So, I watched The Reichenbach Fall and then The Empty Hearse
and my Johnlock shipper heart died, I swear to god.
Then I had the idea for this fic.
What if Mary never existed and John didn't leave Baker Street?
What if John learn's why Sherlock really jumped, before Sherlock came back?
What if they finally see they love each other?
I really had fun writing this absolute monster (9032 words, fic alone!)
But it's my longest chapter yet, so yay!
I hope you enjoy it!
~IAmSoCompletelyAwesome
John sat on Sherlock's sofa and studied the living room in front of him. But he wasn't really looking at the room. He was looking at all the places Sherlock had done something brilliant and saved someone or simply collapsed on whatever piece of furniture was closest in frustration. John remembered all the times he'd become infuriated with Sherlock and all the times he'd forgiven Sherlock for whatever stupid thing he'd done. John just wished Sherlock hadn't... Jumped. He'd jumped from the hospital roof and hadn't properly explained why. His name had been cleared shortly there after but by then, as quite a few reporters had put it, it had been to late for him to see it.
John didn't believe Sherlock had jumped, or if he had it wasn't because of whatever game Moriarty had been playing. No, there had to be some other explanation. But John would never get to ask him for the answer, instead he was stuck trying to figure it out and talk to Sherlock's glossy black headstone. But, funnily enough, that never seemed to help.
Well, Sherlock knew going up there that is was war he was heading towards, so why would he not be prepared if things took a bad turn? John wondered, but then backtracked. Oh course he was prepared, the question is what went wrong? No, better question, why'd he jump? He wouldn't have if he hadn't needed to, so why?
John thought back, once again to the day Sherlock jumped and went over the 'suicide note' Sherlock had called him to leave. Sherlock had asked him to tell everyone he was a fraud and when John had trying to go up to talk him out of it, he'd ordered him to stay there. Then to keep his eyes on him. There was something there, John could feel it, he just couldn't put his... Finger... On... It! That's it! John could've sworn he'd seen a little red dot zoom on the asphalt next to him, but had ignored it for the small matter of his best friend jumping off the roof.
John jumped suddenly from his seat and spilt tea all over him self. Putting the cup down, John ran down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's part of the building. John knocked on the door but didn't wait for Mrs. Hudson to answer the door, instead he opened the door and walked in. "Mrs. Hudson?" John called.
"One second, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, and moments later came shuffling into view, "Can I help you with something?"
"On the day Sherlock... Sherlock jumped, you had a guy in doing repairs right?" John winced as he stumbled over Sherlock's name, but kept moving, finishing his question.
"Yes, I did," Mrs. Hudson replied thoughtfully.
"Can you describe him to me?" John asked.
"Well, he was muscled with quite a few tattoo's and he had eerie brown almost black eyes," Mrs Hudson replied.
"Is this him?" John brought up a picture of one of the killer's Moriarty had brought to Baker Street to get at Sherlock for a computer code Moriarty had hidden in the flat.
Mrs. Hudson nodded vigorously, "Yes, that's him, why?"
Lovely, John thought then answered Mrs Hudson aloud, "Nothing, can you think of anyone Sherlock might've hated less than everyone else, some he might've even respected in some small amount, other than us?"
"I don't know, maybe Lestrade, but that would be about it, why?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"It's nothing, I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, I have to go, I'll be back soon, I promise," John called louder and louder as he ran out the door. He closed the front door to 221B Baker Street and hailed a cab. After asking to be taken to Scotland Yard, John gave himself to his thoughts.
That's two out of three people Sherlock probably liked having around with guns to their heads the day Sherlock... Sherlock jumped and Moriarty shot himself in the mouth. That would be a very big coincidence, but I don't really believe in coincidences this big. What happened on that roof?
John looked out his window and was surprised to see the building he was looking for coming into view. After the cab pulled up in front of it, John got out, paid the cab, then ran inside all the way to the elevator. After smashing the button for Lestrade's floor more times than he could count, John stepped into the back of the elevator and waited.
When the door's finally opened an eternity later, John bolted out and ran directly into Lestrade, sending whatever case file he had through the air and all over the floor and knocking them both down as well. "John, what the hell?"
"Sorry," John said, already collecting up the file, "I need to talk to you, and I need to check around your office. If that's alright with you, of course."
"What's this about?" Lestrade asked as he took the parts of the file John had and put them with the rest and stood, beginning to walk towards his office.
"Sherlock," John felt an empty feeling sweep through, like he usually did when ever Sherlock was mentioned, and noted Lestrade's pace redoubled at the reply.
Once in the office, Lestrade closed the door and turned to John, "What's this about?"
"I already told you, it's about Sherlock. Did you happen to have... Wait never mind, you probably didn't..," John was about to ask if there had been someone in doing some form of repairs but decided against it, and sat down in Lestrade's chair behind his desk, "Would you mind sitting in the chair in front of the desk, please?" John asked.
"Why?" Lestrade sat down despite his question going unanswered.
"You door's usually closed, correct?" John asked as he looked out the door, towards a room.
"Yes, why?" Lestrade's patience was wearing thin.
"You only look out it when someone's blocking the window?" John asked standing up.
"As a rule, why? John, tell me. What does this have to do with Sherlock?" Lestrade was close to snapping, John could tell, but he still didn't answer. Instead he walked out of Lestrade's office and towards the room.
John tried the door and found it locked. This should be the only place the shooter could've hidden if he was in this building. "Would this door have been locked about the time Sherlock... Jumped?" John mentally cringed at his inability to say those words together.
"No, there was a meeting being held in there, however the whole group went out for lunch for about two hours. I'll ask one more time, why are you asking me these things and what does this have to do with Sherlock?"
John looked Lestrade in the eyes, "Sherlock didn't jump, he was pushed."
"But you said there was no one up there with him, so why'd you even think that?" Lestrade had rage written in his eye's, along with questioning.
"Moriarty was already dead when Sherlock jumped, correct? So whatever Moriarty told Sherlock before he died caused Sherlock to jump. The question always was what pushed Sherlock to jump. And I'm pretty sure I've found the answer, but I need into this room to be sure."
"What do you think it was?" Lestrade asked.
"You'll have to open the door before I answer," John received a glare from Lestrade, but simply glared back, "It's your choice."
Lestrade continued to glare as he fished the key out of his pocket and handed it to John. John unlocked the door and walked in. Studying the room John decided it would be a perfect place to hide, especially if no one would expect to find you there. "Ok, I'll explain, but I wanna test something first, would you mind handing me your gun, then going and sitting at your desk. Wait a minute or so then text Donovan to come to your office. Make like your doing work and don't look this way, unless that's what'd you usually do, can you do this?" John knew he could, it was just a matter of whether he would or not.
"Why do you want my gun?" Lestrade asked, hand moving to his holster.
"You'll see, but I promise I won't fire. You can empty it if that'd make you feel better," John offered.
Lestrade pulled his gun out of it's holster and handed it to John, "I'm trusting you."
John nodded and watched as Lestrade walked to his office, closed the door, and sat down and looked like he was pouring over a case file. Then he put it down and texted Donovan. John leveled the gun at Lestrade, then pointed it up as Donovan blocked his view, then trained it back on Lestrade when he came back into view. John waited until Lestrade and Donovan fell into silence after Lestrade probably explain some of what was happening, then texted Lestrade: Right, now look over.
Lestrade looked up then nodded. Perfect place for a shooter to hide don't you think? Asked Donovan if she noticed me. John sent Lestrade. He watched as Lestrade said something to Donovan, causing Donovan to look over and gasp, pulling out her gun and training it on him. John laughed as he put the gun down where she could see it and raised his hands. Lestrade said something to Donovan and she reluctantly lowered her weapon. Lestrade walked out of his office and it to the room John was in with Donovan at his heel.
"Alright, you did your experiment, now explain, what. Has. This. Got. To. Do. With. Sherlock?" Lestrade demanded.
"Wait, this is about Freak?" Donovan asked.
John pause long enough to glare at Donovan, then turn his attention back to Lestrade, "Nice place to choose if someone were to target you, don't you think?"
"I suppose but how is this relevant?" Lestrade demanded.
"Because me and Mrs. Hudson also had killers with their gun's pointed at us," John said.
"So, you're telling me Sherlock jumped to save our lives?" Lestrade asked.
"No, I'm saying this is just one big coincidence and the fact that 'Love, Moriarty' is carved into the wall means nothing at all," John rolled his eyes.
"So Freak jumped to save your lives?" Donovan laughed, "He didn't care, he did have feelings."
"If he didn't jump because of that, then why did he jump?" John demanded, rage filling his eye's and dripping from his voice, "What, did he decide to go sky diving without a parachute or something? Come on, even you must have more common sense than that. Like he says: Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Was he a little crazy? Possibly. Would he jump off that roof? Impossible. The end result? Sherlock has feelings, no matter how deeply he keeps them buried. So, why don't you just piss off?"
John pushed past Donovan, slamming his shoulder against her's as he went, and headed for the elevator.
"Why'd you use present tense?" Lestrade asked as he followed John out, glaring at Donovan.
"Because he's not gone," John stepped in the elevator and turned around to see Lestrade looking confused. John smiled, a genuine smile, the first one in a long while. "Keep an eye on my blog, and tell anyone else you think might be interested. I am writing, tonight in fact, there will be an other post. Goodbye." The elevator doors started closed before Lestrade could answer, and just before they slipped shut, John added, "I'm sure Sherlock is fine with the fact you're shagging his brother, by the way."
John only momentarily saw the look on Lestrade's face, before the door closed completely, but he saw enough that he started laugh, hard. He was barely able to stop himself as the elevator door swung open, dropping him at the lobby. John walked out and hailed a cab.
"221B Baker Street, please," John requested cheerfully.
"You seem happy," The cab driver noted.
"Yeah," John nodded, and was silence for a moment then, "You've heard of Sherlock Holmes, right?"
"God, who hasn't," The cab drive replied, "I still can't believe the massive injustice that man received despite his faithful service."
"Who can?" John replied with a shake of his head, "You read his friend's blog?"
"Again, I can't really think of anyone I talk to that doesn't," The cab driver replied.
"Well, I heard he's going to update. Tonight," John said in a voice that clearly said he was sharing a secret.
"Really?" The cab driver replied.
"Yeah, say, you couldn't do me a favor could you?" John asked.
"What is it?" The cab driver replied.
"Well first, I'd like to change my destination to Roland-Kerr Further Education College," John asked.
"Simple enough," The cab driver replied. "There's something else though, right?"
"If you could maybe spread the word the blog is going to be updated, that would be lovely," John said, hope in his voice.
"I was gonna do that anyways, not that the blog needs any publicity, people never really stopped watching it," The cab driver replied.
The cab pulled up in front of the college and the cab driver turned to John, "You know, Mr. Watson, I don't think that you stopped writing that blog because Sherlock wasn't there and you had no more cases to write about, you stopped because you didn't know what to say, let alone how to go about saying it. I'm glad you know what you need to say now. Good luck."
"Thank you," John said and smiled then he paid the cab driver a little extra and pulled out the two cell phone's in his pocket. One was his own and the other was Sherlock's. Sherlock's phone wasn't passworded, so John turned it on, then opened the contact list. Scrolling through John found a conveniently marked one that read 'Homeless Network'. John clicked on it and a text conversation immediately came up, the number belonging to one Chris Brown. John typed in: Hello.
Who are you? The replied was almost immediate.
John Watson, John sent back
What do you want? The reply seemed to take a second longer.
Some help with something, John replied.
Why should I help you? The reply-er definitely took his time to respond this time.
Because I think I know why Sherlock jumped, John smiled at the near immediate response.
What do you need? Chris suddenly was giving John his attention.
I understand there are quite a few members to this homeless network of Sherlock's, am I correct? John asked
Yes, there's a fair number of us, Chris replied.
Well, I need something spread as far across London as possible by tonight, John sent.
"Like a rumor?" A voice said behind him.
"Like a rumor," John agreed and turned to face a young man about 20.
"What is it?" Chris asked.
"I need people to check my blog," John replied.
"Why? And why tonight?" Chris asked.
"Because I'm posting some new... Developments in Sherlock 'suicide' and would like to see people actually read what I'm posting," John watched Chris look unchanged, expecting more, so he went on, "And the Yard has yet to apologize for dragging Sherlock's name through the mud and, according to the news, causing him to commit suicide."
"But you have a different theory don't you?" Chris asked.
"Yes, I do," John agreed.
"But it's more than that, isn't it?" Chris asked.
"I want them to know the truth," John said, "Because, even if Sherlock doesn't care for his reputation, I do, and that means anyone who says and or said Sherlock is a fraud is my enemy and this is what I'd like to call war."
"No wonder he liked you so much," Chris said, "Incredibly loyal you are."
"Does that mean you'll help?" John asked.
"Of course," Chris replied, "I'll get the word as far as I can."
"Thank you," John said.
"It's my pleasure," Chris waved the thanks off, "What are you posting?"
"Why Sherlock died," John said.
"You used present tense. Why?" Chris asked.
"Because Sherlock's not gone, not really. And I don't he's ever really going to be gone," John smiled.
Chris smiled, "He's never gonna leave, he's to stubborn. I'll go spread the word. Good luck, John Watson," Chris walked off, texting furiously on his phone as he went.
John smiled and waved down a cab, "221B Baker Street, please," John asked as he got in the cab.
Slipping into his thought, John briefly wondered why Sherlock had left him everything he owned, including a considerable amount of money in multiple accounts, why he'd paid for a few years worth of rent on their flat, and why he'd told John he was a fraud. He wasn't and never will be. Why'd he tell me that? He was trying to tell me something... He said he was apologizing, that he invented Moriarty, said he wanted me to tell every one that, said he researched me and that's how he knew about my sister, said he was trying to impress me, that it was a magic trick... Why's he call me before he committed jumped, of all people, why me? ... He wanted to test how much I trusted and believed in him, to make sure I wouldn't let that go. Redouble my faith in him by pretending he'd been lying all along... My, my, how sneaky. Why'd you leave me everything though? John got out of the cab, which had arrived at Baker Street, paid the cab driver, then walked up and lay down on Sherlock's sofa. You must've known I wouldn't touch anything that I didn't have to throw away, leave everything the way it was, because you knew going up there you were going to jump, and you had a way out. Okay, now say you survived, why'd you run off, not telling anyone you're alive? ... John pause for a moment, staring at the ceiling. You had to make sure once you came back we were all safe, so you couldn't tell us, incase they were still watching. And you left me your stuff for you to have back when you finished your mission. John smiled briefly, but it faded fast, What if he doesn't come back? John sat up and shook his head, he couldn't think like that. John stood and made himself some tea. After the tea was finished, he walked back into the living room and started his laptop. Once it booted up, John opened his blog and began typing.
Sherlock Holmes.
Two years ago in two days time, Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of St Bartholomews' and died. The world assumes it was suicide, but I say he was pushed, if that mean's anything to anyone. I know you all are probably shaking your heads at me, thinking I'm nuts. Thinking that the only man that was up there with Sherlock was already dead when he jumped. But as I told Lestrade earlier today, there other ways to push someone. You lot probably don't believe me, but maybe if I can show you some evidence, prove I'm right, maybe then you'll see there is more to Sherlock Holmes than you know.
Sherlock called me while he was on the roof, and talked with me. He told me that his calling me was his note, his suicide note, and then he jumped. Before he jumped though, he asked me to keep me eyes on him. Now you might be wondering why this is relevant, but it is, trust me. This morning, I was going back over the conversation, looking for some kind of hint why he'd decided to jump. I've done this before and came up with nothing. The human mind isn't perfect and is only 62% accurate when it comes to visual matters, as I was inform suring the case of The Blind Banker, but this morning I believe I remembered being momentarily distracted by something on the ground next to me when Sherlock demanded I keep my eye's on him, I believe I saw a small red dot like from a sniper's gun. Someone was targeting me, then Sherlock fell.
I know that's not much proof and why would Sherlock jump from the roof for me? I mean, sure, he maybe hates me less than everyone else, maybe even counts me as a friend, but that's no reason to suicide, even if I had a gun pointed at my head. God knows it's no the first time, and probably won't be the last time, but he always seemed less emotionless when I had a gun at me. Take the first time we met Moriarty as himself for example. He tied enough explosives to me to blow up the entire pool, building and all. Whether it was because of me being strapped to the bomb or because he thought he'd get blown up, I may never know for sure, but I think he almost panicked.
But I couldn't be sure I actually saw the little red dot, so I went to Mrs. Hudson, who I'm pretty sure Sherlock really cares about, even if he doesn't always show it, and asked her about the only new person I knew she'd been in contact with the day Sherlock fell, a guy she'd had in for repairs. It was one of the killers Moriarty had place on Baker street just a few doors down from us, I had a picture and Mrs. Hudson confirmed it was him. There's two people Sherlock probably liked somewhat with guns pointed at their heads.
Still a coincidence? I somehow doubt it. But just to insure my theory was correct I asked Mrs. Hudson if she knew anyone Sherlock might've respected, even in a very small amount. That lead me to Lestrade. Assuming the shooter there was in the same building as Lestrade, I searched for where they'd have the perfect shot. Found it to, with a note engraved on the wall. It read: Love, Moriarty.
Still not convinced? I'm not sure what else I can show as proof. Maybe the killer after Mrs. Hudson was simply trying to start life anew, even if he moved out of the flat he'd occupied the day after Sherlock fell, with the rest of the killers on the street, maybe I simply imagined the red dot, and maybe Donovan and Anderson decided to pull a prank on me and write the message on the wall, but I hope I'm right, because, even if it makes me feel guilty that he fell for me, I know he might've cared, if I'm correct. If I'm correct the sociopath had three holes behind his perfect disguise, three holes in the shape of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and myself.
What bothers me the most is, even after they cleared Sherlock, the Yard never apologized for blaming Sherlock, giving Moriarty the capacity to get Sherlock on that roof. In some ways, I guess you could say it all falls on Moriarty, for planting doubt in Donovan's already clouded mind, clouded with hate for someone who simply love the chase of the serial killers and all those people. Sherlock isn't going to become a serial killer himself, he loves to solve the puzzles, and if he were to create one for himself, he'd already know the out come of the game, and where's the fun in that? Moriarty twisted everyones minds. I'm sad to say he almost got me, too, but I know Sherlock isn't that kind of a person.
Sherlock save many peoples lives and the thanks he got in return was cold, but he kept saving people anyways. I suppose I'm on that list, too, more times than I can count, but I was a dead man walking when I first walked into the morgue at Bart's and lent Sherlock my phone, a dead man walking with a psychosomatic limp and a therapist and my alcoholic sister's old phone. And now, because I feel like giving a lot of you out there heart attacks or something of the like, the first words Sherlock Holmes said to me was 'Oh, thank you', shortly followed by 'Afghanistan or Iraq'. I offered to let him borrow my phone and he asked me where'd I'd been posted before I was invalided because I got shot and developed my psychosomatic limp. It still surprises me that he managed to deduce this from my posture, my tan lines, and the scratch marks around the charger port on the phone my sister had given. the only thing he got wrong was Harry is my sister, not brother.
I know there probably aren't many people out there reading this after so long without a post, but to those of you who are reading this, I want you to know that Sherlock was one of the people I least expected to suicide, if that helps you decide where you stand on whatever this article is about. I hope you remember this Friday as you go about your lives. Personally, me and Mrs. Hudson have a lunch planned, then we're going to visit Sherlock's grave. Before I finish, there is a message I'd like to send to someone... Well, two messages really.
First to Mycroft. I hope you realize you are a sick son of a bitch and will rot in hell one day. I can only hope I'm still around to dance on your grave when that time comes. May you're relationship die a most slow and painful death.
And second to Sherlock. I know you knew, going up there, what was going to happen. And I know you had an escape plan at the ready for everything you'd thought of. I'm not sure whether you knew you were going to fall, but if you did you had a plan and you're out there right now, possibly reading this. I want you to know that if I'm mad about anything, it's myself for not realizing all this sooner and for calling you a machine. That should've been the first clue something was up. That was a hell of a way to thank you for helping me drag myself out of the gutter. I'm sorry. I understand there's a reason, if you're still out there, why you didn't come back. I've been told time and time again that everyone reads my blog, and this time I hope that's true, because that means you'll have read this. But lets face it, you never really read my blog unless it was over my shoulder, so I contacted your homeless network. And if they can't reach you, I did just call your brother out, on the internet, where loads of people would have access to me and can ask me why I told him to go to hell. So I guess there's no place for you to hide, if you're still alive. I want you to know you're probably the most brilliant and amazing man I could've ever met. Thank you for changing my life and I'm sorry I couldn't have helped you more in the end.
All right, now everyone else. I used present tense on purpose. The purpose? Sherlock isn't dead, not really. He saved many peoples lives and, even if he didn't care and did it on purpose, he risked his life. He's not dead so long as those whose lives he touched remember him. I know I'll never forget him, neither will Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, and god can only hope one day Donovan and Anderson decide to stop being complete arses and realize he helped them as well.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
~John Hamish Watson
Ps. Before I forget, Mycroft, I did see you with your special someone and have photographic evidence. I hope you realize that making out on your brother's grave a week and a half after he dies is rather inappropriate. What would your mother say?
John smile proudly at his accomplishment and then he posted it. John slowly looked away from his screen and around the living room. There was a new cup of tea, only just cooling off next to him. Mrs. Hudson, John thought as he shut the laptop of then stood and stretched. John looked at the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson had left and carefully picked it up. It was lukewarm, but John, thinking it'd be a waste to dump it, drank it in one go. Then grabbing his other cup, from when he'd first started typing, now cold, and put both cups in the sink.
Then John stood and walked up the stairs to his bedroom and feel asleep.
John woke late the next morning, and didn't have time to check his blog before he hurried off to work. John continued to work, partly because he needed something to do and partly because he refused to touch any of the money Sherlock had given him. Instead, John put enough to cover his part of the rent each month into one of the account's of Sherlock's.
Time seemed to pass slowly than it had in along while for John at work, but maybe that was because he wanted to get home to see if he'd got any views. As his shift finished and he walked out, John was very aware several of the nurses where staring at him and the rest tried not to look at him. He smiled and waved awkwardly cause them to blush and busy themselves with something. John walked out and caught a cab, the only thing on his mind being tea and a nap and maybe checking his blog.
But these things, these plans, whatever John had been thinking of vanished when he walked in to the flat and found Lestrade waiting for him.
"Ah, John, we've been expecting you," John heard Mycroft said and looked over to find him sitting in Sherlock's chair.
"Mycroft, I didn't expect to see you today," John said cheerfully.
"Yes you did, today or tomorrow," Mycroft replied, "Do you really have it?"
"Really have what?" John asked innocently.
"The photograph of me, 'making out' as you put it, over top of Sherlock's grave," Mycroft rolled his eye's.
"Oh, that... That really happened?" John asked, a smile on his face, a laugh on his lips.
"You mean you didn't really know, yet you post on the internet that you even had proof?" Mycroft seemed less than amused.
"Oh, no I have proof," John assured him.
"So why did you ask me if that really happened?" Mycroft asked.
John pulled his phone out of his pocket and showed that it had been recording, "More proof," John smiled brightly.
"That's really messed up," Lestrade said.
"Nope, I'm just needed to get Mycroft here," John went into the kitchen and started making tea.
"And why's that?" Mycroft asked, "Assuming you didn't just want more blackmail.
John didn't answer. Instead he put the kettle on and went about finding some biscuits. When he found some he put them on a plate and took them into the living room. After placing them on the desk John walked back into the kitchen and waited in silence for the kettle to boil.
When it finally reached boiling temperature John pour thee cups of tea. He grabbed two, took them out to the living room and handed one to Mycroft and one to Lestrade. Then he went back and grabbed his own.
John was seated comfortably in his chair before he finally answered, "Because you know where Sherlock is. And I'm not talking the empty grave."
"Sherlock jumped-" Mycroft started but John cut him off.
"Let's try again. Sherlock didn't jump to commit suicide, now tell me what you know," John ordered.
Mycroft gave John a funny look, "Fine, I don't know anything other than what you've just told me and the fact Sherlock is-" Mycroft was cut off once again.
"Sherlock is somewhere and you know where he is. Now why don't you go take your boyfriend home then come back and see when you've decide to tell the truth," John smiled coldly. If he really though John didn't notice that one of his tells where covering his mouth, and that was what he'd been doing, then Mycroft really wasn't as smart as he played out to be.
John stood and held the door open. He smiled as he watched Lestrade walk out. When he turned to Mycroft, he was turning back from the desk. John continued to smile as he watched Mycroft walk out, but slammed the door behind him.
Then he turn to his desk and found a folded piece of paper laying next to his laptop. John walked over and opened the paper to find a cell number and an email written on it. But that wasn't the weirdest bit. John could have sworn it was written by Sherlock. John studied the note for a few minutes. Then John put it aside and turned his computer on.
Once it had booted up John opened his internet browser and went to his blog. John's eyes popped out of his head when he saw the reaction. There were millions of comments, mostly people John didn't know, some telling stories of how Sherlock had help someone in one way or an other, other explaining what the author of the note thought of Sherlock and the revelations John had posted the night before. There were some that post condolences and stuff like that. Then there were a number of people who degraded Sherlock and John pitied them for the reaction they got from the rest of the commenters.
John read through a couple of the comments before he came across one from his sister. It simply read: Check your twitter. John sighed. He only had twitter because of Harry and if he had his way he'd delete it Harry wouldn't let him. John opened a new tab in his browser and went to twitter. Once he was logged in he gasped. It appeared at everyone who twitter had decided to follow him. And then tweet at him every five seconds. The twitter followers had created a hashtag: #IBelieveInSherlockHolmes.
There were photos of Sherlock and John and memes and gifs and everything else, spamming John's twitter feed from every single obsessed fangirl on the planet. They'd created a Let's Find Sherlock Holmes page on Facebook and if John wasn't impressed he wasn't paying attention because all it took to get this started was his blog and the mention that he thought Sherlock was still alive.
John smiled then yawned. He'd had to stay late and cover one of the other doctor's shift's because he hadn't shown up. John got up and made himself a light supper before heading to bed, thinking tomorrow would come to fast and would hold more than one surprise. Certainly Mycroft had to planning something and the fandom would attack soon, probably. One must be ready for when these things happen, prepared with sleep, a torch, and some non-perishable food to help one wait out the attack.
John woke late the next day and ate a very small breakfast, because his lunch with Mrs. Hudson was only a few hours away and he didn't want to spoil his lunch. Then he pulled on his coat and went for a walk. This walk was more to clear his mind than anything else, but things didn't end up going as planned. As he walked past an abandoned build he saw #IBelieveInSherlockHolmes written on the side of it for the world to see, facing a busy road. As he continued he came across posters, more graffiti, and t-shirt and they all said the same thing: #IBelieveInSherlockHolmes on the front and He deserves an apology on the back. And may of the shirt wearer were wearing deerstalkers as well.
By the time John got back to the flat he had decided that the next deerstalker he saw would get shot and burnt, then it's ashes would burn again.
As he opened the door, John saw Mrs. Hudson coming down the stairs.
"Ah, there you are John, I was worried," Mrs. Hudson as he stepped into the hallway.
"I decided to go for a bit of a walk," John smiled.
"Well, I've just finished lunch, so I guess it's good you got home," Mrs. Hudson smiled and opened the door to her part of the building and lead John inside.
As it turned out, it was a good thing John only ate a piece of toast for breakfast, because Mrs. Hudson had been busy and John plate was so full of food he was surprised it all fit, "Wow, Mrs. Hudson, are you planning on feeding an army?"
"No, just my doctor," Mrs. Hudson smiled as she sat down to her slightly smaller portion.
John sat down and began eating as well. While he could complain about the quality of the food he could complain about the quantity. By the time he'd finished (not wanting to be rude and leave anything on his plate), John felt like he was going to burst. During the meal and for a while after, John and Mrs. Hudson simply talked. Talked about everything and nothing, John's blog, his work, Mrs. Hudson excellent cooking, both ignoring what they were going to do next, because whatever hoped they gained while since learning of the giant targets taped to their back would disappear the second they saw that gloss black grave stone that they avoided the best they could.
But eventually the conversation dragged and in wordless agreement John and Mrs. Hudson pulled on their coats and began the walk to the grave yard. When they arrived there was no one there, but there sure has hell had been multiple people there. Evidence of this was the small pile of flowers directly over the grave and note weighed down by rock next to them. And then there was the mound of deerstalkers behind the grave stone.
"Oh my god," John said, blinking to make sure he wasn't hallucination.
"What are we going to do with all those hats?" Mrs. Hudson wondered.
"We leave them here and hopefully they'll disappear," John said, eyeing the offending hats.
"Or?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Or they will burn," John said, "Every last one of them."
Mrs. Hudson laughed, "I'm sure Sherlock would be proud of that answer."
"I'm sure he'd have his lighter lit before I'd even got the fire pit ready," John joined Mrs. Hudson in laughter.
But soon the laughter faded and John walked off in a direction to give Mrs. Hudson a bit of privacy. A few minutes later Mrs. Hudson finished and John walked up to the grave of his best friend.
"My god, Sherlock," John gave a humorless laugh, "Two years later and now I'm spinning out conspiracy theories about how you died. And calling you out on the internet. But there are somethings that can't be avoid, death being one of them. I can't tell if I'm right or not, and I'm not you so I can't be sure of what happened. But I know it must've been bad if this was the outcome. And I want you to know..." John voice trailed off and stopped all together, his body shaking and tear's in his eye, and when he finally found his voice again, it was shaking, too, "I just want you to know you are the most amazing person I've ever known and I love you." Those last three words slipped from his mouth without permission and John could find no way to deny them. While they might not have been a couple, he'd fallen quite hard for Sherlock. Ironic, considering he took a harder one for me... John thought. John had known he'd had no hope in hell at achieving anything even close to a relationship with Sherlock, but be damned if John's montra 'I'm not gay' was reliable when it came to Sherlock. Because in truth, he wasn't gay, he didn't having feeling for men, except for when it came to Sherlock.
John wiped a tear from his cheek as he walked to where Mrs. Hudson was waiting and together they walked back in silence to 221B Baker Street.
They parted ways in the hallway, Mrs. Hudson heading for a bath in her part of the building and John heading for the living room of his part. John fixed himself a cup of tea and then sat in his chair, drinking his tea and thinking about anything that would distract him from the giant hole where the hope had been growing.
It wasn't until John heard the door creak open behind him that he pulled himself from his thought and stood up and turned around. In the door way to the flat he found Sherlock Holmes staring back at him.
They stayed like that in silence, uncomfortable silence, for a few minutes, staring at each other, before John braved a question, "You're still alive then?"
"Apparently," Sherlock said, his voice sounded blank, with an under tone of masked panic, like he was nervous and trying not to show it.
"Why'd you come back?" John asked bluntly.
"I took out the people highest up in Moriarty's criminal organisation and the killers assigned to you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade," Sherlock replied bluntly.
"So I was right then?" John asked.
"No, I jumped off St. Bart's because I felt like it and this was all just a big coincidence," Sherlock rolled his eye's.
When his eye's came back to meet John's they both started laughing, "My god, Sherlock," John gasped after a minute or so of laughing.
"I know," Sherlock replied, equally breathless from the laughter.
"This a big mess," John shook his head.
"Probably bigger than the mess of fake blood I left on the sidewalk after my fake suicide," Sherlock agreed.
John gave a small laugh, "Yeah. Who else knows your back?"
"You mean apart from everyone with access to your blog?" Sherlock asked, "I've personally spoken with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and will be speaking with Lestrade soon."
Silence once again descended but this time it was more comfortable. Minutes later it was Sherlock who broke the silence, "So, who's this mysterious lover of my brother's?"
"Lestrade," John said, and Sherlock blinked.
"You're kidding me," Sherlock accused.
"I am not," John said and walked over to his laptop, which he moved and grabbed a hand full of photo's of Mycroft and Lestrade snogging on Sherlock's grave, then he walked over and handed them to Sherlock.
"Oh," Sherlock said, "How rude."
"I know," John agreed.
Sherlock pulled a phone from his pocket and took a photo of the photo's he was holding, then handed John back his photo's and texted Mycroft the photo of the photo's, with a note that read: Really? I know Anderson and Donovan were more respectful than that Then Sherlock put his phone away and John turned back from hiding his photo's again.
"Fifteen," John said.
"Random number," Sherlock commented.
"Lestrade has at least fifteen cases he can't get anywhere with," John clarified.
"Only fifteen?" Sherlock asked and they both gave a laugh.
Silence fell again and minutes later John broke it again, "You're brother gave me a slip of paper with a number and email on it. Do you know anything about it?"
Sherlock's shoulder's seemed to sag just a bit, "Yeah, I asked him to give it to you."
"When?" John asked.
"Shortly after I was pushed," Sherlock replied.
"When was he to give it to me?" John asked.
"After the funeral, but it looks like he was a bit to busy," Sherlock replied, "Why? When did you get it?"
"Yesterday when he brought his boyfriend over to check in on my claims of photographic evidence," John reported.
"Did you attempt to contact the number or the email?" Sherlock asked.
"No, why?" John studied Sherlock, "Who's contact information is it?"
"It was mine," Sherlock said, his eye's shifting to the floor in the corner, "I got a new phone and email address before I skipped town, courtesy of Mycroft,. and asked him to give that sheet of paper to you."
"You're brother is a massive pile of shit, and I really meant it when I said I'll dance of his grave when he finally dies," John informs Sherlock, and Sherlock's eye's go back to John's face.
"Good, but first I believe we have to arrange the funeral for all those deer stalker those fangirls," Sherlock's body gave a massive shiver, "Left at my gave."
"Right, simple enough. First we're going to need some rocks and a shovel and your lighter. Then we need to find a place to burn them," John said, only joking slightly.
"Well, that shouldn't be to hard to find. I'm sure Mycroft won't mind if we use his lawn," Sherlock said.
"Or at least he won't now we have those pictures," John said.
"And a video, I got a video of what they did when they went back to my grave," Sherlock said.
"What did they do after that could be any worse?" John asked and Sherlock gave him a look.
"They continued where they left off and finished what they were doing," Sherlock replied, disgust in his voice, "On my grave."
John gave Sherlock a look, "You're kidding, right? I mean your brother seems the type to immediately use a hand wipe after touch a door handle."
"While that's not far off, I am, unfortunately for them, not kidding," Sherlock said.
Once again silence engulfed them and they started avoiding eye contact. The comfort levels were slowly going down and the tension levels where slowly going up. Finally Sherlock broke the silence, "Listen, John, I'm so sorry I didn't contact you in the last two years, and faked my suicide, but I needed you to appear genuinely upset at the funeral and then after I could've given you my contact information, but I didn't and I'm so sorry, for all the pain I caused you."
"Sherlock, you trusted your brother to give me the note. It's not your fault he's a massive dick. I mean sure you could've called or something-," Sherlock winced and John kept going, "-But I understand that was probably the last thing on your mind."
"It wasn't, it was at the very front of things I wanted to do, but Mycroft block anything sent out to you and rerouted it to his email account," Sherlock explained, not making eye contact again.
"Well, there you go, then," John said, "It's Mycroft's fault."
Sherlock nodded, "It's Mycroft's fault, and for that he will rot in hell."
John smiled, "There you go."
Sherlock laughed and John joined in. Both relieved the other was relaxed and silence slowly covered them again. They stared at one an other, studying the other's face. John suddenly became aware of how close he was standing to Sherlock and all it would take would be him to stand a little taller and lean forwards a little bit and his lips would be on Sherlock's. It seemed so easy, but he didn't think he could, not after he'd just got his friend back, he couldn't ruin it yet. But his body seemed to act on it's own accord, leaning forwards and upwards, keeping his eye's locked on Sherlock's, until his lips were pressed against Sherlock. John closed his eyes, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. This had been what he'd been waiting for for so long and now he finally got to kiss Sherlock. He waited a few second for Sherlock to respond. When he didn't John went to pull away, but Sherlock leaned down and kissed him back. John felt Sherlock's arm's wrapping themselves around his waist and John's own arm's around Sherlock's neck.
They kissed like that for a few minutes, until the need for air finally push them away from each other. They stumbled back a bit, pulling their arm's back to their sides, staring at each other as they caught their breath.
"That's a... development," Sherlock commented.
"I really should've done that a long time ago," John replied.
"Don't feel bad, I always put people off, it's not your fault I hide my feelings," Sherlock shrugged.
"Maybe not, but still," John sighed.
Sherlock rolled his eye's, "Come now, John, you have your 'I'm not gay' and I have my 'I'm asexual'."
John shrugged, "Well, now we get to have a talk about where this goes from here."
"Yeah," Sherlock nodded, but stopped there.
"I'd be willing to attempt a relationship if you are," John offered.
"I'd be okay with that," Sherlock agreed, "But I must warn you I-"
"You will get side tracked by your cases and will mostly continue on being the world biggest dick from time to time. And you've never really been a relationship so you don't exactly know what you're doing," John finished for him then laughed, "I don't mind, I mean I was crazy enough to fall for you despite that wasn't I?"
Sherlock smiled, "Well, now my brother will have something to mock me about, I have adopted feelings for a 'human'."
"What's that suppose to mean?" John asked.
"Don't get upset with me and don't tell Lestrade, but he calls anyone who's not him or, and this only up to this point, me 'human' like it's the worst thing he can think of," Sherlock explained.
"Well, if he tried anything, tell you're parents about Lestrade, guaranteed to shut him up," John said, "Or at least it works on Harry."
"Worth a shot I suppose," Sherlock said, "And speaking of my parents, do you know why they didn't show up at my funeral?"
"Mycroft neglected to tell them about it," John said disgusted, "They turned up a week later and stopped by to ask for directions."
Sherlock paled, "You talked with my parents?"
John nodded "They seemed so normal," John's voice sounded worried.
"I know, it's my cross to bear," Sherlock shook his head, "Sometimes I think Mycroft and I just kinda appeared there on their doorstep. Then I remind myself how reproduction really works and I move on."
John laughed, "So, how long did it take you to track down the killers?"
"I found Mrs. Hudson's the first day by accident, Lestrade's a week after and then I finally found your's about half a week ago. I would've been back sooner but I couldn't get a flight."
"So it was my fault you didn't come back?" John asked.
"No, it was Moriarty's fault, he sent the killer after you," Sherlock shook his head.
"But he would've have targeted me because you wouldn't have met me if I hadn't complained to Mike about needing a flat mate or something," John pressed.
"Moriarty probably wouldn't have heard of me and I would probably not be so popular on the internet if you hadn't come to share the flat with me, but I don't regret it. Do you?" Sherlock asked.
"No one bit," John replied.
"I didn't think so. If it's anyone's fault it's Moriarty's for being stupid enough to suicide because I'd found a loop hole," Sherlock smiled.
"Well, no shit Sherlock," John smiled, then leaned in and kissed Sherlock again. This one was a quick one, but John didn't pull back that far, just far enough to say, "Thank you."
"No problem," Sherlock replied as he leaned down and once again pressed his lips to John's. Together they simply enjoyed the feeling of being together once again, especially after the two years they were apart.
"Sherlock pulled back a bit so he could look John in they eye's, "John."
"Yeah?" John replied.
"I love you," Sherlock said.
John smiled, "I love you, too."
Sherlock smiled back and leaned down, continuing the kiss.
So there it is.
See that? That fluff at the end? I didn't not mean to. This just sort of happened.
I hope you'd liked it.
I really love reviews, follow's, and favorites!
~IAmSoCompleteAwesome