Lighting Fires

My first foray into writing for Sherlock! I'm more used to beta-ing fics for this fandom, so please be kind! And for those waiting for an update on my HP fics, I will get around to it, honest! This idea just took hold and wouldn't let go until I got it out of my system.

This was inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating – in my vision, John knows that Sherlock is still alive and does his quiet and loyal best to light the way for his friend to come home. You can read it as strong friendship, possibly pre-slash, if you like.

I've quoted some of John's and Sherlock's lines from the final episode, taken from Ariane Devere's transcript – thanks Ariane!

Disclaimer : not mine, no money.

John glances over his shoulder to see Mrs Hudson walking away across the cemetery, still sniffling into her hanky. He waits until he's sure that their housekeeper is out of earshot before turning back to the gravestone in front of him.

He takes a moment to appreciate the peace of the location. The last couple of weeks have been…difficult. Scrap that, bloody awful. Having to give his statement to the police, to the coroner…worst of all, to Mycroft Holmes, stiff and silent, his face chalk-white.

And all the time, seeing that body fall, over and over in his mind. The unseeing eyes staring upwards from a blood-streaked face. The cold, motionless hand that slipped from his frantic grasp. Waking gasping and wild-eyed from nightmares where he almost made it, almost stopped him from jumping...

And then, a week ago, the burial. No official funeral. He had stood firm on that. Mycroft could think what the hell he liked, but Sherlock would have hated it; he would have detested the fakery of religious expression, the meaningless hymns, the formality. John wasn't having it; he didn't care what traditions the Holmes' maintained. As far as he was concerned, it was the least he could do for his friend. Somewhat surprisingly, Mycroft didn't push the issue; he seemed happy to leave most of the arrangements to John.

The occasion was sparsely attended, as he might have expected. The only family members were Mycroft and his mother, a remote, rather cold woman – the type of mother that he could easily imagine producing two such emotionally-repressed brothers. John stood separately with Mrs Hudson. The two of them were the closest that Sherlock had probably had to 'family', but they couldn't bring themselves to join the Holmes' family by the graveside.

A strangely quiet, dry-eyed Molly attended, darting guilty looks at John without quite meeting his eyes. A few more were there in the background – some he recognised as grateful clients; some he didn't but suspected might be fans of his blog – obsessed with Sherlock, probably. He tried to avoid contact with them. A couple of kids lurked behind a nearby gravestone; he recognised them as members of Sherlock's homeless network and appreciated the gesture.

A guilt-ridden Lestrade was the sole representative of New Scotland Yard – the organisation that owed Sherlock so much. He didn't expect Sally Donovan or Anderson to feel any genuine sorrow over Sherlock's death or to show any respect by turning up (indeed, it was perhaps just as well they hadn't), but even Dimmock didn't attend – no doubt cowed by the Chief Commissioner's current backlash against their unofficial consultant detective. More than anything, that stiffened John's resolve – the insult to his friend prickled his neck, made him stand with military stiffness throughout.

And now – here – finally, silence.

Sherlock would hate it, he realises, ruefully. All the time he'd been in the detective's presence, he could count the moments of genuine peace and tranquillity on the fingers of one hand. The detective was always on the move, seemingly unable to keep that long, uncoordinated body still. He'd pace about the living room with maniacal energy, dressing gown swishing as his mind raced with facts and figures. Or he'd be out, running down the stairs, arm out for the inevitable taxi that seemed to pass 221B Baker Street at the very moment it was needed. Or he'd be darting around the scene of a crime, gesturing as he made his astonishing deductions. Or running through the streets of London after some criminal or other, dodging pedestrians and cars and signposts with practised ease, coat flying, John trying to keep up as always.

Even in quieter moments in their flat, he'd be playing his violin or hovering over an experiment on the kitchen table or making rude comments about John's viewing choices, perched in his chair with knees pulled up, like a bird about to take flight.

Oh, yes, he'd hate this… this absence.

John looks at the grave, opens his mouth… and then hesitates. Now it comes to it, he has no idea what to say. He clears his throat and starts speaking, tentatively at first.

"You ... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There."

Well, probably the least inspiring eulogy ever delivered. Thank Christ he hadn't had to speak at a funeral.

He breathes out shakily and steps up to the gravestone. It's cold under his touch, but it's all he has left. Can Sherlock feel his touch, buried deep and cold under the ground? Can he feel John tapping the stone, as he might once have tapped Sherlock's shoulder?

Sherlock wasn't a tactile individual. He appeared to lack awareness of personal boundaries and frequently stood far too close to John – at first, the former soldier, ever alert, had had to steel himself not to step away. Later, when he knew the man better, he recognised that this was just Sherlock's way; that the detective meant nothing personal by it - he merely didn't understand (or care) that he might make others uncomfortable. And Sherlock thought nothing of asking John to retrieve his phone from his trousers pocket whilst mid-experiment; at first, John had taken this as a form of flirtation, but it became apparent that Sherlock had no knowledge of, or interest in, the concept of groping as a form of sexual intent.

But, for all that, Sherlock didn't care to be touched except when strictly necessary. Poor Molly had had her hand shrugged off in impatience on more than one occasion, and Lestrade had clearly learned the hard way not to attempt to physically restrain the detective – that was clear from the way he took care to keep well away from Sherlock at crime scenes. John restricted himself to an occasional pat on the shoulder – a pat that could mean any number of things: are you OK?... leave the bereaved husband alone, Sherlock… yes, I know Anderson's a complete moron… I believe you… I support you… or even merely how about a nice cuppa? And, strangely, Sherlock seemed not to mind it from John.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much," he blurts out, surprising himself with the sudden self-evident truth of this statement. Why hadn't he realised that before?

Oh, he'd had fun with Sherlock these last months – he'd enjoyed the midnight pursuits, the cruel verbal sparring between Sherlock and his brother that had secretly amused him, the amazement that he always felt at the depth of information Sherlock could elicit from a dead body. The danger, the craziness… the sheer, life-affirming Sherlockness of his life. He missed that uncertainty – the sense of waking up each morning and genuinely not knowing how the day would end.

But beyond that, he did owe Sherlock more than the man would ever know. Without Sherlock, he'd have still been that sad, lonely shell of a man that had returned from Afghanistan, leaning heavily on a stick, moving between a succession of cheap grotty hotels. No home; no family to talk of, apart from a sister who was usually more concerned about where her next drink was coming from than about her younger brother.

221B Baker Street – his home? Sherlock - his family? And yet, that's what they had become - ironic that he hadn't seen that until it was too late.

He feels the tears coming and takes a shaky breath. No. Not here. He can fall apart in privacy, but not here, in this public place. It's not his way, never has been - and anyway, Sherlock would scorn it. Too much emotion. Now, more than ever, he can't let his friend down.

"OK." He turns away, takes two steps, stops and turns back, knowing suddenly what he just has to say.

"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't ... be ... dead."

Now he's said it, finally said the words out loud, he can't stop – he's begging, desperately. "Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

He gestures hopelessly at the gravestone, and then, as his voice gives out, the tears do finally come and he bends his head, feeling the grief sweeping over him once more.

It catches him every now and then, this pain - this searing agony. An image of that falling body, those dead eyes, blurs his vision, and it always seems that only tears can wash the horror away and allow him to see clearly again. He rubs furiously at his face and forces his heavy shoulders back into a military stance.

I can do this for you, Sherlock. I have to do this – for you. What else can I offer?

He comes to attention in front of his best friend. It's a silent salute to the fallen – all he can offer now it's too late. And then, with a final acknowledging nod, he turns on his heel and strides away. He feels the familiar ache in his thigh as he seeks to walk firmly without the limp that has returned to plague him once more.

He can't see Mrs Hudson. As he nears the church, he turns his head and looks back again, searching for his landlady, but seeing only damp ground and solitary gravestones, with a smattering of tall trees behind, marking the boundaries of the cemetery. Not a single person in sight, just a brief impression of a tall, dark figure moving quickly through the trees in the opposite direction. No sign of her. She may have returned to the taxi that is still waiting for them by the gate. He can't blame her; it's a damp, chilly day. Since Sherlock's death, the weather has matched his state of mind; days of grey dreariness, punctured by the occasional fierce rain storm.

He spares a thought for the homeless people he saw at the funeral – he must make an effort to track them down, make sure they're OK. That's something positive he can do. Sherlock was always giving them money for information; they'll miss that. Perhaps he could look through Sherlock's clothes – in amongst the designer suits and silk shirts, there might be something he could pass on. That coat for a start – it would keep someone warm –

He stops dead. The coat. Last seen covered in bright red blood. He hadn't given a thought to Sherlock's personal effects; no one had given them to him. The small part of his mind that still operated logically in the immediate aftermath had naturally assumed that Mycroft had taken them as Sherlock's official next-of-kin. Presumably the coat was among those effects, unless it had been incinerated at the hospital.

So why, then, is his mind telling him that he has just seen it?

He turns quickly, frantically, his eyes narrowing as he scans the scene once more. Nothing – just graves and trees. And then it comes to him - trees… that dark figure…

His breath catches and he takes a quick half-step towards the trees. And stops again and stares, his gaze suddenly blank and unseeing. He stands absolutely still for perhaps two minutes.

And then, Captain John Watson stiffens, assuming a military stance once more. He turns on his heel and marches briskly out of the graveyard, his face pale and set.

As he walks along, an eagle-eyed observer might just notice that his hands, stuffed into his jacket pockets, are clenched into fists. But, beyond that, he's just another anonymous mourner, who passes through the cemetery gates and out of sight into the bustling London crowds.

He hadn't meant to come back to Baker Street – had told Mrs Hudson that he couldn't face it. And yet, here he is, standing in the doorway to their flat.

Nothing has changed. It's as if their landlady has been too afraid to touch anything. Perhaps she thinks that if she takes that step, it will be a final admission that the boy she loved fiercely – the boy who would throw a thug out of a window for daring to hurt her – will definitely not be returning.

Papers and equipment are scattered haphazardly. An old, unwashed mug sits on the coffee table – he can smell the dregs. The skull, the violin, an abandoned experiment, all in their usual places. A book lies open on the floor in the corner, under the bookshelves, and he has a sudden memory of Sherlock's frantic search for the hidden camera recording their every move. And he remembers his words to Lestrade that night, pointing at the police detective's forehead:

"You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home…there."

Amazingly, there's no sign that anyone has been in here since their arrest the night before The Fall. He can only assume that Lestrade has used whatever remains of his power at New Scotland Yard to prevent any searches being carried out – so far, anyway. Otherwise they'd have no doubt been all over the place, looking for evidence of fraud. John's jaw tightens as he imagines Anderson's fingers itching to take the place apart.

He walks heavily across the floor and sinks into his usual chair. It's possible that the police are too busy. He can just picture the frantic activity going on at the Yard right now – all those cases that Sherlock solved being taken apart in the search for evidence that the consulting detective was involved – was the perpetrator all along.

No doubt, Sherlock is a deep embarrassment to them. Perhaps they intend to bury him; perhaps they hope that once the tabloids get bored of the sensationalism, no one will remember that they once relied on the word of an apparent madman.

Part of him wonders vaguely whether Lestrade will survive the cull… then he dismisses it. Unimportant.

He shuts his eyes. If he doesn't look, doesn't see the dust motes floating in the air of this…mausoleum, he can imagine that Sherlock is still there. He can be sitting at ease, barefoot in his jeans and t-shirt, with a newspaper on his lap and a cup of tea in his hand - and any moment, any moment now, Sherlock will emerge from his room, dressed in one of his designer suits, tapping impatiently at his mobile, moving towards the door, calling to John in that imperious voice, absolutely confident that the doctor will drop his cup and hurry after him.

As he always does, of course. Always did.

Any moment now.

He opens his eyes again. A brief ray of sunlight emerges from the clouds and casts its light across the dusty room.

The silence oppresses him, and he lets out a sigh, almost jumping as it echoes around the room. And finally speaks.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?"

He sees the image in his mind. Empty cemetery, dripping trees and a dark, figure, moving quickly. The swish of that coat. He chuckles humourlessly.

"Bloody stupid idiot – brain the size of a planet, and you didn't think I'd notice that coat?"

He'd always noticed the coat. Sherlock's admiration of its sleek lines was obvious – he'd even worn it in rural Dartmoor. John remembered with fondness the way he'd pull the collar up to 'look cool'. It was something normal in Sherlock – something that John would cling to when his friend was at his most exasperating and inhuman, because it reminded him that even Sherlock Holmes occasionally succumbed to the human weakness of male vanity.

He stands, restlessly, and moves to the window. The pane is dusty and he has to rub it with his fingers to see the small figures moving up and down the street below.

Somewhere out there is a man that everyone thinks is dead.

From the moment the image of that figure had come into his mind – an image that had made him freeze momentarily in the cemetery - his mind had been racing. He'd almost followed the man, but something – some remnant of survival instinct surviving from his military days – had stopped him dead. Something had made him swallow his reaction, set his face into something resembling grief and continue on his path out of the cemetery.

Even as his pulse beat so frantically he thought he might faint, he'd managed to continue moving through the crowds – numb and speechless, the taxi and Mrs Hudson forgotten. Somehow, his feet had walked him here, in the direction of Baker Street – as if his body was able to take over and direct him home when his mind was no longer capable of it.

"But how… Jesus, Sherlock, how'd you do it?"

He visualises the scene again; he can do it dispassionately now that he knows it's just a trick –

He backs up, runs the previous scene through his mind. Looking up at the dark figure on the edge of the roof; a sense of rising panic at the words being choked down his phone. Sherlock's 'note'. Hang on - what was it that Sherlock had said?

"It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

And suddenly, it's perfectly clear. He was trying to tell me - to warn me.

Just before that comment, he'd said, "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you". If he'd been talking about that, he'd have said "It was a trick", but he hadn't – he'd said "It's a trick."

Present tense, not past tense.

"He was trying to tell me." He says it out loud, to give it substance. "He was telling me that this was the trick – this set up, the conversation, the 'note', The Fall – all of it."

So, he's alive – he must be. Sherlock is alive. He's alive. And I've seen him. He repeats it in his mind, over and over again, trying to make it feel real. He releases his grip on the window sill, pushes himself away and turns around, striding across the floor, suddenly unable to keep still. An energy he hasn't felt for two weeks is rushing through his veins, spreading out, shaking him fully back to life.

Elation washes over him; he can't stop grinning like an idiot. Of course, when he catches up with the bastard, he'll make his feelings perfectly clear, but right now he speaks to the walls and the empty room: "Fucking hell, Sherlock, thanks a lot, mate. You really had me going there…"

He stops, breaks off.

And isn't that the point?

Suddenly sober, he frowns at the Cluedo board, still stuck to the wall by a penknife. The real question he should be asking is not how but why Sherlock felt it necessary to fake his death.

He thinks over Sherlock's words again: "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

Why did he say that to John? And why did he emphasise those specific people – Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, and Molly? Why not Mycroft, for example – or Sally Donovan? Why was it so important that the four of them got that message?

What was significant about them – what bound the four of them to the aloof, arrogant and lonely consulting detective?

John would say friendship, but Sherlock would surely scorn him. What was it he'd said – "Alone protects me"? And John had contradicted him; had said "Friends protect people". It was the last thing he'd said before leaving - and he'd spoken in anger. But then, he remembers something else – Sherlock standing in another graveyard, saying, "I don't have friends…I've just got one," his eyes focused on the doctor as he speaks, making his meaning clear.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it of unwanted emotions. What else? Well, they'd all been victims of their connection to Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had been targeted by thugs, lonely little Molly had been charmed by 'Jim from IT', and as for John, well he'd been beaten up on numerous occasions and threatened with death by shotbow, gun, bomb, even a mythical great hound. And Lestrade – well, he was suffering right now by his association.

Victims… every one of us. Victims of Sherlock Holmes…

No, not of Sherlock - of Jim Moriarty. As always, John has to repress a shiver as he hears that creepy high voice in his head: "I will burn the heart out of you." And Sherlock, only two weeks ago, in another lifetime: "He wants to destroy me inch by inch".

How do you destroy a man whose first love is 'the Work'? By taking it away from him, of course. And how do you do that? Bit by bit – inch by inch, just as Sherlock said. First his reputation, and then anyone who still believes in him. Anyone who loves -

He shies away from that sudden revelation. Refocus, John. His leg is starting to ache again, and he sits down, slowly.

Sherlock needed John to believe a lie, and he wanted him to pass that lie onto three other people in particular. He'd known that if John believed it, the others would also. Why? To make it easier for them when he faked his death? To protect them in some way?

John grips his hands together, lacing his fingers as he thinks. In medical-military style, he takes the facts apart and lays them out mentally.

Fact 1: Sherlock faked his death. Why? Presumably because he had to; because the alternative (whatever it might be) was worse.

Fact 2: John had to witness his death. That's why Sherlock had arranged that fake call about Mrs Hudson and had timed it precisely, so that John would return in time to see his fall without witnessing what had happened prior to it.

Fact 3: Sherlock had deliberately drawn John's attention to three people: Greg Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper. These people were of significance – in some way, he was trying to give John the reason for his actions.

Fact 4: John had been a witness and – crucially – he had to remain a witness to the detective's supposed death.

He can only speculate as to what led Sherlock to that rooftop. Since The Fall, there's been no word, or sign, of Moriarty - or the self-declared Rich Brook. Kitty Riley's expose has been carefully buried by more 'interesting' stories in the tabloids – he senses Mycroft's hand in that. Meanwhile, the man himself seems to have disappeared into thin air. No gloating response to Sherlock's 'death', which John might have expected. No cleverly-staged media appearances either.

But, it's clear that, wherever Moriarty is now, he had been around when Sherlock had staged that rooftop scene and the conversation. The detective had to jump – and John had to be a witness.

John doesn't know all the reasons why, but he doesn't need to. One thing he is sure of – Sherlock needs him now, more than ever. He needs to make sure that the world continues to believe that the consulting detective is dead.

And John Watson will not let him down.