“Ah, hello dear brother. To what do I owe the-“
“Mycroft, please. He’s got John.”
Not sure how this even started.
IS THERE A FIC OF THIS OMB I WANT TO READ IT
no, but i definitely want one.
*cough* mybirthdayisin3days *cough*
Did someone say “early birthday gift?”
John said it at some point. Sherlock, I’m yet to see you eat a single healthy meal, and you can outrun a cab. Just so I know, are you sure you’re human?
Sherlock would grin at him then. At home, in safety, when it was a joke. When it could be a joke. John’s eyes, full of admiration. Laughing out dying nerves over takeout. A joke.
Sherlock could outrun a cab out of sheer power of will. At least that’s what he thought.
If will could get him going as fast as he wanted to, he would’ve lept clean over the houses by now, like that giant in the fairytales. Air burning through his lungs, blood pounding, not John, not John, anyone but John.
Hedoes get to Mycroft eventually. He’s not sure how long it takes, feels like forever, in the meantime as he has no perspective on when he started running. No matter how fast he was, it was too slow, and no matter what he does from now, it’s his fault.
Mycroft looks up from his tea with that smarmily polite smile. Sherlock usually hates it. Now, he barely registers it.
“Ah, hello, dear brother. To what do I owe the…”
Mycroft immediately quiets down, probably because of that word alone. Please.
Sherlock would say it a thousand times. He almost wants to. For the first time in a long, long time, he feels a need for Mycroft to be his big brother. He wants to be small, taken care of, he wants Mycroft to solve this with a flick of his fingers while Sherlock huddles up in a ball and cries.
“He’s got John.”
Mycroft’s makes a barely visible flinch. There’s a frozen moment before he puts his cup back on the coffee table.
Pause. Say something. Solve this.
“Are there, to your knowledge, any major organizations that he hasn’t infiltrated yet?” Mycroft asks.
“I don’t know. My guess would be that his criminal web stretches further than I will ever know, and probably you, too.”
“That is probably true. Well, I shall make some calls, then. In the meantime, have a seat. Make yourself at home.”
Sherlock lowers his gaze, too tired to be irritated. He should probably be grateful for Mycroft letting him handle this in this completely unsentimental way, but he can’t. He won’t be able to sit down until they get John back. He’ll barely be able to move. He might break if he moves.
John. Stay with me. I don’t know what’d happen if…
“Don’t be stupid,” he finally says. “I have to get back to Baker Street, there might be a clue that I missed. He wants me to find him, no one else, but an extra set of hands doesn’t hurt. I expect three of your leading men to join me there shortly.”
Another brief pause. Sherlock’s barely scared anymore. He feels numb, blank. This isn’t the first time John’s life is in danger because of him, but it hasn’t been like this. This is Moriarty, it was John’s blood, John is dying and it’s Sherlock’s fault. He got John caught up in this just by being his friend, should’ve known, he’s not meant to have friends. He breaks whatever he touches. His stupid, long fingers.
He should’ve taken me.
John is the first person Sherlock voluntarily prioritizes over himself, and the thought scares him. The insight of what he’s really afraid of settles in his chest like a cold, tiny shard of apocalypse.
“I never got to tell him.”
“I never told him.”
He talks to himself rather than Mycroft. But when he looks up, he’s met with a look not nearly as surprised as he would’ve liked.
“He knows, Sherlock. Everyone does. And we’ll get him back, I promise you that.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer. Doesn’t know what to answer. He’s incomplete. John is a part of him, a piece torn off, he’s bleeding.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, emphasis. Sherlock looks up. “He knew. Trust me. Now, go home. There is nothing more you can do here.”
Sherlock nods. Then he turns around and goes back home, because there’s nothing else he can do. He’s never been much for believing, so he tries to convince himself of some kind of certain knowledge. He thinks of what’s going to happen, what he has to happen, what he knows will happen.
They’re going to get John back. He’ll have injuries, he’ll be in a hospital bed. If he’s fainted, Sherlock will be the first thing he sees when he wakes up. If he’s already awake, Sherlock will be the one never leaving his bedside. They’ll look at each other, Sherlock will break and hug John with everything he has, and he will tell him, finally tell him.
Of course, that’s a comforting lie.
Mycroft’s men know the spatter pattern of an arterial bleed as well as Sherlock. They are, however, less quick to trace angles and patterns and probabilities. Three hours later, pressed far away from the mess, Sherlock can see it mapped out. Like a subway system, all the arteries and veins that had to be cut just so to produce the patterns, the drops and sprays and thick pools in the flat. There’s a sort of elegance, he supposes, in the way his brain narrows it down to a single conclusion. Despite his frequent, silent screams, his begging, - just this once, don’t let me solve it - he does. Of course.
Mycroft finds Sherlock in the corner of the flat, when the sun is setting and the hardwood is golden and warm. His umbrella taps slightly off rhythm, the click of his heels more precise. He stops in front of Sherlock, and he offers no comfort. A spot of ice in the sunset. The British Government doesn’t comfort its poor, broken, younger brother. It just tells him there’s a body in the morgue.
Sherlock knows he’s fast getting there, too. Out-running cabs, again. He knows Lestrade is going to try and stop him at the door of the morgue. He knows Lestrade will have a bruise where he hits the desk, stumbling backwards, caught off guard by the shove Sherlock knows is a bit not good as responses to “I’m so sorry - ” go. He doesn’t care.
The body on the table has been stitched back into a resemblance of John Watson, but it isn’t John Watson. There is no wry smile, no steady hands brushing inspection away, no look of frustration as Sherlock studies him. For some reason, Sherlock is having trouble gleaning information from him; the observations swim unnattached to deductions. His hair is short on his brow. He’s dead. He looks old, older than he did a day ago. My John is dead. Far older than when they met. That’s not a deduction at all. His skin is white. Anyone looking could tell. Lips are blue. Obvious he’s dead, god, move on. Odor of disinfectent overpowering the cheap laundry detergent Sherlock keeps telling him not to buy. Oh, John. Oh help me. I can’t. He’s struck by a sudden desire to bend over and press their foreheads together, or their lips. Should have done it before. The night with the handcuffs. Oh. I was an idiot, wasn’ t I? For a wild, reeling moment, he thinks he can bring John back like a fairy tale.
Fairy tales, Sherlock rationalises, usually do not include long stitched lines where they’ve sewn the flesh of his John back together in a desperate attempt to bring back fragile, unmarred skin.
rip my heart out on my own post, why don’t you
seems like two demons made a fanfic together
Don’t put this on me, I DIDN’T AGREE TO THIS SHIT!
NO IT CANT END LIKE THIS. SOMEONE DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING.
I am principally against character!death in Johnlock fics (even as awesomely written ones as this) and will make an effort to fix this as soon as possible.
Okay, I fixed it, AND THIS IS FINAL.
“I needed you to…”
“I know it’s been…”
“Get the fuck out!”
Mycroft actually flinches at this. Sherlock can’t blame him; he rarely curses. John used to react the exact same way, before.
I won’t have you fucking this up. I don’t understand your bloody sentiments about this. John, what the hell…
Sherlock’s always had constant access to everything in his mind, as it’s his only real comfort zone. These past few weeks have been the only time period of his life when there’s been some sort of mental block, a door falling shut on certain memories. He tries to recollect them, sees it all so vividly, John’s smile, his hands, no, don’t.
John is everywhere. He’s inherited every inch of Baker Street, he can see a print of John’s hand on every place he’s touched. When he tries to go outside, he sees other things, a restaurant where they once ate, blackberry currant jam in the store, oh, he loved that. Memories attacking him, from every angle, he’s too tired to defend himself, and he doesn’t really want to, because he hates them almost as vividly as he loves them.
That’s the only reason he still lives here. The place that’s even more of a constant reminder than everything else. It hollows him out, kills him slowly, but also the only place they can be together. John is here with him. He is. The heart to his too-big-and-clunky of a brain.
Except that he’s not.
Moriarty got that right. He does have a heart, as hidden as he tried to hide it. For a whole year, he even got an extention to that heart, a big, full one, breathing and smiling, feeling things as intensely as Sherlock never would, never dared.
It seems like a waste now. His heart lies dead on a cold, sterilized slab in the morgue of St. Barts, and Sherlock’s left with his brain. The one getting him into all this to begin with, breaks everything he touches, he wants to tear the damn thing out of his head.
Sherlock doesn’t feel sad about it. He hasn’t felt a thing since the blood on the photograph, and isn’t planning to anytime soon He won’t be able to keep this up forever, though. One day, it’ll actually sink in, John is dead, it’s his fault, and then, he’ll probably kill himself. That’s okay. It’s okay.
This isn’t the first time Mycroft’s come to check up on him. It is, however, the first time he’s ever made an attempt to comfort him, if that’s what you should call this. The British government can stretch to standing in his doorway, seeing his little brother in a filthy dressing gown on the sofa.
John bought this for you.
“I can tell you’re not very receptive to apologies, so I won’t draw this out. I just want you to know that there was no other way to do this,” Mycroft finally says.
Sherlock doesn’t know what he means by that. It doesn’t matter.
“If you’d believed for a second that it wasn’t him in that morgue, Moriarty would’ve succeeded. I would’ve kept this from you longer, until we’ve uprooted his criminal web completely, but I’m concerned for you. I decided to let him back into your life, and let you two work it out.”
Sherlock closes his eyes. Can’t get angry, too tired. Mainly confused. Mycroft and he doesn’t get along very well, but he doesn’t understand why Mycroft hates him like this. Taunting him with bringing John back. He’d say he doesn’t deserve pain like that, but he does, he does now.
“You’ll probably have to become fugutives,” Mycroft goes on. Sherlock stares at the ceiling. “But that you can handle, I think. If you have each other. I don’t think you can handle another day of this.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Sherlock barely mumbles it out. He sees in his peripheral vision how Mycroft freezes, he knows what that means, he must.
It makes sense to Sherlock now. The thought doesn’t strike him, it slowly sinks in, pieces falling into place, and he welcomes it. It’s so obvious. He just needs to die.
He knows it’ll come to him one day. He’ll actually realize that it was his fault, John is dead and it’s his fault, and he doesn’t want to be here for that. He’ll kill himself then anyway, so why wait for it?
He just wishes they could’ve died together. He always thought they would.
A different voice. Not Mycroft’s. What?
“You can’t talk like that.”
It’s him. John. No.
Sherlock would recognize that voice anywhere, anywhere. But no. It can’t be.
“I’m so sorry, but I…”
Sherlock doesn’t turn to look. It’s John, he knows it is. But if it’s not, if he’s imagining this, he’ll break.
“Sherlock, please forgive me. I’m so sorry it had to be this way, I am. But you have to…”
It’s him. It’s John. He’s not dead, he’s right here. Sherlock has to look at him. He can’t look at him.
All these weeks, these countless days. Drifting around. Couldn’t stand being in the flat, even less being away from it. John dead, but it might as well have been him.
How can it rebound from that? How can it all suddenly be normal again?
Sherlock has no idea how they’re going to do this. But there’s no blood flowing to the brain without the beating of a heart. Without this, he won’t survive.
So he turns to look at him. His heart, standing in the doorway, hair mussed and looking tired.