Day 114 [locked to John Watson]

[highfunctioning]

Sherlock was back in the lab.  Granted, he was accomplishing basically nothing, but staying in his room was garnering too much unwanted attention.  So he decided a return to form was the only remedy, however mechanical.  Currently he was running tests on a blood sample Mystique had been kind enough to furnish him with, and it served a double purpose; he'd been genuinely curious about her mutation, and she had been one of the over-interested parties who had demanded he "stop sulking."  She had even been so bold as to suggest he "do something, anything", and far be it for him to deny her if she'd prefer to be stuck with needles.  She had, however, made a funny "joke" about hunting him down if he allowed it to change ownership.  

Mycroft would be pleased to note that he was not, in fact, high.  His brother, rather unintentionally, had put Sherlock totally off the idea for the time being.  It was no good transcending the mundane if Mycroft was lurking around the corner, watching him.  Moreover, his brain had been so pathetically stagnant since Venice that he could hardly justify wasting the tiny phial on what currently passed for his life.  But he made sure it was on hand at all times, in a pocket even as he slept.  For security, though not entirely security from the threat of Mycroft finding and disposing of it.  He would reach out and touch it intermittently, and he found the option implied by its proximity comforting.  

The door opened, but he didn't bother looking up.  The last thing he needed was to be drawn into a conversation with any of the other "scientists" on board.  The only one he respected he had no designs on speaking to again, though his reasons were less than logical.  

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[sharpshooting]

In his first hours after being released from quarantine, John had done what other people suggested he do: get a space-age mobile of his very own, claim a bedroom, that kind of thing. He had slept fitfully for a few hours, but woken before he could reach anything like real rest. Then he'd gone out to explore the place which, if popular opinion was to be believed, was now his home for the foreseeable future.

He'd wandered in and out of rooms, picking up whatever wasn't nailed down, trying to find some obvious flaw that would allow him to write this all off as an involuntary acid trip or a coma hallucination. But everything was stupefyingly mundane, from the barbells in the gym room to the forlorn rag doll he found sitting in an empty dresser drawer. Sharon had said she didn't find the space part hard to believe; John was finding that this was just the newest chapter in a life that had spun increasingly out of his control, beginning with the moment he met Sherlock Holmes and ending here, on an abandoned bloody space station.

Along one of the walls a long, translucent set of doors emerged, proclaiming the room behind them the SCIENCE DEPARTMENT. John smiled. "Bet they don't keep milk alongside specimens in space," he muttered to himself, going through the doors. They hushed open for him, revealing a multi-level space complete with lifts, lab tables, microscopes and other paraphernalia that reminded him strongly of Baskerville, if it had been housed in the Starship Enterprise. He wandered through, thinking of maybe taking one of the little lifts up and exploring the upper levels. Then there was the sound of someone shifting behind him, and he turned, ready to apologize for disturbing someone's quiet.

Sherlock was sitting at a lab table, space-age mobile on the table beside him, alternating between staring into a microscope and furiously scribbling on a computer tablet.

John blinked hard a few times, but nothing happened. Sherlock stayed where he was, not even showing any signs of awareness that there was another person in the room. The nape of his neck prickled with the urge to run. If he left, he could go lie back down in the room he had halfheartedly claimed as his own, lie down with a determination to sleep in the hopes that when he woke up he'd be back in his awful bedsit with the upstairs neighbor who gave accordion lessons and the next-door neighbor with four cats and a single daughter, because at least if that happened, if he woke back up in his miserable excuse for a life in London, at least he wouldn't be cursed with this terrible clutching hope.

He couldn't make himself speak. He sat down on one of the stools and waited for Sherlock to look up.

[highfunctioning]

Sherlock's sideways glance was probably too quick for John to have noticed it.

Knew you'd follow me eventually. How odd that it was today. He tried hard to keep the smug smile out of his voice as he said.

"Would you hand me my phone?"

[sharpshooting]

John gaped, just sat there for a few seconds with his mouth open. Then he closed it and got to his feet. He reached across the table, picked up Sherlock's phone, and hurled it against the far wall as hard as he could. It shattered on impact with a satisfying crash; apparently even space-age mobiles were made of crap.

Then he sat back down again, suddenly breathing hard, his hands clenched tight around the edge of the seat, the edge digging into his fingers. He couldn't look up, couldn't see that nonchalant look on Sherlock's face like he was surprised at John's outburst, like it's all fine, because it wasn't all fine. It hadn't been for six bloody months, and Sherlock acting like that, like he didn't know...

His eyes were hot and he squeezed them shut, focusing on breathing like he'd learned to after Afghanistan, when he'd wake in the night with his heart threatening to hammer out of his chest. This was no different; in fact, in many ways it was worse.

[highfunctioning]

Sherlock looked at the pieces of his phone, then back at John.

"You might have just said 'no'."

[sharpshooting]

John looked up in spite of himself, startled, and couldn't help it; he started to laugh, high and hysterical, suddenly giddy with stupid relief. He laughed for a long time, lost in it, until he pressed a hand to his face and it came away wet.

That sobered him. Abruptly he caught his breath, shuddering into silence. He sucked in a long gust of air and let it out slow. "Don't," he said, the first word he'd said in hours. "Don't do this to me, Sherlock." The thought had flitted through his head that it might not really be, that if he was in space, maybe there were clones or robots or something-- but his own words came back to haunt him, Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.

And it was true. Nobody could. There was an explanation, probably one only Sherlock would understand, but there was no getting around it. It really was him.

Another tear rolled down John's cheek, and he scrubbed it away with the heel of his hand.

[highfunctioning]

"All this because I didn't say-" please?

Sherlock really looked at John for the first time. He'd assumed his shock was due to the fact that Sherlock and Mycroft had ostensibly been missing for better than three months. But he wasn't angry as he should have been; John was weeping. Sherlock stopped baiting him immediately.

"What's happened?"

[sharpshooting]

"What's happened? What's happened?" John shouted, throwing his hands up in the air and letting them drop, on his feet before he even realized it. "Do you realize how bloody insane it is that you're asking me that? I'd ask if you were mad, but I already know the answer to that, so."

He planted his hands on the table and leaned in, his eyes dark, still breathing shallow through his teeth. When he found his voice, it was scraped raw.

"Do you want to know what happened before I watched you jump off the roof of St. Bart's, or after?"

[highfunctioning]

Sherlock took stock of John. Horrible quarantine sweats; didn't bother to change, few days beard stubble; no girlfriend, dark stains between his first two fingers...

"You've been...smoking."

He really believed that Sherlock jumped to his death. But how could that be true.

"It never happened, John. Clearly."

Clearly. Though he knew that this place was no respecter of time or continuity. John could very well be from a time where Sherlock had done just what he said.

[sharpshooting]

Without seeing, without thinking, John grabbed the nearest thing at hand-- a beaker sitting at the end of the table-- and flung it at Sherlock's head. Sherlock ducked, and he grabbed again, a mug (its origins a mystery; it couldn't have possibly contained a beverage). He lost the will to throw it halfway through and smashed it down onto the table instead, shards scattering across the metal surface.

"Never happened?" he shouted. "Never happened?! I bloody watched you, Sherlock, I was on the phone when you--" he stopped, pressed a hand to his mouth, then dropped it and went on, quieter.

"You can tell me I'm wrong about why I chose the color of my shirt or the type of sandwich I get for lunch, you can tell me all you want about how blind I am and how unobservant. But I stood there and listened to you say goodbye to me, I watched you walk off that rooftop and nobody is ever going to convince me that didn't happen, not even you."

[highfunctioning]

All of that was incredibly interesting.

No one can convince me that it didn't happen, not even you.

Poor John, he'd never understand that even his grief could hold fascinating bits of information.

I was on the phone when-

He'd want Sherlock to take in the sound and fury as well as the words, but the words were clawing at him.

I watched you walk off that rooftop..

"And why did I do that?" He spoke softly, and with a keen and genuine interest.

[sharpshooting]

All his righteous energy left him in a rush, and John's knees helpfully bent in order to deposit him onto one of the stools. His hands flattened on the table, and he looked firmly at the space between them.

"Moriarty," he said.

It was hard to say more. If Sherlock didn't know, didn't remember, John didn't want to be the one to tell him-- and how would he find the words for it, anyway? It had been hard enough watching Sherlock go through once. He didn't want-- didn't think he could bear-- to bring him a story like that.

But there was no chance that Sherlock would let him get away with a one-word answer.

"He... came out with evidence that he was an actor you'd paid to play Moriarty. That you'd made up all the crimes just so you could solve them. He convinced everyone you were a fake." He addressed it to the tabletop, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes.

[highfunctioning]

Well that just sounded stupid. Not that it was beyond the scope of Moriarty's imagination and influence to have accomplished it, but that Sherlock would choose to kill himself based on public opinion. Clearly John didn't think he was a fake, and he didn't give enough of a damn about people in the general sense to suicide over them.

"No, John. Why did I phone you, make you watch? Think. Really think about it."

Even more than he was a selfish showoff, Sherlock was a private man. If he was actually going to kill himself, he'd never share that information beforehand or involve anyone else.

[sharpshooting]

It was too hard to think past the pounding in his head. Just like sitting in Ella's chair, trying to say Sherlock's dead, it was like coming up against a wall.

"I don't know, Sherlock. You said it was your note, you tried to convince me that he was right, that you'd been a fraud all along. Obviously that's a load of bollocks, but you insisted. And then you." He stopped. He still couldn't say it, not calm like this, not without getting angry again.

He looked up at last, his eyes red, but dry. "I've spent six months trying to figure out why you did it, and I'm sure you thought you had a good reason, but it's beyond me."

[highfunctioning]

If John's obtuseness hadn't been so conspicuously absent from his life for the past three months, Sherlock might have been irritated. As it stood, explaining things for him felt like rediscovering a lost toy, or stretching forgotten muscles.

"I wouldn't leave a note. I didn't leave a note. I made you a witness, John. Why would I have needed to do that?"

[sharpshooting]

The urge to scream hovered very close, and John knew if he so much as drew breath to raise his voice he'd end up raving like a madman. He let out a slow breath and pushed back from the table, getting to his feet again.

"I don't know why you do anything you do, Sherlock. I never have. And in this case, I honestly couldn't care less."

His throat was tight. He wanted to say something final, but I'm glad you're alive seemed so trivial, so far from the truth of what it meant to see Sherlock sitting alive and infuriatingly calm in front of him. So he just turned and walked out, quick strides taking him back the way he'd come.

[highfunctioning]

John said he didn't care, which clearly meant he was overwhelmed with caring, which Sherlock had a notion he should allow some space.

"Should" was not a powerful motivator for Sherlock. His longer strides allowed him to catch up with John quickly. He wasn't about to let the chance to solve his own murder slip by. Because obviously it wasn't a suicide; he'd left too many delightful clues for it to be as simple as it seemed.

"Did I say anything else? Before I jumped to my tragic untimely demise, that is."

[sharpshooting]

John had thought he was too tired for violence, but the note of eager anticipation in Sherlock's voice proved him wrong. He whirled, his fist landing high up on one sharp cheekbone (hard not to think of Irene then, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too, as he had for months, wondering if she knew, if she cared that he was gone) fiercely satisfied that he'd managed to surprise Sherlock into shutting up.

"I'm not doing this," he said quietly, rubbing his knuckles with the other thumb. "I'm not reliving this, this horror for you so you can treat it like just another case. It's not just another case. I know you've never given a damn for the victims' families, tact or sympathy or sentiment or whatever. But this time you'd better find it in you to care, because the victim was you, and the family was me, and I can't, Sherlock. I can't."

He didn't turn, didn't try to keep leaving. He just stood there, his hands clasped, looking at Sherlock with a wordless warning.

[highfunctioning]

Sherlock straightened up, holding his face. It was the same bloody cheek John had damaged once before, though not for verisimilitude this time. He wasn't able to put his emotions aside, of course, Sherlock had known that, but had been hoping he might come around. Ah well.

"John," he faltered, finally feeling something that might have been shame. John had taken away his companionship for a few hours in Dartmore, and Sherlock had felt completely out of sorts. Lost, if he was perfectly honest. John had watched Sherlock "die" and had lived with that image for months. The thought finally sobered Sherlock out of his usual patter.

"Forgive me. It's not just another case. But I need to do this. I need to know."

[sharpshooting]

"Well, you're just going to have to ask someone else," he snapped, reflexive and sharp. After a moment of silence he softened, some of the tension draining out of his shoulders.

"I'm not trying to be difficult," he said, glancing back at Sherlock, taking in his serious expression, the intent in his eyes. "But I've just found out I'm in space, and you're here, and none of this is strange to you at all, which you'd think I'd be used to by now, but. I just-- it's a little much to ask of me right now."

[highfunctioning]

"Of course." Sherlock replied automatically, his moment of emotional clarity passing as swiftly as it had come.

It might have been the sensitive thing to do, but there was literally no way Sherlock was leaving John alone. He needed to talk to someone that didn't turn his brain to jelly.

"Dinner?" A brief smile, brows lifted.

[sharpshooting]

It was so familiar, so heartbreakingly easy for John to shrug and say "Starved." He was startled and, frankly, impressed that Sherlock had let the subject of his death drop so easily, but he wasn't going to complain about small favours. For now, he was just going to be happy Sherlock was back-- even if he wondered if he was going mad for believing it was real.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Where do you even get dinner around here?

[highfunctioning]

"You have to mercilessly bully a machine. You should be great at it, actually."

Sherlock lead the way to his own rooms, since they were close and John would naturally be choosing one nearby.

The subject of his death was hovering like a swarm of gnats, each one a stinging little question that desperately needed asking. He would hold out as long as he was able, for the sake of the look on John's face [and the throbbing in his freshly battered cheek], but there was no telling how long that might be.

[sharpshooting]

John glared, but halfheartedly, badly hiding a smile. "Lovely. I'll let you take the lead on that one, then."

He followed Sherlock to a room just two doors down from the one he'd picked out for himself. Ironic, he supposed, though it was almost creepy given the Big Brother-esque aspects of the place he'd seen so far.

But any thought of questioning Sherlock about the nature of the station fled his mind when he went through the door. "How long have you been here?" he asked, looking around in near-consternation at the unholy mess. There was barely room to walk between piles of things, clothes and bits of technology and God knew what else; John certainly had no desire to excavate and find out.

[highfunctioning]

Sherlock flashed not unpleasantly back to the moment John had first set foot in Baker Street. If possible, this mess was even more appalling, though notably devoid of human detritus.

"One hundred and fourteen days, seven hours and..." Sherlock made an insincere apologetic gesture. "I'd show you the counter, but it seems I've mislaid my phone."

[sharpshooting]

John's eyebrows went up and he met Sherlock's eyes, waiting to see which of them would break first. It happened simultaneously, both of them bursting with laughter, the release of the past hour's tension into comfortable familiarity.

John knew it wasn't as simple as all that. There was still the question of how Sherlock had ended up here, his insistence that there was more to his death than John could puzzle out, and the knowledge that eventually Sherlock would demand that he recount that day's events exactly as they'd occurred. He would have to steel himself to be ready for that when it came. But for now, it was enough that Sherlock was (if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth) here, alive, and safe.

It was more than John could have hoped for, to come to this impossible place only to find it was more like home than the place he'd left behind. He didn't know how long he'd be here, but however long it was, he didn't intend to waste a minute of it. "Alright," he said when he'd got himself under control again. "Show me how to work this food machine, and then we can go get you another phone."