One More Miracle

Plans and Possibilities

Author's note: Thanks for reading you guys! But yeah I'm about to give you the same disclaimer thing that you'll read in most fanfics, so you can skip this part if you want.

Ok so just a reminder that I do not own any of these characters. They are copyright Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC. This is a fanfiction based off of BBC's Sherlock.

Once again, thanks for reading! This is my first fanfiction and I'm still getting the hang of it, but I'm still relatively proud of this. So enjoy!

Chapter 2: John's POV

My mouth had fallen open, but I made no attempt to close it. I couldn't believe that someone else, anyone else, still believed that Sherlock wasn't dead. It was as though my heart was beating to the sound of his name, clinging on to the hope that he was alive.

Sher-lock. Sher-lock. My heart continued to race, each beat a syllable of the name that hadn't left my mind in five months.

Sher-lock. Sher-lock. I didn't say anything for a while; I was too stunned. However, some part of me had known all along that he wasn't dead. Some part of me still believed. Unfortunately, this part of me had been dwarfed by grief, longing, and loss. Now it was expanding, growing with each passing second. Soon I would be consumed by the idea that Sherlock Holmes, my Sherlock Holmes, was still alive.

I hadn't realized that Molly was still sitting right across from me at the table in the cafe until her voice brought me back to reality for the second time that day.

"John? I know this is a lot to take in, but let me explain a little," she said. I nodded and closed my mouth, now aware that it had been open all this time.

"Please do," I said, anxious to hear what Molly had to say.

"OK, I've already told you that Sherlock wanted to be prepared for anything, including falling. What I didn't tell you was what I told him."

"And what was that?" I asked.

Molly continued, "I asked him how high the building he was going to be falling from was, and he told me about as tall as the rooftop."

I nodded yet again, suddenly aware that James, our waiter, had brought our drinks several minutes ago. My throat was unnaturally dry, and I drowned half of my glass of water in one. My hand shook, and the glass rattled violently as I set it down, water splashing over the sides. I ignored it and looked back at Molly, urging her to go on.

She continued, "I was stunned when he told me. I mean, the hospital? That's several stories up. Nevertheless, I told him how to land so as not to kill himself, though he would be seriously hurt. He took all this information wordlessly, just keeping his hands clasped together under his chin."

I remembered how Sherlock had always put his hands under his chin, palms together, whenever he was taking in new information. I remembered every detail about Sherlock that I possibly could in the hopes of keeping his memory alive. I pictured it then: Sherlock was sitting on his favourite stool at the hospital, hands pressed together and resting under his chin, the gears turning in his head as he learned how to fake his own death.

James returned again as Molly was explaining how Sherlock simply listened to her, and she cut off abruptly at the sight of our waiter. We ordered our food, and James set off again.

"I've lost my train of thought," Molly said once that waiter was out of earshot. "Where was I?"

"Never mind that," I reassured her, "All that matters is that Sherlock could still be alive, and if he is, then I'm going to find him."

Molly looked at me for a second as though she was trying to read my thoughts. I stared back, willing her to challenge me. Instead, after a pause, she said, "You really do miss him, don't you?"

Taken aback by this comment, I hesitated before I spoke. "Of course I do, he was-- is my best friend."

Molly didn't seem to have a response to this. She took a sudden interest in her drink and continued to sip it occasionally, apparently lost in thought. We sat in silence until James came back with our food. I thanked him and he left again with the promise of helping us if we needed anything.

Yeah, I thought to myself, I'd like you to help me find my best friend that has been supposedly dead for five months and I've just found out that he might not be dead after all. Would you mind helping me look for him? Suddenly, a new thought occured to me, and this one I voiced aloud.

"Molly," I began. She looked up from her food with a curious expression on her face. "Why are you just now telling me this, after five months?"

Molly sighed. Apparently she had been expecting such a reaction from me. "John, I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. Sherlock made me promise not to tell you. He said that you would go looking for him, but you couldn't because he needed to make sure everything was OK before he came to find you. Only then could you see him again."

I made a noise somewhere between a snort and a grunt under my breath. Of course Sherlock would have to stay hidden. Of course he couldn't see me because "everything wasn't safe yet." Typical. The great Sherlock Holmes always had a plan, but he couldn't be bothered to tell me, John Watson, the only friend he had said he had. He had said.

"Are you OK, John?" Molly asked. "Once again, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before, it's just that I didn't want you to go get either yourself or Sherlock in trouble."

"Yeah, I'm fine," I replied, which was anything but the truth. A storm of emotion swirled inside me: relief, fear, annoyance at Sherlock and his little plan, and a lot of curiousity and longing as to where my flatmate was now.

Once again, silence fell at our table. When it was time to pay, I covered the check with the money I had been making from my job at the doctor's office (the one where Sarah worked, so that was still awkward) and we left. Molly and I both hailed a cab, each of us going our separate ways: me to my flat (today was my day off) and Molly back to the hospital. As I was about to climb into my cab, Molly spoke again.

"You're going to go after him, aren't you John?" she asked.

I hesitated before answering, but I finally decided on telling the truth. "Yes, I am. I can't not go after him."

"I figured as much," Molly replied. "If you need my help, I'm just one phone call away. But be careful. If Sherlock hasn't found you yet, it's because he's not 100% sure that you're safe."

"I know, but that won't stop me," was all I responded. "I have to find him, Molly, I have to."

"I understand," Molly said.

The cabbie's annoyed voice called back to me, "Are you getting in, or what?"

"Yeah, sorry," I apologized. I climbed in and sat down. Before closing the door I said good-bye to Molly. She smiled and said good-bye back, but it looked as though there was something else she wanted to say to me.

I closed the door but immediately saw Molly coming over to the cab, calling my name. I rolled down the window.

"John, I think you should know why I'm really offering to help find Sherlock. You see...I...I love Sherlock. I'm in love with him."

I sat in stunned silence for a minute, until the cabbie said, "Sir, if you could please roll up your window...that'd be great."

Unable to speak, I smiled apologetically at Molly and rolled up the window. I couldn't read the expression on her face; so many different emotions seemed to be fighting for control.

As the cab pulled away from the sidewalk and into the mid-afternoon London traffic, the cabbie asked me where I was headed. I thought about going back to my flat; that had been my original plan, but I quickly made the executive decision to start looking for Sherlock instead. I gave him the name of the cemetary where Sherlock was supposedly buried.

I was going to start the search for my best friend at his final resting place.