Work Text:
- For Schmiezi -
(thanks for the lovely and challenging prompt)
One
When Sherlock collapses in the flat, John‘s world collapses with him. It had started to crumble the moment he found his chair and the perfume in 221B. Its foundations were shaken when Mary entered the empty house, shot the coin, threatened to kill anyone coming between her and himself. In the flat it was as if he was watching everything from the outside, as a bystander, an audience to a scene onstage. The floor is starting to shift under his feet, slowly caving in.
Sherlock tells him things that are so very wrong, he pushes John away although he clearly needs his help, pushes John towards Mary who has done this to Sherlock. He tells John that he has deliberately chosen a woman who would shoot his best friend because it is what he craves.
No, John wants to scream, this is not what I crave! I crave the danger and running around London in the dark and solving crimes and feeling infinitely alive! But this is not what Mary provides. The danger she provides is deadly and destructive, not life-affirming.
But Sherlock does not stop. He and Mary seem to get on really well, he feeding her cues, providing excuses for what she did. Coolly talking about her past as an assassin. John feels red hot anger searing through his chest, he can hardly breathe.
Sherlock explains how Mary saved his life by not shooting him in the head and then calling the police - but when John called the police nobody mentioned that there had been another emergency call from the same address.
John stills at this thought and thinks again. And suddenly all pieces come together. What did Sherlock say in Leinster Gardens?
Now talk, and sort it out. Do it quickly.
He was in a hurry. And then John realises and wants to get up but the paramedics barge in and Sherlock takes his own pulse and …
When Sherlock collapses, John‘s world collapses with him.
And while the paramedics are tending to Sherlock, John looks at Mary. Her immovable face, her impenetrable gaze.
And comes to a decision that will change his life.
A median sternotomy is not something I would willingly suffer again. The scar running down the middle of my sternum reminds me of the Y- or T-shaped incisions Molly performs on the dead bodies in her morgue, and while they never really bothered me before, it is a decidedly unpleasant experience to wake up after this procedure and have to go on breathing. Or moving. Or living at all.
During my first stay in hospital I got away with a big white sticking plaster on my chest and some tubes in my veins but this time it is more difficult. I distantly hear the doctors blathering about internal haemorrhage and rupture and CA and I am only too glad to glide back into unconsciousness.
There is a black hole in my mind that sucked up everything from the paramedics arriving in Baker Street to me waking up two days after surgery. And when I finally wake up I am alone.
John is sitting in the hospital cafeteria with the phone in his hand, a cold cup of tea in front of him, the surface covered with an oily film. His palm, in which he holds the phone, is sweating.
He remembers sitting in the hallway outside the operating theatre two days ago, clutching Sherlock‘s coat so hard that the rough cloth left imprints on the soft flesh of his palms. Then, later, a hand on his shoulder and Mycroft taking the coat out of his hands with surprising gentleness.
John is gripping the phone. He gulps and takes a look at the number in the display. A lot of water under the bridge, he thinks. And then, a small step. Just a small step. Just a try. It does not have to mean anything. Nothing at all.
Everything is fuzzy. Machines beeping in the background. My mouth is terribly dry and aching, my lips glued together. When I try to turn my head I feel pressure against the right side of my throat. CVC. I remember the feeling from last time when I had one on the left side. Took it out myself. Seems like an eternity.
So, hospital. ICU. The warm electric smell of medical equipment and a trace of Eternity by Calvin Klein. Female nurse or doctor. Three, no, four bags on the I.V. pole. No pain. So morphine via PCA again.
I try to remember what happened. The mist slowly brightens. Me pulling out the CVC and the other needles, somehow getting into my trousers and coat (they disposed of the bloodied shirt), dragging the I.V. pole to the exit and hailing myself a cab. Fast forward. Baker Street, getting into a shirt with Billy Wiggins‘ help, ordering him to return John‘s chair, positioning the perfume bottle on the side table, then setting up the projector in Leinster Gardens, waiting.
I really do not want to dwell on everything that happened afterwards, it is too painful right now, but I cannot escape the memories. Me offering Mary a way out and hurting John more than I could bear. Trying to make John stay with her because I know I will not be there for quite some time.
His face though …
I feel my consciousness fading again but I want to stay awake. There is something that bothers me and it has to do with John. And then I know.
He is not here.
John ends the call. That did not go too badly. Harry sounded sober and surprised and told him she was already late for work but if maybe he could call again in the evening. Or come over one of these days. Mentions that Claude is a brilliant cook. He wonders a bit at the name but asks no questions. His French is more than rusty but he seems to remember it is a male name. Maybe just a friend.
His heart feels a bit lighter when he gets up from the table. For the first time in three days he is able to breathe more freely, does not feel as if a lead plate was weighing down on his chest.
He has been so close to losing Sherlock a second and a third time. He does not have a large family and his own sister did not even come to his wedding. Harry had excused herself with a workshop booked by the company months in advance but still there was a strange feeling. He remembers his cousin Diana who, according to Sherlock, hates Mary. Not sure about Harry herself.
He does not want to think about Mary right now. He briskly walks to the elevators and presses the button for the ICU.
I wake up from my drug-induced slumber when I hear the door and turn my head away. John‘s steps, his smell, I do not want him to see the bone-deep relief in my face and I know that being as weak as this I cannot hide anything from John.
”Sherlock, good God, you woke up! Finally.“ He is standing beside the bed, gripping the railing. I want to master the burning in my eyes before looking at him.
”Sherlock? Is everything okay?“
When I do not move, he walks around to the other side of the bed, carefully pushing aside the I.V. pole.
”I am so sorry. I have been here most of the time but I had to make a call …“
I try to speak when he realises my difficulties and gets a plastic cup with a lid and straw. It reminds me of those coloured children‘s cups with cartoon animals on them you can buy in theme parks. Must be the morphine.
He holds the cup to my lips while I drink gratefully. The taste in my mouth slightly improves and I can finally speak.
”To Mary, I suppose.“ I do not recognise my own voice.
John‘s head snaps up. He does not answer and there is something in his face I cannot explain.
”How are you feeling?“
”Fine.“
He frowns and presses his lips together so that they blend into a thin, angry line. He nods to the PCA. ”Without that thing you would be screaming. They had to cut open your sternum to repair the damage. It will be weeks before you can breathe or move without pain.“
I had deduced that much but what sort of bedside manner is this?
I can hear someone clearing their throat and try to raise my head but I am too damned weak.
A female doctor is coming in, the Eternity woman. Nice change for a fragrance, Claire de la Lune would make me vomit.
”Dr Watson, I know you and the patient are good friends but talking to him like that is not exactly advisable regarding his condition.“
Translation: Keep your fucking mouth shut.
”I am Laura Taylor, your attending physician.“ She checks my blood pressure, the PCA settings and asks me how I am feeling.
John measures her with his eyes. ”With Sherlock you can call a spade a spade. No, you should. You even have to. He does not suffer mollycoddling and lying doctors. I am speaking from experience.“
A small smile steals over her face. ”Well, Mr Holmes, the operation was difficult. You lost a lot of blood, needed several transfusions, we had to execute a median sternotomy which, as your own personal doctor already told you, will take a long time to heal. There will be physiotherapy as soon as you are well enough. And probably withdrawal symptoms from the morphine. Was that clear enough?“
I smile back. ”Very much so.“ I close my eyes to indicate that I am tired which is not exactly an act.
When we are alone, I try to read John‘s face but the strange look from before has disappeared. As has the frown. He seems softer and a bit older, more John. He sits in the chair beside my bed, supporting his elbows on his knees, his chin on his folded hands.
”You should sleep, Sherlock.“
I nod slowly. ”Glad you‘re here.“ I close my eyes and then I feel a warm, calloused hand stealing itself into mine.
Two
It is like old times and then it is not. John insisted on moving back in, he has re-occupied his chair, his dressing gown is hanging from a peg in the bathroom, his medical journals are strewn over the all-purpose table where we usually sit and eat or work on our computers.
But we do not sit and eat there because I cannot remain upright in a hard-backed chair. I eat lying down on the sofa and John has taken to sitting beside me or on the coffee table. Mrs Hudson shook her head at the arrangement so John told her, in no uncertain terms, that he was not going to let me eat baby food on the sofa while stuffing himself with Thai take-away at the table.
And there are other changes. I sleep more and when I wake up I often notice John looking at me in a way that …
Sherlock has been home for five days and they are making progress. John makes him walk to the kitchen and back twice each day. By now he does not have to keep Sherlock from falling which is quite a success. Every time Sherlock turns his back, John bites his lip because he is still so angry. He knows why his friend is walking so slowly, why he has to support himself on the door frame, why he feigns being bored but in truth is infinitely grateful to be lying down again after the exercise.
And all the time John is thinking, planning, contemplating. His decision has been made and it is irrevocable. Now he must find a way to make it work. To clear the rubble and rebuild his life.
Only they still have not talked about what happened in this very room on that horrible evening when his life collapsed around him.
”Listen, Sherlock -“
I look up in alarm because by now I know every inflection of John‘s voice and I know when something big is going to happen. This is one of those times.
”Just taking a nap.“
”No, you are not.“ He sounds insistent and I give in and turn my head. He is standing in front of the coffee table, his hands jammed into his pockets. John has a unique way of standing aggressively.
”What‘s the matter?“
”You know we must talk. No, this once I will talk and you are going to listen. I am not going back after you have recovered. I don‘t care whether I can stay here or will have to find another flat, but I‘m not going back. To her.“
Fuck, I think. So everything I did, the foolhardy escape from hospital, the brilliant performance in this very room, all for nothing.
”Did you really believe I was going to buy your act? Did you?“
And there it is again, the sense of hurt and betrayal I remember from that night. His voice, his face, his foot kicking the chair - and Mary standing there like a statue, waiting, dismissive, calculating.
I look away. He did not believe me. Of course not. How could I be so stupid?
”I hoped you would.“ I do not trust my own voice to produce a longer sentence.
”This is rubbish, Sherlock, and you know it. Of course I felt attracted to the danger of our cases, of course I saw the battlefield, as Mycroft once put it, but in the end it is not about death and destruction. It is about the thrill of …“
”… the chase?“ I offer.
”No.“ His voice sounds strangely choked and I finally look at him. ”It is about the thrill of being with you. Of seeing you at work. Of you being brilliant, of you helping people even if you pretend it is just for the sake of the game. Of snatching the tiny moments in which you let me see … behind the facade.“
Oh.
”Mary is not the only one who hides behind a facade, Sherlock. You do the same except your armour is a coat with up-turned collar and a scathing voice and biting remarks. And there is another difference. You do not hide a murderous past but something precious. Something you told the world you did not possess. But I know this is not true. Jim Moriarty for once got it right.“
And then he is there beside the sofa, on his knees, and I feel his hand on my chest, very careful and soft not to hurt me. And then suddenly he is so close that I cannot see anymore, just feel. And it is enough.
Three
Harry writes about her new job in a bookshop in Reading, poor pay, but the atmosphere is nice and they have a little café for which she is responsible. Not licensed. Which is good. And lead us not into temptation and all that. She asks again when he is going to visit her. Mentions Claude‘s heavenly salmon and spinach lasagna. She does not invite Mary.
The doctors at the hospital told me it was going to be hard. John told me as well. And although my knowledge of the human body told me the same, I did not realise how slow my progress would be. Every step is an effort, the way from my bedroom to the living-room or from the sofa to the kitchen a river to be crossed, a mountain to be conquered.
I move liked an old man, supporting myself on walls and shelves and the backrests of both our chairs. In the beginning the pain is so intense that I have to force myself to breathe regularly when I am moving. I can feel John‘s eyes on me wherever I go and it makes me self-conscious.
I can‘t be seen wandering around with an old man.
The sentence comes to mind out of the blue, an unwelcome reminder of an arrogant man returning to a world that had moved on without him. I feel John‘s hand on my back. ”What is it, Sherlock? Need help?“
I am sweating and trembling and then I start to laugh almost hysterically. ”I was just thinking of something I once said to Mycroft. About your moustache. I said that I couldn‘t be seen wandering around with an old man. And now look at me …“
He is gripping my upper arms and carefully turns me around until we face each other. ”Sherlock, what is all this about?“ His left hand cups my face, the thumb softly stroking my lips.
I swallow, feeling very silly all of a sudden. ”Sometimes I wish I was making no progress at all. That I could remain like that, an old man who needs help, who needs someone around him all the time.“
”But why?“ It seems he truly does not know.
”Because then I could keep you forever.“
Something happens to his face that almost breaks my heart. He pulls my head towards him and kisses me on the lips, not roughly, but harder than last time. I get a glimpse of what might happen if I was well and we did not have to hold back and it makes me go all warm inside.
But I know that this is not going to last. That we are currently living in a bubble in which there is no Mary and no baby and no Magnussen. They are still out there and one day the bubble will burst and John will go away. But until then I will hold on to him and take what I can and cherish every precious moment.
Suddenly I remember a quote I once read, no idea from where it came but it seems I put it in some far corner of my mind palace instead of deleting it completely. It is horribly sentimental and absolutely perfect.
"I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember."
Four
When John tells me he is going to visit his old mate Bill Murray in Reading, I try hard not to be disappointed. By now I am well enough to stay alone in the flat while Mrs Hudson brings me tea and home-cooked food I do not want to eat but have to because I do not have the excuse of being on a case.
I still feel John‘s goodbye kiss on my lips and for the first time I am free to think about what is between us, this one thing I did not let myself hope for and which has happened anyway. Maybe was always meant to happen.
Too late, a voice in my head keeps saying, it happened years too late. If I had told him before I … went away, or even after I came back. But before I did not fully realise how I felt and later there was Mary and he seemed happy with her.
True, I sometimes thought that something was missing, that there was no real passion on his side, that he was more in love with the concept of marriage than with Mary as a person but he never gave me any reason to believe that he … well, there was the one blurry evening, the disastrous stag night, and I dimly remember him touching my knee and saying he did not mind and us sitting together on the sofa - something we had never done before, it was always the table or the chairs - of my arm thrown casually over the backrest, nearly - or actually? - touching his neck. And then came Tessa. And the wedding.
I try to shake off these thoughts and think about Magnussen instead. Nothing has been solved. My improvised stunt in the flat with Mary patiently waiting beside the fireplace, watching my performance like a discerning critic, only bought us time.
But what now? Magnussen still has a hold on her and danger to Mary means danger to John. Or is it not that simple?
I remember my first deductions, all those small details about her life and there in the midst the one word I saw but did not observe. Human error, this time on my part. Liar. Even then.
And I keep returning to the one thought that has haunted me ever since I saw her with the gun in her hand, no, even earlier, subconsciously, when I smelt the perfume. I deduced it was Lady Smallwood in there and yet, a small voice in the back of my head told me, even then, that something was off. I just did not realise what it was.
Getting into the office, neutralising Janine and the security guard in the few moments between me showing Janine the ring and riding the elevator up to the penthouse.
This was a professional at work, not an elderly politician.
But I keep returning to the word liar. I saw something and did not act on it. What if she targeted John from the very beginning, what if she never ever intended to become his loving wife but always had a second agenda? Maybe she fell in love with him in the middle of an assignment because else she would never have taken the risk of getting pregnant.
I get up and walk to the window. I am getting better at this, the pain does not make me gasp anymore. I lean against the cool window and reach for my phone to call Mycroft. Time to tell him about the bizarre meeting with Magnussen in the Italian restaurant.
Claude is awesome. There is no other word for it. Short dark hair, boyish haircut framing a feminine face with big green eyes and a mouth that is slightly to large but very beautiful when opening with her infectious laugh. And she is obviously very much in love with his sister.
”This food is just …“ John is lost for words. ”Heavenly.“
Claude smiles. ”My grandma‘s recipe. She called it the seductor‘s stew.“
”No surprise. I bet she seduced a whole army of men with it.“
”Not really. She was married to my grandpa for fifty-five years. I have never seen a happier couple.“ She bends over and kisses Harry. ”But we are quite ambitious, aren‘t we?“
His sister looks at him with a proud smile. She has lost weight and her skin has not looked that glowing in years. He registers that Claude does not drink any wine so he refuses the offer as well.
”And how is London?“ Harry‘s words are innocent enough but John senses some unspoken question. ”Sorry, big brother, but you really look like shit. Not at all like a happily married man from Suburbia.“
He sighs. She is nearly as bad as Sherlock.
”You know, Sherlock being shot and all that was not easy.“
”But he is better now, is he? He will fully heal?“
”Yes.“
But Harry is fucking persistent. ”So there must be something else. Do I detect dark clouds on the horizon? I would have given you at least six months.“
”There are … we are going through a rough patch at the moment.“
Claude looks back and forth between them as if watching a tennis match.
”John.“ Harry looks at him and she is suddenly very serious. ”You married the woman you love. You are going to have a baby. You live in a nice house and have a good job. So, please tell me why you are not happy.“
Claude gets up and starts to collect the plates. She winks at Harry. ”I will look after the dessert. Could take some time. You know, crème brûlée is never easy.“
”So tell me,” says Harry after Claude has disappeared into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. ”What happened?“
Suddenly he cannot pretend anymore. He covers his eyes with his left hand and swallows. ”I realised I love someone else.“
”Oh, John.“ Then, after a moment. ”Do I know her?“
”Not her. Him.“
Five
”You will have to go back to her.“ The words drop like a stone into a pool. I am lying with my head in John‘s lap, his hand playing absently with my curls.
”I know.“
This is not what I expected. He stole my part. I am supposed to be the rational one, the analytical one. So why does he not protest, does not even try to contradict me? The thought is ridiculous and yet I cannot shake it off.
And then another, even worse, thought enters my head. I simply assumed that his was the voice of reason, that common sense is dictating him to go back to his pregnant wife and give her a second chance.
But what if he really wants to go back to her? What if this ‘ thing‘ between us is just the result of my needing his help, of John being relieved at my near-but-not-death?
This is not a case although I wish it was. I can solve cases. I cannot solve what John Watson is doing to my heart.
”Sherlock, you are doing that thing with your face again. I have no idea what you are thinking so please enlighten your idiot lover.“
I turn around and look at him fully. He has never used this word before. I swallow. ”What you just said … we never …“
”No, but I wish we had. I wish we did.“
I sit up to get a better look at him. His face is open and vulnerable, no room for playful banter now. I put my hands around his head and stroke my thumbs over his lips, very lightly, and then I lean forward and press my mouth to his and in his response there is all the heartbreak and the suppressed feelings of years welling up from deep down and he comes apart in my arms.
This time kissing is not enough and we end up sweaty and half naked on the sofa, not caring for Mrs Hudson or Mycroft or anyone else‘s sudden appearance.
Later John gets up to fetch a wet cloth and a blanket which he wraps around us after he has cleaned me up and it is not awkward, not in the least.
”Does that answer your question?“ he asks after a while.
”I did not ask you a question.“
He is laughing. ”Sometimes even I see and observe. After I said I knew that I had to go back to her your breathing changed, became halting. You swallowed hard. You were thinking of losing me which distressed you but there was more. So what might distress you even more than me going back to Mary because we are expecting a child? Me going back to her because I want to, because I want her. You should know one thing - I am never going to love her again.“
After this there are no words for quite some time.
And yet I know that this is just a respite, that I will have to solve Mary‘s case because danger to her means danger to John. I have a plan for removing him from the picture which includes Mycroft‘s prepared laptop as a Christmas present to Magnussen and Billy Wiggins concocting a nice sleeping draught for my family.
But there is another danger to John. Mary threatened to kill everyone who came between her and the man she loves, who made John stop loving her. So what if John himself stops loving her?
Six
Sherlock instructs John very carefully, a director telling his favourite actor how to perform his lines. John tries to concentrate while learning the words and the expressions to go with them.
He knows he is not a good liar but he wants to prove Sherlock wrong. He lost him for two years because his own acting skills could not be trusted. John has forgiven Sherlock but the scar left by his mistrust is still aching.
This time he will get it right. He knows how difficult it is going to be, that he and Mary will have to sleep in one bed again, that she will long for his touch and he finds himself quietly hoping that there will not be too much sex due to the pregnancy. He is not sure if he is that good an actor.
He feels that Sherlock has a plan but this time John has an agenda of his own. He chose Mary, this is his family, and he alone is responsible. He does not really care what will become of Magnussen, let Sherlock deal with him. He is sure Sherlock will come up with something like he always does. John‘s trust in this respect has never wavered even though he has stopped voicing his admiration constantly. After Sherlock saved James Sholto‘s life at the wedding, John thinks him capable of nearly everything.
No, he thinks, this is something I have to do alone. Come hell or high water, I am not going to mess up again. Not this time.
John has learned his lines perfectly. I have set up Billy Wiggins to create his own recipe for the punch in order to put everyone to sleep. Appledore is not far. Magnussen will send his helicopter as announced in a message I received shortly after that surreal meeting in the Italian restaurant around the corner of the hospital.
Once I have his information on Mary, she will be free. So will John. But there is still the baby.
I try not to think about John becoming a father. It is something I am not prepared to deal with. One step after the other. Not long ago I would have laughed if someone had told me to learn patience but in fact I have become quite patient during the last months.
That is what nearly dying twice does to you. Or loving John Watson.
Seven
When John enters the living-room at the Holmes‘ cottage he realises he has not even shaved. I don‘t shave for Mary Watson, he thinks and has to keep himself from laughing hysterically. Strange how things are coming full circle, even trivial details such as this.
Mary‘s body has changed dramatically. He feels a slight stab of pain but it disappears the moment she speaks in a snappish tone without the slightest hint of regret. She does not ask if Sherlock is well. They have spoken on the phone during the last months, met twice for a visit to the gynaecologist, not more. Just discussed what was strictly necessary, financial things, doctor‘s appointments but never what really mattered. Her past, her lies, the contents of the stick (which Sherlock has read). Their future.
He throws the stick (copy) into the fireplace, an overly dramatic gesture meant to convince Mary of his sincerity. It works. She cries. He plays her like a puppeteer.
And then she faints. Before John can think clearly, Sherlock barges in, babbling about a pact with the devil and something in John turns cold.
So Sherlock has chosen Christmas of all days to deal with Magnussen?
The moment Magnussen opens the doors and sits down in the chair I know. Long before John. He looks at me with an icy nonchalance and I relive some moments of the past.
Moriarty throwing the stick into the pool. Moriarty putting the gun into his mouth and pulling the trigger.
With cold dread I remember my haughty words from the evening we broke into Magnussen‘s office. Human error. Janine falling in love with me and believing I would ask her to marry me.
Now it is me who has made a human error. I let Magnussen play me. I realise that I have not been at the height of my game for a long time, since my return, actually. I managed the Moran case but only with difficulty. And the Mayfly man as well but there was Archie who provided the decisive clue. And now this.
How did this happen? Because I chose to care? Because I stopped keeping my distance? Because I got involved? Because I am in love?
No, I am telling myself. Because I went away. Because I disappeared from a life I loved and when I returned found that what had kept me alive during my absence was not there anymore.
It hurts. It damn hurts and Sherlock is just standing there being sorry. John thinks feverishly, tries to understand what is happening, why Sherlock lets Magnussen flick his face, why he does not come up with a clever idea. Only there is not one this time, is there?
If Magnussen‘s information is only in his head and he is able and willing to use it against Mary they do not stand a chance.
What is Sherlock waiting for? To be handed over to the police like a sacrificial lamb? John remembers the horrible evening when Greg came to Baker Street to arrest Sherlock and he put on his coat and went with Greg, silently, almost docile and so very unlike his real self …
Then everything happens at once. The sounds of a helicopter coming closer, floodlights, moving shadows encircling the house and the terrace where they are standing.
The movement is so fast that John does not realise what happens. Only when he sees the gun he understands that Sherlock‘s docility once again was the calm before the storm. Only now -
I do not hesitate one moment, grab the gun from John‘s pocket, deliver an overly dramatic line - drama queen and all that - and shoot Magnussen in the head.
If the danger is only in the head, if the danger is the head, the head must be destroyed.
I try to create the illusion that this is for Mary. ”You are safe now, John“ would have been the truth but I do not want him to feel guilty or indebted to me.
When I sink to my knees in front of the helicopter I can feel the wetness on my cheeks. I have not cried since that day on the roof, not once.
And while those moments are similar in some ways - both meant to save John Watson - on the roof of St Barts I knew and expected and planned to return. But now I know full well that I have lost John Watson and this is unbearable, even for me.
Eight
John is getting better at acting. He tries to hide from Mary that he is broken inside, he goes through the motions, even lets her try and comfort him.
This his by far the worst Christmas of his life. When he is alone he allows himself to think of the only other Christmas with Sherlock, Mrs Hudson lighting up like a candle when he played the carol on his violin, the terribly awkward moment when he deduced Molly‘s present, Irene Adler‘s phone on the mantelpiece.
And John realises that, despite being dumped by his girlfriend and Sherlock celebrating Christmas Eve by identifying a naked corpse at the morgue, it has been his happiest Christmas since childhood.
He keeps bombing Mycroft with calls and texts. He has no idea where they took Sherlock after handcuffing him in front of brightly lit Appledore.
John cannot forget Sherlock‘s face after he shot Magnussen and the message, ”Tell Mary she‘s safe now“.
Of course John told her. But he knows that this is an act, too, that Sherlock has chosen to continue what he started after Leinster Gardens, equating himself with Mary: both of them ruthless. Both of them using others for their own ends. Both of them psychopaths. Both of them killers.
When he cannot stand Mary‘s anxious face any longer, he leaves the house and walks through the streets, not even once looking at the blinking decorations in the windows because in him all is black.
The only thing that keeps him going is Harry. Of course he cannot tell her what has happened, Magnussen‘s death having been covered up by Mycroft and his shadow army, but when they talk on the phone or mail or just send short texts he realises that she has become his anchor, the one fixed point in his life after …
Mary acts surprised, remarks on how becoming an aunt may have changed his sister, even asks after her girlfriend and invites both of them to visit the baby. ”Imagine having two aunts, this is really nice.“
I know as soon as Mycroft delivers the message. I swallow but manage to keep a straight face.
”So from now on I am going to slay dragons in Eastern Europe.“
There are new lines in his face, lines that were not there when we smoked outside the cottage. He turns to go.
”Just one thing.“
He does not look at me but hesitates before opening the door of the cell. ”You will see them at the airfield.“
He remains true to his word. I am standing beside the plane when the sleek black limousine appears, notice the big red splash that is Mary without really looking at her. We hug and say goodbye, both knowing who has won and lost. She has chosen the coat with care.
I once told Lestrade that writing the best man speech was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I had no idea.
I realise I never told John that I love him. I want to do it now. But it would be cruel. I remember all the cruel things I did to him - frightening him to death in that lab, dying in front of his eyes, shutting him off again and again. This time I will not be cruel. A lie of omission as a last act of love.
Nine
Sherlock gets off the plane and before Mycroft can bundle him off in his limousine, John is there. He ruthlessly grabs Sherlock‘s arm and pulls him away, ignoring Mycroft‘s and Mary‘s faces, the former exasperated, the latter shocked and angry.
He is incredibly relieved and so very furious and suddenly all the fury he has been harbouring for three years erupts. John crowds Sherlock against the gangway, hands in his coat collar but not kissing him, not even touching his face, just hissing viciously so that no one but themselves can hear:
”If you ever pull a fucking stunt like that again I will kill you with my own hands. And this is not an idle threat. I saw it in your eyes. I knew you were going to die. How could you do this to me? Have I not deserved the truth just this once? For God‘s sake, Sherlock, this was St Barts all over again.“
He becomes silent, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his burning anger threatening to overwhelm him.
”Now go on and play hide and seek with your brother and dear Jim Moriarty. And if you need my help, you can come and ask if it is convenient. Excuse me, but I have a wife and child who need me.“
I watch him marching over to Mary, taking her hand and leading her to the waiting car. I am not sure what I am feeling. Relief. Gratitude (Mycroft being more brilliant than ever but I would rather bite off my tongue than tell him that). Heartache. Insecurity. Anger, this time directed at myself.
Maybe I should really stop lying to John Watson.
Ten
I am getting nearly mad with boredom. Two cases from Lestrade, a 4 and 4.5. I even left the house for them just to keep myself from shooting the walls. I am bored enough to wish for a moment that Moriarty‘s resurrection had not been Mycroft‘s last minute stunt to save the dragonslayer but real. Then at least I would have had something to look forward to …
I stop myself when I feel shame creeping over me, grab my violin instead and play something atonal enough to make Mrs Hudson bang her ceiling with a broomstick.
No, not Moriarty, not ever.
I count the days in the calendar. Check the expected date of delivery. That was two days ago. Daily examinations now, CTG. I pace the flat, from the door to the window to the fireplace to the kitchen, start experiments and throw them away after having ruined them. I cannot concentrate. Will it always be like this from now on?
I have dissected every word he said to me at the airfield but they do not make sense. Has he left me after all? Did I lose him because I shut him off again? What is the difference between protecting someone and shutting him off? Is caring not an advantage?
Keeping away from Sherlock is hard. Thank God Mary goes into labour three days after the expected date of delivery. John concentrates on holding her hand, telling her all is fine, that she is doing great, the clichéd and yet helpful words generations of doctors and midwives have used to comfort women giving birth. Doctors and midwives, he thinks. Not fathers, not husbands. He tries to remain distant, to be a doctor in order to prepare himself for what is going to come.
When I finally receive John‘s text it is very short and to the point: Lily. 6.7 lbs. Mother and child well.
Nothing more. No invitation to have a look at her, no word about what is going to happen next. I try to be happy that all went well before I realise I snapped my bow in half with trying.
Two days later John brings his family home. He holds Lily in his arms when he tells Mary that he is going to divorce her even though it is strictly not necessary as they have never been legally married.
He shows her the suitcases he has prepared and the papers she has to sign in order to grant him custody. He wonders at his own cool distance when telling her that he never planned to stay with her, that he did not forgive her for lying to him and for shooting Sherlock, that he was never willing nor able to live with someone who killed people for money. Not even bad people, he adds as an afterthought.
And in this very moment she looks at him the same way she did in Leinster Gardens. Only then she mistook him for Sherlock. So this is how Mary looks at people who want to take away what is rightfully hers.
Only then her eyes fill with tears. ”What about Lily?“
John has his answer ready. ”No reason to worry. There are lots of people who are going to love her.“
”Who? You are not talking about Sherlock?“
Of course he is but this is something Mary does not need to know. ”There are others. And she has a father.“
Her chin is quivering, her eyes turn red. She presses her lips together and answer with a sharp nod, almost a military salute. ”Your way, as you once deigned to say.“
And to his surprise she takes a biro, signs the documents, and leaves the room without a word.
Eleven
I heave an exasperated sigh when my brother enters the flat.
”Leave me alone.“
He is just standing there, looking at me, his face a strange mixture of contempt and compassion.
”So they have a daughter.“
”Yes.“
”When did you last change your clothes? I never knew you to be careless with your personal hygiene. John will not be happy.“
In one fluent motion I get up from the sofa, walk over the coffee table and press him against the door, my forearm blocking his windpipe.
”Listen, Mycroft, there is only so far you can go. Get out of my flat. Stick your long nose into North Korean affairs or start a war in a poor African country but Leave. Me. Alone.“
He coughs and rubs his neck the moment I loosen my grip. I envy him his calm. He was always far more composed, even as a teenager he had a certain majestic pompousness that could not be shaken. But when he looks up, there is something in his eyes I had not expected to see there.
”Why did you come?“
”Mary Watson left her flat one hour ago.“
”So what?“
”Without her baby, carrying two suitcases. She took a taxi and booked into a hotel room in Bayswater.“
I know what it means and yet I ask: ”You think she left him?“
Mycroft shrugs. ”Or he sent her away. Ten minutes after she had left the house, Ms Harry Watson and another woman visited John and have not left since then.“
And then I understand. John, stupid courageous sentimental John. This time he was the one with a plan, this time he tricked me. And then the dread rolls over me like a tsunami.
Harry and Claude are over the moon, offering to carry and feed Lily and change her nappies. ”She is beautiful,” says his sister and looks at him like in a way she has never done before.
John is surprised that something as mundane as becoming a father can change the way she looks at her big brother.
”What about her mother?,” asks Claude who seems more sober.
”I sent her away.“
Both women are shocked, exchange glances, Harry swallowing hard while absently stroking the baby‘s head.
”Why?“
”Because she does not deserve this.“ John makes a vague gesture from Lily to the cosy flat around them. ”Because I cannot live with her any longer. Because I married a woman that only existed in my imagination. I cannot tell you more, it could be dangerous.“
Harry clears her throat. ”John, you are not thinking of … I mean, she is wonderful and I am better than I have been for years but … it is still early days for me and Claude.“
He nods. ”I will not be able to care for her all the time. I … I thought we could share … she needs people around who love her.“
Claude is calm as ever. ”You should have asked, John.“ Then her expression changes. ”I see. You were afraid to be stuck with her, of losing the courage to send her away if we said no. It must have been really bad.“
John nods again, his voice abandoning him. For a second he relives the last year in fast motion - the wedding, the shooting, the final realisation about Sherlock, loving him and nearly, so nearly losing him again.
”We can try,” she says in the direction of Harry who is still stroking Lily‘s soft blond hair. Harry does not look up and her voice is quivering and soft: ”Do you trust me that much, John?“
”I do.“
Twelve
I do not even care to take a shower, blindly put on some clothes and stumble down the stairs. Mycroft knows better than trying to stop me when I am in this kind of mood.
”Just fucking get me there!,” I bellow. ”And don‘t you dare to barge in with your troops!“
Some animals are most dangerous when they are in danger of losing their young. Or when they are wounded and fight back for their lives. Mary is like a wounded animal that has lost its young. She will not just give up and board a plane to South America to start a new life. First she will get her revenge if nothing else.
I swear under my breath while the chauffeur is doing his best to navigate the London traffic, using shortcuts only known to people who do not have to be afraid of being stopped by the police. I try to phone John, he does not answer. Fuck, this is not good. Of course he has a newborn on his hands but then his sister and her friend should still be there …
Suddenly a cigarette appears before my eyes, then a lighter. I take a deep puff and close my eyes for a second.
John planned it all. He managed to keep me in the dark because this time he wanted to do it himself. His wife, his child, his choice. I smoke silently and take comfort in Mycroft‘s presence. Not that I would ever admit it.
I lean forward in my seat. ”How long?,” I ask the driver.
”Ten minutes max, Sir.“
Mycroft‘s phone beeps.
”Why do you tell me this only now? Consider yourself fired, Norman.“
He ends the call. His tone of voice does not bode well.
”What is it?“
”Mrs Watson left the hotel fifteen minutes ago.“
Too late. But there is no use in berating Mycroft for choosing an idiot to observe the hotel.
Suddenly I remember Mary in Leinster Gardens, casually pulling the gun out of her nice ladies‘ handbag and shooting a coin. Afterwards in the flat I was constantly aware of her being armed, of the gun in her bag, and I put on that shitty and desperate act of being on her side, of making John believe that Mary and I were equals and that he loved her because he … well. I suppose she kept the gun and has it still.
”Sherlock. John is a soldier.“
I do not look at Mycroft and my voice is cold. ”And he is alone with a baby and two unarmed women.“
John excuses himself and goes to his bedroom where he opens the drawer of his night table and pulls out the gun, hiding it in his waistband as usual. He hopes against hope that Mary will just disappear from their lives, blend into the shadows from which she has come but knowing her he cannot be sure.
When he enters the living-room, Harry is alone with Lily who has started to cry and tries to stuff her tiny fist into her mouth.
From the kitchen there is the sound of water boiling.
”She needs a bottle,” says Harry. ”I am getter better at deducing babies.“
John answers her smile and for the first time since Mary left he feels really warm inside.
The bubble bursts when he hears the car outside.
”Into the bedroom,” he hisses. "Quickly. Take Claude with you. Do not come out on any account.“
Harry registers his expression and, probably for the first time in her life, meekly obeys.
And then Mary is standing in the living-room.
”Oh, you were quick in replacing me,” she says as an opening. ”Harry and … partner?“ Her eyes take in the two messenger bags on the floor beside the sofa. ”You are such a clever boy, John. Not as clever as Sherlock, or me, but bright enough to keep us entertained for a while. Although I suppose Sherlock is interested in another kind of input since the two of you started shagging.“
He is prepared. He expected this. Nothing she says will ever hurt him again. He can feel the gun at the small of his back but he knows that he must wait, wait for the right moment. It must be self-defence.
Her hand wanders to her coat pocket.
It is like a surreal dream, but he is very calm inside.
”You probably think I am going to get out out my gun and shoot you. Or threaten you to hand over my daughter. Or take your shitty sister and her lover as hostages.“ She smiles. ”Tempting options, all of them. But first I have to take care of something else. Just a tiny detail. It won‘t be long.“
She takes out the gun but does not level it at him. Instead she strolls through the room, very relaxed, looks at pictures and souvenirs as if she were a stranger, a visitor in her own life.
”Gosh, I hope they are going to feed her soon,” she states in an exasperated tone when Lily is still crying. ”I would not hold out much hope for them being good mothers.“
John feels his left hand twitching.
Then it all happens very fast.
The door to the kitchen opening, Mary pulling out her gun and levelling it at the man in the hoodie with the unkempt hair. In one fluid motion John draws his own gun and shoots her in the chest. Her legs buckle under her but she somehow manages to raise the gun again and he throws himself forward and then there is a searing pain in his right leg and he crashes to the floor.
”John, please“ - I fall to my knees in panic, pull out my belt and wrap it around his leg, using it as a tourniquet.
So much blood. Femoral artery, hopefully just a nick, not a clear cut, in case of clear cut loss of consciousness between 30 seconds and 5 minutes max, if not restricted death after 3 minutes in case of adult male.
I put my hands around his face. ”You mad fucking bastard. You are not going to die on me, not after all the shit I did to keep you from dying. I jumped a fucking roof, I went into a padded cell and had dead Jim Moriarty drooling over me. I hate you, John Watson, I hate you so much.“
When the warm drops hit John‘s face his mouth turns into a smile. Then his eyes close, his head dropping to the side.
13
Mary is brought to a high-security facility where they save her life thereby ensuring her lifelong imprisonment. Mycroft tells me when he meets me at the hospital.
I have other things on my mind while I am pacing the hallway, the linoleum squeaking under the soles of my shoes. I have not slept for at least two days because the moment I close my eyes the film starts again.
John falling to the floor, blood pooling under his leg, a whole lake of blood that threatens to drown us both -
A styrofoam cup with coffee is thrust in front of my nose. I look up. Mycroft‘s face is motionless, but he nods his head towards the door of John‘s room. ”They will let you in soon, Sherlock. He will be fine. It was touch and go but he will be fine.“
I nod, not finding the right answer to that.
”I have sent over a neonatologic nurse to support Ms Watson and her friend. They seemed quite relieved. The child is well, by the way.“
I still do not look at him. ”Her name is Lily.“
When John opens his eyes he realises astonishingly soon where he is and what happened. Hospital. Pain. Leg. Shot. Mary.
”Oh, look who‘s awake.“ A nurse bends over him, adjusts a tube in his arm and eyes him critically. ”Your name?“
”It‘s my leg, not my head,” he slurs and drinks gratefully when she hands him a cup.
”Not too much, Dr Watson, you are very weak and just …“
”I know.“
She puts the cup down on the bedside table and walks to the door. ”I am going to tell Dr Fisher you are awake, he will be here in a minute.“
”Actually …“ He looks at the empty plastic chair beside the bed and clears his throat. ”Do you know if I had a visitor?“
She turns around, laughing. ”Visitor? This is not what I would call him. You have a curious mixture of personal bodyguard, annoying pain in the arse and desperately worried boyfriend out there in the hallway. Shall I let him in?“
”John.“ I could kick myself but it is all I can say.
”Come here so I can see you.“
I walk to the bed and remain standing, not knowing what to do when I realise that John tries to touch my hand. I pull the chair closer and sit down, gripping his hand with both of mine.
”So you had a plan,” I say finally.
”Yes.“
”Sorry, the nurse told me not to make you speak.“
”Fuck the nurse,” John mumbles.
”No way.“ This earns me the first real smile. ”Because I have plans, too, and they do not include female nurses. Or male nurses, either.“
I lean forward and suddenly I am so close to him that I can see every single blonde eyelash. Something is choking me and I have to swallow twice before I can speak again.
”Listen, John, over the last years you have - I mean we both have made sacrifices. Again and again. Risked our lives for each other. Jumped from roofs.“ Been alone in hell for two years, I think, but do not say it out loud. ”The Magnussen thing. And now you … you were willing to give away your own child.“ I am still trying to wrap my head around it. ”Or at least for some time. Or share the upbringing with your sister and her partner. Whatever. We should stop this. Making sacrifices. Or only if necessary. I think I am getting too old for all that crap.“ I nod vaguely towards his leg and take a deep breath. ”This is not going to be easy but … if you are willing to stay with me, I will be there for Lily, too. This makes four of us. “Not even counting Mrs Hudson.“
The smile is still there. “You? And Lily?“
I shrug. ”Not really my area, children, but I can learn a lot of things very quickly.“
”You don‘t say.“
So there is only thing left to do. ”John, there’s something ... I should say; I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have …“
The shock on his face makes me smile and I put my hand to his cheek. ”I might as well say it now.“
And so I do.