FicWad

John

He hadn't expected Sherlock to still be in his flat when he got there, so he had to get what he needed and get out. He had opened the door and entered the building quietly, just in case there was an unwanted visitor lurking about. He'd heard a commotion upstairs while entering and knew that it had to be the consulting detective, he'd clearly come here to try and steal Mrs. Hudson away before anything bad could happen to her. Unfortunately for Sherlock, John had come just in time, before they could actually leave. John knocked quietly on the door to Mrs. Hudson's bedroom and she answered quickly.
“Oh, John! You'll never believe who's here! You'll be so happy!” Mrs. Hudson had started, and a bit too loudly for John's taste. He didn't have time to speak with her. He quickly pulled the syringe of Etorphine from his coat pocket and pulled the plastic cap off with his teeth, then injected it into Mrs. Hudson's neck. He caught her as she fell forward, she would be out for a few hours at least. He hadn't come entirely prepared for this situation, though, he didn't have any way to get Mrs. Hudson out of here without drawing attention to himself. He hadn't heard movement upstairs in a long time, it wouldn't be long now before Sherlock came to whisk Mrs. Hudson away and out of danger, and he would need to be gone before that happened. Suddenly he remembered the basement flat that Mrs. Hudson could never get anyone to rent. Moriarty had left a clue for Sherlock there before, but John doubted that he would think to check in there. He quickly checked the landlady's pockets for the keyring that she always carried on her person, it had the keys to every room in the building.
John drug Mrs. Hudson to the door of the basement flat and unlocked it hastily, dragging her inside and down the stairs. He laid her gingerly on the floor and went quietly up the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen to pen a quick note for Sherlock. Once he was done, he pinned the note up on the refrigerator and went back to the basement flat. Once he was safely inside, he slammed the door loudly enough so that Sherlock could hear it. It only took a moment for the sound of frantic footsteps to be heard clattering down the stairs and straight past the door that John was hiding behind. He quietly locked the door to the flat and sat himself on the top step, grinning to himself. He felt like a child playing hide and seek, he could barely contain himself.
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock's call was muffled through the door. More frantic footsteps could be heard going through each individual room in Mrs. Hudson's flat, but they never stopped at the door that John was behind. He knew Sherlock had found the note when he heard footsteps pass his door and trail off into the outside world. He looked down the stairs at Mrs. Hudson laying on the floor of the musty basement flat. He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, but he would fix that soon.
Once he was sure that Sherlock was gone, John struggled to drag Mrs. Hudson up the flights of stairs that would take them to the sitting room of 221B. Mrs. Hudson would still be out for another hour, which gave John the perfect amount of time to set up the perfect scene for his best friend. There would be no way that Sherlock could refuse coming back after this. He brought a chair in from the kitchen and sat it right in front of the door that everyone always used when entering the flat, ensuring that his victim would be the first thing Sherlock saw when he entered. He picked up Mrs. Hudson again and placed her in the chair, propping her up so that she sat upright, then bound her there with a rope that he had picked up on his way back to Baker Street from the coffee shop. That would keep her in place. He stood back to take in the scene that he was setting up, Mrs. Hudson's head hung down, much like it would after she was dead. He took a step back into the doorway and made a frame with his fingers, trying to visualize what he was now referring to as his 'works of art', he smiled to himself as he thought of what it would look like once it was finished.
Since he had a few moments before he needed to finish his plan, John decided to have a look around the flat to see exactly what Sherlock had taken. He started in Sherlock's room, which was an utter mess. Everything had been pulled out of every drawer in the room. The mattress was flipped over, the wardrobe left open, both of the drawers of the bedside tables were strewn across the room and the drawers flung to different corners. Sherlock had really been searching for something in here. Whatever it was, John hoped he had found it. He walked back out to the sitting room and noticed that Sherlock's violin had vanished from it's place by the hearth, he should have guessed that much. It was shocking to John that Sherlock had even gone as long as he had without it, of course that would be one of the first things he took. Not noticing anything else missing from there, John made his way to his bedroom. The first thing he saw were the pictures on his bed, but one was missing, the one of Molly Hooper. That made him a bit angry. Those pictures had been his trophies, his way of remembering what he'd done and the way it had made him feel. He felt anger rise in the pit of his stomach for a moment, but decided that, if all of this brought Sherlock back, it was worth it. He picked up the pictures and placed them back in the wardrobe where they had hung before, and after inspecting the rest of his belongings, noticed that nothing else was missing.
For a moment, John wondered what Sherlock's face would look like when he walked in to see the woman that had, for all intents and purposes, been his mother at different points in his life dead in their sitting room. He didn't like thinking of that, for some reason. Probably because he knew that it wouldn't be pleasant for Sherlock, but what Sherlock had done hadn't been pleasant for John. He needed to make Sherlock see that the pain that they'd caused each other had only made their friendship stronger. That would bring him back.
“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson's frightened voice wondered up the stairs and into John's bedroom. A smirk spread across his face as he turned to walk down to the sitting room.
“He's not here, Mrs. Hudson.” John replied as he appeared in the doorway before her. She was struggling to free herself from her binds, but it was no use. She looked at John with a confused expression.
“What's going on? John, who's done this?” She asked in a frightened tone. “Please let me out, we have to tell Sherlock.”
“Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll tell him.”
“Oh thank goodness. Let me free so we can leave before whoever did this comes back.”
“That's something I can't do, I'm afraid.” John replied, walking slowly into the room and around behind Mrs. Hudson.
“What do you mean?” She asked, craning her head so that she could look at John again.
“You're the final piece of the puzzle, Mrs. Hudson. All this time I've been creating a puzzle for Sherlock, something that would be worthy of his attention, something that would bring him back to London. First it was Lestrade, then that pest that Mycroft sent after me, then Molly Hooper, and now you. You're the piece that will make Sherlock realize that leaving London, and everyone he cared about, was stupid. Because when you leave something so precious behind without a second thought, you lose it.” John's voice was low and methodical. Every word he said seemed to drip with malice, and with every word Mrs. Hudson understood more clearly what was about to happen. Her pleads for freedom had turned into slow sobs now as she realized that she was going to die at the hand of John Watson.
“Why John?” Mrs. Hudson asked through her sobs, John could see her whole body trembling with fear.
“I just told you why.” John replied, irritated.
“Why did you turn into such a monster?”
“Because that's what happens when you lose everything you ever cared about!” John yelled. Mrs. Hudson jumped at the intensity of his words and he could only barely hear her frightened sobs over the pulsing anger that had taken over his thoughts. John walked around in front of the sobbing woman. Her arms had been bound at the forearm tightly and positioned in front of her. John plucked the large knife that he had used on Lestrade from it's sheath and seized Mrs. Hudson's arms, pulling them forward. Without a word he slashed both of her wrists deeply, she let out a small sob as he did so. John made several more cuts of the same manner up the elderly woman's arms before stopping to wipe his blade on her trousers. He pulled out his mobile and dialed Sherlock's number, but hesitated before he pressed the 'call' button. He looked at Mrs. Hudson as she sobbed in her chair, then used the blade of his knife to tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at him.
“When I call Sherlock you're going to tell him to come here at once. Tell him 'Baker Street, come at once if convenient'. It's only a bit before I told him to show up in my note, but it'll make for a better show this way. By the time he gets here, I'm afraid it'll be too late for you, but at least your death will make more of an impact on him.” John instructed. Mrs. Hudson only nodded ever so slightly and John pressed the call button, then put the call on speaker. It only rang twice before Sherlock answered.
“John.” He answered in a cool voice.
“Sherlock...” Mrs. Hudson had choked out her reply through tears. The line was silent for a moment before he spoke again.
“Where are you?”
“Baker Street,” she replied in an almost whisper, ringing with grief, “come at once, if convenient.”
“Are you with John?” Sherlock asked frantically, recognizing the words as Mrs. Hudson spoke them. The landlady was racked with sobs again and John hadn't the patience for this any longer. He took his mobile off of speaker and pressed it to his ear.
“If inconvenient, come anyway.” He said into the phone. Sherlock began to reply, but John ended the call before he could hear anything.
“I hope he catches you.” Mrs. Hudson said weakly as John tucked his mobile away and strode for the door. He turned back and smiled at the woman.
“I hope he does, too.”

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Sherlock

“If inconvenient, come anyway.” John's voice rang over Sherlock's mobile and shook him to his core. He had never heard John's voice so thick with malice, he didn't even think John capable of malice, but he had been proven wrong. No matter what I do, I can't save anyone. Sherlock thought to himself as he tapped the 'end call' button on his screen and looked absently toward his brother. He had gone to the Diogenes Club to gather his thoughts and, as much as he hated to admit it, employ Mycroft's help. He hadn't wanted to get the government involved in this, he still had some hope, however quickly fading it may have been, that he could save John and restore him to normal. It was now clear to him that he had been a fool for thinking that in the first place. John was going to complete his plan no matter what.
“What is it, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked with a concerned tone. Sherlock couldn't recall the last time he'd heard something like that in his brother's voice, but now wasn't the time to ponder that.
“We need to get to Baker Street, now! Mrs. Hudson is dying.” Sherlock replied, donning his belstaff and scarf and fleeing out the door before Mycroft could even push himself to his feet from the chair behind his desk. Sherlock didn't have time to wait, every moment he spent here was another moment that he could be spending saving Mrs. Hudson. The Diogenes Club was a painful fifteen minute drive from Baker Street via cab, so Sherlock confiscated one of Mycroft's many black Jaguars and sped to his destination. He made it in seven minutes flat, and had angered several other drivers in the process. Once he arrived he didn't even take the time to turn the car off, he simply jumped out of the driver's seat, leaving the door to the car wide open, and dashed into the building where he knew he would find Mrs. Hudson. He didn't bother checking her flat, he knew exactly where she would be. He climbed the stairs faster than he ever had before and saw her before he even reached the landing. He rushed in the door and fell to his knees in front of her. Blood was running from several deep cuts on her arms, down her legs and pooling on the floor beneath her. She lifted her head wearily when she heard him enter, clearly weak from the amount of blood she'd lost.
“What has he done to you?” Sherlock asked, pain evident in his voice as he reached up to cradle the elderly woman's face in his hands. Her cheeks were stained with tears that still flowed freely down her face, but a look of relief washed over her when she looked at him.
“It's John.” Mrs. Hudson croaked weakly.
“I know.” Sherlock answered. “I'll call an ambulance. You'll be fine, don't worry.”
“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson reached her bound hands up to her face and took Sherlock's hand in hers, “it's too late. They're not going to save me. Don't waste your time on an old woman like me. Go and catch him, before he can do this to someone else.”
“I'm not giving up!” Sherlock said firmly, he didn't know what to think. He could feel her pulse, it was so weak, he knew in the back of his mind that nothing could be done. She'd lost so much blood, he'd be surprised if he could even finish the phone call before she passed on, but every one of his instincts were screaming at him to save her. To do whatever he could to make this better. He was irrational. Caring is not an advantage. Sherlock heard Mycroft's voice in the back of his head. Perhaps his brother had been right about that.
“Then don't give up,” Mrs. Hudson struggled, her breathing had slowed and it was beginning to get harder for her to speak. She squeezed Sherlock's hand, “go and catch him and bring him to justice for what he's done. Don't let him get away with it.”
Sherlock fought to hold back the tears welling, stinging and threatening to fall as he watched the woman he had considered to be a mother fade out of existence before his eyes. He only watched and held onto her hand as her breathing got slower and slower and then stopped. Sherlock checked her pulse, just to be sure that it was real, when he felt nothing he untied her and laid her on the sofa before calling Scotland Yard to inform them of another murder. They'd had questions for him, but he hung up and left them begging for an answer. He had much more important things to attend to now. Sherlock dialed John's number and paced the floor as he waited for an answer.
“Sherlock.” John's voice sounded bright and cheerful, which did not help Sherlock's darkened mood in the least. “How are you?”
“How am I?” Sherlock's voice was almost as dripping with malice as John's had been at the end of the call he'd forced Mrs. Hudson to make while she was dying. “I don't think that's the best question to ask me right now.”
“What's wrong?” John sounded genuinely confused. “I thought you'd be happy to speak with me.”
“Happy? After what you've just done? John, you've killed every one of my friends. You've killed them all in horrible, painful ways. You even killed an innocent man that was only placed there to ensure Mycroft that you were doing well after my death. You killed everyone in cold blood, and for what? To bring me back to London? Well, congratulations, here I am! Too bad I won't be coming to visit you in prison!” Sherlock couldn't remember ever being so angry with someone in his entire life.
“What do you mean?” John asked, hurt in his voice. “I thought you'd be happy to be back. I thought that you'd be happy that I made such an elaborate puzzle for you to solve. I only did it so that we could go back to normal, solving crimes together and living at 221B.”
“If you honestly think that I would ever even think of doing any of that with you again after what you've done, you belong in an asylum. How could you think that killing everyone that I care about could possibly make me want to spend time with you? Right now, I want nothing more than to strangle you with my bare hands, but I won't do that, because that would be too easy for you. I want you alive, I want you to go to prison, and I want you to suffer for the rest of your life knowing what you've done to these innocent people. But, most of all, if you've done this to bring me back, I want you alive so that you can go on living knowing that I truly loathe you for what you've done. I will never forgive this, John Watson, not for as long as I live.”
“Do you really feel that way?” John asked slowly and quietly, every ounce of happiness that had been in his voice had been struck out by the anger that Sherlock had shown him.
“Yes. I truly do.” Sherlock answered.
“Well then, do me this last kindness and come to Bart's. If I'm going to prison, I'd at least like to see my best friend one last time.”
“You don't have the privilege of referring to me as your 'best friend' any longer, but if that's what you want, I'll meet you there.” Sherlock said, then took a deep breath. “When I received that first one word message from you, I was determined that I could come here and stop whatever you were doing. I wanted nothing more than to save you so that we could do exactly what you apparently set out to get back. I couldn't let myself believe that you were a monster, but you proved me wrong today.”
“Sher...” John started, but Sherlock hung up and shoved his mobile into the pocket of his coat and with one last look at Mrs. Hudson, strode out the door to 221B Baker Street for the last time.

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Sherlock had only been a bit surprised to see that the car he'd brought to Baker Street was still sitting in the spot he had left it in. The door was still wide open and then engine was still running, but that only made it easier, and faster, for him to get in and make his way to Bart's. He wasn't sure how much time had actually passed on his way, but it felt like the blink of an eye to him. He parked somewhere he was sure he wasn't supposed to park in front of the hospital and made his way toward the entrance. Just as he'd started to pass the small building that stood in front of the hospital, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. It was John. He debated for a moment whether he should answer or not, but he did so anyway and kept walking toward the entrance.
“I'm here, where are you?” Sherlock asked in an irritated tone.
“Stop where you are.” John spoke clearly and calmly and Sherlock obeyed his command.
“Where are you?” Sherlock asked again.
“Go back to where you parked your car.”
“Just tell me where...”
“GO BACK!” John yelled and Sherlock, again, did as he was told.
“Fine, now tell me where you are.” Sherlock said again, growing more and more impatient.
“Look up.”
“What?”
“Look. Up.” John repeated. Sherlock craned his neck up to see John standing on the roof of Bart's in the very same place he had stood when he jumped from the roof two years ago.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, and as much as he didn't want to, he felt scared.
“This is funny isn't it? It's funny how much things can change. Some people might call this irony.” John said, his voice was flat, calm, like he had accepted everything that was about to happen.
“John...”
“It's my turn to talk now.” John cut Sherlock off before he could plead with him to stop whatever he was planning. “For two years I knew you were alive, out there somewhere. I tried to think of everything I could do or say to get you to come back here. My life was meaningless until I met you. I didn't know what to do with myself after I got back to London. I lead a stupidly dull existence in a one room flat by myself, and then I met you, and we had so many adventures. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to have all that ripped away, but know that you were still alive?”
“I feel like I might have some idea.” Sherlock said sadly, gazing up at John's silhouette against the gray sky.
“Well, you're wrong. Because while you were off doing whatever you were doing, having adventures and solving crimes, I was stuck here. I was plucked out of my exciting life and thrust back into the overwhelming dullness of my former existence, and you didn't even care.”
“If you think for a second that leaving everyone I cared for here, letting everyone think I was dead, didn't have any kind of effect on me, then you don't know the first thing about me. So many times I wanted to tell you that I was alive, but you were in danger, everyone was! You and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty threatened to kill you all if I didn't jump off of that roof. I only did it to save you, and look what it got me! Everyone I cared about still ended up dead, and the only person left has turned into a monster!”
“Well,” John laughed sadly into the phone, “I guess that will make this next bit that much easier for you to deal with.”
“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, watching John's silhouette adamantly. John didn't make a reply. He simply threw his mobile onto the roof behind him and let himself fall over the edge. In that moment, Sherlock realized what it must have been like for John on that day. He watched John, limbs flailing as he plummeted toward the ground. Sherlock didn't remember it taking this long when he had fallen from the same building. It seemed like time had slowed itself to a crawl as he watched the person who was once his best friend fall and make contact with the pavement below with a sickening thud. Sherlock couldn't see the impact, but for some reason he got the feeling that John hadn't pulled off the same stunt he had. He heard a woman scream as he began to move toward the scene. He hadn't started out running, but before he rounded the small building in front of the hospital he had broken into a full sprint, pushing past bystanders to make his way to where John lay on the pavement.
Every horrible emotion that Sherlock could think of ran through his head at the same time. Sadness, anger, resentment, pain. They all flooded him all at once as he fell to his knees by the body of his best friend. He had driven his friend to this by doing the very same thing that John had just done, only with a less permanent ending. Sherlock knew that the things he'd said to John over the phone while he was still at 221B were what caused him to make this decision, and even though John had done horrible things since Sherlock returned to London, he couldn't help but be sad at the loss of his best friend. He found himself doing the very same thing John had done when he ran to Sherlock after his fall. He checked for a pulse, but there was nothing. Just to appease his curiosity, he checked under his arm for a squash ball, that had been how Sherlock had cut off his own pulse to convince John that he was dead, there was nothing there. John's gray eyes stared unblinking up at the sky, his hair was matted down with the blood from the wound on his head caused by his impact.
At that moment, while Sherlock watched hospital employees carrying his former best friend away, he couldn't help but blame himself. He had never felt this level of sadness, knowing that everyone he had ever cared about was dead, and all he would have had to do to avoid it was send just one word.