Fic: A Hole In The World (Chapter 5)

[sherlocksscarf]

Post-Reichenbach. John struggles to cope with the loss of Sherlock. A mystery provides a distraction...or does it?

“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world,

which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime,

and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

Author note: Part 5 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. This story contains quite a few spoilers for the rest of the series, so it would probably make much more sense to read the series in order, as it tells how John and Sherlock got to this point.

Thanks to arianedevere and the detailed transcript of “The Reichenbach Fall” at her LJ site: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript

Many thanks to my beta, Skyfullofstars. Sky, thank you for making me stop and think harder about this story. It’s better because of you.

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very, very sad.

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, somewhat graphic slash. Major, major spoilers for Season 2.

Trigger warnings: Suicidal ideation; references to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.

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Read Chapter 4

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Chapter 5: Keep Going

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 “If you're going through hell, keep going.”

― Winston Churchill

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I must have drifted off (or more accurately, cried myself to sleep), because when I open my eyes again, the rosy tints of sunset are streaming in the window. It takes me a moment to orient myself, to figure out where I am. I fumble for the pull-chain on the bedside lamp, then peer at the old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. It is almost 7.30 in the evening. I sit up, groaning, and rub my face vigorously. It doesn’t really help.

A shower. That should wake me up. Grateful to Gary and Billy for their kindness in providing me with an en suite bath, I step under the hot spray and just stand, letting the water pour over my head and back, trying not to think, trying not to remember…

Sherlock’s water-slicked chest pressed to my naked back, soapy hands gliding over my skin, making sure that every last inch of my body was lavished with attention…

Stop it.

Stop doing this.

I need to get my head in the game. Whoever is taunting me with the postcard wants me here, and I need to stay focused. This is not the time to wallow in memories and grief.

I abruptly turn the water all the way to cold, and force myself to stand under the icy needles of spray until I am shivering. Then I turn off the water, step out, and dry off with a thick towel. I shave, brush my teeth, comb my hair, then get dressed. Lastly, I tuck my Browning into the back of my waistband, covering it with my jacket.

Right. Time to get started.

When I enter the dining room, Gary is just handing a takeaway container to a young woman in a worn duffel coat, her mousy brown hair pulled back in an untidy knot. He turns and spots me in the doorway.

“John!” He smiles and gestures toward an empty table.

As I approach Gary, the young woman brushes past me. There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t place it. Of course, I’ve stayed here twice before, and seen a number of the locals, so it’s not a big surprise that someone would look familiar.

Gary escorts me to a table.

“Come, have some dinner. Tonight we have a moussaka made with aubergine and red lentil, an asparagus and mushroom risotto, and a red Thai curry with grilled aubergine. What can I bring you to drink, while you decide?”

“A Guinness would be lovely, Gary,” I reply, “and I’ll take the moussaka, please.”

“Certainly.”

As I sip my stout and wait for my meal, I look around the room. The fireplace lends a cozy, intimate atmosphere. I remember sitting here with Sherlock the first night of our getaway, feeling so relaxed and happy, sated from a long afternoon in bed with my gorgeous lover. We sip wine and talk long into the evening, then go for a walk in the gloaming.  Strolling hand-in-hand, we amble around the walking paths, talking about our planned visit to the apiary the following morning. Sherlock can hardly wait to get to the Dartmoor Bee Station. He is absolutely fascinated by bees…

“Here you are, John.” Gary interrupts my reverie to place a fragrant plate before me.

“This looks wonderful, Gary.” I pause, then ask, “Would you join me for a moment? I just had a question, if you have a minute.”

“Of course.” He sits in the chair opposite me. “What did you want to ask?”

“Gary, have you ever heard of ‘The Valley of Fear?’”

His genial face looks bewildered.

“Nae, never heard of it, John. What is it?”

“I’ve no idea,” I say. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Where did you hear of it?”

“Errrm…someone mentioned it. Since they mentioned Dartmoor as well, I thought it might be a local attraction.”

“Sorry, John – I’ve never heard of a ‘Valley of Fear.’”

“It’s fine, Gary. It was a long shot, anyway.”

He smiles apologetically, then excuses himself to welcome and seat an elderly couple who have just arrived.

I take a bite of the moussaka, then another, not really considering the meal beyond simply consuming fuel for “the transport,” as Sherlock would have said. Once upon a time, I would have spent time savouring the rich flavours, but my appetite has gone to hell in the last two months. I just can’t seem to work up the energy to focus on food.

I find myself looking again at the two armchairs by the fire, where Sherlock sat after being dosed with Project H.O.U.N.D.’s fear-inducing drug in Dewer’s Hollow. We were unaware at the time that a madman had rigged a pressure plate in the gully to disperse an aerosolised form of the drug into the air. The results were quite shocking for Sherlock. Poor Sherlock, so carefully buttoned up for so long, struggled against an emotion as strong as the terror that the drug induced, and, of course, he had no idea what had brought it all on.

Sherlock sat in that chair and ranted on and on to me about emotions, about being afraid, about fear…

Fear.

The Valley of Fear?

Dewer’s Hollow.

I can’t eat another bite. Waving to Gary, I call out, “Gary, can you put this on my bill?”

“Of course, John. See you later!”

I rush out the door, headed for my hire car, and Dewer’s Hollow.

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These woods are spooky at any time of day, but particularly so in the dark, the trees creating eerie silhouettes against the light from my pocket torch. It’s a starless night, heavy cloud cover heralding an approaching storm, and mist curling in low-lying hollows. Nightjar calls and the hoarse shrieks of a night heron just make it more disquieting, and when a barn owl suddenly screeches right above my head, I can’t help jumping a bit.

I don’t recall feeling this jumpy the first time Sherlock, Henry and I came to Dewer’s Hollow at night, but of course, I wasn’t alone, and hadn’t received anonymous postcards via my bedside table drawer. That probably makes a man a bit more nervous.

I realise that it is a bit insane to be doing this alone. Moriarty is dead, but I have no doubt that he had many connections, and it is highly likely that the person who has left me this message is very dangerous indeed.

Maybe that’s why the tremor has left my hand for the first time in two months.

Dewer’s Hollow was formed as a result of tin-mining – Dartmoor is dotted with ancient mines, long played out and forgotten, and many of them have caused sinkholes or caves to form. The Hollow is a steep, rocky depression with several caves branching away from it. It’s a creepy place to begin with, and my worry about Moriarty’s network isn’t helping my anxiety level.

So, when I round the large granite outcropping that intrudes into the path in the middle of the Hollow, and nearly run headlong into the young woman from the restaurant earlier, my reaction isn’t the best. With an inarticulate shout, I yank the Browning from its hiding place at the small of my back, and put plenty of space between us.

The woman (why do I know her face?) stumbles back, frightened, raising her hands.

“Please…don’t!”

I lower the gun, but don’t put it away, and I keep the light from my torch trained on her face.

“Who are you? Did you leave the postcard? Why did you contact me?”

“I…I…didn’t!” she gasps, then quirks her shoulder up with a wry look, adding, “Okay, yeah, the postcard, that was me. Only I wasn’t contacting you myself, was I? I was just doing as he asked. That’s what he pays me for, innit?”

“Who pays you?” I step forward, still holding the gun by my side. “Who hired you to put the postcard in my drawer?”

She looks at me, the fear gone from her eyes.

“You’re not goin’ ta shoot me, Doctor Watson. You know who hired me.”

My left hand trembles. Damn it. I tighten my grip on my Browning.

“Moriarty?” I manage to whisper the name.

And she laughs. She laughs!

“Moriarty blew his brains out on the roof of St. Bart’s, Doctor. And that sod never hired me. I might sleep rough and do a bit o’ buskin’ now and then, but I never would have taken his money.”

“I don’t understand...” I’m staring at her, trying to piece together who might have hired her, when I hear a deep, velvety baritone voice behind me, the one that has haunted my dreams for two months, that I’d never thought I’d hear again in this lifetime.

“Perhaps I should explain, John.”

I whirl around, and there, fog swirling around his feet, stands a terribly gaunt, pale, ginger-haired wraith of a man, whose bearded face is achingly, terrifyingly familiar.

Sherlock.

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Read Chapter 6