a job that didn't involve running around after you. A few locum days a month were hardly a distraction. You were everything."
"I…" Sherlock felt lost. "We only knew each other for eighteen months, and I've been gone for six. I knew it would be hard at first, but you've lived alone here now for a third of the time that we lived here together… I didn't think that you would still…"
"Bastard!" John was up and out of his chair and Sherlock backed away instinctively before remembering that he hadn't been going to do that. He stopped, keeping his hands down and leaving himself open.
John halted abruptly. "You think I'm going to hit you." He looked again. "No… you're going to let me hit you."
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "If it will make you feel better."
John croaked out an impression of a laugh, staring at him with an edge of hysteria in his eyes. Then he sat back down, dropping his head and running his hands through his hair. "When you…" He trailed off, then drew a deep breath and looked up again. "When you 'died'," - he raised his hands to make inverted comma signs around the words - "Well…" He swallowed, his gaze sliding away. "Well, you weren't the only one."
Sherlock didn't know what to say. He frowned. "I didn't die, though," he pointed out helpfully. "Shouldn't that be good news?"
John closed his eyes. "This is pointless… you'll never get it." He got to his feet. "I need some…"
"…air," Sherlock finished for him. He studied the grey exhaustion in John's face. "You shouldn't be going out when you're like this – you stay here, I'll go."
"No."
"Just for a few hours…"
"No!" John pointed at Sherlock's chair. "Sit!"
Sherlock sat.
"Stay."
He did that too.
oOo
Sherlock waited an hour, which seemed ample time, and then opened the door which John had slammed on his way out and made his way down the stairs. Well… half way down the stairs.
"Pathetic, eh?" John sniffed as Sherlock sat down beside him, his legs folding awkwardly. "Couldn't actually bring myself to go any further."
Sherlock glanced sideways at him. His face was red and blotchy and he didn't bother to turn it away.
"There were three of you," Sherlock said quietly. "My 'only three friends in the world' - as determined by Moriarty." John seemed resigned to hearing the story now, the fight drained out of him.
"He sent me three 'I.O.U.'s… the apple, which you saw; spray painted letters on the windows opposite Scotland Yard; and fresh graffiti on the corner facing Baker Street." Sherlock twisted so that he was turned more towards John. "Three 'I.O.U.'s; three bullets; three gunmen; three victims… unless…"
John slowly met his gaze, his eyes wide and searching. Eventually, he nodded. "Unless you jumped."
Sherlock watched hopefully as John started to think, some of the distress leaving his face as he frowned in concentration.
"So, the apple… that was here, in our flat. That was me?"
Sherlock nodded rather than giving a verbal response, forcing John to keep looking at him.
"And the others… Lestrade, for the Scotland Yard one?" Sherlock nodded again. "And Mrs Hudson, of course."
"Of course." Sherlock smiled. "So much more than just a landlady."
A brief flash of pleasure crossed John's face. "I knew she meant something to you! It seemed all wrong you being so dismissive in the lab when I thought she'd been shot, but it wasn't that you didn't care, it was just that you… oh." His face fell again as he followed his thoughts through to their conclusion. He shook his head. "Of course. You needed to get rid of me."
"John…" Sherlock raised his arm, unsure whether or not to try offering some physical reassurance. Deciding that John might at least gain some satisfaction from shrugging him off, he tentatively rested a hand on his shoulder, unreasonably glad when it was permitted to remain.
"So, I guess Moriarty tried to burn the heart out of you, after all," John observed after a while. "Oh, is that what he meant, when he said he'd already told you the answer?"
"It would seem so," agreed Sherlock, surprised at the speed at which John had reached a conclusion which had taken Sherlock himself an unacceptable length of time to grasp. "That was the 'final problem' he set for me. Not enough to destroy my life – he wanted to destroy my self-image as a sociopath, to force me to sacrifice myself to save the people I… well…" He shrugged. "You know."
John looked at him oddly. "So when did you work it all out, then? You'd obviously got it set up well in advance."
Sherlock looked away. That was more than enough information to be going on with… best to give John some time before hitting him with the rest of it. "Aren't you worried about the snipers?" he deflected.
"Should I be? I thought you said the danger was over?" John shook his head. "Can't imagine you'd come back before you were sure – although I'm surprised it's taken you six months to track down three gunmen. You used to solve one case in the morning and be climbing the walls for another by mid-afternoon."
Sherlock bristled. "Well, it wasn't that simple. Moriarty's network was vast; I…" He cut himself off - this wasn't the time. "Moran was the last – it was he who attacked you tonight."
"Right."
"He was Moriarty's second in command."
"OK."
"I've been tracking him for months."
"Er… well done."
"He's been my priority target ever since… For a long time."
"So - you got him. Congratulations."
"It was his assignment to shoot you if I didn't kill myself – he was the danger to you all along. He was the one I couldn't find, couldn't trace, couldn't risk discovering the truth."
"Sherlock… I don't know what you want me to say, here." John was slumping rather on the stairs, more of his weight leaning against the hand on his shoulder. "I'm tired. My throat hurts. My whole body hurts, if it comes to that. You've turned my world upside down and I know there's a lot you're not telling me. A lot you'll probably never tell me."
He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don't know what to think right now, so I'm just going to stick with the basics. You're alive and that is a very good thing, whatever the implications… the world is always going to be a better place with you in it."
There was an exhausted smile on his face when he turned his head. "I think I'm punch drunk. You'd best ignore me from this point on, because God knows what I'll say." He shrugged. "I kind of want to super-glue my fingers around your wrist so you can't disappear… but I need to sleep."
"All right." Sherlock got to his feet, moving down a couple of stairs so that he wasn't completely looming. He hesitated, then held out his hand.
John looked at it. "I still have questions, even if I'm too tired to ask them."
Sherlock nodded. "I will be here to answer."
John took his hand.
Artwork for this chapter (Link on my profile page):
Illustration by squeegeelicious