[A/N: Please read "Sentiment" (the chapter before this) before reading any further. I published two chapters at once today, and I think it's really important to understand the argument Mycroft makes to Sherlock at the funeral. Sorry about the confusion!]
Chapter 37: It's All Over
…by the time we reached Anna, it was too late. She had been injected with the paralysis compound twice; the antidote Sherlock had created wasn't enough for a double dose. Her heart stopped in the ambulance, and I wasn't able to revive her. To be quite honest, the fact that she remained alive until Sherlock and I got to her was a miracle within itself. But miracles don't always make up for the harsh reality: Anna Huntington is dead.
The Doll Maker, James Parsons, was sentenced to life in prison with no parole, no chances at getting out. The jury deemed him guilty on all fourteen counts of kidnapping and forty-one counts of murder. Not that this verdict was a surprise to anyone; the man admitted to everything when Sherlock confronted him in 14 Guildford Street. All the evidence pointed to him. DI Lestrade, Sherlock, and I were asked to testify against him. Sherlock's testimony alone was enough to convict him; I'm sure the prosecuting barrister just used me and Lestrade for good measure. So after twelve years, the Doll Maker's reign is finally over for good. I can promise you he will never return.
Natasha Bolstead has woken up since we reclaimed her from the Kensington Gardens. Considering she was comatose for five days, she is in good health. I personally conducted her initial checkup, and her body is responding positively to the regulatory medication. In short, Natasha is, physically, going to be just fine. Psychologically, we won't know for quite some time. Since she has regained consciousness, she has been unable to remember her time with the Doll Maker; no doubt this amnesia is a response to the traumatic nature of her kidnapping. After all, she did witness both her parents getting shot. Perhaps it is better that she does not remember, at least for the time being. Child Services are currently trying to find her a new guardian; that, coupled with her health, is enough to worry about. One day, though, she will be forced to face those memories; and I can only pray that someone will be there for her when she does.
Anna's funeral was this afternoon. I know under the given circumstances it was our obligation to attend: me, Lestrade, and Sherlock. But that's not why we were there; she was our friend. And as our friend, all three of us needed to say goodbye.
I know many of you reading this have only seen her dangling out of that window; that seems to be the only footage the media wants to show when it comes to discussing the Doll Maker. All you know is that she was the victim in a terrible case. But that's not what she should be remembered for; she deserves a lot more than that. So as I finish this blog post, I need you to understand something: she was not just "Another Work by the Doll Maker." She was much more than that.
We won the game. The Doll Maker Case can finally be closed. –JW
With a click of his mouse, John shut his laptop and leaned back in his chair. He let out a deep sigh before taking a sip of tea.
"Finished already?" Sherlock muttered from his microscope in the kitchen.
"Yeah," Watson replied wearily, removing his gaze from his desk and laptop for the first time since he had gotten back from the funeral. He was about to say something else when Sherlock's phone vibrated. By the way his friend snatched it up from the kitchen counter, John knew nothing he said afterwards would be even remotely processed. With another sigh, he settled on silence.
After the past few days of running around and chasing clues, it was strange to be back in 221B Baker Street during daylight hours. The fading afternoon streamed through the windows and filled the flat with a golden light, illuminating the space with warmth. In the light, pinpricks of dust could be seen floating through the air, which was really no surprise considering the state of the sitting room. Organized chaos, as Sherlock described it. Well, to John it was simply chaos, but he was in no mood to clean up. Books were still strewn across the tea table, dirty mugs and cups still lying on every flat surface imaginable. Sherlock's violin sat on his armchair, the caked rosin collecting bits of dust on the strings.
The kitchen was no better; chemical bottles littered the countertops by the sink. When John had checked the fridge earlier in the day, there were four eyeballs (all with different colored irises), vials of coagulating blood, a new set of thumbs, and a singular toe. Oh, and a tongue; how could he forget the disgusting, slimy tongue that had been set right next to the milk? He couldn't. Equipment covered the kitchen table, rendering it unusable for things that ordinary people did, like eating. But in all honesty, John didn't really feel like eating after seeing that tongue…
"A new record," Sherlock voice vaguely broke in, never parting his eyes from his phone. His thumb was quickly scrolling along the screen, occasionally tapping down to see something.
"Pardon?" John asked, forehead clenching in confusion. If it was about a new case, he still had no idea…
"Three hours; that's your new record for a full case write up."
"Hang on," John paused for a sip of tea before grasping the context, "are you reading my blog from your phone?"
"Yes, John. My phone notified me only moments ago that you published a new blog-post."
"You can do that?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock replied with a hint of sardonic mockery. "You can do that through a smartphone; do adjust to today's technology, please."
There was a pause as Sherlock continued reading the blog and John silently sipped his tea. When he looked into the kitchen, he was greeted with a familiar sight. Sherlock sat on his usual stool wearing the dark navy button-down he seemed to own ten or fifteen of. There was his familiar face; his lips were pursed in the usual look of steady determination, and his eyes were focused on the screen in his pale hands. No matter how many times John saw Sherlock there, he couldn't help but feel a bit of comfort; he was there, and he would always be there. Suddenly, John snickered.
"What?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, unable to focus solely on the words knowing that his flat mate was laughing at him.
John grinned. "You subscribed to a blog about yourself…it doesn't get any more narcissistic than that, does it?" When Sherlock rolled his eyes, John simply shook his head and continued chuckling.
Sherlock groaned. "Of course I subscribed," he answered somewhat defensively. "What you publish on the internet about me is accessible to all my enemies—"
"Including Mycroft," John sarcastically.
"—including Mycroft. Better to know how they perceive my life so I know how to react efficiently. Besides, it's not a blog about me; it's a blog about us."
"It's a blog about how you solve cases, Sherlock."
"As seen by your eyes," Sherlock countered.
"Like my opinions count."
"Your opinions count a great deal to me." Sherlock tore his eyes away from his phone's screen to look at John. It was the first time in a while that he had heard John's laugh, and it was a welcomed sound. He had missed it. For one moment, they had been able to return to how life was before the Doll Maker Case, before Anna Huntington had walked into their flat. Sherlock relished it.
"So," John pushed himself out of his chair. "What did you think?"
"About the blog?" Sherlock squinted.
"No, about your tea—yes, about the blog! What did you think?"
"Short syntax matching the style of a doctor, the use of simple adjectives for grotesque crime scenes probably from army experience, little use of personal opinion removes objectivity but can be seen through descriptions of—"
"You know what I meant, Sherlock."
"There is nothing in here about Elise Houlton."
"Well," John sighed, "you heard Lestrade earlier today; the Huntingtons don't want that information made public. I have to respect those wishes."
"Oh hardly," Sherlock rebutted with irritation. "They were her foster parents; like they could do anything to stop you from publishing the truth of the matter."
"You're probably right," John agreed. "But like Lestrade also said, they deserve their privacy."
"Really, you value privacy over the truth?" Sherlock snorted. "Funny coming from my personal blogger…fine, so be it. However, it appears you also left out Parsons' testimony from court; the bit about his family."
John's face fell. Sherlock watched as his eyes shifted, searching for the answer somewhere on the sitting room floor in front of him. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then closed it. Sherlock just waited patiently.
"I," John finally started carefully. "I just couldn't put that in."
"Why not?" Sherlock pressed.
"Because people don't need to know about that."
Sherlock cocked his head quizzically, not understanding John's reasoning. John continued quietly. "Look, what the Doll Maker did was unforgiveable; we all know that. But what happened to James Parsons…people just don't need to know that; they don't want to know that. It contradicts too much. Sherlock, I know you're good at categorizing things and separating logic from emotion, but the rest of us aren't. Right now, the world wants to hate the Doll Maker. They don't need to have sympathy for the man behind it, because to have sympathy…well, to understand the pain he was suffering underneath his madness, people just don't want that. It defeats the purpose of hating him for what he did."
With that, John turned away from Sherlock and towards the fireplace. The large cork board was still perched on the mantle, the colored string tangled across the maps. There it was, all the Doll Maker's destruction, diagrammed with scientific precision. The murders, the kidnappings, the staged bodies coded neatly with colored tacks. But there was more to this than just the hard facts, the dates and the places. As John walked over and plucked a picture off the board, Sherlock already knew what he was thinking about.
After Sherlock had found John in the wrecked examination room, neither one of them had spoken about Anna Huntington. It wasn't a topic either one of them had wanted to breach, one because he had inadvertently caused the death, the other because he couldn't stop it. In reality, there really wasn't a way to avoid talking about it anymore, but neither of them knew where to start.
"John," Sherlock said, but John wouldn't face him. "I accept full responsibility for her death. You and Lestrade, you were—"
"Don't," John broke in. He twisted his head around slightly, as if to turn to face Sherlock, but he stopped himself. "You don't—"
"Yes I do, John. I made a—"
"Don't say it."
"I have to; it was my—"
"No. You did what you had to do. So—"
"Go ahead and blame me—"
"Shut up."
"John, I'm—"
"Just stop."
John finally faced him. As Sherlock looked at John, he could see the emotions that plagued him. His pale eyes were sad; even as he gave that 'I'm okay' smile, Sherlock could see that underneath it all John was still hurt. As he made to say something, John held his hand up.
"Please don't. You did what you had to do, Sherlock. You did everything Lestrade and I couldn't." John's voice was relaxed, as if this was comfortable logic. "There's nothing to apologize for. You caught the Doll Maker; that's all she would have wanted. I just wish there had been another way, you know? That's all; I don't blame you for what happened to Anna.
"I just need you to understand something." John paused, his eyes wandering as he tried to phrase his ideas. He held a hand up in front of him as his mouth open, as if about to make a point, but he stopped, turning away instead. With a huff, he looked at Sherlock with tired eyes. There was no anger, only a desperate plea.
"You can't keep gambling people's lives away. It's not the first time you've done this: there was Soo Lin, killed by her brother when we were investigating the Black Lotus; there was the old woman who was detonated when she tried to tell you about Moriarty; you took Henry Knight into the middle of a field where he was almost eaten by the hound he was terrified of; you even gambled your own life when you jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. You've been lucky, Sherlock: two of those people got out alive, and you barely knew the other two. But this…" John sighed, "this was too close. You play by the rules, and when the enemy plays by the rules too, you always win. But they're not always going to play by the rules; men like Moriarty and Parsons and all the other bloody psychopaths out there don't care to play by the rules. I know you know that, but you just can't keep gambling like this.
"You did what Anna wanted you to do, and she was okay with that gamble. I wasn't; Lestrade certainly wasn't. But you were; you were too willing to play that game, and Anna only encouraged you. These games, Sherlock…these games kill people."
John paused, allowing his point to sink in. But he shook his head. "Sorry; I'm dwelling on things. You did everything you could to find her, so that's it. I mean, her last words were…"
John's mind trembled as he recalled the last thing she said: Do me a favor and stay.
"…her last words were 'it's all over.' And she's right; it's done. There is nothing left for us to do. I can't change that; I just have to accept what happened. She's dead. We're not going to get her back."
Sherlock stared at him silently with a doubtful glance, but John rebuked it. "Seriously, Sherlock; don't worry about me. I'm fine."
John was about to leave; all he wanted was a shower and a good nap. Just as he got to the flat door, he paused. There was one last unanswered question that had to be reconciled.
"Just one more thing," John called out.
"What?" Sherlock replied smoothly.
"When Mycroft was over at our flat that one night, he saw A Little White Bird andhe said something to me. Sherlock…you always wanted to be a pirate because of Peter Pan?"
The next morning, John woke up nice and early. After the first decent night of sleep he had gotten in the past month, he felt absolutely glorious. At least, until he saw the picture still sitting on his dresser.
There she was, contained in a wallet-sized photo. It looked like it had been taken fairly recently; probably just after she had graduated the Police Academy. She donned her blue coat and her heeled boots, her backpack slung over her thin shoulder gracefully. Whoever took the picture had caught her off guard from behind; they probably called her name, making her turn her head over her shoulder to be seen. Strands of her long dark hair had been flown out around her, framing her pale face. One hand was held up to her lips, which were slightly parted into what could be a rare smile. And in her dark eyes was the defiance that had defined her for so long.
John took the photo in his hand; he had forgotten that he had taken it from the cork board on the mantle and slipped it into his pocket. When he had taken his keys out, it probably ended up on the dresser too. His fingers played with the surface, the smooth texture of the picture against his fingertips. He flipped it over and found the name scrawled on the back:
Anna Huntington, age 18.
It made his heart sink. She was gone, already buried in the dirt. They would never see each other again.
One thing offered him solace: he had been there for her. When Sherlock faked his own suicide, the worst part was knowing he couldn't do anything for his friend; he was on the roof one moment, dead on the concrete the next. But he was there for Anna; he held onto her hand as she slipped away. She was scared, but she didn't die alone. He had stayed; he had stayed to the very end, to the moment her heart stopped. At least he could offer her that.
"I'm here," he closed his eyes and whispered. "I'm here."
With that, he opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and slipped the photo in. There it would remain, buried within his old military uniform. It was only fitting; he would do exactly what he had told Anna to do: let it go.
"JOHN!" Sherlock hollered from the sitting room. There was a giant crashing noise followed by the thud of a falling figure, and John rushed down the stairs to meet the commotion.
"What are you screaming about so early?"
Sherlock threw John's coat up in the air before he grabbed his own. "Lestrade texted me; triple homicide in Brixton."
"Let me guess: we're going. Right now."
"If you're up to it. Not getting old, are you Dr. Watson?"
"No, Sherlock; I'm not the one who fell trying to leap over the sofa."
Sherlock glanced at the black sofa, his eyes narrowing distrustfully as he tightened the dark scarf around his neck.
"It was in my way."
John chuckled as Sherlock flew down the stairs of 221 Baker Street and rushed out the door for a cab. Only a triple homicide could get the man so excited so early in the morning; a promising start to the day, as Sherlock would put it. With that, John slipped his coat around his shoulders and raced out to the street, where Sherlock had already hopped into the cab and was typing something madly on his phone, no doubt a message to Lestrade. As he slid in and slammed the door shut, John began pressing for details on the crime scene and the bodies; three "brilliantly-bloody" bodies.
A promising start indeed.
Fin~
[A/N: Thank you so much for reading this story! Your support for the last 4 months has been incredible; I wouldn't have finished it otherwise.
Please feel free to let me know everything you thought about this story: what you liked, what you didn't like, your favorite parts. I'd love to hear them.
Last thing: I have started writing something under the name "A Glitch in the Mind Palace." If you're interested, take a look into that; the first chapter is up today.
Again, thank you so much! ~Of Sun and Rain]