Necessary Faith
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 3 - Lessons in Coping
Rating: PG-13
Posted: April 17, 2012
With Mary's help, John finally begins coping. He hadn't realized how delicately he had stood on a razor-thin edge before she takes him under her tutelage. His newfound hobby (profession?) forces him to eat and sleep regularly, because Mary refuses to take him on jobs if he's dead on his feet. He takes fewer shifts at the A&E, and he knows his colleagues are secretly glad he's no longer trying to work himself to death. Only God knows how long he's been unknowingly emulating Sherlock's eating and sleeping habits.
He also drops Ella like a ton of bricks for the second time.
It's like waking up and remembering that there exist other people and a whole world outside his bubble of grief.
After two weeks of forcing himself to eat three meals a day, John gains back most of the weight lost since April. Instead of roaming the streets of London all night long, John flips through one of the many reference books that Mary piled on him until it's time for sleep. He begins jogging in the morning after waking at dawn and doing push-ups in the evening. Saturdays are lessons in Latin with Mary, which she is vehement that he learn well for both of their sake. On Sundays, they drive out to the countryside where they shoot at makeshift targets so that she can improve her aim and they trade lessons on various hand-to-hand combat tricks they each picked up over the years.
The structure is comforting; it reminds him of the army.
He was merely functioning before, not particularly well or happily (can he learn to be happy without his insane flatmate? An answer either way hurt all the same). But Mary brings back a touch of whimsy into his life—giggles and inappropriate jokes in inappropriate places at inappropriate times...
Time marches on, and John learns how to cope in a world without Sherlock Holmes.
-x-x-x-
The nightmares never really left John even when he was with Sherlock. But they happened less frequently, and immediately muted and faded into the background with a dull roar once he awoke from them. When they were bad, he'd slip down to the living room. If Sherlock was still awake or out to God knows where in the middle of the night, he'd pop in a DVD. Sherlock, when he was there, sat with John and kept a running commentary of every atrocious plothole, convoluted character motivation, or John's generally deplorable taste in cinema. Sherlock must have known it was because John couldn't get back to sleep, and John was just glad when his flatmate didn't make a fuss of it.
On the one occasion where Sherlock had been asleep in his own bed, John sat at the table in the kitchen with a lukewarm mug of tea with the sliding door closed. He sat and listened to the sounds of the flat and the whispers of early morning traffic. When he strained his hearing hard enough, he could hear the sound of his flatmate's breathing and murmured sleeptalk.
On that night, John almost felt that, yes, he was becoming less haunted.
The nightmares return with a particular vengeance after Sherlock's death. John's fear of failure (now just plain failure) simply find new avenues and mediums to express themselves through.
John couldn't save Sherlock. He couldn't protect him.
Friends protect people.
John couldn't stop or kill Moriarty either.
You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson. Gotcha.
Without Sherlock, there is little solace to be found.
Goodbye, John.
"Sherlock!" John surfaces from his dreams with a shriek, clawing and panting. He twists and becomes caught in the folds of the duvet, sharpening his panic. Books scatter off the bed, rending pages out from leather binding.
"John? John, calm down!"
They struggle for a few moments, until Mary rolls on top of him and pins him down. She's deceptively stronger than she looks, and he is weakened by the daze caught between sleep and consciousness. John's eyes burn with unshed tears as he stares past her to the shadows on the ceiling above. Mary releases his hands and runs her fingers through his hair, much like a mother would.
He squeezes his eyes shut to keep out the painful compassion that painted her face.
The quiet of the night is only broken by the rare car driving by and their breathing and heartbeat falling into sync as if they are one. When she pulls off of him, he curls onto his side and draws into a fetal position. His breath quickens as he tries to retreat from Mary and her touch. Too close, too soon. If Sherlock were here... If he was here...
God, he can't take being alone anymore.
Weight on the mattress shifts as Mary lays herself down beside him. They don't touch, but something crackles in the small space between their bodies.
She starts speaking again, barely audible over the sound of John's harsh respiration, "Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium."
It takes John more than a few words to realize she is chanting in Latin. The bits and pieces he can understand after a few days of poring over references in elementary Church Latin are far and in-between: God, the devil, and wickedness. Her prayer, though soft-spoken, is strong and unwavering. He lets the steel in the conviction of her words wash over him and sinks further into the mattress.
"Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae coelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude (1)."
Her fingers grazes lightly against his spine. Her voice rises to a swift crescendo as she comes to what must be the end of the prayer.
"Amen," they mutter softly in unison and John retreats back into sleep.
-x-x-x-
Things come to a head just over two weeks before Christmas. Lestrade calls and requests a meeting at their "old usual place." John goes reluctantly after sending Mary a text on his unavailability that evening. John arrives at the pub an hour early and settles in a booth in the back with a lager. He had spent the better half of his day off wearing a hole into his carpet after Lestrade's text. By the time the policeman arrives at seven, John is already on his third pint on a mostly empty stomach.
The last time he saw Lestrade was in passing down at New Scotland Yard. About a month after Sherlock's funeral, John had been interviewed at the beginning of the Met's review of Sherlock's old cases. Lestrade had already been confined to desk duty by that point.
"Greg," John greets after several moments of awkward silence.
"You're looking better, John," Lestrade says in return.
John supposes his appearance has improved of late, especially compared to what he must have looked like in those early months. Lestrade, on the other hand, looks much older—like five years had passed instead months.
They spend the first half an hour just playing catch-up. It seems neither of them are eager to dive straight into whatever matter Lestrade invited him out over. Lestrade begrudgingly discloses the final death thralls of his long-dying marriage, though spirits lighten briefly over discussion of his children in school. John tells a few stories about his new position at the A&E. Both of them pointedly ignore the elephant in the room—what had brought them together in the first place.
When Lestrade returns from the bar with two orders of whiskey, one of which he hands wordlessly to John, John steels himself. He clamps his hands around the cool tumbler and dives head first.
"What is that you wanted to talk about, Greg? We haven't talked since..."
The funeral.
Lestrade considers his drink for a moment and takes a large swig before speaking, "I wanted to give you a heads up, John. Internal Investigations is officially concluding its inquiry and they're going to release their report after the New Year."
John counts backwards. Then it's only taken seven months to review the last six years of Sherlock's collaboration with the police? They must have really wanted to clear up the matter and salvage what is left of their reputation. Maybe Mycroft had a hand in expediting the process?
The thought of Mycroft Holmes sours his mood further.
John's grip tightens. "What did they find?"
He had tried to help in the beginning—tried to make himself available as a resource. But no one would listen. Everyone said he wasn't objective enough to be trusted. The papers had been too busy trying to paint John as either a willing accomplice or a brainless dupe too blind to see his former flatmate as what he really was. Lestrade, who had more or less been Sherlock's handler in the police, was similarly removed from the process as early as possible. It had hurt; it went and still goes against every fiber of his being to be forced to stand back and watch as the world took pot shots at his best friend.
Lestrade shakes his head. "I can't tell you, John."
"Greg... Please..."
"No, I shouldn't be telling you any of this, at all. But you deserve to know it's coming so you're prepared when they release the report. I have a feeling you may get more than a few calls from reporters after the holidays."
"I bet they didn't find anything suspect. Of course, they didn't!" John, now caught between his desire to inflict harm and his despair, downs the rest of his whiskey instead. The alcohol courses through his veins and his rage drowns in a whimper. His head is swimming, so he buries his face in his hand.
John barely hears Lestrade's reply over the rest of the pub.
"No, I reckon they didn't."
Because Lestrade still believes in Sherlock when it counts.
Through the space between his fingers, John studies the pattern in the table underneath. His eyes trace the whorls in the wood and the thousands of tiny scratches. "Why the hell did he do it, Greg? Why did he jump? I've never understood that. He's not a fraud, I know it, you know it. I don't think I ever will."
"You knew him better than I did. If you don't know, what makes you think I have any clue?" There's a cloud of darkness swimming in Lestrade's eyes, and John thinks he might be looking into a mirror.
"He couldn't wait a few bloody months for us—for someone, anyone—to clear his name. Was his damn ego that important?" John slams his empty tumbler on the table for emphasis.
A hush falls over their section of the pub in the aftermath of John's outburst. A handful of curious patrons turn to stare, and John glares defiantly at them in return.
"Sorry, gents, he's just a bit drunk," Lestrade makes the excuse on John's behalf, and the previous bustle resumes.
The detective stands and comes around to John's side of the booth. He offers a hand that John just stares at. "Come on, I'll get you home. You don't live on Baker Street anymore, right?"
John scrubs his face with his hands. "No, a flat in Camden. I'm fine, Greg. I don't want to go home yet. I need another drink."
"John, we have to move on."
"What the bloody hell do you think I've been trying to do since May? It's just so damn hard! I miss him so damn much and all anyone else bothers to do is drag a dead man's name through the mud. He made me watch, Greg. He made me watch him kill himself. I'm never going to get that image out of my head."
It's going to haunt John for the rest of his days, and there's nothing to salt and burn for even the smallest respite.
"The utter bastard..."
For a few moments, the policeman looks both enraged and heartbroken. Lestrade shakes his head and plucks the glass out of John's hand before he can throw it. "Fine, I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."
The older man returns with more whiskey for them both. Now that the floodgates had opened, John finds he can't shut them. He babbles continuously about Sherlock and the mad things they did for the next two hours, and Lestrade—God bless the man—just listens.
"You know, I was the one who shot that cabbie, the Study in Pink one," John confesses and looks straight into the other man's eyes. "I killed a man to save Sherlock, after having known him for less than 24 hours. I'd do it again."
Lestrade, to his credit, just shifts uncomfortably in his seat and says, "I suspected."
John can't help but smile a little. "Sherlock always did underestimate you. He was stupid like that sometimes."
"Cheers to that."
They clink their glasses together in memory of their dead friend.
(1) Prayer to Saint Michael, translates as
Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle;
be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.
Amen.
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