Chapter Six; John Doe.
"I want an explanation, you know. Tell me, Mr Doe."
For a doctor, John seemed awfully out of place in a hospital.
As stony-faced, dead-eyed doctors ran and rushed through crisp, white corridors, John lingered slowly, his eyes alive with vivid emotion. Amongst the movements of those with purpose, with character and with importance, John Watson appeared as a ghost.
"Don't say it like that, John. You make it sound so fake." Sherlock retorted with a light smile, though John did not reciprocate the humour. Sherlock doubted that John even got the joke; the name John Doe was used in the U.S. and Canada primarily – though it originated in the U.K – for a person or sometimes corpse who had no identity. Nowadays, the name was obsolete within Britain and instead Joe Bloggs was used, but John Doe had a much more British feel to it. He'd considered briefly the name John Smith, but that really was far too obvious. Arguably, John Doe was still a foolishly obvious name, but most people had not recognised it, or laughed it off as a coincidence.
Nonetheless, Sherlock's thoughts bubbled slowly to a halt in front of John's stern glare. He swallowed, feeling that maybe now was not an appropriate time for small-talk. They were, after all, waiting to see how badly John's sister had been hurt by the lead poisoning.
"Sorry." Sherlock uttered quietly, settling back into his seat in the corridor. John winced at the apology and Sherlock was unsure as to why, but didn't press. He sat silently for a few minutes, then rose, gesturing with his head to John, "Follow me."
Curiosity joined the party of emotions playing on John's features for a moment or two, but fled as John shook his head, "No. No, I'm waiting for Harry."
It struck Sherlock once again, how truly loyal John was. To everyone. He remembered quite well how John had told him that he and his sister didn't get on, how they never had. In that moment, Sherlock had thought that maybe that was something they had in common; he didn't particularly get on with Mycroft, either. But, John would not as much as venture away from this corridor. Sherlock wanted to tell John that it didn't matter; if she died or if she lived, his location wouldn't affect it.
But he felt maybe that was a little bit not-good.
"John. She'll live, I promise." He insisted gently, dancing around what he wanted to say and taking a slightly uncertain grip on John's wrist, focussing both eyes onto his old friend, "She's in good hands, you aren't helping anyone by pacing the corridors and working yourself up."
Despite his attempts at being kind John still looked a little offended for a second or two, tearing his hand away. But, the anger melted and he sighed, pulling his shoulders back and accepting that maybe Sherlock was right; not that he'd say so.
It was quite surreal, really.
For the both of them. Being here. On the roof of St. Bart's.
Surreal for Sherlock, because this was where he was in his final moments, before Sherlock Holmes died and John Doe was born. This was where Jim Moriarty died and where Rich Brook 's existence was made almost undeniable.
For John, this was the place where he forgot how to be happy. This was where his best friend died. Or rather, the ground below it was, he supposed.
A small sigh escaped John as he leant against his walking stick, lips pursed tightly shut. In the day's earlier panic and confusion, he had almost forgotten about his limp – and the nasty wound in his chest, now. He was beyond exhausted and in quite some pain, yet he chose to ignore it. Sherlock had obviously brought him here for a reason, and John was fairly certain he knew what that reason was.
"So, go on, tell me. How did you do? Was that whole thing about cell metabolism in ice a clue? Did you use some ridiculous miracle drugs to slow your pulse because I felt it Sherlock. I felt your pulse go, I felt you die in my arms, I-" began the doctor in a nasty, gravelly tone. He, however, relented as his words seemed to catch in his throat. He choked on them silently and turned away from Sherlock, pacing towards the edge of the hospital roof and staring out across the city of London. "I want an explanation. Tell me, Sherlock."
In response, the detective swallowed lightly. He felt a little nauseous up here, with so many memories hammering out of the shadows of his mind and racing before his eyes, reminding him so vividly of that morning. He inhaled thickly through his nose and drew his hands together behind his back, a pose that looked strangely out of character without the famous brown locks and fitted suit. "It's a lot simpler than you're expecting, John." He admitted, pacing slightly towards John, "Intricate, albeit, but nothing as difficult as drugs. Just people being where they need to, when they need to. Timing and misconception. A magic trick, if you will."
Those words stung John; magic trick. He could remember that day as well as any other, the day Sherlock 'died'. He remembered Sherlock referring to his deduction skills as only a party trick, a magic trick. He'd never believed it. He'd never believed Sherlock had chosen suicide, nor lied to anyone. Moriarty had always been in his mind, always been the one he blamed most for Sherlock's death – he just didn't know how. Or why. Why did Moriarty do anything? Why did anyone do anything? Not just for boredom, though boredom was a constant motivator. There were more vicious motivators one could feel. Hate. Love. There were so many. Boredom could never be a sole motivator for such detailed plans and plots, or so John refused to believe it, anyhow.
John remembered, too, there were times when he thought maybe Sherlock wasn't dead. Little things and thoughts and feelings that occurred, that made him believe maybe that, too, was a magic trick. But time passed and, as often was the case, became his enemy. His own thoughts became his enemy. His mind became corrupt with hate, with guilt, with doubt. The days, the weeks, months and finally years passed to no prevail. No return for Sherlock and, in reciprocation, no hope from John.
Sherlock had been dead in John's mind for a very, very long time. The man he stood with now was not a friend. The man before him was John Doe; fictitious, identity-less and empty.
John's cold thoughts seemed to emanate through his body language and expression, causing a slight physical retreat from Sherlock, furthering the space between them.
The silence remained for what seemed a very long time, before Sherlock continued, "The leaflet about cells in ice was just to remind you of what you already knew John. That there are exceptions to everything, that though it may seem mundane a lot of the time, there are always exciting little tricks in life."
"Exciting?" John bellowed quite suddenly, his face a picture of distorted rage as he turned around, "Exciting? You think this has been exciting for me, Sherlock?"
As John progressed aggressively towards him, Sherlock felt the need to step backwards a little, eye-ing the ex-soldier's tense fists a little anxiously; he knew how incredibly strong John could be. "No, of course I didn't. I suppose exciting was the wrong word."
John growled, though he was standing still now, "Suppose? Bloody right it was!" he spat.
A little more silence passed and John turned away, folding his arms protectively across his chest and watching London once more, "None of this has been exciting for me." He continued in a thick tone, though the anger had subsided slightly. Sherlock tried to interject, but John continued, "None of this has been easy, fun, anything like that. It's been hard. It's been God-damned awful. I thought you were dead. I still think you are. You're not Sherlock Holmes, he's dead. You're John Doe. You're John Doe, and I don't know a John Doe. John Doe isn't my flat-mate, isn't someone I talk to and definitely, one-hundred per cent, isn't my best friend."
Words had always been, to Sherlock, simply a medium to express one's thoughts. He didn't particularly have 'favourite' or 'least favourite' words, nor did he ever really stop to think about the depth of their meanings. But, as this short, pained speech ran from John's lips, words suddenly became the heaviest, most meaningful things he had ever come into contact with. The insults, the actual understanding of what John was saying to him fell onto his shoulders and burdened him with its agonising weight. John considered him dead. He was dead to John. He was a stranger, someone new, someone he didn't care for. That, in Sherlock's opinion, was worse than if John were to hate him. If John hated him, it meant they still had a relationship, they still knew each other. It would have meant Sherlock had something to work for, a hole to dig himself out of. But to be considered dead? For John to say, actually say, he didn't know him? Well, that gave him nothing. There was nothing. He was nothing. Nothing to work with, from or to. He was just a stranger. Ironically, he was just another John Doe in a sea of meaningless identities.
For once, Sherlock was uncertain. He had no words to describe this feeling, nor any words to express to John. He had as much as he was, and he was nothing.
"Talk me through it, then." John pressed, coldly, breaking through the eerie silence. "These people and this plan that apparently wasn't very intricate. Tell me how it worked. You had no pulse, how did that work?"
For a while, Sherlock remained silent. He had turned his back to John, drawn his hand together and pressed them to his face as though in a poor attempt to remain calm. Words were words. John was angry. But John was loyal. John didn't mean it, did it? It was so strange, so odd this concept that he actually cared for John. Did good ever come from caring? If he didn't care, he would still be Sherlock Holmes. No fake suicide, no new identity. He wouldn't be feeling this either, this horrid, stinging sensation that wasn't even a genuine pain. It was something deep and internal and it repelled him.
"I did have a pulse; you can't be alive and not have a pulse. You should know that, John." He managed to state, removing his hands from over his face and exhaling tiredly. He was tired, tired of humanity. Of caring. It was all so odd and foreign to him, yet he knew it all so well. "The pulse on my neck was already being taken by someone, remember? Do you remember also, John, the bouncy ball I was playing with in the hospital? I doubt you do, it seemed insignificant. Well, placing that beneath your armpit of in the crook of your elbow can stop the pulse found through your wrist, if the right amount of pressure is applied. It was simply the case of fastening it tightly enough. I still had a pulse in my neck, but that was being covered."
They had turned to face each other, now, intrigue scarring the anger in John's eyes. "All right, makes sense. Except, how could you guarantee I wouldn't go for your neck?" he snapped, trying to hide his interest and curiosity with an icy tone of voice.
"Most of the civilians on that street weren't civilians at all. Neither were the doctors and nurses that ran to my aid." Sherlock replied, watching the confusion and surprise dance across John's withered features, "They were hired professionals. Mycroft claims he only has a minor position in the government. I say he is the government."
"Mycroft?" John repeated. There was a little hurt in his voice, now; Mycroft was in on this, too? "How?"
"Professionals in the government, people who know the importance of secrecy. People who were paid a lot of money, too. Mycroft was very insistent on helping me. I asked him to watch over you, John, not for help. But he refused to let Moriarty win, some form of personal vendetta, I believe. That and I suppose that we are brothers may have helped. But, moving on, everyone who saw me land was hired by Mycroft-"
"No, no, hang on, I saw you fall, I saw you!" John interrupted adamantly, crossing the space between them a little further. He had seen him fall, he'd seen him covered in blood, he'd seen him rushed away on a stretcher.
Holding back a sigh, Sherlock grabbed hold of John's shoulders. The doctor winced, as though wishing to reject the other's touch, though held still. "Think John, really think," he insisted, staring down at the smaller, elder male, narrowing his eyes, "You saw me fall. I said land, you didn't see me land. Why didn't you see me land, do you remember? Because there was a waste-disposal truck in the way, full of bin bags. That blocked yours and the gunman's view of the landing."
"Gunman?" John repeated, searching his mind for that moment. It wasn't difficult. Although he usually managed to supress bad memories, managed to force them into a stage that only emerged in his nightmares, this one always seemed to resurface. And, it resurfaced now. He was right, there was some sort of truck – he hadn't really taken notice of what kind, but a truck full of bin-bags sounded feasible.
But, gunman? What gunman? Even in his panicked, nauseous state, he probably would have noticed a man with a gun.
On the other hand, Sherlock's mind was quickly considering options. John didn't know about the gunmen, did he? He didn't know why Sherlock had jumped. That, he supposed, was a small explanation towards John's hostility.
Pursing his lips, Sherlock decided to finish this explanation, first. "I'll explain that part afterwards." He decided, watching as John nodded in acceptance, evidently still curious, "I didn't land on the ground. It's possible to jump from heights into things such as a skips and survive, providing you get your positioning and landing correct. With this knowledge, I determined I'd be able to land on something that wouldn't look out of place – such as rubbish bags. From the rubbish truck. Mycroft didn't want any chance of the plan failing. He didn't want Moriarty to have even the slightest chance at winning this game, so they filled bin-bags with the same, standard, easily accessible materials used in crash mats for stunt artists. Foam, polyester, that kind of thing. Wrapped up in bin-bag covers, you couldn't tell the difference."
Throughout the entirety of the explanation, John's features had been fighting between confusion and wonder. Confusion, because it was so simple; how had he fallen for it? Not to mention, there were further questions left unanswered, further mysteries he didn't understand. But wonder, because despite its simplicity, it was a genius plan. It worked. It had fooled everyone.
"But there weren't any bin-bags around when I got to you. And you fell facing the ground, but ended up on your back. You must've turned right? Somehow? Landing like that, on your stomach, would probably have broken your back." Argued the doctor lightly, more out of curiosity, desperation for knowledge than anything else, "And if you didn't land head first against the pavement, where did all the blood come from?"
Sherlock nodded, feeling faint approval at John's logical questions and assumptions. Not for the first time, he noticed how John's intellect had grown since the time they had first met. "When I fell, I built up enough momentum with my arms at the sides so I could flip the moment the truck obscured your view. I slid off of the bin-bags instantly and they were thrown aside by Mycroft's workers while one of them on a bicycle hit into you to destabilise and nauseate you. The rest then crowded around me to further block your view, applying blood packets acquired from the hospital. You're a doctor and a soldier; it had to be real blood. It had to look and smell the same, or you wouldn't fall for it, even in your unstable state. By this time, more people had arrived, people that weren't involved and so we had to be careful. You were held back by another woman, hired by Mycroft of course, while I was placed on a stretcher and moved away. Once out of your line of vision, just around the corner I switched places with a body from the morgue."
As Sherlock's explanation came to a finish, so did the regularity in John's breathing. Every breath was suddenly a choke and it occurred to him that he was crying. Why was he crying? This wasn't a sad, or a moving story. It was Sherlock's explanation as to how he cheated death; it was a trick, Sherlock showing off. Yet, to hear it explained, so simply? It hurt him, it really did.
Seeing the horror and shock in Sherlock's face, John turned away and brought a hand to his face, the other supporting himself against his walking stick. Maybe, he thought, it hurt literally because the plan was so simple. Because he'd lived so long, suffering and struggling because he thought Sherlock was dead. He'd thought once upon a time that maybe it was possible, but he had eventually sunk back into a depression. A depression, for so long, because of Sherlock's death. And now, to hear that he hadn't really died? That he had survived, easily? It hurt him, it really, really did. Years of wasted pain and why? There was no reason why, not yet.
Further questions rose to mind, further queries and confusions that he was desperate to understand. He wanted to know everything; why had Sherlock done it?; what injuries had he got, falling such a height?; no drugs, no extra techniques? But, his phone rang before he had the chance to voice any of those questions.
As it turned out, Harry would live.
She wasn't out of the woods yet, though. She was to be hooked up to an IV drip and treated via something John had explained to Sherlock named Chelation Therapy – it basically meant they'd flush her out with some chemical. It would take a while, but as of current no long-lasting side-effects had arisen from her encounter.
Sherlock had never seen John look so relieved. Would he look like that, if it was Mycroft in Harry's place? He genuinely wasn't sure.
"You have to let the world know," John said quietly, once Harry had drifted back into sleep. They had forked out for a private room and were now sad on opposing sides of her, John eyes not once leaving his red-headed sister. "You have to make the world believe in Sherlock Holmes. Let them know Moriarty was real and Richard Brook was a fake. You have too. You can't stay John Doe forever."
Ignoring the almost distasteful tone as John named his alias, Sherlock nodded. "You're right. I've anticipated as much and now Moriarty wants round two, I can't stay hidden any longer. The shadows will protect me to start with, though. I'll need to rebuild myself, let only the important people know first."
"The important people?" John repeated, looking up from Harry ever so quickly to send Sherlock a glance, "Like who?"
"First on my list is Molly Hooper."
Thank you so much for reading!
Eek, I don't think my Reichenback Theory was very good, so sorry guys! Basically I had friends and the internet point out clues and came up with this rough, unpolished idea. I may go back and add more details to it in the future, but for now this is it! C: Please, please point out on holes/flaws so I can fix it. Also, I imagine there are a lot of theories very similar to this idea, so I'm sorry if you think I've copied it/stolen ideas! I haven't. Mine's not very thought-through. Sorry again. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, anyway!