There you go. More to come. Very soon. Just felt it should end there quite nicely. I'll go write the next bit in a moment I think. Angry, rage-filled John soon to come and then the angst. A lot of it. That suit you?
It was a postman. It was a bloody postman, with a bloody package, in the middle of the bloody night. And he was ginger, with a frankly awful moustache. Well that wasn't really important. But it irked him. John figured there were only two logical reasons for a ginger postman to appear at his doorstep in the middle of the night. One, it had to do with Mycroft. Or two, it had to do with that sniper. Who he still wasn't totally convinced it was Sebastian Moran. The man shivered, the uniform far too large for his painfully thin form. Probably just picked up by one of the two, given a package and shown the address. Poor guy. He desperately needed a sandwich.
"Who do you work for?"
"I'm sorry sir? I work for the postal service sir."
He had a strange accent. It lilted but John couldn't place it. He reached behind his back to feel for his gun. It was still there. Ready if he needed it. Hopefully he didn't. This man could be an innocent. Or he could be an enemy.
"The post doesn't normally arrive in the middle of the night."
"Well you know the saying. Neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night can stay these messengers about their duty." The postman gave a wavering smile.
Now John was concerned.
"That's from Going Postal, by Terry Prachett. Now, I'll ask you again. Who do you work for?"
"The name he gave was M. Holmes, sir. Does that help?"
So it was from Mycroft. But the man could just be saying that to gain his trust. He needed to be sure. John and Mycroft had come up with a number of codewords while they had been holed up together. For use in emergencies or for identifying Mycroft's people. If this stranger didn't know any of them, then John would know that he was in trouble. He was glad Mary was still in the other room.
"What's the password?"
"I'm sorry the what?"
"The password!"
There was a pause and John's hand tightened around his firearm. Come on kid. Don't make me use this.
"Pirate." John sighed in relief and removed his hand, moving the allow the postman and his large parcel entrance.
"Thank you. You can leave it just there on the coffee table."
The man lifted the package and placed it on the table, wiping the sweat from his brow. It had taken him several minutes just to lug the box through John's door and into the room. The doctor wondered idly what was in it, but his mind was on other matters. Namely matters of the flesh. The postman pulled out a clipboard, gesturing for John to sign it as the man looked around his home. John quickly scrawled his signature, eager to get Mycroft's man out of his house. People deserve privacy after all, government official or no government official, his home life was none of Mycroft's business. He practically threw the clipboard at the man's chest.
"Alright, thanks. And you can tell Mycroft that next time, just wait till the bloody morning."
"Hm? Right! Uh..I'll try and convey that to him sir. Ah...do you um...mind if I ask you a question before I go?"
Well he was polite enough, might as well.
"Go on."
"Ain't that bloke in your picture that fake detective I've been seein' in the papers sir?" John felt his fists clench and his brow furrow.
"His name was Sherlock and he was not a fake." Get out now.
"But the paper sir..."
"The papers are wrong. I would have thought Mycroft's man would know that."
"Well I just started working tonight sir. Say, your signature says John Watson! You're his friend, that doctor bloke."
"Yes I am. And I doubt you'll be working for him very long." Leave.
"I'm sorry sir. It must be hard facin' the truth about someone you thought was a friend. Me mate the other day was saying that he must have felt real guilty to throw himself off a bloody building." Ok that does it. One more word. I dare you.
"Not been reading the papers lately? He's been cleared. He was innocent."
"Don't go calling me a liar. I know what I read sir. I knew that Kitty Riley, nice girl! Don't go pulling the wool over my eyes! He was a fraud and a fake sir, meaning no disrespect but someday you will need to face the tru-"
The postman never did get to finish his speech because John's fist had gone flying towards his nose and across his cheek, whipping the man around in a half circle. The man dropped to the ground in shock, backing away from the doctor who was clearly, pissed off, loudly panting and his fists clenching and unclenching. A pair of light footsteps hurried into the room.
"John! What's happened? Who is this?"
"An idiot. And he was just leaving."
Mary crept forward, leaning over and peering into the man's face.
"John?" Oh dear.
"What? Look Mary, keep away from him."
"John look at his face..."
"Why would I want to look at the bastard's, bloody face?" Very bloody.
Mary pulled him towards the man kneeling on their carpet, his nose dripping droplets onto the new, white rug.
"Just look."
So he did. He'd definitely broken the sods nose. He cheered inwardly as he knew his cheek would soon sport a spectacular bruise. His nose was bleeding everywhere however. His nose...his nose! Or rather what was beneath it. The man's moustache was slipping. His false moustache. Oh that did it. It was one thing to send a fucking arse-hole to deliver a package, but it was another thing for him to come in disguise. Did he really work for Mycroft? John decided that enough was enough and reached forward to remove the offensive piece of hair.
"Don't."
The voice was soft, low and very familiar...no. Just no. John pushed it out of his mind and ripped off the hat and the moustache in one swift movement, throwing them to the side, the hat narrowly missing Mary. The man ducked his head, trying to hide his face. But even he knew it was a futile effort of concealment.
"No..." It can't be possible.
John shook his head, standing and turning away, his hand rubbing across his mouth. He began to pace. The postman got up to leave, heading towards the door as quietly as he was able. Mary ran forward, grabbing his shoulder, hurried whispers entering his ear. John suddenly didn't want him to leave. He wanted answers and he wanted them now.
"Stay where you are."
The postman's hand hovered over the doorknob, the hand shaking. But why? With fear? He was afraid?
"Turn around slowly."
The other man obeyed, turning around slowly, his head still bowed.
"Look at me." Ginger curls swayed as the man shook his head.
"I said look. At. Me."
Sighing, the postman lifted his head, his pale eyes refusing to meet John's and John was fairly sure his heart had just leapt out of his chest. His knees buckled, propelling him to the floor, he winced as the bones hit the ground with a great deal of force. He felt light-headed. Oh god was he going to faint? He was shaking all over. This couldn't be real. It was a dream. Or a nightmare. It had to be. But Mary wasn't usually in these dreams. So why was she by his side, holding him, rocking him, telling him it was alright?
"S-sherlock..no. Y-you're dead."
This was inspired by one of the reunion scenes in the Rathbone movies. Yes there was more than one. Holmes appears as a postman to Watson, says something rather insulting and gets a punch in the face for his trouble.