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Language:
English
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Published:
2012-02-21
Updated:
2012-08-02
Words:
4,000
Chapters:
5/?
Comments:
54
Kudos:
104
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Hell Will Melt Like Snow.

Chapter 2: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Six months have passed since John walked out of the theatre. He’s seen Lestrade a few times since the phone call, in the pub and the odd time where Lestrade has called John in on a case. John doesn’t like helping out on cases; it doesn’t feel right without Sherlock, and so he tries to do as few as he feels he can get away with without his conscience nagging him.

Lestrade has never mentioned the phone call to John. They don’t talk about Sherlock or how they are coping. It’s too painful, and they’re blokes. They don’t talk about their feelings.

Only this morning is different. John walks into Lestrade’s office and straight away notices the DVD lying partially hidden by paperwork. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. John pushes some of the paperwork out of the way and picks up the DVD. The image is of Benedict Cumberbatch wearing a serious expression on his face. His eyes are breathtaking; a vivid blue, and John drops the DVD where it falls with a thud to the desk. It’s Sherlock with straightened, blonde hair. There’s no two ways about it.

 

Lestrade chooses this moment to enter his office, and sees John staring at the DVD with an unreadable expression on his face.

“John? You alright?”

John takes deep, measured breaths.

“Greg, you can’t deny that that’s Sherlock.”

Lestrade sits down heavily in his chair and sighs.

“I thought we’d moved past this. Look, I know they look similar, but that’s not Sherlock.”

John purses his lips and stares up and the ceiling.

“Look at his expression. That’s the most Sherlockian expression I’ve ever seen. Look at his eyes. His fucking cheekbones. Bloody hell, Greg.”

John’s leg starts to throb and he kneads his thigh.

“Listen, mate, I checked him out. Everything seems legit; he’s got a national insurance number and his car is licenced to him and if you take a look online you’ll see he’s been in a few other stage shows.”

“Yes, but isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that he appeared in his first show after Sherlock died? That no-one had ever heard of him before that?”

Lestrade is looking at John in a way that makes John want to scream. He can see pity in his eyes.

“He did a drama degree at Manchester. It checks out- I found his transcript. I’m sorry.”

John growls with frustration.

“And you don’t think that Sherlock would be able to fake that? His brother practically runs the country; Mycroft’d be able to fake all those details in an instant!”

Lestrade crosses his arms and John knows the discussion is over.

“John, do you think perhaps you should make an appointment with that therapist of yours?”

John glares at Lestrade for a moment before turning on his heel and walking out of Scotland Yard.

~*~*~

Safely locked inside 221b, John powers up his computer and searches for footage of Benedict. He stumbles across a video taken at the premiere of the spy film and he watches it five times in a row.

A tear escapes John’s eye, rolls down his cheek and drips from his chin. John knows that it’s Sherlock; he knows it with every fibre of his being. He’s happy that Sherlock’s alive, but it is eclipsed by his anger that Sherlock’s done this to him. Sherlock’s gone and left him behind, doesn’t care that John can’t sleep because every time he closes his eyes he sees Sherlock fall from the roof all over again. John shakes with anger, clenching and unclenching his fists. They had the beginning of something, the two of them. Sherlock’s gone and fucking thrown it away, and for what? Being an actor?

John closes his laptop. He can’t bear to see any more of Sherlock’s new, glittering life. His new life without John. He wipes his eyes angrily with the cuff of his worn jumper and settles on the sofa, flicking on the television. It’s early evening and there isn’t much on so John finds himself channel hopping. He stops on BBC2 and lets out a sob, his chest heaving and his eyes blurry with tears.

This isn’t fucking funny, he thinks. I can’t do this. John turns the TV off, unplugs it from the wall and shoves it inside one of the kitchen cupboards.

Ha. No more surprises.

 

 

Notes:

Gif used with kind permission from deareje.tumblr.com

If you have any things you'd like me to try to include then leave me a comment!

My continued thanks to Grassle who most definitely does not feed me porn.