Chapter 10
A whole new world opened up before John, with many memories of the old world before the Fall rushing back. He was sure that seeing Sherlock would answer all the questions; the dreams, the ravens, the Markers and the war. It hadn't, it had just left John with the truth that the genius was still alive. Happiness resided within John, it was deep within him, but it drowned under the flood of confusion, the layer of doubt and a sprinkle of hatred. How long would it take to retrieve that happiness? Would it be worth it until he's sure Sherlock's back?
'Sherlock might not come back!' The panicked thought rushed through his brain, but he calmed himself with deep breaths. He focused on something else that didn't immediately make him turn back to the possibility of Sherlock never returning.
Why did Sherlock come here before going about his 'final task'? Perhaps it was a warning, or a tip-off so John could tell the others. He knew Sherlock would be the kind to tell everyone in some dramatic or silent way of his existence. Text maybe? 'Sherlock may not have a phone,' John answered himself. If he'd told the others, there would be no point texting them. They would find out.
"John!" A crack appeared with a crunch in the mug when realisation flew over him, blocking out Mrs Hudson walking up the stairs, congratulating him on doing his own shopping and asking him why he was sitting in the dark.
Sherlock would have waited to tell Mrs Hudson, she was like family to him no matter how much he denied it. Since he hadn't, it meant one thing.
He was giving John a final note. That's why he was scared. The chances of survival must have been slim for the task he was about to attempt.
'Wait…' A tiny voice suggested. 'Maybe there's another meaning.' A note didn't seem right, the fear not suited. John was blind to not see it, deaf to not hear what Sherlock was really indicating in his message. It wasn't a note after all. He said it himself that returning would be necessary. The necessary part seemed to fall straight into the category of protecting John and many others. That's what the message was, always had been.
It was a warning.
He didn't know when he dozed off into a dreamless sleep that evening. All he remembered was storming off to his room, locking the door and blocking out the world the best he could with question after question spinning through his mind.
Sleep had ensued and now morning called. Luckily there was no work to go to.
Work.
The word was already becoming alien to him, at least the regular work that normal day. He stared at the ceiling for a while, his mind much calmer, and no questions drawing his attention away from a fly buzzing near the ceiling light. He had a slow start, spending nearly an hour in the bathroom, repeatedly splashing his face with ice cold water and staring into the mirror. A small breakfast, hot tea and the news on low volume as it repeated on the T.V. There wasn't much else John felt he could do other than wait.
Another waiting game. The past three years had been a waiting game. This felt worse, because John now knew Sherlock was alive, that he was putting himself in danger and that he might not make it back. It felt it would be so much easier just going about life year by year, waiting for the next anniversary of his death, working the long shifts each week, month, year…
John's thoughts changed direction. It was supposed to be the anniversary soon. How was he going to explain, or even convince the others he was alive? Did they even know? John hadn't checked, and grabbed his phone on the course of wondering. No voicemails, no missed phone calls… Just one unread text.
Sorry.
-SH
And above were a mound of texts in the same thread that had all finally sent. Texts from when John was half asleep during the day or unable to sleep at night. Some were just questions if Sherlock was alive, others were pleads to come home, the occasional text linked to everyday life when John texted between patients while half asleep, asking Sherlock to pick up shopping and other ordinary texts. Many were from the first year of suffering, fewer as the months progressed. All these texts had been sent at around 8am that morning, while John had had the fortunate success to sleep till 9am. He didn't have much care for what the next mobile phone bill would say. Sherlock was still alive for now. But why had it taken him this long to finally answer?
A thought brought him to the door of his friend's room, and he didn't think twice as he gently pushed the door open. Had he retrieved the phone from his room while John was out? Walking in to find the pristine room, with clean sheets pulled back and no dust collected on the surface from a clean a few days ago, John wasn't so sure. Mrs Hudson, usually while he was gone, walked up the stairs and cleaned the room regularly, wiping away the dust and cleaning every surface and space in the room. She would have found a phone and placed it on the top, or told John. All he thought now was how the landlady had found her clean way to deal with the untold pain, like she too believed he would one day walk through the door and the old life would start again.
Later that morning, John composed a plan to get everyone together. It was only three days till the anniversary anyway, but if could get the others around today, without too much suspicion, he might be able to deliver the news, convince particular people. They needed to know.
"What are we doing here, John?"
"Because… because…" he couldn't string the words together. They were all there, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Molly and even Lestrade, who was currently ignoring a call to an assault and murder scene. They were standing by him at the cemetery gates in the light rain with grey clouds concealing away any blue sky, the gathering spot for what John had originally described as an 'early anniversary'. A lie quickly appeared to answer Mycroft's question. "I'm working a longer shift on Friday, and I have a meeting that evening as well. Can't miss it…"
"This isn't exactly an appropriate time," muttered Mycroft and John ignored, even sensing Lestrade shooting him a glare. Mycroft had more power than any of them combined to leave his work and go somewhere else, even here. He could move meetings and talks around with the click of his fingers; he had nothing at stake, whereas Lestrade, and possibly Molly, were putting their jobs at stake.
"There aren't any, well, ravens around, are there?" asked Molly quietly, sticking to the back of the group. John scanned the trees, but as far as he could see there was only a pair of doves and three crows. No ravens.
"It's perfectly safe, Molly," he assured and made his way along the path. He stayed ahead of the others, stuck in his thoughts, trying to decide how he was going to tell, explain and convince the others Sherlock was alive. Four people convinced he was dead. Where did he start? He couldn't seem to even mutter the truth, for the thought alone was just too great. John hoped that standing before a now false gravestone might help him make the smallest, clearest indication that he knew a different truth to the others. Would it?
John spun round just before he looked towards the gravestone, a small cry from Molly alarming everyone. He quickly spotted the gliding raven heading for another spindly tree after cutting through the group, John catching a glimpse of its almost warning eyes. Obviously Molly hadn't recovered from the storm last year. He nearly smirked at her reaction, instead becoming fearful at Lestrade's expression, staring towards the gravestone. John expected more ravens, possibly people gathered, maybe even Sherlock as suggested by a tiny voice in his head, anything to account for Lestrade's horrified expression. John's predictions weren't even close.
Cracked, split down the middle, crumbled from a heavy blow, exactly in the centre of the very top of the slab. The wise raven with the two small scars over its left eye was poking at the small pieces of rubble scattered around. Its eyes locked onto them, but eventually chose to ignore them as John led the group over. Panic, fear, disgust? Which emotion was most appropriate for this situation? Someone had just obliterated Sherlock's gravestone? Standing in front of it, with no body beneath his feet, he saw that only the bottom quarter of the slab was left standing. The rest was spread around the gravestone and themselves in a wide radius. The golden letters were visible on some chunks of rock, other small pieces completely gold, the rest the reflective black. Worse to see was the pile of disintegrating flowers and curling letters in front of the gravestone. Every week there was a new bunch of flowers and occasionally a letter or two which disappeared later. John was now sure Sherlock had been taking them, a case sealed in one of the possible envelopes. The flames still flickered between the gifts and job requests that hadn't been collected in time.
"Who the hell would do this?" asked Lestrade, doing well to get over the shock. "It isn't to do with the alley war, is it?"
"It would seem possible," answered Mycroft. John once again ignored him, not because he wasn't surprised Mycroft knew since he had eyes and ears everywhere, but because it seemed so absurd, especially since the war had grown a little quieter over the past few months. "An extremist on the opposing side?"
"No." They turned at John's blunt response. "Something much bigger would have to be going on to lead to this." He didn't say, but he wondered if it was the work of Sherlock himself. The man loved an entrance, but he would have followed a theme, spray painting the gravestone would have been enough surely? John was kicked into remembering just how much he needed to tell the others. "There's a reason behind today, and it's not the anniversary. I need to you all-"
"Can someone smell smoke?" Lestrade burst out over John's quiet speech. He held his breath in frustration at the interruption, but nonetheless looked around for a source of smoke and inhaled with air. The scent of burning wood hit his nostrils when he saw a thinning pillar of dark grey smoke climbing from behind the church.
"Should we check it out?" asked Lestrade. John shrugged, hiding his clenched fists.
"May as well, someone could be hurt," he said and led the way through the trees, along the paths overgrown by grass, knowing them better due to his regular visits. They walked along the side of the church, unable to gaze at the dripping stain-glass windows, figures in the design looking like they were now crying from the rain. Even the damp gravestones around them went ignored. Not a single one of them even noticed the shadow running away from the smoke in the shadows of the trees as the downpour started. It was near the back of the church the found the blackened remains of the small building, an abandoned octagonal, wooden hut, hidden by overgrown plants and the shadow of a few trees surrounding it, but now a smoking wreck. The remaining windows that hadn't been smashed were now blisteringly hot or in pieces on the ground. The structure still remained, but was blackened to shades darker than the night sky. It creaked and whined in a sharp wind, sizzling from the rain now lightly pattering on it, reducing the shadows around. John was the first to walk up the three stone steps and move among the littered floor, kicking and pushing planks out the way with his feet, ash and embers flying about from the impact. Lestrade followed immediately after, Mycroft soon after once he had finished entrusting Mrs Hudson and Molly with his open umbrella. With the rain and heat dying down, a light drizzle now upon them and the heat of the recent fire extinguished, they investigated the remains.
"Someone's been living here," announced Mycroft, looking round slowly. John and Lestrade turned in confusion.
"What makes you say that?" Mycroft did not answer John's question verbally, but instead walked over the remaining wall opposite the entrance and shifted some planks with his foot. Smouldering, blackened and yellow was a thin mattress, the smell of damp conditions still wavering from it through the stench of smoke. Two blankets, one underneath and one on top, had been with the mattress, but had been reduced to small pieces of cloth with charred edges. Mycroft then walked over, tapping a wooden clothes peg on a structure beam in the corner as he passed, until he was stood next to a large box, but was sadly wooden and crumbling away with every raindrop in the drizzle. John went over to look as well but his foot hit something that was very hot even with him wearing shoes. In reaction he stepped back and heard something snap, feeling something crumble under his foot. Underneath his foot were the disintegrating remnants of a second-hand violin and in front was a creaky, rusty music sheet stand. Trapped underneath was crisping paper, turning into floating specs of white ash when he stood on them, and could make out both music notes and newspaper headlines on what remained intact from the rain and blaze.
"Dear God…" John muttered. Only he knew, compared to the others, who could possibly have been living here, in these conditions with such surroundings. Why had it been burnt down? Did Sherlock do this or was it someone else?
"You alright, John?" Lestrade began walking over to him, John staring at the ground. That's when it began becoming a little more visible, the planks shifted, the ash washing away in the rain and the lines appearing in grey.
"Wait!" John snapped, holding his hand up towards Lestrade. He froze. "Move the planks around your feet, there's something underneath." When he kicked the first few out the way, Lestrade exited his hesitant position and joined in the moving of burnt wood. Mycroft did not join, instead standing at the doorway and trying to decipher what was on the ground as the other two did the work. Within minutes, it was clear. John stood beside Mycroft and Lestrade at the entrance, looking down at the floor. Their eyes widened with each passing second as the rain washed away the final layer of ash, showing the rough scratches in the floor, sending the observing raven with the scars away, letting out aggravated hoarse cries. Three wide letters, spread out evenly, surrounded by equally recent and tiny scratches of skulls, eyes, dark symbols. A three letter message…
I O U