DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor any of its characters.
BACKGROUND INFO THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW: The 'Car Crash' in this fanfiction happens as the Reichenbach Fall's replacement. Moriarty, instead of dying at the Reichenbach Fall, was 'killed' earlier, before the car crash happened.
Author Note:
Hey guys! I've decided to become a bit more consistent with the rate at which I produce chapters; I should be able to do at least one a week, hopefully more. I feel like this story is going places, and hopefully, I can get it done on a good schedule. ((Extra sorry for the late upload on this chapter, hopefully it won't deter you from my writing :) ))
Comments are always welcome! I appreciate feedback and love hearing it :)
It makes me feel less alone in this whole business…
Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)
~Scar
Chapter 3:
John felt as though something inside of him had broken. Nothing felt real, it had just been a few hours ago, when he had been sitting in that waiting room crying his eyes out over the almost certain loss of his friend. But now, was he even considered one? A friend, that is? John should've known, he should've understood, being a doctor and all; plus, there was still a chance that Sherlock would come back to him, that he would remember. But the human part of John was denying all the facts. He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember... It hurt, oh it hurt. He was broken, entirely and painfully broken.
"Now listen, John, I'm sorry. I really am, but don't you think you're being a bit irrational?" Lauren murmured the words softly, so as to refrain from drawing any attention to themselves.
"That's bullshit and we both know it. He's my friend, my best friend. And I'm his only friend-was-was his only friend," John looked down, and sighed. "I understand that there's still a chance for both of us, but that's all it is in the end, a chance."
Lauren opened her mouth as if to say something but closed it again rather quickly, her eyes full of compassion and sympathy. "I'm so sorry John."
And these words succeeded in doing nothing but making him hurt even more. The pain in his chest was stronger now, physical pain; he leaned against the wall for support. The tears had begun to fall at this point; there was nothing he could really do to prevent them. Nothing, what a fitting word for this situation; utterly helpless, utterly useless, tired of waiting, tired of holding back tears. He felt nothing and yet everything, at the same time. Crushing guilt, had he done all he could to prevent the accident? Sudden, shocking loneliness, was he all alone again? Hunger, drowsiness, thirst, when had he last eaten? It all seemed like a dream, like any moment now he would wake up at home without a single memory to back up this whole grand fairytale.
This nightmarish… twisted pain.
The man turned on his heel, walking away from the place. He yawned, before rolling his eyes. "Hospitals are honestly such dull places; I did think you'd choose a more interesting place for our meeting, Irene."
The woman just stared, her eyes blank, as devoid of emotion as his. "Oh?" She murmured after a while, adjusting the straps of her black, plain dress. "I think it's rather fitting." But no, her eyes weren't blank, there was a hint of icy anger hidden there, piercing through him with every blink. "Don't you?"
Her lipstick was bright red, the color of still wet blood, just as it rose to the surface of the body.
"In a sense, I understand you're trying to add drama and suspense. But let me tell you something important dearest, unfortunately, I'm untouchable. By drama, suspense, the law, even your precious Sherlock." He put his hands in his pocket. "And so, I am a bit confused as to why you've brought me here."
"Because," she took a step closer to him, her tall black heels clicking eerily on the empty sidewalk, "Although I know," another step, "That Sherlock isn't particularly," another, "Capable. You shouldn't underestimate those few that consider themselves his friends."
"And you consider yourself his friend, do you?"
"No, in fact, I do not." The man raised his eyebrows. "Men are below me, all men, which includes you."
"Me? Don't get ahead of yourself."
"I don't have to," she was close at this point, extremely close, "Because you'll always be two steps behind me." She smirked. "But I called you here for a reason, you see, and I think you'll find it worth your time to hear."
"Will I?" He watched her with the indifference of which a king regards a peasant.
"I came to declare war, me versus you," Irene's voice was strong, full of confidence.
"War?"
"Although I do not consider him to be a friend, Sherlock Holmes is a very special man, a man who deserves very special protection."
The man laughed, "Protection? From little old me? Don't you understand, Irene? This is a game of chess. I'm the black, the darkness, the fear. Sherlock is white, pure," he paused for a bit, "And you're nothing. A mere pawn will not affect the game, and this game has been played for a long time, longer than you'd know."
"Not a pawn, perhaps," said Irene, with a fire in her eyes, "but a Queen?" And with that, she turned, and began to walk away.
The man smiled, before laughing out loud, clapping loudly. "Bravo, bravo." But once she was out of hearing and seeing range, the smile fell, and anger clouded the man's eyes.
"Bravo."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, with no particular question in mind, but dozens attacking each other, fighting for dominance. Eventually he settled upon one. "Who is John Watson?"
Mycroft just sat back in his chair, studying the younger man with tired eyes. "I can't tell you about him, I'm afraid. We want you to find that out for yourself."
Sherlock closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips to either side of his forehead, and massaging his temples. "And who are 'we'?"
"All of us, even you, deep down," Mycroft sat back, smoke escaping from his lips and curling upwards, before disappearing into nothingness. "Cigarette?" Mycroft asked, pulling his pack of cigarettes from his overcoat and looking at Sherlock.
"Yes, please," ever since he'd woken up he'd been craving that sting of bitter nicotine that burned so beautifully. The sigh of pleasure that escaped his lips with the first curl of smoke was the only thing that filled the dark silence for a measurable amount of minutes. The silence was pressing, choking, but neither of the brothers seemed to notice, they were used to sitting alone, with just themselves and their thoughts.
But if silence isn't made to be broken, what purpose does it serve?
"John Watson?"
"John Watson."
"What makes him so different from the rest of the pawns? So different from the rest of the goldfish that swim mindlessly and couldn't even understand us if they wanted to?" Sherlock asked.
"Honestly, I never understood myself, why does a human enjoy the companionship of a dog?"
"So you're calling him a pet?"
"In a sense, I suppose he is."
And thus silence fell again, and this time, the two thought they would let it settle and get comfortable, seeing as it would stick around for a rather long while.
John Watson?
John Watson.
Who is John Watson?