Chapter Text
It had been an accident really and it really wasn’t something to worry about; and he wasn’t worried, not in the slightest, because even though the condition he was now in was a complete accident he would be able to get out of it. Every bad situation he had ever gotten into he had always managed to also get himself out of. There was no need to tell anyone of it; Watson was busy with the whole getting married business, Mycroft was busy doing his job and such for Queen and country and Irene…. He didn’t need any help.
(Sherlock was not alright, he was panicking and wanted desperately for John to notice and shake the truth out of him.)
The ritual he had performed to better understand, well, everything, and the truths he had learned were all very prominent in his mind and he was sifting through it all as fast as he could and as thoroughly as he was able, to find a solution to this predicament he had fallen into. They were each discarded methodically and some, not a lot, were bookmarked, because they were very likely to work, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was exactly possible, partly because of how long it would take to obtain what was needed to do those ones. They would be used only if they were absolutely necessary.
(Sherlock could admit that his curiosity was very likely to be his downfall one day, and with how he had just opened up an entire new avenue for him to be curious about.)
The discovery had occurred when he had been on the bridge with Blackwood and had gotten shot. In the heart. Blackwood had been too busy hanging on for his life to notice if his bullet had actually hit his mark.
It had hurt a lot and for a long time afterward. The bullet had torn through his skin and tissue and bone into his beating heart. A few seconds later he should’ve been dead, but what happened instead was his body somehow pushed the bullet, a foreign object, out through the holes it had come through and everything had knitted itself back together. He had felt every second of it. Shock had kept him standing on his feet through the whole process and the shock from not dying kept him talking as the rope pulled Blackwood closer to a watery grave. Of course he had cut the man loose, but… call it the work of the Fates or God, Blackwood did hang in the end.
And Sherlock Holmes couldn’t die.
(He had a panic attack afterwards, alone in his room, sitting straight as he could in his chair, trying to control keep control of his breathing, while he looked at the bullet he had placed a small bowl as soon as he walked in.)
So, he spent months trying to find a way to reverse it and finding Moriarty was right beside it in importance. Until Moriarty became more important and he began to lose himself in the case. The whole magic and sphinx and not able to die thing was put on the back burner of his mind and his job took precedence over everything.
Days passed. And then weeks. Time passed and he got closer to Moriarty and at the same time, sometimes, Moriarty got a little farther away. Soon John was getting married and he was screwing up his best friends stag party and then it was morning and they were at the church and he was there. The henchman. And it was more than just him in danger, it was John and Mary too.
(The one thing he had never wanted, and had never had to worry about before, because Mikey had always been safe in the government,--well, as safe as one could be in politics, but they had been raised by the same woman, so he was safe-- and then he made a best friend, who had been military, yes, but came back injured. Sherlock was afraid of someone killing John and then the consultant would be alone again. The fear would paralyze him sometimes, because he cared for the doctor so much.)
So, naturally, many stuff ensued that resulted with half the train blowing up. John didn’t have to be so angry about it though, he had timed it perfectly.
The gypsy was eventually found and even though he warned John not to, John danced. With their new friends help they crossed the border and, as was inevitable, he came face to face with Moriarty again. It hurt to get stabbed in the shoulder and it was a very odd and uncomfortable feeling of his shoulder trying to repair itself while the hook was still in it. Then the building collapsed and luckily he managed to get the red ledger before it did and his wound managed to heal itself way before Watson located him in the rubble. The blood had been quickly explained away as someone else’s and they got on their way.
After finding out Moriarty’s plan, he began forming his and thus, how they ended up at his brothers, Mycroft’s, house and planning for a party.
(He was so full of confidence and assurance that he would be able to work everything out, he had always been able to before. But there had been the loss of Irene and Sherlock could admit, there was a process of grief that should have been followed, but one's arrogance was capable of convincing a man of much. Overconfidence had consequences, for other people with him in this instance as it turned out. Irene... René.)
He knew it would all work out in the end. He had taught Watson well and they had the man’s sister to help. The inside was fine, it was what was happening outside that had all of his attention; the game of chess against Moriarty. During the game, one that went from the board to their minds and quickly became right hooks and blocks, an opportunity presented itself that had to take.
It was true, what Moriarty had shed light upon when they first met, Watson and Mary were in danger because of their association with him. Disappearing wasn’t good enough, it was only a delay, so he took the only other option.
(He would give up anything for John, in the grand scheme of things, for him, his life was nothing when measured up against his doctors. The fact that John would disagree, quite vehemently, just helped to prove Sherlock's point.)
When Watson came out and locked eyes with him, Sherlock quickly closed his eyes and, tightening his grip on Moriarty, pushed them both over the edge of the balcony.
He killed Sherlock Holmes. And saved his friend.
After it was all over, he probably should’ve completely disappeared and let the world forget about Sherlock Holmes, but he had never done what was expected, never done things the normal way, and he wasn’t about to start now. So, he went back to England and purchased a box big enough for the small breathing device he had procured from his brother’s residence. He packaged it up and only sent it a few weeks after his own funeral—which was something he did not attend himself, it seemed like bad luck.
(There was his arrogance again, he could admit and truth be told, he could admit to himself years later, that he had a very hard time admitting to himself when he had possibly made the wrong decision.)
Watson’s book wasn’t half bad and he enjoyed reading it very much so, but the ending? He didn’t very much like the ending, so, of course, he had to add to it. A mystery was so much better than an ending after all.
(Sherlock would also admit, that it was a mistake because, how must it had felt for John, to know his best friend was alive and then just to never see him again? It was a double-edge sword; a kindness because John knew he was alive and a cruelty because Sherlock still left.)
It was a few years later that Sherlock finally admitted he might need help with trying to reverse the whole not-able-to-die thing and so, he went to his brother. Luckily, Mycroft was in his England residence this time of year. Breaking in was ridiculously easy. He was going to have to talk to his brother about that.
When Mycroft got back from doing whatever the man did, (he still wasn’t convinced Mycroft was as important as others said he was) he was in the study reading some documents he probably shouldn’t’ve been reading and enjoying a wine Mycroft had probably been saving for something special. He waited there for his brother to find him.
The door opening made no sound, but he was aware of it all the same and also that Mycroft was frozen from the shock of seeing his supposedly dead brother alive. That was fine though, because he needed to finish reading this page.
Soon the man recovered though, and, instead of saying anything, just walked over and settled into one of the chairs before the desk he had his legs propped up on. Mycroft set his cane against the arm of the chair, crossed his legs, set his elbows on the chair arms, laced his fingers together and studied his brother. They sat in their silence.
“So you’re what happened to my personal breathing apparatus Shirley.” Mycroft said when he had set down the papers in his hands, “Stealing is illegal and a terrible habit to get into.”
Sherlock laughed and Mycroft schooled his features so they were bored and disapproving. There was no force capable of coercing the man to admit how relieving it was to hear that sound when the man had never thought he would hear it again.
“Mycroft if you didn’t want it stolen, you should’ve kept your eye on it. It was not my fault it was so easy.”
Mycroft Holmes as a patient man and knew how to play the game to get what he wanted, so he could keep the chatter going and steer Shirley to where he wanted the conversation to go, but… this, he needed to know why his brother was here. Mycroft would never say aloud how much he had missed the other and how starved he was for information surrounding him. It had taken incredible self-control to not send his agents out to find any evidence of Sherlock Holmes still being alive. Despite how crazy they mostly were Shirley’s actions always had a purpose to them.
“Sherlock, why are you here?”
'Sherlock, how are you here?' is what the younger sibling heard.
His laughing tapered off, until he was silent and staring down at the desk, hands slack and papers hanging; that was much quicker than he had expected, but one look at Mycroft and he understood. So he answered point-blank.
“I need your help.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, “With a case?” Even when Shirley had been a little boy there had never been any requests for help with anything; the only one Shirley had ever asked for help from was Dr. John Watson.
(Mycroft could admit that it would have been easy enough to fall into a small bit of jealousy over their friendship, except for the part where their mother had always made sure her eldest knew, it was Mycroft's job as the big brother, to look after his younger sibling. Mycroft had let go of the jealousy and allowed himself only to feel relief that Shirley had found someone to relate to and build a relationship with.)
Covering his face, Sherlock tried to think of a delicate way to put it, “Not exactly Mycroft.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows, this would be interesting.
Of course, Mycroft was going to help him and, of course, the man understood perfectly why he wanted it reversed.
Mycroft proceeded to pick his brain about all these truths he had come across because of the magical ritual he had performed almost ten years ago. He had tried to convince the man that there was no need to take days off from his work, but Mycroft was convinced they would resolve this quickly. Then, as said by Mycroft exactly, “You would go back to your life and Dr. Watson can stop pestering me for information about you. And don’t even bring up that poor excuse about protecting them from your enemies Shirley I’m already taking care of that.”
(He had never believed it, that Sherlock was still alive, no matter what a peculiar bit of evidence it was for how the doctor had gotten Mycroft's personal supply of oxygen. It would have hurt too much, and he admits, he had allowed himself to be a bit of a coward in not allowing himself hope of his brother's possible survival.)
Instead of the easy solution though, what happened was that he went out for a walk to clear his head and a smoke to calm him down. He had only intended to be gone for an hour at the most, but by the time it occurred to him to go back, most of the day had gone by and almost full darkness had settled in.
When he got back, what he found was less than favorable.
There was a star of wax on the study’s floor and Mycroft was sitting on the couch under the window, drinking the fifty year scotch that he had tried to find when he broke in. There was a hole in his shirt slightly stained with blood, but no wound upon his older brother’s skin.
“I thought recreating the whole process would reveal something you might’ve missed."
“You bloody idiot.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft downed his full glass in one gulp.
(Neither of them admitted what had not been said, and would never say it. Mycroft had sat over the possibilities and then let his emotion drive his decision making skills. He had done the ritual to make sure, that if it did take them far longer than usual, Sherlock would not be alone.)
Eventually, Mycroft returned to his important duties—duties that Sherlock still wasn’t completely convinced were actual duties—and he stayed at the manor and perused the book he had taken from Blackwood’s father’s house. The more unsavory books of his brother’s collection were perused through too.
He began to get itchy to move though, so he began to go on trips, sometimes disappearing for weeks before he returned to England or just to Mycroft’s manor. Sometimes, not often though, he gave into the urge to check in on Watson, to make sure the man was alright.
The doctor was fine, of course. In fact, John Watson was happy and quite a successful author.
He bought all the books as soon as they came out and had them all signed.
Soon, he began to learn more about these magical arts that had been responsible for his condition and he was able to do other stuff.
Like accidentally turn one of Mycroft’s suits into dust.
No idea how that happened.
(He had been trying to turn it blue.)
When he tried to recreate the result, the suit shrunk instead.
Before he could try again though, Mycroft returned home and immediately put a stop to all of it and forced him to listen to a two hour lecture on responsibility and blah-blah-blah.
Then Mycroft tried it on Sherlock’s jacket.
The years seemed to pass by fast and it became common for him to lose track of the days. He stopped checking up on Watson because it was becoming painful for him to see the doctor age. Mycroft and he never gained a day. He could heal from very fatal wounds and he, apparently, had stopped aging as well.
He started going by the name Isaac Stark. Had a few affairs. Learned more about his new abilities and days were spent with him buried in books or tracking down a certain book. Sometimes he solved some cases that Mycroft had brought back from wherever he’d been. They were solved within a day, or a day and a half, depending on how much there were or the amount of evidence included. It was kind of a blessing he never had to leave the house to do all of this, scrying was a beautiful thing.
He tries not to think about Watson. Or Lestrade. Or anybody from before. It gets easier as time goes on.
Mycroft makes sure he eats and bathes and changes clothes and finds him if he’s disappeared for too long. Which takes longer and longer because he’s getting really good at avoiding Mycroft’s people.
(Mycroft will admit, he lets his over-protectiveness rear its ugly head, just like it used to when Shirley had been a boy. Mycroft had managed to get a proper hold of it by the time Shirley had found his own place, but now they were under the same roof. It was hard. Especially after he had thought his brother had died once already.)
One morning though, after Mycroft had coaxed him away from the books and into an actual bed to sleep, he looked over at the bedside table seconds after waking and found a letter. There was note from his brother on top of it.
~Shirley,
My agents intercepted this letter for you. It’s from a woman in America who knows you as Isaac Stark. Don’t fret I didn’t read it and neither did any of my people.
Don’t forget to eat something and maybe spend some times outside; you’re turning into a ghost.~
He crumped up the note and picked up the letter. The seal didn’t look tampered with, so Mycroft might’ve been telling the truth. The name on the back of the card is the one he’s been using while out and about and in disguise.
He opens it. There’s one piece of paper inside only and he sort of doesn’t want to read it, but curiosity had always been a big part of who he was/is so he unfolds it and reads every word.
~
Dear Isaac,
I will be brief about this and hope you take this seriously; during our time together I became pregnant and a few days ago I gave birth to a son. I gave him your name. I apologize for not informing you as soon as I found out, but I feared you pressure me to terminate the pregnancy. His name is Howard and he favors you in looks. If you wish to be a part of his raising my address is down below. I hold no grudge if you ignore this though.
I wish you all the best in your health and your life.
Regards,
Molly Walker~
What the hell?
He chooses to ignore the letter, because, what in the bloody buggering hell would he do with a child?! Watch it grow old and die? He had never meant to become a parent and still intends never to be one. So, he burns the letter and erases it from his mind. He doesn’t even remember a Molly Walker and never discusses it with Mycroft, when asked he tells the truth, he burned the letter. He also stops his dalliances with women; way too much trouble and not worth it.
There had only ever been one who was.
(John would have been a fantastic father. A child raised by the doctor would never question the love their parents had for them.)
Twelve years later, he’s returned to his brothers manor in England, but is immediately told the man is in his vacation home out in the country, so that’s where he heads. He had been gone two years, searching for an almost thousand year old text that is supposed to contain a spell having to do with time. He hadn’t been able to locate it.
Mycroft isn’t surprised when he arrives and tells him to come to the study when he’s settled in.
There’s a letter on his pillow, unopened and addressed to one Isaac Stark.
Inside the letter was a few pages of paper, and a few sentences into the three page letter he knows it’s from a lawyer and it has to do with Molly Walker and that the woman is dead. He stops reading after that, because his mind goes completely blank on why he should care that some American woman is dead.
It takes a second, but as he reads on he remembers who she is. He letter goes on to explain how she had died from a long-term sickness and had left custody of the son she bore him to him, the father, but there were conditions to it. The one that stood out the most was the one that stated in order for custody to transfer to him he had to move to America. Until he did, Howard Stark remained in the custody of his grandparents. There was a time limit set for it: two years. There was an address of the grandparents included and contact information for the lawyer.
The kid would be eight by now.
He never wanted to raise a child and he never wanted to claim anywhere but England as his home, but… a thought that had often found its way wandering through his thoughts came right to the front. How much trouble did he cause for Mycroft regularly because of the wild gallivanting? How much harder was it becoming for him to resist the urge to go and check on Watson each day?
How hard was it getting just existing here, in this place where his old life was long over?
Somebody knocked on the door, jerking him from his thoughts.
“Yes. Come in, what is it?” he answered quickly.
The servant who opened the door he vaguely recognizes, “Lord Mycroft is wondering when you will be able to join him in the study?”
He folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, “Soon. I’ll be down momentarily.”
“Of course, sir.” A bow and then the door closes.
All he and his brother ever talked about when they were together now were possible reversal theories for their condition. He was sick of all the dead ends and mistakes that set him on fire (which, to be fair had only happened twice—Mycroft had laughed after he had been put out and healed).
There was really no point to thinking about the letter right then, it was time to check what Mycroft had.
He never bothered to unpack his bags, so he just packs the letter and quietly leaves when he knows for certain Mycroft is asleep. There’s no worry of Mycroft tracking him down with the name he will be using in America. He had slipped a spell into Mycroft’s tea that evening that erased the name from the man’s mind and performed a small ritual that took care of the documents. After thirty-eight years of practicing the craft he was pretty good at making potions.
Mycroft had ended up developing skills that were more kinetic.
A new start would be best.
Months later he was an American citizen named Isaac Stark, a fruit vendor who had a son named Howard Stark. The job had been a conscious decision; he wanted to try not thinking for a while. The boy… his son… had his hair and eye color, but looked like his mother when it came to his build and features. He had no idea what to do with the boy. So he began to teach him. He made sure the boy went to school and learn on his own, but also tutored Howard when he was home because he saw that the classes were too slow for the young boy.
The not thinking was working, but he still had to exercise his mind, or else he would fall back into the habit he had picked up in his twenties, or when he was alone. Drug use and alcohol abuse was a waste of his time(or so he tried to convince himself quite regularly).
He kept a low profile and never saw any sign of Mycroft.
His relationship with his son was... a work in progress. There were the negative feelings Howard nurtured for him, for the years that Sherlock/Isaac had not been there. He could understand that, and he had no idea what to do about it, except make sure that Howard would have every opportunity Sherlock/Isaac was capable of giving the boy.
(And it was so scary, to look at this small person and feel something again. It terrified Sherlock and... unfortunately led some of the behavior he had when he was interacting with the child. He may have come off as more cold than he was meaning to.)
Howard had graduated early from high school and was seventeen when he went to university.
(Empty nest syndrome, he admits it was not fun figuring that out.)
Then, after four years, much passive aggressiveness, some drinking(because he never had managed to completely ignore those whispers and drinking alone seemed so much better than sitting alone and missing his son, but trying not to admit he missed his son at all), Howard came home.
And asked for help.
Howard wanted to start a business and seemed to want his father’s advice. He was surprised to learn that his dad actually did know about starting and running a company. His father helped him get the business plan ready for Stark Industries, gave them some starter money(since when did Isaac Stark, a damn fruit vendor, make that much?) and then a year later went off to the UK to become his own man.
(At this point, Sherlock admits he succumbed to bad decisions and took up drinking again.)
It was hard, getting to England with the war, but not impossible. It seemed to be too soon that he found himself in the city where he grew up, where had so many adventures and made one very important friend who had come to see. It had been on his mind for a very long time to come and see the doctor.
What had he been doing?
What was he up to?
Did he and Mary have any children? Grandchildren?
Were they happy?
That was a very important question: was John Watson happy?
There was one other question, but he was doing everything in his power not to think it, because if he did and the answer wasn’t what he wanted it to be, then there would be pain. He had only felt pain like that once before and he wasn’t very keen on going through that again; every now and then there would be a pang at remembering what had happened, but they were few and far between.
It took him half the day to locate Dr. John Watson and to learn the man was a widow going on three years. They had moved since he had last checked on them, but only the once. He recognized the house as soon as the address was said. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about it, but he certainly understood, he decided as he looked up the steps to the three-story house John and he had rented from Mrs. Hudson all those decades ago. Suppose the woman couldn’t last forever, although he had once been convinced the she was an avenging god waiting to exact her punishment on him.
He had no clue how long he had been standing at the bottom of the steps lost in his memories, but it was long enough for the lone inhabitant of the house to have noticed him.
“Sherlock Holmes, get your late arse in here.”
He startled and looked up, wide-eyed, at the man standing in the doorway. He leaned more heavily on the cane(the same one from all those years back) than he used to, but still stood tall and proud. The man had gained a little weight and his grey hair had receded a little, but not as much as he himself had once guessed it would.
It was scary, looking at the wrinkles Watson had gained and how old he had gotten, but then he looked in his friend’s eyes.
Those eyes, they were happy and bright and if it looked like tears were about to fall from them he ignored it, because Sherlock knew those eyes, he knew them very well. This was his best friend, his faithful companion though case after case, his doctor soldier.
This was John Watson.
“I had some things to do my good man.” He held up the basket in his hand, “I brought strawberries.”
And thank all the gods both real and imagined, John laughed. The sound made Sherlock feel light and like no time had passed at all. Then John opened the door and waved inward with his cane.
“Get the hell inside Sherlock.”
Sherlock rushed to do exactly that.
It was different inside, but looking around, he didn’t see the new paint and furnishings, all he really saw was a home he had surely missed and looking at John, Sherlock let the years melt away from the great man before him and all Sherlock saw was his greatest friend.
“Watson, old boy, you’ve shaved.”
John laughed again and rubbed the naked skin above his lip, “Yes, I have, and you’ve grown your hair.” Kind eyes smiled, not looking the least surprised to see that Sherlock hadn’t aged a day since the last time John had saw him, in 1892.
“Sherlock.”
“Yes?”
“Share a drink with me, my friend.”
At that moment Sherlock was pretty sure he would’ve jumped off a cliff if John had asked, as long as John continued to call him ‘friend’.
Sherlock told John everything; the accidental immortality, the reason why he faked his death, Mycroft’s involvement in it all and about Howard. John took it all in stride, shaking his head fondly with exasperated sighs and telling Sherlock what an idiot he was.
Not everything could be told in one day, though he sure tried to do so, trying to drag out this moment, savoring his first visit with his best friend in decades. If Sherlock was an emotional man he would have been tearing up quite a bit through the whole thing.
Soon it was getting dark and John had to go to bed. Tomorrow they would continue; and they did, this time with Sherlock listening as John told Sherlock all about his life with Mary. When he got to the part about the writing, Sherlock admitted to buying them, which made the other laugh and joke, “Well, of course you bought them. Books describing how much of a genius Sherlock Holmes is are a must. I hope they lived up to your standards.”
Sherlock didn’t say how proud he was of the doctor for writing them or how he had to buy each and every one because they showed him how Watson had viewed him and he needed to desperately believe that every word was true, he doesn't say how they're his favorite thing in the world or how he rereads them every few months because he's so afraid of forgetting one word written by his friend; he just smiled and said, “Best read I’ve had in my life old boy.”
When it was time to eat Sherlock showed off cooking skills he had had to learn out of necessity, as one tended to when they were a single parent. John was impressed.
For days all they did was catch up on each other’s lives, talking and laughing and being just so glad they were back in each other’s lives. For the first time in decades, Sherlock Holmes felt happy and whole and like he could do anything and everything would be alright.
Mycroft showed up the second month Sherlock was there, looking very put-out and annoyed and like he was wondering why he put up with this.
“Eleven years.” Was all the government official said.
Sherlock shrugged, unapologetic, and moved aside, “If you’re coming in, be quiet. John is napping upstairs.”
Mycroft nodded and came in, removing his hat and coat and keeping his cane as Sherlock led him into the living room.
“I suspect he is. I knew you would show up sooner or later Shirley.” He sat down in one of the arm chairs, “I suspect you know then.”
Sherlock ignored Mycroft and poured himself a drink, because, yes, he did know. He knew John was sick and had barely a year to live. That wasn’t why he had come back though, there was a much simpler reason for that. John had been the one to tell Sherlock he was sick and the time limit. That didn’t mean he was going to talk about it with Mycroft though.
“Are you here for any particular reason Mycroft or just being a nuisance?”
Mycroft sighed, long and heavy, and stared into his brothers eyes, and Sherlock almost flinched at at how lost and tired his older brother looked. “I’m just here to catch up Sherlock.”
That, Sherlock could talk about; the past was fine to think and talk aloud about, it was the future that terrified him. So, he took a deep breath himself and shook off the chip on his shoulder and sat down to have a good long talk with his brother.
They spoke and when John came down(still looking a bit tired), they all shared a drink and a cigar. (Sherlock could have fretted about that, but John looked so giddy about it when Mycroft offered it to him.)
The months passed, with Sherlock just being there with John; Sherlock taking care of him and watching over him. It was such a reversal of roles. Sherlock didn’t mind, he figured it was long over due. It was months filled with peace and happiness and laughter(something he hadn’t done in decades) and just a general feeling of rightness.
Then one morning, almost a whole year since he’d first gotten there, Sherlock woke up, listened to the quiet of the house and a city still asleep and somehow just knew.
He got ready as usual though; washed up, got dressed, made his bed and started the coffee. He had to see(but he didn't want to), just so he knew for sure, because Sherlock new he was a curious man. He walked up the steps, taking his time, it’s not like there was any need to rush.
He knocked before entering.
Truth be told, it was foolish and wishful thinking to hope it was only paranoia, because it was horribly obvious the great age of Watson and Holmes was over.
He called Mycroft, because he knew the man would take care of every detail that had to be handled. Mycroft came and he did indeed take care of everything; he planned the funeral, and made sure he could stay in the house and made sure his brother ate. After it was all done and taken care of and Sherlock was alone in the house that was supposed to be home, he just didn’t know.
For what seemed to be the first time, Sherlock Holmes didn’t know what to do. So, he sat down in John’s study and, clutching the doctor’s cane, drank and just kept drinking until night came and then he drank until the sun came up.