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In the time after Sherlock’s death, John Watson surprises people.
The press is surprised when John staunchly refuses to even consider the possibility that Sherlock is a fake. Reporters hound him for a story, but all John will say is that he believes in Sherlock. Mycroft tells John that he might as well accept the truth, not to mention the reporter’s money. John just gives him a look – he remembers Irene and is not fooled. Donovan gives him a sympathetic but knowing “I’m sorry about what happened,” and John makes such a racket yelling at her that Lestrade is forced to have John removed from the station.
Meanwhile, John learns just how much he needs Sherlock Holmes. It isn’t a shock that he’s devastated at losing his best friend. It is somewhat surprising, though, that he feels so utterly lost. Sherlock’s violin, his experiments, his exclamations of “Bored!” – they are all like physical, tangible things that have gone missing. Half of John’s life has evaporated into the London fog and he knows that no matter how long he looks he will not find it again.
His therapist is surprised when his limp comes back. John is not.
John is startled one day when he idly picks up the paper and sees a picture of himself on page six. “WILL LEFT-BEHIND LOVER EVER RECOVER?” the headline mourns. After his stint as the famous Sherlock’s blogger, John is not surprised that the reporters would stoop this low for a story. But he is surprised by the accompanying picture.
At first glance it looks perfectly ordinary; just a bloke in a sweater talking to a friend. Lestrade, in this case.
But there is something wrong about the photo. The man in it is thin, too thin. His left hand is splayed out at an odd angle because there is a tremor running through it. His shoulders are uncharacteristically slumped and he is leaning against a wall like he hasn’t slept and needs the support.
Still, that is not what's really off about the photo. It is the eyes that are truly, badly wrong. The eyes are pointed in the right direction, at Lestrade's face, but just looking at the picture John can tell that he never really saw the man. In fact, he cannot remember that conversation. The eyes – his eyes – are haunted, like someone who's survived something terrible and lived to wish they hadn't. John suddenly understand why everyone has spent the last three months telling him that he looks like hell.
His friends - more acquaintances by now, if he's honest - are amazed when John starts to phone again. He starts out with shaky laughter and acknowledgement that it's been awhile, and then invites himself to parties and happy hours. He doesn't do it all the time, he doesn't have that kind of energy, but he does it enough that the worried look starts to fade from some of their eyes. When Mycroft sends him a letter that says, "Tut, tut," John bins it and flips the bird at where he's relatively certain the camera is.
Nobody ever mentions Sherlock's name. John thinks he's grateful for that, most of the time, though he tries not to think about it too hard.
So when somebody does finally say it, the words slam into him and rip through him like a bullet.
Molly looks frightened, and John tries not to think too hard about how his face must have looked. She apologizes and John assures her that it's fine, knowing she needs to talk about it, and that he is the only one who will really understand.
They were so simple, so timid, those words.
"Do you miss Sherlock, John?"
And John wonders if Sherlock has rubbed off on him, because instead of seeing the words as the conversation starter they are, he cannot do anything but gape at the ignorance of such a blatantly stupid question.
I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean -
No no, it's fine. Really.
I know what he meant to you. Well, actually, I don't, but... I just miss him sometimes and nobody else seems to.
Idiots. Practically everyone is.
So - so do you miss him sometimes, too?
No.
Right. You miss him all the time. Silly of me, I didn't think...
We really weren't dating. In case you read page six.
I know. But I was still jealous of you. Still am, actually.
Oh, wow, I… I cannot think of anyone you should be less jealous of, Molly.
John, I don't think you really understand how important you were to him. Look, he came to me before he died, and he wanted me to...
WHAT?!
I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I knew you'd be angry, but he told me to wait until you could hear it before I - John? John, where are you going?
John's friends are surprised, though not very, when he sinks back into his depression and refuses to answer any calls or open his mail. Molly will be trying to get through. She does try; tries very hard actually. Molly comes to his flat many times, even tries to break in, but he calls the police on her. In a distant part of his mind, the small part that is not swamped by pain, he hopes she serves time.
His other friends are saddened, but getting rather impatient with him. They don't understand that John has just started grieving all over again.
Why? Why did Sherlock talk to Molly instead of him? How could he be honest - the last honesty - with somebody that wasn't him? Because Sherlock hadn't trusted him, that's why. He didn't think there was any possible way that John could help, and he didn't want to talk to John.
The phone call - that had been to make John feel better, not because Sherlock needed it. Sherlock, at his weakest, went to Molly. Not John. And this knowledge devastates John all over again. He hadn't thought it was possible to sink any lower, but he learns that he was wrong. Dante was right - there are many circles of hell, and John is visiting them all.
------
The final surprise comes when John is just beginning to recover from the last. He is at the police station, because Lestrade has called him in to look at a body. In his kind, slightly awkward way, Lestrade is trying to throw John a lifeline. He wants to distract John from his thoughts with danger, and John is more than willing to try it. However, the case is a straightforward crime of passion, and John cannot help hearing echoes of Sherlock in his head. "Dull. Why isn't anything ever interesting?"
It was interesting when you were here, John thinks.
John makes to leave, but Lestrade asks him to get a cup of coffee in his office. John knows what is coming - Lestrade knows that he knows - but it is necessary. Lestrade has to try and John has to let him. He takes his awful institutionalized cup from the helpful secretary and follows Lestrade into the hallway.
The first sign that something is wrong is Lestrade's coffee tumbling from the Inspector's hand and hitting the floor. John gazes at it dully. He supposes that he ought to wonder why Lestrade dropped it, but he doesn't even care enough to look up.
"This is impossible," Lestrade says. His voice is shaking so badly that he almost can't get the words out.
"Oh, how quickly we forget. What have I taught you? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth. Now, which is impossible – my ghost haunting this abysmally dreary police station, or me having survived?"
"I'm not sure," Lestrade says, backing up. His voice is still shaking. John is still staring at the floor. "For God's sake, John, say something!"
"John. Look at me," the other voice commands. John obeys, more out of muscle memory than any real desire to do so.
There is a rail-thin man standing there in a black wool peacoat. A blue tartan scarf is tied around his neck. His black hair hangs in thick, wet curls; it is raining outside and he hasn't cut it in awhile. The man's skin is so pale that he might live underground, and his face is all razor-sharp cheekbones and pale, piercing eyes.
"John?" A note of uncertainty has crept into the man's voice. John keeps looking at him, but he can’t really see anything. The man's forehead creases and he takes a small step forward.
"How long have you let him be like this?" the man asks Lestrade. He sounds appalled. Also angry.
"Me?!" Lestrade yelps, indignant and wary at the same time. "Oh no, you're not blaming me for this. This one’s entirely on you, Sherlock."
"I assumed there would be a certain standard of care when I left. Clearly he needed psychological help that he did not receive." The man takes another step forward. John is still staring. It feels like his brain is trapped in the London fog, in memories and white noise. He cannot think.
Lestrade runs a big hand through his hair, rifling it up. "We tried, honest we did, but he wouldn't let us near him. Even when he started coming round again, there was something… well, off, y’know? Molly -"
The name stirs something in John, and when Sherlock takes another step forward, John steps back.
"Don't come near me," John warns. His voice is soft and deadly. The threat in it is real.
The man - Sherlock's - eyes fly wide open. His gaze flicks between John and Lestrade.
"Do you think he's in shock?" Sherlock asks. His tone has softened and now it’s quiet and gentle, like he’s handling an injured animal that might bolt.
"I think he's been in shock for the last six months," Lestrade says earnestly. "Honestly, Sherlock, I don't know what you were thinking, but..."
"If it could have been avoided, Inspector, I would have avoided it." Sherlock's voice is testy and Lestrade doesn't reply.
"John, this is ridiculous. You know who I am, and you can see that I am alive." He takes three more steps, until he is just one step away from John.
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" John bellows. He wants to back up, to run away, but his feet are planted to the floor. Either he kneels, or he drops to the floor, and he crouches there, staring at the cracked tiles. "I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU EVER AGAIN!" That isn't precisely true, but if this Sherlock is a ghost, or a mirage, or some kind of vision, John knows with absolute certainty that he will be broken in a way that will be irreparable.
“John,” Sherlock says, the firmness in his voice undermined slightly by the fact that it’s started to shake. “I am real. I am here. I faked my death, and waited until it was safe to come back. I know you believe me.”
And John actually does believe him. He is, in fact, 99.99% sure that this is Sherlock Holmes standing in front of him, and that he is telling the truth, and has somehow managed to cheat death.
But he cannot chance that .01%. John knows that if somehow, some way, this is a trick or a test or a trap, he will not survive it. So far, he has managed not to drown himself in drugs, alcohol, or the muzzle of a gun, partially because it would feel so ridiculously melodramatic. But if John accepts for one second the idea that Sherlock truly is standing here in front of him, and it turns out to be false, the third wave of grief will be the one to swallow him whole.
Shoes click on the shiny floor in front of him. Sherlock is close now. Far too close.
Desperate, John looks for Lestrade, who is rooted in place against the wall, staring at them. John reaches out his hand toward the Inspector.
“Please,” he begs.
Both men see Sherlock stumble, watch him rock back. See his face. He looks as if he’s been slapped. John realizes that he has unwittingly created half of the scene on the roof. He stares at his own outstretched hand and slowly draws it back in, cradling it to his chest.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice breaks, and he has to start again. “John, please. I didn’t mean – This wasn’t what - ”
“Why don’t you just leave him alone, freak?” Sally Donovan. She sounds angry. On John’s behalf? Or just because she hates Sherlock, always has done, always will do, no matter how dead or not he may be. “Don’t you think you’ve hurt him enough already? I warned him not to get caught up with you; I warned him what you were like. I knew that you’d hurt anyone that got close enough to touch.” There is a long pause, and something – an echo of something he used to feel – flickers in John when Sherlock doesn’t fire off a comeback.
“Don’t.”
It takes all of John’s last exhausted reserves of power to say that one word. He doesn’t know why he does it. Sherlock is a big boy and can deal with what he’s done. Should deal with what he’s done. But John cannot stand to hear it.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice is suddenly hopeful. Too hopeful. John, sitting cross-legged now, rests his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands. That was it. He can’t do anything else.
“What were you saying, Sally?” The words tumble eagerly out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Go on, keep at it. You were telling me how awful I am, if I remember correctly and I do.”
But Sally won’t. John knows that she, and everyone else who has gathered to watch – he supposes his shouting drew them in – realizes he is at the breaking point. To her eternal credit, as an increasingly irritated Sherlock Holmes demands that she talk and then audibly eviscerates her life, relationships, and mental state for everybody to hear, Sally says nothing. John wishes he could tell her thanks, or just look at her. But he can’t move.
“You are useless and worthless,” Sherlock finally bites off. There is a rush of feet, and John suspects that Sally has fled in tears. He wants to yell at Sherlock for being such a needless arse, but that is quite beyond his reach at the moment.
Footsteps click their way over to him again, until they are in front of him. There is a hesitation, and then Sherlock’s long body lowers down. He rests one knee on the floor.
“John, for God’s sake do something.” It’s amazing how familiar that voice still sounds, even after six months. John doesn’t think he’s forgotten a single thing about it. Rapid-fire, cold, nuanced, detached, rich…
“Listen to me, John.” He’s been doing little else. “I need you to hear what I’m telling you.” There is a long pause. What he’s about to say is difficult. “The reason I had to do… all of this… is because of Moriarty. I’m sure you guessed – well, if you didn’t assume I was dead. Which, reasonably, you must not have, or you would have moved on better by this point.”
John realizes that Sherlock is right. He never really believed that his friend was gone. The great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be gone, just like that. It wasn’t possible.
And he’d been right, hadn’t he?
No. No. Down that way of thinking lay disaster. He could not afford to go down that road.
Slender fingers touch his forearms. John can feel that they’re ice-cold, even through the fabric of his shirt. Only Sherlock has fingers like that.
“I… John, I… I only did it because it was that, or watch you die.”
John supposes that he should feel surprised, or grateful, or happy, but he doesn’t. He feels nothing. This is something he already knows. He knew it on the phone, just before he watched Sherlock fall.
“And I… I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry, I know you have to be angry with me. I’d be angry too. You’re thinking that I should have trusted you, right? I should have talked to you. That we could have come up with a solution.”
There is a silence. John doesn’t speak or move, but he does marvel inwardly at how precisely right Sherlock’s analysis is.
“I couldn’t risk it, John.” Yes, he knows. Sherlock only includes John to make him feel better.
“I mean… no, I don’t mean including you. I mean that…” he pulls both hands off of John. There is a brief silence. Suddenly, John is aware of the people listening.
“Moriarty swore that he’d burn the heart out of me,” Sherlock finally whispers, and John knows, just knows, that it is the hardest thing he’s ever had to say. “And he found it.” There’s hurt and embarrassment and anger in his voice.
Without thinking, John lifts his head and frowns, focusing his eyes on the thin man with the patched coat, rumpled hair, and agonized expression.
“Sherlock?”
The man’s eyes widen, and he stares at John. A smile curves at the edges of his lips, and then John has thrown himself at him, and is kicking and punching every bit of Sherlock that he can reach.
“YOU – FUCKING – BASTARD!” he bellows, trying to split Sherlock’s lip a second time.
“Hey, John! John, get ahold of yourself! Come on, quit it!” Lestrade’s alarmed voice is right behind him, and then strong arms are wrapped around his waist, dragging him away.
Sherlock is lying in a heap on the floor, shoved up against the wall, and he looks terrible. There is red swelling around one eye already, a split lip, and several bruises that must be forming on his legs and chest. And yet he laughs exultantly, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
“Finally!” he says. “I thought you were never going to come out of it.”
“I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You.” John spits out between gritted teeth. He fights against Lestrade’s hold, but not very hard.
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “Again?”
John’s feet slip on the floor. He sags against Lestrade’s arms, and Sherlock’s face changes from amused to alarmed to something in between. There is a short, sharp silence.
And then John is snickering – laughing – giggling, just the way they always do at the most inappropriate times. Sherlock is snorting too, unable to stop himself. Lestrade lets him go and John almost falls to the floor.
“You two are a right pair,” he says in a tone meant to sound like disgust, that actually aches with relief.
John aims another punch at Sherlock, but it goes wide. It was playful anyway. Sherlock cackles and catches his arm; throws him to the floor. John grabs his wrist and pulls Sherlock down too. They lie side by side on their backs, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the giggles to subside.
He glances over at Sherlock – checking he’s still there, to be completely honest – and that’s when he notices.
“Sherlock!”
“Hm? What?” His tone is mild and disinterested. But Sherlock is already pulling up the collar of his shirt. He knows what John saw.
Before Sherlock can get away, John pushes himself up and sits overtop of him, straddling his waist with a knee on either side. Gently, he tugs Sherlock’s shirt down and is almost sick.
There are marks everywhere. Big, deep cuts; small scrapes; bite marks. Some look like they’ve been made with razors; others look like they came from a chainsaw. Not all of them are closed, and some are still oozing blood down his chest.
“Christ, Sherlock, I didn’t…” And he had flung himself at the man and beat the living crap out of him. John swallows and says the first thing that comes into his head, which is never wise. “Please tell me you didn’t do this to yourself.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and glowers. “Really?”
“Okay, okay,” John mutters. “I just had to be sure.” He finds himself unbuttoning the second, then third button on Sherlock’s shirt. He doesn’t want to see this, but he has to know.
The damage is horrific, just as he expected. Sherlock’s pale skin is utterly torn to shreds. If infection doesn’t set in and kill him – and it won’t, he lives with a doctor – he is going to be badly scarred the rest of his life. John’s mouth is dry, and he thinks he might be sick.
And it finally occurs to him to wonder: What exactly did Sherlock go through to come back to him?
He looks up slowly, and Sherlock is looking back at him. He can see that Sherlock already knows what he’s thinking. The pale gray eyes go dull for a moment, full of the memory of pain that John can only dimly imagine.
“I’m sorry,” John whispers. Overwhelming shame swallows him and his cheeks start to burn. He wonders just how many emotions he’s going to go through in the next hour, after feeling nothing but pain for months. Every flash of feeling cutting through the numbness is like the pain of warmth settling into frostbitten fingers; it hurts, but John will gladly take it.
Sherlock sits up abruptly. His hips are still trapped between John’s knees, but the man is so tall that their heads are almost level anyway.
“Now for goodness sake don’t start blaming yourself. There’s nothing worse than a martyr complex.” Sherlock’s words are harsh but his eyes are still soft, looking at John.
“I chose my actions. I am solely responsible for them. You had no impact either way; neither a good influence or a bad one.”
John lets his head hang and laughs weakly. It is so Sherlock to say that. The man probably even believes it. But John knows, and Lestrade knows, and Mycroft knows, hell everyone in this damned police station knows, that John is, for better or worse, responsible for Sherlock’s actions. Late at night, when he lies awake staring at the ceiling, that will haunt him. But now is not the time.
He rocks his weight back from his knees to the balls of his feet, and starts to stand.
Sherlock’s arm shoots out and grabs him. His fingers are like vices, holding John in place.
“Wait,” Sherlock says. His voice is steady, but there is a trace of fear in it. “You are not allowed to walk away until you tell me that you’re okay. That… we’re… okay.”
“Jeeezus, Sherlock!” Lestrade breaks in, apparently unable to help himself. John glances up and sees the Inspector rake his fingers backward through his silver hair. “You can’t just… tell him to be alright, just like that! He needs time, and… and space, and y’know, stuff like that.”
“No,” Sherlock says firmly. His fingers tighten until it’s painful. “No time. No space.”
Donovan snorts from somewhere behind John. “What a surprise, the freak doesn’t get it.” Apparently she came back to watch the show.
John doesn’t know what it is about Sherlock that makes him need to do everything Sherlock wants. He doesn’t know why he’s willing to read Sherlock’s texts for him when the mobile is actually on his person. He doesn’t know why he’s willing to pass up sex with Sarah because Sherlock calls and tells him an address, and demands John hurry up. He doesn’t know why he wore those stupid Christmas antlers just because Sherlock said please and grinned, even though Sherlock himself refused to do so. He doesn’t understand it at all, and Sally Donovan sure as hell doesn’t either.
But he is, and he has, and he did. There is something in Sherlock that needs John, and there is something in John that needs Sherlock to need him. That is dedicated to carving out the largest hole possible in the man’s strange, icy heart.
So John says, “Yes he does. It’s fine.”
And he means it. He isn’t fine, probably won’t be for a long time, and there are a lot of nights where he wakes up screaming in his future. He’s still angry about Sherlock going to Molly, and there is a screaming fight somewhere in the future. He’s going to have trust issues, and it’s probably going to be all he can do to stop himself from chaining Sherlock up in the flat.
But they, the two of them, whatever weird partnership they have going on, it will be fine. John knows it because he knows how much he needs Sherlock in his life. He will sacrifice anything, be anything, to keep him there. And if a few nightmares or panic attacks are the trade-off, well, he will take it.
Sherlock’s face lights up, and he’s just like John remembers. The weight of those months is gone from his face, and he is back to looking pale and disdainful and impossibly arrogant.
To most people, this would appear to be a step back. But it is exactly what John wants to see.