Chapter 4
In the months leading to the second anniversary in October, John and Lestrade kept in regular contact. The DI would turn up at 221B late in the evening or sit next to John in the graveyard, having to endure the silence until the soldier stopped looking at the gravestone. They had quick chats, usually turning to Lestrade listing new or on-going investigations linked to the war. On some occasions Lestrade would leave John with one or more of the feathers from a case when it had been solved.
The army doctor secretly treasured them, storing them in a once unused wooden box on his dresser. John would spend evenings examining the feathers when he had nothing else to do. He counted them every day, sometimes wishing that they meant something, like every feather he was gifted was a step closer towards something, someone, somewhere. It was because just being in the same room as a single feather changed the air, something unnatural, surreal, mysterious, but also filling the air with death.
John slammed the box shut as he heard the first ring of the bell and Mrs Hudson answering the door. Everyone greeted each other upstairs, the fire on, the kettle boiled and the wine glasses out for those who were happy to have a drink already. The second anniversary was upon them.
"I've seen you and Lestrade have been keeping in touch?" It had been nearly an hour since everyone had arrived, once again sat round the kitchen table. John looked up from the sip of tea he was having and Lestrade stared in bewilderment, placing his wine glass on the table so he didn't drop it.
"How the bloody he-" Lestrade began but John cut him off.
"You've kept the surveillance on me?" asked John, making no effort to argue against Mycroft. He simply smiled and straightened himself up a little more.
"I thought it best to keep a close eye on my little brother's companion, considering the past events." He occupied himself by drinking some more tea as the others looked around at each other, Lestrade trying to hide his face. "I didn't want to leave you for a year and find you this evening in a mess of media and depression. It's not good for a retired army doctor."
"No. No, you wouldn't be keeping surveillance on me unless you had a better reason than that," John said bluntly. Molly and Mrs Hudson stayed very quiet, watching on the side-lines with Lestrade caught between the two, but ready to join whichever side necessary.
"Is caring not a good enough reason?"
"Not in your family…" Lestrade muttered, finishing his glass. John continued to hold his stare into Mycroft's dull eyes, trying to make sense of the man.
"If you can't come up with a good enough excuse, then just lie to me and say it's for selling Sherlock's life to Moriarty," John snapped, downing his tea and storming off to get his coat.
Lestrade had to run to catch up with John, Molly staying by Mrs Hudson side as she waited for Mycroft, who had frozen up after John's outburst. To avoid himself from fuming when he got the cemetery, he tried to think about anything else. He looked back at saw Mrs Hudson walking with Mycroft, talking to him about Sherlock and how it was nice he was watching over John since the 'incident'. He immediately noticed Lestrade walking alongside him, but it was Molly who caught his eye. She had been keeping herself distant since the suicide, but it was at least three months afterwards that she really changed. Whether it was because a man she fancied had died, or because of something else, but she changed, the look in her eyes was more distant, she kept to herself, going silent whenever the topic changed to something that was related to Sherlock or Moriarty.
Cawing broke his train of thought, two black birds flying away onto a nearby roof after John nearly trod on them. He didn't look up to see what species they were, but the feathers floating nearby from the flapping creatures caught his gaze for a second. So similar to the Black Markers he'd been collecting, yet nowhere near the size, length or pitch black they were.
Within in a few steps they were at the gates of the cemetery. His pace slowed and he stopped just a few metres from the gate entrance, the others stopping just behind him, looking at the unnatural sight. With winter coming forward the leaves of the trees were gone, and had been replaced by the black bodies of the large feathered creatures. None cawed, none squawked, not a single sound from any of them. Their beaks were shut tight and their eyes fixed on them.
"Ravens."
John barely uttered the word as he carefully went forward, passing under the metal arch, the ravens following him as he walked through into the main grounds of the cemetery. The ravens turned their gaze to the others as they went after John, and completely turning around to watch them move along. All heads turned to follow them. The black beady eyes never stopped looking.
"What in God's name is this?" asked Mycroft quietly, the shared fear that a loud noise would spook the ravens to do something dangerous. Even attack them. They all looked around in terror and unsure what to make of the sight. John tried to keep his gaze focused on the path towards the gravestone, the similar black to the shadowy creatures surrounding him. This couldn't be normal, not in this place and not on this day.
They reached the dark stone slab more quickly than previous visits. The grassy open was left clear by the feathery fliers, except for three. Three very distinct and unique ravens, all atop the gravestone of John's friend. He kept a small distance between him and the gravestone, the others slightly further, the uneasy atmosphere of the location causing a fear to rise up. Fear of nothing.
Ignoring the three pairs of eyes staring directly at him, John looked down at the engraved letters of Sherlock's name, wondering whether this was all coincidental, the ravens, the Black Markers, the graffiti. What was it all?
He spent time standing there, going over the memories like he always did, and counting the days he'd been away from him. Two years.
After much silence he looked up at the three ravens. He studied them; an elegant one to the right, a small yet agile looking one to the left and finally the largest in the middle, with ruffled feathers and what John was sure to be two small scars over its left eye. However, his time to observe the birds was cut short. The largest raven let out a single, booming caw, echoing through the seemingly lonely cemetery and in a mass storm; the sound of flapping wings filled their ears. Ravens flew in all directions around them, everyone single one of them ducking on instinct, fear of being mauled by tiny talons and thick beaks.
In the chaos, John stopped looking round for a route out of the mess. In fact, he stood, looking in one specific direction that sent chills down his spine. He was stood before the gravestone and behind it was almost complete black from the feathery bodies flying there and back. The three ravens sat on the stone, looking up at him, but he didn't look back. Instead he looked ahead, if not a little up. In amongst the black, he was sure; in just a two second gap between the bodies he saw it. The unique, un-comparable pair of blue eyes he had been going through treacherous nightmares to remember.
These eyes blinked and opened back up pure black, blending back in with the storm. As John aimed to reach out into the chaotic flock, the three ravens flew up into the air, cutting John's reach and going up into the sky.
Every raven dispersed in the next few seconds.
Not a single bird was left, as far as John could tell anyway. He looked around everywhere, checking to see if there was a shadow, a figure, the pair of eyes he was positive he saw. Lestrade was helping Molly and Mrs Hudson to their feet, while Mycroft appeared to stay calm in the black storm. John turned back to the gravestone, unsure what to think, looking forward at where he saw the eyes. He was so sure it was untrue, and he knew if he mentioned a single thing to the others they would finally believe him in going mad. He ignored Mycroft's suggestion to leave as the DI, and two shaking woman walked away, wanting to find the answer if it meant searching the whole of London.
Then he looked back down at the gravestone.
Long, black, sleek, shiny and not there before, an object he could now recognise from afar, even in the dead of night, the feathers currently haunting his dreams, alongside the moving shadows and the Fall. A Black Marker.
"We're leaving, John," he heard Mycroft mutter, but he muttered calmly, simply sharing his fearful wish to leave the uncomfortable cemetery. John coughed to regain his thoughts, moving forward and pocketing the feather without Mycroft seeing when he walked past.
"Yes, I think we can call it a day," he said, straightening himself and following suit. He hid his fear within, the theories and impossibilities streaming through his mind. John was sure they were the eyes of a man he'd spent years with, his eyes. But to turn pure black in a blink and then whatever figure they were attached to disappear in mere seconds with the cover of a raven flock?
Once you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
It would take the mind of his dead friend to answer such a question.
Among the clouds, standing at a rooftop, far from their gaze but able to see them where he stood. The wind whipped about and the clouds darkened with each passing moment. Three small companions joined his side.
"I did request you do as little to scare them as possible." The companion perched on his shoulder lowered its head. "But nonetheless, you gave me an opportunity; one I've been desperate to gain to which you have my thanks." A few quiet responses from the small companions and a forced smile on his lips, before he turned towards the wreckage nearby of wood and glass.
"Let us return to shelter…" Yet he wished for the day he would say one word. And that word, the word he missed so much, was growing closer. Home…