CHAPTER 9: THE BURYING (Part 2)
All the moving parts and odd-edged puzzled pieces just kept jumbling ideas into nebulous theories that went up in flames when held to the unforgiving match of possibility; watching the smoke rings dissolve with every bit of the lasting hope they all had. In days like these it was hard to believe they would ever succeed in their endeavour, but he kept trying anyhow, just because he was stubborn enough to refuse the reality life was showing him: Sherlock was gone, probably for good, and there was nothing else he could do to get him back.
The hole in his abdomen was closing up slowly, but he was healing, and John counted that as positive; albeit the dichotomy of how his mind was tearing itself into fragments more and more each second that strolled by without a resolution. The uncertainty of not knowing what was happening to his friend was probably a hundred times worse than any other horrifying thing he could feel at the moment. Lestrade was before him, tirelessly explaining something about clues, and hiding places and leads to Mycroft on the other end of the phone, but the blogger was not hearing a word of it; The weight of the fear he experienced crushing him under, collapsing his lungs and blurring his vision. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as panic finally caught up to him.
The DI's eyes went wide once he realised what was happening and he quickly reached forward to catch John by the arm before he toppled over and managed to tear his stitches yet again. The doctor proceeded to sit on his hospital bed with the help of his friend, to try and gain back some of the illusory control he has had these past weeks. It was not an easy task, the attempt to calm down your rebelling body when it seemed to be strung past its boundaries. Specially when John's heavy heart was taking a toll on his already fickle health after the stabbing, and the fruitless research was draining him whole.
"Jesus, John." The doctor barely heard the other's voice mutter through the fog of confusion, he felt underwater, ready to sink. Greg kept responding words to the mobile but they all were lost on John, whose only concern at the moment was making sure they kept searching, tirelessly looking to retrieve his friend from the devil's cunning clutches before it was too late; before all that remained were scattered pieces and remembrances of what he once was. Which applied to both of them.
"We can't give up, Greg." He said in an impulsive act of despair. Not knowing how else he could help, what could be done to fix the horrible situation. "I won't." John commented stubbornly, silently willing the other to recognise his disposition to act on his own should he refuse, then looking up to his friend to find mirrored determination in the inspector's eyes.
"Me neither." He answered, detaching the phone from his ear to pay attention to the crumbling man in front of him. "And I'm sure his brother won't either." Lestrade assured him. Patting him once on the back to show his unconditional support to the cause. Clearly the detective was also important for the DI, and he too refused to allow this to spiral downwards even more, if feasible.
The soldier felt grateful for their assistance, completely aware that the task would be impossible to execute on his own given the state in which his body seemed to be decidedly unhelpful. However, no matter how hard he tried to keep the jet black thoughts away, he had no fanciful notions of the mission's expected success. He knew the boffin would not be retrieved by sheer will, albeit the height of its intensity, and that if this was going to end in anything but complete disaster for all of them, something more fierce, almost divine, needed to be employed.
Conclusions like that kept him prisoner in a constant, never-ending vice of emotional turmoil. Forever captured in the cyclic schism between the faith he felt in answer to his denial of the situation, and the posterior acceptance that his hope was completely unfounded, almost to the point of being laughable; only for it to start all over again.
Greg appeared to have concluded something with Sherlock's brother on the other side of the line, since now he was handing him the device with a mixed expression of worry and placation. Once he placed it to his ear and Mycroft sensed his attention, the British Government spoke. "I want my brother back as much as you do, Doctor Watson." He said in that tone of voice that had come to be customary in Mycroft's speech ever since the mysterious disappearance of his only brother took place a few weeks before. John had never considered the man to be truly heartless, as many are lead to believe by his calculating actions; but now, hearing his resolve crumble in the face of such profound anguish, the blogger found himself in awe of how much the ginger man actually cared for the detective. A worry born out of pure affection rather than just familial obligation. That fact being the force on which the doctor's anxious concern feeds as fire from wood; for if Mycroft Holmes was showing any emotion, it could mean nothing good for the most important person in John's life.
"I assure you we are doing our best to uncover his whereabouts." The British Government confirmed, seeking to pour a bit of calm against the tempest swirling around in the blogger's chest, which was waiting to fell him into despair with a single blow.
"Find him." Was the only thing said soldier could choke out in that moment of childish vulnerability he felt, as if his friend had been nothing more than imaginary and was threatening to leave from his memories once again, to step into oblivion never to return. The blonde was sure he would not survive a world without his best friend again. "Just... find him." He pleaded; to the other man, to God, or to himself, he was not sure.
"I will." Mycroft said. Making it as much a personal promise as a duty. None of them will let the matter go, ever. Seeking to the ends of the world if necessary. No matter how good the detective appeared to be at dropping off the face of the earth. They were going to find him, in whatever state he may be.
And so it was, the search went madly on and its resolution kept escaping from their grasp every time, slithering its way through their adamant fingers time and time again. Which was very bad news for steel believers like John, the strain of getting up in the morning and forcing himself to keep hoping even when the situation was worse than futile somehow made everything harder.
The doctor had been allowed to go back to the flat, with the condition that he would not participate in any physically strenuous activity. He complied and was glad to rid himself of the hospital completely, but being back home brought a whole other sort of man-made hell that he had not spared a second to anticipate in his sorrow. The silence was deafening, deeper and broader in a way that it haven't been even after the detective's supposed death. He would sit in his chair and try to imagine a way in which he could fix the entire chaos. The seemingly mocking eye sockets of the skull on the mantle made him desire to fling it across the room, yet he restrained every time knowing fully well that having to pick up broken bone off the floor would only exacerbate his distress. Days blurred together as John floated inside a surreal sea of worry and sickness, decidedly ignoring the insistent knocks inside his brain.
The blogger viciously circled such frightening scenarios in a terrifying game of mind-juggling. Ignoring everything else but them, up to the point where any other things that were once important in his life were being violently discarded while he refused to put the matter to rest; even for a second. He did not know how he managed not to go out on the street and scream. Something that really scared John was ending up with nothing more than a taxidermic form of his friend, desolated and so very hollow inside. He honestly had no idea what he would do if that was the case.
His friends came and went, always bringing support, but never delivering what the soldier wished. He was aware he was probably being unfair to them, since it was not their fault his best friend had vanished into thin air; still he could not bring himself to come out of the addictive misery he felt, not when he knew that somewhere a demon was closing his machiavellian claws around the boffin, ripping up chunks of his humanity and they couldn't seem to arrive on time.
Which is why when the call came the doctor almost didn't answer. Just trying to drown out the voice of Mrs. Hudson trying to coax him into eating something for a change. She came hurriedly, anxiously extending a phone for him to grab with an expression the blonde did not care enough to try to read.
"It's the D.I. Lestrade." She said, and John hesitantly gripped the mobile, wondering if he should just hang up and save himself the pity-ridden conversation. "It's about Sherlock." All thought of ending the call flew out of his mind as the words registered.
"Lestrade, what is it?" The doctor asked expectantly. Willing time to go faster and just give him the resolution he had pleaded for. An end to the nightmare he so devoted desired. "We found him, John." Greg answered, and John felt as if the weight of the world was miraculously lifted off his shoulders. "Thank heavens." He breathed. His friend was coming home and together they would finally put an end to that maniac. "How is he?" The soldier asked.
However, when seconds that felt like hours passed before the inspector replied he began to worry. "John." Was they only thing that the voice on the other line could tell him regarding the detective. "Greg, how is he?" He insisted, panic weaving into his veins once more, creeping from the edges of his vision. His mantra repeating over again in his head, more of a prayer now than it had ever been: Please, don't be dead.
Lestrade cleared his throat and the blogger mentally kicked himself for not realising how distressed the other man sounded until now, too busy surrendering to treacherous hope before knowing the whole facts. When the D.I. finally spoke it did nothing to quench his apprehension, making everything worse.
"You should come."