This is turning into a multi-chaptered story now….It's not completely based on my theory of how it was done, but comes close. Please read and review
Best laid plans
And then there was nothing.
This strange nothing gradually turned into the harsh ringing that now exists permanently within my ears.
Slowly I become aware of the rain; its gentle seeping tracing my neck and sneaking down the space between my shirt and skin. It was this that was the only tell that I, John Watson, was still alive.
I don't remember making the call to Lestrade. All I knew was that I needed to leave; leave this space before I could never leave again. My eyes weren't able to move from the concrete occupied by his blood as it began to mix with the rain. It turned the velvet red image before me to a hazy pink blur as I quell the urge to throw myself at where it lies; this last piece of him.
He was gone.
There was no need to follow even if I could. He would not be coming back; all my educated senses told me that.
Unreliable legs unable to hold me up any longer give in their helpless task, sliding me down the stone wall to the wet ground. I have no concept of how long I've been sat here.
A police car pulls up to the edge of the pavement where I sit. There is a distant discussion from inside and the sound of a car door snaps me to slight awareness. Lestrade hurriedly crosses the path; all puddles and umbrella. I don't hear his words at first, just feel the weight of a hand upon my shoulder; his expression as dark as the rain-filled sky.
"John. I… Are you alright?"
No words come to me and my head lolls on his firm, thick shoulder. All energy has left me.
"Come on, let's get you out of here."
Strong dependable arms help me to my feet and I suddenly can't bear to be touched. Brushing off my harsh gesture, he holds his hands up to appease me and steps to one side, clearing my path to the car.
Donovan stands at the passenger side, wringing her hands tightly as she tries not to stare at the blood that is being cordoned off. Guilt has taken over her harsh, unfriendly features and she pleads with me in that second to make her life easier. Her life.
"I can't. Not her. Not with her."
He steps in front of me and brushes her out of the way, opening the door for me. "Get a cab Sally."
"But Sir…"
"Go," he shouts. "He doesn't want you in this bloody car and to be honest I'm having a hard time looking at you right now. Get a cab."
I sit in the back; my forehead against the cool window trying desperately to stem the feeling of nausea. Hushed words come from the front seat where Lestrade steels guilty glances at me through the mirror. I guess he's checking that I haven't turned to dust. I feel I may be just that now.
"It's confirmed Sir," says the uniformed officer driving the car. He presses his finger to the radio in his ear. "Eye witnesses state suicide Sir."
We pull up to the Yard.
"John, listen to me. I have to go in to the station, just for a minute. Then I'll drive you back to Baker Street myself alright. There's no need for your statement right now." He gets no answer apart from my barely managed nod and turns to the officer. "Stay with him."
The car suddenly feels tiny and I scramble at the handle, my knuckles cold and white, my chest tight and heavy. God I need some air.
That's when I see them across the road; Sally paying a cabbie and Anderson joining her on the steps of CID. He sees me and mumbles something to Sally, their eyes meeting mine for a second. Before I know it I'm across the road, standing at the bottom of the steps; Anderson turning to see me there and starting to back away.
"He was never right in the head John. We all know that."
The punch lands him beautifully on the chin and he is a poor fight back. He reminds me of a man I'd seen drop out from the army; falling to the floor like a bag of bones. I'd never been one for bare fighting; it had always seemed unnecessary, vulgar and unintelligent. How much I didn't understand.
Sally shouts and the blood pours. I am unable to stop there and so pin him to the pavement and hit him a second and third time. Strong hands pull at my chest and I'm dragged from Anderson by Lestrade and the other officer. They hold me against the wall; my knuckles bleeding and my breath ragged.
"Not this way John. Don't make me have to take you in."
Donavan kneels at the pavement with tissues held to Anderson's face. "Arrest him Lestrade, now. What are you waiting for? Look what he's done, he's just as mad."
"He's broken my bloody nose," says a voice through thick nostrils.
Lestrade takes in my pale face then relaxes his restraining arm just slightly.
"You should be more careful with your footing Anderson. It's so easy to take a tumble down these steps."
As the Inspector pulls me towards the car, the effects from the adrenaline hit with force and I twist from his grip in time to throw up. As my palm hits the wall to steady myself, I barely register the pain in my hand from punching a man senseless. So was this how I was without him? It had been so long that I couldn't remember the John Watson before Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he didn't exist. I don't believe he exists now.
He gives me a minute to straighten up.
"I need a drink," I say; my voice shaky with lack of use.
"I don't want to take you back to Baker Street. You're coming home with me until we can get hold of someone. Is there anyone you'd like me to call?"
From somewhere deep, a bitter laugh reaches my lips.
"Not anymore."
"John. Say it now. Come on. Nothing you can say will make me feel worse. I know my part in this."
I grab him by the jacket.
"You left him with nothing. You've left me with nothing."
The rain starts.
His pale, pleading hand stretches out to mine from the roof of St Barts. I'm sure that if I could reach just a little further I could grab his hand and convince him not to leave. But when I do, blood runs down his chiselled face and he is rolled on to his back by descending strangers. Where they come I am unsure, but I think I recognise one woman from some distant memory. But no. I couldn't be counted on for anything in those few minutes of black.
His slender hand was cold and almost blue. Yet, when I had clutched at his wrist there had been something unfamiliar about what lay beneath my fingers. But he had been prised from me as quickly as I had gotten hold of him and something inside of me exploded into thousands of irretrievable splinters.
I wake with a start on an unfamiliar sofa two days later; his name on my lips and this ever present nightmare drilling a hole in my skull. A blanket that smells slightly of cigarette smoke has been placed across me and an empty bottle of whiskey out on the table with three glasses. Three? Lestrade's wife would not have joined us in our night of liquor and my silent tears.
Lestrade had fulfilled his threat of taking me back to his place where his kind wife had made up the spare room. I imagine she would have been less understanding had she known "Just one night" for this shell of a man before them was going to become a few. I had been taken back to Baker Street the day after Sherlock's death, but I had known it was a mistake immediately.
I had sat in my arm chair for an hour; the violin on the desk taunting me as I replayed it all out over and over in my head. I had packed a few things including the violin and hugged Mrs Hudson promising that I would be in touch. She had cried and I couldn't stay to watch I had to be selfish. Instead I had gone to Paddington Station intending on getting a train to Harry's but couldn't do that either. An hour later Lestrade had appeared at my station bench; turning his car keys over and over in his hand.
I looked up at him with minimal surprise.
He pointed at a security camera nearby and picked up my bag. "Mycroft called me."
I become aware of what has awoken me from the alcohol-induced sleep upon the strange sofa. A perturbed looking Lestrade stands over me. My throat is sore from shouting and my head lies thickly in my hands.
"John. Are you alright?"
"Why are there three glasses?"
"John I think you should eat something and get a shower."
"The bloody glasses Lestrade. Was he here; the prodigal brother?"
"Alright, keep your voice down. Yes he was here. He wanted to talk to you. Alone. But you were in no state so he left saying he'd changed his mind anyway."
"What was it the wretch wanted? You should have woken me; he's returned none of my calls. Not so much as even sought to release his body and we all know he can get whatever he wants. Almost anything. How could he leave him there Greg?"
"Well it seems fitting I guess. He lived for that place John."
"No, it's cold and miserable. That wasn't him, not really. He should be at Baker Street with me. Pacing up and down annoying the hell out of everyone. This…. this can't be happening Greg."
The sobriety that has been absent from my brain the last few days stings with the harsh clarity of a cold bullet. I pull the blankets from me and stand too quickly. I'm uncoordinated and knock a glass from the coffee table.
"I need to see him."
"No John. Not a good idea right now, It's the middle of the night."
"No? You don't get to tell me what to do. You have no idea what we were, what has been taken from us both."
"Then tell me John. You need to talk about this. You need to start processing it, we all do."
I put my shoes on. "Thank your wife for her hospitality for me and do apologise for my behaviour. I'd like my gun back now please. I know you took it from Baker Street."
A text message rings through the stuffy living room.
"Let me guess," I say. "He's telling you not to let me leave. You know he'll be listening right? Don't be slow Lestrade."
"Don't assume he's not hurting John. This isn't you. You're not cruel."
I pick up my bag and the violin.
"Maybe he was the one keeping me human. Did you all think of that?"
"Where are you going to go John?"
I don't answer him. Instead I pass through the hallway to the front door. Turning the handle, I'm met with two large smartly -dressed gentlemen who proceed to grab me from either side. I don't get time to shout as I feel the needle grace my jugular.
To be continued…