In the eyes of an observer, King John was remarkably unshaken by the high-profile event. He ate well, slept well, and handled the daily affairs of the Kingdom equally well, if not with even more vivacity. He was all over the country overseeing civil constructions or inspecting military units, and went on diplomatic missions abroad more frequently than before. The halls of Criterion and the streets of the Strand saw less and less of him, except on the way in and out. The only thing he didn't occupy himself with was dating – too little time at hand, he had apologised to the ladies.
Days slipped by. One night Molly came in to collect his plates from dinner. The only item left untouched was a chocolate cookie. She sighed. "It's been three months, my Lord."
King John looked up from a mountain of scrolls. "Sorry, what?"
Facing King John, Molly eased the quill away from his hand, and looked down at him with pitiful eyes. "You look sad, when you think no one can see you."
The nerves of steel broke down. King John buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, but there was no tear. "Oh, Molly, I miss him. I miss him every day, every waking minute. I can't look at Toby. I can't look at Mike. I can't look at food. This whole city smells of him. People say he doesn't have a heart. I know he does, and I have failed it. I have failed us. What good can I do? Yet you call me King and bow before me. I am not worthy of you. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of the crown. I am not worthy of breathing – oh, breathing's boring now, isn't it?" His sobbing had turned violent. Molly gave his shoulder a squeeze, and hugged him lightly.
"You know in your heart why he did what he chose to do, my Lord. If in his eyes there ever is one person worthy of anything in the whole world, it's you."
"Oh, curse him, Molly, curse him."
That night was particularly difficult. It must be because of the thunders and lightening. With a quivering hand, King John reached for the flask of sedative on his night stand. Darn it, it's losing effect overtime that he has to dose up, and the whole bottle might not last very long. He poured out a large glass of the potion, when a dark, slim shadow hovered over his bed. "John. Surely you know the long-term side effects of your own medicine."
Are the side effects here already, or did Molly slip a serving of Stropharia cyanescens into my dinner? Still, King John smiled at the lightening-lit silhouette. "Of course I do, Sherlock. It might hurt my brain, or it might kill me. Guess what, I don't care. There's no way for me to be any more stupid, or any more dead, than I am now. I miss you. I hate you. I hate you so much," He whispered, "but don't worry, because I hate myself so much more. Go now. Good night."
The apparition had uncharacteristically sorrowful eyes, and was silent, as King John raised his glass. Then suddenly it stretched out a hand to grab King John by the wrist, pressing his palm to its bosom. "John, I am not dead."
Upon perceiving the warmth of skin and a throbbing pulse King John gasped, glass crashing to the stone floor. The shattering noise brought Captain Lestrade rushing in, a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. There stood Sherlock Holmes of Buckingham, one hand still over King John's. The sword was dropped, as all three stared in shock.
"I should beg for your pardon, my Lord." Molly walked out from behind the drapes.
"It was I who wielded the blade when Sir Holmes fell. I have brought fine drinks from the cellar on the previous night to the appointed executioner, and stripped him of his uniform as he turned unconscious."
"Anderson examined my body. He was more sympathetic to me than I was to him." Added Sherlock, apologetically. "The rest is my brother's doing. I have retreated to the Territory of Bakerue."
Captain Lestrade took a deep breath and saluted. "Your courage surpasses that of many men, Miss Molly."
Molly blushed, and diverted her eyes to King John, who was still practically petrified. "Use well your time before the dawn, Sir Holmes."
"Thank you, Molly." Again smiled Molly as she retreated, nudging Captain Lestrade away with her.
Before Sherlock could say anything, John seized him by both arms. "How dare you do such a thing to me," his face was in Sherlock's belly, and his fingers were biting into Sherlock's forearm, "you are heartless."
Sherlock collected John in his arms the best he could, leaned his head against his, and didn't speak. John felt a drop of wetness on his cheek. It must be the rain, John told himself, and relaxed into a lasting embrace.
"My presence had done you much harm, John." He whispered.
"You are an idiot."
"John, go to sleep now. I will stay."
"No, I won't."
