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The day that changes everything doesn't start in any special way. It's one of the better ones, when John ventures out, even for a longer walk. Everything proceeds calmly and boringly, as is now the norm in John's grey life, until a car appears at the kerb.
That damned black car.
It starts to slow down. John stares at it in disbelief, and feels a surge of emotion he hasn’t felt in ages bubbling up inside him— incandescent, blinding rage.
That bastard. Does he really have the audacity to show his face? After everything? Isn't it enough that he drove his own brother to suicide? That he was the one who gave that insane psychopath all the ammunition, all the information, everything needed to kill Sherlock? He may not have pulled the trigger, but he has Sherlock's blood on his hands. And he always will.
And now he dares to show up. Dares to intrude. Again.
An elegantly dressed gorilla steps out of the car and politely asks, asking smoothly if Doctor Watson would be so kind as to get in.
Doctor Watson is ´so kind´. He climbs in without a word and settles into the luxurious seat. His jaw is clenched tight, expression carved from stone. He allows to be driven to the Grand Arsehole himself.
"Doctor Watson," Mycroft smiles sleekly as he dismisses the gorilla with a casual wave of his hand, "I'm glad to see you again. I'm pleased you're looking better, and if—"
"You bastard!" John's roar interrupts his honeyed speech, rattling the windowpanes. "You fucking asshole! This is all your fault! He's dead because of you, and you still have the nerve—"
"Doctor, please- I understand your agitation, but if you’ll allow me to —" Mycroft tries to reclaim the floor, visibly rattled by the fury in John's voice.
“Like hell I will!” John bellows for four floors to hear. "I don't want to hear another single word from that lying mouth of yours! It's over, do you hear me? Over! You killed Sherlock! I hope you sleep well, you fucking coward! You executed your own brother, you smug little shit! From the warmth and safety of your ivory tower! Your own brother! You´re a monster! You should’ve died, not him!"
"John—" Mycroft takes a step forward and reaches a slightly trembling hand toward John.
"This is the last time, you understand! The last time!" John snarls, batting the hand away. "I never want to see your disgusting, slimy face again! No more stalking, no more black cars, no more mysterious phone calls. Go to fucking hell already, you arrogant piece of shit, and kindly stay there! And if you screw with my life again, I swear to God, I have a gun, I'm a good shot, and I honestly don't give a damn if I spend the rest of my life in prison!"
Mycroft stands as if frozen, the faint trace of colour he normally has drained from his face. He watches John tremble with rage, unable to make a sound.
“We’re done! Finished!” John screams and whirls on his heel to leave.
"John, wait, this is impor—" Mycroft finally finds his voice and takes a step forward.
"You're right, we're not finished!" John spins back, closes the distance between them in two leaps... and with all his might, lands a punch right between Mycroft's eyes.
His fist connects with Mycroft's rat-like face with an exceptionally satisfying wet crunch, and the elder Holmes collapses to the ground with a grunt.
"Now we’re done!" John growls.
And for the first time in months, he smiles.
His dramatic exit, however, doesn't go quite as planned. Two gorillas stop him right outside the door, and when he refuses to entrust himself to their kind care, they grab him in an iron grip without much ceremony and drag him back into the room.
Mycroft is slowly getting up from the floor, his legs unsteady, his expression shaken. Blood is streaming from his nose, which he is trying, rather unsuccessfully, to wipe with his pristine handkerchief.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let me go or—” John snarls, trying in vain to escape the crushing hold.
"My brother is not dead!" Mycroft cuts in, his voice icy and sharp. "Sherlock is alive, you are in mortal danger, and we don't have much time, so kindly shut your mouth for a moment and listen for once!"
All the colour drains from John's face. Hstops struggling in the gorilla's grip. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
What? What the hell is he saying? That’s insane. That can’t—
"Moriarty wanted my brother dead, so he forced him to commit suicide under the threat of killing all his friends. Including you. The only way to save everyone involved was to fake the suicide so convincingly that even the assassins watching you would believe it. And so he did, and now he's trying to dismantle Moriarty's entire criminal network so he can safely return home."
John's knees buckle and he hangs helplessly in the clutches of the men holding him. One of the gorillas pushes a chair forward, and the other slams him down onto it with no particular care.
"That's not possible," he babbles quietly, eyes wide and blank. "He's alive? That can't be true... It's just not possible..." he repeats over and over, until it's clear even to Mycroft that there's no point in saying anything else right now.
After a few minutes, John finally processes the information somehow, and the incredulous shock is replaced by another explosion of anger.
"Three months!" he howls suddenly. "He let me believe he was dead! Three fucking months! He let me watch him die! He let me grieve! I spoke at his funeral, for Christ’s sake! He left me in that living hell for three whole fucking months! One word! One single word would have been enough, but I wasn't even worth that to him! One single word!" Tears well up in his eyes.
Faced with such open despair, even Mycroft's reserved expression softens.
"You're being unfair to him, John. He would’ve told you if he could. But doing so would’ve cost your life. You’re still under surveillance by one of the most dangerous assassins of our time. If he had the slightest doubt that Sherlock had truly died, you’d be dead. So would Mrs. Hudson. So would Lestrade.”
John stares at him, stunned.
"Yes, every one of Sherlock's friends has their own personal assassin. They're finally starting to let their guard down a little, which is why we could meet, but it simply wasn't possible before. And even now, we have less than two hours before Sebastian Moran is back on duty.
He made a mistake, developed a predictable habit that we were able to exploit, but I assure you, he is a professional through and through. He must not suspect that anything is different. You must not behave any different, is that clear? Lives depend on it. Including yours. Including Sherlock’s.”
Don't tell anyone about this, don't talk about it at all, don't write, nothing. Your phone, flat, and computer are undoubtedly bugged, and Moran is watching you wherever you go. One misstep and you all die. Is that clear?"
John stares at him in disbelief, and it takes him a full minute to grasp what’s being said.
"And it didn't occur to anyone in your famous British government to just take the assassins out?" he finally asks acidly, his voice ragged, but eyes wounded. "This whole thing could have been solved in half an hour!"
"It certainly could have," Mycroft retorts, but that would’ve alerted the organization we were onto them. They would’ve sent others—less patient, more brutal. They’d retaliate. And that they would have started hunting Sherlock as well, I hardly need to emphasize."
John falls silent.
"I'm sorry for what you've had to go through," Mycroft says finally, after a moment's thought. "But there was no other way. And besides, my brother... My brother has embarked on a truly dangerous enterprise. And it's not out of the question that we may indeed never see him again. His ability to make contact is extremely limited, and he is playing with forces against which even his genius will be of no use. So it is also quite likely that you have not mourned him in vain."
John's blood runs cold at this statement; the newly sprouted hope withers and turns black.
At the same time, the anger doesn't leave him. How could Sherlock did this to him? And how can Mycroft say all this so calmly? Like a robot, like a machine? Do these damned Holmeses really not have souls?
Meanwhile, Mycroft talks and talks, about Moriarty's network and Russia and Venezuela and snipers and spies and Mrs. Hudson and security measures and wiretaps and a million other things, and John tries to listen, but his thoughts keep drifting to that crazy, curly-haired lunatic who is alive, the bastard, and who deserves a punch for all this too, but he's alive.
Alive.
Alive!
Mycroft's litany is interrupted only when he becomes dizzy, his legs buckle, and he then takes two steps to the side and nonchalantly vomits into a potted ficus. This certainly snaps John out of his reverie, and in that moment, he intensely regrets his actions. If he'd known what he knows now... he would have brought a camera. Because the sight of Mycroft, in a perfect luxury suit, disgracing a ficus, that’s a memory worth treasuring in vivid colour forever.
Mycroft wipes his mouth, reaches for a glass of water, and shoots a murderous glare at John. It was a hell of a punch, and he's probably going to feel sick for a good while, not to mention a possible concussion and a broken nose. Nevertheless, John has not the slightest inclination to apologise.
Sherlock may not be dead, but if Mycroft hadn't been spouting his crap, he wouldn't have had to be dead even for show. Serves him right, the slimy bastard. He's had it coming for a long time.
Soon after, the audience is concluded, and John returns home, this time without protest. He gets out a few streets from Baker Street and makes his way through the crowded London street as if in a dream.
No one need to worry—he doesn’t look the slightest bit cheerful. His head is an absolute mess, he still can't believe it, and thoughts are swirling furiously in his mind.
Back home, he collapses onto the bed, his own this time, and tries to process the events of the last few hours.
Sherlock is alive. Somewhere. In God knows what kind of trouble. With no one to watch his back. Maybe he's only alive for now... The thought stabs John in the heart so painfully that he immediately pushes it away. Sherlock is an asshole. A heartless, manipulative bastard who let him suffer for three months. To go through absolute hell.
On the other hand, he didn't do it for himself, but for John. For Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Otherwise, all three of them would be dead by now. And no matter how much Sherlock says he doesn't care about anyone and doesn't need anyone -- playing a high-stakes game with a crazy psychopath and jumping off a roof to protect his friends is exactly his style.
But why the hell didn't he tell him? Does he really think John couldn't have acted the part? Does he trust him so little? Another wave of anger rises in him. He saved that lunatic's life, for fuck's sake, and more than once. And he just throws him overboard. He could have mourned for show, and what's more important, he could have disappeared with him. If he'd bothered to let him in on the plan, they could be together now somewhere in Serbia or some other godforsaken hellhole, taking down Moriarty's network together. But no, he wasn't worth that to him! He was only good as a conspicuous mourner, as an alibi, and breaking his heart was just part of a coldly calculated plan.
That knowledge hurts. It hurts with a sharp, bitter ache. For two years, Sherlock had been his best friend. John would’ve died for him, killed for him. Had killed for him
He loved the thrill, the madness, the cases, all the chases and the adrenaline roaring in his veins, but he also loved their quiet evenings in Baker Street. Chatting by the fire, arguing about buying milk, the laughter, Sherlock's violin, and his icy feet in his lap. Sherlock was not only his best friend, but so much more; he was the catalyst that had lit up his life from its original dull grey, he meant warmth and home to him, he meant…
He squeezes his eyelids shut painfully. It doesn't matter now. It's all over. There's no point in digging into it.
He’d thought—naively—that it went both ways. That Sherlock cared. That John mattered. But he was just a pawn. Just someone to entertain him on boring evenings, to feed him, buy milk, hand him his phone, deliver a eulogy at his funeral. Elementary, my dear Watson.
His throat tightens with regret. Yes, there were things John never said. And for the last three months, he had regretted it every day. Oh God, what an idiot he had been!
How could he have thought that any Holmes had a heart? Sure, he didn't let him get killed, but that's where his benevolence towards his minions ends. Are you alive? Yes! So what more do you want?
John doesn't even realise that tears are rolling down his cheeks. It's great that Sherlock is alive. And hopefully, he will stay alive when this whole crazy operation is over. He'll come back home to London and find them all here, alive and well. John will shake his hand. Hear his stories.
And then he’ll walk away.
Because whoever that man is—he’s not John’s Sherlock.
His Sherlock, his best friend, the most important person in his life, died. And no magic tricks or miraculous resurrections will change that. The person who meant the most to him in the world no longer exists. And never did.
It hurts, it hurts so much... John doesn't fight the tears; he knows he will mourn Sherlock for a long time. His Sherlock. His imaginary friend. He’ll mourn him again and again. A thousand times.
Then he’ll dry his tears. And start living. His own life. A life where only those who truly matter are allowed to stay.