BBC Sherlock: A Case of Separation
Chapter 2
88**88
October 2019
A short while after that autumn park visit, Sherlock had texted John: Off on a case, SH.
A text like this was no longer unusual. Whether it was due to John's long-ago berating, "One word, Sherlock, that is all I would have needed!" or for Rosie's sake if she asked for him, Sherlock shared what he could, when he could, and only if his absence might be noticed
Need help? John had texted back.
Some other time - SH
John had grunted with mild disappointment before replying. Right.
Ignoring his own 'itch' to join him, John understood his friend's need for a stimulating case—the vivid memory from those days long past came to mind: a man holding a harpoon and yelling: "A rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad, I need a case!" John sighed. His friend may have appeared to have changed, but he knew better. Scratch the surface and Sherlock's intense drive was always there. Better something stimulating that brain, John concluded, than the alternative.
After that, John had turned his attention to Rosie's preschool schedules and playdates and his patients at the surgery. As the weeks passed, if John had occasional thoughts about Sherlock and his case, they were more akin to a trickling undercurrent than a babbling brook.
Several months later, however, when Sherlock had not returned from his off-on-a-case absence and no one had heard from him, John's curiosity grew. Cross-checking details with Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson, along with some of Sherlock's homeless network whom John knew, confirmed his concern that this might be irregular, even for Sherlock. Bolt holes—the ones the homeless network knew about—had been unoccupied. Neither had he been seen at St. Bart's labs nor hiding-out at Molly's—Molly had been forthright this time. She had admitted she knew nothing of his plans.
They all had appeared as puzzled as he, all except Mycroft who had given him a succinct answer behind a straight face: "Can't say, John."
John had no doubt that Mycroft was telling the truth, no matter how one interpreted the words.
88**88
25 December 2019
"So, Mrs. Hudson," John took his former landlady aside when he and Rosie had stopped by 221B for Christmas. They had successfully distracted Rosie with a new coloring book, markers, and a small plate of assorted home-baked biscuits. John had checked Sherlock's flat in an attempt to detect if anything had changed since his last inspection. No belongings seemed to have been taken, nor any items moved. Even the dust remained intact, doubtless on Sherlock's instructions. A frustrated John had returned to Mrs. Hudson's flat to ask, "Anything more since the last time?"
"Oh, John. You know Sherlock. He forgets us when he's working." She had been glad John reopened the topic. There was no one else with whom she could share her pent-up fretting.
"You're right, Mrs. Hudson. That's probably it."
"Yes, dear. I know it's true. I just wish he had been a bit more, you know, helpful about where he was going. It's like I told you the last time you asked. He said he'd be away for a spell. He also said he'd be back. Not to let out his flat. Not that I could ever let out that flat to anyone else… it wouldn't seem right."
"Okay, Mrs. Hudson," John rested a comforting hand on the old woman's shoulder, "We know. Continue with what you remember…."
"He said goodbye. Gave me a peck on the cheek. Now, that was unexpected." She lifted her boney hand up to her face where he had kissed her. "He doesn't usually do that unless he's excited about a case. And it would have to be a really good case, you know?"
"—Yeah, I know…a very stimulating, unusual case," John agreed as his thoughts ran on...and quite likely more dangerous than even he had imagined!
"I watched him leave, John," she continued. "He was empty handed. No luggage. He just climbed into a cab like it was an ordinary day. Why he hasn't come back yet is strange even for him…except for when we thought, you know, when he was gone…," She placed a finger on her lips to stop herself and focused her brown eyes, filled with hope, on John. "But you said you've received a text from him?''
"Yes. Today, as a matter of fact,"John nodded. "It's his first in several months…. It must be a burner phone. I can't text him back."
"Well, what does it say, John?"
John pulled out his mobile and showed Mrs. Hudson.
It's Christmas! - SH
88**88
January 2020–February 2020
Despite Sherlock's timely Christmas greeting, John couldn't shake a new uneasiness. It did not help that frequent well-meaning inquiries and general harping, mostly from Greg and Molly, had made John feel that not only had he overlooked something important last October in the park, but that he was failing in his responsibility to keep tabs on Sherlock—for them.
And once John was convinced something was odd, he became a bulldog with a bone, hounding Mycroft regularly for answers. To his surprise, Mycroft had let him.
The shadowy British official could have ended the mild nuisance of John's frequent visits with an imperious snap of his fingers. Having John removed or avoiding him entirely would have spared Mycroft from being exposed to the man's overt emotionalism—Why can't people just remain calm? Instead, he had taken the meetings even though he refused to answer John's questions.
At some point—perhaps in preparation for any prolonged absences—Sherlock had advised his older brother that, on such occasions, John's sentiments needed to be properly handled—unlike the last time—and had required Mycroft do his better best. His last best was not good enough. The elder Holmes, having acquired a better understanding of the Sherlock-John dynamic since the Sherrinford incident, met his brother's stalwart defender each time John had demanded to see him. Mycroft could not help but admire John Watson's commitment. Although confidentiality prevented the "minor official" in British government from disclosing information, Mycroft had deemed that the least he could do was listen to the one man who cared enough for his brother that he made an absolute pest of himself—a true friend.
There had been another purpose in Mycroft's indulgence: allowing Watson into the office beneath the Diogenes Club had kept John's rants well-contained and permitted him verification of how much information about Sherlock's secret mission might be circulating in the outside world. Mycroft had seen it as intelligence gathering. Best of all, it was brought right to his doorstep.
"Can you tell me where he is now, Mycroft?" For the fifth time in as many weeks John had stopped by on his way home after a shift at the surgery.
Typically unencouraging, Mycroft glanced at John with an infuriating, almost-amused calm.
"In the UK? Overseas? In Eastern Europe? Deep undercover?" John continued probing, just to needle the impervious façade, though frustrated by his failure.
"Finished?" Mycroft waited until John nodded before folding his arms, leaning back in his chair and replying. "Can't say, John."
6**6
Agreeing that if either one heard from him, they'd be in touch, each time John had received a text, he rang Molly.
It's Christmas! - SH
Machinery of justice awaits. -SH
Progress is slow. - SH
Trail's gone cold. - SH
Small matters burden the mind. - SH
Isolation encourages impunity - SH
"John, do you know what any of these mean?" Molly had asked after he had shared his latest text with her.
It was early February and John had just returned home from a date—it had gone well, but there were no sparks. Having paid the babysitter, his next-door neighbor's daughter, and sent her home, he was feeling an emotional letdown when his phone pinged with another text from Sherlock. Immediately he rang Molly. Her question made him shrug at his mobile. "I was kinda taking them at face value. Progress updates of sorts…. You think they're clues for something…else?"
"Just saying, John."
"God help him," John frowned. "I don't know about you, Molly, but he knows how dense I am. If these are clues, it just goes to prove that I'm the idiot he always thought I was. And he's an idiot for thinking I would understand them."
"I wouldn't say that, John,"
"Yeah, but Sherlock would!"
When John had rung off with Molly, he studied the texts. Whether they were actually reports about Sherlock's case as Molly believed or just phrases as he had told Molly, they most importantly served as assurances to let them know that Sherlock was still out there, still alive. Until Molly had suggested otherwise, John had found solace in receiving them. After her suggestion, he hadn't been so sure.
In between their conversations about Sherlock's texts, Molly would ring John if global news reports sounded like cases that would interest Sherlock. International coups, corpses of murder victims found in building foundations, drug rings, human trafficking busts—anything that wasn't run-of-the-mill, boring cases—the list was endless. Yet, Sherlock's whereabouts remained the biggest mystery. The longer Sherlock remained "out in the cold" and the more Molly fretted over his absence, the greater John's sense of culpability grew. Not having asked his friend what was bothering him on that fall day had been a mistake. And after, he shouldn't have let Sherlock refuse his assistance.
"…It's probably a difficult case, too risky to involve you, John…" Molly had protested when John had expressed his regrets during their next phone conversation.
"Right. If it required traveling incognito—"
"—and maintaining diplomatic discretion," Molly had finished for John, adding, "especially if he was penetrating a terrorist cell, he'd have to go alone."
"—bloody hell, Molly," John swore, "that's what I'm afraid of …"
88**88
March 2020
"Is he working for you?"
Although John had spent months bombarding the elder Holmes with questions on the chance one might pierce the indomitable defenses, on this particular day, he had popped in after a difficult shift at the surgery. London streets were mostly deserted; people were forced to practice social distancing. The increasing restrictions about the novel strain of the coronavirus pandemic that originated in China had doctors everywhere on high alert. Confirmed cases in the UK meant John and his colleagues were working harder to keep their patients safe and to prevent the spread. The shortage of medical supplies was alarming. Before he was confirmed COVID-19 positive, the Prime Minister had been advising against nonessential contact with others and ceasing all unnecessary travel. Frustrated by all sorts of issues, including endless inquiries from the Public Health England, John was irritable when he arrived in Mycroft's office. Keeping nearly two meters away, he paced, trying to work off his vexation, but to no avail. He felt the need to vent and tight-lipped Mycroft was his closest target.
"Sod this, Mycroft! I've had a hellish few weeks. Spent a full hour on the phone today with PHE. They're contact-tracing the infected individuals. That phone call backed up my overloaded caseload of patients and since restrictions are in place, only one at time is allowed into the surgery. Don't need to tell you how unprecedented this all is. Sick people deserve better! So, I'm in no mood for your ridiculous games. Tell me what the bloody hell is going on: Is Sherlock caught up in this pandemic somehow? Why is he away so long? Does it have anything to do with a mission or has that been scratched because of the—?"
"—John, John!" Mycroft interrupted, palms patting the air as he rose from his desk chair.
Motion from the immovable iceman was so atypical during these visits that John froze. Hoping he had finally succeeded at breaking through the impenetrable wall, he leant over Mycroft's desk and glared. "What?"
"I'm not sure if you're aware?" Mycroft continued with serene disinterest. "But research has found that venting actually makes one's anger worse. Might I advise that you try to control your anger instead? This will both dissipate your negative reinforcement process and help you regain a sense of calm."
Leaping across the massive desk to throttle Mycroft had momentarily skittered through John's thoughts. Instead, John blinked several times and pulled back so suddenly, the slight draft caused the single blank sheet of paper on Mycroft's desk to flutter a tad off center. Except for "disrupting" the tidy desk, John took no aggressive action. "Seriously?" he grinned sardonically. "That's all you can say?"
"No. Regarding the other matter," Mycroft smiled smugly, dismissing how close he might be to bodily harm, "Can't say, John."
"Y'sure?" John's fists curled, his eyes dark and menacing, but the absurdity of Mycroft offering psychoanalysis struck him as amusing. He could imagine Sherlock and he having a good chuckle at this. John swallowed his annoyance and toned down the frustration in his voice. "You know, Mycroft. You might have something there. Venting makes anger worse, then?" He laughed. It was a hollow sound. "Must be true. I don't feel any better."
With that, John spun on his heel, threw open the bunker door, and offered his host a parting comment. "If all else fails, Mycroft," he tucked his tongue in his cheek and rubbed the stubble on his chin, "You might consider psychiatry as a fallback profession," and left without another word.
After he had gone Mycroft exhaled, pulled at his collar in relief, and then straightened the sheet of paper John's swiftness had blown askew.
88**88
April 2020
John was both frustrated and exhausted during his next visit. At the forefront of the pandemic battle, he knew the tide of the Coronavirus patients had yet to show reliable signs of receding. Still, with the ExCel centre in London turned into a field hospital by N.H.S. and the Military for COVID-19 patients, they had a fighting chance.
Wearing his protective face mask so as not to infect Mycroft, he paced the bunker office and cocked his head, keeping his eyes on the older man who remained seated at a safe distance behind the desk. Pietro Annigoni's Queen Regent glanced imperially over Mycroft's head. John stared back at the beautiful 28-year-old Elizabeth to catch his breath. "Is he in danger? Is he alone? Is anyone helping him? Has he caught the virus? Has something I've done put him in danger?"
"Why do you keep this up?" Mycroft asked after John had finished. "It's been nearly seventeen weeks now," he tilted his head back and peered down his nose at the pacing doctor. "You have enough challenges to preoccupy you... Besides, you already know what my answer will be."
John halted and grinned behind his mask, seizing his opportunity to brandish the most annoying and oft-used Holmesian question of all time. "Isn't it obvious, Mycroft? This is the only place safe enough where my questions won't blow Sherlock's cover, whatever that might be. Keeps me from saying too much, even to Molly Hooper. Besides, I've come to consider them the therapy sessions the Holmes brothers owe me for driving me off my nut. Worse luck for you, Mycroft!"
Week after week, as penance for the anxiety both Holmes were causing him, John subjected Mycroft to—and to his credit, Mycroft endured—"therapy sessions" in the subterranean lair below the Diogenes Club.
88**88
May 2020
With the flattening of the COVID-19 numbers touted as a good sign, John arrived armed with a new strategy on his next visit to Mycroft's office. Unlike the other times when he had fumed over Sherlock's absence only to receive the off-putting answer, this time, he asked no questions. Instead, he stared silently into Mycroft's cold blue irises waiting, watching for Mycroft to make the first move.
"Well, what is it, John?" Mycroft sighed, expecting the usual litany of John's questions.
"I've worked out a plan. Rosie will be in good hands until I return. Let me go to him, Mycroft. I want to help."
John had thrown a pebble in the placid lake of Mycroft's demeanor, causing a disturbance, a ripple effect. Mycroft looked down at his folded hands, his brows creased in mystification and he half-grinned in genuine gratitude. Before meeting John's gaze, he rolled his shoulders back and steadied his voice. "You can't. Sherlock wouldn't want that. Your primary responsibility is your daughter's well-being. Patience, John. It's only a matter of time, now."
John left dejected as ever by the truth of his situation. Patience? His was running out….
88**88
Late June 2020
"Bollocks, John!" Now that pubs were reopening again after the COVID-19 shutdown, Greg Lestrade invited John for a pint. "You've had a bloody hell of a run. We've all had. Glad to see you've been spared the illness."
"Same here. Can't believe we're finally in the clear, Greg. Treatments have made encouraging progress," John nodded. "Everyone wants things to get back to normal, but only time will tell what the new normal will be."
"Sobering words," Lestrade said as he lifted his pint to salute John and drank
They were quiet for a while until Greg cleared his throat. "Now for something completely different—speaking of normal…what's up with Sherlock? It's been—what—seven...no eight months now? He's missing some good cases here. Definitely could use his help. Never told you what's up, then?"
"I told you the last time and the time before that, he never said a word to me about this case, and Mycroft is inscrutable," John countered with irritation. He slammed down his pint just a bit too hard, spilling some on the table. "Anyway, just so we're clear, Sherlock and I don't always work together, remember? I have a different life now, so when Sherlock disappears like this, I have to wait until he gets back, just like the lot of you, to know what's up."
"When he disappears 'like this,' you say," Greg lifted his pint and eyed John, "when was the last 'like this?' You think he's off protecting us from something?"
"Who knows?" John shrugged, "He claims only unusual cases intrigue him, but in the end, he's usually doing something for the greater good, and heaven help him and us, if there's a personal reason—"
"—Thought he'd got over doing dramatic stuff like that," Greg scratched his head and looked askance at John.
"I had hoped," John caught Greg's look, "Well, unlike 'last time,' he hasn't completely disappeared. He texts me once, sometimes twice, a month."
"Yeah," Greg nodded, "but you said you can't text back. Each message is from different mobile numbers—burner phones"
John knew where Greg was headed and was sorry he had raised the topic.
"So, you don't know if it's really him, do you?" Greg continued, "or that it's not an imposter or that he's not been taken hostage…or that it's a trap of some kind…?"
"Shut up, Greg!" John snapped and pushed his pint aside. It suddenly tasted too bitter to finish.
88**88
July 2020
A text in July was one word: Soon. - SH
"John, I just thought of something we haven't considered yet…," Molly sat across from John outside the tea shop near his surgery. She kept her eyes downcast as she stirred the milk in her cup. "What if he's been sick? And I don't mean the coronavirus; he left well before the COVID-19 pandemic…" When she lifted her brown eyes to meet his, John recoiled at the shocking thought. "What if he's had an unsettling diagnosis…? And he wasn't certain about his chances…? Or maybe he was certain he'd survive, but wanted to get through the worst of it before he involved us?"
Stunned by her troubling insight, John fished his mobile out of his pocket. He scrolled through the text messages from Sherlock and reviewed them:
It's Christmas! - SH
Machinery of justice awaits. -SH
Progress is slow. - SH
Trail's gone cold. - SH
Small matters burden the mind. - SH
Isolation encourages impunity - SH
Game's afoot again. - SH
On fire! - SH
"Oh my God, Molly," John swallowed hard, "It was Christmas Day when he sent It's Christmas. But you might be right about these other phrases having medical interpretations. Progress always seems slow to patients during their medical workups. Machinery of justice awaits, on the other hand, could mean…"
"CAT scans, MRIs, diagnostics of all kinds…," Molly interjected. "I don't like the trail's gone cold. Does it mean they don't know what's wrong with him?"
"Yeah, but what about the next one? Small matters burdens the mind. Could there have been a biopsy to determine treatment?"
"Isolation encourages impunity," Molly said with dread in voice. "With his immune system compromised by whatever he has and with the spread of COVID-19, could they have him in medical isolation? That sounds bad."
"No, but the one after—Game's afoot again—is one of his positive statements—"
"Except, a 'positive diagnosis' is not usually a good thing in medicine, John. And On fire could mean he has a fever. And then a two-month silence…until this last one."
"You know, Molly, let's stop this!" John threw up his hands and sat back in his chair. "This hardly makes me feel better," he sighed, biting his lower lip to keep his voice steady. "Jesus! I feel worse. We're speculating. All of this! Sherlock would remind us that we are reading into the facts with preconceived notions."
Molly frowned, unwilling to stop speculating, "Well, maybe soon means he's done with treatment, yes?"
"Yes," John agreed cynically, "or they're done treating him… but not necessarily with a guarantee of success…."
6**6
"Sherlock's been ill—" John confronted Mycroft in the soundproof office shortly after he had left Molly. He planted his hands on the enormous desk, "and no one thought to tell me!" he thundered, his eyes dark with fury.
Mycroft pulled back in his chair, his normally neutral face expressing surprise. "Good Lord! Grossly speculative, to say the least, even for you. What an imagination you have, John!"
"You're denying it, then?"
"Really, John, haven't you noticed? Heretofore, I've denied everything."
"Yeah. I've noticed. Charming, all of it." John felt ready to punch a wall, but didn't want to break his hands against the concrete bunker.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John, making sure the tempest had passed before he leant forward on his desk with folded hands. "Listen, John. His last text is the truth. He's back. He'll be in touch… soon."
"Really? Why not now?" John worked to keep his voice steady although his relief at hearing Mycroft's assurances had almost undermined him. A sudden thought made him spin around to take in the subterranean office, wondering if Sherlock had been standing behind him all this time.
Mycroft knew why John had turned around; he waited until the disappointed man faced him again. "He's with our parents. He promised them…he'd go there first."
"Has he sustained injuries…? Is he well?" John's expression reflected his dread at the prospects he continued to imagine.
"He's safe, John. Let him tell you the details and about his missions… if he wants. I can assure you that soon actually does mean soon. When he's ready, he will make that perfectly clear."
For the first time in his months of visits, John left Mycroft's office with hope hinging on the one word—Soon.
88**88