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1
It was nearing midnight, and nearly an hour after the established curfew, and as usual Carol Watson was nervous. At every sound, she checked out the window for any sign of her boy coming home. With her stomach dropping, she pressed her forehead to the glass to see a figure approaching the house, body swaying to stay upright. She didn’t need to see his face to know that it was John.
He didn’t look well as he stumbled to the door, scrambling to find keys in his pocket. A part of her worried he had suddenly become ill while out wth his mates. Most of her knew better.
“John!” She said, pulling open the door and ushering him inside where he stumbled into the small living room, aiming for the sofa as he flopped down against the arm.
“Mum…mum I messee d’up…” He said, a slight slur in the last words as he rearranged his limbs into a seated position. She rushed to his side, scolding herself internally for letting it get this far.
“How much did you have?” She asked, feeling his forehead with the back of her palm.
“M’sorry, mum,” He said, “‘Ad two,” She breathed out slowly. Two beers shouldn’t produce this level of intoxication, but she supposed it was the first time he’d become this drunk, so perhaps he had a particularly low tolerance?
“Beers?” She asked to clarify.
“No…I dunno what it was,” He said, “I feel strange…”
“I’m certain you do,” She said, rushing into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, “Have you eaten?”
“Mmmm mmmmm.” He hummed, neither affirmative or negative.
“Since lunch?” She asked.
“A…I dunno, some chips and a sandwich,”
“Good, good,” Carol said, bringing him the glass of water, “Where were you?”
“With some mates, mum are you angry? I din’t mean to…” The slur was creeping back into his voice as he lay his head back.
“No.” She decided, “Maybe tomorrow, but not now, no. I’m glad you’re home safe.”
“M’sorry…” He said, taking a long drink from the glass.
“You’re gonna drink up that water, and then straight to bed with you,” She said, “I’m going to put a bowl next to your bed in case you’re ill, alright?”
“Th’nks…” He said, finishing the glass and laying head low.
“Okay, let’s get you to bed,” Carol said, he;ping her son to hid feet and guiding him towards the stairs.
She was reminded of the many times during university she’d done this with a friend who’d had one too many at the bar downtown. She could also recall doing this with John’s father a couple of times when they first married.
My, what she would give to have his help right then. He’d set John straight, and show him how to behave himself. She wanted to forgive, to hold him close and tell him everything was alright. But he wasn’t the little boy that she held hands with as they crossed the street anymore, no matter how much she wished to preserve her baby. He was 15, nearly 16, and he needed a firm hand. He needed boundaries and limits.
But surely he needed a mother more?
Yes, in the morning she’d be good and mad, but right now? When her baby was leaning on her for balance up the stairs and near tears saying he was sorry?
Not right now. He needed the mother who would pick out his pajamas and tell him to brush his teeth. He needed the mother who’d tuck him into bed and pray for him in her head.
When John finally made it to bed, she prayed in her head for the strength to set him straight the next morning. She would make a healthy breakfast and lots of tea, and get out the paracetamol for the headache he’d surely have, and then they’d talk. They’d talk about coming home on time. They’d discuss the dangers of intoxication. They’d discuss the sorts of people John was hanging out with.
But for now, she kissed his forehead, and turned off his bedroom light. He was her little baby boy for just a moment more.
2
John sat in bed–well next to his bed, actually. His leg had hurt and cramped when he tried to stand to get the bottle of paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet and he’d lowered himself (Not fallen, thank you very much!) to the concrete floor thinly veiled by a layer of tan carpet that was older than him. He wasn’t particularly motivated to try getting up again, although the longer he sat the more he recognized its inevitably.
He was starving, and the longer he waited to fill his stomach the worse every possible food sounded. His cabinets were empty save for half a bag of ground coffee, some tea bags, a nearly empty jar of marmalade and some moldy bread he’d been meaning to throw away for at least three days. His fridge wasn’t it much better condition giving the most substantial thing inside –a carton of eggs–required cooking, which required standing, which required taking a bloody paracetamol so his leg didn’t try any more finny business.
There was a glass of water on the bedside tabe–or, the stack of old text books he’d turned into one upon realizing the price of a bedframe bankrupted him out of pretty much any other furniture. He could reach the water if he tried, but then he would need a wee, and there was at least some comfort in knowing that although he didn’t feel like getting off the floor, there was nothing urgent pushing him to do so.
That’s when his mum called. She’d been calling most days around the time she got out of her afternoon midwife consulting sessions and before her evening shows came on. She never had much to say, except pratling on about whatever audiobook she’d listened to that week about a tall, gorgeous man sweeping a young mousy woman off her feet. Today though, John knew hearing her voice would help. Even if he didn’t particularly want to.
“Hello?” He said, voice straining as he reached over to answer the call and pull his phone to the floor with him. He dropped it in the process and heard a sharp gasp on the other end before pulling it up to his left ear.
“John, was that a gunshot?” She asked.
“No, I just dropped you,” He said, his annoyance not well concealed, “On the carpet.”
“Didn’t sound like carpet to me,” She said, “What are you doing, John, are you alright? Have you eaten?”
“Earlier today, yeah.” He answered, thinking longingly of the cereal he’d finished that morning.
“I was just going to order some thai food from that place we used to go all the time when you moved back here,” She said, “The nice lady there last time was a lesbian with this big tattoo on her neck, and after I took my food she asked if I had any plans, and well of course, I told her all about how I have my granddog Archie right now…”
John leaned his head against the edge of the bed, not missing the way that it pounded with movement.
“Hey mum?” He said, once she’d reached a pause in her story, “I don’t think I’m doing well in London.”
“You’ve been there less than a month, John, what makes you say that?” She asked.
“I can’t, I don’t even know where to start,” He sighed, “I…yesterday I tried to go for a walk, and I barely got a block before I started getting all panicky and I just…froze up.”
“Oh, John.”
“And I just feel like I can’t do anything without my body acting like I’m still in Ukraine about to get blown up.”
“John, I would surprised if you weren’t overwhelmed coming back to everyday life after that. You were blown up for heaven’s sake! Now what can I do right now? Do you want to talk? Do you want me to come visit? What do you need?”
“I need to get up off the bloody floor,” John chuckled, “And eat something probably…”
“Do you have anything? I can get you something.” She said, “Could you send me your address?”
“I’m in London, mum.” He sighed, typing it out into their text chain.
“You live in a world with Door Dash. Now how about something to remind you of home, maybe some fish and chips?”
“That’s not healthy…” John muttered, vividly remembering how his mother used to complain about his diet in university.
“My boy needs to be fed, and that’s my top priority. Will you eat fish and chips, love?” She asked.
“Yes…” He admitted, letting a smile slowly creep over his face at the suggestion.
“Already ordered it’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Why don’t you pull yourself up off the floor?”
“My leg hurts,” He said.
“Too badly to stand?” She asked, “Do you have something you can take?”
“It’s in the bathroom,” He sighed, “And I know it’ll hurt if I stand.”
“So crawl,” She said, “Do what you need to when you’re just trying to get by John. Can I come see you tomorrow?”
“You’re working,” He said, picking at the carpet with a nervous finger.
“And being your mother is my most important job. Besides, I’ve been hoping to come and visit, maybe bring my favorite granddog along, yeah?”
“Yeah, mum.” He said, “That sounds really good.”
“Good. Can you get your medicine?” She asked, “I have an old cane I can bring from my knee surgery, I hate to think of you stuck and in pain…”
“Yeah um,” He said, swallowing hard, “That might help, yeah.”
“Your food will be there any minute, do you want to keep talking?” She asked.
“I mean, aren’t you busy?” He asked.
“Not if you need your mum, love.” She said, “I just ordered my dinner so we could have a little mother-son meal over the phone, yeah?”
“Yeah, mum. Yeah.”
John half-walked and half-dragged himself to the bathroom, took a couple of pills and sat on the lid of the toilet, waiting for them to take effect. Just as he was starting to feel better, the doorbell rang, and he dragged himself to door just outside the tiny flat’s bathroom. His mum stayed on the line, waffling on about the detective show she’d started watching.
Tomorrow was another day, and maybe he’d make something of it.
Or maybe he’d just get out of bed. Either way, he wouldn’t be alone in any of it.
3
“You got bloody shot?” She screamed across the line as John dropped the phone to the carpeted floor.
“Not–not badly–” He answered, scooping it back up.
“You know, I have half a mind to come over there an check you’re alive myself!” She said.
“I was wearing a vest, it just knocked the wind out of me-” He said.
“Apparently getting shot isn’t a thing we tell our mothers anymore, then?” She asked.
“I’m fine!” He groaned, exasperated, then gasped as he leaned on the bad rib.
“That didn’t sound fine.” She said.
“Perhaps it hurts a bit.”
“I’m coming over.” She said.
There was nothing one could do to stop a worried mother.
4
“I came when I heard what happened to sweet Mary,” Carol explained as Mariana let her into the flat.
“Does he know you’re coming?” She asked.
“No, but he won’t be terribly surprised.” Carol answered, “I couldn’t just leave my boy to suffer alone.”
“He’s lucky to have you,” Mariana said, letting Carol into 221B, knocking gently on the door to alert the residents that someone was approaching.
Sherlock, who was sitting at the kitchen table immediately straightened upon seeing her. His muscles tenses, but he smiled when he saw her, that polite, practiced smile meant to mask any deeper feelings.
“Sherlock, lovely to see you,” She said.
“Mrs Watson, you’re here to see John?” He asked, standing to take her coat and purse, hanging them on the already over-burdened hooks next to the front door.
“How is he today, Sherlock?” Marian asked, nervously, pausing in the doorway as if unsure if she should be in or out.
“Not well,” Sherlock answered, “But he is not often well these days. I saw him briefly after breakfast, and he looked as if he’d been crying. One side of his face was red–the side he’s been laying on. His head hurt, likely from the position putting tension on his neck, and his voice was sore, likely a result of the fact he’s barely spoken to anyone the last three days.”
Carol’s heart nearly broke there on the spot. The last time she’d seen John that way…she’d been in a similar state. Harry’s death still stung in the moments when her busy mind had the space, and she could just imagine John’s fragile sense of purpose shattering after the loss of yet another person he cared for.
“He’s in his room?” She asked Sherlock, who nodded and took a step back to let her through. She’d have to remember to thank Sherlock for caring for her son and for being there to notice when he was struggling.
She knocked on John’s door, waiting only a few seconds in silence before pushing it open.
“Knock, knock,” She said softly, looking at the pile of blankets that was almost certainly John.
“Mum?” He groaned, slowly moving to sit up, “Christ, sorry it’s a mess in here,”
“I don't care,” She said, moving across the field of clothing strewn around at all angles, “How’s my boy?”
“Been better.” He said as she reached the bed and pulled him into a tight embrace. She felt a little bit of tension melt away as she held him tightly.
“You’ll be okay, John. You always are,” She said, “And until you are, I can be okay for the both of us, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She stayed with John the rest of the day and late into the evening.
5
He couldn’t fucking breathe. Not that anyone else was fairing much better. Sherlock eventually came out of the house, covering his ears and pressing his eyes shut as he stumbled for the grass outside. The family had been taken to the police station as witnesses, and john had promised Lily they’d give their statements once Sherlock was in a mental state to do so. It was clear that none of them would be anytime soon.
Sherlock sat on the grass on his knees let out a low, pained wail as he dug his fingers into his scalp. John wanted to step forward and grab those hands away, but he knew doing so right now would only overwhelm Sherlock more.
He glanced at Mariana who stood frozen, her whole body trembling from the terror and adrenaline as she ran an anxious hand along the opposite forearm, as if trying to hug herself. John wanted to offer a hug to her, but his voice was caught in his throat.
The bomb had been so close. Too close. God.
He felt sick as he tried to shake the ideas from his mind. Tried to convince himself it’d only been a joke, a stupid trick made to scare them. If it was a trick, it had worked. Deep down, he knew it was real–he felt it was real.
He tasted metal.
He closed his eyes tightly, trying to push away the tears that threatened to surface.
“C-could you?” He asked, Mariana, “Could you stay with Sherls–I need to–” He coughed, stumbling back from the house.
“Where are you going?” She demanded, her eyes wide with worry as he grabbed onto a nearby fence and took a sharp inhale of cold air.
“Need a quick walk. Gonna call Carol.”
“Do that.” She said, looking relieved, “I’ve got him.”
“Ok,” He huffed, taking out his phone with a shaky hand and walking quickly away from the cursed house where everything had happened.
“Mum, answer, answer, answer,” He whispered as he dialed the number, hands shaking harder the more he tried to suppress the building panic.
“Hello? Alright, John?” Her voice came out of the speaker, filling his body with a rush of relief.
“Mum, mum.” He said, “This isn’t–something happened,”
“Alright, it’ll be alright,” She said, “Are you okay? Is Sherlock okay?”
“We’re…” He picture Sherlock where he’d left him on the grass, mid-meltdown, “Just had a scare.”
“Is everyone safe now?” She asked.
“I think so,” He answered, “Doesn’t feel like it,”
“I want you to take a deep breath for me John,” She said, “Inhale and exhale slowly.”
“I can’t–”
“Yes you can, love,” She said, “If birthing mothers can do it, you can.”
“We could’ve been killed…blown up…” John said between slow, heavy breaths.
“But you weren’t,” She said, “You’re talking to me right now, and no matter what your brain thinks it’s all gonna be okay.”
“Y-yeah.” He said, slowly his pace and slowly turning to walk back toward the house, “I just left Sherlock and Mariana…Sherls isn’t coping with it well. And I just left him.
“You needed to collect yourself so you could be there for him,” Carol said, “Take a moment, John. You’re no help to him when you’re too panicked to think straight. I want both of you to be okay.”
“Mhm,” He said, trying to keep his breathing even as he walked slowly back, “Thanks, Mum.”
“Anytime, what’s going on with Sherlock?”
“He’s…overwhelemed, I think. A lot of pressure, a lot of noise, a lot of sensory input.” John answered, “He held it together so well and the second it was all over he just started screaming at us to leave and–”
“He’s been through a lot, John,” She said, “But so have you from the sounds of it. You don’t need to tell me everything now, but you two need to be there for each other right now.”
“Yeah, I uh,” John paused as he approached the house where he could see Mariana knelt on the ground next to Sherlock who had his head in his lap.
“Go, be there for your friends.” She said, “And they’ll be there for you too, I have no doubt.”
+1
Carol gripped the note tightly in one hand. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t trust it was real. This entire time it had all been right under her nose and she hadn’t even thought to see if– if–
She scrambled for her phone which had gotten stuck between the couch cushions somewhere in her frantic shuffle.
She dialed John’s number first. His contact was first, but her muscle memory was so used to typing the number herself.
He didn’t answer.
Carol cursed under her breath as she dialed the second number.
“Sherlock and Co, Mariana speaking!’ The familiar chirp of Mariana answering the phone filled Carol’s ears.
“It’s Carol Watson,” She said, “And my husband’s death wasn’t an accident.”
A pause.
“We will be right with you.”