Chapter 25: Apparition
The next time John went to work, Mary texted Mycroft that the flat was empty. He responded immediately; she expected no less from him, especially with the way he was acting earlier. She'd never before seen him so on edge and freaked out. Whatever his observational skills had picked up about John must be truly terrifying. Mary had heard exactly what he'd heard, and she, too, was afraid of the connotations of what she'd heard. John was talking to something in his own head-something he wanted gone.
Mycroft arrived at her door in person not even half an hour later, armed with a multitude of tiny cameras. She didn't bother to ask where he got them. It was no secret that he'd bugged 221B Baker Street before to monitor his younger brother.
"He's at work, so we have as much time as we need," Mary informed him. Mycroft nodded curtly and proceeded into the living room. Together, they planted hidden cameras in strategic locations with multiple angles centered on John's chair and some in the kitchen. They'd already witnessed an episode in the kitchen, and Mary knew he spent more time in that armchair than most other places in the flat. She drew the line at allowing Mycroft to bug their bedroom or bathroom, and Rosie's room was irrelevant.
While they worked, Mary mustered the courage to ask Mycroft if he'd obeyed her command to seek help.
"You'll be pleased to note I have. I spoke with a therapist a few days ago, and I believe the visit was marginally successful," he denoted.
"Great," she responded. He said it with such a detached tone that he wasn't entirely convincing. She knew no drastic leaps were accomplished in one session, but she expected him to seem a bit more effected by what had been a novel and probably uncomfortable experience. "What did you talk about, if you don't mind my asking," she continued.
"Would you be angry if I did mind?"
Mary wanted to say yes, that she demanded some feedback from the appointment she'd practically forced him to attend, but she couldn't do it. Mycroft and Sherlock had decades of history that she hadn't the faintest idea of, and losing a sibling, particularly a younger one and in such horrid circumstances, was an experience she could never completely understand.
"Of course not. I just wondered if you were one of those people that would benefit from relaying your experience. It's clear that you're not, and that's alright. I'm sorry for asking," she said.
"No need to apologize. I already opened up once, and I'm not too keen on doing it again."
"Understandable," Mary remarked. She remained silent while they continued working, and when they were satisfied that they had adequate coverage of the flat, they settled down and Mary finally questioned the elder Holmes about something else: the reason for all this fuss. "Mycroft, I'm freaked out. I need to know what you saw that justifies all this," she insisted, gesturing to their handiwork.
"Well, you and both heard what he said. People don't say things like that when they're mindlessly talking to themselves. Usually they either whisper reminders, self-encouragement, self-discouragement, or sing song lyrics. This was certainly none of those things. He was speaking to someone else. And I could follow his gaze; he continually fixated on one spot in the corner of the room before averting his eyes entirely. Whatever he 'saw' there, he didn't like it."
"What do you think it was?"
"I can't be sure. That's why we're doing this."
"Spying on him?" Mary had allowed Mycroft to set this up, though now that it was actually done she was having second thoughts. She had an innate distrust of being watched, and the idea of doing it to her husband made her nauseous. "Is there no other way?"
"Mary, whatever is plaguing him needs to be stopped as soon as possible. This is the quickest way to get answers. We could try to coax it out of him slowly, but I fear we'd be too late."
She knew Mycroft was right, and she did truly want to help John expeditiously, but the discomfort persisted. Maybe a part of her was afraid of what she might learn. She thought she'd convinced him to open up to her when he'd revealed the bit about cheating on her, but it was becoming apparent that incident was miniscule in comparison to whatever this was. She only hoped that she and Mycroft could fix it.
~0~
She'd been dreading the two-year anniversary for so long, that when it arrived she awoke with a physical weight on her chest. Glancing over at the other side of the bed, she saw John had already vacated the room. She crawled out of bed and got dressed, bracing herself for the imminent awful day. She foresaw neither of them being very functional as parents, so she took Rosie downstairs to Mrs. Hudson. The landlady understood, although she, too, was distraught. She'd probably be afraid to peek around corners for fear Sherlock would miraculously return from the dead and surprise her as he'd done last time.
She watched John closely throughout the morning, and she could tell he was anxious. Who wouldn't be, in a situation like that? She could do nothing but give him space and listen out for anything alarming. John pulled out his laptop and read for hours, scrolling through the entirety of his blog. She didn't have to see the screen to know what it was; there was nothing else he would read on a day like today.
She sensed the rising tension within him as the hours passed, and she knew that something riveting would occur on this day. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end whenever she glanced at John. It was as if he radiated distressed electricity. Around two in the afternoon, she notified Mycroft:
"It's the two year anniversary. Something's going down. I can sense it," she wrote. After a quick once over, she sent the message, only to receive a practically instantaneous reply.
"Leave the flat," came his curt response. Of course. If she was around, he might try to keep up appearances. If she and Mycroft wanted to know what was really going on, they needed him convinced he was alone and isolated.
"Where should I go?" Mary asked Mycroft.
"Come to my office. We will watch footage live."
She'd just been invited to a viewing party of her husband's potential meltdown. How splendid. She told John she was leaving, though she doubt he even registered the sound of her voice in the stupor he was in. He didn't even glance up at her when she spoke to him, which she took as a sign that he was wrapped up in his own head. She quickly made her way to Mycroft's, where he showed her inside to a room with a desk covered in countless computer monitors.
"So, is this, like, your control room?" she asked half-jokingly.
"Yes. Please, have a seat." He pulled up two chairs at the desk, and they sat staring at multiple views of the interior of 221B Baker Street. The multiple cameras they'd installed provided views of every possible corner of the main level. The first thing Mary registered was the glass of amber liquid in John's hand.
"Oh God, he's drinking," she gasped. He hadn't done that since Sherlock died, claiming that he knew even one would lead to the eventual one too many. Apparently the first time around, alcohol had been his drug of choice to try and forget the pain of losing his best friend. It had taken him two years to finally reach a point where he needed the boost.
He was sitting in his usual armchair, staring at the empty one opposite. Mary lost track of how many times she'd looked at that chair and wanted to throw it out to eliminate that reminder of his absence, but she knew John would never allow it. Getting rid of the chair was one step towards erasing Sherlock's memory, a step John was not willing to take. Besides, without it, the room appeared depressingly empty. She saw his lips move as he mumbled something under his breath, but the audio wasn't quite adept enough to pick it up. But soon afterwards, he began to speak at full volume.
"Have what?" he asked. She and Mycroft both followed his gaze to a spot next to the chair. He was directing his speech that way. He was answering a question, but they had no way to tell what he'd been asked and by whom.
"By doing what?" he questioned. Even through the hindered quality of the audio, Mary could detect the rising irritation in her husband's tone. She knew the drinks certainly hadn't helped his temper. Letting John Watson drink alcohol was like pouring kerosene on kindling; it drastically lowered the threshold for ignition. "Recklessly chasing after criminal with no regard for my own personal safety?"
What on Earth was he talking about? It was impossible to fill in all the gaps in the conversation without any clues as to who he was talking to and about what. Mary wished she could storm back to the flat and demand an explanation, but she knew she wouldn't get one out of him. Certainly not in this state. Mycroft inclined his head to look at her, and she knew he'd come to a conclusion about the identity of the imaginary speaker. A part of her had already reached it too, had done so a while ago, but she didn't like to consider it.
"Stop!" John shouted. Whatever he thought had been said must've upset him. Mary couldn't watch; she wanted to turn away because there's no way that was her husband speaking so vehemently to empty air. He looked like an actor rehearsing lines without a partner to practice with… or a schizophrenic battling his delusions.
"So what if it is? There's nothing I can do about it," he said forlornly. "I don't have your propensity for solving crimes, and I never will." There was no doubt now about who he was conversing with. Mary and Mycroft locked eyes as their worst fears were confirmed: Sherlock.
"Maybe I will, no thanks to you," John huffed. A pause while he listened.
"Actually, it was!" Mary knew now that she'd never seen her husband truly angry. This sight before her now was an entirely new level of rage she'd never encountered. And it scared her. "I voluntarily went to Afghanistan, knowing full well it was dangerous! I knew I could possible get shot, but I did it anyway. Had I decided I didn't want to risk that, I wouldn't have gone in the first place. You did the same thing: knowingly threw yourself into a dangerous situation. It just so happened Norbury had better aim than some Afghan rebels."
Okay, so he was upset with Sherlock reckless behavior. That made perfect sense. The detective had put John through hell with all his antics over the years. Mary had watched her poor husband attempt to wrangle him with varying degrees of success through all sorts of scenarios. Honestly, it was a miracle only one had ended in a tragedy of this degree.
"Why did you never change?" John questioned. The anger had drained out of his voice, replaced by desperation and sorrow. "Sherlock, you had a goddaughter, you had people in your life who cared about you and needed you, yet your still threw your life around like it was dispensable! How could you do this to us? To me?"
This was happening now. John was suffering now. He was arguing with a phantom of his deceased best friend, accusing him of throwing away his life knowing it would hurt those around him. Mary found she agreed with him. She'd tried everything she could to throw Sherlock off this scent, but he was relentless. His own tenacity had been his downfall.
"You were addicted," John remarked. "You were able to quit the drugs, but this ran even deeper." He stopped to listen again.
"But wouldn't you care if you died? Didn't you want to live to solve another mystery?" Mary knew the answer to that question: no. She hadn't known Sherlock for all that long, but she did know him pretty well. Almost every case he took on was a potential suicide mission. This of course included the actual suicide mission that Mycroft had nearly sent him on before being interrupted by the mass Moriarty broadcast. In fact, she was sure the only thing that had kept him alive was a sense of duty to John. But even that hadn't been able to save him from a bullet wound to the chest.
"I'm so honored to know I never had the pleasure of seeing you at your worst. How noble of you to keep it together for my sake." John's voice dripped with sarcasm. Mary looked at his face and saw the same expression she'd seen the night of Sherlock's return. When her husband was truly angry, he smiled. Not a pleasant smile, but a terrifying, I-am-ready-and-willing-to-beat-the-crap-out-of-you smile that sent shivers down her spine.
"And is this you returning the favor?" If possible, his sarcasm had been dialed up even further. Even though she wasn't even in the room, Mary felt the tension rising like the pressure in a gas tank.
"Well, you're doing a bloody brilliant job of it. Sherlock, I'm losing my goddamn mind talking to you like this. You're a fucking hallucination!" Mary clenched her jaw and had to close her eyes at this point. She couldn't look at John and listen to him struggle with his own mind. To think this had been going on for two whole years right under her nose, and she had no idea, it was more than she could handle.
"At least he recognizes that he's not real," Mycroft remarked. She glanced at the elder Holmes and saw his familiar expression of forced composure. He was right, but it was a small condolence when faced with the issue at hand.
"Please, tell me what it is that I so desperately need."
John fell silent after that, but he was clearly listening to something that the illusion was telling him. He closed his eyes tightly, maybe an attempt to banish the visions? Mary stared at the screen, utterly and completely flabbergasted by everything she'd just witnessed. John, her John, was so much worse off than she'd ever imagined. And she had no bloody clue what he was going through.
"That was… distressing," she managed to say.
"It's worse than I initially thought," Mycroft sighed dejectedly. "This is unlike anything I've ever seen before. It reminds me of the few times… the times Sherlock had taken too much, and started seeing things," he explained. "He would shout and thrash, usually convinced that anyone in his vicinity was trying to kill him. But this—this is worse."
"What can we do?"
"Mary, I wish I knew, but this is beyond me." Never had she heard the elder Holmes so readily admit defeat. It was a testament to the gravity of the situation. What could they do? Have him sectioned? Mary filed that option as a last resort. The idea of seeing him forced into treatment like that was too much to bear. And how would they explain to him that they knew what was going on? That would require admitting they'd bugged the flat, which wasn't something Mary was inclined to do. It was a breach of a trust she'd just worked so hard to strengthen. But it was worth having to rebuild that from the ground up if it would help John recover.
She looked at Mycroft with fire in her eyes and announced, "We have to tell him that we know." He didn't answer, and she didn't need him to. She would go through with this with or without his approval. But a curt nod from the elder Holmes showed she wouldn't have to go up against him. They stood up and, together, marched out of the room and back to Baker Street.