Fic: Proof
Title: Proof
Author: trillsabells
Beta: jupiter_ash
Rating: G
Length: 248 words
Characters: John, Mike Stamford
Summary: John speaks to the one person who can prove Sherlock lied to him.
Author notes: My much delayed post-Reichenbach story. Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall
He didn’t speak to Mike at the funeral.
He didn’t speak to anyone, just stared straight ahead and tried not to wonder why there wasn’t a bugle. Then he went back to the hotel room where he was staying because he couldn’t face Baker Street, and shrouded himself in misery and aching silence.
It wasn’t until three weeks after the funeral that he stepped out into the cold and empty London streets and found himself outside Mike Stamford’s office with no memory of how he had got there and no clue as to why he was there. He stood with his hand on the door handle, unable to move away, when suddenly the idea popped into his head unbidden.
He could just ask.
He could find out from Mike whether he had told Sherlock about him, ever just mentioned his name, even if he had texted him to say he was bringing a potential flatmate in to see him, anything to discover if Sherlock had had enough time to research his sister, or his army record, or any of the things Sherlock claimed to have looked up at the end.
The thought was just slotting into his head when the handle was pulled from his grip and Mike appeared looking stunned.
“John! Good-“
“That day when you introduced me to Sherlock,” slipped out before he realised.
Mike’s mouth slammed shut, a wary look on his face.
He could just ask and have proof.
“Have I ever thanked you?”
Author: trillsabells
Beta: jupiter_ash
Rating: G
Length: 248 words
Characters: John, Mike Stamford
Summary: John speaks to the one person who can prove Sherlock lied to him.
Author notes: My much delayed post-Reichenbach story. Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall
He didn’t speak to Mike at the funeral.
He didn’t speak to anyone, just stared straight ahead and tried not to wonder why there wasn’t a bugle. Then he went back to the hotel room where he was staying because he couldn’t face Baker Street, and shrouded himself in misery and aching silence.
It wasn’t until three weeks after the funeral that he stepped out into the cold and empty London streets and found himself outside Mike Stamford’s office with no memory of how he had got there and no clue as to why he was there. He stood with his hand on the door handle, unable to move away, when suddenly the idea popped into his head unbidden.
He could just ask.
He could find out from Mike whether he had told Sherlock about him, ever just mentioned his name, even if he had texted him to say he was bringing a potential flatmate in to see him, anything to discover if Sherlock had had enough time to research his sister, or his army record, or any of the things Sherlock claimed to have looked up at the end.
The thought was just slotting into his head when the handle was pulled from his grip and Mike appeared looking stunned.
“John! Good-“
“That day when you introduced me to Sherlock,” slipped out before he realised.
Mike’s mouth slammed shut, a wary look on his face.
He could just ask and have proof.
“Have I ever thanked you?”