Chapter Twenty-Seven

14th August to 19th August

Author's Note: Thanks for the lovely reviews and for being patient with these updates :)

Thank you to swissmiss for betain :)


14th August

Ten days.

It had been ten days since the trial finished, ten days since John was taken away.

The first day had been spent with Ava, curled up with her on the sofa as they both watched something on the television that neither of them had any interest in. Mycroft had stayed home, watching them from the desk he had set up in his large and rarely used lounge.

He'd even bought some chocolate biscuits and Sherlock hadn't quite found the energy to snipe at his brother about the diet.

It had taken a few days before he had become bored of the same four walls and gone to the Yard.

He hadn't even cared that Anderson's jaw dropped when he found Sherlock on the floor with cold cases spread around him.

They'd left him to it. Lestrade asked him every morning if he needed something and every morning Sherlock bit his tongue and stared at the thick sheaves of documents.

John.

He needed John.


15th August

"How can he get off?" Sherlock roared at Lestrade. "He killed a man!"

"The evidence-"

Sherlock snarled and paced the office, furious. "He did it. Drag him back here and I will get your evidence-"

Lestrade's eyes followed him warily. "Sit down and-"

"Officer Mellor is incompetent," Sherlock snapped. "Losing evidence, using idiotic evidence, poor paperwork-"

"Like you can talk about that," Lestrade muttered under his breath, scrubbing at his forehead.

"Why couldn't you be half as incompetent?"

The words seemed to physically hit Lestrade and he flinched, all earlier annoyance fading away instantly. "You saw the evidence-"

"He could have used your gun," Sherlock hissed, the frustration bleeding out like poison. "They wouldn't have been able to claim it as premeditation if John had used your gun-"

"He refused-"

"You should have made him." Sherlock slammed his fist on the desk. "You should have swapped them. You shouldn't have given him the spare to give to me-"

"Then you'd be dead," Lestrade snarled back, standing to face Sherlock. "Ava would be dead. John said he needed to know the gun. Jesus, that shot was impossible, Sherlock-"

"You helped him," Sherlock growled. "You should be in there, not him."

Lestrade flinched. "I did everything I could-"

"He's in prison for six years." Sherlock swept his hand across the desk, knocking the objects upon it flying. "How hard did you try?"

Lestrade bowed his head a little, and then seemed to firm up. "You need to calm down-"

"Why?" Sherlock challenged. "What will you do? Lock me up as well?"

Lestrade just shook his head and sank back into his chair with a long sigh, as if everything had been drained from him all at once. "Go home. Go home to that little girl."

"I can do nothing." Sherlock stared down at Lestrade, wanting him back up again, wanting the fight. "Nothing. I cannot make her talk, I cannot get John back. You can-"

"I can't." Lestrade slumped even further down in the chair. "And you know I can't, Sherlock."

"I…" Sherlock could feel his breathing stumble. "I cannot just sit here and do nothing. I will not…" He broke off. "Give me a case."

"No."

"Any case," Sherlock added, standing away from the desk and trying to draw calm back into him. "Any-"

"No."

Sherlock faltered. "I need a case," he said slowly, trying to push understanding into Lestrade's tiny brain.

"Not in this state," Lestrade said heavily.

"Even in this state I am ten times more useful than-"

"You were dead a year ago," Lestrade yelled at him suddenly, his temper cracking again. "Two years ago you were still discredited. You are not trusted, Sherlock. You cannot go onto a crime scene in this state, you cannot be seen by reporters like this. They will tear you to pieces-"

"Who cares?" Sherlock argued. "What else can they take-"

"John." Lestrade glared at him. "John's case can be tried again. And I swear, Sherlock, if they think you're unhinged, it will only keep them interested."

Sherlock laughed weakly, stumbling back against the wall, feeling oddly drunk. "Mycroft's been telling you fairy tales again, has he?"

"Without the press-"

Sherlock doubled over, the laughter taking over as he watched Lestrade grow more and more pale.

"You need to go home," Lestrade breathed, looking stunned. "I'll call your brother."

Sherlock sank down to the floor, still laughing. "He's not coming back."


16th August

Mycroft took him to the prison the next day.

It was hateful.

John sat at the desk in the visitors' room, staring at the floor.

He wanted to hold him, to touch him and breathe him in. To sink into John, pour through his skin and hide. Meld them together so they couldn't be pulled apart.

Instead, Sherlock sat down opposite him.

They talked about it briefly. Homosexual men did not fare well in prison historically, and reminding people of who John was to Sherlock was another problem that they wanted to avoid.

"I hate this," Sherlock complained, staring at the desk. "I hate them all looking-"

"No one gives a damn," John muttered without expression.

The tone was worrying, but Sherlock had no idea what to say. No idea how to make it better. No idea what to ask. What would be insensitive? What would be callous?

"I miss you," Sherlock murmured, lost.

John closed his eyes and nodded.


They had barely spoken to each other.

Sherlock sat in the dark, staring down at Ava as she lay snuggled under the covers.

It had never been like that. Even when they had fought and hadn't been speaking there had never been such a distance between him and John. It was beyond frustrating not to be able to reach out, to touch. It was as if there was an enforced, invisible barrier that Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to breach.

It wasn't fair.

His eyes burned and stung as he doubled over, pulling Ava close to try and regain some control over his emotions.

He could feel Ava wake up and hear the curious noise she made before she hugged him back, as if she were the parent.

Unsure of what to do, he just held on tighter, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the smell that was just a little bit of John, still safe and free.

"Don't cry."

Ava.

Words.

He couldn't help it; he tightened his grip and didn't let go.


They waited a few days before taking Ava to the therapist. Apparently they needed to build up her sense of security and trust within her family unit before expanding her newly regained faculty for speech to include other acquaintances. It was difficult enough for her to gather enough confidence to say something in front of Mycroft, a full day after she'd first spoken to Sherlock.

It was a relief to have something to focus on.


19th August

"Can you tell me why it's scary to talk?" the therapist asked.

They were sitting on the floor in the study; a room that Ava, oddly, seemed to be at ease in. It was warm and old fashioned-

No, even Sherlock in his current useless state could look around the room and know why Ava liked it.

It was on the ground floor and the complete opposite of the hotel room Moriarty had taken her to.

Ava was in his lap and curled against him, her head under his chin as she shook her head.

The therapist looked up at him, abandoning her study of Ava. Her eyes flickered down to Ava's head pointedly.

Ava wasn't going to talk to someone she didn't entirely trust yet, apparently. That would still be one step too far for the frightened six-year-old.

"Tell me," Sherlock coaxed his daughter, staring at the empty fireplace. "Just tell me."

He could feel the indecision in her, the hesitation as Ava glanced over at the therapist.

"She doesn't matter," Sherlock said in a monotone voice. "Tell me."

Silence.

"Please," Sherlock added, his tone finally allowing some emotion to bleed through and crack his voice.

Ava wriggled a little closer so that her mouth was almost to his ear. "Will you still like me?" she asked in a tiny voice, sounding worryingly serious.

"Always," Sherlock replied, trying to brace himself and not wonder what it was she might say as he stroked her back soothingly.

He tortured himself with wondering it most nights anyway.

"I did something bad," she told him in that same tiny voice. "I might get taken away-"

"No." God no. Not her too.

He'd never allow it.

"They took Daddy away."

All he could do was tighten his grip and shake his head. Helplessly, he looked at the therapist, who was watching them both intently.

"No one is taking you away," he promised her. "No one." He struggled to get back under control. "I'd run with you to Antarctica before that happened."

She rested her head on his shoulder thoughtfully. "Promise."

Sherlock nodded.

"Give her time," the therapist mouthed when there was a long silence from Ava.

He had time.


"There were two men," Ava said quietly, clutching onto his shirt. "The…Jim…" Her breath hitched a little in fear at the mere mention of Moriarty's name. "One of the men said that Jim made him sick."

Sherlock rested his cheek on her hair, trying not to react in any way.

"I didn't mean to," Ava suddenly sobbed. "I didn't mean it-"

"Didn't mean what?"

"You get medicine when you're sick," Ava cried. Sherlock pulled back a little and tried to see her face but she seemed to want to bury it in his shoulder. "I didn't mean to hurt them-"

"Ava-"

"I told him to give them medicine." Ava was shaking now. "And then they stopped moving and they stared at me for hours-"

Sherlock pulled her as tight against him as he could. "It wasn't your fault," he whispered fiercely. "Do you understand me? It was never your fault. It was him."

"But I told him to-"

Sherlock shook his head and rocked her as she sobbed.


Somehow, some way, Mycroft got him a private room with John in the prison, on the condition that Sherlock be searched before he went in.

Dully, he submitted to it before stepping inside. The room was bare but for a plastic table and two chairs, bolted to the floor.

He would go mad in a place like this.

It seemed to take both an age and an absurdly quick amount of time for John to enter.

When he did, John paused at the door, clearly worried about the unusual nature of what was going on.

"What?" John asked, swallowing. "What is it?"

He should be sitting down.

Sherlock herded John over to the chairs, sitting John down and wishing that he could bring the chairs closer together. In the end, he kneeled on the floor, facing John.

"Ava," Sherlock said slowly, "she talked to the psychologist."

John stiffened, completely alert now. His dark eyes searching Sherlock's fearfully.

"About…" Sherlock felt his lip curl into a snarl. "Moriarty."

If the man were still alive…

"And?" John breathed, barely moving.

"He…" Sherlock struggled with the words. "He killed the men in front of her."

John's jaw tightened. "We suspected that," he said, his voice not quite steady.

"He…Fletcher, he told Moriarty that he made him sick." Sherlock's hand squeezed John's so tightly he half expected to hear a crack. "Ava…said he needed medicine."

"Oh Jesus, no." John pulled his hand out of Sherlock's grip and covered his mouth with both hands, staring at the ceiling.

"And…Moriarty made her watch and told her she'd picked-"

John slid his hands up, covering his eyes, as if that would keep the image away.

"He left her in the room with the bodies for hours." Hours that could have been avoided had Sherlock been quicker, better, smarter.

John let out a strangled sob.

"She's terrified of…what will happen if she speaks or-"

John put his hands together as if in prayer and rested his thumbs against his lips. Laughter, thick and heavy and toxic bubbled out of him and Sherlock could only watch.

Helpless.

Useless.

"How…" John spat as he stood violently and paced. "How can anyone in their right mind put me in here for killing him? I should have ripped him apart piece by piece."

They should have.

Together and slowly. They should have made Moriarty suffer and pay for daring to touch their child. They should have made him scream for mercy until the entirety of London heard him beg.

John let out a ragged, bitter sound. "I should be in here for making it too fucking quick!" John sneered, almost collapsing against the wall.

Sherlock nodded as he stood and reached for John.

And somehow, finally, they tangled together, clinging hard. Sherlock wrapped himself around John and breathed him in, hating the smell of different soap and washing powder.

If he had known, if all those months ago he had known…

Sherlock buried his head in John's shoulders as a damp face pressed into his hair.

If.


Sherlock ignored Mycroft's car and walked.

At some point he picked up a crowbar.

At eleven o'clock, just when the summer sun had faded, he took the damn thing to Moriarty's headstone until his hands bled and the words were beaten from the world.

It was the only thing that Moriarty had left behind that Sherlock could do something about.