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A BBC Sherlock One-Shot: To Hell and Back
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Hell is the deprivation of Love.
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SAINT CAEDWALLA'S HOSPITAL
Friday evening
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"Go to hell, Sherlock..."
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The alleged serial murderer had nearly claimed another victim. Had John not broken down the locked hospital-room door to catch the prominent entrepreneur-philanthropist in the act of suffocating his friend, Sherlock would have died.
In the immediate aftermath of the lifesaving rescue, John tried not to think about what nearly happened. This was nothing new. He had been adept at clinical detachment as an army surgeon in the surgical theaters of war-torn Afghanistan to get through crises. After Mary's tragic death, however, he had found himself in an emotional void he had not experienced since Sherlock's leap off St. Bart's.
Speeding to the hospital in Mrs. Hudson's sports car had given him a brief adrenaline rush—slamming the fire extinguisher against the jammed lock felt good, too—but now he was left empty, drained. One thing for sure, he could neither get in touch with his deep-seated feelings nor wrap his head around another tragic loss in his life.
So, he didn't.
Instead, John watched with intense interest as Culverton Smith was apprehended, charged with attempted murder, and carted away for interrogation. After giving his own statement to the police, John consulted with the Ward 73 physicians and nurses regarding Sherlock's prognosis. Their medical opinions uniformly remained "on the bright side," assuring John that the "terrible mess" Sherlock had made of himself would reverse—"he's awfully strong." With Mycroft's minions standing guard, Sherlock's well-being was secured on all fronts. And yet, and yet…as much as he told himself all was fine, John Watson had a sneaking…a sinking…feeling he had overlooked something.
His stomach grumbled, so he checked his watch. It was late. The borborygmus was a reminder how long it had been since he had eaten, having instead used his lunch break to meet with his new therapist. A spanner in the works—named Sherlock Holmes—decidedly disrupted his schedule for the remainder of the day….
Shaking off the mild irritation with that memory, he focused on his obligation to return Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin. Maybe she'll fix me a plate when I get there. This first thought zigzagged to another that was completely unrelated: …thank God she tossed me her car keys…John cut off the rest, not wanting to go there, but not before the gnawing in his gut got stronger. It was as if he were starving for something, he didn't quite know what.
John ignored it and lingered near the nurses' station to make several quick calls instead. He rang his neighbor who was minding Rosie, then Molly to share Sherlock's prognosis, and finally Mrs. Hudson, keeping each conversation succinct, although Mrs. Hudson required a few more reassurances. After telling her when he would be motoring back with her car, he rung off. He intended to leave right then, but an intensifying unshakeable disquiet prevented him.
The brightly lit ward bustled with doctors and nurses going about their tasks; patients ambled through the hall, attached to their IVs-on-wheels. He felt invisible. No one seemed to care that he was there. Then he spotted her, leaning against a far wall, her sad eyes meeting his. She gave him a smile and an encouraging nod. His heart in his throat, John took a step toward her. In a blink, she was not there. Realizing his mistake, "John, This isn't real….I'm dead," he did an about-face and nearly collided with an orderly pushing an empty wheelchair.
"Sorry, sir," the startled man apologized.
"No, no. I'm sorry!" John replied, sidestepping to provide better clearance for the man and the chair. Annoyed with himself and painfully aware he was superfluous now Sherlock was sorted, John continued toward the lift, determined to leave.
"Go to hell, Sherlock…" The echo of Mary's voice from the DVD he had heard a mere hour before at Baker Street replayed in his head and stopped him in his tracks. Her posthumous message to Sherlock hit a nerve. John had let those very words fester in his silent desolation...for weeks, ever since she had died—because of Sherlock.
John winced at how quickly today had gone bloody hell wrong —because of Sherlock—and rubbed perspiration from his brow. He needed to stop thinking about his unbearable losses; he needed to keep calm. Falling to pieces in the extremely public area of the hospital would have them carting him to the loony bin.
"I don't think about him," John had told his new therapist when she asked if he blamed his friend for his wife's death. It was not as simple as he had made it sound—it couldn't be. It took every effort to shove his despair over Mary and his confusion about Sherlock out of his mind and heart.
Given the circumstances, the thing he really had wanted to say to the man he held responsible for his wife's death was, "Go to hell, Sherlock!" Mary's loss had gutted him. No less a casualty of Vivian Norbury's bullet was the death of his trust in Sherlock Holmes.
Today, when a deranged-sounding Sherlock had barged into the therapist's office—thanks to Mrs. Hudson's finagling—urging John to help him on a case, the circumstances were staring John in the face. Go to hell, Sherlock had been on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he had deflected Sherlock's appeal by doubting the veracity of the entire drug-high performance.
"Why would I be faking?" Sherlock had asked.
"Because you're a liar. You lie all the time. It's like your mission."
"I have been many things, John, but when have I ever been a malingerer?"
"You pretended to be dead for two years!" John had yelled back, surprising himself by how fresh and raw his anger felt about the old resentment—about every resentment.
The irony of it all was that Sherlock's well-intentioned and heroic efforts to protect his friends sometimes backfired. For John they had been as explosive as blowouts—being dead for two long years to shield John from an assassin's bullet, publically vowing to protect the newlyweds though unaware of Mary's ominous past, getting exiled for committing murder to protect his assassin wife's secret, exposing the culprit behind A.G.R.A.'s disastrous last mission resulting in Mary's death—what bloody hell folly was that? As much as John had believed in Sherlock and his promises, Sherlock was human and fallible, after all; John was the greatest fool to believe his brilliant friend could really cheat death.
And saying "Go to hell, Sherlock…" could never have made up for John's anguish, especially because, deep down, where he had dared not go, he would have realized railing against Sherlock was misplaced. Irrational. Certain inevitabilities—not Sherlock—had brought on Mary's death. Mary had mostly sealed her own fate with her assassin life; she knew she was on borrowed time, yet she had always been willing to take chances—which included becoming a wife and mother. Despite all the vows and promises to keep her safe, the problems of her future were John's short-lived privilege when her luck had run out… because she had chosen to take the bullet—
—the bullet that had been meant for Sherlock...because of Sherlock...
Immediately after his wife had been ripped from him, John had dwelt in his private hell of blame. He should not have chosen to ignore Mary's past to ensure their marital bliss. He should not have entrusted her protection to Sherlock. He should have been more proactive. He should have been by her side when she had walked into danger. He might have been able to defuse the situation to save her!
John's self-blame had been complicated by his guilt for failing to dispel her idealized perceptions of him, "You're always a good man, John….All the time…being perfect," especially when it had recently become less true. His missteps had undermined the standards he lived by—So many lies. I don't just mean you. On the worst of days, he tortured himself with unshriven regrets, sometimes finding solace in the bottle. Even on his better days, he had remained inconsolable, miserably detached from society, blocking expressions of sympathy and comfort against the emotional turmoil they would have caused. Self-loathing fueled his combustible fury against Sherlock. Cherishing his grief, he refused to answer Sherlock's calls, sending him the "anyone-but-you" message through Molly as a final repudiation of him and their friendship. It had worked; weeks had gone by without any contact.
Despite his dark moods, John had continued to fight through his heartbreak. He had to... for his helpless daughter. Rosie deserved more from her surviving parent than an idiot shattered by tragic loss and disillusionment. Mary's dying plea that he take care of Rosie had been aligned with his deep love for and commitment to his daughter. As much as Rosie needed him, he needed Rosie to draw him back and keep him from plummeting off the edge. After weeks of hellish self-recrimination, John had resolved to get a grip for his daughter and finally made an appointment for today with a professional.
His new therapist broached the topic John had most wanted to address—his greatest fear—letting his daughter down. John had a second topic he had wanted to introduce—his greatest flaw—loving dangerous people, except, they had been rudely interrupted. In a cacophony of squealing tyres, police sirens, helicopter overhead, and Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin colliding with trash bins, Sherlock had crashed back into his life, dangerously high on drugs and "off his tits." Numb with anger, John had wanted none of it.
"Now you just listen to me for once in your stupid life," An angry Mrs. Hudson had confronted him in his therapist's office that afternoon. "I know Mary's dead and I know your heart is broken, but if Sherlock Holmes dies, too, who will you have then? Because I tell you something, John Watson. You will not have me."
Mrs. Hudson's words urged him to accept Sherlock's case, even though all he could hear in his mind was, "Go to hell, Sherlock…." Less than two hours after the interrupted therapy session, John had nearly sent him there. Sherlock's frenzy, scalpel in hand, had triggered John's underlying self-loathing against his friend. In the hospital's morgue John had raged with fists and feet. He had been driven to near madness, to strike, to cause Sherlock bodily harm. He had struck the stunned face repeatedly, continuing even after Sherlock had fallen under John's first blow, requiring two orderlies to pull him off before he killed him.
And Sherlock, revealing his uniquely keen sense of justice for John's incalculable loss, had accepted punishment as if he entirely deserved it. Broken and bleeding, he took full blame, "He's entitled. I killed his wife."
"Yes, you did."
John cringed in retrospect and glanced at his swollen, painful knuckles. Had he taken the proper steps beforehand to process his tragic loss, he wouldn't have lashed out today with such violence against his friend—
"John! John Watson!" someone called after him, shaking John loose from his thoughts. He turned. A nephrologist-associate was headed toward him and the lift John had been too preoccupied to summon.
"Devin…," John nodded in greeting, pocketed his bruised hand, and covered his mood with a false smile.
"Up or down?" Dr. Devin Andrews pressed the button and waited next to John.
John was still fumbling for a reply when a ping signaled the lift's arrival. Saved by the bell. He stepped back as the doors opened to discharge several passengers. "You know, I just remembered …something …some unfinished business. I'll take the next one."
"Y'sure?" Andrews asked with sympathetic eyes. He knew. Everyone knew about Mary.
"Yeah," John mumbled looking away, very sure he did not want to open this conversation.
"Okay," Andrews gave John's upper arm a commiserating squeeze, "Keep in touch, y' hear?" and he stepped inside.
John exhaled after the doors slid closed.
He hadn't lied—he hadn't resolved his unfinished business: saying goodbye to Sherlock, perhaps for a fourth time. Twice before in their friendship, John had made his "final" farewells to Sherlock. Both times, there had been undertones of anger against the forces that separated them, but never before had he harbored contempt, like go to hell, against Sherlock. During the first farewell, he had stood beside an empty grave, drowning in grief. The second time had been with a lingering handshake on the windy runway with John nearly mute with sorrow.
And he had done it a third time, in the hospital earlier today. An hour after Sherlock had been admitted, John had come to the private room, hell-bent in his belief that to save both his sanity and what was left of his broken heart—and also to stay out of gaol for murder—he had to sever ties with Sherlock, the friend he had once loved and the man he had nearly beaten to death.
He had stood hunched over his old walking stick and silent at the foot of Sherlock's bed. So resolute to make this his absolute last goodbye, John had brought his cane as a parting gift to leave at the bedside of his injured friend. Those choice four words—Go to hell, Sherlock—had become passé now. He had pushed them aside for another sentiment, Just don't die. Then, resigned that he needed to leave his friend for good, he had hung the cane on a nearby chair, thinking, Stay out of hell, Sherlock…. I'm already there … and we need to keep our distance.
Called to Baker Street, John finally heard Mary's DVD message. Learning about the go-to-hell plan that Sherlock knew he wouldn't like—"Go right into hell, and make it look like you mean it"—John had raced to the rescue yet again, and found that he had not completely lost his willingness—or was it need?—to save Sherlock, despite all.
Was it true? By saving Sherlock, have I saved myself?
John didn't feel quite "saved" yet.
The lift doors opened and closed again admitting nighttime visitors to the ward. John shivered, but the chill that traveled up his spine had nothing to do with the draught. It had to do with the sudden backward rush of memories. Stop this! John shook the memories away. He was not going there. He was not going back through all that pain.
"Can I help you?"
John blinked. The face in front of him came into focus. Hospital personnel and visitors had been dodging him, but one sister stopped to inquire as she was passing.
"You look lost…?"
"No," John protested with raised palms. "I'm fine…"
"If you're certain…," she gave him a hurried smile and continued on her way.
He had always claimed he was "not good at this sort of thing," but had she lingered, John might have admitted he was lost —in indecisiveness. He stood in the middle of a busy hospital corridor, bewildered by his emotions and paralyzed by his reluctance to leave without seeing Sherlock one more time, especially now that he had not only learnt the reason behind Sherlock's bizarre behavior, but had averted a calamity on account of it.
—Hell! Another goodbye, it is, then. Just to be sure...
In the next moment, John spun on his heel and headed back to Sherlock's room. His gnawing stomach and his disturbing disquiet dispelled instantly.
The guard at the door acknowledged and then admitted him. John hesitated on the threshold until his eyes acclimated to the dim lighting. Monitors beeped softly, showing vital activity within normal ranges, a tube from a drip were attached to Sherlock's arm, but the figure lying under the hospital-issue blanket was inert.
Full realization struck him like a blow to the gut—what might have been had he not interrupted Smith before Sherlock breathed his last. Thinking about it made his knees weak. It had been a close call, too close.
This time, when John pushed farther into Sherlock's room and tiptoed to the bedside, his sentiments had made a seismic shift. Gazing down on his battered friend, remorse broke down his stoic restraint. He felt shame for dismissing Sherlock in his time of need. He was even more distressed by his cruel handiwork—the bruised cheek, the bloodshot eye, the deep cut on Sherlock's brow, requiring stitches. John bit his lower lip and closed his eyes to compose himself. He felt beaten, too, raw with despair. He clenched his fists and grimaced, feeling the scabs pull on his knuckles. One moan escaped; he swallowed hard and suppressed the others.
Dammit, Sherlock! You didn't deserve...what I did to you, he bemoaned in the silence … Mary was black ops…. Her training kicked in… But it was more than that… she saw how your death had devastated me. That's why she tried to save you—she loved us both that much.
Sherlock had earned their devotion for putting his own life on the line time and again for them. In the Aquarium, Mary had reciprocated... and lost, tragically. In atonement for her supreme sacrifice and John's terrible loss, Sherlock had done exactly what she had asked of him: "Go to hell," because Sherlock believed in Mary and her absolute faith that John would do the right thing.
"Save John Watson... The only way to save John ... is to make him save you."
John pinched the bridge of his nose; his lips quivered and he bowed his head humbled by the sacrifices of his wife and friend. Indebted for the love he had been shown by these two extraordinary people, gratitude began to heal his bruised heart. When he raised his head again, he caught a fleeting glimpse of her, her eyes shining with pride. But it was not Mary, just the infusion pump lights blinking steadily.
"...if Sherlock Holmes dies, too, who will you have then?"
Mrs. Hudson had been right. With what little love was left in his life, John could not afford to relinquish the friendship of a man who had not only drawn the invalided soldier back into life but whose presence had been a catalyst for greater things, including Mary and Rosie. John had and will continue to have a life worth living—because of Sherlock. He huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh. With sudden clarity, John realized that no matter how hard he had tried to keep his distance—and despite the sorrows they had caused each other—the bond he shared with Sherlock was unbreakable. And now, having saved his friend from one hell, John was ready to seize the rope and climb, hand-over-hand, back out of his own hell.
Wherever she was now, maybe Mary knew he wanted her forgiveness. And maybe by saving Sherlock and proving her right, he was beginning to earn it. He had a ways to go, still, for that, but what had become especially clear was that the forgiveness he needed was Sherlock's, as much as Mary's.
John cupped gentle fingers over Sherlock's wrist and grinned at feeling the steady pulse. Then he took his friend's hand and held it, savoring its warmth, massaging the pliant, slender fingers relaxed in sleep. Years ago, when he had lost Sherlock, Mary's love had saved him from himself. With Mary now lost to him, John had undeniable proof the lengths to which Sherlock would go to save him.
John read the monitors then leant over, rested his palm on Sherlock's forehead to check there was no fever—confirming the monitor's readings—and brushed back some stray hair. His gestures of comfort and caring were not enough to match the deep affection he felt, so he grasped Sherlock's hand again and barely squeezed.
When the fingers squeezed back, John half-expected—but no—Sherlock's eyes remained closed, his breathing remained regular with sleep. John smiled at his foolishness for misinterpreting a natural reflex response. He let go of his friend's hand, sure his decision to not let go of Sherlock was the right one.
"See you later, mate," he whispered in a voice with more warmth than he had felt since Mary's death. He patted Sherlock's hand once more. He would never be fully past with all that had happened, but this was a start and far better than the alternative. And John meant what he said. He would see Sherlock later to ensure his friend's recovery.
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Too late to see John leave, Sherlock finally stirred. It took him a moment to clear the fog in his brain. First, a flash of panic, then a wave of relief as recent memories coalesced and he became more oriented. He rolled his head slightly side to side; his eyes fluttered. His lips moved in a sleepy, dry-mouth mumble, "Lay..tah... Jaawn…." He continued to fight his heavy eyelids and managed to half-open one eye. "….Jaawwwn?" He saw no one; yet, he was certain he had not imagined his friend's touch and voice, reassuring him with a promise of "later," just as he had not imagined the moment when John's eyes were opened to the monstrous Culverton Smith.
"No one's untouchable," John had objected when Smith touted the advantages of money, power, and fame to commit murder.
Smith had mocked, "No one?"
Sherlock had eyed John's response to Smith's arrogance. The grim set of John's face, along with his crossed arms and pugilist stance had been telltale indicators—Smith's outrageous statements had put John on high alert. Sherlock flashed a subtle smile, a smile John had not seen because he had been scowling at Smith. This, too, had meant his friend now fully comprehended the danger Smith posed. His mission—to go to hell—would only succeed if John were on board. If. Sherlock had also been quite aware there were no guarantees. He hadn't wanted to die, as willing as he was to put his life on the line to save John. He had had to trust Mary's belief that for them both to be saved, only John could save him. Moments later, when Smith had commanded a round of applause for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, their eyes had at last met and held, conveying a mutual understanding. John's searching glance had filled Sherlock with tremendous hope.
"It's in the 'later, if not the 'sooner,' we will find our way back, John…" Sherlock muttered, pulling in a deep breath that made him groan. Despite the painkillers, his sides ached, but the other pain—the tight sorrow that had clutched his heart for weeks—seemed to have loosened its vice-like hold just a bit. Sherlock doubted the hospital meds had this effect when his drug cocktails had failed to alleviate it. It could only mean he had survived the hell of losing one dear friend—Mary—because John had chosen to save him. Whether this meant he hadn't lost John entirely remained to be seen, but the possibility of renewing their friendship now existed. Once again—even from the grave—Mary had opened the pathway to their reconciliation.
Though his lips were swollen, he managed a slight smile. "You were right, Mary…," he spoke as if she were present and listening, "You've always been right about John and me…..," He closed his eyes and slipped back into a deep sleep; on his face a peaceful smile remained.
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- "Hell is the state of those who freely and definitively separate themselves from God, the source of all life and joy."
- "Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is LOVE."1 John 4:8
- Hell is the deprivation of LOVE.
A.N. First, thanks to my wonderful beta whose insights always inspire me. I am indebted to her in so many ways. In writing this one-shot I rewatched this BBC Sherlock episode multiple times, but I still must acknowledge the brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan which helped considerably in shortening my labors with dialogue.