Disappearing Act

I usually don't like these kinds of fics and mangas. Like, at all. Ever. But for some reason I want to do this for this lovely little universe. Maybe because Sherlock would totally do this, even if we'd all hate him for it.

Sherlock and all brilliantly stupid characters © BBC, the Moff, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Jaimey S. Watson © Me

John Watson couldn't believe it. No, seriously, he couldn't fucking believe it. He didn't want to. He couldn't. The information wasn't allowed in his brain. As John pushed the speedometer higher the only thought on his mind was for his son James S. Watson. After skidding into the driveway of his Kent home, John was out of his car without even turning the engine off. Jaimey stood by the door, watching with his wide blue eyes as Detective Inspectors and uniform cops rushed in and out of the house. He wasn't crying, but as John scooped him into his arms he saw that Jaimey's eyes were red rimmed. For a seven year old, he was very adept at knowing what was going on around him and he knew far more than he let on.

Jaimey dropped his head onto his dad's shoulder and hid his face in the rough jean of the jacket as John stepped over the threshold to look for the DI in charge. Inspector Hopkins was writing something in his notes in the front parlor but looked up when John sidled over to him.

"Ah, Mr. Watson." He said, fixing his face into a mask of grief. Or maybe it was real and it was just that nothing was going to seem real to John for a while. He knew loss could do that to a person.

"What happened?" John asked quietly, hoping Jaimey was too out of it to understand what he was saying.

"As far as we can tell, your wife died sometime early this evening. Your sister called round about six or so and found her dead. I'm sorry." The detective clapped him briefly on the shoulder not being used as a pillow in what he probably thought was a comforting manner.

"How?" The question was said barely above a whisper but the detective heard it just the same.

"We don't know that yet. We've got our medical examiner in there but… Well, it's a ghastly sight and there probably won't be anything conclusive until we get the body back to the morgue…" the detective's words trailed off but John barely noticed.

"May I see the crime scene?" He asked.

"Well, sir, like I said, very nasty business indeed and… Well, I'm sure you wouldn't like to see that. Best to remember your wife at her best not-"

"I was in Afghanistan for four tours and I worked with Sherlock Holmes for almost two years. Ghastly scenes are not new to me, no matter how long ago that was. And if there's anything I learned from Sherlock, it's that another pair of eyes can often help." John's voice was monotone and dead, not as an attempt to keep his emotions in check, but because he was speaking of Sherlock Holmes. It had been eight years since Holmes's death and still that was the only way John could stand to talk about the Consulting Detective.

Hopkins hesitated a moment, turning over the outcome a refusal would bring before sighing. "Alright. You can have a few minutes so long as you don't touch anything. You might want to-"

But John was already turning away and shifting Jaimey so he could set him down on the couch next to a surprisingly-sober-for-once Harriett. Jaimey opened his eyes and blinked blearily at his father. John knelt down in front of him and took the small boy's hands. "Jaimey, I want you to stay here with Aunty Harry, okay? I'll be back in a minute and then I'll put you to bed, alright?" Jaimey nodded and nestled into his aunt's side. Harry pulled him into a comforting hug and rubbed his back. The Watson siblings exchanged a glance before John followed Detective Hopkins out of the room.

When the detective had said messy, he'd meant messy. John had seen a lot of blood, he was a doctor it was more or less a requirement for the job, but this was overkill. There's no way this is all Mary's, John thought after the initial shock. Mary had been found in the dining room, probably with dinner for her, Harry, and Jaimey ready. The whole room was scarlet. The walls had been splattered with blood and the carpet had taken on a brilliant scarlet color as it soaked in the dark liquid. There was blood splashed down the table and nonsense patterns drawn in it. The only spot not crimson was a single chair and the outlines of four place settings.

The bag containing Mary was being zipped up and wheeled out on a gurney. A twinge passed through John as her face was obscured by the dark plastic. Mary's throat had been cut. He didn't want to believe she was gone, but the proof was there. The proof was always there, something he'd learned through the years with Sherlock. No. No he was not thinking about that now. Not thinking about…him. Damn, now he was thinking about him.

Without a word, John turned back around in the doorway and strode back into the living room. He picked Jaimey, who was sleeping safe and sound tucked under his aunt's arm, up gently and carried him up the stairs. But he didn't go into Jaimey's room. The boy's mother had just died and if there was one thing John Watson knew, it was nightmares inspired by tragedy. Jaimey would need the comfort of his parent's wide bed. John was silent as he put on his pajamas. They were two floors up from the crime scene and he knew how the police worked. They'd clear out when they were done and Harry would leave with them. And he was the grieving husband with a small son to look after. No one would question it. Then, as he crawled into bed and pulled Jaimey closer, John felt the tears held in since that horrible phone call finally fall.

XXX

Months passed. Jaimey started the second grade without his mother and still had no friends four months in. John was worried but what could he do? Jaimey would figure it out, though he was beginning to act more and more like what John imagined his middle-name-sake was like in school every day. He picked up Jaimey after school and after a while it was almost normal. Almost normal until one day rolled around that changed it all.

That was dramatic, wasn't it?

John had just settled Jaimey into bed and was settleing down to have one last cuppa before bed and to read the paper when a knock came at the door. John glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It was almost 8, far to late for any visitors or deliveries. None the less, John stood and went to answer the door.

As the green door swung open, John swore he felt the floor drop from under him. A far too familiar pair of icy blue eyes peered out from under a forelock of thick, curling black hair. A long nose, pink at the tip from the cold, over cupid-bow lips and high cheekbones that John thought he'd never see move again. The lips parted to say something, but were interrupted by John falling backwards into the foyer.

"John!" Sherlock called, stepping over the threshold to help his friend.

John was slumped against the wall, holding himself up by clutching at the wallpaper. He squeezed his eyes shut. "No. No, no, no, this is not happening to me. Nope. Not happening."

"John?" Sherlock was flabbergasted. What was John going on about? This was not at all how Sherlock had envisioned their reunion.

"You are not here." John was chanting over and over again, as though it were a mantra. "You are dead Sherlock. You are never coming back." John's eyes flicked open again and Sherlock could see his eyes were misted over with unshed tears. John was looking anywhere other than at his ex-flatmate. "I've cracked." John declared. "I've cracked and this is just a latent side effect of Mary's death. I'm going to be getting a visit from all the people I've lost over the years. First you," Speaking at Sherlock but still refusing to look at him, "Next all the men I lost in Afghanistan, then my parents, that mate from school that died in an accident, before I slowly spin off into madness. Oh god, how could I do this to Jaimey? First he loses his mother, now his father's gone batty…"

Sherlock realized John was ranting and knew just how to pull him out of it. He moved closer to the ex Army doctor and put his hands on either side of John's face, leaning down enough to look John directly in the eye. "John, look at me." Sherlock intoned in his deep voice. "Look. At. Me."

Slowly, so slowly, John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's. Sky met ice and John knew he wouldn't be looking away any time soon. "Do I look dead?" Sherlock asked quietly. John shook his head. "Do I feel dead?" The warmth that radiated from Sherlock's hands, bare despite the cold winter outside and John wondered later if Sherlock had lost his gloves again, crept to every centimeter of John's body. And again, John shook his head. "Do you still think I'm dead?" Whispered quietly but heard nonetheless. What other answer could John give?

John opened his mouth, determined to answer Sherlock, when a small voice sliced through the little bubble that had formed around the doctor and the detective.

"Daddy?"

John's head whipped around and Sherlock pulled away, seemingly surprised to see the small boy standing on the staircase.

"Jaimey!" John exclaimed. His son should have been in bed, and now he had caught John in what could have been a compromising position. He walked over and picked up the small boy. "What are you doing up?" he asked.

Jaimey twisted around in his father's arms to stare once more at Sherlock. Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably under the small boy's scrutiny, so sharp for a seven year old. After a moment of careful examination, Jaimey turned back to his dad.

"Is that Sherlock Holmes?" He asked bluntly.

John was a bit taken back but didn't hesitate as he answered his son. "Yes Jaimey, that is Sherlock Holmes."

Jaimey smiled widely, showing the small gap between his front two teeth. "Good. I think you should offer him the guest room and let him help." He spoke with diction clearer than most children twice his age. That said, Jaimey wiggled out of his father's arms and padded back up the stairs. Pausing half way up, he turned back to Sherlock and John. "Welcome back Sherlock." He said before continuing back up to his room.

"Smart boy." Sherlock muttered. He turned back to John, who was memorizing the grain of the wood on the stairs.

They stood there for a tense minute before John spoke. "So you've been alive this whole time?" Asked barely above a whisper but still heard.

"Yes."

"And you never thought to tell me? Just wanted to leave me thinking you were dead? Didn't even think about how I felt right?" The anger was, rightfully, creeping into his voice.

"No, John that's not—"

But John wasn't listening. "I cried, you know? For months, years even, all I wanted was for you to walk back through the door and order me up and down to the TESCO to get milk, or tell me about some knew murder that was stumping all the morons down at Scotland Yard. I even started missing finding you shooting at the walls! It took me two and a half years to leave Baker Street, but I moved on. I left and I never looked back. In case you haven't noticed, I got married, I have a son, and I have a life here! But now you walk back into my life and all I want is to go back and start solving mysteries with you again! Why do you do this to me Sherlock? Why?" Somewhere in his wild rants, John started crying. He slumped against the banister and sobbed.

Sherlock was at a loss; he didn't know what to do. He'd never had to comfort anyone before. He supposed this was part of letting someone in. So he moved to sit next to John and put an awkward arm around John's shoulders. This seemed effective as the other man started crying into his trench coat.

"I'm sorry John…" Sherlock murmured quietly. "But I had to. You had a sniper pointed at your head. If I hadn't done what I'd done…" Sherlock's voice broke and he took a deep breath. "And then I had to leave, to destroy Moriarty's network. When that was done, I wanted to come back, I really did! But I wanted you to move on too. I wanted you to have a chance at a normal life…" What he didn't add was that it looked like John had succeeded, until recently, and that it had killed him when he found out.

John stopped crying, though there were still tear trails on his cheeks, and looked up at Sherlock. "Then why are you here now?" he asked.

"Because I want to help. I want to help you find," Sherlock hesitated. He couldn't bring himself to say Mary's name, "your wife's killer. Let me help, and then I promise, I'll leave. I'll leave forever and you'll never have to see my face again." Sherlock's heart was breaking as he said this, but he knew that it was what was best. John deserved the normal life that Sherlock had almost stolen from him.

But as John looked at Sherlock, a fiery determination came back into his eyes. A determination neither had realized was missing from John's eyes, but that was obvious now that it was back. The sadness was melting, almost gone now, and John could feel his heart beating in his chest for the first time in what felt like years. Sherlock was back and if John had his way, Sherlock would always be there.

"You are never leaving me again."