Cherish the friend who tells you a harsh truth, wanting ten times more to tell you a loving lie.
~Robert Brault
John
He asks for the exact location of Daisy's wound on an autopilot and subconsciously he knows what Gregson is going to say before she says it.
Bullet nicked fifth costal cartilage, went through the liver and nicked inferior vena cava which together with fragments of cartilage that lodged themselves into internal organs caused massive internal bleeding.
Bullet nicked fifth costal cartilage, went through the liver and nicked inferior vena cava…
Fifth costal cartilage, liver, vena cava.
Daisy.
Sherlock.
Moran.
'Colonel' Sebastian Moran.
Siobhan Moran. Wife or a sister? Sister or a wife?
How that bastard looked like?
Not too tall, Sherlock's height? Slightly lower? Not significantly taller than him. Stocky, muscled. The face. He needs to see his face. Black hair? No, that was his guard and Donegall shot him through the left tight and then into right lung. Moran. He needs Moran, he saw his file. Eyes? Hair? Christ, what he wouldn't give for Sherlock's nearly eidetic memory now.
Light-brown hair. Pale green eyes.
Sister more likely than a wife although who knows.
Professional assassin and a former gang member. A crack-shot.
Brother might not warrant this level of devotion in terms of extracting a long-time revenge although…
Sherlock.
Daisy.
Christ.
Blessedly he left Rosie's carrier in the car and just carried her upstairs in his arms so as he jumps out of his seat he doesn't have to fight with the straps of the carrier and he practically shoves her into Greg's arms.
Luckily Greg is not only a father himself but also a seasoned DI and, in the past, had a lot of things thrust into his arms, babies included but John isn't caring anymore. As soon as Rosie is somewhat secure, he bails out of the room worrying that he might not make it to the bathroom.
He does but just barely and as soon as he's crouching over the toilet, he vomits remains of his breakfast. Seconds later his legs give out and he finds himself falling to his knees. He barely has presence of mind to steady himself on the walls of the cubicle so he doesn't faceplant into the toilet. But it's a near thing.
He brought her into his life, their lives. Just accepted her patient persistence in drawing him out of depressed stupor. He married her, god damn it and they had a child together.
Oh, sweet lord, Rosie.
She wasn't planned, Mary or what the fuck is her actual name was just as surprised by the news of pregnancy as he was. Rosie probably threw in a wrench into her plans.
Rosie. Rosamund Mary. An eternal reminder of whose daughter she was. Why she didn't throw Siobhan into the mix? Probably didn't want to drive attention to it. Not if she was planning to use that identity again. Or maybe she was planning to wait till confirmation. Who the fuck knows?
And how did she made it out of the aquarium?
She died in his arms, bleed out and stopped breathing. She was dead.
She was also dead and her body was somewhere in Ireland.
Twins?
It's never twins, John.
Not twins, the universe wouldn't be that lazy. Sherlock's words again.
Christ, Sherlock. Mary killed his daughter, nearly killed him too.
At least Daisy killed her in return and did a better job of it than Vivian Norbury.
How she made it out of that bloody aquarium?
Behind his back he hears footsteps and without turning around he knows who it is.
Sherlock.
He hears Sherlock crouch behind him and he feels his hand, the right one, on his left shoulder.
"It wasn't your fault," he says as if he knows what John is thinking. "It was her choice, John. No-one made her do it. You said it yourself, no-one could ever make her do anything she didn't want to do," he adds throwing John's own words into his face. "She killed Daisy, not you."
John stops retching but keeps his head hanging before he shifts to the right and collapses against the wall of the cubicle. He feels the beads of sweat on his forehead but makes no move to wipe it.
There's no strength left in him, his breathing is slightly off kilter and his head is spinning.
Sherlock kneels down in front of him and places his right hand over John's left.
"It wasn't your fault, John," he says.
John takes a shaky breath that could pass for an attempt on a deep one and whispers, "You aren't seeing it, Sherlock. It's my fault, all of this is my fault."
Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but John is faster.
"I brought her into our lives, it's on me," he says shakily.
"You didn't know who you were marrying, John," Sherlock points out softly. "Not your fault."
"My fault," John sighs and he raises his right hand weakly to stop Sherlock from interrupting because he needs to hear it, need-to-know clause be damned. He owes Sherlock at least this much. He needs to know why Mary killed his daughter and tried to kill him.
He draws in another deep breath.
"Colonel Sebastian Moran," he says quietly. "Can't give you DOB or what he was involved with… much of it anyway," he shakes his head. "Bosnia, Kosovo for certain. Caught the beginning of Iraq too before the ground beneath his feet started burning. Decorated officer in…" he pauses as he tries to recall Moran's regiment but he can't, "doesn't matter. Splendid leader that inspired devotion in his troops, they were all loyal to him which is why he managed to get away with this shit as long as he had," he shakes his head. "Officially a model soldier, unofficially an all-around scumbag that used his army connections in smuggling weapons. Usually to the local gangs, sometimes opposite forces. Slipped by accident because someone managed to resist his charisma and reported him. After that the command started looking more closely at his goings and when his treachery became evident an arrest warrant had been issued. But someone alerted him and he managed to escape the arrest and being court marshalled. Discharged dishonourably in absentia but still remained a problem for the army."
"What happened?" asked Sherlock.
"February 2007, Kandahar province," answers John. "Black op, one of the four that was designed to capture Moran and his people. The first three were supposed to ensure his capture as well as that of his men… But after third failed attempt when most of the operatives were either killed or grievously injured or went missing the joint task force in command of the op decided that Moran and his men should be handled with as the Americans say: extreme prejudice."
"Summary execution," nods Sherlock.
"If it was summary execution there would be a mock trial," snorts John. "Instead it was one simple order: kill the bastard. Although it was more nicely worded but the sense remained the same," he sighs heavily. "Problem was," he grimaces, "a lion part of the operatives was temporarily attached to Fourth and Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and until Moran's location was confirmed they were supposed to serve as regular soldiers. Wouldn't have been much of a problem if the task force appointed more of the medical personnel but as it was, they only got three, two of which got shot and grievously injured respectively three days before the strike on Moran's camp. Day before it the third one got grisly stabbed with a scalpel by a delirious patient," he pauses, "in the tight which left them with no medical personnel whatsoever."
"So, they picked one from the base," says Sherlock slowly. "A crack-shot with a medical training."
"Yeah," sighs John heavily. "The op to this day remains as highly classified one. The army isn't very fond of admitting at loud that they sometimes have to handle badly misbehaving British citizens with brute force," he snorts. "What I'm going to say next is a serious breach in confidentiality but I don't bloody care anymore," he shakes his head.
"So, who shot Moran?" asks Sherlock softly.
"The only person that at the time had a clear shot, wasn't wounded or otherwise occupied," says John quietly and he points with his right thumb at himself. "Me," he adds quietly. "The bullet went through fifth costal cartilage shattering it then went through the liver and nicked inferior vena cava which together with fragments of cartilage that lodged themselves into internal organs caused massive internal bleeding and immediate death."
He pauses and takes a deep breath.
"I had it right in front of me all this time and I didn't see it," he admits brokenly. "I didn't even think about it, not even for a second," he shakes his head. "Until today," he sniffles, "I knew what Gregson was going to say before she said it. It wasn't a bloody surgery, not even for a moment," he shakes his head. "Not that I ever believed it. It was an execution…" he sniffles again "a revenge for her whatever he was to her, brother, husband I don't know and I don't really care. You and Daisy both. I don't know what her freaking endgame was but it was all a part of it and I didn't remember…" the tears are running freely from his eyes and he doesn't attempt to hold them back.
Sherlock springs and before John realises what's happening, he's wrapped in a crushing embrace, with his head pressed into Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock's chin is resting on the top of his head and his arms are wrapped tightly around John's shoulders.
It's on him. Daisy and Sherlock and Josie. He killed Moran and he brought Siobhan Moran into their lives, went back to her even because of Rosie… and Rosie. Fuck, what about Rosie? What was her endgame with Rosie in mind? Was she going to be a collateral damage in her mother's revenge against him? What about Sherlock? Was she planning to finish what she started once she dealt with Daisy? Was she planning to drag him down through the hell of losing his best friend again and then his daughter? Or was it going to be the other way, first Rosie and then Sherlock? Or did she love Rosie enough to keep her alive when she would put him down?
"It's my fault," he mutters into Sherlock's shirt. "It's all my fault."
"Shh," Sherlock whispers into his hair. "It's not your fault. Will never be your fault, John," his arms around John's shoulders tighten even more. "You were a solider in a war zone following orders. You couldn't predict the security breach in a classified operation, it wasn't your responsibility to worry about it. Someone screwed up but it wasn't you. You couldn't have known that she would seek revenge. It's not on you. Shh."
The tears are still running down his face, soaking through Sherlock's shirt but John can't bring himself to bother as he places his hands on Sherlock's sides because Sherlock is right in front of him, solid and breathing and so bloody forgiving of one of the most heinous crimes one can do to a parent. Because no matter what Sherlock says Daisy's death is on him, he's the reason why Josie will grow up without a mother, he's also the reason why Sherlock would never get a chance to personally met and get to know his daughter.
"She saved your life," says Sherlock softly. "Both our lives probably. Maybe even Rosie's too, I don't know. Daisy lost her life but made sure that Mary didn't finish what she started. She's dead, John, dead and not coming back to destroy us," he pauses. "I'm going to always regret not having a chance to meet her but I'm not going to begrudge her sacrifice. By lying down her life she saved two the most important people in the world to me and she had given me a third one. I'm going to always honour that."
"You shouldn't have to," John mumbles into his shirt. "You should have that awkward meeting and teaming up against Mycroft. You should have violin duets and university talks and visits with your granddaughter. She too, she should have a mother and a grandfather and your parents. They would drive you nuts but you would secretly love that. It's my fault."
"No, it isn't," Sherlock denies vehemently. "And if I will have to spend the rest of my life convincing you that Mary's choices aren't your fault then I will. In lying down her life Daisy conferred a value on the lives she left behind…" he pauses.
… and it's a currency I do not know how to spend, John's mind finishes the echo of their conversation from day before yesterday. The switch from Mary to Daisy doesn't erase the weight of the life that was lied down to preserve his, or John's or Rosie's.
He, his daughter and Sherlock probably all owe their lives to Daisy. It might have been a willing, conscious sacrifice or not. They will most probably never know for certain but it doesn't change the facts. Daisy killed Mary so Mary didn't have a chance to kill Sherlock, Rosie and John. In lying down her life Daisy saved his whole world.
You were my whole world, Mary's ghost whispers into his ear.
Go away, you have no right to be there, never had it in the first place.
But I did and you let me, she chirps. Idiot who saw but didn't observe. You fancied yourself to be so smart, granted not a genius but with your medical training and military experience… It was all there and you just didn't see it. You should have turned me over to Mycroft the very moment you learned that I wasn't who I pretended to be and what I did to him.
I should have, he agrees.
But you didn't. If only you were a few minutes slower I would partially succeed and I didn't even need to be there to do so. My words were all that it took to send him down the downward spiral, you did the rest. He's still alive due to sheer dumb luck. But I would have fixed that…
But you never got the chance and now you will never have. You have no power over me or Rosie anymore. And I'm changing her name as soon as I get the chance.
Into what? Sherlock? It's not a girl's name.
Fuck you. This ends now, get the fuck away and never come back.
Are you sure about that?
He growls into Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock's arms around him tighten even more.
It will end, sooner or later but it will end and she would be nothing but another nightmare he got through. Liar, assassin, plain murderer…
Verbally abusive, gaslighting wife, Elsa's voice whispers into his ear. Good fucking riddance, both times. At least now she's properly dead.
She is and unlike the last time he feels absolutely no guilt about the relief that surges through his body. Mary is dead. Rosie is safe, as is Sherlock. But this time he won't be burying her, the Irish might claim her body for all that he cares about it. Mary Watson was nothing but a façade and he doesn't know how one day he will explain all of it to his daughter…
Surrogate? The voice in his ear changes into Harry's. Tell her that Mary was barren and she was wearing a fake belly while the surrogate was carrying your daughter?
It's not exactly an ideal solution but sure as hell sounds better than 'your mother most probably conceived you to execute a revenge on me for killing her murderous, criminal relative and oh, you know Josie, she killed her mother to as a part of it'.
Will his daughter know Josie?
"Josie," whispers John.
"What about her?" asks Sherlock softly.
"What about her?" echoes John. "I know that you didn't exactly have…"
"I'm going to keep her," Sherlock cuts him of gently. "It's what Daisy would have wanted…"
"She didn't oblige you…" John interjects.
"I know," sighs Sherlock. "But do you really expect me to just hand her over to anyone knowing how far her mother went in protecting her and the most important people in my life? I owe it to her, John but I'm not going to do this because I owe her. I'm going to do this because she was my daughter and because Josephine is my granddaughter," he adds fiercely. "Though I have to admit that the fact that my granddaughter is the same age as your daughter even though I'm nearly six years younger than you is slightly messing with my head. I don't look like a grandpa, you do."
"Arse," John chuckles softly into his shirt.
"Facts are facts," says Sherlock simply. "Probably would be better to go with dad until she's old enough to understand this clusterfuck. Jesus, I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Welcome to fatherhood," says John as he tries to pull away but doesn't manage to draw himself too far away from Sherlock, "the state of being constantly bewildered by what your children are capable of and winging things out as you go. At least you have some experience in taking care of an infant. You will do fine."
"Can't do it alone," sighs Sherlock.
"You won't be," John assures him. "Your parents would be delighted and Mycroft owes you a lifetime of favours for keeping Daisy from you. Mrs H would be over the moon, Molly probably too, once she gets over the shock. I'm not sure about Greg though…"
"They don't matter," Sherlock interrupts him. "Well, they do," he corrects himself, "but not as much as you."
Because Mrs Hudson is right. I'm burning up. I'm at the bottom of the pit and I'm still falling and I'm never climbing out. I'm a mess, I'm in hell. Look at me. Can't do it, not now. Not alone.
Sherlock's words from Elsa's office spring to his minds, the relevant and not Smith related ones.
I did this to him, John thinks. I took this brilliant, wonderful, brave man and I shattered him into tiny pieces with my words and my own fists after everything he had done to and for me and he still…
That thought brings him to tears again and he rests his forehead against Sherlock's because the reverse it's also true for him. No one matters more than Sherlock, no one, not even Mary got that close, except for Ro... he really should do something about that name. His daughter shouldn't be caring a murderer's name for longer than necessary. Legal process will take some time and but he really should come up with something. Katherine maybe? Mary vetoed it, and several others.
Katherine should do for now until he has more time to think about it. Katie or Kate or Kathy. He will figure it out.
"Of course, I'll be there," he whispers. "I'll always be there for you, Sherlock," he vows solemnly. "For you and Josie for as long as you will have me."
"I will always have you," Sherlock says earnestly. "I'll never want you to not be there."
His admission warms John's heart, he knows that he doesn't deserve it but he will take everything Sherlock has to offer and he will stay there for as long as Sherlock would want him there. No matter where that there will be.
Speaking of there, he should definitely get the fuck out of the flat as soon as humanly possible because the idea of spending another night in the house he shared with that bitch is simply revolting. Quite large part of him wants to set it on fire which would have been fine if the building belonged to him but it doesn't. It will go on sale then, fast and will be sold to the first person who would like to buy it, even at a huge discount. He doesn't care. But he's definitely not going to set a foot in that flat for longer than it would take to collect his stuff and necessary items for Ro… Katie. As far as he cares they might spend this night under a bridge as long as it won't be in that flat.
The car should go to sale too… Maybe not today because he might actually need a station wagon if he plans to move but as soon as it won't be needed, he'll get something small and nice. A Fiat or a small Toyota or a Golf or a small Vauxhall.
"John?" Sherlock prompts him gently.
"Sorry, got lost in thoughts," he sighs as he pulls away.
"Anything I would have to talk you out of?" asks Sherlock with a frown.
"Not really," he admits. "I might ask for an opinion but it can wait," he adds. "We shouldn't be sitting here."
"No, we shouldn't," agrees Sherlock as he hoists himself into standing position and then helps John pick himself from the ground.
Sherlock waits for him while John cleans himself up over the sink. He looks like hell and feels like one too but he manages to get himself in order enough to not look like someone who just had a mental break down.
They leave the bathroom together and go through the open space of the office back into Gregson's office. They're closer than they ever had been, arms brushing on occasion.
In Gregson's office she's typing something on the keyboard while Greg attempts to entertain two girls in his arms. Josie and Ro… Katie appear to be having fun by poking Greg in the face. Greg doesn't look amused but he endures the poking with the patience of someone who deals with Sherlock Holmes on regular basis.
Some tiny, mischievous part of him thinks that he should leave Greg like that for a little while longer but Sherlock almost immediately rectifies that by going to Greg and taking both girls into his arms. He holds them to himself tightly before he nods at Greg and heads to John.
John expects him to hand him his daughter but instead ends up with an armful of Josie while Sherlock hugs Ro... Katie to himself tightly before he walks over to the chair and sits down in it.
Idiot, he chides himself as he secures his hold on Josie who happily pokes him in the nose. He missed her, went without seeing her for nearly two months even. It's obvious that he would like to hold her for a little while longer. He had Josie with… strictly speaking on him for a better part of the morning and R… Katie only for few moments.
So, John smiles softly at Josie and pecks her on the forehead which makes her giggle and returns to his seat.
"Is there more?" asks Sherlock.
"There's always more," grumbles Gregson. "But Garda isn't exactly forthcoming about more details and he," she nods with her head towards Greg, "is insisting that I shouldn't invoke your names unless we will get through your brother," she adds.
"Going to voicemail, aren't you?" asks Sherlock. "We tried that since we first saw Daisy."
"We don't exactly need the paps getting the wind of it and Mycroft might help with bringing their bodies back to England," says Greg tiredly.
"Daisy's," says John insistently. "Hers is the only body we care about getting back to England. The Irish can keep Moran for all that I care about her. Mary Watson was dead for far longer than she pretended to be, she's properly buried as such even if the ashes in the urn are fake…" he stops suddenly.
How Mary managed to fake her death?
She didn't have a pulse. He was fairly sure of that. But Greg steered him away from her body as soon as paramedics appeared on the scene. Only to pronounce her dead but still.
"Did you know?" he finds himself asking.
"I wouldn't do it to you, John," says Greg, he sounds more surprised than offended.
"But we all know who would," mutters Sherlock. "And that b-a-s-t-a-r-d isn't picking up his phone," he adds furiously.
"To what end?" asks John as he turns to him, nearly avoiding being poked in the eye by Josie.
"Too many variables," grimaces Sherlock. "Good question to ask once he starts picking his infernal phone," he grumbles and remains silent for a moment. "Fake bullets or Kevlar and some breathing techniques? Or a toxin that would have slowed her heart rate enough to pass as barely noticeable?" he wonders at loud. "And Norbury herself, willing or unwilling accomplice? Who's on the matter?"
"What the Garda knows about Moran?" asks John as he turns back to Greg and Gregson.
"What they don't know about her," snorts Gregson. "The oldest stuff is extortion mostly, car thieves too, the whole process even. Got a short stint in prison for that too. Then supposedly she became a model citizen for about a year or two. Then there are bank robberies, exists mostly as a witness but most probably an inside man or woman to be precise. Got caught a time or two in cars that were matching the looks of the getaway vehicles in which bank robbers got away."
"Further down the line she became a witness of several unsolved murders which I'm speculating are hers because we have remains of the bullet that got pulled from your chest," adds Greg and he nods at Sherlock. "There's a chance that they might not be but I wouldn't be holding my breath on that," he grimaces.
"And then there's the exact match," mutters Gregson. "Same type of the bullet was shot from the very same gun in a murder of a police officer in Belfast. 15th March 2014. The name is Adam Hughes."
15th March 2014, the weekend of Mary's getaway in Spa somewhere out in the middle of nowhere with her old friends from university. Another lie and then she had the audacity to use the same gun on Sherlock.
"And you're just finding it out now?" asks Sherlock sourly.
"Unfortunately, the ballistic report from Hughes murder wasn't available when we ran it against yours," snorts Greg. "Wonder why?"
"The answer didn't change," snorts Sherlock. "Wonder why?"
"Hacked?" offers John. "She did hack MI6 database on the plane," he adds. "Didn't Irene Adler told us that the records kept are as reliable as their keepers?"
"If it's any consolation ballistic report from Hughes's murder got filled on their servers twenty days ago. Supposedly it was lost to some mysterious server malfunction or a virus that only just recently been located and dealt with," says Gregson. "But why Hughes?"
"Most probably because he knew whose daughter Daisy was," answers John. "I can't imagine Mycroft not imploring some serious threats against him if he had failed to locate her and considering his demotion they had to be followed through," he grimaces.
"Magnussen would have known something about it," mutters Sherlock. "He didn't."
"Mycroft is good at keeping secrets," points out John. "He would have to be really careful if he manged to locate Daisy before…"
Before Sherlock killed Magnussen.
"If he managed to locate her before Josie was born," adds Sherlock pensively. "Did he or did he not?" he mutters. "Another question for Mycroft."
"Feels like old days," mutters Gregson. "Three idiots sitting in the dark, twirling thumbs until his majesty arrives and plays secrets act card."
"Do you had many cases like that?" asks John, feeling slightly curious.
"Enough for me to consider him," she waves at Sherlock, "as a nuisance that only occasionally got on my nerves enough for me to reach the point when I wanted to punch him in the face," she snorts. "Mycroft Holmes on the other hand I wanted to punch in the face every time I saw him even if he didn't do anything that warranted it because usually it turned out that if he didn't do it, then he only didn't do it yet."
"Hence the reason why I'm using Greg as a carrier-pigeon whenever I need something from her," quips Sherlock.
"I don't know if I should be touched or offended," snorts Greg.
"I would go with touched," offers John. "He did remember your name,"
"He always remembers my name," sighs Greg exasperatedly. "He used it enough times since we started working together to remember it. That how-many-G-names-that-aren't-Greg-can-I-come-up-with game started when Mycroft started pressing me into giving him somewhat regular reports about Sherlock's state. Predictably he," he jabs a finger at Sherlock, "found out after the first one I gave him because if there's one aspect in which Mycroft can't keep a secret it's him," he nods at Sherlock. "Called me Gaylord for an entire week after that."
"And let's not forget Gretchen which you had been for nearly six weeks," chirps Gregson. "Wonder what you did to warrant that?"
"Absolutely nothing whatsoever," mutters Greg.
"Told Mycroft that he caught me inhaling paint," says Sherlock simply. "I was painting the bloody kitchen in the middle of a blizzard. It was either inhale paint fumes or get a pneumonia."
"Why you were painting kitchen in the middle of a blizzard?" asks John.
"Blew up a microwave," says Greg quickly. "Pretty badly on that because it went through the kitchen wall into the bedroom. It was this tiny place on Montague Street, wasn't it?" he asks.
"The one before that," mutters Sherlock. "One of the bedsits. It was during one of Mycroft's you're not having access to your trust fund phases. They came and went I can't be bothered to remember when they occurred."
"Did he also cut you off before you moved to Baker Street?" asks Greg dryly.
"Like I said…" starts Sherlock.
"He's fibbing," quips Gregson. "You didn't really need a flatmate, did you?"
"Sincerely bugger off, Thomasina," mutters Sherlock.
"Aww," Gregson coos sweetly. "You just met an army doctor that caught your interest and declared bankruptcy."
Sherlock mutters something that John can't understand. It's not French or Pashto but sounds slightly German except it's not. Gregson quips something back which makes Sherlock resort to visual threats of decapitation and strangulation one after the other before he starts talking again, firing words one after the other.
"Yiddish," says Greg simply. "Don't mind them, they used to get into heated debates in Yiddish."
"You don't know it?" asks John curiously while Sherlock and Gregson argue furiously.
"I tried to learn it and I caught enough of it to get that stuff they were talking about was never relevant to a case so I stopped bothering," shrugs Greg. "If there was something I needed to know at least one of them bothered to cough up something in English," he shrugs again. "What I can actually tell you is that by now they both resorted to calling each other names…" he pauses and whistles loudly.
Sherlock huffs in indignation and mutters another sentence or two and Gregson just smirks before she replies quickly and leans back against her chair.
"That sort of happens if you leave them in the same room for far too long," snorts Greg. "For some reason they're excellent at stimulating each other's thought process but at the same time their individual IQs take a nose dive into double digits the longer the conversation goes and the more personal it becomes."
"And that's our cue to leave," huffs Sherlock. "Keep us posted," he adds as he stands up and picks up his coat.
"Greg will call you if we will find more," quips Gregson. "Bye, Menace, Doctor Watson."
John says his goodbyes and follows Sherlock out of Gregson's office. While they're waiting for the lift Sherlock puts his coat on but he's unwilling to let go of R… Katie.
Katie. Katie. Katie. John repeats mentally. Or Kate as long as he's not starting thinking about R.
"We need to get a car-seat," he says once the doors of the lift closes behind them. "We got lucky in so far but if a patrol car catches us, they will fine our butts."
Sherlock grunts in agreement and mutters, "It won't bankrupt us."
"You didn't really need a flatmate, did you?" asks John curiously.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs, "I was in a tight spot but I could survive on canned food and cheap pasta for a month or two."
"Sherlock," he presses.
"I needed a favour from Stamford and you know him. He's a talker, I had to endure chit-chat to get what I wanted which otherwise would take too much time. The flat thing just came up and I did what people usually do while talking about rent. I complained, he suggested a flat-share, I asked him who would want me for a flatmate. Then lunch hour comes and goes and he turns up with you in the lab."
"And you just declared bankruptcy?" John parrots Gregson's words.
"Oh, for God's sake," sighs Sherlock. "You know me. I'm not a people person. Most people are simple and easy to figure out. They bore me."
"And I didn't?" asks John curiously.
"You were a study in contradictions, still are," shrugs Sherlock. "You never crossed paths with someone you couldn't really figure out but wanted to?" he asks.
"I did," admits John and it's as easy as breathing. "Nearly six years ago my paths crossed with a certain pillock who day after I met him took my crippled butt on a run through London and nearly got himself killed by a serial killer before the night ended," he adds and pauses before he continues. "For the life of me I can't remember his name but he has been both the biggest pain in the arse I ever met and the best man I ever knew."
"And did you?" asks Sherlock cautiously. "Figure him out, I mean?"
"God no," sighs John. "But it's a constant work in progress."
"Aren't we all," sighs Sherlock and looks at John's daughter in his arms.
"What about her other comments?" asks John.
Sherlock frowns and bites his lower lip.
Not good then.
"She was making lewd comments," says Sherlock finally when the lift reaches underground level. "They piss you off and I wanted to avoid the shouting," he shrugs as the door slide open and he walks out.
"You never did that before," says John when he catches up with him.
"Never had to," answers Sherlock quickly. "Plus, I actually am…" he lowers his voice "gay and I got out self-denial some twenty-five years ago. Not to mention you were doing pretty good job for both of us. Why should I keep repeating something which already had been said?" he adds before he lengthens his strides leaving John behind.
Hit a nerve, Elsa mutters into his ear. Isn't that curious?
Kindly bugger off, he chides her.
Actually, no, she quips. Where's the line, John?
Fuck you. It's not a good time or place.
Then a five years old memory surges to the forefront of his mind.
You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?!
At him. He never replies.
No, Sherlock always replies – to everything. He's Mr Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word.
Always except this, Elsa whispers. Why?
John shakes his head.
Look at you both. Pushing and pulling, saving and killing each other. Bickering like an old married couple but never about important things. Never about this. Why?
He said no. Said that he was married to his work.
Day after you'd met him. You do know him. It takes him a lot of time to warm…
He still said no.
Nearly six years ago. Ask him now.
No.
Why not?
Because the answer might still be the same and if it is, I would rather spend the rest of my life not knowing.
And if it isn't?
After everything I've done to him? He has a sense of self-preservation of a toddler in a knife shop. I've hurt him enough. I've beaten him on more than one occasion. I've kept putting him down and not always in jest. I'm no better than Mary but I refuse to be Mary. I can't do it to him.
Then don't.
It's not that simple.
Life isn't simple, it would be boring if it was.
And he knows. He heard us at Battersea. Never addressed it. It's enough of an answer for me.
Would you thrust your heart into hands of someone who isn't sure?
I've already had.
Not to his face.
Doesn't matter, the answer won't change.
He killed a man to keep you from doing it. He kept killing himself over and over for you.
That's why I can't do this to him. He suffered enough and I killed his daughter.
Your psychopathic, abusive wife killed his daughter and for the record she killed her right back.
Doesn't make her any less dead or more alive. No, not today, not tomorrow or day after. Not next week, not even a month and maybe not in a year.
One day.
Josie pokes him in his right eye and he yelps. Blessedly, he doesn't curse. He shifts her to his left side and rubs his right eye before he tries his gentlest stern glare which he uses on his daughter when she tries doing something she shouldn't be doing. R… Katie at least attempts to look hesitant for a split second but Josie doesn't even try. She reaches out again and tries to poke him into his left eye but he ducks away before he grabs her hands and pulls them to his chest. The movement tips her forward and he presses a kiss to her forehead which make her giggle.
She's definitely a Holmes. For Sherlock's, and John's, peace of mind they should run DNA tests to confirm it but she doesn't take lightly to being ignored, much like Sherlock on occasions and she does look like him. As much as a nearly one-year old baby can look like one of her relatives anyway.
For a moment his thoughts fly to Daisy. To her face, her eyes, her messy hair. Nervous but determined. Lying dead on a slab.
But then he hears Sherlock's voice calling out, "Can you open the car? I need to get to the diaper-bag."
R… Katie wet herself. At probably the right time too or maybe now is the time they realised it or she wet herself when they were upstairs… Damn it, they should have brought the diaper-bag upstairs. Also, if Katie is wet and Sherlock changed Josie around the similar time Josie might be wet too.
Fuck, underground garage is not a good place to change a nappy.