Wings of the Damned

Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: Wings of the Damned
Summary: The fall and what John sees.

Character/Relationships: John, Sherlock, Irene, Lesrtade, Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.

I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 10 – wax

John realizes his mistake. He let the great manipulator send him away. "I'd be lost without my blogger." Please, don't let me lose him. He is all I have left.

Whatever you are doing Sherlock, I won't let you do it alone. You know I will turn up.

There you are in your great swishy coat and your collar turned up. Don't you dare? Don't you dare lose faith in me, Sherlock. I am here. I am right here.

There is a moment when John knows. His heart is screaming that he will just not do this. If he were going to do this, he would say he loved him. That's what you say to people if it is your last moments. He'd said those things to Harry when he thought he was going to die, even if she couldn't hear them. He'd listened to the very last words of hundreds of boys, friends, enemies, or allies. The last words were always about who they loved and getting them that message. He would tell him that, as the last thing. Sherlock had done that when he shot him. He is safe until he hears those kinds of words.

They talk of the stupidest most confusing lies. Sherlock tells him to tell more lies. He wants him to say he's a fake. He must have a plan, and John searches for it. How can he help? Give a hint. Magic tricks and this is an apology. What the hell are you up to?

He's obviously not planning to actually jump. He would say it. If he says he loves him, then John will panic. Right now he's panicked that he is missing what he needs to do to help. But he said stand here.

"This is my note. It's what people do, isn't it. Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?" You don't mean it. You didn't say the most important thing. "No."

"Goodbye, John."

"Sherlock!" You didn't say it. No.

This isn't real.

The ground is damp. What is he doing? What happened? Where is? Oh, no.

Blood. Blue eyes. Just blue now. The color of the sky an hour ago. The sky is grey now, but his eyes are so blue. No Pulse. Dead.

"Never regret thy fall,
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.

― Oscar Wilde

Molly says the body is gone by the morning after his death. She shows John the photos of the autopsy. She cries as he rages and searches the morgue for Sherlock. He isn't there. John supposes Mycroft has the power to speed things along. Moriarty is still there, toe-tag reads Richard Brook.

"He isn't here. He never was. I mean, they aren't people anymore. His face. It wasn't the same. The impact. You wouldn't want, to see. John? Please, this is killing me too, you know? I was glad they took him so soon. I don't know how to do this." Molly finally just stood with her head in her hands, sobbing. John wasn't angry with her. Finally he calms down and wraps his arms around her.

"It's ok. I'm so sorry, Molly. I have been so bound up in me and so damned lost. I don't know what I was doing. I just needed to make myself believe. I can't believe he would leave me, like that." He gently pats her back and she leans into him shuddering and sniveling.

"Oh Molly. I didn't mean to upset you. Of course you of all people would know. Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me it was him. You're positive." John holds her by her shoulders and gives her his best friendly authority face.

"Oh, John. I looked for any flaw. I loved him for so long. I thought I knew him. I know I never counted, just the girl who brought coffee. And technically the occasional head." He covers her mouth and is crying and giggling too.

"Which immediately went in our fridge for me to find. No diet aids needed so long as his supplier was in a good mood." John jokes, feeling his tension easing a bit.

She looks down, speaking shyly, "I'm not stupid. But, I could never say no to him. I don't want him to be dead." She sniffs her nose. "I know I'm just useless Molly, but it didn't matter. All the awful things he said, I know he can't help it. I saw him. Horrible things came out of his mouth, but he did them for the right reasons, mostly. Don't you think? He warned me about Jim. I wanted him to be jealous, but he wasn't. And yet he was the only one who cared enough to tell me. The only one who paid attention? I was dating a monster, wasn't I? Did you know, he broke us up? Not then, but that night at the club?"

"How did he break you up?"

"He put something in my drink. Jim, him, whoever he was. I just came back from the loo. He seemed so nice. Really caring and gentle. Sherlock followed us. He showed up before I drank it. Pushed Jim up against the wall and told him if he ever came near his sister again, he'd see me on a professional level. Like this I suppose." She giggles with her tears. "He put my drink in an evidence bag. He drug me down here. And we spent the evening testing it. My only sort of date with Sherlock Holmes. His sister? It hurt my feelings at the time."

"I didn't know," John says with a deep sigh. "He cared about you. You do know that? Sister? That's pretty big for Sherlock."

Molly closes her eyes and nods, her face pulls into pain for a second then she takes two deep breaths and giggles again. The giggle felt like an apology for being so emotional. She drops her voice to a whisper, "He knew. I think. He came here and told me he always trusted me and thought I was his friend. He would never have said that to me if he wasn't afraid. I feel like it is my fault. I missed it."

"No. No. Not your fault. His fault. He was so lucky and he had no idea. Two people. Two people who would have done anything. Anything. For him. You. Me. And others too. I don't have that." John shakes his head and looks at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "It's why I'm so mad."

"Me either. Maybe we are too nice?" She shrugs.

Johns face curls in to a strange leer. "That is very true, but just about one of us."

Molly laughs then it dawns on her what he said and her face drops into confusion.

"Just you dear. Me? I'm more the revenge type."

"Oh." She tries to smile, but it is false and nervous. " He's dead isn't he? I mean, it's all over. Isn't it? You could hack him up a bit, but I'll do that when I do the autopsy. You can help if you want or not. Revenge for what?"

John looks over toward the body of Richard Brook. He crosses his arms and speaks to the floor. His head turns left, then right slowly. "I don't know yet. But give me time. I always turn up." He looks up at her and grins his disarming reassuring smile. "I should be going."

"John? If you should need anything? I mean even, I could help you, when you decide. About the revenge. I want to help. For him, you know?"

He tilts his head back and appraises her. "I will keep that in mind. Thanks."

Molly nods and blushes a little.

Meaningless rituals are observed. John sheds no tears at the strange ceremony. It is full of people who attended out of respect for Mycroft, and John only spotted a few who actually knew Sherlock. Those who he didn't see were unspeakable cowards in John's mind. Donovan and Lestrade are the only two people he recognizes from the Yard. John refused to bow his head during the banal prayers. He glared around at the reporters snapping discrete photos.

Mrs. Holmes is little more than a presence, face covered and surrounded by her own protective entourage. She speaks in a soft dead voice, thanking him for coming. Mycroft quickly herds Mummy away.

John stays behind, watching the casket lowered. He continues to sit, alone, unwilling to leave his friend. He wonders how many factions of this story watch him. Criminals, authorities, governmental spies, reporters, nosy looky-loos and maybe one ghost all set his instincts on alert. He realizes that he doesn't even care.

He stays in a hotel for a week. Then two. But he can't stay away forever. Mrs. Hudson asks him to come home. He tells her he can't, but he does. She's alone and afraid. She hears noises.

They say the fake genius killed Richard Brook then jumped. The headlines and fame are no longer singing Sherlock's praise. No resting in peace. Sherlock is still falling.

They say the fake detective murdered that poor actor, Richard Brook. His suicide is said to have been his only solution because he realized that he would face charges for murder, evading the authorities, endangering police, kidnapping, holding his flat-mate at gun point, conspiracy, treason and fraud. They blame all the wrong things, his career forever gone, his freedom to be forfeited for the rest of his life probably, and all his lies about to make him the laughing stock of London. Well someone with an ego like his just couldn't handle the pressure. There was little sympathy for Sherlock and John is guilty by association.

Poor Richard, the story-teller, is suddenly portrayed as a tragic victim. His DVD is re-released and appears in shop windows and children hate the man who killed their favorite story-time pal. His best loved tale is that of Sir Boast-a-lot. John buys a copy and he's ready to kill Moriarty all over again.

The list of the late Mr. Holmes' crimes is too big even for his brother to have swept under the carpet. Mycroft is under investigation. Sherlock's legacy seemed to just keep handing people surprises. The flat at Baker Street is ransacked more than fifteen times in one two week span. The yard won't even answer John's calls now. Mycroft warns him to take what he wants and leave. The elder Holmes pays for Mrs. Hudson to take her sister on extended holiday.

John stays.

The violin is taken to Mycroft's for safe keeping. John is so angry at Mycroft, but the grief is glowing on his face and his career is down the toilet, so at the moment he reaches out too and John doesn't mention his that he asked for this. He's been a friend. He's made a terrible mistake. John can't kick him when he's down.

Mycroft confesses, he suspected too. "He called me, John. He never calls. I offered to get him out of the country. He said no. He wouldn't leave you, and he said you would not go with him. He said he had a plan and he swore to me it would all be over within twenty-four hours. How could I have missed it? My only job since I was seven years old, has been to watch out for my brother. I failed. He sent me a damned text, just before."

John swallows the lump in his throat, and clears his throat several times before he gets the question to pass his lips. "What…did it say?"

"Take care of him. I trust you. I will always love you both. And then he was gone. Just gone."

John could barely believe his eyes. Well, they were rather blurred, but he still saw Mycroft cry.

I would have gone. Sherlock, you are such an idiot. It's the solar system. Spectacularly ignorant. All you had to do was ask.

For days John just sits and imagines the two of them on the skid, caped avengers, solving crimes on an international scale. Two nameless minor aids to the British government perhaps. Men in black off to save the world from spiders and florescent bunnies.

It becomes far less about sorting, Sherlock's possessions then it is about the removal of destroyed items. John spends an afternoon, patiently gluing the skull back together. He eventually stops locking the door. Leaves a note. "Come on in and look. Good luck. You are number (_). Please pick up after yourself, I do have to live here."

John had the pleasure of also facing charges for aiding and abetting a fugitive and breaking and entering, thanks to the newest superstar reporter, Kitty Reilly.

He also has to answer for assaulting a policeman in the performance of his duty. John mentions to the judge that verbally bashing people with disabilities isn't found on his list of duties. "Seems to me, that he should be disciplined for unprofessional conduct."

"I hardly think the suspect could be called disabled." The judge says firmly disgusted.

From the back of the room, "Oh but he was. I have a statement from his nearest relative, and detailed reports of the various conditions the person in question overcame."

"It doesn't give anyone the right to bloody the nose of an official." The judge says peeking over his glasses in anger.

"Well, we can't have our Superintendents out making disparaging remarks toward the disabled either. And when one challenges someone to fisticuffs, being the losing party does not absolve them of their conduct."

"Who are you?"

"If it pleases the court, I am the one making motion to dismiss the charges. The Doctor Watson is my client."

Of course, John knew nothing about it. Mycroft had seen to it all. Those charges were dropped.

His medical license is suspended until his culpability in Sherlock Holmes criminal activities can be investigated. John pins the revocation to the fireplace mantle, with a hunting knife.

John wanders among the debris of his life, dissecting the actions that lead to such failure. He sometimes goes to the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He doesn't have any fear of this place, nor intent to jump. If he got that desperate he could manage a cocktail in a syringe that would be far less dramatic and guaranteed to not produce a surviving statistic.

Standing now where Sherlock stood a little over a month ago, John feels more clear-headed. It is a sacred place to him, looking down at where he fell. This is so much better than the grave yard. This is the last thing he saw. His last view of the world makes John feel close to him.

The rock Mycroft picked then just put his name and nothing else, means naught to John. This place was washed in his blood, the gateway of his spirit. Nobody came up here now. That suited John. He wonders what his last thoughts were. Did he just for one second, realize he was wrong? He never uttered a sound. No scream. Just tumbling face down eyes open,

What is missing?

He never said he loved John. Oh but he did. He left without saying it. Just not to you. The most important thing. He hadn't let John say it. It wasn't real. He stopped loving John or he would have said it. Don't be ridicules, he told Mycroft to watch over me. I don't need watching over, thank you.

"Why do you care what they think of me?"

Because I miss an annoying dick who took a taxi without me again, and I can't even text you how mad I am. Thought you'd out live me to get the last word in, yet this silence is even more heinous.

What will people think when I avenge all this. Will they care?

Will caring save any of them? I will kill them all for what they are doing to you and me, Sherlock.

Does it matter if they care? Or that I do? Did it matter to you after all?

No, damned every single one of them. I won't make that mistake again, Sherlock. You were right.

The lord said, go to the devil. John Watson repeated that cry. He had no idea where to run.

"It has been eighteen months since you have been here." The therapist says in a neutral tone.

"Do you read the papers? You know why I'm here." John says as if she's taking a piss. He's not suicidal, but a murder rampage is boiling just below his skin. She is clueless as ever.

Fifteen minutes later, as she tried to convince him that he had to accept that Sherlock could no longer cope with the lies about to come out, he told his therapist to go to the devil.

Mycroft finally comes to him, after several days of trying to unsuccessfully collect him. John offers him tea from the same service Sherlock used to serve Moriarty tea. There is only one unbroken mug in the flat other than the blue and white service.

John used to play a lot of poker. He doesn't smile at Mycroft, but at his tells. Mycroft knows something he's not sharing. The devil is always in the details.

The tea service will be smashed and in the bin within hours. John goes for a walk to think, and returned to fine the flat trashed, again. They were still searching for the code. John searches too. He has no idea what he's looking for, but not a scrap of lint passes his notice.

Sally Donovan expresses her condolences as John comes in to make yet another statement. John waits and his eyes narrow. "No need to apologize," he says with pleasant expression despite the sarcasm.

"I waddn't wrong. Always thought you had to be mostly saint, to put up wiff that. I am sorry for you. But in the long stretch, I probably saved your life. Not sorry for that." Her pity is so full of gleeful pride.

John moves close to her and wrinkles his nose. "See a gynecologist soon. And hope he doesn't do his job the way you do yours. There is a very distinctive odor caused by what Anderson gave you. Keep that in mind. Remember who you betrayed and who you trusted." John smiles and walks away. There was hell to pay for Anderson.

Lestrade came by one afternoon. John and Mrs. Hudson were carefully packing the last of his things. Mrs. Hudson had had enough holiday. She had enough of her sister too. The burglars didn't seem to be bothering anyone, just tracking up the lino and giving her fewer things to dust. She preferred the burglars.

John hands Lestrade a box. Sherlock had nicked quite a collection from him over the years. "I think most of this belongs to you, Detective Inspector. The rest, well, I will let you decide what to tell the owners."

Greg didn't ask for forgiveness. "It's just Greg now. I resigned. Got to move myself at the end of the month. "

John looked at him for a moment. "Upstairs bedroom is available."

"Probably not a great idea, John. I tend to drink a lot when…" he trails off.

"Yeah? Well I shoot people when they piss me off. I will probably be shooting more. I leave newspapers all over the place. I fix tea all the time. Obsessively actually. And the skull stays. "

Mrs. Hudson chimed in. "At least this one doesn't bring home body parts. "

"I arrested him. You're not bloody serious?"

"I punched your boss. Besides, I'm a bit unemployable right now. May have the place to yourself by next month. You did it for me. Thought we got on ok? I have taken up my clarinet again."

"Well don't tell him that. Gawd-awful squawking, worse than…the traffic noise." She helpfully adds, until she got to the part about what the clarinet sounded worse than, and then she busied herself to hide the tears.

Lestrade shakes his head, "Too posh for my blood. I got no job either. Mrs. Hudson can't live on my good nature."

"Well, you move in for now. Didn't I tell you? Mr. Holmes paid me up for two years. Even if John gets sent to, governmental accommodations, place will just sit empty. It's leased. Be good for John to have the company and maybe you can do something about all these burglars. It's sinful the way the yard is treating him. I'm filing a complaint. Now, I will go make us some nibbles, while you boys sort it out."

"That would be very nice, Thank you," Lestrade says, eyes wide.

"Just this once. Not your housekeeper."

John Watson told a lot of people to go to the devil. But there were some people who stuck around to walk through hell with him.

"Hero's don't exist." I believe in them and you.

"I've only got one." Me too. Sherlock. Me too.

"Nobody can stop an idea." I will never believe you were a fake.

"I'll just be myself." People will talk.

"Will you do this for me?" No, I won't. I won't tell them you were a fraud.

Oh, Sherlock, maybe you taught me too much. I see. I observe.

You made one mistake. The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience. All your little puzzles, making me dance. Mycroft knows something.

Maybe it was just those damned instincts again, but when Lestrade moved in, they talked a lot about Sherlock. They put together a pretty good timeline of Sherlock's last days.

John pulled out his old clarinet and played, standing at the window, playing and watching.

The game is on.

Thank you for reading. This is the end of section one. I will begin section two as soon as possible. It begins with Sherlock's view of the events leading up to RBF and goes into some of his motive. I am doing a different JW here, one who does not fall apart, just stomps on the devils tale. Lots of fun ahead I hope - and this is so much easier now that I have actually seen the series. Your reviews count - please leave one and to those of you who have, many Thanks.