fossilised | For John Watson

[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)

[John knows about enough French to ask for the loo and tell a woman she's beautiful. He can get the general meaning with 'regard' and something about the bomb and Mycroft being wrong, but what Sherlock actually wants him to look at is a mystery. He simply follows the line of Sherlock's gaze up and around the room. Who is he looking at? Should he be looking at Mycroft?]

Sherlock, I don't under-

[Mycroft cuts in smoothly, striding forward.]

I believe, gentlemen, that's quite enough. [He stops next to where Clara is and reaches into his jacket pocket to produce a white card with a phone number on it.] My sincere apologies for my brother's antics, Ms. Wright. Please call the this number when you're feeling entirely up to it. All matters of payment for the service and any additional rites or memorial services you should like to hold beyond this will be attended to.

[John's eyes widen as he realizes his debt to Clara is being transferred as a debt to Mycroft. He wants to tell her not to take the card, but... well. She really ought to take the card, and he's in no position to be giving her advice. With near perfect timing, as pair of EMTs push through the door with a stretcher and gurney. Mycroft glances back and waves them forward.]

I believe my brother is about to collapse. Do be so kind as to catch him before he falls. Dr. Watson, I believe you'll want to join him. [John recognizes the command for what it is and, looking over at Clara sobbing and the horrified faces around him, the doctor can't find it in himself to refuse, even on principle. He's ruined it. Ruined Harry's funeral, and who knows if Clara's ever going to speak to him again.

His own body isn't protesting quite as much as Sherlock's but he's certainly not in any fit shape, either. They're going to trap him in hospital if he goes with him, though. The Alphabet Woman promised to begin her proper reign of terror soon. He can't just go. Except that's what he's going to end up doing as the men with their stretcher come to try to gently take hold of Sherlock and get him down to carry out.]

[Frustrated, Sherlock puts a hand on the edge of the coffin to steady himself. If John won't do as he's asked when given a reasonable request, then clearly he'll have to take care of it himself. He tries to look out to the people gathered, get mental snapshots of who they are and if their grief here is genuine.

It's hard, too hard.

He sways on his feet and then, as Mycroft so astutely predicted, his legs fold from underneath him. His eyes roll back into his head and his back arches, entire body convulsing as a fit hits him like a train, making him smack his head and limbs against the floor with far too much force. One of the people in the pews gasps audibly, but the EMTs are already hurrying forward to do their job.

They're not the only ones. Molly pushes past Jim, utterly disgusted with his behaviour for filming this, and runs up to the front, past Mycroft, to John's side.]

John, I'm-- I'm here to help, whatever you need. Here--

[It's stupid, the EMTs have it covered, but she pulls off her jacket (black for the occasion) and wads it up to try and push under Sherlock's head. She knows not to restrain anyone having a fit, but it's so hard to remember that when the person seizing is someone she cares about.]

And you!

[She whirls on Mycroft suddenly.]

What do you think you were doing, letting him come here in this state? Some brother you are, Mycroft Holmes.

[John is in the same position as Molly, but they can at least get Sherlock on his side in case he vomits. But the EMTs are doing it. Molly's doing it. He's just standing there stupidly, staring at the scene and suddenly feeling incredibly numb from it all. He looks back into the coffin at Harry, to the woman running the ceremony. She's shaking her head as she pulls out a phone to call... someone. Maybe her boss? Maybe security?

He takes a step forward, down toward Sherlock and the pain that pulls through his chest, bringing things into sharp focus again.]

Molly... [He puts a hand on her shoulder as she whirls on Mycroft.

The elder Holmes just looks down at the woman like she's a particularly recalcitrant stain on his coat. His smile is pure, polite venom as Sherlock's seizure abates and the EMTs get him up and moving toward the ambulance.]

You will observe, Ms. Hooper, that Sherlock is being dealt with as he should have been previously, had Dr. Watson not insisted on tending to him, himself, in a former drug den. Good day.

[He turns, and heads toward the door to the church, pulling out his phone as he goes.]

Come along, Dr. Watson.

[John grates at the casual command, at being called like a dog. His hands ball into fists, and then reaches into his pocket to fish out Molly's car keys. He feels sick again, with grief, with pain, with confusion. He just wants to sit in a quiet room by himself for a while and let everything else fade away.]

Lestrade can get you back to your car, Molly. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

[She's so used to just rolling over and letting other people take advantage of her. No self confidence, that's her problem, but she has a fire in her belly when people hurt the ones she cares about. Not that there are a lot of those, she seems to end up alone more often than not, her closest confidants the corpses in the morgue.

But Sherlock might be dying, and Mycroft is treating it like just another inconvenience. So she stalks after him, darting around the front of him to land a loud and harsh slap to his face.]

Oh--!

[It's like she's slapped herself, coming back to reality with what she's done. Oh God, she just slapped Sherlock's terrifying older brother. She swallows with a mild squeak and then hurries back to John's side, bright red.]

Forget the car, okay? I'll come with you, come on, before they leave us behind.

[The look Mycroft gives her at that slap is shock, followed closely on by absolute incredulity. He watches her as she squeaks and scurries away, gaze nothing short of ice-like. Mycroft doesn't pursue, though. He touches a hand briefly to where the woman has dared to slap him and sends off a few emails. His gaze lands on the man taking a video of the whole scene briefly, and the accomplice Sherlock's looking for is noted. He raises a brow at 'Jim' and carries on, as if nothing has happened.

John, meanwhile, is roundly impressed by Molly's moxie. He's being continually impressed by her today, one time after another. The doctor casts a quick glance back at Clara, then at Lestrade who just shakes his head and waves John off.]

Yeah. Uh... right. All right.

[Away they go to the ambulance, while Mycroft climbs into a black car that Not Anthea is waiting in. The man taking the video follows after John and Molly. His smile is goofy and he's Irish by his accent.]

Need a ride, Molls? Not sure you'll all be fitting in that ambulance.

[There's an almost glee about him that seems to get quickly tamped down to something appropriate as he addresses John.]

Sorry about your sister.

[She might not know John very well, but dressing his wounds in a disabled toilet and then helping him impersonate the police has created a sort of friendship bond. Or, at least, it has in her mind and she's not willing to let him go and shoulder this on her own. Not least because it's Sherlock and she's desperate to make sure that he's alright.

She's halfway into the ambulance by the time Jim addresses her and she turns, flustered.]

Oh, um, I'm sure I'll fit.

[She wants to tell him off for filming, but she used up her backbone for the moment in slapping Mycroft.]

Actually, miss. [That's one of the paramedics.] The less people crowding in, the better.

Um. [She sags a bit, but then puts her hand on John's shoulder carefully, she remembers the burns.] I'll see you there, okay? Yeah, Jim, thanks. Oh, sorry. Jim, this is John Watson, he's a-- someone I know. John, this is Jim, he's my b-- someone else I know.

[Jim smiles, still managing to stay just about the right side of appropriate.]

I'd say nice to meet you, but, y'know, circumstances.

[Molly Hooper has a boyfriend. Well, then. You learn something new about people every day. John gives Jim a closer look now, top-to-toe. He sees a skinny geek with very nice hair who quite possibly still lives in his mum's basement. The suit he's wearing looks like it was put on in a hurry. A part of him thinks, immediately, that this man isn't good enough for Molly Hooper, but the protective flare is set aside. They're friends now, but he doesn't have a right to say who she should be dating. And he doesn't even know the bloke.]

Sure. Thanks, Jim. Good to meet you. We'll meet you at...

[He looks to the EMT who gives the name of the hospital. Jim nods and then offers a mock salute, which John tries not to bristle at. He knows it's probably just one of this man's quirks, not anything intentional.]

See you soon. He'll pull through. I promise, Molly.

[John hauls himself up into the ambulance and finds a place to half-collapse as the EMTs see to their business.]

It's ricin poisoning. Injection. He was on oxygen and an IV drip of saline when I, mm... [The ambulance jolts as they pull away and John grimaces, breathing shallow.] When I left him half an hour ago. [He also gives them the names and dosages of the medications he'd given Sherlock.]

[At least Jim isn't going to do anything to sweet little Molly Hooper just yet. She's useful, and it's so amusing getting in close with the games to watch it all unfold on a front row seat. It's delicious. He does hope that Sherlock doesn't succumb to the poisoning, that would be so boring and he has such hopes for their little relationship.

By the time Molly and Jim get to the hospital, Sherlock has been rushed to a room in the ICU and hooked up to all manner of monitors and drips. There's not a cure for ricin poisoning, and all they can do is wait it out with preventative measures against further seizures or organ failure, but even then the rate of survival for ricin poisoning is low.

Molly comes rushing into the room, stopping dead when she sees him unconscious like that, before turning to John and holding out a cardboard coffee cup shakily.]

I thought you might want-- y'know, to help you keep going. Today's been a bit...

[Crap? Stressful? Nothing really covers it properly.]

[John offers her a brief smile as he takes the cup of coffee. He's slumped over in one of the chairs, but he's doing his best not to look too out of sorts to avoid suspicion from the nurses and doctors passing by. Probably, he should ask for some more painkillers. It seems a risky proposition, though.]

It's certainly been a day. Sorry my, uh... my eulogy went a bit sideways there.

[To say the very least.]

Need to apologize to Clara.

[He's not even going to get to watch his sister be buried, and that thought hits him very suddenly, like a punch to the stomach. John just sips on his coffee and tries very hard to forget about it.]

[She reaches out almost tentatively and lays her hand over the one not holding the cup of coffee, and then withdraws it pretty quickly.]

Grief makes people do funny things, don't torture yourself too much over it. I think it's Sherlock who owes an apology all round, you were doing okay until he came bursting in.

[Despite her words, the twist to her lips is fond as her eyes flick over to Sherlock.]

Why don't you tell me a bit more about her? Sounds like we're going to be here a while and it might help. [Why is she doing this? It didn't help in the car, it just made John prickly and silent.] She sounds like she was a real firecracker.

[The difference now is that they aren't in the middle of something else. That, and John's already made an ass of himself about Harry, as well. He glances over at Molly for a long moment, then down at the coffee in his hands. A shrug makes him suck in a sharp breath and sorely regret having a physical form at all. Why can't he just be a consciousness? Those can't break ribs or bruise or burn.]

Dunno what there is to say, really. She was into art, graphic design stuff. Never much cared about school, otherwise. Fell in with an older crowd when we were kids and picked up bad habits. She liked to tell jokes. Some of them were all right, but I think she liked getting people to groan more. Married Clara just before I shipped out and had me as her 'gentleman-of-honor,' as she called it. Clara had one of her mates from uni as the 'best woman.'

[A nostalgic smile does quirk up his lips for a moment.]

That sounds really nice, I've never actually been to a wedding myself. Getting all dressed up like that, spending the day watching love, I bet it's lovely.

[She smiles herself and takes a sip of her own coffee, finally sinking down into the other chair. She's itching to check Sherlock's chart, but John is the conscious one here and so she needs to focus on him.]

It can be good to remember the happier times, but I sometimes found they made my cry more than remembering the bad ones after my Dad died. It can be helpful to let yourself cry, though, so maybe that's not such a terrible thing. Um, I mean, not that you have to cry. You can if you want to, but you don't have to.

[God. Good job, Molly. She shuts her mouth with a click to stop any more stupid ramblings.]

I'm not gonna cry, Molly. [Let's get that out of the way. This is far too public a place for that. He takes another sip from his own coffee.]

It was always lovely with Harry for a bit. Reminded you that it could be lovely with her. [Which is why it was always such an incredible let-down when she'd inevitably start drinking again and ruin everything she'd built up. It was like she was allergic to happiness and stability. Not that John had a lot of room to talk on those fronts as of late.]

I just... we have to find the Alphabet Woman--Caroline Matthews. That's her name. Lestrade came by with a file. We think she has an accomplice, too. Someone who's helping her with the tech side of things.

[It's easier to focus on the case than on his grief, bury it all down deep where he doesn't have to deal with it. Where he doesn't have to think about Clara standing with everyone else around a coffin as it's lowered down and John isn't there.]

Edited 2017-04-26 18:32 (UTC)

No, you won't, will you?

[That's softer, sadder.]

You're going to run around trying to find Caroline Matthews until you can say too much time has passed for you to need to cry and you must have got over it. That's not healthy, John, it's not.

[There she goes again, lecturing someone she has no right to. She tilts her head away in sudden shame, looking down on Sherlock where he could be sleeping if it weren't for the beeping machines and tubes.]

[John's jaw tightens as she sees through him again in a way he only really tolerates from Sherlock. Even then, this isn't a topic he'd pry at. It's too emotionally fraught.]

What d'you want me to do, Molly? Have a breakdown? What's that going to help?

[It's more of a snap than he means it to be. He reels it back in a bit and grits his teeth.]

Sorry. I just don't see it'd do any good for him or anyone else Caroline's after.

[She flinches back a bit, but ultimately stands her ground. People think she's such a pushover, and she is a lot of the time, but she does have a spine in there when it matters.]

It's not meant to do good for Sherlock or anyone else but you.

[It's still soft, gentle, rather than a return snap.]

Of course I don't want you to have a breakdown, but there's a difference between letting your grief out and breaking down. Sorry, I know we're-- I know I'm nobody to say this sort of thing, but I think I might be the only one who will.

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

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