The Charred Remains
Chapter 11: We All Know The Consequences
A/N: How excited are you guys for this chapter? Probably not as excited as me to write it! I'm actually excited because writing those letters was so hard! I hope you guys enjoy! Please let me know! Also, bonus chapter today for you guys being so amazing and holding on even when I take five hundred years to update! Not betaed because I wanted to get this up for you guys tonight! The next two chapters will be betaed though! Grizziesmom and MeddlingAdler are so amazing! You can find them on!
John put the last letter back into the shoebox. It had taken him well over four days to get through all the letters. He had to stop a lot because all the words made his head ache, but mostly…they made him feel oddly empty, like he was missing a huge part of his life, the part that seemed to account for most of his happiness. Each time he'd read about something he and…and Jim had done together, he'd close his eyes and try to picture it, try to bring it forth from whatever dark recesses of his mind it was hidden away in. For the life of him, whenever reading the things Jim wrote of, he felt nothing more than a lonely ache.
All John knew was his attraction to women. There was nothing in his head or heart that pulled him towards the male part of his species. Even when he'd think of men, after finding out he'd married one, nothing sparked in him. His thoughts of women, all the ones he'd been with while in school and the army caused something to stir within him, nothing, save for an encounter of experimentation with a uni mate and some army mates, made him account for the fact he'd married a man, not a woman. John could only hope that this Jim he was married to was an understanding soul, and wouldn't push him to feel something when they were reunited.
Between waking, reading, and eating, John also learned what it was that had actually happened to him. It seems he was leaving a pub after a night out with his old rugby mates when he was mugged. He was corned in a dark alley, typical he thought, and had apparently tried to play hero, as was his naught. He'd steadfastly refused to hand over his wallet, which earned him a good whollap to his stomach which caused him to double over. As he was bent over one of the men cracked him across his back with a slim, wooden pole. From that point forward the event was a bit fuzzy because the police gathered information from a few witnesses, and none had actually seen the entire event. None of the attackers were captured. John himself couldn't even piece together the occasion…he didn't remember any of it.
John learned that he was rescued by another group of patrons who'd stepped out of the pub and heard his pained cries. They scared off the attackers, only to find John passed out and bleeding. They'd called 999 immediately, an ambulance collecting the army doctor from the alley and bringing him to the hospital. He was in Bart's for a week before Jim intervened and had him transferred to a more lucrative, and strangely, very private hospital so that John could get nothing but the best care and attention. He also learned that he'd actually woke while at Bart's, and upon doing so was when Jim stepped in, transferring him to a hospital John still had yet to learn its name. Some of the doctor's methods also left something to be desired, in John's opinion.
John might have lost a good chunk of his memories, but he'd never met a doctor who seemed so nervous all of the time. Each time Dr. Ward came to speak with him, he seemed shaken. John was in no position to really comment on it, but something about the man just seemed…strange. The nurse, however, was always lovely. She greeted John with a smile each morning, and talked to him as if he hadn't lost the last few years of his life. She did seem to like to go on and on about 'his' Jim and how lovely he was. She also supplied John with a rather detailed description of the man who was supposedly his husband. There was an image of the man in his head, but it was fuzzy, like a camera out of focus. Try as he might, John could never seem to get the image in complete focus. The strangest part of it all, however, was the dreams that would plague him each night he closed his eyes.
At night John was tormented with dreams. In his dreams he was running through the streets of London, a man at his side. He couldn't make out much of the man next to him, because for some reason John could not turn his head. All he could use was his peripheral vision, and even then that left a lot to be desired. He caught the color blue, accompanied by swishing black. All in all it meant nothing to him. The phantom feeling of adrenaline and danger left him wanting, but for what he wasn't sure. There were also other figures in is dream, but like the image he held of Jim in his mind, they were all out of focus. Their voices muffled, as if John was lying at the bottom of a lake, looking up at all these figures huddled around him. No one seemed to want to reach out to him, content to just let him drown. That dream woke him, left him gasping and coughing, then aching in his broken body.
To be completely honest, the biggest annoyance in his life currently was his feeling of helplessness. Due to his broken leg, broken ribs, and severe concussion, John was sentenced to bed rest until further notice, something he didn't completely agree with, but complied to anyways. He couldn't recall anything past his painful plane ride home with a hole in his shoulder, and the walls he was confined to because his army pension couldn't buy him anything else. It was all very depressing. John's memories ended in despair, and his life now was depressing.
John was pulled from his thoughts when Kirsty opened his door, clipboard in her hand as always. John offered her a small smile, the shoebox resting next to him. He was rather surprised he'd gotten through all twenty five letters in just four days. Kirsty as well seemed to be surprised by the feat.
"Good morning Mr. Watson," she greeted, the little lilt of an Irish accent making his name sound more exotic.
"Morning Kirsty," he greeted, and no matter how often he'd asked her to call him only John, she never seemed to comply.
"So, now that you've finished the letters, you think you can face the man who wrote them?" she inquired, going to his IV bag, switching it out with a plump new one.
John sighed, his gaze going to his hands folded together in his lap. He'd been continually nervous of meeting his…husband, but knew it would have to be done one day; the problem there was that the days seemed to start passing faster, as if the universe itself was ready to bring him and Jim back together.
"I suppose I haven't much of a choice, yeah?" he said, trying for a bit of humour as he looked up at her.
She looked up from his chart, sad smile on her lips, "Oh luv, you make it sound like you're being led to the gallows. He really is a sweet man, a bit timid, but he cares so deeply for you," she sighed the last bit wistfully. The way she prattled one about Jim made John curious about her own feelings towards the mystery man—his husband.
John sighed again, picking now at the blanket that covered the lower half of his body, "I'm only nervous. I haven't really wrapped my mind around the fact that I'm married to a man…but it seems we've had a lovely life together," he said, raising his head to look at Kirsty, glad to see she was smiling again.
"Maybe seeing him with help to refresh that scrambled brain of yours yeah?" she commented absently, going back into the hall to collect the breakfast that was sent up from the cafeteria for him.
"Well, that's what I'm hoping. We've shared such a history together, I don't see how seeing him couldn't spark something," he replied as she came back into the room, setting his tray on the moveable table attached to his bedside.
Kirsty remained standing at the end of his bed, just smiling at him. John looked up from peeling his lime jelly open, his brows furrowed curiously at her. Usually she was gone from his room at this point, tending to whatever other patients needed her.
"What is it?" he asked her, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he set the jelly down, breakfast now forgotten.
Her smile widened, but she remained silent. John was even more worried at this point. He kept his pointed gaze on her. She seemed to be vibrating, oddly, but continued to say nothing before quickly turning and exiting the room. John let out a breath, very gently shaking his head at her antics. He went back to his jelly, pulling the foil all the way off before sinking his spoon into the wiggly green mass. He had just put the spoon into his mouth when a faint knock sounded at his door. John quickly swallowed the jelly.
"What now Kirsty, got some more gossip to share?" he called, a smirk lighting his lips as he waited for the female to come back into his room.
"Ah, uhm…no gossip here," a very male voice responded, his accent hinting at Irish roots just as Kirsty's had, though this one held a stronger presence.
John snapped his head up, hissing in pain with the sudden and jarring motion. His heart pounded against his ribs. Somehow, for some reason, he remembered that voice.
"Jim Moriarty, hi!"
"J-Jim?" he breathed, curling his hands into the sheets to hide the sudden tremors that overtook them.
The body that belonged to the voice stepped fully into the room. He wasn't overly tall, but a good inch or two taller than John. His face squared near the forehead, but tapered into a more triangular point at his chin. His skin was fair, free of any blemishes, and the hair atop his head was a dark brown. It was cut neatly, kept short and gelled back. There was a hint of stubble on his top lip and along his jaw over his chin. His mouth was small, but his lower lip was plump, the sight of it causing a peculiar jolt of something to race down John's spine. Next were the eyes, their color reminding John of sweet chocolates. They were soft, kind, bordered by a few small wrinkles of worry. Overall he looked unassuming, and John had to admit, adorable. He wore a plain white tee with a grey cardigan over it. His jeans were well worn, fading around the knees and along the seams.
"Oh, John," the man breathed, a smile brightening his face showing off shiny white teeth. For some reason a sudden image of a shark flashed through John's head.
John cleared his throat, nerves now getting the best of him. He hadn't a clue what to say to this man. He tried to grasp anything, but words failed him. He watched as Jim slowly walked around the bed, coming to stand at John's hip. He was fiddling with his nails, absently picking at them while his eyes moved over John's prone body.
"I'm sorry," John blurted, making Jim jump and turn his big, brown eyes on him. John looked away with a blush. He felt sudden warmth on his upper arm, most likely Jim's hand, trying to offer comfort, but it was gone quickly.
"You have nothing to be sorry for John," Jim stated, his voice catching slightly, his nerves showing.
John looked up, a sad smile on his lips, "I can't remember anything. I don't remember you, and I don't remember much of what's in the letters. I'm sorry for that, and the pain is must cause you," he clarified for Jim.
Jim shot him a nervous smile before pulling a chair to John's bedside and dropping down rather gracefully to sit. He bent his head to look at his fingers in his lap, "It's not your fault John. The doctor has assured me you should remember little by little. I just…I wanted the letters to prepare you for seeing me…getting used to the idea of being married…uhm…to a man."
John smiled. So far he wasn't sure why he'd initially felt frightened of meeting Jim face to face. "Hey, I admit, it was rather startling to wake up and find out, but…we'll get through it yeah?"
Jim looked up; his eyes shimmering with what John could only guess were tears. He scooted forward, placing his hand more confidently on John's arm, squeezing gently, "You always put others first John. Right now just focus on yourself, okay? Let the memories come as they may and don't…don't force yourself to feel anything that might not be there."
John smiled; already feeling relaxed in the presence of the man. He wanted to reach over with his other hand to pat Jim's, but his aching body prevented the motion, so he nodded very slowly instead.
"We will get through this," John said, his voice more firm now, an odd rush of relief rushing through him as he started to truly realise he wouldn't be going through this alone. He shifted his arm, letting his hand flip, putting his palm up. He smiled warmly at Jim, and when the man's fingers linked with his own, he squeezed them gently.
It seems something of yours has fallen into my lap. I'll be sure to take very…very good care of him. –JM
Who is this? –SH
You're not the only magician Sherlock, and now you'll know what it is to truly burn. –JM
Don't you dare touch him. I watched you die once, and I will end you again—for real this time. Your web is weakening. –SH
The game, Sherlock, is on. –JM
Long, slim fingers shook violently as they worked to furiously type out a message.
You promised me nothing would happen to him while I was gone. –SH
Apologies brother dear. I cannot excuse what happened to the doctor, my men have been working day and night to locate him. I fear it is time for you to return to London and end this once and for all. –MH
Your incompetence knows no bounds. Know that my trust in you is wavering and I will only accept minimal help from you. –SH
I have arranged a flight home, all the information we have will be waiting for you along with an agent. Should you require anything more, let me know. For now finding John and Moriarty have priority. –MH
Good. –SH
The phone was slipped back into the deep pocket of the long, dark, coat. The spine belonging to the tall, rail thin man straightened. He swiped one hand, stained with blood, along the coarse material of the coat he wore before stepping out of the alley. His quick, iridescent eyes scanned the near empty street before walking back towards the room where he was staying. The more he let the current situation sink in, the further his shoulders hunched, the more knots tangled in his gut, and the heavier the darkness seemed to fall over him.
To say that Sherlock Holmes was angry would be an understatement. He was completely livid, but he wasn't sure who received the brunt of his emotions. He and Mycroft were both at fault, and all that he was sure of as he hurried to grab his things was that, by the end of this, Jim Moriarty would be dead—for good this time.