~~/~~
He didn't kill for revenge. His commanding officers had pounded it into them. They shot down the people who were actively threatening them, not civilians, not potential enemies. The assassins had already done their damage and had moved on. They were no longer threats and he didn't kill for revenge. It wasn't easy to remember that, most nights.
:Did you do it for me?:
John cursed himself, fiddling with his phone while he watched the stupid animation of the message being sent out. He wanted to recall it. If he'd had the chance to say one last thing to the man, that wouldn't have been it.
:I loved you, you idiot.:
John let his head sink into his hands, still gripping his phone. Would he ever have confessed that, in time?
No. He'd seen Sherlock's derision toward any romantic feeling. He did not need that focused on him. So Sherlock would always have died, not knowing.
Fuck, but he wasn't going to be the same man on the other side of this.
~~/~~
Sarah came to kick him out of the surgery every day at midnight, whether it was her shift or not. John walked the city afterward, leaving his gun at home and praying he'd get into a fight. Usually it didn't work.
John got back to his flat to see Lestrade pounding on his door, a pile of duffel bags at his feet.
"Come on, then, Watson, just open the damn door," he was shouting, sounding resigned.
"I would, if you'd just..," John started, holding his keys, but the joke didn't come out right. Lestrade glanced over and blinked rapidly before shifting out from in front of the door.
"Oh. Right," he said.
It's open, John remembered benignly, putting his keys in his pocket and doing his best not to think about anything else.
"Mrs. Hudson asked me to bring you some clothes," Lestrade said, glancing down at the bags near John's feet. John nodded and opened the door. He'd have to keep it locked now. He moved the clothes into the flat and turned around to face the man in his doorway.
"Yeah, right," John said, trying to figure out what social thing he was supposed to be doing now. Thanking the man for the clothes, or shouting at him for not trusting Sherlock, probably. Neither sounded appealing.
"Look, I've done some thinking, and I do honestly believe Sherlock was inn-"
Right.
"Thanks for the clothes, then,' John managed as he closed the door. It shut with a definitive click and John rest his head against the chill wood veneer.
"Look, I'm going to prove Sherlock was innocent!" Lestrade's shout came through the door. "Moriarty's dead, you know. He shot himself before Sherlock jumped. It's over. It's the least I can do, clear his name. "
It really was. John went to take a shower. He wasn't dirty but there was nothing to do in the flat and he knew better than to stop.
~~/~~
Sherlock had killed himself to keep someone from being shot. Probably him or Mrs. Hudson. John wasn't convinced it helped at all to know that. He forced himself to concentrate on typing in all the medical files and blocking out the rest of the world. He needed something to do, to keep his mind off of it but still the thought nagged at him. Why did Sherlock jump? Something still didn't quite fit.
John slammed his hand down on the desk. The sound reverberated in the little, dark room and John was glad the file room was cut off from the rest of the surgery. But it was too simple. How had he missed this? He could practically hear Sherlock hiss at him, frustrated with how unerringly slow he was. There had been three snipers living in his street, with Moriarty trying to get the world to believe that Sherlock was a fraud, and Sherlock Holmes hadn't thought that maybe they were planning on bringing those two things together?
John stilled, barely daring to breathe as he stared blankly at the computer screen. Sherlock would have seen that coming. There was no way he would have been fooled. He would have connected 'assassins living near us' and 'Moriarty is going to try to coerce you into something' and not met him on the top of a bloody highrise. Sherlock would have thought of that, and John had a moment staring at his laptop, wondering if his best friend had been a fraud after all. John slowly pushed his chair back, his heart beating like a maniac. No. Sherlock had thought of it, which mean Sherlock would have planned.
Sherlock had had some goal, up on the top of that building. Had it gone horribly wrong or had this been exactly the idea? Moriarty had shot himself, Sherlock's name was being cleared; if only he were alive he'd have won.
And Sherlock had done so many things that had seemed desperately impossible before. John pulled himself out of his chair and strode for the door. He was getting the postmortem photos. And if he was wrong and a crazed man in denial, he was going to walk out of the hospital and shoot himself in the head.
John stopped, halfway through the surgery's sliding doors. Right.
He needed to return to the army. Now. His leg had 'healed', his arm was back to almost full motion, acceptable as it hadn't affected his marksmanship or his field surgery and he'd certainly kept both in practice living with Sherlock Holmes. But want it or no he wasn't going to survive the civvy life limping around with a wife in suburbia.
He'd needed Sherlock to survive here, and now he was at least better off with someone else's head to aim his SIG at.
He'd see the pictures and if he was wrong and Sherlock was gone, he was going back to Afghanistan.
~~/~~
He called Lestrade in the cab. The man would have had to make a call on whether or not it'd really been a suicide, with another man dead at the top of the building. The detective picked up on the first ring.
"John, I'm -"
"Greg-"
"I'm glad you called, I've had a few-"
"I need the pictures," John demanded, tipping his head back to stare at the soft cabby ceiling above him.
"What?" Greg asked, clearly lost.
"The photos from the postmortem. I just-" John felt his voice about to catch and stopped to clear his throat. "need them."
"John-" he said, and it sounded like a warning.
"Just -give them to me, yeah?" John demanded, staring at the uneven stain in the fabric above his head.
"Molly's got them," Greg said finally.
"Thank you," John said and swallowed heavily. His stomach churned horribly. He needed to get off this phone.
"Look, if there's anything-" Lestrade started and John felt himself nod firmly.
"Right. No. Thank you. For the pictures. Nice night, yeah?" John tried.
"Er – yeah, night," Lestrade answered and John hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment, cursing Sherlock. Of course they'd be in Molly's morgue; he'd jumped off her building. How could Sherlock have been so cruel?
As to not think of where they'd take my body, am I responsible for that? He heard Sherlock scoff in his head and John sighed and pulled on his gloves.
Yeah, Sherlock, you are.
John clenched his teeth as the cab stopped on a yellow light.
If you didn't want to be responsible for where you die, don't bloody kill yourself. Coerced or no. No one living was more bloody important than you. The arrogant sod should have known that. And why there? He'd picked the place; John had found the blog entry about it. Why the fuck would he chose Molly's building, when she'd have to see him rolling in on a gurney?
Fuck, Sherlock.
He paid the cabby in cash and opened the door before the car had completely stopped. He was starting to seriously doubt and he couldn't let that hope bloom.
There was one totally insensible thing about Sherlock's death. One thing that just didn't fit. Crowds didn't pull doctors away from men bleeding out on the concrete. They just didn't. Ever. They didn't pull friends away either, but he'd been forcibly removed from Sherlock.
And lord, even for jumping off a hospital, that medical team had arrived too fast, like they'd been waiting for it. It just didn't fit, like it didn't fit that Sherlock had been blindsided by someone going after his acquaintances. That he'd been blindsided by anything. Beaten, fine, yes. But blindsided? Not seeing why Moriarty would want to meet him on the roof that day, not planning for it?
~~/~~
Molly was back at work, he saw when he got to the morgue doors. He wasn't surprised that she'd needed to hide in menial tasks too. She was standing by the computer inside, typing something up, looking vaguely annoyed. John pulled open the morgue door. Molly jerked and whirled to face him.
"John," she greeted, running her hands down her lab coat to smooth it, visibly calming herself.
"Morning," he said, trying to keep his eyes on her.
Oh god, Molly. She'd had to work by Sherlock's body. He'd have quit, for sure.
"John?" she asked and he realized he'd waited too long.
"I need the postmordem photos," he said. It came out like a croak. She blinked at him, her eyes wide, looking like she'd figured out why.
"I just can't – uh -"
Too personal. John stopped.
"So they're not classified or anything?" he asked instead, knowing they weren't. Her eyes widened even more.
"Uh...no," she said, finally, turning to the drawers beneath the lab countertop. She fingered through the files and turned back, a manila folder in her hands. She glanced around the room like she was considering a way to escape. She handed the file to him though and stood staring at him, wringing her hands like she'd just done a horrible act.
"I – uh -thanks," he said and turned to leave.
"Oh! You can't take them out of here!" she called and John blinked, glancing at the open file drawers. Right. Of course. Government property, evidence policy. He knew that.
"Yeah," he answered her, putting the file down on the counter top. He exhaled heavily and decided it didn't matter that Molly was watching. He put his hand on the counter beside the file to brace himself and flipped the cover open. Pathologist's chart.
Extensive head damage, fractured skull, left arm, ribs. C.O.D: force of impact. John swallowed and skipped to the bottom of the page. Pathologist: Dr. Molly Hooper.
What the fuck?
"God, why did they make you do this one?" John asked, emotion licking at him. He could become furious, about this. He looked up to see Molly shrugging quietly, looking uncomfortable.
"I requested it. I -er – I wanted to see him. You know, one last time? Before -" she started, still wringing her hands.
God, Molly.
John pushed down his grief again and glanced down at the folder on the metal hospital counter.
There were two options. Either Sherlock was alive and Mrs. Hudson and he and god-knew-who still had snipers waiting to kill them and John was going to kill them all and hope Mycroft could keep him from a death sentence or Sherlock was dead and John was going to walk out of this building and find the closest recruitment office.
And hope the assassins keep their agreement not to kill us? John felt his jaw set. That was Sherlock's job; he solved the puzzles. John's solution had to be much more simple. An assassin had standing orders to kill Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock were alive; that was threat enough. He'd kill them either way.
John nodded stiffly to himself and flipped the pathologist's chart to reveal the next photo.
God. There was no doubt; it was Sherlock. John wasn't sure what he'd expected. Some close look-alike or a wax doll or what, but his breath was jerked out of him by what he got – a photo of his lover and best damn friend in the world lying very dead on a mortuary table, with his face smashed in and his arm going the wrong way, blood flowing over Molly's table. He flipped through the next ones, photos of a tag punctured through a toe, postmortem bruising and cataloged fractures on a corpse that hadn't even gone cold yet. The color was still there, blood that had not yet seeped away from his friend's skin. He was joining the army. Now.
Kill them first.
"I'm going back to the fusiliers," he announced into the quiet room as he flipped the folder closed.
"The what?" she asked and John had to swallow heavily.
"Army," he said.
His career was over. He was a public figure, now. He wouldn't shoot himself if it meant his comrades would have to find him.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, like she'd just realized something.
He turned to face her, feeling his back straighten into military style as he tried to school his face into something vaguely resembling composure.
"Do you have to? I mean, you rather belong here, don't you? I mean, not here as in the morgue. Oh my god- no, but -you know-"
John nodded swiftly, trying to get her to calm down.
"Yeah, I have to," he said firmly.
"But-"
"I don't -" he started too loudly and stopped, searching for words. "fancy ...shooting myself, is all," he finished. Right. Too personal. Molly's eyes widened yet again. She stared at him, looking about to cry.
"Right. Well. Now we've had that. Goodbye, Molly," he said. She nodded, hugging her arms around herself.
"Take care, John," she said softly as he pushed the doors open again, ignoring the loud squeak. He had a job to do, first.
~~/~~
John swallowed heavily and forced himself forward, trying not to shuffle or fiddle with his nametag or do anything but walk with the crowd of doctors entering the building for the afternoon shift, flowing easily past the banks of equally sleep-deprived regular staff. He could have flashed them a Tube monthly pass and they'd still have ignored him, he thought, breaking off from the crowd toward the Psychiatric ward. That was where the real tranquilizers were.
~~/~~
:He went to see the postmortems MH:
:Reaction?:
:Belief MH:
~~/~~
He had to go inside. John started for the door of 221B, forcing himself to unlock the door without hesitation. He stepped inside the building, not pausing to think and clambered up the carpeted steps. He'd get the papers, the wall of contacts and connections Sherlock had built up on Moriarty, and leave. He needed nothing else, here.
John turned the knob on the flat door and almost smacked his head against the wood when he strode forward, expecting it to open beneath his hand. The knob didn't turn and John had to back up, blinking rapidly.
Locked. Of course. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. He'd never been able to take them off his keychain. He unlocked the door and strode forward, trying to regain the feeling of being on a mission; the emotionless efficiency that came with too many brutal assignments.
He walked inside and automatically wrinkled his nose against the musk of layered dust. He stilled, trying to shove down his emotions at the belongings scattered over Sherlock's desk; the coffee mug, the still-open laptop, the random papers and post-its and ballpoint pens
Felt tips are hateful, John.
He'd forgotten how much paper there was. Papers and folders were piled on every available surface and strewn over most of the floor. John stepped around them carefully, walking towards what really mattered; the display of information on Moriarty taped up behind the couch.
He climbed up onto the couch, balancing a knee on the armrest to start carefully collecting the pictures, newspaper clippings, government files and Wikipedia pages pasted there.
There were piles of papers behind the couch. John blinked rapidly, his documents in hand, and got off the couch slowly to put the Moriarty files down. It wouldn't be unlike Sherlock to keep important files in the least accessible part of the house.
Especially given how much he was hiding from me, by the end.
Astronomy papers. Thesis about the makeup of the universe, from what John could understand from their abstracts. The studies themselves were pages and pages of math and diagrams.
John laughed again, shaking his head, and went to explore the piles left on beside the ugly lamp.
An entire stack too big to grip in one hand of constellations and their myths.
John moved from pile to pile, collecting them all on the coffee table, keeping them in the order Sherlock had subtly placed them in. Data on every topic John had ever found Sherlock to be ignorant in.
You were so obsessed with data.
John walked into the kitchen and his amusement died as quickly as it'd grown. The place was empty, stripped of Sherlock's trays of vials, his microscope, his boxes of clean slides and droppers.
Damn it. John braced himself against the kitchen table, the rough wood familiar against his hand. He had to get out of here.
John turned and grabbed the banker's box full of Moriarty's legacy, moving swiftly for the door.
He was only halfway down the steps when he heard Mrs. Hudson opening her door. He moved faster, hoping he could get out before -
"John?"
Bloody hell.
John turned at the base of the steps, unwilling to walk away from her. She was Mrs. Hudson; the closest thing to a mother Sherlock had ever had. Sherlock would never forgive him if he just walked away from her.
She was done up in a coloured dress and dark stockings, unassuming jewellery and flat shoes. Nothing seemed to have changed at all, with her, but her smile was tight.
"Will you go with me to the grave this week?" she asked. John glanced down, into the pile of papers in his arms.
Of course. It'd been...awhile. How long? The funeral must have passed. A body wouldn't last that long, out of the ground. Had Mycroft called him about it? John didn't remember.
"I can't go alone again," Mrs. Hudson admitted. John nodded.
~~/~~
:This is taking too long MH: