Chapter 14: Honesty
"John, I need to tell you something," Mary announced one day. After their anniversary dinner and John's confession, things had thawed a bit. He felt more comfortable around her, less like he was walking on eggshells, and he hoped she felt the same. Sherlock's apparition hadn't returned to him since the argument in the cemetery, and he was somewhat okay with that—emphasis on somewhat. He knew this wasn't the end, he'd be able to feel it in his gut if it was, so he was prepared to make amends before saying goodbye forever. When that would be, he had no idea, and frankly, he didn't care. He was temporarily content.
"Sure. Anything," he told Mary. He wondered if his reveal had urged her to confess a secret of her own. He had no idea what she could still be hiding, but he didn't doubt it would be monumental if she preceded it by announcing she had something to tell him.
"After I saw how much Scott helped you, I decided to meet with him myself," Mary explained. "I've been seeing him for a while now, and he sort of made it my homework today to consider some things I ought to tell you."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" John didn't consider seeing a therapist after losing a loved one to be any sort of 'deep dark secret.' Did she think this fact could cause discord in their relationship?
"Frankly, I don't know. It doesn't make any sense. But then again, neither of us have been making all that much sense lately." She had a point there.
"Fair enough," John relented. He supposed if she thought this was a big deal, he should be as supportive as possible. "But I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to tell me that. Has he helped?"
"Yes. He got me this far, didn't he?"
"It would seem so. Do you talk about me?" John asked. He wondered how many times his name had been brought up with Scott without his knowledge.
"Of course. You're a big part of my life. But he can't tell me anything you talk about with him because of confidentiality and all that. Don't you talk about me?"
"Yeah," John said. He and Scott discussed Mary sometimes, but not all that often compared to other things.
"There's another thing…" Mary hesitated. John wondered just how many secrets she would spill on this purge.
"Don't tell me you cheated on me," John chuckled. He knew that wasn't the case, but he thought the current situation could benefit from some humor.
"No. It's just—I'm worried about Mycroft," she admitted. Mycroft? John hadn't heard that name in ages. How often had Mary spoken to him since the incident? Did they meet up every Sunday for tea or something? John had barely even considered the elder Holmes since he barged through their door so long ago demanding grief counsel. John had given him what advice he could, but he himself had still been reeling.
"You're worried about him?" John let his shock come through full force in his tone of voice. "Mary, that man practically runs the country; I think he can take care of himself."
"John, he may run the country, but his real job was always looking after Sherlock. And the past few times I've spoken to him, he hasn't been himself. And I know him, he's not going to ask for help, he'll try to shove everything down and handle it himself, and it's not going to work. You and I both know it doesn't work." John was surprised at how concerned she was for a man he didn't even know all that well. But he thought she was correct in her assessment of how he would handle this situation. John remembered how he'd slammed up walls after letting them down briefly to let John know he was struggling. That was probably all the help he'd sought since losing his little brother, and John knew for a fact that wasn't nearly enough.
"Okay, I see your point," he told Mary. "But what are we supposed to do? Stage an intervention?"
"I wouldn't use that word, but essentially, yes."
"You want to force help upon Mycroft Holmes? That's a suicide mission." Mycroft could eat people alive if he set his mind to it—John had seen him do it before. If it turned out he didn't want their help, John feared neither he nor Mary would make it through unscathed.
"No, John, it's not," Mary assured. "He trusts us as much as he's ever trusted anyone in his life. You and I can talk some sense into him."
"Fine, but you're taking the lead on this." If Mary knew Mycroft well enough to be thinking about him at a time like this, then she probably knew him well enough to give him advice about how to handle his grief. John would stand in the background exclusively for moral support.
~0~
"Please, tell me why you've summoned me here," Mycroft instructed upon his arrival at Baker Street.
"We're worried about you," Mary declared. John was surprised at her forwardness, and he stood back and prepared to watch the imminent verbal sparring match.
"Why?" Mycroft asked.
"All three of us have been struggling this past year, and understandably so. John and I have both spoken to a therapist, and it has helped immensely," Mary explained. "I know you're well aware of opportunities like that, but I wanted to talk to you in person about whether or not you've taken advantage of them."
"Openly discussing my 'feelings' with a stranger is not exactly my style," he hissed.
"I know that. But these circumstances are different than any you've ever faced before. I remember when you came to John just a little while after it happened and asked him for advice. He told you that it just takes time, and it does. But quite a bit of time has passed, and from what I can tell you're not improving as you should be at this point."
"I assure you, I am fine—" Mycroft was interrupted when John decided to interject. He'd heard that word 'fine' from a Holmes' mouth far too many times to believe it. When a Holmes said they were 'fine,' it meant they were internally a mess but would rather ignore it in favor of whatever else they had on their mind.
"Don't give me that," John growled. "You and Sherlock both try to hide when you're hurt, and it always make things worse. Mycroft, I've been where you are, twice now. The first time, I tried to forget, and it didn't work, not even close."
"Different people handle grief in different ways."
"Yes, and how's that working out for you?" Mary questioned haughtily. Mycroft visibly deflated before them.
"No very well, huh?" John asked.
"No, not very well." Mycroft knew he was cornered.
"Have you tried to seek help?" Mary asked.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I've never needed help before. I'm supposed to be able to handle things, to get others out of a tight spot. But evidently my abilities do not extend to helping myself."
"It's impossible to pull yourself out of a hole. You need someone at the top who can reach down and guide you back to the surface."
"I don't particularly enjoy metaphors." John knew from experience that speaking to a Holmes any way except literally was a fruitless endeavor. Figures of speech did not register in their brains.
"Then let me rephrase: You need someone else. You can't handle this all on your own, no matter how much effort you throw at it. It's physically and psychologically impossible," Mary affirmed.
"Now, is there something you think you should tell us? We're not therapists, but we've learned a lot in the past year," John said. He'd spent enough time with a therapist to pick up on at least a few of his methods, and he was sure Mary did the same.
"I feel… like I've failed," the elder Holmes mumbled. John's heart instantly clenched for this man who'd spent almost his whole life looking after someone who'd been crudely ripped away from him. "Ever since he was born, it was my job to protect him. And I failed. And now, I don't have a real purpose anymore."
"That's completely understandable." John frankly felt exactly like that sometimes. "But you need to understand that you didn't fail, Mycroft. You did everything you could, and it may have not been enough, but that doesn't mean that you could've done better. There are just some things that are beyond anyone's control. None of this was your fault. Got it?" First it had been Mary to blame herself for Sherlock's death, and it had taken her ages to pull herself out of that horrible mindset. John knew that no one person was truly at fault, except for maybe Vivian Norbury herself, but she was beyond his reach now. The last thing John needed was Mycroft Holmes insisting he was to blame.
"Have you visited the stone?" Mary then asked. John wondered where she was going with this line of inquiry, and listened intently to the next piece of the conversation.
"A few times."
"And what did you do those few times?"
"Nothing," Mycroft stated.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"I think you should go back, and do something this time. Tell Sherlock something he didn't know when he was alive, something important. I've learned that clearing the air can be immensely helpful," Mary said. John quirked a smile at this comment, remembering how many confessions had been spilt in the past few weeks.
"Why should I speak to a block of stone?" Mycroft questioned. "It can't possibly hear me."
"Too literal, Mycroft. I don't care if you don't believe in Heaven or anything like that, you just have to speak as if he could hear you. Because the truth is, you don't know if he can or not. You will never know until you, too, eventually die. And if it turns out he did hear you, all the better." After this comment, John excused himself to make tea, as he was wont to do when he was stressed out.
"To be frank, even if I could hear him, I wouldn't want to listen."
John blanched, the sound of that voice leeching all the blood from his veins. Though he knew the vision wasn't finished torturing him, he didn't expect it to return so soon. There had been days he'd wished it would make an appearance, and days when he hoped he'd never see it again. No matter what John actually wanted, the apparition had a mind of his own. Sure enough, there in the corner stood the figure of Sherlock Holmes.
"Please don't let my brother come and bawl over my buried dead body, it would be terribly embarrassing," Sherlock chided. John clenched his teeth and tried not to growl back at him. There were too many people around to even attempt returning comments, so he suffered in silence and tried to continue with the tea. However, Sherlock wouldn't let him go that easily.
"Did he straighten the knocker on his way in? I'll bet he did. I want you to go and check after he leaves; check if the knocker's straightened," the illusion mused. "Unless you and Mary have been keeping it straight the whole time. Does Mary do that? John, does Mary keep the knocker straight or crooked? I remember you always leave it crooked because you close the door with the knocker instead of the knob. I don't know where you picked up that habit."
John tried to ignore his constant barrage of commentary, but Sherlock's voice was like an insect burrowing its way into John's head.
"I'm surprised you're even still in contact with my brother. Believe me, if I had a choice I would've abandoned him decades ago. Alas, 'family is family' and all that nonsense. But you do have a choice; he's just the annoying older brother of your dead best friend, so why is he still a part of your life?"
I don't know, John wanted to say. But he couldn't have an outburst here, not where Mary and Mycroft could hear him.
"John, it's getting rather lonely talking to myself. A monologue can only be so long before it becomes tedious. This is usually the point where another character butts in to either rebuke or corroborate him, but you're giving me nothing."
And John would continue to give him nothing until he vanished. Or so he told himself.
"Look, John, I know we had an argument last time we talked, but I need you to know that I forgive you. I understand why you don't want to tell Mary or anyone about me. I, more than anyone, know what it's like to hide something important from someone you love. I forgive you, John, can you forgive me? I'm sorry for pressuring you all this time; I'm just worried about you. But telling her about the cheating episode was a great step in the right direction, and I'm proud of you."
Still, John gave him nothing.
"John, please talk to me. I get that you're angry, and you have every right to be. You have so many reasons to be angry with me that it would take years just to list them all. But you've never been the silent treatment type of guy; you always made your anger well known to everyone in the room, and everyone in the room next door, and the building next door, and probably the next town over. I know how much you hate to keep your mouth shut. Remember the time you punched the super chief just for calling me names? One would've thought we were merely boys on a primary school jungle gym. Well, except for the subsequent hostage situation and fleeing through London. That was pretty intense, wasn't it?"
John's willpower snapped like a taut cable pulled just a centimeter too far: "Shut up!" The reminder of the events leading up to that fateful plunge from the rooftop had been too much for John to handle. If he couldn't have the real Sherlock, he didn't want this sorry knock-off his brain had conjured up. Talking to him was like reaching for a cookie that looked like chocolate chip, only to discover upon biting into it that it was actually oatmeal raisin: disappointing, disgusting, and just plain cruel.
John knew his outburst had been heard by both Mary and Mycroft in the living room, but neither of them made a comment. Maybe they assumed he wanted them to shut up, though he hadn't been paying a lick of attention to what they were saying. Sherlock smirked at him, relishing in his victory. John shot a glare at him and turned his back, though Sherlock simply took a few steps closer to remain in John's peripheral vision.
"Just shut up and, please, go away," John growled under his breath, too quietly to be heard in the other room.
"Didn't you want me to come back?" Sherlock asked innocently. "I feel like out last encounter was rather inconclusive, don't you? We ended on a pretty sour note, I wanted to make amends. Don't you want the same?"
"I want you to leave me alone. For good." John had firmly made up his mind on this topic. Last time, he'd felt a hint of regret when Sherlock turned away, but all hints of that were gone. Sherlock's apparition was holding him back from fulfilling the promise that the real Sherlock had made him swear: to move on and live his life. He was really trying, but this illusion kept getting in the way.
"Now, you don't mean that. You need me."
"I most certainly do not. I need real people."
"I'm not real?"
"No." John noticed that this version of the illusion was different than he'd appeared before. He used to remind John that Sherlock was dead and that this wasn't real, now he was trying to convince John he was real. That was definitely not a good sign. His own subconscious was coaxing him towards madness. But John refused to succumb.
"Fine. Have it your way," Sherlock grumbled. John blinked, and he was gone. Good riddance.
The tea finished, he poured three cups and gathered sugar and milk and brought it back to the living room. Mary and Mycroft evidently hadn't heard any of his conversation, as they didn't glare at him as if he was mad. They thanked him and resumed their conversation.
"How is Rosie?" Mycroft inquired genially. The child in question was currently on an outing with Molly, per the pathologist's request. They did this sort of thing every other month or so, and Rosie loved spending time with her godmother.
"She's doing great," John answered before Mary, desperate to refocus his mind on something sane. "She sleeps and eats pretty well for a child her age, and she seems happy most of the time."
"Yeah, her crying has really toned down in the past months," Mary added.
"I'm sure she'll grow into a wonderful adult with two parents such as you," Mycroft complimented.
"Thank you. We're certainly trying our best," Mary said. They sat in awkward silence for a minute or two before Mycroft excused himself, claiming work duties.
"You will heed our advice, won't you?" Mary allowed just the least bit of threat to seep into her tone of voice.
"Of course."
"I'll be checking in with you," she added with a slight incline of her head. This gesture seemed a bit strange, but John put it off as him misreading her. He could never deduce people like Sherlock could. They said their goodbyes, and saw the elder Holmes out the door.
"That was certainly productive," Mary told John after they returned to the living room.
"Yes. Did that ease some of your worries?" John asked.
"Yeah, some."
"I'm glad."
"I just couldn't bear to see him handle something like this all on his own. If we hadn't intervened, he might've just self-combusted from the stress of it all," she explained.
"Well, I'm not sure it was that severe, but we definitely pushed him in the right direction."
"Yeah. Thanks for your help."
"You're welcome."
I think that oatmeal raisin cookie comparison is the best piece of writing I've ever created, just saying. I'm leaving lighthearted author's notes at the end of this chapter for a bit of comic relief because things are starting to spiral. I might temporarily increase my posting rate to get to the good parts sooner, and to make up for the week coming afterwards. I have midterm exams and a bunch of other stuff in the next two weeks, and there's a chance I won't find the time to sit down and put up a chapter. I will try my best, but I can't promise anything. Sorry.