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"Mycroft."
"Hmm?"
He frowns distractedly at his paperwork. When his assistant doesn't reply, he looks up warily at her instead.
Her red rimmed eyes and pursed lips is what greets him, and it fills him with a cold sense of dread. He observes, as is his wont, and the pieces slot into place; the fact that she called him Mycroft, here, at the office instead of Mr Holmes; how her fingers are clenched tightly around her phone; and how unprecedented it is that something has warranted a reaction such as this from the second most composed person in his life.
"Mycroft, it's John. He's..." Alaina swallows the lump threatening to choke her and she struggles to continue, "John Watson was killed in battle this morning, attempting to save a fel--" and here her voice breaks, and Mycroft's not prepared, not for any of this and no, not John, oh god, no.
"Does Sherlock know?"
Alaina shakes her head, and Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut. He childishly and fervently hopes, hopes that it's just a dream, a nightmare, but when he opens his eyes several minutes later, it's not, and Mycroft feels sick.
Mycroft makes his way to the bathroom and locks himself inside. He sits on the floor and when he thinks of the tragedy that's just occurred; he finds himself wanting to cry, to weep for his brother who'll never be the same again, and for the loss of one of the best person he's ever known. He wants to scream and break things like a maniac, because he should have known better, he should have anticipated this; caring never is an advantage, but when John Watson came into their lives they all forgot that crucial lesson. The knowledge that he can't fix the searing pain Sherlock will feel, hurts, oh god it hurts so much; and Mycroft allows himself a brief moment to mourn because he knows that when he gets out of here, he's got to be strong, and he wouldn't have a chance to be weak again for a long time, for Sherlock.
He looks at the mirror as he adjusts his tie. He looks impeccable; calm and composed. Strong. He calls his assistant to locate his brother's whereabouts. He sighs when he hangs up; fruitlessly wishing that he could go back to yesterday. A time when they all existed in a world with John Watson alive.
A time when Sherlock Holmes was finally, finally happy.
"Someone here to see you, Sherlock. Why aren't you answering your phone?"
Sherlock huffs at Lestrade, annoyed at the interruption. Won't be John, John's not back till next week (that tosser), so Sherlock decides he doesn't actually care who it is. And his phone is dead, obviously. Plus, John's not here so he can't steal John's. Simple. How can they not know that?
"Sherlock, come on. It's your brother."
Mycroft? Mycroft? What the hell is he doing at a crime scene? Oh damn, this murder's government-related, isn't it? Ugh, tedious.
Sherlock keeps his magnifying lens (gift from John, six month anniversary, because John's a romantic idiot, he thinks fondly) in his coat pocket, and strides to Mycroft petulantly.
"What is it? Hurry up, fatty, I'm working."
"I need to speak to you in private."
Sherlock frowns. Mycroft looks distraught and it secretly terrifies him.
"What is it?" He insists.
Mycroft's knuckles are white from how tight he's holding on to his umbrella. Sherlock feels increasingly nervous. Afraid. He stands up straighter.
"It's about John."
Oh no. No. That idiot went and got himself hurt, didn't he? Sherlock's going to strangle him when he sees him.
"Take me to him. Is he hurt badly? That imbecile, I swear to god, I'm goin--"
Mycroft looks pained. A little tortured. Sherlock shuts up and he finds that he can't breathe very well.
His older brother moves closer towards him and puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.
"Mycroft, stop it, you're scaring me. Take me to him right now." Sherlock whispers.
"Sherlock, he… He's gone. He was saving one of his fellow soldiers and he--"
Sherlock staggers backwards and the world becomes completely absent of noise and bustle. Everything becomes silent. Calm. Sherlock walks away from the crime scene and Mycroft doesn't follow.
Sherlock walks.
Sherlock wakes up and he finds himself in Mycroft's stupid car. He sits up properly and refuses to look at his brother. Refuses to listen, to understand, to believe.
"They're sending the body back so that we can proceed with the funeral arra--"
Sherlock turns and punches Mycroft. Alaina yells at the driver to stop and she holds on to Sherlock tightly.
"Let. Me. Go."
The voice is venomous and seething with rage. Mycroft hasn't heard it for years, and the realization hurts.
"Sherlock, please." Alaina begs. Her face is streaked with tears, and Mycroft looks at the spectacle before him and thinks wrong, wrong, wrong. This was never supposed to happen.
Sherlock's breathing heavily and his eyes are wild.
"Take me home."
He doesn't say anything beyond that, and when they finally arrive at 221B, Sherlock ignores Mrs Hudson, climbs up the seventeen steps with the grace of a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and shuts himself in their (his) room.
He doesn't come out for two days.
"You were supposed to come home alive."
John's body is cold and unmoving. Silence is the only response he receives.
One week ago, before it all went wrong:
"I hate video calls."
"Cause I look way handsomer in person, right?"
John's winking in his ridiculously charming manner and Sherlock scowls thunderously in return. John's making it difficult for him to stay mad.
"I miss you, Sherlock."
Sherlock doesn't bother hiding his grin at that proclamation and John's delight at seeing him smile makes his stomach feel funny.
"Found a new flat."
"That's amazing. Where is it?"
"Baker Street. You know the landlady. Mrs Hudson."
"Mrs Hudson... ah. I remember. You made sure her husband got executed, you brilliant man."
"Most people don't think that's brilliant, John."
"Most people are idiots," John says, with great feeling and enthusiasm.
John giggles happily while Sherlock chuckles at his reply; and John suspects that he looks dopey and maniacal, but he's happy, so the world can sod off for all he cares.
"I'll be back before you know it, Sherlock."
That puts a damper on their little moment, because Sherlock starts frowning again.
"Wrong as usual, John."
"I'll see you in exactly two weeks, my beautiful consulting detective."
"Beautiful?!" Sherlock shrieks indignantly.
"My utterly gorgeous, insane, infuriating, perfect, and crazy madman."
"You're too ridiculous to talk to anymore," Sherlock declares loftily.
"You're always ridiculous, and you don't see me complaining."
"Two weeks, John. And if you dare get hurt, I'm going to shoot your arm."
"Why arm? Why not leg?" John asks, genuinely curious as to the reasoning behind his husband’s specificity.
"Come home in one piece and I'll tell you."
"Deal. Bye, Sherlock. I love you."
John waits exactly three seconds before Sherlock smiles back delightedly at John. It saddens him that Sherlock seems surprised every time John says it; so, being the determined soldier that he is, he showers Sherlock with compliments and tells him that as often as he can. Sherlock needs to know, to believe that he's loved, and John's going to rectify what the world did wrong when they deemed Sherlock a freak and an outcast. He'll prove them all wrong.
Sherlock's eyes are fond and filled with affection and John bites his lips to prevent himself from bursting with emotions, from the overwhelming amount of love he feels for the man before him.
"Goodbye, John."
Sherlock looks at the mirror and he hates what he sees. He sees a man alone and broken. He sees Sherlock Holmes, existing in a world where John Watson is dead, and when he punches the mirror, his fist bleeds. He lets out an agonized moan because he's bleeding, he’s alive and hurting, but John, his doctor, his better half, his world, his everything, is dead dead dead.
The funeral is well attended.
Sherlock doesn't remember much of it all. He only remembers not-John's face as he stares and stares into the coffin. It's not John. Because John Watson would always smile at Sherlock Holmes. There would be no balance in the world if John didn't smile at him, if he didn't make a cheeky or sarcastic remark to Sherlock; there would be nothing right in the world if John didn’t say with complete fondness, 'You're a bloody idiot, Sherlock Holmes' because John Watson was the kind of person who would swear while proclaiming his love. Seeing that not one of those things happened, he wisely concludes that it's not John.
John would never die on him like that. John made a promise, and he'd keep it, because he's the best man Sherlock knows. The most loyal, amazing, loving man he knows.
It's not John. So there.
The images of his husband, his John, bent over a patient's body in the sands of Afghanistan, assaults his mind when he tries to sleep. He screams for John to get up, up, but John can't hear him at all.
The worst part of the dream, he thinks, is John ignoring him. To not be heard by the only person who actually listened to him.
He wakes up, choking and cheeks wet with tears.
He doesn't sleep for the next five days.
A year before Sherlock lost his everything:
John's sleeping on their bed, completely exhausted. He's just spent the whole night watching over his boyfriend, his boyfriend who's an absolute lunatic; who was found in his flat, on the sofa, with a used needle by his side.
John would be infuriated if he wasn't so terrified.
Sherlock wakes, and memories of the past day floods through his mind. He stares at the sleeping man by his side and hates himself. Sherlock has broken his promise to John and relapsed. He shuts his eyes tightly and bites his lips. When he tastes the tang of metallic copper, he quietly attempts to get off the bed without waking John.
Before he's able to do so, John's fingers circles his wrist and Sherlock resolutely looks at the ceiling.
"I'm sorry."
John waits for further elaboration.
"I understand if you want to leave. We can’t be together. I know that now.”
Sherlock feels John sitting up, and when he sneaks a glance at his bedmate, he winces, because John looks positively thunderous.
“You’re the stupidest man I know, and if you think I’m going to... lea--, god, I’m just so angry I could just beat you over the head with a chair.”
John brings out in him the desire to be good, and he hates it, he hates that he tries, he hates that he fails, and it’s hateful that John still believes in him no matter how not good he is.
He sits up as well, thinking of how inevitable it all was. He’s the addict, John’s the army doctor. They can’t be together, and oh, how it pains him to admit that he’s the one holding John back from happiness. From an ordinary life in which John wouldn't have to worry about his boyfriend going through relapse from cocaine addiction; or a life where he can be free from fear that his boyfriend would get kicked out from another flat due to questionable experiments. Sherlock wants an ordinary life for John Watson without him, a whirlwind, a walking disaster named Sherlock Holmes to ruin it. Yesterday was proof enough that he’s only dragging John down with him.
“You should go. Don’t make this more difficult than it is.”
John just looks at him with disbelief. After a moment, John lets out a deep breath and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls.
“You’re the world’s biggest prat, and you make me go spare, really you do, Sherlock, but do not for a moment even think that I could leave you. Not unless you make me, and Sherlock, don’t make me leave.”
Sherlock has to resist the urge to scream, because John’s not making it easy for him.
“You could do better than me. I’m not good for you. I’m like a disease, John, and you’re the last person I want to infect-- you need, someone… better; someone who’s not selfish like I am, because I will consume you, you need someone who could love you without destroying you, someon--”
John leans forward and rests his forehead on Sherlock’s.
“You could do all that, Sherlock. And you’re going to. Once you’ve done it, Sherlock, I will get down on my knees, and I will ask you to marry me. I want that, Sherlock. You’re going to give that to me. Understand?”
“... You want to marry me?” Sherlock sounds young, and John just wants to weep for the man he loves more than himself.
“I do. But not now, because you’ve got some work to do. You’re going to be the mad detective and I’m going to work hard and qualify to be your blogger. That’s the future for us, Sherlock. And I’m not going anywhere till I get it.”
“Yes. Anything, anything for you, John.”
Lestrade looks at the mess in the living room and then shifts his attention to the lump occupying the sofa.
“Got a case for you.”
“Get out.”
“Mycroft tells me that you’ve been hidden in here for two weeks.”
Silence.
“Come on, it’s a really interesting one.”
The lump moves a little.
“I bet your John would’ve wanted--”
The speed in which Sherlock backs Lestrade towards the wall is terrifying, and the angry snarl has Lestrade momentarily worrying for his life.
“Don’t you dare bring him up. You never knew him, so you have no right, no--,” Sherlock clamps his mouth shut and Lestrade can just watch as Sherlock tries to keep himself together.
“I’ve met him before, you know.”
Sherlock backs away slowly, allowing some space for Lestrade to breathe and explain further.
“He told me to take care of you.” Lestrade says quietly. “He said that the cases would keep you occupied, and if anything blew up in any flat you lived in while he was away, he’d hunt me down for not doing my job properly.”
Sherlock lets out a bitter laugh.
“He’s a good man, Sherlock. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Sherlock takes a deep breath. And another. He focuses on his breathing because in that moment, he’s able to vividly imagine John playfully threatening Lestrade; and oh, oh, when will the pain stop, his heart’s aching and he wants tear it out of his chest.
“Are you here about the suicides?”
“There’s been a fourth one.”
“I know.”
“Will you come?”
“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”
The first time Sherlock meets John, is not particularly a moment Sherlock is proud of. One of them is high, and the other, slightly drunk. So when Sherlock deduces a bunch of thugs and is about to get the living daylights beaten out of him, a tiny, be-jumpered man sweeps in and saves the day. Meaning: they both got their arses handed back to them, but they remained proud over their fighting spirit and battle scars.
Instead of offending his knight in shining armour, Sherlock is surprised to learn that his saviour, John Watson, happens to be thoroughly charmed by his lack of social grace. Flustered, Sherlock manages to insult John’s sister, which earns him a slap at the back of his head. John demands that Sherlock walk him back to his flat as compensation for his heroic efforts.
“Heroes don’t exist, John.”
“They do. Don’t argue with me on this, you’re wrong and that’s that.”
Sherlock, for the first time in his life, shuts up.
They stop at tiny Italian restaurant belonging to a man Sherlock once helped, and the candles on the table brought over by the lovely yet burly Angelo cracks them both up. Sherlock talks to the fascinating man by his side about everything and nothing, and they giggle over Sherlock’s deduction of the other patrons.
At the end of the day, John stands on his toes and gingerly kisses Sherlock’s left cheek. Disgruntled, he pouts at John, which earns him another kiss, this time on his right cheek.
“Not today, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re one of the most fantastic person I’ve ever met, and if I do this with you, I want to do it right.”
“What?”
John laughs, a clear sound that makes Sherlock smile.
“I’ve decided that I’m going to date you.”
Sherlock arrives at Lauriston Gardens. As he walks towards the police tape alone, he feels a strange sense of loss that leaves him devastated.
“Hello, freak.”
Sherlock spares Donovan a brief glance and is thankful for the fact that she doesn’t know about John. He’s suddenly glad that only Lestrade knows about John, and that Lestrade was the only member of the MET to be at the funeral.
The word freak, however, thrown at him so simply, hurts more than it used to, and Sherlock relishes every bit of the pain it causes.
He finds Jennifer Wilson’s case easily and brings it home. But the silence in the flat becomes so loud that Sherlock has to leave.
He has no one to text, no one to talk to. The skull just attracts too much attention.
Sherlock goes to Angelo’s for a stake out. Angelo pats his shoulders sympathetically, bringing him a glass of water and nothing else. Sherlock only eats when John forces him to. Angelo understands that.
Angelo also understands that there’s no longer any need for candles to be lit up at his table.
Sherlock comes home and finds his flat raided by incompetent Yarders. The fury in Sherlock’s eyes makes Lestrade flinch physically, so Lestrade calls off the drugs bust and manages a short lecture about not withholding evidence.
Sherlock doesn’t say a word throughout.
After the Yarders leave, Lestrade lingers about waiting for Sherlock’s deductions. He tells Sherlock about Rachel, and watches him work, but he can tell when he’s not wanted.
“Call me the minute you have any information, okay?”
In the four months that Lestrade has known Sherlock, he’s been demeaned, yelled at, and ignored, but the silence is what affects him most.
He catches Sherlock staring at a picture of John, and has to look away, because the consulting detective before him is looking like a man who’s lost, so completely lost in a cruel world, and it’s heartbreaking.
The annoying cabbie behind the suicides? Fascinating. Why do this though? Sherlock gets into the cab. It’s okay, he tells himself. There’s no one waiting for him at home.
The cabbie keeps taunting Sherlock and it’s wonderfully hilarious. He laughs and laughs inside, because the cabbie doesn’t understand that they’re both dead men walking.
One is dying from brain aneurism, another from a broken heart. Sherlock thinks it’s a cliche, but he can’t be sure.
When Sherlock closes his eyes, and moves the pills closer to his mouth, he hears John shouting his name. A desperate plea of horror, from his best friend. Sherlock starts and looks around for the source, John’s not dead, not dead not dead-- but there’s no one.
The disappointment knocks the wind out of him and he drops the pill. He hears a shot and ducks instinctively. He hears Jefferson Hope’s cry of pain, so he rights himself, takes a step towards the cabbie, and gets a name, a name full of promise and possibilities; a name which he saves in his hard drive.
He makes his way downstairs and sees Mycroft waiting for him. He rolls his eyes at how obvious it was that Mycroft sent the snipers to save him. He catches his older looking at him, so he nods in acknowledgement before turning to leave.
He takes a few steps before he looks to his right and sees a future of what could have been. He sees himself and John giggling at a crime scene, the way they’re supposed to, the way they’ve always planned they would.
He sees them walking away together, filled with joy and happiness and contentment.
“John. Come back. I miss you,” he whispers.
“I’ve got your back, Sherlock,” he hears, in that all too familiar voice he adores so much.
Sherlock smiles.
Years after Sherlock Holmes lost John Watson in death:
“Mr Holmes, do you believe in heroes?”
Sherlock pauses for a moment before genuinely smiling at the seven year old girl before him.
“Yes, I do. I married one.”
They say that real loss is when you lose something you love more than yourself. Sherlock finds this painfully accurate.
Sherlock walks up the stairs of 221B and walks into their room. He opens the wardrobe and his heart constricts when he looks at his husband’s clothes, and how they still smell like him. He fits himself into the small space and takes a deep breath.
He clutches on to one of the nearest jumpers and he cries, cries for all that he’s lost.
Mycroft nods at Alaina sadly, and directs his attention back to the text message he received a few hours before.
Thank you. John would want me
to say that. So, thank you.
Goodbye, Mycroft.
SH
Mycroft closes his eyes and thinks back to Alaina’s report of how Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty jumped off The Reichenbach Falls. How the both of them are suspected dead as the great Sherlock Holmes tackled the final problem.
With a trembling hand, he places a photograph into his desk drawer and he takes a deep breath. It is of two men, two men who were made for each other; and the greatest love story he's ever known.
In the photograph, a short man wearing a beige jumper is gesturing wildly and laughing happily at the man before him; a tall man wearing a silly deerstalker with a slight smirk on his face; but his eyes, his eyes says:
i love you
you're a miracle
you're an idiot, and i love you
And at the back of the photograph, in a cursive handwriting that is slightly faded:
john watson, you're my heart, you're everything, please come home