JohnLock - One-shot [English]

We won't do that to John Watson

Everything had started again when he had said that sentence.

It was his best friend and roommate's wedding day, and Sherlock Holmes was investigating a murder. None of this was supposed to happen, but his mental palate had done the job. And thanks to the new Mary Watson's excellent memory, they were all at the future victim's door.

 The crime had taken place, but the victim was still in recovery. They still had a chance to recover, to live.

Except that the military man inside carried more wounds on his soul than on his body. And he was determined to end it all.

But Sherlock Holmes had promised himself that he would never let anyone hurt John Watson in any way. And a murder at his wedding was one of them.

"We wouldn't do that to him. We wouldn't do that to John Watson on his wedding day."

No sooner had he uttered this sentence than Sherlock was transported almost three years back in time.

In his mental palace, he still saw the scene clearly. 

o0o0o0o

I had unfolded my legs, to face my brother. The room was grey, sober, cold, like the man in front of me. He wasn't smiling, he was just twirling his unbearable umbrella between his fingers.

I still wasn't sure what was going to happen. But I was sure that this time things would go very far. 

Moriarty

He had succeeded. Sherlock Holmes had become synonymous with shame, secrecy and lies. The great detective had fallen. With a good story, wrapped in truth. Truth delivered by the British government itself.

I frowned for a second. Was it guilt that I could see in my brother's eyes ? It couldn't be. He can't feel anything. Not this man. We've been sitting across from each other for exactly twenty-nine minutes without talking. 

I know I have to get rid of Moriarty. The problem is finding the right way to do it. Just shooting him in the head would be too easy. And too fast. Especially since even without his spider, the web can survive for a while longer. And another spider can take its place. 

I can't risk putting John in danger either. Whether it's to get the Napoleon of crime out of the way permanently, or in case of revenge. 

- Are you going to sit there without saying anything for much longer ?

- Exactly thirty minutes. Your OCD has a hard life dear brother. 

He answers me with a strained smile, which I always compared to a grimace. But he spoke first, so we can start talking about serious things. 

I lean forward, rest my chin on my interlaced fingers. 

- He and his entire organization must be stopped.

- We agree on that.

- It has to be in London, a place I can control, where I can get the upper hand on him and still have a chance of getting out of it. Unless you were planning to send me to my death, brother.

- Don't be ridiculous. I'm saving this for a special occasion. 

Again his grimace. I hate that half-smile hope he makes, the air of haughty mockery of others. I don't even know if he's capable of doing anything but that way. As he always says, he feels like he's surrounded by goldfish. Is this how goldfish see us ? Arrogant, and unbearable ?

- A place, then.

- Hospital.

- Why is that ?

I dismiss his question with a wave of my hand. It is not relevant, so obvious is the answer. 

- What's next ? How do you want to do this ?

My brother sighs. A face passes before my eyes.

John.

I can't tell him I'm leaving, he'd want to follow me, worry, or worse. I have to do this all by myself. And it will be easier to investigate without arousing suspicion if I'm dead. It's simple logic. No one will hunt a ghost. My enemies, on the other hand, will be haunted.

- And Watson ?

- He can't know anything.

- Our parents ?

- I'll let you check with them directly. 

The silence still settles between us. As always. We both think about what to do next. We need a plan. Several even. Not to take any risk, to prepare for all eventualities.

- When ? In one week.

I frown, then shake my head. My brother sighs, looking as if he thinks this is another whim of mine.

- It's John's birthday.

- So what ?

- I don't want him to...

I don't even know how to finish my sentence. He wouldn't understand. He has no friends. But I just can't die on his birthday. I want it to be just another day. A day that means nothing to John. My brother grabs a calendar, and sets it in front of me. I look at it quickly, before choosing Tuesday. 

An ordinary day.

The day Sherlock Holmes dies. 

But I won't be there for his 35th birthday.

I sigh. For the next few hours, Mycroft and I make every possible exit plan, preparing for every eventuality, based on what Moriarty knows about me. 

The information that my brother and La Femme were able to teach him. 

It is only when the night has fallen that I finally pass the door of 221B. I climb the stairs of which I remember the creaking. A strange feeling crushes my chest. The idea that it could be the last time.

As I push open the door, the familiarity of the scene catches me. John is sitting in his chair, newspaper in hand, drinking his tea. Given the time of day, it must have been one of his non-theine infusions, otherwise he is unable to sleep.

 - Ah, you're back. Where have you been ?

- Here and there.

He doesn't ask me any more questions than that. He knows I won't say anything. I know he looks calm, but he's thinking about Moriarty. Ever since I walked into the apartment, he has continued to read the same sentence, and the vein on his forehead keeps popping.

The game is about to start. 

o0o0o0o

- Sherlock ?

The detective looked at the woman dressed in white beside him. She had gently placed her hand on his arm.

- Is everything okay ? 

The dark-haired man nodded. John had entered the room, the victim would be saved, Watson would make sure of that. After all, Sherlock had said it a dozen times during his speech: John Watson was saving lives.

 The detective left, to find Lestrade. He had nothing to do here at the moment. These memories had turned him upside down. Sometimes he wondered if John still remembered that date. The one that he had chosen with so much care.

Several hours later, as the guests danced, a figure walked away in the dark. Sherlock Holmes had put on his armor, ready for a new game. Alone.

o0o0o0o