Mankind Should Be Our Business, chp. 4
Sherlock’s thoughts are reeling, and he tries desperately to clear his head. He has one visitor left tonight, and if these revelations are anything like the last, he will require every ounce of steadiness possible. He gets up from the sofa only when he realizes that minutes have passed and the last spirit has yet to announce itself.
A silent figure stands at the entrance of the flat. Unlike the refined elegance of Christmas Past and the jocularity of Christmas Present, this man gives off an unapproachable air that rivals Sherlock’s own. In fact, he resembles Sherlock to a degree that lesser minds might find unnerving; tall, thin, a crisp, well-tailored suit topped by a pale face and dark hair. The face, though... Every time Sherlock blinks, the spirit’s face seems different, but it’s so subtle that not even his trained eye can note a specific alteration.
It’s disconcerting, a feeling compounded by the smell that Sherlock catches as the spirit paces forward. Moss and dirt, frankincense and lilies, a hint of mold overlaying the tang of iron... It reeks of decay and seems to reach into the primal, most buried parts of Sherlock’s brain. He is suddenly very, very sure that he does not want to see whatever this spirit has been sent to show him.
He has barely enough self-control to keep from stepping back when the spirit reaches for him. A hand clasps his wrist-
: : :
They are still in the flat, but it is a darker, colder version than the home he recognizes. He prowls the room and realizes it shows signs of only one recent occupant, and it isn’t Sherlock himself. That’s John’s mug in the sink, while a noticeable film of dust has gathered on Sherlock’s microscope. The refrigerator, for once, is free of the sort of items that John would identify as unacceptable.
The spirit gazes at Sherlock silently, and he feels a ludicrously inexplicable chill. He’s traveled for cases before, and as John is so often reminding him, he is not Sherlock’s valet. He does not accompany Sherlock everywhere. There is absolutely no reason to feel so unnerved by the empty feeling that suffuses the flat.
Sherlock is not at all relieved when the street door opens and he identifies the sound of John, coming up the stairs. The steps are slow, and the gait is uneven- the limp is back. For the second time this evening, his thoughts spiral out of control, making deductions that point towards a conclusion he refuses to consider. The limp is psychosomatic; there are any number of things that might induce it, but none of them are remotely pleasant.
The sight of John provides Sherlock no reassurance. There is no life to the man, none of the spark that first captured Sherlock’s attention. Shirt and trousers baggy, skin too tight, everything faded... He’s quite obviously not been eating, or sleeping. All the evidence points to a major trauma in John’s life, likely within the past six months to a year. Something that affected him deeply, the loss of a close friend or family member. Not Harry; John barely speaks to his sister anymore. Their parents died years ago. Sherlock refuses to acknowledge the most likely candidate for John’s grief.
Sherlock has known since the Pool that the loss of John Watson would be unacceptable, but he would never have imagined that John would react the same way, were the circumstances reversed. Of the two of them, John is the strong one; always brave, always capable in ways that Sherlock himself is not. Sherlock has always assumed that, had things gone badly that night with Moriarty, John would simply... soldier on. It would take more than Sherlock’s demise to break a man like John Watson, but what?
Sherlock crosses to the kitchen table as John sets down a sheaf of papers and then turns to walk up the stairs. Skimming the top page, he reads, “In the event of my death, I, John Watson, being of sound mind and body, do hereby...” It is a copy of John’s Will, freshly notarized.
He and John have never spoken of why a soldier, newly invalided home from Afghanistan, might be keeping an illegal, loaded firearm stashed in his bedsit. Sherlock had deduced it, of course, but even he knows that some things cannot be spoken of easily. He wishes they had, now, as he races up the stairs to John’s room. He shoves the door open. Falls to his knees as the sound of a shot rings through the flat.
Sherlock has no concept of how long he stays there, frozen and unseeing, before a pale hand settles on his shoulder. He is on his feet instantly, clutching the spirit's lapels, practically hissing. "Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what I have to do. Tell me!" He only distantly notes that he is shouting. All he can focus on is John- his John, his lovely, warm, laughing John- and the way that his blood on the floor looked more vivid than any Sherlock's ever seen.
Silently, gently, the spirit reaches between them and cups Sherlock’s face between chilled palms. He closes his eyes against the expression on the spirit’s face-
: : :
When his eyes open again, they are standing in a graveyard. It isn’t the sight of two headstones, side by side, that knocks Sherlock off balance, though; it is the men in front of them. Mycroft, looking weary and more drawn than he’s ever seen, and Sherlock himself, thin and battered and broken, but alive.
He doesn’t understand. Can’t get his head around it. If he is alive here, in this time, why didn’t his future-self put a stop to it? How could he have let John come to this? Sherlock was so sure that it involved his own death, all of the evidence pointed towards it... He wants to grab this Sherlock-incarnation and shake him until the answers come out.
He takes a mindless step forward, and as if prompted, Mycroft starts to speak. Every word out of Mycroft’s mouth makes the man next to him crumple a little further into himself.
“What you did, Sherlock... It was cruel. How did you think that someone like John would handle being transformed into your suicide note?”
“It was the only way to keep him safe.” The words are whispered, offered up as the barest of excuses.
“It wasn’t, and you know it. We both know you had this planned out in advance, down to the smallest detail. Why didn’t you ask for his help? A man with John’s skills would have been a useful advantage. Instead you did... this.” Mycroft’s eyes flit across both graves.
“I was afraid, is that what you want to hear? You were the one who told me that caring is not an advantage, and we both know that he was my weak spot. I thought that if I... left, that he would move on, find some insipid woman to occupy his time, maybe, but he would be alive. Moriarty’s associates would have no reason to target him.”
There is silence for a long moment, and then a bitter laugh escapes Mycroft. “Well, you were right about that, certainly. No one made him a target, except for you.” He turns and walks away as his brother starts to sink to the ground.
Sherlock cannot stand another moment of this. Cannot, cannot take it. His own knees feel weak, and he doesn’t blame the Sherlock that huddles, shoulders shaking, in front of John Watson’s grave. There have been times when he’s dragged John into something that could end in their deaths, but this... The idea that he might be directly responsible, that he somehow drove John to this thing, that he might live on while John lies cold in the ground; it’s intolerable. He has never wanted a fix so badly in his life.
Blindly, he reaches out to the spirit in nothing short of supplication. “Take me home. Please. Please.” The lightest of touches circles his wrist-
: : :
It is 4am. Sherlock curls up in the corner of the sofa, waiting for John to return as Christmas morning begins to break over London.
Chapter 5 >
A silent figure stands at the entrance of the flat. Unlike the refined elegance of Christmas Past and the jocularity of Christmas Present, this man gives off an unapproachable air that rivals Sherlock’s own. In fact, he resembles Sherlock to a degree that lesser minds might find unnerving; tall, thin, a crisp, well-tailored suit topped by a pale face and dark hair. The face, though... Every time Sherlock blinks, the spirit’s face seems different, but it’s so subtle that not even his trained eye can note a specific alteration.
It’s disconcerting, a feeling compounded by the smell that Sherlock catches as the spirit paces forward. Moss and dirt, frankincense and lilies, a hint of mold overlaying the tang of iron... It reeks of decay and seems to reach into the primal, most buried parts of Sherlock’s brain. He is suddenly very, very sure that he does not want to see whatever this spirit has been sent to show him.
He has barely enough self-control to keep from stepping back when the spirit reaches for him. A hand clasps his wrist-
: : :
They are still in the flat, but it is a darker, colder version than the home he recognizes. He prowls the room and realizes it shows signs of only one recent occupant, and it isn’t Sherlock himself. That’s John’s mug in the sink, while a noticeable film of dust has gathered on Sherlock’s microscope. The refrigerator, for once, is free of the sort of items that John would identify as unacceptable.
The spirit gazes at Sherlock silently, and he feels a ludicrously inexplicable chill. He’s traveled for cases before, and as John is so often reminding him, he is not Sherlock’s valet. He does not accompany Sherlock everywhere. There is absolutely no reason to feel so unnerved by the empty feeling that suffuses the flat.
Sherlock is not at all relieved when the street door opens and he identifies the sound of John, coming up the stairs. The steps are slow, and the gait is uneven- the limp is back. For the second time this evening, his thoughts spiral out of control, making deductions that point towards a conclusion he refuses to consider. The limp is psychosomatic; there are any number of things that might induce it, but none of them are remotely pleasant.
The sight of John provides Sherlock no reassurance. There is no life to the man, none of the spark that first captured Sherlock’s attention. Shirt and trousers baggy, skin too tight, everything faded... He’s quite obviously not been eating, or sleeping. All the evidence points to a major trauma in John’s life, likely within the past six months to a year. Something that affected him deeply, the loss of a close friend or family member. Not Harry; John barely speaks to his sister anymore. Their parents died years ago. Sherlock refuses to acknowledge the most likely candidate for John’s grief.
Sherlock has known since the Pool that the loss of John Watson would be unacceptable, but he would never have imagined that John would react the same way, were the circumstances reversed. Of the two of them, John is the strong one; always brave, always capable in ways that Sherlock himself is not. Sherlock has always assumed that, had things gone badly that night with Moriarty, John would simply... soldier on. It would take more than Sherlock’s demise to break a man like John Watson, but what?
Sherlock crosses to the kitchen table as John sets down a sheaf of papers and then turns to walk up the stairs. Skimming the top page, he reads, “In the event of my death, I, John Watson, being of sound mind and body, do hereby...” It is a copy of John’s Will, freshly notarized.
He and John have never spoken of why a soldier, newly invalided home from Afghanistan, might be keeping an illegal, loaded firearm stashed in his bedsit. Sherlock had deduced it, of course, but even he knows that some things cannot be spoken of easily. He wishes they had, now, as he races up the stairs to John’s room. He shoves the door open. Falls to his knees as the sound of a shot rings through the flat.
Sherlock has no concept of how long he stays there, frozen and unseeing, before a pale hand settles on his shoulder. He is on his feet instantly, clutching the spirit's lapels, practically hissing. "Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what I have to do. Tell me!" He only distantly notes that he is shouting. All he can focus on is John- his John, his lovely, warm, laughing John- and the way that his blood on the floor looked more vivid than any Sherlock's ever seen.
Silently, gently, the spirit reaches between them and cups Sherlock’s face between chilled palms. He closes his eyes against the expression on the spirit’s face-
: : :
When his eyes open again, they are standing in a graveyard. It isn’t the sight of two headstones, side by side, that knocks Sherlock off balance, though; it is the men in front of them. Mycroft, looking weary and more drawn than he’s ever seen, and Sherlock himself, thin and battered and broken, but alive.
He doesn’t understand. Can’t get his head around it. If he is alive here, in this time, why didn’t his future-self put a stop to it? How could he have let John come to this? Sherlock was so sure that it involved his own death, all of the evidence pointed towards it... He wants to grab this Sherlock-incarnation and shake him until the answers come out.
He takes a mindless step forward, and as if prompted, Mycroft starts to speak. Every word out of Mycroft’s mouth makes the man next to him crumple a little further into himself.
“What you did, Sherlock... It was cruel. How did you think that someone like John would handle being transformed into your suicide note?”
“It was the only way to keep him safe.” The words are whispered, offered up as the barest of excuses.
“It wasn’t, and you know it. We both know you had this planned out in advance, down to the smallest detail. Why didn’t you ask for his help? A man with John’s skills would have been a useful advantage. Instead you did... this.” Mycroft’s eyes flit across both graves.
“I was afraid, is that what you want to hear? You were the one who told me that caring is not an advantage, and we both know that he was my weak spot. I thought that if I... left, that he would move on, find some insipid woman to occupy his time, maybe, but he would be alive. Moriarty’s associates would have no reason to target him.”
There is silence for a long moment, and then a bitter laugh escapes Mycroft. “Well, you were right about that, certainly. No one made him a target, except for you.” He turns and walks away as his brother starts to sink to the ground.
Sherlock cannot stand another moment of this. Cannot, cannot take it. His own knees feel weak, and he doesn’t blame the Sherlock that huddles, shoulders shaking, in front of John Watson’s grave. There have been times when he’s dragged John into something that could end in their deaths, but this... The idea that he might be directly responsible, that he somehow drove John to this thing, that he might live on while John lies cold in the ground; it’s intolerable. He has never wanted a fix so badly in his life.
Blindly, he reaches out to the spirit in nothing short of supplication. “Take me home. Please. Please.” The lightest of touches circles his wrist-
: : :
It is 4am. Sherlock curls up in the corner of the sofa, waiting for John to return as Christmas morning begins to break over London.
Chapter 5 >