Coda
part twelveIt wasn't hard work to row the boat out to the middle of Boscombe pool but John's hands still ached from the friction of the ores as he dragged them through the stagnant, green waters. He didn't have many other options open to him. For a short time he considered swinging the long, flat of the ore into Patience's head or side but she never gave him the opportunity, her eyes as steady as the gun in her hand as she watched him, ordered him, and assured herself he obeyed. Leaping into the water just made him a target for the gun while lunging at her meant possibly taking the knife instead of the bullet. For the moment, biding his time seemed the surest bet. Unlike her brother, Patience had not planned this from the start with booby traps or reinforcement waiting to spring and take Sherlock and the others by surprise. For once, John himself felt in the most immediate danger and it had an interesting calming affect that never arose when the target was Sherlock Holmes. His own murder was worlds easier to take with a grain of salt.
He tried not to breathe in too deeply as he watched the swarms of tiny insects float in the air around them, breathing out through his mouth with the tickle of his nose hairs. The sun was warm on his face, casting longer shadows over the muddy clearing where they'd left his phone and their trail behind. They wouldn't have long to wait if Sherlock and the others had indeed been near the woodland estates. But time itself seemed to be at a standstill.
"So, how will you do it?" John asked, lacking in conversation as even the birdsong drew still.
Patience shrugged slightly, betraying nothing in foresight. "I've got you. That's all anyone really ever needs to get to Sherlock Holmes, right?
John tried not to let his expression turn sour.
"I've read your blog," Patience explained. "Moriarty knew to use you. Sebastian knew it too. Sherlock Holmes has only one great weakness and it's Dr. John Watson. If you ask me, they were both too preoccupied to really understand just how to use you, though. Boys are funny like that. Give them the fire to light their way and watch them burn the whole forest down." She sighed, eyes flickering off John for a moment but only a moment, not long enough to put anything into action. "Boys think the only way to hurt someone is to attack them personally," she said, face empty and still. "It hurts so much more to be the one left behind."
John's throat felt tight. "Yeah. Yeah, it does," he said, and let the ores sink into their reigns as they floated in the middle of the empty pool. He cleared his throat, wiping his sore palms against his trousers as he looked down at the bottom of the boat. No tools, some small line of rope, mostly soggy leaves and scraps of woods no more substantial than twigs for tinder. He licked his lips. "You've read my blog, right? So you've read about me and Sherlock... and me and Mary. So you should know I know exactly what you're talking about. Being left behind is... there aren't words for it. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
"Liar."
John sat straighter, shoulders rolled back. "I don't get off on torture," he stated simply.
Patience stared for a moment then smiled a little kinder, her face warming up to more than just the sunlight.
The water was motionless save for the small ripples from insects. No splash of fish, no snake's trail, nothing to signify it as habitable. It seemed to hold as much life as a city puddle; nothing more than breeding grounds for bacteria and bugs. They seemed to have left all wildlife back in the woods with only the sky above to mock them as a swarm of black birds flew overheard, cawing loudly. John looked up to watch them, wondering from what direction they had come and if they were a sign that Sherlock was coming near.
"I was a war bride," Patience said into the stretch of silence, the knife hand drilling the weapon against the seat beside her. "Patrick and I were married for a week before all three boys left and I moved in with his father so I wouldn't be alone. You find out all kinds of family secrets when you've nothing to do but clean all day. And old men like to talk to pretty girls who like to listen. Mr. Turner and Mr. McCarthy were old IRA buddies. Turner got in trouble back home and sought rather iconic sanctuary and a few years later McCarthy turned up and lived comfortably off blackmail ever since. I didn't kill an innocent man, Dr. Watson. You don't raise a monster by being a saint." She turned the knife over again, letting the blade rest against her knee. "I don't know what all they did but I do know Mr. Turner was more afraid of the IRA than he was mad at the English. Patrick was raised here and they were both well liked in the community. But the McCarthys... Anarchy is the word for it, I guess. Some of the games Jim'd play... it wasn't about the English, it was about... He liked to undermine everything and then turn around and usurp it. I didn't realize growing up but when Mr. Turner would talk about the good ole' days of planting bombs and distributing firearms and then knowing who Jim grew up to be? It's scary to know that sort of thing was right beside you all your life and you never knew it."
John nodded, not sure what else he should do as she continued on talking.
"Mr. McCarthy hated that James went and joined the British army. And that day in the woods... he never forgave James for turning his back on their heritage it sounded like. Jim was always his favorite but they both hated him. They used to turn up with black eyes and... He was a very strict man. Jim looked out for James always so... I think Jim thought he'd be happy to know James was dead but Mr. McCarthy was furious. He didn't sound all there and half the time he was shouting and it didn't make any sense. Gaelic maybe. I don't know. I didn't care. I just wanted to hurt Jim so I killed him. And knowing what Mr. McCarthy had been made me feel like a super hero. I put the rock in my purse and swung it at his head then tossed the rock into Boscombe just in case. I never dreamed Jim would take the rap for it or that it would bring Sherlock Holmes here. Just a bit of pest control. Just letting Jim know what it feels like to be the last one standing. If he's half the man he dreams he is, he'll head straight back to London and set Sebastian free."
"Why are you telling me all this?" John asked, feeling the sting of an insect on the back of his neck as he rubbed it absently.
Patience took a deep breath, her fingers clenching along the handle of the gun. "Because I'm going to kill you, John. And I think you deserve to know everything."
He shook his head, the boat rocking sympathetically. "No, that doesn't explain in the slightest why you need to hurt Sherlock. Because you don't.."
"I do. Jim's going to kill me and this is the only thing I can do now." Her fingers trembled slightly on the gun, her aim for once no longer steady. "I can't kill him; no one can kill him. But I can take away everything he has worth living for and pray that he takes his own life."
"Sherlock's life and my life are more important than this feud you've concocted!" John sat forward on his bench, careful of the trigger finger that seemed to itch to stop him should he try anything. He took a steady breath, eyes locked and piercing with anger he could not be bothered to reel in. "You think just because you kill me, Sherlock will fold up and die? Sherlock will become everything Moriarty's ever wanted from him and I won't be there to stop him. You will be doing Moriarty a favor!"
Patience's eyes were unwavering--not in intensity but in defeat. "I have to hope he's not nearly that strong," she said.
"He is," he assured her, but the futility was hard to argue.
The birds took off again but this time carried on the same wind as a loud, panicked, "John!" that made both of them turn to look at the shore and the two men and one woman standing there at the bank. It was now or never.
Patience seemed to agree.
John lunged towards her, knocking the gun aside as it went off, the sound tearing through the peacefulness on the water. Adrenalin meant he didn't feel a thing, shot or not, as he grabbed for the knife, trying to avoid its tip as the boat rocked dangerously with their struggle.
"JOHN!"
The small boat capsized with John's only thought being not to fall on the knife, to angle it away, to seize it, to miss it as they both tumbled over into the pool. Patience's only thought was to hold on tight as the green water swallowed them whole.
The world was tinted like a weak martini as John's eyes flew open, visibility nonexistent as he struggled to swim to the surface. Patience held on, his legs caught between hers, her arms circling his chest and the knife God-knew-where. The green of the water was slowly turning red but John could not hesitate to ponder from what body it was flowing. He fought to swim as she fought to drag him down, the weight of his clothes aiding her as he felt the sunlight darken overhead, the shadow of the boat grow smaller and just out of reach of the single arm he had free.
He changed his tactics to clawing at Patience instead, shoving to unhinge her, his chest burning as she held on. It wasn't a deep pool but it was proving to be deep enough. He felt her teeth bite into his chest and he gasped--God, no. He choked. He tried to expel the lungful of water and felt his body suck in more as though it somehow had the capacity to separate out the oxygen he needed from the flood of murk and blood. It hurt. John kicked and struggled till he felt her slide away, floating down to the black below, only to find darkness all around him as well. He'd lost the surface. He'd lost the boat. He'd lost any sense of direction and slowly the sense to care beyond how much colder it was, how much heavier he felt, and how much he did not want to die.
Experiments in the fridge, body parts in mason jars, violin at three in the morning, cold nights in ugly Christmas jumpers mailed to him by his mother. Mrs. Hudson's home cooked meals, busy-body reporters, legal hoops and unpaid bills. Drunk texts from Harry, Sherlock's disappearing socks, arguments about the merits of Scooby Doo. Kissing on a bed of pensioner linens, his voice, the roll of his hips, the permission to continue and show him everywhere his transport could take him.
He'd been down this path before and he knew the choice was no longer his but with every last thought in his mind John begged and prayed to not be taken away before he got the chance to see if Sherlock was ticklish or to ask what his favorite Beatle's song was. He still needed to know if Sherlock liked his mother's cottage pie.
Wrapped in the deadly embrace of the ashes of James Moriarty, John sank deeper towards the wisp of slimy plant life at the bottom of Boscombe pool and stopped thinking all together.
---
His chest hurt but so startling was the force of being aware that John could not do more than choke and sputter, putrid water pouring from his lips as he felt himself rolled onto his side. His head was killing him, his ears buzzing, his chest screaming with every strangled breath, but somewhere between gasping and pretending they weren't tears building in the corners of his eyes, John realized he was alive. Hands rubbed his back, a soft voice offering him words of encouragement as John's lungs vomited up the last of the pool so he could follow up an inhale with a proper exhale once more.
"That's it, John. You got it. In and out. That's the stuff."
John hated the tone to Billie's voice but hardly minded the encouraging hand that still rubbed at his cold, clammy skin. He blinked blearily, aching all over till he imagined even his eyelids were sore. But he could see her as a golden halo overhead through the blurriness of his vision, her blonde hair dripping on his face.
"Ambulance crew should be here in ten." Wiggins.
"Is that the best they can do?" Sherlock. Though their voices sounded distorted--his ears still clogged up from pressure and water--he could not miss the terseness of Sherlock's retort.
"Sorry, we're not London. It takes time to get to places."
"Mmarite," John groaned, coughing once more, forcing himself onto his forearms as he rolled to feel the earth under his knees. He felt heavy with mud and water and death.
Billie's hands held him firmly, guiding him up and keeping him steady. "Not too fast," she cautioned, but John shook his head, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand as he blinked at the shadow he would know anywhere as Sherlock.
"Where's Patience?" he asked, his voice hoarse and broken.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment then shrugged, hands deep in his pockets.
"We didn't find her," Wiggins explained, still dripping wet from his own dip in the pool. "Lucky to find you, honestly. Damn near impossible to see even six inches in front of your nose in that."
John coughed again, his throat protesting even as his lungs continued to perform the halleluiah chorus. He remembered the blood and felt along his chest, feeling out for tender traces of penetration along the stitch in his side. "M I hurt?" It was a ridiculous follow up to his proclamation of health before but his head was still too unfocused to let him know much more than the basics.
Billie helped him sit up, giving him her shoulder to lean on. "Seem fine to me. Feel pain anywhere?"
"My lungs."
"Anywhere not drowning related?"
John shook his head, feeling the act of breathing once again fall back into something normal and natural that did not protest so much against the fluids he'd expelled.
Constable Wiggins sighed loudly, kicking a stone into Boscombe with an exasperated growl. "How the hell are we going to build a case against Patience now? It's your lack of hard evidence against ours at this point."
"I don't think that's really going to matter much anymore, Constable."
Wiggins glared at Sherlock his sopping sleeves sending trails of droplets as he gestured to the muddy bank. "I think you'll find it matters quite a bit to James McCarthy whether or not there's a case against him."
Sherlock shook his head, his eyes locked across the water as he rose his arm simply, pointing out across the tepid grave.
John turned his head just in time to watch a lone man, half hidden in the shade of the trees, tip his hat and fade away into the maze of trees and shadows.