AN: This final chapter is being published today as a way of thanking Howlynn for her fantastic, truly critical review, that made my Monday. I would love to hear from you again, as I'm going to do a revised version of this story in the near future.
So, now... That's it. My first fanfiction finished and done with! It's kind of hard to believe, really.
I want to thank everyone who followed, favourited, or even took the time to leave a review. Particularly your speculations and heart-felt opinions on Ella, surely something of a star in this, have kept me well entertained, but every little bit of feedback has been deeply appreciated. I am not at all sure if I would have persevered (for the past not quite 501 days ;)) without all of you.
It has been a joy, despite all my complaining, to certain people, particularly my astonishing beta, Writing Second and friend Impractical Beekeeping, whom I wouldn't even know if it weren't for this story – and who would have been, and is, reason enough to make all this and other kinds of madness worthwhile.
You might be interested in the companion piece I'm thinking about doing (working title is Congenial Conclusion) and which will centre around Sherlock in a similar manner that this did around John. Enthusiastic feedback for this idea would be very welcome ;)
24 - Five Hundred and One
She knew. She might not understand everything, but she clearly must know him well enough to have no doubts how John reacted to being warned about someone… He turned the idea over and over again in his head, never reaching a conclusion whether Ella did not mean for him to go through with marrying Mary, after all. Were all her warnings to the contrary nothing but sophisticated means to manipulate him?
He gave up on divining her purpose, as the dread of the deadline - the day when he would have lived as long without Sherlock again as they'd had together - creeping up in his head became suffocating and made him think he didn't care either way.
He had had to admit to himself that Ella had not been entirely wrong with her analysis... Running was another instinct John had developed early in life, like relying on nobody. How many times had he left the flat, had run from Sherlock's abrasiveness, like he had run out into the moor when he couldn't stand watching and listening to Sherlock... But running away had not been an option ever since he'd first defended himself and Harry at the age of fourteen. Still, he couldn't suppress the need to get distance between himself and whatever threatened him, move his feet, walk off his instinctive fighting response (another something he had caught, like an infection, during those formative years). If only to get back to fight with a clear head.
"What would you say if I asked you to marry me?"
"What?" had been all he could get out with the little air he was able to muster.
Mary had waved the letter at him, telling him everything in a rush, glowing with the absolutely unexpected adventure and excitement it promised.
"And what am I going to do? Knit jumpers?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You could work at the clinic they are starting for training local doctors."
"Mary... just because I've given two injections..."
"Laura would be more than happy to have you."
He stared.
"Were those all the objections you had in store? Because I'm still waiting for an answer to my questions here."
And John had panicked that morning, fled. Ella was right. And now it was time to stop the running act altogether...
On day four hundred ninety-seven, he told Mary yes. The next day he went to ask Lestrade to be his best man.
.
The door to the office floor was wide open, when John climbed the stairs for the first time in almost five-hundred days. He couldn't help counting.
Things had changed at NSY, but the overall impression of busy movement, people thinking while pacing between flipcharts, computers and the large windows looking out over the city was the same. John stood and stared, not letting himself dwell on the sudden constricting feeling around his chest.
The large office formerly assigned to Lestrade was filled with pot plants, colourful art prints and had a distinctly female air to it... John looked around searchingly. The first plain-clothes officer he asked for directions to DI Lestrade's new office gave him a quick once-over, labelled him harmless, and helpfully filled him in that Lestrade had moved, more than a year ago, after some serious run-in with the Chief Superintendent. She pointed him to a notably smaller cubicle at the far end.
Through the inset glass pane in the office's door, John could see Lestrade standing with his hands braced against the window frame. The posture had something slightly disconcerting about it.
Opening the door and saying "Hello, Greg.", the familiar lanky silhouette of Mycroft and his umbrella in the visitor's chair stopped John dead in his tracks.
Lestrade's face was... ashen, as he turned around. "John."
This was not the kind of conversation John had had in mind. Less awkward would have been fine by him...
Mycroft turned around in the swivel chair with the precision of an automaton, a quick glance passing over John that he was still too accustomed to to mind.
"The happy announcement, then." Mycroft studiously looked down at his shoes. "One would have assumed you'd had quite enough of that kind of whirlwind romance." When he looked up, his face was inscrutable.
But John remembered only too well Mycroft's snide remarks at their very first meeting. "God. And I would have bet you at least knew those rumours to be exactly that."
Mycroft mumbled something unintelligible.
"What?"
"Nothing at all."
John gave him his very best stare; and Mycroft evaded his eyes.
"Congratulations are in order, I suppose," he said with the enthusiasm of a true civil servant.
"John-" Lestrade said once more, but couldn't get past his name, again.
"Are you all right?"
"He is," Mycroft said.
"Well, you must know." John looked suspiciously from one man to the other.
"We have... unpleasant business to talk about," Mycroft explained.
"Well, talking about unpleasant business... I guess Mary tripped up your plan a bit. But I take it you won't go back on that offer, Mycroft."
"I honestly don't know what you are talking about, John." Mycroft took a step towards him, standing so close now, that their toes were almost touching. "I would never act against your own best interest."
The words caused an unpleasant shiver down John's back – for once, Mycroft sounded utterly sincere.
"Just stuff it. The only person – beside yourself - whose interests you paid the least bit of attention to was Sherlock."
Mycroft's mouth opened and closed silently before he answered "Yes."
Three days after this episode, John found himself drawn to Baker Street, as surely as a moth to the flame.
It was quite late: the first joyless cases of a Halloween night had kept him at the surgery for longer than his shift really ought to have lasted – but he surely didn't mind as much distraction as possible today. As he started his meandering walk to what he couldn't help but think of as home still, the streets were not exactly crowded, since most parties had started by now. The atmosphere was a bit more festive than usual, though. He passed a few pubs that had jumped on the Halloween wagon (judging by the pumpkins and fake cotton spider webs in their windows) to draw more patrons on a weekday. John watched a skeleton and a witch sauntering along across the street, followed by a darkly clad gentleman in period clothes and a top-hat, who presumably impersonated Jack the Ripper. Not even half bad…
Something about the stuffy clothing reminded him of Mycroft again. John huffed, recalling the shock of seeing the man twice in such a short time. And in Lestrade's office, of all places… Was he turning paranoid for the fact that he was convinced they'd been talking about him in that office? Why else would Mycroft have been there? He guessed Mycroft had updated the DI on what was going to happen, in spite of all his best efforts… John gritted his teeth. He would have sworn Lestrade to be the one person to be happy for him. Now it looked like it might be the smallest wedding in history, with only Molly, Mrs Hudson and Harry to attend. Mary's friend Molly – who still tried fleeing the room when John was there. Well, at least they had one witness, while John was still left with the problem of not having a best man.
Alone in the street again, John wondered if the counting in his head would stop tomorrow… if tomorrow would feel any different… if he would feel different on the five hundred and second day after his life shattered. He had that strange, slightly out-of-body experience, of time passing at a different pace around him.
Maybe it was not really such a good idea to spend this night alone, but he was already almost there now. Turning the corner to Baker Street eventually, John frowned up at the light in their living room that Mrs Hudson must have left on.
.
He did not see this coming. No premonitions. No ghostly presence making itself felt via goosebumps. No more than there had always been here, anyway. John threw his jacket on the hook down in the hall, and began the arduous way up the stairs. Then he simply shoved the door open and limped straight in, before he noticed the other person in the room.
A weak "Oh. God." escaped his lips as he drew a last halting breath with great difficulty, then he simply doubled over, clutching his middle, while his knees gave out under him so he was collapsing quite gracefully, curling in on himself; unable to catch a single breath he felt very much like the wind had been knocked of of him by a brutal blow.
Fighting for air, swallowing frantically against the huge dry lump clotting his throat, he felt two years' worth of tears rush to his eyes – the horrible fear and utter loneliness of all that time draining out. It was just too much for one person to take, too much to feel at one time.
The tears started violently now and as he... got his breath back, he began sobbing, crying eventually.
It took him a long while to realise that Sherlock was whispering to him incessantly. John, please. Please, don't. John, shhh, please, stop crying. That the warmth suffusing his body came from Sherlock curled protectively around the tiny, cracking ball that was John Watson.
Once more he did things the wrong way round. He was not in shock because of Sherlock's sudden reappearance, his return of the dead. He was, eventually, coming out of shock after almost eighteen months of fighting to stay in that state (and really, who in their right mind worked to stay in shock?)in order to not have to return to a reality entirely unbearable. And even though his rational mind had long since processed events and acknowledged the reality of Sherlock's death, his heart had simply ceased to accept anything of what was going on as relevant and real. No, he had never got out of the shocked state that he had plummeted into that horrible day at Bart's.
Eventually, John slipped into a state half sleep and half unconsciousness. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock laying him carefully on the sofa, covering him with some blanket and settling down next to him on the floor.
The circle of his fingers did not let go of Sherlock's wrist, not once.
fin