Hey my lovelies,
I'm overwhelmed by your responses. I can't express how much it means to me to know that you feel emotionally involved with this story. Everyday, I try to find a reason to go on, and your words give me the courage, the patience I need. Thank you for your kindness, your support. It means a lot to my two boys and me.
Hugs and cookies go to- Sandylee007, jwolf18791, Suealpacamama, HauntingMelodyofaNightmare, SilentRaven97 and my darling Kiddo, NausS . And all those wonderful people who followed/favourited the story. You guys are awesome!
Also, koala hugs for my bestie, Su (MagdaTheMagpie), without her constant support this series wouldn't have been possible.
Not Beta'd or Brit-picked.
I hope you enjoy the read. And if you do, please leave a review. It won;t take much of your time. :)
XXX
Abbey
Chapter: 4- Second Chance.
Summary: Feels and Feels...
"I won't go
I can't do it on my own
If this ain't love, then what is?
I'm willing to take the risk."
-'He Won't Go' by Adele
Whether anyone believed it or not Mycroft Holmes loved his brother. More than anything else. And that was precisely why he sat in his study in the dark, at this ungodly hour, trying to decide if he should pull his hair to vent out the agitation or not.
The whole situation was, to quote Mycroft, 'enough to disbalance one's equilibrium of sanity'. Apparently, every plan he had taken so far had gone astray. Nothing was working. The most irritating thing was that he didn't even know what happened in the last meeting. And Mycroft Holmes hated not knowing. Absolutely hated it. He never doubted Sherlock's unspoken vow about not telling him anything on this matter, but shockingly John also kept mum about that day. In fact, the doctor hadn't even bothered to reply any of Mycroft's messages or received his calls since then. But John was too valuable right now, hence, he couldn't even threaten him to do anything. And the situation was so delicate that his 'sit tight and enjoy' strategy was not really an option anymore. Not after he saw Sherlock crying.
The video footage, which showed Mycroft a weepy Sherlock, had left him so rattled, so disturbed that he even forgot to take his umbrella to work that day. His umbrella! And the problem was that he couldn't even ask about it to anyone. He couldn't ask his brother for obvious reasons, and couldn't ask his nurse or his doctor without risking telling them that he installed all those hidden cameras in his brother's room. But then what the hell should he do now?
Mycroft Holmes hair was thinning because he pulled them continuously when no one was looking. Not even any camera.
~0~0~0~
"I wish you stayed dead"
John woke up with a jolt, tangled in a sweat-soaked sheet. Another nightmare. For a few frantic seconds, he fought to draw enough air into his lungs to stop their burning, and by the time he was able to breathe in a somewhat erratic way, he realized that his vision was blurred. Tears.
And then the nightmare resurfaced onto his conscious level.
He stood there in front of John, in a rundown building. The air stank of smokes and blood and the smell of death. John extended his left arm towards him. His injured shoulder screamed with agony. Blood oozed out of the wound. John didn't care.
"Sherlock, I came back. Sherlock?"
"You are broken. A broken toy."
"Don't leave! Don't leave me! Please don't. Don't let me go. Save me, Sherlock? I have to go home. Save me!"
"I wish you stayed dead."
Sherlock lifted his right hand that clutched a gun, aimed it at John's chest and... pulled the trigger.
"No, noooooo, please, nooo...noh...no, not again...not..." John broke down like he did every time he saw this particular nightmare. He tried to remind himself why he should not just end everything and get some peace at last. He tried to forget that all he had to do was to go to the rooftop and throw himself off it. He tried to remember Sherlock's last letter. John Watson tried to be his own saviour because his saviour needed him this time. So, instead of ending everything, John got up and limped his way to the bathroom.
The night bore witness of his survival.
~0~0~0~
It was Christmas morning.
Mycroft got up early, confirmed his entire day's activities with Anthea, left his home to visit the person he missed most in this world.
A few hours later he found himself standing in front of a headstone. He brought lilies for her today. one of her favourites. He stood there for long, as if memorising every pattern, every crack of the stone. The slight twitch in his jaw betrayed his otherwise impassive demeanour. He didn't wish her Merry Christmas, didn't pray for her to be at peace. He just stood there holding his umbrella tightly.
When it was time to go back to his world of never ending work and responsibilities, he murmured a few words to her. Then turned his back and left to visit the person he loved the most in the world.
"I am sorry, Mummy. I have failed him."
Whether the Christmas air carried the words to the person it was intended to, Mycroft couldn't confirm.
~0~0~0~
Sherlock had no idea which day it was, but when he was informed that his brother was there, he thought it might be a Wednesday. He had previously thought that he would probably never be able to face his brother without murdering him, but he felt nothing at the moment. No white hot rage, no blood-curdling hatred, no mind numbing anguish, nothing. Instead, he got up, left his room and stood in front of the visitor's room. This was the first time he would be entering this room after that day. After... Sherlock pushed that thought away viciously and blanked his mind out before entering.
Mycroft sat there, with all his moronic attitude and exaggerated air of damned superiority. But the moment he saw his brother, Sherlock knew that something about Mycroft was off today. He seemed...he seemed tensed. If it was before, Sherlock would have started to plan the numerous ways in which he could use this information against his brother, but today he just took the empty chair, seated himself and stared at the elder Holmes blankly. Mycroft's unease increased visibly.
"Happy Christmas, brother dear."
Sherlock kept on staring.
"How are you?"
No response.
"Oh, for God... Say something, Sherlock."
Yes, there was definitely something off about Mycroft as Sherlock rarely saw his brother lose his composure this quickly, but he deliberately ignored it and he said instead, "What do you want me to say?"
"What happened that day?"
"Which day?"
"Don't be especially difficult."
"Don't be especially vague, then."
An exasperated sigh later Mycroft responded, "The last day of John's visit."
"Why, all those hidden camera footages are not enough to sate your overzealous curiosity?"
Mycroft's slightly widened eyes were all that told Sherlock about his brother's surprise in knowing that Sherlock was aware of their presence.
"You knew yet didn't try to report them. That's a fine progress to be mature, I would say."
Sherlock's smirk was anything but amused.
"Oh, no brother, do not jump into any hasty conclusion, for it was not my lack of intention, I can assure you. It was simply that I failed to convince the halfwits that my own brother was trying to spy on me in his own appointed rehab. After my first attempt earned me some more medicines for my 'paranoia', I simply ignored it."
"Ah, well, I am glad of the outcome anyway. What happened with John?"
No avoiding this time then,
Sherlock thought, not that it matters anyway.
"John died, that's all happened."
"He did, indeed, but that's for an-"
Mycroft stopped abruptly. It was Sherlock's face that stopped him mid-speech. This was the first time in months he saw his brother showing so many emotions at once. He looked curious, angry, agitated but above all, he looked afraid. Mycroft chose to answer the question which was written all over Sherlock's face, but which, he was sure, Sherlock would never voice.
"John flat-lined during the operation. He clinically died for a few minutes. In fact, according to the doctors, it was quite a miracle that he survived those injuries."
Sherlock's attention was rapt and his face was closed carefully. He had sensed his earlier slip and amended quickly. He was determined to extract as much information as he could without being obvious, and not to ask anything voluntarily. But damn Mycroft for seeing through his plan, as he chose not to elaborate anything further and kept quiet. Damn him. But no, Sherlock was not going to play along. He was past this. He was past everything.
"Is there any reason you have decided to fill me with all these inane details?"
"You need to know."
"No, I do not."
"Yes, you do, and you need to sort things out with John, too."
There was so much Sherlock could bear.
"Oh, really? So, now you think I need to know? Do tell, brother, why this sudden act of benevolence?"
The bastard had the gall to look exasperated, after every misdeed he had done! Sherlock struggled to refrained himself from bolting out of this room.
"I did it for your own safety, Sherlock."
"And yet, here we are." Sherlock deadpanned, looking around with his arms stretched out in a grand gesture, as if addressing a large audience. Then he turned to his brother, eyes narrowed in a shrewd manner, "Ironical, isn't it? Or was this you plan all along?"
It was satisfying to see that this remark earned him a look of mild guilt from his brother.
"I did not want to give you any false hope. The chances of his survival were very thin."
"False hope?" Sherlock roared, "False hope? Is this how you justify your incriminating actions every time you decide to betray me?"
"If keeping you safe means omitting some truths then I will do that whenever necessary."
"Even if it costs my life."
Mycroft flinched visibly. It was almost like a challenge for Sherlock to elicit any kind of emotional reaction from his brother, and whenever he succeeded in doing so it tasted like victory, but today there was only bitterness within him. And a deep, deep hollow.
"I am not proud of my actions and it pains me to admit that I misjudged the risk factor of the situation." Mycroft stopped again and got up from his chair. He stood in front of the window and stared outside. "I did what I thought was best for you at that moment. But Sherlock, be careful this time. Please, do not do anything, to spite me or John, which you may regret in future." Mycroft turned to his brother, who was eerily quiet during the entire monologue, looked at him for a moment and said, "Do not ruin something that you can have with John, something that you never had with...with the other two situations." He began to walk towards the door, but his brother's voice stopped him.
"Which is?"
Mycroft didn't turn face Sherlock while answering.
"A second chance."
There was a long pause. A tensed and meaningful one.
"You've taught me that caring is not an advantage."
"When you care for someone you hold dear, the consequences of the act do not matter."
"Well, you forgot to teach me that."
"And I regret it among many other things."
Mycroft Holmes left, and a very stunned and confused Sherlock stood in that empty room to contemplate this unusual meeting.
A second chance.
Christmas was marked for a new beginning, wasn't it?
~0~0~0~
It was Christmas. The second one after he had met Sherlock. A year had passed in between. For some, it was just a few mere months, for John it was a lifetime ago.
He stared out of the window, to the street below. Stream of life. Happy Londoners basking in festive spirit. How dearly he wished to be one of them; how desperately he wished to spend this very evening with Sherlock. How he wished to have a life where he wouldn't be alone. Where he would be with someone he... And now here he was- alone, lost, broken. Without a future, without Sherlock, without a life.
"
I wished you stayed dead."
Me too, Sherlock…me too.
Death was not an option, but what was there to live for? Should he give up on Sherlock? Sherlock didn't want him anymore; he practically wished him dead. The man he wanted to live for welcomed his death...or at least that was what he was told. But was he thinking clearly this time? Sherlock's actions or his words- what he should value more? He assumed and took a decision once, and that destroyed his friendship with Sherlock. He didn't want that to happen again, but what was left there to be ruined anyway? Wasn't everything finished already? Hadn't he fucked up his chances royally? Or would there be a second chance? Should he let go of Sherlock? Or not?
Ding.
A text alert. John knew it was Mycroft, without even looking at it. Who else was there to message him? He didn't tell Harry or Mike that he was back in London. And he was pretty sure about not getting a text from Sherlock, ever again. So that left him with only one person- Mycroft Holmes.
John had stopped answering the git's texts or calls after that day, but he read them all. Just in case…
He took the mobile from the table and opened the text.
"He will not survive your loss twice. –MH"
He had no idea for how long he stared at the text, but when his vision started to blur, he averted his eyes and looked up to the sky from his window. His decision was made and he couldn't even guess why he thought otherwise, ever.
John Watson would not give up on Sherlock Holmes.
~0~0~0~
Mycroft almost sagged in his chair with relief when he received and read the text from John that night. Well, almost.
He had been a fool to underestimate John Watson's influence over his brother, but he had learned his lessons long since. Of course, he would still keep meddling, but this time he would not tamper with it. No matter how hard was that for him to do, this time he would take a back-seat. Almost.
~0~0~0~
Sherlock received the letter when he was replaying an old crime scene in his mind. It'd been three days since his meeting with his brother.
Natalie knocked, came into his room and informed him that he had a letter. She put it on the bedside table and left quietly. Everything within Sherlock froze.
He couldn't open the letter until it was late at night. Once he saw that slightly slanted and almost unintelligibly crooked handwriting on the envelope, he couldn't even dare to look at it again. He knew what that letter was, from whom that letter was, and that knowledge numbed all his senses.
For once in his life, he had no idea what that letter contained, and a part of him didn't want to know. But a bigger part of him, the part who spent his entire time sitting in the John-Room of his Mind Palace, wanted nothing but to tear that envelope and know if there was any hope left.
When there were no more excuses left to delay the inevitable, Sherlock took the letter in his trembling hands.
~0~0~0~
Sherlock,
I must apologize for my late reply. In my defence, all I can say is that I received your letter just a few days ago and I was a bit preoccupied since then.
I am in London now but I haven't been home yet, or I should say my Home has refused to accept me. And now I am lost. I have been lost for a long time now. Will I ever be able to find my way back home, Sherlock?
I miss you. I miss you so much. It's a physical pain. I feel like falling from a cliff, face upwards, hoping to see your face for one last time before crashing down on the rocks beneath. I dream about you. It was you I reached for, regaining my consciousness after the operations. I am still at a private medical facility, still recovering and still trying to reach for you. The nurses say that I sometimes scream your name in my sleep. I think I search you in my dreams too. Will I ever find you again, Sherlock?
I know you hate me now. I hate myself too. I knew you would hate me as soon as I woke up in that hospital. But there is a difference between then and now. Before, I thought you would hate me because I was broken, useless. I was nothing but a ghost of my former self. But now I know how utterly foolish I was. Now I know that you hate me because I failed to understand what mattered to you most. It was the promises; the promises of coming back. It was me. You would never have rejected me just because I was broken. I know that now. And I am sorry for taking so long to figure that out. But am I too late, Sherlock? I don't want to be, but am I?
I read your letters every damn day. Those are the only moments I feel alive. For me they are you. I cling to them to remind myself that there is still a place for me where I can belong. Maybe this is just wishful thinking, maybe you are having a good laugh at my idiocy, but what else do I have other than this hope? What else do I have other than you?
My promises are broken, I am broken, the thread connecting us is broken too. I wanted to live desperately when I was dying. I wanted to see you, wanted to be with you. My last conscious memory was you calling my name. No, I am not telling you these to draw your sympathy. I am not playing the 'pity card'. This time, I really think I have lost you forever, and it scares me to no end. It was easier to say goodbye when I didn't even know if I would be alive next hour or not. But now, how can I go on knowing that there will be days, years to come without you in my life? How can I give up when I don't even know how to give you up? I tried, Sherlock, I seriously tried, but I couldn't do it. I convinced myself that removing me from your life would be the best thing I can do for you, but I still couldn't do it. I mean, how can I, when you are the best thing that has ever happened to me? You are the miracle I have been waiting for all my life, Sherlock. Can I come back?
I have come back, only for you. Now I want to come back to you. Will you let me? Will you give me a second chance? Will my last wish come true? Or will you let me go forever?
I will go away if you want me to, but I will be lost forever.
I am a fool and I am so sorry that it took me too long to realize that I am broken without you.
Always yours,
John.
P.S. If it is a goodbye then I want you to know that I am glad I survived the war, because seeing you with my own eyes was worth more than any pain I have gone through. You are worth more than anything.
~0~0~0~
The next morning when Natalie came to Sherlock's room, she found him sitting just the way he was last night, only this time he was clutching a letter to his chest with both of his hands, as if it was his life-line. He looked like a ghost.
Of course, she had an idea from where the letter had come if reading it made Sherlock look like that. But still she approached carefully, with a pretended casual air.
"Morning, Sherlock. Had any sleep?"
No answer. Not even a scowl.
Green signal, thought Natalie.
"Sooooo...um...that letter...from family?"
No insults came flying. No response either.
Okay, go on girl. "I get letters from my aunt sometimes, you know. So, from a...friend?"
Still nothing.
Natalie observed Sherlock minutely this time to confirm that no, Sherlock was not catatonic.
Okay, do or die, march on, "Um...from that Doc then, maybe? You know that Dr. Watson or something?"
Silence.
Oh, for fuck's sake... Natalie huffed with irritation, and just when she turned to leave, Sherlock spoke.
"John...his name is...John."
Natalie knew she was grinning like a loon.
~0~0~0~
A/N: This letter, to some extent, is personal. I wrote a letter like this to someone I lost forever. Yes, I'm sharing some very personal thoughts with you, because you are really that much special to me. But the point is, it may sound sappy but the emotions are true; not conjured up for the sake of dipping the chapter with feels. I really hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)