John waded back to consciousness after the deepest sleep he'd had in months. He pried his eyes open and slowly registered his surroundings. Green walls, dark wood… He rolled onto his back. Ceiling fan… water damage… Not his and Mary's bedroom… Not Kensington… Baker Street. John exhaled remembering yesterday's events. There was no more Mary.
No more Mary, John repeated. He tried to gauge how this made him feel. Relieved? Depressed? Angry? Liberated? He couldn't tell. Maybe it was too early in the morning. He dragged his watch off the night table and blinked at it. 11:14. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late. 11:14, Sunday, October eighteenth. Day One of New Life. Again he waited for an appropriate emotional response: Optimistic? Miserable? His emotions department sent him back a large question mark, and nothing else. He resolved to check back later.
After brushing his teeth in a kind of dazed, overslept way in the half bath across from his bedroom, he made his way down the stairs and found the flat empty. He checked his phone, no messages. He didn't have the energy to guess where Sherlock had gone or what he was up to. He decided a shower would clear the fog from his mind. He had only just finished dressing afterward, and was putting the kettle on, when Mrs. Hudson burst through the door.
Years ago, when they'd first moved in, John had tried to impress upon her the importance of privacy. But each time she would nod emphatically and insist that she quite agreed, and then continue to walk in and out of 221B unannounced. John had given up after some time, simply glad to have his bedroom on the second floor.
"Oh John!" Mrs. Hudson cried, walking up to him and clutching both of his hands in hers. "Sherlock told me you've moved back. I'm so sorry to hear you and Mary have separated!"
"Well," John gave her hands an apologetic squeeze before extracting them from his own and stepping back, "it's for the best…"
"But you were so happy! It was such a beautiful wedding," Mrs. Hudson said tearfully. "What happened? Do you want to talk about it? You can tell me everything. You must want to talk to someone about it."
John did not want to talk about it, but he also knew that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't rest until she'd wrung it out of him and then properly consoled him. So John sighed and said, "I killed her cats."
Mrs. Hudson looked at him, blank with shock.
"I was angry," John said by way of explanation.
"John!" Mrs. Hudson breathed. "That temper of yours! You really ought to see someone about it. My friend Rose goes in for anger management groups; I could ask her for the information if you want. She's been going every week since she ran her husband down with the car. He's all right now, thank god, but—"
"Mrs. Hudson," John cut in.
"Yes, dear?"
"You talked to Sherlock this morning?"
"I met him on the stairs on his way out. He was in a hurry as usual."
"Did he say where he was going?"
"I believe he said Switzerland."
"Switzerland?"
"Probably some new case," she shrugged.
"Right," John said flatly.
"If you'd like I can sit with you a while."
"No, no," John said quickly. "It's fine. I have a lot to do here." He gestured to the disaster zone currently substituting for a living room.
"Well, I suppose I'd better leave you to it," Mrs. Hudson said reluctantly. "Don't worry about Mary," she added. "She'll come round. But in the meantime I'm glad to have you back. Especially if you can do something about this mess."
John sat down heavily in his armchair after she'd gone.
"Hi John, I've got this new case in Switzerland, would you like to come with me?" John said to the empty seat across from him.
"Why yes, Sherlock, that's just the thing I need right now. It'll be a great distraction from my impending divorce." John glared at the empty chair. "It's so kind of you to not completely forget about me at a time like this."
He knew he could text Sherlock, but if Sherlock couldn't be bothered to let him know he was leaving, then John was not going to bother texting him to ask when he'd be back.
John looked at the daunting mess around him and decided, fuck it. Sherlock was not going to ponce off to Switzerland and expect John to spend the time cleaning the flat while he was away. On the other hand, the mess was grating enough on John's military sense of cleanliness that he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore it. Solution? Simple enough; he'd hire a cleaning service with Sherlock's money.
John logged into Sherlock's bank account, as he'd regularly done when they'd lived together, and checked the situation. Not good. He'd have to find all the cheques Sherlock had acquired, and clearly not deposited, in the past year and a half.
The sun was setting by the time he'd found enough cheques to assume there might be only one or two still missing. Considering he'd turned the place upside down looking, he was satisfied with his results. He'd found multiple cheques being used as bookmarks, some among the piles of newspapers, two between the couch cushions, one under the rug, one in the spice cabinet, and one stuck beneath a bag of fingers in the crisper in the fridge. The amount written on the cheque from the spice cabinet made John's eyebrows shoot up under his hair. Sherlock must have put it in the cabinet for safekeeping. With the parsley and thyme. John shook his head. Sherlock was absolutely hopeless.
The next morning John deposited all the cheques before work. And after work, as he was walking out through the large, clear doors at the entrance to the hospital, he was hailed by Mycroft's pretty assistant.
"Get in," the woman whose name was not Anthea said, opening the door of the limousine.
"Oh, I've missed this," John sneered, but ducked into the back anyway.
She didn't respond.
John looked out the tinted window at the passing streets and allowed himself to acknowledge that his remark may not have been entirely sarcastic. Underneath his principal annoyance at being shanghaied, he found the smallest amount of pleasure in the familiarity of the situation. This was life at Baker Street; it wouldn't be complete without routine kidnappings by Mycroft's lackeys.
Mycroft, he was told as he stepped out of the limo in front of the Diogenes Club, was waiting for him in a private room. John quietly made his way there. Once he'd safely closed the door behind him he turned toward Mycroft Holmes, who was sitting in an armchair reading a newspaper, one leg crossed over the other. Hair: immaculately combed. Suit: expensive.
"So, this is something that couldn't have been resolved with a phone call? Or have you just missed me?" John asked. He remained standing with his arms folded.
"I'm aware this attitude of yours is merely compensation for the fact that you have no power in this dynamic," Mycroft said, folding the newspaper and placing it on the side table. "But can we skip it this time, in favour of discussing something more important?"
John glowered. "Ok, how about Britain's oil interests in the Middle East? How's that going?"
Mycroft sighed audibly. "So we're not skipping it then." He pulled a manila envelope out from underneath the newspaper on the table and held it out toward John. "Kindly have a look at this."
John uncrossed his arms reluctantly. He walked over to Mycroft, took the envelope, and dropped down into the chair across from him.
"His name is Carl Reeves," Mycroft said as John drew out the photograph and criminal record. The guy was big, six-three according to the mugshot, and bulky, a typical strong-arm type. His head was shaved and he had a tattoo on his neck of playing cards: Two aces, diamonds and spades.
"He's an assassin," Mycroft was saying. "He had a successful career being paid to kill various criminals and gang leaders by various criminals and gang leaders."
Assassin, John scoffed inwardly. Maybe Mary knew him. John scanned the criminal record. Status: Inmate; Offense: Murder, first-degree, multiple.
"He was arrested ten years ago in connection with a case Sherlock was able to assist Scotland Yard with. Reeves wasn't the man they were looking for, more like a smaller fish caught in the net with the larger one. He was sentenced to life in prison but it appears an interested party has been able to negotiate parole for him."
"An interested party?" John asked, looking up from the photograph.
"I'm not at liberty to divulge names or details. I'll just say that a certain organisation with some political influence has a job they want him for."
"And what, he's the only hitman in England?"
"He's the best."
John wondered if Mary would have been put out to hear this. He looked at the picture of Reeves again. The man didn't look particularly stealthy or clever. He looked like a bouncer.
"This job he's supposed to do; is it to 'rub out' Sherlock?"
Mycroft's lips twitched to something more grimace than grin. "This conversation will be less unpleasant if you dispense with Hollywood gangster terminology. No. According to our information his target will be a prominent drug dealer who's in town for a few weeks."
"And you're worried he's going to whack Sherlock"—Mycroft closed his eyes—"as a side-errand while he's out. A nice revenge treat for himself after ten years in prison with only Sherlock to thank for it."
"Precisely."
"You've warned Sherlock about this?"
"I sent him a text."
"And I'm here then," John said, tossing the documents onto the coffee table in front of him, "because you really did miss me."
Mycroft looked up sharply and said, "You're here because we both know that while Sherlock is meticulous about his cases he tends to be neglectful if not downright oblivious when it comes to his own health and safety."
John lowered his eyes.
"So, you will memorise this photograph," Mycroft continued sternly, "and you will be vigilant until I tell you otherwise. Now that you're back at Baker Street you're in a better position to watch for him."
John didn't bother wondering how Mycroft already knew he'd moved back. He searched Mycroft's expression for any judgment about his marriage having gone up in flames, but Mycroft's grey eyes were as icy and stoic as ever. There was probably no one he knew who cared less about his relationship with Mary than Mycroft Holmes. It was refreshing.
"Yeah, all right," John said, taking the envelope and standing.
"He'll be released tomorrow."
"Well, Sherlock's in Switzerland at the moment, so there's no danger there." John turned to leave.
"One more thing."
John turned back and Mycroft looked at him hard. "If you find Carl Reeves within shooting distance of Sherlock… shoot him. You have permission from the British government to shoot to kill."
John raised his eyebrows, startled. "What if he hasn't got a weapon?"
"If he comes near Sherlock it won't be by coincidence," Mycroft said evenly.
John held Mycroft's freezing gaze.
"It might not happen. But in any case you should know that Reeves has murdered almost a hundred people, both criminal and innocent, and would continue to do so. He's not a person to trouble one's conscience over."
John nodded grimly to show Mycroft he understood.
As he walked back through the stuffy, silent Diogenes Club John thought about how satisfying it would be to bring in an air horn and shock those white toupees right off.