Quick Note: Prepare for a bit of an emotional rush! Also, recall I'm American and Brit picking is welcome! Last thing, my Bones fic 'A Family Lost' has not been forgotten, just hit a road block! Don't worry, if any of you read that one.
On ward readers! Oh, and Guest, you totally can laugh at parts of this, that's what the frying pan was for! Comment are loved, btw! Thanks for reading!
"Wednesday isn't it, dear?"Mrs. Hudson asked as she puttered around the kitchen, trying to concoct some sort of thing resembling food for her last tenant. Said tenant was staring out the window, analyzing the skyline of London like it held every answer he ever needed, swinging his violin at his side. Sherlock made a noise of agreement, not moving an inch of his body. "Aren't you going?"
"5." He replied, tapping the bow of his violin against his leg. "I'll be going at 5."
"Then you have to eat, now." She hummed, carrying the plate of sandwiches out of the kitchen. "You are far, far too skinny! Have you even eaten this week?" Sherlock shook his head slowly, his eyes still locked on the grey clouds of winter. The older woman heaved a sigh, setting the plate on the table and wrinkling her nose at the skull staring back at her when she sat on the couch. Giving another heavy sigh, she pushed the skull to the far corner of the table with the plate, shaking her head. "What was that you were just playing deary? It was very nice."
"It's a composition of mine, actually." Sherlock answered absently, resting his forehead against the winter bitten glass of the window. "Entitled 'He is the wind.'"
"That's very mystical." She said, setting down the two cups of tea she'd brought up with her, both now being nearly the perfect temperature. "Could you play it for me?" The question finally brought Sherlock back from his mind, but he didn't have to think about his answer. To anyone else it would've been no, but not her. Never her. Mrs. Hudson is the only person-except for John- Sherlock is willing to admit he loves. She may appear to be just a landlady, but honestly she filled something in his life he'd always missed. He wasn't sure what, but he was sure he owed her for it. No one needed to know any of this though, anyone could assume that much.
"Of course." That was his answer, because Mrs. Hudson was his only exception now. The only person he was worried would take his death badly, others will miss him. Lestrade, Molly, even...Mycroft, but Mrs. Hudson will be genuinely effected. Both her boys being taken will certainly effect her, but she is a wise woman, and she will understand. She will understand the Sherlock just couldn't go on anymore, without him. She's known Sherlock loved the short ex-army doctor since the first day, and that's why Sherlock's...departure will not come as a shock.
In all honesty, Sherlock thought Mrs. Hudson was the only one who suspected his 'healing' after John's death was all just an act. He'd decided after the nightmare debacle that he couldn't risk people knowing that he was crumbling inside, so he made a decision:To make sure everyone stopped worrying over him he would act like he'd finally accepted John's death, and was moving forward. So Sherlock yelled, and deducted people's personal lives when he was bored; he accused Anderson of being the most idiotic person in London, and posted on his website. He acted the way he assumed people would perceive as normal, at least for him, and everyone was fooled, everyone but Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock rose his bow, testing the instrument he held before diving into the melody. The first notes were slow, and rattled the air with their thick sounds, but they soon faded into frantic few measures. He twisted with the music, letting the shifting notes wash through the silent flat, his eyes on John's chair. The chair sat idle as he played a string of quick, hard notes, the book wrapped in green still sat in the seat beside the union jack pillow. The next notes started low, but rose in tempo on sound until the last barely even made a noise. Flitting over the next few measures, he barely flirted with the high notes and drug the low ones out in a soul crushing musical calamity that sent waves of noise throughout the entire building. His arm was aching as he neared the end, and the violin even sounded a bit tired as he played a quick, violent set that abruptly changed into one long, low note that perfectly matched the first. When he let the instrument drop his eyes fell to Mrs. Hudson, who was shamelessly crying and clapping slowly at the miniature concert.
"Beautiful, Sherlock. Really, he would have loved it." Mrs. Hudson's voice was cracked, sore from the silent tears. Sherlock just nodded curtly before sitting next to her and poking at his sandwich. "Now, you eat that!" The older woman nodded, brushing her tears away and picking up her cup. Sherlock just sighed deeply and picked up the sandwich. They continued the meal, Mrs. Hudson having to remind Sherlock to continue eating every few minutes, and eventually the kind woman left the genius alone. Now that Sherlock was alone he let his well put on act fall away, and his face dropped into a tired depression that has become normal for him. His shoulder slumped, and he collapsed onto the couch and into his mind palace.
It was a sad sight now, still organized and genius that was true but every aspect was haunted by a too-high giggle, a calm tenor voice, a fleeting image of an ugly jumped, blonde hair glinting in alley light as a man ran beside him. A ghost of a doctor would jump through the rooms, leading him into disorganized areas he hadn't ventured since his drug taking days. John's voice would lead him into memories he didn't even know he'd saved, simple times of domestic life with his best friend. A feeling of John's presence turned him around into imagined scenarios of John's return, of holding the shorter man, of admitting his love and having it returned. This ghost would take him around and around, leaving him confused and battered as he sat alone, trying to reason through a life time of ignored emotions. Everything he'd ignored, every feeling, desire, sadness barreled into him when John hit the pavement.
Every single feeling normal people experienced daily, throughout their lives was pressing in on him. The every day emotions people went through, that Sherlock had pushed away and ignored, all those little things he'd never allowed himself to experience in his life was a hurricane through his system. Some days it got so bad, he missed John so much, he became physically ill. His fingers would go cold, and his arms would tingle, his head would pound slowly until finally he threw up. His knees hitting whatever hard service was below him and his torso lurching forward as he expelled the little he ate. The world would spin and his body would shake and the only words he could manage were: "John why?" Before he fell over and had to bite his lip until it bled so he didn't have to cry.
No one ever saw these break downs, no one knew the extent of Sherlock's hysteria. He'd run off crime scenes, or disappear into alley ways went he felt the first rush hit him. No one could see this weakness, he had to pretend to be better. He needed them to see him as he used to be, so no one could stop him. Sherlock couldn't be stopped now, he couldn't survive this pain much longer. Emotional havoc so great it actually caused physical illness? That is the true meaning of 'dying of heartbreak'. No one really died of the pain, it just shook their every cell, destroyed their every thought and movement, coursed through their entire body until they decided they couldn't do it anymore. Heartbreak never killed anyone, it just cause enough pain they killed themselves. Sherlock almost laughed as the image of Jefferson Hope, the cabby from John and he's first case, bloomed in his forsaken mind.
Heartbreak: The world's most infamous serial killer. Untouchable, incurable.
John muttered under his breath as he unlocked the door to the overly priced hotel room he was placed in. Running a hand through his too-long ebony hair he flicked the light's on a began to catalog the extent of this room. His home for three weeks, give or take. The bed was in the center of the far side of the room, divided from the area by the door by a wall that took up half the room. It was large, and plush, and kind of looked like it wanted to swallow John whole. The windows were on the other side of the bed, dark blue curtains covered them and cast the room in an oceanic glow. A desk sat against the half wall, a phone and note pad on top of that. There was a television at the foot of the bed, and a closet on the wall across from it. The room was grey, beige, and varying shades of blue and John was certain it screamed over priced. The bed kind of frightened John, so he instead sat on the subtly flower printed powder blue couch and began fiddling with his new phone. He was to meet his new team today, and the only way to actually discover their whereabouts was to call the only contact of his two that he actually used. That was something he didn't want to do, but we all have to make sacrifices for the greater good, don't we? So John pushed a few buttons, ended up accidentally downloading 'Flappy Bird', cursed Apple and finally found the contact he wanted: 'Black.'
"Hello doctor." Mycroft answered distractedly, the sound of furious typing acting as dramatic background music to him. "Are you settling into Lyon nicely then?"
"Yeah, it's just peachy." John huffed, leaning heavily against the overly cushy back of the couch. The decorator of this hotel must have had a strange kink for furniture that wanted to swallow you. "So where are they?"
"So impatient." Mycroft tutted. "First we have a few matters to discuss. I was spending a bit of time with Gregory-Ahem, excuse me- Lestrade and it appears the worldly authorities are taking an interest in an infamous assassin known as 'The Ghost'." John's entire body froze, his throat seizing up at the chilly tone Mycroft adopted towards the end of the sentence. The government official sounding particularly murderous. "Now, John, I thought we agreed that your...shall we call them dealings?- with Moriarty's underlings weren't going to attract attention."
"It's not my fault-"
"If the extremely capable minds of Gre-Lestrade's team actually begin to look into this what will we do?" Mycroft cut him off, his voice growing into a winter cold as he continued bitterly. "Other countries are growing interested, there's mention of actually putting together an investigative team to look into the feared figure."
"Excuse me sir. But I have extraordinarily high confidence in this little scheme you concocted! Now, I do apologize if I'm offending your boyfriend's honor by saying this, but I doubt even Scotland Yard's finest won't be able to untangle the fanatical the twist of lies you elegantly put together!" John shouted into the receiver, his anger growing at irrational speed. Honestly! How could Mycroft be upset with him?! He was simply following the stupid orders the waist coat loving, umbrella wielding man had given him. If he didn't want John to be discovered he should've come up with a better plan!
"And what about Sherlock?" That sentence hung in the air for a moment, causing John's anger to go out in a mere second. "Perhaps the worlds legal system wouldn't be able to figure out my plans, but I know that Sherlock could. He may be the only man alive that could disentangle my entire plot, and it would only take him a few weeks. Puzzles are his specialty, after all."
"He won't." John croaked, still trying to remember how oxygen worked. Maybe he should look up directions on his fancy new smart phone. "I won't let him." John said finally, sucking in a breath. Ah, that's how you do it.
"If you are sure, Doctor." Mycroft hissed, but he sounded less tense. John grunted something into the phone and then the dial tone filled his brain. The blonde stood in frozen silence, listening to the clicking of a clock set on his desk, until the anger burning through his veins dissipated. Slowly he pulled the phone from his ear, closing the call and reopening his contacts. He needn't search, only having two contacts, he quickly flicked open the one he never used: 'White'. Unlike 'Black', this contact didn't have 17 different contact options, 20 missed calls, and 700 text messages. 'White' had one phone number and a photograph, an image that was grainy and just a mashed shade of grays that hardly could call itself a picture, but the subject was undeniably Sherlock Holmes. Pix-elated, grey, and fuzzy but no doubt the mad genius John called his best friend.
After staring at the oh so tempting number John remembered Mycroft never gave him the meeting place to find his new team. "Damn you Holmes!" John shouted into the empty room, viciously punching out a text message alone the lines of: 'Adres for tream niw Mycrow!-W.' And sent the slightly hysteric message off without correcting the mistakes, silently giggling to himself with the accidentally new found nickname for the British Government. Mycrow.
'Please do learn a bit of English, doctor. - M.H'
'20 Place des Terreaux, 69001 Lyon, France - M.H'
John copied the address after many failed attempts, and put into the search box of his 'safari' app. He blinked at the results, heaving a sigh.
'Museum of Fine Arts of Lyon, Mycroft? Really? - W.'
'Yes, Room 1: Life after Death.- M.H'
'You are in love with cruel jokes - W.'
'The team is waiting, doctor- M.H'
'Bugger off- W.'
{Message Deleted}
John closed the messaging, after deleting the one he sent with Mycroft's name in it, and pulled on his strange light-greyish beige trench coat. It reached his mid calf, and when he pulled up the collar he felt like an undercover agent. The buttons trailed down the front all the way to his waist, and it had two large pockets. He dropped the overly expensive smart phone into the left pocket, and a pen-knife and his fake ID's in the right. He may look horribly suspicious in this great coat, but the identification Mycroft had given him could probably get him into the British Embassy's most secret filing rooms without question. After stuffing the room key into his jean pocket, and snatching up one of his many wallet's he began his journey to 'Room 1: Life after Death.'
Sherlock was staring at the tea kettle, he wasn't completely sure why but he was. He had been for at least an hour now, maybe more but definitely not less. At first he'd stopped to inspect the small metal frame, noting the scratches he could see and the looseness of the handle. After a while he'd began to inspect the way the dust contorted his reflection even greater then the surface of the object it's self. Now he was simply staring, with no actual reason to be, and had no inclination to stop anytime soon. The younger Holmes was beginning to question his sanity when the elder entered, Lestrade at his side. Sherlock could tell by the foot falls that they were walking side by side, neither ever following the other. Equals, in every aspect it seemed.
"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice, which wasn't odd. The DI always let his partner speak first, a habit the older man had from his 'minor role in the government'. Sherlock couldn't make his mouth open, though he tried, he desperately wanted to sneer at his brother, throw out a comment about his diet. He simply couldn't make his jaw function, or move his eyes from the dirty surface of the kettle. Instead he waved a hand at his brother, something a kin to a greeting.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Lestrade this time, funny how they always spoke one after the other like a circus act. Sherlock wanted to tell them he had no idea, that he didn't know how long he'd been doing it or why, and that he couldn't stop; but again his mouth stayed glued shut, and his eyes remained tied to the object in front of him. All he could manage was a slow shrug, to slow it seemed from the sound of worry Lestrade made. "You alright, mate?"
"What about that dirty tea kettle has enthralled you so, brother?" Mycroft chirped, and Sherlock could hear his too expensive shoes squeak over the old floor boards. Recently polished, the consultant noted as his brother peered beside him at the kettle that held his interest against his will. "It's not an experiment, and from the draw of your brow I can see you haven't the faintest why you are staring at it." Sherlock wanted to growl at his older brother, say something cutting and horribly insensitive but his mouth stayed shut. He could move his gaze from the dusty thing before him, and his mouth wouldn't respond and it may be one of the strangest things ever to happen to him.
"Why isn't he talking, Myc?"
"I don't think he can, Gregory." Mycroft sounded horribly perplexed, scrunching his brow as he drug his intelligent gaze over his younger brother. Something any average human may call worry shadowed over the older mans face as he took in his younger brothers hunched posture, rapid weight loss, lack of sleep, and inability to move as of current. "How peculiar."
"Poke him." Lestrade said, earning him the most confused look from his partner. The rapid turn of the umbrella wielding man's head, and the look of utter distaste on his face made the DI crack a huge grin and snicker just slightly. "Well, have you a better idea dear?"
"Dear?!" Mycroft's look of bewilderment increased tenfold as he stared at the other man with wide eyes, and Greg couldn't help but laugh. "Poke him? What is going on in your mind, Gregory?"
"Absolutely nothing." Sherlock managed in a hoarse voice, cracked from silence. He hadn't spoken for three days, since Mrs. Hudson went to visit her sister Wednesday. Lestrade stopped laughing, but snorted something like mock-irritation, he'd grown used to the consulting detectives jabs.
"I see we're speaking again." Lestrade said, and Sherlock heard the noise of fabric moving, the man most likely crossing his arms. Still the youngest of the trio couldn't remove his eyes from the tea kettle. "Why are you staring at the kettle?"
"I...have no idea." Sherlock replied with a sigh, studying the areas where the dust was thicker then others. He could count out exactly the number of days since the pots last use, on July 7th: 217.67 days to be exact. The dulled color of it hidden under months of dust claimed all of Sherlock's thoughts. Every word he managed had to be beaten from his lungs by a mental attack of fierce quality.
"Gregory and I have come to invite you to...dinner." Mycroft seemed extraordinarily pained to be offering this to his younger brother, but every action the older man did seemed to be dictated by an illogical guilt. He'd even done a bit of work, at his desk mind you, to find Sherlock an interesting few cases, and now dinner?
"Have you done something horrible to me I'm yet to discover Mycroft?" Sherlock quipped, forcing his eyes to his brother quickly before returning them to the kettle. "Or are you acting peculiar for other reasons?"
"I am not acting in any way but normal, dearest brother." Mycroft said tightly, turning away from the distracted younger man and walking back to his partner. "Shall we wait any longer Gregory?"
"C'mon, Sherlock. You look sickly, let us get some food into you?" Lestrade was practically begging, and Sherlock scoffed at him before straightening his back and finally, finally, turning to see the other man. Gregory sported his usual attire, nothing spectacular except...except for the ring on his left hand. Mycroft did not sport the same band, so Sherlock hadn't missed the wedding. Engaged than. Now the genius's eyes were attached to this new piece of metal, before flickering to his brother and then to Lestrade in confusion.
"W-when?" He choked out, still utterly flabbergasted he hadn't deduced it earlier. He had been to enthralled in a bloody tea kettle, of all things!
"2 weeks ago." Lestrade answered proudly, but his cheeks tinted pink with giddy shyness. How disgustingly romantic. The DI twisted the golden band over his finger, real gold no doubt, knowing Mycroft, and grinned looking at his partner under his lashes. Mycroft had the decency to flush a bit in his ears, and return an attempt at a smile, the best his unpracticed face could manage.
"Congratulations." Sherlocks voice dripped sarcasm, but the two lovers knew better. He was happy for them, though to tied up in his own self loathing and black depression to acknowledge it. They were a good match in personality's, balancing each other out in an odd sort of way. Lestrade could be more intelligent, and Mycroft could be less of a prat but all in all they were good together. And even someone who wasn't a master of observation and deduction could see they were mad for each other.
"Dinner?" Mycroft continued, but his eyes held the silent thank you. His sibling gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement to the silent gratefulness, their coded, hidden ways of speaking going unnoticed by the third man in the room.
"I doubt I have a choice." Sherlock sighed, sending one last glance to the tea kettle, then brushing past the older men and grabbing his coat. "Hurry up." He scoffed, tying his scarf around his ivory neck. Lestrade shook his head, silently laughing as he took his fiance's hand and pulled him from the messy flat.
John's entire world pixelated, then tilted, finally swirling into a messy fuzz that danced in and out of darkness. A dull throb in his lower left thigh kept him from accepting the darkness, letting it cradle him in it's arms of nothingness. His head was bleeding, and his shoulder ached horrible. A bruise was fresh across his jaw, and his lip split. The only worry that struck the doctor was the repeated head injury, and the silence around him. The team would be here in ten minutes, but his leg was spilling out blood at blinding speeds, and he was nearing unconsciousness. He tried to recall what had happened, and his thoughts went something like this:
Running, leg aching, shoulder hurts. Team 15 minutes away. Murder suspect: Carlos Vega, connected to Moriarty. Tackled Vega into ally, rolling, pain, someone hitting my head. World gone wonky, another blow to my face then the back of my head. Kicking to Vega's face, head butt, pain for both parties=bad idea. Punch to my face while I kick his groin. Lip bleeding. Sore, aching muscles. Hand hurts from deep cut, at least 5 centimeters in. Gun 2 meters away. Vega jumping, knife in hand. Sudden, blinding pain. Cold metal sinking through my skin, fat, muscle; blade twists, tearing skin away from bone, knife nicked bone? Dunno, do know this is very bad. Horrible, horrible pain, vision gone white. Vega retreating, frightening pain in leg. Doctor, get it together! No permanent damage to muscles, limp for a month or two when healed. If healed, could bleed out. Probably will bleed out-FUCK that hurts!
John was pressing his hand to the deep wound, trying to staunch the blood flow. He could hear a car engine, foot falls against wet pavement. The team was early, apparently luck was on his side because he couldn't keep himself up now. He slumped to the side, hands loosing pressure against the ghastly wound, his entire vision went fuzzy. John caught a glimpse of several figures filing into the ally, but some part of his brain was shouting at him:
'Their too late, sorry Sherlock.' Until he finally lost all coherent thought, and probably gave an embarrassing cry as the darkness invited him in, accepting him completely.
Part of him worried he'd never come back out.
Sherlock jerked up right, nearly fall from the couch where'd he'd fallen asleep. The dream was fuzzy, but it was John. John dying in an ally, then in the center of their flat, then in the morgue at Bart's. Every few seconds the setting changed, but it was always John, clutching Sherlock's wrist with pain etched into his dark blue eyes. Blood was flowing from his old shoulder wound, and his face was sickly pale. He'd just keep saying "I'm sorry Sherlock."
And all Sherlock could ever manage to say in return was: "Goodbye John."