I Keep Thinking in a Moment That
I Keep Thinking in a Moment That
summary: John, post-Reichenbach
"Look, please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't - be... dead. Would you- just for me, just... stop it. Stop this."
It's been a while. He hasn't been back to visit the grave. He can't. There's nothing more he can say. Besides which, they'd had that argument before, though John had never imagined he might have to apply it to the two of them, at least so soon.
"It's sentimental, it's unhealthy, and it's pointless." Sherlock was agitated, as usual, and John was reading a paper, as usual. He wasn't even sure how they'd gotten onto this topic, Sherlock just seemed to lash out at whoever couldn't defend themselves.
"Well, it's a release, isn't it? It's, you know, a way to say goodbye-"
"It's not like they can hear you! It's unnecessary. It's nostalgic, melancholic, artificial, made-up rubbish." John ignored him as he impatiently paced around John's chair, dressing gown swirling effortlessly around his legs.
"It's closure, Sherlock. People need that."
He'd certainly needed it. Initially he had some misguided ideas that maybe Sherlock might not actually be dead, maybe he was keeping an eye on his grave and maybe he could hear John speaking to him somehow, or.. But it would never be true. Sherlock would tell him. He wouldn't keep something like this a secret. Not from him.
He finally accepted it, though it didn't say anywhere he had to like it. But he knew he wouldn't visit the graveyard again. Sherlock would scoff.
Days passed, and finally so did weeks. There was nothing to do. Lestrade was in his own world of trouble, trying to deal with the fallout of Sherlock's imagined failures and protect his own job, but he still offered John work, however small. John declined, politely.
"You can't sit in that flat alone all day. Let Molly help you. I'm sure they'll need staff at the hospital."
The hospital.
John declined, politely.
He's walking down the road one day, just been to get a pint of milk, and suddenly his breath catches in his throat and his eyes widen. Sherlock is standing at the corner of the street, too far for detail but it doesn't matter, because John knows him from every angle.
He stumbles on the edge of a pavement slab, and looks down in surprise to stop himself from falling. It was for a second, no more, but Sherlock was gone. It doesn't stop him from hurrying to the corner anyway, and staring down the empty street.
Eventually he shakes his head, gives a short laugh at himself, and goes home.
It was difficult, having a friend like Sherlock Holmes. He could never be just a friend. He'd become almost John's entire life. Now that there was no Sherlock, he wasn't sure what the point of John was. There was no thought of returning to the army. Sherlock had made him feel more alive than army life ever had.
He hasn't cried. There wouldn't really be any point in that either. He stops updating the blog. There's no point. There were no new cases, there was nothing to report, just endess abuse that he can't hope to defend Sherlock against. Moriarty should be happy, at least.
A couple of days pass before he sees Sherlock again. At least, he thinks he did. An impossibly tall man, the flash of a coat disappearing round a corner. It was stupid. A useless hope. You only have to switch on the telly to see that London's full of tall men with long coats, anyway.
It was either that, or John was going mad.
One day he notices that the deerstalker - the 'Sherlock Holmes hat' - had moved from hanging on the corner of the mirror to the desk. He moves it back. Probably Mrs. Hudson.
Molly calls him, asks him to come down. She says Sherlock has left some things down there, and if John wanted them then he could come and pick them up. John did not want them, but he can guess what sort of things Sherlock might have left at the hospital, and it was probably unfair to leave them for Molly to deal with.
He heads to the hospital the next day. He's taken the journey so many times that it's now automatic, so at least he doesn't have to think. It's only once he gets out of the cab and takes a few steps that clarity hits him like a truck and he realises he's standing in the exact spot he stood that day.
A paralysing fear grips his legs and stays him for a few seconds, as he stares into the sunlight above the building. It had never been a building he'd paid any particular attention to before yet he can still instantly pinpoint the exact spot on the roof where Sherlock fell to his-
A car horn sounds right beside him and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Taking a deep breath, he flashes an apologetic look towards the driver and hurries across the road, into the hospital.
"Is this all?" John holds the small cardboard box and inspects the limited contents. The riding crop sticks obnoxiously out of the side. That's gonna raise some eyebrows on the way home, John notes absent-mindedly. He thinks about hiding it under his jacket; unbidden, the image of Sherlock strolling down the street with it tucked under his arm, ignoring worried glances, giggling teenagers and disapproving parents, springs into his mind, and John smiles. It's the first time he's smiled since Sherlock was around, but it feels strange, and he stops quickly.
"He didn't really keep much here... Mostly just used the hospital's equipment." Molly says with a small laugh. She's moving around the lab, though apparently, he notes, not doing anything in particular. She seems to just be moving for the sake of moving, trying to look busy.
"Is everything all right?"
"Of course it is, yeah. Why wouldn't it be?" She barely looks at him, and John belatedly realises she hasn't looked at him the whole time he's been there.
"No reason." He pauses. "You know, his death, Sherlock's death, what they're saying about him in the papers... You know none of it's true, right?"
"I know." Molly's response is too quick. He pauses once more.
"If there's something you need to... I mean, if you want to talk." That's a laugh. John was barely opening up to his own therapist, and she was paid to hear him talk.
"I'm fine. Honestly, really." Molly finally turns and looks at him, giving an entirely unconvincing smile.
"Right. I'll just... I'll be off then." Maybe he preferred it when she wouldn't look at him. She's nodding, still beaming awkwardly, her wide eyes unblinking. He gives her an awkward and slightly confused smile, nods, and turns to leave.
As the door closes, he could have sworn he heard Molly muttering to herself.
When he reaches the imposing black door of the flat, carrying Sherlock's things, he gets the usual fleeting feeling that Sherlock is waiting for him upstairs. But instead of relinquishing it and sinking into disappointment, he holds onto it. The idea that Sherlock is lying on their sofa, fingers interlaced and eyes closed, is too thrilling to let go of. So he doesn't. He trudges upstairs, lets himself in, and slides the box onto the kitchen table, pushing some other rubbish out of the way. "Sherlock. Sherlock, I've got some of your things here. Molly said they were cluttering up her lab."
If he really tries, he can probably convince himself that he will get an answer. But he won't.
He never got a bloody answer when Sherlock was alive. The thought surprises him with a sudden breath of laughter, then a chuckle, then suddenly he's laughing so hard he can barely breathe, doubled over with his hands on his knees, and he can't stop. And then somewhere along the line he starts crying, and he's not sure whether he's laughing or crying any more, only that it's messy and thoroughly unattractive. But he still can't stop, because Sherlock isn't here to keep him together, and it's stupid, the whole thing is stupid, because there's no such thing as a consulting detective anyway, and who actually has arch-enemies in real life, the whole thing is just a bloody joke-
He thinks he hears a creak outside but he's not sure, and he doesn't hear anything else so he ignores it.
Hours later, he picks himself up and sits in front of the television, only glad that Mrs. Hudson wasn't around.
There's nothing on the telly.
That was the only time he cried, but he didn't stop talking to Sherlock. Without Sherlock's unerring judgements about everyone around them, life was just so boring, and he constantly lamented this fact to Sherlock. I don't know how you ever dealt with it, Sherlock. There's nothing to do any more, Sherlock. Everyone's too nice, Sherlock. There's a new neighbor across the street, Sherlock. I don't know who to trust any more, Sherlock.
Then Mrs. Hudson brought home a kitten.
A tiny black and white ball of fur jumps up onto his lap one day as he sits, as usual, doing nothing. He watches it in surprise, not really sure where it's come from or why it's decided to nest on him, but it pads around in circles on his lap a few times before curling up. Still surprised, he tentatively reaches out and scratches it behind the ears. Immediately the kitten begins to purr, a loud rumble that could be mistaken for a tractor or a tank under different circumstances. He wouldn't have believed a sound like that could come out of something so small if he hadn't heard it himself.
Mrs. Hudson appears in the doorway, slightly out of breath. "Have you seen a... Oh..." She notices the kitten, already comfortable on John, and sighs. "Mrs. Turner's married ones' cat had kittens... I said I'd look after one until they could find homes, but he's quite the handful, isn't he?"
John smiles slightly, as the purring intensifies, the kitten flicking its ears in annoyance at the noise. "Are-" He clears his throat. His voice hasn't been used in a little while. "Are you allowed to name him?"
Mrs. Hudson walks over to tidy the desk, which had been slowly gathering dust - well, more 'shift around the mess' than actual tidying, John thinks idly. She answers cheerily, without looking at him. "I was thinking of calling him Sherlock."
John studies the kitten. It does seem have a curious black patch that covers the top of its head, and another band around his neck that could be a scarf, if he squinted. Or maybe he was just imagining it. The kitten stretches out a paw sleepily, and digs his claw into John's leg, making him wince.
"Yeah, maybe he is a- a Sherlock. Ow." He gently prises the claw from his leg, waking the kitten, who looks up at him with curiosity. "What do you think?" The kitten mewls, a stark contrast to the rumbling purr, before tucking his head back down. Mrs. Hudson smiles faintly, and suggests that maybe she leave the kitten with John. John doesn't decline.
He's still talking to Sherlock, but at least now he can pretend he's talking to the kitten.
He's paying for a tv guide and a loaf of bread when the bread falls off the belt and onto the floor. He sighs, leans over, but is beaten to it as a mass of blonde hair picks it up. Both of them straighten up, and he meets the woman's eyes, smiling. She's smiling too. She hands the loaf back to him, and he clumsily holds it up, and still neither of them have spoken, it's just awkward grinning. The cashier clears her throat from beside him, and he starts in surprise, then remembers he hasn't paid yet.
"Oh, right- sorry." He hands the bread over, and then his card. The blonde woman is pursing her lips in a smile, preparing to put her own items on the conveyor belt behind his, when he turns back to her. "Err- Thanks, for that."
"No worries." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, still smiling. By the time they both leave the supermarket, they've arranged a date at a local coffee shop for the next day. Her name is Mary.
On his way back, he's dodging through the crowds when he's shoved hard by a tall figure, and he gives a muted protest, before automatically patting his jacket to make sure his wallet and keys are where they should be. You hear stories about pickpocketers all the time, but everything's there, so the guy was just rude. He frowns, and keeps walking.
It's not until a few hours later as he's emptying his pockets back at the flat when he finds a scrap of paper, with three words scrawled on it.
I like her.
John looks at the paper warily for a few minutes, as if he's waiting for the words to change somehow, for the paper to burst into flame or melt. His first thought was Sh-... But that wasn't it. It had to be Mycroft. Had to be. But why would he communicate like that? It couldn't be anyone from Moriarty's organisation... could it? He looks up sharply and around at the flat. Was the place bugged? Had someone been watching him the entire time? He wouldn't put it past Mycroft to bug the flat in some misguided attempt to 'keep an eye' on him. But secret messages were hardly his style.
The kitten is winding his way around his legs, purring loudly, so he screws up the piece of paper and drops it back into his pocket. He'll bring it to Lestrade later. He doesn't know where to start without Sherlock.
"Come on, Sherly." Calling the kitten Sherlock all the time was making him feel uneasy, so he'd shortened it. He heads towards the kitchen to get food for the kitten; at least if he is being bugged, he won't be doing anything particularly interesting.
The date with Mary goes well, and then there are more dates, and he begins to get his life back together. There are no more slips of paper.
"John."
It sounds like a statement, but it could be a question. Either way, the deep voice is so familiar, yet so alien by now, that it sends a shiver down John's spine. He swallows, doesn't turn around. "Sherlock."
There was a pause. Apparently Sherlock was not anticipating this, as he remains silent. John continues to adjust his tie in front of the mirror, as Sherlock stands tall in the reflection. There's a long silence.
Finally there's no more adjusting John can do, and the two simply stare at each other, through the mirror. John still won't turn around.
"I can't stay long today. I've got a date with-"
"Mary. Yes, I know."
Another silence. Then, "What does that mean, you 'can't stay long today'?"
"You know how it is. I see you- I see a reflection, I see a ghost on the street, and the second I take my eyes off you, you disappear."
The reflection of Sherlock appears taken aback at this. He shifts his feet slightly, and John can hear the shifting behind him, can sense a presence, but he thinks he's felt it so many times before that it's meaningless now.
"You haven't told your therapist that you've been having these hallucinations."
John almost laughs. "Right. You're my conscience, then." He habitually goes to look away, to straighten his suit, and remembers too late to keep his eyes on the mirror. He looks up, and the reflection is still there, and he starts to feel sick to his stomach.
The cat chooses this moment to jump down from Sherlock's chair - still there after all this time, and the cat's favourite place for a nap - and pads over to Sherlock, who's eyeing him warily. "You got a cat."
"Mrs. Hudson got a cat. His name is... Sherly." There's a look on Sherlock's face that John can't identify, a weighted amusement, a sad desire to laugh, and John can't identify it but he can understand it because he's feeling the same, and the longer this is going on the harder his stomach is twisting, and the sicker he feels, because it's usually a glimpse of Sherlock or a one-sided conversation but never this.
"John." It was a statement this time, he doesn't doubt. But the reflection is moving towards him, and reaching out a hand, and John flinches and moves away, because the second his hand lands on his shoulder and he doesn't feel anything, that would be the worst pain of all. But the reflection still holds his eye contact.
"John. Since we first met all you've ever done is trust me. Trust me now."
He holds the eye contact through the mirror, as the seconds tick into minutes. Then he shakes his head and breaks away, picks up his jacket, and turns around to come face to face with the impeccably dressed and very real Sherlock Holmes.
It's been so long, and he's talked so much to the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, that suddenly he doesn't know what to say.