It's been a while since I updated, I know, but I've been working on a book and so far it's sapped most of my creative energy. Plus, I have terrible time management skills. Big thing, I updated the rating on the story because this chapter involves some strong language from John (I mean, who can blame him? He kind of just pushed his best friend into isolation after just getting him back.)
This chapter takes place from John's perspective once more. His perspective is immediately following chapter 6, so he has no idea what Sherlock's just created (yet, anyway).
Enjoy!
John sat still on the ice, letting the chill bite at his skin. He was numb. All he'd ever wanted was Sherlock back in his life, and he'd blew it. Just like every other stupid thing in his life. The crunch of snow came from behind him, but he made no movement to turn around and see whom it was.
"What happened? John! Where's Sherlock!" The frightened voice of Mycroft cut through John's numb state. Everything came spiraling back to him. Mycroft, the coronation, Mary…Mary. He knew that name sounded familiar. Mary certainly hadn't been who she'd said she was. At least, she wasn't the princess she'd said she was. That afternoon with Greg and his two friends all those years ago…there was no use remembering such trivial things now. All that mattered was Sherlock. John shook as he tried to pick himself off the ground and turned to Mycroft. "He…he got upset and froze the place. The town. He froze the town. And now he's ran."
The King looked at John, worry clearly lining his face as he tried to fake a calm demeanor for the sake of the citizens. "Where did he run? John, you have to tell me so I can go after him." Mycroft said sternly. "He's off in the mountains," he began, "but I won't let you go, Mycroft. Someone has to stay here and keep the villagers calm. You're king, you stay. I'm just a prince who fucked up big time and is going to fix the mess." John began running towards the frozen land until someone else who'd followed behind him grabbed his arm. When he turned, he saw Sally Donovan, that seamstress, and a few other people behind her.
"John, just leave him!" Sally shouted over the roaring winds. "I can't!" John shouted back. "Then I'm coming with you! It's suicide to go out alone!" Lestrade piped up from the back. John watched as Greg pushed his way through the crowd to stand by his side. "You might have left me for isolation, John, but you're still my best mate; I hope I'm still yours." John smiled at Greg before the realization of the first half of his sentence hit him. "Greg, I'm not going to allow yourself to get killed. Stay and help Mycroft." He begged. Lestrade scoffed at him. "Fat chance of that. I'm not letting you out of my sight until we get Sherlock back."
John bit back his plea for him to stay and turned to run, knowing Lestrade would follow. Sally's hand stopped him once again, and John turned for the last time. "Just leave him, John! He left you!" She spat. Tears spilled from the corners of John's eyes as he thought about the abandonment so long ago and how it'd been pure hell for him. Leaving Sherlock in a state like that, toppled with panic and fear, was heartbreaking for him. Regardless of the poor choices Sherlock had made, his best friend needed him, and he was going to be there. "I-I just…I can't!" John cried as he ran once more into the mountains with Lestrade on his tail.
The ice made it difficult for John to continue running for extended periods without slipping. He tripped on a root and Lestrade caught him just in time. Guilt and fear were coursing through his veins, fogging any reason he'd been trying to rely on. John panted and struggled to stay upright, only redeemed by a singsong voice coming from the distance. "Johnny! Wait up!" The voice called.
Lestrade turned towards the approaching figure first. The young man was climbing through the snow at great speed and decked entirely in black. John wiggled out of Greg's grip and squinted at the man. "I'm sorry," he called, "but I can't be responsible for losing someone else. Please, just, go back to the village." The man approaching didn't respond and pushed through until he was standing close to the two.
"I'm sorry, John, but I can't. Sherlock was once my friend too."
John tried to force his brain back to focusing. Once his friend too? He knew this man? Well, his voice did sound familiar…
"James?"
The other man smiled. "Jim, actually. Prince Jim Moriarty of the Southern Isles." He held out his hand for him. John eagerly took his hand and gave a firm shake. "It's been a while."
Moriarty's face turned solemn. "I made a promise to you and Sherlock a long time ago. I intend to keep it."
"I will always be here for you two. You're my best friends, and I'd follow you anywhere, no matter how dangerous." The six-year-old Jim had said.
John smiled up at him with tears stinging the corners of his eyes. "Thank you."
The three of them headed further through the snow, approaching a small outpost. Lestrade pushed his way through the wind and held the door for the other two members. John stood near the fireplace towards the entrance, embracing the flicker of light and heat emanating from it.
"Yoo-hoo!"
John turned towards the direction of the call. A man with a beard waved to him from behind the front desk. "Big summer blowout!"
Moriarty walked towards the desk and gently set two hands down on the wooden desk. "Have you seen anyone going up the mountain? Possibly the prince?" He asked.
The smaller man shook his head. "No one's crazy enough to be out in the storm except you three."
Slowly, he approached the taller man, and John placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let me handle it."
Jim stepped away and allowed John to talk. "Listen," he began, "do you, um, do you know what it's like, to push someone you love away so much that there comes a day when they leave and you never knew how much they meant to you?" The other man nodded. "I lost my best friend today, and I just want him to know that he's still loved, even if I pushed him away. Please, would you help me?" John pleaded.
After a stretched out silence, the other man sighed and nodded. He stood with a bow. "Anderson, at your service. You want to know if there was anyone on the mountain earlier, eh? Well, I can tell you there was one person after the storm began. The crazy bugger was heading for the tallest mountain. He had a black braid and was fairly tall. Quite unusual for the village folk."
"That's him. Thanks." John smiled. He turned back to the others to yell. "C'mon. We have a long journey ahead of us."
Lestrade and Jim followed the Prince back into the flurry outside. "To Baker Mountain." John called to his party.
"What? Are you insane? Baker Mountain? In this storm? It's suicide, John!" Greg responded.
John turned to him, stubbornness etching his movements. "Are you coming with me, or not?" He queried, voice taking on a frightening calmness.
Lestrade shook his head and sighed. "Yeah, of course I am."
"Good, now let's head up into the woods."
John marched through the crisp snow and into the entrance of the trees, glancing around the looming, dark trees.
"These woods are creepier than I remember them." Lestrade remarked.
"Do you remember when we used to come out here, John?" Jim asked.
John stilled, the memory of that summer flooding back to him. He was six, Sherlock was four, and Jim was five. They'd all come into the woods with John's papa and he'd let them have a run around the forest until it was time for supper. Sherlock had started a game of make believe, where he was a pirate who sailed the roaring waves. John pretended he was Sherlock's first mate and an invalided knight. Jim had said he wanted to be the villain, or at least the commander of his own ship. They'd had a pretend war with each other that was tiresome, stretching for well over a few hours, and ended with all three of them too tired to eat supper when they were called back. He'd never forgotten the words he'd told Sherlock in the middle of their war. They'd chilled him to his core. Just the way he'd said them with a stoic look and a serious air. I'll burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes.
"Yeah, I remember." John murmured.
The wind howled in the branches, swaying them back and forth in a small dance. Vines that had once hung down green from the trees were covered in frost, catching the light of the moon and refracting it into a beautiful concoction of shimmering silver. John was entranced. Never had he seen something more beautiful or threatening in his entire life. He was sure that it was symbolic of something, but what exactly it symbolized eluded him.
All this time, Sherlock had been hiding such beauty within closed walls. If only he'd known what he could be capable of.
A rustling came a few feet ahead of them.
Sherlock?
Slowly, John made his way over to the part in the dark barked trees. If Sherlock was there, he'd have to approach carefully as not to scare him off again. A small pond had been frozen over, but nothing seemed to be stirring. No creature, nor human. He frowned. John had been so sure he'd heard something from this direction. Lestrade and Jim came up behind him. "You're not crazy," Lestrade stated, "I heard it too."
A small tug came at the base of his shirt and he looked down at a snow recreation of his younger self. He crouched down to eye level with the small snow creature.
"Did Sherlock make you?" John asked, fighting back the storm of emotion that paralleled the storm swirling around him.
His tiny, recreation nodded and looked at him with big blue eyes.
"I'm John Watson. Do you want to have a snowball fight?" The snowman responded.
The dam holding back John's emotions burst, releasing the tsunami of guilt, depression, abandonment, and fear all at once. He choked out a sob and almost broke into pieces on the ice floor in front of his seven year old self.
Sherlock had never given up on you.
The tears streamed down, hitting the snow and cooling into ice crystals. That day they had the snowball fight. He'd called Sherlock a monster, which isn't true.
The only monster here is me.
John heard a crunch of snow and Greg plopped himself next to him.
"John. John, it's all right. It's not your fault. We'll fix this." Lestrade reassured.
"Don't you see? It is my fault!" John snapped at him. "All this time, I'd thought-"
"-he'd abandoned you." Jim finished. "He's right, John. This isn't your fault."
The world was spinning again in a mix of guilt, fear, and doubt. He felt his chest becoming heavy with pressure and it became harder to breath. "I pushed him! I've pushed him since I was seven! Now, I'd wanted to leave him for my own selfish reasons! I'd never once given thought to why Sherlock was hiding! I'd never once considered that he'd do this for me because I'd been blinded by my own selfish views of wanting him to stay with me! It'd always been me. No wonder he ran! It's my own fault, and I shouldn't take both of you down in the destructive storm of my own mistakes!" John yelled.
He sprang from the floor, pushing Greg away and running from Moriarty. The wind whipped his face and he could hear the calling of his other two party members from the frozen pond, but it didn't matter to him. They can't follow him. Not this time.
John stumbled over his own feet and collapsed into a snow bank and the root of one of the tallest trees in the woods. He sunk into the clammy cushion and choked on his own breath, feeling the world close in around him.
