Categories > Books > Sherlock Holmes > One Word
Chapter 1: Denial
John
John Watson couldn't believe what he had just witnessed, it couldn't possibly be true. Sherlock Holmes could never just fling himself off of a rooftop, he was far too self involved for that. Nevertheless, John had watched Sherlock plummet to the ground. He had seen the impact, or at least he thought he had. He ran to Sherlock's body and his medical training took over. He felt for a pulse, but he didn't find it. Sherlock's deep blue-green eyes just stared off into nothing, blood covering his pale skin. John had wanted to scream, to shake Sherlock from his sleep and beat the tar out of him for thinking he could put John through something like that, but John knew that shaking Sherlock wouldn't do anything now. However, there was still something in the back of his mind, something that told him that this couldn't be true. Every one of John's instincts were screaming at him, telling him that Sherlock Holmes could not possibly be dead, that he couldn't have just committed suicide.
The conversation that Sherlock and John had on the phone just moments before Sherlock threw himself from the roof of Bart's Hospital was the most heartbreaking part, but also the part that seemed to be screaming at John that there was more to this. The way Sherlock phrased things, the way he talked to John. Sherlock always tried to give him clues as to what was going on when they were in a tricky situation through the way he talked to him, and he couldn't help but think that this was one of those cases. Sherlock told John to tell everyone that he was a fake, he wanted John to slander his name, and that was something admittedly not Sherlock. Nevertheless, John went into the hospital to find Molly, Sherlock had specifically mentioned Molly's name on the phone.
“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly...” Sherlock had said as he stood on the rooftop, his voice eerily calm despite the gravity of the situation. Sherlock mentioned all the people closest to him, he wanted John to talk to them for some reason, so that was what he was going to do. John strode in the doors of the hospital and made his way to the basement morgue, where he knew Molly would be, he also knew that Sherlock's body would have to be down there as well and he wasn't sure if he would be able to handle seeing his best friend lying dead on a slab. He's not dead. A nagging voice in the back of John's head kept repeating the same phrase. He's not dead.
“Molly,” John said as he pushed the double doors to the morgue open and walked inside. Molly looked surprised to see John there, but quickly composed herself. After she realized exactly who he was, she just looked sad. “I imagine you've heard about what just happened?”
“Of course I have. They brought him...they brought the body here.” Molly stammered, looking down at her wringing hands. Her eyes welled with tears. “I can't believe he's gone.”
John walked quickly to Molly and took her into an embrace, trying his best to comfort her. Everyone seemed to just accept the fact that Sherlock was dead, but he couldn't do that. He knew deep down that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, and possibly in this room. He wanted to look around, to search the whole morgue until he found Sherlock, but he knew he couldn't.
“I know Molly, I know.” John said, stroking Molly's back as she sobbed into his shoulder. Molly obviously didn't know anything about Sherlock's plan, whatever it may have been, she was far too riddled with grief to have any intimate knowledge as to whether Sherlock had truly faked his death or not. “He called me, while he was on the roof. He wanted me to tell everyone that the newspapers were true. He told me to tell you that he really was a fake. I don't believe it though, and neither do you. I also think that you know that he couldn't have killed himself.”
“John,” Molly started pulling away from him and wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her lab coat. “how could you say something like that? I've just received his body, I've seen him with my own eyes. That was, without a doubt, the body of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Maybe, but something is off.” John said, looking around the morgue. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but he still wished he could have a look around.
“John, I know this is hard for you, but you'll have to accept that Sherlock is dead. He's not coming back.” Molly stated, firmly but with a gentle voice. She probably thought he was mad for suggesting that Sherlock could possibly be alive. If she was telling the truth about Sherlock's body being wheeled into her morgue, then she saw him and ruled him deceased. She couldn't deny her medical training, but why was it so easy for John? Maybe it was just the grief getting to him, his therapist had told him that grief could do funny things to your mind, but then again, his therapist was rubbish.
“I just wanted to relay his message. Maybe you're right, he has to be dead. He jumped off of a roof and hit the pavement, I saw him with my own eyes, but I'll never believe for a moment that he was a fraud.” John said, a stern look in his eyes as he spoke to Molly. She nodded, tears filling her eyes again. Molly placed a small hand on John's arm and squeezed a bit, trying to comfort him, but there was nothing that could comfort him if Sherlock really had just killed himself. That's exactly why he couldn't believe that he had, if Sherlock was really dead, then John's life would go back to being meaningless and dull, and that wasn't something that he ever wanted to return to. John gave a small, sad smile to Molly, then turned on his heel and walked back toward the doors of the morgue. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw something move out of the corner of his eye, but John kept walking.
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When John arrived back at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had been waiting by the door to shower him in hugs. She'd been crying for a while, that was plain by the redness and puffiness under her eyes, but that was to be expected. John didn't care at the moment that Mrs. Hudson was treating him as if he'd just lost the love of his life-she'd always thought that John and Sherlock had been lovers-at the moment, John only wanted to get to the flat that he shared with Sherlock and think about the events of the day again. If he stopped conspiring that Sherlock was alive, then that might make his death a reality, and he couldn't stand that. After he comforted Mrs. Hudson a bit more and let her comfort him in return, he retired to his flat. He hung his black coat on a peg behind the door, just as he always did, and went to sit in the chair that he had claimed as his when he moved into the flat with Sherlock. He stared at the sleek, black leather chair that Sherlock always occupied, it seemed strange that he wasn't there now. He's not dead. The voice in his head kept nagging at him, over and over.
John took his mobile out of his pocket and tapped on the text messaging icon, then found the thread that he shared with Sherlock. He scrolled through, finding the very first texts Sherlock had ever sent to him.
221B Baker Street.
Come at once if convenient.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
Could be dangerous.
SH
John thought for a good long while what he would say to Sherlock if he were here now. What he would say if Sherlock really had faked his death. He didn't doubt that he would have to tell Sherlock that he had known all along that he wasn't really dead, despite his initial reaction outside of Bart's, Sherlock wouldn't believe that John had seen through his ruse and would just wave him off, then they'd go back to solving mysteries and crimes, just like they had been earlier that day. John decided he would type a message to Sherlock and send it. He would probably never get a reply back, but it was something he wanted to do. If Sherlock really was dead, maybe doing something like this would give John some closure. Somehow he doubted that, but he decided to try it nonetheless. If a blog can help with PTSD, then sending a text to your dead best friend could help with grief.
Sherlock Holmes, I refuse to believe that you're dead. I refuse to believe that you're a fraud, and I refuse to give up searching for you. You simply cannot be dead.
John sent the message and stared at his screen for a long time. He was almost expecting to get a reply, but Sherlock hardly ever replied to him when he was alive, much less now that he'd thrown himself off of a roof. Still, John couldn't bear to take his eyes off of the screen. He kept reading and re-reading the message he had just sent, waiting and hoping to get a reply. Suddenly, and only for a moment, the ellipses that meant someone was typing back to him appeared in the bottom left corner of the message thread. John's eyes went wide with surprise and anticipation. Could it really be? Was John really right about everything? Somehow he doubted that Sherlock would give up his cover so easily, not to mention he would have to admit that someone had figured out his scheme. It seemed like a lifetime that those three little dots were on the screen in the text message thread, but all at once, they were gone. John hadn't received a message in reply to the one he had sent, all he had to go on was the fact that he saw the ellipses on his screen. Someone had been typing a message back to him, and that someone was Sherlock Holmes.
John could have fallen out of his seat at the realization that he had been right about everything. To him, this was definitive proof that Sherlock was still alive. In reality, anyone could have been typing a message back to John on Sherlock's phone, who knows if Sherlock even had the phone when he fell from the building, but John had to take it as a sign. This was a very Sherlock thing to do, type a message but never actually send it. Sherlock knew exactly what would happen if he began to type a message to someone, it had to be a sign.
Come back, I won't tell a soul what you've done.
John typed frantically, doing anything he could to try and get a response from Sherlock, but nothing ever came. The ellipses didn't even appear again. John sat staring at the screen of his phone for hours, waiting to even just see those three dots again, but it never happened, and that was infuriating.
I know it's you, you don't have to keep hiding. Just come back and tell me what happened.
John sent another message, he desperately wanted to persuade his friend to come back, he couldn't go back to living the life he had lived before Mike Stamford introduced him to Sherlock, he would do anything to keep from going back to that. He kept staring at his mobile, but there was still no reply.
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John went on sending a text to Sherlock every day. Sherlock's funeral passed and John attended, along with all of the other people that were closest to him. At that point, John had been discouraged by the whole ordeal. He stood there in the cemetery, staring at the cold, black head stone that had Sherlock's name carved into it in gray letters.
“You...you told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times that I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human...human being that I have ever known, and no one will convince me that you told me a lie. And so...there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this...” John stammered out the whole speech to the grave stone, but it was more like a prayer. John had spent every day since Sherlock's fall trying to figure out how his best friend had flung himself off of a roof and survived, he couldn't let all that be in vain. He had been discouraged by the fact that he still hadn't heard anything from Sherlock, and that he was at Sherlock's funeral now. He wanted more than anything to be right about this, but it seemed more and more like it wasn't going to happen. John went back to his flat and made a cup of tea for himself, then sat in his chair and stared at the text message thread to Sherlock again. He had already sent his daily text to Sherlock.
This is getting ridiculous now. One word, Sherlock! Just one word! Just send me one word!
John's texts had begun to grow angrier in tone with every passing day that Sherlock didn't return a text to him. He's not dead. The voice was still there, even after a week of being without Sherlock, the voice that was telling John that Sherlock was alive was still eating at him. Gnawing a hole through his brain. He's not dead. Then, without warning, there it was again, the ellipses indicating a reply being typed by the other person in the thread. John's heart almost jumped out of his chest, this time he would get an answer, he could feel it. He stared at the screen in anticipation for at least five minutes before the ellipses disappeared again, and he still received no message. If this was a joke, John was not laughing. Sherlock had always had an odd sense of humor, but surely he would know that something like this would be crossing the line.
“Answer me!” John yelled at his mobile, shaking it angrily as he yelled abuse at the screen. “Just one word! Just send me one word, Sherlock!”
However, no matter how much abuse he yelled at his mobile, Sherlock would not send a reply text. John cursed and threw his mobile at the sofa that was against the wall to the right of the chairs. Why would Sherlock do something like this? Was it to let John know that he was alive without leaving a trace for anyone else to notice? That seemed like something Sherlock would do, but it would also make John look like he'd lost his mind if he ever told anyone else. Maybe that was the point, but didn't he know that something like this would hurt John more than it might help? Knowing that his best friend was out there somewhere in the world, probably in danger and in need of help, and knowing that he couldn't do anything about it. It was enough to drive John mad.
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It had been two years since Sherlock had fallen. Two years of John sending one text to Sherlock every day, letting him know that John still believed he was alive. Two years of John driving himself absolutely mad, sitting in the flat that he had shared with Sherlock, staring at the screen of his mobile and waiting for those three little dots to appear, but after the last time they had never appeared again. John had contemplated suicide several times throughout the two years that he waited for Sherlock to reply to him, but he always decided against it. He's not dead. That voice had grown so loud now that it drowned out any other thoughts that John might have been capable of having, even thoughts of suicide. He'd started going to drastic measures to try and get Sherlock's attention in other ways, and now he would do the most dangerous thing he had ever done, all to get Sherlock to come back.
The mission that John had set out for tonight was possibly the most important thing he had ever done. This was the number one thing that would bring Sherlock Holmes back to London, if this didn't work then John would accept that his best friend was actually dead.
John perked up as he heard the door open and saw the first person in a line of several others that would help him to get Sherlock back. Gregory Lestrade walked through the empty parking garage to get to his car after a long day of work. Everyone else at Scotland Yard had already gone home for the night, but Lestrade had been putting in extra hours lately, tonight he hadn't left until 1:00 in the morning. He was weary from his long hours and not paying attention to his surroundings, John knew that this would be the perfect time to strike. He'd been hiding behind a support beam that stood close to where Lestrade had parked his car, it would be easy to catch him unaware and incapacitate him with the chloroform he'd brought along. John pulled the bottle from his coat pocket with gloved hands and poured some onto a cloth, readying himself for his attack.
Lestrade pulled his car keys out of the pocket of his coat and unlocked the door, then John sprang into action. He walked quickly up behind Lestrade and pressed the cloth over his mouth and nose, holding tight so that Lestrade couldn't struggle out of his grasp. It only took a moment before the man went limp against him. He quickly put Lestrade in the back seat of the car and pulled the keys out of the door and put them in the ignition. John knew exactly where he would set up the crime scene, somewhere a lot of people would see it, come morning. He drove to the London Eye, the perfect place to set up his scene. Everyone would be sure to see the body, and Sherlock would surely be called in to investigate.
When he got there, John tied Lestrade's hands and feet together with rope, then he waited for Lestrade to wake up. It took a bit longer than John would have wanted, but Lestrade finally began to regain consciousness about half an hour after they had arrived. John had parked in a somewhat secluded area that was close enough to the London Eye to make transporting Lestrade's body there a fairly simple task. Lestrade was propped up against the side of his car, John stood a few feet away, staring at the waking man.
“Ugh,” Lestrade groaned, blinking furiously to focus his vision. “bloody hell, what happened? John, is that you?”
“Yep, good to see you, Greg.” John answered in an eerily cheery tone.
“What's going on?” Lestrade asked as he struggled to free himself from his binds, he still hadn't caught on to what was happening. Sherlock was always right about Scotland Yard being a bunch of imbeciles.
“You're gonna help me bring Sherlock Holmes back to London.” John let a small smirk spread across his face as he stepped closer to Lestrade.
“John, Sherlock is dead. Don't tell me that you've jumped on the conspiracy bandwagon, too. You saw him that day, you know what happened. You can't bring him back.”
“Surely you're smarter than that, Lestrade. He's still out there, somewhere. I've seen the evidence. I've texted him every day for the past two years, he's never sent me a message, but sometimes he starts to write one out. I know he's out there, and you're going to help me bring him back.”
“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked, he looked scared now, as he should be. John reached to the leather sheath he wore on his belt and pulled a sizable knife from it. A lone street light shone on the blade and Lestrade drew in a quick breath.
“The only way that Sherlock Holmes is going to come back here is if there's someone out there big and bad enough to get his attention. He needs a good mystery to lure him back to London, and that's exactly what I'm going to give him.” John explained. Lestrade's face went as white as a sheet, like he'd seen a ghost, his breathing quickened.
“What are you doing?” Lestrade asked, panic apparent in his tone.
“Well, I'm killing you, if that wasn't obvious. Sherlock needs a good mystery, but if that wasn't enough, I'm going to take out all the people that he cares about the most. Then when he's back here, we can go on helping London solve the crimes that no one else can solve, just like before. You're the first piece of the puzzle, Greg. I'm sorry, but there isn't another way.” John said with remorse as he knelt beside the panicking detective.
“You can't do this!” Lestrade said. “You won't accomplish anything, John! Sherlock is dead, you'll be doing this for nothing!”
“That's where you're wrong. I know he's alive, and this will bring him back.” John replied, pressing the blade of his knife to his victim's throat. Lestrade drew one last ragged breath before John slid the knife across his throat and watched as the life drained from his eyes.
Once the deed was done, John didn't waste any time getting Lestrade's body to the base of the London Eye. He tied the body up so that it looked as if it were standing and used the blood of his victim to scrawl a message on the pavement below. He stood back and admired the work he had done, then got a strange feeling.
John turned to see a black Jaguar sitting on the road, too far away for him to see what the driver looked like. The driver noticed that John was staring at him and sped off immediately. Of all the times for John to forget his gun at home, this was the worst. He paced around the scene for a moment before realizing what type of car the man had been in. A black Jaguar, the only type of car that Mycroft relied on. When Mycroft sent Anthea to retrieve John all those times before Sherlock had thrown himself from the roof she always appeared in a black Jaguar. When Sherlock and John ran into Mycroft after they'd solved A Study in Pink, Mycroft and Anthea had been standing beside a black Jaguar only a block away from the scene where John had shot the cabby. It had to be one of Mycroft's men, and by the looks of it, he had been following John for a while now. If that was the case, surely Mycroft wouldn't pull him off John's tail now. There would be another opportunity for John to take care of him, all he had to do was be patient.
John decided that he couldn't do anything more about the situation now, and went back to 221B to revel in what he had just accomplished. He let a smile spread across his face as he typed a message out to Sherlock.
Murder.
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Sherlock
Sherlock had been receiving text messages from John Watson for two years. One text message every day, and they had grown increasingly more desperate as time passed. Sherlock knew that faking his death would have a tremendous effect on the people in his life, but he had no idea what he would drive John Watson to become. Today's text message had been a bit more calm than the ones from the past, Sherlock thought it had seemed odd but decided to let it go. What could he do about it from America, anyway? So many times he had wanted to send a reply to John. He'd typed replies out twice before he even realized what he was doing, and he knew that was a mistake. He should have just let John think that he was dead, but he had to give him that glimmer of hope. Even the day that Sherlock jumped off of the roof he had placed clues for John carefully in the conversation they'd had over the phone. He assumed that John would be too grief stricken after the deed was done to pick up on any of it, but he had assumed wrong.
Sherlock had just begun to get used to his life in America. He hadn't tried to make any new friends, that wasn't what he was there for, after all. He was there to take out the rest of Moriarty's criminal network, the last person had hidden themselves in America to try and escape punishment for helping the consulting criminal. Little did he know, Sherlock Holmes was on the case. Sherlock had planned to go and finish his business with the network that night, but something much more important was about to come up. He received a text message at around 8:30 pm, that would make it 3:30 am in London, far too late for Mycroft or Molly to be awake, so who could be texting him now? Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and gaped at the name that appeared on the screen.
“Two texts today, John? You're really reaching now.” Sherlock said to himself as he opened the message.
Murder.
One word. Only one terrifying word was displayed on Sherlock's screen. Almost instantly, Sherlock's mobile started to ring. Mycroft was calling. Sherlock got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Mycroft.” Sherlock answered, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
“Sherlock, I think you'd better come home now. A...situation has developed.” Mycroft said solemnly.
“What's happened?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft didn't reply, but hung up the phone and sent a string of photos to Sherlock instead. The photos were of Lestrade, a friend and colleague of Sherlock's when he had worked with Scotland Yard back in London. He looked at every image carefully, Lestrade had been murdered and strung up on the London Eye, his throat had been slit and blood covered the front of his body, and on the pavement below him was a phrase that chilled Sherlock to his core. One word, Sherlock. Just one word.
John
John Watson couldn't believe what he had just witnessed, it couldn't possibly be true. Sherlock Holmes could never just fling himself off of a rooftop, he was far too self involved for that. Nevertheless, John had watched Sherlock plummet to the ground. He had seen the impact, or at least he thought he had. He ran to Sherlock's body and his medical training took over. He felt for a pulse, but he didn't find it. Sherlock's deep blue-green eyes just stared off into nothing, blood covering his pale skin. John had wanted to scream, to shake Sherlock from his sleep and beat the tar out of him for thinking he could put John through something like that, but John knew that shaking Sherlock wouldn't do anything now. However, there was still something in the back of his mind, something that told him that this couldn't be true. Every one of John's instincts were screaming at him, telling him that Sherlock Holmes could not possibly be dead, that he couldn't have just committed suicide.
The conversation that Sherlock and John had on the phone just moments before Sherlock threw himself from the roof of Bart's Hospital was the most heartbreaking part, but also the part that seemed to be screaming at John that there was more to this. The way Sherlock phrased things, the way he talked to John. Sherlock always tried to give him clues as to what was going on when they were in a tricky situation through the way he talked to him, and he couldn't help but think that this was one of those cases. Sherlock told John to tell everyone that he was a fake, he wanted John to slander his name, and that was something admittedly not Sherlock. Nevertheless, John went into the hospital to find Molly, Sherlock had specifically mentioned Molly's name on the phone.
“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly...” Sherlock had said as he stood on the rooftop, his voice eerily calm despite the gravity of the situation. Sherlock mentioned all the people closest to him, he wanted John to talk to them for some reason, so that was what he was going to do. John strode in the doors of the hospital and made his way to the basement morgue, where he knew Molly would be, he also knew that Sherlock's body would have to be down there as well and he wasn't sure if he would be able to handle seeing his best friend lying dead on a slab. He's not dead. A nagging voice in the back of John's head kept repeating the same phrase. He's not dead.
“Molly,” John said as he pushed the double doors to the morgue open and walked inside. Molly looked surprised to see John there, but quickly composed herself. After she realized exactly who he was, she just looked sad. “I imagine you've heard about what just happened?”
“Of course I have. They brought him...they brought the body here.” Molly stammered, looking down at her wringing hands. Her eyes welled with tears. “I can't believe he's gone.”
John walked quickly to Molly and took her into an embrace, trying his best to comfort her. Everyone seemed to just accept the fact that Sherlock was dead, but he couldn't do that. He knew deep down that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, and possibly in this room. He wanted to look around, to search the whole morgue until he found Sherlock, but he knew he couldn't.
“I know Molly, I know.” John said, stroking Molly's back as she sobbed into his shoulder. Molly obviously didn't know anything about Sherlock's plan, whatever it may have been, she was far too riddled with grief to have any intimate knowledge as to whether Sherlock had truly faked his death or not. “He called me, while he was on the roof. He wanted me to tell everyone that the newspapers were true. He told me to tell you that he really was a fake. I don't believe it though, and neither do you. I also think that you know that he couldn't have killed himself.”
“John,” Molly started pulling away from him and wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her lab coat. “how could you say something like that? I've just received his body, I've seen him with my own eyes. That was, without a doubt, the body of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Maybe, but something is off.” John said, looking around the morgue. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but he still wished he could have a look around.
“John, I know this is hard for you, but you'll have to accept that Sherlock is dead. He's not coming back.” Molly stated, firmly but with a gentle voice. She probably thought he was mad for suggesting that Sherlock could possibly be alive. If she was telling the truth about Sherlock's body being wheeled into her morgue, then she saw him and ruled him deceased. She couldn't deny her medical training, but why was it so easy for John? Maybe it was just the grief getting to him, his therapist had told him that grief could do funny things to your mind, but then again, his therapist was rubbish.
“I just wanted to relay his message. Maybe you're right, he has to be dead. He jumped off of a roof and hit the pavement, I saw him with my own eyes, but I'll never believe for a moment that he was a fraud.” John said, a stern look in his eyes as he spoke to Molly. She nodded, tears filling her eyes again. Molly placed a small hand on John's arm and squeezed a bit, trying to comfort him, but there was nothing that could comfort him if Sherlock really had just killed himself. That's exactly why he couldn't believe that he had, if Sherlock was really dead, then John's life would go back to being meaningless and dull, and that wasn't something that he ever wanted to return to. John gave a small, sad smile to Molly, then turned on his heel and walked back toward the doors of the morgue. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw something move out of the corner of his eye, but John kept walking.
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When John arrived back at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had been waiting by the door to shower him in hugs. She'd been crying for a while, that was plain by the redness and puffiness under her eyes, but that was to be expected. John didn't care at the moment that Mrs. Hudson was treating him as if he'd just lost the love of his life-she'd always thought that John and Sherlock had been lovers-at the moment, John only wanted to get to the flat that he shared with Sherlock and think about the events of the day again. If he stopped conspiring that Sherlock was alive, then that might make his death a reality, and he couldn't stand that. After he comforted Mrs. Hudson a bit more and let her comfort him in return, he retired to his flat. He hung his black coat on a peg behind the door, just as he always did, and went to sit in the chair that he had claimed as his when he moved into the flat with Sherlock. He stared at the sleek, black leather chair that Sherlock always occupied, it seemed strange that he wasn't there now. He's not dead. The voice in his head kept nagging at him, over and over.
John took his mobile out of his pocket and tapped on the text messaging icon, then found the thread that he shared with Sherlock. He scrolled through, finding the very first texts Sherlock had ever sent to him.
221B Baker Street.
Come at once if convenient.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
Could be dangerous.
SH
John thought for a good long while what he would say to Sherlock if he were here now. What he would say if Sherlock really had faked his death. He didn't doubt that he would have to tell Sherlock that he had known all along that he wasn't really dead, despite his initial reaction outside of Bart's, Sherlock wouldn't believe that John had seen through his ruse and would just wave him off, then they'd go back to solving mysteries and crimes, just like they had been earlier that day. John decided he would type a message to Sherlock and send it. He would probably never get a reply back, but it was something he wanted to do. If Sherlock really was dead, maybe doing something like this would give John some closure. Somehow he doubted that, but he decided to try it nonetheless. If a blog can help with PTSD, then sending a text to your dead best friend could help with grief.
Sherlock Holmes, I refuse to believe that you're dead. I refuse to believe that you're a fraud, and I refuse to give up searching for you. You simply cannot be dead.
John sent the message and stared at his screen for a long time. He was almost expecting to get a reply, but Sherlock hardly ever replied to him when he was alive, much less now that he'd thrown himself off of a roof. Still, John couldn't bear to take his eyes off of the screen. He kept reading and re-reading the message he had just sent, waiting and hoping to get a reply. Suddenly, and only for a moment, the ellipses that meant someone was typing back to him appeared in the bottom left corner of the message thread. John's eyes went wide with surprise and anticipation. Could it really be? Was John really right about everything? Somehow he doubted that Sherlock would give up his cover so easily, not to mention he would have to admit that someone had figured out his scheme. It seemed like a lifetime that those three little dots were on the screen in the text message thread, but all at once, they were gone. John hadn't received a message in reply to the one he had sent, all he had to go on was the fact that he saw the ellipses on his screen. Someone had been typing a message back to him, and that someone was Sherlock Holmes.
John could have fallen out of his seat at the realization that he had been right about everything. To him, this was definitive proof that Sherlock was still alive. In reality, anyone could have been typing a message back to John on Sherlock's phone, who knows if Sherlock even had the phone when he fell from the building, but John had to take it as a sign. This was a very Sherlock thing to do, type a message but never actually send it. Sherlock knew exactly what would happen if he began to type a message to someone, it had to be a sign.
Come back, I won't tell a soul what you've done.
John typed frantically, doing anything he could to try and get a response from Sherlock, but nothing ever came. The ellipses didn't even appear again. John sat staring at the screen of his phone for hours, waiting to even just see those three dots again, but it never happened, and that was infuriating.
I know it's you, you don't have to keep hiding. Just come back and tell me what happened.
John sent another message, he desperately wanted to persuade his friend to come back, he couldn't go back to living the life he had lived before Mike Stamford introduced him to Sherlock, he would do anything to keep from going back to that. He kept staring at his mobile, but there was still no reply.
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John went on sending a text to Sherlock every day. Sherlock's funeral passed and John attended, along with all of the other people that were closest to him. At that point, John had been discouraged by the whole ordeal. He stood there in the cemetery, staring at the cold, black head stone that had Sherlock's name carved into it in gray letters.
“You...you told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times that I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human...human being that I have ever known, and no one will convince me that you told me a lie. And so...there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this...” John stammered out the whole speech to the grave stone, but it was more like a prayer. John had spent every day since Sherlock's fall trying to figure out how his best friend had flung himself off of a roof and survived, he couldn't let all that be in vain. He had been discouraged by the fact that he still hadn't heard anything from Sherlock, and that he was at Sherlock's funeral now. He wanted more than anything to be right about this, but it seemed more and more like it wasn't going to happen. John went back to his flat and made a cup of tea for himself, then sat in his chair and stared at the text message thread to Sherlock again. He had already sent his daily text to Sherlock.
This is getting ridiculous now. One word, Sherlock! Just one word! Just send me one word!
John's texts had begun to grow angrier in tone with every passing day that Sherlock didn't return a text to him. He's not dead. The voice was still there, even after a week of being without Sherlock, the voice that was telling John that Sherlock was alive was still eating at him. Gnawing a hole through his brain. He's not dead. Then, without warning, there it was again, the ellipses indicating a reply being typed by the other person in the thread. John's heart almost jumped out of his chest, this time he would get an answer, he could feel it. He stared at the screen in anticipation for at least five minutes before the ellipses disappeared again, and he still received no message. If this was a joke, John was not laughing. Sherlock had always had an odd sense of humor, but surely he would know that something like this would be crossing the line.
“Answer me!” John yelled at his mobile, shaking it angrily as he yelled abuse at the screen. “Just one word! Just send me one word, Sherlock!”
However, no matter how much abuse he yelled at his mobile, Sherlock would not send a reply text. John cursed and threw his mobile at the sofa that was against the wall to the right of the chairs. Why would Sherlock do something like this? Was it to let John know that he was alive without leaving a trace for anyone else to notice? That seemed like something Sherlock would do, but it would also make John look like he'd lost his mind if he ever told anyone else. Maybe that was the point, but didn't he know that something like this would hurt John more than it might help? Knowing that his best friend was out there somewhere in the world, probably in danger and in need of help, and knowing that he couldn't do anything about it. It was enough to drive John mad.
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It had been two years since Sherlock had fallen. Two years of John sending one text to Sherlock every day, letting him know that John still believed he was alive. Two years of John driving himself absolutely mad, sitting in the flat that he had shared with Sherlock, staring at the screen of his mobile and waiting for those three little dots to appear, but after the last time they had never appeared again. John had contemplated suicide several times throughout the two years that he waited for Sherlock to reply to him, but he always decided against it. He's not dead. That voice had grown so loud now that it drowned out any other thoughts that John might have been capable of having, even thoughts of suicide. He'd started going to drastic measures to try and get Sherlock's attention in other ways, and now he would do the most dangerous thing he had ever done, all to get Sherlock to come back.
The mission that John had set out for tonight was possibly the most important thing he had ever done. This was the number one thing that would bring Sherlock Holmes back to London, if this didn't work then John would accept that his best friend was actually dead.
John perked up as he heard the door open and saw the first person in a line of several others that would help him to get Sherlock back. Gregory Lestrade walked through the empty parking garage to get to his car after a long day of work. Everyone else at Scotland Yard had already gone home for the night, but Lestrade had been putting in extra hours lately, tonight he hadn't left until 1:00 in the morning. He was weary from his long hours and not paying attention to his surroundings, John knew that this would be the perfect time to strike. He'd been hiding behind a support beam that stood close to where Lestrade had parked his car, it would be easy to catch him unaware and incapacitate him with the chloroform he'd brought along. John pulled the bottle from his coat pocket with gloved hands and poured some onto a cloth, readying himself for his attack.
Lestrade pulled his car keys out of the pocket of his coat and unlocked the door, then John sprang into action. He walked quickly up behind Lestrade and pressed the cloth over his mouth and nose, holding tight so that Lestrade couldn't struggle out of his grasp. It only took a moment before the man went limp against him. He quickly put Lestrade in the back seat of the car and pulled the keys out of the door and put them in the ignition. John knew exactly where he would set up the crime scene, somewhere a lot of people would see it, come morning. He drove to the London Eye, the perfect place to set up his scene. Everyone would be sure to see the body, and Sherlock would surely be called in to investigate.
When he got there, John tied Lestrade's hands and feet together with rope, then he waited for Lestrade to wake up. It took a bit longer than John would have wanted, but Lestrade finally began to regain consciousness about half an hour after they had arrived. John had parked in a somewhat secluded area that was close enough to the London Eye to make transporting Lestrade's body there a fairly simple task. Lestrade was propped up against the side of his car, John stood a few feet away, staring at the waking man.
“Ugh,” Lestrade groaned, blinking furiously to focus his vision. “bloody hell, what happened? John, is that you?”
“Yep, good to see you, Greg.” John answered in an eerily cheery tone.
“What's going on?” Lestrade asked as he struggled to free himself from his binds, he still hadn't caught on to what was happening. Sherlock was always right about Scotland Yard being a bunch of imbeciles.
“You're gonna help me bring Sherlock Holmes back to London.” John let a small smirk spread across his face as he stepped closer to Lestrade.
“John, Sherlock is dead. Don't tell me that you've jumped on the conspiracy bandwagon, too. You saw him that day, you know what happened. You can't bring him back.”
“Surely you're smarter than that, Lestrade. He's still out there, somewhere. I've seen the evidence. I've texted him every day for the past two years, he's never sent me a message, but sometimes he starts to write one out. I know he's out there, and you're going to help me bring him back.”
“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked, he looked scared now, as he should be. John reached to the leather sheath he wore on his belt and pulled a sizable knife from it. A lone street light shone on the blade and Lestrade drew in a quick breath.
“The only way that Sherlock Holmes is going to come back here is if there's someone out there big and bad enough to get his attention. He needs a good mystery to lure him back to London, and that's exactly what I'm going to give him.” John explained. Lestrade's face went as white as a sheet, like he'd seen a ghost, his breathing quickened.
“What are you doing?” Lestrade asked, panic apparent in his tone.
“Well, I'm killing you, if that wasn't obvious. Sherlock needs a good mystery, but if that wasn't enough, I'm going to take out all the people that he cares about the most. Then when he's back here, we can go on helping London solve the crimes that no one else can solve, just like before. You're the first piece of the puzzle, Greg. I'm sorry, but there isn't another way.” John said with remorse as he knelt beside the panicking detective.
“You can't do this!” Lestrade said. “You won't accomplish anything, John! Sherlock is dead, you'll be doing this for nothing!”
“That's where you're wrong. I know he's alive, and this will bring him back.” John replied, pressing the blade of his knife to his victim's throat. Lestrade drew one last ragged breath before John slid the knife across his throat and watched as the life drained from his eyes.
Once the deed was done, John didn't waste any time getting Lestrade's body to the base of the London Eye. He tied the body up so that it looked as if it were standing and used the blood of his victim to scrawl a message on the pavement below. He stood back and admired the work he had done, then got a strange feeling.
John turned to see a black Jaguar sitting on the road, too far away for him to see what the driver looked like. The driver noticed that John was staring at him and sped off immediately. Of all the times for John to forget his gun at home, this was the worst. He paced around the scene for a moment before realizing what type of car the man had been in. A black Jaguar, the only type of car that Mycroft relied on. When Mycroft sent Anthea to retrieve John all those times before Sherlock had thrown himself from the roof she always appeared in a black Jaguar. When Sherlock and John ran into Mycroft after they'd solved A Study in Pink, Mycroft and Anthea had been standing beside a black Jaguar only a block away from the scene where John had shot the cabby. It had to be one of Mycroft's men, and by the looks of it, he had been following John for a while now. If that was the case, surely Mycroft wouldn't pull him off John's tail now. There would be another opportunity for John to take care of him, all he had to do was be patient.
John decided that he couldn't do anything more about the situation now, and went back to 221B to revel in what he had just accomplished. He let a smile spread across his face as he typed a message out to Sherlock.
Murder.
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Sherlock
Sherlock had been receiving text messages from John Watson for two years. One text message every day, and they had grown increasingly more desperate as time passed. Sherlock knew that faking his death would have a tremendous effect on the people in his life, but he had no idea what he would drive John Watson to become. Today's text message had been a bit more calm than the ones from the past, Sherlock thought it had seemed odd but decided to let it go. What could he do about it from America, anyway? So many times he had wanted to send a reply to John. He'd typed replies out twice before he even realized what he was doing, and he knew that was a mistake. He should have just let John think that he was dead, but he had to give him that glimmer of hope. Even the day that Sherlock jumped off of the roof he had placed clues for John carefully in the conversation they'd had over the phone. He assumed that John would be too grief stricken after the deed was done to pick up on any of it, but he had assumed wrong.
Sherlock had just begun to get used to his life in America. He hadn't tried to make any new friends, that wasn't what he was there for, after all. He was there to take out the rest of Moriarty's criminal network, the last person had hidden themselves in America to try and escape punishment for helping the consulting criminal. Little did he know, Sherlock Holmes was on the case. Sherlock had planned to go and finish his business with the network that night, but something much more important was about to come up. He received a text message at around 8:30 pm, that would make it 3:30 am in London, far too late for Mycroft or Molly to be awake, so who could be texting him now? Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and gaped at the name that appeared on the screen.
“Two texts today, John? You're really reaching now.” Sherlock said to himself as he opened the message.
Murder.
One word. Only one terrifying word was displayed on Sherlock's screen. Almost instantly, Sherlock's mobile started to ring. Mycroft was calling. Sherlock got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Mycroft.” Sherlock answered, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
“Sherlock, I think you'd better come home now. A...situation has developed.” Mycroft said solemnly.
“What's happened?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft didn't reply, but hung up the phone and sent a string of photos to Sherlock instead. The photos were of Lestrade, a friend and colleague of Sherlock's when he had worked with Scotland Yard back in London. He looked at every image carefully, Lestrade had been murdered and strung up on the London Eye, his throat had been slit and blood covered the front of his body, and on the pavement below him was a phrase that chilled Sherlock to his core. One word, Sherlock. Just one word.
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