fossilised | For John Watson

No, you don't. If you had any names, we wouldn't already be in this position.

[As ineffectual as Mycroft's goons sometimes are, he sincerely doubts his brother would have allowed him to become poisoned if he knew who was to blame. Or perhaps he would, Mycroft is odd sometimes.

He finally decides on one of the leg bones and goes in for the removal, setting off the buzzer immediately.]

Shit.

Contrary to what you may believe, little brother, I cannot simply snatch people off the streets to interrogate them.

[Not if his other schemes are to maintain. There's only so much Mycroft can get away with in terms of using State Resources for pet projects, including Sherlock. But he doesn't like admitting he isn't quite as all-powerful as Sherlock imagines. Mycroft's aware that he should be. It would make his life easier, if he were.

There's a ping on his phone, and he checks it briefly to see Anthea is at the church with the Ambulance waiting. Mycroft returns to the game to go for the knee. The car jostles slightly and the buzzer goes off, making Mycroft huff.]

A car is a terrible place to play this game, you are aware?

[He raises an eyebrow, easily deducing what the text has been about given their recent conversations.]

I hope she hasn't brought the ambulance too close to the funeral, we don't want to alarm anyone.

[Also, he's so not getting into it.]

I suspect, though cliche, that the most logical place for any kind of explosive would be in the coffin itself. John is sure to be in the front row, as her remaining family, and thus in perfect position for it.

[Mycroft doesn't reply to that first part. His assistant is, of course, far more equipped for her job than the good doctor is for his as the man at Sherlock's side. He just passes the extraction tool back to Sherlock, watching his brother's shaking hands and mentally gauging how much longer his labored breathing can go on before he keels over.]

And you intend to burst into the church in dramatic fashion and rip the lid of the coffin off?

[Honestly, Sherlock.]

[That... might be his plan. But he's not going to admit it to Mycroft after that sneering assessment. Keen observation would say Sherlock probably has half an hour of consciousness at best, and significantly less than that of coherence.]

Surely we should be nearby now.

[Not that he's impatient or anything.

...MEANWHILE...

Lestrade gets John bundled into the police car and sets the sirens going to drive at full speed through London, weaving in and out of traffic in order to try and get to the church on time.]

Don't worry, mate, plenty of time. Donovan is going to meet us there with a suit, you'll be fine.

[John shakes his head.]

Clara's had to handle this all on her own. Bloody hell.

[He's, quite possibly, the worst brother in existence, even for ex-sisters-in-law. And he'd actively liked Clara most of the time. He still likes her. John doesn't expect she's going to like him terribly much when he turns up with nothing but a suit.]

What d'you... have you ever had to say anything for a funeral?

[John had read some sort of Bible verse for his parents at their funeral. He'd put some thought into it, but in the end, he'd simply taken someone else's words and acted as The Good Son should. Harry had bawled through most of the ceremony.]

[He's not the best at dealing with emotional situations like this, though he is used to grieving families because of his line of work, just not as far along and as personal as this is.]

No, can't say that I have. When my mum died, it was my dad that did the reading, and every other bugger's funeral hasn't been someone I've been close enough to.

[That's probably not helpful.]

You're meant to be saying something, then? Bloody hell. Well, just talk about memories and stuff? Good ones.

I dunno. I should. She's my sister.

[And he's the only living relative apart from Clara in the area. John isn't even sure the rest of the extended family would come to Harry's funerals. Probably, they'd send flowers. He hasn't exactly been on top of informing anyone.]

Good memories. Right.

[So everything is going to be at least twenty years old.

No. That's not fair to Harry. It's really not.

After a moment, he adds:]

Thank you for this... I'm sorry. You're going to all this trouble, and I've been nothing but a headache for you. You get enough of it from Sherlock. I know I shouldn't.

Forget it.

[Lestrade looks more than a bit awkward, though it is nice to be thanked instead of berated for his idiocy for once.]

You've got nothing on him, so don't even worry about it. What are mates for?

[At least, they've done a couple of big cases and some little ones, he would think they're semi mates.]

You want me to come in? I'm not really dressed for it, but if you want...?

[He doesn't know how well attended the funeral will be, and if John might need someone there. Besides, he wants to keep an eye out and make sure this maniac gunning for him doesn't show up.]

[As with Molly and her kindness, John can't help a momentary rush of emotion that threatens tears. It would be incredibly ridiculous to cry in front of Lestrade, though, so the doctor just swallows down that emotion and blinks a few times.]

I'd appreciate it if you came in, yeah. If you're not needed elsewhere. You don't have to stay for the whole thing. Just... y'know? [Until he says something? Having someone friendly to stare at who isn't Clara should help to steady him.]

How... how are you doing in all of this? It's stressful.

[At least he usually wears smart clothes to work, so he can pass at a funeral even if he isn't wearing all black. Lestrade pretends not to see the sudden watery eyes, paying attention to weaving in and out of the traffic instead.]

Oh, you know, stress is just all part of the job. Contrary to what Sherlock would have you believe, I don't just spend all day bumbling around messing things up and then begging for His Highness to come and sort them out.

[He does appreciate Sherlock, and he even sort of likes him sometimes, but god the man can be an aggravating cock. He has no idea how John lives with him.]

[John offers Lestrade a wry smile.]

You're a godsend when you do come knocking, y'know? He'd never say it, but he does appreciate you calling him in. Saves us trying to figure out cases to work on, too.

I know that.

[He doesn't need Sherlock to say it, seeing him clean and focused is thanks enough when it all comes down to it.]

I'd keep offering him cases even if he never said it, the man's a bloody genius. Don't tell him I said that, his head's big enough.

[John snorts.]

Yeah. Yeah, it is. Your secret's safe with me, mate. After this is all over and we catch the Alphabet Wom- Caroline, we ought to do drinks down at the pub. Think I need to invite Molly, too... She's just about the sweetest angel, have you noticed? [Another godsend... even if she's terribly awkward at times.]

Molly? Oh, right, that one who works at Bart's morgue, right?

[He doesn't get down there that often himself, though he does know her in passing.]

She has a thing for Sherlock, doesn't she? But yeah, yeah, drinks sound good, mate.

That's her. Why she fancies him is beyond me, mind, but I, uh... I told her I'd try to get Sherlock to take her out for helping us with this case, and... everything else. Dunno if I can swing that unless I just text her to join us for dinner out. That'll be a while yet, though.

[John grimaces slightly.]

Need to get the finances in order again, especially after this. Clara's--my sister's ex-wife--she's arranged this whole thing. I owe her at least for half of everything. They're not even married, anymore. I should cover it all.

[He'll need to take out some sort of loan, which will be challenging to get without collateral, but there is still Harry's will, he supposes. Maybe that will cover it. Or life insurance.]

[He can't exactly argue against that sort of sentiment, if John is the only remaining family then he should be paying for these sorts of arrangements. But he'd be wrong if he thought that Harry had anything to leave him except the debts of a middle-aged alcoholic, there's no money there.]

Sounds like they still got on if she was willing to do all this, that's good. I don't think my wife would do that for me.

[Wife, ex, god knows what she's going to be soon.]

Don't worry about the money yet, cross that bridge after today is over. Focus on saying goodbye to your sister, mate.

[He doesn't say that it was Harry who left Clara. That it was Harry who ruined one of the best relationships she ever had. Like she always did. Again, it's not fair to think that way. It's poisonous and there's no point anymore. Harry's gone.]

Right.

[John will fall quiet for the rest of the drive to the church unless Lestrade prods him, just looking out the window and feeling the sick churn of his stomach as anxiety and grief mix in with the pain his body is in. He's composing in his head, trying to prepare himself to answer Clara's questions of what the hell happened to him.

Once arrived, he'll drag himself out of Lestrade's car with a grimace and look around for any signs of Sergeant Donovan. There are a few people milling outside the church, but whether that's all of them, or most have moved inside for the funeral, John isn't certain. There are few faces he actually recognizes.]

[Despite the sirens and the swift driving, Lestrade is still relieved when he realises they've reached the church with at least ten minutes to spare. Donovan isn't hard to spot, she comes rushing over with a suit over one arm and a pair of dress shoes in her other hand.]

Dr. Watson, no freak with you?

[Lestrade scowls, but it's weary rather than annoyed. He's too used to it.]

Give it a rest, Donovan, now really isn't the time. Go on and get ready, John, I'll see you in there. Thanks for bringing the suit, Donovan, but you can go now.

[John just takes the clothes from Sally and doesn't mention that 'the freak' is currently dying from ricin poisoning and there might be a second funeral to attend in the near future.]

Thank you for the suit, Sergeant Donovan.

[He turns and heads toward the church, stopping into the loo and struggling out of his clothes and into the suit. It's a good fit. Bit long in the leg, but these things tend to be if he doesn't have them tailored. It will do. John splashes some water on his face before forcing his posture straight and marching out. He nearly runs straight into Clara who takes one look at him and wraps her arms around him in a fierce hug that leaves him breathless and tearing up for the pain of it.

John tries to play it off as emotion, but he has his shoulders hunched, and he's gone rather pale when Clara lets go.]

Sorry. I'm so sorry, Clara. I've been... ['Busy' sound terrible. 'In hospital' is probably worse.] I haven't been able to think. I'll pay you back for everything.

[Before they can get much past that, there's a gentleman who looks like he works there ushering them in for the start of the ceremony.]

Edited 2017-04-21 16:34 (UTC)

[Clara is in the midst of saying that John doesn't need to explain when they get called forwards. She's always been fond of Harry's brother, and she's always been a bit too forgiving of bad behaviour. Perhaps that's why it took Harry leaving her to end the marriage, when really she should have stopped accepting excuses for long nights and alcohol breath before noon long ago.

She will talk to him about the expenses, but it can wait for another day. Today is to mourn Harry, and she will. Because despite everything, she still loved Harry.

It's a humanitarian funeral, because Harry had never been particularly religious, and the woman who conducts the main part of the ceremony is pleasant and kind. The casket is closed, but of a nice veneer with flowers around it, and the songs chosen seem at least semi-appropriate. At least for the first twenty minutes all John has to do is sit there, but before long he's being called on with a sympathetic smile.]

And now her brother, John, to say a few words. John?

[John's mouth goes dry when he's called on. He'd just been sitting stone-faced and rigid beside Clara through most of it, staring at the coffin that his failure had out there. It's a reminder just how much has been lost, not just for him but for the people in attendance and even those not. He stands and makes his way forward, turning to face the small assembly.]

Thank you for coming. Thank you, Clara, for arranging all of this. I reckon if Harry were going to have a word on it, she'd say to was perfectly lovely as these things go. What is there to say about my sister? She was a good woman who tried very hard to do her best in life. Her loss... [He's been composing in his head quickly, but this all feels so stilted. John clears his throat and looks around until he can focus on Lestrade.]

Sorry. [He licks his lips and clears his throat.] I can't... Harry wasn't always a good person. We didn't get on. Never have. [The words start tumbling out, more stream of conscious than anything carefully chosen to bring comfort to the others in the room.] What she was... was my sister. I loved her. Clara loved her. I reckon there are other people here who loved her. But I dunno. I don't know most of you.

I wasn't a very good brother to her, not since we were kids. I did what I had to, and I did what I was supposed to, but was never enough to stop her drinking, stop her hurting good people. [His eyes turn briefly to Clara, and he swallows down the emotion before returning to Lestrade.] But what happened to her wasn't something she deserved. No one's life should be cut short like hers because of someone else's mistake.

I didn't get on with Harry, but I've always admired her some ways. She would always speak her mind. She's never been afraid to share an opinion or a thought, even if it was something liable to get her in trouble. She didn't care what other people thought of her. And she was massively creative. If she could've sat down with a project for more than a few days, I reckon she could've been a properly famous artist or engineer or whatever she wanted to be. That was something else about Harry... she would not be told. She had to make her own decisions, no matter how bullheaded or stupid they were, she was the master of her destiny.

[John has to pause to pull himself together, blinking rapidly and swallowing again.]

I didn't like Harry much, but I loved her. I still love her. [His tone hardens.] And I am going to track down the woman who murdered her, and I am going to see she's brought to justice with my friends from the Met. This death and the reasons behind it will not go unanswered.

[For the first part of the eulogy, most people were simply politely listening, but then it got progressively less appropriate and the polite sympathy became quickly replaced by varying degrees of outrage, disgust, and even some amusement from the people who hadn't known Harry that well.

Lestrade puts a hand to his face, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose as he considers going up there to just drag John to sit down again. But it turns out that he doesn't have to, because the door to the little chapel room bursts open and Sherlock stalks in larger than life and three times as unwelcome a sight.]

What the hell is he doing here?

[Lestrade hisses it at the following Mycroft, already too late to grab hold of Sherlock and stop him making a scene.

People have turned to look, but Sherlock doesn't notice. He's feeling very strange by now, only on his feet through sheer determination to see this through. He can see John at the head of the congregation and his heartbeat quickens along with his steps, striding up to stand beside his friend.]

Bomb.

[It comes out slightly slurred, but no less authoritative for it. He bends to start tugging at the lid of the coffin.]

There's a bomb in the coffin, John. Everyone. I would advise getting to a safe range as soon as possible.

[John startles at the bang of the door, going for a gun at the back of his waistband that isn't there and regretting the sudden movement massively it pulls across his broken ribs.]

Sherlock.

[Mycroft follows after looking unimpressed. He stops next to Lestrade.]

We'll be finished here in a moment, Detective Inspector. My apologies for an interruption. There's an ambulance outside I'll have him stowed away in presently.

[Which means he's not actually bothering to do anything to prevent Sherlock from trying to pry off the lid of coffin.

The woman conducting the ceremony is on her feet and over to the men, more than a little aghast.]

There is no bomb in this coffin. Everyone please remain seated.

[John breaks in, the memory of the Alphabet Woman swimming in his head. 'D is for Dead'? That hardly makes sense when it should have been 'F is for Funeral.' Unless Caroline is doing a repeat on 'C is for Coffin.' Whatever it is, John hurries to help Sherlock in prying up the lid.]

Lestrade, get them out of here!

[Mycroft speaks up.]

I can assure you, Dr. Watson, there's no cause for alarm.

[John ignores him, not particularly trusting the man who'd let Sherlock get kidnapped in the first place. The poor woman directing things presses her hands down hard on the coffin's lid.]

This is outrageous. I'm calling security if this man doesn't leave immediately, Dr. Watson. This is not a time for theatrics.

[John all but snarls back as he puts what strength he has into it to yank the lid up.]

Harry was murdered, and they blew up our flat after! If he says there's a bomb in this coffin...

[He trails off. The lid is up and Harry's body lies there in a state, skin pale with death. She's positioned with her hands over her chest. There's no bomb in the coffin.]

The... the lining. Inside the lining?

[John looks to Sherlock in confusion.]

[None of the people watching know what to do at all. Clara is in tears, the funeral is ruined and the body of her ex-wife is being treated so disrespectfully by John and that friend he has now. Some other people are half convinced to start moving for the doors, some others are watching in amazement, and one man at the back of the room has his camera phone up and recording the whole thing.

Sherlock knows as soon as the coffin is opened that there's no bomb in there, but he also knows everything isn't right either.]

Quiet, John.

[He waves a hand at him imperiously, before scanning the hall with a frown. It's so hard to focus, hard to concentrate when he can feel his breathing coming too fast and too shallow, a pain in his head and his chest that he can't quite ignore.]

Regardez.

[He doesn't realise that things have got crossed in his brain and he's now speaking French to John.]

Regardez autour de vous les gens ici, qui ne reconnaissez-vous pas?

[He knows it now, he knows that the accomplice is somewhere in the room, and if his vision would only stop fading and disappearing into black spots then he'd be able to deduce who.]

Son complice est là, John! Oubliez la bombe, c'était l'erreur de Mycroft.

[Depending if John does understand enough French to look around at the congregation properly or not, there are likely more people there that he doesn't recognise (distant cousins, work friends of Harry, etc) than people he does recognise (a few of the distant relatives, Lestrade, and Molly Hooper in the back row looking wide eyed at the mess going on).]

Edited (wanted to add in a bit more) 2017-04-24 14:44 (UTC)

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plurk taught me how to use hover text, I feel so fancy