A big thank you to all those who follow, reviewed or favored this story so far! Biggest thanks to my wonderful beta-readers GoSherlocked, Liz Night and Bev for encouragement and everything else.
Reviews would be lovely!
Little sleep and even less food proved to be extremely helpful if you wanted to appear broken. But sitting in your chair while staring at the ground for hours proved to be extremely boring, and even though John was a patient person in general, it really started to get on his nerves after a while.
At first, he was kind of glad about it, as it gave him enough time to consider his next moves. As Sherlock had anticipated, the snipers set on his friends left after a few days. But still, the world needed to believe Sherlock Holmes was dead, giving him the freedom to follow the more important of Moriarty's men as well as a few bad guys that had gotten away in the past. It was therefore necessary to remain mourning.
And so John got regular texts from "Mary", who was obviously enjoying a trip around the world ("Why would people pay that much money to climb a tower that leans?" "Why are people proud of the fact that their dispensable village hosts the world's biggest ball of wool?"), that more often than not included a hidden plea for John to remain mourning.
The problem with considering his next moves was just that there were only so many moves to be accomplished. He would mourn for a while, and then slowly go on with his life, picking up a voluntary job at some charity medical project (no need to earn money with Mycroft keeping John's bank account even, no matter how much money he spent), starting to go out with friends again, but still feeling a certain emptiness in his life...
Shortly after the funeral he had moved out of 221b, declaring it to be too painful to stay, in reality only trying to avoid being under constant surveillance. It had taken Mycroft two days to completely bug John's transition flat, and so, after another two weeks, he had moved back in, pleasing Mrs Hudson beyond words, continuing to be bored, but being able to sleep in his own bed again.
Thankfully, at least during summer John could switch on the TV, pretending to stare but not to watch what was going on, while in truth eagerly following the Olympic Games. He loved the Olympics in general, but never had so much time at hand to see it all. And what Games they had been for Britain! He just needed to remind himself to look sad and indifferent from time to time but really had a great time, at least for a while.
Still, at the end of August, all in all he had too much time at his hands, and so he let his mind wander. Thinking back to the funeral, for example. Held without public announcement, without any member of the press, but with a huge amount of homeless and a very marginal number of friends and family.
John remembered how he had secretly examined Mycroft, who believed that Molly was the only other person around who knew, and Molly, who believed the same. A chill went down his spine when he briefly wondered if there had been someone else examining him, pondering on how John believed that Molly, Mycroft and he himself were the only ones to know... This whole thing was really driving him into paranoia!
He had avoided looking at Greg, who had appeared to be as broken as John, clearly blaming himself for Sherlock´s death, had avoided looking at Mycroft to give the impression of loathing him, had definitely avoided looking at the young homeless man in worn-out jeans and a hoodie, hood drawn deep over his face. In fact, John had been very carefully not paying more attention to him than all the other attendants would.
When it had been time to deliver his eulogy, he had basically repeated his performance from the morgue – starting to say something, then stopping in mid-sentence, unsuccessfully fighting to regain his composure, shaking his head and returning to his seat after less than a minute. Very impressive, obviously, as Mrs Hudson had started sobbing so hard at that point that it had been difficult for John to remain self-centred instead of comforting. He really didn't see how Sherlock was going to soothe her after returning to his normal life – whenever that would be.
John also occasionally thought back to this strange night about five months ago, after their return from Dartmoor. He had gone to bed early, and strangely, so had Sherlock. Eventually, about an hour after falling asleep, he had been woken by a noise coming from Sherlock's bedroom. A muffled scream of a kind John knew only too well. A nightmare. This happened only seldomly, but every time it did John shuddered when he thought about what kind of nightmares such a brilliant mind as Sherlock's must be capable of producing.
That specific night he had pondered on checking on his friend, for this whole hound thing had clearly shaken him deeper than he had cared to admit. But before John had reached a decision, the door to his room had swung open, and Sherlock had been standing there, looking scared. "I had a nightmare!", he had declared only a little too loud, and without waiting for John's reaction had slipped into bed, pressing his belly to John's back, spooning him, leaning so close he could whisper into John's ear quietly.
And then, after dispelling any doubts John had had about the true reason of this...arrangement ("Come ON, John, we are separated only by a thin layer of cotton and an even thinner layer of filament silk. If I were THAT happy to be here you obviously would have noticed by now!"), he had explained to his friend how he had realised the threat Moriarty had been planning on both of the Holmes boys. How he and Mycroft had both figured out that the consulting criminal would be aiming at driving Sherlock into suicide after publicly destroying him, and how they were planning to outwit him.
And how Jim would surely use John's life to put the necessary pressure on Sherlock. How most unfortunately Mycroft had realized that Sherlock was not likely to survive the blow John's death would deal him. And how Mycroft had therefore threatened to stop helping his little brother if he would tell John about their plan to fake Sherlock's death. How Sherlock had had to wait for the bug in this room to break down, giving them one surveillance-free night to plan everything without Mycroft's knowledge, given that they would whisper low enough not to be picked up by the bug in the corridor.(The only alternative had been finding a reason to take a shower together or some other activity inside the bathroom, and John had been really happy that Sherlock decided against that!)
And so Sherlock had laid out the plan. He would accept a couple of boring but impressive cases, like this thing about that picture that had gone missing, cases the press would pick up eagerly. By that he would give the writers a chance to lift him up, so Moriarty would later have a well-founded base for making Sherlock fall from grace.
Mycroft would release the criminal from prison soon, enabling him to make his next move. The two brothers were planning on making it look like they had drifted apart even further, so no-one would guess they were up to something together.
Unfortunately, Sherlock had explained, that would also imply that Mycroft would contact John more often than not, in order to ask or beg or blackmail or force him to take care for Sherlock while pretending not to talk to his younger brother momentarily, warning him of the events to come. John had flinched at the idea of lying straight faced to Mycroft, but then... If he could lie to a Holmes, there was no need to worry about any threat Moriarty could make up, right?
Afterwards it had been almost impossible to discuss the whole affair again, only a few muttered sentences with their backs to the CCTV here, a hushed whisper in a very dark part of London there...It was incredible how tight Mycroft´s and Moriarty´s surveillance nets really were. So when it finally started, John had had to largely manoeuvre on instinct, but obviously, everything had worked out as well as expected.
After the catching of Peter Ricoletti John had dared to start a discussion with Sherlock in front of the cameras and bugs in their living room, pretending to want his friend to keep a lower profile, knowing full well that the increased presence in the media was exactly what Sherlock had been aiming at, but also knowing that Mycroft would sooner or later have started to wonder why John wasn't warning his friend. And so, as so often, John had bravely soldiered on: "The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you." Sherlock had chimed in without the slightest twitching of his face, and Mycroft had obviously bought it.
Finally, after sitting and staring for another eternity, John decided that it was time to move on. In November he found a job in a charity clinic that took care of the homeless, pretended to make his peace with Greg and spent a couple of nights at the pub with him, both of them getting first drunk and then extremely sentimental, even met Molly twice, but always was sorry for how uncomfortable she felt for lying to him. He came by Mrs Hudson regularly, allowing her to shower him with all her caring energy, sharing memories of Sherlock, always feeling guilty. Lying to her was the worst part of it all.
He always made sure to look sad on his way home (for Mycroft and his CCTV), refused to deal with attempted suicides at the clinic (because he knew he definitely wouldn't be able to do so had Sherlock really jumped to his death in front of his eyes) and spent enough time in his chair at home, doing nothing. He never touched his blog again, dutifully lied to Ella (who really was a terrible therapist, for she never realised he was lying) and gave away some of Sherlock's things, knowing only too well Mycroft would secretly acquire those that were important to his brother.
It was a shame that John couldn't sell the violin for Christmas. He knew Sherlock must be missing it badly, but they had agreed that mourning John would not give it away too lightly. A good thing that Mrs Hudson had donated the microscope to a school while John was living at his transition flat!
One week in January John strained his ankle when he tripped over the laptop he had forgotten in front of his bed. He limped through his daily routine, wondering why everybody was THAT sympathetic for him. It took him three days to figure out that all people knowing him had naturally assumed that his psychosomatic limp had returned.
A visit from Harry in March had proved to be even more embarrassing. John had always made a huge fuss over not touching anything in Sherlock's bedroom, and so the otherwise neat room was left with an unmade bed. Searching for a book she had once given to her brother's flatmate, Harry saw the bed and was almost moved to tears.
"Oh John, you don't have to be ashamed. I can't even recall how many nights I spent in Clara's bed after she had left me..." Afterwards John didn't know whether to laugh or to fume, but with all cameras set on him had to decide to skip the reaction at all. Still, what the hell were they all thinking?
Then, one rainy April night, the boring routine was broken up rather dramatically. A text from "Mary" had told John that his hunt had brought Sherlock to Madrid ("Honestly, why not just admit that it is a greenhouse? A train station is where TRAINS are!"), and John had envied his friend for being active while he himself was forced to a life of uninspired boredom.
John had turned in not too late that night, but with the intention of getting up before dawn, still depriving himself from his usual seven hours of sleep to support his mourning appearance and had fallen into a dreamless state of unconsciousness when the vibrating alarm of his secret mobile suddenly woke him up. He was wide awake instantly. Sherlock! It was understood that he would only call in cases of extreme emergency. Whatever it was, it was not good.
John hurried to the bathroom and barely thought about opening the tap to drown his voice before answering the call. "What happened? Are you all right?" he asked without ceremony, wilfully trying to sound not half as panicky as he felt. But when he heard Sherlock´s voice, he instantly knew he had every reason to panic. "John! I... Yes, yes, all right. Just...Hi!"
John quickly checked the clock next to the mirror cabinet. He knew they only had a few minutes before they had to disconnect the line for safety reasons. "Sherlock," he said, trying sound reassuring and reasonable, knowing his chance of breaking through his friend´s barriers were slim at best, "what happened?" "Um...nothing. No, nothing. I just...I've finished the job in Madrid."
And then John understood. "You had to kill someone," he stated, and felt his stomach clench when Sherlock's silence confirmed his concerns. Damn. He had been afraid that this would happen, eventually. He knew that Sherlock was a very skilled fighter, but somehow, despite all of the dangerous cases he had accepted over the years, had never before been forced to take someone's life. And obviously dealing with that turned out to be very hard.
"I'm sorry" John said plainly, and forced himself to wait for a response before going on. It seemed like an eternity before he heard Sherlock's voice again: "I had to. It was her or me, and so I stabbed her." Incredible how lost he sounded. John closed his eyes, feeling a wave of sympathy washing over him. He clearly remembered the first time he had been forced to take someone's life, and how long he had struggled with the aftermath. No one should be alone after that.
"Damn, I wish I could be with you", he said, knowing that it was not supposed to happen. "Me, too," Sherlock admitted quietly. A confession of their friendship, so rare that John could count them on the fingers of just one hand.
Damn Mycroft. John should have been there, with Sherlock, the whole time. He should have been the one to kill that person. Forcing them to separate might protect John, but it obviously didn't protect Sherlock. Had Mycroft considered that, too? John doubted it. He eyed the clock once more. Their safe time was nearly over. "Sherlock, promise me not to do anything stupid tonight, will you? Sherlock?" But the line had already been disconnected.
Damn, damn, damn. This was not good. This was really, definitely not good. John took a deep breath, steeled himself, and went to the living room to pick up his official mobile.
Mycroft Holmes didn't like surprises.
He had grown up in a sheltered, surprise-free home. His father had been loving, but very busy with his minor position in the British government, and Mummy would get a migraine over every unexpected disruption of her life. So every day was carefully planned, every inconvenience carefully avoided due to his father's influence and his mother's social involvements. Simple people would have referred to these tactics as manipulative or even cruel, but Mycroft had learned to rely on the predictability of his daily routine.
At least, that had been the case until his little brother had been born when he himself had been seven. Sherlock brought countless surprises to Holmes Manor, and the biggest surprise of all had been the fact that Mycroft started to like the feeling.
He was surprised at how much he could love this little bundle, all eyes and thick black hair, at first sight. He was surprised how good it felt to be admired by the five-year old boy who clearly stated that he wanted to be exactly like Mycy when he grew up. He had been surprised at how much the seven-year old boy needed him when their father died, leaving them to the well-protected, yet unloving life with Mummy.
But then, just when Mycroft had made up his mind and decided that he loved all those surprises Sherlock brought to his life, he had been surprised again, this time at how much Sherlock loathed him for leaving home after finishing school. He was surprised how much it hurt him that the twelve-year old boy barely looked at him the next Christmas, still sulking over being abandoned with Mummy and the usually large variety of nannies and ever-changing private teachers.
He was surprised at how much it hurt to see the twenty-year old young man throwing away talent and spirit for the short-term relief drugs seemed to offer him, nearly throwing away his life more often than they both dared to admit afterwards. He was surprised at how bitter it felt when they both had realised what a threat Sherlock´s friendship might be for the poor doctor, once Moriarty was given the chance to detect how deep this fondness really went.
No, Mycroft Holmes didn't like surprises. So when his phone rang late that evening, he was far from amused.
"John," he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. He felt bad whenever he met the good doctor, whose rage at Mycroft limited their encounters drastically. The apology offered to John in the stranger's room of the Diogenes Club had been heart-felt, even though John had had no way of knowing what Mycroft had been apologizing for that day.
The overwhelming guilt had surprised him so much that in a feeble attempt to ease John's pain at least a little he had persuaded the other countries' spokesmen to let Britain win a lot more medals at the Olympics than he had originally intended. That meant no Nobel prizes for Great Britain in return for quite a while, but then John had never been too interested in them, so be it.
"Mycroft," John said, and he instantly started to analyse the subliminal message of the good doctor's call. He sounded worried about something. Interesting. He knew John despised him deeply since Sherlock's "death," so every reason to call the remaining Holmes brother must be alarming, at least to John's simple mind. "You once said if I ever needed something I should call you..." John elaborated. "Indeed, it was at the funeral," Mycroft replied, curious where this was leading. He had already made up five different explanations for the call and several alternative solutions to John's probable requests, but the actual reason hit him completely by surprise.
"Um," John said, in his unique, urgent, yet as unobtrusive as possible way, "I don't know how critical the situation is, but I think you should intensify your surveillance on Madrid tonight. If this isn't a danger night, I don't know what one should be!"
And for the first time in many, many years, Mycroft was speechless.
Then, of course, his mind leapt down this new road, sorting out quite a few little details he had apparently missed during the past nine months, especially during the two times he had been alone with John at the Diogenes Club, making several decisions, and he had already sent four texts to some of his subordinates, when he remarked: "John, you really have been forced through so much pain, and you are fighting so hard to handle your, um, mourning. Everybody in your proximity will surely understand that you need a few days off to...clear your mind. The hospital has already been informed that you have spontaneously left the country for a little...rest period abroad. Don't bother with packing, you will be provided with everything you'll need. My car has already left to bring you to the airport."
It was not hard for Mycroft to recognise that John' reply was honest: "Thank you, Mycroft!" He knew that with this call, John Watson might have saved Sherlock's life. Once more. Still, surprises were nothing he appreciated in general.