9Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Moffat/Gatiss world of Sherlock, nor do I own anything of Sir ACD's world of Sherlock. Also Sherlock's views pertaining to religion do not reflect my own views and are not designed to offend.
Summary: 'One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.' Behold the corpse, waiting to be proven beyond all reasonable doubt that it was courtesy of Mr. Holmes, by twelve mediocre minds.
I'm scared John, I'm so scared… It doesn't make sense, nothing adds up anymore. Suddenly two plus two equals twelve and I don't know who changed the meaning behind the numbers, or when it happened, all I know is that it makes sense to everybody else in the world but not to me, and I don't think it ever will.
Post-Reichenbach.
Warning: Character death. Angst. Events in non-chronological order so brain power is required.
Sherlock Holmes was not impressed, granted it took quite a lot to impress the man, but today was a singularly unimpressive day. His expensive, well-tailored suits that usually hugged him felt like they belonged to his (shorter and rounder) brother. This did not amuse Sherlock in the slightest.
Sherlock did not believe in foreshadowing, it was something he abided to religiously (though don't get him started on religion: that was a topic for a different day) but the weather today did seem particularly grim. Not an omen of the grim future ahead of him, he assured himself, just the universe being polite and not taunting him with something ridiculously inappropriate like sunshine and sweltering temperatures or, heaven forbid, a rainbow.
The excessive clicking of cameras was intrusive into his, the man did not appreciate the photographers that crowded his personal space, and wondered, not for the first time, if the photographers' tiny brains had yet to realise that there was no additional value to a photograph if the man was getting into the police car or emerging from it. In fact the proximity of the camera to his personal space would indicate that both shots looked exactly the same.
As he was escorted down the corridor Sherlock reflected that there was some sort of irony here. The patterns that had played out in his life: the symmetry of the whole ordeal. The man walking towards his fate, except this wouldn't be the end; Sherlock would make sure of that.
He rubbed his wrists, eyes flitting from place to place, taking everything and everyone in. If one were to look at Mr. Holmes right about now they may have seen a nervous man who trying to hide their apprehension, they would be wrong of course. He rubbed his wrists again, and fought the urge to fidget.
John's words echoed around his entire being.
"Let's give smart-arse a wide berth."
The words seemed almost humorous now, much as they were then, but now the humour comes from a darker place. A place inside Sherlock that no one should ever see.
For most people entering a courtroom is intimidating, irrespective of why you are there. If the high arches and grand architecture don't intimidate, then the stony silence and abundance of severe looking people surely would. Sherlock Holmes was not most people, and even his purpose there would not deter the man from striding into the room with his head held high. And that was exactly what the man did. Silence reigned: people did not whisper, they did not fidget, nor did they rustle papers, or cough.
Or maybe they did and Sherlock was distracted. But Sherlock Holmes did not get distracted; Sherlock Holmes took everything in, every word, every movement and every sneeze.
Moriarty. Stood off to the left. Fingers twitching. Nervous. Interesting, Why?
John should be in the gallery by now: but he didn't look up. He didn't need to.
Sherlock was led to his own bay, small, cosy. His escorts remained by his side. How quaint.
Do you remember when we first met? I've asked you this before, I realise. But honestly do you remember it? We were strangers, stood straight, tall and proud. You knew nothing of me, but I fancied myself wholly knowledgeable on the topic of John H. Watson. How wrong I was. It was so awkward, I realise now. I didn't know the protocol for those kinds of introductions; it was all so formal and stilted. When we started speaking it was easier, then everything had been organised and I had to go. I didn't really but I didn't know what else to do. And you started shouting questions: things: very important things that I had forgotten to tell you. And as I told you the details I winked and it felt wrong, and you looked at me funny. But the next day you still turned up and the oddness was forgotten, and everything just fell into place.
Moriarty was waiting on the roof.
Twelve uncomfortable looking people are already seated; the look of a convict on death row is present on nearly all of the faces, ironic considering their purpose, and his situation.
The clerk approaches the one on the far left and the proceedings begin.
I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.
An atheist, a good start. Someone level headed. Sherlock did not believe in a god. It was nothing personal he just thought that believing in an all-knowing, all-seeing power was quite ridiculous. He was a firm believer that deities had been created in various different forms to feed the human race what they wanted: a safety blanket.
Female. 37. Two marriages, both failed. Committed to her career, no place for a man in her life, or a deity. Diabetic, type 1. Journalist. Just returned from South America…Chile, doing a report on travel, hiking holidays. Had a fling with the tour guide there. Owns some sort of reptile, a snake. Two brothers, both older. Dead father. Mother ill. Worried.
I swear by almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.
Christian. Female.43. Cheating on her husband, with her much younger boss. Cheating on her boss, with her even younger assistant. Slightly overweight. Lawyer. Family law. Seen too many messy divorces to feel truly guilty about her adulterous activities.
I swear by almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.
Another Christian. Male.20. Attracted to the first female. Student of philosophy. Nut allergy, has eczema. Bad case of acne as a child. Wearing contact lenses. Probably bullied when younger. Good. Will have no self-confidence. Won't interfere with his "philosophical views" when it comes to the verdict.
I swear by almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.
Christia-no, Jewish. No, parents are Jewish. Does not practise the religion, only when around family. Bacon sandwich for breakfast. Male. 24. Gay. Degree in languages (French and German), works as an interpreter. No serious boyfriends. Ever. Recently moved into a new flat, with…a young lady, who is attracted to him.
I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.
Finally some sanity. Atheist. Vegetarian. Male. 64. Married, no longer loves wife. 3 children, 7 grandchildren. French parents. Train driver. Gambling problem.
I swear by Allah that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.
Muslim. Female. 31. Lives alone, 2 cats. Doesn't talk to her parents. Lactose intolerant.
I swear by almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendant…
Female. Atheist. 22. A lizard. Failed a-levels. Long-term boyfriend. Hypochondriac.
I swear by almighty God…
Male. 57. Respiratory disease. Single. No pets: allergic.
I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that I will faithfully try the defendant…
Male.31. Married. Wife pregnant.
I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare …
Male. 24. Hay fever.
I swear…
Female. 38.
I…
Male.
Was this game really worth it anymore? Honestly Sherlock got less entertainment out of his superior intellect than he had in years now. He derived no pleasure at this moment from knowing.
"The Woman" It still makes me smile: the jealousy I can invoke with those words. I can still remember the look on your face when she 'died'. The small flicker of hope in your eyes: that sadistic hope, the one that reflects a death wish upon another human being. I don't blame you John, I'm not going to judge you either, god knows how many times that same expression has graced my features, normally when somebody held your attention better than I did. And how could I blame you? I almost didn't see that hope: the concern and worry that were painted over it made sure of that, concern and worry for me; you were the only one that saw the pain she had put me through. That's why I couldn't blame you for wanting her to be dead; you protected me. Thank you.
But then she was alive, you were so angry. And that made me happy enough to forget that I had been fooled by her and easily manipulated DNA records.
He went there to confront him.
As he lay (pinned down) on the hard concrete of Bart's hospital roof Sherlock Holmes was acutely aware of the bruises that would form in the next few days, he could count them now, even as they were being inflicted upon him.
Voices were shouting; chaos reigned. People were crying and screaming and talking too fast for even his mind to keep up: Paramedics milling about, shock blankets en masse.
Sherlock Holmes was also actively aware of the words being said at him, not to him. The words being delivered had been stewed in monotony, repeated again for the hundredth time to the same soundtrack of clicking metal and shouting people. Also, despite being reassured more than once that there were pieces of legislation that ensured his remaining rights; at this moment in time Mr. Holmes (being sat on and having his face mashed into the concrete floor) felt that he was certainly being deprived of most of his basic human rights.
There was someone particularly interesting: five different paramedics crowded around this one person in a bid to ensure that the person was still breathing. They were. Unfortunately. Muttering reached Sherlock's ears and it became clear, he was the victim of this ordeal, some man, Sherlock had apparently been chasing, he was calming from a minor panic attack, severely shocked, an actor: Rich Brook.
A few feet in the other direction lay a body, less people crowded around this person. There was nothing they could do: the wound was fatal. Sudden death, nothing could have saved the man. Poor bugger, he just got mixed up with the wrong kind of people.
Moriarty's plan: genius, diabolical, perfect, and ruining.
"You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something, which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
The whole ordeal was painful, everything is so fresh and I don't like it one bit. I want it to stop, I kept wishing that you would appear out of thin air, as you are prone to do, and tell those people to bugger off, and let me go. Or punch them; do you remember that? When you punched the chief of the Met? You never did tell me what he did. It must have been bad. I miss those things that we used to share, things that no one else would understand, I miss you. Maybe it's a bit pathetic to want someone else to fight your battles but I needed you sometimes, just a few times to fight for me, and I would have fought some of your battles. And John? Together we would have won the war.
Sherlock had a gun; he was waiting for the right moment.
My Lord, and people of the Jury, this is an indictment of murder. The indictment sets forth: that Sherlock Holmes, being of sound mind and memory did knowingly and with malice aforethought fatally shoot John Hamish Watson. To this indictment the defendant has pleaded not guilty; if we prove him guilty; we must prove it beyond all reasonable doubt.
John, if you could see me now… what you would say to me. It gives me comfort. What a sight I've become. Do you remember my mind-hard drive analogy? Of course you do. How stupid I used to be. I remember you called me a machine once; I can't imagine you'd remember that, you were angry, you didn't mean it, I'm sure you didn't. But maybe you were right; I still ponder what makes us human, what separates us from the animals? I haven't figured it out yet, I will eventually, get back to me.
John burst through the door: confusion, chaos.
Sherlock looked smug, he wasn't being cocky he just wondered what kind of evidence or witnesses they had found to testify against him. Really there was only he and Moriarty on the roof when the events unfolded. They really must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Confusion swept over him when he saw the witness they called.
"Ms. Hooper, how would you describe the relationship between these two men?"
Molly pursed her lips, biting the side of her cheek. Then, with a bit too much enthusiasm for a courtroom:
"Um… well really, I wouldn't know how to describe it, flatmates? Colleagues, maybe? I'm not sure about friends, they were close, but they insulted each other. Constantly, but they were still closer than anyone else I have ever seen Sherlock talk to, or even interact with since… since I've known him."
"How long have you known Mr. Holmes?"
"Err…like, um, about 4 years I suppose."
She fidgets with her clothes, she's uncomfortable.
"From what you have seen of the relationship between Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes would you say they were quite hostile towards one another?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that, from what I heard that day I would say so."
"And Ms. Hooper what did you overhear that day?"
John you were so smart. I wouldn't leave her dying. I would have fought tooth and nail to get to her bedside before anyone else. It hurt that you honestly believed that I had learnt nothing of the value of those around me; that I honestly wouldn't care about our dear old landlady. You were the only one who knew everything we had done for her and everything she had done for us. How long did it take for you to realise? That it had been a setup? It can't have been long because before I knew it you had come back. You had faith in me. Thank you.
He dropped the gun.
"Yeah, speaking." Pause "Err, what? ... What happened? Is she okay? Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming."
"What is it?"
"Paramedics. Mrs Hudson – she's been shot."
"What? How?"
"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract...Jesus. Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go."
"You go. I'm busy."
"Busy?"
"Thinking. I need to think."
"You need to...? Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."
"She's my landlady."
"She's dying...You machine. Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own."
"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."
"No. Friends protect people."
I lied John, I lied an awful lot and I'm a coward too. I couldn't even tell you that I lied to your face. I never fabricated any facts or figures. Everything and anything to do with cases was 100% true. But some things: mostly small but sometimes large, often you saw right through my empty words: I'm sure we have some biscuits, have you checked the top cupboards? I didn't use the rest of the milk. What experiment? Your computer? I haven't seen it. The blood-cubes in the freezer weren't of my design. My phone's downstairs I tried calling Mrs. Hudson but she couldn't hear me. I'm not hungry. Of course I'm sure. What needles? I don't need help, especially from you.
Someone picked up the gun. It wasn't him or John. He was sure of it. He thinks.
When it was explained like that Sherlock seemed like a heartless bastard, that couldn't and wouldn't ever care for anyone.
Thinking about it, it did seem that Sherlock came across that way and he wonders why John ever stuck with him.
He was a heartless bastard wasn't he? Isn't that why they were all here? To prove beyond all reasonable doubt that Sherlock Holmes had no heart?
But Sherlock might just agree with these people now.
Heartless.
Honestly it got to a point when the guilt that ate at me reached its boiling point, I couldn't cope. It took me ages to think of something, the thought of just talking to you never really occurred. I bought a mobile phone; a cheap one and I hid it away. Every time I told a lie I would text the phone with it, the truth behind it and my justification. It was for you. Looking back I realise how cowardly that was of me but I still look at the phone and wish you could have read it. Or that I had enough courage not to lie to you in the first place. But you did it too; I know you did. Because my biggest lie, our biggest lie was the one we lived every day, the small ones that amounted to the acres of space between us: 'This is my flatmate. We just live together. This is my colleague.'
Click, the tape recorder starts whirring.
Silence.
"Mr. Holmes your co-operation would be much appreciated and will make this whole ordeal much quicker and easier."
Silence.
"Right then, it seems we will be doing this the long way. Mr. Holmes please tell us what happened that day."
Silence.
"Where were you on the 15th January 2012?"
And then, finally: "You know where I was, why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?"
"Mr. Holmes what happened on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital?"
Silence
"Mr. Holmes a weapon was recovered, the ballistics report showed that the weapon was fired, the bullet removed from John Watson was matched to the weapon recovered"
"Statement"
"Sorry?"
"That was a statement not a question"
"Your finger prints were all over the weapon"
"That's not a question, correct me if I'm wrong but I was under the impression that interviews usually consisted of one party questioning another?"
"The forensics show that nobody else touched that weapon"
"Again: not a question"
"Interview suspended at 11:43 AM"
Click. Tape recorder stops.
"Sherlock I can't help you if you're not going to try, I can't do anything if you're not going to help yourself, I know you didn't shoot John, but as far as everyone else is concerned you were the only one on that roof with any sort of motive."
"I knew him. That's not a motive."
"That's more of a motive than anyone else on that roof; Rich Brook has never met John"
"Rich Brook does not exist"
"I know that, but no one else does"
Click. Tape recorder.
"Interview continued at 11:47 AM. Mr. Holmes did the gun belong to you?"
Silence.
"Did you shoot the gun at any point on the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital?"
Silence.
I keep forgetting. I keep turning around to make a smart remark, one that I know you would have told me was inappropriate before smiling at me. And really I must look insane, because now when something pops into my head you are still the first person I want to tell, and I smile and turn and you're not there. For a moment it confuses me, I think you've gone to the toilet or something, but then I remember and, honestly John? I don't want to remember.
John was on the floor, and for Sherlock it was all over.
The cold of the tiles was seeping through his skin and into the very core of him. It infiltrated his blood, and froze his brain. He had a vague awareness that he had fallen, that he was silently collapsed on the floor of the grimy bathroom of the courthouse. He would be summoned in a minute but he couldn't bring himself to get up. His brain was failing him, the details that were once so clear, were now cast into doubt. He wondered if this was what everyone else felt like. The pressure to just agree with others was becoming unbearable. It annoyed the man. Never before had what others said led him to question his own thoughts and opinions.
He had studied social conformity for some time, and had quite effectively trained himself to ignore the influence of group pressure. So what was this?
He picked himself off of the floor; he doesn't bother to dust himself off, he leaves the bathroom, and returns to the courtroom. With what's left of his dignity in tatters.
Sometimes I wanted to shout at you John. Scream at you. Tell you that you didn't understand, like a teenager, you always said that I was just a big child. But I could never do that, it was unfair, I wasn't angry with you. A lot of the time you were just in the way. And you did understand, you always understood and that was what annoyed me the most. But I would never hurt you.
Anger: undiluted. Moriarty's neck was soft and malleable under his fingertips.
"Mr. Brook please tell us exactly what happened on the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital on the 15th January"
On long inhale and then:
"Sherlock was chasing me, he was...he was angry that I had sold him out, that I had told other people what his game was. He followed me to the roof, and he kept saying things, he said he was going to kill me. When I got to the roof he pulled a gun out. He was trying to make me jump off, if I didn't he was going to shoot me. Dr. Watson came up the stairs then but he didn't know what Holmes had done, paying me that is. I started talking, telling him everything, he looked shocked and then angry, he told both of us that he had called the police, that we should just calm down. Then he started to ask Holmes if any of what I said was true, he denied it all, and then...then… It all happened so quickly, before I knew it Dr. Watson was on the floor, so was the gun; he had dropped it. And he looked so angry; he turned on me and attacked me, completely unprovoked. I was so lucky the police got there when they did."
Can you hear him John? Can you hear the lies that he is spewing? I really hope you can. I really wish you were here right now, maybe that is selfish. And maybe it's selfish that, right now, I only want you to be here so you can give evidence, so you can defend me. I do wish you could be alive, but wishing achieves nothing, and if you can't just be here for me I would really like to walk away from this intact so I can mourn you in my own time, in my own way.
Police everywhere; Sherlock is pressed into the floor.
When the Jury is asked for their verdict, but Sherlock misses the interaction, he has missed many things recently: details start blurring into one mass of anti colour, shades of black skies, white concrete, grey blood. It seems that colour has leaked from the world when Sherlock wasn't looking.
Things in his head don't match up any more, but he isn't worried, it's only natural. When John came into his life everything became sharper, more focused. Now that he was gone it would seem that someone had gone over everything with industrial strength sandpaper, blunting corners, softening edges.
The Jury look resolute, the Judge sums up, looking bored. Sherlock doesn't look worried, and he isn't: his inner turmoil has long since settled. The calm and collected façade actually reflects his constant internal monologue, and he doesn't care what these twelve strangers think. Because he knows. And he also knows that he will see John's body fall everyday for the rest of his life, behind his eyelids and in his dreams.
People often remark that certain people, places or events are branded onto their brains, or etched into their hearts. Sherlock did not feel this way, nor did he think that such poetic metaphors were strictly necessary; all he knew was that his brain was not yet (nor, he feared, would it ever become) numb enough to forget, lose or misplace the constant reel playing in his mind. A gunshot, a cold thud.
Guilty.
He doesn't need the voices of twelve mediocre minds, to tell his far superior one something that it has been sure of for hours now. Even if they think differently, even if by some sick twist of fate, they have convinced themselves otherwise. Sherlock will always know the true verdict. He no longer had a heart; it died on the roof of Bart's hospital. Shot. By a monster.
Guilty.
He can feel it in his bones, in his muscles and most importantly in his head. He has accepted it. It whispers around him, in his dreams, in the turn of a key, the rustle of pages, the final slam of a door.
Guilty.
The Jury foreman stands up.
And Sherlock realises that, although his heart may have died on that god-forsaken roof, it can still break.
Opens his mouth.
And it will. A little bit more every day.
Speaks.
A solitary tear escapes the stony fortress of Sherlock Holmes.
John you don't listen anymore, I know you don't. I don't expect you to forgive me; I just want to know that you'll pass the Petri dish I ask for, at the right time, without questioning what's inside it, despite your burning curiosity. I want to believe that you'll still side with me in an argument with Mycroft, even when we both know that I am wrong, and that we will both keep up the pretence even when he leaves. Because against Mycroft I am always right. We both know that.
And there's a famous actor nearby: a witness in shock.
Now, in the grey monotony of Sherlock Holmes' life it is unsure what causes the man more pain. He can't decide, or rather he doesn't know, and for once he is more than happy to admit that he doesn't know something. Because not knowing makes everything a bit better, and if one day he found the answer lurking somewhere in the dark recesses of his brain he was unsure of what would happen.
The sentiment that reverberates throughout him, these feeling that he knows will never stop hounding him. The love that is imprisoned in his cold steely heart (because even if it was proved that he did have one it could not be made of that same stuff as everyone else) would never stop trying to escape. And in a way he wished that it would break out of its cage, but at the same time he knows that he could never put it into words, he would never be able to make others understand or even believe in the emotion he held.
Or.
The doubt: Pure, untarnished doubt. It's just as paralyzing as the love, more paralyzing than fear, and more so than fear of the unknown because to a certain degree it is the unknown. The only thing that can eclipse his feelings is the uncertainty.
He no longer sees everything, but that doesn't bother him that much, really what is there to see anymore?
There is no work anymore, but really? Who cares?
But.
He can no longer identify the hand that held the gun.
The shaking, trembling, but still so steady hand that clasped that crude metal form of death, clasped it, quite ironically, like it was a lifeline.
I'm scared John, I'm so scared. Baskerville is nothing on what I feel now. It doesn't make sense, nothing adds up anymore. Suddenly two plus two equals twelve and I don't know who changed the meaning behind the numbers, or when it happened, all I know is that it makes sense to everybody else in the world but not to me, and I don't think it ever will.
Sherlock thoroughly disliked his brain. Right now his mind was the ultimate torture. It replayed the events constantly, no breaks, ever.
Sherlock Holmes had, on more than one occasion, considered the kind of damage a solid wall could do to his mind, his experience with concrete in floor form had proven that some damage could be achieved, but he wondered if it was enough. He found himself wondering more and more as the days went by. He tried to conduct an experiment once, he's sure that he failed.
And now the walls were made of clouds, as is the floor. He feels like he's floating, but he's still trapped, trapped in his own head, in a uniform: imprisoned by the clouds.
Nothing has any texture anymore; things are simply blurry, fuzzy around the edges. Sherlock would give his right arm for something sharp, with definition just so he can clarify that he is not insane.
The blur of his surroundings had seeped into his life and now he found it hard to separate fact from fiction, events that were once so clear to him have become a stain on his life: An ink blob.
It's all over now. Ruined.
My memory of you is blurred, tainted with blood: yours and mine. The writing is on the wall now, and it spells out your name. And the red that smudges my fingertips betrays the true origins of the word, and it's my apology, my final salute: My last bow. Because it's running out now, trickling down quickly but not quickly enough, the time that slips away is mercifully short and even though I know that it won't reconcile us: that I won't meet you again this peace is so much better than the headache. What does this make me in your eyes? A hero? Or just human?
And really John, this is it, the final proof that they needed.
That I needed
Closure
And I thank you for that.