A/n: Hello everyone! This should be my last proper chapter (save my derpy fluffy special)...I don't know how long it will be yet, but let's have a go, shall we? No matter how long it is, I intend on shoving the last bits of the main story here...Soo! On we go!
Disclaimer: Still not mine...For the seventeenth time! Just having a bit of fun here...Free to all who view, costing me no more than time...
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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting
Chapter 17
John's eyes widened as Sherlock's serious gaze met his own. "Are you sure?" he inquired, clicking off the television, devoting his full attention to the detective, who was resettling himself into a more comfortable position on the couch.
Brow furrowing and mouth twitching in discomfort, Sherlock nodded. No matter how unpleasant this was going to be, he had to tell someone, someone who could help him, who wouldn't judge him for his crimes. The doctor was the only one who could help him, healing the nightmares that ate him alive, that left the detective with a raw shell of who he once was. Stomach churning in nervousness, Sherlock took a quick hitched breath and held it for a moment before releasing it with a shudder. "I-I don't know how long I can hold it in, John," the detective moaned.
"Hold what in?" John asked as he scooted to the edge of his seat.
Securely wrapping the blanket around himself tighter, the detective returned, "The truth."
"If you want...If you want to talk about it, then we can. You don't have to do this if you don't want to..." He didn't want to have to make feel so insecure just to satisfy his own curiosity.
Sherlock grimaced and pleaded, "Please, just don't...Don't hate me, John."
"Why would I do that?" John wondered, partially to himself. There was that incident where they fought upon his return, but the doctor didn't think that he could ever truly hate his friend. No matter what he had done, John knew it wasn't the detective's fault by any circumstance.
Sherlock sighed, mumbling, "I wouldn't want to associate with me..."
"Don't worry, Sherlock," the doctor reassured, shooting his friend one of his calming smiles. If hearing this story gave Sherlock some peace of mind, gave him some opportunity to forgive himself John was willing to sit through it, no matter how difficult it was.
Sighing once more, the detective breathed, "I guess I should start from the beginning...I was too caught up in the game. When Moriarty's challenge arose, I was biting at the bit to win." Sherlock looked up to make eye contact with his friend, eyes begging forgiveness. "I made this plan, this horrible plan. I set it all up, John. My death. I knew Moriarty was crazy, that he would go so far as to take his own life to put me in a tough situation. Either I jumped...or snipers would kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade." Biting his lip, Sherlock watched John's face contort in dismay, shifting part of the blame on himself. Sherlock shouldn't have had to make that choice alone. "It's not your fault...I was too careless. Even though I called Molly and told her to forge my death certificate, arranged for the cyclist to hit you during my fall, had a laundry truck prepared to catch me and switch me for a fake, hired the nurses to ensure a smooth transition, everything fell to pieces. I had intended to 'die', giving you my last words to discredit my declining reputation to ensure that I would fall out of public attention quickly. I knew Moriarty had associates. After all, the plan would hardly have worked as well with his body still up there on the rooftop...I figured within a few months maximum I could manage to do away with the lot and return normally.
"But that's precisely where it went wrong," Sherlock scoffed. "I was too predictable. My only saving grace, the truck driver, was killed not long before my anticipated jump and was replaced by an associate. I don't know precisely what happened once I jumped. I remember seeing you...The look on your face as you watched me fall...I'm so terribly sorry, John. I should never have put you through that." Tearing up, he continued, "I couldn't tell you...I needed to sell it...But I shouldn't have done that, John...I didn't realise...I didn't realise I'd upset you as much as I did. I figured you'd just...that you'd just hit me or something...for the inconvenience...and we'd continue life on like normal, John. When I got back, you would have hardly noticed. I wouldn't have been long. I just...I'm sorry."
John lightly shushed the detective and made his way over to the far corner of the couch. "It's alright..." he brought himself to say though he knew it wasn't. Sherlock had been careless, completely oblivious to the consideration of others, but the doctor couldn't help but forgive his friend. After all, everything the man had done was partially to save his own life.
"It's not alright, John," Sherlock snapped, pulling his legs underneath him. "I should have..I should have just told you what I was planning..."
Scooting slightly closer to the bundle that was his friend, John reassured, "That's all in the past now, and there's nothing we can do about it now. It will be alright, Sherlock. I forgive you. Don't let it bother you anymore..."
Nose running, eyes still refusing to allow his tears to spill, Sherlock denied, "But that wasn't part of the plan! No one was supposed to miss me!"
John was floored. "Is it that hard to believe that people actually care about you?"
Sherlock sat silent for a moment. Even to him, it sounded absurd. Of course people cared, no matter how annoying they thought he was. After all, he somehow liked Donovan no matter how pig-headed she could be. "It's how I lived with myself..." he realised. "It's how I lived with my choice..."
Grimacing, John returned, "Was it enough that you cared for us?" Sherlock paused for a moment, deliberating whether or not he could accept that as a reason. "Even though I wish that...That I don't know, that I could have helped you in any way. I-thank you, Sherlock. You saved us all."
"I'm not a hero," he refused, trying to clear his throat from the mucus that had built up.
"You're the next best thing to me," John grinned, giving his friend a careful pat on the back. Looking at the floorboards, Sherlock remained silent. The whole concept was too much for him. He was a criminal who cared too much about others. Breaking the silence, the doctor asked, "So, what happened after that? After you fell?"
Sherlock pulled his head up and stared at John with shattered eyes. "I don't...I don't quite know. I remember seeing the laundry truck just sitting there, no efforts to save me...But somehow, it being there gave me the confidence to jump. It's like they knew. I just...I don't know what they did. They just let me fall...I don't know how...They might have drugged me...I might have nearly died. I was probably there in Molly's morgue and they smuggled me away elsewhere. My head throbbed, everything was dizzy, my vision was blurry, absolutely everything hurt."
Remembering the misuse this organisation had ordained for Sherlock, John wondered, "But why...Why would they do this to you...if you were such a big asset to them?"
Sherlock's face contorted in resentment, and he bit his lip, mumbling an incoherent response.
"What?"
Sighing, he reiterated softly, "Because it was fun."
"Fun?" John sputtered. How could doing all that to him be...fun? How could they toy with the life of someone so brilliant and trivialise it into something for sport? The thought sickened him. What kind of human could do that to another for fun? Fists balling in his lap, John's hands shook. If there was anyone left for him, he would personally see to it that the sick fuck couldn't just use another person like that ever again.
Sherlock pulled a hand from his enclosure and touched one of John's, which immediately released its grip on itself at the cold touch. "There's nothing you can do, John," Sherlock spoke as if it didn't even involve him.
"What do you mean there's nothing I can do?" John spat. He was more than furious. "How dare they use you like that?!"
Cringing at the word, Sherlock bit bottom lip and ran his teeth around the small bleeding pocket he had created. "You can't do anything...Because I killed them myself." Withdrawing his hand from John's, he examined it a moment. It was saturated with the blood of dozens of people.
"You...?" John gulped. He knew Sherlock had killed people, what from reading and his own experience, but it still didn't seem like it fit. Even though Sherlock had killed someone in his presence, he couldn't quite accept it. In his mind, Sherlock was still innocent, sexually inexperienced, and though he denied his own purity, it radiated from him. Now Sherlock was damaged in all the wrong ways, and John didn't know how he could fix it.
Sherlock released a deep moan. This was precisely what he had wanted to avoid: John hating him for his actions. Great, now he had burned another bridge. Just when he was looking forward to staying in the flat again. Where was he to go now? Mycroft's?
Catching the look on Sherlock's face, John insisted, "No, it's not that. I just don't know what to think..."
"Now that I've changed so much?" Sherlock finished.
John nodded and continued, "Not that I want you to leave or anything...That I'll like you any less, but...it's just odd. I'm trying to understand." Sherlock agreed, seeming to understand where the older man was coming from, answer satisfactory enough. "Um, so back to the story?"
"Yes, right." Settling himself back into the couch, Sherlock faced John before starting, "I woke up in some old lady's basement, tied to a chair of all things. My head and body still ached. I felt so terribly groggy, when I could identify the man before me. His name was Derek McCollum, and I somehow inadvertently led to his brother's prison death after getting him arrested some years before meeting you...that man always did hold a grudge. He said that it was time to continue the game. After some badinage, he pulled a bunch of pictures from his coat pocket. They were of everyone back home...You after I fell, staring at a pool of blood...My blood. Of you crying alone. Of my funeral...My grave. I remembered how I had gotten there...what I had done. I knew you wouldn't be coming for me. You couldn't possibly. Mycroft couldn't even know. It was just me, stuck in a cellar.
"I was scared. I knew somehow Moriarty and McCollum were in cahoots, but I didn't quite know how. I didn't know what would happen to me. Everything was hazy until it hit me. Moriarty gave me hints along along. He wanted to burn my heart out, and when I mentioned that to McCollum, he was pleased to announce he could relay the rules of the game." John frowned; they were completely toying with him. Though he knew they were gone, the doctor wanted so desperately to teach them that no one messed with Sherlock, with anyone really. Not like that.
"What was worse, I then knew they had used Moriarty for his insanity, using such a brilliant man...They knew I would follow him until I got caught up in a more twisted game, from which I could barely escape...McCollum told me that I had to disable, kill, or ruin someone of their choice monthly. If I were to not comply, fail the task, or simply die before the deadline, someone back here would kill one, or all, of you. I couldn't contact anyone...They would know and death would meet someone as well. However, I could fight against my employers. That request was almost encouraged. It was all part of the game. I later learned that my 'employers' were hardly even part of the organisation that was undoubtedly ruining my life. They lent me out like a library book, just to eradicate the competition.
"It sickened me, once I found out. Not only was I destroying lives of all these people, but I was giving this group a larger power, greater control over a plethora of countries. It bothered me...that I had to live off of them and their monthly stipend in whichever country that had shipped me off to," Sherlock explained, detaching himself emotionally from the memories.
"I was defiant. I barely completed the task and led to the arrest of entire gangs and syndicates. I was 'no fun', treating this new job just like I had back at home. They had to...they had to break me. As you know, I found that violin, just abandoned near my lodgings. Within days, they had her broken. They had shattered the only way to quiet my thoughts...Then, I started losing entire days, weeks even...Due to the organisation's capture. When I remembered something, that's how I found them...it's how I figured out just who they were. I was getting too cocky. I knew it was being run by a man named Eric Fletcher, a boring name to a bright man, and his cohorts. I was catching on, and they knew it.
"So they sent me off into the desert...Precisely where Irene was." Sherlock's face hardened, tears finding their way to his eyes once more. "I saved, her, John. When she had 'died' overseas, I saved her. But I saw her again, for the first time in months. She...she was the first...the first familiar face I'd seen in ages. She saw me, and started walking towards me...I was too shocked...too overwhelmed to act on the thought...I shouldn't have been there. I shouldn't have frozen. I should have just brushed her off and gotten on with my life. A glance should have been enough, but I froze. Oh, God, I froze, John. And they shot her. I-I watched as her body fell into the sand." The detective's eyes shook as if her were recounting the images in his mind as well. Clutching onto the blanket that still hung over his shoulders, Sherlock continued, "They just killed her. More shots rang out. Bang." He gritted his teeth, practically spitting the sound. "Bang. I was on the ground. I tried...I tried to see if she w-was a-alive, but I-I couldn't help her. I felt this n-need, to put her b-back to-together. I heard more bodies fall. And then s-silence. That silence. I couldn't imagine anything worse than that...Someone called my name. My real name. I looked up...and I saw two men. I'll never forget their faces. They said...they said that this was my warning, and that I had to leave. I saw their b-bodies, J-John. Twenty...Twenty-eight of them. In all." He swallowed, running each face through his mind, recalling how the sand lapped up their blood. "I remember them. All of them. Their faces. Most of them were kids, John. Just kids...No one had done anything wrong. No one except me. I shouldn't have been there. It was completely my fault...My fault that they're dead."
As tears spilled down Sherlock's face, John pulled the bundled man in close. "None of this is you fault, Sherlock. Don't you start thinking that...There was nothing you could have done. They set this all up."
"I know...I know they did!" Sherlock moaned between sobs. "But they wouldn't have...if I weren't..."
Shushing the younger man in his arms, John held him as he wept for the lives lost before his very eyes. The military man could more than relate, having seen more than a couple foot soldiers sacrifice themselves for the sake of the doctor. After all, kill the medic to kill all the men he would have saved...Disable the detective to set free all the men he ever would have caught. "It's not your fault, Sherlock. None of that is any of your fault."
"B-but I-I could have done m-more! Some of them...Some of them should have lived...And I-I f-failed," Sherlock moaned into the doctor's shoulder, voice box vibrating against his chest.
"Sherlock, they were sick. They did this to you...you aren't responsible for what you did," John explained as the detective squirmed in his arms as if each of his limbs was uncomfortable with its own existence.
Legs stirring and contracting in on themselves, arms wriggling out of the blanketed cocoon, fingers grabbing at the material of John's jumper, Sherlock soon found himself entirely in the older man's lap. Readjusting his arms around Sherlock's covered back, John felt the detective settle between his legs and sob into his chest. Though Sherlock's body gangly and awkward, by no means immature, the doctor couldn't help but think he had a child in his arms. A child, whose long, bony limbs prodded him in every which way. He was just too fragile, and John was afraid of just what would happen when he let go.
Mumbling incoherences into the doctor's shoulder, Sherlock's sobs became hitched. Why couldn't he have done enough, to have saved everyone? He could have done it; he could have done so much better. He wouldn't have had to kill as many people, see as many die at what might as well have been his own hand. Shushing the detective, John rubbed circles along his back and added, "None of this is any of your fault Sherlock...You did as much as you could have...Though you may be brilliant, even you have your limits. There was only so much you could have done, and I'm sure you did everything you could have. Especially with all those injuries...It's amazing you got anything done at all."
Sucking back mucus, Sherlock drew deep breaths, trying to calm himself down enough to continue functioning. "They g-gave me p-pain sup-suppressors," the detective explained. "I didn't...I didn't have to take them...But I did. I had to finish."
That's how he kept working. "But wouldn't that have clouded your mind?" John asked.
"No," Sherlock breathed. "I don't know how, or what they were made of...Turned off pain receptors. Only pressure. Made me sick...when they wore off...but I had to. The faster I finished...more rest. Every month, every month," the detective sung, as if mimicking someone.
Frowning, John had nothing more to say. The were using him, pushing him to beyond a point that most humans would stand bearing; it was nothing short of a miracle that this strange drug hadn't succeeded in killing the young man. "What happened...after Irene?" he inquired. They had to move this along.
Pushing himself away from John, and with some inelegance, the detective sat up across from his friend, giving John a good view of his puffy eyes. After wiping at them once more with his sleeves, Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke, "After Irene...I continued my task, did as they asked of me with little resistance. I knew they would kill everyone if I so much as disobeyed a toe...I finally accepted that I would never be going back to London...And that was when they made it blatantly obvious they were following me, and after I'd completed my assignment, they picked me up right off the streets...In daylight amongst a crowd. I fought, I knew they had come for me. Not those I'd just disbanded, no. It was Fletcher. It just had to be. I hadn't been broken enough...As if not having a home to return to was enough.
"They kept me awake, drugging me...The hallucinations were frightening...Three whole days, and when they finally left me to unconsciousness, they dumped me somewhere. I woke up two days later, in the care of a woman and her daughter in this pitiful shack by a canal...And I didn't know what else to do other than just run. I had to keep them uninvolved. That was my repayment...For saving me when they themselves had nothing...
"Once I finally found my way back to my hotel room, I found a bus ticket sitting on the desk, waiting for me, mocking me. They knew I would go. I had to...And I tried to do my task there, but I'd caught some sort of illness. I was confined to my bed for weeks, stuck in this fever-induced delirium. I knew then that I wasn't ever unguarded. I'd found medicine sitting next to a glass of water on my nightstand. I didn't care what it did anymore, and I just accepted it as the only kindness I was allowed. Once my condition improved, I still had my assignment, and I had nothing on the man...Absolutely nothing." Sherlock sighed, eyes losing focus for a moment.
"All I had was a name. Just one name. One week. I soon learned that the syndicate's information was wrong, and that this man lived a good ways away. I managed to get there three days before the deadline. Even though I was drugged, I was still in a daze..." Sherlock sighed again. "I knew he ran a nightclub, so I went early in the morning to check it out...And then I found him alone in the back, counting his profits for the night. He saw me. An enemy, he was terrified. I wasn't supposed to be there. It was after hours; he'd sent all his other employees home. I had just intended to collect information, but he was there, plain as day...He pulled a knife and came at me...I grabbed the nearest blunt object and swung for his skull. He fell back, into a shelf, and it collapsed on him...I stopped...I stopped dead in my tracks, and watched as blood pooled to the floor, glass embedded all over his body. I-I didn't in-intend to. It just...It just happened. I looked around the room, found no cameras, and fled. I just ran. I'd killed a man and returned to the hotel! As if it were nothing! I just...I just killed him...I had everything in front of me, and I just left.
"I-I became obsessed with him. His name was Carlo. Carlo Gordon. I had to find out who he was, why they wanted me to 'get rid of him'. I could have...I could have just paid more attention, but when I reviewed what I saw...Nothing worked, John. It was frustrating...I just saw things. Nothing else, just objects. They seemed to mean nothing. After reading the papers and talking to others around the street, I learned he had a problem with the mafia. That he was operating where he shouldn't have been, that he just wanted to run an honest bar. He had just been warned...He was scared, John. He was scared...And I killed him," Sherlock confessed with a remorseful huff.
"Sherlock..."
"No, don't," the detective interrupted. "I know you're going to try and rationalise this for me, but I know it was self-defense...I just, I shouldn't have been so careless. He was innocent...Completely innocent. It's my fault, John, and there's no way it can be sugar-coated to convince me otherwise..."
Taking another breath to calm himself, Sherlock continued, "Unfortunately, while under this compulsion to find information on Carlo Gordon, I fell off their radar, and once they found me, I was drugged and forced into the back of a car. They spent hours interrogating me about my intentions...I said I just was trying to finish my job...They weren't convinced. Over and over." Sherlock's eyes shook as he looked at John, fists clenched. "They wouldn't stop, John. I never thought they would. I was so tired, so dreadfully tired. I couldn't sleep. Everything hurt, John. They didn't break anything. They couldn't do such permanent damage to 'equipment', but I thought I was going to die. And then they drugged me.
I woke up in a different sleazy hotel room, all my things nicely put away, on the bed as if I had just peaceably spent the night. My head was foggy, I didn't know where I was, but I knew it was somewhere new. It felt entirely different, like a new country. I saw my notebook sitting there with a hotel pen waiting for me. As I went over to the desk to write, to settle and organise my thoughts, I felt an unusual ache in my left wrist. When I looked down, I saw it swollen. I knew it. They'd inserted something, to keep track of me, I would never just 'fall off the radar' again. Unless I cut it out. I had to cut it out. I know you saw, John. The blood. You had to have seen it." The doctor solemnly nodded. "It drove me mad, John, and for a while, I just did as I was told. I tuned it out...I became their slave. And after what seemed like eternity, I just stopped noticing...I became numb to what I was doing, what they were doing to me...I just went through the motions."
Gripping his knee with his good hand, Sherlock elaborated, "I feel so guilty. I did whatever it was I needed to do, destroyed so many people, and they still took me in for a 'monthly checkup' regularly before or after an assignment. They hadn't done enough to crush me. No matter how many times they beat me, I could never fully ignore the pain, no matter how I tried. Not until I returned, and I could take more of those awful pills...I wanted to feel nothing. I wished they would just send me to oblivion. They decided that wasn't enough...pain, pain was something I could brush off, they said. It didn't break me. It was only three days. It was always three days...So they began hiring perverts...
I-I won't go into the details again, John. I won't do that again, but do you remember what I told you? He wasn't the last, either...He was one of three. Three of them...with their own...preference. For a whole other year...Until last year. I mindlessly did my job and just accepted their monthly punishments. I had to. I couldn't learn who they were otherwise..." Sherlock admitted, toying with his fingers nervously as he looked up at John. The doctor was trying to contain his emotion, but the detective could see how upset he really was. Forehead creasing, eyes saddened, John wished he could do more than be here for his friend. He wanted for nothing more than to rip these dead men from what he hoped their paupers' graves and beat away their grasp on Sherlock. Even in death, they had some power over him, and he hated it.
"But there's nothing left for you to do. After the start of last year, I killed each of them, one by one. They won't so much as touch another person ever again...I even started reporting my 'superiors' to the police, and they soon caught on. McCollum died in a drug dispute, too, along with those bastards that killed Irene...About six months ago, I stopped receiving assignments, and I was left to go after Fletcher and his remaining associates. I completely dismantled his empire, and those who remained had a bit of a grudge. Now that I was no longer working for them, I didn't have their protection. If it wasn't their doing, the organisation would not tolerate my captivity. I was no longer off-limits, and they abused that power...I barely got out. Not only was I not protected, but I was unfinanced, and I worked odd jobs to save up enough, all while avoiding old enemies and getting enough on them to keep them out of sight. I would come back to London, my final job, and put an end to Fletcher, using one of the identities –Jacob Ashdown– that the organisation had created.
"We continued playing the game. He knew he could have kept me longer...he had the power. He could have just forced me back to where I was. I just suppose he got bored with me. I wasn't fun anymore. The game wasn't fun anymore." They treated him like a plaything...How dare they. Grinding his teeth, John tried to quell his anger, but couldn't quite manage it. It was absolutely maddening. How dare they.
Shaking his head, Sherlock concluded, "It was...anticlimactic. After taking down entire factions of this global syndicate, I was left with what was back here in London. After half the world, I was left with Fletcher and a couple of his men, and it wasn't even particularly difficult. I sent a rival gang information upon arrival, and they diminished his group...Fletcher was nothing without his power...He was a bored sociopath. When I walked into his building, he had killed all of his remaining men. It was just the two of us, surrounded by their corpses...As I pinned him to the floor, I asked him why, and I found out how much fun the thought of tormenting me brought him...It infuriated me, and I was about to shoot him when I realised that's precisely what he wanted me to do. I just couldn't...I couldn't let him play me again, so I left him there. It was a poor decision. As I started to leave, he grabbed me by the ankle, and I fell into a table...It's how I got this." Sherlock lifted up his broken arm as an example and continued, "I landed just right, and I felt it immediately. Swinging around, I saw his mad eyes. He really had nothing left to lose, and he dove for me, knocking me hard into the ground. I suppose that's when I got that concussion...But as I was trying to regain my composure, he pinned me to the ground and started choking me, taunting me." Tenderly, he caressed the base of his throat and gulped. Even his own touch was too much to leave him with his sense of safety.
"I kneed him in the gut and he rolled off me. After I regained enough air, I grabbed for the nearest object on the ground, a stone paperweight, and struck him with it in the back. He had thought a similar idea, and grabbed a knife from one man's dead hand and stabbed me. Right here," Sherlock pointed to the spot. "I scrambled back and found the body of one of his men, my hands were sticky with his blood as I sloshed back into it. But I had to get away from Fletcher, swinging his arm like a madman. I half-stumbled over the dead man, and I found a gun under his waistline as I slid over him. My vision was starting to fail me, but I drew it and shot once. It was enough. Once in the chest. I pulled myself up and fled, only to pass out a few blocks down. It was then I woke up in your hospital, questioned by the oblivious police, to which I implied that I could not quite recall how exactly I'd incurred my injuries. And then we met once more. I suppose that doesn't need summaries now, does it?" Pondering a moment, he added, "And the shooter...He was related to one of the men that Fletcher killed, a fledgling in the group, and he pinned the blame on me...He was just like McCollum, someone out for revenge. There shouldn't be anyone else..."
John sat speechless, trying to process everything he had just heard, replaying the story in his mind. It was just too much for him to conceive, his brilliant best friend being caught by a sociopath, forced into crime, forced to endure much more than most any human could bear. All for the sake of everyone back home. Even though Sherlock had wished he could find his way out, he worked so hard, and John couldn't help but feel a pang in his chest and a lump form in his throat. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Sherlock knew, by now, that he was far from a sociopath, he had cleared himself of these coping disillusions. Though John knew it more than anyone, Sherlock was the most human of anyone he knew, and the man himself was starting to realise it. But this epiphany was at an unbearable cost: his freedom from his own mind.
He just wanted to wrap the detective up and protect him from any harm that may come his way, but he had already failed. He couldn't save Sherlock; he couldn't even help him when he needed him the most. Useless, Watson, just positively useless, John berated himself.
Sherlock exhaled deeply, relinquishing a host of negative emotions. Though his problems weren't simply solved, his wounds still raw and aching, a dullness radiating throughout him, he felt better than he had in ages. Simply saying everything aloud, to more than a notebook's ear, to someone who cared, was enough to calm him down. He was safe, and for the first time in three years, he knew that somehow, everything would be alright in the end. What he hadn't told John, what he couldn't tell John, Mycroft knew. Between the two of them, Sherlock was sure they could help him pick up the pieces; they would set everything right.
Patting John's knee, Sherlock smiled at the older man. "You didn't fail, John. Not in the slightest," he reassured. "Thank you...It was always you."
"Always me?" he asked, looking up.
"You'd always be the only one to help," the detective returned, still smiling, freedom washing over him.
Without questioning it further, John took a moment to appreciate the thought. Though he couldn't have done anything for Sherlock in the past, he could support him now. "But what was it you were going to do, after they released you from the hospital? Had you not met me that very day, and they let you go 'home'...What would you have done?" he asked, hoping the answer wasn't what he feared.
"I had nothing to return to, no reason to do anything...You do the math, John," Sherlock admitted. He didn't want to linger much more on his moments of weakness.
"But now?"
"...It's fine. Don't concern yourself with it. My earlier condition has been rescinded," Sherlock clarified. He couldn't do such a thing with John there. He couldn't put him through that twice.
"...Oh," John muttered, the conversation falling with him. After a few moments of exchanging silent glances, he continued, "Why did you want to drive me away when we met?"
Sherlock sighed and mumbled, "I didn't want to deal with it...with everyone. You all could have done better without my filthy–"
"Sherlock, I know you feel responsible for what's happened in these last three years, but it's not your fault. It's not your fault that you had to do what you did. You were presented with a choice: cooperate just enough to beat them eventually and let us live without you, die and leave us to their revenge. It's not your fault that we missed you; they kept you from us. Sure, I'm a bit miffed that I never knew that you were trying to pull the wool over my eyes, but you did it...for us. You were willing to risk your life to keep every shadow of harm from ours...I know you thought you could have done better, but from the sounds of it, you really could have died, Sherlock. Had you worked any harder, done anything more, your body could have completely just given up on you...You were hardly left with a choice in the matter. I've killed people, too. There was usually little else to do, and I know you wouldn't squander life if you could help it." Exhaling, he finished, "You worked so hard, had to endure so much, and yet you're still here, Sherlock. You're still here, and you have no idea how happy I am. I thought you were dead, and everyday for a year I prayed that it was all just a hoax, that you'd run back into the flat, covered in some unidentifiable substance, toting an abnormal weapon of sorts, your shoes soggy with rain water because they would hardly let you on any form of transportation...I don't care about the blood on your hands, or how exactly you received all of your scars, how much muck you've been forced to encounter and live in...I'm just glad that you're back...that you want to be back, that you never wanted to leave. I'm so lucky, Sherlock, to have you back in my life again. I don't mind whatever condition, it's you. You can't possibly be filthy...You are brilliant, a beautiful human, so stop that, Sherlock. Just stop it...We're not too good for you. No matter how far you think you've fallen, we're still lucky to have you here. You deserve our love, Sherlock."
The detective stared at his friend throughout the entirety of his speech with a stony face, shocked that he had been interrupted. Before long, he felt his lip waver under Watson's sincerity, and when the doctor finished, a silence permeated throughout the room. Was it really alright to be loved? When John shot him a weak smile, Sherlock melted partially into the house, the weight of his words finally bearing down on them. Tears silently coursing down his face, Sherlock slowly broke down into full sobs. Was it really alright? To let others care for him? To love himself?
As John pulled his younger friend into his arms, Sherlock muttered, "Thank you, John."
"Thank you, Sherlock," he returned, squeezing tighter. Though he couldn't take revenge on Sherlock's abusers, no matter how desperately he would like to, he knew he could help fight away his past's demons now. With time, he knew, that they could regain life within some spectrum of normalcy. As normal as life could be living with Sherlock Holmes. After all, a little more than a week with Sherlock felt like he had more than a novel's length to mention. Maybe, with the detective's permission, he could start up his blog once more. Let the world know just how wrong they were for doubting Sherlock's motives, for doubting his him.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Mycroft closed the lid of his laptop and pushed it away from him, filled with disgust, a sinking feeling in his gut. What had he just watched? Five minutes was too much. Swallowing back against his tightening throat, Mycroft couldn't help but replay the images in his mind; screams, moans, whimpers, and cries echoing. Anger bubbled inside him. How could someone possibly do this to his brother? And then record it?
Reading about it was bad enough, but now that an abhorrent stack of DVDs sat on his desk, the reality of Sherlock's stuck a chord of realness. As far as he knew, there were no other copies, and he knew that they would end with him. He would destroy them after he confirmed that each one was indeed as Sherlock had identified. Mycroft knew he couldn't put himself through another round of that, but he couldn't leave room for error. There would be no extra copy in existence, and there was no one else who could do the job. He had to do it.
But seconds, he would only watch seconds before stopping. He couldn't endure seeing another of his sibling's desperate plea to the camera, eyes too mortified to focus clearly, readjusting themselves rapidly. He couldn't watch as he cried and sputtered, all too aware of what was happening, body flailing and contorting against its restraints, his captor's touch. The older man couldn't look into Sherlock's tormented eyes again; he couldn't admit how much he had failed him.
Sighing, Mycroft slid his laptop back in front of him and opened the lid, clicking the CD drive open. After removing the disk, he slung it into the rubbish bin. He would have to smash the lot of them when he was finished and possibly grind them into an indistinguishable, fine metallic meal before disposing of them entirely. Slipping another disk into his drive, Mycroft continued with his final task, fantasising about just how he would have had this bastard killed had he still been habituating the sunny side of the grass.
Sherlock had been too kind, Mycroft fumed as he chucked another disk in the bin. The detective simply let them beg for mere moments before killing them. Swift deaths, he scoffed. They deserved so much worse, and his brother let them off easy. Switching disks once more, tossing the third to follow its predecessors, Mycroft tried to tune out the entirety of what he was viewing, only processing just enough to understand that he had one of the correct DVDs. This was the worst of his tasks, of setting Sherlock's life back into some sort of order.
With ease, Mycroft cleared up any and all deaths that had taken place in the course of his brother's travels, tricked the police and media that Sherlock had unequivocally brought the end of a criminal empire (run by Moriarty, of course) without any illegal activity (thus restoring his reputation), and as a bit of kindness, he anonymously gave compensation to innocents involved in Sherlock's meddling (this, he decided, was going to be a bit of a surprise to lift his brother's spirits). Now all he was left with this. Click, another disk fell against the others.
Though he had to put himself through only what was an iota of Sherlock's pain, Mycroft felt a part of his heart ache as well. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he loved his brother, and what happened could still be partially considered his blame (though in his entries, Sherlock rebuffed this view, claiming that they would have gotten to him without Moriarty). He felt guilty, like he needed to overcompensate, when all he wanted was to spend a bit more time with the younger man. After reading his journal of sorts, of analysing the massive webs of ranked criminals in various organisations, of seeing all these tapes, Mycroft wanted to be convinced that he would be alright, not entirely sold on the idea that he himself would be able to get over it.
But if it would be anyone, it would be Sherlock. To be able to live through such an ordeal. Despite the mess that he had brought with him, the trauma that he now carried with him, Sherlock's return left him happier than he had been in years. It was discomforting, how giddy he felt at times. His baby brother was back, he was alive, and he was a survivor. He finally had the chance to say all the things he had missed in the past decade (which, incidentally, was caused by his nannying tendencies back in the day – which, thankfully, might be appreciated now given the present circumstance). Or not. He could leave such things unsaid, right? Sherlock surely had to know, right? After all, it was so painfully obvious to him. Knowing Sherlock was just a skip away was comforting enough, and he could do his part here.
Mycroft gave a faint smile to himself, tossing the final disk into the bin. A good towel to protect his already-scarred desk and a hammer would be just enough to suit him quite nicely right now.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Epilogue: Two Months Later
Gingerly carrying a bouquet of sweet peas, Sherlock strode through the streets of London like it was nothing, John following at his heels. Though the air was not particularly fresh, nothing like some of the places he had encountered in the last few years, but it was home and he was free to use his own name, the media maelstrom quieting to a bubbling silence.
Too troubled by the attention, the sunlight, the noise to feel perfectly capable of functioning, Sherlock had waited a whole month to so much as leave the safety of the flat, using John as a buffer to the outside world. When the doctor had had enough of his friend's depression, he forced him outside to go grocery shopping with him. The fresh air would do him some good. To John's surprise, the detective bolted down the street, taking in the view of the city he had been bereft of. Sherlock felt capricious, seeing the same old thing new. It was exciting, so much to catalogue.
Once he felt confident again to walk the streets of his childhood, Sherlock waited another month to pluck up the courage to visit his mother's grave, partially using the excuse that the sweet pea season didn't begin until February. These always were his mother's favorite flowers, he mused, eyeballing the bobbing light pink blooms. No matter how soothing the memories associated with these blossoms were, he still felt anxious. Even now as he cut through the brisk air on the way to the cemetery that he was no longer 'buried' in (Mycroft had removed the headstone and the empty coffin), he was still uneasy about seeing his mother. Surely if she were still alive, he'd get a petty smack to the head, a tight hug, and then probably some tears...Then there would be the lecture of why to never do that again, how he'd nearly killed her...Except that he had.
Groaning under his breath, the two arrived at the cemetery, and John lingered back at the gate. He would leave Sherlock to himself; he needed to do this. Finding a space on a nearby bench, the doctor watched as his friend entered the grassy place of rest, his pace noticeably slower than before.
Though he didn't particularly want to, Sherlock continued walking, his feet taking him there against his will. He would have to deal with this sometime; he would have to finally come to terms with the last of those he had left behind.
Arriving at his mother's headstone, he read her name, engraved in silver lettering on the reflective black stone, just as his had been. Sherlock placed the flowers near its base and let the reality of the situation sink in. Glancing over at the space that was his own plot, he realised that she was actually dead, not like he had been. She wasn't coming back.
The detective sunk to his knees, overwhelmed by the reality. "Hello, Mummy. It's Sherlock," he greeted the headstone, catching sight of his own appearance in the reflection. He always did look like her, and with his untrimmed hair even more so. "I-I'm back. I'm sorry. I wasn't here with you all this time, but I am now...I guess it's too late though, huh? I brought your favorites...I remember how you used to fill the house with them when you came home...I had planned to come see you before I died, but I couldn't find the time...I should have. I-I didn't know I wouldn't get another chance."
Checking that no one else was around, he continued, his throat tightening, "I hope you didn't think you were a bad mother. You weren't...You had to go, you were busy. You and father both. You couldn't have spent the rest of your time with me. I had already grown up...and besides that, Mycroft had done enough of the mothering for the two of you. I hurt you by extension, after I rebelled against him and his control, after I stubbornly tromped out of the house and got myself into all sorts of trouble. I was childish. I'm sorry, Mummy. None of this was supposed to happen this way...
"I hope you wouldn't be cross with me...I died for the people I loved, and now they're helping me remember how to live. I'm doing better, I swear. They're quite lovely, Mother, but you know that. John has fond memories of you, and I remember how much you had liked him. You don't have to fret over me anymore, Mummy, I'll be alright. I'm not dead...and I'm sorry if I had any part in your death...I didn't mean to worry you. I'm sorry, Mummy. I'm so terribly sorry," Sherlock apologised, eyes tearing up.
Wiping his eyes, he stood. "I shouldn't stay much longer...I can't leave John waiting for too long. I'll be back, I promise. Goodbye, Mummy."
As he turned to walk back towards the entrance, tears pricking his eyes, he saw a disturbed plot and immediately noticed that the date of death was all of ten years back. It had been dug within recency, two or three days. The grave had been patted down with a shovel, and judging by the drooping, wilted flowers and weeds sprouting from a few of the nearby graves, the caretaker hadn't been around in days. He probably didn't even know that one grave digger with evenly worn tread (including the inner arches) and a standard shoe size 9 had been putzing around with one of his tenants. Examining the plot further, he made note of the name, Penelope Hurst, as well as her birth and death dates. Intrigued, the detective walked around a few more plots, which were totally undisturbed. A plain spade, size 9 shoes, flat-footed...A grave digger wouldn't just hit one...
Excited by the revelation, Sherlock sent John an impatient text to come inside. As he eagerly tapped his foot, arms crossed in discontent, John read the text, rolled his eyes, and strolled into the cemetery.
"What took you so long?" the detective asked upon sight of his friend, agitation filling his voice.
John scoffed, letting out an exasperated sigh, "You literally waited two minutes. What is this all about?"
"Gravediggers!" Sherlock exclaimed, excitement growing by the second, a smirk cutting across his face. He hadn't had a case in ages, and this was just what he needed to raise his mood. "Besides, you told me not to wander off...Anyway, to the caretaker's cabin!" Sherlock rushed for the edge of the cemetery as quickly as his legs would allow him, leaving a dumbstruck John back in the dust.
When did he start listening to me? John wondered, watching his friend shrink as he traveled into the distance. "Hey, wait!" John cried, chasing after the detective, who was titillated beyond belief. As he ran, the doctor realised he was in no shape for this and slowed down, thankful that Sherlock had finally reached his destination; he had a chance to catch up.
Though his breath was short and he still had a ways to go, John smiled. The detective seemed happy, if only for as long as the case lasted. With time, he would surely get even better. Sherlock had already started smiling more, trying to make himself happier by appearing as such. He had worked hard, trying to slip into a routine, spending countless hours yelling at the television and seeing Mycroft, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson and her new family with regularity. After getting his cast removed, Sherlock finally started brushing back up on his violin, playing as if he hadn't been separated a second. And now that he had found a case, he could revel in his own state of normalcy for a little while before the nightmares returned, before he came back up to John's room in the middle of the night with tear-streaked cheeks.
The nightmares were a bit less frequent, and occasionally, the doctor could find his friend at unease, anxiously on unnecessarily high alert. However, this new Sherlock seemed clingier, sillier, more expressive, and his classic round of disdain had all but been wiped from his outward personality entirely (though, in fairness, the detective had hardly been given a chance to interact with many other humans). In a way, it made John slightly uncomfortable, but he knew that it would just take him time. Sherlock was improving, slowly but surely, he was getting there.
Arriving at the caretaker's cabin, he saw Sherlock crouched down next to a body, a deep neck would clearly the cause of death. "Well then," John muttered, caught by surprise at the sight.
"Definitely a seven," Sherlock remarked, studying the remains and the room, confident that the caretaker himself had robbed one Penelope Hurst a few nights back. Springing back up to his feet, the detective swung around and searched for the murder weapon, face lighting up as he found it. This was all just too much fun.
Yup, John thought, everything will be alright...
End
A/n: Oh my god. Am I done? I'm DONE! If you're interested in the short, light little romance chapter I plan on tacking on, please stick around. If not, this is the end! The end! Anyhow, now that you've read, please, please, please review! And switch your little "follower" status to, you know, "favorite" and things. But mainly review. Even if it's short, sweet, whatever, it would mean a lot to this silly little high school student (especially for these terribly long chapters, that I'm done with the main story arc, and that my laptop's hard drive just died and I need a good cheering up - thank you Doc Manager). But summer is in two weeks! I will be finishing Letters for You sooner rather than later (once my laptop gets fixed/replaced) and writing my Molly fic, so please check those out! 'Till next time!