"Black, black, and more black." John said, rifling through Sherlock's clothes in disbelief.
Sherlock pulled out a purple shirt.
"No, not that one. It's…" John trailed off. What was the best, most platonic way to say it looks so good on you that I don't want anyone else to see you in it? He cleared his throat. "Don't you have something a little brighter?"
Sherlock stepped forward, arm accidentally brushing against John's, sending tingles up it. He fumbled around in the wardrobe and the back slid away.
"Your wardrobe has a false back?" asked John, surprised.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Did you think I let you have the bigger room out of the goodness of my heart?" He pulled out a bright red wig. "John, people are rarely so selfless. I needed a place to keep all my disguises." He put the wig on and Rosie squirmed with delight. She had abandoned the skull and was now snuggling comfortably in John's arms.
"Yea, nope, just go with black." John said, "You look good in anything you wear, anyway." Oops. Did I say that out loud? "Where are you meeting her?" he asked quickly.
Sherlock threw the wig back inside and closed his wardrobe. "Angelo's." he said.
"Angelo's. Wait. As in...Angelo's where we had our first stake-out?"
"That one. It's perfect if we don't want to be overheard. I'm surprised you remember it."
How could I forget it? John thought. It's where everything began. He couldn't help feeling slightly chafed that Sherlock was taking Irene there. He'd always somehow thought of it as their place. It doesn't mean anything, he scolded himself. He probably just doesn't know any other good spots. How many dates does the man go on? He turned around and headed out of the room, leaving Sherlock to change.
"John."
John paused in the doorway.
"There is nothing I would rather do right now than find the damn cabbie who hurt you and Rosie." Sherlock said, "But there are no substantial leads. I've tried the taxi company and searched the site of the accident for clues, but I found nothing. It's like he never existed."
The knowledge that Sherlock shared his murderous feelings for the cabbie warmed John's heart. "If someone wanted to kill me, there are easier ways to do it." he said, "What was it really about, then?"
Sherlock turned back to his wardrobe. "Sending a message."
John cursed as he tore a thorn out of his shirt for the millionth time. The hedge he was hiding inside was prickly, to say the least. "Damn Sherlock." he muttered to himself, "He gets to sit in a warm, cozy restaurant while I freeze or possibly bleed to death in this hedge."
The nasty voice inside his head snickered. Well, it was your idea to send him off on a date with a beautiful woman. As if on cue, the main door opened and Irene strolled out. John could see that she had put a lot of effort into her appearance, and he cursed again. If his crazy idea actually resulted in Sherlock falling for Irene…wait, that was the point, wasn't it? Sherlock deserved love, and he deserved to be happy. Even if falling in love with someone else was what it took to make him smile, so be it. I can deal with a bit of heartache for his sake, John thought.
As Irene drove away, he scrambled out of the hedge, trying to straighten his clothes and shake the leaves out of his hair. He strolled up to the main door and rang the doorbell, and a red-eyed Mr Oliver opened it. In the living room behind him, John could see a bottle and a half-empty glass resting on the table. Excellent.
"Mr Watson. Is everything alright?"
"It's Dr Watson, actually. Um, yea, you seemed pretty shaken up yesterday, so I just thought I'd check in. If you need anybody to talk to, or…"
Mr Oliver hesitated, but his sorrow seemed to win out. "Why don't you come in?"
As Sherlock turned the corner, he was surprised to see Lestrade walking by the entrance of Angelo's.
"Hello, George." Sherlock said, "What brings you to this part of town?"
"It's Greg." he said indignantly, "Well, I've just been talking to a few of the Oliver boy's teachers and friends. Apparently he was everyone's favourite. Star student, theatre junkie, go-to friend. They're all devastated. I didn't find anybody who could possibly dislike him, let alone hate him enough to murder him." He peered at Sherlock curiously. "Are you on a date?"
"Well-"
"Where's Dr Watson?" he asked eagerly.
Sherlock stared at him. "I'm not on a date with him. I mean, it isn't even a date at all. Just meeting an old friend."
"Oh." Lestrade looked rather put out, "How is John doing? With, you know, Mary and all that?"
"He has his good days and his bad days. He's been doing okay recently. As I've often said, work is the best antidote to misery."
Lestrade nodded. He picked at the pavement with his foot, hesitating slightly. "Look, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but…" He took a deep breath. "You need to look after him. He might do something...desperate."
Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"
Lestrade stood in silence for a short while, gathering his thoughts. "When you died, Sherlock, it was a hard time for all of us, but nobody took it harder than John. In the first few weeks, he was practically a ghost. It was like a part of him had died with you. He blamed himself, you know. Felt that he had let you down. Nobody could do anything to help him. Remembering him that way still gives me the chills." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "The night after your funeral, in the middle of the night, he called me. He didn't say anything, but I could hear the wind and that eerie silence and I knew that he was at the graveyard. I drove over immediately, and I found him standing next to your grave. He - he was holding a gun to his forehead, Sherlock, and his finger was on the trigger."
Sherlock froze.
"He wasn't even crying, but that just made everything worse. He had this cold, dead look in his eyes, and all he said was I let him die and he's gone. Over and over and over again. If it was torture enough looking at his suffering, I couldn't even begin to imagine what he must be going through. Part of me was tempted to let him pull the trigger, to let him put himself out of his misery. But I came to my senses, of course. I realized that if I let him die, then I'd be failing you. I wrestled the gun from him and drove him to Baker Street, and from that day on, I made Mrs Hudson mix sleeping pills with his water."
Sherlock just stared at him, speechless for a few moments. "Why didn't either of you tell me?"
"I don't think John even remembers it, and I just didn't have the heart to tell you." Lestrade scrutinized Sherlock carefully. "Look, I know you apparently don't have a heart, but I can see it when it breaks for John Watson."
The two men stood in silence for a minute.
"Well, I think I've depressed you enough." Lestrade turned away and began walking down the street, but turned around when Sherlock called after him.
"Lestrade. Thank you."
Lestrade smiled and nodded. For once, he understood all the unspoken thoughts that Sherlock was throwing his way.
Thank you for taking care of him when I couldn't.
Mr Oliver drained his glass and wiped his eyes for the millionth time. "It's devilish hard, you know." he croaked out, "You think you have forever with someone, and then - poof. They're gone."
John nodded sympathetically, feeling slightly impatient. He'd already been talking to Mr Oliver for half an hour, but the man showed no signs of relenting. He kept topping up Mr Oliver's glass in the hope that he would finally fall asleep, but he had only just started slurring.
"Do you have a wife, Dr Watson?"
For the first time that night, John took a deep swig from his untouched glass. "I did." he said quietly.
"Are you divorced?"
"No. She died." John said, voice trembling slightly. "It's just like you said. Here one day, gone the next."
"I'm very sorry to hear that. Do you have any children, then?"
"Yea, a baby daughter."
"How would you feel if she died, too?" Mr Oliver asked. His tears had started rolling again.
John swallowed. He wasn't even prepared to think about losing Rosie. "Like my wife had died all over again, and the world was ending."
Mr Oliver nodded and choked out, "Like there was nothing left worth living for."
John was about to agree, but something stopped him. He thought of Baker Street, with its comforting smells and homely mess. Of the case files that littered the cabinets and the bullet holes that covered the walls. Of his laptop, open on the littered kitchen table, his blog counter blinking. Of lazy winter afternoons spent drinking tea and arguing. Of the detective standing by the window, playing some mournful melody on his violin, lost in thought.
As long as Sherlock Holmes was alive, John would always have something worth living for.
"No." he said, "There's always something." Yardley looked up, and John patted his shoulder. "Your wife and son would've wanted you to keep living. They wouldn't want you to give up."
Mr Oliver was silent for a while, contemplating John's words. "I suppose you're right." he finally said, "Besides, I do have Charlotte."
"Who's that?"
"My daughter by my first wife. Brought Charlie up all by myself, I did. Her mother walked out before the poor baby could even sit up." He held his glass out for a refill. "Charlie was always rather...restless. Once she left for college, she never looked back. I didn't mind much, to be frank. You give a child wings, don't be surprised when they start flapping them. She always checked in with me a few times a year. I'm just sorry she never really got to know Susan and James."
Something clicked in John's brain. "Did she come back for Susan's funeral?"
"Oh, no. Told me she was caught up in some business deal abroad. She came as soon as she heard about James, though. It's the first time she's been home in years."
The two men sat in silence for a while, John constantly refilling Oliver's glass. Finally, he was convinced that Oliver was intoxicated enough. "Er, do you mind if I use the loo?"
"Not at all." Oliver gestured vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.
John was pleased to see that the spare bedroom, where Irene was no doubt staying, was right next to it. He entered quickly and shut the door behind him. He noticed a bed, a dresser, a closet, and a big suitcase. If I were Irene, where would I hide something? he mused. As if on cue, his phone buzzed.
Check the lingerie drawer. Actually, I probably don't need to remind you to do that.
-SH
"Oh, you're a bad man." John muttered. He threw open the closet doors and pulled a random drawer open, mentally apologizing to Mary. He dug around, trying to get the job over with. To his surprise, his fingers touched something hard and papery, and he pulled it out. It was a nondescript brown file, but when he saw what was inside, his eyes widened. On the front page, one word printed in dark black ink glared at him.
SHERRINFORD
As Irene Adler and Sherlock entered the restaurant, Angelo himself stepped forward to greet them. "Ah, Sherlock! How nice to see you again!" he beamed, "Your usual table, I suppose?"
"Yes, thank you, Angelo."
Angelo led them to the table by the biggest window, smile fading slightly as he noticed Irene. He definitely thinks that John is my boyfriend. If only, Sherlock thought. Angelo leaned towards Sherlock and whispered, "Anything you want, anything at all. It's all on the house, of course." Sherlock smiled in acknowledgment, and Angelo bustled away to get the menus.
As Irene settled into a seat, her back to the window, Sherlock's heart gave a pang. That was right where John had been sitting when he'd asked Sherlock if he had a boyfriend, that stupid little smile on his face. I consider myself married to my work, Sherlock had said. Boy, how he regretted that now…
Angelo handed them their menus and left. Sherlock couldn't help but smile when he noticed that there was no mention of a candle or a date.
"So, Sherlock Holmes." Irene said, when they had ordered their food. She smiled demurely at him, and he didn't return it. "What's this really about?"
"Oh, simply two friends having dinner." Sherlock said, "Just like old times."
"I do hope it's not like old times." Irene said, "In old times, your actions got me kicked out of the country."
"No, yours did."
"I would still be running my little business if it weren't for you. Still, you saved my life, so I suppose we're even."
Sherlock scrutinized her. Obviously spent some time abroad. Doesn't stay in the same country for too long. Her latest stint was in France.
She smiled at him. "Ah, you're deducing. Don't worry, I'll tell you everything you could possibly want to know. After all -" she lightly bumped her foot against his leg "- we have all the time in the world."