BBC Sherlock: The Case of the Colonel Carruthers' Connection

Chapter 10: Epilogue

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一念天堂，一念地獄

("A turn in mind is all the difference between Heaven and Hell)

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Sherlock's eye was still bloodied and his face bore the bruises from John's fists. All that had transpired—the terrifying moments when Sherlock had pulled a scalpel on Calverton Smith in Saint Caedwalla's Hospital Morgue which unleashed John's vicious rage to disarm him—was now days behind them. They feigned a casual calm—typical British restraint—sitting opposite each other in their respective sitting-room chairs, sharing mugs of tea and talking "shop" about aspects of the case. At last excusing himself from "just hanging out," John slid forward in his chair. "Uh, sorry, it's just, um, you know, Rosie?"

"Yes, of course, Rosie…" Sherlock apologized, "Yes. Yes! Sorry, I…I wasn't thinking of Rosie."

"No problem," John said as he rose to go.

"I should, uh, come and see her soon," Sherlock suggested, looking up with optimism at John.

John considered it for a beat. The hope in Sherlock's face made his throat tightened. "Yes," he said simply and crossed toward the landing.

Sherlock patted his tea mug with a nervous energy, fishing for more things to say. He cast several leading comments about the Smith Case but couldn't hook John with the stale topic. John almost got away, except Sherlock made one extraordinary effort. "Are you okay?" he asked, daring to confront their mutual confusion and the unspoken sentiments that shimmered beneath the surface.

John was instantly reeled back into the sitting room on a wave of sarcasm. "What, what, am I...? No, no, I'm not okay. I'm never gonna be okay." He laughed harshly.

A flush of irritation rose to John's cheeks. The usual pity of well-meaning acquaintances asking him that question riled him. Immediately he swallowed his annoyance, recognizing remorse, not pity, in Sherlock's uplifted gaze. Sherlock was no mere acquaintance. He had cared deeply about Mary, too. They had both lost so much. John calmed himself and resumed, "... but we'll just have to accept that. It is what it is; and what it is is...shit."

Sherlock nodded, accepting John's assessment and sadly lowered his eyes.

John also dropped his gaze, realizing his terse answer would not have satisfied Mary. Throughout his entire visit with Sherlock, he had been distracted by memories, projections of Mary listening or making quips and asides in her perky fashion. She was always in his head. He was seeing and hearing her everywhere and yearned for her actual presence. Even the crackling fire in the sitting-room fireplace had become her whispering voice. "John, do better," urged the leaping flames.

Doing better, John fought the impulse to leave painful things unsaid. He noted the quiet grieving in Sherlock's drawn mouth and pushed through the darkest secret of his despair.

"Um..." he inhaled slowly, aware he owed his friend and himself the truth. "You didn't kill Mary."

Whilst his eyes remained riveted on John's face, the subtlest parting of Sherlock's lips conveyed his surprise and hope that his ears were not deceiving him.

"Mary died saving your life," John continued. "It was her choice. No one made her do it. No one could ever make her do anything..." John imagined her approving smile as he lifted the burden off Sherlock, a burden his friend had not deserved to bear. "… but the point is: you did not kill her."

"In saving my life, she conferred a value on it," the humbled genius admitted. "It is a currency I do not know how to spend."

Sherlock's heartfelt reply would have immensely pleased Mary. John gave his head a slight shake and managed a restrained smile. "It is what it is," and quickly switched the topic to confirm his next visit, then turned to go. This time, not Sherlock, but an all-too-familiar text-alert that chimed on Sherlock's mobile detained him. Curious, intrigued, John recognized The Woman's signature orgasmic sigh and strode back into the sitting room determined to uncover what appeared to be another long-concealed truth—the lie that Irene Adler had died.

The two friends talked, debated, argued, heatedly at times, about meaningful connections and romantic entanglements, until John strong-armed the discussion with his most impassioned demands.

"Just text her. Phone her. Do something while there's still a chance, because that chance doesn't last forever. Trust me, Sherlock: it's gone before you know it." The truth of loss empowered his voice as John repeated the last four words, "BEFORE YOU KNOW IT!"

Sherlock was silenced by John's raw pain.

And in that pause, the floodgates of John's dammed-up deceits opened; honesty flowed freely, "She was wrong about me."

"Mary?" Sherlock was taken by surprise. "How so?"

John's glances oscillated between Sherlock and the fireplace. He sidled like a boxer defending himself in the ring. "She thought that if you put yourself in harm's way I'd...I'd rescue you or something. But I didn't—not 'til she told me to. And that's how this works. That's what you're missing." John raised his hand and pointed in midair as if someone were there. "She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Get yourself a piece of that."

Indignant on John's behalf, Sherlock protested, "Forgive me, but you are doing yourself a disservice. I have known many people in this world but made few friends and I can safely say—"

"—I cheated on her." John blurted a truth that completely shut down Sherlock's argument. "No clever comeback?" His quick, hand gesture invited Sherlock's rebuke, but John didn't wait for one. Instead, he turned to face the other presence in the room.

All evening John had been envisioning Mary's amused eyes, her lovely mouth, her disarming smile, her giggles and wisecracks, but now confessing at last, John imagined Mary serious and listening. "I cheated on you, Mary."

Sherlock watched in wonder, gripped by the one-sided interplay of grief and loss in John's quest for forgiveness.

"There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I'd been playing with Rosie….And this girl just smiled at me." Lost, needing to be found, John continued confessing to the Mary in his mind. "That's all it was. It was a smile...We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that's when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying—that's when." His eyes welled with tears. Swallowing hard, he pushed on. "That's all it was, just texting. But I wanted more."

Sherlock listened hard, hearing urgency in John's unfulfilled needs.

"And d'you know something? I still do. I'm not the man you thought I was; I'm not that guy. I never could be. But that's the point." He bit his quivering lower lip to contain his bared emotions. Not succeeding, he sniffed through his tears, "That's the whole point."

John, focused elsewhere, had forgotten Sherlock's presence. "Who you thought I was..." John imagined Mary's encouraging nod. "... is the man who I want to be."

Still as stone John stood, listening for his dead wife's absolution.

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Watching John speak to the ghost of Mary, Sherlock pondered whether John would find the peaceful resolution from the blame that haunted him.

He had been scrutinizing every grimace, every wince in John's face, seeing the evolution of sorrow in the sway of his body, the tilt of his head, his hand gestures. Never before had Sherlock understood as profoundly another's grief, except this was John Watson, the man who had shown him the power of "caring." Since her death, Sherlock had been quietly enduring his own sense of loss for his friend Mary, keenly aware he could never fully experience a husband's sorrow at losing his wife. How much worse it has been for John.

"Don't get involved, Sherlock," Mycroft had once warned.

How far he had come. Back when John Watson had agreed to share the flat, Sherlock had no expectations of getting involved. That the invalided soldier had disturbing PTSD nightmares—guilt-driven and exacerbated by the Carruthers connection—intrigued him, but he had kept aloof from his flat-mate's pain. Getting involved came gradually as John Watson evolved from being Sherlock's flat-mate, to "little helpmate," to crime-solving partner, to friend. Mutual acceptance formed strong ties between them, understanding pulled them closer, and each adversity strengthened their relationship. If the recent heartbreaking tragedy could not break this connection, then nothing ever would.

"Don't get involved, Sherlock…"

Yet, because he had got involved, Sherlock had learnt from John Watson about the nobleness of spirit, an intangible no science could measure, and the value of human connections that he had eschewed for most of his life. But the greatest gift John had given him was compassion. It was this gift of compassion that enabled him to reciprocate with compassion now, when it was needed most...all because he got involved…

John had bowed his head, veiled his eyes with his left hand and sobbed.

With deliberate care, Sherlock laid his mug on the side table and rose from his chair. No longer preferring detachment—unlike years ago in the cemetery watching his friend's grief from afar, the grief he caused—Sherlock slowly approached, feeling able to offer John comfort. "It's okay," he soothed gently, placing one tentative but tender hand on John's arm. When John did not shrug off that initial touch, Sherlock placed his other hand with more certainty on his friend's back, sliding it up to cradle John's neck, letting John's bowed head rest against his chest. The contact was as natural as it was instinctive in giving solace, but for a man who had intellectualized sentiment as weakness, extending genuine kindness in this manner was unparalleled.

"It's not okay," John whimpered through his tears.

Sherlock stepped closer and slid his hand from John's arm to his shoulder, enveloping his grieving friend. "No," he agreed, resting his cheek atop John's head, "but it is what it is," he whispered, blinking away commiserating tears. Moved beyond measure, he closed his eyes.

Before this, they had stood together through thick and through thin against many adversaries, but now they stood together against such powerful sorrow. Grieving together brought them together and strengthened their extraordinary ties with warmth and affection.

Sherlock grasped that this moment was neither abhorrent nor awkward, just heartening; John made no attempt to move apart as if he felt the same.

However long it took, eventually Sherlock felt peace settle over John. The tightness in his neck and shoulders relaxed. His sobs had ebbed, becoming sniffs, and then grunts. One of John's hands moved to swipe down his face; the other fumbled to find a handkerchief in his jacket pocket. Then gently he pushed free of Sherlock's hold, his eyes downcast.

Sherlock stepped back silently, his glance also dropping away, uncertain what to do next. Curious and hopeful, Sherlock studied his friend for answers. No one had ever sought him for sympathy or consolation. Had he served John well? What was even more revelatory was that in giving succor, he had received it, too. Did John feel as consoled as he?

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John turned away, dabbed his eyes, and blew his nose. He felt lightheaded and light hearted. Having imagined Mary's ghostly forgiveness helped him deal with his guilt, but here in the real world Sherlock's solicitude touched him. That Sherlock was reciprocating the compassion and kindness John had shown him, shown Mary despite her mistakes, even shown the forbidding Colonel Carruthers who died a miserable man was validating. John heaved a deep, grateful breath and, despite how cathartic he felt from experiencing firsthand Sherlock's emotional growth, offered Sherlock an apology. "Umm. Sorry. Sorry about that…," he cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to….never meant to lose control like that …"

Sherlock attempted nonchalance by shoving his hands in his dressing-gown pockets and shrugging his shoulders. His smile seemed perfectly neutral. "Trust me. No apologies necessary."

"Trust you…," John gave a short, half-suppressed laugh. He straightened his shoulders and sniffed deeply before nodding. "'Trust takes years to build, seconds to break, and forever to repair.'"

Sherlock grunted, familiar with the quote, and flashed a quirky smile. "Then forever it is, John, if that's what it'll take. After all, we have time... "

"Uh huh, yeah, time…" John drew in another deep breath and looked at Sherlock for a few seconds longer. He now knew what he had known deep down all along—he could always trust Sherlock to have his back. "—Okay, so, umm— hold on." He whipped out his mobile and hit autodial.

"John? What are you doing?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Don't worry. Got this!" John half grinned. "Ringing Molly," he explained, acknowledging Sherlock's puzzled reaction. "Hey, Molly? How's Rosie?" John listened briefly and nodded, a warm smile—a rare sight—softened his face. "Good. Then, Listen….bundle her up. We're going out for cake. It's Sherlock's birthday."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, but John ignored his objection.

"There's a café on the corner of…." John continued speaking into his mobile, scratching his forehead in thought. "Huh…Oh! Yeah? I know that place. Even better. Meet you there…say in twenty? Going to collect Mrs. Hudson, too. Later then."

Sherlock was not fooled by John's swift transition to chipper façade. Sadness still lingered in his eyes. "John," Sherlock protested, certain there were still unresolved issues they had not addressed, but as reluctant as John to push the envelope, "Going out?…This is rash, no? Given the preponderance of the well-meaning advice from you and the doctors, I'm supposed to be taking it easy…"

"Easy doesn't mean moping all day or getting bored. Anyway, this is easy. Simple in fact. We meet at the café. We order you some cake. We light some candles. We sing—"

"—No candles. Absolutely no singing!"

"—We don't sing. No candles…you're sure, not even for Rosie? Okay, Okay," John agreed off Sherlock's frown. "We eat the cake. See, easy peasy."

"I'm in my dressing gown." Sherlock whinged.

"Change!" John ordered.

Sherlock glared at John and slipped his blue dressing off with extra care. The aches from his bruised ribs and abdomen were sharp reminders if he made a wrong move.

"Jacket?" John asked, looking around.

Sherlock pointed toward his bedroom.

When John returned with the jacket, he helped Sherlock pull it on, mindful of the patient's condition.

"So Molly's going to meet us at this cake place." Sherlock exhaled, straightening his jacket.

"Well, it's your birthday. Cake is obligatory." John held Sherlock's coat in an offer to assist him.

Sherlock shook his head and took the greatcoat from him. Determination kept him from wincing with pain as he put on his coat. "Oh, well. Suppose a sugar high's some sort of substitute." He waited for John in the doorway .

"Behave," John said as he joined Sherlock at the landing.

"Right then. You know...," Sherlock stalled, gaining John's full attention. "... it's not my place to say but...it was just texting."

Blind-sided, John sighed and averted his eyes, not sure if he wanted to hear what more Sherlock had to say.

"People text." Sherlock persisted, gauging John's discomfort by the depth of his second sigh. "Even I text. Her, I mean. Woman. Bad idea. Try not to, but, you know, sometimes…" Sherlock drew in a breath. He was also uncomfortable with the subject, but intent on making his point, At least, John held his gaze the entire time. "It's not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling, from time to time, that we might all just be human."

"Even you?" John said with a smug smile.

"No," Sherlock stated in complete seriousness.

John blinked, suddenly aware that the tables were turning on him.

"Even you." Sherlock assured his very human friend.

Their eyes held. What passed between them was a mutual understanding—neither had to be perfect to be other's friend. John felt self-blame lift away with Sherlock's friendship and abiding faith in him. Sherlock accepted him, unconditionally—had always accepted him. There might be times when each might fall short of the other's expectations, but getting up, dusting oneself off and striving to go forward as a better person was what living was all about. How far they both had already come was remarkable, but how far they could go, not alone, but as a team were stories still to be written!

Gratified, John swiveled toward the door. "Cake?"

"Cake," Sherlock agreed, but before John could proceed past the doorway, Sherlock halted and interjected, "Oh, um..." He limped back into the sitting room toward the cabinet beside the table, intent on something inside it.

"What? What is it?" John asked unable to see past Sherlock's great coat, although he could hear Sherlock sorting through the drawer. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock straightened up and turned toward John; he had pulled on his deerstalker hat.

"Seriously?" John exclaimed with a short laugh. Mary had often urged Sherlock to wear the signature hat both during her life, and after, in John's vivid mental conversations with her. It seemed oddly coincidental that Sherlock despite disliking it would don it now.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I wear the damn hat!" Sherlock declared, swiftly shutting the drawer with a backwards kick and striding with purpose past John. "Isn't that right, Mary?"

John shot an astonished look back into the sitting room. Could Sherlock's uncanny ability to read John's mind have included "eavesdropping" on his imagined conversations with Mary? John scanned for Mary's presence, realizing that she had vanished after "hearing" her say, "Well, John Watson, Get the hell on with it." Expecting to see once more her approving smiles or hear her delighted laugh that Sherlock was wearing the hat, he saw and heard nothing, just the crackling fire in the fireplace slowly dying.

John Watson blinked away his tears. He would never get over Mary. He loved her despite all the anguish they had caused each other. She was human, too, a product of her own backstory—manipulated by political agencies with great power—but she atoned for her missteps by giving her life to save Sherlock. She had made the ultimate sacrifice. Missing her as he turned to leave the flat, John felt redeemed by his turn in mind and a change in heart. He followed Sherlock down the stairs, ready to get on with his life.

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The End...or maybe, it's a new beginning.