Chapter Text
"Hello, John."
Ella Baxter, m.d., Psychologist. Beautiful woman. Great listener. Not so great at helping me.
"Hello, Mrs. Baxter. How are you today?" The niceties must be observed, you know.
She gives a polite incline of the head, not breaking eye contact with me. She doesn't trust me. "Fine, thanks, but I think the real question is how are YOU?"
It's been three years. She doesn't trust me yet. She's about ready to commit me to an institution. Damn ready, judging by the way she barely takes any notes anymore.
She's getting sick of me. Sick of the way I break down whenever we even touch the surface of the problem.
When I had first returned from the war, she had a very distinct way of working with me; whittling me down bit by bit until we got to the core of the issue then solving it from there. But now - now I have my walls built so high and strong she cannot crack them. It frustrates her.
I return her nod. "Fair enough."
She sighs. "John, you tell me that every time. It is quite apparent to me that you are not 'fair enough.' How have you slept this week?"
I could lie and say the nightmares are going away but I know she sees the bags under my eyes. "They're getting worse."
"And it's always the same one?"
"Always. Those last few minutes replay in my head. They pull me off the body and I jerk awake in a cold sweat." A shiver tries to travel down my spine but I suppress it and sit a little straighter.
"John. You know what tomorrow is. We both do. Do you think the anticipation of that day is making it worse?" She's not cutting corners today.
"Yes."
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
Visiting Sherlock, sulking, weeping, "Going to work."
I look hard at anywhere but her face --
Brown walls - no, tan walls. Tan is neutral and calming. Tan is simple yet elegant. The minimalist colour. Not posh, not gaudy, just sophisticated.
If I had my way the walls would be the colour of my mind - yellow and red and purple and black and grey but certainly not tan. I'd feel more at home among the chaos. Here I feel like my disorganised mind is chipping the tan eggshell paint right off the walls.
"Aren't you going to visit Sherlock's grave?"
Wham. A punch in the stomach, a slice to the throat. Either way, my air is gone.
"No."
"Why?"
"Hurts too much." I grunt and look down, feeling my throat close and my eyes sting.
I'm going anyways, I know that. But let her think I'm weak. Maybe she'll give me even more pills and I'll finally overdose.
She brings a hand to her face and rubs hard, like she's exhausted.
'Soon to be 40-year-old man, obsessed with dead flatmate. No logical reason why. Only knew each other for 18 months. Saw plenty more dead bodies, more gruesome deaths in the war.' Even in my own head I know it's ridiculous.
They say some things are better left unsaid. I say that if I'd have only said those things maybe I could have friends, and a nice little house, maybe a significant other.
I can't because of those unspoken words, those little actions that remain to this day preserved in the depths of my imagination, surfacing only when I feel myself finally getting close to someone again.
But those words, of course, will remain unspoken. It is too late to tell Sherlock, no use in telling them to Mrs. Baxter.
"Okay." She wants to move on. "John, how attached were you to Sherlock?"
Same question, different context.
No, wrong. Usually it is, 'how close were you to Sherlock'. Today the key word is 'attached'. It carries different baggage, hidden beneath the facade of monotony.
I was close to him, very close, more so even than his family.
But attached? That's different.
"Very." I say. "Too much so."
"Why?"
In my mind I am running, far far away, so I don't have to answer. "Because he's so... Because of his.... There's just something about him. I couldn't help it, it was immediate."
"Your attachment to Sherlock," she confirms.
"Yes."
She scribbles something down, shielding the paper from my prying eyes.
"Was he a good man?"
Not entirely sure where we are going with this, I reply. "Yes. He is."
My mouth swerves around the "was" like a car around a stray cat.
Past tense burns my mouth. It always will.
"John. Repeat after me. Sherlock was a good man."
Oh.
"Sherlock i-- was a good man."
"See, this is your problem. I've suspected it for a while." She leans forward, hands steepled beneath her chin. "You can't let go. You tell me you've let go, tell me you have moved on, but you haven't. You still talk about him in the present tense, for god's sake! You are still grasping onto Sherlock's memory, and it's making you miserable. WHY? Why are you doing this?"
Finally I recognise the tactic she's using. Every question followed up with "why?" I learned about it in school. It's supposed to help the patient dig even deeper into themselves, to answer questions they didn't even know existed.
I don't reply, not for a long time. Minutes pass and I do not speak, and neither does she. Am I holding on to Sherlock with everything I have?
Of course I am.
Three years ago tomorrow. I glance at the clock. 12:15, it reads. I would have been staring up at Sherlock, perched on that building, watching him cry. The first real emotion I've ever seen him show.
He was so raw in that moment, so vulnerable. I'd never seen him like that before.
Tears pool in my eyes. Here we go again. I think that in the years since the incident, I've cried more tears and more often than a newborn baby.
"I don't know." Of course I know.
Two reasons why I can't let go:
1. Those little words, three to be painfully exact, that will never leave my mouth. I am certain I will never meet someone I can say them to again.
2. ??? God only knows. I know there's something else but I cannot put my finger on it.
"I think you DO know, at least part of it."
Damn, she's good.
"Will you tell me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I can't. There's no point. Besides, it's too private."
"John, you can tell me anything."
"No, I can't. Not anything."
She leans back with a sigh. I know I'm being difficult. I can see her slowly trying to pick apart my brain, read my body language, unravel the mystery that is Doctor John Watson.
Finally she speaks. "We've been meeting every day for three years. We've gotten nowhere. John, you have colleagues and acquaintances, but when was the last time you went out?"
I stay silent and she continues. "You don't have anyone close to you -- you push them away! And I am afraid that now is the time for some things to be said. Things I have been hoping someone closer to you would say. But since they haven't, I must."
I brace myself and Mrs. Baxter looks me right in the eye. "Sherlock is dead, John. Dead and he's never coming back. No amount of praying or wishing or hoping is going to change that. It's been three years, it's time for you to accept that there will be no miracle."
I don't breathe. Miracle. As much as her speech hurt me, that word tugs on something, and a memory comes flooding back.
I'm standing in a graveyard. The ground is still freshly disturbed and a headstone has just been placed, shiny black granite with big gold lettering. Clean and crisp, the way Sherlock would want it.
Tears are running down my cheeks. My stomach clenches and I feel physically ill. I am talking. "...I was so alone, and I owe you so much." My head is bowed towards that cold, unforgiving ground, tears leaving little splashes in the dirt where they land.
"But, please. There's just one more thing. One more thing." I can barely choke out the words. "One more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don't be... Dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this." I gesture at the ground, throat aching, heart shattering.
Mrs. Hudson comes up behind me and steers me away.
I asked him for one more miracle. And it never came.
"It's time to stop pretending. It's time to let go, John. Let go."
-----
I don't go to bed until late - I never do anymore. I don't want to go to sleep in my crummy little one-bedroom flat (there was no way I could have stayed at Baker Street), I don't want to lay down on my bed and think about Sherlock or the way his eyes changed colour or the way he was when I caught him off guard, surprised him somehow (hard as the job was), how he was when his guard was cracked.
I don't want to let my mind wander to his drawer of things, my own version of a shrine. The one I set aside and vowed never to touch, lest the contents lose their scent. But as soon as I do lie down, I think about Sherlock's blue scarf. The one he always wore. It's frayed and worn and dirty. Probably greasy with a layer of dust on it by now.
The thought of Sherlock's things laying untouched and dusty sets me off again and my throat aches once more.
Then I decide it. Enough is enough.
I will have to let go.
1,904 days of crying myself to sleep. I will not let it be three years even. I won't. I take a deep breath. I won't cry tonight, and I won't have any nightmares. I won't dream about him. I will move on.
I will let go.
But first, I have to get rid of those skeletons.
I get up, shuffle over to the drawer full of Sherlock's things, not bothering with my bathrobe or slippers. Then open it for the first time in three years. Like I expected, I am greeted by a little puff of dust. I pull the whole damn thing out of the chest and carry it over to my little desk, flicking on the light with my elbow.
Only five things remain. I pull the first item out; a little handheld looking glass that Sherlock used so meticulously while solving crimes.
The second; a note he had written me once, 'John. We are out of milk. Please go get some from the store or we will have none for tomorrow.' The way he always left little domestic things like milk to the very last possible second always tickled me.
The third; his mobile phone. It was smashed when he hit the ground, but it was the only thing I took from the little bag of sentimental things the mortuary sent me. He had used it so often, the buttons are worn and the letters peeled off.
The fourth; a picture I hadn't known Sherlock had until I found it in his bedside drawer. One we had taken at some work party. Me having gotten him much too drunk and myself quite tipsy, I found it easy to persuade him to take a picture with me with an old Polaroid. The snapshot is fuzzy and I am laughing too hard, but I keep it for the same reason Sherlock did. It shows us both thoroughly enjoying each other's company, laughing and having a good time. It doesn't take a consulting detective to figure out why he liked it as much as I.
Finally, I grab the fifth thing; Sherlock's musty old scarf. It's blue and worn and dusty, everything I expected. I shake it out a bit and hesitantly bring it to my nose. I inhale. Leaving it had been a good idea. It still carries a bit of his scent.
It's impossible to describe, the way he smelled, a mix of deodorant (the good kind, not the sickly sweet stuff men wear these days) and peppermint and soap and nutmeg. I have to sniff hard, really close my eyes and think about it, to pick it up. But it's there. Undeniable proof that Sherlock existed.
Three things go back in the drawer. The photo leans against the book on my nightstand and the scarf stays with me. I lay down in bed, clutching it, knowing the subtle smells will be gone by tomorrow, that even when they are gone it will still bring me comfort.
"Well, Sherlock, it's over." I whisper the words so softly I can barely hear them. "I tried so hard, but I'm exhausted. I can't keep feeling like this -- broken and spent all the time. Please don't hate me. Please try to understand. I don't want to mourn anymore. I'm sorry I didn't say what needed to be said. I'm sorry I left you to fight Moriarty. But now I've said my own apologies and it's time for you to give a little. You -- you left me. Without warning or hesitation, you left, and it was like losing air. And I'm so afraid that once I let you go and stop the sadness, then anger will set in. I don't want to be angry with you, Sherlock. You were the best thing that ever happened to me and I, well, I love you. Simple. I can't say I loved you because I still do, and it still hurts. Wherever you are, Sherlock, I know you're watching. So there. Consider it said."
I turn over. "And if you must know, you did what you wanted: left a mark on the world." I finish. "You might have been a consulting detective but I'm the blogger."
And somehow, as I drift off, my heart feels lighter and I quickly fall asleep with the soft blue material next to my face.
-----
The dream comes. It was to be expected.
The same blurry pictures, each one fading into the last, but just the same. It is terrifying.
The terror, confusion, standing alone on the street, looking desperately for Sherlock. Where should my next move be?
And suddenly my phone rings. I don't bother with the ID.
"Hello?"
"John." The voice, his voice, comes from the other end, crackling through, it is a bad connection. I melt into my shoes. Relief.
Where's Moriarty? Panic again.
Something... Different about his voice. It's shaky.
"Sherlock," I say, frightened, "are you okay?"
A moment of terse silence, then, "turn around and walk back the way you came."
Intuition and the hint of pleading in his voice tell me he doesn't really want me to.
"No, I'm coming in."
More silence. "Just... Do as I ask. Please."
It's no longer pleading. It's almost as if he's... Begging. Something is very wrong. I turn around and walk back the way I came.
My stomach aches with worry. I can't swallow. When I reply even I can hear the tremor in my voice.
"Where?"
"Stop there." His voice is clearer.
I obey. Confusion takes me over. "Sherlock..."
"Okay," comes his voice. It wavers a bit with his next words. "Look up. I'm on the rooftop."
My heart sinks. I look up, craning my neck.
There he is. Perched on the ledge, holding his phone to his ear, his eyes stare right at me, oh god I can feel them and somehow I know what's coming next --
Itsadream itsadream itsadream itsadream --
Not real --
"Oh my god."
I know it's a dream but I don't care.
His mouth moves and words come through the phone and it really is him up there.
"I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."
I want to scream at him to get off the fucking ledge but my voice won't work, it won't come, I can't.
"What's going on?" I choke it out.
"An apology." The voice falters completely for a moment. "It's all true."
"What?"
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."
I feel sick and my head seems to float. "Why are you saying this?" Even to me my voice seems frail.
I know what's coming next. These moments have replayed in my head over a thousand times. I have it memorised. But this time -- this time something different happens.
Time slows. The pedestrians and cars crawl along at a snails pace. The scenery blurs and all I can see clearly is Sherlock standing on that roof.
Puzzled, I wave my hand in front of my face. It moves at a normal pace, not at all blurry. I clear my throat. The sound reaches me at the speed it should. It is as if I am standing in an air bubble in the middle of a bowl of gelatine.
Sherlock's next words are the same as always, but slower, more deliberate, and amplified. I cannot miss them; I cannot overlook them.
"I'm a fake."
I tilt my head and take a shaky breath, almost as if I'm asking him to take it back. Which, I suppose, I am.
"Sherlock." It sounds like a whine.
"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes."
Rage takes over my dream self and I cannot control my mouth. I want to tell him, I want to yell it, that this is not the Sherlock I know, that the Sherlock I know doesn't lie. Not to me. Not like this.
"Okay, Sherlock, shut up." I see him open his mouth to protest but I cut him off, feeling all my anger, confusion, fear pouring into my words. "Shut up. The first time we met--" my voice cracks. "The first time we met you knew all about my sister, right?"
"Nobody could be that clever." His voice is laced with dejected resignation, and I know he's lying.
"You could."
I see him swallow hard. "I-- I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you."
A tear leaves his eye and even from here I can see it glisten on his face.
Then I see him lean forward, ever so slightly, something I have somehow missed every time previous.
"It's a trick. A magic trick." He enunciates each syllable, almost the same way as before. As if he's stressing some important point I keep missing. As it means something more.
I feel myself replying but my thoughts are racing and I don't hear what comes out of my mouth.
"No, stay exactly where you are." His voice is sharp; I hadn't realised I was walking forward, automatically drawn to him. "Don't move."
"Alright."
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please will you do this for me?" Another tear falls on his cheek and I feel my soul crumble.
"Do what?"
"This phone call... It's my note." The air leaves my chest. "That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
"Leave a note, when?" Monotone. Somehow the panic inside me won't show up in my words.
"Goodbye, John."
And everything stops around me. I try to run. I usually run forward, yelling his name. But I can't. Everything is wrong and I can't run to him.
I keep my eyes fixed on him. His left hand flashes upwards to his right armpit.
He closes his eyes, tears still falling, and leans forward until he is flying.
From where I stand I cannot see him hit the ground.
What I do see is a man, some concerned passer-by, pull a packet of liquid out of his coat.
It is red.
The he bends down over my friend and I see no more of Sherlock.
I don't even reach the body before I jolt awake.
Deep, slow, ordered breaths. Sitting bolt upright in bed. It is 3 in the morning. All my military training is nothing compared to the rigorous course I have learned in order to control the emotions.
Just a dream. It's over. Last time.
My head droops. Happy, or sad?
Breathe again. My tongue is in my cheek, lips pursed. Eyes at the ceiling. Warding off emotion.
It's very sudden. The way it comes to me.
The dream, or rather specific moments of it, flash through my mind, like some kind of slide show.
'I'm a fake.'
'It's a trick. A magic trick.'
The hand to the armpit -- and suddenly my thoughts flash to an earlier moment -- Sherlock bouncing a rubber ball against the wall, thinking. He gets up to leave and pockets it. Putting a rubber ball in your armpit... Well, squeeze hard enough and you won't have a pulse. That's not just doctor's knowledge, it's common sense.
The red packet in the man's coat.
The trash cans at the base of the building. The ones I didn't see because the cyclist knocked me over.
Molly owed him a goddamn favour.
There is no way in hell.
"Let go.." I whisper.
The darkness is everywhere, I can feel it on my skin, seeping in through little cracks and crevasses in my sanity. Somewhere in my mind, somewhere I am still rational and I know that this is some last ditch attempt to convince myself not to let go.
"Stop. Make it stop, Sherlock. Please. Make it end. I don't want to live without you. It's been three years but it feels like an eternity. I can't handle this. Please."
Doctor John Watson, "decorated war hero". It's a good thing all my mates were killed in combat. If they were alive they would have had to witness me reduced to a blubbering mess at least twice a day. It's pathetic.
And I have to stop and wonder if it's even worth it. My family hates me, I watched all my friends die. Then I watched the only person I ever loved die.
"Well," I chuckle, "that whole letting-go thing was very short lived."
I can't pretend that this 'descent into madness' was very fast. I had it coming from the moment I watched my dad beat the shit out of my mum right in front of me. That was almost thirty five years ago.
I suppose combat didn't really help.
But I might have been okay. Probably not, though.
I laugh again, this time because my life is so incredibly fucked up it's funny. I laugh because I will never win.
I don't remember getting up, but once I gather my senses, I am sitting on the edge of my bed and the gun is cocked and ready.
I'm not even scared. Wherever I'm going, hopefully Sherlock is there and I can finally say what needs to be said.
But no. A gun? It's garish. Messy. Distressing.
Less so are pills. Antidepressants, if you will believe it. This time as I shuffle to the washroom I am aware of my actions, I even think them through and decide wholeheartedly that no one will show at my funeral.
I decide to do it slowly, one at a time, one for every reason why. Tiny little white tablets that hold my future, whatever's left of it.
"I'm not going to leave a note. But, in case anyone up there is watching, if anyone cares, any of you -- mum, Pete, Sherlock -- I just want to say I'm sorry I couldn't last longer, I know you tried your best for me." A smile creeps its way onto my face. Not an insane grin, a peaceful smile.
One tablet is in my mouth, is down. The second one goes down even easier. The third is quickest. The fourth is almost on my tongue when the door buzzer scares me out of my wits.
I jump and the white pill falls out of my hand.
'Jesus Christ,' I think. I debate answering it or maybe yelling for them to leave, but think better of it. ''They'll have to go away soon.'
I take a few deep breaths, trying to slow my heart. My head is already fuzzy and light. I feel strange.
I jump again when the buzzer goes off again. I growl against my teeth. Now I'm seriously thinking of yelling.
The buzzer goes off again, and this time the person wastes no resource and bangs on the outside door. I can hear it from here. I can also hear muffled shouting.
I just sit there, dumbfounded. Who would be knocking at this hour? They are ruining my goddamn suicide.
I'm more annoyed than angry when I finally shake my head and pull on my slippers and robe. I stumble a bit on my way out the door.
Halfway to an overdose is a bit like being drunk, only more frustrating.
The incessant noise doesn't stop until I pull the door open, grumbling. "What the he-"
I am stopped short.
"You seem cross. Is now not a good time?"
I can't comprehend what I'm seeing. His hair is different; shorter and lighter. But it is him.
I feel my knees start to go and I whirl, slamming the door in his face. I stumble until my back hits the wall, and I slide down it, face in my hands.
What. Is. Happening.
My mind can't take it. I can't do it. It's too much. I black out for a moment, but the buzzer brings me back.
Slowly, carefully, I use the door to pull myself up to standing. Deep breaths. The door opens.
He is still there. "Oh my god." I'm having trouble focusing.
"John?" This time he is more cautious, hesitant, unsure.
"W-why?" I ask faintly. "How?"
He steps over the threshold and tugs his coat off. I still cling to the door. "I'll explain that later. Listen, John, I know this is a lot to take in.." He trails off, at a loss. The coat slides to the floor. Sherlock makes no attempt to retrieve it.
"A lot to take in? A lot to take in?! Sherlock! Holy shit! Why the hell would you do something like that?!" Anger floods me. Mixed with the pills, it is quite the interesting combination.
"John," Sherlock says, now backing up with his palms out, "I know. I'm sorry. I had to."
"Why the hell would you do that, just fucking leave me?!" I take a step forward.
"John, I don't understand!" Sherlock yells at me, utter confusion in his eyes.
"Well, what did you expect me to be? Happy?!" My voice cracks.
"W-well, yes, a bit."
"You bastard." I don't yell, instead I simply reel back my fist and slam it into his face.
He stumbles back, hitting the wall, and his hands find my outstretched fists. Then the long fingers wrap around my forearms. A trickle of blood leaks from his nose.
I go limp. My fingers interlace with his and I fall onto his chest. He holds me up by my hands. "Three fucking years, Sherlock," I mumble into his shirt.
"John..." He says it softly. "You're not well."
"I suppose I'm not."
He doesn't reply, but when I look up I see his face. He looks like he is in pain. "You need to sleep."
I snort. "You honestly think I'm capable of sleeping right now?"
Sherlock doesn't reply, he simply puts an arm under my shoulders and leads me into my flat. He deposits me on the couch, then sits down next to me.
I lock my gaze on him, not daring to believe it. "Are you sure you're real? Not just some hallucination?"
"Quite sure." He nods solemnly.
"Why? Why'd you do it? Why'd you do that to me?" My voice is soft.
"He was going to kill you unless I jumped. I called you because I wanted to give you a clue. You didn't keep your eyes on me, did you?"
"I got knocked over. By a cyclist. I legitimately thought you were dead."
Sherlock takes a deep, pained breath. "And it affected you this badly?"
"What?"
"John. Look at yourself. You haven't slept properly in months. Your flat is a mess and, to be frank, so are you."
"I know."
He closes his eyes. "I'm very tired."
"Same here."
He puts a protective arm over my shoulders and I fall into him. And somehow, wrapped in the smell of mint and nutmeg, I find sleep.