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You could have told me the plan.
We’re in the lab at Barts, and I’ve just gotten the call saying Mrs. Hudson’s been shot. You’re acting stolid in a way I haven’t seen since Baskerville. I call you a machine, and have to leave the room before I do anything worse. It’s as I’m walking out the door that you choose to speak up.
“John, please, wait.” Fury still pangs through my chest and my fists are still clenched, but the please sedates me enough to turn around and look at you. You’re standing, no longer throwing the ball against the cabinet, and you’ve shed the indifferent mask from a moment ago. Your eyes meet mine, and they’re scared. They look away before you begin.
“I’m meeting Moriarty on the rooftop in 5 minutes. He’s already made it obvious he wants to destroy me. The proof is already in Kitty’s paper, and the only way to clear my name is through me. Therefore, to completely destroy my reputation, he is going to kill me.
“Mrs. Hudson is fine. Mycroft has bugged the flat again, he would have told me if one of the assassins had tried to kill her. That was Moriarty trying to lure you somewhere.”
There are multiple things I want to say about this, but you continue on, speaking quickly about 13 possible scenarios and how most of them end up with you flinging yourself off the rooftop. Finally, you end with “The point is, Moriarty wants to isolate me. Because he knows that even he needs help to beat me. So please, John, stay here. After it’s all done Molly and I will meet you in this lab.”
I agree after further confirmation Mrs. Hudson is unharmed. We send someone else to Baker Street to make it look like I’ve left, and while you’re on the rooftop I film your conversation with Moriarty. The video is sent to Mycroft, who makes up for spilling your life to a psychopath by broadcasting it to all of London. Your reputation is left intact, all 3 snipers are caught, and you aren’t forced to jump off the roof in front of me.
Moriarty doesn’t kill himself on the rooftop. Instead the criminal trial of the century gets a redo. All the jurors rooms are protected with the full strength of the British Government. This time, he is found unanimously guilty. His network is destroyed, but this time it’s from information gained through Moriarty himself and the three captured snipers rather than 2 years of undercover investigation.
*~*~*~*
I would have gone with you.
I’m in the process of storming out of Mycroft’s office when he stops me. “Doctor Watson,” he says. I debate not listening, just continuing out the door, but then he says “Ask my brother about his plans for confronting Moriarty later today.” I glance back at him. We share a brief nod before I actually exit the office.
When I meet you at Bart’s you’re sitting on a lab stool and staring at the wall. “I suppose you’re going to ask about my rooftop meeting.”
“Would have appreciated hearing about it from you first, but yeah.”
Your gaze moves to meet mine, blanketed in indifference. Your arms move to rest against your knees and your hands to support your chin before you begin. “Moriarty wants to kill me. Ergo, to beat him, it has to look like I’ve died.”
Heat pricks behind my cheeks, and as it does so I’m forced to clench my fishts and count to ten. “Were you planning on telling me this before? Or discussing it with me at all?”
“John, the endgame of all of this is to completely destroy his network. It could take years of undercover work. The best way to avoid suspicion is to die, and the best way to keep that cover would be for as little people to know as possible. Even then it’s dangerous enough that I might not make it back.”
Now you stand up, we make eye contact, and you move towards me. “You would have moved on after today. I understand it’s also not proper to ask you to come on the mission with me, given the unclear timeline-”
I had been trying to control my temper while you were talking. Really, I had been. But just as I realized this was the one time you bother with social norms my fist found itself connecting with your face. After we both recover from the exploit and it seems you are done talking, I start.
“I am going to trust you have your own plan for this meeting. But don’t think for a second you’re leaving for this mission without me. Mycroft is on my side with this. We can figure out the details later.” Just then, my phone rings with the news about Mrs. Hudson. I sigh, hanging my head. “Moriarty?”
“Moriarty.”
I nod. “Did Mycroft give you any earpieces? Good. Give me one. I have to go check on her for appearances, but we’re not dropping this. I am texting Mycroft in the cab, and I’ll be listening in on the meeting the entire time.”
The plan falls together fairly quickly. I leave two days after your funeral and meet you on the outskirts of London. Together, we take Moriarty’s network down over the course of 18 months. There are a few close calls, but in the end nothing too significant happened. Which means nothing bad happened, and nothing bad in an operation as dangerous as this is something good.
*~*~*~*
One word was all I needed.
“He’s my friend, let me through.” I make my way through the crowd of people to you. Lying in a pool of blood. When I grab your wrist there’s no pulse. I’m pulled away, you’re rolled inside, the crowd disperses, and I’m left sitting against the wall of St. Barts. Some amount of time later a black car rolls up and I get inside. There’s a woman staring into her blackberry. I don’t talk to her. Occasionally she glances over in my direction, and at some point a blanket is passed into the back seat and wrapped around my shoulders.
The shock fades away, and when I look down at the blanket I’m clinging to I’m reminded of the night of the Jefferson Hope case. How you shrugged the orange fabric off in near disgust before turning to make sure I was okay. I wrap the blanket tighter around myself, as if doing so will keep you here, and my throat feels tight. I close my eyes, but pressure is building behind my eyelids and when I open them my eyelashes are heavy and my vision is blurred.
Eventually we pull up to a manor on the outskirts of London. This time I’m reminded of how you ended up on that rooftop, that I’m about to see the man who sold you out to a psychopath. More pressure builds, but this time it’s in my chest and I feel about ready to hit something. The car stops, I get out, throw the blanket aside, and I’m marching towards the front door.
The door is thrown open and any emotion I may be feeling is drained by a familiar voice saying one familiar word.
“John.”
Mycroft doesn’t call me John. He only uses first names for very specific people. But there is another Holmes who calls me that. I don’t look before confusion, anger, joy, and relief hit me at the same time.
“Sherlock.” The front door is now closed. You’re in another doorway on the side of the room. I’m honestly not sure if I want to hit, hug, or throw something at you. Not that I get a chance to decide before a ginger haired government executive enters the room.
“Doctor Watson.” Neither of you are smug. Actually, you look like you’d much rather disintegrate into the wall you’re leaning on. There’s a beat of silence where I’m able to look you over: your hair is wet, and all the blood is gone from your head. Your left arm is held toward your chest, as if you’re unconsciously protecting it. That seems to be the only visible indication of injury. You’re dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, completely casual and completely unlike you. Laying by your feet is a small travel bag. After noticing this I bring my head back up intending to meet your eyes again.
But your eyes are cast downward. You take a deep breath, as if bracing for something, before saying, “You probably want an explanation.” I nod, and you launch into an explanation of how you knew Mrs. Hudson’s paramedics call was a ruse, of the three snipers, and of how Moriarty shot himself to ensure you died.
After describing why, you say the next thing you’re doing is leaving to hunt down the remainder of Moriarty’s network. Mycroft interjects when I open my mouth to say I have a job to do here: it is my job to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and make sure the snipers don’t decide to finish the job while you’re away. He will clear your name at the earliest opportunity.
I protest fiercely against you going alone, pointing out you trying to take on Moriarty alone was what got us into this situation. You concede to send me one short note to let you know you’re alive every 2 weeks.
In the end, you’re gone for 18 months. The snipers are captured, and no one replaces their position. Mycroft, Greg and I all help to clear your name within the month. When you return to Baker street, I’ve received 36 notes, all containing a single phrase: ars vivendi.
*~*~*~*
I know you had your reasons, Sherlock. But there are risks involved in living. Risks everyone takes because there is the possibility of a positive outcome. I only wish you gave me the opportunity to take this risk, rather than choosing for me.