keep_counting | Fic: That's What People Do (Sherlock BBC)

Title: That's What People Do
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Moriarty, Harry Watson (can be seen as both Sherlock/John romance and friendship)
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Character death, spoilers for The Final Problem
Genre: Angst/Angst/More Angst
Word-count: 1.302
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. After this I'm sure you'll be glad of that.
A/N: This story now has a whole meta-post to go with it: you can read it here
Summary: 'Why'd you have two watches then?' - Reichenbach with a twist.

”That was your father’s,” he’d commented once, only a week after John had moved in, the watch catching the light just right to draw Sherlock’s attention.

”How did… oh, never mind,” John had muttered, rolling his eyes, yet smiling when Sherlock had started rambling on about engravings and pawn-shops and well-polished and practically antique.

It’s catching the light again now, lying on the mantelpiece beside the skull and positively gleaming up at him as it catches the last rays of sunshine to reflect. He wonders if he should return Lestrade’s gun, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes off the watch, and moving would mean doing just that.

Sherlock isn’t sure how long he’s been staring at it, exactly. But he knows he’s covered in blood as soon as Mrs Hudson steps in and starts screaming.

”This is a bad idea,” John’s grip on his gun was tight, his brow furrowed and his jaw set.

”Oh, don’t be such a fuss,” Sherlock snorts, staring straight ahead, his voice part scorn and part annoyance.

It’s the last words spoken between them.

”Here, nice cup of tea. Are you sure you don’t want me to call Mycroft?” Mrs Hudson thrusts the warm mug into his hands, her tone caring yet strict, making sure he understands that she won’t take no for an answer on that tea. Sweet, caring Mrs Hudson who isn’t asking him what’s wrong or why he’s come home covered in blood that isn’t his own.

”He knows already.” Is all the answer she gets. She frowns slightly, but stands straight up and the jacket she’s wearing is too nice for a Tuesday afternoon and she’s been ironing her dress two times today and she’s going out, with a man not just friends, she wouldn’t take so much care for Cecilia or Emily or whatever they’re called, and Sherlock blinks and his mind stops because Mrs Hudson is talking again.

”I’m sure John will be home soon, but tell him to call me if there’s anything you boys need, okay?”

Sherlock stares, and Mrs Hudson catches his eyes and he looks away, hoping he’s not as pale as his shaking hands tells him he must be, and he didn’t look away quick enough, because a wordless cry falls from her lips and the tea-pot crashes to the ground as she covers her mouth with her hands, crashes to the ground and shatters.

”I had to take someone into my confidence about this.”

”And that couldn’t be John?”

”He wouldn’t be able to act the part properly,” Sherlock had persisted, annoyed that his brother wouldn’t turn around to look at him. ”And I need someone with contacts, someone who can hide me and help lure out all the associates.”

”John has been a faithful companion all this time.”

”Oh, stop it!” Sherlock spits out. It had been bad enough that he had to go to Mycroft for help, but this is taking it too far. He won’t be treated as a child. ”What is your problem?”

”You pretending to be dead is not a good idea Sherlock.”

”It’s the only way.”

”Really?”

”It’s the best way.”

”You only say that because it’s your idea.”

”No I don...” he bites his words back with great effort, fingers clenching. ”Since you insist on this being the problem, then don’t worry, I’ve written John a letter.”

”How lovely, you can give it to him in person.”

”Mycroft…”

”I mean it Sherlock. I will not help you with this little farce. No good will come of it.”

Sherlock blinked, moving closer. ”Yes, Mycroft, you will help me. Because I am going to do it either way, and this way you get to keep an eye on me without me making a fuss - as well as take down all the associaties of the greatest criminal our world has ever seen."

His brother is silent for very long. For once in his life, Sherlock is patient.

”A letter you say?”

”Yes.”

Mycroft turns to face him. ”I hope for John’s sake it’s a good one.”

He meets Harry Watson at the funeral for the second and last time, and she punches him in the face. Then she hugs him, which is even more uncomfortable and he is almost about to ask if she can punch him again, but then he catches it, a whiff of strong liquor and he first thinks it’s bile rising in his throat, but it’s not, not really. John’s watch is in the pocket of his coat, weighing it down and he thinks he should probably give it to this woman, that would be the right thing yes? This woman who’s John’s sister and only living family.

He doesn’t.

”Oooops,” Moriarty says, his mouth smirking and his eyes bewildered, flickering towards the lifeless body lying in a pool of its own blood on the floor. ”Got me there. That’s embarrassing, having the wrong person shot.”

Sherlock knows from the stiffness of his opponent’s back and the set of his eyebrows that he actually hadn’t planned for this. That Sherlock was supposed to die. Not John.

He raises the gun. ”Not a mistake I will make.”

”Do you want me to burn it?”

Sherlock raises his head, fingers still plucking at the strings of his violin. One of them had caught hold and sliced open the skin of his thumb, a clean cut that is slowly leaking blood over the expensive instrument.

”Burn what?”

”The letter,” Mycroft says and raises the hand holding the cursed paper, his tone accusing and apologetic and filled with its own sort of grief. It was only in that moment that Sherlock remembered that his brother had actually liked John as well.

Sherlock’s eyes look away from his brother immediately, back to having Bach and Mozart and something that sounds like wailing dogs floating through his words, picking notes and sounds apart and putting them together into something new. He reaches for the bow, but instead of sleek wood his hand only hit empty air, and he remembers that he’s forgotten where it is.

”Sherlock?”

”Go away, Mycroft.”

”But you’ll be careful, yeah?” John’s voice is quiet and demanding in the taxi, and Sherlock resolutely looks out the window. For some reason he doesn’t care to analyse further, he is almost certain that his stomach will drop if he looks directly at John.

”Of course.”

”I know catching Moriarty is important, but not on your own life, Sherlock,” John says and doesn’t notice his flatmate’s teeth clench.

”Yes I know.”

”I don’t want to be dragging your dead body back home, you hear me?” John’s voice is both stern and softly joking, trying to ease the tension and get his message through. ”I bet you don’t want to be dragging mine back either.”

Finally Sherlock turns towards him. ”You’ve got your gun?”

”Yes.”

”And I’ve got Lestrade’s,” he smiles, actually outright beams and doesn’t stop to wonder when his heart grew hands that it could use to crawl up his throat with.

”We should be good.”

It’s hot and it’s Seattle and the case has been a disappointment and the man whose decided to sit in the same booth as him in the coffee-shop is forty-three and has a dog and hates his wife and didn’t catch his train. He’s also the former owner of a pawn-shop and he keeps looking at the watch lying on the table beside Sherlock’s mug, first almost critically, surveying the piece, then curiously as his eyes flicker from the one on the table to the one around Sherlock’s wrist.

It takes the man exactly five minutes and forty-three seconds to gather up the courage to ask.

”Why’d you have two watches then?”

Sherlock’s smile isn’t at all tight. Or so he tells himself.

”Sentiment.”