Field

Third Memory

One grey, murky morning, John finds a dead bird caught under a mess of slick green weeds by the River Thames. He is on another case with Sherlock, a case involving three drugged drowning victims in the past two weeks. A few paces to his right, Sherlock is arguing with Lestrade about a particularly sensitive witness – she'd burst into tears after Sherlock had tried to (rather brusquely) question her about what she'd seen on the bridge two nights ago.

"It is hardly my fault the stupid girl couldn't tell a man from a tree," Sherlock is ranting, gesturing fluidly, while Lestrade crosses his arms and looks at him from under a lowered, disgruntled brow. "If her story doesn't add up, she is the one responsible, not me. I can't possibly be expected to agree with a so-called witness who can't even be bothered to remember what time it was when she was here!"

Across the way, Anderson straightens up from his inspection of the crime scene, watching Sherlock like a too-thin hawk.

Sally is consoling the red-haired girl who had found the body, the same girl who Sherlock had snapped at. Occasionally Donovan shoots him dirty looks behind the girl's hunched, trembling back.

Sherlock pointedly ignores all three of them.

John looks down at the dead pigeon in the weeds.

"Yes, you can," Lestrade says, "and you will, or you won't be coming on these cases anymore."

"An idle threat," Sherlock replies loftily. "You need me. Desperately, I might add. John, we're leaving. Call me when you find someone who actually saw something, Lestrade."

He sweeps away, and John, who hasn't heard a word of the conversation except for the part with his name, nods sympathetically at Lestrade and follows him away.

"What were you so interested in, back at the crime scene?" Sherlock asks, after they've left the cab and gone into Speedy's. It's a slow day; hardly anyone's inside except for them.

John spins his fork into his fettuccini, giving himself a moment to answer.

"Why do you ask?"

Sherlock puts down his glass and looks at him. "Are you really dodging the question?"

There's a moment's silence. John stares at his noodles, his fork clamped between his fingers.

"We're not having this conversation," he says, "not here." And he drags a forkful of noodles into his mouth.

On the opposite side of the table, Sherlock's eyes flicker from his half-empty water glass to John's lined, expressionless face.

They come home.

The cab ride is silent. John sits immovable and unspeaking the whole way, staring out his window.

And now Sherlock doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He goes into the sitting room and looks around, listening to John's steady footsteps as he climbs the stairs. Slowly, Sherlock reaches down and picks up the remote; discards it on the sofa cushion. He goes to the window, pushes aside the curtain, looks out.

Outside the wind has lifted a smattering of dead leaves and whirled them into a spiral of soundless motion. Sherlock watches the leaves rise into the air, their desiccated bodies dusted with pale white and gold and light blue flecks, signs of magic visible only to him. The leaves glitter brightly against the dull greyness of the sky, curling upward without effort.

The wind ceases; the leaves fall away to the street.

"Hmm."

Sherlock turns at the croaky purr of a cleared throat, and sees John standing awkwardly at the foot of the stairs.

"Look," he says, without preamble, "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

Sherlock waves a lazy hand. "No matter."

But it feels as though a great weight has been lifted from his chest.

John, relieved, shuffles from one foot to the other, smiling sheepishly. Then a faint frown crosses his face, and he comes into the sitting room, stopping before the detective. He's wearing one of his horrible sweaters, Sherlock notes happily. John in sweaters is John at peace.

"It's just that – you asked about what I was doing, and I – I was thinking-"

He stops, collects himself, glances sideways out the window and then back to Sherlock.

"Alright. There was a dead pigeon – you saw it, right? Right. So it reminded me of Afghanistan. Not in the way you would think; it's just that sometimes I forget I can't – no, this isn't coming out right."

Sherlock thinks he might understand, but he would like some clarification. "No, go on."

"I've been having this feeling," John says, shaking his head, "this feeling that something very bad is about to happen. I don't know what. But today I saw that bird, and I remembered I can't heal everything, not always. That's why I was so preoccupied – I started thinking about that, and then I remembered how I've been feeling lately – it was stupid."

Sherlock stares at him. He doesn't know what to say. "Oh."

"Sorry." John shrugs, pivots to walk to the sofa. He's relaxed now; his shoulders are loose and his gait is flexible. It's almost as if telling Sherlock about his premonitions has helped him. Sherlock can't quite figure this out, but he has a better question to ask.

"You can't heal everything?"

John has told him of all the times he's helped people, of all the times he's closed wounds and remade bones and soothed burns. He's never mentioned that his power has limits. John doesn't have limits. John can do anything.

"No, I can't," the ex-soldier says, very quietly. He doesn't turn to look at Sherlock; instead he picks up the remote and runs his fingertips over the rubbery buttons. "I can't bring anyone back from the dead, Sherlock. Not even an animal. Not even a little pigeon."

Not even you, he doesn't say, and Sherlock hears it.

"So I can't do the same for you, either?" the detective asks, and then formulates his next question into an answer. "Your healing power ends at death."

He's not wondering if his acquired power will leave when John dies; he doesn't care about that. When John dies there will be no need for the healing anymore; there will be no need for any magic anymore. He only wants to know the extent of John's abilities.

John nods. And then they both shake the strange grey feeling of doom away, for neither of them have plans to perish anytime soon.

But John can't pretend he isn't worried, and as Sherlock pulls his phone from his pocket to read Lestrade's newest text, John digs his fingers into his thigh and tries not to think about the lifeless bird in the river weeds.

It had fallen from so high above that the force of the landing had broken its neck.