Chapter 4: Get him back
Mycroft enjoyed pondering, John had noticed. Therefore, John had expected a slow, measured response. Unfortunately, Mycroft apparently didn't need to think about this particular request for very long.
'Most definitely not,' he replied, regarding John with distaste. He even stopped sipping his tea for a second. The cup almost touched his lips, but not quite. It hung almost comically suspended in mid air, between Mycroft's rigid fingers.
'What on earth for? What good would it do to exhume my brother's grave?' Mycroft inquired. John could see that Mycroft was going to be a right prick about this. Control your temper, he cautioned himself. Snapping Mycroft's pinkie would not further his case. Thus, John decided to instead explain the situation. He could always resort to violence later. If necessary.
'There won't be a body. The absence of a body will prove that Sherlock is not dead. It will force him out of hiding,' John clarified.
'Hiding?' Mycroft sputtered. 'You were there, for God's sake! You saw him jump.'
'I saw… something,' John admitted. He was not going to let Mycroft get to him. He was not delusional. Quickly, he shook off any doubts he might have felt.
'Sherlock didn't jump. He had no reason to jump. He isn't a fraud,' he reasoned. Mycroft placed the tea cup carefully on the gleaming table to his right. He adjusted his cuffs. He appeared oblivious to the fact that he was sorely trying John's patience.
'Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. My dear brother did so love to be admired, though. If other people thought that he was a fraud that might have caused some…'
'Sherlock doesn't care about what other people think,' John argued. Jesus Christ, what a wanker.
'He cared about your opinion,' Mycroft pointed out. He rose from his chair, but John forced him back into it by jabbing him in the chest; hard.
'What exactly are you trying to imply? Are you insinuating that I am somehow responsible for what happened? You caused this. You were the one who made Moriarty's plan possible. He couldn't have hurt Sherlock without your help,' John raged. Mycroft flinched. He was either easily cowed or he felt guilty.
'That is neither here nor there,' Mycroft protested with as much dignity as he could muster. It wasn't much.
Seeing combat encouraged an atmosphere of brevity, so John had heard a lot of jokes in the army. For some reason, he had actually thought that this one joke he'd heard was funny. Perhaps because it reminded him more of a pub brawl boast than of war. It was such a dumb, macho thing that it was almost laughable. More bluff than threat.
I'll give you summer teeth. Some are here and some are there. Wouldn't it be simply marvellous to give Mycroft summer teeth? John closed his eyes and stepped back.
'I'm holding you personally responsible,' he told Mycroft. John was about ready to never see him again.
(***)
Later that day.
'I went to see another therapist today. I have no idea why. I asked Mycroft for permission to exhume Sherlock's grave, but he refused. And I knew he would. I don't know why I do anything anymore,' John mused. Lestrade got up to buy them two pints of lager.
'You're floundering. That's what this is. You're spending too much time inside your own head,' Lestrade diagnosed. John didn't answer, so he continued.
'It can't be solved. You must realise that. Turning it over in your mind won't accomplish anything. It's a waste of time.'
'No, I don't believe in wasting time, but I don't believe I'm wasting mine,' John said.
'That's something Sherlock would have said.'
'Is it? Hmm.'
'That is too.'
'Ah.'
'Alright. Stop it.'
'Will you help me?' John asked. He turned to Lestrade and clamped his shoulder. Lestrade – no doubt aware of John's recent nocturnal visitors – merely put his glass down and considered the question, before shaking his head ruefully.
'I could say that I want to. The truth is that I could try, but I don't want to. That way madness lies. Are you sure you want to go down the rabbit hole? If Sherlock is alive, why hasn't he come forward? You've been in a bad way for months. Do you honestly think that he'd allow you to go on like this when he could end your suffering anytime he wants? What kind of friend would he be then?'
John hadn't looked at it that way. It made everything he'd gone through seem that much worse. Whatever reason Sherlock had for staying away, it wasn't good enough. Pressed to choose between a dead Sherlock and an uncaring Sherlock, John chose to become falling down drunk.
(***)
It started to rain. Always with the rain and the wind, John thought. It was getting to be tiresome. Even in his intoxicated state he was surprised to discover that the cemetery was still open. He paused at the gate. The wind licked at him like a cold flame. His limbs felt stiff. His every muscle ached. It hurt physically to walk.
'Psychosomatic,' John muttered, chuckling darkly. The falling rain drowned out the sound of his voice. Soon there would be too little light left to see by. Grimacing, he followed the already sodden path to the grave. The gravel crunched underneath his feet. Why hadn't he doubted Sherlock? Why didn't he doubt him now? Blind faith.
'Damn you,' John slurred. The wind snatched away his words. He slipped and landed awkwardly. A sharp pain shot through his leg. He sat down to inspect the damage, ignoring how the gravel dug into his flesh. He had only skinned his knee.
'What are you doing, John?' Sherlock asked. Typical, John thought. Bloody typical.
'I'm accepting that you're dead,' he sneered.