Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Just one more thing, one more miracle for me, Sherlock.  Don’t.  Be.  Dead.

These words along with the memory of John’s quiet breaths echoed in Sherlock’s mind at least five times a day.  He knew that John would never believe that he was a fraud.  That’s practically why he told him so.  Any other person would have gulped down the story like bitter medicine, shivering with its lies while believing it was the truth.  But not John Watson.  No matter how ordinary or simple, John proved to be unique and put his beliefs and observations ahead of anything he could be told.

Why would he do that?  Most would think it was because he was more intelligent than he appeared.  In Sherlock’s opinion, however, it had to have been his issues with trusting people.  Even so, for the two years they had spent together in 221B Baker Street, John trusted no one more than he trusted Sherlock.  A man who lied to him constantly, and he took his word as gospel since day one.  No one, not even Sherlock, could convince John that the detective had been fooling the world.  To be honest with himself, it had been foolish of him to even try to convince John at all when he lived with the man and displayed his impressive knowledge through pulling deductions clear out of thin air nearly every time he spoke.

While his mind was supposed to be focused on the capture of all those connected to Moriarty’s criminal system, Sherlock found himself wasting hours of precious time contemplating John and his return to London.  Would he still be in 221B?  Would John even be in London at all?  It was possible, since someone in his position might feel the urge to get away from any memories as much as possible.  Even the happy ones become sad when a person dies.

Molly was supposed to be keeping Sherlock updated but he hadn’t received any information from her in over a month.  Unable to send an inquiry to her for risk of being discovered, he resolved to wait patiently for the mortician to contact him.

Though his patience was wearing thin and was beginning to be replaced with unease.  Molly was a very emotional and thoughtful person; if something had gone wrong, it would be very likely that she would not send word of it in order not to hurt Sherlock.  How frustrating.  If something had gone wrong, he would be forced to secretly return to London early; probably only having the time to drop by to reassure John of his survival and returning to the criminal hunt straight away.  That could possibly work.  If only Molly would contact him.

Would you do that?  Just for me; just stop.  Stop this.

No doubt John would have to return to his therapist.  Without the danger or the trills of Sherlock’s lifestyle, John would be reduced to another form of ex-veteran.  His hands would begin to shake again along with that horrid psychosomatic limp that he hated with every bone in his body.  John would become the man he was before meeting Sherlock.

No, he thought.  Not quite the same.  All the symptoms would return but John would be forever changed from the loss.  No one could expect him to revert back to his old self completely.  He would have memories to look back on; ones of another lost comrade in the war against Moriarty. 

Sherlock wondered if John would think Moriarty had won.  It was a possibility but he would probably consider his own survival to be a small victory in itself.  But Sherlock knew better.  Deep down, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, Sherlock knew Moriarty had won.  No matter how he achieved it, his goal was to separate the detective from his doctor.  To “burn out his heart” as the consulting criminal so mildly put it.  This would, in turn, leave him more vulnerable in any aspect.  Attachments were such a disadvantage, which is why Sherlock did all he could to not create them with anyone.  But there were always things that one could not avoid.

The constant trains of thought running off the rails of Moriarty’s criminal web and onto the tracks of the current state of John Watson, Sherlock realized that today would be yet another wasted day and flipped on the telly to view news in London.  The anchorwoman stood in front of what looked to be a block of flats, “Another man was found dead in his flat this morning.  The police claim it was suicide, making this the forty-third self-inflicted death this month.  Currently, the investigation into why the rise in suicides has escalated over the past two years is still under way but doesn’t look to be making any progress.  Detective Inspector Donovan has this to say on the subject:”

The screen cut to a clip of Sally Donovan at a press conference earlier that morning, “Obviously there is some kind of connection to the escalating amount of suicides happening in the area around Regent’s Park in London.  There are some similarities, but not enough to prove that there is a clear link.  None of the victims appear to have any reason to injure themselves prior to their deaths and all of them occur around Regent’s Park.  However, not all of the suicides are performed in the same manner and none of the victims seem to be connected in any way.”

Shortly after Sherlock’s fall from St. Bartholomew’s roof top, Inspector Greg Lestrade was relieved of duty for showing classified information to an unauthorized citizen.  Very few other officers were charged since Lestrade had not only suggested Sherlock assist them but also because the ones that had came forward on their own.  Lestrade was no rat, unlike Donovan or Anderson, and had more hope for his colleagues.  The last Molly had spoken of the former inspector, he had moved to Scotland to find work outside of England.  Sherlock assumed it was also to get away from all the buzz about the crimes Sherlock helped solve and questions prying if or if not any of the criminals put away were actually guilty.

The anchorwoman reappeared on the screen.  “Many are wondering if these suicides are in any way connected to the serial murders from nearly four years ago.  The culprit was said to be discovered by the impersonating genius, Sherlock Holmes, who—coincidentally—met his end over two years ago by throwing himself off of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital—“

Sherlock clicked off the broadcast with a scowl.  Impersonating genius.  It just showed how truly ignorant and gullible the world was.  Except for John Watson, of course.  Though, it was more than unsettling that Regent’s Park was a two minute walk from 221B.

The detective tried to relax his mind as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it; inhaling deeply and exhaling with a relieved sigh.  Among other things, Mycroft had supplied Sherlock with an overabundance of money to keep him going while he continued his search.  Sherlock didn’t want to accept the help but was not ignorant to the fact that he needed it.  In his unsurprising immaturity, the younger Holmes used much of the money to keep a supply of cigarettes at hand.  As he took another drag, he pictured John grabbing the fag from his mouth and stamping it out in the rubbish-bin before ripping the entire carton in half.  The thought caused Sherlock to smile sadly.  It won’t be long now.  When I am finished, I will return.  Hold on, John.  Would you do that?  Just for me...

Chapter Text

As usual, Sam and Dean Winchester were getting ready to go on a hunt for a mythical creature terrorizing ordinary citizens.  They had been sent coordinates from their father again and were hoping—however unlikely it was—that they would be lead to him through the job.  Well, Sam was.  Dean was beyond hoping for things.

While researching the area, Dean spotted a strange article referring to the large rise in suicides happening in London.  Even though London was practically on the other side of the world, something about the case seemed more important than what they had been told to do.  “Hey, Sam!” he called.

Sam entered the bedroom from the back and glanced at the computer screen.  “Did you find anything about those coordinates?”

“No,” Dean replied.  “But check out this article; looks like something’s up in London.”

Suicide rates in London have gone up an extraordinary 85% over the past two years.  Last night, London resident Eric Rodrick was found dead in his flat.  The cause of death was blood loss from multiple self-inflicted lacerations on the victim’s wrists.  This makes for the forty-third suicide this month—an astounding, record-breaking amount.

Sam didn’t bother to read the rest before standing straight up again, “Why are you looking at this?”

“Sam,” Dean insisted, “Don’t you think this is even a little weird?  Forty-three suicides in one month.  Come on, man, there’s no way something’s not going on over there.”

Switching his weight over to the other foot, Sam crossed his arms.  “So what are we supposed to do?  Ditch the job Dad sent us to go to London?”

“I think Dad would want us to take this.”

“But we have to find Dad, Dean.  We can’t just ignore this!  He sent us work, so we have to do it.”

Dean looked at his brother challengingly and then continued to do research on the London suicides to look for any connections or anything else that seemed to be fishy.  “Fine, you take the Impala and look for Dad.  I’m going to London.”

With a half irritated laugh, Sam argued, “You’re not going to London, Dean.”

He looked up from the screen and snapped, “Watch me.”  After a minute of no movement from Sam, Dean added, “I told you to take the Impala.  You think I’d joke about that car?  Take it and go.  If you find Dad without me, he’ll understand.”

One thing Sam couldn’t stand about his brother was his stubbornness.  Sure, it was a relatively good trait, but it bothered him when Dean used it against him.  Dean wanted to find their dad more than anyone—possibly more than Sam—which made this proposal even more insane than it already sounded with insisting Sam take the Impala.  The car was sacred; Dean practically worshipped it.  The choice had been rash but was probably more difficult than Sam realized.

Sighing, Sam sat down on the motel bed next to Dean.  “Fine,” he said finally.  “We’ll go to London.”

Dean looked up, almost surprised, “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Chapter Text

While Sherlock tried to focus on his investigation, John was doing his best to relax in 221B.  Sometimes he was surprised to still be there, but he just couldn’t bring himself to leave; as if Sherlock’s spirit still lingered in his belongings.  Shooting in and out of the bullet holes in the wall; surfing through the many piles of paperwork and files of past cases; plucking at the strings of his violin that stood collecting dust in the corner, more than likely out of tune by now; or even sleeping behind the eye sockets of the friendly skull on the mantle.

John had barely touched anything.  He still hadn’t sat in Sherlock’s chair, which had long lost the—what seemed to be permanent—indentation of the detective’s toes in the cushion.  His addiction to his friend’s presence even went so far as to John spending more nights in Sherlock’s bed than his own.  Not in a sexually or perverted way, but more as a loving possessiveness; as if he were trying to fill his very bones with Sherlock’s life.  But the flat still seemed so empty and dark without the detective

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John attempted to block out all thoughts of Sherlock Holmes.  While John needed to let out some built up pressure in his chest, he had refused to see Ella again after his last visit.  After meeting Sherlock, John stopped going to Ella for help.  But after what happened at the pool with being kidnapped and almost blown to bits, John felt he needed a few more sessions to calm his nerves and worries.  Eighteen months later, he found himself back in her office for another session.  But this time, she had him explain the whole story behind Sherlock’s death—perhaps to relieve stress and bring closure to the subject or perhaps to ease her own curiosity.  Either way, letting the words out only left the memories looming in the air, surrounding the doctor’s head like a cloud of frustration and anguish.  It didn’t help when he switched on the telly only to come across the same broadcast Sherlock was watching, completely unknown to the world on the other side of the UK.

At the mentioning of Sherlock’s death, John turned off the station and nearly threw the remote at the bloody machine.  Trying to ignore the comparison to Sherlock, he focused on the unusual number of suicides.  Numbers had started to climb only months after Sherlock’s death which lead John to incorrectly deduce that people were copying his actions like a fashion trend; similar to that of the infamous ‘deerstalker’ being a symbol of the detective’s former victories.

“Selfish bastards,” he hissed aloud to the air.  Didn’t they know the impact they were having on their friends and families?  Over two years of death and mourning for no reason other than to either mock or commemorate a lost hero.

No matter what Sherlock said, John knew he was a hero.  Maybe not for other people, but he was for him.  Sherlock had pulled John away from a life of dull disappointment and gave him the happiest years of the doctor’s existence.  Though that happiness was short-lived and was now replaced by an unbearable heartache, he would never trade a single moment of it away for something less painful.

If anything, John felt he deserved the pain.

Chapter Text

The same night that Sam and Dean agreed to go to London, they had managed to worm their way onto a plane and landed in London late on April 23^rd.  After a day of catching up on their jet lag, the brothers began their search for suspicious activity.  The last forty-three suicides all occurred in the area surrounding Regent’s Park so they decided to begin there.

They had gone to the park in search of any suspicious activity every day and interviewed random civilians if they had seen or heard anything strange.  Mostly they just got strange looks for an answer, but they assumed that just meant ‘No’.  Though on the 29^th, Dean looked at a nearby bench and noticed a man rocking bath and forth, covering his ears and mumbling something, and pointed him out to Sam.  Thinking that this might lead them closer to some answers, they approached the man.

“Hey, you okay?” Dean nudged the man’s arm lightly with his elbow.

The man looked up with blood shot eyes, shaking and obviously sleep deprived.  In a soft voice, he asked, “What did you say?  I can’t hear you.”  As he spoke, tears swelled in his eyes and his voice cracked.

Giving Sam a worried glance, Dean stood up saying, “Just keep it together, you’re going to be fine.”  He was practically yelling.

Cringing, the man tried to speak but only groans filled the air.  After a moment, he shook his head.  “I can’t,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry.”  Before the two brothers could react, the trembling man pulled a gun out of his coat pocket and shot himself in the head.  As the bullet shot through his brain, a figure appeared nearby and shrank behind some nearby bushes.

Sam jumped back with a yell and pulled Dean’s arm with him.  Other bystanders screamed at the noise and the faint sound of police sirens filled the air.  Swearing as he started to stumble away, Dean beckoned Sam to follow.  “Okay, you know something,” Sam stated.  “What just happened?”

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and stopped walking to turn towards his brother.  “Hand over Dad’s journal.”  Without question, Sam complied.  Dean flipped through it and stopped at a page with what looked like a more human version of Big Foot and nearly illegible writing scrawled all over the page.  Squinting to read it right, Dean finally said, “Here.  A Satori.”

Looking at the page, Sam asked, “Okay, so what is it?  I can barely read this.”

“Japanese folklore,” Dean answered.  “Supposedly lives between two mountain ranges in Japan.  It’s said to be able to read your thoughts to you and an inhuman speed until you go insane.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, “So, what’s it doing in London?”

“I don’t know.  But we have to figure out how to get rid of it before it kills someone else.  I saw it go in that direction,” he pointed down the street, “so we can start there.”

“Fine,” Sam agreed.  “Let’s follow it.”

Chapter Text

Though it was nearing noon, John still lied in bed, not feeling able to bring himself to pull away from the comforting smells and textures of Sherlock’s sheets.  It reminded him of when they went to Buckingham Palace because of Irene Adler’s scandal.  Giggling at the memory of Sherlock sitting in such a posh room in only a sheet, John smiled contently to himself and turned over with a sigh of relief.  Contrary to popular belief, John wasn’t exactly haunted by Sherlock’s absence for the most part.  He missed the homely feeling Sherlock’s presence gave the flat and despised its current emptiness.  He longingly looked at Sherlock’s belongings and even slept in his room as he was doing now.  But he was still able to think back on memories of happy days and smile in the fact that it all happened.

There could have never been a Sherlock Holmes.  221B Baker Street could have been completely non-existent in the world.  John’s blog full of cases and mysteries could be nothing but a blank screen on the internet.  But it wasn’t.  The world of the past still existed in John’s mind, the minds of all who knew Sherlock, and lines of computer code that would never fade away that John still went back through and read over again on occasion.

Of course, the despair still hung around John like a shadow, but over the years it turned to a dull, numbing pain.  One that was hard to shake but also could be cured by fits of laugher echoing in the flat at the insane things Sherlock used to do.  It was all comfort.  Something Ella had known nothing about.  She would rather John just talk about everything that happened and then try to push away thoughts of Sherlock.  Thinking about it will only hurt you.  You can’t forget; I don’t expect that of you.  But you need to let go.  Her words caused another chuckle to escape his lips.  “Ella,” he said aloud, “You know nothing of proper therapy treatment.”

Suddenly, he heard a loud crash coming from the kitchen.  The sound caused him to jump, sitting up a little and he wondered if he was just day-dreaming.  It wasn’t until he heard another crash that he climbed out of bed and cautiously peaked around the door.  A chill ran through his body as he pictured seeing Sherlock standing in the hallway, somehow miraculously returned from the grave.  But what he saw instead caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up on end.

A creature—one that should only exist in movies or legends—stood ten feet away from him.  Before John could do so much as to yell, it spoke in a voice exactly like his own:

What is that thing?  How is it doing that?  What’s going on!  Dear God, am I still dreaming?

The ramblings went on and on at a speed much faster than any human could talk in.  The very sound of it nearly drove John mad.  From what used to be a calm and confused tone of voice, the creature changed to one more erratic:

Stop it!  Stop it, now!

And yet it continued to speak every other thought, as well.  Every thought that entered his mind was repeated back to him in his own voice.

After a minute or two John started to laugh as it said:

I wonder what would happen if this thing met Sherlock...

and then proceeded to act out the scenario in Sherlock’s voice, playing in John’s mind.  Unfortunately, the prolonged use of such a sound faded John’s smile as the ache in his chest grew stronger.  It was odd.  He could think and imagine Sherlock perfectly fine, but hearing his voice and knowing it would never leave Sherlock’s own lips again was a painful thought.  Spots started to form in his eyes as he limped over to the sofa to sit down.  It was as if the creature’s constant repetition of John’s thoughts was sending the man backwards in his recovery.

How could I have been so stupid?  Not even Moriarty is more to blame for this than I am.  I should have realized when Sherlock didn’t jump [there was a pause of John cursing himself for his choice of words] to help Mrs. Hudson that something was wrong.  I even said as I left, “Friends protect people.”  Why didn’t I stay?  I could have saved him.  But I didn’t.

The guilty words kept flowing from the mouth of the creature until tears started to form in John’s eyes.

Sherlock, I am so sorry.  It’s all my fault.  If I could have one wish in this miserable world, I would take it all back.  Everything I said to you that day and I would stay with you.  I’ve never had a greater regret in my life.

A knock on the door disrupted the line of thought, turning it into:

Oh for god’s sake, I don’t want to see anyone right now...

John wiped his eyes as he rose to answer.  The door opened to reveal two young men, looking to be in their late 20s or early 30s.

Quite handsome, too.

The doctor turned around and hissed, “Shut up!” before apologizing and inquiring what their business was.

Sam looked at Dean.  They couldn’t see the Satori, but John’s actions convinced them that it was here.  “We’d just like to ask you a few questions.  We’re reporters for The New York Times and back home we are very interested in the strange number of suicides happening in this area.  We were sent here to research for any strange similarities and we were wondering if you could help us out.”

Americans?

“Ah, yes of course,” John tried to say, wincing as the creature sputtered out thoughts of distrust and how much he couldn’t bloody stand this thing talking non-stop until he couldn’t tell his own voice apart from its.  “Dr. John Watson,” he managed, offering his hand.  It shook so uncontrollably that he pulled it back right away.  “I’m sorry, I have the worst migraine.  Can you come back later?”

Dean shrugged and Sam sighed.  “Sure thing.  We’ll be back tomorrow.”

John only nodded before closing the door on them.  As the Winchesters walked away, they heard the doctor shout, “Bloody hell!  Shut up, already!”

A dog heard it also and started barking.

After a bit of silence, Dean threw his own thoughts out into the air, “I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that this guy is going to be the next suicide victim in a couple of days.  Maybe less, since he already looked pretty worn out.  Won’t take much to push some people over the edge, depending on what they think about.”

Sam looked down the street and squinted, “Yeah.  Well, the address is two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street; we’ll need to remember that.  And we have to find out more about this Dr. Watson since he probably won’t be able to tell us much.”

Nodding in agreement, Dean started walking, “Right.  We’ll start with family or close friends.”

Sitting in their hotel room that night, Sam researched John Watson; which didn’t take long since they knew he was a doctor and just had to look at all the employees of surrounding hospitals.  While he was busy with that, Dean tried to figure out as much as he could about the Satori.  “Okay,” Sam sighed, “Dr. John Watson is a medical surgeon at St. Bart’s hospital.  His closest friend is someone named Sherlock Holmes, but all the information about him has been deleted or just doesn’t make sense.  Half of it says that he’s dead and was a criminal and the other half says that he’s alive and is living out in the country side.”

“Maybe there’s more than one person with the same name?”

Sam nodded lightly, “Yeah, maybe.  But we still don’t know where he is.  Next best thing is a mortician at the hospital named Molly Hooper.  We could ask her about Holmes and see if she knows anything.”

“Got it,” Dean replied.  “We’ll go talk to her in the morning.  I still haven’t found anything about how to kill the Satori, though.  These notes are really hard to make out.  It’s almost as if one had a hold of Dad while he was writing about it.”

Sam stood up and took the book from Dean, “Alright, we’ll find it.  Obviously Dad got rid of it so there’s gotta be something in here.  But it can wait, we have to figure out who this Sherlock Holmes is first.  He might be able to help.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe you have to say what the person is thinking before the Satori does?  Who better to do that than Dr. Watson’s best friend?”