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I Shall Not Be Thy Refuge Once More, chapter 2/12

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Thursday, November 1st, 2012 | 6:45 am
mood: rushedrushed
music: "Prithee" -- the Monkees
posted by: rose_of_pollux in 30_losses

Title: I Shall Not Be Thy Refuge Once More, chapter 2: Has Thou Lost Thy Way as Once Before?
Author/Artist: Crystal Rose of Pollux (rose_of_pollux)
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Sherlock
Claim: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (friendship)
Theme: 32B; Ignored instinct
Genre/s: Drama/Friendship
Warnings: Some violence
Words: ~2200
Summary: Sherlock is still reeling from what happened. John wakes up with no memory of the incident.
Disclaimer/Claimer: The characters are not mine (except for the OCs) and the story is
A/N: crossposted to FFN

Aimless wandering around town had never been something that Sherlock had done prior to tonight; usually, if he was wandering, his mind would be focused on the details of a case, but now, his head was empty.

And his heart was aching.

His mind—foremost in the powers of rationalizing, could not come up with a reason to explain John’s violent attack on him. Sherlock had been desperate to believe that John simply had not recognized him—after all, why else did he exclaim his name in disbelief before he had fainted?

But that look in John’s eyes when they had been standing in the moonlight suggested otherwise. They had both been illuminated in the moonlight, able to see each other—and John’s murderous expression had not wavered. That could only mean, then, for that moment, however temporary that moment had been, John had wanted Sherlock dead.

And that was what hurt the most.

It made no sense, either. Oh, Sherlock knew he should’ve expected John to be angry at the deception, but he had expected a punch to the face, not a knife to the chest. After everything they had been through… after the long hours John had spent defending Sherlock’s honor and mourning him—the tributes and unwavering declarations that he believed in him, and nothing could get him to stop…

…How, then, had it come to this…?

His mind raced, repeatedly, trying to find some sort of answer; finding none, he took out his phone and contemplated texting Mycroft. His elder brother had seemed to know something that Sherlock hadn’t, but to text him would be the equivalent of crawling to him on his hands and knees.

Sherlock cringed, but swallowed his pride. This was John they were dealing with, and he was more than willing to technologically crawl back to his elder brother.

What’s wrong with John?

He waited for a reply, but received none; despite the fact that it was so early in the morning, he would’ve expected a reply from Mycroft, knowing that his brother frequently pulled all-nighters in his line of work.


He still received no reply, and now Sherlock was resigned to believing that Mycroft either was asleep or was ignoring him on purpose—and judging by how irked he had seemed before, it was most likely the latter.

And it was after that realization that Sherlock resumed wandering aimlessly across town. The unfairness of it all was too much; he had faked his death to save John—and would’ve been willing to give his life to save him—and this was the thanks he received?

If anyone had told him that John would’ve ever considered trying to harm him, he would’ve dismissed them as insane. And yet, here he was, reeling and aching from having experienced the one thing he never thought possible—betrayal. John’s betrayal. Betrayal by the one person in the world he had opened his cold heart to… John betraying him now hurt a hundredfold more than when the rest of the world had turned against him due to Moriarty’s scheme…

His mind suddenly screamed for him to stop. There had to be a reason for this—there had to be! John—his John, his blogger—could not and would not turn against him so easily, not after everything they had been through together… not after John’s firm declarations that he would always believe in him, no matter what.

But was that truly what his logical mind believed? Or was that mere sentiment—a desperate attempt to not have to grasp the all-to-possible reality that John had turned on him out of the pent-up hurt?

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him, not at all sure where to go from here. Sherlock had been banking on John giving him a place to stay, but that was obviously not happening. Getting a hotel was out of the question; he didn’t have easy access to cash reserves, having to depend on Mycroft and Molly. He certainly wasn’t about to ask Mycroft for help, so that left… only one option.

And that was why Molly Hooper found Sherlock Holmes at her door at the crack of dawn.

“Sherlock!?” she quietly gasped, as she let him in. “What are you doing here?! I thought you were going to stay with John…!” She trailed off at the look on Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, what happened?”

Sherlock sat down on the couch, staring at the opposite wall.

“John tried to kill me.”

“Well, you should’ve expected him to hit you after all that he’s been through,” Molly said. “But…”

“No, I mean it; John tried to kill me—stab me with a knife.”

“…What!? There has to be some mistake! John would never—”

“He did!” Sherlock bellowed, trying to mask the emotions he was feeling. “He saw my face clearly in the moonlight, and then proceeded to attempt to stab me—repeatedly! And the look in his eyes…” Despite himself, Sherlock couldn’t suppress a shudder as he recalled it. “It was the same murderous look that Moriarty’s had when we were up on the roof. John wanted me dead.”

“That just isn’t possible,” Molly said, firmly. “And you know it. There has to be an explanation—”

“Of course there’s an explanation!” Sherlock retorted. “All the time he’s spent mourning me has undoubted giving him an immeasurable amount of pain, and, therefore, feelings of hostility towards me. These feelings of hostility go against his feelings of mourning his best friend, so he banished them all to a corner of his mind—a corner of his mind that was, undoubtedly, shocked into consciousness upon my surprise return! He’s a Jekyll and Hyde now, and—!”

“Sherlock!” Molly said, horrified. “You know that’s not true! I know you’re always saying terrible things about everyone, even me, but you can’t give John so little credit! John is a soldier. He’s a strong man, and you know it. And from what I’ve seen, he’s been doing great. He’s got an American businesswoman as his latest girlfriend, he’s got great job as a GP in the East End, and he even sometimes helps out Lestrade on cases! There is nothing wrong with him!”

“Then how do you explain the attempted murder I just escaped?!” Sherlock demanded. “He is most certainly not okay!”

Molly bit her lip at first to silence herself, but then decided that, for John’s sake, she couldn’t remain silent.

“I don’t have an explanation or an answer,” she admitted, shrugging her shoulders. “But I’m sure you’ll find one, Sherlock—I know you will, just like you always do. And then you’re going to realize that you were being very unfair towards John for making such a horrible assumption.”

Sherlock let out a quiet scoff.

“My assumptions are deductions.”

“Yes, just like your deductions about Jim.”

Sherlock turned his head sharply to glare at her, and Molly realized she had gone too far with that one.

“Sorry,” she said, hastily. “He fooled me, too; I know that—”

“Yes, well, fooling you wouldn’t have been difficult!” Sherlock snapped, not caring that he was going out of line; he could almost picture John’s disapproving look, but he still did not apologize.

He wanted to be wrong about John. He wanted nothing more than to be wrong. But what other answer could possibly remain?

Molly had been staring at Sherlock since his last quip, tight-lipped. Without another word, she left him to get ready for work, hoping that John would be able to prove her right and prove Sherlock wrong.

Because if Sherlock was right, it had meant that everything he and Molly had done to allow him to escape Moriarty’s sinister plan had been all for naught.


John winced as he awoke with a dull pain throughout his right side, as though he had fallen on it. He groaned, sitting up as he tried to recall how on earth he had fallen; there were large gaps in his memory last night, and it was absolutely annoying him that he couldn’t get all the pieces of his memory in place.

All I had was one glass of wine… he thought. Nowhere near enough to have a blackout. Right—focus, just like Sherlock would’ve done….

The thought brought both a twinge of his heart in addition to a wistful smile. If only Sherlock was here, he could’ve probably told him exactly what he had done last night. Of course, if Sherlock was here, so many things would be different—the main thing, of course, is that John would’ve had his best friend.

John pushed this thought aside. He always made time to spare some thoughts for his lost friend, but there was a time and place for everything, and, right now, he had to find what had happened.

Let’s see… Aranea and I were watching Casablanca while we had dinner, and… His thoughts trailed off. …I fell asleep during the film, didn’t I?

He rolled his eyes in exasperation at himself as he crossed to the living room, massaging his arm as he looked around the room. There were the plates. There was the DVD case. There was the quart of milk…

John froze in his tracks.

That… wasn’t there last night.

His current flame, Aranea, wouldn’t have bought that for him. Actually, there would be only one person in the world who would’ve bought a quart of milk for John. But that person was dead…

John picked up the milk, his mind reeling as he stared at it.

Could it be possible…? Could he be…? No, he can’t be! But… If there was one person who could’ve pulled it off

John’s gaze now found its way to the kitchen, where he saw the spilled silverware.

What happened here? he mentally asked. Sherlock…? Were you really here? Why did you leave? Where are you now?

He shut his eyes for a moment, desperately trying to recall what had happened. Something had happened, but his mind just would not give him any more answers.

Right. Back to deducing, like he would’ve done. We have a quart of milk, spilled silverware, and my side hurts as though I fell on it. And I can’t remember a single thing. Why can’t I remember what happened? Is it because of shock? …Shock because I saw someone I knew was dead?

He now called up Aranea, who sounded pleased to hear from him.

“Morning, John,” she said, her American accent ringing clear.

Morning,” he returned. “Hey, ah… Sorry for nodding off during the film.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she said. “Are we still on for tonight?”

“Yes… Yes, we are,” he said. “Listen, you didn’t see anyone around the building when you left last night, did you?”

“No, but I left around eleven,” she said. “Why, was there a break-in?”

John looked from the milk to the silverware.

“No, there wasn’t; I was just… curious, that’s all. Never mind me; I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Sounds good; I’ve got a meeting I need to run to, so forgive me for hanging up.”

John just smiled and said goodbye, now turning back to the mystery at hand. He headed out the door now, grabbing his jacket on the way out.

If Sherlock was alive… there had to be someone else who would have known about it—to help him hide. Mycroft would be the most logical choice, but seeing as though Mycroft had been the reason why Moriarty had received the ammunition he required to put his plan into action, John hadn’t spoken to the older Holmes since the revelation that it was all his fault. And he had no desire to start now, whether or not he did know.

But there had to be someone else who did know—the one person who had the means to fake a death, utilizing a morgue to its fullest extent to do so.

And it was due to that knowledge that, a half hour later, John Watson found himself knocking on the door of Molly Hooper’s flat. She opened the door now, going pale at the sight of him.

“John…!” she said, with a nervous smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here! You… you just caught me on my way out, actually. But, tell me, how’re things going for you; I’ve barely seen you since you got that new job—”

“Molly, I think he’s alive,” the doctor said, cutting her off. “Please tell me what you know, Molly. Is he really alive, or am I just crazy?!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

Please!” John exclaimed. “Don’t do this to me, Molly; he was my best friend, and if it’s true that he’s…”

Molly cringed as she saw John’s eyes widen immediately upon looking past her shoulder, and it was then that she realized that the full-length mirror on the wall behind her was reflecting Sherlock’s hiding place behind the furniture where he had attempted to conceal himself. Sherlock realized it a second too late, cursing himself as John now pushed past Molly to face him.

Here they were, face to face again. And heaven only knew what would happen now that they were.

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