Author's Note: Last chapter was revamped, it should look familliar, but it's double the length and contains a chunk of plot that will make this chapter really confusing if you don't go back and read. Sorry. I should have never posted anything when I am sick. Won't happen again.
Playing the Fool
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Chapter Ten
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His blog crashed from the flood of views by midnight, but it didn't stop the information. It slowly spread its fingers into the daylight and brought with it unexpected chaos. One click of a button and John had set England on fire, and every comment just fanned the flames. Newscasters and reporters were ringing his doorbell non-stop with microphones and cameras at the ready. By noon, people were rioting in the street on behalf of the reincarnated Consulting Detective. John stood at the window, utterly dumbfounded at the state of things. There were so many of fanatics that John couldn't count the deerstalkers. It would have been awe inspiring except that everyone wanted to see Sherlock - see the man that could come back from the dead.
The fact that John could relate made everything a little more close to the chest than he would have liked.
John turned away from the view and hastily drew the curtains, but it did nothing to quell the chanting from below. He needed to find some way to control this craziness before it got out of hand, yet he was still feverish and it made his mind slow at dredging up any potential solutions. In the end he did the only thing one could do in this situation... and that was make tea.
From the news on the telly John discovered that Scotland Yard and various Private Eyes were scouring London for the famous Mr. Holmes. John tried to talk to Lestrade about it by calling him up in a panic, but the DI wasn't picking up his mobile. When he tried to call him at his office, he was referred to others; strangers with even more questions. Where did the video come from? How did Mr. Holmes do it? Where was Mr. Holmes now? After several minutes of this, John just took the battery out of his mobile and shut himself in his room.
To make matters worse, Irene had disappeared as soon as John hit the post button. She had warned him about the demons he would be unleashing, and it forced her to run before the world discovered that she too had returned from the grave. It was understandable, for unlike Sherlock, she would be attracting something thing darker than than a journalist with a tape recorder. What upset John, was he that didn't have the wisdom to follow in her wake.
John now faced his mistake alone – and it was surely a mistake. There was no doubt in his mind now. He should have revived Sherlock's career and left the rest of the story lie. Now there was never a moment of privacy. It became so bad that John decided to flee to the Spencer's for lodging. Unfortunately the plan required that he slip out of the bathroom window, crawl up the dodgy fire-escape and jump a rooftop to do it. Sherlock had told him never to use this route unless of dire emergency. It eluded Mycroft's surveillance and probably wouldn't work for more than one occasion. Things rarely worked against Mycroft more than once.
The leap across to the neighbouring the rooftop nearly killed him. He landed fine, but the dizzying gap made his heart pound and his head spin. John had to lean against an air handling unit to catch his breath and wipe his sweaty brow. He could feel the heat of his forehead before his hand was an inch from his face.
With a groan he continued his journey to the Spencer's, hoping that no one would recognize him once he it the streets. He felt like a celebrity evading the paparazzi.
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John arrived a little after three in the afternoon and was ushered in off the sidewalk like a fugitive. All sense of time left him as a whorl of action hit him at once and he found himself shakily sipping tea in the familiar siting room of the Spencer's. Matilda wrung her hands together and offered him some liquid medicine in a dixie cup.
"You look like you're going to drop dead."
The doctor sank deeper into the sofa, the warmth of the tea making his skin feel uncomfortable.
"Fighting a fever... can't seem to catch a break." He murmured bleakly. There was little more to say and he felt far too tired than one should when the sun was still hours above the skyline. John wanted nothing more than to nap in peace - perhaps for the next twenty-four hours.
Mrs. Spencer read the weariness in John's face and immediately fetched the doctor a blanket.
"Here. You should rest. Samuel will be home in a few hours, I'll ask him not to disturb you. Try to sleep for as long as you can." There was such kindness in her smile that John immediately relaxed and took advantage of his serene surroundings.
"Thank-you... again... for everything." He wrapped himself up in the blanket she offered so that only his head was visible. It was a vicious shade of pink that reminded John of his first case with Sherlock.
"Is there anything else you need?" She asked as she drew the blinds to darken the room.
"No... but I think you should know that you'll make an excellent mother." His eyes gestured to the book on the table titled, 'Your Baby and You' with a faint smile.
There was a sudden rosiness to her cheeks that John didn't expect. It was as if she were blushing from sheer happiness. "Just found out four days ago. Sam is over the moon. I was going to tell you, but the look on your face when you showed up at the door..." She sighed and gave the doctor a look of concern. "I think you have the worst of luck."
John let out a weak chuckle and closed his eyes, cuing Mrs. Spencer to flick the light switch and let darkness envelop him. He didn't remember much after that, since his fever swallowed him into a strangely familiar setting.
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This time John could feel the wind whipping up at him from below, but the street beneath St. Bart's shifted and glowed red like an ember buried in the heart of the sun. Pure heat made his face feel like all the moisture had retreated into his core, and his eyes welled up with protective tears. He could hear Sherlock shuffling at his side and it brought him to attention. Bright blue eyes were angled downwards, gazing at the hell mouth below. Scarlet light played across the features of the detective's face, turning him into a demon one moment, and an angel the next.
"I wanted to take you with me John... but that would have been selfish." He said quietly, a hint of melancholy in the depths of his voice. "Instead I gave you the choice."
John wanted to move closer, but he his legs were too heavy to move. He felt like an extension of the hospital, or a gargoyle placed specifically to watch the world rather than to interact with it. Words were the only tool at his disposal now, and heaven knew he had lots of those to throw at Sherlock.
"There was never a choice." John could see his own face reflected in the light of Sherlock's eyes. The doctor looked calm, but inside he felt a torrent of anger that threatened to eat him alive. "I couldn't leave you - not to face this mad man on your own. I want to help you. Friends protect people Sherlock – and not by keeping secrets from each other."
"Alone is what protects me."
John was experiencing deja vu; but this time he had the time to detect the flaw in the detective's tone. He wasn't talking to John - he was talking to himself. Convincing himself that his statement was the truth. There was doubt, and where there was doubt, there was enough room for John to slip through the cracks and touch Sherlock at his core.
"You don't want to believe it, do you? You don't want to believe that I would protect you."
"I don't need protecting." Sherlock's replies started to sound more and more robotic, like he were a wind up doll. John's head started to hurt and the heat of the dream scape rose several degrees.
"You have every criminal in all of London under your magnifying glass, of course you need protecting! Everyone you talk to, everyone you turn away, or insult, or even look at strangely wants to slit your throat. You can't pretend what I'm saying isn't the truth. Normal people don't have arch-enemies, but damn it Sherlock, you're not normal. You can dissect, deduce and laugh at the ordinary, mundane... senseless lives of those around you, but you can never live one."
Sherlock's face loomed closer and John could see his features melting and twisting beneath the alabaster skin. Where were those sturdy cheekbones and expressive lips John knew so well? Nausea made the doctor's strength falter and he nearly fell to his knees. Sherlock -or what was pretending to be Sherlock, grabbed both his wrists and held him steady.
"You're normal John. You deserve an ordinary life." Sherlock's body language changed into something John rarely saw before. It was like every fibre of the detective's being was trying to make John see. Eyes like fire bore into his own and it hurt to keep eye contact. Hurt like he were staring into the sun.
John was having none of this. "You would wish that for me? You're looking right at me Sherlock; you're seeing with those damn eyes of yours. Tell me that's what I would have wanted. Look at me and tell me I want a normal life!"
The detective let go of the man's wrists and took several paces backwards to appraise his flatmate in silence. John waited for a reply, but he already knew that Sherlock couldn't say the words. The deceit would have been too cheap – too flimsy of a lie to come from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes.
John's subconscious must have glitched then, because the rooftop was starting to crumble beneath them. He watched helplessly as bits of concrete spiralled into the crimson coals below.
"Looks like I'm coming with you whether you like it or not." John said through the sound of flames and moaning structure. "Adler was right... I would follow you to the depths of hell."
The lanky detective let the shadow of a grin pass over his face before reaching out to grab John's hand. The doctor echoed his movements, smiling despite the fact they were in the midst of being sent toppling over the edge. In the confusion of falling Sherlock missed taking John's hand and his fingers grazed the man's forehead instead. His touch was cool like metal.
"Wake up Dr. Watson." Sherlock's voice mingled with a strangers. It sounded like a woman, but not like any woman John had ever met. There was fire in those words, mixed with malice. John tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt to heavy and he let out a groan instead.
"Come on doctor, I need you awake. It's time to play."
John struggled yet again to wake, but he felt like he was tethered to the depths of his imagination. Despite this, he shed that bond in less than a second as though mentally slapped; for in the darkness, John heard the sound of a gun being cocked.
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Author's Notes:
All right, sorry that took forever since I went back and did a lot of editing. Rewriting the last chapter was difficult and it is now double the length of most my other chapters, hence why this one is a shorty. I couldn't break it evenly and I knew I wanted to end the tenth chapter here. Yay cliffhanger! I'm so happy to get to this point since now there's nothing but the finale~! I'm finally over my illness as well (I swear my sinuses were possessed by an evil spirit. Most painful headaches ever...) so updates will resume regularly.
Please Read and Review. I've missed your love, your wit, your critiques and your sentiment. I need your praise to continue like the filthy attention whore I am. Point out my mistakes! Proofreading is my greatest weakness.