Playing the Fool

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Chapter Six

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The stains on the table did nothing to ease John's troubled mind. The more he stared at them, the more he felt like he was being manoeuvred into Sherlock's skin. Coffee rings and jam smears plagued several points on the lacquered surface, forming patterns that echoed the movements of whoever occupied John's table before him. Bread crumbs were scattered like footprints in the snow, outlining sweeping gestures and bad manners. Perhaps there was enough information here to profile someone - maybe if Sherlock were present... he would have.

John's lips twitched, but only for a moment. Sherlock's arrogance should have been listed as the eighth wonder of the world. Nothing would have stopped that man from showing off - Nothing. If he were here, sitting across from John in the greasy diner, he would have been running off lists of things John was doing wrong.

The disappointment the doctor imagined in the detective's eyes was haunting. Perhaps somewhere... Sherlock was more than just a ghost, and those eyes were depending on John to save him.

John probably had all the puzzle pieces for figuring out this 'supposed suicide' already, and was only lacking the insight to make it work together. What if Sherlock had overestimated his ability to solve this mystery? John knew the man well enough to know that he was incapable of lowering his intellect to think as a common man would. He squashed the fear nesting within his gut with anger. It was Sherlock's fault for being so bloody complicated. It was Sherlock's fault that the world thought he was dead! John didn't ask for this. He was almost finished mourning when this mess popped up. Now it was up to him to bring him back from the dead?

How very Sherlock.

John wanted to stop thinking about 'maybes' and 'what-ifs', his life was far too full of them now. There was no such thing as certainty anymore. All he wanted to do was return to a life that made sense – where dead meant dead.

"Yeh all roight hawn?"

John was startled out of his thoughts by a waitress who appeared at his table like an apparition. She was a rather plump woman with weathered skin and a bright smile. She was eyeing John with sympathy.

"I'm fine. May I have a cup of coffee?" It was definitely a coffee day today.

"Ney tee? Looks lie yeh could yeuse a cuppa." Her accent was hard to place and John had trouble trying to understand what she was asking. It was just one more frustration adding to an already tangled day.

"Aa… no. Just coffee… thanks."

"Foine wit' meh, id'lbeh comin' roight up darlin'" She toddled off, still grinning like she was having the time of her life just floating from table to table taking orders. It made John feel uncomfortable, but he tried not to show it as he went back to his thoughts.

It was strange that Molly didn't know whether or not Sherlock was alive. John wondered if the detective wanted it that way to protect everyone, or if it were merely part of the game. Just how many pawns did Sherlock have on his side of the chessboard? How did he manage to mobilize them all so quickly? There were no doctors and nurses in his homeless network – obviously; so who were the people entrusted to deliver his body to Molly? Maybe they were people who owed him favours? Characters that were indebted him from previous cases perhaps? John made a mental note to review Sherlock's files to see just how many nurses and doctors cropped up.

Molly was right about one thing though; no matter how clever Sherlock wanted to be, there was no drug that would simulate death; no Juliet potion existed. If there was a way Sherlock could have theoretically survived the fall by landing on something soft, or being caught, then he would have had to bloody himself up and set the scene in seconds. It would have been incredibly difficult.

John tried to recall the scene. There was the first story building in the way – garages from the look of it, which would have been crucial for any magic tricks Sherlock wanted to perform.

Then there was the cyclist he could have paid to hit John. That would have bought him a few extra moments - so it was possible, just… really unbelievable.

Then again that gurney appeared quickly, or did it? His sense of time was a mess. He could barely remember grabbing Sherlock's wrist, or if there was a pulse there. So many people were crowding him. It was the worst day of his life, and the thought of it being manufactured by his best friend was nearly too much to take.

"John..." came a voice the doctor recognized immediately as DI Lestrade's. The officer slipped into the booth across from him and took off his coat while John tried to pretend he had been grounded in reality during his greeting. "You look like hell."

"Yeah… had a bad couple of days. Sorry for calling you out here, I just needed to ask a favour."

The officer looked like he suddenly swallowed something sour. "Not sure how much I have left to give. My hands are tied since the Sherlock fiasco. I'm still taking some heat for it. Every file that ever had Sherlock's nose in it needs to be reviewed – not that I blame you mind. I think the media is on a power trip with the population lapping up this bullshit. Don't know how you survived it all…"

The waitress came around with John's coffee and asked the DI if he wanted anything. He ordered a coffee while John sipped at his.

"I've only been back at Baker Street for about four weeks… the only time the media got a hold of me was at the trial, and I can barely remember that."

"Mycroft bailed you out of that one."

"Yeah… he would have done. All he's good for is damage control – when he's not creating any of his own. That man deserves a guilty conscience." The bitterness came back in his voice, and John felt a bit of shame. Lestrade picked up on it but didn't comment.

"So what's this about a favour?"

John moved his mug aside to pull out the little black camera that had been in his pocket. He set it on the table top, away from anything wet or sticky.

"This was given to Molly by Sherlock minutes before he died. I'm assuming it's important – but I don't know why. I'm guessing it may be a recording of the confrontation between Sherlock and Moriarty, but I can't be certain."

"In other words – it may be a way to clear his name." Lestrade looked at the potential piece of evidence with intrigue. "Wireless… ? Oh, I see where you're going with this..." His voice trailed off with undertones of weariness.

"The signal was most likely sent to Sherlock's laptop - or to mine. I want to check to make sure."

Lestrade shied from the doctor. His eyes lowered and he stared at his coffee as if it were capable of giving him the words he wanted to say. John sighed, for he recognized the body language of an apology.

"You can't do that."

"I wish I could but-" The detective inspector set a fist on the table, "I'm under a lot of pressure at the moment John..."

John closed his eyes. Defeat washed over him and he found himself stuck. He couldn't ask Lestrade to risk his career - again. John was certain he could convince the inspector of the necessity of the laptop... and in the end obtain it; but such manipulation was what separated John from Sherlock or Mycroft. There were lines of decency that normal people just didn't cross. John would find another way. Perhaps it would be more difficult, but it was more aligned to his morals.

"It's all right Greg."

"I'm sorry-"

"No no. I understand completely. I should have seen this coming. You've stuck your neck out a thousand times before for us, so you've more than earned the right to say no." John put on the smile he only wore when trying to make an awkward situation more bearable for all parties involved. "I have just a small favour then, something that won't get you into anymore trouble."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Sally Donovan's number."

His morals wouldn't come into play when dealing with her.

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John walked home from the diner feeling like he was slowly inching along the path Sherlock made for him. He hoped that things were unfolding the way that they were supposed to, since there was no guarantee that there was anything linked to the camera, or that Sherlock was in fact alive, or that Donovan would cave to John when he came to call. There was still the chance he was going insane. Would he recognize the signs? What scared him is he knew that he was being irrational in his belief, and yet there was little doubt ever since talking to Mycroft.

The doctor got to the familiar dark stained doorway that marked the entrance to 221B Baker Street. The sun had set and a chill was starting to gnaw at the exposed skin on his face and hands. He was properly tired now and prepared for a quick snack at Mrs. Hudson's before heading straight to bed. John unlocked the door and quietly entered the main landing, but paused when he realized none of the lights were on.

Mrs. Hudson had probably gone out for the evening, perhaps to play bingo or to visit a friend. This meant John was going to be eating his snack from out of a tin. He frowned at the thought. The prospect of something warm and homemade already seeded itself in his brain.

John was contemplating cooking something as he walked up the stairs to his flat. He was in the middle of trying to recall the last time he bought a can of tuna when a strange sense tickled the back of his mind. He might have heard something, or even saw something out of place... but John was certain he wasn't alone on the second floor.

Sneaking quietly through his own door, the ex-solder took a glance around the dimly lit room. He fumbled for the light-switch, but just before he went to flick it on he caught sight of a figure resting on the sofa.

Bright eyes met his from across the room and John froze in place. There were so many words that crossed his mind, but the first one's out of his mouth were:

"You're supposed to be dead."

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Author's Notes:

So, I'm not very proud of this chapter... but I have to stop writing because both my 'u' ky and my 'e' key have stopped working and it is a very VeRY annoying task using ctrl-c, then ctrl-v to fill them in. Anyone know why certain lettrs will just spontaniously not work? Never had this happen before... it's so odd.

Plas Rad and Rviw. I'm going to leave that as is since it looks so damn funny. I've been absolutely adoring all of your comments. You have no idea how much I treasure them.