Chapter Six- April Fool's Ending
Title: Mobile
Author: A Study in Schadenfreude
Pairing|Characters: No strict pairing
Length: We've chopped them up for you to post earlier :p
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: John Watson's on the verge of leaving 221B behind. Until he receives a message that will change his life forever... "Text Received from Sherlock Holmes."
A/N: This is the chapter that was published for April Fool's. If you don't want to read it, skip to the next chapter :)
Tuesday, 9 October
It had taken two weeks of fruitless searching before John decided to just call Mrs Hudson and ask if she knew how to contact the handyman. He spent an additional week trying to think of a decent reason to bring the man up in a conversation. He didn't believe "that man who installed the brackets under the landing was a hired gun there to shoot you if Sherlock didn't jump" would put his former landlady at ease.
John was relieved when the familiar voice of Mrs Hudson answered the phone. God, what if something had happened to her? What if it she wasn't at Baker Street anymore? He really should check on the people he loved more. He wanted to be as updated as possible, to see how he could help, even from beyond the grave.
"Hello?"
"Mrs Hudson? It's me. Promised I'd call, yeah?"
There was a bit of shuffling on the other side of the phone. It sounded like Mrs Hudson had pulled up a chair. "John! Dear, it's very nice to hear from you! It's been months since I last saw you dear. I hope you weren't too disturbed by the commotion your death had brought on."
John cleared his throat, remembering what his death had done to his sister and Greg. All the things they said. Connally had recorded everything, mentioning the futility of death and the beauty of other people's suffering for loved ones. John had listened out of curiosity...and he regretted every moment of it.
"I'm fine, just fine, Mrs H. You're doing okay, I hope?"
"The hip's been playing up a bit. The old flat's getting a bit too drafty without you boys around. And you, John?"
"Sorry to hear about your hip. Make sure you rest it, doctor's orders. I'd actually called to ask if you knew how to contact that man who installed the brackets under the first landing? Harry's been looking for a good contractor and I promised I'd help find one."
"Oh, he did a fine job, very nice work. The brackets look lovely." John listened to a bit of a shuffling on the other side, and the turning of pages. Sherlock had pointed out Mrs Hudson's notebook once, filled with bits of important information that she didn't want to forget. It was old and worn, with the cover almost falling away. John wanted to replace it, but Sherlock insisted that Mrs Hudson would prefer her current notepad until it ran out. John had never seen it run out, but he hoped he could buy Mrs Hudson the next one if he comes back, for putting her through so much.
"I'll send you the number in a bit. One of Mrs Turner's taught me how to text properly. So kind of him, really. I'm happy you're still in contact with your sister! How is she? She seemed very heartbroken during the funeral."
"Oh, Harry's fine. She always did love to be dramatic," he said with frown, regretful about needing to lie to his former landlady. It was better this way though. The less she knew, the safer she was. "That'd be great, ta. Do you happen to remember his name?"
Thursday, 11 October
He'd read up on his medical jargon, watched some episodes of ER, House and Grey's Anatomy, rolled his sleeves up, and hoped to god that no one would ask for his help anywhere. It had been a while since Thomas pretended he was a doctor in a hospital, and even then, it never came easy for him. He knew he'd be unable to help people if he was asked to assist, and he would rather not accidentally kill anybody. For all of his many skills, surgery has never been and never will be among them.
When they had decided to send him in to talk to one Dr. Molly Hooper, Thomas thought it would be one of his more difficult cons. Surely a doctor wouldn't be easily reeled in by just his charm, and he was prepared to pull out all the stops.
Then he saw Molly. After watching her discreetly, he could tell that she seemed more likely to go for someone who would simply seeher. Keeping that in mind and seeing her walking toward him, he began moving as well and bumped into the pretty doctor.
"Oh! Sorry, I didn't mean to - " he began and stooped down, collecting all the paperwork Molly had dropped. "Let me help you, I'm sorry, doctor...?"
"Oh! Hooper - er, Molly," she said, sounding surprised. Thomas gave her a reassuring smile. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm so sorry, but I don't seem to remember your name. I try to know who everyone is since I do the post-mortems. Oh God, sorry. That was weird, wasn't it?"
"Well, I'm new - just flew in from across the pond, so I understand. Dr Carter, Ross Carter. It's very nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper." Thomas handed over the files, fingers ghosting over Molly's hand. "I'm sorry for bumping into you like this, I'm so clumsy sometimes."
He laughed, and rocked back on his heels a little, and studied her for a bit. "Look, let me make it up to you, doctor. How about I take you out for some coffee?"
Molly blushed. "Oh, no. I couldn't. Thank you though."
Thomas blinked at her in genuine confusion, and mixed in a little bit of pretend hurt. "Really? Was I really that bad?" He smiled apologetically. "I can live with that."
"Oh, no! You're not bad at all. I just didn't think someone like you would be interested in someone like me," she rambled. Her eyes darted everywhere except Thomas's, and Thomas brushed her shoulder in a reassuring gesture.
"You're beautiful, you seem nice, and you're a doctor. Any one would be crazy not to want to go out with you," Thomas said, flashing her another charming smile. "But hey, if you're off the market, that's fine. Thanks for letting me down easy. Here, let me help." He took the pile of documents from Molly before she could protest, and followed her down back to her office, making small talk about the hospital.
He made sure to walk halfway out the door before turning around to ask again. "Are you sure that I really can't take you out for coffee?"
"I... yes, I'd like to have coffee. With you. That... that would be lovely, actually."
"I'll pick you up when your shift ends?"
Molly glanced down at her watch, cheeks flushing a light pink. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, it... in five hours, it ends in five hours."
Thomas grinned. "Then I'll see you in five hours."
Thomas paused by the door and knocked. It was a good hour before Molly said she would be ready, and he thought that there was a good chance that he would be able to search for Molly's phone then.
"Come in!" came a voice from inside the mortuary. Thomas entered, his eyes roaming everywhere, looking at the different instruments and the row of cabinets. "Doctor Hooper?" he called out.
His eyes rested on the body on the table, only a small sheet covering the man's privates. Everything else was displayed inside out. Thomas spun toward the opposite direction, feeling sick. He swallowed to get his stomach back under control before he accidentally threw up his lunch. "You, are definitely busy right now."
Not feeling like he was going to puke anymore, he turned back to see Molly standing at a smaller table, watching him with a bemused look.
"Oh! Doctor Carter. Am I late?" Molly asked. Her hands were covered in gloves, which were tinted red from dissecting the man's heart on the table.
Thomas took a steady breath, remembering that he was supposed to be a doctor and this was not supposed to be the first time he's seen a cadaver. It wasn't, but he never enjoyed seeing dead people. Especially not with their internal organs everywhere. There was a reason he shied away from guns. "No...no, I'm just early. What happened to him?"
"Died on the table. The family asked for an autopsy and I don't blame them. He was just having his gallbladder out. Shame, really," Molly answered, glancing back at the body resting on the table. "Do you mind waiting a bit? I'm just finishing up." She frowned. "Are you alright? You're looking a bit green."
"No, I'm fine," he murmured, taking care to not look at the body again. He swallowed a second time, clenching his fists to keep his gag reflex under control. "Mind if I stay in your office?"
"That's fine. I'm almost done, really."
"Thanks," Thomas said. He quietly let himself into the office, scanning the small room. She had added a personal touch with flowers and small plushies peppering the stark white of the hospital walls in pinks and yellows. He shook his head, smiling at how the office felt so much like that pretty doctor currently sewing a man back together. Peeking through the door, he could see that Molly was facing away from him and began his search. He quickly spotted her purse under the desk and fished her phone out. Thomas scrolled through the messages, taking note of the names as quickly as he could. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary but any of random people here might be Sherlock Holmes. Molly didn't exactly strike Thomas as a master of deception though. It was more likely that the detective used various burner phones to contact her, so the number would be unknown.
Of course, Molly wasn't an idiot, and she had obviously deleted all of the messages. He was almost proud of her for that.
But, Molly was still Molly, and from what he knew of her crush on the detective, it was very possible that Sherlock had sent something she thought was worth keeping. With that, Thomas opened her saved messages, immediately spotting an unknown number. He clicked open.
The message was obvious. It was definitely from Sherlock Holmes. Thomas had him. He grinned smugly for a moment before he heard the sink in the lab turn on. He was out of time.
He'd put the phone away before Molly was even done washing her hands.
Molly appeared in the doorway, sans bloody gloves and white lab coat. "Alright, I'm all done," she said, smiling shyly.
Thomas had arranged himself comfortably in her chair, looking like he'd been that way for a while. He smiled and stood, gesturing to the door with his hands. "Great. Shall we go?"
Molly nodded and retrieved her purse from under the desk. He watched nervously as she pulled out her cellphone to check for messages. "There's a coffee shop nearby, on Fleet Place. We could um, walk?" Thomas released the breath he'd been holding as Molly slipped the phone back into her purse and grabbed a sweater from a coat hanger in the corner.
"Sure. I'd love to see more of London, anyway." Thomas replied and pushed open the office door, letting Molly lead the way.
They walked in almost awkward silence to the cafe until Thomas started up a conversation about the weather, with the sun shining through spatters of clouds, mentioning how different it was from home. Thomas started gesturing at random people, making up stories about how they move and talk and why, purposefully reminding Molly about Sherlock Holmes. It was a dirty trick, yes, but it was important. She had to think about Sherlock and not be on her guard about it. Thomas was quite good at guessing how and why people did what they did - he was an artist, after all, and artists have a way of seeing into people's souls - and Molly had smiled at his stories.
They were sad smiles, with the corners of her mouth tucked up rather shyly, and none of them reached her eyes. Molly, in that split second, seemed like the sort of person you want to protect from the world.
Dammit Thomas, focus.
"So, how long have you been working at St. Bart's?" he asked almost out of the blue, to move the topic to something less Sherlock like and more Molly. Best not make her suspicious.
"Five years last May," she replied to him. There was a sort of startled look in her eyes, as if she was surprised at the sudden topic change. Like her mind had been elsewhere entirely.
Good, that was good. It made Thomas feel guilty to exploit her this way.
"So you like it there, then?"
"Yes, I do. The people are lovely. When I see them, I mean." Molly twirled a finger around the end of her hair, and it made her look less like the pathologist who does autopsies every day and more like a bashful, charming young woman out for a walk.
Thomas gave her a slightly puzzled look. "They don't like visiting you down there? I thought that your little cubbyhole with all the dead bodies was quite endearing. I love what you did to your office, honestly. It was cozy. It felt more like you, I suppose."
Molly stumbled mid-step when she turned to look at Thomas, her eyes widened in shock. Thomas caught her by the arm, and gently pulled her upright before she could fall. Apparently it wasn't an opinion that she heard every day because she was still staring at him like he was an alien. "You don't think it's odd that I work in the morgue?"
"The dead need someone to solve their puzzles, don't you think? Not everyone can do what you do."
Molly brightened. Finally, someone who understood her. Thomas wasn't faking all of it. "That's why I decided to be a pathologist."
"There's nothing odd about that. We all have our places in the world," Thomas said with another smile. He lost himself in his own memories, ones concerning tall buildings and heists. One way or another, his world revolved around them, and he knew he didn't belong here. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Things were still too fresh, what he had left behind.
Sometimes, during jobs, one ran into things that needed to be resolved even if there was no time to do so. Thomas had perfected the ability of tucking them away until he had to deal with them.
"You looked sad, just now."
Of course she noticed. Perceptive. It was a bit unnerving.
"Hm?" Thomas hummed questioningly. "What do you mean?"
Molly met his gaze. There wasn't any pity in her brown eyes, only a sad brush of understanding. "When you said that bit about having our places in the world, you looked sad."
Thomas shrugged. "I still have to find my own niche. It's a process. Know anyone like that?"
Molly looked away. "I do...did. They died recently. Sorry, that's not something one talks about while getting coffee, is it?"
"No, it's fine. We could try for small talk, but that's…" Thomas laughed a little. "That's boring, isn't it?"
"Do you think so? My er, my friend, he thought a lot of things were boring." She laughed softly. It crept into her eyes a bit this time. Thomas decided it looked good on her.
"Your friend's smart." They finally reached the café, and Thomas pulled out a chair for Molly before sitting down himself. "We could try it. 'Hello, Molly, nice weather we're having.'" He changed his voice a little into a faux, smaller one. It was cheesy, he knew, but it made Molly's eyes light up even more. "'Why yes, Ross, it is, quite.' 'Do you like your coffee?' 'Yes, yes I do. How about you?' 'I am enjoying it, thank you.'"
He laughed a little more. "It's just not interesting." He gave a quick grin before transitioning to a more somber expression. "I'm sorry about your friend. Would you like to talk about it?
Molly's smile dimmed a little. "Oh, not really. Sorry. It's just...he meant a lot to me, still does. I knew him for most of the time I worked at Bart's."
"I know what you mean. It's not easy being left behind, I know." Thomas breathed in. As he had told John, an ounce of truth always goes a long way. "You know why I'm here, in London?" He looked around the café and dropped his façade a bit. "I was trying to get away from something that I did back in America, but now…. Now I don't think leaving was worth it. Maybe, just maybe, if I'd stuck it out… I wouldn't have hurt the people I cared about."
"Can't you go back? It's not too late to apologize. I'm sure they'd forgive you." Her voice was soft and caring. It struck a chord in him, and he clenched his fist slightly to pull it back together. Molly thought she was invisible and she became so. She thought she was unimportant and so Moriarty saw her as unnecessary in his plans. Maybe that was why Sherlock Holmes chose her to help in his disappearing act. This invisibility placed her in the best position to perceive things as they were.
"I can't. It's complicated," Thomas said, shaking his head. "I wish I could." He avoided eye contact, giving the impression that he didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Let me get the drinks, then we could talk more." He stood up smoothly, smiling when Molly told him her order.
He came back a few minutes later with steaming mugs and a couple of pastries. Taking a bite of a cherry danish, he tried to resume the conversation. "Anyway, we were talking about your friend."
Molly gave a short nod, although she seemed like she didn't hear him. She looked thoughtful. "You're still alive, it can't be that complicated," she said almost to herself, but loud enough that Thomas could still hear. Molly looked up. "Couldn't you at least phone them?" She blushed when she realized that Thomas had asked to change the subject. "Er, sorry, I shouldn't pry."
Thomas barely kept from snickering. She was still thinking about his predicament. It was endearing and refreshing to have people around him care again. "No, no it's fine." He was running from a whole lot of things, from the things he did, in both the distant and the recent past. He knew he shouldn't have left, but going back now would be suicide. "Sometimes, I think it's better if they think I'm dead. Then I wouldn't have to drag them into my mess." He looked at Molly, sincere appreciation on his face ."But thank you, though. If it really is that easy, I will."
Molly placed a hand on Thomas's, almost thoughtlessly. "I hope, for your sake, that you will be able to tell them someday. I have a friend who doesn't have the chance to do that anymore. They refuse to talk about it. It's sad," she said, staring at the table. When she realized where her hand was, Molly pulled it back like she'd burned it.
"Yes, I hope so too." Thomas said faintly. He reached out and placed a hand on her's, to reassure her that it was alright to talk. "What happened? If I can ask, that is."
Molly hesitated. "He committed suicide. It was rather sudden," she admitted, sipping her coffee.
"That's really awful. I'm sorry." Thomas said. He squeezed her hand softly, encouraging her to continue, and hoped that his open demeanor would encourage her to share more. If he pried too much, it would become too obvious and Molly would clam up.
He wasn't completely heartless. Thomas knew Molly needed this. Even though it wasn't part of the plan, why not help her with this? It's the least he can do, aside from the coffee, for conning information out of her.
Molly nodded. "He uh, he must have felt like he was alone. There was this case, he was a doctor too, and he was being called a fraud. His name was ruined and he…he shot himself. I wish he had talked to me."
"I'm sorry, I really am." Thomas sighed. "Maybe - you know, maybe I should have told them back home..." home, he thought wryly, he still thought of what he'd left as home, "...and maybe I could have prevented a lot of things from happening. I've lost their trust, and I don't think I could go back." He looked away for effect, squeezed Molly's hand again, and let go. He took a sip from his mug, frowning at the cooling temperature.
"My friend, the one who is alive, he hasn't even been to the cemetery. At least, I don't think he has. He's started travelling a lot."
There you go. That was what he wanted to hear. He encouraged the topic with a nod. "I've done a bit of travelling as well. It's - when you want to forget…." Thomas shook his head. "You want to keep moving. Away. Further." Thomas laughed at the similarities between his situation and Sherlock Holmes. "It's unhealthy."
Molly nodded. She looked more relaxed, as if she was happy that she finally found someone to talk to. Someone who understood. "I'm worried about him. What he's been through...it's not easy. They were, best friends I think."
Thomas appeared to think for a moment. This was good, this wasreally good.
Too good.
It shouldn't make him feel this guilty.
"I left behind a - guess he was my best friend, too. Definitely was the one who pulled me out of some bad habits." He sipped again from his cup. "Feels nice to talk about this." He met Molly's gaze over the table. "It isn't easy. It's… I say I don't get attached, I can't, with my type of work - I loved to go around and travel on missions, you see - but… it's still hard. Some days, I just want to go home."
Thank god Molly knew absolutely nothing about Thomas, or else this would be a pretty embarrassing spill, and he wouldn't hear the end of it from anyone in his circle.
This time Molly grabbed his hand and gave it a slight squeeze. "I'm sorry," she said.
"Thank you. I hope your friend can come home, too. Just to get him some closure."
"Feelings have never been Sher-ringford's strong suit." Molly abruptly lost all color to her face, and Thomas thought she was going to faint.
"Are you alright?" he asked, eyebrows knitted in concern. He held a hand to her to steady her, but she flinched away.
Molly glanced at her watch quickly. Suddenly, she looked very eager to leave, and Thomas wasn't going to prolong her agony. It must have been painful to feel like she almost betrayed Sherlock Holmes to a relative stranger. He hoped she doesn't dwell on it too much. "I'm fine, I'm fine, but I have to go - late for something, I just realised.. Thanks for the coffee. It was lovely." She stood up a bit shakily.
"Will I see you at work tomorrow?" Thomas stood up as well. He felt like he needed to make it up to Molly. The woman looked pale, too pale, but Thomas had what he needed. He was sure that he had the confirmation John had wanted. The army doctor was going to be elated. Or pissed off.
Molly nodded faintly.
Thomas held out a hand. "Are you okay? Sorry if this whole thing upset you, it's not really the sort of topic you talk about during a first date." Thomas laughed a bit to ease Molly. "Let's do a proper one, tomorrow, maybe...?" He grinned and continued. "Although I'd need your number for that."
"Oh! Right, of course." She grabbed a napkin and took a pen from her purse, writing down the number. "Thank you. I think talking about it helped a bit. I've got to run though. It was nice to meet you," she rattled off before dashing out the door.
Thomas gave a slight wave, and stuffed the napkin into his pocket. When he was sure Molly wasn't going to turn back, he took out his phone, and dialed John. "Hey, Mr. Dent, great news. We've got your friend."
John was just about to take his lunch break when his "John" phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered as he clocked out, and Thomas' smooth voice gave him the news.
We've got your friend.
They had him, they actually had him, and he was right. His hand shook, but his voice was steady. "Great timing. I'm just leaving for my lunch break. I'll meet you where we've talked about."
"Will be there in ASAP."
John half-ran to Prezzo's a restaurant halfway between the Starbuck's he worked at Saint Bart's. He spotted Thomas immediately. "Thomas," John greeted, taking a seat. "You said we found him?"
"Mr 'Sherringford'. But that was Ms Hooper's slip of the tongue, so we aren't sure what alias he is using now. But, John..." Thomas broke into a huge grin. "He is definitely alive. I saw a text message from him, and Ms Hooper confirmed it."
"Don't use that name in public," he hissed, looking around to make sure no one was listening. No one appeared to be. John knew his name was fairly common, but he didn't want to attract any more unwanted attention like what happened on the bus. "What did the text say?"
"No one can hear us, John. You're getting as bad as Connally," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair. "It just assures us he's alive."
That wasn't what John asked. Thomas was dodging the question, and it was beginning to piss John off. He didn't have time for Thomas's games; the text might be relevant. Sherlock liked sending texts that had multiple meanings, and this might be one of them - but John wouldn't know until he knew what the message was. "Tell me what the text said. It might have a clue or a lead…something that will let me know where he is."
"I'm not entirely sure that is a great idea," Thomas said quietly.
"I need to know what it said. Please."
The other man sighed in defeat. He took out his phone, and John watched him as he typed. Within a few seconds, John's phone beeped, and he read the message.
Five words. Just five words and it felt like he'd been punched in the gut.
I should have told him.
He closed his eyes, clenching the phone tightly. He couldn't think about how much he'd hurt Sherlock, not now. He couldn't afford the distraction at the moment.
Thomas was silent. "I wish he had, too," he murmured. "I am sorry you had to find out this way. But he's alive. I don't think Ms Hooper knows where he is, but he is alive, and he hasn't been by your grave yet."
John nodded, wondering if Sherlock would even bother to stop by his "grave". He'd probably find it boring, or the idea of it full of ridiculous sentiment. He glanced at his watch, noticing his hour was almost up. "Time for me to head back. Could you install some cameras to watch the gravesite tomorrow?"
"I'll get Connally to do it. I can't."
"Can't?"
"I have a date tomorrow." Thomas grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself, like a cat who'd just caught a mouse. "Would you like me to set you up with one? I'd make it a double date, Arthur, but you can't tag along tomorrow, sorry."
"Ha, very funny. When did you manage to get a date between talking to Molly and…." It dawned on John, and he almost spat out his drink. John wasn't sure whether to stare in awe or something else. The audacity of this man. "No. You're not serious. You asked her out after conning information out of her?"
"I didn't con anything out of her. We had a coffee date, we talked. I shared some things about me, and she shared some things about her. One of those things just happened to be about Mr Sherringford."
John shook his head, giving up. "All right, fine. Fine. Molly's had bad luck in the dating department, don't lead her on." He knew he sounded like he was scolding, but really, even if he didn't know Molly very well she did not deserve a terrible date. "She dated Moriarty for chrissakes."
Thomas grimaced. "Wow. I assume that didn't work out well." He looked at John, completely serious. "I am not leading Molly on. I happen to genuinely think she's nice, and why shouldn't I get to know her? Besides, it would be a great way to keep tabs on your friends, don't you think?"
"It's fine. It's all fine," John said, standing. He smiled. Sherlock was alive, definitely alive, and that...that was good. That was definitely good. "I'll contact you later. Ta."
Tuesday, 16 October
The paper the number is on was crumbled and almost half torn. John had been fiddling with it for the past couple of days, making sure it was the perfect time to call the handyman or Jack Aranski, as he'd found out from multiple contacts that he'd scrounged up. Today was the day he'd marked down on his mental calendar, and so today was the day he punched in the numbers. Slowly, with each number sure and precise.
It rang out.
John frowned, double checked and made sure that it was the correct number from Mrs Hudson, and tried again. This was the only lead he had to finding Sherlock, and it had to go well. He could not afford mistakes or delays - he did plan on coming back to the land of the living, sooner rather than later.
When the man at the other end answered, all John heard was some distorted breathing. "Hello?" he asked through the new vocal distorter Thomas had insisted on him purchasing. "Are you the handyman, Mr Isaenko? My friend passed along this number and I was hoping to get some brackets installed."
"Who is this?" The lilt and the tone of voice sounded familiar, though not quite right. The man sounded posh, which confused John. He swore Mrs Hudson said that he was a foreigner.
John licked his lips, deciding which alias to give. He wanted to catch Aranski's attention. "Dixon. Hector Dixon." He had to suppress his inner Bond fan to keep from laughing at his own joke, corny as it was. John had learned to grasp at all sorts of things to make him happy bit by bit if he wants to survive in not-so-agreeable circumstances.
"Mr Dixon. What may I do for you?"
For a supposed assassin, he was awfully polite. It was a bit disconcerting. "Perhaps we could arrange a meeting...to talk about my brackets that need installing."
"My old customer was satisfied with the brackets I did for her, I take it?"
John Watson was merely human, and the conversation was starting to sound... appallingly creepy. He coughed awkwardly into his hand. "Yes, quite. Quite er, satisfied. Do you have an office or...?"
"I think the EMD Cinema at 19:00 would suffice."
Right. Definitely not a handyman, then. Although John hadn't expected anything else, it was reassuring to have it confirmed. "Interesting place for a business meeting. I'll be there." He let out a breath as he ended the call. The man sounded terribly familiar, even if John wasn't sure why. It didn't matter. He was going to find out soon enough.
John had brought the Beretta along. It was a comforting weight at the small of his back as he entered the dark, dingy cinema. He'd done his research before leaving, finding a small paragraph on Jack Aranski: hired gun from Belarus, single, dependable follower, eager to please, not too bright, with probable connections to Moriarty. He vaguely remembered what the man looked like; he honestly hadn't been paying much attention. He'd only gotten one glance of the bulky European, far too concerned about Mrs Hudson, and after seeing she was all right, he'd bolted without a backward glance. Sherlock had been in danger. He clenched his fists. He had been too late, anyway. If he had arrived just five minutes earlier, it could have gone remarkably different, and Sherlock wouldn't have to hide behind various aliases. Neither would John.
He sighed inaudibly. This wasn't the time to beat himself up; he needed to focus. Focus. John looked around a bit, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, paying particular attention to the shadows. The cinema appeared empty. He was either the first to arrive, or Aranski was watching him from somewhere.
"There are a lot of other repairmen in the phonebook, Mr Dixon. Why would you need my services?"
The voice was recogniseable, very recognisable, but with that Scottish undertone it was difficult to place. It seemed off, a few octaves wrong somehow.
That was a red flag, however, what the man had said. He sounded intent on not taking a job - and John knew that he was certainly,definitely, the person that John needed. "I've never met a handyman so intent on avoiding a job, especially if the money's good," John answered, reaching behind his back for the gun.
"Mr Dixon, we both know I am not the handyman you're looking for." The accent slipped just there, as if the man was enjoying a private joke. The voice sounded like the man was smiling, and the Scottish accent bled out into something definitely familiar.
John was reminded of a three-day Star Wars marathon, plenty of popcorn and coke, a case involving a broken toy lightsaber and endlessly 'using the Force' on Anderson's 'feeble mind'.
It was John Watson, with a Beretta, in an abandoned theater, killing a dead man. "I think you're exactly the handyman I've been searching for, now come out here so I can kill you myself, you bloody wanker." John stepped closer toward the direction from which the voice had been coming from. "JUMP OFF A BUILDING WILL YOU AND MAKE ME WATCH? YOU, SHERLOCK HOLMES, ARE A CLOT!"
Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the shadows and lowered his gun, looking very confused, and quite shocked. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he stared, simply stared at John, blinking. His now-black hair made him look years younger, in contrast to his older, weather-beaten face, and he looked like an emo teenager fresh from University hell, especially with his hair cropped just so. The man was even wearing black, with a black jumper beneath a long coat. It was as dramatic and cliché as the villain in a movie.
John was actually concerned, for a moment, and stepped forward to check if the man was going into some form of psychological shock. They had a term for it, on those blogs he'd roamed to look for clues on Sherlock's death. It had something to do with smashing keyboards and verbs.
The movement seemed to have shaken Sherlock out of his state, and actual words managed to slip out. "What on - John? But you're...dead. You mean to tell me you've been alive all this time, and you pretended to be dead to..." His eyes narrowed at John, but softened with confusion. "Is this revenge for all those times I've brought home heads to put in the fridge?"
John sighed audibly. He replaced his gun into it's concealed spot and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Yes, Sherlock, this is revenge for all the body parts and the experiments. I thought you jumping off St Barts was the perfect opportunity and went through the trouble of legally killing myself just for some petty revenge!" he barked, thinking about the months of frustrated searching.
Sherlock shuffled a little, looking very much like a scolded child. John was almost certain he was going to scuff a shoe against the floor. "You could've simply phoned Mycroft," the detective stated.
John looks at the ceiling, grasping for some semblance of patience before snarking a reply. "You could have phone Mrs Hudson."
"Why on earth would I phone her?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "I was in hiding. It would be illogical to phone her while I'm in hiding for her safety."
John scowled. "Why would I have phoned Mycroft?" he parroted. "I am pretending to be dead. It would be just plain wrong for a dead man to phone the British Government when he isn't even supposedto be alive!"
Sherlock leveled a look at John, one that John definitely did not miss. The one that stated that everyone was an idiot, and John was being an idiot, and Sherlock didn't know why he was tolerating such nonsense. "To ask about whether I was still alive. It would have been a perfectly logical question. I left you plenty of clues already, and if you had phoned Mycroft and presented him with all the evidence you would have known I was still alive."
John straightened and inhaled deeply, deciding to let the matter go. He doubted that Mycroft would have told him the truth even if he had asked, anyway. Mycroft was great at manipulating the truth. John was certain he would have prepared a version of the truth to cover up Sherlock's death. "You've taken care of one of the snipers then, since you're here?"
Sherlock gave a nod. "Yes. I still have a couple left." He knotted his forehead. "Why should I have phoned Mrs Hudson?"
"Because she could have told you I was alive, idiot."
Sherlock paused, and appeared to consider it. "...that, admittedly, would have made everything much easier."
"Bit late for that though." John glanced around. The cinema seemed to be less menacing now that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He'd found Sherlock in a drafty old cinema. Somehow he thought it would be a bit more dramatic than that.
Oh well. Beggars couldn't be choosers. "What now, then? I assume there's a fair amount of paperwork to come back from the dead?"
"Yes. Mycroft explained everything, once." Sherlock appeared to scan John, and John resisted the urge to raise his arms up and turn around for his friend's perusal. Sherlock frowned. "How did you do it?"
"You mean you can't figure it out on your own? Some genius detective you are." John said, looking particularly smug. He couldn't help it. He bested the Sherlock Holmes. He was allowed to be smug.
Sherlock circled him like an inspector from one of those old detective shows John used to watch. "I assume you had someone in the Met helping you, because Molly couldn't have. Did you ask Greg?"
John slowly followed Sherlock with his eyes. "No..uh, Greg doesn't know." He stopped. "Hang on, did you just call him Greg?" John was surprised that Sherlock had finally remembered the DI's name. "Of course Molly helped you. She'd do bloody anything for you."
"Who was it then, Donovan?"
A smile crept on the corner of John's mouth. Sherlock would not like his answer. "Not Sally either, though I hear she feels very guilty about what happened."
Sherlock sounded sharp and rather suspicious now. "Then who did you ask?"
"Anderson," John mumbled, reconsidering. Maybe it wasn't something he should be smug about, after all.
"Who?"
"Anderson," he repeated, watching Sherlock carefully. John wasn't sure if he was going to enjoy this or not.
This was the first time John had ever seen the equal portions of annoyance, disbelief, and impression on anyone's face. "Anderson. You asked Anderson to help you. Anderson." He raised his head rather highly, and rolled his eyes. "Well. Who knew that he was capable of doing something correctly."
"I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear the closest thing to a compliment you'll ever give him."
"But he surely could not have provided you with a body, multiple secret IDs, and-" Sherlock turned to John suddenly, taking him by the shoulders. John started in slight surprise as Sherlock shook him. "No. John, the fewer people who know what you're going to do, the better! How would it remain a secret if every living thing on earth knows that you would still be alive?"
"Yes, well, in the event we ever have to fake our deaths again, we can both use the British Government to help do it properly." John's flat grimace quickly turned into a smile as he realised something. "Besides, I kept it from you, didn't I?"
"Yes." Sherlock grudgingly admitted, turning away slightly. John could still see the smile light up his face anyway. "That was rather impressive, I suppose."
"Did...did you just compliment me for besting you?" John teased, grinning with mock confusion. "I must be asleep. All of this is some weird dream my brain cooked up."
Sherlock turned to John with the same, genuine smile still on his face. "I assure you John, you are not dreaming."
John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, as if to assure himself that everything was indeed real. Sherlock tensed slightly, but he glanced at John, inclining his head in reassurance. John relaxed, satisfied with the physical contact. Sherlock really was here, and everything was real. His search was over. John was done.
He plopped down on the seat beside Sherlock, dust billowing at the movement. "I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing." John rubbed his temples, and glanced at Sherlock. "I could really use a vacation. A permanent vacation."
"I could arrange that."
John looked at Sherlock thoughtfully as the other man sat beside John, as well. He squinted against the dust suddenly in his eyes. "You could use one too, you know. A permanent vacation."
"That would be nice, yes." The words came with a small sigh, and Sherlock's shoulders sagged in obvious relief. Sherlock glanced at John, and smiled tiredly.
John laughed, feeling lighter than he had in months. He hadn't giggled like this since Sherlock had worn just his bed sheet to the Buckingham Palace, and that felt like it was ages ago. "Where should we spend our afterlife then?"
"Somewhere that isn't boring," Sherlock answered, without missing a beat. "Where they would not be able to disturb us for a long, long time."
"How about an island in the Philippines? You won't be able to flip up your coat collar though."
"Preferably somewhere without the sun." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the thought. "Isn't the Philippines a tropical country?"
John sniggered a bit, glancing Sherlock from head to toe, staring at his long coat. "I knew you were secretly a vampire. You suggest somewhere then." He blinked as he realised something. "I'm surprised you know what a tropical country is. Yes, it is."
Sherlock grimaced, recalling. "There was a case involving seafood, mild poisoning, and a very interesting rock." He glanced at an arm in disdain, raising it away from himself as if it was wet. "I hate sea water."
John shrugged. "How about New Zealand then?" When Sherlock gave him a blank look, John clarified. "Where they filmed the Lord of the Rings films?"
"Isn't that surrounded by sea water, as well?"
Typical Sherlock and his selective memory. John chuckled. "Technically, so is England."
"Wherever you want to go, John." Sherlock sank further into the chair, and smiled at John a little." I don't want to stay here any longer. As long as I can do my experiments and occasionally consult on interesting cases and have you there with me, I'll be fine."
John nodded. For a second there, just for a second, he thought Sherlock was going to refuse. He smiled. "Deal. To the airport?"
"Yes." Sherlock stood up, suddenly recharged, and brushed dust out of his coat. He stretched an arm out lazily, and produced a credit card in his palm. John blinked at the smooth sleight of hand. "We're charging everything to Mycroft's credit card until we figure out how to completely disappear."
"He deserves it." John nodded solemnly.
Sherlock led the way out of the cinema, and John followed. "Let's simply take the first trip out of this country. Would that work as well?"
"Wherever is fine, as long as we don't end up anywhere near the Reichenbach Falls."
The two men looked at each other, nodded, and started giggling. John shook his head with a smile, and watched as Sherlock hailed a taxi. A cab smoothly pulled over.
Sherlock glanced at John, and gestured at the door. "Let's go."
EPILOGUE
Mycroft let out an overly controlled breath as he read his bill. His brother and the doctor had disappeared without a trace, but not without leaving Mycroft over a million pounds of credit to be paid. Sherlock was lucky that his trust fund was still full, or else Mycroft would hunt him to the ends of the earth for this.
Greg, bless his soul, was fired from the Yard. He took up being a consulting detective and lived in 221B because Mrs Hudson insisted on having someone who knew the boys stay there. Sally became the head of the department and consulted with his old boss, and Anderson was still the butt of all jokes in the Yard. Thomas and Connally had moved on to other jobs, and Harry got back with Clara,and Henry ended up with Molly.
As for Sherlock and John, John dedicated his life to a small clinic in the town they landed in, and Sherlock became the town eccentric whom everyone, weirdly enough, tolerated. He took on the name Jeremy Law and John took on Jude Brett, and they kept bees and solved crimes in their spare time.
And everyone lived happily ever after. Except Sebastian. Because Jim's dead.
A/N: REPEAT, I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT THE REAL ENDING. THIS WAS A JOKE MADE ON APRIL FOOL'S DAY, AND DUE TO REAL LIFE CONCERNS WE HADN'T HAD THE TIME TO EDIT THE CHAPTER'S ENDING. NOW IT'S HERE FOR MEMORIES.
SERIOUSLY, THIS REALLY ISN'T THE ENDING.
The next bit is the real chapter six.