Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, 221B Baker Street, or "Look What You've Done" (by Jet). I simply gather inspiration from the aforementioned.
WARNING: Post-Reichenbach Fall. 3 Years post. Another possibility on where matters stand three years in, and how they're handled. Proceed with caution.
A/N:
So I pretty much listened to "Look What You've Done" by Jet on repeat for the entirety of this piece, as it seemed to work perfectly with what I wanted to portray and - quite frankly - with Sherlock's overall attitude and the storyline of "The Reichenbach Fall". Hopefully others can agree.
Non-beta'd/critiqued/edited/reviewed. Please feel free to comment/review, as they are welcome and encouraged.
I really do hope you enjoy the piece below!
Thanks,
-Selvine
"Take my photo off the wall
If it just won't sing for you
'Cause all that's left has gone away
And there's nothing there for you to prove
...
Give me back my point of view
'Cause I just can't think for you
I can hardly hear you say
"what should I do?", well you choose
Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone.
Oh well, it seems like such fun,
Until you lose what you had won.
Oh, look what you've done -
You've made a fool of everyone."
-Jet
BANGCRASHTINKLESHATTER. The small tube of metal reached impact, shattering the glass of the picture John had hung on the wall those three years ago. Certainly, Mrs. Hudson would be furious at the damage the flat would take from the attack, but it wasn't anything she hadn't dealt with before. If anything, this was much more tame than those ridiculous moments where his prior flatmate had been bored and the walls had suffered for it. At the most, the little old lady would show concern regarding what the soldier had shot, not that he thought she would really begrudge him the attack.
Where a mahogany frame once rested, now a hole now resided, the metal of a used bullet shining out from the depths of the wall. Glass riddled the floor, splinters of wood hiding between the shards, as if the veteran were attempting to recreate the minefields of the war in his living room. Perhaps the photo was a passing caravan, ambushed on its voyage to a neighboring village or to those in need of help. Perhaps it was an insurgent. At the moment, the latter seemed more likely.
Huffing, eyebrows knit together in frustration; the doctor lowered his arm and cast a wary glance as the image now on the floor. Part of him seemed terrified it might leap to life and attack him. Another expected some melody to come forth, either in the form of the harmonious violin his friend had favored, or that deep, inspiring baritone. Tentatively, Watson's feet inched forward, bringing him closer to that hated thing that watched him day and night, mocking him from the walls of his flat. It was his own fault for putting it there in the first place, but it had only added to the pain and misery, not helped as his therapist had thought it might. He should have known, the woman was an ignorant sod anyway.
Paper lay, for the most part, in a single piece beneath the many fragments of wood and glass. Metal nubs poked out from several parts of the frame, no doubt the pieces used to secure the image in place. John almost felt remorse for a moment, and then it passed. The picture had more than deserved his anger, as did the man behind it.
Stooping, bending at the waist, the doctor reached for the paper and lifted it, flipping it in his hands as he stood. A face, elegant and chiseled, strong with its alabaster base peered out from the image in his hands. The creamy white of skin so delicate it might tear if you touched it shone, perfectly preserved in the worn prison of ink. Black curls danced, hiding playfully beneath a deerstalker the man in the picture had tried so hard to remove from his image. That jacket, tall and sleek hid the majority of the man's face from view, the collar turned up against the flash of paparazzi they had found less-and-less annoying. Blue sparkled in intelligent depths, bored with the mediocrity of the media storm around the pair as they fled from one of the many doorsteps they'd visited in their time together. The man in the picture screamed charisma, wisdom, and the insane anti-society charm his every word had spun around him. Cheekbones, smooth and chiseled perfectly of marble made certain every villain in London knew he was a formidable enemy.
Sherlock Holmes had been drop-dead gorgeous when the photo had been taken, and not in the usual sense. Now, however, the photo resonated with the more recent developments in his life; or lack thereof. Where ivory had once met ebony in a dance of contrast upon the detective's forehead now rested the clean slice of rage, left boiling for years. The paper, instead of mangled and torn, simply had the hole. A hole placed squarely where the largest wound on Sherlock's scalp had been when he'd plummeted from Bart's to the ground below. A hole to represent the gaping wound John Watson found in his life, in his flat, in his mind, and in the chest that ached with the pounding of his long un-tended heart.
Tanned hands shook, trembling with the ferocity behind every emotion wracking through the war-hardened man's soul. Nails bit into the paper, and the photograph crumbled in his hands, shredding under the force of the shudders thundering through the man's body. Terror, anguish, hatred, sadness, loss, need, love, distress, misery, torture, anger, guilt, denial, rage – all stages of grief slid through John's body within seconds, leaving acceptance and hope by the wayside. Tears threatened, but never came. The drops of rain hiding in his eyes stayed hidden, buried with the screams of torment in his heart.
When feet slid across the floor of the landing and to the door of the flat, John felt more than heard the other man's presence. Stiffening, he refused to turn, looking at the tatters in his hands and shaking harder than he remembered ever experiencing before. The chills running down his spine and through every nerve in his body left the dirty blond mop on his skull standing on-end, and the hairs along his spine and arms mimicking the larger congregation.
The man behind him drew breaths in quiet gasps, as if he'd been running for quite a while more than he was physically used to, and John could picture the lanky form of his deceased flatmate bent forward, trying to form something resembling composure before continuing. As the breathing slowed and became inaudible further, the soldier straightened and crumpled the paper in his hands into a ball of solid material.
Shff. One foot moved forward. Shff. And another. The man behind him sounded distinctly as if he were dragging a foot, or having difficulties moving. Shff. Shff. As the sounds grew closer, John's heart beat faster and louder against his chest, banging in his ears and driving him insane. When he felt the man behind him, knew that hand was reaching for his shoulder, he couldn't take it anymore.
"Leave me alone." The tone was suppressed, taut with agitation and the hatred that could only be described as filling every fiber of a person's being. "Go away." Right eye twitching slightly, the doctor crushed the paper in his hands further, squeezing the mass into an unrecognizable pile of garbage.
"Take your excuses and shove it. You had my trust, and you destroyed it. Don't think you can just come back and waltz in like everything will be the same. It won't." The tears that had been threatening for three years stung the corners of John's eyes, and the trembles in his body became violent, as if he were going to strike out at any moment.
"It won't be the same. It won't ever be the same. And I don't want you here." The words slipped from his mouth, long-restrained and vicious in their intent. He had suffered – oh, how he suffered – and that inconsiderate sod would do well to go to Hell and stay there.
"Go." John swung, shouting into the room around him "Go, and leave me alone! I don't need you here!" Emptiness welcomed him, resounding with the lonely façade of a house undisturbed. Knees collapsed and collided with carpet, John's hands fisting into balls in front of him as he bent and sobbed out in desperation. "I don't need you!"
Silence met his cries, and silence was all that stood there to comfort the man as he let his heart fall apart into the thousands of pieces he'd held together with masking tape. A window slammed shut, and the breeze carried a whisper, a baritone as sweet as the coffee Sherlock had once drank, "Yes. You do."
John broke. Yes. He did.
Looking to the window, the man choked as a flash of indigo and grey moved on the street below. Then, for the first time in three long years, John Watson laughed.
As he stood and moved to continue his day, cleaning up the mess around him, he failed to notice a little photograph sitting on the coffee table. John Watson at the cemetery, looking at a grave, shone out from the image. On the paper, in the cursive of the World's Only Consulting Detective, a simple "Come along, John" scrawled in a display of immaturity.
He would notice in due time, and when he did, the game would once again be on.
A/N: Okay, there it is, and I hope you all enjoy it! I know it isn't the best piece, but I like it. I originally was planning to go with a less concrete ending, and more of a depressed feel, but it seems I just can't torture these two THAT much. Or, John's just going mad and did that all himself, and is hallucinating. Which, I wouldn't be surprised in the least about after this particular breakdown.
The poor wall.
Thanks for your time, your opinion, and your patience. It really is appreciated, and I hope you all know that!
Thanks Again,
-Selvine