Chapter Text
“I’m not your mother, I’ve no right to expect it—”
“No—”
“But just one phone call, John! Just one phone call would have done.”
“I know.”
“After all we went through.”
“Yes. I am sorry—”
“Look, I understand how difficult it was for you after… after…”
“I just let it slide, Mrs. Hudson. I let it all slide. And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow. Do you know what I mean?”
“So why now? What changed your mind?”
“Well… I’ve got some news.”
“Oh god. Is it serious?”
“What? No. No, I’m not ill. Well—I’m moving on.”
“You’re immigrating?”
“Nope—ah, no—I’ve met someone.”
“Oh lovely!”
“Yeah, we’re getting married—well, I’m going to ask anyway.”
“What’s his name?”
“It’s a woman.”
“A woman!”
“Yes, of course it’s a woman—”
“You really have moved on, haven’t you?”
“We—we weren’t a couple.”
“Well, I can’t be expected to keep up with all the new terms nowadays—”
“We weren’t together—I’m not—never have been—gay.”
“When I lost my husband, it was a terrible time—not as terrible as your loss of course, death row isn’t quite the same as suicide—but I’m so happy you’ve moved on and found yourself a little girlfriend.”
“Right. Well, look I—”
“Would he approve of her?”
“Would he—he never approved of my girlfriends; you know this—he never approves of anybody.”
“He certainly took a shine to you.”
“Right. Yes. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? I approve of her and—”
“You’ll invite me to the wedding?”
“Yes—yes, of course.”
“Oh John, I’m so glad to see you happy again.”
“Happy. Thank you. I’m—happy.”
•••
Baker Street is quiet this morning. London hasn’t quite recovered from the New Year’s celebrations and the January chill rests heavily over the hungover city. John’s thankful for the cold though; the biting wind stings his eyes and nose and gives him something to focus on besides the bitter taste in his mouth.
He should’ve taken the tea Mrs. Hudson offered, anything to counteract the horrid taste the exchange left. Mrs. Hudson mourned in her own way, but John can’t help but feel her mourning was equally directed toward him. She mourned the man who’d almost acted like her surrogate son, but perhaps she also mourned the dynamic they’d lost on that day. And by moving out so quickly, John feels he had stripped away her last connection to Sherlock.
But he’d gone all the same and now it was over and done with. He could breathe a sigh of relief having checked one box, though every breath sent icy tendrils spiralling through his chest.
Christine would be pleased. He’d been putting off visiting Mrs. Hudson for ages and for too many reasons to list. But it was important to share significant steps with loved ones. To allow others to feel happy for him. That this happy news would counteract all the pity. At least that’s Christine’s reasoning for all this.
John hated the pity.
It had mostly faded—no one really treated him like broken glass anymore, well, no one but Mrs. Hudson. She was still the only one besides Christine who saw through him. Christine doesn’t go so far as to offer pity, but she doesn’t let him pretend it’s all fine.
Mary never treated him like he was broken. He’d told her a version of the truth shortly after they’d become serious, a version of the truth that conveyed the loss as he’d experienced it. She took it in stride, understanding the loss he’d gone through and never holding it against him. She doesn’t try to compete with the memory of Sherlock and doesn’t berate him for talking about the detective. He doesn’t talk much about him anymore, reserving that for Christine, but Mary wouldn’t hold it against him if he did. Mary is a lovely breath of fresh air after the cloying cloud of pity he’s endured. Sometimes, after a glass or two of strong drink, he can’t help but notice the similarities between— No, it was wrong to compare them. Sherlock didn’t own the concept of cleverness. Sherlock was brilliant but wasn’t the only intelligent person in London. Mary is clever in her own way; it’s not fair to compare her to someone long gone. Someone who left, of his own volition, leaving John in his wake.
Once upon a time John would have said death was too pedestrian for Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. He’d said Sherlock would outlive god just to have the last word. If anyone could, it’d be Sherlock who’d cheat death.
On that basis alone, it had taken John ages to reconcile the fact that Sherlock had offed himself. It just didn’t make sense. Sherlock was always surrounded by people doubting his abilities and he’d always faced the naysayers with the same cool confidence; if it bothered him, he’d never let on that being seen as a fraud was a trigger point for him. He didn’t give a toss about fame or glory—detested the notion, really—and prior accusations of fraud or trickery were always met with scathing dressing downs or theatrical eye rolls. Sherlock never sought approval from the general public; if he sought anyone’s approval it’d be John’s praise and perhaps (though he’d never admit it,) Mycroft’s respect.
Suicide didn’t track. At least according to the version of Sherlock that John thought he knew. And it took months of therapy, pills, and grieving to consider that perhaps John hadn’t known Sherlock well at all. Perhaps he never knew a thing about the man’s inner workings.
Coming to that realization morphed the grief into anger. For another several months John had spent his time despising Sherlock for allowing him to think he knew the detective at all. Was he truly just a plaything? A loyal little dog trotting around after the great detective? Sherlock let him believe—quite frankly, convinced him that they were friends, that perhaps John knew him better than anyone else. But that must’ve just been another manipulation tactic, another disguise to slip into so Sherlock could once more get his way. He’d witnessed Sherlock’s capacity for manipulation, the man was a world-class actor when he needed to be, never giving a damn about the ethics of such games.
He'd play a mourning friend as easily as he’d play a wounded priest, hardly blinking at the blasphemy or the insensitivity. In fact, he’d go out of his way to ridicule anyone who tried to call him on his deviant tactics.
Ice closes over John’s heart as he recalls these thoughts, ice having nothing to do with the bitter wind swirling through the empty London streets; he’d felt betrayed then, like a used tissue wadded up and thrown away.
Confused, then angry, then… then whatever this is.
After Baker Street he goes to the cemetery. It’s Tuesday, after all.
He doesn’t stay long—not anymore.
Perhaps it’s a bit silly to continue going. Christine says it isn’t, says that it’s a healthy part of his recovery—to have a routine, that is. It’s his penchant for routine that’s kept him together after all this time. He’s a military man; routine keeps him sane, gives him purpose.
At first, once he’d convinced himself to start visiting, he’d stay for a while. He’d sit on the damp earth scattered around the headstones and try to breathe. He never acknowledged the tears, just let them run freely while he sat in silence. Christine urged him to talk to the grave, to let his unspoken ire, his dejected agony break free.
Instead, John chose silence.
At one point John had broken the silence by relaying the stages of composition he’d imagined Sherlock had gone through based on the passage of time and London’s recent weather patterns. He’d imagined Sherlock vehemently dismissing his assessment, spouting off his impressive knowledge about the acidity of the surrounding soil and how the various flora would affect the process of decay. Of course, Sherlock would consider himself better equipped to assess his own decomposition than a trained medical doctor. He’d once solved a triple homicide through a mere analysis of tobacco ash—John reckoned Sherlock was more than likely capable of proving his own deductions wrong.
Today he needs to tell Sherlock—the decayed corpse buried under the black headstone—that he intends to propose to Mary tonight. Before, back before his brain had decomposed and the Mind Palace had been swallowed up by the earth, Sherlock would have known already. He’d have guessed—no, he never guessed— he’d have deduced it. He’d have deduced it by the cut of John’s trousers, or the dirt on his shoes. He’d have deduced the ring itself, known precisely what John would have chosen. He probably chose the wrong ring—Sherlock would have let him know that too.
And Sherlock would certainly disapprove of the plan for tonight— proposing in a fancy restaurant with no connection to the relationship was pedestrian. John knew this.
He’d inevitably choose the wrong champagne, wear the wrong tie, and stumble over a poorly written speech. John liked to think he was a man of tradition, but Sherlock would see right through that.
He would, at least, if he weren’t buried six feet under John’s feet.
Sometimes John wishes he had asked for the skull. It had surely been shattered upon— well, upon impact with the pavement. But John would have pieced it back together and kept it. The skull would be empty, devoid of any of its original brilliance, but perhaps it would have offered him support.
Before John, Sherlock talked to—talked at-- Billy the skull. John would enjoy talking to a skull more than he enjoyed talking to a gravestone. And Sherlock would have loved it. He would love knowing that John glued his skull back together and kept it. Not because of that abhorrent notion called sentiment, but because he was a morbid berk. Frankly, he’d probably be jealous that John could examine his skull so closely. If he could, he’d have found a way to remove his own skull and examine it. He was incredible like that.
John can’t help but chuckle at the notion—if he’d had the time, Sherlock would have found a way to clone himself so he could perform all sorts of experiments on a consenting participant. He was always going on about ethical dilemmas in science—no more of those pesky roadblocks if he was the consenting subject.
John’s spent more time at the grave today than he has in a while. He’s got to make the trek to Christine’s office though, so it’s time to say goodbye, the same goodbye he’s offered every visit.
“One more miracle.” John whispers to what he can only picture to be the maggot-ridden, worm-eaten corpse of the world’s only consulting detective. “Just stop being dead.”
•••
“How illegal is graverobbing?”
“Isn’t that a question for Greg?”
“If I want to raise suspicion, sure.”
…
“Right. I reckon it’s too late.” John clears his throat. “Wish I would’ve kept his skull.”
“Curious.” Christine raises an eyebrow, not in judgement but in amusement. She doesn’t pity him, remember?
For two years she’s been unflinching in her assessments, unwavering in her support, and unwilling to let him delude himself into diminishing his grief and the magnitude of his loss.
In these four walls, nestled inside a busy clinic, she’s let him yell, tear at his hair, sob openly, curse like a sailor, and rage against the world. Her stuffy little office has become a place of respite, countless tears have been shed on the overstuffed brown couch, the gaudy eggplant walls know secrets he’s loath to share ever again. The dim brass lamps are no longer claustrophobia-inducing, but cosy and comforting. And Christine, with her wild mass of greyed curls and glasses that rest perpetually askew on a hawk-like nose, she coaxes it all out with a cool, unaffected tolerance.
John hated therapy before this. He only saw Ella for a short while before he met Sherlock and never looked back once he’d fallen in with the detective.
And after… after the Fall he had no choice but to do it again. This time he was lucky enough to find someone less tolerant of his avoidant bullshit.
“Should’ve asked for his brain too.” John muses, before remembering the splatter. “Though I reckon it’d be easier to puzzle together the skull.”
“It’d give you something to yell at.” Christine jots something down in her notes. “Direct anger at the skull instead of the void.”
John chuckles darkly at this. She’s got a point.
“Spoke— erm, visited Mrs. Hudson. Told her about tonight.”
“Good. She took it well?”
“Bit confused at Mary’s gender… but at this point there’s no changing her mind. Doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Perhaps she sees you as an equal—you said her husband—”
“Yeah, bastard got himself put on death row—Sherlock ensured his execution.”
“Not a fond way to remember one’s life partner.”
“No.”
“Victim of her husband’s choices; grief can be complicated.”
“Reckon she felt how I did? How I do?”
“How do you mean?”
“Angry. Betrayed. Guilty. Sad…”
“Would make sense.”
“Right.” John clears his throat again. “But I’m going to start a new chapter with Mary.”
“Yes. Good. Tell me more about how you’re feeling about tonight.”
“Nervous.” John says automatically. “Reckon I should say I’m excited too but I’m not sure yet.”
“Okay. Nervous she’ll say no?”
“No—nervous it’s not the right thing to do.”
“For you or for her?”
“Ye— both— both of us.”
“Felt the same about my wife.” Christine smirks, nodding over to her collection of framed photographs. John’s spent plenty of time staring at them, disassociating during his sessions. Christine’s wife is a dough-faced thing, plump with sparkling eyes. A happy woman.
He wouldn’t describe Mary as a happy woman. She’s got a big smile and a boisterous laugh but doesn’t exude the same joie-de-vie that Christine’s wife does in those pictures. Mary’s clever, sharp-tongued, and has a good sense of humour. She’s neither a romantic nor anti-traditionalist, her normalcy is a relief.
She likes to go out on the weekends, meet friends for drinks, watch films, attend art fairs, music festivals, social gatherings. They have a nice time together. She’s a comfort.
John reckons he’s getting too old to have second thoughts. It’s now or never, isn’t it? Time to settle down, spend him life in a bit of comfortable normalcy. Maybe they’ll have a baby, if Mary’s up for it, and make a family. A family for comfort.
Comfortable.
Normal.
Safe.
Devoid of exc—
“John.” Christine snaps him out of his reverie. “Talk about it.”
“I’m just wondering if she’ll want a family—if a baby is in our future. Or a dog. Or a house in the suburbs.”
“Is that what you want?”
“You’re going to tell me we should’ve talked about this before I decided to propose. But it’ll be fine, Mary’s easy… we’ll talk about the future, about our plans. It’ll be fine.”
“Sure, John.” Christine rolls her eyes; she doesn’t accept his bullshit quite so easily. “And what if your interests, your wants, differ?”
“I reckon they can’t differ.” John clears his throat. “I’ve not got any expectations for the future. Whatever she wants will be fine by me.”
“You’ve a stronger sense of self than that, John.” Christine scolds, evidently displeased with his answer.
“I thought I knew what I wanted; I thought I knew with every girlfriend I ever had. But I was just moulding my future to align with what my partner wanted. Reckon then I don’t have a proper sense of self. I’m an easy-going guy—content to please my partner.”
“What abou—”
“Sherlock has nothing to do with this. I wanted two things in life: to become a surgeon and serve in the military. Now I’m a practicing doctor—a damn good one, too—and an honourably discharged army captain.” John rubs a hand over his face. “And now I’m off on my next adventure—with Mary, for Mary.”
“Is this attitude sustainable?” Christine purses her lips, John hates when she does. “Seems incongruous with your intrinsic drive and discipline.”
“I’ve spent too much time dicking around. It’s now or never. I got past wanting to kill myself, I might as well cobble together some semblance of a future.”
“Hm.” Christine clears her throat and gives him a pointed look. “Sherlock is dead, you don’t need to justify taking steps in your relationship with Mary.”
“I—I’m not justifying anything. This has nothing to do with him. Mary has nothing to do with him.”
“How are you faring on the medication?”
“Fine. Same as last week.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
•••
After his appointment, John goes the flat he shares with Mary. Mary won’t be home from work until later this evening. Then they’ll go to dinner and he’ll propose and they’ll celebrate when she says yes.
Until then he has plenty of time to open up the box he’s hidden in the back of his wardrobe. Maybe Mary knows about it, maybe not, but if she does she’s blessedly never said anything.
John will open up the box and let the memories transport him for a brief spell. Then, as always, he’ll open the second box, the less hidden box tucked in his sock drawer, and let himself dream for a bit. If Mary’s snooped in this one she’s not said anything again. This one is perhaps less concerning.
He keeps the boxes separate but always takes them out together.
And after he’ll pack everything away carefully, take a shower, and sleep until Mary comes home. She knows how exhausting Tuesdays are, she knows why he’s drained. She’ll never understand, but John doesn’t necessarily understand either.
It’s just his reality now, after the fall.