FIC 2: Careful

[fanatikva]

FIC 2

Like many others, I came away from Reichenbach feeling rather drained.  To work out some of the angst and make myself feel better, I wrote fic (since this is only my second time writing fic, that instinct was a bit odd).  And guess what?  It worked.  If you're feeling drained, I hope this helps cheer you up!

Title: Careful
Author: fanatikva  (formerly mizg)
Beta: irisbleufic (many thanks, you were great!)
Rating: PG?
Spoiler Warnings: Reichenbach (S2E3)
General comment: Slightly angsty, but I promise there's fluff
Word Count: ~2,400
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I don't profit from them, I just love them.
Summary (highlight to read): John must be patient and careful while Sherlock is gone.

Careful

 

“We need to be more careful,” Sherlock said as they lay in bed that night.

“I believe I was the one who said that this morning. You, on the other hand, were confused by that statement and largely disregarded my points. So I’ll repeat your own question: what do you mean by ‘more careful’?”

“I mean that the tabloids are not just paying more attention to me, they’re also paying more attention to us. I mean that the easiest thing for them to latch onto as an ‘attack’ would be our relationship.” Sherlock pulled John into his arms. “And if they do that, then the whole world discovers that we’re...involved, and that includes the people who would try to use you to get to me.”

“I’m not worried about my safety, Sherlock.”

Sherlock squeezed John tightly. “No, you’re not. But I am. And I’m worried about my own. I wouldn’t make it without you, John, and I really don’t want to have to prove that.”

John snuggled closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and tucking his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “You won’t have to. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll be fine as long as we stick together.”

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head and let him drift off to sleep. Sleep did not come as quickly for Sherlock, who lay awake long into the night, staring at the man in his arms, wondering when it would all come crashing down.

He didn’t have to wait long.

******

“One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t...be...dead.” John’s voice broke on the last word. “Would you...just for me, just stop it, stop this.” He hung his head and allowed himself a few moments to cry.

Sherlock watched John fight to pull himself together and walk away from the grave like the soldier he was. Sherlock, in turn, had to fight to stop himself from running after his friend and throwing his arms around the man, stopping the cracks he could practically see forming in John’s heart before it broke apart entirely. But he couldn’t do that, couldn’t blow his cover. John would be fine. This was for John’s safety, John’s protection. It was better if John didn’t know. He got into the car Mycroft had waiting for him, determined to follow the plan, to be careful.

His resolve lasted twelve hours.

 

******

 

John awoke when the mattress dipped and a warm body wrapped itself around him. He snuggled into the familiar touch until he realized that something was wrong with this scenario. Then he shot up and turned to face the man in his bed. “You...you’re...I…”

“You asked for a miracle. I can’t really give you that yet, John; I’m sorry. You will have to allow me to be dead for some time. I’m not supposed to be here, I told myself I wouldn’t come, and I may be risking everything with this visit, but I can’t leave you with no hope. I watched you at the graveyard and knew that I couldn’t. I have to go, at least for a while, and you have to be careful, for both our sakes. Nobody can know. Do you understand?”

John nodded, too shocked to speak. Was he relieved? Angry? Hurt? He wasn’t sure. The only thing he knew was that he would need to hold onto this moment, burn it in his memory, because Sherlock’s meaning was clear: it would be a long time before they saw each other again. And John would do what Sherlock asked, because, if John understood Sherlock’s meaning, that was the only way they would see each other again.

Sherlock looked at John closely. “May I kiss you? Will that make this harder for you? It will make it both easier and harder for me, I think, but I need it. However, I do not wish to make this any more difficult for you, as I know that -”

John’s lips cut off the rest of Sherlock’s words. They held each other close as they share a kiss that was slow, sensual, and full of the words they had never uttered. When they broke apart, they looked at each other for a long moment before John spoke.

“I’m going to wake up in the morning and not believe that this happened. I know I am.” A tear ran down his cheek. Sherlock wiped it away and gently maneuvered John back into a sleeping position. Sherlock sat on the bed and ran his fingers through John’s hair until sleep claimed him again.

When John awoke the next morning, he kept his eyes firmly shut, holding onto the image of Sherlock next to him, the feel of Sherlock’s hand in his hair, knowing that, when he opened his eyes, the truth of the situation, that Sherlock had not been there and would never be there again, would hit him with a destructive clarity.

He was still in bed, hiding under the covers that he fancied still smelled like Sherlock, when he heard an odd sound coming from the sitting room. It sounded very much like a dog. Soft sounds, like the barks of a pup, but barking nonetheless. John got up and cautiously walked downstairs. Right next to his favorite chair, there was a cardboard box. He peeked inside to find that he was not, in fact, suffering from auditory hallucinations: the box contained a small bull dog. He knelt next to the box and slowly put his hand in, giving the pup time to sniff his hand. The dog did so, and then promptly began licking. John laughed a bit, surprising himself, and reached in to pull the little thing out. As he did so, he saw a collar with a tag already around the dog’s neck.

The tag had a Union Jack in the center and read “Prudence Watson” beneath. The back gave her address as 221B Baker Street.

John stared at the tag while the dog - Prudence, apparently - licked his face and snuggled in as though she knew, absolutely knew, that he was there to care for and protect her. Prudence Watson. Or, perhaps, “Prudence, Watson.” And with that thought, John got it. The previous night wasn’t a dream. Sherlock had been there; Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was asking him to be careful and wait for him to come back.

He understood then what he needed to do. He needed to play the grieving friend, which would not be too hard, he thought, for he didn’t really know when he would see Sherlock again (“if” did not bear thinking on). He needed to live his life quietly, discreetly, alone. He needed to continue pretending that he didn’t know, waiting, waiting for Sherlock to clear his name so he could return.

So he did.

 

******

 

For 18 long months, John waited, never letting on that Sherlock was alive, never letting on that he knew. And then, the day he was waiting for came.

It was a Tuesday morning when John got the call from Lestrade asking if he could stop by 221B in the evening. When he arrived, John had tea and whisky sitting on the table in the sitting room. It was much tidier than in the old days, though he had left Sherlock’s books, skull, and bow (the violin had been put away, stored in as protected a manner as possible), among other things, where they were. It made him feel a little less alone, somehow.

“Tea, whisky, or both?” he asked.

Lestrade sighed. “Both, I think.”

John poured the whisky into the tea and waited patiently for Lestrade to begin. They’d barely spoken since Sherlock “died.” Part of John was angry at Lestrade for abandoning Sherlock. Part of him found that talking to Lestrade just made the memories more vivid, his loss (however temporary) greater. He suspected Lestrade avoided him out of guilt and a similar pain.

Lestrade took a large sip, sighed again, and began. “Information has come to light which appears to clear Sherlock’s name.”

John eyed him warily, not yet ready to allow the hope he was feeling to bloom, lest it showed on his face and gave something away. “Information?”

“Yes. The woman who wrote that story? It turns out that quite a few of her stories since then have been based on fabricated material, and a subsequent investigation has proven that quite a few of the documents she used to support her story about Sherlock were forgeries. Whether that’s her fault or the fault of the person who gave her the information -”

“By which you mean Moriarty.”

Lestrade grumbled. “Yes, well. In either case, her story about Sherlock no longer really holds water. Several papers will be publishing stories which, in essence, acknowledge the forgeries and apologize for providing the public with such faulty information.”

John quirked an eyebrow at that. Lestrade took another sip of his drink, clearly stalling.

“They will also be publishing the story of Colonel Sebastian Moran. Colonel Moran has confessed to being Moriarty’s right-hand man, providing information on Moriarty which conclusively proves the man’s existence and role in many, many criminal happenings. He also says that the reason Sherlock jumped was because Moriarty...” Lestrade cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. Guilt spread over his face. “Moriarty had three snipers, each with a target and instructions to shoot their target if Sherlock didn’t jump.”

While he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew the answer to his question, John asked it anyway. “And the three targets were?”

Lestrade refused to meet John’s eye. “Mrs. Hudson, you...and me. You were Moran’s target. The right-hand man for the right-hand man.”

Each man sat in his chair, thinking and sipping their now-cold whisky and tea, and were quiet for some time. John had always wondered why Sherlock had done what he had done. He took him at his word that it was for their mutual safety that Sherlock had to play dead, but he never knew why. Now, he understood. Sherlock needed to stay dead so that he could track down the people in Moriarty’s web who could provide the information necessary to clear his name, but he needed to die in the first place to save the lives of the three people he cared for most (while John was fairly sure Sherlock did love his brother, Mycroft was unlikely to be in any danger, so he didn’t count).

“Where did all this information come from? Where are the papers getting their stories?” John asked.

It was Lestrade’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. “You know where it came from; don’t be daft. Big Brother was always going to ferret out the truth and make sure it was heard. As for the papers...well, they’re getting it from a combination of a ‘highly placed government official’ - not Mycroft, they’d never buy it, what with his name, but Mycroft’s mouthpiece - and a ‘member of the Met well acquainted with the situation'.”

“Much obliged. So the public will hear it from the newspapers, and hopefully they will believe what they read. I presume the Commissioner will have heard it from the same ‘highly placed government official,’ but will he believe his source?”

“He has heard it from someone whose name is far more influential than Mycroft’s, though their power is significantly less, of course, not that anyone knows that. Trust me, he believes his source. Sherlock will be wholly exonerated.” Here, he paused, looking down into his cup and speaking softly. “I wish I could tell him how sorry I am and how much I appreciate his sacrifice.”

You’ll get to. John thought to himself. He must still be alive, he must, so you’ll get to. But I get him first. “Ta very much for letting me know. I’ll accept your apology on his behalf. He was my best friend, after all, I think I can do that.” For now. Until he can do it himself.

Two days later, Sherlock’s innocence was declared by every newspaper John could find. The same old picture of Sherlock in the deerstalker, the one that Sherlock pretended to hate, graced the covers of newspapers and, shortly afterward, tabloids and magazines. The Commissioner held a press conference where he acknowledged their error in suspecting Sherlock. John was inundated with requests for interviews, but he would not give them.

Through Lestrade, he released a simple statement: “I have always believed in Sherlock’s innocence. I am pleased that he has been exonerated and that he can once again be appreciated for what he was: not just a brilliant man, but also a good one.”

Just a little longer now, John told himself, and waited.

 

******

 

Two weeks after John’s statement was released, he awoke once again to a dipping mattress and a warm body wrapped around him. He shifted around until he could face the man next to him. For the first time in more than a year and a half, John looked into the face of his best friend. His partner.

“It’s done.” Sherlock said. He looked tired and had a small horizontal scar on his cheek, but he was still the unearthly beauty that John had known and dreamt of. John nodded.

They stared at each other for a long time. Eventually, John broke the silence. “Do we still need to be careful?”

Sherlock smiled. “With our safety? Of course. With each other and what the world knows? Never again.”

John smiled back. Then, his face turned serious. “There were things I wanted to say that I didn’t get to. My therapist tried to make me say them, but I couldn’t: I needed to say them to you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. I had the same problem. Well, not the therapist, obviously, but the things I never said.”

John sighed, but the sigh was a distinctly happy one. “Shall we start now?”

Sherlock pulled John close. “I love you.”

John smiled, closed his eyes, and snuggled into Sherlock's arms. “I love you too.”

 

The end.

 

 

Author’s note 1: John Watson tells Sherlock Holmes (in A Study in Scarlet) that he keeps a “bull pup.” As a dog is never mentioned again, a number of theories have been posited as to the meaning of this statement. I agree with those who say that he was referring to his revolver (a bullpup is a type/style of firearm) as opposed to an actual dog. However, since I was giving him a dog anyway...

Author’s note 2: This is Prudence’s tag:  Union Flag Identity Tag

Author’s note 3: Yes I know that, canonically speaking, Holmes is gone for three years. But three years is just too darn long, so I’m cutting it down.