Chapter Nine

John tossed and turned in his bed, trying and failing to get to sleep for the millionth time that night. No matter how hard he tried, he just could not sleep. Sighing, he tossed his blankets back and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. What was wrong? Why couldn't he sleep?

He sighed again, breaking the silence of the night. He opened his eyes as he raised his head, staring at the floor. Oh, my God…

Silence. That was why he couldn't sleep. True, Sherlock had slept every once in a while, but now, John was all too aware of the lack of noise from downstairs.

John lowered his head back into his hands, his throat tightening as he fought to hold in the sobs. Sherlock…

Pulling himself together, he got to his feet and opened his bedroom door, heading down the stairs. He reached the first floor and flipped the lights on in the sitting room. His eyes went unerringly to the black leather armchair sitting empty in front of the fireplace. The tears threatened to break out again as John stepped over towards the chair, raising his hand towards it. His fingers almost reached the arm of the chair before pulling back, unable to bring himself to touch it.

Instead, his eyes landed on the violin case on the floor behind the chair. John circled around and knelt on the floor, reaching out slowly and flipping the latches on the case. Hesitating a moment, he pulled the lid open. Nestled inside the felt-lined case was Sherlock's Stradivarius. John reached his hand forward and—rather feeling like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar—wrapped it around the neck of the instrument, lifting it from the case. John stared at it for a moment before getting to his feet and settling into his own armchair. Laying the violin across his lap, he absently put his finger to one of the strings and plucked it.

The sound echoed in the sitting room, stirring up old memories.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes, I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"

No, John thought. No, it wouldn't. In fact, I'd love it right about now.

Why had he done it? Why had Sherlock jumped? He was Vulcan; he had no ego to bruise, no feelings to hurt. Why had he let those rumors get to him? Because they weren't true; John knew they weren't true. Sherlock may have been arrogant and a show-off, but he hadn't had one cruel bone in his body. In fact, his final act had proven that. Why would he have killed himself to avoid those rumors if he really had done it?

John closed his eyes at the thought, his memories of Sherlock's fall flashing before him.

"This phone call…it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"I am and always shall be your friend."

"Goodbye, John."

"SHERLOCK!"

John opened his eyes, looking over at the empty armchair across from him. He slowly shook his head. Why, Sherlock?

After a moment, the sound of a song being plucked on a set of strings came to him. John frowned as he looked down at the violin. He had moved it so that the body of the instrument rested against the left side of his chest. His left hand was on the fingerboard, holding down various strings as his right hand plucked those strings. It could've been a random indulgence as he remembered his friend except for the fact that John recognized the song: Dukas' "Sorcerer's Apprentice."

John stared in amazement as he continued to pluck out the song. Sure, he could play the clarinet a little, but woodwinds and strings were very different. Just how was he doing this?

The song picked up, his fingers beginning to fly faster over the strings. His eyes widening, John wrenched his hands away and grabbed the violin, getting up to set it in Sherlock's chair and backing away quickly. He took several deep breaths as he stared at it, shocked. It was almost as though his hands had had a mind of their own, like he'd been a puppet.

What the bloody hell is happening to me?

Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs of Baker Street, heading up to her boys'—not boys; not anymore—flat. She carried a tray of tea with her. As she reached the flat, she heard something she hadn't heard in days: the frantic pacing of someone deep in thought.

Sherlock? she wondered. It can't be…

She pushed open the door to find John still in his sleep clothes and his robe hanging open on him, pacing back and forth in the sitting room. His hair was disheveled, as though he had run his hands through it multiple times. There were bags under his eyes, which were bloodshot and slightly wild-looking.

"Are you all right, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked, setting the tea tray on the coffee table.

"Didn't get any sleep," John explained, turning to stride back to the windows.

"I didn't get much either," said Mrs. Hudson, pouring some tea.

"I couldn't stand the silence in the flat," John told her, coming to a stop as she handed him a cup of tea.

"It's amazing how much you miss the noise and everything once it's gone," Mrs. Hudson agreed, picking up her own cup.

John sat in his chair, sipping his tea.

"You really should try to get some sleep, John," Mrs. Hudson told him. "You look awful."

John nodded. "I can't. There's something…" he grimaced in frustration. "There's something I'm forgetting. I just can't…" He stared off into the distance, lost in thought.

"It'll come to you," she told him, taking a drink from her tea before setting it down. "Get some rest."

"Mm, tedious," John mumbled in a quiet voice.

Mrs. Hudson froze in her attempt to stand and stared at John.

After a moment, John seemed to realize what he had just said, and he startled out of his stare a little. He looked up in confusion and embarrassment. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Looks like I'm just really missing him today."

"That's okay, John," she told him, standing and heading out of the flat.

As Mrs. Hudson headed back downstairs to her flat, John stared down at his tea. First, the violin and now that comment? His mind must really be on Sherlock today. His friend's ghost was fighting its way into his life; the violin, the sarcastic comments, the restlessness, the experiments—

Oh, damn!

John hurried into the kitchen, whipping open the fridge and pulling out a tray of Petri dishes. He quickly pulled a bottle from a cupboard nearby, opening it and pouring a few drops into each dish. He waited with bated breath for a moment before the substance in the dishes began to fizz.

John let out a relieved breath. That was close.

He paused and then stared down at Sherlock's experiment, frowning. Why… He must've remembered it from Sherlock's talking about it. Lord knows he never shut up about them. That had to be it.

John picked up the tray and turned towards the trash bin, but paused before throwing it in. Smiling a bit, he turned and placed it back in the fridge and closed the door.

"Dr. Watson."

John turned to see Mycroft standing in the kitchen doorway. He clenched his fists, giving the man a hard glare. "What are you doing here?"

"There are some things we need to discuss," said Mycroft.

"No," said John.

"John—"

"Don't," John told him, barely holding in his anger. "Just don't. Get out." He turned and began heading for the sitting room.

"We planned the whole thing."

John froze in his steps, slowly looking back at him. "What?"

"Sherlock and I planned the whole thing," Mycroft told him.

John's frown deepened as he turned towards him. "You planned…what, exactly?"

"We knew Moriarty would not rest until he had brought down Sherlock," explained Mycroft. "So, we gave him certain information—Sherlock's life story—in order to get information back. But, then, you already knew that."

John nodded, remembering their conversation the night before Sherlock died.

"We let him go, to make him believe he'd gotten the upper hand," Mycroft went on. "We knew that Moriarty would try to arrange Sherlock's death, so we made several dozen contingency plans to fake his death."

John had stopped breathing at that point. He's alive? "So…it was all faked?"

Mycroft hesitated before sadly shaking his head. "I don't know what happened on that roof…but Sherlock chose not to use any of the back-up scenarios." He paused a moment. "He chose to jump off of that roof."

John's inflating hope died in his chest, and his breath whooshed out of him. He had trouble forming a complete thought in this moment. "But…why…"

"We had suspected Moriarty would use people close to Sherlock to get him to kill himself," said Mycroft. "Snipers, set on you, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"Snipers?" said John in alarm.

"I believe Moriarty threatened to kill the three of you unless Sherlock died. Something must have happened that left Sherlock with no choice. Perhaps Moriarty revealed that someone was watching. Whatever the reason…Sherlock is dead."

John paused for a while. "Why are you telling me this? It doesn't change anything. He's still gone."

"You deserved to know that it wasn't supposed to be this way," Mycroft told him. "What little comfort that is."

John nodded, looking away a moment before turning back. "Is that it?"

"Just one more thing," said Mycroft, stepping a little closer. "Did Sherlock mention anything to you? Any…last requests?"

"How could he?" asked John. "He didn't know he was going to die, not really."

Mycroft peered closely at him. "So, there's nothing you wish to share with me? No random thoughts or…sudden urges? Perhaps involving Mount Seleya?"

John frowned in confusion. This was more random than any conversation he'd ever had with Sherlock. He had never even heard of a Mount Seleya. "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft peered at him with narrowed eyes a bit longer. John felt like he was being taken apart, and he found it a welcome, missed sight.

Mycroft's eyes relaxed as he looked away. "Nothing. It doesn't matter anymore." He looked back up with—was that disappointment?—in his eyes. "Good day, John." He turned and strode abruptly from the flat.

John stared after him, Mycroft's words echoing in his head.

"Sherlock's last requests…"

"Sudden urges…"

"Mount Seleya…"

The phrases faded to silence as John shook his head a little, turning to go get dressed.

Have you figured it out yet? Probably.