pipmer1

Prologue: Homecoming

Title: If You Should Die Before You Wake
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mary Morstan, Sebastian Moran, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson
Pairing: John/Mary
Spoilers: for the entire show
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3505 this part
Genre: Drama, angst, epic Sherlock/John friendship.
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary: Post-Reichenbach/Hiatus/Empty House fic. This is how I see episode 1 of season 3 playing out. What happens to Sherlock and John in the time between Sherlock's Fall and his return? Expect lots of angst.

A/N: Grateful thanks go out once again to my beta/britpickers susako and fawsley whose awesomeness made this chapter so much better than it would have been if left to my own devices. Also thanks to holyfant, who looked over the first part and made crucial suggestions.

Many thanks to all the comments and kudos I have received so far; they give me confidence and motivate me to keep writing, so if you enjoy this, please let me know :)

Chapter 1: So It Begins

Twenty-four months earlier, six months after the Fall…

He was sitting in his favourite spot - Regent’s Park - nursing a cup of too-strong, atrocious instant coffee from an ancient kiosk somewhere on the Outer Circle. The bitterness of the December air dug itself deep into his bones, insinuating itself past the protection of his down parka and the fleece he wore underneath. This winter was shaping up to be one of the coldest in recent history; he was having a hard time adjusting after leaving the desert behind.

And now it wasn’t just the weather he found unsettling about the city. It seemed to lack the very vitality that he used to rely upon to give his life purpose, to make his blood sing with adrenalin and excitement. Had it really only been six months ago that he had possessed everything that he ever thought he could want? And now it was just… gone. And despite the miracle he had begged for, he knew it wasn’t coming back.

It didn’t surprise him, the effect this loss had had on him. Yes, he had been a soldier, both in Afghanistan and in London; they were both battlefields, in their own way. He had lost friends before, many of them good friends; many of them close friends. Yet somehow, this time it had been different; so much worse than any of the other times. And he knew why that was. He cringed as he imagined a much-loved voice expressing its disdain.

Sentiment. How utterly dull.

Yes. Sentiment indeed.

This time was different because he had never before lost a best friend.

A sigh escaped his pursed lips as he checked his watch; almost time for the meeting. He actually grinned as he thought of all the harsh words his friend would have flung his way if he knew where he spent his time every Thursday afternoon from 4:00 – 6:00 p.m. Then he immediately sobered as he realised that it was the lack of those harsh words that necessitated these meetings in the first place.

Right after the suicide, he had rapidly spiralled out of control. The drinking, which he had always been careful to censor, for obvious reasons, had finally laid its claim. More than once he had passed out in his flat and awakened in a pool of his own vomit. He didn’t have much of a support system anymore. It wasn’t that nobody seemed to care enough to check in on him; it was that he didn't care enough to let anyone help him. He had effectively alienated the many people who had tried to offer their friendship. Disgusted by what he perceived as pity and thinly veiled contempt, he had shut them all out of his life; so now he was left pretty much to his own devices. And those devices turned out to be... not so healthy ones.

His therapist wasn’t too happy with the direction his life was taking, so she recommended going to some group therapy sessions for people dealing with grief. His friend’s voice again: Tedious. Unnecessary. You didn’t need it then, and you don’t need it now. But he shrugged it aside (you’re dead, you no longer get to tell me your opinions on the way I live my life) and decided he would give it a go. It certainly couldn’t hurt, could it? What was the worst that could happen?

So he started going. It wasn’t that bad, not really. It felt kind of nice to be able to unburden himself without fear of judgment. He didn’t relate the whole story, of course; really, who would have believed him? But he told enough to find a touch of solace amongst the company of people who perhaps had an inkling of understanding of the crushing grief that consumed him.

It must have been enough, because he steadily started to feel better. He even started making some friends among his fellow sufferers. He had always been a likeable sort of bloke, so it hadn’t been too hard to do. Impromptu gatherings at the pub, at each other’s flats, at various restaurants scattered throughout the city. It was… pleasant. Nice. Normal.

Boring.

Well, he couldn’t have everything.

Four months in, he noticed her. Petite (five foot two), short russet hair, sparkling blue eyes. She was an au pair, having been forced a year ago to find a job after the death of her husband of only three months from a rare form of leukaemia. So, not recently bereaved, but still struggling with grief and its aftermath. Enough commonality without taking advantage of her in a weakened state.

Good Lord, he was starting to sound like him.

Tonight, he finally got up his courage. There was usually an hour or two set aside for socialising after the meetings, with beverages and snacks set up in the basement of an old church. He decided he would approach her there, ask her out for coffee. Just as friends. He found himself unaccountably nervous – not having asked anyone out in over a year had left him woefully out of practice - but he had never had any problems in that department before, so he took a deep breath and started making his way over to where she was standing.

But somebody else had made his way over there before he could. It was a new member of the group, someone who just started attending tonight. The man had looked vaguely familiar earlier, but he hadn’t been able to place him right away. He narrowed his eyes, and concentrated on trying to remember where he had seen him before. When it finally clicked, the realisation sent a bolt of shock and fresh grief stabbing through him. It was all he could do to gather up the remnants of his tattered psyche and rush up the stairs and out the door before he could give way to his anger and hatred.

The last time he had seen that man, it had been through the sights of his sniper rifle. The man he had been ordered to kill if Sherlock Holmes didn’t take a swan dive off of St. Bartholomew’s rooftop.

The man known to have been Holmes’s ‘heart’, otherwise known as Dr. John H. Watson.

***

John knelt at the foot of the gravestone, carefully wiping off the grime that had accumulated within the engraved letters of Sherlock’s name. No need at this time of year to get rid of weeds and wilted flowers. There had been a surprising number of the latter being left around the general area of the site. Apparently, even though the papers had done a very good job of smearing Sherlock’s name, there still were some people loyal to his memory who didn’t believe any of the lies. And lies had been what they were. John had never doubted it, but it was nice now to get some corroboration of the fact.

John cleared his throat. He felt a bit silly talking to a piece of granite, but he was always compelled to, every time he visited. At times, it was no different than when he had talked to the actual living man. Sherlock had had a bad habit of not responding to things that John would say. However, that didn’t mean that he hadn’t been listening. A memory unbidden pushed its way to the forefront of his brain. It had happened during the ‘Blind Banker’ case. John, hesitant with shame, had attempted to ask Sherlock if he could lend him some money.

Sherlock appeared to not have heard him, when he abruptly jumped up and claimed he had to go to the bank. It became obvious once they got there that Sherlock wasn’t interested in the proffered paycheque, nor was the case (seemingly a simple break-in, no theft) something that would normally pique Sherlock’s interest (although it turned out be more intriguing than originally expected). When the case had ended, and Sebastian’s frankly enormous cheque had been collected, Sherlock had insisted that half of it be deposited in John’s account. That’s when it had dawned on him; Sherlock had taken the case for John’s benefit. He had, in fact, heard John’s plea, and had responded in a way that would spare John’s pride. He had never actually thanked Sherlock for that.

John shook his head to banish the painful memory.

“Well, Sherlock, your name’s been cleared,” he said haltingly. “I know that wouldn’t have been important to you, but it is to me. Especially after knowing now why you did it.”

He took a shaky breath.

“Mycroft…” He fiercely suppressed the hatred that welled up as he said his name…”Mycroft’s people found your phone on the rooftop. It took them a few months of working around the encryption mumbo-jumbo, but they found the recording you made while you were talking to Moriarty. And to me. God. I…. I always thought I would be the one dying to protect you. I knew that you weren’t the type to commit suicide. I mean, you? I’ve never known such a self-absorbed, narcissistic individual. Killing yourself would be ridding the world of your massive intellect, and you couldn’t have that, could you?”

He swallowed.

“But the reason you did do it is almost even more out of character. To save your friends. That reeks of sentiment, and caring. Not even your brother thought you capable of such a thing.

“I always wished that you cared more about people. That was the one thing I would have truly changed about you, that maybe you would be just a little more human. I knew you had the capacity, deep down. I only regret that you got there at the expense of your life. That was a hefty price. Too hefty, I would say.

“I guess what I came here for today was to say… thank you. That’s such a weak thing to say in response to you giving up your life for us. But it’s the only thing I can say. That’s twice now that you’ve saved me. I’m just sorry that I wasn’t able to return the favour.”

John paused, his breath hitching as his throat closed up and his eyes started to burn. Every time he cried, he was sure it would be the last. Every time, he felt that he had finally reached the bottom of the reservoir. He was starting to believe that that reservoir of tears was endless, without limit.

He didn’t try to stifle them, this time. They ran unhindered down his cheeks, more of a cleansing baptism this time than the previous times. Before, they had been a sign of misery and anguish, an outward expression of the guilt that he felt for the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop Sherlock’s final act. Now, he knew that there had been nothing he could have done. Once Sherlock deemed an action necessary, there had been no stopping him, no matter the consequences. The tears he cried now were healing tears, tears of gratitude. Not only for his own life, but for the lives of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well. Sherlock had had more than one friend after all.

It was time to actually say the words. He was still grieving, and he wouldn’t stop visiting the grave every so often, but it was time to put the denial aside and start moving forward. He owed his friend that much.

“Good-bye, Sherlock.”

John did a rendition of the same military pose he did on the day he had begged Sherlock for a miracle (and he may not have received the miracle he had been hoping for, but he got one just the same); he straightened his back, nodded at Sherlock’s grave, actually saluting this time, turned with precision and walked away.

***

The figure was leaning against the giant oak whose branches hung over the grave, stalwartly resisting the urge to peek around the tree and watch John walk away. He brought the cigarette to his lips (his first since The Woman), took a deep drag, and held it for several seconds before exhaling. His mouth quirked into a slight smile.

“You did return the favour, John,” he said softly. “Many times over.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, “You’re welcome.”

He pulled out his phone and texted: Apparently name has been cleared. Still much to do. At least two of the assassins no longer in London; most likely location New York City. Need to leave ASAP.

Response: Documents ready within 48 hours. Will let you know when and where for pickup.

Sherlock sighed, and hesitantly replied with two words he rarely used with his brother: Thank you.

He closed his eyes. He would never be able to delete John Watson from his brain; in fact, anything at all having to do with John would most likely always have a place in his mind palace. But he had to find a way to limit the time he allowed himself to think of his flatmate. He didn’t need any distractions; he needed to focus on the task at hand. Everything depended upon it. Lives depended upon it, and not just John’s. Although, if he were truthful with himself, that was the life that mattered the most.

That last thought, he was sure, would earn him a “bit not good” from John. He really couldn’t bring himself to care.

***

Contrary to what most would think, Mycroft Holmes was not in on it from the very beginning. It was only after the papers had started their vitriolic attacks that he took the time to sit back and think, really think, and go over everything in his mind to compare what he knew to have happened to what appeared to have happened. And to take into account that it was Sherlock Holmes, the second cleverest man in Britain, around which it all revolved.

He was sitting in his club as he finished reading the headlines in the Sun, printed three days after Sherlock’s suicide. His pose was eerily reminiscent of his brother, fingers steepled underneath his chin, gaze focussed on the opposite wall. The only thought that his brain could conjure was the image of his brother’s corpse as it lay upon the stretcher. It had been him, of that there was no doubt. He had only given it a cursory glance as the attendant removed the sheet for his identification, but that was all he had needed. Stomach clenching painfully, he had curtly nodded before turning and hastily striding away from the stifling atmosphere of the mortuary. It had been a long while since he had felt emotion that strongly; it didn’t surprise him at all that it was his brother who had wrung it from him.

So, here are the facts. Sherlock had told Dr. Watson that the allegations were true, that he was a fraud. Sherlock had jumped five stories from the rooftop of Bart’s. According to Dr. Watson, nobody had pushed him, so it appeared to be a suicide. There had been a body. It had been Sherlock. All indisputable.

There were at least two problems with this scenario. One, Sherlock was not, nor had he ever been, a fraud. The very idea was utterly preposterous. Mycroft knew his brother better than Sherlock knew himself; he had witnessed his brilliance first-hand more times than he could count. The only person, other than himself, who had even come close to his level of genius, had been Moriarty. Two, the words suicide and Sherlock didn’t belong in the same sentence. Sherlock never would have done such a thing; he thought too highly of himself. It was unthinkable; impossible, even.

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable….

Mycroft’s eyes widened as the only possible solution presented itself.

His brother was still alive.

And Dr. Watson had no idea.

***

Three weeks passed. Worry, anger and frustration warred with each other as Mycroft tried to determine what his next move should be. He had no means of contacting his brother. Sherlock’s phone had been discarded on the rooftop, and if he had obtained another one, Mycroft certainly didn’t have the number. He couldn’t risk sending an email to his brother’s regular address, or leaving a message on his website. If Sherlock had indeed faked his death, it would mean that he was in very grave danger, and Mycroft would not risk drawing attention to his continued existence. Neither would he put the persons who had assisted him in danger by approaching them (it was obvious who those persons had been). As much as it pained him to do so, he would just have to wait until Sherlock decided to contact him.

Which would be fairly soon. There was no way Sherlock would be able to pull off whatever he was doing without his help. However, he had to get to the point of desperation, with no other options available, before he humbled himself in such a way. Why he hadn’t previously clued him into his plans would be obvious to anyone who was familiar with the relationship dynamic between the two of them. Especially since Mycroft had apparently sold him out to his greatest enemy.

Apparently being the operative word. What he couldn’t wrap his head around was why on earth he hadn’t told John what he was doing? Mycroft had never been able to figure out what the exact nature of the men’s relationship had been, but he knew that Sherlock had adored his flatmate. Surely he wouldn’t put him through all this pain unless it was for a very good reason. Then again, Sherlock had never been one to understand the intricacies and pitfalls of human emotions.

He sat up straight in his black leather chair as he opened his Mac to check his secure email. His inbox was daily inundated with literally hundreds of messages, most of them tagged as Importance: High. The trick was deducing which ones actually deserved that designation. Quickly scanning the messages, he mentally weeded out the ones that didn’t need an immediate reply. Messages from various colleagues and underlings flew by his practiced eye, until one stood out. Received just this morning, 10:03 a.m., from a victor.trevor@gmail.co.uk. A faint memory stirred in the back of his mind; wasn’t Victor Trevor the name of Sherlock’s old university roommate?

Intrigued, he clicked on the message.

From: Victor Trevor <victor.trevor@gmail.co.uk>
Subject: <none>
To: *********
Date: Friday, July 6, 2012, 10:03 AM

I need your help. Remember Hannah Ivy?

The phone has an audio recording. I encrypted it in case NSY’s incompetence got hold of it first. I need you to make sure the content of that recording is not released for another five months. I also need access to funds and certain identifying documents. Please initiate surveillance on Mother and on Theodore Bear, and order additional surveillance on him.

I eagerly await your response, after which more information will be forthcoming.

Victor Trevor

This was Sherlock. He was letting Mycroft know it was him by mentioning their dead sister. Mycroft winced. His brother had actually used the word ‘please’ when requesting protection for three people. Was that the reason for this whole charade? Were Sherlock’s friends being threatened?

He immediately replied.

From: *********
Subject: Re: <none>
To: Victor Trevor <victor.trevor@gmail.co.uk>
Date: Friday, July 6, 2012, 12:30 PM

I do remember Hannah. Lovely girl.

Why didn’t you come to me sooner? Your pride will one day be your undoing.

We have the phone. People are still working on it, but once the code is cracked, its secrets will remain safe for the time being. Protection will be issued immediately. Other requests will be dealt with once I receive further details.

Look forward to being in the loop.

He sighed as he sent the email. He really, really wished that Sherlock had included John in his plans, whatever they were. The likelihood of whatever he was involved in now succeeding where the fall from Bart’s had failed was extremely high, and he could have used a loyal, capable second by his side. When would his brother learn that he didn’t have to do everything alone? That there were people who cared about him and were willing to do anything for him?

An hour passed as he focussed on organising the requested protection details. Lost as he was in a flurry of activity, the knocking on his door startled him. “Come in,” he called out distractedly, one hand with a phone to his ear and the other gripping a pen as he scribbled on a notepad. He looked up to the sounds of the door opening and oxford soles treading on his wood floor.

“Mr. Holmes?”

His eyes narrowed. He waved the person in and quickly ended the phone call. Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest, he studied his visitor with a blank expression.

"Dr. Stamford," he drawled, dragging out the syllables of Mike's name. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Part 3