11. Friend
Sherlock closed the door to his bedroom and listened as John climbed up the stairs. It was true that Moriarty was out there, but he had made his introduction. Sherlock didn't expect to hear from him again for some days at least. There was something else that worried him more than James Moriarty. A problem that he had not noticed until today. The problem was John Watson. What was going on between himself and John Watson?
When John came around that corner where Moriarty was supposed to appear, I couldn't believe it. Not because it wasn't logical. It was logical. It was genius. John ... Moriarty, living with me, watching my every move, he would have defeated me completely.
But I couldn't believe that John was Moriarty, because to do so would hurt too much. To imagine John Watson as my enemy... John, my companion, my most loyal helper, to imagine that all of our time together was a lie. It's too painful to contemplate.
When did I become so dependent on John Watson, so trusting of him? John is part of the fabric of my world. He's almost a part of myself. I hadn't noticed how much I have come to rely on him. How much I expect him to be there, always. Since he's been with me, I've become a better detective. I solve cases faster. I'm even healthier. He's been good for me.
But he is his own person. I can't expect that he will stay with me forever. He wants ...other things: To get married, have children. He can't do that here with me. One day, he'll leave, and when he does it will damage me, lessen me, cripple me.
Who knew that when Dr. John Watson hobbled into my life on that crutch that he would end up becoming a crutch for me.
But then again, it's all in the mind isn't it. I suppose, like him, the only way to regain myself is to throw the crutch away. To learn to walk on my own, without him. Why does it hurt so much to think of that? I could delete John Watson. Ask him to leave. Then I wouldn't have this weakness anymore.
Tomorrow, I will ask John to leave. He'll make that worried face of his, and ask me why, but then he'll go. And when he leaves he will take away with him mornings of tea and toast, chases that leave us laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all, those smart remarks he makes that never fail to make me smile, in fact, he'll take all of the best parts of me with him.
That must be what Moriarty meant.
"I'll burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we both know that's not quite true."
Sherlock clasped his knees to his chest pulling himself into a ball as memories flew through his head like arrows. Memories of his relations with other people: Frowns and insults, anger and resentment, even hate.
I should have known better. When has getting close to someone given me anything other than pain.
Who needs friends. Emotions ... they cloud the intellect. I don't need them. I don't need anyone. I work better alone.
Sherlock began to rock backwards and forwards as the world around him appeared to grow darker and darker. The sound of static filled his ears until it was all that he could hear. Darkness and static crowded out all of his thoughts until he felt that he might scream. For the first time in months he craved cocaine. Something, anything to clear out his head.
Sherlock rose from his bed and went into the living room. He walked over to the fireplace and pried loose the brick that covered a hidden chamber. He reached his long fingers into the crack and pulled out the wooden box that he kept there. It had been over a year since he had last taken cocaine but he always kept one shot for emergencies like today. He sat on his heels before the cold fireplace and opened the box ready to take out the glass syringe and visit swift oblivion, but the syringe was not there. Only a rolled up piece of paper.
He opened it and read.
Sherlock,
I don't know if you are bored or simply upset, but this isn't the answer.
Please remember that you aren't the only one that you hurt when you hurt yourself.
John
Sherlock read the note again, and he started to giggle. Then he started to laugh and fell backwards onto the rug. He jumped up and took a pen from his desk signing a note at the bottom before replacing it in the box and in the hidden chamber. He had added the words.
Thank you, John
Sherlock walked back into his room and sat on his bed.
Deleting John Watson might remove this weakness, but it would feel like burning out my heart. That's what Moriarty wants. To burn away all of the love and feeling out of me until I am cold and broken like him. Then Moriarty will have won.
But if I stay with John, Moriarty won't ever forget him. He'll always be after him. Aiming for him, in order to get to me.
Sherlock bit the side of his hand. and curled up on his bed.
I said before that I work better with John. Then I said that I work better alone. To believe both is a logical inconsistency. Which is true? Sherlock thought back over the days that they worked together, as well as the time before John and realized the truth.
I work better with John. Maybe, that advantage will be enough to thwart Moriarty. Maybe we'll be a little faster, a little smarter together than I would be alone. Moriarty will still be after John. I'll have to watch him constantly, but is that such a bad thing?
If I make John even more a part of myself. If we learn to be faster, better, more coordinated, we can beat Moriarty. I know it. It has to be true, because the alternative is not worth thinking about.
When John held Moriarty at the pool and told me to run. I couldn't move. I knew that it was the logical thing to do, but I could not leave him. In truth, I would rather be blown to nothing than to live a day in a world without John Watson.
"Ah!" Sherlock cried as realization struck him. He unfolded himself and looked up. The dawn light was spilling through the window, and he could hear footsteps on the stairs. John had gone to the bathroom.
Sherlock stood.
When he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a different man than the man he had been before. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and adjusted his collar and cuffs, then he walked out of his room and into the kitchen.
John had turned on the kettle. He looked over his shoulder and smiled as he saw Sherlock. "Good Morning, Sherlock," he said, "Feeling better?"
"Hmm," Sherlock said watching as John took down a jar of jam. He pulled some bread out of the toaster and walked over to the table spreading the jam on the bread with a knife. "Toast?" he asked motioning the plate toward Sherlock. Sherlock took a slice.
If I have to choose between this life and a life alone, it isn't really that hard of a choice. Even if he leaves me in the future, it won't cancel out the smiles or the joys of our life together now.
John poured Sherlock a mug of tea and held it out. Their hands were warmed by the passage of the cup, but even without it they were warmed by the bonds of friendship. A friendship that couldn't be frightened away by threats or explosions. A friendship that would last forever. Sherlock took the cup and smiled, blowing across the surface to cool it as he stood close beside John, his first and best friend.
