Chapter 3
Sherlock's Visits
The first night Sherlock visited 221B, it was after four in the morning, the time it took for John to finally fall asleep. Over six months had gone by since he falsified his own suicide, a decision that pained him to have done. It was necessary, however, or he'd have lost everyone that mattered. He'd have lost John.
His temporary return stemmed from a series of texts he received from his brother over the last few weeks. Mycroft hadn't known he faked his death until then, and apparently the suspicion arose from someone who was meant to be as dead as Sherlock. Jim..Moriarty... Still alive and not at all fooled by Sherlock's vanishing act. The first few texts meant nothing. Then there came a text that meant everything, sent two weeks ago.
MH: Bravo, you managed to fool me for a full five months. It's time to stop this game now, Sherlock.
MH: You are not the only one to play dead.
MH: He's back. Now do you understand the gravity of the situation?
MH: Come home. John needs you.
This text elicited a response, annoyed his brother would attempt to use John to get him to stop pretending to be dead. He was only doing this to keep his friends safe. If his brother couldn't understand that, it was his own problem.
SH: Really? I didn't expect you to stoop so low to get me to return and clean up your mess. Whatever Moriarty does to your precious government is of your concern, not mine.
MH: Two weeks ago, John made an attempt on Moriarty's life. Do I have your attention?
Mycroft wouldn't lie about something like this, not even to draw him out. A sinking feeling came over Sherlock and before texting back, he swallowed hard to try and erase the growing fear. The text that meant everything would be his brother's next and final text before Sherlock came home.
SH: What happened?
MH: He failed. Moriarty kept him for six days, then released him.
Now here he was creeping silently into John's bedroom, almost two weeks since the texts from Mycroft. Maybe he should have come back earlier. Maybe he should never have gone at all. No, he had no choice but to go, to play dead. Yet the choice had not entirely saved John, and saving him had been his intention all along.
He made it five minutes sitting by John's side as he tossed and turned. Then he exited as silently as he entered. Sherlock couldn't afford John seeing him, exposing his lie. He feared it would hurt John more to know he was still alive.
/
The second night Sherlock visited 221B, he stood in the shadows of the room and watched John throughout the night. Like the previous occasion, he tossed and turned and cried out. This time he stayed to see what sleep was like for his friend through the duration. He woke every hour or less, and after four hours, he practically flew out of the bed to run into the bathroom. Retching noises emitted from the other side of the door as Sherlock moved to lean against it. He had to force himself to leave, before he gave in and revealed himself.
/
The third night Sherlock visited 221B, he wasn't able to stay because John didn't sleep. When he finally decided to risk it, he slipped inside the flat to find John asleep on the sofa. Quietly, he moved away from the front door and knelt beside where John was sleeping. He was moaning softly, his eyes squeezed forcefully shut, face tight in a sort of grimace. Before he was aware he was doing it, his hand reached forward to touch the stress lines on John's face. There were bags under the eyes and he traced his fingers over those as well. Slowly his hand moved up to the hairline to gently brush back the hair.
He froze when John made a different noise, afraid he'd been found out. John shifted slightly on the sofa, leaning into the touch, but he didn't wake. Relaxing, he resumed his repetitive action and was pleased to find it seemed to allow John to sleep more peacefully. The grimace faded away and the tension around his eyes and forehead lessened. He stayed this way for another twenty minutes before his fear of being caught by John or Mrs. Hudson got to him, and he reluctantly left.
/
Three days later, Mrs. Hudson left to see relatives out of the country and Sherlock came to the decision it was the perfect opportunity to ensure John got some actual sleep. He set about making a few alterations to John's favorite tea set while the man was away, working at the hospital, he presumed. When the alterations were complete, he vacated the flat to await his good friend's return. John came home late, nearly after midnight. It was a long time to be working a shift at the hospital considering how early he started. Sherlock pushed those thoughts away in favor of observing behind a car parked across the street from their building.
This marked the fourth night Sherlock visited 221B, and he slipped in to find himself satisfied John's habits had not changed entirely. Whenever John came home from work, he made a cup of tea and sat down in his chair to enjoy it. When Sherlock had been there, often John would watch him, whatever he was doing. Now as he entered the flat, he found his friend asleep, television on of some crap crime show or other. Glancing into the cup, Sherlock was satisfied to see he ingested most of it, securing a solid night of sleep for him.
He grabbed one of John's arms, flinging it over his shoulder. He picked up the rest of him and carried him in a fireman's hold. Inside the bedroom, he dropped him on the bed and realized he'd done it a tad more carelessly than he could have, but brushed it off. Things to do and all that.
Sherlock started on his shoes and socks and was getting the last sock off when he sensed another presence in the room. He knew who it was without turning. The only tell was a brief pause in his work and he continued getting John out of his dirty clothes.
"Is this really necessary?"
He ignored his brother and sat back on his heels once he successfully removed everything but the pants. He had ulterior motives aside from making John comfortable in the bed. It was bad. Somehow he'd thought just maybe Moriarty kept John captive to taunt and gloat and do little physical damage. An unlikely idea in the first place. When he didn't have all the facts, it was an idea he could convince himself of, until now.
Nearly a month had passed since Moriarty had hold of John. The injuries nearly a month old and still his stomach was wrapped tight with bandages, a section of his left arm wrapped in white gauze, multi-colored bruises scattered across near every inch of skin, and there were a number of healing cuts and stab wounds, primarily on the upper chest area. The most disturbing injuries were lower on his body, between his legs. There was extensive bruising on the inner thighs, along with multiple slash marks. He knew his crimes. These were injuries of a sexual nature.
His breath caught in his throat and he found himself frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the mottled flesh. He hadn't profiled James Moriarty as someone sadistic enough to rape. To make others suffer, certainly. To gain pleasure from toying with people, absolutely. To go so far with John didn't fit. Did Moriarty take such offense to an attempt on his life? He didn't believe so. A man that convinced of his own power and intellect wouldn't need to lower himself to such an act. What was he missing?
A sigh reminded him of his brother's presence in the room. "At the time of hospitalization he was in a coma for a week. Hundreds of cuts and bruises were documented, along with several broken ribs, a fractured wrist, stab wounds on the chest and left arm, and anal trauma from repeated assault. Upon waking, patient checked out against medical advice, refusing to press charges or make a statement."
"He knew it wouldn't have mattered. Nobody gets to Moriarty."
Mycroft closed the medical file in his hand, observing Sherlock, who was yet unable to remove his eyes from the cuts on the inner thighs of the prone man. "Do stop that. Blaming yourself will do nothing to help John."
"This happened because of John's association with me. I owe him to see what I brought on him."
"This happened because John made a fool-hardy attempt on Moriarty's life."
"You're blaming John?"
"I blame Moriarty, as you rightly should. For God's sake, Sherlock, your self-flagellation only serves to empower your enemies and do little else."
Sherlock moved closer and leaned down, examining the bandaged ribs with prying fingers. He had to switch to looking with a clinical mind, not emotional. He didn't do emotions. His brother didn't either, yet...
"He will heal."
Was this an attempt to comfort him? He kept his focus on examining the wounds John sustained, cataloging every inch of skin. Mycroft, of all people, didn't do comfort, especially to him. Too touchy, feely for the Holmes brothers. He had no interest in playing this game of pretending everything was all right.
"Physically. But Moriarty has always prided himself more on the mind. That's what I'm worried for."
"Worried, Sherlock?"
The patronizing tone made him rethink his brother had actually been trying to be sensitive. He fixed a scowl on the man standing in the doorway but it hardly seemed to have an effect, as usual. Mycroft gazed back, a neutral expression setting in.
"Evidence seems to suggest he is mostly healthy in mind. Rather, no worse than before at the very least. Aside from his disrupted sleep pattern, he's fully functional. He goes to and from this flat or his second flat and has resumed speaking to his sister and Lestrade, although with the detective it is strictly business. Seems he still partially blames the man for turning against you and allowing your reputation to be tarnished."
That was putting it lightly. A single seed of doubt was a powerful thing. He tore his critical search from John's body to Mycroft's face. His brother mentioned a second flat. He supposed he heard of people having a difficult time in surroundings that reminded them of something they'd rather not remember. Anyway, it was something to be disregarded for now. This business with Lestrade was interesting. Oh, his brother was speaking still.
"For you to know," Mycroft was saying. "If you require such reassurance."
Sherlock scoffed. The words were said as though they meant nothing to the speaker but that was patently untrue. For Mycroft to keep tabs on John even in this reduced capacity signified he held concern for his well-being and future activities. Interesting.
"I did believe you to be truly dead. Everyone did. Now I suspect Miss Hooper may have had knowledge of your survival."
He stared at Mycroft who was staring at the lines on John's thighs. There was an emotion he didn't ever see. A deep sadness he thought didn't have entirely to do with John's condition. When Mycroft lifted his gaze to meet his own, Sherlock looked away.
"Sentiment... You said caring was not an advantage. Look at you now."
"Yes, well, it hardly seems to stop us at times."
"Stop us from what?" he asked, absently stroking the side of John's face.
"Caring."
Sherlock noticed what he'd been doing and stilled, lowering the hand back to John's limp one, then looked to his brother.
"You need to speak to John. Tell him he can't live like this. He should be seeing his therapist or whatever."
"He needs you, I assume."
"Just do it," he snapped. His brother was settling into a chair at the desk on the other side of the room.
"I'm afraid John doesn't speak to me anymore. Not since..your untimely passing."
Sherlock frowned and narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "What? Why?"
"Probably has something to do with my role in your demise."
There weren't words for that admission. His brother did tend to exaggerate though. He wondered if this was not one of those times.
"John has been up to something over the past few months. Visits to the local university, visits to places out of the city, unknown. I do believe a woman may be involved. I have not done additional prying there, however, as giving John his privacy was the least I could do after..."
"What did you do? What could have made John so mad he won't talk to you?"
"I gave Moriarty your life story."
Sherlock froze, the betrayal spoken so simply. "And why would you do that?"
"When he was in my custody, I gave him your life story, he gave me information I required. In the end-"
"It resulted in my 'dying'. Wonderful. Thanks for that."
Mycroft was silent. Whether he had anything more to say would either have to wait or never be known because an idea struck him far too forcefully to wait another moment.
"Whatever John's been up to, maybe he wrote about it. Has he written in his blog since my..fall?"
The man shook his head once. "No... I don't believe so. I monitored the site for a few months before it became obvious it wasn't worth the effort."
"John's written in his blog..twice, not counting the comments section. I fancy John."
They glanced over to the door. Mycroft's assistant was leaning against the door frame, eyes glued to her mobile phone. Her full attention switched over to Sherlock as she shrugged off his surprise at both her sudden presence and her sudden confession.
"Don't ever tell him I said that." Anthea shifted toward Mycroft, although her interest was once again invested in her phone as she did so. "Twenty minutes, sir."
Mycroft waved her away without sparing another glance. He was peering at the desk beside the bed and Sherlock matched the look, grabbing up the laptop. Flipping it open, the password prompt greeted him. Hm... It was never too difficult to crack John's pathetic attempts at a password, but he had been away for half a year.
"Oh, obvious."
He glared at his brother. "Do keep your thoughts to yourself. I haven't cracked a single case in six months. I need this."
"Sherlock," Mycroft said, sitting near him on the bed in order to get a view of the computer screen.
"What?" He didn't bother hiding his annoyance.
"That's the password."
"You said you weren't keeping tabs on him much."
"A simple deduction, Sherlock. Something I see you've become rusty at while you've been laying low."
His eyes narrowed in irritation but he tried the password and it worked. His unfriendly expression lightened when he arched an eyebrow in curiosity as to how his brother had known that would be the selected password.
The explanation was given dryly, the man bored. "I told you before, he needs you. Must you be so naive?"
What was that supposed to mean? Utilizing his name for a password was out of character for John and certainly far too easy for a hacker to guess. He didn't understand what his brother was getting at and it bothered him. More than he'd like to admit so he pushed it out of his mind and focused on the task at hand.
The blog up, he leaned in to read the only two entries entered in the period between his falsified death and now. Mycroft leaned forward beside him to read and he ignored the stifling closeness. He was never this close to his brother.
THE PERSONAL BLOG OF
DR. JOHN H. WATSON
4th January
33 ENTRY: Released From Hospital
Even if you can't hear or see me, I'm right beside you. I still believe. Don't be dead.
COMMENTS
John! What the hell happened? It's been six days since anyone's seen or heard from you. Explain now! Are you okay? -Harry
Reply to Harry
Surprised you even noticed. -JW
Reply to JW
I've been sober since you went missing. Still am. What happened? I want to see you. -Harry
Comment
Don't be thick. File a report. I want the bastard who did this to you. -G. Lestrade
Reply to G. Lestrade
I'm fine to the both of you. Don't really feel like a visit, Harry. -JW
Comment
I'm so relieved to hear you're all right. Let us celebrate your surviving another day with a pint, yeah? -Mike Stamford
Comment
Why a visit to hospital? You should visit me more often. You've been so distracted since... I worry, dear. -Mrs. Hudson
Comment
Will you see me? I haven't seen you for months. Just a quick visit, no questions. -G. Lestrade
Reply to G. Lestrade
No, Greg. I can't. -JW
Reply to JW
At least you're speaking to me again. Keep it together. You're not alone. -G. Lestrade
Comment
I'm sorry..for everything. I should never have doubted him. As much as I dislike him, I shouldn't have let my feelings influence my reports. Lestrade has told me some things and I am so sorry for my part in spreading the lie. I know who hurt you, John. Maybe if we would have believed you both, then this wouldn't have happened to you. No need to reply. I don't expect you to. -S. Donovan
Comment
I want to see you, John. Don't push me away. Not this time. Please. -Harry
Reply to Harry
Fine, Harry. You'll need to come here. Moving about is still a chore right now. -JW
23rd January
34 Entry: Can't Define What I'm After
Do people spend their whole lives faking? How many times can I pray? They say it only takes time to recover from loss but I'm shattered.
COMMENTS
Come for a visit. -Harry
Comment
I'm glad you come around the station but please, have a pint or something. Nothing to do with whatever it is that new job requires. We used to be friends. Now I hardly see you and it's only when you need something. I can't lose you too. -G. Lestrade
Reply to G. Lestrade
I can't pretend things are like they were. How can you? -JW
Reply to JW
I'm not a fool. I know you're into something dangerous. I wish you'd ask for my help but since you're about as stubborn as he was, fine. Just be careful. -G. Lestrade
Comment
Oh, dear. Will you join me for afternoon tea sometime soon? -Mrs. Hudson
Comment
I have news. I've been to see Clara and she's decided to stay with me at our townhouse for a while. Will you come? -Harry
Reply to Mrs. Hudson
Tea would be lovely. I look forward to it. -JW
Comment
I am always willing to help you, John. But when you told me you were tired of being a poor, depressing sod and took the job, I didn't know what you were dealing with. Do you know? -TW
Comment
I'll pop in for a visit tomorrow afternoon? -Mrs. Hudson
Reply to TW
You don't need to worry about me. I eagerly await your arrival, Mrs. H. -JW
Comment
I procured some information. I could send it to you, if you'd like? -TW
Reply to TW
Don't risk yourself for me. -JW
Reply to JW
I would always risk myself for you. -TW
Reply to TW
Thank you. I mean that. But I know what I've gotten myself into. I have to handle this on my own. Not safe. -JW
Comment
Clara and I are going to lunch on Friday. Join, please? -Harry
Reply to Harry
All right. Lunch would be fine. -JW
Reply to JW
Yes! Can't wait! -Harry
The phone began to ring on the bedside. He turned back to the blog but there was nothing more to read. He clicked out of the site and shut the laptop, returning it to its place beside the bed. Did John always have a landline? He thought there'd only been a mobile phone but he could be wrong. Most of the time he didn't pay attention to the details when he didn't think they mattered. He settled into a seated position against the bed's headboard, taking John's hand in his own and registering the pulse as he did. It was reflex, and he just wanted to be sure everything was normal inside.
Sobbing filled the room after the answering machine picked up. Sherlock and Mycroft glanced at each other before looking to the phone.
"Jjjj..Jooohn. John. It's Clara. Something's happened..to Harry. It's Harry, John. Someone attacked her. A man forced her to drink until she passed out. She drank a lot, John. It's serious. She... She needs to see you, John. Please, we need you. We need you here."
The machine clicked off.
"Still think this is about you?"
Sherlock scowled at his brother but he didn't have an answer for him.