A/N: I can't believe it's been almost a month since I last posted. I've been travelling every weekend shooting documentaries and haven't had much time to write. But here it finally is! I'm trying my darnedest to keep up with it, mostly because I get grouchy when I don't write enough, but it will probably stay slow. If you don't mind, I appreciate you sticking with me! I've enjoyed my return to fanfiction pretty well so far, so thank you to everyone who has put this on story alert and written reviews. It means a lot!
The hallways of St. Bart's were narrower than he remembered. Technicians fumbled past, but John's head felt cloudy inside these walls and he couldn't really see them.
Mike had asked him to come in. He'd seen photos of John from the morning of the appointment, hunched over on the tube, eyes heavy with red. No one professional had known he'd be there since it had been the first time he'd left the flat, but plenty of people had grabbed quick shots on their phones. He couldn't' blame Mike for wanting to check up on him; the haggard lines of his face were captured from every angle.
The media had seized upon their first chance for speculation. He was the pity story at the ends of news broadcasts: "Misled army veteran John Watson finally emerges from the London flat he shared with detective and con artist Sherlock Holmes." He was the subject of panel discussions: "I think what you're saying is true, there is desolation here, but I'm not sure that it is all grief for a lost friend. I think that this is the posture of a man who has come to grips with a difficult truth, or maybe I'm just saying that because I hope so much that it's true. I want to see John Watson on the road to recovery, I think we all want that." He was almost never mentioned without the accompaniment of Moriarty.
The spidery man grinned and pouted on every channel, always offering up his view of 'poor John's situation.' "You've got to understand, he was taken advantage of at such a vulnerable point in his life. Poor soul, just back from the terrors of war, still a bit, well, you know." He'd wiggle around his leg in a little dance, making the young reporters titter. He'd smile slowly, soaking up their approval like a lizard drinking in the sun.
After the sleepy blinks of a sated appetite, he'd continue spinning his story. "Now, Sherlock Holmes was a truly depraved man, but he took so many people in with his lies, and none as strongly as John Watson. He was, unfortunately, just the prey in a twisted game."
Prey was too pointed a word; John knew he was just a pawn. The king's pet. But when the king was gone and you were bored…The scenario almost made him smile when the chessboard metaphor extended to include Mycroft as the queen.
Mike took John's change in expression as a reaction to a joke he'd made, though the truth was, John had forgotten he was there. "It really was good of you to come here, mate," Mike said, grinning. "We'll have to go for a coffee soon, but you know how it can be, working in a busy place like this."
John nodded, trying to avoid thinking about this place.
"I'm glad we're here today, though. You're better than I saw you last but your recovery isn't as complete as it ought to be."
His head snapped up. He was about to lash out – how soon was a person supposed to completely recover from the sight of their best friend pitching forward off a rooftop's edge? – but Mike added, "I'm going to get you something that should help you finally kick the last of that pneumonia."
"Oh, good. Thanks," said John. He didn't imagine he'd even bother to take it, but Mike didn't need to know that.
His portly friend was standing up, talking about taking a quick walk downstairs to the pharmacy when a slim nurse poked her head into the office. "Dr. Stamford, Mr. Shipton in Ward C needs you right away!"
Mike cursed mildly and dashed off a quick note. He crushed the paper into John's hands and said, "Get Molly to help you, won't you?" With a final swig from his styrofoam cup, he hurried off after the nurse.
Stuffy old Mike Stamford, whom their classmates had used to laugh good-naturedly at for being the most practical, predictable, boring student out of a very serious group of future doctors, was now running off to save lives. The comparison between them was startlingly harsh. Mike Stamford, who had gained some weight and an easy-going humor, was holding a man's life in his hands. John Watson, who had gained a limp and a tremor, held a crumpled prescription for cough syrup. He'd just had too many holes punctured through him; all of the important parts of him were gone. It made sense that the mortuary was his next destination.
His dark thoughts faded as he felt for the briefest of moments that it would be good to see Molly. The flare of warmth sputtered out almost immediately.
She'd seen what he had; she'd first spotted Sherlock's lofty silhouette. She'd be having a rough time of it, too. He knew he should be strong for her, for her more than anyone else, but he was having trouble even standing.
His nerves jangled, pulled back in time, bones grinding below his skin as his body screamed between the desperate need to rush forward and fix it and the gasping hope that somehow, if he stayed stone still, time would harden over. He had never in his life wished more fervently for anything than for the world to be preserved just as it was in that precise second. Somehow, he thought he could have survived if he and Sherlock were just separated by air, but to have earth forever dividing them was too much to bear. John's prayers that day had been enough to stick only himself in time, and the rest of the world moved on at a sickeningly fast pace.
Seeing Molly again was going to be difficult.
Difficult was the right term, he decided, both true and polite, a catchall phrase to explain away all the painful eccentricities that held him apart. Difficult was what he could call the stab of recognition in his chest as he saw that mop of dark hair dart around the corner. Difficult was an adequate description for his efforts to shove his leaping heart back down into place. Sherlock was gone, not traipsing around the corridors of St. Bart's. No matter how difficult that was, he had to accept it.
When he poked his head into the morgue, John watched Molly's face brighten for that first flash of recognition, then darken and pinch as she took in the craggy lines around his eyes.
"Hello," she said, hastily lifting the sheet back over the corpse's face and scooting around the table. "How are you? Well, I mean, is everything alright? Well, I know everything isn't alright, but are most things, besides, you know, alright?"
"Yes, it's okay," he said, saving the girl as her eyes grew horrified by the words snowballing out of her mouth.
They stood awkwardly in the weighty silence of unspoken truths. The normal thing to do would be to exchange more pleasantries, but John could feel that it wouldn't be pleasant for either of them. He extended the prescription and said, "Mike Stamford gave me this, but got busy. Asked if you could help me get it." Then, because it felt right and was true, he added, "It's good to see you," just as she said, "Of course, I'm happy to help."
The walk to the hospital's pharmacy stayed quiet between the two of them. Molly directed overenthusiastic hellos to every coworker passing by and John concentrated on keeping his gait steady. That familiar coat flew up a stairwell and John had to remind himself that it made sense he'd be seeing so much of Sherlock's ghost here, of course it did. It was still just a trick of the eyes.
The girl in the pharmacy was relieved to see them; she practically sprinted out of the room for a break, glad to leave Molly there to run things.
Molly led John back into the supply room, a place that hadn't changed all that much since he'd been a student. The cabinets were sleeker, and even if the pills did a few different things, they all still looked the same.
As Molly counted out the tablets Mike had prescribed, John cast an eye across the glossy labels pasted on the hundreds of bottles. His glance caught hold of a name he recognized, a strong painkiller and sleep aid. It was a drug the medical field had learned to keep away from depressed patients since overdosing on it was so peaceful and easy.
John's fingers closed around a bottle and stuffed it into his pocket.
As they walked back down to the morgue, John kept his hand fisted tightly around the stolen pills to prevent them rattling about. He was sure he didn't plan on using them, not that it'd be a bad thing if he did of course, just painkillers for his leg. No reason for it to be a secret, really. But he knew you had to take more than the prescribed two to handle an ache like this.
Molly smiled at him as she said goodbye, and John wondered how often Sherlock had received such a look, tinted with a sadness the girl didn't think would be seen. A protective surge ran through him, and he wanted to be strong for her. Even now, he was cleaning up Sherlock's social life. The man had been shit at goodbyes.
"I know he didn't show it much, but Sherlock did care for you," John blurted out. "In his way. You know how he is. But you meant something to him."
Her eyes were red and glistening, and her gaze felt pitying instead of comforted.
He stumbled to correct himself. "You know how he was."
"Oh John, I wish I could – " Molly stepped forward and laid a palm on his arm, but his hand clenched on the pill bottle in a heartbeat spasm and he pulled back.
"I should go." He turned away.
"He didn't mean for this to happen, I know he didn't," Molly told him. "He didn't think – "
"A common problem for Sherlock, not thinking." John flinched at the harsh sarcastic rasp of his own voice. "If he could just think things through a little bit more, not let his feelings get in the way of making the cleverest chess move."
He broke off with a cough. Molly tried to move closer, her eyes full.
"I've got to go, I'm sorry," he choked out. He didn't turn back as he rushed away, trying to swallow away the thick pain blocking his throat. He kept his eyes down so he wouldn't see Sherlock's ghost teasing him anymore.
With his gaze on his feet, John walked out of the front doors of St. Bart's and into the shined shoes of Jim Moriarty.