(hey guys! I know I'm taking forever to update on 'a new beginning' but here is a song fic while you wait! Lyrics belong to "of monsters and men" the song is called little talks. Enjoy! Rated M for suicidal thoughts, and a very light sex scene. Warning. Switches P.O.V's a lot.*re uploaded. fixed the lyrics.)
(I don't like walking around this old and empty house.)
Having nothing to live for was not a mindset that suited John Watson. He was the type of man that was meant to be warm and comforting. He was a doctor for Christ sake…well, before he lost his job that is. But that's not who he was anymore. He was more like a shell. He didn't like being a shut in but he couldn't bring himself to leave bakers street. He didn't even know how he was still permitted to be there, considering he had stopped paying rent months ago. He would have assumed it was Mycroft guilt, or Mrs. Hudson's kindness paying for his living arrangements, if he had been in the right mind to assume anything. Sherlock was dead, And that's all he ever could think about.
(So hold my hand, I'll walk with you my dear)
And then there was the cause of all johns anguish. Sherlock Holmes, a man who, contrary to popular belief, was very much alive. Had he only known how bad john was. How much his 'death' had consumed him he would have come back sooner, before the damage was done, but he had to make sure john was safe, so when his deed was done, when Moriarty's web was dead, he assumed a new identity and moved into a flat not to far away from home, for cautionary measures. One month. One more month and he would go home to john.
(The stairs creak as I sleep, it's keeping me awake)
John tries hard to sleep, he really does, curled up in a ball on Sherlock's bed every night, but the sleep scares him, because when he does he'll wake with a start, thinking he heard someone on the stairs…Sherlock…and the tears keep him awake the rest of the night. No. he doesn't sleep very often.
(It's the house telling you to close your eyes)
what john doesn't know is that sometimes those noises are Sherlock. Wandering in when he knows john is asleep, at first to set up a camera that Sherlock can check on to make sure no gets into the flat that shouldn't be there. A safety precaution, then, eventually just to catch a quick glance at john.
(Some days I can't even dress myself.)
Sometimes john doesn't even bother getting dressed in the morning. He just stays wrapped up in Sherlock's blue dressing robe. Most days he doesn't even bother getting out of bed at all.
(It's killing me to see you this way.)
And Sherlock can see it now. See how much he's hurting john but he cant go back yet, no matter how much he wants to. He just cant. It would put john in so much danger, and he cant risk losing john forever.
('Cause though the truth may vary, this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore.)
They would be reunited soon, they told themselves…but for very different reasons.
(There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back.)
And john wants to do it. Oh god he wants the pain to be over, and he had the means to do it ready to him, sitting right in Sherlock's top drawer, which had become the new home of his handgun when he moved himself down here. Some days he wants to so much…but then a little voice whispers to him, she says "but what if he comes back" and then the tears come because the voice isn't real…and Sherlock is dead. He wont come back, and oh god he feels guilty because if he hadn't fallen for that phone call. If he had just stayed. He would still be there.
(Well tell her that I miss our little talks.)
Sherlock doesn't know about the gun. He hasn't seen it. He doesn't know how close it is to losing john every day. He should have seen it coming. Should have seen the signs…but they walked by day by day, right under his nose. Because he doesn't want to see them. He thinks back to those smaller moment he and john shared, the little talks, giggles at the crime scenes, the nights they would order takeout and he would amuse john by trying to guess the fortunes, and this makes him feel worse.
(Soon it will all be over, buried with our past)
But john is getting further and further from reality each day, plummeting closer to the bottom, and when he hit's rock bottom, he will snap. And he knows it.
(We used to play outside when we were young and full of life and full of days I feel like I'm wrong when I am right. your mind is playing tricks on you my dear.)
The first time he saw the alcohol in johns hand he nearly lost himself. Nearly abandoned the plan completely and went back to him right then. He was enraged that no one told him…Mrs. Hudson must know. And she should have told Mycroft. This means his brother was keeping this from him deliberately and he was furious. John was killing himself slowly but he had to wait. "don't do this to yourself john…"he would mumble to himself. "stop this. Stop it now" 2 more weeks. Then he would come home.
('Cause though the truth may vary This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore)
But 2 weeks was a long time. Longer then Sherlock could have anticipated, and as he watched john waist away more every day, a bubbling hatred for himself erupted inside of himself. He had done this to john.
(Hey! Don't listen to a word I say. Hey! The screams all sound the same)
John didn't believe for a second that Sherlock killed himself because he was a fake. He didn't believe a word of it. Sherlock was the most brilliant man he had ever met, and that was what bothered him the most. why had he done it? was it because of john? Had he done something wrong?
(Though the truth may vary, this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore)
And neither of them got to tell them what the other what they wanted to say for so long. Those three words that were always on the tip of there tongues, but were never uttered out loud, for fear of losing what they already had.
(You're gone, gone, gone away, I watched you disappear, all that's left is a ghost of you. we're torn, torn, torn apart, there's nothing we can do, Just let me go, we'll meet again soon.)
Today was different. John had this feeling in the pit of his stomach that spoke to him, saying that today was the day. This particular day wasn't very different then any other. He supposed he had just been putting it off for to long. The flashbacks were bad as he kneeled down on the living room floor, his cold handgun felt heavy in his hand. But as he saw Sherlock falling, his bloody mangled face on the pavement. The last time he touched him, feeling his wrist. No pulse. The hospital waiting room when molly came out to feebly tell him that Sherlock was gone forever, and they cried together. He stared blankly forward and lifted the gun to his temple. "Sherlock…" he said quietly, for his ears only.
(Now wait, wait, wait for me, please hang around)
He didn't know what changed his mind but god was he grateful, because as he rushed into the front door of the flat, and saw the position that john was in, the pain of what he had done to this poor man hit him all at once, there eyes locked and for a moment he was paralyzed. "john, you don't have to…im back" he said in a voice, that sounded much braver then he was feeling.
(I'll see you when I fall asleep.)
"your not real" john said simply "I knew I'd cracked. Its alright though, I'll see the real Sherlock soon. Just a moment" and then a bang echoed violently, shooting though the near silence.
(Hey! Don't listen to a word I say. Hey! The screams all sound the same.)
Sherlock lunged forward at the last possible second, knocking the gun out of johns hand and firing at the ceiling instead "if I wasn't real then I wouldn't be able to touch you" Sherlock said breathlessly, and he knew there would be hell to pay for his absence later, he would have to earn back johns trust, there would be questions waiting for him in the morning, but for now he did the first thing that came to mind. He gently wiped the tears out of johns eyes and leaned in, claiming his lips in a kiss.
(Though the truth may vary, this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore)
Neither of them could control themselves as the secret desire they had both shared for so long came to light, the kiss because hungry and passionate and oh god it was wonderful. Somehow they made it to Sherlock's room, and he was going to make a comment about how john had been sleeping there for so long, but he was cut off and for once he didn't mind. One by one there clothes made if off there bodies and onto the floor. John had, had sex before, but nothing like this, it was slow and sensual and so full of feeling he thought his heart may burst. Sherlock was back. His Sherlock. And he was never letting him go again. He cried out his new lovers name as he finished, feeling Sherlock climax rushing through him almost directly after, and god that name felt good on his tongue "Sherlock." something he scarcely dared to say out loud during his absence. He felt Sherlock collapse on him, and he ran his fingers through his dark curls. "yes john?" "I love you" " and I, you." it was a quiet exchange, but it was enough.
(Hey! Don't listen to a word I say. Hey! The screams all sound the same.)
John knew this must have been hard for Sherlock too, so he couldn't bring himself to make him talk now. He was too comfortable, as was Sherlock. They both knew his return to life would be hard, but they settled down for the night in each others arms, enjoying what they knew was just the calm before the storm.
(Though the truth may vary, this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore.)