(no subject)
Title: What comes after, part 6/6
Summary: A look at what happens after the fall - spoiler for all of series 1 and 2
Betas: Thank so much to the wonderful justbeaqueen10 for her help and comments
Rating: PG-13 for the angst
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock
Wordcount: Just under 12,000 in total
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I make no profit from this and the characters and settings belong to BBC/ACD
Notes: This story is complete, but I’m going to post a chapter each day or so, so as not to spam you all.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter six
Sherlock was running. He didn’t stop until he reached 221B Baker Street. He dimly heard someone scream as he ran up the stairs but didn’t slow down to investigate. His heart skipped when he saw the door hanging off its hinges. But the flat was empty and he stared wildly around.
There had been a struggle. Three... No, five men had been here. They were armed. John had been in the kitchen when they arrived. He walked to stand next to the table.
Someone was shouting behind him from the doorway. He ignored it.
There’d been quite a fight. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. John hadn’t been easy to subdue. He followed the progress of the men back into the living room. They’d dragged John... unconscious by this time, out of the flat and down the stairs.
Someone grabbed his arm. He stared at them for a few seconds unseeing.
“Sherlock, oh God, Sherlock, it’s you.” Mrs Hudson’s eyes were full of tears.
He didn’t have time for this. “Yes,” he barked. “I’m not dead, happy days. Now shut up and let me think.”
He ran back down the stairs and paused. Where would they have taken him? He bent down to examine the foot print just inside the door. He turned his head from side to side as he ran through Hollander’s list of assets for a match. Then he smiled.
***
Lestrade looked at his phone with a sigh. Mycroft was really starting to-
He nearly dropped the phone. He paused for a moment; his head spinning and heart racing. Then he ran from his office.
***
John’s head hurt. No, absolutely everything hurt. He felt like he’d fallen down the stairs into the path of an oncoming bus. It took him a moment before he mustered the energy to open his eyes.
He immediately wished that he hadn’t. He was in a large room, a disused warehouse by the looks of it. His hands were fastened securely to the chair he was sitting on, as were his legs. His hands and feet were already numb.
“Ah, Mr Watson, so nice of you to join us.” A man in a suit smiled coldly at him.
John glared at him through the pounding in his head. “Doctor. It’s Doctor Watson.”
The man nodded. “Of course. These things matter, don’t they? Titles? Very important.”
John tugged fruitlessly as the ropes but didn’t answer.
“Now, now, Dr Watson,” the man continued and wagged a finger at him. “Enough of that. You know very well you’re not going anywhere. Even if you could get out of the ropes one of my men would shoot you before you even stood up.”
John sighed and stopped moving. “Alright, but what could you possibly want with me?”
The man smiled again. “Now, don’t be so modest.”
John was getting annoyed. There was no one coming to get him. No one to swoop in and save the day. This wasn’t part of some complex case that Sherlock was working on. He was probably going to die.
After everything. After Afghanistan, after all the cases with Sherlock, after Moriarty, he was going to die alone in a warehouse at the hands of someone he’d never seen before. He just wanted to get it over with. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“Look, I have no clue why I’m here, which I’m sure you know. So, just get on with whatever you have planned and cut all the small talk.”
The man nodded ever so slightly. John didn’t see the punch coming before it connected with his jaw. The power of it knocked the chair backwards and he landed painfully on his wrist.
He was pulled roughly up and the chair was righted again. The man looked angry. That was better. Make him angry. Get it over with faster.
“Not very polite.” The man smoothed his suit down. “I’m not going to kill you, Dr Watson. Not yet. I’m going to torture you. Find out what you know. Then I’m going to kill you.”
John’s stomach turned over. “I don’t know anything that could possibly be of interest to you.”
“I doubt that,” said the man slowly. “After all that time with the Holmes brothers? After Moriarty left the key code in your flat? No, I think you know enough.”
John actually laughed. Well, that was about right.
***
Sherlock crept towards the warehouse. He’d managed to disable a few guards patrolling the outside with ease. The state of security services these days was frankly appalling.
He looked through one of the dirty windows. John was tied to a chair. He was alive. Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He counted three men, including Hollander before ducking back down. There would certainly be at least three more, probably stood back in the shadows.
He wondered if he could wait for Lestrade. He was certain he would come but he couldn’t be sure how quickly. He looked through the window again.He pulled out a small handgun and checked that it was loaded.
The two men either side of John fell to the ground dead and he was pointing his gun at Hollander before anyone knew that the door had even opened.
To his credit Hollander didn’t look as surprised as he might. “Sherlock Holmes,” he breathed, “we didn’t expect you to come to my little party.”
Sherlock smiled thinly. He didn’t take his eyes off the other man. Didn’t dare look at John. He did note that he didn’t speak. Didn’t cry out in surprise like he thought he might. “Rumours of my demise, etc etc,” Sherlock said slowly. He moved toward John, stood between him and Hollander. “Very clever. Very clever indeed,” he said gesturing around.
“Yes,” the man smiled. “Are you expecting me to tell you my dastardly plan now?”
“No,” Sherlock said. “Let me tell you. With Moriarty dead suddenly there’s space for another consulting criminal.”
Hollander’s mouth twitched.
“But, you can’t set up shop, just like that. You need to let everyone feel completely sure that his entire criminal web had fallen apart.”
Hollander didn’t answer but a smile was forming very slowly across his face.
“You’ve been tipping the police off for months; using the chaos of his death to mask that someone’s been pulling the strings. Once you were sure that there was no one left that could possibly take his place or figure out what was happening you would be free to open for business.”
Hollander was grinning. “Very good, Sherlock. And Dr Watson?”
Sherlock felt anger contort his face. “A message. With John dead the last of Moriarty’s plans would be completely finished. The king is dead.”
“Long live the king,” Hollander finished and spread his arms wide. There were more men walking toward them from out of the shadows. All their guns were trained on Sherlock. “Quite excellent, Mr Holmes, I’m impressed. Of course, I’m not Moriarty. He was a fool. Playing games, hoping to get your attention. Hoping to get himself killed. I will not be making such a mistake.”
Sherlock cocked his gun.
Hollander shook his head. “I think not. Kill him.”
Gun fire rang through the warehouse. Sherlock braced and it took a moment for him to realise that he hadn’t been shot. Then, Lestrade was running through the door, followed by several other officers.
Sherlock took a deep breath. Hollander looked shocked before someone was shouting, telling him to get on his knees. More people were running passed him to John. Kneeling and untying him.
He hadn’t said a word through the entire exchange.
Lestrade stood in the middle of the warehouse staring at Sherlock. “Good God,” he said eventually. “It really is you.”
Sherlock glanced over at him. “I said so in my text didn’t I?”
Sherlock couldn’t make himself look at John. There would be time later. Instead, he followed with grim satisfaction as Hollander was led away by Lestrade. He watched him being manhandled into a police car and let himself smile.
Finally, he turned to go into the warehouse. But, then Lestrade was there, blocking his way.
“Sherlock,” he said, “where the hell have you been? And what’s your connection to Hollander?”
Sherlock ignored him and tried to go around him, but Lestrade wouldn’t let him. Through gritted teeth he said, “I don’t have a connection to him, other than he just tried to kill me and my flatmate.”
Lestrade smiled humourlessly. “Which brings us to the question of how he can kill someone who’s funeral I attended just a few months ago.”
Sherlock huffed. “It’s none of your business.”
Lestrade put a hand on his chest. He looked angry. “You’ll have to come in for questioning. I mean it this time; a full debrief, or I will bring you in officially.”
Sherlock shrugged and said, “I’ll see when I can fit you in.”
He looked passed Lestrade at the car that was just pulling up. A moment later, Mycroft got out. Sherlock sighed. “Did you call him?”
Lestrade looked briefly over his shoulder. “Yes,” he snapped. “I thought your own brother ought to know you’re back from the dead.”
Mycroft stood for a few moments staring at Sherlock before turning and going into the warehouse.
Sherlock turned back to Lestrade and smiled. “Yes, well, good point. In fact, I had better go and see him.”
But, Lestrade gently pushed Sherlock back into place. “No,” he said and stared at him levelly.
In the end Sherlock grunted his annoyance and said, “I think I preferred it when I was dead. Less paperwork.”
Annoyingly Lestrade recognised this for the acquiescence that it was and half smiled at him and moved aside. “I’m glad you’re back.” He seemed to mean it.
Sherlock hurried back to the warehouse bracing himself for a confrontation with John. But, the chair where he had been seated was empty. He spun around but he couldn’t see him. Instead Mycroft was stood a little into the vast space, looking maddeningly clam.
“Where is he?” Sherlock snapped, panic rising in his chest.
“He left, little brother,” Mycroft said softly.
“Left? To go where?” Sherlock didn’t like the look Mycroft was giving him. It was somewhere between annoyance and concern.
“Home, I believe.” Sherlock was half way across the room before Mycroft spoke again. “I wouldn’t follow him just yet, if I were you.”
Sherlock stopped but refused to look around. He hated that condescending voice. “And why’s that? I just saved his life, you would think-”
“Not even you are that stupid, Sherlock.” Mycroft was walking toward him. Sherlock could hear the soft padding of expensive shoes over the dusty floor. Hand-made. In Italy judging by the sound. “He needs time. He’s spent the last eight months trying to come to terms with your death. That you’ve kept yourself hidden from him all this time - he sees it as a betrayal.”
Sherlock balled his hands into fists. “How do you suddenly know so much about it?”
“You mean about him?” Mycroft sounded amused. Sherlock hadn’t missed this. Not one bit. “I’ve learnt a great deal over these last months, brother. If you’ll take some advice-”
“From you? I doubt it,” Sherlock interrupted. He still hadn’t looked around.
Mycroft ignored him. “You’ll give him some time. Do not expect to be able to bulldoze your way back in. It won’t work. And anyway,” there was a slight hesitation, most unusual for Mycroft, “he deserves better than that."
Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.
***
The first time it happened John closed the door in his face. The second and third too. Unlike his brother, Sherlock Holmes didn’t wait weeks between visits. The fourth time he knocked at the door of 221B Baker Street it was just under 24 hours since John has quietly slipped out of the back of the warehouse. Mycroft had sent a car after him that took him home, which he was grateful for. His head was still pounding and he felt weak and sick.
Sherlock was fidgeting on the front step, not quite looking at him. John looked at him for a long time. “Are you here for your things?”
Sherlock gave him that half smile he’d always loved. “In a manner of speaking. Am I to be allowed in this time?”
John didn’t have the energy to argue. He stood aside. Sherlock brushed passed him. John’s breath caught, which annoyed him immensely.
Sherlock was standing in the living room by the time John got up the stairs.
“Your left wrist is fractured,” Sherlock said.
John didn’t reply. The image of Sherlock standing in the flat was surreal. He really didn’t know what to say. He knew he was angry. Knew that Sherlock had probably done what he had for the best of reasons. Knew that he could pretend that he wasn’t going to forgive him for only so long. Knew that everyone else probably already had. Knew that Sherlock knew everything that he was thinking. Knew that Sherlock would have predicted everything he was about to do and say. That made him angry too.
“You’ve been following me,” his voice was shaking. He cursed himself for being so weak. He should have asked Mycroft how he stopped his doing it.
“Among others,” Sherlock said.
John took in his face for the first time. Really looked at it. He looked tired. He was even paler and thinner than before the fall. “You mean other people have been following me or that you’ve been following other people?”
“Both actually.” Sherlock seemed to be holding himself very still.
John knew that it must take a lot for him not to launch into a tirade about how he’d saved John’s life and how everything he had done was actually ingenious and John should stop being so childish. He supposed that he ought to give him some credit for that. John nodded thoughtfully and looked down at the dirty carpet. “Things,” he stopped and balled his hands into fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms, “Things can’t go back to how they were before, Sherlock.”
He chanced a look up. Sherlock’s face was frozen in place. He hated that stupid closed off look. “I’ve changed. I thought you were dead.”
“John, this is ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped. “Can’t you see what I did for you all? I faked my own death, I pulled down an international criminal ring, the size of which you cannot possibly imagine and I did it,” Sherlock waved his hand in his direction in annoyance, “I did it for you.”
John sighed. “That’s as it may be, but I’ve spent the last eight months mourning you!”
Sherlock got his agitated look. The one that he usually only got when he didn’t have any cases or experiments on the go. He ran a hand through his hair. It was shorter than John was used to. It suited him. Bastard.
“Look, John,” Sherlock was using his ‘I’m being very reasonable, now just agree with me’ voice, “I know that these months have been hard on you but that’s no reason to just-”
“Just what, Sherlock?” John snapped suddenly.
Sherlock looked surprised. “Get all over emotional about it. It was merely a matter of rationale thinking. I had no choice. You would be dead if I hadn’t and so would Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.”
John nodded. “I know.”
Sherlock relaxed and a smile spread across his face. “There, now shall we have some dinner?”
John was almost as surprised as Sherlock when he lurched forward, grabbed Sherlock by the shirt and roughly pinned him to the wall. “You complete arsehole! Do you even care what you’ve put us all through?” His hands were hurting from how hard he was gripping the material of his shirt, but he didn’t loosen them. When Sherlock didn’t answer straight away he shook him, banging him roughly into the wall.
Sherlock seemed too surprised to struggle. He looked John in the eye for a long time. Then he almost visibly sagged. “Yes,” he said it so quietly that John almost missed it, “yes, and I’m sorry.”
John’s hands loosened but he didn’t back off. “You’re a complete and utter bastard. Lestrade’s been torturing himself over this and so has your brother. You know that Mycroft really only had ... has... you.”
Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “Very touching that you both care so deeply for each other, I’m sure. But my relationship with my brother is really none of your business.”
“Oh grow up, Sherlock.”
Sherlock glared at him. “Make me.”
John hadn’t realised they were so close until that moment. He could feel Sherlock pressed against him, the length of his body hot against his own. He swallowed slowly.
Sherlock had gone very still and was looking at John intently. “When you say things can’t go back to the way they were before...”
“I mean,” John said slowly, leaning closer to Sherlock, his breath ghosting along the other man’s cheek, “I don’t know if I can trust you again.” He pulled back abruptly.
Sherlock didn’t move for a long time. Then he nodded, and took a deep breath and smoothed both hands down his suit. “I understand.” It looked like it had taken a lot for him to say. John wondered how long he’d been gearing himself up for this conversation. “It will take a long time for you to rebuild your faith in me. Since I’ve,” he paused and his eyes flicked away, “I’ve been away, you have begun to move on. Construct a life without me.”
John watched him impassively.
“But, I would appreciate it if,” Sherlock looked at him and gave a lopsided grin, “I would very much appreciate it, if you would allow me to try and make it up to you.”
John nodded slowly. Sherlock relaxed noticeably, but John noted the slight downturn of his lips and slump of his shoulders.
He didn’t let himself think about it, he just said the words that came into his head, “You could start my kissing me.”
Sherlock couldn’t have looked more surprised if John has punched him. “What?”
John squared his shoulders. “You heard me.”
Sherlock was obviously very carefully not reacting. He was calculating all the possible outcomes of the request, probably looking for double meanings or traps.
“Sherlock,” John said slowly, “it’s been eight months. I’ve been thinking about nothing but you for eight months. That, let alone all the months we’ve been living together pretending that we don’t,” John was annoyed at himself for faltering now. He tried again. “That there isn’t anything there; it’s just madness. I mean, I should know, my therapist tells me often enough that I just need to-”
He didn’t finish because Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his. When he pulled back he smiled. One of his full voltage smiles that were usually reserved for when he’d solved a particularly tricky case. “Like that?” he asked.
John felt an answering smile tug at his lips. “A bit like that. Could do with some more practice. I think-”
Sherlock’s lips cut him off again. John managed to reach out and shut the door to the flat before wrapping both arms around Sherlock and pulling him as close as he could.
***
“Thank you.” Mycroft looked down at the note he had just been handed. He read it through twice before looking at the aide that had given it to him. “Cancel all my planned visits to Baker Street in the next four, no, better make it six weeks, would you? I suspect they’ll be wanting some privacy.”
He waited until the aide had left before smiling. He allowed himself a full thirty seconds before he picked up the folder on Middle Eastern security and began reading again.
The End
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