AN:Hello friends! It's been a while, and I will be honest, this chapter almost did me in. It's a bit long, so I am going to split it just so I can cover the things that I want. I am definitely trying to be fair to those of you who have said you appreciated the slow build, and I want to make sure I'm doing it right. At this point this story is looking to be massive, positively a small novella by the time I'm finished, so bless you all who have stuck with me.
Additional tags (because I'm a dork): Sherlock's humanity!, John gets shot (almost), Greg and John bffs, Mollykins!, do barristers really wear wigs?, yes they really do, and Richenfeels.
I hope you enjoy, and since I am splitting the chapter, the next update will be soon I promise.
Btw. I am not overly familiar with court proceedings, so I did my best given the research I conducted. Anything that's not accurate I employ my artistic license. :D
Mycroft was good on his word. The exoneration took only three months from the ground up, the fastest anyone has ever been cleared in history.
The first month was filled with media chaos that bombarded John on every street corner. He never saw Jeremy Rattner again from the hateful Baker Street Inquisition, but there were plenty of others who wanted to tear Sherlock to shreds. He had to wade through everything they dug up on the consulting detective from his recreational drug use, to his psychological records (which it turned out were bribed off Sherlock's old shrink) labeling him with sociopathic tendencies. He practically had to beat off people with a stick who offered him ridiculous amounts of money to auction off Sherlock's things, and had to get another post office box to accommodate the sheer volume of fan /hate mail. John's character was scrutinised as well for keeping such dubious company, and of course, of course, on his sexual orientation and supposed 'unrequited love.' He just stopped correcting them after a while, too busy focussing on the appeals and the solicitors (three of London's finest) and the impending hearing. By the end of the first month he was back to using his cane full time.
The second month, John decided to try and take back control from the media. He organised rallies, gave interviews, and orchestrated a montage of Sherlock's greatest cases that went viral after only being on YouTube for three hours. He started up his blog again. He didn't realise how painful and cathartic, and necessary it was to continue his writing, and he even added some of the smaller cases that especially showcased Sherlock's humanity. There was one in particular, a small private case that escalated into a kidnapping back before they were really famous. The news article was small, easily overlooked in the mess of the Sunday paper featuring a snapshot of Sherlock crouching in front of a little girl. He had one hand on her shoulder, and the other cupping her cheek as he questioned her about her abductor. John remembered that day well, because it was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock interact with children.
Normally, he was blunt and brusque, preferring to get straight to the facts than worry about the frayed nerves of the victims, but with children, he was uncommonly patient. This little girl in particular, Emma, John remembered, had an acute case of asthma and was on the brink of an attack without her inhaler in the midst of all the chaos. Sherlock kept her focussed and her breathing steady the entire time until the ambulance showed up. Even then, he remained at her side until she was reunited with her parents. The article of course didn't mention these things, preferring to talk about the details of the kidnapping instead of the enigmatic detective, only devoting a sentence or two to the 'good Samaritan' that had come forth with vital information. Now, however, it seemed extremely necessary that the world knew this part of Sherlock. When he posted it, it was by far one of the most popular blog entries he'd ever done. After scrolling through the endless comments that began to blur together, he was reminded of a conversation they had a long time ago.
'Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them.'
He couldn't help but chuckle. "Hopefully you'll have a good long sulk about this when you come back, because like it or not, they've made you into one." He waited for a moment unsure for what, until it hit him he was waiting for the Sherlock inside his head to respond with its familiar acerbity. But for the first time, no cutting remark came when he willed it. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but in the end he reasoned it was a good thing.
His limp graciously let up a little after this, but the solicitors suggested he keep using his cane for sympathy. He refused to play their games; he didn't want to be a pawn.
By the time the preliminaries went under way, it was like ripping the lid off of Pandora's proverbial Box. Greg was suspended until further notice as the investigation took place, and Sally Donovan and Kitty Riley were given a witness summons by the prosecuting solicitors. People, from God knows where, came out of the woodwork claiming to be friends and loved ones of actor Richard Brook. They were no doubt low-lifers that were paid off for the sole purpose of maintaining the charade long after Moriarty was gone. But the psychopath was thorough, and it turned out he really did lead a double life as some sort of contingency plan. It spurned a side investigation on the matter of their legitimacy, discrediting few people in the end, and only served to add weeks onto the whole affair.
After this, people who were against John and the exoneration were getting angrier by the day. The attacks on his blog were to the point where he had to disable commenting, and he hardly ever opened his mail anymore not wanting to bother with any of it, he was so fed up. Mrs. Hudson was starting to worry, and John nearly came unglued when a brick was thrown through her window when she had been over at Mrs. Turner's one afternoon. Mycroft increased surveillance around Baker Street, and that seemed to help for a while. But, the CCTV cameras could only see so much, and so it shouldn't have been a surprise, really, when someone pulled a gun on him, and left him bleeding in a scummy alley on his way back from the pub. Luckily, his would-be assassin was a scared kid with shockingly shit aim who took off the second he pulled the trigger, and John only sustained a graze to his side. He fumbled with his phone, blood smearing the screen until he dialed Greg's number.
"Hey mate. Did you forget something at the Pub?" he answered jokingly.
"Hah. No, but hey, can you come pick me up," John tried for levity, but his voice shook horribly.
"John? What's wrong?"
"Shooter. I think I might need a hospital."
Forty minutes later, John was sitting in an exam room in A&E as they stitched up his side. Greg was sitting in one of the plastic chairs, and every time John would wince he shook his head, and huffed loudly through his nose. When the nurse finally left they sat there a thick silence passing between them…
"All right. Let's have it. You got something to say, so say it," John challenges.
"Jesus, John," his friend starts, his voice taught. "You could've died!"
"I'm aware of that, ta," he grumbles sardonically, tugging on his bloodied undershirt. He knew what was coming next.
"What, you still don't think maybe you should take a step back?" It was the same argument they'd been having for three months.
"Greg, the hearing's in two days. There's hardly a point to it now."
"In two days it's gonna be a mad house. Sherlock had a lot of enemies, John. After tonight do you think they won't hesitate to try something? And I highly doubt you'll be lucky enough to end up with another punk kid and a bullet graze."
"Oh, come on. I'll be surrounded by people. And besides Mycroft is probably setting up a protection detail."
"Well bully for Mycroft. Fat lot of good, that," he says and gestures to John's side. He scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs deeply, and John can practically hear his teeth grind in agitation. He recognises what's eating at him: it's the feeling of being obsolete. It's a hard thing when protecting people is practically in your genetic makeup, and you're suddenly forced to stop when it matters most. John knows this feeling better than anyone.
"How's civvie life treating you, anyway?" he asks quietly.
"God, John. I feel so goddam useless," he groans and gets to his feet shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "I can't even carry my gun. Twenty years on the force, and I don't know what to do with myself."
"I know. Soldier, remember?"
"I should have left the pub with you. I could have —"
"Don't. It might have been worse for all of us. You could have spooked him. Let's just be glad this was all that it was."
At this, Detective Inspector Dimmock interrupts them with a knock against the wall, and manoeuvres around the beige privacy curtain. He appraises Lestrade with a smug quirk of his lips. The two men have a tense exchange without any words, and John looks between them apparently invisible. He's about to speak up when Dimmock finally turns to him.
"Doctor Watson, are you up to giving a brief statement?"
"Give him a break, Charlie, it's two in the morning," Lestrade says, a bite to his words. He subtly places himself between him and John.
Dimmock ignores him and keeps staring pointedly at John. "I'm afraid it can't wait."
Lestrade cuts in again before John gets a chance. "Where's Inspector Gregson? I thought she was working this with you?"
"She's off out talking to a possible witness."
"Then John will deal with her tomorrow when he's feeling able," Lestrade says in a tone that brokered no argument. His eyes clash with John's.
Flummoxed, but sensing the tension in his friend, he turns to Dimmock, "Yeah," he says wrapping an arm protectively around his side as he feigns a grimace, "First thing tomorrow, you have my word. But at the mo' I am well and truly knackered."
Dimmock looks as if he's about to argue, but doesn't press the matter when Lestrade clears his throat. He nods, "Right, then. Tomorrow, full statement. Feel better, Doctor Watson." He adjusts his jacket and leaves with one last condescending look at Lestrade.
"Tosser," he scoffs.
"Mind telling me what that was all about, Greg?" John asks, gingerly shrugging on his jacket. The side was in tatters, most likely beyond Mrs. Hudson's expertise with a needle and thread. He sighs, realising he would have to get a new one.
"I don't want him to take your statement," he says matter-of-factly.
"Well that much is obvious. Why?"
"Before I was suspended, I was looking in on him. I think he's the one that leaked your statement – about Sherlock," he says the words gingerly as if holding a glass figurine, one eye on John to gauge his reaction. John tries to school his face to blankness, and he continues "I can't prove it yet, but Gregson is on my side. God, I can't wait for this to be over so I can wipe that shit-eating grin right off his face. He always did strut about like he was better than everyone."
"Yeah, and Sherlock knocked him down a few pegs the first time we worked with him. Probably a grudge, that. He will be happy to know you are working on getting him demoted." John winces when he realises his mistake. "Would be. Would have been," he falters and rubs the back of his neck. Damn.
Lestrade glances at him, the slip not lost on him. John holds his breath. But instead of suspicion like he expects, there is only sadness and sympathy in his hazel eyes. John remembers that look. He received it often in the months right after when Sherlock's death had been so raw. It took him almost a whole year to be able to refer to his friend in the past tense. Thankfully, Lestrade seems to chock it up to the stress of the hearing, and not for what it really is. He squeezes John's shoulder reassuringly.
"If I get my way, he won't just be demoted, he'll be kicked out of Scotland Yard. There's been one too many reports from suspects claiming he uses excessive force and some of his sergeants have come forward about his apparently sticky fingers in evidence lock up. He's shit with paperwork too."
"He sounds like a nightmare," John says good-naturedly.
"Too right! Here, I'll give you a ride back to Baker Street."
"Thanks, Greg. I really appreciate it," he says, finally feeling the exhaustion slam into him full force. He sways a bit on his feet, and Greg steadies him with a strong hand around the elbow.
"All right?" John nods, trying to shake himself. "John, seriously mate, you should consider stepping back a bit until this is all done. It's not like it's the front lines of a war."
"Says who?" he scoffs bitterly. "It's the bloody media."
"I just hate seeing you strung up like a puppet for that Holmes," he nearly growls. From the instant John explained the role Mycroft had outlined for him, Greg had been against it. "They tear people apart. You'll be exposed. With as much chaos as there'll be anyone can take another shot at you."
"Greg. I'll be okay. You have to trust me. I –" he stops a moment, and shifts on his feet. "I have to do this."
Lestrade grunts, the sound sticking somewhere between affirmation and defeat. "Yeah I know you do."
They spent the trip back to John's flat in silence, both exhausted and frayed around the edges.
-oOo-
"Visitor for you, love!" Mrs. Hudson's musical cadence of a voice rings out from down stairs.
John stops fussing with his unruly tie and frowns at himself in the bathroom mirror. He wasn't expecting anyone, insisting to Greg and Mycroft that he needed to at least ride to the courthouse by himself. He needed to take the time so he could mentally steel himself against another ambush of scrutiny. He tries not to think about how utterly shite he is at acting, forcing the panic to the back of his mind. His hands are shaking, and he plucks the knot apart in frustration, letting his tie hang loosely about his neck.
"Okay! Send them up!" he calls, running a hand over his face. He hears meek footsteps on the stairs as he flicks on the kettle. Genuinely curious, he rounds the corner in anticipation just as the door opens. He stops dead in his tracks.
"Molly," he breathes.
"Hello, John," she says timidly, her delicate shoulders curving in on themselves under her rose-coloured blouse. Even though she is clearly a ball of nerves, she holds his eyes rock steady. He stares back, searching. He sees there is a fierce determination sparkling in those honey depths, and they cause his breath to catch in his throat. The message is clear, she isn't sorry for her actions, no sir not one bit, and she would probably do it again many times over. He saw the very same look in his own mirror after he shot that damnable cabbie. There was nothing he regretted in saving Sherlock's life, even given the heavy cost that came with killing another man. Her eyes dance with a mixture of remorse and defiance, and an innate knowledge that only comes with sacrifice.
John knows he has every right to be angry with her — and in fact he had been quite livid when he learned of her role in all of this. But looking at her now, standing in the middle of 221B, he is blown away by the strength and bravery belied by her unassuming demeanour. He's never noticed the power that thrums beneath her demure surface, and he finds it is impossible to be angry with her. Instead, his chest expands with gratitude.
He closes the distance between them in two long strides and crushes her to him in a strong embrace. She exhales shakily, and squeezes him back with equal ardour. An entire conversation takes place spoken in silence and thudding hearts.
'I'm so sorry you were alone.'
'I understand.'
'I wanted to tell you. Every day.'
'I know. You did good.'
He buries his face in her soft hair, and pours out three months' worth of bitterness and stress, but most of all, he pours out his relief. He's had to hide what he knows to be true, that Sherlock Holmes is alive, and most days — no every day — the overwhelming joy threatens to burst out of his chest. The knowledge of how dangerous this is has been an impossible burden, and it's no wonder he was kept in the dark. But now there's Molly, and she smells like chamomile and lilac, and her embrace speaks of empathy. To be well and truly understood is overwhelming, and very necessary at this point, because he's not sure how much he can continue the charade. He's just so tired.
Molly's breath hitches, and John can feel tears soaking through his shirt. It hits him just then. While he's had to keep it together for three months, Molly's had to pretend for the better part of three years, even having to leave behind her entire life in London. Her loneliness is tangible, a weight that settles deep in her shoulders, and he swallows around a lump in his throat. Surely he can be strong for a little longer. It's the least he can do to honour her sacrifice. Not sure of his voice, he rubs his hand soothingly up and down her back instead, and ignores the pain in his side when she clutches him a bit tighter around the waist.
"Hey," he says, his voice tight, and he places a hand on the back of her head.
"It's all right."
She lets out a shuddering sigh, and finally pulls back to look at him. "No it's not. But it will be." She smiles, and he squeezes her shoulders once more before they part.
"Kettle's just boiled. Would you like some tea?"
"Oh, yes please," she says and then excuses herself to the loo to freshen up a bit. When she comes back after reapplying her eyeliner, she looks a great deal lighter as if a weight has been lifted. She sits across from him at the kitchen table, and blows on her tea, and for a while they just sit there in companionable silence. It's the most at-ease John has felt since the whole thing started.
"How's Sussex treating you, Molly?" he asks. Usually, John's not a fan of small talk, but right now he aches for normal. He's also genuinely curious. When he first learned Molly transferred he chocked it up to the fact that Bart's had too many painful memories, and didn't think too much of it after that. But when Mycroft mentioned she had been relocated for her safety a frisson of concern raced up his spine.
"It's okay," she says tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He forgot how charming she was to look at. The thing of it was, she didn't even know she was charming, and it made him fiercely protective of her. He should have kept in touch with her more, but he had been so out of his head. "At first I didn't think I would like it. Very quiet compared to London, and there really isn't a whole lot of need for a Medical Examiner. I only work part time anymore."
"How are – I mean are you —?"
"Oh yes! I have everything I need thanks to Mr. Holmes. I basically feel like I got to retire early," she chuckles, but it's rather devoid of humour. It dawns on him that she must be going crazy with nothing to do. John remembers how busy she preferred to keep herself, in either the lab or the morgue until the wee hours of the morning. That's why she was always such a convenience to Sherlock. They were alike that way: a pair of insomniacs if John had ever seen them.
"Molly," John starts. He traces the scratches in the table with his fingernail. "What you did for Sherlock I…there are no words to describe my gratitude. You were there when no one else could be."
Her cheeks pinken, and her eyes flutter with a sudden set of unshed tears before she lowers them. When she speaks, her words are brimming with emotion. "I couldn't not. What's a world without Sherlock Holmes? Not a world I want to live in."
John swallows hard. He reaches out and cups her hand in his, and hopes that his smile can speak what he can't. He's always known Molly had an attraction to Sherlock, who could not? ('You being all mysterious with your – cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.' 'I don't do that.') But for the first time he actually sees her. The love she has for him is bone deep, irrevocable even. Again, he is floored by her courage. Sherlock Holmes is not an easy person to love, yet unbeknownst to him, Molly has given him the whole of her fragile heart.
"Come on, then. Let me fix your tie. We'll go together, side by side," she smiles.
"Together," he nods.
-oOo-
Molly and John sit in the cab, taking a moment to brace themselves before they have to fight their way through the swarm of reporters infecting the entrance of Old Bailey. A wave of slick nausea drops into his stomach as he looks at the old courthouse. The same courthouse where Moriarty was put on trial, and now it would be his friend the barristers and media would try to tear apart.
"My God, John," Molly says. "Is this what it's been like for you?"
"I'm afraid so. Look, if you want I can go and get the cabbie to drop you off 'round back."
"No. Side by side, remember? Besides, I think they already saw me."
"Ah well. Let's give them more to talk about, shall we?" John smiles cheekily, and offers his arm. She threads hers through his, and clings on for dear life as they exit the safety of the cab and press through the crowd.
John keeps his gaze trained on the path before him, clenching his jaw and refusing to acknowledge the barrage of questions raining down on him like shrapnel. They crowd in closer, and John pulls Molly into his side so she doesn't get too jostled. It's only when they enter the grand foyer of the building that John exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Vultures," he curses, shaking his head.
"Oh John!" Molly exclaims suddenly, stepping away her eyes scanning him from head to toe. "What have you done?"
"What?" John asks, perplexed. He follows her gaze down his shirt and sees the problem. A red line of blood is spotting through the fabric of his light blue dress shirt. "Oh bollocks." He pulls the shirt away from him to assess the damage. "I must have popped a few stitches, it's fine."
"Stitches? What happened?"
"I had a bit of a run-in with someone," he says evasively, and looks around for the men's room.
She narrows her eyes. "John..."
"The tosser got himself shot," Lestrade says striding up to meet them. "Hullo Molly," he says with a grin at her horrified expression (the git), and pecks her on the cheek. Her shock turns into exasperation, and she glares at him.
Before she could berate him, John cuts in, "It was only a graze. I'm fine really. Although, I could do with some fixing up."
"Come on," Lestrade says. "I know where the loo is."
"Molly, we'll be right back," John says over his shoulder, managing to catch the sight of her crossing her arms before he turns and follows his friend.
In the bathroom, John tries fruitlessly to scrub the blood off his shirt while Lestrade looks on with an amused half-smile. He dampens a third paper towel and tries to dab at it again, only making it worse in the process.
"I think that shirt's done in, mate," Lestrade chuckles.
"Shit. I have to stand up there in front of everybody in a few minutes. This was my best shirt." He throws the paper towel in the bin.
"Here," Lestrade says and unbuttons his suit jacket and tosses it at him. "At least it will cover it up even if it is a little big."
"Thanks, Greg." John shrugs into the jacket, and even though it was a bit long, he filled it out in the shoulders quite nicely. "How do I look?"
"Smart. Very smart," he grins and claps him on the shoulder.
After John's all sorted, they return to the lobby in search of Molly. They both stop short at the sight of her a little ways away engaging in a heated conversation with another woman. Molly's back was to them, but John could see the other woman clearly, her body language closed off and defensive, eyes saucer wide. She looked familiar to John, and it took him a moment to figure out why: it was slanderer extraordinaire, Kitty Riley. Her unruly hair was slicked back into a severe bun, and her normally arrogant demeanour was now diminishing steadily with Molly's every word until she was reduced to a small, trembling thing. A rush of vindication races though him, and he shoots a quizzical look at Greg, as they approach the two in tandem. Kitty spots them immediately and takes off, ducking her head and rushing off to the ladies room, wiping her eyes in the process.
"What in the world did you say to her?" John asks, his cheeks nearly aching with the effort of holding back his bitter grin.
Molly sniffs. "Only what needed to be said."
"You made her cry."
"Good."
"Molly Hooper!" John's tone is mock admonishment edged with bursting pride.
"She's really an awful woman," she says an embarrassed flush staining her cheeks.
"Yes, she really is," he chuckles and all three of them enter the court room together. Half way down the aisle, John balks, his breath getting stuck in his throat. This was it. Three months — three years really — of solicitors and legal bureaucracy, and it was all coming to a head in a matter of moments. John would be lying if he said he was fine.
"All right, John?" Lestrade asks.
"Fine. I'm fine," he nods definitively more so to himself, and slides into the gallery with a friend on either side of him. Molly squeezes his hand encouragingly as the courtroom begins to fill.
"Ah, Doctor Watson," a deep mordacious voice resonates behind him.
"Mr. Love," John greets the barrister with a firm handshake.
"Are you ready for this?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," he insists.
"Good, good. Just like we rehearsed. Leave the rest to me," he grins wolfishly. According to Mycroft, he was the best and most ruthless in London, and John was beginning to see why. Normally he was a prosecutor, but he was paid God knows how much to take on Sherlock's case in his defence. He had a gleam in his eye that practically screamed his passion for tearing people apart, but what John noticed more than his brutality, was that arrogant and tell-tale flicker: Mr. Love was bored, and Sherlock's case was one of his greatest challenges. John wasn't sure if he agreed with the abject sense of justice, but he couldn't deny Mycroft's obvious choice. This was a man that would do anything to win. It should have been more of a reassurance than it was.
Up to this point, John had refrained from looking in on the trial's progress, figuring it would be best if he lay by the wayside until the defence was able to make their case. He refused to watch the news or read the papers, and stayed far away from the internet as the trial burned on and the prosecution roared. Now, day three of the trial, it was time for Mr. Love, and John to make their stand, and he realised with a sinking feeling that maybe keeping himself in the dark was a stupid thing to do. He should have prepared, braced himself for what he was getting himself into. His mouth went dry, but before he could entertain thoughts of finding a quick drink of water, everyone was getting to their feet as the Judge took his place.
Everything was a kaleidoscopic blur, barristers launching accusations like machine-gun fire, insidious objections wrought with metaphorical Semtex, Donovan's guilty admission: 'One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.' Kitty Riley running from the witness box in tears the second she was free to do so:
"Tell the truth! You were in love with Richard Brook weren't you?" Mr. Love cries, and she breaks down in a sobbing mess before admitting the truth. Her eyes lock onto Molly's for the briefest of moments, and John looks between the two of them incredulous. Molly's lips were in a thin line, and she refused to look in his direction.
"Your Honour, the question asked by my learned friend goes to the witness's character, which is impermissible! Surely you cannot allow this as credible evidence!" The other barrister interrupts.
The Judge eyes the prosecutor narrowly before answering, "I'm permitting it, Mr. Gordon, and be advised, you will not do well with questioning my judgment. Mr. Love, I suggest you examine your witnesses with a bit more grace in the future."
Mr. Love concedes with a tilt of his head, a vicious grin scything across his face. "Of course, you Honour."
And then they're off again, and John's head is spinning. He almost doesn't register when Mr. Love finally calls him up to the stand.
"John," Molly whispers, urging him to his feet. He shoots up a little too fast, a little rush of dizziness fogging his head, and makes his way down the stairs to the front. This was the easy part: the questions and answers they'd gone over numerous times. All John had to do was talk about how much of an asset to society his best friends was, and recount the humanity that he ardently refuted, but possessed nonetheless. It was easy because it was all true.
The hard part was the cross examination. Being under oath meant that John couldn't deny agreeing to certain conversations that took place between them, most all of which he had no idea how the prosecution managed to get a hold of.
High functioning sociopath, Anderson. Do your research.
Will caring about them help save them?
I invented Moriarty for my own purposes.
He was shite at lying. And Mr. Gordon knew full well. He twisted the knife. Twisted it hard.
"Do you deny that Sherlock Holmes himself spoke these words to you?"
"No, but you're taking it all out of context!" John protests. A slick wave of nausea was rolling through him.
"Doctor Watson, please just refrain to answering the question," the Judge reminds him.
Tight lipped John answers again. "No I don't deny it."
"He told you to tell everyone, correct? Tell them that he was a fraud?"
"Yes." He hoped his voice sounded unaffected even though he was shaking.
"What cause did he give you to ignore the evidence? The blatant confession? Were you lovers?"
"Your Honour, I must ardently object to Mr. Gordon's line of questioning on the matter of relevance," Love interjects swiftly.
"Your Honour, if it pleases the court, Miss Riley's allegiance and her subsequent sway was based on her affections for Richard Brook. Surely the same must be called to question about the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?"
"I'm afraid I'm inclined to agree with Mr. Gordon. Answer the question, Doctor Watson."
John swallows, the sides of his throat sticking together in his attempts to moisten it. "No. We were solely flatmates. Our relationship did not extend outside of friendship regardless of what people may have said." His voice was strong, yet unassuming and even good-natured, like. It's all fine. It briefly threw Gordon for a loop, and John managed a confident grin. It seemed as if his plan to knock John off kilter backfired. "You shouldn't believe everything you read on the internet," he says cheekily.
"Doctor Watson," the Judge warns for the second time.
"Apologies, Your Honour."
Gordon takes a moment to regroup. His eyes flash when he looks back at John, and suddenly there is an electric coil of tension in the air.
"If I may be so bold as to rephrase, Doctor Watson…did you love Sherlock Holmes?"
"I've answered that haven't I?"
"No you misunderstand. I asked if you loved him. Not if you were lovers. Those two things are entirely different."
"Your Honour, don't let Mr. Gordon regale the court with his trivial semantics—"
"Mr. Love. Do not tell me how to run my courtroom," the Judge says sharply. "I will not be disrespected. And Mr. Gordon, sir, if you have a point, make it."
"I only mean to discern Doctor Watson's actions. Physical relations spur different motives than genuine ones. Surely platonic love is just as true as romantic love?" The Judge is sceptical, but after a moment he nods for him to proceed. Gordon straightens and smoothes his collar triumphantly. "Doctor Watson. Did you love Sherlock Holmes in any capacity?"
John is beside himself. His mouth works silently, at a loss of how to shape words all of a sudden. He looks up at the gallery, and his eyes lock on Lestrade's and then Molly's. "He is — was my best friend, yes."
"That's all well and good, but did you love him?"
"He's brilliant," John says quietly, almost a whisper. The Judge reminds him yet again to answer the question directly. He stills, an eerie calm settling over him.
Flashes of their life stretched out before John — tearing through London's dark streets, laughing as though drunk on adrenaline, being well and fully alive for the first time since he was invalided. Sherlock trying to teach him his craft, and lighting up when John called him amazing or fantastic. Sherlock making him feel needed, actually being needed, being the only one to take care of him because he wanted to and not because he was obligated. And then the fear and confusion as he watched helplessly as his friend jumped off that roof, all for him and the people he cared for in the most selfless act John has ever witnessed. Aching crushing loss in his chest for years, and then, oh then, the unparalleled joy of knowing he's alive. He swallows around a lump in his throat, and tries to look Gordon defiantly in the eyes despite the moisture gathered in his own. "Yes. Always."
I know! I know I said Sherlock would be in the next chapter I'm sorry I lied! Soon soon I promise! Don't hate me!
