86A/N: The final chapter of Something True, and the finale of the triology. There will be an epilogue with some extensive Author's Notes as soon as I catch up on my long-neglected list of non-writing tasks. Thank you so much for coming this far. I hope you'll let me know what you thought of the ride. ~Ghyll
Mycroft was finding it difficult to prepare for the conversation he was about to have with John Watson. His experience with John's management of grief gave him ample cause for concern. The death of a child was a tragedy from which many people never recovered, and the fact that John had already decided to give up all contact with his daughter added the element of guilt to the equation.
He was even more concerned about the effect it would have on Sherlock who would be hearing of the baby's existence and her death at the same moment. Sherlock would blame himself, and there would be nothing John could say to stop him. That outcome must be avoided, and there was only one action Mycroft could take to prevent it. Ironically, Mary herself had provided it. Mycroft had had no intention of promoting the lie she'd asked him to tell, but the situation was entirely different now. Instead of dissuading John from pursuing her, the lie would now avert some of the worst effects of the disaster she had left behind.
Mycroft judged the risk of Sherlock deducing the lie to be acceptably low. Properly worded, it would not technically be a lie, and his track record for selling carefully worded half truths to Sherlock was overwhelmingly successful. Weighing the potential risk against the benefit, there was no logical alternative.
Bahnsen was waiting for him just inside the A&E entrance. The crossed-arm stance indicated that Jared was expecting Mycroft to disapprove of what he was about to hear. "John knew something was up. I told him what happened."
"In front of Sherlock?"
"No, but I'm sure John has told him by now."
This was unfortunate, but not unexpected. "Thank you. I trust you won't be returning to Baker Street."
"Still not a fan of subtlety, I see. No, I'm not going back for a few days, but I'm not leaving without saying goodbye. I'll make sure Sherlock knows how to reach me if he needs to, but you can do me the courtesy of losing my mobile number permanently." He walked out of the building without another word.
Mycroft was struck once more by the fierce loyalty Sherlock inspired in his friends. Bahnsen didn't think much of Mycroft, obviously, but the man would never ignore a call that might be about Sherlock, even if it came from Mycroft. Mycroft inspired only fear and grudging respect, both of which were fleeting. He wondered what it might do for his relationship with his brother if that admission were ever shared.
The wall fixture above Sherlock's bed threw a pool of muted light in the immediate area, but the rest of the large room was in shadow. The nurses' station was unmanned. John was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to the door, and he didn't turn when Mycroft opened it. Sherlock was sitting up, and his focus was entirely on John until Mycroft came into the room. The look he gave his brother over John's head told Mycroft that John had indeed told him what had happened to Mary and his child.
Mycroft crossed to the foot of the bed. "John, I need to speak with you privately for a moment."
John straightened, and slowly stood up. He turned to Mycroft. "I've already told Sherlock everything. What have you got?"
"The information is quite personal. I suggest we-"
"Just say it, Mycroft."
Mycroft looked down for a moment. "Very well. Mary asked me to tell you that you are not the baby's father."
John pulled in a sharp breath. Sherlock eyed Mycroft narrowly. "That would certainly be one way of insuring that John would leave them alone. You're not suggesting that you accepted her statement?"
"She volunteered to have a blood sample taken to confirm it. That is being done as we speak. The results will not be available for at least a week, but I thought you needed to know." He had not yet said anything that wasn't true, and his expression conveyed it.
Sherlock's intense gaze changed slowly to surprise. "You believed her."
"I will withhold judgment until we see the test results, but she would have known how easily a lie could be disproved."
John's expression hardened. "Who is the father?"
He chose his words carefully. "I didn't ask."
That brought a flicker of suspicion to Sherlock's expression, but John just nodded at the floor.
"I have asked the doctor to release you. I'll have my driver bring up the clothes I packed for you."
John sank into the chair, staring blankly ahead of himself. Sherlock watched him with concern, then looked up at Mycroft. "We'll meet you outside."
An hour later, Mycroft watched them walk up to the door at Baker Street. It opened just before they reached it, and Mrs Hudson hugged each in turn before she closed it behind them.
John walked to his chair and dropped into it without removing his coat. Sherlock stopped a few paces away, searching for the words that had been evading him since the moment Bahnsen had dropped the first bombshell. "I'll make you some tea," was what came out of his mouth instead.
He kept his eyes on John as he switched on the kettle and went through the motions of making tea neither of them would touch.
"How could I not see this?" John finally said to Sherlock's empty chair.
The kettle had switched off minutes earlier, and the tea mugs were still empty. Sherlock came out to his chair and sat down. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to make this better." He had never meant anything more in his life.
John's gaze was unfocused. "Every word out of her mouth was a lie. She even had you trusting her." He gave Sherlock a long, appraising look. "You did trust her, didn't you? You never suspected the baby was a lie?" An instant later, he realized his mistake. "But you don't even remember her."
"I would have told you if I had any doubts. I don't need my memory to know that."
John smiled sadly. "But you never let yourself have doubts. You forgave her for nearly killing you, Sherlock. You kept pushing me back to her in spite of it. I think you wanted her to be good, and that's all you allowed yourself to see."
It was a glimpse into the time that was missing, and the woman he would likely never recall. What must he have seen in her that could have made him willing to give John up? If he could bring back any of the lost memories, that would be what he would choose. If he had been fooled, she had done it with deliberate skill. John was too honest to ever suspect such deceit in someone he loved, and he had never had a chance against her. She must have recognized that from the start.
John was looking at him now as if he had read every thought. "She made you trust her, and she made a fool of me. It's not hard to guess which one was the bigger challenge."
"You're not a fool, John. You're too good for us. You always have been."
"You put us all to shame, especially me. You won't let anyone get close enough to see who you really are, but you've been trying to show me for years. I'm glad you don't remember what a bastard I was to you when you came back because it gives me the chance to do it right this time, and I don't give a damn how selfish that sounds. I'm ready to spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you."
Given the emotional strain John was dealing with, the intelligent response would be to remind him that this was not the time to make such a commitment. The intelligent course would be for Sherlock to smother his own emotions and heed his own advice. He suddenly found it easy to see the idiocy in those thoughts. "You have nothing to apologize for, and I don't need my memory to know that, either. But I am selfish enough to hold you to it for as long as you'll let me."
John looked slightly stunned himself, and then he smiled. "Somehow I expected trumpets."
"Would you settle for a solo violin?"
John's gaze shifted quickly to the music stand, and stayed there for a few seconds. He cleared his throat. "Even better." His voice was rough. When he brought his focus back to Sherlock, the lines of worry and exhaustion bracketed his smile. "I can't remember the last time I got any sleep."
"And I've had far too much."
John snorted at that. "Only you would equate unconsciousness with resting." He dragged himself to his feet. "Come on. We'll kip on your bed for a few hours. I'd use my own, but it seems to have been leased out."
Both parts of that statement confused him for different reasons. John asking to sleep in his bed presented a whole raft of issues he was sure neither of them was ready to address. As for John's bed being 'leased out'... that simply made no sense at all. "Leased out?"
John looked instantly contrite. "I'm an idiot. You don't remember that Bahnsen has been staying here."
"In your room?" The very idea was absurd.
John's smile returned, but there was an edge to it. "Yes, in my room. I didn't think much of the idea, either."
This could explain some of the behaviour he'd observed between John and Bahnsen, although the idea of John being jealous of anyone was simultaneously ridiculous and oddly pleasant. "You take my bed, then. I'm fine on the sofa."
John's eyes narrowed for an instant. "Suit yourself. I'm going to sleep, Sherlock." The emphasis on 'sleep' was clear. He turned and headed for the bedroom.
Consciously or not, it was a test of the promise.
Sherlock stood up, and followed him.
Jared arrived unannounced at Baker Street a few days after the funeral. He decided against using his key, which proved to be a wise choice. John didn't seem especially pleased to see Jared when he came down to answer the bell.
"Sherlock's not here."
"That's okay, I'm just here to pack up my stuff."
John waved him in, and then left him to find his own way.
When Jared came down with his single bag, John was sitting at he kitchen table with a cup of tea. "Do you want some tea? Kettle's still hot." He started to get up.
"Sit. I can get it." Jared set his bag down on one of the empty chairs and grabbed a mug from the cabinet, suddenly aware that he'd somehow managed to irritate John by making his own tea. He took his mug to the table and sat down across from John. "How are you doing?"
"We're good." He took a sip from his mug. "I thought you'd gone back to Paris."
"I didn't think you'd want me at the services. I'm sorry about your wife and baby, John. I don't think I said that the other night."
John's expression was unreadable. "Thank you."
Another long pause, more awkward than the previous one.
Jared cleared his throat. "You do know I was here to help, and nothing more."
John put down his mug. "Why are you still here?"
"I was hoping to see Sherlock before I left."
John dug his phone out of his pocket. "I'll call him."
"No. Don't do that." Jared took a breath. "Look, John. I can imagine what you must have thought when you found out I was staying here."
"No, I don't think you can. I've known his brother for long time. He can't surprise me anymore."
That could refer to several things, not the least of which was the proposition Mycroft had made later on. Surely, he hadn't told John. "I took the job because I care what happens to Sherlock. You and I have that in common."
"He's fine."
"I'm sure he is, but I think you still have questions. Let me answer the only one that matters. Sherlock let me stay here to keep his brother out of his hair. He had no idea I was interested in anything else."
John's eyes narrowed. "I think you underestimate his powers of observation."
Jared huffed a laugh. "Underestimate Sherlock? Never. Anyone who does is an idiot." He drained his mug and stood up to put it in the sink. Then he picked up his bag. "If there's ever anything you need, just give me a call. I know what a pain Mycroft can be, but I suspect he'll leave you two alone, at least for a while. If you need me to distract him, just say the word."
John gave him an odd look, as if he'd just noticed something. "I appreciate that, but I think we'll be okay." He stood up and extended his hand.
Jared shifted the bag to his left hand and took accepted John's firm grip. "Take care, John. Tell Sherlock I said goodbye."
"I will. Have a safe trip." He walked with Jared to the door, then closed it behind him.
When he was waiting for his flight at Heathrow, he started to type a text to Sherlock, then changed his mind and deleted it.
"Sir, John Watson is here to see you."
Mycroft put down his pen, and sat back. He and John had barely spoken to one another at the funeral, and there had been no contact at all in the ensuing two weeks from either John or Sherlock. "You may send him in. Please see that we are not disturbed."
John entered the room a moment later, and sat down in the chair in front of Mycroft's desk. "Sherlock doesn't know I'm here."
This did not surprise him. "How is my brother?"
"Healed, for the most part. He still doesn't remember, if that's what you're asking."
"And you, John?" He had been controlled and quiet at the funeral, with Sherlock constantly at his side.
John leaned back, elbows on the arms of the chair and hands folded at his waist. "Better than I should be. I don't blame you for what happened, in case you were wondering."
Now, he was surprised. "I am pleased to hear that, John."
John angled his head, studying him closely. "You've been expecting me to grill you over every detail. I hope you didn't take time away from running the country to come up with plausible explanations. That's not why I'm here."
He had not, but there were a number of discretionary projects that had suffered. "If you are not here to demand information, are you here to impart it?"
"I'm here to give you a chance you probably don't deserve. Your brother remembers you helping him set up his mission to take out Moriarty, and he remembers you saving his life in Serbia. He asked me yesterday if he had done something to piss you off. I think he actually misses you."
Mycroft's brows lifted of their own accord. "I'm afraid Sherlock's distrust of me stems from far more than the events he has deleted."
"Yeah, I know that, but something has definitely changed. If you ever wanted to improve your relationship with him, this is your chance." He straightened, and moved his hands to his knees with a soft slap. "That's all I had to say. The rest is up to you." He stood up.
"If you could spare me another moment, I do have a question."
John resumed his seat, sitting stiffly on the edge of it.
"Thank you." He folded his hands on the desk. "You also have a unique opportunity. You came here to prevent me from trampling my chance to reconcile with Sherlock. I wonder if you are applying the same caution to your own actions with him."
John blinked in surprise, and his eyes crinkled. "Is that your way of asking if my intentions are honourable?"
"Have you asked yourself that question?"
He sobered immediately. "You know why I was with Mary. I will never make a mistake like that again."
"Never is a very long time, John. Situations can change."
"Not in this case." He met Mycroft's gaze and held it.
He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever.
John Watson had done both, but thankfully in the right order.
Mycroft stood up and extended his hand. "Thank you, John. I will pay a visit to Baker Street very soon."
John gripped his hand briefly and gave it a firm shake. Then he nodded, turned on his heel, and left.
It was more than a month before Greg called them in on a case, although he had sent texts to Sherlock several times asking when they might be available.
He had chosen a case with enough interest to draw Sherlock to accept, and he'd made sure that this first case included familiar faces. Sally Donovan was given a head's up in advance that she was not to mention anything about Mary's death. She gave Greg a narrow look and reminded him that she was not an idiot.
When Sherlock and John walked onto the scene, it was the first time he had seen them since the funeral. It was like old times, watching Sherlock gather evidence as if he hadn't been away from it for nearly a year. But there was a subtle difference that took Greg several minutes to detect, and even longer to name.
In the very earliest days, John had been as awed by Sherlock as everyone else, but never with the disdain the others used to show. It had always been pure, unmasked admiration. And Sherlock had basked in it shamelessly. All that had changed after the bomber case, and it had grown to the point where not even John's influence could keep Sherlock civil. What Greg was seeing now was completely different.
There was an easy comfort between them now that seemed to extend to everyone around them. Sherlock smiled at Donovan at one point, and she turned a look on Greg that he would have loved to be quick enough to capture on his phone. John must have caught the exchange, going by the way he leaned close to Sherlock and said something that made him glance back at Greg. Being the butt of a shared private joke should have made Greg bristle, and it would have if not for what it told him about what was really going on. Finally.
Even Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions were different. The content was just as sharp as it had always been, but Sherlock wasn't using that cutting edge as a weapon now. He was still showing off, but for an audience of one. There was a bubble around the two of them, and the rest of the world might as well not exist.
When they left the scene, that was different, too. John used to follow a pace behind, almost trotting to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. Now they walked side by side, and Sherlock's pace matched John's exactly.
He glanced at Donovan and caught her smiling after them. When she saw him watching her, she lifted one eyebrow, but the smile didn't fade.
"Is that him?"
"Who?" Molly asked, although she had seen John and Sherlock in the mirror over the bar the moment they had walked in together.
Annette was her friend from church, and she had been hearing about Molly's friend Sherlock for years. The amazing consulting detective from the tabloids and his sidekick. "You know who I mean. Call them over. I want to meet him." She slid off her stool.
Molly grabbed Annette's arm and pulled her back. "They don't go to pubs. They must be on a case."
Annette sat down, but she had her back to the bar and kept her eyes on Sherlock. "The photos don't do him justice."
That was certainly an understatement, especially right now. His cheekbones were reddened by the cold outside, and his curls were perfectly windblown. Breath taking, as always. "Down girl. He's taken."
Annette turned to face her. "How did you let him get away? After all this time?"
"I never said I interested." She took a sip from her pint and faced the mirror to watch him.
Annette rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Who's the lucky girl?"
Molly smiled at the mirror. "It's never been anyone else. It just took a while for them to get on the same page. I couldn't be happier for them."
Annette scoffed. "Nobody's that noble."
"He is." She realized too late how that sounded, and covered it with a chuckle. "Come on. Let's try that place you keep trying to drag me to. I'm ready for a change."
Molly looked back as she held the door for Annette. Sherlock caught her eye and smiled.
Martha Hudson winced as she picked gingerly through the array of plastic bags on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Having her boys back was wonderful, but there were still moments when she wanted to shake them both silly. The bags contained nothing suspicious, until she reached the last one toward the back and it sloshed wetly. As she pulled it out for a closer look, she caught a glimpse of something that seemed to be looking back at her, and dropped it quickly into the bin at her feet.
When she had finished with the kitchen, she tidied the sitting room and then took her cleaning supplies to the bathroom. The flat was generally much less work than it had once been, and she knew that John was the reason. Not that he was doing the actual cleaning himself, but he was a decidedly good influence on the one who was.
She left Sherlock's bedroom for last and headed up the stairs with a fresh set of sheets. Sherlock spent so much time on the sofa that his bed was rarely used for sleeping, but every surface was generally covered with boxes and cartons and lord knew what else. John's room was always the easier task, and she imagined it was his military background that made him so organized. She pushed the door open with her foot, and stopped in her tracks.
The sheets were stripped from the mattress and lying on the floor in a heap. The mattress was not bare, however. It was covered with boxes and cartons, and a few tidy stacks of papers. His wardrobe doors were standing open, and the shelves were bare.
Her heart sank. He couldn't possibly have moved out without her knowing it. He wouldn't move out. Not now. Hadn't she heard them leave together this morning? She thought so, but she hadn't actually seen them since day before yesterday. John had seemed to be handling the loss of Mary and the baby as well as could be expected, and he had actually seemed better the past few weeks. What if the shock had finally worn off, and he'd decided he had to leave it all behind?
She went back downstairs, still holding the fresh linens, and opened the door to Sherlock's room.
The curtains were open and sunlight filled a room that was stunningly tidy, but for one notable exception that made her smile and at the same time put a tight lump in her throat.
The bed had clearly been slept in. The duvet was hanging off the end, most of it pooled on the floor. The pillows were resting against each other, but with clear indentations that said each had been used, and the sheets were in an untidy tangle.
She didn't need to check the closet to know where John's clothes had gone.
She was still smiling when she came down the stairs with an armful of linen for the laundry and saw her boys coming in the front door.
Without a word of explanation, she dropped the sheets and gave them each a tight hug, then picked up her bundle and went into her flat.
END
