John entered 221B to find Mycroft seated in his armchair, looking as bored as ever. He dumped his shopping on the kitchen table and carefully took Rosie from Sherlock.
"I'll send you the necessary papers by tonight." Mycroft was saying, "The helicopter will meet you at the usual place. I really must get going now. A tempting evening of absolute inactivity awaits me." He nodded at John and headed out, straightening a pile of books as he went.
"Sherlock. We're going to Sherrinford tomorrow, aren't we?"
"Yes."
"Should've known you weren't exactly planning a beach trip." John said, smirking slightly as he laid Rosie back in her cot.
"Sherrinford is a beach."
"Anyone I should say goodbye to?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be melodramatic. We'll be completely safe. I really doubt Harry would miss you if you vanished for a day."
"You remember my sister?" John asked, a little astonished.
"You remember mine."
"Yea, she's a little hard to forget."
Sherlock laughed. "Have you got any theories?"
"What, you're asking me? You'll just snub me and say that I'm wrong."
"I won't. It helps to have a fresh opinion."
"Oh, all right." John settled into his armchair. "Charlotte Oliver was incarcerated in Sherrinford a long time ago, but she got out. She wanted to clear away all traces of her past life, so she somehow stole the file and changed her name to Irene Adler. That's my theory."
"Not bad." Sherlock admitted, "But as always, Watson, you ignore the possible in favour of the probable. Your limited human vision is clouded, whereas I view the affair with crystal clarity."
"Knew it." John said under his breath. "What's your theory, then?"
"Can't tell you until I compound it. To do that, I need to take the Woman to Sherrinford. We'll have the element of surprise on our side."
"How do you know she'll agree to go off into the unknown with you? Have you even asked her out on a second date?"
"No, but I took her pulse."
Sherlock couldn't sleep.
The only way his theory would help the case would be if someone at Sherrinford had a bone to pick with Irene. Even then, why would this someone murder her stepbrother, when she clearly didn't care about him? Who would go to such lengths to psychologically scar Yardley Oliver? All of Sherlock's background research had revealed that the man had no enemies. And yet, such an intricately planned crime certainly couldn't be a random one. Sherlock hated the feeling of grasping at straws, but he realized he was doing exactly that.
He slid off the couch and started preparing a cup of tea. He had somehow convinced John to take the bed for another night, but he knew it wouldn't last, and he would eventually get forced back into his own room. He wondered if he should ask John to share with him, but he knew John would refuse, especially after what had happened last time…
The night that they got back from their first visit to Sherrinford, John had forced Sherlock to spend the night at his house. Since 221B was in ruins and Mycroft was spending the night in the hospital on Lestrade's insistence, Sherlock was in no position to refuse. Both John and Sherlock were too worn out to sleep on the cramped couch, so they'd ended up settling on far edges of the bed. However, dawn found them curled up in the same blanket, a little too close for comfort. Sherlock had no qualms - it had kept his nightmares at bay - but John sprang out of bed and muttered something about 'checking on Rosie'. Neither of them mentioned it after that, and Sherlock was convinced that John had forgotten all about it.
As Sherlock headed towards his violin case, he was distracted by a muffled sob from his bedroom. He frowned. Rosie was sleeping peacefully in a cot near the couch. Did that mean…?
He softly pushed open the door and entered his bedroom. In the semi-darkness, he could just about make out a lump on the bed. "John?" he asked softly.
"I'm fine." came the muffled reply, but John's voice was hoarse with pain. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he should leave John alone, but realized that he'd been doing that all too often lately. He softly padded to the bed.
"I'm the world's best consulting detective, John. You can't fool me." he said. He reached out to touch John's shoulder, and John jumped.
"Christ, Sherlock, you're freezing! Get inside the blanket."
Sherlock hesitated.
"Oh, for god's sake. I won't have you freeze to death just for the sake of my sexuality. Just get in, alright?"
Sherlock slid into the blanket, trying not to sigh with relief as his sore muscles hit the soft mattress. He was glad for the warmth radiating off John as they lay there, John staring up at the ceiling, Sherlock on his side, facing him. He finally broke the silence. "Is it Mary?"
"Yes." John said hoarsely, "Talking to Oliver yesterday...but it's not just Mary. It's you, too."
Sherlock was about to ask him what he meant, but decided it was better to keep his mouth shut for once and let John take things at his own pace.
"This may sound like an insult to her memory, but if I'm honest with myself, then what I'm going through right now is nothing compared to the aftermath of your fall. Nothing. In a way, your death was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because I found Mary. A curse, because I lost you."
"There was a funeral, you know. We kept it small and personal. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft. A veiled woman who I think was Irene Adler. A handful of your homeless network. I was one of the pallbearers. The coffin was empty, apparently, but it was still one of the heaviest things I've ever carried."
"For weeks after that, the only places I left Baker Street for were the graveyard, the therapist's, and work. I'd go out for a walk sometimes, but I invariably ended up in front of St. Bart's, replaying your fall in my mind. Wondering what I could've done to stop it. Staring at the pavement like I expected you to pop out of the granite. I barely ate and almost never slept. In fact, I think Mrs Hudson took to drugging me after a while."
Sherlock remembered Lestrade's words. From that day on, I made Mrs Hudson mix sleeping pills with his water.
"That was even worse, because if I slept, I dreamt about you. I dreamt that you were alive and we were solving some stupid case together, and I'd always wake up right before you told me the solution. Then I would have to deal with the echoing emptiness of the flat. People say that misery dulls everything - what was that phrase? Ah, 'tinges it with grey'. It was the opposite for me. Everything was too bright and too loud. I remember thinking, how can the world still turn? Sherlock Holmes is dead."
"Eventually, I moved out of Baker Street. I started going out more, getting in touch with old friends, a few meaningless dates here and there. But nothing ever stuck. No-one ever stayed. They all treated me like I was made of china, but nobody wanted to be around when the china broke. I couldn't even bring myself to care about them. The only person I really cared about was dead. But then I met Mary."
"It wasn't like I met her and turned into a happy hobbit right off the bat. I was never completely okay until you came back. But when we started going out, the colours dulled a little. Food became somewhat edible. There were times when I almost wasn't sad. The best thing about Mary? She didn't make me hide my grief. She made me face it. I've lost count of how many dates I ruined because something or the other set me thinking about you."
There was a long silence. For once, Sherlock was at a complete loss for words. When he finally spoke, he had to keep hard to keep his voice even.
"Did I ever tell you what really happened on that rooftop?"
John shook his head.
"Moriarty threatened to kill Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and you if I didn't jump. There were guns trained on you, ready to go off unless Moriarty's men saw me fall. After that, there were so many times when I wanted to reach out to you, but it was never safe enough. I worried that you might say something indiscreet, let the cat out of the bag. I was scared that Moriarty's men might be lurking around, and if word of my deception reached them, you'd be their prime target. Everyone had to think I was dead. I had to dismantle every strand of his web before I could come back without endangering you. Forgive me, John Watson. I had no choice."
John shifted a little closer to him, and it was a long time before he spoke.
"Of course I forgive you, Sherlock. I mean, you're a git and all that, but everything else about you makes up for it. I know this is childish, but I still have trouble believing you're around. Still can't walk by St. Bart's too often. Still wake up in a cold sweat, a vision of your blood-streaked face burnt into my retina. Still have to - " John's voice trembled a little "-check that you're breathing."
"John. Look at me."
John turned on his side to face Sherlock, and Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. John was trying to put on his best I'm a soldier face, but Sherlock knew him well enough to see through it. He had definitely never imagined that his death had such a profound effect on John. He slowly took John's hand and put it on his chest, right over his heart.
"There." Sherlock said softly, "Fully functioning, you see?"
John smiled slightly and closed his eyes, letting his hand stay where it was. "If you ever try anything like that fall again, Sherlock Holmes," he mumbled, "I swear, I will kill you."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Sherlock said.
He was getting a little worried that John would notice his elevated heart rate, but he could also see that John was starting to doze off. Not wanting to disturb him, he lay perfectly still, still holding John's hand to his chest. Long after John's peaceful snores had filled the room, Sherlock lay there, mulling over his words. He could've stayed with John for an eternity, but he could hear Rosie sniffling from the sitting room, so he carefully disentangled himself.
When he bent over Rosie's cot, she reached out and wiped away his tears.
Sherlock and John stood on the tarmac outside a helicopter, collars turned up against the wind. The tension between them was so palpable Sherlock could've cut it with a knife. After the emotional outbursts of the previous night, neither could look the other in the eye. When John finally spoke, it was a welcome reprieve from the awkward silence they'd shared all morning.
"So. We're off to Azkaban."
Sherlock looked at him blankly.
"Azkaban, Sherlock. The prison...wait a minute. You haven't read or seen Harry Potter?"
Sherlock shook his head, John stared at him in disbelief, and they lapsed into awkward silence once again.
"Thank you." John finally said.
Sherlock turned to look at him, finally making eye contact. "For what?"
"For last night. It would've been a bad night if you hadn't been around."
Sherlock managed a small smile. So John didn't regret anything he had said, and he wasn't going to ignore it either. "That's what friends do, isn't it? Comfort and console each other. I've always wondered about the co-dependency of human relationships - "
John cut him off. "Yea, all right, you twat. You have to take your bedroom back now. I'm not a world-famous detective, but I can still tell that the couch isn't really suiting you."
Sherlock knew that there was no arguing this time. He let out an exasperated huff. "Fine."
A car pulled up, and Irene Adler stepped out, a hint of curiosity on her face. "I hope I'm not third wheeling." she said, "Any idea where we're going?"
John smiled at her, and Sherlock glimpsed at least a hint of evil in his eyes.
"It's a surprise."
The intercom crackled with static.
"Miss Holmes, you're going to have visitors today."
Eurus smiled to herself. Sherlock, obviously; he would bring John Watson. If everything had gone to plan, Charlotte - whoops, Irene - would be with him as well. She took the violin from its hatch and lovingly cleaned the bow. Did Mycroft really think that a few Christmas treats could make up for years of incarceration? Oh, how she wanted to drive this very violin through his skull. Not that she ever got the chance; Mycroft never visited her, except when their parents forced him to.
She drifted into one of her sadder, less active moods. Hours later, she was cheered by the sight of her brother emerging from the lift. As John Watson stepped out from behind him, her eyes lingered over the bandage on his hand and the light scar on his forehead.
Excellent.
A/N: It's been 2 seasons and I'm still not over the Reichenbach Fall T_T This is me trying to give myself closure.
Till next Wednesday.