He wasn't ready to do this. John stared at the grave, glad Mrs. Hudson was gone. He couldn't stand her stories, the gunshots in the morning and the body parts and the little abnormalities that had slowly set John back to actually caring about what people had done around him; the genius that had pulled him out of all that and made him laugh. 'He was a bad cabby. You should have seen the route he took to get here'. John closed his eyes, feeling sick, hearing the crunch of a body hitting pavement.
He was supposed to say something. That was obvious. He wasn't coming back here for a long damn time.
"Hmm. Alright," John said, swallowing heavily. "You told me once," he started, trying to look away from the grave. He cleared his throat. God. "that you weren't a hero."
Jumping over rooftops. Telling Sarah 'it's okay, you'll be okay' so softly, like he was calming a terrified beast. Tearing the bomb off him without a care in the world for the sniper rifle pointed at his skull. Bullshit, not a hero.
"Um. There were times when I didn't even think you were human but -"
God, that was true. Sherlock snarling, not sleeping, shouting that he didn't have friends just to be left alone. Begging him back, only to be completely sidetracked by the solved puzzle.
"Let me tell you this; you were the best man, the most human – human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you've told me a lie. There. So."
He could almost see Sherlock squint at him for that, trying to figure out for a moment how anyone could really be that stupid, but Sherlock wasn't there to mock him and John could barely breathe. "There," he added. Done. Fuck it. It was time to go kill someone and join the army or shoot himself in the head.
John tried to walk away but he couldn't just go; he wanted to touch. God, but he missed how Sherlock had smelled. How badly John had wanted to touch him sometimes, run his hand through his hair, pull him close to his chest. John ran his hand over the gravestone and immediately felt like a fool, feeling the cold, useless stone beneath his fingertips. He pulled his hand away.
"I was so alone and I owe you so much," he said, before walking away. Sherlock wasn't alive. He knew that, he'd seen the body crumble against the concrete; there was no way to survive that fall. He had to move on, kill the snipers to protect the people that were left and let it all be done. But he couldn't just accept it.
John turned back despite himself, hating it, but if begging could bring him back he'd do it a thousand times.
"Oh and just one more thing. One more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me. Don't be -"
He still couldn't bloody say it, damn him.
"Dead," he forced. He wasn't going to cry, damn it. Not here. "Would you do that just for me. Just – stop it. Stop this."
And god damn it, it was useless. He was weeping. Fuck. John forced himself to attention, letting his mind fill in the sounds of chattering Arabic and English commands. His emotions shut down slowly, dragging themselves back under control. John turned away from the gravestone.
He had to find Sebastian Moran. He'd never done this without a paper trail before. He couldn't just call up his army contacts and ask if anyone knew the man before he shot him.
~~/~~
Sherlock watched John walk away from the grave.
Did Moriarty see this coming? Burn the heart out of him – by burning John's. Appropriately brilliant but Sherlock doubted it. Moriarty would never accept letting Sherlock Holmes live, not after he'd promised to kill him. No, the man hadn't planned it this way. He'd just won anyway.
His arm was mostly healed, now. His flight left in six hours.
~~/~~
John wrestled his way out of his sheets, grasping after Sherlock.
"Fuck," he panted, falling back to the mattress. Grief settled over him again and John pushed himself up to sitting, pulling his hands through his hair. He glanced at the clock and cursed again. 3:00 AM. Shite.
John walked across the room to flick on the overhead light and stood over his desk, staring at the maps and papers and names spread across it.
Sebastian Moran. Spanish military colonel and marksman, alleged history of kidnapping, assault, and murder. A string of girlfriends, ending in a failed marriage with Sylvia Moran, formally Sylvia Taylor. History of alcoholism, according to Sylvia Moran. No children, no known employment, no known address. Fan of rugby, American football, and a proponent of gun rights.
Nothing surprising. John sighed, flipping through the folder on the man Mycroft had given him. Useless information now when fuck, it could have saved his partner. There was nothing surprising in the folder but the reference to American football. Drug use and alcohol were common self-remedies for PTSD. Most of his friends abused to help moving on. Still, John ran his finger under the detail. Sylvia had called it 'alcoholism'. John focused on that, reminded of Sherlock insisting Why hound? Why say alcoholic? None of his friends called it that, even when their drinking slid over that border.
He had to call Sylvia Moran – he had to ask why say alcoholic? It was a thin lead, beyond meaningless, but he had no other way of finding his quarry so it would have to do.
God, he had no idea how to do this. This part was Sherlock's job.
He bought a pay-as-you-go phone on the west side of the city. The sun was barely lighting the road by the time he was walking back across his flat building's small car park. He felt better, having something to do. At moments it felt like he was going to pull out of this, until he remembered that none of this was going to bring Sherlock home.
"Hello?" a woman's voice croaked into the phone. In English, John realized, remembering belatedly that there was no guarantee of that.
"Hello, this is Detective Constable Darrell Hopkins. If you remember I was on the case concerning your husband Sebastian?" John tried, reading off the name on the case file.
"Ex-husband," the woman corrected, annoyed.
People don't like telling you things, John. They love to contradict you, Sherlock's voice muttered at him.
"I just wanted to confirm, you said he was an alcoholic but he didn't go to A.A meetings or anything that would get him professionally diagnosed-"
"What the fuck? Yes, he did A.A, he just went under a different last name. Who is this again?"
"Really? That's not in his file," John stated, flipping through the papers again.
"You didn't ask," the woman scolded. "Now I'm sorry, but it's the middle of the night, so unless this is urgent -"
Oh. Whoops.
"Yes, of course, Mrs. Moran. I'm so sorry to have bothered you," John stammered.
Crap.
"Yes. Good morning, then," she answered, and the line clicked off. John glanced at his phone, surprised, and realized he hadn't managed to get the last name Moran had been using.
It doesn't matter, he realized belatedly, closing the file folder. A.A meetings didn't exactly have searchable guest books.
3:45 AM. Nothing to do. John sat down slowly, staring at the desk top. There was nothing more to do. That was not good. He'd take a walk, continue to get to know London the way Sherlock did. Sometimes, when he found a new alleyway shortcut, he could practically feel Sherlock walking along beside him, smug and watchful. John threw on his jacket, trying to push the thought from his brain. Sherlock was dead, he was walking alone.
~~/~~
Molly knew she was breaking a promise Sherlock would never forgive. She was supposed to be taking care of John – had sworn she'd bring him food, 'make him eat or sleep, give him whatever would be 'effective for the shock'. As if 'shock' was the only thing John was going to feel. Molly had almost wanted to strangle the genius, except he'd looked so intensely serious about John's care, even as he'd woefully underestimated it.
Molly had needed Lestrade's help to find the doctor at all – he hadn't gone back to Baker Street. She'd found the flat, had visited four times but no one was ever home. Greg said he'd caught John there after an all-night shift, which must have been some time near 5:00 AM. Molly tried then, bringing shepherd's pie for the man, but no one answered. She left the tupperware by his door to get stolen.
~~/~~
:Update?:
:Grieving. MH:
~~/~~
He hadn't realized that Sherlock had saved him from this, John thought as he waited through yet another ex-drunk's story. He'd been in an almost identical beige flat when he'd come back from the war. Had nothing to blog about, no one to distract him from wishing himself back in a war where his skills made sense. There was no point in being a sharpshooter in suburban England. Sebastian Moran had taken the only open job position.
John scoffed out a laugh at the thought, only to shift as the audience's eyes caught on him for a moment. He didn't respond and they shifted back away.
Sherlock had been the only thing that'd kept him from the drink for real.
God, he missed the man.
It was remarkably easy to pretend to be an alcoholic. John walked into meeting after meeting and he didn't see a single counsellor look at him askance. He told each one that the place had been recommended by a friend – Sebastian – and had so far only been pointed to a scrawny, geeky-looking man in his forties that didn't match Mycroft's fuzzy picture of the shooter. Still, it would only be a matter of time before he found the man, if he was going to A.A in the city. There were only so many meetings.
~~/~~
Molly held her breath, peering down the street, thinking for once she'd caught the man. She breathed in relief as John Watson walked under a streetlamp, obviously on his way back to the flat.
He looked mostly okay, she thought, walking down the street to meet him. His skin was clean and shaved, his clothing loose but washed. He looked fine; he'd kept up appearances. He met her eyes and his gaze slid past her unnaturally.
He's not fine.
"Molly," he greeted, walking toward the staircase up to the second floor flats. "Thanks for the uh-casserole".
She nodded, trying to figure out what on earth she was supposed to say. John climbed up the steps and Molly followed quietly, trying to pretend she was helping.
John led her to his flat and opened the door without even touching a key. Molly blinked and glanced inside. The flat was almost entirely empty. Her tupperware sat clean beside a banker's box of papers on the desk, apparently the only items in the room that weren't bolted down by the landlord to keep from being lifted. Other than perhaps the desk chair.
John sat on his bed and didn't look at her. She waited for as long as she could stand, wanting to kill Sherlock for what he'd done to this man. John shifted slightly on the bed and she suddenly felt unwelcome.
"Okay, well-" Molly tried, unsure what to say.
John nodded. Molly wiped her hands down her trousers and glanced around the barren room for something that would start a conversation. How could there be so little in this flat?
John cleared his throat and looked at his lap and Molly knew she was being kicked out. She wiped her hands down her trousers again and said goodbye as she walked away, glad to be leaving the horrible silence there.
~~/~~
:He has joined A.A. MH:
:Why?:
:It's in the name, isn't it? MH:
~~/~~
He couldn't keep doing this forever. John didn't know how anyone could stand it, living a life so entirely without purpose.
Nothing ever happens to me, he'd said. Ella had asked why that was a bad thing. He hadn't mentioned it again.
"I have to bring up your service record, please hold," the grim-sounding man ordered. John nodded quickly and shifted his phone over to the other shoulder. He stared at the damn beige walls, imagining Sherlock stalking into the room, glaring at him for finding anything more important than the work.
The game is on, John!
"Captain Watson?"
"Yes?" John croaked. He cleared his throat rapidly.
Damn it.
"Your honourable discharge says you have a shoulder wound?" the bureaucrat asked.
"Yes, but it no longer impedes much movement. I can shoot with it as well as ever," John promised.
You've proven that, I should think. Sherlock would smirk at the shared secret.
The man was too quiet on the phone.
"The psychosomatic limp has gone away completely," John insisted, gritting his teeth.
"That's good to hear," the man said simply. This wasn't going well. "Captain Watson; you know your shoulder damage was severe. You are not cleared for active duty."
"I'll be a field medic," John compromised.
"I'm afraid that is not feasible. You would be in danger, doctor,"
"It's a bloody war. What the hell do you expect?" John growled.
"Your vulnerability would endanger your crew. I'm sorry, soldier. You have done your duty, stand down," the man replied, his tone too soft.
Yes. Give me orders. Please.
"Please," John stated and cursed, almost throwing his phone across the room before he regained his temper.
"We cannot deploy you, Captain. Can I refer you to domestic positions?"
"Thank you for your time," John replied.
"I'm sorry, Captain."
John hung up and tossed his phone onto the floor by his feet. He let his head sink into his hands and struggled to keep his composure.
He wasn't going to live through this one.
~~/~~
:He attempted to rejoin the army. I did not interfere. I'm not certain it was wise. MH:
~~/~~
"John?" Sarah called, ducking her head into the file room. John glanced up from his computer screen.
"Do you want to go back to working with patients? You're wasted back here."
John forced a smile. Apparently it'd been long enough to warrant him being safe with prescriptions again.
That's illogical. Nothing has changed, Sherlock snarled at him.
I know. Let it go.
John cleared his throat.
"I'm not sure that's wise," he replied honestly.
"Come now, John. It's been six months; you're living again – I know, I know, don't look at me like that. You're not...better. But you can go back to work," she replied.
She's an idiot.
John cleared his throat again.
"Sure," he replied. It would give him free time between patients – he'd read up on the latest medical studies. Anything to keep from thinking.
~~/~~
:It's been too long. You must come back MH:
:I am not coming back:
:That is not wise. MH:
~~/~~
A/N: Thank you for all your support! Your comments totally kept me going. Sherlockshockblanket, Suealpacamama, nightdustt, this is totally for you guys!