When Mycroft called the first time, Sherlock knew he was being toyed with. It was fairly easy to figure out, really, Sherlock could hear the smugness in the other man's voice as well as the tell-tale of fingers drumming against the arm of a chair. He shouldn't have been able to pinpoint that, but as always his brother insisting on having the best in systems of communication. So, Sherlock knew his brother was lying to him; still it didn't stop him from asking the most important question.
"Mycroft, please stop being dull, do tell my why you're bothering so bloody early in the morning?" Sherlock stretched out his right arm, the one that contained the four nicotine patches, and flexed his fingers. John would have yelled at him for putting on so many, the doctor would have harangued him about it being unhealthy, but Dr. Watson wasn't there. Sherlock ignored the painful tug in his stomach. He was not feeling remorse or pain or anything resembling something as mundane as guilt.
"Oh, dear brother," Sherlock had to grit his teeth at the condescending tone in Mycroft's voice. God, but he hated that man. "We both know you miss your blogger. He isn't doing so well, by the way." the detective sat up slowly in his rather uncomfortable chair, nothing like the one back in London.
"John is perfectly fine, Mycroft. You don't give him nearly enough credit," there was definitely not a tone of bitterness in Sherlock's voice. Not a single ounce of it. John was better off not caring for him, not forcing himself to mourn a death that never even happened.
"Do you honestly believe that, Sherlock? You know the good doctor better than I. do you honestly believe he wouldn't mourn his best friend?" Sherlock could practically hear the sneer in his brother's voice but he ignored it. "Knowing the level of loyalty and commitment the man has, is there not a doubt in your mind that your supposed death couldn't affect him at all? Please, Sherlock, the papers had me believing you were more intelligent."
"John is fine," the man in the ratty old cellar in some dingy hotel in southern Asia growled through his teeth. "He's faced worse things than this. Lost people who are about a thousand times more valuable than me, he will be fine." Sherlock ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that was insisting he check on John in his own way. The doctor had to be fine, he'd invaded Afghanistan for Christ's sake, and he could definitely face the supposed death of one of his mates.
Mycroft, apparently, could hear right through the lies, but he didn't push the issue. Instead, a long suffering sigh filled his ear. "Do hurry back, brother, before it's too late for you both."
The first time John Hamish Watson tried to end his own life, much like the sodding bastard that was his friend did, he tried to do it with alcohol. Life without Sherlock in it… well, it was damn horrible through and through. There were no cases, there was no excitement, no fun, there wasn't anything but dull afternoons at the small clinic where he was working. There was nothing more to do but wake up, force himself to eat, leave for the office, then come back and practice every goddamn night at controlling his breathing. Every night, he would sit in his arm chair, across from Sherlock's, and stare at the empty seat while trying to finally will the tears away. It had gotten better after the first couple of months, but it was still not over by any means. Whenever he entertained someone (meaning Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft's assistant came by to check up on him) he insisted they do it in the kitchen. He couldn't bear to see anyone else sitting in what had always been Sherlock's chair.
His, well theirs really, friends had tried to "help" him in the first month or so of Sherlock's absence. Lestrade had tried to invite him over on cases, they both knew the doctor had nothing on his former partner, but John appreciated the effort. After a while though, and very loud protests from idiots like Anderson, John had stopped going. It wasn't just the fact that he couldn't really help the yard much at all, it was more because… well being on cases caused John too much pain. every time he looked, he imagined Sherlock there inspecting a body or rattling rapid-fire deductions; whenever John noticed something that might get a clue, he looked up expecting praise from a man who was no longer there. So eventually John stopped going, but he'd kept in contact with Greg for a while, meeting for a pint or a match at the pub. Molly had tried in her own way as well, inviting him over to the morgue for more experiments or claiming she needed "medical advice" even though she was a doctor as well. John went to humor her, and also because, Dear God, he needed the distraction. He quickly discovered that possibly even worse than going on cases with Lestrade. Every equation spelled his name, every body had a head of matted black curls, blood soaking through them, and every face was a pale ivory that had belonged to one person and one person alone. The hardest part though, was Molly's enthusiasm. She really did love her job, and every time John saw that sparkle in her eyes when they were near a body, well it just ripped her heart into pieces. Mrs. Hudson, for the most part, hadn't changed at all. Other than the little dullness of pity in her eyes, there wasn't much she did differently, and John wouldn't have thought it possible but even that hurt. How do you go on living the same way when the man you love is dead?
And that's what destroyed John time and again, the knowledge that he'd been too late. that he'd had to realize the truth of his feelings when he was at Sherlock's tombstone, that he had to beg for a miracle after realizing that the detective hadn't been just an acquaintance, or a mate, not even his best friend. No, John Watson had embraced his bisexuality without even realizing it and fallen utterly and completely in love with the other man. Only to lose him before Sherlock even found out somebody cared.
So after six months of trying, and failing, to get over the heartbreak he decided to sod it all and get right out pissed. And maybe, the most irrational part of his brain thought, if I drink enough, maybe I get to join him. so, on Friday afternoon John picked as many bottles of liquor as he could afford with the money in his pockets and locked himself in the flat. He took Sherlock's dressing gown from where it had been hidden under his pillow and huddled in the chair directly across from the dead man's. "I love you, you know," he said to the empty space, imagining a willowy shadow smirking and raising a sardonic eyebrow at him, John had to smile. "I know you don't believe in that, you'd call it rubbish I know, but I still do. Maybe that's the reason, you're so cynical, you'd have to really feel it if you were to tell anyone. I wish I would have told you before you left me, maybe you would have said back before you jumped." The end of it was barely above a whisper as he fought through the lump in his throat.
The first time John Hamish Watson tried to take his life, the alcohol kicked into effect well before he was damn ready. At around three in the morning, after sobbing himself sore, John Watson passed out huddled on the chair, hugging a union jack pillow to his chest.
The first time Sherlock Alexander Holmes felt a trickle of guilt in his belly was around the seventh month of his "death." After his phone call with Mycroft, Sherlock had irrationally hoped his brother would leave him be, but of course the bastard had had other plans. A week after their talk, Sherlock had received a package through a private messenger. Nobody should have known he was still alive, so it stood to logic that his brother must have been the sender.
As he opened it, the heavy weight he'd been feeling in his stomach since his last chat with Mycroft only intensified. What if his brother was right this time? What if John really wasn't okay? Could he really have miscalculated that badly? He shook his head, he'd worked through the problem in his head, made the necessary deductions based on the facts he had about his blogger; John was fine. What he found in the little boy was a CD on a clear case; giddily he booted up his computer and put the CD inside to run. It wasn't a lead on Moriarty's web as he'd hoped, instead Sherlock found himself looking at John's profile, and feeling the lead in his stomach turn to something much heavier and a thousand times more unpleasant.
Sherlock identified every change in John's aspect from the last time they'd been together seven months before. There were heavy, dark bags under the doctor's eyes; Sherlock could see them even from his profile. His skin was sallow, and incredibly pale, the hollowness of his cheeks told the detective all he needed to know about the doctor's eating habits. "You have to eat better, Sherlock. Coffee and toast every eighteen hours is no sound diet" but he always said it with a fond smile on his face. Sherlock shook his head at the memory, focusing on the video again. john was sitting on the armchair he'd claimed as his from the moment he'd moved in, facing what had been Sherlock's seat, and was… was that Sherlock's dressing gown he was wearing? Dear God, what was Mycroft playing at? And why was it affecting the detective so? This level of sentimentality should have disgusted him! But the more he looked at John's defeated profile, the less he could deny the prickling in his eyes. Oh, John.
Sherlock realized with surprise that John was talking, apparently, to the empty air in front of him. The detective couldn't contain his chuckle, even as he felt a tear roll down his cheek, at the gesture. Even after he had told himself John wouldn't mourn him for long, he'd imagined the doctor doing something similar. John was a man of routine after all. "I love you, you know," the words jolted Sherlock out of his distraction. He felt his fingers turn to ice, and his mouth dry, he couldn't have heard that right. It was an impossibility, John wasn't… he wasn't like that! Sherlock might have been attracted to the doctor in that way from the start but John… John had never…
"Maybe you would have said back before you jumped."
The first time Sherlock Alexander Holmes felt guilt, he was miles away from the only man he'd ever loved, wishing he'd been brave enough to tell him how he felt. The first time Holmes felt guilt, it was because he knew John thought he'd been in it alone.
His second plan didn't work out as well as the first one had, not that John thought it would, but he'd still given it a chance. In the year and half since Sherlock's death, his life hadn't gotten much better. He'd continued working at the clinic, the people were nice and it was giving him a steady income that he very much needed after rejecting the money Mycroft had tried to give him. It was nothing compared to solving cases or running through the streets of London with adrenaline pumping through his veins, but it'd have to do. He'd gone back to work with Lestrade from time to time after they'd gotten a hit on Sebastian Moran's trial, and subsequently the web in which he worked. John took great pleasure in stalking that particular enemy, he did anything Sherlock even when wasn't even there, after all. Life at the flat continued to be the same, Mrs. Hudson made him tea every afternoon even though not his housekeeper. All in all it wasn't a bad life, but John knew it was still lacking. He had yet to spend a day when he didn't break down late at night, with a dressing gown that no longer held any other scent but his own.
After his first failed attempt to end his suffering, he'd tried to make things better for himself, he really had. He'd made attempts at visiting with his old friends, and for the most part it'd worked, they'd stopped tiptoeing around him at least. He'd even dated a nice girl named Mary for a while, and she was brilliant. She was beautiful in a decent, quiet way that few women now a days were. She was quiet, and placid, but also very strong willed, determined, and funny. She had a quick wit about her that fascinated him, and her piercing grey-blue eyes never failed to intrigue him. She loved the job he did with the Yard, was fascinated with his stories of the war, and listened every time he told him about a new investigation at the morgue with Molly.
It didn't take John long to realize why he was so enthralled with Mary, she was his female version of Sherlock. Their wits, while Mary's wasn't as brilliant or sharp, were very similar. Her dark curly hair fell in exactly the right way that, if John looked at her from afar, he could imagine he was looking at Sherlock instead. The most important thing, though, was that when John looked into her eyes and saw the worry and affection she had for him, he could almost believe Sherlock was looking at him like that. So, in the end, things inevitably fell apart. He cared and respected her too much to deceive her like that, and so they'd parted ways. That had been a month before. John was tired of being alone, especially after realizing that any woman or man he tried to date would ultimately just end up reminding him of Sherlock.
This time, John was craving a little closeness to his lost detective. If he was going to try to follow him, then he'd try to be as close the dead man as he could, so that's where he was that lovely Tuesday morning. At the roof of a hospital named St. Bartholomew's, you might have heard of it, it's were the smartest man in the world ended his life after all. It made sense for his companion to do the same.
John was terrified as he looked down at the people walking below, he was scared for a future he would have no control over after he carried out his plan. He'd been raised a devout catholic, he'd been drilled into the consequences of committing suicide. He was absolutely frightened thinking about the possibility of not being able to meet his love in the afterlife. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself. When he opened them again, he squared his shoulders and widened his stance a little bit. "So this is what it looked like to you," he murmured into the empty air, imagining a shadow of his detective standing next to him. "It's so beautiful, I'm glad you got to see at least this beauty before you fell. I'm glad you got to see me before you jumped, as selfish as that sounds, I'm glad I'm the last thing you ever focused that gaze on."
"He probably focused on a million things other than you, at the moment of his death. I'm sure you were his main focal point, though," the haughty voice of Mycroft Holmes almost toppled John over the edge accidentally.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, nostrils flaring in anger and pain.
"Stopping you from a stupidity that could rival mine," John had been ready to argue, but at Mycroft's bitter tone he snapped his mouth shut. Neither Holmes had ever been self-depreciating. Mycroft looked behind his shoulder with a faraway look. "He always called you his salvation, did you know that? You were the reason he didn't get kill in the shortness of your acquaintance. You were the reason he tried to civil and human, even to me. I'm sure he was glad you were there."
"What the hell do you want, Mycroft? Take my hand and walked me back to the flat? An empty flat were I have no other goddamn thing but the memories him?"
"No, Dr. Watson, what I want is to convince you that you, this, keeping alive is worth it. I want to convince you to hold on a little longer, it'll be worth it in the end, you'll see if you hold on for a while more."
"Is that—"John had to swallow the lump that suddenly worked its way into his throat. "Did he jump believing that?" he ended gruffly.
"Yes, Dr. Watson, he did. Now shall you devalue his conviction, cheapen his belief, by turning your back on his sacrifice? Or will you continue doing what he wanted you to do?" Mycroft's gaze was piercing, reading every thought in John's mind as the soldier tried to decide. As John stepped off the edge, he could have sworn he saw Mycroft Holmes smiling, sincerely for the first time.
The second time Sherlock Alexander Holmes experienced fear, it was even more suffocating that the first. Nothing, nothing at all, which Moriarty could design, would have terrified him as much as seeing his Doctor Watson hoping to follow in his footsteps. He'd received this package a week before, a week after his second attempt the note said, and he'd been hesitant to open it. What if this time it nothing had stopped John from carrying out his plan?
Sherlock traced John's walk through the London streets thanks to Mycroft's ability to control public surveillance. The limp was back, and Sherlock needed a few moments after seeing it, it had only gotten worse in the months of John's solitude. He was thinner, much thinner, than he'd used to be. And judging by the way his shoulders were forced back, the only reason he was still standing was because of years of military training and not from a willingness to live. Sherlock watched as John made his way to the roof, stood on the very same spot the detective had stood on a year and a half before, and prepared to follow on his beloved's path. All the while talking to shadow-Sherlock as if he were really there.
"I'm glad you got to see at least this beauty before you fell." Dear John, the last beauty I got to see was you.
Sherlock had thought John had been doing better, he really had. He'd asked his homeless network to monitor John in the months following his first suicide attempt, and he'd gradually seemed to get better. He'd reinstated his social life, with Greg and Molly and even Harry from time to time. He'd started working harder, eating a little bit better, and had even dated. When the detective found out he'd viciously eradicated Moriarty's web from a small eastern European country. He knew his anger, and stupid jealousy if he was honest with himself, was completely illogical. John had every right to seek comfort and company in the best way he knew how. Sherlock couldn't begrudge him that; his doctor didn't know he was coming back. He'd still savagely looked for the lackies anyway, trying to get a physical outlet on his anger and pain. Apparently, he'd been very much mistaken.
He needed John to hold on. He needed him to wait for him, the ordeal was almost over, and Moriarty's web was almost destroyed. With that in mind, Sherlock fired a text.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: S.A.H
Just keep him safe for a few more months. I'll be in London soon. Don't… let him succeed.
The second time Sherlock Alexander Holmes experienced fear, it was the limb-locking, lung-freezing, heart stopping kind at the thought of John ending before they even begun.
The last time John Hamish Watson tried to end his life, he almost succeeded. He was a hair's breadth away from it. And he would have too, if he it weren't for meddling Holmes brothers and their antics. Then again, this time, he was glad someone had interfered. Turns out, the wait had been worth it…
The first time Sherlock Alexander Holmes fell madly, and completely in love, he was scared out of his mind. There was nothing worse than discovering you couldn't live without another human being when you were so close to losing him.
"Sherlock you must come home at once."
"I'm almost there, Mycroft. Dear god, a few more hours won't matter."
"He's dying, Sherlock."
"Who… What… You cannot be serious… you're just… manipulating me, is all… he's not… he couldn't…"
"He almost succeeded this time, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson… she found him in the flat. Pills, she said. He needs you here."
"Oh God, Mycroft, keep him breathing. I can't—"
"I know, little brother, I know."
So, now, sitting in the god-awful hospital chair, holding the hand of the man he loved, the man he'd almost lost, Sherlock could finally admit the truth to himself. He adored this man, this strong, crazy, bloody amazing man who'd loved him even when no one else could find a way to do it. And he'd almost lost him. Even now, knowing his stomach had been pumped and he was more or less stable, the detective was afraid of letting go of John's hand. How did ordinary people manage this insanity?
"I love you, John Watson, and you bloody well better wake up soon so I can say it to your face. And you must say it back, once they've taken that god awful tube out of your mouth," he kissed the back of John's hand and promptly fell asleep.
John's awakening wasn't pleasant, or calm and quiet as Sherlock would have liked. Instead, the injured man had taken one look at Sherlock and started panicking. Nurses were called, then doctors, and then they were ushering Sherlock out the door and he himself had experienced his own fear. An over helpful nurse had lead him to the waiting room, and stayed with him until he'd snapped at her and made her leave. Sherlock just couldn't deal with it. Not with the image of John panicked and pained at Sherlock's mere presence.
Sherlock didn't know how long he waited, it could have been minutes or days, but finally another nurse stepped into the room and informed him that Doctor Watson was once again stable. That yes, he was awake, but heavily medicated. The tube was out of his mouth, so he would be able to talk to him. He thanked her, because John had drilled that into him, and then made his way to room 221. He smirked, in the fear of the moment he hadn't even realized it.
He quietly made his way inside the room, thinking John asleep, and sat in the chair again. He still needed time to accustom to have John so close. God, but he's beautiful.
"You bloody bastard!" John's gravelly voice growled at him from the bed. Sherlock jerked his head up, blue eyes meeting incensed brown fire. "How could you?"
"I had no choice," and Sherlock wouldn't have been able to stop the fear leaking out of his voice if he wanted to. "I had to do what I did. Just… let me explain and you'll understand."
"You had to? You had to hurt me like that? Had to pretend you were dead? Had to make me mourn you, miss you, bloody cry for you?!"
"And you think I didn't care about you too? You think I wanted to be gone?! You think I wanted you to do this?" Sherlock motioned wildly at John's weak form on the bed. The doctor looked away and furiously blinked back tear, taking deep breaths as if willing himself to stop. And the guilt in Sherlock's heart intensify at the evidence of just how much John had done this same exercise as he sat across a chair whose occupant was long gone. "I had to protect the only thing that I have ever cared about. That's you, John. I wouldn't let them hurt you. I'd rather you lived without me, than for them to ever lay hands on you."
"So you thought it'd be better for you to hurt me instead?" there was no inflection in John's voice. Just resignation and agony. A tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek at the sound of his voice, and the soldier was taken aback, utterly amazed at how open Sherlock was about his emotions. He was even more gob smacked when Sherlock took his hand.
"I never… realized you cared about me so deeply. I would have confessed my feelings before my… fall, if I had. You said that my cynicism would prove whether or not I really loved someone, that if I ever uttered those words they would be true because of hate for sentimentality, so I want to…" he cut himself off and held John's face tenderly between his hands. "I am utterly, completely, amazingly, illogically in love with you, John Hamish Watson, and don't you ever frighten me like this again."
Tears were flowing freely down both men's cheeks, but this time they were happy tears. The stupid grins in their faces were testimony to that. John held onto Sherlock's hands as the detective brought them closer, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to John's lips. When they pulled back, resting their foreheads together, John opened his eyes to meet hopeful, loving blue ones. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and don't you ever leave me like that again."
Sherlock grinned and kissed John again. "Never, my love, the wait is over"