Here we are then.
I would like to apologise for both the delay and my not replying to reviews - time's been rather... short lately.
Enjoy.
Ruins in a World that Shattered
Part 7
John waits for Sherlock to wake up in hospital, doesn't leave Sherlock's hospital room. The relief when Sherlock's eyes flutter open finally takes his breath away and he is shaky, so shaky, and ridiculously happy.
"Mary shot me," Sherlock says as soon as he is able to talk coherently, as soon as he is coherent, and John doesn't believe him at first.
"Mary shot me," Sherlock repeats, and Mary doesn't meet John's eyes and doesn't protest, and finally, finally, he accepts the truth.
And his world shatters.
His world shatters, but at least he's still got Sherlock.
~O~
John waits for Sherlock to wake up in hospital, doesn't leave Sherlock's hospital room. The relief when Sherlock's eyes flutter open finally takes his breath away and he is shaky, so shaky, and ridiculously happy.
Sherlock doesn't say anything, doesn't remember who shot him, doesn't recall the final moments before he has lost consciousness.
John is fine with that, he really is, as long as Sherlock is alive, and close to safe, and Mycroft's men are looking for the shooter.
Mary gives birth to a wonderful daugther, they name her Rose and make Sherlock her godfather, no matter if he wants to or if he doesn't.
Sherlock still doesn't remember, Mary doesn't say anything, but John notices the looks his wife is giving his best friend, and it makes him uncomfortable.
Sherlock dies a few weeks later, is poisoned, and no-one knows why, or by whom.
Mary doesn't have the look again.
~O~
John waits for Sherlock to wake up in hospital, doesn't leave Sherlock's hospital room. The relief when Sherlock's eyes flutter open finally takes his breath away and he is shaky, so shaky, and ridiculously happy.
"Mary shot me," he says, still barely coherent, with Mary and John in the room.
Mary and John laugh, Sherlock recovers and doesn't mention it again.
Sherlock doesn't say anything, states that he can't remember. He doesn't remember.
John is fine with that, he really is, as long as Sherlock is alive, and close to safe, and Mycroft's men are looking for the shooter.
Mary gives birth to a wonderful daugther, they name her Rose and make Sherlock her godfather, no matter if he wants to or if he doesn't.
A few weeks later, Mycroft stops by, and he exposes Mary, tells John that it has been her who has shot Sherlock, that she has talked him into keeping his silence, that Sherlock has.
John's world shatters, he is furious at Sherlock, and shocked and furious at Mary.
His world shatters, but at least he's still got Sherlock.
~O~
John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.
"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."
"Mary," John says.
Mary shoots them both and Magnussen.
~O~
John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.
"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."
"Mary," John says.
Mary shoots herself, and John's baby.
~O~
John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.
"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."
"Mary," John says.
Mary shoots Magnussens, and then surrenders.
John visits her in prison, talks to her, she gives birth to a wonderful daughter, and finally, finally, he forgives her.
Because he's still got Sherlock.
~O~
John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.
"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."
"Mary," John says.
Mary doesn't shoot anyone, but explains.
Sherlock urges John to leave Mary, and he does.
He moves back to Baker Street, and has his daughter every second weekend, on the case-free weekend.
He's fine with that.
~O~
John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.
"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."
"Mary," John says.
Mary doesn't shoot anyone, but explains.
John leaves Mary, and Sherlock talks him into going back to her. He does, and he forgives her, after many, many tiring months.
Mary gives birth to a wonderful daugther, they name her Rose and make Sherlock her godfather, no matter if he wants to or if he doesn't.
John is fine with that, he really is.
~O~
John doesn't wait for Sherlock to wake up. He spends the night in a hospital, next to his best friend's dead body, and can't believe what has happened.
He grieves, and can't believe it, but it has to go on.
Mary gives birth to a wonderful daugther, they name her Rose and make Greg her godfather, because there is no Sherlock anymore.
Rose is wonderful, simply wonderful, and the light of John's life.
Months later, Mycroft stops by, and he exposes Mary, tells John that it has been her who has shot Sherlock, that she is a former assassin, that she has shot his best friend.
John's world crumbles, and he loses everything.
This, he decides, is the worst outcome possible, and this is what has happened.
~O~
John attends a funeral, a funeral Mycroft has arranged for and planned, with a corpse Mycroft has provided, John assumes, a funeral for his wife who isn't dead, a funeral that feels as if he is burying his own life.
Everybody is crying around him, everybody except for him.
He can't.
What for?
"We'll always be there for you," they tell him, and he nods, mechanically.
"If you need anything," Mycroft tells him, and he nods, again.
He doesn't feel, not anymore, simply... functions. Functions.
He is a high-functioning sociopath, or wishes he was.
He doesn't know how to go on, but he has to. For Rose, for his daughter.
~O~
Sherlock begins to fade in his memory. His comments are less snarky, his voice sounds less powerful, his eyes are less intense.
John doesn't like it, but he can't help it. He tells Rose stories of her godfather, of her second godfather, the one who has died before she has been born, tells her about cases.
He tells her stories of her mother, of their wedding, of how he had proposed to her. He never mentions Mary's past, or what has really happened to her. He can't, and he has made a promise.
A promise.
There's another promise, one he has given Rose, not in words, but one he owes her, and that's why he keeps going.
He will always love her, his daughter, and because he's the only one she's got left, he doesn't give up.
He's okay with it, as long as he doesn't think. And that's something he never does.
Sussex, that's where he moves with Rose, thanks to Mycroft's financial support. He takes what he can get, for Rose, and even accepts Mycroft's money. A nice, little village, with nice, boring people, not asking questions about a single father, a widower, with an infant daughter. Nobody asks questions, of course not, they all think he's grieving for his wife.
It's so much more.
Sussex, away from London, away from where's lost everything.
He's fine, he really is.
~O~
Sometimes he can still smell the flavour of Mary's cooking - not very professional, but she's always liked cooking, and he's always eaten what she's managed to produce -, and his throat narrows at that.
Sometimes, he still wakes in his bed, reaches over, to the other side, only to find it empty, painstakingly empty, void of his wife, of the version of his wife he has loved.
Sometimes, he can still see Mary and Rose together, Mary smiling widely, happy, smirking at him, Rose giggling.
Rose is giggling, but she's sitting in her high chair, not in her mother's arms.
Sometimes, he reads about someone who's been murdered in the newspaper, and he's about to call out, to alert Sherlock, to alleviate his boredom. He always manages to remember before he actually says a word.
Sometimes, when the house he has bought is eerily quiet, he thinks, for a split-second, that there are the sounds of a violin, the sounds of someone playing the violin. There never is.
Sometimes, when it's warm outside, and the sun is shining and Rose is happy, there's a bee flying past him, back to its hive, and he... Suddenly, tears spring to his eyes when Sherlock says, right next to him, from his armchair in 221B: "Of course I'll retire some day. Move somewhere, keep bees. Who knows", and then he's here again, somewhere in Sussex, his fidgety daughter on his lap who's screaming: "Bee! Bee!"
John swallows and closes his eyes for a second. "Yes, bee," he answers, and grabs Rose more tightly.
Sometimes, he dreams everything is well.
He always wakes, and it never is.
Thank you for reading.
(You are free to imagine that it actually was a dream.)