7th Perdition.
The Perditions of John
7th Perdition
Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: The 7th Perdition of John
Summary: They are both alive but neither knows that the other still exists. Is Mycroft the devil or will he raise them from perdition?
Character/Relationships: John/Sherlock
Just a short chapter - because I have been lazy - let me know what you think of the story.
Sherlock stares at the blank screen. He just watched John Watson garrote himself and plunge backwards through three layers of plate glass. "What did you do to him?"
"I told him you died. It was only the truth. I was simply premature in my belief in it being a permanent state," Mycroft says gently.
"And you just let him bleed out."
Mycroft sighs, "He knew what he was doing. The damage was extensive. I am very sorry."
Sherlock stood. "I imagine you paid for a nice funeral."
"No, actually. He's only been reported missing. Foul play is suspected, but I certainly won't be showing up announcing myself with a public funeral for a man who has so many complicated facets."
"Then let me see him."
"Impossible, I'm sorry."
Sherlock glares at his brother. "I can always tell when you lie. He's alive. You want something. What is it, Mycroft? What do you want? What are you up to here? You know I would never be willing to buy his death without examining the body. That is far too stupid even for you."
Mycroft keeps his expression steady but he sighs and gives up his game. "Alright. He is going to make a full recovery. But, I will not allow you and he to continue in this sacrificial dance.—"
"You have no right –"
"I beg your pardon. I do. I have every right. Until I determine the deterioration of his mental capacity, you have no further say in the fate of John Watson. I don't even have to do more than set him free at this point. He will be retired by his own former colleagues. That is out of my hands. He has been deemed a loose cannon and I have to agree with them. Push me, and I will let his problems resolve themselves in the manner he signed up for long ago."
"Why are you doing this? I honestly think I hate you. How dare you—"
"How dare I? That is quite the statement coming from you. How dare you. I have done nothing but watch over you both in every way. I have befriended him, guided him and yes, I have stepped in at this time and I thought it would be less traumatizing if I allowed you both to accept the others death at this time. There will be no contact until I assess that you are both in a more competent frame of mind. You have lost all perspective when it comes to this man. In his current situation, there is no option of the two of you simply returning to your little past lives of charming oblivion and the crime solving hobby team that resides in anonymous bliss in a flat at Baker Street. It cannot happen. You both blew it."
"So everything I ever worked for is all for naught? I won't let you do this to me, or him. He's a famous author now, people will notice."
"Fine to save you the bother of escape, you are free to go. Take him home with you. Enjoy the few hours they will allow you, before the tragic assassination of the bestselling novelist by some lone radical who will then himself be murdered. That is the outcome Sherlock. You will probably be considered collateral damage and it will ruin me. No."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, "You would barely feel a blip."
Mycroft speaks softly, "That is simply not the fact, dear brother. He grounds you. Or has in the past. That is far from the case at this point, but I do understand the feeling. You see, you have always grounded me. If I lose you, of course I will survive. I have long expected it, in fact. I could make my peace with the event if you were killed in a way that meant something. Have you any ability to understand the torture it would be to me, to know that your little drug addiction or John Watson addition, cost me the only person who ever … meant as much to me as you do? I have made errors with you. I will be the first to admit it. But can you honestly say in your heart that you can't see that my position and vast resources are, at this very moment, the only thing standing between John Watson and a headstone?"
"And what is you intention in the long term? You plan to imprison us here and keep us separated for our own good? How do you think that will work out, Mycroft? You know me better than that."
"You are free to go as I have said. "
"Thank you. When can he go?"
"John Watson is another matter entirely."
"Don't. It is none of your business."
"It, in fact, is. You see, my options are limited. I can turn him over, which is what I am required to do, which results in his termination. I can turn him loose, which results in his termination and probably yours as well. Or, I can assess him, keep him here, keep him secret, and hope for your sanity that he will consider what I have to offer him. There is only one path that may offer him some measure of time. If you leave, I won't stop you. But you will not ever see him again."
Sherlock's face is stone, but he replies, "If you take him from me…"
"God you are such a child. Can you not see, I risk my position, if not my very life to play this game of subterfuge with these people? All for your fragile little heart, Sherlock. To keep your little toy soldier alive. Whilst both of you act like petulant teen idols bent on destruction. If I had a brain in my head or a single cube of the ice my reputation has garnered, I would pack your little bags and drive you back to that rat trap you wallow in and wavy cheerfully as Althea plans your funerals."
"We would be fine. You always have to make everything some grand plot…"
"That is because it is. What a simple Never, Never Land you have made London in your mind. A place in which you have made yourself, Peter and all you must do with your life is go on adventures, match your wits against the evil Captain Hook and fly around Big Ben bombed out on pixy dust and pout in you Jim jams and dressing gown. Oh Sherlock. You have forgotten who read you those stories and who has always stood the cost of your antics. I'm sorry Peter Pan. Your Watson Darling is in trouble. I'm afraid you're going to have to grow up to save him." Mycroft smiles and his face is actually soft with pure fondness.
"And you propose?"
"I propose that we see if we can get the two of you to screw your heads on straight and see if we could come to an understanding."
"Oh I understand. I'm going to hate it."
"Yes. Well. " Mycroft worries his tooth with his tongue. "Perhaps not as much as you would hate the alternative."
Sherlock sighs and nods. "You're sure? "
"They know I vetted him. They are very suspicious. There is no question of his status."
"I want to see him."
Mycroft smirked, then threw his head back and laughed. "Not hardly, dear brother. The two of you tend to put me off my short game and I have a tee time with the Maltese Prime Minister at three. Royal Blackheath is quite punctual you know. He flew in from Valletta yesterday. He asked after you last night."
Sherlock grinned, "How is good old Gonzi. I haven't ever thanked him for that thing he did, when I was stuck in Italy."
"He is looking forward to your recovery, as well as that of a certain pain in the backside doctor friend of yours." Mycroft crossed his arms and waited for the information to sink in.
"Malta?"
"To begin. It is very pretty there. Romantic even?"
"Sentiment, Mycroft," Sherlock says with disapproval but his posture is much more relaxed. "Remember to keep your elbow in, stop doing that chicken wing thing. You have the swing of an old woman."
"Yet I can still out putt you."
"You cheat."
"Of course I do. Not getting caught. That is the challenge. Someday you will catch me, but not this day. Afternoon, brother."
Before Mycroft had washed his balls and claimed his first par, Sherlock was searching the halls for the room of a desperately miserable doctor. He found him, restrained, drugged out of his mind and embarrassingly sitting on a bed pan.
John grinned at him and then tears spilled down his face. "Not dead again, thank all Christ."
"Course not. Wouldn't think of it."
"My fault again." John forgets he's restrained and tries to reach out to Sherlock.
"No. Not your fault. My stupidity."
"Get me out of here. Please." John asks sincerely and without his normal ability to push things down.
"Not yet. We need to talk, a bit. Your past. What have you not been telling me?"
John's face falls and he throws his head back on the bed, closing his eyes. "I see. Get out, Sherlock."