Playing the Fool

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Chapter Four

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He was standing next to Sherlock, feeling a sense of déjà vu when the confusion hit. Below him, over the edge, crawled little people; little people who didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. They were just hats and motives, moving about like bacteria in a Petri dish. Beside him Sherlock chuckled, a deep rolling laugh that made John close his eyes to better hear the sound.

"Now you're thinking like me John." He turned, his feet seeking the edge of the rooftop as if he were playing a game of chicken. "Good."

John let out a choked sound - a failed attempt to convey fear and sentiment simultaneously. He dived to grab Sherlock, but the man took a step back and raised one dark eyebrow coyly.

"You can't stop this John. You can only try to understand it."

The doctor drew in a shaky breath between his clenched teeth. Anger was starting to get the best of him and he balled his hands into fists. "Try to understand what Sherlock! There's nothing to understand!"

Sherlock looked away, his face bearing the expression of one who was trying to explain quantum physics to a toddler. "I gave you all the puzzle pieces. It's up to you to put them together. You know me better than most of the ignorant fools out there… open your eyes John! Observe!"

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" The wind howled as if it had a voice. The breeze blew around the pair of them, but only Sherlock was buffeted as his hair and coat were whipped up and around his pale frame. John was startled by the sound and turned his face to the sky as if it were to blame. Written words peppered the sky above them and John felt his consciousness tugging at his core. He was in a dream again.

"John. You're so close." Sherlock's voice was strong and coaxing as other voices and other times bled into his dreamscape and threatened to drown him. It was overwhelming, but John struggled to remain wrapped in the complex images of his mind - just for a moment longer. There was something important buried here, and it was trying to claw its way out.

It began as a tornado of color and sound.

"Mind palace" A vision of Sherlock sitting with his violin; eyes closed, fingers wrapped around the bow as it slid gently over the strings. "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" Eyes widening, irises dilating. "You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable!" Irene Adler leaning in to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. "Does that make me special?" Sherlock grabbing him by the shoulder, forcing him to look into his eyes to see the desperation there. "Alone is what protects me." The skull on the mantelpiece. "Why hound?" Sherlock's flummoxed expression – nose wrinkling in disgust. "I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you." Sherlock bouncing a ball against the laboratory cabinets like a grounded teenager. "It's a fake" A framed diploma shattering on linoleum. "Friends protect people Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson crying when he told her the news. "Strange choice of words. Archaic. It's why I took the case." Sherlock's phone being cast aside. "I'm a fake." Sherlock staring through him over steepled fingers. "It's just a trick, a magic trick." Samuel Spencer smiling while he threw bits of paper in the rubbish bin. "The real one is safe at home."

John sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes shining in the darkness. His chest heaved, sucking in oxygen as if he had just broken through the surface of the ocean.

"I'm a fake." He whispered to no one in particular. A fake. Why would Sherlock say fake over fraud? Maybe it sounded more vulgar? Maybe it was the first word that popped into his head… or maybe – just maybe, it was a clue and Sherlock was out there very much alive.

John threw off his blankets and stumbled to his feet. His mind was racing as if something were chasing it. He began to pace, willing his body to calm down. His heart was beating out a samba. He had to collect his thoughts or else he'd lose the confidence he was feeling, but with every step John's rational brain began to stir from its momentary slumber.

He was probably experiencing some sort of delayed mental break down. His therapist was going to have a field day when he got around to telling her. Sherlock Holmes was dead; it was just… just wishful thinking that gave John doubt.

Doubt.

John sat down on the edge of his bed and rubbed his tired eyes. He felt helpless. It was classic Sherlock to leave a mystery in his wake; but if he had, did Sherlock intend for John to solve it? Theoretically, if this was some orchestrated madness on the detective's part, what waited for John at the end of it? If anyone was brilliant enough to fake his own death, it was Sherlock; but could the arrogant twat be sipping tea in some far off country, waiting for the day John showed up with scowl to bring him back home?

It made no sense. Why would Sherlock leave him in the dark? Sherlock had to know what it would do to John. Four and a half months of mourning… was it all for nothing? He was seriously believing that the idiot could be alive. He had toyed with the idea early in his depression, but his therapist told him it was natural. After the first week, the idea that Sherlock could have arranged the whole thing… that he would… that... that he could be alive, was snuffed out.

What if he wasn't though? What if this was John finally snapping? What if he truly went ahead with this belief that his friend was still out there somewhere? Then when reality hit him… what if he couldn't cope? Losing Sherlock a second time would drive him mad.

It was a risk.

"I said danger… and here you are."

Sherlock would have known he'd take it.

"I know you're for real. No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

That's why he would have done it.

John got up and started to dress. There was only one place to start an investigation of Sherlock Holmes' death, and that would be with Mycroft. If there was anything remotely suspicious about the circumstances of Sherlock's suicide, then the elder Holmes would have found it and interrogated it by now.

The doctor donned his coat and his signature grim expression before he stole down the stairs and spilled out onto Baker Street. As he walked in the chilly pre-dawn, John ran various 'meeting with Mycroft' scenarios in his head. He hadn't seen the elder Holmes for a couple of months, and he was under the impression that Mycroft had meant to keep it that way.

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Getting into Mycroft's office in the early morning was difficult. The security was thorough and the wait was longer than John ever had to endure before. When he finally settled into the chair opposite the diplomat, he was ready spear Mycroft in the eye with one of his expensive fountain pens. He restrained himself and stared across the table with a chilly expression.

"He was a fake."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. "I was wondering when that steadfast faith would shatter-"

"Stop testing me. You know what I mean. The body was a fake, or the falling, or hell… Sherlock could have drugged me - but I know it was a sham."

"One hundred percent?" The man analyzed the doctor, tilting his head the way Sherlock did when something interesting was brought to his attention.

John shot a glare across the table that said everything that needed to be said.

"Why are you here John?"

"If there was something fishy about this case, anything at all, you would know about it."

Mycroft looked down at the surface of his desk. The morning sun was shimmering across it and it seemed to distract him. John knew the man well enough to know he was deliberating, and that meant that he was right. There was something odd about Sherlock's death.

"The CCTV cameras around the hospital went down several hours before he jumped. All of them. That was my first clue. The second was obvious and the most telling; it wasn't Sherlock's body in the casket. The third was the transcript of your phone call. At the time of the jump he needed you in a particular position, didn't he John? And from the statement you gave to the police, you were prevented from being the first on scene by a cyclist with impeccable timing. Too many coincidences – especially when my brother is involved." Mycroft leaned forward and leveled his eyes at the doctor across from him. "And do you really think that Sherlock would mention Molly Hooper in his last moments? From what I had gathered – which is quite a lot as you would know – he held no respect for the woman. She was but an insect buzzing about his ear from time to time. A name drop struck me as strange – unless it was a message."

"What-?" John was stunned by the torrent of information supplied. He was trying to keep up, but Mycroft continued as if he had been waiting for John to ask about the suicide for months.

"Molly Hooper stayed for the funeral and left for two months to Holland. Apparently she needed a long vacation, but on a coroner's salary? No. Sherlock paid for it by cheque. Odd how at the peak of my investigation, the puzzle piece I was most curious about flew out of my reach by leaving the country."

To cope with the news, John slowly detached himself from reality. He had not expected a flood of clues confirming his theory. "Why? Why didn't you tell me all this earlier?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Mycroft gave him the face that annoyed him so much; the 'we-both know-what's-going-on-here' face.

"Not to me."

Mycroft sighed deeply and put a hand to his chin. "John… I don't know how to say this. You are-" He paused to collect his thoughts, causing John to wonder if he were broaching a delicate matter. "You are the only friend my brother has ever known. He's never needed anyone the way he needs you right now. He is alive, of this I am certain."

"How-"

"Not how - that doesn't matter John. It's the why that's important. He didn't cover his tracks. He chose not to. I followed them as far as I could, but I turned up nothing. You have no idea the lengths I have gone to… but you - you, John Watson. You know him better than anyone else. He left this trail for you to follow because he knew you would." Mycroft stood and stepped out from behind his desk.

"He told you to blacken his name. It is well known that you're loyal to a fault John. Still, he instructed you to scatter the dregs of his reputation despite knowing you would not." Mycroft crossed the room to pluck two brandy glasses from above his liquor cabinet. "Only explanation? He wanted you to push the others away. He gave you permission to chase him John, but only if you do it alone."

He poured an ample amount of brandy into the snifter and handed it to the doctor.

John stared into the amber depths and shook his head. "What do I do? Where do I start?"

"Lestrade, Hudson and Hooper. Mention your hunches to them; see what comes out of it."

"You must have talked to Molly already."

Mycroft took a sip of his brandy and settled back into his chair. "Yes. Drove her to tears unfortunately. Fragile thing. She insists Sherlock is dead, and that she did the autopsy herself."

John took a mouthful of brandy and set the snifter on Mycroft's desk. "She would do anything for Sherlock." Including sacrificing her job and fleeing the country on of his whims apparently. Is that where Sherlock was? Picking tulips in Holland?

"Exactly. I'm assuming Sherlock left her precise instructions. I'm certain she has information that she can only yield to you."

"But the missing body…"

"She said she handed it over to the funeral director. The paperwork confirms her story, and the director said that he had indeed received a body, but he had never met Sherlock before, so his statement was practically useless. All I know is that it wasn't Sherlock when I arrived to plan the service. When I questioned Molly about it, she said that Sherlock's body definitely left her possession at that time."

John groaned, "I can't believe that Molly is at the heart of this…"

"Sherlock is a master of manipulation John. Miss Hooper is very malleable in my brother's hands. Let us hope the same can be said when it's you doing the manipulating."

The doctor rose and pushed his half-finished glass of brandy in Mycroft's direction. "I don't manipulate people Mycroft; I talk to them like civilized human beings. You should give it a try once in awhile. I think you would be surprised at the results." He turned and marched out the door, knowing full well that he was being rude, especially after everything Mycroft just told him; but he had enough of this bull. Why did the Holmes brothers have to make everything so bloody difficult?

Maybe Molly would shed some more light on the situation and lead him out of this insanity.

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Author's Notes:

I liked this chapter the most so far... I feel like I'm getting at the heart of this fic. I uploaded it without proof-reading as usual, so it's going to be rather rough until I can give it a good once over in the morning. You can help me out if you like by submitting a review with anything that sounds off or is spelt wrong in it. If you can't find anything, review anyway! I'm seriously only motivated by feedback... it's a flaw of mine. Shameful, I know. Hope you liked the update.

Also, more of you need to eat proper breakfasts! Sarsaparilla, I'm so happy to liked my bit about the MSDS catalogue... I'm a biology student so I couldn't resist.