Here he was again, in the fourth cubicle from the door in the boys toilets that seemed to be his second home at the moment. He had had his usual 1 o'clock session and was now sitting on the lid of the toilet nibbling on his ham sandwich his mother had made for him. He was staring at the graffiti on the back of the door, mindless 'I woz here's' and such like written all over it. The small boy shuddered at the frankly disgraceful grammar and contemplated correcting it, but thought against it as he knew that would mean his 1 o'clock session would be extended if they realised it was him.
Sherlock looked down at his arms, he had rolled back the sleeves of his shirt (something he would never do in front of anyone) and looked down at the fresh bruising pattern appearing on it, and some of the older darker ones still there. There were no more tears left in him, just numbness. He had learned to zone himself out when he was faced with the bullies in the older years. Everyday at lunch without fail they would be there waiting for him outside which ever class he had, no matter how quickly he tried to leave the classroom they would still be there waiting with the nasty sneers always on their faces. 'Freak' they would call him, pinning him down, 'know-it-all, think you're so clever don't you?' punching him over and over, but always in places where the bruises can't be seen.
At 10 years old Sherlock was not strong enough to defend himself against these 14 year olds boys, who hated Sherlock because of his incredible intelligence. Sherlock may be young, but he knew more about almost everything than a grown man. He also had an amazing skill of understanding human nature, although it wasn't easy for him to put it into practise himself. He could always tell what you had been up to, but instead of trying to fit in with the crowd and keep quiet, he would tell everyone, isolating himself from everyone around him. One day he made the mistake of ratting out a certain Jim Moriarty to the head teacher and that had set him up for a life of bullying.
His 14 year old brother was no use either. Mycroft was almost as smart as Sherlock but he, too, was hated in the school. Mycroft, however, was more ignored than bullied. People just didn't talk to him because he knew how to get people to do what he wanted, he was clever with words. He had been given the job of hall monitor and he would spend his lunch patrolling the corridors and playgrounds, a job he took very seriously. Mycroft would break up the fights Sherlock and Jim Moriarty would get into, but Jim would change the place of the attack whenever they got caught and so it was never easy but he would always try and be on the look out.
"I couldn't find you today, how bad was it?" Mycroft asked as he and Sherlock were walking home. Sherlock said nothing as his eyes drifted to his arms and his grip tightened on the straps of his rucksack. "I just wish there was more I could do!" Sherlock swallowed away a lump in his throat.
His family lived in a very small village, well away from any town, and there was only one school. They owned a small shop and so it was impossible for the family to move anywhere, and besides, his parents were always too busy to be aware of what was going on in their children's lives. It was always Sherlock and Mycroft looking out for each other, but they were just kids and there was very little they could do.
The next day Sherlock was sitting at his desk watching the clock. 12:54…12:55…
"…a new class member…" 12:56. "…make him feel welcome…" Sherlock wasn't paying attention to his teacher; he was waiting for the bell, waiting for his 1 o'clock session to begin. That was probably why he didn't notice the young boy sit down next to him.
RRRRING!
The bell went and Sherlock gulped as he got up and walked towards the door. He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned round.
"What?" A young boy behind him jumped.
"Um, hi. I'm John Watson, I'm new here." He smiled sweetly.
"Yes you must be, you're talking to me."
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing. I'm Sherlock." This John Watson was the first person to talk to him for months, although he wasn't a people person, he wanted to have what little human contact he could have before this John realised you should stay away from Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh look, Sherly has made a friend," a sarcastic Irish voice said from the corridor. A tall, dark haired boy reached out and shook John by the hand. "Jim Moriarty," he introduced himself and bowed.
"John Watson." His voice was hard, cold, it took Sherlock by surprised. He looked at John for the first time with open eyes. His sandy hair was messy; he didn't care too much about his appearance, just enough to look good. His eyes sparkled as they looked at Sherlock but seemed to turn black as they went back to Jim. His mouth was hard and flat, but the smile he had just given Sherlock was so warm and welcoming, it was like he was looking at a completely different person to the one in the classroom two minutes ago!
"Come on Sherly, we have an appointment don't we?" Jim smiled, but it was not a friendly smile. Sherlock looked between Jim and his henchmen beside him.
"Do you mind if I come? I like joining clubs." John's voice was hard, he didn't like the look of this Jim Moriarty and he didn't want to leave Sherlock on his own with him.
"Private club I'm afraid." Jim reached out and pulled Sherlock towards him. "Come on pretty boy," he whispered in his ear.
"Bye John," Sherlock muttered. That was the end of that friendship, Sherlock thought. John unwillingly walked to lunch as Jim, Sherlock and the henchmen walked towards the bike sheds.
Sherlock went under the usual beating and was left to crawl back to the toilets like he had done so many times before. Jim was particularly annoyed due to the attempted interference of this John person and that had made him break the bully rules and hit Sherlock in the face causing him to split his bottom lip. After Sherlock had pulled himself together by sobbing in his cubicle, he saw to his lip, dabbing it with a wet tissue. He was alone in the cubicle; most people were in the canteen eating lunch on the other side of the school. He undid the first couple of buttons of his shirt and looked at the bruises. His finger traced the yellow shoe shape on his skin.
He retreated to his cubicle as he heard someone enter but a voice caused him to freeze.
"Sherlock?" He turned. "Oh my…" John trailed off as he took in what he was looking at.
With his shirt undone and his sleeves rolled back John could see the multi-coloured bruises on Sherlock's skin. They stared at each other, one out of embarrassment, the other out of shame. "What have they done to you?" John whispered. Suddenly aware of his bare chest Sherlock attempted to cover himself up with his thin arms but John walked up to him and moved Sherlock's arms out of the way. Sherlock didn't resist. John traced the yellow and purple marks on Sherlock's body, which seemed to act like a trigger as Sherlock suddenly burst into tears.
Sherlock told John everything. How the school hated him and how everyday he was punched and kicked by Jim and his henchmen and how sometimes they even cut him with a small pocket knife Jim kept with him and how he couldn't do anything about it because Jim was the Mayor's son, and no one would upset the mayor. When Sherlock had told on Jim, the mayor had threatened Sherlock saying he could lose his parents jobs and put him and Mycroft into care if he did anything like that against his Jim again, so Sherlock had remained quiet for months.
John stayed silent as Sherlock poured his heart out to him. He had put his arm around his shoulders to try and comfort him but Sherlock had shrugged them off. He felt so sorry for Sherlock. People had been telling him at lunch about the 'freak' in his class and to stay away from him as he was evil and a smarty-pants but all John could see was a bullied and vulnerable soul that just needed a friend. And he was determined to be that friend.
*
The next day John and Sherlock were sitting in the classroom. Again Sherlock was watching the clock, ignoring the teacher talk about some volcano in Scandinavia or Indonesia. John was beside him furiously taking down notes. Why would you want to learn about volcanoes? He thought to himself, it's such useless information taking up precious space in one's brain.
The bell went and Sherlock slowly made his way to the door with John muttering something about 'how interesting it was to learn how volcanoes work'.
"Hello Sherly," came a menacing voice. Sherlock didn't say anything, but walked towards Jim accepting his punishment. Jim stroked the split lip on Sherlock's face and smiled.
"I don't think so." John grabbed Jim's wrist, causing him to wince in pain, he pulled his arm from John's grip and rubbed it slightly. He said nothing, just stared hard into John's eyes. John didn't even flinch; he merely stared back, not blinking in the slightest. "Come on Sherlock, let's get some lunch." Sherlock was uneasy, he was afraid that if he turned his back Jim would knock him down.
After looking between John and Sherlock, Jim said, "Come on guys, he isn't worth it," and slowly turned to leave. Amazed Sherlock turned to John and gave him a smile, and John gave him a warm smile in return.
"What was that hand thing you did?"
"There is a pressure point on your wrist that if you press on it in a certain way, it will hurt and cause you to release your grip. My father is in the army and my mother is a doctor so together they taught me how to look after myself." John grinned.
"Thank you," Sherlock said as they walked towards the canteen.
Jim watched them walk away with his hands in tight fists. He felt the jealously surged through him.
"We'll get him tomorrow," said one of his henchmen. They hated Sherlock; Jim had twisted their minds so that they did. But the funny thing was that Jim didn't hate Sherlock. He was in love with Sherlock. He had only broken the rules to get Sherlock's attention but all Sherlock had done was tell on him, and Jim wanted to punish him for it. Hurting Sherlock was the only way Jim could think of to get close to him, to get his attention. It was better for Sherlock to hate him than for Sherlock to not know him at all. But this John character felt like a threat, and Jim did not like it.
John and Sherlock spent all their time together after this. They'd sit next to each other in class and always eat together at lunch. Sherlock wasn't bullied so much now, if John was ever ill Jim would take advantage, but as long as he was with John he was safe. And Sherlock didn't mind that, he liked John. John put up with him when he was difficult or rude and he knew how to calm him if he ever got angry or upset.
On Saturday Sherlock was helping out in his parents shop like usual when he heard a familiar voice in one of the aisles.
"How about this one, mum?" He raced over to see John and his mother (whom he was the spitting image of) looking at a dainty china tea set.
"Do you know I rather like this one, good spot Johnny!" she ruffled his hair and went to the counter. John followed her and saw Sherlock.
"Hey!"
"Hello," Sherlock grinned. Their mothers were talking, John's mother asking for the tea set to be wrapped up for her to take home. They spotted the two boys talking.
"That's my son John," said the customer, very proud.
"Oh he looks like a dear. That's mine, Sherlock." Sherlock's mother sounded less pleased to show off her son.
"Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes?" Sherlock's mother nodded. "My son has told me all about him. They're best friends aren't they."
"Oh I didn't know," said Mrs Holmes uninterested.
"Oh we must have you and your husband and your boy to dinner next weekend." Mrs Watson was a charming lady and Mrs Holmes saw no reason to reject the offer so she agreed to go.
*
Over the months Sherlock and John continually went round each other's houses, people from the town very rarely saw one without the other. Sometimes John would come and help out in the shop and Sherlock suddenly seemed to get ill out of doctor's hours a lot meaning a trip to Mrs Watson's house, miraculously feeling better when they got to the doorstep but thought he might as well see John now that they were here.
They became very close, knowing each other's secrets and were able to tell what the other would say or think in certain situations. Sherlock would teach John all about science and human nature, how to notice things like when people were lying. John said he should become a detective but Sherlock always said they were dull and stupid. But John taught Sherlock something much more important. He taught him how to be a child, how to have fun. He had got Sherlock into dinosaurs and before long Sherlock had a huge collection of models which he loved, his favourite being the T-Rex because it was one of the biggest and scariest of them all.
One night Sherlock was reading a book by Jane Austen. John had told him she was one of the most well known writers of all time and he wanted to make his own opinion on her work. It took him half a chapter before he had worked out who would end up with whom but not one for giving up he carried on reading it. He was up to the point where the main character had just discovered her love for the leading man and she was describing how she felt.
Everytime I go near him my heartbeat increases, and whenever we must say goodbye I die a little inside. His smile turns my world upside down and I could not possibly live if he did not exist. We understand each other, know what one another is thinking and are able to talk to each other about any troubles we may have. It is him and only him that I want to share my life with.
As Sherlock read this declaration of love a single word unconsciously passed through is lips, John.
Sherlock had been quiet all day and John was concerned. Normally when Sherlock was having a quiet day he would have a certain look on his face where his features would be still and often he would have his eyes closed and his hands to his mouth in a prayer like state. But today there was confusion on his face, his eyebrows were drawn together and upward and he kept moving his head from side to side as if he was having a conversation with himself in his mind. Whenever John tried to talk to him Sherlock would give him a short reply, with no chance of a conversation starting. Whatever he was thinking about John knew he wasn't going to hear about it until Sherlock had sorted it out in his mind.
At lunch Sherlock told John to go to the canteen without him and that he would join him later. John was worried about Jim but Sherlock said he was looking for his brother so he would be alright. Reluctantly John let him go and Sherlock soon found Mycroft marching down the locker corridor.
"Hey Mycroft."
"What do you want?" he asked nastily, he didn't like being disturbed whilst 'working'.
"I need your help." Mycroft snorted but said nothing so Sherlock continued. "I'm in love with John and I want to show him but I don't know how." Angry at such a childish request Mycroft said,
"Why don't you just marry him?" This was meant to be sarcastic but Sherlock smiled at the obviously genius idea and ran to the canteen, planning his proposal to John.
He found John sitting alone at the end of a table. Being friends with the school's resident freak did have its down sides. He ran to him and pulled him to his feet and said rather breathlessly, "John…*breath*…I love you…*breath*…will you marry me?" John was mesmerised. A slur that sounded something like 'whaddayatalkinbout' was all he could say. Catching his breath Sherlock said, "I was reading those Austen books and realised how our friendship was so much like all the pairings in the book. We're in love, which means we should get married," suddenly embarrassed he mumbled, "if you want to." Slowly a smile grew on John's face and he hugged his best friend tightly and whispered in his ear.
"Of course!"
*
"So will you marry us please Mycroft?" Sherlock asked his brother on the way home. He and John were holding hands as John now walked home with the two Holmes's. Feeling a little awkward Mycroft said,
"You know you're too young to get married, you have to be 16!" Sherlock's face drooped, he hadn't thought about that. He was still living in this fairytale world where love will always prevail.
"Couldn't we have a pretend wedding? In the park?" John asked. "We can just make promises to each other to say we will be together forever."
"Oh yes, YES!" Sherlock perked up again. "Will you do the ceremony please Mycroft?" He gave in.
"Oh alright."
*
That weekend found John and Sherlock in the local park sitting on a bench by a small pond covered in water lilies. They were all wrapped up in their coats and scarves as it was winter time and there was snow on the ground, a truly romantic scene for a 'wedding'. Mycroft was standing in front of them trying to look important and in charge, but also slightly embarrassed at the unusual thing he was doing.
"We're gathered here today to witness the sharing of a promise between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. John, do you promise to love Sherlock Holmes forever and stay with him for the rest of your life?"
"I do."
"And do you Sherlock Holmes promise to love John Watson forever and stay with him for the rest of your life?" Sherlock looked at John and grinned.
"I do." Sherlock and John linked hands and looked at Mycroft as he finished off the ceremony.
"I now pronounce you together forever." He gave a little bow and said, "Here's a fiver, go get some tea to warm up, it's freezing, I'm gonna go to the café and pretend this never happened."
Sitting on the bench drinking their tea (Sherlock's significantly sweeter than John's) John and Sherlock were chatting happily.
"John, I have a present for you, to show you that I love you." Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out a small object. "It's my T-Rex. I want you to have it."
"Oh no, it's your favourite one, I couldn't…" John protested but Sherlock shoved it into his hand, forcing him to take it. "Thank you," he said with a smile and he gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek.
Not too far from where Sherlock and John were sitting, a boy appeared from behind the bushes. Unknowing to them, Jim had just witnessed Sherlock and John's 'wedding'. The two did not attempt to hide their feelings for each other so everyone in the school had heard about them dating and that news had not escaped Jim Moriarty. He had begun to stalk Sherlock, watching him with John, they were always together. And when he heard the rumour that Sherlock had proposed to John, Jim reached breaking point. Being in Mycroft's class he had heard that the ceremony was to be at the weekend in the park so he had hung around the entrance from 10 in the morning and waited for them to arrive. He was sure that he had a cold now but he needed to see if it was true, and when he realised it was, he felt his heart burn with anger and his eyes turned black as he watched John give Sherlock a kiss.
"Okay, it's freezing, lets go back to mine," John said with a shudder in his voice.
"Alright, let me just put these paper cups in the bin." He took John's cup and walked to the other side of the path and placed the rubbish into the small black container. From behind him a heard a scream and then a splash. John! He turned and ran back to where John was meant to be standing. But it wasn't John there anymore, it was Jim.
Jim was staring out into the pond and Sherlock followed his gaze. What he saw horrified him. In the pond was John, his arms flailing and his head bobbing in and out of the freezing cold water as he desperately gasped for breath. Sherlock looked back at Jim.
"You…you pushed…" but he was unable to finish the sentence as Jim had taken his face in his hands and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. Immediately Sherlock pulled away and staggered back. He would have been frozen to the spot if he hadn't heard John's desperate cries for help. He didn't know what to do, he couldn't swim, so he just started screaming at the top of his lungs for help. Jim ran as fast as he could, past Mycroft who was running like lightning to the scene. Without a second thought he dived into the ice cold pond and pulled John out, whose eyes had just rolled back and his movement cease.
Sherlock was unable to move as he watched Mycroft drag John out of the pond onto the bank. Immediately Mycroft started mouth-to-mouth and it only took 2 breaths for John to choke up the water he had consumed and return to consciousness. Sherlock dived on him, embracing him tightly, taking in his scent (if a bit wet) so he could remember it in case he lost him. Both he and Mycroft took off their coats and gave them to John to try and keep him warm. They took him home and left him with his furious mother, well Sherlock didn't want to leave him but Mycroft insisted.
"Jim Moriarty pushed him in." Sherlock told him, his eyes were dark and his voice was low. Mycroft looked at him, he wasn't surprised but he knew what Jim's father had threatened Sherlock with, and so he knew Sherlock couldn't say anything. The general story around the school was that John had slipped on some ice and fell in, but since Sherlock and John were outcasts, it wasn't talked about much so nobody questioned it.
*
Time passed and people had noticed a change in the outcasts of the school. Sherlock had become a lot more protective of his boyfriend, particularly around an older boy called Jim Moriarty. They were always throwing dark glances at each other. Jim had become a recluse. He wouldn't talk to any one and would always look angry and troublesome. The rate of bullying increased but not for Sherlock, for other boys who all seemed to have the same curly black hair and angel blue eyes that Sherlock had. Sherlock and John remained as much in love as they ever had, much to Mrs Watson's despair, she couldn't quite forgive Sherlock for letting John nearly drown.
Everything in their lives was just as it should be until…
3 years later
It was a crisp Monday morning in the small home town of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was speed walking to school as he hadn't seen John over the weekend and he had missed him. Mycroft wasn't too bothered about being left behind; being seen with your kid brother when you were in the last year of school didn't do anything for his reputation. John had been on a weekend holiday with his family as his father had come back from service. Mrs Watson had looked smug as Sherlock had waved John off at the station, he hadn't liked it.
Sherlock reached the school far too early and sat at his desk waiting for the arrival of John, which he should have realised was not going to be any time soon. He simply shut his eyes and smiled and thought about what kind of fun they could get up to this weekend. Perhaps they could go to the park again (a different park to where the accident happened, of course), and he could tell John all about the strangers surrounding them. They had done that a few times before and John had insisted yet again that he should become a detective inspector in the police department,
"Or that Derren Brown guy!" John suggested in excitement.
"John. I am not going to be a magician." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.
Sherlock smiled as he thought of this. Maybe he could work for the police; they'd definitely capture a lot more killers if he worked for them.
"I could become a master criminal," Sherlock had suggested with a wry grin.
"No you couldn't, I wouldn't let you. You're not evil Sherlock Holmes," was John's reply.
"I'd be damn good at it though." John laughed.
"You would definitely never get caught. You'd be the Jack the Ripper of the modern times."
"It would be interesting…" he had mused.
"Holmes! Promise me you will never be the bad guy!" John demanded, looking straight into Sherlock's eyes.
"I promise."
Something against his cheek had brought Sherlock out of his trance. He opened his eyes to see John giving him a peck on the cheek.
"Hello," he smiled. Sherlock's face fell. He turned serious and started studying John relentlessly. "No, Sherlock, don't," John said, but he had to. Sherlock had noticed the slight quiver in John's voice when he had said hello, and that kiss on the cheek was longer than it should have been. Something was wrong and he needed to work out what it was.
Right, what did he know? John was upset but he wasn't physically harmed and he hadn't heard that anyone in his family was hurt or dead so he must have been told something. Something had to have happened over the weekend because he wasn't like this on Friday when they had said goodbye. They went away for a trip to the Midlands. Not exactly a holiday destination but John had family there. And the way John had asked him not to work out what the problem was meant that John wanted to tell him. So it must affect him in some way. The image of Mrs Watson's face as Sherlock had said goodbye to John on Friday rushed past his mind.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, NO!" He jumped up from his chair and staggered backwards. John lunged forward to stop him from falling, but Sherlock brushed him off. "NO! How could you do this to me?!" He yelled. Other people in the room were looking at them, it was unusual to hear Sherlock raise his voice, these two never argued. John's eyes filled with tears.
"I have no choice; my parents sprung it on me whilst we were away. My dad's been discharged, he's retiring, and he wants us to move back to the town we used to live in. They've bought a house; they took me to see it this weekend. We're leaving on Friday."
"NO!" was all Sherlock could say. John can't leave him! How could he leave him? Tears were streaming down his face, he had to get out. He charged out of the classroom leaving John standing alone, with half the class looking at him, wondering what was going on.
Sherlock was sitting under a dying tree in the school field. His eyes red raw from sobbing. People had started to leave the classrooms, it must be break, I had no idea I had been out here so long, Sherlock thought to himself. There was people walking in every direction, some munching on fruit, others chatting. Nobody noticed him, he was invisible.
Or so he thought. As he was wallowing in his own self pity Sherlock didn't notice the girl walking towards him. Her name was Sima, and she was in his class. Sherlock didn't know much about her, not that he cared, but she was one of the kinder people in the school. Although she didn't talk to Sherlock, she had never called him names and she rebuked any body that did.
"Sherlock?" She said very quietly. He looked at her.
"What?" She took this rude reply as an invitation to sit down next to him on the grass.
"Look I don't mean to intrude,"
"Then don't!" Sherlock interrupted. She pulled a face and carried on.
"I heard John was leaving. I'm so sorry." There was a pain in Sherlock's stomach like someone had just stabbed him. "But he has been crying non stop all morning." What was she doing? Sherlock thought to himself. Why is she twisting the knife in my chest? "He's been saying how you hate him, and how you will never forgive him." Sherlock hung his head in shame. "Look I know you're upset, but maybe instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you should be making the most of the time you have left together?" Sherlock frowned. He didn't like people telling him what to do, but she was right of course. He looked at her kind face, still frowning. "Okay, I'm gone, I'm gone!" She said as she got up and walked away.
"Thank you," Sherlock called after her. She turned round and smiled as she walked over to her friends.
Just like the day he proposed to John, Sherlock was out of breath as he found John in the canteen, as red-eyed as Sherlock was. Both of them started apologising immediately, talking over each other. They burst out laughing and hugged, and said nothing more.
They lived the rest of the week as if nothing had happened, although they did spend more time with each other after school (if that was humanly possible). But as Friday came, a dark cloud hung over Sherlock's head. He didn't want to go to school, he didn't want to have to say goodbye. They had all their usual laughs but they were awkward and every giggle ended in a sad expression. As the bell went for the end of school, Sherlock automatically grabbed hold of John and begged him not to go.
"Sherlock I'm coming back to visit you in two weeks!" John said as he tried to push Sherlock off.
"Why can't you visit me every weekend?" he whined. John pulled a face.
"Sherlock, you know I can't do that. Look, I'll text you everyday and call you every other day, we have facebook and all that! It's not like your never going to see me again!" Sherlock loosened his grip on John and slowly released him. John was practical, he didn't want to leave Sherlock but he knew being clingy and crying would do nothing so he had to accept it.
Sherlock stood on John's drive as he watched John getting into the car. His dad had just loaded the last suitcase in the back of the car. John rolled down the car window and blew Sherlock a kiss, who was trying to swallow the rising lump in his throat.
"Bye."
"Bye," Sherlock said in a whisper. "I love you."
"I love you too." Neither of them could quite get their words out so they simply looked at each other as Mr Watson turned on the ignition and drove away. Sherlock and John didn't loose eye contact until the family had turned a corner and was out of sight. Staring into the spot where they had gone, Sherlock didn't move for a while until he realised that John was not going to come back. Slowly he dragged himself home and collapsed onto his bed, face down so he didn't have to look at all the photographs of him and John plastered all over his walls. If he was older perhaps he would take to the bottle and start drinking his weight in alcohol, but since he was only 14 he drank his weight in ridiculously sweet tea instead.
*
Sherlock was sitting in the dark, it was very late and he had a headache. There was a knock at his bedroom door. Annoyed at the disturbance he got up and opened it to see Mycroft standing there looking very serious.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.
"It's John. He's dead." Sherlock went deaf, Mycroft's lips were moving but he heard no sound come out of them. He swayed for a second and then his legs buckled underneath him as he collapsed onto the floor in a heap. Mycroft ran to him but Sherlock shrugged him off and curled up into the foetal position murmuring, "no, no, no," over and over again. Mycroft took him by the shoulders and shook him.
"Sherlock, Sherlock look at me." But he didn't. He just lay there, rocking slightly. Mycroft pulled him upright and yelled; "SHERLOCK!" but Sherlock still wouldn't look at him. "Him and his family… Sherlock!" Sherlock had put his hands over his ears, he didn't want to know, he didn't want to know! But Mycroft knew that Sherlock had to know. He held down Sherlock's arms so that it hurt and forced the information into Sherlock's brain. "They were in a car crash, the other driver got away but they suspect he was drunk. John and both his parents died. I'm sorry." Sherlock was fuming, Mycroft wasn't sorry, and he hated him for telling him. He could have pretended he was still alive, but no, Mycroft wouldn't allow that. And he despised for it.
Mycroft left him, knowing there was nothing he could do. Sherlock cried himself to sleep that night.
This chapter is going to sum up the next ten years of Sherlock's life and so it will be short and sweet. Because, although his life was not an ordinary one, it was, in a way, routine.
Sherlock didn't attend the funeral, it was out of town and although Mycroft offered to take him, he wanted the last memory of John to be him saying 'I love you'.
Sherlock became a recluse. He didn't talk to anyone, not even Mycroft, and spent all his time trying to gain information on anything and everything. He had books, papers and articles all over his room; he drew diagrams and watched lectures online. He worked hard every night, sometimes not sleeping until he passed out due to exhaustion. He closed up his emotions and removed any proof of the childhood he had had with John from his life.
He hated life. He hated people, and people hated him. He wanted the world to pay for what it had done to John. He never learnt how to drive, he didn't want to. Cars were evil. But he never lashed out, not once. He wanted to keep his promise to John. He would never be the bad guy.
Mycroft went to a top university in London and once Sherlock had finished school, he and his parents followed him to London. He went to a different university though; he didn't want to be like Mycroft.
At university Sherlock studied criminology. Although he tried not to think of John, he didn't want to let him down and so he had vowed to become a detective. Not a police detective, he didn't want to become one of the people that had let John down. No. he was going to be a private detective. He had his heart set on it.
Mycroft started to work for the government, 'this and that' he would say, never quite being clear. But Sherlock knew. He could always tell when a case had the distinct stench of Mycroft. That's why he did his best to stay away from home, from the memories.
After university Sherlock immediately set himself up in a small flat outside of London. He advertised wherever he could and got his first case within a week – he had learned how to sell himself well. A woman wanted to know if her husband was cheating on her. He called at her house and asked her a routine few questions. Whilst he was there, the husband had returned and Sherlock had seen within the space of 10 seconds the answer.
"Yes." He stated.
"I'm sorry?" the woman had said, unaware she had asked a question.
"He is cheating on you. You said you had told your husband that you were at a friend's house, but when he returns and here's you call out 'hello', he comes in looking nervous. He also smells like a woman and has lipstick on his cheek. That and the fact that when you said 'hello' there was a yelp and a slamming of a door suggests there is a twenty year old woman standing on the doorstep wondering why her lover had just thrown her out of the house she had just walked into." The woman had burst into tears.
"You could have broken it to me gently!" She yelled. Sherlock was confused. She had asked him to investigate and he had found her the answer. She was being ungrateful. From that moment he decided he would not take domestic cases.
He started working smaller cases but as he got older, and the more clients he got that would then recommend him, his cases got bigger and more important. He was asked to investigate the theft of an expensive necklace from a celebrity and it was here that he met a Detective Inspector Lestrade. He very quickly solved the case using his information on boot polish and plug adapters which amazed Lestrade. Sherlock was as rude as he normally was but Lestrade could not shake the feeling that this man was special, and so he kept in contact, calling him in if he was needed. Then, when Lestrade was transferred to the murder squad, Sherlock Holmes was introduced to the worst things people could to each other.
And that is the story of the Sherlock Holmes you know. And this is how it continues…
10 years after the accident
"We have a body for you Sherlock," said the voice on the phone. The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned upward as he thanked the young woman calling him and grabbed his coat.
"How fresh?" Straight to the point, that's how he was these days, never wanted a conversation.
"Just in. 67, natural causes. Used to work here. I knew him, he was nice." The young woman from the phone call smiled in reminiscence. Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was no good looking into the past.
"Fine. We'll start with the riding crop."
The rest of the morning was spent trying to prove or disprove a man's alibi for a murder by brutally attacking a dead man. After accepting an offer of coffee from the pathologist – Molly – Sherlock went upstairs to do some more experiments.
He was reacting two chemicals together, an acid and an anhydride, when two people entered the room.
"Bit different from my day!"
"You have no idea!"
He recognised one voice as Mike Stamford, who worked here and sometimes would give Sherlock a hand in his investigations. The other man Sherlock didn't know, but he felt like he had met him before. His haircut and his posture shouted military and when he had spoken it suggested he had come here for university; therefore he must have been an army doctor.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." That wasn't true; Sherlock just didn't want to use his own phone.
"And what's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text." Mike pulled a face but searched his pockets anyway. He shrugged.
"Sorry, it's in my coat." How inconvenient, thought Sherlock.
"Here, use mine," the other man offered. Sherlock was slightly surprised at this man's immediate trust in him, but of course they hadn't met before so he obviously wasn't aware of the fact that letting Sherlock near anything that is yours is dangerous.
"Oh, thank you." And he got up to take the phone.
"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." The name sent cold shivers down Sherlock's spine. Only life could be cruel enough to drag that memory into the fore-front of his mind. And this man, who was unfortunate enough to share the same name as… wanted to be his flatmate (well it was obvious wasn't it)!
Memories overwhelming him, Sherlock did the only thing he could do, he went into detective mode. He gave this man a list of things a flatmate may find annoying as a warning. Molly had interrupted half way through which gave Sherlock a moment to compose himself.
Not wanting to wallow in the past for any longer, he made an excuse about leaving his riding crop in the mortuary and went to leave.
"Is that it?"
"Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?"
"Problem?"
"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." And with that Sherlock told John his life's story by looking at him. This army doctor had been injured in Afghanistan or Iraq and had an alcoholic as a brother. The shock on John's face had destroyed any hope of this being Sherlock's John. There was no way they had met before.
***
"Mycroft, tell me this, is John dead?" Sherlock was sitting opposite Mycroft, a mahogany desk separating the brothers. Mycroft sighed. Sherlock never visited him, not even when Mycroft had asked him to. It was typical that the one time he does, it would be about something in the past, when they were close.
"Sherlock, your John is dead. It's been ten years, don't move in with this man if he brings back bad memories." He smiled at Sherlock, who sneered back at him.
"That was all I wanted to know," and he got up to leave, he didn't want to spend any more time in his brother's company than he had to. In the doorway he turned around and screamed, "AND STOP SPYING ON ME!"
Sherlock's heart was heavy for the rest of the day and part of him dreaded having to meet this man again. But he wanted to live in that flat, being in London would be so convenient, and he was certain this John Watson would move in with him so he knew he had to accept he would have a new John in his life.
***
Sherlock was standing looking at John, who was not looking suspicious across the street, as his mind put the pieces together. He had killed for me. This humble, kind, great man had just killed someone to save my life. Sherlock looked at him in awe.
"Actually, do you know what, ignore me." Sherlock said after a moment's silence.
"Sorry?"
"Ignore all of that, it's just the…err…the shock talking." Lestrade was agitated but Sherlock had to go and talk to John.
"Where are you going?"
"I just need to talk about the… the rent."
"I've still got questions!" Sherlock didn't want to answer any.
"Oh what now?! I'm in shock, look I've got a blanket!" which he then indicated.
"Sherlock!"
"And, I've just caught you a serial killer… more or less." Knowing he wasn't going to get any more out of him, Lestrade let him go. John attempted to deny all knowledge of the shooter but it only took two comments from Sherlock for him to admit it. They cracked a few jokes and left the scene quietly, though not without running in to Mycroft who claimed he was concerned, which Sherlock was not happy about.
That evening the thought that he had actually killed someone had begun to sink in for John. He became quiet and distant. He didn't even realise he had been drinking Sherlock's tea, which was revoltingly too sweet for him. Sherlock was concerned as he watched his friend's eyebrows pull together, an obvious sign of a headache, and was relieved when his friend decided he would go to bed.
Sherlock laid down on his sofa and thought about the unusual day he had had. In the space of a few hours he had gained a friendship so strong that this man would kill for him. Sherlock just hoped that this friendship would not kill this man!
Sherlock woke to a sort of shout. He must have dosed off on the sofa, he thought as he gained his bearings. There was another shout from upstairs.
"John?" he called. Blinking a few times to clear his vision, Sherlock went upstairs and opened the door to John's room. John was tossing and turning and there was a frown on his face. Nightmare, decided Sherlock and he went to shut the door again when John started to mumble.
"Watch out… dad there's a car… no… they can't be dead… get me out." Sherlock frowned and waited to see if John would say anything else, but he didn't.
He went back downstairs and turned on his computer. It sounded a lot like John was dreaming about a car crash, but that was impossible. Mycroft had told him that John was dead, and he wouldn't lie to his face like that. Would he? Sherlock opened up the search engine and typed in "Watson car crash 1998" and watched a series of options come up. The fifth one down the page looked promising so he clicked on it. He took a sharp intake of breath as he began to read the newspaper article.
Yesterday a tragedy occurred as a family of 3 was involved in a car crash with a drunk driver. Moving to a new life in London, the Watson family was hit by a stolen vehicle on the run from the police. The driver was not apprehended as he fled from the scene before the emergency services were called. Both the parents died and the young boy, 14, survived but was seriously injured and being treated in hospital.
Sherlock read the last line again. He couldn't take it in. the young boy, 14, survived but was seriously injured and being treated in hospital.
Without thinking about the time, Sherlock picked up the phone and called Lestrade.
"Hello?" said a dazed voice.
"Lestrade, its Sherlock. I need you to find something out for me."
"Sherlock, its 3 am, can't it-" Sherlock cut him off.
"No. I need you to find out what happened to a boy called John Watson who was involved in a car accident in 1998. He was treated in a hospital for serious injuries-"
"Sherlock, call me in the morning when my brain is functioning and I will see what I can do." And with that Lestrade hung up.
Unable to sleep Sherlock began to pluck at the strings of his violin. If this was his John then why was he pretending to not know him? And why did Mycroft lie? He didn't understand, and he didn't like not understanding.
On the stroke of 7 am Sherlock dialled the same number he had dialled a few hours before and the same disgruntled voice answered.
"Right, what do you want?"
"The details of a car accident involving a family called Watson in 1998, specifically the son, John."
"Wait, isn't your friend-"
"Text me as soon as you find out anything," Sherlock snapped, and he ended the call and John descended down the stairs.
"Morning." Sherlock inclined his head as a response. "I heard you shouting, is everything alright?" Sherlock nodded and sat down on his sofa as John went in search of some breakfast.
For the next 3 hours Sherlock experimented with about 30 different positions on the sofa. But no matter how he lay, he could not get comfortable. His feet would twitch and he kept craning his neck, checking to see if he had any new texts on his phone. John had tried a few times to get out of him what was wrong but Sherlock refused to tell him.
It was during position 37 that the familiar jingle of an incoming text on Sherlock's phone went and as it went Sherlock dived for it. In seconds he had scanned the text and had bolted out that door before John had a chance to ask him where he was going. He attempted to follow him but Sherlock was already in the taxi and leaving as he reached the bottom step.
"YOU LIED TO ME!" screamed Sherlock, as he barged into a meeting between Mycroft and the Prime minister. The PM looked shell shocked but Mycroft had his poker face on, unimpressed with Sherlock's extravagant entrance.
"Sherlock, this tantrum can wait."
"Oh no it can't," he said as he thumped a folder onto the desk. On it was written "J. Watson. Mycroft barely glanced at it but seemed to know what it contained.
"I'm afraid we will have to postpone this meeting prime minister, family business." The prime minister, still in a state of shock, left the room murmuring, 'of course, family business, yes, yes, of course'.
Sherlock and Mycroft watched each other carefully, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
"Sherlock, I-" Mycroft tried to explain, but something in Sherlock snapped. He dived at his brother and pressed him up against the wall holding tightly to his collar. Mycroft could feel his hot, angry breath against his face.
"You lied to me," he whispered. "You told me John was dead. He isn't. He is alive and his is LIVING IN MY FLAT." Sherlock screamed the last words into Mycroft's ear so that it hurt. "He didn't die." Mycroft sighed, showing no fear of the creature in front of him.
"No Sherlock, John didn't die."
"DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK HIS NAME!" Sherlock screeched, spit flying everywhere. He then said, in barely even a whisper, "You have no right to speak his name." The image of the boy Sherlock once loved came into his mind, and the promise he had made him. He would not be the bad guy. Sherlock let Mycroft go, and turned around to try and gain control of himself.
"Amnesia," Mycroft said. Sherlock turned and looked at him. "John-" Sherlock's eye twitched as he said the name, "-was unconscious when he reached the hospital. When he woke up a few hours later he couldn't remember anything of his life here. When I heard about the accident I went to go and see him. He didn't know me. I mentioned you, but he didn't know who you were either. When you asked me the other day if John was dead I didn't lie, your John, the one you knew, is dead. He never regained his memories of those few years."
"If I had seen him, I could have helped him remember, I-"
"It would have destroyed you. You were only 14 Sherlock, and the boy who you loved no longer loved you back. I couldn't see that happen to you."
"Oh so you were protecting me!"
"Yes!"
"YOU TOLD ME HE WAS DEAD!"
"I wanted to save you the pain of seeing him not know you." Sherlock couldn't say anything. The lump in his throat was too big. He got up and lifted his chin high, attempting to leave with some dignity.
"Don't tell him." Sherlock stopped.
"What?"
"Don't bring back the past for John. He has accepted his parents' death. He has accepted that he will never get that life back. Don't drag it all up for him, it may scare him. You never know, he may leave you." A snarl passed through Sherlock's lips. The hatred he felt was unlike any other he had experienced. Resisting the urge of killing his brother, Sherlock stormed out of the room, desperately trying not to lose control. He needed to get out before he did something he would regret.
Sherlock returned to the flat looking 10 years older than when he had left it. John was reading a book in the living room as Sherlock entered. Sherlock took in the normal, quaint scene. John looked up and smiled at him. How could he not have seen John's face there? How could he not have recognised those multi coloured eyes? He felt ashamed. Nicotine patches, nicotine patches, they will help him clear his head. Sherlock plastered his arms with them, much to John's despair.
"Sherlock are you alright?" but Sherlock didn't answer, he just headed straight for his room and collapsed on his bed.
The scene he had come home to was so normal. John had looked content, at peace, he couldn't destroy that. As much as he hated the thought, he knew Mycroft was right. There was no way that he could tell John the truth of their past without the threat of scaring him away. He had no choice, but to carry on living as they were.
As he accepted this, he felt a warmth he hadn't felt in years as he had begun to realise he had his John back.
Sherlock woke up to a knock on his bedroom door.
"Sherlock, Sherlock is it alright for me to come in?" John's voice was soft and full of warmth and Sherlock couldn't help but hug himself thinking about it.
"Yes," he breathed, "yeah you can come in." Quietly John pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside. Feeling a little awkward invading Sherlock's space, John perched himself on the end of the bed and looked at Sherlock who was still sprawled out on the bed.
"Are you okay?" he asked awkwardly.
"Yes, just Mycroft being irritating." Sherlock sat up and placed himself next to John. John made an 'o' shape with his lips and nodded. Sherlock smiled inwardly, John was so trusting, and he would believe anything you say. That was probably why he was one of the greatest friends a guy could have. I still love him, Sherlock thought to himself. But John had made it clear in the restaurant that he wasn't gay, but then what about those 4 years at school? He frowned, it didn't make sense. I have to make him love me again, decided Sherlock.
"So what have you been doing today?" asked Sherlock with genuine interest.
"Reading, bit of telly, nothing much." Suddenly Sherlock burst into laughter and fell backward onto the bed. John looked at him in genuine concern; this was so out of character. But Sherlock couldn't help himself, that answer had been so normal, so dull that it could not have possibly have happened at the same time as when Sherlock was having this emotional rollercoaster ride. Composing himself Sherlock turned to John and said,
"So what do you want to do?"
***
Wooing someone is not an easy thing to do, especially when you were the world's only consulting detective sociopath, but Sherlock still did try. He and John went for meals together, spent time together, but Sherlock also gave him his space when he needed it (there was always an experiment he could do to fill his time). He did his best to not annoy John; he toned down the experiments (no body parts or moulding who-knows-what) and didn't use his gun or laptop without permission.
Sherlock did everything he could think of to try and get into John's affections and so it came as a stab in the chest when John came home from work to announce that he had a date. Not only that but it was in the middle of a very serious case. Desperate not to lose him, Sherlock persuaded John to take his date to a Chinese circus which he suspected to be part of a smuggling gang. It was the perfect opportunity to solve the case and prevent this romance from developing.
Whilst at the circus Sherlock found it very difficult to concentrate on the case whilst this girl, Sarah, was hanging on John's arm. It should be him holding that doctor close, not her. Before he gave himself away, Sherlock slipped behind the scenes in search of clues, which he found in the shape of the yellow spray paint. Perfect. But of course, he then had to have been discovered meaning a bit of a scuffle between him and one of the gang, only to be saved by Sarah. It annoyed him that it had to be her that saved his life, he would have much preferred for John to be his knight in shining armour. Dirty thoughts aside, Sherlock was back at the flat, Sarah still hanging around. She had offered to leave and Sherlock said he thought it wise that she did and left them in peace, but John had insisted for her to stay. No doubt John would not be pleased with the way I treated her, thought Sherlock, but he didn't really care. She did not deserve John.
And then she gave another reason for Sherlock to hate her. She started to nose around in all the notes and images Sherlock had of the case and saw something Sherlock had missed. How could he have missed it? All this lusting after John had put him off his game that he hadn't noticed the notes Soo Lin had made on the photograph of the code. The moment she had pointed it out to him Sherlock had darted outside to get a taxi to the museum to find the book she had used. Just missing a taxi Sherlock had a brainwave when looking at some passing tourists. German, clearly. Without thinking he grabbed the A-Z in their hand and worked through the code he solved the puzzle. I must tell John, we need to stop these people! Sherlock said to himself as he ran back to the flat.
"John, I've got it. The key to the cipher. The book. It's the London A-Z, that's what they're using…" Sherlock stopped. There was silence in the flat. He walked around and turned pale at the sight of the yellow cipher scrawled across the window. "John…"
Sherlock burst into action. Ripping the map off the wall, Sherlock searched it for somewhere that would make sense to the cipher. When he found it he grabbed his phone as he ran out of the flat and called Dimmock.
*
Sitting in the taxi Sherlock could not help but play out the worst case scenario in his mind. If they had killed John, Sherlock would hunt them down and kill every single one of them, promise or no promise to his teenage John. Just the thought of losing John again made Sherlock feel sick. It would mean he would die without knowing Sherlock loved him, how much he meant to him, and that thought destroyed him. When this was over Sherlock would have to put a lot more effort into wooing John, clearly he wasn't trying hard enough.
The taxi dropped him off at the entrance of the tramway and Sherlock threw far too much money at him as he jumped out and started running down the dark pathway. He could hear voices further down, John, so he ran faster.
"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" screeched a familiar voice.
"I don't believe you." So that is the voice of the mysterious Shan.
"You should you know. Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him." He smiled to himself; he would take any moment to boost his own ego. "How would you describe me John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"
"Late?"
In the shadows Sherlock could see the situation. Shan was looking for him in the darkness, waving the gun around meaninglessly. There were two henchmen, one coming closer, looking for him in the darkness and the other next to Sarah, who was quietly sobbing in her chair waiting for death to end it all. And then he forced himself to pluck up the courage to look at John. He was bleeding from his forehead and no doubt suffering from concussion but apart from that he was okay. In his mind he planned out what he was going to do. He would cause a distraction, probably throw a rock to the other side of the tunnel so Shan and the henchman would look away. He would then run down to John and untie him, knowing Shan would not shoot and by the looks of the knots he should have enough time to untie John before the henchman got to him. Together he and John could probably fight them off (John is military and Sherlock may be skinny but he knew how to fight) and have them both ready when Dimmock finally decides to-
"Sarah…" John mouthed. Sherlock froze. He hadn't considered saving Sarah, she was just collateral. That was what happened if you got involved in Sherlock's life. And John was Sherlock's life. But seeing John there, meekly trying to apologise for doing this to her, Sherlock knew he could not let her die. He would have to save her to keep John.
"That's a semi automatic. If you fire it the bullet will travel at over 1000 metres per second."
"Well?" Uh these people with lack of knowledge and common sense, they really can make you sick!
"Well," Sherlock took the opportunity to knock out one of the henchmen who was getting uncomfortably close, "the radius cavity of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone, might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you." Shan's eyes twitched which Sherlock knew meant that she would now definitely not shoot. Again he took this opportunity to knock over the barrel containing the only light source around him so that he was still in the dark. Knowing there was little time left Sherlock went straight to Sarah and started to untie her, only to be choked by the other henchman. Whilst fighting for his life Sherlock heard fast footsteps, Shan had made a run for it.
Out of nowhere Sherlock heard a whoosh sound and then the second henchman fell to the ground. John, clever John, had kicked over the Chinese device and the arrow had hit him. Sherlock untangled himself and set Sarah free.
"It's alright, you're going to be all right, it's over now." He was saying this more to himself than Sarah.
"Don't worry, next date won't be like this." When John said this Sherlock wanted to stop untying her and leave her there in the tramway to rot and just take John home for himself, but he knew John would never forgive him so he untied her and then untied John. Immediately John went to Sarah and embraced her. Sherlock looked away but not before noting how she did not reject him. Damn, Sherlock had hoped this experience would put Sarah off John for good but it was clear that she was not going to be giving him up.
*
Back at the flat Sherlock and John were enjoying a simple evening. Their lives seemed to yo-yo between action packed craziness and the completely dull and domestic.
"You mind don't you?" asked John after about ten minutes of having a deep-in-thought look on his face.
"What?"
"That she escaped. General Shan. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."
It took all of Sherlock's might not to scream his feelings across the table and instead he let John believe that it was Shan that was bothering him. But he couldn't help but reply truthfully in his mind. No John. I mind that you're with Sarah, not me. I mind that you ran to Sarah, not me. I mind that I remember you, but you do not remember me. I MIND THAT I LOVE YOU, BUT YOU DON'T LOVE ME!
Sherlock was afraid. He wasn't sure what to do. He wanted John to be safe, he needed him to be safe, but as long as he was with him, John would be in danger. 4 pips. They had had 4 pips, there was only one more to go, and Sherlock knew that this pip would be the one. The one that would destroy him.
He had recognised him from the moment he had entered the lab. He hadn't changed a bit over the 10 years Sherlock hadn't seen him. The same snarl on his face, the same malice in his voice, and the same lying persona he always had. When Jim Moriarty entered that lab, pretending to be dating Molly, he knew he would be walking into Sherlock's life again. And Sherlock knew he had a reason for it.
Sherlock was at the lab inspecting a pair of shoes left in the flat below him that was linked to a case he was currently investigating. As the computer announced that it had identified a trace on the trainers, Molly had entered the room, followed by a young man who was clearly eager to meet Sherlock. When Molly had introduced him and the man had said 'hi' the Irish twang in his voice triggered the memories that Sherlock had long suppressed. The bully from his other life was back to torture him. When Sherlock realised it was him he remembered how the taxi driver John had shot had given him the name 'Moriarty', and so had the Czech woman from the art gallery. How could he not have remembered the name Moriarty? In a split second he had pieced it together. His school bully had become this mastermind criminal who wanted to play a game with Sherlock and could not help but see if Sherlock would work out if it was him.
They looked at each other, Jim playing 'gay', showing no signs that he knew Sherlock, but a twitch in his eye said that he did, and the tremble of Sherlock's lips said that Sherlock knew. For the split second that their eyes met they both knew that the other had recognised them, and that was all Jim needed to know. Sherlock played up to the part Jim had set up for him, telling Molly to dump this obvious closet homosexual in a cold and nasty way that John was not best pleased with. But Sherlock couldn't help it. In his mind he had realised that he knew who this bomber was but could do nothing to stop it but play out this silly game of his. And that the bomber wasn't doing it because he was bored or showing off, no, he was doing it because he hated Sherlock.
1 pip left! So how was Jim going to use it? He obviously wants to kill Sherlock so how was he going to do it? Blow him up like the others? And why hadn't he been in contact with him yet? The final pip, the last stand, it has to be me versus him, Sherlock thought to himself.
Sherlock picked up his phone and looked at it, debating with himself. He tapped it rhythmically against the arm of the chair before quickly typing in the number before he could change his mind.
"Hello?"
"Hello," Sherlock bit his lip has he forced himself to say her name, "Sarah. This is Sherlock Holmes."
"Sherlock? How did you get my number?"
"John gave it to me if I ever needed to reach him." That was a lie. Sherlock had stolen Sarah's number from John's phone when he wasn't looking.
"Well, John's not here."
"I know, he's upstairs in his room, writing his blog I imagine."
"Oh, yes I've read it. Do you really not know that the earth-"
"That's not important!" Sherlock croaked. He didn't want John to hear this phone call. "Look. You need to text John and invite him over for the night, but don't tell him I told you to."
"Why?" Sarah sounded suspicious. "Has John put you up to this?" Sherlock stopped his brain from trying to work out what that meant, as he knew it would only break his heart.
"No. Something serious is going to happen tonight and I want John kept out of danger." Sarah was silent for a minute and then said,
"What kind of danger?"
"Life and death kind of danger." Sherlock said frustrated. It was none of her business but he knew she would not do as he said unless he told her.
"Fine," came the reply eventually.
Later that evening Sherlock was sitting watching telly when John said he was going to Sarah's. He gave no indication that he knew of Sherlock's involvement in his plans. Appearing uninterested Sherlock agreed to get some milk and beans as John walked out. As the door shut behind him Sherlock turned and looked at the place where John had just been standing. He didn't want John to spend the night at Sarah's but it was the only way he could think of that would ensure he was safe.
Pushing his thoughts of John aside Sherlock pulled his computer onto his lap and left a simple message for Jim on his website. If Jim wasn't going to name a time and a place, Sherlock would, and it was going to happen tonight.
So here he was, at the pool. He knew he would soon be face to face with the genius behind the game he had been playing. He heard footsteps behind him so he turned.
"Evening." John was standing there, with a solemn look on his face. "This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?" His voice was broken, and fearful.
"John… what the hell?" He didn't understand, he was supposed to be at Sarah's, safe.
"Bet you never saw this coming." John opened up his coat. Underneath was enough semtex to blow this building and the ones either side of it to shreds. And there was a red dot dancing on his chest – sniper. "What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle o geer, gottle o geer, gottle o geer."
"Stop it." Whoever was playing this trick was cruel. John continued.
"Nice touch this, the pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him," John took a sharp intake of breath. "I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart." Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He would not lose his John twice.
"Who are you?" he called. A soft, Irish voice came from the back door. It sent shivers down Sherlock's spine.
"I gave you my number I thought you might call." He walked forward into view. "Is that a British army browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me?" A sly grin grew on his face.
"Both." Sherlock stood in awe of this young, flouncey man, amazed that he was able to do everything that had happened in the past few days.
"Jim Moriarty, hi. Jim? Jim from school?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. It had been years! He still couldn't quite believe Jim had hated him for this long. Sherlock glanced at John. "Don't be silly someone else is holding the rifle, I don't like getting hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse Sherlock, just a tinsy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see, like you."
"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me? To get rid of my lover's nasty sister. Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me? To make me disappear to South America." Sherlock spoke in both disgust and amazement.
"Just so," Jim said in a mock English accent. Jim always used to do that at school, to try and fit in.
"Consulting criminal, brilliant." Sherlock truly found this man inspiring, if only he hadn't become a criminal, he could have been a genius. He could have been a Sherlock. Or Sherlock could have been him.
"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."
"I did," said Sherlock, filled with his own importance, knowing that he was the one with the gun. Jim shrugged, considering.
"You've come the closest, now you're in my way."
"Thank you," he replied in a smile.
"I didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes you did."
"Yeah okay I did," Jim said in a very cutesy way. "But the flirting's over Sherlock daddy's had enough now." His voice rose as he got to the end of the sentence. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear, back off." His face kept changing between hatred, disgust , and flirty. "Although I have loved this, this little game of ours, playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?" Sherlock smiled inside, it was clever. Who knew the mayor's nasty son could become a master criminal, one to Sherlock's level of intelligence. But the awe turned to disgust again as Sherlock saw John out of the corner of his eye.
"People have died."
"That's what people do!" He screamed the last word and it echoed through the pool room. In that face he could see the face of Jim Moriarty when he had pushed John in the pond that day, the day of him and John's 'wedding'. That was a day he hadn't thought of for a long time.
"I will stop you," he stated.
"No you wont." Both of them seemed very sure of themselves.
Sherlock couldn't wait any longer; he needed to know John was okay.
"You alright?" he asked. John didn't move, for fear of the red dot dancing on his chest. Jim walked over to John and spoke in his ear.
"You can talk Johnny boy, go ahead." John nodded at Sherlock. It killed Sherlock; he had to save his John.
"Take this." He offered Jim the memory stick. Surely this was what he wanted.
"Oh, that, the missile plans." He placed his delicate lips onto it in a kiss. "Boring! I could have got them anywhere." And with that he threw it into the pool without a second thought. In that same second, John jumped on him from behind and held him at his throat.
"Sherlock run," he ordered. Sherlock stood still. He was not leaving here without his John. Jim laughed.
"Oh good! Very good." Pulling tight at his neck John said,
"If your sniper pulls that trigger Mr. Moriarty then we both go up." Jim continued to laugh, whilst struggling against John's army-taught strength.
"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. So touchingly loyal. But oops, you've rather shown your hand there Dr Watson." The red dot on John's chest jumped from him to Sherlock. Sherlock sighed and shook his head at John to tell him it's not worth it. "Gotcha." Jim brushed himself down in disapproval. "Westwood." Jim turned to Sherlock in a very menacing way and said, "do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone Sherlock? To you?"
"Oh let me guess I get killed." Sherlock was not impressed by this unimaginative threat. How many times had he been threatened before?
"Kill you?" He looked disappointed at this plain suggestion. "No don't be obvious, I mean I'm going to kill you anyway someday, I don't want to rush it though, I'm saving it for something special. No, no, no, if you don't stop prying I will burn you;" his face changed dramatically, it really was quite scary. "I will burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock snarled.
"But we both know that's not quite true." The heart that Sherlock had denied shattered. It took all of his might to not look at John as he said this. "Well, I'd better be off. It was so nice to have a proper chat."
"What I was to shoot you now, right now?" Sherlock raised the gun in his hand higher, so Jim could see the threat.
"You could cherish the look of surprise on my face," to which he showed Sherlock a very exaggerated, gaping look. "Because I'd be surprised Sherlock really I would. And just a tinsy bit disappointed." He shrugged. "And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Jim looked between John and Sherlock and then said with disgust, "ciao, Sherlock Holmes." As he watched Jim leave Sherlock said very slowly,
"Catch. You. Later." A high pitched call came from the other side of the door.
"No you won't."
Sherlock waited for a few minutes, still holding the gun to the door that Jim had just walked through until he eventually lowered the gun and dived at John, desperately trying to get the bomb off of him.
"Alright, are you alright?" he asked.
"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, Sherlock I'm fine." John said breathlessly as his legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor. "You okay?" Sherlock was pacing back and forth, stupidly scratching the back of his head with the gun.
"Me, hmm, yep I'm fine." He paused and then said, "That, that thing that you did, that you offered to do, that was good." He desperately wanted to tell John how he loved him, how he was so sorry that he had put his life in danger, but he knew that John would leave him now and he wanted to keep as much dignity as he had left.
"Well I'm glad no one saw that."
"Hmm," was all Sherlock could say in reply, filling up with emotions he could not control.
"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."
"People do little else." Sherlock smiled. John had made a joke; maybe he wouldn't lose his John after all.
"Sorry boys, I'm so changeable." Jim re-entered the room. The grin on his face was even more threatening than it had been before. "It is a weakness in me but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." The way he talked was spoken like a true madman. Sherlock looked at John, who nodded in return. They understood each other. That understanding that had lasted from the age of 10 years old. Sherlock took one last look at his one true love and then turned to Jim.
"And probably my answer has crossed yours." Slowly he lowered the gun, so that the barrel was pointing directly at the bomb.
"I loved you, Sherlock Holmes." Jim whispered with a curl of his lips as Sherlock squeezed the trigger.
3 things happened simultaneously.
1. The jacket that John had been wearing only minutes earlier exploded into a mass of bright white light, smoke, force and silence. The energy it released destroyed anything and everything in it's path, forcing it away from itself.
2. John ran at Sherlock, pushing him into the pool so that he was engulfed completely by water. The explosion caused a fierce rippling effect in the pool, the force of it pushing Sherlock to the end and slamming him against the side.
3. As he pushed Sherlock into the pool, the explosion lifted John off of his feet and sent him flying into the back wall where he came crashing down, unconscious. Shrapnel was flying everywhere and parts of the ceiling and walls fell down on top of him.
…watch the blood pressure…any signs…you shouldn't really stay sir…I'm his boyfriend...one two three four…no change…you should go home and get some rest sir…I'm not going anywhere…beep…beep…beep…no response…it's been five days is there nothing you can do…I'm so sorry John…vital signs haven't changed…sir you really should get some rest…
…I remember the first day we met. When you found me in the toilets…I loved you from that moment on…I know you don't remember John but I do…I lost you once I don't want to lose you again…John please…open your eyes…
"Okay."
"John?" Sherlock had been crumpled up on a chair next to John's bed, resting his chin on his knees. It was hardly even a whisper that passed through John's lips but Sherlock had heard it. He fell forward onto his knees so he was closer to John, letting go of the hand he had been holding. "John, John can you hear me?" Slowly John's eyes fluttered open. Sherlock was overwhelmed with emotion as he watched John take in exactly where he was. He was dazed at first but as the white light that was burning his eyes cleared and saw where he was and tried to sit up, but the ringing in his head forced him back down. His eyes drifted to Sherlock.
"Where am I? What, what happened?"
"We were in an explosion John. You… you saved my life. Thank you."
"A… a car crash right? What happened to my parents?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed together.
"No, no John, a bomb. That car crash happened 15 years ago. We were at the pool, do you remember? It's Sherlock, do you remember me?" Sherlock was desperately trying not to fall apart. If John couldn't remember him again he knew his mind could not take it.
"Of course I remember you. I don't remember the pool though…must have been a dream." John couldn't quite understand it. He must have dreamt it but it felt so real. He had dreamt that he had known Sherlock as a boy, that they had dated but when he moved away he was in a car crash and his parents had died. But if the car crash happened… no, it was impossible, Sherlock would have said something. "The last thing I remember was walking out of our flat and then being hit rather hard on the head with something from behind. What happened?"
"Moriarty. He tried to kill us with a bomb."
"And what happened to him?" Sherlock snarled.
"The police said there was no way he could have survived the blast as he was so close to the bomb but they have found no evidence of a dead body at the scene." There was a darkness in Sherlock's eyes that John did not like.
Now that his head was a bit clearer John realised that Sherlock was not in his normal suit attire, but wearing a hospital gown. He questioned Sherlock about it. Sherlock smiled as he looked down at himself.
"I was in the blast too. Our clothes are evidence. If Anderson ruins my suit I am going to kill him."
"Are you alright?" John asked.
"Yeah, I had a concussion for a few days and no doubt I will have a few more scars to add to my collection but nothing serious. They're keeping me in for observation so that's why we are sharing this room." That wasn't true. Sherlock had kicked up such a fuss about being separated from John, telling them everything he could think of like that he was John's boyfriend and that he knew a Detective Inspector Lestrade and a Detective Inspector Dimmock of Scotland Yard, that the hospital staff gave in and moved a second bed into John's room so Sherlock could stay with him. He hasn't left his bed side since they got here.
"So how long have I been here?" Sherlock considered for a minute. It had felt like forever.
"A week and a half I think."
Just then a nurse entered the room and walked over to the bed. She picked up John's chart and then almost dropped it again as she realised the coma patient was awake. She looked at Sherlock and frowned disapprovingly.
"Mr Holmes you were told to notify a doctor if Dr Watson showed any change in his condition. Boyfriend or not, we still need to make sure that he's okay." Sherlock flushed as he felt John's eyes burning the back of his head. She leant over him and pressed a small red button on the side of the bed and a doctor came into the room. "Our patient is awake." The doctor smiled and thanked her and she left him to check over his patient. Sherlock retreated to his bed as he waited for the doctor to be finished; refusing to answer John's confused glances.
***
"Switzerland?" John said, slightly surprised.
"Yes. I think a holiday would do us both some good." Sherlock was awkward as he suggested this. He didn't really want to go to Switzerland but John clearly needed a break. "I've booked the flight for tomorrow afternoon." John was not best pleased with the short notice but he appreciated that Sherlock was trying to do something nice for him and so he agreed to go.
"Right well we'd better get packing," John sighed, as he pushed Sherlock's legs of the sofa and pulling him up by the arms. They both went to their separate rooms and got their suitcases down. Sherlock watched through the crack in his door as John hummed to himself as he packed his things. Quietly he shut the bedroom door and went to his phone to look at the message he had received a few hours earlier.
Beep
The final pip. Sherlock had thought the game was over, that the adventure at the pool was the finish line. But he had been wrong. Moriarty was in control, he always had been. It was Moriarty who was going to state the final rendezvous, not Sherlock. But Sherlock was going to do the one thing that Moriarty did not want him to do. He was going to leave, and let his brother finish Jim off. When Sherlock had received the text he had jumped out of his seat and was preparing for action as John had walked through the door. His arm was still in a sling and that limp that he had had when they first met had come back to haunt the army doctor. John had simply looked up at Sherlock and smiled at him, but that simple look had broken through every defensive layer in Sherlock's soul. Before John, Sherlock would have chased Moriarty to the end, but now that he had John in his life, and after coming so close to losing him, Sherlock was willing to give up the thrill and adventure in his life to keep his John safe. And so Switzerland it was.
They had been at the lodge for about a week and a half. It was clearly a mistake that Sherlock had been the one to book the hotel as it was a lot smaller than it suggested on the website, and it was dirty and John didn't trust the employees, his suspicions confirmed when Sherlock told him the details he had deduced from looking at the state of their filthy attire. They had two adjoining rooms, sharing a bathroom between them. They spent most of their time in John's room as somehow or another Sherlock had managed to fill up any available floor space in his room with junk and so the only thing his room was really good for was sleeping in. Which Sherlock didn't really do much of anyway as he was always thinking about the final pip, and Moriarty. It was agreed that Mycroft would not be in contact until Jim was found and so as every day went by, it meant another day that Moriarty was free. And Sherlock was worried. Jim was clearly insane, as insane as Sherlock, and so he would need to finish this game he was playing, or die, and Jim was too clever to die.
"Bored." John had just engrossed himself in a romance novel, unaware that the wide-eyed expression on his face could be seen by Sherlock, who was in an indescribable position on the bed. When John's eyes flicked up and saw he tilted his head as he tried to work out how Sherlock got into that position; he didn't know it was possible for people to bend that way. His eyes went back to his book.
"Bored." Sherlock repeated. John threw a book at him, narrowly missing Sherlock's definitive nose. "Fiction is pointless." Getting no response from John he continued. "It isn't logical and it filled your brain with air. It also assumes that everything will work out for the best when quite clearly life is not actually like that." Something else flew past Sherlock's ear. He glanced at it. It was a battered DVD from the collection they had found in the room. "Same problem." Acting as if Sherlock had not been speaking John looked at his watch and then yawned.
"Right I'm going to bed." He looked at Sherlock expectantly.
"What?"
"I can't go to sleep if you're on my bed." Reluctantly Sherlock rolled off in a swift movement and walked through the bathroom into his own room.
Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on his hard mattress following the cracks on his wall. John had got into bed about half an hour ago and already the loneliness was setting in. Every night when John forced him out of his room the same feeling of impending doom grew in Sherlock's chest. After the accident and the bomb Sherlock didn't want to leave John for any amount of time. He wanted to make the most of every second they had together. But of course John didn't understand that, he thought it was just a sociopath being needy and wanting attention but it wasn't. It was the affection of a man so desperately in love that it hurt every time he saw a scratch on his heart's body. Because that's what John was, he was Sherlock's heart. Or at least he owned it, fully and completely.
BANG!
"What the-" Sherlock jumped up, stepping in something that disintegrated under his feet. That came from John's room. Charging through the bathroom Sherlock went to John's door. It was locked. He put his ear to the crack between the door and the frame to see if he could hear anything. He heard some shallow breathing, John must be asleep, false alarm. But then he listened closer. He thought he could hear quicker, sharper breaths. There is someone else in that room. Sherlock stepped back and then threw himself onto the door, putting all of his strength into his shoulder, causing the lock to break and the door to fly open, Sherlock fumbling through it. He straightened himself and went immediately to John who was sprawled out awkwardly on the bed. He's okay, he thought as he breathed a sigh of relief, something catching on the end of his tongue as he inhaled. He leant closer over John and sniffed around the mouth. Chloroform? Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him slightly. He then shook him again, harder this time. A third time he pulled John upright and shook him fiercely.
"He's out cold, my dear." Sherlock turned to see a figure standing by the room door. It took him a moment to register what he was seeing, if it wasn't for the unmistakable Irish twang to the voice he would not have recognised that it was Jim Moriarty standing before him. He was no longer his clean cut, sharply dressed self. Instead his hair was messy and his face dirty. His clothes, a moss green hoodie and jeans far too big for him, smelt like tramp and his trainers were certainly not meant to be that colour.
Sherlock dived for him, pressing him up against the wall with his arms against his neck. He could quite easily crush his windpipe if he wanted to, and he wanted to.
"Hello Sherly," said Jim slightly hoarse due to the restriction on his breathing. Sherlock shut his eyes and took a deep breath in to calm himself as he released Jim, who straightened himself out in a similar way to the way he did at the pool. At least he couldn't say 'Westwood' now, he looked a mess.
"How the hell did you get out of England?"
"Sherlock I own a lot of people, getting out of the country is not difficult." He addressed Sherlock in a way a parent would address a child. "Now Sherly, shall we finish this?" A low growl passed through Sherlock's lips.
"No." Sherlock was no longer the childish, irresponsible, adrenaline junkie he once was. All he wanted was John. He walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.
"The police? How dull!" Sherlock heard a clicking noise so his eyes flicked to Jim in a reflex. From the front pocket of his hoodie Jim had produced a gun, and he was directing the barrel straight at Sherlock. "Now I know all too well that pointing this thing at you will make no difference. But if I do this," dragging the moment out Jim slowly directed the barrel at the sleeping John who was blissfully unaware of what was going on over his head. Jim shrugged. Slowly Sherlock put down the receiver, eyes fixed on the consulting criminal opposite him.
"What do you want?" Jim smiled.
"Let's go for a walk, shall we?"
John woke up in a daze. Feeling for the clock on the bedside table he looked at the time. Had he really slept so late? And had Sherlock allowed him to? Swinging his legs over the side of the bed he slipped on his slippers and got up and walked towards the bathroom, stopping as he saw the state of the door. The lock had been completely busted and the door was hanging off its hinges. John looked through the bathroom into Sherlock's bedroom only to see an empty room. The bed had not been slept in. although John knew Sherlock and how he would often go off on his own; he still felt a sense of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. He washed and dressed and then went downstairs to see if anyone at reception had seen Sherlock leave, but they hadn't. John went back up to his room and dialled Sherlock's phone number from the hotel's phone. Voicemail. Searching through his jeans pocket, John found his mobile which had run out of battery. He plugged it into the charger and turned it on.
1 new voicemail from Sherlock
"Oh thank goodness," John sighed as he dialled the necessary number to hear the message.
"John, its Sherlock." The words came fast and in short bursts, like he was running. "Jim's dead, Moriarty is dead. I killed him. He found us and tried to kill me but he didn't and I killed him. But he didn't come here alone. There are others and they are after me. I don't know what's going to happen exactly so I just wanted to say… I love you John, I appreciate that the feelings are not reciprocated but I love you, I always have, I always will. And I'm sorry I didn't make the most of the time that we had together. You were the best thing that happened in my life and I thank you for making me a better person. Not even a better person, a person, a human being! For coming back after the accident, for not leaving me again. For saving me as a child and then saving me as a childish adult. I love you and I'm sorry. I just wanted to-"
And there the message cut off.
John was breathing hard, stunned, as he waited for his brain to digest the sounds that had just entered his ear. Moriarty was dead? Mycroft, I have to call Mycroft. John fumbled with his phone as he clumsily attempted to select the correct number. After the third attempt, John placed the phone to his ear and listened to the ringing. Mycroft answered after the first ring.
"John?" John couldn't bring himself to speak. The only noise he could make was a sort of 'ehhhh'. Mycroft could tell there was something wrong immediately. "I'll be there in two hours. Stay exactly where you are," he commanded. He had nothing to worry about. The heavy weight on John's shoulders prevented him from going anywhere, no matter how much he wanted to. He wanted to get out there and start searching for Sherlock, he was clearly in danger, he sounded terrified on the phone, but the way he had spoken in the message, it sounded so final! Like Sherlock knew he was never going to see John again, and John couldn't take that.
It seemed like time had passed both very quickly and very slowly when Mycroft, filled with is own importance, came bursting into John's hotel room.
"I heard the message; I have the best out looking for him." He looked pale; John had forgotten that Sherlock was Mycroft's brother until he had heard the tremor in the voice Mycroft had tried so hard to conceal. They sat in silence; both understanding each other's pain, but neither wanting to speak first.
After who knows how long Mycroft's phone rang. John could only hear one side of the conversation but the expression on Mycroft's face told him it was not the news he wanted.
"What have you found...That means nothing…right…I'm on my way." He got up from where he was sitting, John mirroring his actions. Mycroft was about to protest but he knew that John was as stubborn as his brother and would not stay behind if he were to leave. "They've found Jim Moriarty. Well, his body. And obvious signs of a struggle. There are a few shell casings but they've found no gun and there is no sign of Sherlock. I am going to look at the crime scene. I may not be as good as Sherlock, but I will do my best." He rose his eyebrows as if to say 'coming?' to which John replied with a nod. He would be of no help, he knew, but at least it was better than sitting doing nothing.
Seeing Jim's body was a surprise to John. He knew he was dead, Sherlock had said so and yet he was still expecting to see someone else lying sprawled out at the bottom of the cliff that he had obviously fallen down. So when Sherlock had said he had killed him, he had meant they had struggled and Jim had fallen. That had put a small amount of his mind at ease, but not a lot. Mycroft appeared from further down the dirt track. His face was deathly white. He couldn't even bring himself to look at John as he told him.
"They found a collection of bullets on the top of the cliff, not far from where Moriarty must have fallen. They found a blue scarf caught on a ledge. There was blood on it. There is a river at the bottom of the cliff there," Mycroft stumbled over his words. "His body-"
"No."
"-Must have-"
"No."
"-been washed away."
"NO!" John screamed.
"There are people searching-" his leg, his leg hurt so much. "-but there is little hope." And his shoulder, why did it hurt so much? "Come John, lets go back to the hotel, we're no use here." Mycroft tried to comfort his brother's best friend, but comfort was not an easy thing for him to do.
"No! No I want to help. He can't be dead, he can't!" Mycroft grabbed the bumbling doctor's shoulder, the same way he had grabbed the teenage Sherlock when he was telling him John was dead. If only this was a lie too.
Mycroft lead John back to the hotel, he didn't have the strength to resist. Every step he took his legs gave way and there was a ringing in his head that was drowning out the noise around him. He felt like he was a million miles away from his body and that it was someone else telling his legs to put one in front of the other in these mechanical steps. He was heartbroken.
3 very long, quiet years passed in 221b. The only visitors John ever had was Mycroft, who would check up on him once a month to encourage him to move out of the flat that was surrounding him with memories that wouldn't let him move on with his life. John hadn't touched anything that was Sherlock's. Books open on the floor had remained unread for 3 years and still every time John considered tidying up a bit the consulting detective's voice in the back of his mind would refrain him.
*
John had just got back from a long day at work as he sat himself down in his armchair. He never sat on the sofa, it didn't feel right to. Sarah had very kindly given John his job back even though she had ended it between them. Ever since Sherlock's death it had felt like John wasn't interested in her anymore. She wasn't angry though. She understood that Sherlock was John's way of life and when he had died John had pretty much nothing left to live for. Sherlock was the one who gave John his driving power and a zest for life. So Sarah had ended the relationship but remained as much of a friend as she could to the soldier who lived each day with the same dull routine.
John had picked up the paper on the table and had started to glance through it. He didn't care much about what was going on in the world but it passed the time and it stopped him from thinking. He was reading something about the prime minister, who was that now? He couldn't remember, it doesn't make any difference to him who the prime minister is anyway, when he heard a key turn in the lock. He didn't even look up. It was the first of the month so he knew who it was.
"Hello Mycroft," he said unsurprised and uninterested.
"My dear doctor, don't tell me I look that much like my ghastly brother?"
The newspaper slipped through John's fingers and slid to the floor with a rustle. John stared at the man in front of him. No, it couldn't possibly be! His mind must be playing tricks on him! And yet he looked so real! The crystal blue eyes were shining and the black curls around his face were sticking out in all directions. The pale skin was covered in dirt and grime. John stood up, managing to resist the urge to faint. He walked towards the figure in the doorway, his legs giving way with every step he took. Without speaking he lifted his left hand and slowly touched the cheek of the ghost in the flat. It was solid, soft and smooth. He pressed harder; making sure his fingers weren't going to pass through the pale skin. John slowly brushed the pale lips with his fingertips and then slid his hand down the ghost's chest. He could feel the warmth radiating from the body. The figure didn't move, he just let John do what he needed to do for his brain to process this impossible information. (Well, maybe not impossible, more improbable.) John's eyes drifted back to the blue ones watching him,
"Sherlock?" A smile grew on the figure's face.
"Hello John."
Thousands of emotions rushed through John's head. He could not possibly describe what he was feeling; probably every feeling there was to feel! Love, hate, relief, danger, madness, confusion. Impulse took over. Before he could stop himself he had clenched his hand into a fist and in one swift movement, swung it across Sherlock's cheek in a sharp punch. Sherlock stood stunned for a moment but then nodded, understanding.
"I get why you're angry-"
"Well of course I'm angry! 3 years Sherlock! 3 YEARS! Wha- how- why?" John couldn't speak; all those emotions had risen into his throat and were choking him.
The sensation of wanting to faint overcame him again. Quickly he staggered backwards and landed with a thump in his armchair. Massaging his cheek Sherlock followed him and sat on the sofa that had been unoccupied for so long. He smiled as he noticed how little had changed. He could have sworn he had left that magazine open and upside-down like that on the last day they were here.
John was dazed; he rubbed his forehead with his forefinger and thumb as he said,
"I don't understand..." he was unable to finish his sentence.
"No, well, I don't expect you to. You have thought me dead and now I turn up on the doorstep alive and well." The manner in which he spoke hadn't changed; he was still as pompous as ever. "I have so much to tell you!" He said excitedly. "You see-" He paused, then without warning he grabbed John by the shoulder and pulled him to the floor.
"Sherlock, what-"
"Shh!" Sherlock placed his index finger to his lips to silence John. "Someone is coming up the stairs."
"Yes well it's probably Mycroft," John said. "He visits me once a month since-"
"It's not Mycroft, I told him he wasn't needed anymore."
"What do you mean you told him? You mean he knew you were-"
"I can't be seen John; you need to get rid of them." Sherlock nudged John towards the door. Questions were buzzing around John's mind but he knew he would not get the answers until he had done as he was told so begrudgingly he got up and opened the door, seeing Sherlock duck into the kitchen out of the corner of his eye.
"Hello dear. I was just wondering if you wanted a cup of tea, or some dinner." Mrs Hudson smiled sweetly, but behind the smile, serious concern and worry about the tenant that was not adjusting to civilian life.
"No, thank you Mrs Hudson." She sighed, she expected him to say that. The smile became a frown on her old, kind face.
"Dr Watson, dear, I really feel I should keep you company. I haven't seen that serious looking man with the umbrella today, I know it's the first of the month, I was worried."
"I'm fine Mrs Hudson; really, I'm just busy at the minute. Next week, Monday, I will take you out to dinner, how does that sound?" Mrs Hudson perked up.
"That sounds lovely, thank you." Impatient John said,
"Yes well, see you next week then." Taking the hint Mrs Hudson turned to leave. She was smiling broadly, this was the first sign she had seen of John getting any better.
As he shut the door, John saw Sherlock reappear in the entrance to the kitchen. They both sat back down, John taking in a deep breath as he prepared himself for what was coming.
Sherlock fidgeted, putting his hands on his lap then together then back again. In the end he opted for clenching them together leaning his elbows on his thighs.
"It started with a text, from Moriarty. The final pip. It was going to be the last battle between the two greatest minds this world had ever seen." His ego hasn't changed then, thought John. "But after the pool, all I wanted to do was to keep you safe. The whole of my life I was reckless and I didn't really care what happened to me, but then you came along and suddenly I had something to live for, something I would give up everything for. You." He blushed slightly. "So instead of confronting Moriarty I took you to Switzerland where I thought we would be safe and where Mycroft could take care of Moriarty. But Moriarty found us," he faltered, "and I killed him."
"It was an accident," John interjected. He had never accepted that Sherlock was a murderer. Sherlock stared into John's eyes as he realised this, he had so missed John's devotion. He broke his gaze and continued his narration.
"Moriarty didn't go to Switzerland alone. He had friends. In particular a man named Moran. And he is the reason I have been in hiding for so long. He wants me dead and I knew I could not survive if he thought I was alive. So I faked my own death and made a living in Switzerland, every 6 months moving a little closer to home."
"And Mycroft?" asked John.
"I had to tell someone. I had no money, no clothes, Mycroft gave me everything I needed and he could do it without Moran finding out."
"I would have done anything!" Tears filled John's eyes, though he wasn't sure if it was tears of betrayal or tears of joy.
"I know you would. But it was too big a risk. I had to die; it was the only way to keep you safe." Sherlock went to place his hand on John's shoulder, but then seeing the hurt in John's eyes, retracted it. "I almost told you. In the phone message I left you. But I knew that Moran would find it if I did so I didn't."
John turned his head away from Sherlock. That message was still on John's phone, he could never bring himself to delete it. Sherlock had said that he had loved him, and yet he hadn't mentioned anything of the sort now that he was back! All John had ever wanted was Sherlock's love, he realised that after he heard the message, and yet how could a man allow the man he loved to believe that he was dead?
"In that message," Sherlock froze, "you talked about me saving you as a child. We knew each other when we were little, didn't we?" Sherlock relaxed, he wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that John didn't ask about the other thing he had confessed in that message. He nodded as a reply to John's question. "After the bomb explosion, I had a dream. I dreamt of a town, of me and you as kids. We were outcasts but we didn't care because we had each other. They were the years I lost after the car accident weren't they?" Again Sherlock nodded. "Why did you never say anything?" Again John felt the betrayal, his heart ached deeply.
"I was told you were dead. Mycroft told me you were dead. So when we met I just thought it was a coincidence. But then you started having nightmares, nightmares about a crash. I went to see Mycroft and he told me the truth but he said that if I confronted you and brought back all those memories, I might lose you, and as much as I hated him I knew he was right. You were content with your life, your past did not seem to bother you, and so I said nothing." In a low whisper John said,
"I questioned my past every day."
They sat in silence for long time, neither looking at the other. Sherlock was as still as humanly possible and John fidgeting all over the place. They were so different and yet they had gelled together so well. They were a team, but was that partnership over?
Still looking at the floor Sherlock said,
"I can be gone. I will go if you want me to. I only ask for one more favour. You do this and then you will never see me again." John looked at him for a moment and then nodded, saying,
"Yeah, okay, yeah. What do you want me to do?"
Sherlock got up and walked over to the window. Slowly he pulled back the curtains and looked out onto the street. The street lamp was glowing orange as the sun disappeared behind the old buildings in front of it. John jumped up.
"Wait, what are you doing? I thought you couldn't be seen!"
"It is time. Moran will know I am here within the hour. At some point tonight he will come here and attempt to kill me." Sherlock walked over to John and held him at arms length. "Tell me you are the doctor I knew and say you still have that wonderful gun you used to have." John freed himself from Sherlock's grasp and walked over to the desk in the corner of the room. He pulled open the top left drawer and extracted the said item, raising it high so Sherlock could see. John heard a shrill come from Sherlock. He couldn't help but smile. "Come now John, we must set the scene."
Sherlock drew all the curtains and turned off all the lights. He laid down on the sofa and placed his hands under his chin in the praying position. John stood in the middle of the room not exactly sure what he was supposed to be doing. After a moments silence Sherlock (who had his eyes shut) made an 'oh' noise as he appeared to realise that John could not read his mind.
"You need to stand by the door John, so that when it opens no one will see you behind it. I am not sure how Moran will get in, but he will, and so you must shoot him without a moments hesitation." Sherlock paused. "And then I can disappear from your life for good." John said nothing but took his position behind the door.
Hours passed. John was now sitting on the floor, exhausted, ready to fall asleep. It took all of his army training to stay awake. He frowned as he looked at Sherlock, who looked completely peaceful and asleep on the sofa. The moonlight was just about passing through the thin curtains and John could see Sherlock's silhouette on the sofa. They could have at least taken it in turns to be on look out, John thought bitterly.
Suddenly Sherlock's arm jerked up and waved in the air, pointing in the direction of the front door. Sherlock still appeared to be asleep but obviously he wasn't. John was motionless as he strained his ears to listen. There was a creek. It was only a slight one but he heard it. Someone was coming up the stairs. Silently John stood up and readied himself. He felt the adrenaline surge through his body; he could hear his heart beat in his ears. The feeling he hadn't felt in years, suddenly life was an adventure again!
There was a sound of metal on metal, a few taps and then a click. The lock had been picked! John's breathing and heart rate increased as he watched the door beside him open, allowing a dark figure to enter the room.
Sherlock did not move. John watched as the figure walked towards the consulting detective lying innocently across the sofa. The figure reached into his pocket and brought out something metal and shiny. A knife! The figure raised it above his head, ready for the swipe downward, aiming for the heart.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The barrel of the gun John was holding was smoking. All of John's muscles had contracted and had him frozen to the spot as he watched the figure fall with a thud to the ground. He couldn't move, Sherlock too was still on the sofa. A sudden awful thought rushed through his mind. What if I have shot Sherlock? Forcing himself out of his frozen state, John rushed to Sherlock's side. He went to brush the hair out of Sherlock's eyes when Sherlock suddenly sat up, wide eyed and looking down at the dead body on the floor. He was grinning. He was finally free to live his life again, to go back to J-. But then he remembered the promise he made and the smile on his face fell.
"Thank you Doctor Watson." He stood up and bowed politely. "I am a free man now. I will no longer be a curse on your life."
"There is a whole organisation out there, you can't possibly be safe!" protested John.
"The two people at the head of it all are dead. The organisation will crumble and destroy itself without a leader. I am in no danger." He turned and headed for the exit. "And neither are you," he whispered.
John took two steps towards the door, then stopped, then took two more steps, then stopped again. He was arguing with himself in his mind. What do I want? he asked himself. He had wished so many times that Sherlock was still alive, and now that he was he wished he had never returned to his life! He was so confused! He walked over to the window and peered out. He could see Sherlock standing on the edge of the pavement, hauling a taxi. This was it. This would be the last time he would ever see Sherlock Holmes. His childhood friend, his flatmate, his hero. A taxi pulled up; once it was gone John knew he would never see Sherlock again.
"No, no, NO" He yelled. Sherlock was talking to the driver, giving instructions to the destination. A destination John would never know. He banged on the window as hard as he could, yelling at the top of his voice, "SHERLOCK!" But Sherlock heard nothing. He was getting into the taxi. John fumbled with the handle of the window, it was stuck, he couldn't get it open. "NO!" He yelled as he saw Sherlock reach for the door handle to shut the door of the car. Looking around, John grabbed the wooden chair in front of his desk and hurled it through the window. Glass flew everywhere, cutting into him, but he didn't feel it. "SHERLOCK!" He screamed.
The young man in the taxi got out of the car, looking up at where all the broken glass had come from. Hearing his name being called he sent away the taxi and ran back into his old flat.
"John? John are you alright?" John met him at the top of the stairs. Sherlock looked at John, who looked directly back at him deeply into his eyes, right into his soul.
John threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, bringing his head closer to his and then placed a passionate kiss on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock was stunned for a moment, but then slowly he wrapped his arms John and awkwardly pulled John's body towards him as he kissed him back. As John pulled away he placed his lips to Sherlock's ear and whispered,
"I love you." John could hear the sobbing in Sherlock's voice as he said,
"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that." Sherlock buried his head in John's shoulder as John slowly swayed Sherlock back and forth to a silent tune, his finger twirling the locks of Sherlock's dark hair. Neither John, nor Sherlock wanted this moment to end. As Sherlock lifted his head John gave him a light peck on the cheek. Sherlock smiled as he leant his forehead on John's and said,
"I'm sorry I lied to you." John kissed Sherlock's forehead as an acceptance to the apology. "I love you," Sherlock whispered as he buried his head back into John's shoulder. John smiled to himself as he replied,
"I love you too."
