Under the Supervision of Mycroft Holmes
Summary: Post-Reichenbach John's hope is growing
Author's Note: Written as a sequel to The Horror of the Thing, though I did try and make it stand alone.
After two months of frantic theorising all I had to show for it was a pile of scribblings, a dull ache at the base of my skull and a growing realisation that if Sherlock had survived the fall, had faked his own death, then I knew the most likely reason.
One Saturday morning I woke early, collected every single notebook, every piece of paper, every list, every madcap theory as to how Sherlock had succeeded in faking his own death, and shredded every last one of them. A couple of paracetamol, a strong cup of coffee later and I still had a dull ache at the base of my skull and I still wasn't ready to face the truth.
I decided to go for a walk to try and clear my head. The sun was bright and the streets were dull and monotonous. This was London, but the London of endless brick terraces, wooden fences, neighbours who didn't speak, Greater London, nothing great about it. Beyond the reach of the tube, beyond the reach of the memories of my life with Sherlock. I had moved here after I married Jill. I had been glad to get away from the city centre, from Westminster, from the daily tube rides, the proximity of Baker Street and everything that reminded me of my life before that awful day when Sherlock had fallen and I had shattered. Now not even a year later I had buried Jill and her young son Oscar. And instead of grieving I was inventing mad theories about Sherlock faking his own suicide. Theories involving a conveniently placed recycling lorry. Theories involving a cover-up by Mycroft. Theories involving Molly and an anonymous body.
Sod it. I was sick of this, sick of trying to figuring it all out, sick of trying to get it right, sick of trying to be right, sick of trying to do this alone, sick of being alone. It took me a full two hours to get to Baker Street, the buses had been so slow, the traffic bad, but I got there and I didn't hesitate. I still had my keys and they still let me back through the front door.
“Mrs Hudson, only me” I called out, half hoping she wouldn't be home, yet pleased to hear her delighted cry and feel the warmth of her embrace.
“Oh, John, dear, so very good to see you, a cup of tea, I've just made a pot, so much nicer from a pot with loose tea, a proper cup of tea. Oh dear, I don't have any of those biscuits you like, oh dear, I haven't even told you how very sorry I was to hear about your wife, and that little boy, so young, such a tragedy. That nice Inspector Lestrade, Defective Inspector, I mean told me, so sad.”
“Mrs Hudson, Mrs Hudson” I said as soon as I could get a word in, “It's okay, tea without biscuits will be fine. And yes it was sad, all very sad”
“Oh, I've got biscuits, Rich Teas and Digestives, just not your favourites, the ones with the bits in...
I let her words wash over me, as I took it all in. Not much had changed in Mrs. Hudson's flat. But the smell, the smell was exactly as I had remembered it, but could never quite describe. I had expected to see signs of new tenants but there was no evidence of anyone new in 221B. As Mrs. Hudson talked on and I sat opposite her, dunking Rich Tea biscuits into my tea, I knew I had to ask, I had to know what she thought. Oh not of all my mad theories, but how she had made sense of Sherlock's death and fall from grace.
“Do you ever think about him, about Sherlock?” I blurted out.
“Well, dear” Mrs. Hudson said, stopping to look up at me with eyes just a little brighter than before. “of course I do.”
“What do you think?” I replied.
“About what love?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“Well you know, the accusations, the tabloid headlines, the suicide, all of it” I said.
“Oh John dear, don't, don't. Sherlock did right by me, and I won't hear it, not from you of all people.” Mrs. Hudson said.
“I only asked” I said
“No you didn't only ask, you asked with a look, a look that Sherlock doesn't deserve. Sherlock wasn't like other people, I know that, but he had his reasons, he always had his reasons. And, oh I don't know, some things aren't given to us to understand, some things just are, Sherlock was one of those, like a whirlwind, or electricity” Mrs Hudson said.
I didn't stop to point out that we do, in fact, have pretty good understanding of electricity and whirlwinds, instead I smiled and reached out for Mrs. Hudson's hand and apologised, agreeing that Sherlock was like a whirlwind, like electricity.
“So how are your new tenants working out?” I asked.
“Oh no, no new tenants, no need, Mycroft, who I never quite took to, just a bit too, you know, smooth, smarmy, I always thought, but kind in the end” Mrs Hudson said.
“Mycroft what?” I asked confused.
“Oh, he pays a regular rent, every month, regular as clockwork, never took him for a sentimental man, but then you never can tell, must have loved Sherlock after all” This thought seemed to please Mrs. Hudson as she bustled about clearing away the tea things.
Mycroft's generosity and supposed sentiment gave me a great deal to think about on the journey home too. My idea grew and developed and now had company. Sherlock not dead. Sherlock not dead and Mycroft knew. I thought briefly of going straight over to the Diogenes Club to try and find Mycroft, to confront him, but I thought better of it when I remembered the why of Sherlock's faked suicide. I knew the answer, I knew: Sherlock like a whirlwind, like electricity, a force of nature, standing between me and all possible hurts.
No, whatever I needed to do with this information, confronting Mycroft wasn't it. Confronting Mycroft would end in Mycroft telling me whatever Mycroft had decided fitted Mycroft's schemes best. I'd get nothing out of the exchange, worse still, I had the sneaking feeling it might make things worse for Sherlock. If Sherlock was not dead, yet was keeping up the pretence of being dead, then he must have his reasons. I was determined not to do anything to upset that. Even speaking to Mycroft seemed like a risk. True, our old flat had been left unchanged through the supervision of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. But I kept thinking back to the day I had gone to the Diogenes Club and confronted Mycroft. I had gone to his damn stupid club, with its damn stupid rules, its damn stupid traditions. I had confronted him, and Mycroft, smug, superior Mycroft had sat in his impeccable clothes, in his implacable calm, telling my how he had betrayed Sherlock, how he had fed information to a madman intent on destroying Sherlock. From that day on whenever Mycroft's name came up, my response was always the same: Do you know what Mycroft Holmes is? An utter shit, a complete and utter shit. No I hated Mycroft, I did not trust Mycroft. Yet I felt I might be missing something there too. God, I missed Sherlock. He would see, he would observe, he would know whether to trust Mycroft, he would know where to turn, who to trust, what to do.
Me, what did I have? A crazy idea, and a small bit of hope, and no notion of what to do with either.
I had hope but I still didn't have certainty, of course. Mycroft paying the rent on an empty flat did not mean that Sherlock was not dead and Mycroft knew that Sherlock was not dead, but it made me just that little bit more certain, it made my hope burn just that little bit brighter.
Note: the following text : “Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson.” is a direct quote from The Adventure of the Empty House by Arthur Conan Doyle. “...do you know what Mycroft is?” is a direct quote from The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans by Arthur Conan Doyle.