The cab is almost to Sherlock's hotel before John even thinks about what he's going to say, to do.
Find him first, and then what? Pray he even knows who John is anymore?
John has spent the last half hour researching the various treatments that Lacuna Inc offer. From what he can gather, Sherlock has opted for the memory cleanse No2 option : specific traumatic event(s) and/or individual(s). Not the horrors of torture in Serbia, the trauma of the fall and their two year separation, but him, John Watson, Sherlock's best, and at one time, only friend.
He thought they'd withstand anything so long as they were together, a unit. But that's the point now, isn't it. They aren't together anymore and now Sherlock wants to make it so they never have been. What other memories will this procedure take - all of them? Every time they were together, all the things they did, the crimes they solved, quiet times alone in the flat, two lives that fit together almost seamlessly, or had done once?
Or will John simply disappear like a ghost, leave the memory intact with him no longer part of it, a hazy recollection that someone else was there too, time warping and reshaping around a brand new reality.
Sherlock never had been very good with feelings, though, had he. The last time he'd been in such dire emotional straits resulted in his discovery in a crack den for fucks sake. John hates himself a little for wishing that was all it was. A drug addiction he can cope with, it's what he's trained to cope with. You can't be an urban GP and not see it every single day of the week.
For the first time in four years a spasm of pain lances through John's leg and he grips the leather seat of the cab in anguish. He wills himself to ignore it.
Taking out his phone he thumbs through the contacts until he reaches Sherlock's number. God knows why he hasn't done this sooner. But a quick scan through the call history reminds him, Sherlock has deliberately ignored all of John's calls for the past three weeks and barely responds to his texts. The last was six days ago. (Dinner at 8pm – please come JW - Busy, difficult case SH). Not a 'sorry', not an 'another time maybe', a very definite brush-off, John knew the difference, he wasn't stupid. And it hurt, ridiculously, a heavy empty feeling had settled in his chest that night that even three beers and a bottle of wine couldn't cut through. Later, in bed with Mary, the weight of the lie crushing him, carving out a hole in his chest and filling it with molten lead, he knew this wasn't what he wanted and never had been. It was Sherlock, it always had been, right from that very first moment.
On cue his vibrates, Mary. Don't forget Mike and Claire coming for dinner x
Damn it. Sorry, something came up, see you tomorrow x
Tomorrow? WTF John, it's him again isn't it?
His fingers hover over the keys as he thinks: The web of lies around this whole stupid mess, Mary, Sherlock, his sham of a marriage, losing his best friend. No, John thinks, she doesn't get to make him feel guilty about this, not this time, not when she's the reason John almost lost him for a second time. Hell the fact that they're still married isn't good enough for her – Sherlock has to destroy his own mind because he can't stand to remember the time when it was just them.
The two of us against the rest of the world.
He types out his answer. Sherlock needs me.
His fingers hover over the 'x' for a second. He decides against it, tonight it feels like a lie, presses send.
In the end, he decides against sending a message to Sherlock, doesn't want the bastard running out on him before he gets there. And he would too. He'd magic a cab from the ether like he normally does and take off without a single word. No, best just take him by surprise.
The hotel is small, quiet, and not what John expects for a man wedded to designer shirts and bespoke tailored suits. The driver has to ask in the end, the sat nav having directed him down a narrow lane that ends in a fence with an old fashioned stile and some rather scary looking Aberdeen Angus cows. It reminds him of the Cross Keys, with its pretty thatched roof and white-washed walls. Inside too, a low ceilinged room divided into two distinct areas, a bar with small tables, booths and stools, leading through to a dining area with larger wooden tables and an inglenook fireplace. If Sherlock is trying to forget, this is hardly the most logical place to do it in.
Friends? I don't have friends.
Yes you do.
John steadies himself for a moment in the doorway, takes a deep calming breath and approaches the bar.
"Sorry, erm, I'm looking for a friend of mine, he's a guest here, he just arrived this afternoon….Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."
"Give us a sec love." The woman behind the bar, the owner he assumes, pulls a test pint from the pump marked real ale, frowns at the murky, foaming mess in the glass and tips it out with a sigh.
"Don't suppose you know how to change a barrel love?" John shakes his head in apology. "Never mind". She thumbs through a ledger by the old-fashioned till, running her finger down the entries for that day. "Now," she says, pausing part way down the page, "It says here, no visitors, no phone calls – messages only. Sorry love, was he expecting you?"
"No," John sighs, "No he wasn't….and I don't suppose you have a room for the night?"
The woman shakes her head. "Full up I'm afraid." John feels his face crumple. All this sodding way and he won't even get to speak to the idiot. "But the dinner service starts in twenty minutes, there's a few tables spare, if you're not in a hurry to get back, that is?" She smiles conspiratorially.
It's a long shot. Sherlock's eating habits are notoriously sporadic and he might not even make an appearance. But it's the best John can do for now, so he books for a seven o'clock table, buys a pint and some crisps, and takes a seat by the window in the bar area to wait.
By seven thirty he's seated in the dining room, feeling conspicuous and alone, sipping on a double whiskey while he waits for his order to arrive. All thoughts of food fade however, when an achingly familiar figure takes a seat on the opposite side of the room. The tables for two run along both walls, the tables for four or more in clusters in the centre , and with the dining room almost at capacity, it would be easy to miss him all together. He looks….different, somehow, no jacket, the sleeves of his soft blue shirt turned up to the elbows. He smiles at the waitress, the low rumble of his voice as he places his order resonates in John's chest all the same. John's eyes barely leave him as their food arrives and they begin to eat, Sherlock clearing his plate with enthusiasm, pouring glass after glass from the wine on his table. He orders coffee too, content to sit alone and just be, thumbing absently through his phone, and rising once to retrieve a newspaper from a stand by the Inglenook. He looks relaxed, in a way that John has only ever witnessed in 221b on the lazy days after a case with nothing to do and nowhere in particular to be.
He should be happy, John thinks. When he'd come here half-expecting …..god, he doesn't know what he'd expected in reality. I certainly hadn't been this. Maybe Sherlock didn't need him, or even the memory of him. John was wrong. Mycroft was wrong. Sherlock had done the right thing.
John walks back through to the bar to wait for his cab back to London.
"You talk to your young man?" the barmaid asks as he pulls his coat on.
"Er, no, I think I'll just leave it thanks."
"Any message love?" she smiles.
"No, no message" John answers, pushing through the outer door and walking out into a damp, drizzly night.