3rd Perdition.
The Perditions of John
3rd Perdition
Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: The 3rd Perdition of John
Summary: Texting, appointments, disappointments and resurrection.
Character/Relationships: John/Sherlock
The anniversaries were hard. John was still hanging on, riding the pleasure of usefulness when that first year slipped by. It wasn't the second year that nearly destroyed him. It was a date nobody else would see. He had been doing well actually. He'd written books about his friend that made his life bigger than life. He had written of their adventures. That was how this date had come to his attention. He had deciphered Sherlock's messy script and there were now four books detailing the adventures of the Great Sherlock Holmes. John had created a fictional man, based in reality but the public really loved a figment of the man he knew. John still loved him, more madly now than ever. He was careful to scrub those hints from his character Sherlock. That was only for him. His feelings were not for the public to pick over.
He knew the exact date he met Sherlock Holmes. He knew the exact date he lost him. This was the day he crossed over. This day, from now on, he lived without Sherlock, in grief for him, longer than he had lived with him. Now there was officially more hours of sorrow then of happiness. It was a private date. It hit John like a physical blow. It was like a cancer of the heart, to know that he'd passed a point in which Sherlock should have let his heart move on a little, yet the light of him had been too much and John still craved it. He understood now he would always be addicted to this man. His life was of no matter without him and even being in the shadow of his fame, was now becoming pain.
The second year was nearing. That year and a half plus twelve days mark, the day of crossover had been much worse. He'd nearly shot himself in a single clear moment of despair. Six more months had dribbled by. He had tried to ignore that in the last six months, time had moved quickly. He'd written as obsessively as Sherlock ever worked a case and thanks to Mycroft's contacts, he'd zoomed past a normal persons publishing obstacles. The first book was a phenomenon in Europe. The other three were set to release and he was contracted for 12 more, one of which was waiting on his laptop for his final editing process. He would be on tour soon. He was off to conquer America by the end of next year if all went well.
John couldn't have cared less. He could only stand here and look at his one day home, the only splurge he'd allowed himself with Sherlock's money, where he would rest next to Sherlock someday, and secretly tease his heart with how soon he could complete his book obligations.
He would not leave until Sherlock would live forever, but as soon as that was finished, John had no intention of postponing his deepest and honestly ever-present wish. It would surprise some people, but really, he didn't feel connected to any of them now. He knew where he belonged.
Sure, he looked like he was doing well. He had women crawling out of the woodwork with offers of love and future dreams of new obligations he really had lost all desire to see come to fruition. He had always thought he would be a father, husband, and that nice little doctor that could provide a stable happy home. He laughed that instead he was a broken-hearted fool lusting for a dead man.
Appearances were deceiving. He looked no longer like the sad sack jumper ensconced tag along his Sherlock would have recognized. Some would even call him rather dashing at this point. He had absorbed something of Sherlock's fashion sense. Oh he could never pull off the understated elegance and peculiar style of Sherlock, or even the blatant old English money image of Mycroft, but John had made his way into something of a London style icon. He now wore tailored like he once wore his uniforms and lab coats. He was precisely fit, rakish and put great effort in his seemingly easy image.
Lestrade had made a pass at him one drunken evening after he'd nearly gotten himself killed on an interesting case. John had laughed in good-natured but firm denial that he could ever cheat on The Great One with another man. It didn't stop him from his random sampling of female charms, but he insisted the world never suspect he could have led a much less conventional existence for that one soul that mattered to him.
John seemed to have bloomed into the epitome of God's gift to the female population and there had been few references lately to any undercurrent of closets or rainbows associated with the crime solving team of renowned reputation. Watson was offered the sacred title of Consulting Detective which he flatly turned down stating there would only ever be one of those. Still he had been keeping himself in the loop and his constant study and expansion of Sherlock's fame had given him a deeper ability to put details into strings of flow that ended in solved.
Mycroft, of all people, had somehow become a person he looked forward to interacting with. He was surprisingly kind once they had worked together a few times. John often provided a surgeon for some nameless shadow, injured in one of Mycroft's insanity of governmental secrets. He was in some ways part of Mycroft's world now.
John didn't do it to be important or even for the thrill and he certainly would never need worry about the handsome fees paid for his silence. John had no idea how wealthy Sherlock and Mycroft had been. He never had any need to be bothered with acquiring things. Mycroft kept him abreast of the details but even that held no allure to make social contact with Sherlock's brother.
Mycroft had one gift that John could never say no to. He had the wealth of memory about Sherlock that John cherished above all things. There was always some small story, or a comment or even some quote that added a moment of light to John's dark world. He lived for tidbits. He chatted for details. He spent hours in the man's company just to hear that one moment of reminiscence about the late Holmes.
It didn't weigh on John that it was odd that Mycroft could have so many memories of moments he and Sherlock had evidently discussed John. Nothing mattered more than his Sherlock fix.
"He told me soon after the two of you met that there was far more to his John than I could imagine. I see now that he was understating that fact."
John held onto that image for days. His John. It made him feel foolishly happy.
It was that first Christmas after, when he really began to feel Mycroft knew John was in trouble.
"Sherlock would have wanted you to have this. It was our father's. Please accept it as a Christmas gift and know he would have been delighted to see you wear it." Mycroft said handing John an expensive looking box. The watch was beautiful with fine engraving.
'There is rarely time to observe all that should be seen, but love knows timeless measure.'
John smiled quietly and swallowed his thundering heart. "It sounds like something Sherlock might have said except the love part, but I can't. It's never even been worn," he says, unable to take his eyes off the words.
"He did say it. He gave it to our father. He probably never did bother to try it on." Mycroft said with a slightly guarded tone.
"Thank you, in that case. I will cherish it." John's hands had shaken as he put it on his wrist. It felt like a gift straight from the grave, meant for him.
The next year it had been a heavy coat, precisely tailored to his smaller stockier frame. It was made by the same company who had made Sherlock's trademark coat. This was not a copy of it. This one was not charcoal, but a deep umber. John felt silly in it, but he dreaded spring when it would be too warm to don it for months.
Mycroft had smiled indulgently, "I thought perhaps…"
"It's perfect. I am not sure when we became friends Mycroft, but I am thankful we are. Do you think he would, approve?"
"No. It would drive him insane. He's probably pouting on some heavenly couch at this moment fuming and shrieking that he's bored." Mycroft said softly smiling.
"I hope so. Serves him right for kicking off on me." John says then sucks in his breath realizing he's just made his first joke at Sherlock's expense since he passed away.
"He misses you too. Where ever he is." Mycroft says as if he knows it is fact.
"I was under the impression that he was not much in the way of gift giving. He gave me the impression it was a family tradition of neglect."
"He disdained the ritual. He was rarely capable of putting himself out there in that way. I still carry the umbrella he bought me, rain or shine. It means more when the gesture is so rare." Mycroft was soon called away, with business. John visited Sherlock's grave, the collar of his new coat turned up. He left a few tears from thinking about sweet memories instead of sorrow alone, his only gift for Sherlock.
Life looked so good from his outside. His own success was beginning to seem almost Sherlockian.
Life was a day to day effort from within. He still missed him with more ache then he dared examine too deeply. In the moments that he was honest with himself, there was only a single answer. When you eliminate all the impossible, only one answer remains. That answer was livid today.
He stood in this familiar place, smoking a cigarette.
"What would you think of me now? What would you have to say?"
He walked away, no longer able to imagine his voice and unable to admit that no matter how close he held him, no matter how he grew like him, John knew he was losing him. He would forget him someday and it hurt that bits of the man he loved could slip.
He met Mary two days later. In truth it was her mind that attracted him. It is her inquisitive ability to ask odd questions that mattered, reminded him of one of the things he'd missed most about Sherlock. Her humor is off-beat and though offered freely, he is soon enamored with how often she made him forget to be sad.
She made him feel alive again when she would whisper her biting sarcasm quietly from the face of a demure innocent school teacher. She wasn't brilliant, but she is very close. She asked about Sherlock and let him speak for hours as nobody else had done. She didn't care about his cases, had never read the best seller until long after they began seeing each other.
She asked what he liked for breakfast. Who his favorite author was and how that related to his personality. She let him think of the tiny details of Sherlock Holmes that nobody but he knew.
It was stupid to have made promises to her he couldn't keep. He promised to love her and honor her and he did neither. He meant to, but it was more than he had to give. She had never pushed him, but as time slowed and they lost that initial something, she somehow understood who he was having some internal impossible affair with.
The day she walked out he was so sorry. He had never meant to disappoint her. She had filed the papers and had been so very calm and understanding. She didn't leave in anger, just a sorrowful resolve.
She had quietly explained that she could never compete with his ghost. She told him that the legend was too big and too painful. They had divided their possessions considerately. She refused to touch anything that involved Sherlock Holmes, his estate or the income that his stories brought. The rest he handed to her without any resentment. He didn't need the home or possessions. He purchased 221 Baker from Mrs. Hudson for an incredibly stupid sum and moved back to his flat. He moved back to him.
He resided there alone now, unwilling to share this place of memories with anyone. It was no longer home, but it was as close as he could get in this life. Home was always going to be Holmes, not a place.
He cried for his loss and wrote and before long he stopped. Over three years had passed and it was not better. It was never going to get better. He began putting his affairs in order the day after he typed out the last book. On his blog he left a short entry.
"I have come to the end of the tale dear readers. I have finished all the accounts of Sherlock and they will be published as time goes on. I hope you enjoy them and understand. Thank you for letting me set the record straight. I am so honored by your kindness and hope his legend never disappoints you. I only wish I could live up to his expectations, no matter how impossible they have proven to be. I know my heart was always in the right place and maybe that will count."
Mycroft was on the phone within an hour of the post, with barely cloaked worry hidden in congratulations and inquiry about John's intentions for the future.
"I am soon going to be traveling. I am not certain of my itinerary but I know that there are places I wish to explore. No, Mary won't be joining me. I understand her reasons and must take all blame in the matters that led to our dissolution. I'm fine Mycroft. I appreciate your concern, but it is no longer necessary. I have finally accepted that…he …that he is lost. Perhaps a change of scenery will give me some new … material. Yes of course I will keep you informed. Mycroft, you have been a good friend to me. I wanted to tell you that I probably would have never managed to clear his name without you."
The phone call ended pleasantly. John sat in Sherlock's old chair and he closed his eyes, wanting to see his ghost clearly again.
"It won't be long now, Sherlock. I have done my best you know."
He pulled his phone out and though it was a different one now, the number was still there. He pushed it and sent a text. He had done this randomly over time. He always expected the text to bounce and be undeliverable, but it never did. Maybe it was still a working number. Probably just an oversight that some secretary of Mycroft's didn't know ought to be terminated. Perhaps it was in a bundle and the billing didn't raise questions.
[Are you bored? I bet you are. I know where you are. Should we have dinner? Together might be less boring.]
John laughed at his silly game of pretend. He laughed at what the food might be like and if he should offer to bring Sherlock's favorite take out.
He made a few calls, just those last minute bits he wanted to say. He spoke carefully, but he looked at his coffee table and felt as if he deserved this reward. He would see Sherlock soon and he couldn't help but be pleased that there would shortly be an end to this torture.
He tossed the phone down and went to shower. When he returned, the light was flashing. He made tea before flipping it open to see who had texted him.
John stared at the blocked number and the words.
[You have not moved on?]
He closed the phone, but it flashed again.
[Do you still have the ashtray?]
John knew it was someone who must have the phone now. He decided to play.
[I have your violin too. Should I bring it?] he sent to Sherlock's old number.
It was only a few heartbeats, [How did you know?]
[Know what? Whoever you are, just tell MH that this is my note. He will understand.]
John quickly prepared the syringe. He smiled at how someone would be in some hot water when they delivered that little message.
He opened the phone when it again flashed. [Look out the window. Please John. Look.] He laughed and wondered how closely Mycroft was having him watched. He complied because he knew there was no hurry. There would be no time to save him.
The street was empty.
[Do you see me?]
[nope. Nice try.]
The door to the flat swung open. John hadn't heard anyone. "That's because I am not standing in the street now. John, Please. Don't."
That voice. He turned, not afraid of his ghost, only afraid his mind had finally given up and he didn't want to die crazy.
Sherlock Holmes stood, placidly waiting for him to speak. He held his arms up as if to gentle a wild horse. His eyes darted to the syringe in John's hand. "Please, don't do anything rash, John."
"I think that is a bit late, Sherlock. I don't even remember dying."
Sherlock's brow furrows and he takes a few steps toward John. "You have not died. I am alive and I insist you put that down and remain so as well."
John grins broadly as he looks around the room. "No. There is some mistake. I must have. I planned it. And here you are, just as I hoped. No body, it should be here right by the window. I looked out the window."
"I am not dead. I am very much alive which I will be forced to prove if you don't put down that syringe. Now, John. Do this for me, then get over here and punch me or yell or throw me out, but I will not have you become lost to me in this way."
John looks down at the syringe, still loaded and ready for his exit. He is trying to understand when he is knocked to the floor by a very heavy solid ghost.
"What the bloody… You are…impossible…"John says in horror.
Sherlock pulls the syringe from John's hand and throws it, then smiles and sighs in relief. "I believe you mentioned my ability to be impossible at least once a week, thus proving my factual and obvious proof of what I just said. I am here. You are here. We are both alive. I am unable to fathom what could be going on in that funny little head of yours that you would, after all this time, choose now to become sodden in despair and force me to reveal that you have frightened me enough for one evening and I am simply thankful that your little subterfuge did not go unobserved. Now shall we have a chat, or must I restrain you until we sort this out?"
John is hyperventilating, eyes wide and filling with tears. "Sherlock? Sherlock? How? I .. I… Oh God I'm going to be ill!"
Sherlock quickly scrambles as John heads to the bathroom, not quite making it to the toilet before violent heaves and sobs mix with half formed wails of anguish. Sherlock follows and makes a face, but John falling apart before his eyes is much more important. He takes a cloth and dampens it, carefully mopping the vomit and tears away. John's emotions are manifesting in desperate wails of near insanity. Sherlock kneels down on the floor once the major heaves have passed and he wraps his arms around John, just as he's longed to do for so long.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…" he says over and over as his former flat-mate wears himself out.
Finally, he deems it safe to help him up and John just silently stared at him in pure wonder. "I don't know what to say. How are you here? I held your hand, in the morgue. I saw the autopsy photos. I carried you and picked out a coffin for you and … dear god I have lost my mind haven't I?"
"Yes. On the lost your mind part. How could you mope for me so? I expected you to hate me and not give me more than an occasional thought. Instead you've made a bloody shrine of me and Mycroft is so highly entertained by it that he gives me not a moment's reprieve from his abominable delight. How could you do that to me?"
John's face darkens with anger. "Do that. To you? You, you are angry with me? You died for fucks sake, Sherlock? I have been … I have… All I wanted was to be… and this whole. And the fact that… I was in there killing myself just to see you so I could … and you didn't even give a flying fuck? Oh God, that is so much worse .. than…"
Sherlock turns and glares at him. "So you prefer me dead? Arrangeable." His face is hurt and his eyes blaze. "You know why. I know you do. You and Mycroft did half my work for me. I was coming back. I intended it all along. As soon as you were safe. But then you made a mockery of me and you took my place and then the other thing. I couldn't return then. I just couldn't."
"What do you mean? I made a mockery of you? My God I dedicated my every waking second to clearing your name and making them see you. See how wrong they all were. See the man I… " John looks on the verge of tears again. "I can't believe you're ashamed of me. I don't even have any words for that Sherlock. I would rather you hadn't stopped me than know that." John's voice loses all anger, he is so quiet and his head darts about, looking, searching the room no longer caring that Sherlock is there.
"John, I could never be…."
"Get the fuck out."
"John."
John's eyes are pure insanity and fire as he shoves Sherlock away from him hard enough that he goes sprawling on the floor. John is fast and determined; he has the needle and doesn't stop. He darts up the stairs to his now deserted room.
Sherlock trails after him a second too late before the door slams and the lock engages. Sherlock doesn't hesitate; he kicks at the door, certain he will break it down. He breaks the lock, but a heavy bureau still blocks the door. "Please, just talk to me. Please John. For God's sake you will destroy me."
Inside he hears laughter. "Been there for three years. Longer than I knew you, Just get out so I can finish this job. It is too much, Just leave me to it and disappear. Again."
Sherlock heaves with all his might and the obstacle budges enough that he can just squeeze through.
"Stop, or I finish it this second. "
Sherlock's heart flutters as he observes. The needle is in his arm. John lies on the bed with a small smile and calm face. Sherlock is losing control, his eyes are blurring, "No. No." he whispers hoarsely.
"You have five minutes. Don't come any closer. Say what you need to. Trust me, you can't undo this, so speak carefully. I have very little left, Sherlock. I can't see a way to survive you caring so damned little for me, I just don't have any more to give you."
"Please don't say that John. I will do anything. Anything you want if you will just not do this."
"Mycroft knew this whole time. You trusted him? But that means you have known this whole time what it did to me and you didn't … you couldn't be bothered."
"It wasn't trust, it was safety. I wanted to come back a year ago, but you were moving on. You were happy? I don't understand. Has something happened to your wife? You were happy. I saw you."
"Happy? Do I look happy? I am in some ways I don't have to keep doing this. I thought I was going to you. Here, make fun of me and have a good laugh. I wished to see you. I now can't even look forward to it. I offered my soul for a fucking hour with you and nothing came to claim it."
"I do. I claim it."
"For what? I made you a hero. Sung of my angel, and you were never one of them. How could you?"
"I don't know how to respond that doesn't guarantee you will not push that plunger in anger. I will lie at this moment. I will say anything, I would do…" Sherlock's eyes meet john's again.
Sherlock holds his arms out and flicks his wrist. "The rules are for lesser souls, John." Sherlock says with a small smile. In his hand is his gun. John's eyes widen as Sherlock puts it to his head and closes his eyes.
"Oh for fucks sake, Sherlock. You're rusty. I can win. I will be dead long before you finish with all your silly threats. See you in hell."
"Notice the angle. I won't die for hours. Will you still save me, John? " Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as his finger tightens on the trigger.
John watches for a split second in horror as the firing mechanism begins engaging. He leaps from the bed and the gun fires as they tumble. John looks down at Sherlock's peaceful unmoving face and blood is soaking the side of his head. He checks his pulse and begins feeling for the wound, as a whimpering escapes with each breath.
"No. No no. you bastard no." John has found the source of the bleeding but not the entrance wound. He's in terror that his attempt to stop Sherlock may have changed the angle, made the threat lethal after all. "Please. I love you. God that's all I wanted you to say. You idiot, I just…"
Sherlock's eyes open and he grins. "You could have just said that, John. You didn't have to make me shoot myself just to say it. I never stopped loving you for a minute. How could you doubt that part? I didn't. I knew you'd save me."
John looks at him and he stops searching Sherlock's blood soaked curls. "Why are you here? Why now?'
"I was always here, you just couldn't see. I had to save you this time. Nobody else was close enough. I only thought you spotted me. But then I knew what you really meant and there was no choice."
"No choice. This is getting worse by the second."
"Thus, I dare to bleed from the head, and this hurts, may I add, rather than try to make you believe, whist I am under the duress of fear. Are you still a doctor or do you enjoy my suffering in some long displaced retribution exercise?"
John sighs and hangs his head for a moment. "Welcome back."
"Finding it true so quickly?"
"What?"
"Are you wishing you had been more careful what you wished for? The memory of me you created in your literary endeavors, not living down to the messy reality of me?"
John looks around. "Did you hear that?"
"There was no unidentifiable sound, John."
John stands up and offers his hand to Sherlock, to help him up as he mumbles. "Funny, could have sworn someone just shouted the word Bingo."
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