Since You’ve Been Gone chapter 1
It was Tuesday. The seventh Tuesday since John and Mary got married. They now live in those tiny, boring houses that Sherlock despised so much. Why couldn’t John stay in Baker Street? It was so much better than that place he’s living in now. It got everything he could possibly need! It got his little armchair with the tiny fluffy pillow. It got Mrs. Hudson. But most of all, it got Sherlock.
The sun started penetrating the blinds. Sherlock could hear birds chirping. Without glancing to his watch, Sherlock knew it was 6 o’clock. John just woke up, usually. Unless he had a night out with Mike Stamford, in which he would woke up at 8, and proceeded to make some Alka-Seltzer. But he wouldn’t know what John is doing right now, anyway. Because Sherlock is holed up in The Den. And John wasn’t there.
After the wedding, nicotine patch just doesn’t cut it anymore. He needed something stronger. Sherlock was working on a case when he found The Den. It was perfect. Here, nobody could find him. Not even his brother dear, Mycroft. Sherlock snorted at the thought of Mycroft. That holier-than-thou attitude. He scoffed.
Sherlock sighed, thinking of John. He reached the syringe that he used last night. When he felt the needle penetrate his skin and released the cocaine he’d been longing for, a rush of dopamine swept over his body. He tilted back his head, feeling himself plunging further into the darkness. He wanted to let go. But John wouldn’t.
So Sherlock held on for a while. For John. What would John do without him? Sherlock thought smugly. There was nothing exciting in his life if it wasn’t for Sherlock. Yes, my blogger will come back and write those stupid little posts again. And he would fuss over me not knowing the bloody solar system. But then he realized. John was not here. John was with Mary. His lips curved into one last smile, Sherlock let go of himself. His last words and thought were of John, and how much he loved him.
***
A loud rap on the door startled John. He woke up with a jolt. “The game is on.” A ring in his ears accompanied Sherlock’s voice in his dream. He went to get the door, finding a matronly woman in front of him, sobbing. She croaked, “I know it’s early. Really, I’m sorry.”
“Is that Kate?” Mary asked, wrapped up in her bathrobe. Still startled, John replied, “Y-yeah, it’s Kate.”
“Going to invite her in?”
Ten minutes later, Mary and Kate sat in the living room. John came from the kitchen, bringing strong cups of tea. “There you go,” he said curtly.
“It’s Isaac.” Kate started.
“Ah, your husband?”
“Son.” nodded Mary. Her hand stroking Kate’s back, sympathetically.
“Son, yeah.”
Kate sniffled. “He’s gone missing again. Didn’t come home last night.”
Mary let out a sympatethic sigh, and looked at John. “The usual.”
John shifted on his feet. “He’s the drugs one, yeah?” Kate bursted into tears again. Mary glared at him, “Yeah, nicely put, John.”
But John couldn’t be bothered. He continued pacing. “Well, is it Sherlock Holmes you want?” He sighed before he continued, “Because I’ve not seen him in ages.”
“About a month.” Mary corrected. But Kate asked, “Who’s Sherlock Holmes?” John couldn’t believe those words. His fingers twitched. Who’s Sherlock Holmes?
“There’s a place they all go to, him and his friends. They all do...whatever they do. Shoot up...whatever you call it.” Kate explained.
“Where is he?” asked John.
“It’s a house. It’s a dump. I mean, it’s practically falling down.” She said frantically.
“No, the address. Where, exactly?” He was annoyed. Who’s Sherlock Holmes? Really?
***
He was dressed and walking to the car. Behind him, Mary, still in her robe, asked, “Seriously?”
John shrugged. “Why not? She’s not going to the police. Someone’s got to get him.”
“Why you?”
“Being neighbourly.”
Mary scoffed and twirled her hands. “Since when?”
He chuckled, “Since now. Since this exact minute.”
“Why are you being so...”
“What?” he snapped.
“Oh, I don’t know. What’s the matter with you?”
“There is nothing the matter with me!” he insisted loudly. “Now imagine I said that without shouting.”
“I’m trying.” Mary walked briskly to the car.
“No, you can’t come. You’re pregnant.” Said John. But Mary was already seated in the car. She said daringly, “You can’t go. I’m pregnant.”
***
He stopped in front of a house. Kate was right. It was practically falling down. He took a tyre lever from the trunk, stuffing it down his trousers. Mary pointed at it, her tone amused. “What is that?”
“It’s a tyre lever.”
“Why?”
“Because there were loads of smackheads in there and one of them might need help with a tyre.” He said matter-of-factly. “If there’s any trouble, just go, I’ll be fine.” He walked up to the house when Mary got off the car, and called out to him. “Wait, John, John, John...”
He turned around and looked at her. “It is a tiny bit sexy.” She winked. He couldn’t help feeling smug. “Yeah, I know.”
He walked to the front door, a large sign stuck to it. PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. He banged on the door. A hooded young man opened the door. Clearly he haven’t bathed in days. “What d’you want?”
“’Scuse me,” John barged in and walked down the hall.
“Naahhh, naahhh...you can’t come in ‘ere!”
“I’m looking for a friend. A very specific friend.” He continued looking in doorways. Reaching the last room, he turned to the man. “I’m not just browsing.”
The man stood still, a bit crouched. “You’ve gotta go. No one’s allowed ‘ere.”
“Isaac Whitney. You seen him?” The man pulled out a flick-knife and held it towards John. “I’m asking you if you’ve seen Isaac Whitney, and you pulled out a knife. Is it a clue?” He asked mockingly. The man silently gestured to the door.
“You doing a mime?”
“Go. Or I’ll cut ya,” threatened the man.
“Ooh, not from there. Let me help.” He walked closer. The man stared at him in disbelief. He continued. “Now, concentrate. Isaac Whitney.”
“Okay, you asked for it.” Before the man could even think about moving, John lashed out with his left hand, seizing the man’s right arm and slamming his right hand down onto the arm. As the man cried out in pain John wrapped his right hand round the front of the man’s neck and slammed him against the wall, then used his right foot to sweep the man’s feet from under him. The man slumped to the floor and John stepped back. The man choked and groaned in pain. John bent down and picked up the flick-knife which had fallen to the floor.
“Right. Are you concentrating yet?”
“You broke my arm!”
“No, I sprained it.”
“It feels squishy! Is it supposed to feel squishy?” he whined and held out his arm to John. “Feel that!”
John squeezed the arm. The man grunted. “Yeah, it’s a sprain. I’m a doctor—I know how to sprain people. Now where is Isaac Whitney?”
“I don’t know!”
John gave him a look. The man relented, “Maybe upstairs.” He patted the man’s leg. “There you go. Wasn’t that easy?”
John walked to the stairs. Still slumped on the floor, the man grumbled, “No. It’s really sore. Mental, you are.”
He replied cheerfully, “Nope, just used to a better class of criminal.”
***
Upstairs, he entered into a large room. The walls were covered in graffiti. It was very dilapidated. There were cracks here and there. Several people were lying on matresses scattered through the room. All of them looked stoned and immobile. He walked slowly across the room, grimacing. The place smelled old and mouldy. “Isaac? Isaac Whitney?” He walked over two people lying side by side on the matresses and whispered, “Isaac?”
One of them tiredly raised a hand. Isaac gazed at him blearily as John walked to his side and knelt down beside him. “Hello, mate. Sit up for me. Sit up.”
The boy tried to focus on John. “Dr. Watson? Is that you? ...where am I?”
“The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me.” John lifted Isaac’s eyelid.
“Have you come for me?”
“D’you think I know a lot of people here?!”
Isaac laughed hazily as John propped him up and circled Isaac’s arm around his neck. As he shuffled around to get better footing, John’s eyes caught a sight that sucked all the breath inside him. He hadn’t realized earlier. He wasn’t looking around at the surrounding people properly. There was a man lying on the mattress beside Isaac. A man he hadn’t seen in ages. He was dirty, scruffy, and pale. His face was gaunt, his cheeks more hollowed than usual. But he would recognized that dark curly hair everywhere.
Isaac, his arm still circled on John’s neck, followed his gaze and chimed, “Ah, Shezza.”
“...Shezza?” John croaked, as if there were lumps in his throat.
“Yeah...he started coming here maybe a month ago.”
A month ago. He hadn’t seen Sherlock for a month. He could have called. He could have talked. John would do anything. For Sherlock.
“Isaac...you, uh... lay down here a bit, yeah?” he sat him down on the mattress again, now his attention focused on Sherlock. “Sherlock, do you hear me?” he shook Sherlock’s shoulders. “Sherlock...come on now...we’re losing you...”
But the man lying there wasn’t breathing. He felt his wrist. No pulse. But John wouldn’t give up that easily. He put his hands on Sherlock’s chest, right where his heart should be. He put all his weight into his hand and started pushing and counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4...
Sherlock’s face, depite the general unkemptness and the hollow cheeks, was exactly like what it used to look. He looked as if he could have been just simply asleep. John was desperate, his hands kept pushing in a steady rhythm, his own breath was erratic. “No way in hell, Sherlock...no way you’re going this way...no...I’m not gonna let you!” he started sobbing.
“I watched you die, Sherlock. I made a w-wish. For you to stop being dead. You said y-you heard m-me. You came back. I can’t watch you die again! Hasn’t it been enough?!” He put his lips on Sherlock’s. They were chapped, dehydrated. He pinched Sherlock’s nostrils shut and breathed into him. And again. Then he pushed his hands on his chest again, counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4...
John put his mouth on Sherlock’s, forming a seal. I can’t believe I’m kissing you in this situation. I always thought it would be when we’re drunk or shitfaced. I never thought it would be when I’m performing a bloody CPR on you!
“Isaac...phone the ambulance now. Here’s my phone,” he tossed it to Isaac. There was this litle voice in his head saying, “He’s dead now, for real.”
He refused that voice. He didn’t want to believe it. He wouldn’t. He kept going with the damn CPR cycle, but Sherlock wouldn’t budge. John sat still, all his energy spent. It was as if his life was sucked out of him. In a way it was. He rested his head on Sherlock’s chest, hoping he’d felt the chest rising, or hoping to detect a faint heartbeat. Their hands intertwined. Sherlock’s hand was cold, but not yet rigid. He couldn’t kept his tears from rolling down his cheeks. If only I...
If only I had been faster. Have I not paid you enough attention...Sherlock? Do you not think of me? ...Before you go and do things like this? Does it ever occur to you that I need you?!
He reminisced about their time together. He remembered the fall. It took him 2 years to recover. And when he was ready to let go, there he was, like a magic trick, suddenly appearing in that restaurant. The nerves on him...does Sherlock think he can come and go whenever he likes? Ooh, apparently, yes! How could Sherlock do this to him? Twice, no less. And this time, he could have actually had a chance to save him.
You said it yourself, Sherlock...in my own wedding. Sherlock Holmes will solve your murder cases, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Then why can’t I save yours?! Who will solve the murder cases, Sherlock?! He thought about his last dream, Sherlock saying, “The game is on.”
What game? I don’t know the rules, Sherlock, you do. There will be no games without you. I was so alone...and I owed you so much. You saved me. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be...dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this. Don’t be dead. Don’t leave me.
He repeated the words he said the last time this happened. Two years ago, he stood in front of Sherlock’s grave, saying the words he had just said. Last time, Sherlock heard him. Last time, Sherlock came back. Now he doesn’t. Now he won’t. John’s vision was increasingly becoming dark. His limbs went numb. His chest and throat burning, his breathing irregular. The world as he knows it went crashing down. Everything went still as he could only hear his own heartbeat, and unfortunately, not the one he was hoping to hear. It finally dawned on John Watson, that the best and wisest man he ever knew is now dead. Sherlock Holmes was no more. And John Watson was ever as alone as he could be.
***
“Sir? It’s from John Watson.” Anthea came in, bringing a mobile phone to Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft sighed. “Yes, John? If you’re looking for Sherlock, you can find him in...”
“Sherlock’s dead, Mycroft.” cut John. He was not in the mood for polite pleasantries. Mycroft breath stopped sharply. He steadied himself, assuring himself that surely, John was misinformed. “Now, now...surely he was just playing you, John. Remember two years ago?”
“Bloody hell, Mycroft! I just told you your brother’s dead! Do you think I would joke about Sherlock?!” John shouted from the phone, his voice raspy from crying. Mycroft was taken aback. John was not the type who is given to emotional outbursts. Mycroft gulped. He was not ready for this. He took a long breath. “Where are you, John?”
A pause followed. Then a sniffle. “At the morgue. Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson are here. I don’t have the heart to call your parents.”
“Yes, that was...considerate. Thank you, John. I’ll be there shortly.” With that, he clicked the phone. His world came to a screeching halt. It couldn’t be. Sherlock...his little brother...is dead. How could this be? He knew Sherlock was in The Den, this was not the first time his brother’s substance abuse prompted him to place people near him. And contrary to what Sherlock might think, there was nowhere he couldn’t reach, nowhere he couldn’t find Sherlock. He had people in that bloody place, people who were supposed to keep an eye on his brother. He pushed a button on his desk and Althea came in.
“Bring me the files on people who were undercover in The Den. And prepare my car. I’m going to the morgue.” Althea nodded and left. Mycroft poured himself a drink. He stared blankly into the glass. I promised, Sherlock. I promised to Mummy I’ll keep you safe.
Mycroft downed the glass. One by one, tears came cascading down his face. Suddenly he wasn’t the Ice Man anymore. He let sentiment got the better of him for a few minutes. Then a resolution surged in him. He poised himself. He needed to be sure, careful, and precise if he wanted to do this. Yes. He pushed the button again. Anthea appears. “Yes, sir? Your car is ready, and the files are in it.”
“Thank you, Anthea. Also, bring me the file of Charles Augustus Magnussen.”
“Yes, sir.” After she left, Mycroft rose from his seat. He straigtened himself out, reaching for his coat and his umbrella. I’m sorry, brother dear...it’s all my fault. He wanted me. And in our game, you were the collateral damage. But don’t you worry...I’ll take care of this. I promise.
***
The atmosphere was solemn when Mycroft got there. It was only punctured by Molly’s occassional sob and Mrs. Hudson’s frantic weeping. Lestrade sighed a lot, while John was as quiet as a stone, also looking ten years older. Mary sat beside him, stroking his hand. He decided to approach Molly first. “Ms. Hooper. Are you sure it’s...Sherlock?” he asked hesitantly.
Molly’s face was red, she hiccuped, “Believe me, I don’t want it to...but y-yes.” She drew a sharp breath. “Yes, it’s him. I’d never mistake him.”
He stared at her, his eyes shouted disbelief. Molly squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry for your loss. He was important to me too, you know.”
“Yes, yes...”He trailed away. Then he asked, “Cause of death?”
“Drugs overdose. The lab is still processing all the substances in his body. But it was all self-administered.”
“...Thank you, Ms. Hooper. I’m sorry too.” He walked away towards John. John was huddled with Mary. He looked up, and say Mycroft. Towering over him, his body as rigid as the black umbrella he brought wherever he go. “John. Could we have a word?”
“Yes, yes...” John rose from his seat and walked to the corner. Mycroft followed. John turned suddenly, startling Mycroft. “Did you know about this? About him in that crack house?” Although John was much shorter than he is, and not very intimidating, he found himself speechless. The cold facade he always maintained was well worn after the shocking news. He couldn’t lie. He owed it to Sherlock to be honest to the man his brother always loved. “Yes.”
“You did?” John blurted out, his tone manic.
“Yes. I had people there, they were supposed to...”
“Oh, bloody hell, Mycroft! I am done with your siblings rivalry! You were supposed to keep him safe, with all your secret service bollocks!”
Mycroft inhaled deeply. It took all of his self control to not shook this little man in front of him and yelled at him that he was devastated too. He spoke in deep voice. “Now, John...let me assure you, that Sherlock’s death also devastate me profoundly. I’m sorry for your loss,” Because it was my loss, too. “But there was nothing I could do. And I will do everything in my power to avenge Sherlock.” Avenge. The word tasted strange on his tongue. Foreign. He was so detached for so long that strong words like that never escape his mouth.
“Mycroft.” John shot him a dark look. “Do you know who—or what caused this?”
Against his better judgment, he answered. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Puzzled, John snapped, “What? Did you kill your own brother?”
“No, of course not! That was the silliest notion I’ve ever heard!” Mycroft loooked scandalized.
“Sherlock wouldn’t agree.” John interjected.
“Sherlock was delusional.” He said rapidly. “What do you know of Charles Augustus Magnussen?”
John eyed him with caution. “Not much. Owns some newspapers. Ones I don’t read. Why? What’s he got to do with Sherlock?”
Mycroft sighed. This is going to be ugly, he thought. “Not Sherlock, initially. Me.” He exhaled. “John, what I’m about to tell you is a matter of national security, and if you repeat any word of this, in this context, trust me when I say you will be tried for high treason.”
But John was immune to his threats. He spoke nonchalantly, “Fire away.”
“Magnussen wanted to get to me. His weapon is knowledge. He’s not like Moriarty, whose service is for hire, or plays when he gets bored. No. Magnussen is a businessman. He gathers assets. And I happen to be one of the greatest assets.”
John chimed in. “Yeah, yeah, you’re the British Government.”
“Clearly Sherlock had exaggerated.”
“No, he doesn’t.” He quipped.
“No, he doesn’t,” Mycroft agreed. “Did Sherlock ever mention the name Lady Smallwood to you?”
“He did. It was about her wanting Sherlock to extract some letters her husband sent years ago to a girl. I know nothing more.”
“Magnussen orchestrated all of that. He purposefully used Lady Smallwood to get to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock was the only resort for Lady Smallwood. Magnussen has this “pressure point”, or so he called them, on people. He knew all the weaknesses and secrets needed to make sure he gets his way. He had determined that my pressure point...”
“...is Sherlock.” John continued. A horrible realization dawned upon him. His mind was deperately putting together the puzzle pieces. “But why did he was so sure that Lady Smallwood will come to Sherlock? Wouldn’t it be more reliable if he went through...me?”
“I regrettably do not know. I asked that myself. I had suspicions, but given the recent events, I have shifted focus.”
“Why did Sherlock go into that crack house?”
“I believe that he wanted Magnussen to think that he is a junkie and his pressure point is drugs.”
“He wasn’t entirely wrong there.” John said sharply.
“Sherlock should have known better. He shouldn’t have overdone it. I placed agents there. To watch over him. I did my best.” Mycroft spoke calmly.
John’s eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t give a damn. Your best got him killed.” His hands twitched as he said, “Mycroft, what you’re saying is—Sherlock...got killed because of y-you.”
Reluctantly, Mycroft nodded. “That’s...certainly one way to put it.”
“You bastard!” John spat. His rage got the best of him. His fist flew to Mycroft’s face, attracting the attention of Molly, Mary, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. The four of them broke from their conversation and were astonished to see John and Mycroft’s brawl.
John punched him in the stomach, knocking him down. “You cock! You—knew—this—was—gonna—happen!” He continued to bashed Mycroft’s face with each word, while Mycroft kicked him in the shins. “I didn’t! I swear, John!”
His denial only elevated John’s anger. “Liar! Liar! You knew!” Before John could attempt another punch, Lestrade had restrained him single handedly. “No, let me have ‘im! He killed Sherlock! He killed Sherlock!”
But Lestrade wouldn’t let go. John elbowed him. He grunted, but he still managed to restrain John. He shouted in his ear, “Oi, you’re upset! Calm down, for bloody’s sake! Sherlock wouldn’t want this!”
“Oh, the man’s dead, Lestrade!” John was positively manic. “Because of his own brother!” He pointed out at Mycroft, who was straightening his suit, and now nursing a bloody nose and cut lips.
“If you’d just calm down, I’ll release ya,” Lestrade said. John relented, “Fine!”
“Mate, I understand your feelings. You can hate Mycroft all you want. But you got to give the man a chance to explain!” Lestrade said hotly.
“Listen, John,” Mycroft hissed. His tone now full of contempt. “You’re not the only one who loses someone important today. When I said I will avenge Sherlock, that was a promise. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to take care of this. I will contact you if ever I need your help in this matter.” He nodded curtly to the others and walked briskly.
“Wait!” John called out. Mycroft stopped in his tracks. “What did Magnussen want from you?”
Mycroft turned his back and looked at him squarely. “This country.”
John breathed deeply. His expression painful. His hands still curled into fists. “Oh, you and your politics...” He paused. When he spoke, his tone was cold and final. “Mycroft, after this...thing is over, don’t you ever contact me again.” Mycroft’s expression looked stiff, and he turned around and left the room.
Back in his car, Mycroft pressed his handkerchief unto his nose and glanced at the files of the agents stationed in The Den. The sting on his nose was nothing compared to his failure. He felt rage and disgust rushed over him. He reached his phone and pressed a number. “Anthea, arrange for the termination of the agents at The Den. They were inadequate.”
