Chapter Six

Title: Static

Author: A Study in Schadenfreude

Pairing|Characters: No strict pairing

Length: Undetermined

Genre: angst, action-adventure

Warnings: Post-Reichenbach Fall.

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan-Doyle own the characters, we're just making them dance to our tune.

Summary: Companion pieces to the main fic "Mobile." You really should read "Mobile" to understand what's going on here, but you can read it as a stand-alone if you want. :)

A/N: Fictional characters were harmed in the writing of these stories, and consequently, this chapter. Also, we are hiding an important plot point, jsyk.

Important A/N: We edited Mobile chapter 2 to reflect that Harry is John's /older/ sister, because of recent canonical developments, i.e., we were looking at John's blog and realised our error. Woops.

It was too nice outside, far too nice to bury someone. Funerals were supposed to have grey skies and pour down rain that hides the tears. It had rained at both her dad's funeral and her grandmum's, and it had felt like the world was rightly grieving along with her family. But today, instead of rain, the sun was partly hidden behind white clouds. It wasn't too hot, nor too cold. Molly wished it was a bit more overcast, because the sunny weather made it seem like John Watson wasn't dead. The day was just too nice for such a sad event.

Molly was no stranger to death, but she'd never expected to be attending another funeral so soon. Not that Sherlock's really counted, as he's not dead...she only wished John had known. Molly glanced around, smiling sadly. There were a lot of people at John's funeral, people that cared about him. It was sad that he'd felt so alone.

To be honest, she couldn't help feeling guilty. She knew something, knew what John needed to know, but she couldn't tell him. She could have prevented his death, Molly knew, and she could've done something.

Sometimes, she couldn't help cursing that promise, that horrible promise she made to one Sherlock Holmes that she could not tell anyone that he was alive. It wasn't fair to blame him, Molly thought, since she agreed after all, asking him what he needed, and besides, it wasn't as if she knew. She should have known (but, no, that wasn't right to blame herself either, was it?) what kind of repercussions this might bring on John.

Molly realised that she didn't really know John well enough, and for that she was really sorry. But still, she at least wanted to be at John's funeral, keeping watch for his not-really-dead best friend. She made a mental note to bring him vase of flowers every now and again, and make sure that the area was clean, even if others would probably do that as well. She didn't owe Sherlock or John anything, she simply wanted to do a kind thing for another soul.

She felt a bit like an outside observer, so that's what she did. She observed.

The ceremony was small, obviously only close friends were invited, and those who cared enough came. There was still a stigma attached to John and Sherlock's names, and she thought that there would probably be more people - even a military ceremony - if there weren't all these horrible rumours surrounding Sherlock's death. And now John's too, she supposed, especially since the man killed himself so close to his best friend's suicide. The tabloids would have some sort of horrible Romeo-Juliet story if they caught wind of John's suicide, and it only took a phone call from Sherlock to his brother to stop any news coming out about John.

She felt a bit awful that she seemed to be slinging around the words death and suicide a bit callously, even if it was only in her mind.

The casket had been carried by Greg, Mike, Anderson, and a few other people Molly didn't know. For a second, she was grateful that Sherlock was not here to see this, because Molly didn't think she could stand to see the same crushed look in Greg's eyes transfer to Sherlock's crumbling façade whenever he thought he was alone. Sherlock still thought no one else saw, but Molly did. Molly saw how this whole situation was already taking a toll on the man, even if his eyes were half hidden by ginger curls and intense concentration.

There was a pastor who said the traditional bit of ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and uttered a small prayer for those whom John left behind. Molly didn't really have a strong belief when it comes to God and religion, but she said a small prayer for those John left behind as well, thinking especially of Sherlock, who still had a job to do.

Molly sighed, looking up at the sky, and hoped that wherever John Watson was, he could see how not alone he really was.

A few days ago, her brother had dropped by to say good bye, and he lied to save her pain.

Not that it helped, that bastard. Mountains, her arse, he definitely wasn't talking about heading off to the Paradise when he talked to her the last time. What he'd meant was out of London into the New Jerusalem, meet me at the Pearly Gates, and all the metaphors of heaven from church when they were children.

Harry eyed her little brother's casket. Pine stained red mahogany. It was beautiful, and it reminded Harry of their mother's coffin. During Mum's viewing, she remembered that her mother had looked so beautiful, so peaceful. All the lines of stress had faded, and she looked as beautiful as she did in the wedding pictures that hung over their mantle.

Even her dad hadn't looked like he was angry and disgusted with her, like he was when she came out to her parents. He just looked peaceful, asleep really.

Harry wasn't able to even look at John's face because the casket was closed. When they told her how he died, she knew it wouldn't be pretty, and to be honest she would rather imagine John as he was in her memory and in pictures. She did not want to see her baby brother look like a wax museum piece. Reconstruction would take hours, was expensive, and she honestly just wanted to get this over with.

There was no sense in prolonging the agony for everyone, especially for her.

Clara reminded her that she should speak about John. She didn't really want to at first, but Clara, sweet Clara, had convinced her. She was the only family John had left, and she hadn't even been good at that.
Harry really didn't know what she wanted to say, what she should say, and Clara had helped her through a night of blurred eyesight and shaky writing.

God, Harry really did still love her, and it took her brother dying to realise it. Typical John, fixing her mistakes. Even in death he just wouldn't stop taking care of her.

This was almost enough to send her giggling in sad hysterics, and she had to take a few deep breaths to stop herself. Clara squeezed her hand, and sadly glanced at the microphone in the front.

It was her turn to speak, and good lord, she really didn't want to. She stood up and went in front anyway, hand clutching a small handkerchief just in case, and started to read.

"John was my brother and...and we barely got on at the best of times," Harry began, struggling to read the cards in her hand. She closed her eyes, settling herself.

She didn't really need the flashback of every single fight and every single reconciliation they'd had.

"But I love him so much."

She swallowed. Just go through with it, finish the damn cards, as fast as you can, so you can sit back down.

"I'll never forget how he stood by me when I came out to our parents."

She told him first, really, before she told her parents, and his response was to buy her ice cream and bicker about whether they were taking the Tube or a cab home. It was reassuring to her, to know that nothing would change between them.

When she blurted it out to her parents, her father had been so angry and so disgusted, and before her mum could step in, she'd already yelled back. Her dad raised his hand to hit her -

And John stopped him. He was only fourteen, though with considerable strength in his own right, and John shook as he pulled their father's hand back with a quiet "No, please Dad, that's still Harry."

It made Harry see her insufferable little brother in a new light.

She exhaled slowly to get herself back under control, tightly squeezing the handkerchief in her hand. "He was the sort of bloke that everyone just likes instantly - nobody really knew what it was about him, but he got on with everyone he met, which was a bit funny, really, because he was the kid who came home with multiple bruises every month from fights - though nowhere near the face, the lucky git. And it wasn't that he was fighting for himself - it was because he was defending some poor sod from a bully."

Harry was rambling now, and she knew she was, but she didn't care. This was what speeches were good for, rambling, especially about her brother, her lovable brother. It helped, somehow, to talk about him in any way.

It felt like she was preserving his memory, somehow, by doing this.

"I remember the only time he came home with a black eye - he'd been careful until then. It was the only time Dad actually asked him about his bruises, because that one was just horrible. One of his mates was some boffin named Edwin, I think, who was far too smart, and you know how horrible it was to not be an idiot in school especially if you weren't part of any athletic teams. Despite being a popular bloke on the rugby team, John befriended Edwin. Didn't really do any for Edwin's status, but John always fought for him whenever someone called him a loser, a creep, or a freak. Until one day, some blighter decided to give Edwin a beating, and John was there to see it. You can just imagine what happened. Oh don't worry, John beat the other kid's face in."

This elicited a bit of laughter from the others, and Harry brightened a little. She was the one who broke up that fight, she remembered, by hollering for one of the teachers. John had actually almost punched the other kid's face in and had reduced him to a crying mess, and all he got was a blackened eye for his troubles.

"Johnny really cared about people, wanted to help them, " she continued, eyes bright. Tears were starting to threaten the edges of her vision again. She just... She'd never see him again, see John all beat up, in bandages and looking like some unsung hero from a pub brawl. "It was why he joined the RAMF in the first place, and why he became a doctor."

How John decided to become a doctor had been part of the worst day of Harry's life, until now. It was how their mum died, with the idiots claiming to be doctors completely missing the signs of the stroke. They thought her chest pain was a heart attack, but by the time they'd figured it out, it was too late. John swore that he'd be better than all of them.

John reacted to what had happened with his stubborn strength and determination. Harry simply started getting pissed more often.

She was actually pissed the day he told her he was enlisting. When she asked if he wanted to leave her, he'd said no, and Harry knew he was lying. She could see it in his eyes that he wanted to leave, desperately. It wasn't his responsibility to take care of his poor sister who couldn't cope with losing her mum, but she knew he'd have stayed if she asked.

She'd let him go.

Harry closed her eyes, and gripped the microphone tighter, afraid that she might let go. Her voice broke a little. "It was easy to forget that he was actually my younger brother. He- he tried to take care of me and I admired and resented him for it. I remember the phone calls and the occasional visits to check if I was sober - it was like I had a probation officer." She smiled sadly at the memory, and out of habit, pulled out the phone from her coat pocket. "God, I promised him I'd phone him today." She shuddered involuntarily, and stared down at the mobile in her hand.

She expected John's name to flash on her phone. Any minute now. Any minute.

She turned around, her vision focusing in on the coffin. Funny, she thought she was done remembering stories about the things. They had been stuck at the funeral home as kids, bored to death. Harry and John had wandered to where the caskets were on display, and though it gave Harry the chills, John had run ahead and hidden in one of them, waiting for the right time to slowly push it open and groan like a zombie.

Harry almost hit him over the head with a nearby urn.

"John, just… please - " She breathed, walking to the casket. Harry ran a hand on the rails, expecting the lid to fly open any minute now, and John laughing, like when they were kids - "John please, Johnny, stop playing around! GET OUT OF THIS CASKET NOW YOU GIT! THIS ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE!"

Someone was screaming. Why were they screaming? Too loud. Someone just died, they really should be quiet, she was mourning, just mourning her baby brother. Arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Harry vaguely registered that Clara was guiding her away under a tree, far from the others.

"Please, John I'll stop drinking, I'll do anything, just... I'll stop. I promise...just please… please don't - "

She broke into sobs, holding on to Clara, sobbing openly.

Harry just lost one of the few people she knew who cared, who loved her, and it just… hurt.

Greg tried not to stare as John's sister was escorted away. This wasn't easy for any of them, especially him, and he couldn't even fathom how it felt for her. He stood and picked up the microphone. "I…." he started, staring at the piece of paper in his hand. Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose, and looked up at the crowd, slightly crumpling the speech he made. "John Watson, is a man who..." He paused to centre his emotions. He didn't want to just start crying in front of all these people. He worked with a fair few of them.

It was just too soon, much too soon. He just buried - god, he just buried Sherlock a month ago.

He breathed slowly, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He'd slipped in at the last minute to sit in the back. It was a small affair, only friends and family - rather like this one, to be honest, and that actually made this harder than it should be.

Everyone from Sherlock's funeral was here, except Mycroft Holmes. Even the stoic soldier who had stood to one side, quiet and strong, staring out into the distance like he was somewhere else altogether was present, in a manner.

It was that stoic soldier that he was burying today. His façade finally cracked, and Greg was just sorry he couldn't mend the pieces. He felt… good god, Greg had never felt so guilty in his life. It felt like he'd killed two people, even if everyone told him it wasn't his fault. He still felt like he'd failed them. Both of them. He should never have let John walk out of that pub a week ago.

"He is - was, was a good friend of mine." Was. Past tense. How final.

He exhaled again. He didn't know how to continue anymore. The memory of John's body on the sofa was so vivid, and every time he closed his eyes, he could still see it. Could hear the words of John's note repeat in his head.

I feel so alone. I quit.

Bury me next to him.

At least they were able to honour John's last request. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock's headstone glinting in the bright sun.

"If you'd told me the short, jumper clad man who came limping after Sherlock to that serial suicide scene would have become one of the strongest people I've ever met and one of my best mates, I'd have thought you were a complete nutter," he said. "That was the thing about John. People underestimate him." Greg winced, realising he'd slipped into present tense.

"He looked harmless enough, like he was something you'd want to protect. But he didn't need protection. John was one of my best and strongest mates and - and -" And maybe I overestimated him. I still can't believe he did this.

"And I'm going to miss our pub nights, especially when it's his turn to buy the next round." He grinned absently at the memory. Actually, John had insisted when he learned of the long-standing tradition of Greg's team that the last one to join them buys the next round of drinks, despite the fact that he hadn't found a new job yet, was living on his meager army pension, and that there were almost more than ten people to buy drinks for. He never backed down from that, even if it became more and more frequent because of... well, usually it was because of Sherlock, but John never minded. He paid for every pint with a huge grin, and though for the most part he would remain and talk merely to Greg and not much of the others, the team liked John around anyway.

Greg breathed, and continued. It was easier to recount the memories, like they were someone else's. Easier than feeling the loss of his friend and the fact that he should have known and done something about it. "I don't know if you have ever seen John handle a gun, and even if I would never admit to seeing him use one, I would never go against him in a stand-off. He never flinches, despite being scared out of his wits, and I can see what made him a good army doctor. He's one of the few men whom I would trust to watch my back." That night was still sharp in his mind as well as some of his nightmares, and Greg didn't want to encounter a huge black dog at night ever again (made it harder to go to his in-laws, especially with that black english mastiff that his father-in-law had - hell, when that thing bounded up to him when they arrived around midnight he almost shot it...) And he wasn't an idiot - Greg knew it was John who shot that cabbie, and that was a frighteningly good shot largely because it came from the other building. That one bullet had started an extraordinary friendship, and Greg went on to describe it as best he can. A huge part of his friend's life had been solving cases with Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had a relationship that was hard to describe. It was hard to talk about one without mentioning the other. They'd become a unit in his mind. Greg could see the way John was amazed and enamoured with Sherlock Holmes, though John wasn't one to let that keep him from saying no to the impossible man. It wasn't just John though. Sherlock had also relied on John, in a way Greg didn't think he'd ever relied on anyone. They were colleagues and flat mates, but above all that, they were best friends, close as brothers. In the end, John had made Sherlock a good man. Sherlock had made John a great one.

"And he is one of the best men I've ever known."

After the casket was lowered, the flowers thrown in, and the grieving group moved away, a man remained and detached himself from the group. With one last glance towards the headstones, he stood under a nearby tree, and pulled out a disposable mobile.

"Affirmative, sir. John Watson is definitely dead, and continued monitoring would not be necessary."

A/N: We thank everyone who is very patient with our slow progress. Rest assured that this is only because we strive to make this as awesome as we can make it, yeah? :D Also, we said that chapter 5 is almost done... er, woops, sorry, mistake, we found a lot of plot points we have to put in, so you guys might have to wait a little while longer. Thank you for reading!