Chapter Text
Prologue
Dec 12th, 12:05, 2009
The air is heavy and damp, but there is nothing but darkness. There are no memories, no personality, no life past the cold and the ever crushing darkness.
There aren't any clever deductions either.
But there is pain, and hunger. Oh the hunger, it's raw and it's ravaging, like something is missing – lost maybe – a deep hole in his chest. All he wants to do is fill it up, replace it with something not his.
So he fights against the numbness, focusing on the only thing he does feel. He pounds against heavy wood, confined space and earth and dirt until there is wind and rain pushing against his fingertips. He pulls himself out of the ground, and the rain falls so hard it soaks all the way through his perfectly tailored black suit.
But Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel it against his skin. He takes an unbalanced step forward.
Words can't form in his mouth; his tongue is too swollen from two months of rot. What comes out is groaning. If someone were to listen carefully, not that anyone would, they’ld be able pull a name from the noises; John Watson.
The Rising started like a wave. At the beginning on the first day, there was news of people in a small, tiny town recalling how they saw a recently passed family member out on a walk in the woods. Soon, people all over Britain were getting glimpses of the dead wondering out of the corner of their eyes. It was like one large haunting, and some were grateful, others, petrified. A few tried to warn the masses of the upcoming death and horror they were sure was to come.
They were right, because soon, days after, the attacks began.
Chapter 1
The office space is drab and dreary, brown carpet and grey walls sucking the life out of the potted plants that line a large, draped window. John sits in the similar brown chair, fiddling with his thumbs, jaw clenched. He has never been in a doctor’s office that's as painfully dull as this one, which is saying something.
The plain colour of the room sets his nerves on edge, as if they aren't already. The doctor’s desk is littered with file after file, and John resists the tempting urge to riffle through the documents to find out why he was called down in the first place just so he can leave. The wait is driving him insane, the chair highly uncomfortable, hitting a nerve in his old bad leg. The thought brings him back five and a half years, suddenly and without restraint, and John clamps down hard on the memories. He has been working so hard to forget; to move on – damn it he is getting married - but one thing like that can set him back years.
The door suddenly bursts open and in rushes the doctor, lab coat sitting just a bit too tightly around his shoulders. John shifts in the chair.
"So," the man - Dr. Shepard, according to the name tag - begins as he sits down in his much more comfortable chair. "You're a doctor yourself, Mr. Watson?"
John nods, not bothering to correct the other man. He wasn't really a doctor the last few years, since the Rising, as much as he tried. As many as the lives he lost and destroyed.
And war is war.
"So you are aware of all of the progress we've made over these couple months, yes?"
"Of course." John says, fist clenching, and his voice cracks just a bit from disuse, he coughs. He'd been sitting here for a while. "I'm sorry, but just what did you call me down here for?"
"Assimilation of the partially disease syndrome sufferers is nearing quite quickly, Mr. Watson, we are just preparing the general public."
"You could do that with commercials or posters, thank you very much, not personal visits. I am very busy myself with planning a wedding and-" John begins to rise from his seat, but Dr. Sheppard stops him.
"Mr. Watson, please wait. We were looking over the list of PDS sufferers and researching the family of each and you are listed as the only responsible party of one of our top cases."
The large man ruffles through some of the folders and holds one up, a single name printed in flowing cursive across the cover.
John can't see the word properly and silently curses. Mary’s right - he needs glasses. John pauses, and inside his head flies the name of everyone he's ever known and died. Fear slowly grips his throat, clawing like icicles, as he realizes the only person it could possibly be and he sinks slowly back into the chair, eyes staring unfocused at the front of the desk. He traces the pattern of the wood with his gaze as he compartmentalizes. He's been getting better at that too.
"I am taking it you know who it is?" The doctor asks, putting on reading glasses and opens the file, skimming through it.
John feels himself slowly nod.
"Sherlock Holmes is one of our most responsive cases." The doctor says with what is akin to pride. "But he is literally scraping the backs of everyone to return home as soon as possible and someone high up in the government pulled enough strings that..."
John doesn't hear a word the doctor says as soon as that name leaves his mouth. Memories of late nights, wild chases and take out come flooding back like a hurricane, and this time John can't stop them. He remembers the tall man, grey eyes piercing, long coat flying behind him like a cape, deductions and cases and criminals flying past as if he was a hawk in flight and the rest of the world a tiny pheasant. John remembers the first case, the thrill of the chase and the blood pumping through his veins, just the two of them against the rest if the world. He remembers the shot to save a life from the game and the pink lady's phone.
But then he remembers the blood seeping from Sherlock's skull, red on the pavement. He remembers the vacant eyes and lost pulse, never to be found again.
John feels like a small picture compared to all the paintings of memories when he speaks again, voice harsh. "I didn't realize he’d - ehmm - come back."
The doctor looks dully – stupidly – sympathetic as he nods his understanding. Damn him, he probably heard like everyone else in the dumb city when the suicide happened three and a half years ago.
"Where is he?" John can't stop himself from asking. His face falls.
"In our northern treatment center, but he is returning to London in two days."
John wants to yell. He wants to scream. He wants to run all the way to 221B and breathe in the scent, remind himself of all the things he never would have allowed himself to remember if /this/ didn't happen.
Yet John doesn't move a muscle, because he doesn’t live in 221B anymore. What he does do, what he knows how to do, what he has truly learned over the last few years, is prepare.
Two days. According to Dr. Sheppard, a version of Sherlock is coming back to London in two days. Back to a London that is ravaged with death, broken buildings and scarred veterans. Back to a city and to people who don't completely accept what he technically – holy shite – is now.
And that’s even more of a freak. Death in a long dark coat.
As much as he has questions for the bastard - like why the bloody hell did you jump, Sherlock? Or what happened to Moriarty? Even, why the fuck did you leave me? - John Watson isn't ready. He won't ever be ready.