Situation Report

John settled down in his chair again, one hand wrapped around Sherlock's fingers.

"Hey, Sherlock," he muttered, looking up from the phone. "What with your lost memories – do you want me to read this aloud? Can you actually hear me?" He scrutinised the face for a full minute, but there was no movement at all. Not even a twitching muscle. John sighed and opened the next document. "I'll read it aloud from now on, okay? You can complain later. Or not."

John,

In the following, I will report on the completion of my first task. After several months of preparation and gathering information on Moriarty's net, the course of action was finally determined and planned out. I have tried to supply all the facts while leaving out the tedious details.

John frowned at Sherlock. "What do you mean, you left out the tedious details? I hope you didn't leave out all the fun parts!"

His protest was answered by a warning sound from the heart monitor. John jumped and stared at it – but the momentary arrhythmia had passed.

He pursed his lips. "Sherlock, don't give yourself a heart attack over a word of criticism, OK?" He raised an eyebrow. "Right, your first task. Let's see. I'll read it to you, okay? I mean, if you have nothing better to do than lounge around like a sloth, you might as well listen to me." John cleared his throat. "Here we go."

Location:

Moscow, Russia; Moscow International Business Centre; skyscraper under construction, 35th floor

Time:

January 23; around midnight

Environmental conditions:

–12°C, wind speed 10 km/h, cloudy, snow expected

Target:

Alexander Isakov; assassin; former member of Spetsnaz GRU (special forces, Russian military intelligence service)

Task:

Take out target via precision-rifle

I managed to locate Alexander Isakov, the sniper trained on Mrs Hudson. Handing him over to the authorities was not an option: as a former member of the special forces of the Russian military intelligence service, he was also a member of the Russian mafia and thus virtually untouchable in his own country. Extradition or a transfer to Britain was not feasible; I neither had the means nor the time to attempt this. After a lengthy period of investigation, I was able to learn the details of his next assignment and took him out while he himself was preparing to kill his own target.

Huffing, John looked up. "Really, Sherlock, this is a no-go." He shook his head in exasperation. "Jesus, this is a bloody hot topic: killing a killer! And what do you do? Sorry, Sherlock, but this' gotta be the world's most boring thriller. Yep, you've invented a new genre: the duller." John groaned. "You obviously have a completely different notion of tedious."

Grumbling, John read the report again. It struck him that Sherlock hadn't given a year – did it mean that at the time he was confident that this would not be a question? That he would return within the next months, rendering supplying the year a tedious detail? It was possible.

John skimmed through the report one more time. Sherlock had supplied all the facts, or so he said; but what did this mean? There was not a single word on how he felt when killing the man, whether he was exhilarated, shaken or indifferent.

He sighed wearily. "Really, Sherlock, you executed the would-be murderer of Mrs Hudson, a cold-blooded assassin, an ex-army member and mafia-killer about to commit another murder, and all you can come up with is that you took him out. Brilliant." John rolled his eyes. "If you ever complain about my blog again, I'll hit you with my laptop. With that kind of writing style, my blog wouldn't get more than eleven readers, half of them accessing the site by accident, the others out of pity. Sherlock, don't take it personal, but you should stick to your two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash."

He looked at the report again, trying to read between the lines. "Okay," he muttered, "so what are you really telling me, Sherlock?" He tried to imagine how Sherlock would read the report. What would he make of the facts? Frowning, he looked at the information more carefully.

Moscow, in January, at night – so, freezing cold. He was where? Oh, on a construction site in the new business district. More precisely, high up on a half-constructed skyscraper – so probably just a steel-and-concrete-skeleton at this point. With the wind at 10 km/h at that height and temperature along with the expectation of snow, waiting for an assassin – waiting a long time, certainly, to make sure he'd be there before the bugger showed up … Jesus, that sounded pretty uncomfortable. John wondered at what distance Sherlock had been from his target – the wind would make it difficult to aim properly and he must have been freezing up there.

He let out a deep breath, looking at the still figure. "Sherlock, just so that you know, I would have been very interested in the tedious details, you idiot. Particularly in what was going through your mind while you were waiting, probably crouched on a wind-swept skyscraper, about to make your first kill. What where you thinking? Were you anxious? Lonely? You must have had qualms about killing the sod or you wouldn't have considered extradition. Am I right?" He shook his head again at the abominable story-telling skills of his friend.

Looking at the test again, he realised he hadn't reached the end of the document yet. There was more. Hastily, he scrolled down.

John,

I'm miserable. Frustrated. Angry. Ready to break something.

Mycroft is an idiot. He suggested this whole writing thing to me and IT DOESN'T WORK. To be honest, Mycroft is not an idiot, but a bastard, and a meddling one. A manipulating, scheming, devious bastard. He said writing about what I was doing would make me feel better – the opposite is the case. Whereas before, I was simply tired and – I don't know, lonely? – now I'm furious at my inability to express myself.

I have read and re-read the report twenty-three times, and I have rewritten it seventy-six times. I have deleted all versions except the first. It took me the entire flight from Moscow to Oslo, and I only left it as it is because by the time I was editing the seventy-seventh version, we were approaching Oslo Lufthavn and I had to turn off the laptop.

Mycroft told me to stop complaining and keep writing, since I can always delete it later. He has a point there.

John, I will never, ever complain about your blog again, or mock your slow typing. Despite all my fast typing, my output is zero. I had no idea how difficult it is to weave fact with feelings and still tell a comprehensible story. The facts are of course not the problem; but I have tried to read the report as you would read it and found it completely insufficient and extremely dissatisfying.

Strictly speaking, this is not my fault but yours – your inability to make your own deductions forces me to spell out everything. Moreover, that has produced another problem. I find language inadequate to express the processes of my mind, in particular the more irrational ones. Again, this is neither my fault nor that of the language – it is only a problem because you are interested in reading about something best left unexpressed: sentiment.

However, I know you will want to read precisely about this, i.e. feelings and emotions; those over-rated, irrational fluctuations of the biochemical system, and knowing you, I have to be extra careful about what I write since I'm sure you'll get it all wrong because you don't know how to focus on the important stuff. (There you have it. I will delete that later. It sounds rather impolite.)

Describing what goes through my mind is like scooping up tendrils of mist – faintly tangible, but impossible to hold on to. I lack practice, I loathe it, and I find it tedious. No, that's not true, I find it … unsettling. It is a pointless undertaking and a waste of time.

Yet, I promised you to do this, so I will, and I will improve my writing skills. I just have to dedicate myself to the task. Given how many hateful tasks I have to complete anyway, this is still my favourite since it is for you.

Hope you're okay.

S

John stared at the phone, blinking. Sherlock was going to write about feelings? Oh dear. He already sounded as frustrated as a three-year old ready to throw a tantrum. He grinned. "Yeah, Sherlock, just blame it on me, nothing changed then, it's my fault that you can't express feelings." He halted, looking up. "No, hang on, that's not true, you'd be quick to point out my error – you say it's my fault that I'm interested in your feelings, so you have to write about them." He smiled fondly at the still figure. "You're right. My fault. And I'm proud of it. I'm not sorry that I'm interested in your emotional well-being. That's what friends do, you know."

He thought for a moment. "I think you know, now. Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered to write about it. But I wasn't sure, you see – I mean, after what you did to me, making me watch the fall …" He stopped himself. This was not the time to accuse Sherlock.

He skimmed through the text and smiled again, pride blooming in his chest. "So, you finally recognise all the hard work I put into that blog, huh?" He stood up and bent over Sherlock's face. "Appreciation from Sherlock Holmes! God, I could kiss you for this," he grinned sheepishly, "but don't worry, I won't; it's unfair when you can't defend yourself." He laughed and gently touched his friend's forehead, where it had been marred by blood after the fall. His smile faded at the memory of that horrible day; when Sherlock's body had hit the ground with a dull thud and a sickening crack, John's life had ended as well.

He swallowed hard. "Wake up, Sherlock. Please. We need to talk."