Do you remember, as a child, staying up late waiting for Santa Claus to come? Being so young, it was hard to stay awake. You had to pinch yourself and think 'he's coming, he's coming, I know it'. But did you fall asleep? No. You fought it, because you wanted to see Santa Claus so badly that the urge was stronger than the need for sleep. And when you finally heard him coming down the chimney, you ran to the top of the stairs and saw, in all of his glory, the man in the red coat and the white fuzzy beard, laying your presents under the tree. It was a true miracle! You watched him for a long time, afraid to approach him for the fear that he might not let you have your presents now. (And he had to have the milk and cookies, right?) He was the meaning of Christmas.
But then you see the beard slip, or you see his hat fall off to reveal your father's hair. He didn't come out of the chimney; he walked out of your parent's bedroom, and that's where he'd head again after he ate the cookies and drank the milk. Santa Claus didn't get you any presents, only your parents did. Santa Claus isn't real, and your parents lied to you. Your whole world comes crashing down after such a state of childhood bliss, and Christmas isn't the same.
And the worst part is that your parents didn't even get you what you asked for.
John could identify with how you felt on Christmas Eve, finding out that Santa Claus was only your dad in a fake white beard. He tried to explain how he felt to his therapist, who he went to see with great reluctance.
"You feel like you've been robbed?"
John had his face in his hand, his elbow resting against the arm of the chair. It was raining outside, a light drizzle. He felt like the weather was mocking him.
"John, you can't keep avoiding my questions."
John moved his hand away from his face, it was easy to tell that he had been crying and rubbing his eyes since yesterday's event unfolded before him, yet he somehow managed to smile, even thought it was fake."I feel robbed, I feel lied to, I feel tricked." He resumed his position, attempting to hide his emotions from the one person who was supposed to be helping him with them.
"Why do you feel robbed? You saved a man's life."
"He was there, he was there and I thought he could just come back and everything would be okay-"
John brought his fist up to his cheek and leaned against it, staring out at the gray sky to try and stop from crying.
The only thing I could think about for the last week is the fact that Sherlock was alive, that he was well and was coming home soon. I thought maybe he just needed to clear his name, stay off the radar for awhile. Instead he's working for the man who ruined his reputation.
A soft laugh escaped him and he looked back at his therapist.
"He saw me, after I fired the gun. He smiled. I smiled, as I ran away, because the way he looked up at me-" John's voice cracked apart as he remembered Sherlock's mouth twitching up into a quick smile before John had to run for it.
He was so broken and exhausted; then he looked up and saw me and it was like it all went away.
"Sherlock Holmes has never looked like that before."
John slouched back in his chair.
"I have no idea what to do. I racked my brain, after I saw him the first time in that park, for reasons why he wouldn't have come back sooner, or right away at that. Reasons why he would have let me see him."
"John, if Sherlock Holmes is alive," He did a subtle eye roll; of course she didn't believe him, "I think he would want to see you, even if he felt like he couldn't. You were his best friend."
"Sherlock doesn't identify friends."
"But you know that I'm right." John swallowed hard and listened to her.
"He just wanted to see you. Maybe he wanted you to see him."
John could hear his heart begin to pound as her words brought an idea.
"You could be right," John said, but he didn't say it to her. He was reaching for his coat, hanging off the back of the chair.
"John," his therapist watched as he slid the coat on. "We still have half an hour left."
"I have to talk to somebody."
"You still have to pay for the full hour!"
"I know," he replied, annoyed with his therapist, with everybody, but he was going to see the person he was most annoyed with right now.
{{( )}}
John purposefully threw open the Diogenes Club's doors to piss off everybody inside. The usual people at their usual chairs looked up at him with distaste; they definitely remembered who he was. They all glanced down at their newspapers and continued to read without so much as a word, that would be extremely uncalled for. John looked back at the people in disgust and stormed into Mycroft's office, purposefully leaving the door open as he began to shout at Mycroft, who hadn't even gotten the chance to look up from his papers.
"You lied to me!" Mycroft's head snapped up and his face became red as he glanced to the door, which to his horror was open wide.
"John, will you please keep your voice down-"
"No, I will not!" Mycroft stood up and closed the door as John continued to yell, "You told me he was dead! I know he's not because I saw him, with Jim Moriarty-"
"Keep your voice down," Mycroft whispered furiously. John stood in front of the chair once more , willing to bully Mycroft into giving him answers this time.
"Tell me the truth, Mycroft. You have never told me the full truth about anything, not when I first met you, not when I did cases with Sherlock, not when he faked his death. You're going to tell me the full truth, now."
I've got you, John thought, and as he watched Mycroft sigh and pour himself a drink, a feeling of long awaited satisfaction came over him.
"Please, sit down," Mycroft sat down in the chair across from John, who figured he didn't have to bully Mycroft anymore, this was his moment of glory and Mycroft could do nothing about it.
"What would you like to know?"
John laughed at Mycroft. "Don't do that. Tell me everything, don't ask me specific things. Start from the beginning."
Mycroft crossed his legs and told John everything.
"Sherlock and James Moriarty are both very much alive. They both never had any intention of killing themselves, they love themselves too much to do such a thing. It was planned."
John's heart was racing, he could hear his heart beating in his forehead. It was so loud, so intense that he began to get a head ache, his brain yanking at and storing every word Mycroft said.
"They were in too far, they had to clear their names. Moriarty and Sherlock both got off the radar, away from the publics attention once more with their 'deaths'. A deal was made between the two of them. Sherlock would come and work for Moriarty, in exchange for the lives of his friends."
John almost felt disoriented when Mycroft paused for John to say something. He felt like he was snapping out of a trance.
"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and me," he whispered. Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, that's right. Sherlock's friends."
"The both of them keep their names out of the papers, avoid public attention. Sherlock works for Jim Moriarty now."
John tried to talk but nothing came to him. It was like speaking was entirely new to him, as he learned this horrible yet somehow cheerful news.
He did this for me. For Mrs. Hudson, for Lestrade. If only Lestrade would let himself believe me, this would make him happy again.
"…That's all of it?"
"Yes, and if you want to keep on living I'd suggest that you keep your mouth shut."
"Mycroft, have you seen how many crimes there are in the papers? Why can't you just get rid of Moriarty?"
Mycroft offered John a light smile, seeing that he was in a very delicate state at the moment. "And who do you think is covering for those crimes? Sherlock is working very hard, I've seen him too, John."
"Have you spoken with him?"
"I wouldn't risk it. James Moriarty is a very powerful man, John. You know that."
Oh, I think I do. Almost blew me up once, rigged a whole jury to keep himself out of prison. Convinced the world that Sherlock Holmes was a fake. He's got to be powerful to have complete control over Sherlock Holmes.
"So you can't stop Moriarty."
"He is not a man you can kill without great consequence."
John nodded slowly. "Sherlock wants to be found, you know."
"Yes, I figured that out after you came in to tell me that he was alive. It made me very angry. He agreed not to have contact with you or anybody else, not even his brother."
John put his elbows on his knees and leaned down, his head falling into his hands. He remained still for a few moments and then he felt an urge to leave.
"I'm going to try and find him. You cant stop me from doing that."
"Good luck, he won't do more than exchange a glance. He wouldn't risk your life by talking to you."
"He might," John croaked, his throat painfully dry. "I just need to talk to him again, even if it means my life."
Mycroft looked to his drink and swirled it around in his glass. "I'm sorry I had to tell you this, John."
"No, it's ok. I know everything now."
John stood up and pinched the skin between his eyebrows, then walked to the door. Then he remembered.
"I'll tell him you said sorry when I see him."
"Sorry for what?"
"You know." John stood trembling, waiting to jump across the threshold of the door and begin his search for Sherlock and Moriarty, know finally knowing what was real. "For selling him out. Right before-" But John could not get any further. His voice cracked and he turned round without another look at Mycroft.
