Author's note: I'm so, so sorry for the wait, I feel terrible for not updating sooner. I would give you excuses, but I doubt you're really interested in them, so let's skip those and move onto the new chapter, shall we ? :)
Chapter 8: Time to choose
"Bureaucracy" Sherlock says, and John has to tame the bubble of laughter that makes a run for it from his chest, up his throat.
He moves towards his desk, hand reaching out to open the lid of his laptop, when he feels the buzz of an incoming text in his pocket. He's still holding conversation with Sherlock, teasing him about packing experiments and his body is turned away from the Consulting Detective as he slides the phone out of his pocket, rustling some papers away with his other hand. Elation fills him like a fizzy drink doing rounds through his veins so he doesn't even pause talking while he reads the text. The letters are stark and black, the way they always are on his mobile screen, but the name attached always makes the specific arrangement of pixels seem just a tad menacing.
Time to choose, Dr. Watson. – MH
Staring at the text for a moment, brain buzzing to connect it to the current context, John wants to laugh out loud again. 'Is this what he meant?' If Mycroft meant this would be John's choice – going with Sherlock as means of choosing Sherlock – than the whole tense fireplace conversation really wasn't warranted. Of course John's going with Sherlock. There was never any other option to begin with. How could Mycroft ever question that? John can't help but shake his head at the man's short-sightedness on the matter.
Sherlock is still talking to him, saying something along the lines of "No, John. It's not the packing" and his tone, more than the words themselves, prompt John to turn back and face the other man again.
"What is it, Sherlock?" he asks, caution seeping like dish-soap into his fizzy blood, still creating foam, still a thrill, but a bit bitter and unwelcomed in his flurry of relief and joy. He listens to Sherlock's fumbling words that stagger between them like new-born fawns on shaky legs, before snapping at him to get to the point. Sherlock lifts his gaze, hunched despite the lack of any visible weight, and John thinks that he looks small, somehow, like an old man. Like a wilting plant, deprived of sunshine and water.
"We need to talk about Mary." Sherlock says, and John doesn't know whether the sentence is completely absurd or just inevitability. He wonders if he should have expected it.
There is rhyme and reason to things, on paper at least – a recipe for a well-constructed timeline, if you wish, that dictates a fairly regular rotation of the good and the bad stuff, of catastrophes and prosperity. John wonders, in seconds following Sherlock's words, why is it that that recipe never seems applicable to real life. He's survived the fires and the floods – by all rules, he is entitled to some prosperity now. Demands it, silently, voicelessly, by the simple clenching of his fist.
But the world doesn't care and John's demands fall on deaf ears, like seeds onto barren soil, so he does the only thing that's left.
He sits down and listens as Sherlock delves into the Story of Mary.
Sherlock lets his eyes sink to the floor one more time, as he draws a breath. Like an actor slating an audition, he fills his lungs like a bucket, bottom-up, soaking up air all the way to the edge of his trachea. Time seems to oscillate between too much and too little until it ceases to move all together and Sherlock knows it has run out. With his next breath, he lifts his eyes and delivers words, in litres, tons, pages of them, a syllable attached to each molecule of carbon dioxide that pushes its way violently against Sherlock's vocal chords.
"Once it became apparent my disappearance would be inevitable, a plan was made that Mycroft will keep an eye on you while I'm gone."
John doesn't even have time to object to the face that he isn't a bloody toddler that needs minding 24/7 because Sherlock seems to be vomiting words, like bile, foul and bitter in his throat.
"The initial plan was that he'd monitor you via street cams and CCTV streams he'd planted in all places relevant to my existence that you might decide to visit, over the course of the years. However, with his attention and resources becoming increasingly occupied by my mission, surveillance ceased to be the best option."
Trepidation settles over John's heart like a swan over an egg, his mind's vicious little voice whispering daunting premonitions of what is to come. He hears the words before Sherlock says them, but refuses to believe them even once they've been voiced.
"It was decided that a level-up in precaution measures was in order. Mycro-"
"Hold on. Precaution measures?" John's voice is low and deceivingly calm. Murderous. Light from the window paints a terrifying mask over his features, his eyes alight with some manic glow, the lines of his face drawn deep and crude. "Precaution against what exactly?"
Dust swirls in a ray of sunlight that cuts the space between them into two halves. The glow caresses wall, setting the green hues in it ablaze. Light, glass and green – a greenhouse, if only in name and slightly in form. Greenhouse effect, wreaking havoc, right there, in a space of a few square meters. Sherlock swallows, almost audibly, and continues, ignoring John's interruption.
"Mycroft personally chose the agent for the task. She way trained, tailor-made to suit the parameters of your preference."
"Answer me Sherlock. Why did Mycroft even feel a need to...why in hell did you think I needed a baby-sitter?"
"Because, if left to your own devices John, you would have been a danger to yourself."
John flinches. Rage and disbelief seem to be his baseline condition at the moment.
"A suicide-watch? That's what that was? That what she was?"
"In the beginning, yes."
If breathing had a taste, John is pretty sure his would taste like gravel, ragged and rough.
"That's ridiculous, Sherlock. I would've never had killed myself. You know that."
"Maybe not with a gun. Or in any way that would explicitly indicate suicide. But there are various ways a man can kill himself, John.
You would have grown progressively restless and thus reckless, going out and looking for trouble, until one day you found exactly what you were looking for. Or you would have spent your days on autopilot, dying a slow death in the cage of routine and boredom."
Deeply-rooted concern tinges Sherlock's eyes, so when he looks at John, of all the things that pound against their glassy, surface, utter conviction of his own rightness on the matter is the most prominent. There's something unapologetic about that look – a sense that despite being aware of making a mistake, Sherlock is still strongly convinced of the unmistaken nature of their cause. The John from three years ago would have pushed, persisted on his line of questioning, but this John, the John whose skin is ingrained with ashy mud of recent experiences knows better. This is not to say that this John isn't livid about it, but since there is no way of ever proving either of the man right on the matter, he decides to leave the dwelling for another time.
"And later?" he asks after the silence becomes an anaerobic vacuum.
"What?"
"You said 'in the beginning'. What about later on? What was Mary's purpose then?"
"She also served as a distraction."
"From what?"
"Any signs that my activities might have produced which could have had alarmed you to the fact that I was not, in fact, dead. Also, she couldn't have simply disappeared. You were doing well. Things seemed...well-balanced."
"That's ridiculous. I can't believe that you and your brother – two geniuses, by your own account – actually thought any of this was a good idea. What did you think was going to happen in the long run?"
"We hoped there wouldn't be a long run. And if there happened to be, options were planed which would have ensured a seemingly natural progression of your relationship." Sherlock answers, voice strained in a way completely new, but John is too angry to give the reason behind this a closer inspection.
Words fall on the carpet between them as if thrown by a hand of a sower, poisonous seeds catching root in the fertile soil of misguided actions, watered by their aftermath.
"So you're saying..." John's voice is barely above a whisper now. It's harsher than any shout Sherlock's ever heard. "You're telling me that over a year of my life was a lie? Was she supposed to carry on with the shame for a few more months? Years? What?!"
Sherlock's lips remain immobile, voice apparently lost, lent to the wind that seems to be howling inside John's mind. The time of day is unfitting to the general mood – it should be a stormy night, a frightening time when even the starts are afraid to watch so they blink their glowing eyes closed, leaving the world below to fend for itself. There should be rain and wind and slate and possibly a mid-level natural disaster – something to mark the complete collapse of John Watson's world. Again.
"Whose idea was it?" John forces the words out, harsh blows of sound punching the air like fists.
"Mycroft's."
"Did you have a say in it?"
Sherlock's eyes bleed, like an animal hit by a car and left to die on the side of the road.
"Sherlock! Did you know?"
"Not right away. I was unreachable at the moment when the decision to switch your security mode was made. I found out a month into it."
"And you didn't see anything wrong with it?"
"Mycroft estimated it was the best solution."
"And since when do you listen to what Mycroft has to say?"
The look Sherlock gives him screams the answer louder than any words ever could. 'Since it was you that was in the crosshairs" it says, and John knows, despite his question, that below the surface, Mycroft is someone whose judgement Sherlock trusts almost implicitly.
The key to the greenhouse effect is accumulation. Heat accumulates below the dome of greenhouse gasses, an increasing amount of it arriving constantly only to remain trapped in a space with a finite capacity, and what was once a welcomed occurrence, the thing that made life a thrill – light, warmth, brightness of days – suddenly becomes its undoing, a threat of destruction born out of that which is (or was) essential for survival. Death born out of life – as it always happens to be.
The Earth doesn't have a choice – the Sun doesn't stop shining only because it is no longer in Earth's best interest. The Sun is relentless, and so is the heat, and Earth just can't seem to let it go, so the temperature rises and with it, so does the suffering. A relentless Sun and an unforgivable Earth.
None of these actions are product of malice – on the contrary, they are misplaced orphans of good intent. Still, there is always a point of no return, an instant when the maximum capacity is reached and an impossible choice is posed. The Earth can't live without heat given off by the Sun. But, after a certain point, it can't live with it, either.
"Why are you telling me this now?" John chokes out, eying the custard-coloured glow that tumbles through the windowpanes, innocently bright and unassuming of its potential lethality.
"Because I thought you deserved to know everything before you decided to accompany me." A beat thuds like a blip of heartbeat, hollow and muffled by an unseen weight, before Sherlock continues.
"Also, because it would have been a rather unfavourable situation if we stumbled upon Mary while on the case without you being in on the story."
With a sharp movement, John's eyes cut their way to Sherlock's, razor-gray and just as sharp. A sharp man in a soft chair, soft light, soft day. Metal in sand. Soldier in a desert, withstanding the heat. His eyes demand further explanation, virulent and merciless in their insistence as Sherlock stocks on more breath.
"After being...discharged from her previous task, Mary was assigned a new one. Incidentally, it was the same one that later became my case. She was the one in charge of tailing Small and his associates. Her last report came in a week ago. Her next one is 4 days overdue. The assumption is that she's been captured."
"By a drug ring?"
"Yes."
A stern nod, a lick of lips, and then John is on his feet, moving towards the door.
"John..?" Sherlock's voice inquires in a way that radiates uncertainty.
"I need...air. Time. Something. I don't know. I just need to go." John replies, determination pushing him forward like an insistent child.
The door slams shut with a sound of a match being struck and failing to catch flame, and for all the heat in the room, Sherlock feels unbearably cold.
Letting his legs carry him wherever they see fit in the mockingly bright London day, John attempts to march his thoughts into some sort of order. His feelings, on the other hand, he doesn't even try to get hold of. Betrayal, anger, hurt, disbelief, confusion, and something that could be an infant version of shock run rampant around his insides, like unruly children on a sugar high.
The sun hides behind silverish clouds, its brightness suddenly muted and transformed into diffused light. Sounds of London make for a cacophonic backdrop, sounding like the colour gray and TV static. John walks like a planet dislodged from its orbit – aimlessly. After a while, he realises that if he continues to walk he will walk himself out of London, so he stops to take in his surroundings. Perhaps it is funny that what he finds is that he managed to wander into the same park that hosted his encounter with Mike, all those years ago. The park where it all started before it started in Bart's. Before in started in John's head. Before it started in his heart.
All of a sudden, all his frantic, angry energy seems to drain out of him, flowing down to his feet and out into the ground, feeding young saplings that are just starting to poke their heads out in the reluctant spring. Moving to a near-by bench, John looks around the park, thinking about that saying about standing in the same river twice and the impossibility of the act. He wonders whether he would have preferred to never have been in it in the first place, to never have met Mike, and, consequently, Sherlock. He tries to imagine what his life would have ended up resembling had things gone that way, and to his dismay, he realises he can't imagine it. Not because his life revolves around Sherlock, but because Sherlock was right – there are more ways than one for a man to kill himself. And John is pretty sure he would have ended up doing exactly that had he not met Sherlock and had his life turned into the chaos it is today. Slow decay of an uprooted plant – John can easily see that.
Still, is his current situation any better?
Once again, John's mind comes up with no answer, uselessly indecisive. The conversation runs on a loop in his head, like his personal mix-tape stuck on a single song of anxious turmoil. On, and on, and on again, he hears the words, his hyperactive mid taking turns in ignoring and ferociously analysing every aspect of the exchange. Finally, as he watches a young student run over the grass (earning a few dismayed looks of an elderly lady who keeps strictly to the drawn paths), his feet squashing down the infant grass, John's mind zeroes in on one specific portion of the conversation which managed to turn his life topsy-turvy. Again.
"What did you think was going to happen in the long run?"
"We hoped there wouldn't be a long run. And if there happened to be, options were planed which would have ensured a seemingly natural progression of your relationship."
Remembering the strain in Sherlock's voice, it takes John a moment to realise the implication of his own words, mostly because he is so taken aback by Sherlock's admission that he hoped for John's relationship to fail. 'The long run' John realises, would have been the reality he was destined for had Sherlock not survived his little escapade into the criminal Hades. An aftershock hits just in time with his next thought, as it dawns on him that Sherlock actually planned how to keep John safe (from John himself, no less) even in case of his death.
And then there's Mary. Sweet, kind, extraordinary Mary. Perfect Mary. A little too perfect, John realises. Perfectly tailored, lying Mary. Was he really just a job to her? And where is she now? Despite everything, John finds it hard not caring. It isn't because he's some sort of saint – it is because he needs answers that only Mary can give. Besides, to him, she wasn't a job. And emotions tend to be horrible little buggers, not really knowing their place, which is a case here as well. If he were in a more philosophical state of mind, John would admire the ability of human beings to feel such contrary things at the same time. Impossibilities which make life difficult, but which make it life and not just mere survival.
The Sun is still hiding behind the clouds, giving only as much light as it absolutely must. John wonders if he can just stay sitting there until he grows roots and grounds himself to the spot. But there are decisions to be made – urgent ones, he recalls as the case that prompted this whole ordeal comes to mind. The case. Sherlock's case that involves Sherlock leaving. And even though it shouldn't be that simple, John feels something break, like a twig, inside him. Like a bough. Or a tree trunk. He feels a forest crumble to toothpick-sized chips inside his mind, leaving a single figure standing among the destruction. Sherlock – and the idea of losing him. Again.
In the impossible situation that encases him, John realises he isn't supposed to choose the best solution. 'Best' would indicate a choice between several good options – there are none here. No, he is supposed to chose the least horrible one – a decision made on a very simple principle: which choice will break him the least. He must choose the option which entails the possibility of an outcome that would be the most unbearable.
Despite everything, he knows which option that is. It's always been that one. He knows, because he was forced to think he was living that option.
Losing Sherlock.
Out of all horrible options, that one is absolutely unacceptable. Maybe Mycroft is right – maybe John is an addict. In that case, he is weaker than Sherlock, because John is in no way willing to give up his addiction. Even when his drug goes off and pulls off something like this. He forgave a lot. He can forgive some more, he supposes, in time. Not yet. One day. It is a battle between two logics – that this is just another minor thing compared to the One Big Thing, and that this is The One Thing Too Far. But forgiveness isn't crucial here. John has come a long way – he can suspend resentment, anger, and hurt for the time that is needed to ensure Sherlock is safe. Once that is done, he knows there will be a show down, of sorts. Mostly with Sherlock. Also, with himself.
The sky is a bright metallic colour, clouds aglow with the hidden star. No matter how hidden, the Sun still manages to plant its light on Earth. The Sun and the Earth are confided within their own constancy and rigidity of ways. But Sherlock isn't the Sun – he is a singularity, if anything. And John isn't the Earth. They are neither relentless nor unforgiving. They aren't celestial – they are human. And thank heavens for that. Human as they are, flawed and clumsy in their best attempts to stumble through life, they can afford to forgive. They are able to change.
John watches himself settle on a decision he knew he'd make all along. He doesn't know what it means, what it says about him, that despite everything he still cannot fathom not going with Sherlock. Maybe it's because, John realises, it isn't true that any and all love or affection that took place in the last few years was fake. Mary wasn't a facade love – she was just a facade for someone else's love – love that was very much true and real and the source of such a misguided attempt at ensuring John's safety. The whole scheme was very much emotion-driven. It just wasn't Mary that loved him all that time.
It was Sherlock.
John doesn't see it coming. Mostly because there is no black car to tip him off. Also, because he really has better (or worse, depending on the point of view) things to think about. Either way, when he turns the sixth corner on his way back to Baker Street and almost topples over Mycroft, he doesn't see it coming and it takes him a moment or two to gather his wits.
"Sorry, didn't see you the- oh. Mycroft."
John's expression changes from apologetically distraught to a hard slate of barely-contained tumult with alarming speed. Like indecisive vapour suddenly condensing in its decision to become a storm cloud, John's rampant thoughts gather in a burdening mass of threatening grey.
"He's told you then." Mycroft's voice is calm, brimming with the unapologetic confidence of a man with vast experience with carrying out morally dubious schemes. "John-"
"Save it, Mycroft. I don't want to hear it. Not again." John pushes his way through, walking briskly and leaving Mycroft behind him, all beige elegance misplaced in everyday London of pedestrian worries and insignificant details which make life more than a simple string of catastrophes. John can handle Sherlock, temper his rage for Sherlock, but Mycroft is another story on that front.
"I see that you have reached a decision." John hears Mycroft's voice, the one he uses when he is absolutely certain of himself (which is always) and knows his words will hit bull's-eye (which is, again, always). "I have to admit, I am surprised by it. Also, you seem to think that by making that decision you've also made a choice. The choice. If this is really the case, I am sorry to inform you that you've made the wrong one." Mycroft's voice rings, running after John like a teasing vagabond, tangling around his ankles until he stops walking. He doesn't even want to know how Mycroft knows – probably by the way air swirls around his ears or something equally ridiculous and impossible.
'Damn him' John thinks, as two urges battle within him – one shouting at him to just tell Mycroft to sod off, and the other pushing him to ask questions, like a thirsty man drinking poison because it's the only thing available at the moment.
"What do you mean?" The second urge wins and John curses himself for his weakness. "How can you possibly know which choice I made?"
'I didn't even know until moments ago' he muses, but doesn't say. The answer comes in a classical no-direct-connection-to-the-question Holmes fashion.
"They've taken her because they needed a fail-safe." Mycroft averts his eyes to the ground, where the tip of his umbrella picks at the narrow, dirt-filled seam between two paving slabs like a beak of an unrelenting pigeon.
"Just in case that the idea of Sherlock potentially falling into their hands wasn't enough of an incentive for you. They've taken Miss Morstan to make sure that once Sherlock found them, you would be right next to him."
John angles his head in an attempt to shake off the questions which pound against the inside of his lips like prisoners against bars, but in the end the mutiny is too much and the words escape into the space between the opalescent sky and the dull walkway.
"But why would they want me?" John asks, pushing the grey beneath his feet away as he approaches Mycroft again.
"Because if they have you, they have Sherlock. Sherlock is a very hard man to capture, you see. It requires lots and lots of legwork. It requires stamina and energy, both of which can be better employed elsewhere because, you see, the way to capture Sherlock Holmes isn't to chasing him to the point of exhaustion. Trust me, you'll reach it much before he does. The way to get him is to make him walk into the trap himself. You were never their endgame. You are a means to an end. An end, which in itself was just another means to a greater end."
"Which would be?"
"A bargain, of sorts, if you wish to call it that."
"A bargain. Including Sherlock. From your honestly alarming level of interest in all matters related to Sherlock and me, I'd say you'd somehow be a part of this bargain, were it to happen."
"What an astute deduction" Mycroft answers, lips pinched in a sour expression that reminds John of Sherlock's face when he goes to make tea with milk that expired a week ago and ends up with bits of curdled dairy in his cup.
"You see, I knew Sherlock would insist on working his own case, just as I knew I would be forced to let him, since he is the only person even remotely likely to posses the abilities needed to locate the Aurora ring and its leaders. And, as I said, I knew Sherlock would invite you along and was considering telling you the truth about Mary. The recent events have taught him many things about the do-s and don't-s of your relationship – he wasn't going to risk losing you again by being dishonest. And my instruction to him not to tell you about Miss Morstan's real identity was a sure way to solidify his intent to do the exact opposite. Which is, of course, why I suggested it in the first place.
I hoped your anger would be a sufficient agent in making you stay put. But I misjudged you...I have to admit, it is a novel experience."
Mycroft's tone shifts from a litany-dullness to slight interest, as if he is truly marvelling the novelty of being wrong. John's having none of this, so he ploughs on, determined to get this conversation done as soon as possible.
"You told me to choose, Mycroft. Choose Sherlock. I am pretty sure that's what I am doing here. Despite everything."
Eyes the colour of the sky above drill into John's, seeming dismayed – why, John can't understand. He stopped trying to understand the workings of Mycroft Holmes' mind ages ago. Luckily for him, Mycroft was never the one to pass up an opportunity to prove himself right, so John gets a very detailed account of exactly why.
"And that's where you're mistaken, Dr. Watson. You're not choosing Sherlock. You're still choosing yourself. Choosing to follow Sherlock into danger because you can't possibly conceive the idea of staying behind while he rushes head-long into trouble. Because it feels wrong to let him go alone, doesn't it? Despite the fact that it would, in fact, be much more dangerous for him if you were to follow him. An addict's choice, Dr. Watson. I've warned you."
Rage blooms anew, and John's body goes rigid.
"You actually expect me to let him rush head-long into this whole drug ring business all by himself? That's your idea of me choosing him?" 'And you are supposed to be a person of logic' John scowls internally.
"My idea is that you do what is best for Sherlock and not what's easiest for you." With a slight shift of body, Mycroft manages to intrude into John's space with minimal effort. "You've been given a perfect reason not to go, John. Use it."
John licks away the curses that gather on his lips, and trades them for another question.
"And if I refuse to do that."
"John, as I said – just because you don't find me to be a frightening man, doesn't mean I don't have the means to prove you wrong."
John stares at Mycroft. It is ironic, he realises, that he is in the company of the only person who cares about Sherlock as much as he does, and yet, they seem to fall on opposite sides this time. Enemies domestic – or maybe divided allies. The horrible thing is, John realises, that in face of the day's events, this is the truly terrifying one.
John is terrified, because he suddenly realises the thing that made him angry with Sherlock is the thing he is being given now– only this time the consequences have the potential to be catastrophically worse. John was angry because he was kept in the dark, deceived and treated like an incompetent child. All his choices weren't really his. All he wanted was to be able to choose.
John Watson should be careful what he wishes for, because he might just get it.
Because now, he is truly forced to choose – choose between himself and Sherlock.
Only, the choices seem both mutually inclusive and exclusive at the same time – impossibilities of humans. Choosing Sherlock means choosing himself and also not choosing himself – he can't envision life without Sherlock anymore, so he must choose him. But he can't choose him, because that choice means life without Sherlock, if only for a while (but possibly forever).
"Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."
Mycroft's first warning echoes years after, and John is left on the pavement, just like he was left then in the damp, poorly lit space of a parking park.
Just John, concrete of the city and a choice, standing face to face. Time to choose.
Thanks for reading (and for the patience) :) New chapter definately will be uploaded this week!