Chapter Text
Part 1:
Survival
The nightmares were back.
Of course, to say that they were back rather implied that they had gone away at some point, which was most definitely not the case. They had always been there, probably always would be, but they had become less frequent during his time with Sherlock.
Now Sherlock was gone, though, and nightmares filled the space he had left behind. They were different now, though, filled with images of a falling man and blood on the pavement more often than images of war and fire. Sherlock's face was always there, his pale face stained with tears and blood, so much blood and the sickening scent, eyes staring mindlessly to the sky.
He hadn't been back to 221B since the funeral. He hadn't been able to. It had been all he could do to get his most important belongings out of the eerily quiet apartment, the place without life and sound and Sherlock.
His current apartment was a small thing, barely adequate for sleep and eating. That might not have mattered much, had he actually found some cause to leave it. Mycroft had informed him, in his usual polite manner that left little room for argument, that he would not need to worry about the rent for either his current place or 221B. He hated to accept such charity, but for the moment he could do very little to protest if he wanted to keep a roof over his head. All he had were some savings, and those would not get him very far.
Only until he got back to his feet, though. Only until then, and not a bit further.
Of course, there was the matter of what Sherlock had left behind. It had all been settled quickly, discreetly, though John had not paid much attention. All he knew was that his savings had suddenly multiplied by some orders of magnitude, not that he would ever touch a penny of it. He couldn't. It was still all Sherlock's, after all.
His hopes of getting on with his life were made quite difficult by the return of not only the nightmares but the rest of his unfortunate woes. His leg, which had been just fine with running from the police and other such stunts, had started to get gradually worse ever since the funeral. Occasional aches he could handle, even the limp as it returned, but the persistent pain that would not even allow him to stand for long periods made him quite miserable.
But then, he no longer had any reason to run. No one to chase, no one to evade. No reason to treat the roofs and fire escapes of London like another set of streets with a higher difficulty rating. The greatest source of excitement in his life nowadays was wondering if he'd make it to the bakery in time before they ran out of his favourite biscuits.
The thought was physically painful, giving him pause on his slow but steady advance down the street.
It took him even longer to walk back home that day.
***
It had been a while since this had happened, the car and the almost amused woman and no answers to anything. He should have felt more alarmed or annoyed or hurt, had expected to be so the next time he received an invitation he could not refuse, but when it finally happened he faced it all with a kind of quiet resignation.
He could not avoid Mycroft, after all. It would be easier for everyone if he just went along, even if they came for him on his way to get some groceries, God forbid he have something actually resembling a normal life. Besides, if he knew them at all, they would be quite happy to drop him by the store on the way back. Mycroft was nothing if not accommodating in the strangest of ways sometimes.
The scene he arrived at was eerily familiar, though he was certain it was a different location. The vast emptiness, damp floor, the sole chair placed in the middle of nothing. And Mycroft, Mycroft and his umbrella, eyeing him like a bird of prey.
"And just when I thought you had learnt how to meet people like a civilised person." John sighed, walking to the chair and dropping down. His leg was giving him hell today, and he'd be damned if he let this man cause him any more pain.
"I merely prefer to be discreet." Mycroft leaned on his umbrella for a moment, then straightened again. "I have been informed that you have not yet touched Sherlock's inheritance."
"No," John replied curtly. "Nor do I have any intention of doing so."
"Might I enquire as to why not?"
As though he didn't know, the curious bastard. "It's Sherlock's money." And Sherlock's estate, reminded the voice in the back of his head that seemed to recall some mention of a country mansion somewhere in the papers they'd presented him with. Figured.
"John." The slightest bit of a frown. "I know it is hard to accept, but my brother is gone. He is dead. I read the autopsy report myself. No amount of good wishes on either of our part is going to bring him back."
"Still." John shook his head. "I cannot. It… wouldn't be right."
"I see." Mycroft nodded slowly. "Tell me, did you ever wonder why someone with his disposition would look for a flatmate if he had such wealth at his disposal?"
"Not really." It hadn't crossed his mind much, mainly because the days since Sherlock's death had been little but a blur. Of course, even before that he had noted that Sherlock's clothes and spending habits were those of a rich man striding through a mansion, not one who lived in a cluttered apartment with a flatmate. "Someone to show off to, I suppose."
"I'm sure that is part of the reason. However, a much more important part is that until your arrival, he simply could not afford it." At his surprised look, Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "I'm sure we both know the kind of trouble my brother got himself into on a regular basis. At the time of your meeting, I had frozen most of his assets as a way of warning, leaving him in something of dire straits. It was through your aid that he managed to get his act together and earned my approval again."
"What is your point here?"
"Merely pointing out that without you, he would not have had access to all this money. As such, you should have no moral compunctions at accepting what he willingly left you in his passing."
John shook his head. "I am not quite that easy to convince, Mycroft. I will get myself out of this on my own, somehow. You know me well enough to realise that I prefer to earn my own keep."
"And how do you propose to do that, my dear John? We both know you cannot hold a regular job."
"I could get a job at the surgery if I wanted." Keeping it would be another matter.
"No you could not, not in the long run." Mycroft gave him another pleasant smile. "I would hate to drive you to the point of destruction."
"I'm not quite that badly off, thanks." Oh, yes he was. Not quite badly off enough to admit it to Mycroft of all people, though.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. John could almost feel the brush of the eyes flitting across him, drinking in every tiny detail, storing them away, analysing. It was a familiar feeling, yet a painful one. These weren't the right eyes, not the right gaze.
"You have hardly slept in three days." Mycroft's voice was soft as he spoke again. "Nightmares, I would imagine. Not the condition in which one would like to be responsible for the well-being of others. Your hand is shaking again too; you probably thought you'd gotten rid of it entirely, yet here it is again. Your leg is paining you, enough so that not even your pride can force you to stand for me. And even if one were to ignore the physical side, there is still the mental to consider."
"What about it?" The words were painful in their truth. It was all he could do not to show it to Mycroft.
"As though you do not know, or imagine that I do not." Mycroft shook his head briefly. "Were you to take up a regular, mundane position now, John, even assuming your physical condition allowed you to hold it, I do fear we would be burying you beside Sherlock before the year is out."
John opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again as he realised he had nothing convincing to say. "I have little in the way of options," he replied. "I cannot exactly enlist again with my condition." And without Sherlock, nothing else could keep his head together.
"Oh, I am well aware." Mycroft tilted his head in an almost amicable manner. "Which is why I'm prepared to offer you a deal."
John gave him a sharp look but let him continue. He had already made it very clear what he thought of accepting charity; reiterating that would accomplish nothing but wasting both of their time. Not that he had anything but time.
"I will arrange for a rather generous allowance. It will be enough for you to live on without touching anything Sherlock left you. Should you so desire, I will even arrange for a firearms license for your pistol." No use in asking him how he had known about the gun. Mycroft knew everything, after all. "In exchange for that, I will require two things of you."
"And what are those?" He should have felt more wary, he thought. Something in the back of his mind nagged at him about making deals with the devil.
"Quite simple." Again the twirled umbrella. "One, you will attend therapy to hopefully work through some of your issues regarding my brother's death. I will personally find a therapist who actually knows what they are doing. Two, you will do some work for me."
"Work?" Why did that sound so nefarious? "What kind of work?"
"Cases, my dear John." Mycroft's lips twitched. "Nothing quite as physically demanding as the mad chases Sherlock came up with, at least not at first. However, there are still things out there that will require sharp eyes and an even sharper mind. I can hand the first one to you today, should you so desire, and there are others to come. I'm sure dear Detective Inspector could use some help on occasion as well."
"I'm not Sherlock." He swallowed. Nobody could ever match Sherlock. "You know that very well."
"No, you are not. However, in the very small world of consulting detectives, you are the next best thing. You are the person most familiar with his methods and approaches, and you are by no means a stupid man yourself. I am certain you would be most useful in matters of this nature." Mycroft paused and gave him another sharp gaze, perhaps assessing how his next words would be received. "Think of it as a chance to prove to the world once again that my brother's methods were, while at times unconventional, nevertheless based on solid reasoning."
Well. He certainly was a fine politician, knowing exactly how to sell his offer. Nevertheless, John still had his doubts.
"And why are you doing this?" he asked, quiet. "It's not as though Sherlock cares anymore about how I am."
"Perhaps not personally. And yet, I like to think I am doing this for him."
John looked at him questioningly. Why, yes, he did require more of an explanation.
"I destroyed my brother's life, John," Mycroft murmured, his voice barely audible even in the silence surrounding them. "Moriarty may have been the one to pull the strings, but I killed Sherlock as surely as if I had pushed him down from that roof with my own two hands. I cannot make it up to him anymore, however. Much as I may wish to, I will never have the chance to apologise to him."
"You won't." John's hand tightened around the handle of his cane. "Neither of us will ever speak to him again."
"A fact of which we are both painfully aware, I'm sure." A sigh. "At least allow me to take care of the one thing he held precious in his life. An act of atonement, if you will."
For a moment, John looked at him, taking in all the fine details. The lines around his eyes, more numerous than they had been just a little while ago. The hand on the handle of the umbrella, apparently casual in its grip, yet the hand set in a tenser manner than usual, thumb firmly around the handle, perhaps to disguise a minor tremor. The thin lines of his knuckles, his wrist, the slightly off fit of his suit, suggesting the loss of more than a few pounds. A small smear of sauce on a cuff, though, confirming the lack of a diet. He had the time and opportunity to eat, yet he was losing weight. Stress, perhaps, and loss of appetite. A tense set of the lips even in smile, the slightest hint of shadow under they eyes that met his gaze steadily as he looked up again.
"Sleep deprivation," he said aloud. "Lack of appetite, stress. You are not feeling well, Mycroft."
"Naturally not. After all, my brother is dead." The last hints of Mycroft's smile faded away. "And now the one person I would like to protect in his stead seems intent on following him to the grave."
John might have laughed, might have called it ridiculous, but all of a sudden he did not feel very amused.
A deep breath, two. He flexed his hand upon the handle of his cane.
"What is the case?"
***
The case Mycroft gave him appeared simple on the surface, but was anything but once he looked deeper. What seemed like mainly ordinary records of cell phone and credit card use turned out to hide several mysteries as he examined them further, the smallest of which was the apparently arbitrary manner in which the owner moved between three towns before finally disappearing. Of course, he had a nagging suspicion that Mycroft had solved the case the moment he glanced at it, but that was irrelevant. It wasn't like Mycroft didn't have several other people at hand who could have worked on the case, that wasn't the point. The point was providing John with something to fill his day with, something to do that wouldn't drive him wild with boredom, something to prove his worth.
Something to remind him that he wasn't the one who was dead.
Opening his laptop for the first time in what seemed like forever, he set out the files and his cell phone within reach, then started working on unravelling the messy threads.
It wasn't the same as working with Sherlock, of course; few things could excite him quite that much. There was no running around the city, no danger aside from the risk of getting a rude response on the phone as he called to clarify some detail, nobody aiming a gun or a fist or a knife in his general direction. All the same, he found himself working late to the night, connecting the dots he fished out from a sea of false leads. Keeping himself awake with the power of more coffee than he'd consumed since the last time Sherlock had dragged him out on an all-night stake-out, he kept focused on the files in front of him.
He might not have been running, but this was a chase nevertheless, one where the culprit would split from his grasp the moment he slowed down. As such, he could not afford to let up just yet.
He could almost feel Sherlock's looming presence right behind his shoulder, a wry voice commenting on how very slow he was, a sarcastic word of praise when he finally realised something he should have seen right away, really now John. It was part of what kept him going, his stubborn streak not allowing him to let Sherlock down like that.
He sent his conclusions to Mycroft early in the morning, along with the deductions that led him there. Perhaps he was not as fast as Sherlock, but at least he made sure to show his work. Not that Mycroft required it, but he preferred to be thorough.
To something of his surprise, he realised his leg was feeling better and the sun was peeking in through the window. While he was somewhat sleepy, he decided it would have been a waste not to enjoy this rare occasion of relief and good weather. Throwing on his jacket and grasping his cane, he headed out to grab some breakfast from the bakery at the corner.
He wasn't too surprised to return to find a message from Mycroft, thanking him for his cooperation and informing him that an appropriate compensation for his help had already been sent. A new case would be sent once he had slept for a bit, Mycroft would so hate to wear him down after all.
Mycroft never asked him whether he'd like another case. Of course not. He could have just as well asked a drowning man whether he would fancy some air.
Closing his laptop, John collapsed into bed and fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
When he woke up, he remembered no dreams.
***
His third case from Mycroft ended up on the blog.
It was the first time he had updated his blog since the one entry he had made right after Sherlock's death. It felt strange, describing a case in which Sherlock held no part, which was nothing but his own thoughts and investigation and manners and what Sherlock would have doubtlessly called insufficient deduction.
Nevertheless, Sherlock slipped in, effortlessly as always, making himself at home in the case despite his painful absence. Here and there John found himself mentioning how Sherlock would certainly have handled this situation in a different manner, or found the right words here and noticed the right clue there, only to scare off the important witness by his brusque manner and impatience. John could hear him snort at that, really now John you should know I'm quite the actor when I wish to be, but ignored the stupid ghost of a protest. If Sherlock had something to say, he could just come and say it in person, thanks.
Not that he would. Not anymore. The only place where he survived was here, in his thoughts, in his words. In his heart.
Somehow, it was not quite as painful to think about as it had used to be.
The fourth case was not a pile of files from Mycroft, like the previous ones. Instead, he received a short text mentioning something about getting back to his roots. Before John had managed to ascertain whether this was some sort of a clue or an actual message, his phone buzzed again, this time from a somewhat more familiar number.
An address, and the words "Murder. Come if possible." There was no signature, but then he did not need one. Greg did not bother to conceal his number when messaging friends.
As he got out of the cab at the appropriate place, John took a moment just to breathe in deep, taking in the familiar air of a murder scene. Then he set to limping toward the taped-off area, a purpose in his steps.
Greg was waiting for him, a hint of smile on his face despite the otherwise grim expression. "Been a while."
"Indeed." John leaned on his cane. "I thought you were still suspended?"
"Received new orders this morning. I'm back on the job, and the investigation is over, on two conditions."
Well, didn't this sound familiar. "Something you can divulge?"
"One, I am to call you on cases as appropriate. Two, contradictory or not, I am to try to keep you from killing yourself on said cases." Greg quirked his eyebrows in question. "Anything you'd like to share?"
"Seems I've gained a guardian angel in a dapper three-piece suit." John eyed the scene. An apartment had been quartered off, police walking in and out of the scene. Some familiar faces, all eyeing him warily but without any actual hostility. "I suppose it's all right for me to be here?"
"Figures. Damn Holmes brothers, always getting their way." There was a strange kind of wistful fondness to Greg's tone, though. Not that John could blame him. "And yeah. The accusations were only ever against Sherlock, and you've apparently been cleared as a consultant. I can even give you more than the usual five minutes as long as you follow the proper procedures. Makes one wonder why the git himself never bothered to do as much."
"Probably hated the idea of relying on his brother." John headed inside, now. "That and he never was one for proper procedures."
"I suppose." Greg followed him inside. "The leg still giving you trouble?"
"Less so than a week ago." John gave him a rueful smile. "Still dislikes walking around, but at least it's not hurting." This much, he could live with. It was about at the state it had been back before he had met Sherlock.
"That's good at least." They fell into a kind of silence for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say. This was the first time they had met on a crime scene since the scandal, and neither could quite ignore the shadow of Sherlock hanging behind their backs.
Despite his death Sherlock was there, his presence undeniable, watching them, listening them, rolling his eyes at them as they stumbled through the case. John could almost hear him making dismissive noises as Greg summed up the facts of the case, almost expected to hear some comment on how long he was taking as he examined the body and couldn't he just see the facts plain as day.
He was not Sherlock, and did not have his precious powers of observation, but he had watched a lot, and he was a diligent study in some things. Sherlock had so often told him what to look for, what kind of details mattered, what could be dismissed and what might lead to further clues. After the first check for physical markers for the cause of death he found himself almost routinely checking for not only signs of struggle but for anything unusual, out of place, sticking out. And after that came the normal, the things most people missed, the clues and answers of where he had been and what he had done and what kind of a person he was, the teeny tiny details that everyone could see but very few would observe.
He realised all of a sudden that the room had gone entirely silent. Looking up, he found everyone staring at him with somewhat strange looks on their faces.
"Ah… did I say something wrong?" He was vaguely aware he had been talking while conducting his examination, but he liked to think he did have more of a filter at least than Sherlock even on his best days. Those pesky things called manners and all.
"No, nothing wrong." So why did even Greg look at him like he were some kind of a ghost? "Rather, you were almost too right."
"How on Earth can I be too right?" He reached for his cane again, struggling back up to his feet. Nothing left to do here.
"Well, you just spent five minute with the corpse and gave us our John Doe's occupation, hobbies, and his very interesting drug habit."
"I didn't pull it all out of thin air, Detective Inspector, so stop making it sound like some magic trick." No tricks. No magic. There had never been any trickery in Sherlock's methods. "All I did was look at what was there and draw my conclusions from that."
"And you've done a bloody brilliant job at that, too." Greg sounded quite impressed. "Any idea how the killer managed to lock the room with the key inside, too?"
"Oh, it's a simple enough trick." He'd seen a similar set-up in a comic book, once. Sherlock had sometimes picked up such things, only to fling them across the room in five minutes, complaining about the idiocy of the characters. "The key was on the coffee table next to the window, right?"
"Yes, but the window was closed and locked and the curtains drawn. It could not have been slipped back that way."
"There's a piece of clear tape on the curtains." He rubbed his temples. "An opening under the door big enough to pass the key. Draw a fishing line in a loop with one end through the curtain and the open ends under the door. Tape the key to the line and start pulling from the other end. When the key meets the curtain it can't pass through it, the key and tape fall off, line can be safely retrieved."
"They couldn't have any guarantee the key would not just bounce off the table, though."
"They didn't need any. As long as it ended up somewhere near the window, it'd be far enough not to be tossed from under the door, and impossible to get in from the outside. Locked room, murder looks like a suicide at first glance, lazy and careless police will call it a day and another branch of the drug network slips away unnoticed." John shook his head. "They imagined they were being clever. Being precise was never high on their list of priorities."
There isn't much else they need him for at the scene, so he makes his leave soon. As he passes a couple of officers, one of them a new face, he hears a whisper of, "Who exactly is that man?"
"He's what we call a consulting detective." Hushed, clearly not meant for his ears, but still spoken in sincere tones. Tones of trust, too, rather than suspicion and fear. Lestrade wasn't the only person on the force who'd had faith in a certain dark maker of miracles.
The answer didn't hurt as much as it could have, once, not as much as he would have imagined it would. There was a moment of pain, of course, he supposed there would always be the dull ache of Sherlock's absence from his side, a constant reminder of how much he had lost to Moriarty's lies. However, for now it seemed to get easier, if only a bit.
He was not taking over, no, not stealing Sherlock's name. If anything, John was continuing his friend's work, clearing his name one suspicious mind at a time.
Though the dark shadow behind his shoulder didn't say a word aloud, he was sure Sherlock approved.
***
"I have to say, this is much nicer than abandoned buildings." John looked around the fine restaurant. "And less snobbish than your club."
"I quite expected so." Mycroft's lips twitched. "Which is exactly the reason I chose this location for our update session."
"Naturally." They were the only people in this part of the restaurant. Either it was a very slow day, or Mycroft was being Mycroft. He felt quite comfortable assuming the latter.
Yes, he was aware this probably looked like a date. At this point, he had no energy left to care.
"I do have to admit I am almost surprised," Mycroft remarked after they gave their orders to the waiter. "I was not sure if you would agree to meeting me with advance warning."
"So that's why you keep kidnapping me?" John asked, incredulous. "You think that if we actually agree on a meeting, you'll get stood up?"
"I cannot exactly expect to be one of your favourite people." The usual smile, so pleasant, polite, yet with some tension to it.
John paused, looking at Mycroft. Though he had hid it well, he was under stress. More so than before Sherlock had left them, too. It was hard to think the two were unrelated. And something in the way he looked at John… "I don't hate you, you know."
For once, Mycroft Holmes looked almost startled for a split second. "Pardon?"
"That is what you are afraid of, isn't it? That I hate you for what happened to Sherlock." John shook his head. "I used to, yes. No use denying that. But I don't hate you now, for what it's worth."
"I killed my brother, John." Soft tone, soft words. Expertly hidden pain.
"No, you didn't. Moriarty did. And if I allow myself to blame you, I will only be giving Moriarty the victory." John shook his head. "You made a mistake. We all do that sometimes. No, you're not blameless in Sherlock's death, but the ultimate crux of the fault lies on Moriarty's shoulders."
"Thank you, I suppose." Some of the pain escaped, though it was by no means gone.
"Oh, don't thank me. Thank Moriarty. He's got something of a monopoly in the matter of my hatred."
"Indeed." Mycroft gave him a rueful smile.
They were quiet, then, until the waiter returned with their food. As he left again, though, Mycroft looked at John. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"
"Depends on what it is." Though he had to wonder what there could be about him that Mycroft did not already know.
"Why do you believe in my brother?"
Okay, that was not what he had expected. Not that he was entirely sure what he had expected, of course, but it was most definitely not this. "Excuse me?"
"You believe in Sherlock. That much is obvious. But why?"
"Because I knew Sherlock, of course. We both did. We know he would never do such things."
"Of course we do. However, is that really something you know? Or is it just what you feel?"
John hesitated. A part of him felt there was no need for this, that they both knew that Sherlock had been real and would have never done the things he had been accused of. However, a look in Mycroft's eyes reminded him that he wasn't really the one concerned here. Mycroft had had lost his brother, had lost his brother after witnessing his public shame and humiliation. The least John could do was offer some reassurance that his own faith in Sherlock was based on actual fact and not just sentiment.
He knew well enough just how little weight the Holmes brothers based on sentiment.
"He knew about my sister," he said slowly. "It was the second time he ever showed off to me. The first time was when he figured out who and what I was, but that one could have been either a fluke or an opportune word or two from Mike. However, when he figured out everything about my sister from just one look at my phone I knew he was real."
"So what kind of things did he know about her?" Mycroft's eyes were locked on him, as though he held some important secret.
"Everything, basically. Our relation, that she and I didn't get along but she was trying to fix that, that she was getting divorced, that she had a drinking problem. And all that from just five seconds with my phone."
"All that is information that could be found out through other routes." So why did Mycroft not sound like he believed that?
"Oh, he told me that, too. When he stood on the roof, he claimed he had researched me beforehand, all to impress me. But I know that wasn't true. It never could have been true."
"And how do you know that?" Low voice, slow and steady, a man desperately hanging onto every word he said.
"Not from the things he got right. Because you're right, it's entirely possible he found that out in other ways. No, what has me entirely convinced is the one thing that he got wrong."
"Oh?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "And what would that be?"
"He thought that Harry was my brother." John shook his head. "Tell me, Mycroft. Is it even possible for someone to know about the divorce, the drinking, even our strained relationship, but not find out that she's a woman? And even if that were possible, do you think someone like Sherlock would neglect such an important detail, or get it wrong on purpose for some unfathomable reason?"
"No." Mycroft shook his head. "No, I know that would never happen."
"He got it wrong, though. He couldn't have researched me because that would have been the first thing he found out about Harry. But he got it wrong, and that's because it was the only fact he could not see from the phone in his hand."
"Indeed." Mycroft hadn't really seemed tense, but the way he relaxed now was easy to see.
They didn't speak much for the rest of the dinner.
There wasn't much need, now that everything important had been settled.
***
The first time he had a client approach him about a case, John was shocked.
Of course, thinking about it, he probably shouldn't have been quite as surprised. After all, once the worst commotion died down, there were people left who still believed in Sherlock. He still had some loyal fans, and Henry Knight still regularly made statements in favour of Sherlock's extraordinary skills, and John's blog was now getting updated on a more or less regular basis again. Not everyone was convinced that Sherlock was a fraud, or that his way of investigation flawed.
Nevertheless, John could hardly contain his surprise the first time he was approached about a case by someone else than Mycroft or Greg. After all, he wasn't Sherlock. Surely even those who had believed in Sherlock would want nothing to do with a lonely retired army doctor.
Yet here was a well-dressed man, a Mr. Gabriels as he had introduced himself, looking a bit out of place in John's tiny apartment. Asking John to find his daughter.
"I have heard good things about you from a friend of mine," he said as John hastened to make some tea in lack of anything else to offer. "Mr. Hathaway, if you'll recall?"
"Oh, I do." One of Mycroft's cases, that. The client had been most grateful, now that he recalled. "I tracked down some lost objects for him." A piece of jewellery worth more than everything John had ever owned in his life, tucked away in the attic. His life could be so absurd sometimes.
"Indeed. He has assured me of your skills." There was a slight frown on his face, lines of worry. "I have informed the police, of course, but they are not doing anything. You have to find my daughter." A perfectly composed expression, voice, yet there was a touch to desperation to it. A man in pain. John felt a touch of sympathy for him.
"So, your daughter. She has run away, you say?"
"That is true." Gabriels nodded. "We had a disagreement of sorts, I'm sorry to say. Next thing I know, she is nowhere to be found. No note, no word, nothing. I assumed she had gone over to a friend's place in a huff, but none of them have any idea where she is."
"And she does not answer her phone?"
"Oh, we have tried calling her at regular intervals. However, it appears she has turned her phone off and we cannot reach her."
John nodded slowly. "And has she done anything like this before?"
"No, never. I mean, we have not always agreed before, but she has never left without telling us before." He wiped his forehead. Slightly overweight, though not fat per se. Obviously wealthy. Used to commanding authority, but genuinely cared about his daughter. "I would have never thought she would do something like this. She didn't even take any money with her, and her card hasn't been used. I am so very worried."
"And none of her friends know anything." John nodded. "Have you asked your servants?"
Gabriels looked somewhat surprised. "I do not recall saying anything about servants."
"Your shirt has been ironed, but your suit pressed. They are both expensive, enough so that you could well afford to have your shirt pressed as well. However, it is more convenient to have it ironed, or perhaps it's a matter of personal preference. You are widowed, so it is not your wife, extremely unlikely you would do it yourself. Furthermore, you have a teenage daughter, one who has been missing for two days now, yet your appearance is immaculate. Likely someone else is responsible for maintaining your clothes, perhaps even choosing them. Also, you used plural when you mentioned calling her, right after stating the police are not doing anything to help. Of course you have servants."
This drew a startled laugh from his client. "I see you are indeed as good as my friend told me."
Not half as good as Sherlock, though. "I presume your fight with your daughter was overheard by others?"
"Ah, yes. I'm ashamed to say we were not entirely quiet." He shook his head. "She did threaten to leave then, but as she showed up for dinner, I thought it was merely empty words. To think that even then she was planning this…"
"Indeed." John frowned. He had a bad feeling about this, one that was more of a hunch than knowledge. Sherlock would have sneered at it. "Keep your phone on you all times." He was not Sherlock.
Gabriels blinked. "You think she will call?" So hopeful. So desperate.
"Oh, I am sure someone will call about her." Which in this case was not a good thing.
Gabriels received the call before nightfall. A demand for ransom. They'd caught his daughter on the street, the criminals told him. A photograph of her, tied and bound, would be in the e-mail.
There were few clues to her location in the picture, but then he needed very few. It was enough to question the servants, then call Lestrade to pass along his clues to the police on the case. There were only so many new servants who owned a place appropriate for holding a prisoner.
A devious little plan, indeed. Wait until the disagreement, then kidnap her from her own home, waiting long enough before calling that they would presume she had been taken by outsiders. Devious, but not quite enough so, luckily for the girl.
Sherlock would have been proud, he thought as he saw the father and daughter untied. Probably complained at him for taking so long, but he would have been proud nevertheless.
When Mr. Gabriels called him later about the payment, he also mentioned that John had forgotten his cane behind.
Things look brighter now, somehow. The sun actually shines sometimes, believe it or not, and I wake up in the morning instead of just returning to consciousness, and eating food actually feels like eating instead of just consuming fuel.
My life has been nothing but shadows and pain since the day I lost Sherlock. I have no doubt that having lost him will always affect how I see the world around me. However, I'm starting to realise I can't just keep mourning forever. I have to move on, for Sherlock's sake as much as my own. I have to live, for all the reasons he chose to live even when his life seemed so bleak and dull and uninteresting.
I have to share in his flights of fancy, because I know he never wanted me to share his fall.
I know you won't ever hear this, and would find this most irrational even if you could, but thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for saving me when I was so lost. Thank you for showing me how mad and bright and marvellous this world of ours can be. Thank you for sharing with me all the horrors and miracles of it, for allowing me to fight this war with you.
Thank you for letting me see that mind, burning brighter than the light of a thousand stars, even if it was only for eighteen short, short months.
I will never forget you, Sherlock. I don't think I ever could.
But for now, I will choose to live on, for me, for you. To be your eyes and ears in this mad world that couldn't handle a star as bright as you.
After all, whether the world knows it or not, it will always need a consulting detective.
John stretched a bit, looking at the text he had written. He could already imagine what would happen when he posted it. If he posted it. Harry would start calling him to make sure he wasn't suicidal, and Greg would give him the sort of uncomfortable gaze that said he wasn't quite sure what to say and how it was to be said, and the occasional whispers and teasing about his supposed love for Sherlock would only intensify. Perhaps Mycroft would like to see him again, too, make some awkward questions about the exact nature of his feelings for the late Holmes, poke and prod to see what was truly going on with him.
With a deep breath and a small smile, he sent the entry to his blog. Who cared what anyone thought. He wasn't breaking, he was feeling better than he had since before the Moriarty mess, and if people wanted to think he had loved Sherlock he quite frankly did not have the energy or interest to keep denying it time and time again. He'd meant every word he'd said.
Getting up from the computer, he walked to the window, looking out. So many people, ordinary people, milling about in their ordinary business. Each with their own private hopes and dreams and fears, none realising just how much they were telling the world just by being in it.
He wasn't as good as Sherlock, but he was learning. That man was cheating on his wife, that woman wanted a child so badly it hurt, that business man had just lost a family member but didn't want anyone to see him cry.
Ordinary people, ordinary lives, ordinary problems. And here was John, just as ordinary as them, except he had glimpsed beyond what was ordinary and knew there was a whole wide world on the other side.
Sherlock had shown him so much. The least he could do was keep seeing it instead of just hiding away from the world in his pain and fear.
It could not be the same, of course, nothing would ever be the same without Sherlock. However, there was no need for him to act as though he was the one who had died.
It was just one of the things he owed to Sherlock.
"Ah, Christmas. The time of secrets." Mycroft chuckled a bit as he sat down opposite to John. "When lies and deceit become the norm for even the most good-mannered housewives."
"Indeed." John's lips twitched as he followed the scene. It was so easy, getting caught in the December flurry. He'd already gotten contacts from three separate kids who all wanted him to find out what they were getting for Christmas.
December. How the time flew.
It had been half a year without Sherlock, now.
It would have seemed impossible, at one time, that he would survive this long without Sherlock, that the world would keep turning this long without Sherlock. Yet here they were, Mycroft and John both, and the world seemed remarkably unaffected by the lack of the original consulting detective.
He wasn't even sure if it was a comforting thought or a sad one.
"There is something I would like to discuss with you." Though Mycroft had the same pleasant smile as always, John knew him well enough by now to know he had something serious on his mind. Something to do with John, that was, not his usual matters of national security.
"And what would that be?" John raised his eyebrows. "I'm fairly sure I haven't gotten into any remarkable spot of trouble lately."
"Not trouble per se. In any case, this is not about anything you have done recently." Well, wasn't that an interesting choice of words. "Do you recognise this woman, by any chance?"
John frowned as he saw the picture Mycroft offered him. A blonde woman, pale skin, happy smile, vaguely familiar. "Of course I do. That's Mary, I dated her for a while last year. What about her?"
"She passed away last night."
John's eyes widened in shock. "What?"
"A very unfortunate case." Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella. "Hit by a car in an intersection, as I heard. She hit her head on the pavement rather badly. There was not much anyone could do. This is not a case, if you were wondering; the driver was soon apprehended and now faces charges."
"So why are you telling me this?" John narrowed his eyes. "You know better than to expect me to be sentimental over a woman I haven't seen in well over a year. Not that it surprises me that you would keep an eye on everyone I have happened to sleep with."
"Not everyone, no. However, I would be quite careless not to keep a close eye on someone who has a child nine months later."
John's stomach dropped in an unpleasant lurch. "No."
"Oh, yes. Little Benedict was born right around the time of Sherlock's passing. Under the circumstances, she felt no inclination to contact you about him, and a generous allowance made sure she did not bother you about the matter afterwards, either."
"You bribed her to keep my child from me." He wasn't sure if he should have blamed or thanked Mycroft.
"Yes." No shame whatsoever. "At the time, it was not unthinkable that you might harm yourself; it did not seem like a good idea to bring the stress of an infant to the mix. However, now you are much better, poor Mary is dead, and you are the child's only living relative. I felt you would at least want to know."
"I see." John sighed. "I trust you have already established the connection?" Because Mycroft never did anything based on assumptions. He was a thorough man, especially in matters that were even marginally related to Sherlock.
"A while ago. He is your child without a doubt." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "The question being, what will you do now?"
"You mean I have a choice?" Mary had no family, he knew that even without Mycroft's information. Meaning that the child — his child — had nobody left. Nobody but him, in any case.
"Of course you have a choice." But of course, with Mycroft sticking his fingers in the metaphorical pie. "If you wish to take him, I will handle the legal matters. If you'd rather continue with your life as before, I will make sure he ends up in a suitable family and is well cared for. It is your choice."
John nodded slowly. "A choice I should make very soon, I assume."
"Your son has just come seven months old, John. He needs someone to take care of him. I know this is sudden, but the sooner you make up your mind, the better. For both of you."
"I see." His son. A little baby, his baby. Frightened and alone, now. "Benedict, you said?"
"That is correct." Mycroft nodded. "Before you ask, he is unharmed. He was in a neighbour's care while Mary was out, so he wasn't involved in the accident."
"Good." God, he sounded so stupid. But what was he supposed to say, anyway? It wasn't like he'd had illegitimate children before. To his knowledge, at least.
"John?" A gentle prod, but firm.
"…May I see him?"
Even though he had known to expect an infant, he was still somewhat surprised by how small Benedict really was. Quite healthy for a baby his age, Mycroft had told him, yet to John he seemed very small and fragile. It was irrational, of course, it wasn't like he'd never seen or handled infants before, but he couldn't help but feel hesitant as he saw the tiny thing that was his son.
"He is just starting to learn to crawl," the lady finally deigned to tell him as John watched the baby picking up a toy. The accusation was clear in her voice, how much had he missed and why hadn't he been there, but then that was hardly any of her business far as John was concerned.
Benedict had very little hair, but what he did have was brown like his, with a tendency to curl at the tip just like Mary's. His eyes were a deep baby blue instead of her green, though, giving John a curious gaze when he crouched down before returning to the toy.
"He cried most of last night," she informed him. "Misses his mother no doubt, the poor child."
"I see." He swallowed. Of course he would miss his mother; she was the only family he had known. Nobody could give him back his mother, though, not even all of Mycroft's networks.
Just learning to crawl. He didn't even know how to walk yet, the little thing. Didn't know how to run, and wouldn't learn for a good while yet. He'd only get in the way, demand his time and attention at the most inappropriate times. John's flat was unsuitable for a child, too; he'd have to look for somewhere else to live. His job wasn't exactly safe, either. Could he in good conscience take in a child who might be put into danger because of that? Could he let Benedict grow fond of him, too, only to have someone rob him away as well?
Benedict looked at him again, eyes big and blue with just a hint of tears in them. Looked around, then, maybe looking for his mummy.
Mycroft would keep his word, John knew that. He'd find a good family for Benedict, someone who would love him and care him like he were their own. The poor baby wouldn't get stuck in the system for long.
Benedict dropped his toy all of a sudden, face crunching up in a sharp cry. John reached for him on instinct more than anything, carefully lifting him from the floor. He was terribly light, John noted, but surprisingly strong as his hand clutched onto John's arm. Holding him against his chest, John murmured something he would have hesitated to call words, more focused on calming the child down than conveying any understandable message.
It took a moment for Benedict to calm down. As he did, though, he rested quietly against John's chest, the occasional little sob still escaping his chest. So very small, and so very alone.
There were baby slings, John thought idly, ones that would allow him to walk around with the kid with his hands still free. And Mrs. Hudson would surely love to babysit for him every now and then. It was about time he got out of the ratty flat, anyway.
By the time he realised he had made up his mind, there was no going back.