A wild firegirl56 appears!

Yeah, it's been months since I last published something on here, and this is my first time venturing out of the GONE fandom with my fanwriting. This is one of my favorite songs, and I just have so many feels for this and for Johnlock that as soon as I got the idea I had to write this down. Can be interpreted as platonic or romantic, I guess. Criticism is welcome. Feel free to tell me if this is OOC and overly fluffy and does neither the song or pairing justice. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger! (of a writer, that is.)

I recommend listening to the song before or while you read this. c:

Enjoy and Review!

Reflection and Deduction

[a Sherlock fanfiction]

{inspired by the song 'Deathbed', written and sung by Relient K}

I can smell the death on the sheets, covering me
I can't believe this is the end
But this is my deathbed, I lie here alone
If I close my eyes tonight, I know I'll be home

John Watson was dying. He lay in some unfamiliar hospital bed, with no friends or family to see him die. He had always hoped he wouldn't die alone. But now it seemed like that's what would happen. Aware of the cliché, John used his dying moments to close his eyes and think back on his life, so short (those exhilarating moments of chasing criminals down London's streets and alleyways) and so long (Sherlock's body falling through the empty air, falling, falling, falling, like he'd never stop, until he hit the pavement and stopped being). John knew exactly what Sherlock would have said about reminiscing in his last moments. 'Sentimental,' he would snarl. 'Useless waste of your last minutes, if you ask me.' But to hell with Sherlock, who had left him alone in the world, alone for so long. The only good thing about John dying was that he would finally see Sherlock again. He'd go to hell for that man, if that was what it took to see him again.

John felt as if he were drifting in and out of dreams, bits and pieces from his life emerging and then sinking to his memories again.

The year was 1941
I was 8 years old and far, far too young
To know that the stories of battles and glory
Was a tale, a kind mother made up for a son

John had always wanted to join the army, from the time he was young. His parents always told him and Harry stories of the men and women who had fought and gained glory and awards for bravery, and sometimes for dying, but dying like that in battle seemed an honorable way to go. John never realized until he was shot how terrifying it would be to die so far from home, bleeding into the sands of a far off country while the battle waged on around you, not stopping for a single life. John thanked whatever god existed he hadn't died in Afghanistan.

You see, dad was a traveling preacher
Teaching the words of the teacher
Mother had sworn he went off to the war
And died there with honor, somewhere on a beach there
But he left once, to never return
Which taught me that I should unlearn
Whatever I thought a father should be
I abandoned that thought like he abandoned me

Everyone knew Mr. Watson to be a good man, very moral and religious. So when he found out his own daughter was lesbian, he would have none of it. The verbal abuse continued for weeks, increasing in volume until the household was left in an icy silence when Harry and her parents all lost their voices from yelling. John could have spoken, but he kept quiet, still. He didn't know what to say to his father, the man who had sworn to always protect the family, the man who was tearing it apart. When Mr. Watson walked out of his family's life, he left a depressed wife, a furious Harry, and a silent John behind him.

By '47, I was fourteen
I'd acquired a taste for liquor and nicotine
I smoked until I threw up, yet I still lit 'em up
For thirty more years, like a machine
So right there you have it, that one filthy habit
Is what got me where I am today

The first time Harry came home drunk, John was sixteen. She was nineteen. She staggered in the front door, leaning against the wall to steady herself. John heard her, and ran to the hall where she stood swaying. He recognized what had happened at once and put an arm around her to help support her. He helped her take off her coat and walk to the bathroom, where she stumbled, knelt on the tiled floor, and vomited into the toilet, retching and coughing and smelling like alcohol. John didn't flinch when she gripped his arm with one hand. He didn't wrinkle his nose at the smell of vomit or when the little bit splattered on the floor and his shirt. All he cared about was patting Harry on the back, urging her to get the alcohol out of her, helping her get better. That night, John realized that he wanted to be a doctor.

I can smell the death on the sheets, covering me
I can't believe this is the end
I can hear the sad memories still haunting me
So many things I'd do again

Harry's drinking just continued, but then she met Clara, and John thought the relationship might help her. They got married while he was away in Afghanistan, and Harry had just left her when he came back after being shot. He never knew Clara very well. But then he had come back to London, looking for a flatmate. And then he had met the mad Sherlock Holmes, who became his best friend. The genius who could read John's life in his appearance and Harry's in her phone. And thus began the best part of John's life, living with a sociopath who kept heads in the fridge and shot things when he was bored, and running through London with the same sociopath to fight crime. For eighteen months John was terrified, nervous, annoyed, sad, angry, but most of all, content, excited, and happy. Then Sherlock had jumped off a building and cut that part of John's life short, leaving him to go back to the mundane world of ordinary people (because after being Sherlock's best friend, everyone else seemed just as boring as the detective saw them to be). His limp came back, as did his therapy. Sherlock had left John alone.

But this is my deathbed, I lie here alone
If I close my eyes tonight, I know I'll be home

And now alone he was going to die, without anyone who had ever cared about him: Mrs. Hudson (heart attack, nothing anyone could do), Harry (the alcohol finally killed her), Sherlock (Moriarty and the pavement broke him). Of course, John had had others who he could talk to, but those relationships always ended in disaster.

Got married on my 21st
Eight months before my wife would give birth
It's easier to be sure you love someone
When a father inquires with the barrel of a gun

He'd met a wonderful woman a few years after Sherlock had jumped, and for a while he thought he loved her. But it wasn't the same bond he and Sherlock had had. When he married her, their honeymoon didn't entail chasing assassins through London or nearly dying at the hand of Chinese gangsters. Marriage didn't satisfy the danger John craved; it expected him to settle down, get a steady job that wasn't solving mysteries and blogging, and raise children.

The union was far from harmonious
No two people could've been more alone than us
The years would go by and she'd love someone else
And I realized I hadn't been loved yet myself

Needless to say, his wife wasn't very understanding of the fact that John needed more madness and genius and, well, Sherlock in his life. They became more and more distant, except when the children asked what was wrong. Then they would put on smiles and hold each other close, acting like they were happy. The children didn't know enough to realize that their parents' eyes were completely devoid of love in those moments.

From there, it's your typical spiel
Yeah, if life was a highway, I was drunk at the wheel
I was helpin' the loose ends all fall apart
Yeah, I swear I was destined to fail and fail from the start

It didn't take a consulting detective to figure out that she was cheating on him. It didn't take a genius to see that even John's children avoided him. In fact, even Anderson would have been able to tell that John's life was unraveling, regressing back to the injured man who had first met Sherlock Holmes. Then he came home drunk.

I bowled about 6 times a week
A bottle of Beam kept the memories from me

"What are you doing here?" said Harry, looking at her brother standing on her doorstep.

"I've come for a drink," John replied. "Or two. Or three." Harry raised an eyebrow at her normally sober brother's request. He looked sad, like he could really use a drink. She gave him a small smile and invited him in. Several drinks later, they were both drunk and sitting on the living room floor.

"I miss Sherlock," John suddenly admitted, and Harry thought she might have seen tears on her brother's face, but her drunken mind couldn't really remember.

"I know you do," Harry said, hiccupping.

"I loved him, you know," John said seriously, though his eyes were shining with tears and staring into the distance as the alcohol slowed his mind. Then he paused and stumbled over his words. "No. Wait. Not loved. Love. I still do love him. Sherlock, I mean."

"He's dead, John. I know you want him to come back, but even Sherlock can't beat death." Harry said, trying to be kind while wanting John to get over it. But the drinks had made her woozy, and the last thing she heard before drifting off was her baby brother whisper, in a small, defeated voice:

"I know."

How wrong they both were.

Our marriage had taken a 7-10 split
And along with my pride, the ex-wife took the kids

Soon after he came home drunk and crying over Sherlock, John's wife asked for a divorce. He agreed, knowing that it was for the best. She got the children and most of the property, and John found himself once more alone and looking for a place to stay. So back he went to 221B. Not long after, Mrs. Hudson died. John was alone with his memories of Sherlock.

I can smell the death on the sheets, covering me
I can't believe this is the end
I can hear those sad memories still haunting me
So many things I'd do again

Would he do it all again? Would John deal with the heartbreak of watching his best friend jump off the roof of the hospital just to have one more night in London with him, dashing through alleyways and jumping in front of buses, living like they'd never see daylight again, like the crime and the adrenaline were all that mattered? He didn't even think about it. Of course he would. He would do anything just to see Sherlock again, one more time before he died. Running around solving crimes was out of the question now, but just to look into those brilliant blue eyes, John would do anything. He shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. It was out of the question. Sherlock had been dead for decades, and John knew deep down he only had a few minutes more.

But this is my deathbed, I lie here alone
If I close my eyes tonight, I know I'll be home

Would it have been better to die in 221B? Surrounded by memories of his best friend: the skull on the mantle, the bullet holes in the wall? Part of that appealed to John, but he knew that in 221B he would be reminded of Sherlock's not being there: the dust ('eloquent', he would call it.) on the skull, the age of the holes on the wall (thirty years, was it now? No, it was thirty seven years and eight months. Closer to forty than thirty.) And when John thought about how Sherlock wouldn't be there, just as he hadn't been there for close to forty years, John was content with dying in an unfamiliar hospital bed, where nothing could hurt him with memories of his best friend.

I was so scared of Jesus but he sought me out
Like the cancer in my lungs, it's killing me now
And I've given up hope on the days I have left
But I cling to the hope of my life in the next

John was close to death; he could feel its cold hands slipping over his heart. But then his eyes flew open and the darkness receded as the thin hospital mattress shifted. Sitting at the end of his bed was a man, about his age, with gray curling hair, long, shaking limbs, and piercing blue eyes. John swallowed and stared into those eyes. He thought it was an angel at first, a mirage sent to guide him into heaven. Then the old man who was Sherlock (but couldn't possibly be Sherlock because he was dead and had been for years, hadn't he?) climbed into the bed and lay down next to John, so that their sides and arms were touching.

"Still no respect for personal space, I see," John said shakily, voice edged with shock and the death that was waiting just out of sight, ready to snatch him up when he wasn't looking.

"Personal space is boring," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "Besides, you don't seem to mind."

"No, I don't," John mumbled, realizing how true it was.

Well, then Jesus showed up, said, "Before we go up
I thought that we might reminisce
See one night in your life, when you've turned out the lights
You asked for and prayed for my forgiveness"

"I missed you like hell, Sherlock." John whispered, burying his face into his friend's shoulder and letting a few tears escape. "There were so many things you missed. Mrs. Hudson-"

"Dead, I know," Sherlock said, pressing his face into John's hair and inhaling. Beneath the antiseptic of the hospital and that smell that came with old age, there was still that hint of something so very unique and John. "I planned to be there, when she died—I had always assumed it would be in a hospital—but then she died on Baker Street, and I couldn't see her in her final moments without risking you seeing me."

Suddenly John felt anger rise in him. "So that was your plan? Just show up when we died to tell us you were alive? Watch us pass away then go merrily on your way, waiting for the next one of your friends to die?" Sherlock tensed, and as John turned his head to look at his friend, he thought he saw a glimmer of a tear in the high-functioning-sociopath's eye.

"No. I didn't want that at all. I couldn't stop Moriarty's web," he stopped, and John could see how this failure affected Sherlock, "so the only time I could talk to anyone was when they were already going to die."

John let that information sink in, and his anger faded. Besides, he didn't want to spend his last minutes angry at the man he had missed for years.

"I'm sorry," he said to Sherlock, wrapping his frail arms around the other man in a tentative hug.

You cried, wolf, the tears, they soaked your fur
The blood dripped from your fangs, you said, "What have I done?"
You loved that lamb with every sinful bone
And there you wept alone, your heart was so contrite

"No, I'm sorry," Sherlock said, but he accepted John's embrace all the same. "I never meant to stay 'dead' that long. I wanted to come back. I watched you mourn me, and it was all I could do to save your life and stay hidden. I didn't want to leave you like that."

Sherlock stopped for a moment, and the two just breathed.

"But now we're both dying for real," Sherlock stated. "And since we've both got approximately 43.52 seconds to go," John knew it too, not that exactly, but the darkness was closing in around him, and it was all he could do to keep his head above the waters of unconsciousness, where death waited with open arms, "I don't want it to go unsaid any longer. John Watson, I love you."

You said, "Jesus, please forgive me of my crimes
Sanctify this withered heart of mine
Stay with me until my life is through
And on that day, please take me home with you"

"I love you too, Sherlock."

A quiet moment.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Can you please be my final deduction?"

John knew how significant this was. He nodded slowly.

"I'd be honored."

I can smell the death on the sheets, covering me
I can't believe this is the end
I can hear you whisper to me, "It's time to leave
You'll never be lonely again"

"You aren't scared about dying. You're glad I'm here. You didn't sleep well last night, and one of the nurses is annoying you to no end, I'm going to guess it was the one who gave me trouble when I tried to come in. You had some tea about an hour ago but you haven't eaten since this morning, when you had a muffin, banana nut variety, but you didn't much like it. You have only a few more seconds to live and you…love me."

John's eyes fluttered closed and he smiled. "Obviously."

Then Sherlock closed his eyes too, because he wasn't going to break his word and think about anything but John. They lay there, noses touching, arms around each other, eyes closed. Then they breathed their last breaths into each other's lungs.

But this was my deathbed, I died there alone
When I closed my eyes tonight, you carried me home

When the nurses came to check on John a few minutes later, they were surprised to see another man in his arms, even more so when they learned the man was supposed to have been dead for over thirty years. But they hadn't killed each other, in fact, when a man from the police named Lestrade came to take the bodies away, he shook his head like he had known all along.

Lestrade had the old coffin with the fake body taken out of the grave, and then reburied Sherlock. This time, though, there was a difference. This time, there were two bodies in the grave, and the headstone read:

SHERLOCK HOLMES

and

JOHN WATSON

Just as it should.

i n s t r u m e n t a l

I am the way, follow me and take my hand

"Take my hand!"

"Oh, now people will definitely talk,"

And I am the truth, embrace me and you'll understand

"For anyone out there who still cares: I'm not actually gay."

"Well I am. And look at us both."

And I am the light and for me, you'll live again

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

For I am love,

"John. What I said before: I meant it. I don't have friends. I've only got one."

I am love,

"No one could be that clever."

"You could."

I am,

"Goodbye, John."

I am,

"He was my best friend, and I'll always believe in him."

Love