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“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please. Please, let me just…. Jesus, no. God, no.”
John leaned against the wall inside Bart’s, his breath still hitching in his chest, his presence ignored by the medical professionals rushing to and from patient rooms and treatment areas. There wasn’t even a proper A&E at Bart’s, although that didn’t stop several professional hands from holding John back on the sidewalk before, keeping him from following Sherlock’s body – no, stop, he couldn’t think that way – from following Sherlock as they spirited him away on a gurney.
He had been here for ages; they must have forgotten him. Not used to handling trauma patients; no procedure for updating friends and family. That must be it. He’d find someone; they’d tell him. They’d tell him it was all a horrible misunderstanding. Sherlock was fine; he was being treated. Soon they’d be laughing at his indestructibility, and John would stop seeing that pool of blood soaking his dark curls, tendrils of red winding their way down his face, past those empty blue eyes staring through John as he grasped for Sherlock’s wrist and failed to feel a pulse. They pulled him away too quickly; that was it. Impossible to get a proper pulse when he couldn’t even accurately gauge the placement of his fingers on Sherlock’s wrist as the hands – so many hands – pulled him backwards and away from his friend.
John’s head jerked up as he saw Mycroft’s figure appear out of the shadows at the end of the hall, his lips compressed into a line. Unconsciously, John pulled himself to attention, the muscle memory of countless military drills holding his body erect when his mind kept screaming for him to escape this nightmare before it could truly take hold. Part of him wanted to start running and not stop until he hit coastline; another part wanted to crumple to the floor. He did neither, as Mycroft approached close enough to speak.
“John.”
That was all the confirmation that was required. John felt the tears constrict his throat and build up behind his eyes and threaten to make his own heart stop beating. But it didn’t; the bloody thing kept going, forcing him to continue to live through this.
“Mycroft, I need to see him.” John’s voice didn’t even sound like his own, but then again, nothing had felt like it belonged to him since he saw that tall body tip forward off the rooftop, coat beginning to billow behind him, arms spread in some horrid parody of flight.
“John,” Mycroft began again. “You must realize that, given the nature of his death,” here Mycroft swallowed slightly harder than he would have normally, his jaw held tight, “his body is not fit to be viewed.”
“Mycroft, dammit,” John yelled, tears beginning to break free, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I’m a doctor! A bloody army doctor! I’ve seen men blown apart, men without arms and legs and pieces of skull, for fuck’s sake! And this is my best friend! How dare you say that I can’t see him, that seeing him is too much! He’s the closest thing I have to a brother, and you know what?” John paused for breath, his eyes growing murderous.
“I’m the closest thing he has to one too, you arrogant prat!” With that, John flew at Mycroft, aiming for throat, for eyes, for stomach, for any soft part that he could throttle or pummel or harm. If he just hurt Mycroft enough, the pain would end. Let Mycroft be in pain, and maybe this would all stop, John thought unreasonably.
The two tussled briefly in the hallway, passersby slowing but unwilling to intervene. John was surprised at Mycroft’s strength, the usually unflappable man twisting, grabbing, managing to get ahold of John’s wrists and pinning them tight against him, pushing John into the wall and letting the shorter man struggle until he began sobbing in earnest.
Breathing hard, Mycroft held John immobile for a few more heartbeats until he was sure the struggle was gone, then released him. He briefly smoothed his lapels, a gesture that was more a function of anxiety than an effective way to straighten his rumpled suit.
“It’s over, John,” Mycroft said tightly.
“All there is to do is grieve. You must let yourself do that.”
And with that, Mycroft turned and walked down the hall, leaving John alone.
***
Molly stood in the morgue, the silence seeming deeper and more oppressive than usual. She turned to Mycroft, who was silently observing the door as if reviewing those who had come and gone. He turned to Molly.
“And now, he is in the hands of MI6,” Mycroft said. “Dr. Hooper, I hope that it goes without saying that you have our country’s gratitude for your part in this mission, and the part that you will continue to play. Your services are invaluable to its success.”
Molly turned to Mycroft, fingering the hem of her cardigan where it peeked out from her lab coat. She had a long night ahead, with dental records to match, forms to be managed. All of the scut paperwork she would normally have handed off to someone less senior had to be falsified and prepared for official record as soon as possible. The sooner she did so, the sooner Sherlock was dead.
“Mr. Holmes,” she began tentatively, then stopped. She squared her shoulders, putting shyness and uncertainty behind her. What she was doing could cost her medical license. It could cost her everything she had ever worked for. She was beginning to suspect it could cost her life. She would do it, but she wouldn’t do it without making her own thoughts known.
“Mycroft,” she said decisively. Mycroft turned, a hint of surprise in his eyes but all attention now firmly on Molly. “I accept what I have to do because Sherlock asked me to do it, not because of some patriotic mission that I don’t even know about, let alone want the country’s appreciation for. But you are asking me to hurt my friends with this ruse. John Watson. What about John? Why can’t he be told, if no one else?”
Mycroft sighed, bringing his index finger to the bridge of his nose in just a hint of the tension that he was feeling. “Dr. Hooper. Molly. John Watson cannot know, because John Watson cannot show a crack in the façade. If Dr. Watson does not grieve the loss of Sherlock Holmes – publicly, in front of all the media that have tracked the pair of them, 24 hours a day, for as long as they would like to observe him – this entire mission is at risk.” He looked piercingly at Molly. “Sherlock’s very life would be at greater risk than even it is now. You must trust me on this. You must help me to protect him.”
“I don’t understand,” Molly sighed. “But I’ll do it.”
***
The next day, Molly sat at her desk. The papers were signed and recorded; the deed was done.
Fittingly, it was then that John walked into the morgue. Molly had been expecting his visit; frankly, she was surprised he hadn’t shown up overnight.
“What the hell was the deal with Mycroft’s goons guarding the place? I couldn’t get in here all night; they just now let me through,” John demanded.
Molly’s head snapped up. So that’s what accounted for her privacy over the past many hours. OK, then she’d play along.
“I think Mycroft was guarding the b-,” Molly stopped, started again. “Was guarding Sherlock until I was finished with him. He’s gone now.”
John’s head and shoulders dropped as he slammed his hands against Molly’s desk, her pens bouncing in their coffee mug and the papers ruffling in her in-tray. “You too, Molly?” he asked without looking up. “You couldn’t wait to be sure that I’d seen him? That I’d had my chance to say good-bye?” he said, finally looking up at Molly on the last word. His eyes were frantic, stricken; he looked at her with accusations of betrayal etched across his face.
Molly stood and walked around from behind her desk. She couldn’t put Sherlock in danger, but she still needed to care for her friend. She picked up John’s hands in her own and looked at him intently.
“John, listen to me.” His eyes looked past her, unseeing, focused again on the pavement, the blood, the unnatural angle of the limbs, and Sherlock’s hand, still warm but limp as they pulled him away and…
“John!” Molly said, shaking his hands, drawing him back to reality. “Listen to me.”
“You mustn’t think of Sherlock as dead, John. You must remember him as alive.” John scoffed; such platitudes, and coming from Molly, of all people. Molly, who had loved Sherlock, who had laid out his body and had had her chance to come to peace with things, telling him some useless comfort that was always spouted to family and friends in these situations.
“No, I mean it, John. I took care of him. He’s safe now.” Her eyes bore into him, as if trying to impress some piece of knowledge on him, something that she understood. He shook his head; he couldn’t think.
“You must know in your heart that he’s alive, John. As long as there are people who love him, Sherlock is alive,” Molly said urgently.
“Fine, Molly,” John said, disentangling his fingers and shrugging more deeply into his coat. “I’m glad you can believe that.”
Molly stood and bit her lip as John walked brokenly through the door of her office and out through the morgue doors and into the streets of London.