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Alone
"Any news on Moriarty?" John asked tetchily, watching Mycroft's face for the slightest indication of emotion. There was none. They were outside Sherlock's room, and John felt ready to burst out of his skin with tension.
Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "We have a trail."
"Which you follow."
"With utmost passion and diligence, I assure you." Mycroft smiled. It was false.
"But you're not telling me." John felt his anger surge.
"It is unnecessary."
"It would make me feel better to know that you're close to capturing him. That he ceases to be a threat."
"We are. He will."
John stared at Mycroft, waiting for a more elaborate answer – in vain. He struggled to dissolve the tight knot of anger in his stomach. This was not the real reason why he was furious with Mycroft – in reality, he resented the fact that Sherlock was left to fend for himself in Russia, slowly sinking into depression.
There was another reason, however: Sherlock had a bad day. He seemed stuck in whatever nightmare was going on in his mind, and today he even flinched away from John, hissing as if being touched by a branding iron. That had never happened before. Very carefully, John had put his hands over Sherlock's fingers, which clawed into the the blanket with a force that threatened to split the skin over his knuckles. He had winced at the touch, leaning away. "Relax, Sherlock, it's only me," John had murmured, and, like a mantra: "You're home, you're safe. I'm here, I'll watch over you." It had helped a bit, but the pained look had not vanished from Sherlock's face. Finally, Nurse June had called Mycroft, though John was at a loss why. Perhaps big brother had ordered her to.
"John," Mycroft drawled, "I know you are worried about Sherlock. But I did not leave him alone in Russia, and I will not leave him alone here either. He will always receive the best of care-"
"I know," John snarled. "I don't doubt that, Mycroft."
Mycroft scrutinised him carefully, probably reading every single emotion in him. "John, when Sherlock was in a dark mood, he called me. It was a huge but necessary risk. I talked to him, and then he would pull himself together and continue. He did not want to return, John, I offered it to him every time we spoke. It was his choice to stay."
"Driven by your taunting."
"No." Mycroft looked him steadily in the eyes. "Driven by the need to protect you, and the desire to meet your expectations of him."
"Now you're blaming me." John folded his arms in front of his chest, mouth set in an angry line.
Mycroft sighed. "If anybody apart from Moriarty is to blame, then it is Sherlock for choosing you and your ethics as his role-model."
"Oh Jesus," John muttered, leaning his forehead against the wall, suddenly feeling utterly defeated. "Why did you not pick him up? It's not like you refrain from kidnapping!"
"He wouldn't let me, John. Sherlock needed to succeed, for his own reasons." Mycroft frowned, staring into nothingness. He snapped out of it after a few moments. "Keep reading that diary. Tell him what you think, John. I believe he understands, if only on an instinctive level."
John rolled his eyes and turned to go as Mycroft entered Sherlock's room; for the first time, the elder Holmes actually sat down and stayed by his brother's side.
John left for a shower and a shave, then coffee in the cafeteria. After that, he called Mary – but she didn't answer the phone. John's heart sped up instantly, fear rearing its ugly head – swamped by images of Mary being captured by Moriarty, John discarded his coffee and dialled the number of the agent in charge of guarding their Kensington home. The man coolly informed him that Mrs Watson was in the kitchen, "having a quarrel with the electric juicer, it would seem," and hadn't heard the telephone. John decided to call later.
After getting another cup of coffee, he prowled the corridors of the hospital, haunted by the vision of Sherlock in a vegetative state, not conscious, unable to process his surroundings, trapped in nightmares. In many ways, today was more scary than the days of stillness and silence at the beginning of the coma – what if Sherlock never made it beyond this confused and troubled state?
He'd be in hell. They'd both be in hell.
John told himself that he was just wallowing in dark thoughts, and there was every reason to believe that Sherlock would make further progress. He was Sherlock, after all.
When he returned, Mycroft was gone, and Sherlock was calm. John stood, astonished, and watched him sleep, the pained grimace relaxed into a surprisingly peaceful expression. John did not know how Mycroft had done it, but suddenly it didn't seem so unlikely anymore that Mycroft had pulled Sherlock through his depression in Russia.
John sat down and went through the next entries of the diary. A lot of them were shorter, and Sherlock simply described how he had gathered data, made contact, infiltrated organisations, identified targets, eventually took them out. Often, it was a recording of facts rather than a description of events, sounding much more like his first entries.
After a while, John realised that Sherlock had deliberately shut out his emotions: he wasn't able to process them, so he stored them away in this big brain of his, and left them. The loneliness, the isolation, the long phases of waiting, and the futile attempts at gathering information eroded his patience, and sometimes his sanity, too, it seemed. There was one instance when his knife slipped while he tried to pry open a warehouse lock; it cut deep into his thigh, but he felt nothing. At another time, he fell ill, critically ill it seemed, and did not care whether he survived.
The entries then stopped. John worried his lip, realising that the silence meant defeat.
There was only one comment: spoke to Mycroft. Again.
After that, the entries resumed: getting nowhere in Russia, Sherlock followed other leads, eventually travelling to Afghanistan, attempting to track down Moran. When he returned, his mood had changed.
John,
I'm back in Russia. The less said about Afghanistan, the better. Only so much: I've been in the area before, and it has not improved. The trip did, however, yield relevant information.
For a while now I've had the growing suspicion that someone is keeping tabs on me: it seems to me, everything I do is being counteracted. Mycroft calls me paranoid and thinks I'm falling prey to my 'continued isolation' – but what else would you expect from him … he wants me to come home and go into hiding until he finishes off the rest of Moriarty's men. One reason for this is the fact that I'm not in the best of health – ever since I caught the flu, I'm struggling with chronic fatigue and some sort of diffuse pain syndrome.
But I can't crawl back to Mycroft. I would only mope around, being unable to conclude the hunt. I need to show off when I come home, I want to prove to you that all the pain I put you and myself through was worth it - I must achieve something! And I know Michail is involved in a deal that somehow poses an immense threat to the Western world. I have an idea what this could be, but I can't tell you yet, I need more data.
Tonight, I intend to obtain proof that I'm not paranoid: I 'll do some housebreaking. Pardon, shipbreaking. I'll get on board a military vessel to take a look at the freight papers and find whatever trace is left of what was on board that ship. This won't be easy. If they get me, that's it. I'll be lucky to die, then.
I hope I'll see you again in this life.
S
John groaned. "Sherlock, you complete nutter!" He got to his feet and started pacing up and down the room. "What gave you that bloody stupid idea that you needed to show off in front of me? Huh? As if I didn't know how brilliant your are! Having to prove yourself, or what?"
He marched back to Sherlock's bedside and planted himself in front him. "Just for the record: I would have preferred it a thousand times if you had come home to stay under Mycroft's protection. Seriously, we need to talk about this attitude of yours – it's bloody self-destructive! This constantly disregarding your – your transport! I mean, how can you even think of your body in such terms!" He huffed angrily and threw his hands in the air. "Jesus, Sherlock, chronic fatigue and a diffuse pain syndrome? To me, that sounds pretty much like depression. But, no, instead of accepting help, you had to prowl around in bloody Russia, sneaking on board a military ship!"
The door opened, and a concerned orderly looked him up and down. "You all right?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," John muttered. "Sorry. Nerves."
The orderly eyed him suspiciously. "Are you sure you don't want to take a break in the cafeteria? Or go home?"
"No, thanks. And don't worry, I won't freak out and hit him. I'm just giving him a piece of my mind since he can't tell me to shut up."
"Okay," the orderly still didn't look convinced, but retreated, softly closing the door.
John exhaled a deep sigh. "Great, now they think I'm the unreasonable one." Slumping down in his chair, he growled, "Jesus, Sherlock. Was it at least worth the risk? What the hell was on board that ship – the nuclear warhead? Really, why didn't you just tell Mycroft and let him do the spying? But no, you had to be smarter than big brother …"
Still muttering under his breath, he returned to the diary and clicked on the next folder.
A crackling sound erupted from the phone - startled, he let go, and the phone clattered to the ground. "Jesus!" he blurted, scrambling for it but failing to catch it. On the floor, the phone still gave off a static noise. "Shit, did I ruin it?" he wheezed, horrified at the idea. He picked it up gingerly, and almost dropped it again: suddenly, he heard Sherlock's voice; it took him several seconds to realise that the file was an audio recording.
"John, I'm … under a bridge, harbour district. Night time … cold. I, I'm injured, you can guess-" he tried to chuckle, but the sound turned into a rattling cough.
John sat frozen, hardly daring to breathe.
"Can't type, uhm, 'm bleeding – the ship – was a success, I – was right, it's a nuclear warhead, John, a nuclear warhead being transported to London," he breathed out in a rush, ending in another coughing fit. "I need to inform Mycroft, instead, I'm bleeding out under a bridge … 'tis ridiculous." This time, he managed a joyless laugh.
"I got mugged, John." More painful coughing, a shuffling sound, feet dragging over the ground. "I walked all over that – military vessel without anyone noticing – only to get mugged on the street. Lost the gun. Almost lost the phone. Stab wound in the right arm, bleeding profusely … tied it off more or less, but I need to get out of the cold, it's-" He broke off; a thunk was followed by heavy breathing and a barely suppressed groan.
"I can't just call Mycroft … 'course he gave me – an emergency number … but I'm being followed, I'm sure, I'm not paranoid … if I call him now they'll get me … need to … need to-"
For a full minute, nothing but laboured breathing could be heard, with the faint sound of water lapping against concrete in the background. "'m dizzy," Sherlock wheezed. "Blood loss. Tired." He swallowed audibly. "Don't even know why I'm … wasting strength on this … distraction, I guess – to keep going … it's lonely here, John." There was a strange choking sound – then the recording stopped.
Sobbing, John suddenly realised. Sherlock had bitten back sobs before turning off the phone – he had been crying. "Jesus, Sherlock," he muttered. Shaken, he stared at the file and considered listening to it again, just to hear Sherlock's voice, though it had felt as if someone was trying to rip out his heart. He clicked on the next folder instead. Another audio file.
Heavy breathing again. "John … managed to … crawl back … 'm in the – the flat … rathole of a flat," he added, huffing out a chuckle that turned into yet another coughing fit. John's hair stood on end at the sound of it.
"Stitched the wound – got infected, though … uhm … not enough anti…antibiotics … fever … can't tell you – the exact temp… uhm …temperature … 'cause I can't read it – can-can watch the infection … though … sp-spreads like … spider …veins-" a thump, scrabbling, fabric rustling.
John hung his head and pressed a hand over his mouth.
Another cough. "Sorry – dropped it … I'll keep … it here – next to me. John … need water … thirst … can't get up … don't know why I'm doin' this…" he trailed off, exhaling slowly. For several minutes, all John could hear were irregular breaths, underlaid with stifled groans. Had he passed out?
"… not passed out … John … huh … how-how ri-dic-ulous … hah … guess I'm just another – 'nother crime victim now. In-glori-ous … dontyathink … after all-" he broke off again, moaning and finally drawing a deep, rattling breath. "I … said I don't know – why I'm doing this … … not true … need you to know … apologise … I, I don't think I'm gonna make it … I'll rot here, John … funny … what I'll look like … in a few weeks … neighbours won't – won't notice … ha … 'til the rats … 'n maggots …"
This time, Sherlock did not manage to bite back the sobs, and John felt his stomach turn at the idea of how ill he must have been, and no one there to help him, to lift a glass to his lips or put a cold cloth on his forehead; and no one to give him enough antibiotics to battle the infection.
There was more crackling and rustling. Sherlock managed another mirthless chuckle: "'Ss stupid, really … I don't care 'bout … my corpse, don't … don't get me wrong … transport … hate this … can't keep anything down … not even water … need water … 'm crying 'cause I failed – failed … everything … useless … I'm sorry John. I'm sorry … I, I think … 'tis the last message … should delete it … shame … but can't give up now … need help … but no one's here … need you … need – to tell you …I'm sorry, John … sorry for the pain I caused … it's no magic trick now," he gasped, wheezing painfully.
Another painful chuckle. "Oh Lord, this is a disgrace," he breathed, some of the familiar disdain creeping back into his voice. "My body is … shaking with sobs and I – I can't stop it. Sssentiment," he hissed, then growled something indistinguishable into the pillow.
John groaned, quickly stifling the sound with his hand. "Sherlock …" he whispered, trailing off when Sherlock resumed speaking.
"John, on the roof … the tears were real … I, I hoped … you might realise … later … that change in voice … the apology and then … commanding you to stay – were you are … thought you might realise … later … sorry, I'm babbling … fever dreams … saw you at my grave … never thought I'd be grateful for that – that fake stone … now there's a grave at least … better for you to think so … than the truth … rotting away here … heard you … say, say: I was so alone. John … I didn't understand then … I understand now. Alone doesn't protect me – it's killing me. Literally."
John jerked upright: Sherlock had been at the cemetery? He had –
He stopped the train of thought, mesmerised by Sherlock's voice again.
"Killing … tedious business … dreadful, John … army doctor … you know all about it … I don't mind executing Moriarty's men … I made – made a mistake … young Russian soldier … by the look – peasant family, poor … surprised me – had to kill him – cut his throat … struggled, choking, horrible noise … blood, so much blood … all over me … didn't get it all out – sticks … in my hair, under my – my nails, in my skin … tried to wash it off, doesn't work, skin burns were the blood is … metallic taste, smells sweet, pungent … bit like black pudding … I-"
Gagging, followed by violent retching.
John held his breath, his own stomach clenching at the pained sounds.
He stopped the recording. Carefully, he put the phone down, got up, and bent over Sherlock, putting a hand on his shoulder. There was a slight frown on Sherlock's face, but nothing more – no trace of the dreaded agitation that had prompted Mycroft's visit.
"Sherlock," John said quietly, "that young Russian was a soldier – that's the risk you take when you become a soldier: you kill, and you get killed. This isn't going to make it easier for you, I know, the memory will stick with you forever, but it's not your fault. It is not your fault, Sherlock. Moriarty is the bad guy here, and corrupt governments and businessmen who sell illegal weapons."
He sighed and straightened up again. "And, uh, just so that you know," he swallowed, "we'll never ever have black pudding again. Not even in the fridge. I swear it." John nodded and sat down. "I'll become a vegetarian, if need be." He picked up the phone again.
The retching stopped after a while, and for long minutes all he could hear was Sherlock panting, humming slightly under his breath. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible, speech becoming increasingly slurred.
"John … need help … don't want to die … I'll just … imagine you're here … I remember … when I was ill… you were there … taking care of me … I was – lying on the sofa … didn't want my bed … didn't want – alone … you've tucked me in my woollen blanket … dimmed the lights … long shadows on the red carpet … warm glow from the fire … flames crackling … faint traffic noise … Mrs Hudson downstairs, doing the dishes … she left biscuits for me … can smell them …cinnamon and butter … I hear you in the kitchen …making tea … see your shadow move … coming closer … you're treading softly … don't want to wake me … I close my eyes … your cool hand on my forehead … you say my name … I say yours … goodbye, John."
John sat with his head in his hands, swallowing hard, biting back tears. After a few moments, he silently got up and examined Sherlock's arm – the scar was there, surprisingly inconspicuous, given that the wound had been infected. He drew a shaky breath and cleared his throat. "You've done the hell of a job stitching up that wound," he muttered for the sake of saying something. "Couldn't have done it better myself."
Very carefully, he covered Sherlock with the blanket, tucking him in. "Sherlock, I promise, when you wake up – um – I won't leave you alone. Not even if you want me to. Huh," he gave a mirthless chuckle and searched for Sherlock's hand under the blanket, holding it gingerly, still afraid he might become agitated again. Sherlock's eyelids twitched, but he did not seem to object.
"I'll go on, okay?" John said huskily and picked up the phone.
The next file was a written message again.
John,
As you can see, I'm still alive. A bit worse for wear, more crawling than walking, but I managed to drag myself to a pharmacy, and I also bought some food. Took me ages, and when I came back, I passed out for an hour or so, but I managed to keep the medication down. The food was a waste, though, could have spared myself the effort, everything came up the same way it had gone down, only tasting even worse.
I'm OK, though. Getting better. Plenty of time to think, at least.
When I wasn't entirely delirious anymore, I couldn't help but wonder about you and Mary – what sort of woman she is. Your previous choices of female companions were rather deplorable, but somehow Mycroft gave the impression that Mary Morstan is of a different making, and he seemed rather … impressed. I hope I will meet her one day.
And if I live to do so, I wonder to what extent this will change our friendship.
Pondering relationships, I then brooded over how dependent we are on them. We trust those we love unconditionally, and we hunger for this kind of trust, even if we don't know it until we experience it. Much to my consternation, this emotional bond can become so overwhelmingly important that being deprived of it turns into a physical pain – a truly terrifying weakness. For we would do everything to maintain this bond: steal, lie, kill.
And there it was, the long sought-after epiphany: suddenly, I knew how to get to the Russian.
There, John, you see, you are brilliant! You are my conductor of light, even from a distance.
I hope to see you soon, and Mary, too.
S
John looked up, puzzled. "Um, Sherlock," he said after a while, "I'm honoured to be your conductor of light, even if I have no clue what kind of epiphany that was. But, of course, as you would say, I never understand a thing of it myself – um, I'm OK with that." He raised his brows and nodded, still confused.
Fiddling with the phone, he suddenly leaned forward, and whispered directly into Sherlock's ear. "Couldn't you … I mean, couldn't you just have said that you missed me? Nooo … sentiment, right?"
He chuckled. "All right, then. I have no problem saying it: I've missed you. Badly. Still do. So, wake up, you muppet!"