Work Text:
John saw them. No, he really saw them; not just the detritus and despair that was left in their wake. It was as if they were flesh and blood not just as analogies made by humans attempting to put a name to the chaos and strife they caused. They didn’t look the same every time but somehow John could always tell. He never was quite sure what the people around him saw whenever one of them showed up. Whatever it was it clearly wasn’t what he saw.
John had thought he’d see the last of War in the poppy fields of Afghanistan. Then she’d been wearing combat fatigues and a bright red burnoose with a pack of mangy half feral dogs at her feet. Now she was standing on a London street corner in 3-inch stiletto heels and a red cocktail dress that looked like it had been painted on. A chihuahua and a teacup poodle were peeking out of her over sized handbag. John got Sherlock out of there before all hell broke loose.
Famine was the other he hadn’t expected to encounter in London. Waif like and wearing shades of black she had sat in the dust with numerous Afghan locals. Here she was subtle but still present. She wasn’t sitting at the table but she hung about; just around the corner or slightly down the street, black trainers squeaking on the pavement. Always watching hungrily, never satisfied; she was ready to devour hope and even life. John did what he could to chase her off from her targets. Sometimes he was more successful than others.
John was quite familiar with Pestilence. She would show up at the surgery at the start of every flu season. Leaving a trail of white tissues full of virus, she’d cheerfully acknowledge him with a cough and a wheeze. Occasionally she’d appear with something different. It was with the spots of measles one time, the misery of food poisoning another. Over the years he’d seen her with cholera and tuberculosis but never with something non-contagious; cancer, diabetes and heart disease clearly did not count.
Death was the one John saw most often. Usually he spotted her at a bit of a distance. Sometimes he managed to keep her at bay, other times not. She had been all over everywhere in Afghanistan, a ghostly green mirage only seen out of the corner of his eye. At the time he had considered her to be a somewhat capricious adversary and wondered if she considered him a worthy opponent or simply an annoyance.
These days when he saw her she was much more physical. John would spot her standing unconcerned in the crowd at a crime scene with her pale green hair accessories. But he didn’t only see her there. The most memorable time recently was when he noticed her walking down the hospital corridor just about to enter a patient’s room. She’d been tall that day with ebony skin and long braids tipped with pale green beads that clicked together when she walked. By the time John got to the room and paused in the doorway it was clear that she had been a welcome presence at least in this case.
John paid the cabbie and turned toward St. Bart’s. Famine and Pestilence were sitting on the front steps of the building having a conversation. A bit of something red caught his eye and there was War. She was standing on the edge of the pavement filing her nails, a pair of Irish setters flanking her on either side. She looked directly at him then up. John followed her gaze just in time to catch the flash of something reflected in the glass of a building. He unsuccessfully tried to determine the location out of long remembered habit. Not that it mattered. The possibility of a sniper in the middle of London was not terribly high. He looked back but War and her dogs were gone.
He didn’t have time to do anything other than note her disappearance when his mobile rang. It was Sherlock. Sherlock directing him to move to a location. Sherlock on the top of Bart’s, standing on the ledge. Sherlock spouting rubbish about how everything had been a ruse, how the papers had been right, how it was all a trick. Sherlock falling off the building toward the unforgiving ground below. John ran, collided with a bicyclist and ended up on the ground. He picked himself up and stumbled toward Sherlock’s body. Trying to get through the crowd, hoping for a pulse all the while knowing that it was in vain.
Cold fingers loosen his hold on Sherlock’s wrist. It was a woman. She holds him, preventing him from interfering with the medical personnel who had boiled out of the building like ants from a nest. She keeps him from falling as his knees give out, controlling his descent to the ground and staying with him. After Sherlock’s body has been removed she helps him to his feet. John looks at her then and a shock of recognition runs through his body. Long dark hair, pale green shirt and matching hair tie keeping things orderly. She holds him until he is steady enough to stand on his own then gently releases him. He turns away to look at the building, the door, that Sherlock will never pass through again. As John starts to turn his back on the building he hears a soft female voice.
“He’s not mine. Not yet.”