Summary: As long as John is awakened by the chords of a phantom violin, he won't give up on Sherlock. He knows the detective must be alive, must be watching. But what will it take to bring him back? Post-Reichenbach Johnlock, hints at MorMor.
Pre-slash. M for chapter(s) soon to come.
Here at Midnight, a Violin Plays
Sherlock sighed. Even now, three years later, his phone hadn't stopped its incessant buzzing. At first, the messages had been pleas, pleas that grew only more desperate as the days passed. With each rising and setting of the sun, a bit of John's hope seemed to disperse, turning, just as the light of day at dusk, to nothing but bleak darkness.
After a while, the texts became ultimatums, bargaining chips. John started to threaten suicide, saying that if he couldn't join Sherlock in life, perhaps he'd have a better chance in death. As if Sherlock would allow that to happen. As if he hadn't taken precautions, put safety nets in place.
Finally, the texts turned into bursts of anger, slinging pejoratives and enraged curses at Sherlock, who only thought that it was good. He thought it was John finally severing the ties that bound them imperceptibly together, working himself into a deep enough rage that he could finally let go.
But tonight… Tonight was different. Earlier in the day, Sherlock had watched John limp off to the therapist he hadn't bothered seeing, he hadn't needed to see, until recently. He'd watched tears stream down the doctor's pinched, pained face as he limped back to 221B Baker Street in the pouring rain. The moment Sherlock saw John's shaking hand push open the door to their old flat, he knew it would be the very last straw. John was back at 221B for the first time in a long time. Right then, Sherlock knew this couldn't continue much longer; his act was reaching its end, and only for one reason: because John was reaching his end.
Mrs. Hudson rushed to the door when she heard it snap shut, only to find a battered, broken, and soaking wet Doctor John Watson slumped over, sitting on the entryway floor with his back pressed against the door and his head cradled in his hands. She tried valiantly, but to no avail, to speak to him; the sweet, older woman was met only with the sound of choked sobs. So she did what she knew she had to- she left him to deal with this the only way he could, the only way he'd let himself. Alone. As she walked away though, she turned up the heat in the flat in the hopes of helping the sodden doctor avoid catching cold. As she strode into the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson felt a hot tear stinging the corner of her eye as well. She couldn't bear to see her boys like this.
It was dusk when John finally got up, staggering unsteadily up the stairs. At the landing atop the stairwell, he stopped once more, reaching into the pocket of his trousers to procure his cell phone.
So it came to be that Sherlock Holmes stared blankly down at the new, three-word text message glowing on the screen of his own phone. The one single message in his outbox, the sole message he'd been sending John for the past three long, long years, "This number is no longer in service." simply couldn't properly answer this one. These three words were the precise ones Sherlock had known would be his undoing for years already.
"I love you. – JW"
Sherlock's finger hovered over the resend button of his usual response as he peered in the window of 221B, watching John bring one hand up to press against his face in dire despair. As John limped across the room and ran one hand over Sherlock's violin, quickly wiping the single tear that fell hotly against its strings, Sherlock felt his resolve slipping away, felt, for the first time in his life, his heart seeming to drop on a perilous fall all its own. He couldn't re-send that text again, not tonight. Before Sherlock could decide on a more proper response, though, his phone lit up once more.
"Please… please just come home. – JW"
Not thirty seconds later, John's phone illuminated in response. Entirely expecting to read "This number is no longer in service.", John's heart leapt at the novel sight awaiting him on that screen, finally lighting up the darkness consuming his life like the liquid-silver tail of a shooting star.
"I can't. You know I can't. – SH"
John's heart pounded an erratic rhythm into his ribcage as dizziness overtook him, making him feel as though the world had ceased its rotation for the past three years and now, finally, began to spin anew.
"Yo-you're alive." he wrote, then erased it, knowing Sherlock would probably find that rather a dull response, a waste of one perfectly good text message. He was, after all, obviously alive. Clarifying would only be a trifle, a complete and utter waste of valuable time.
"You can. You have to, Sherlock. I ca- I can't do this without you anymore. I can't. – JW"
Sherlock grimaced as images played across the front of his mind, seeming to materialize right in front of his eyes- the way John looked from atop St. Bartholomew's, the way the man's limp had returned, John gently stroking his gravestone as though it were Sherlock himself.
"You can. You're strong, John, stronger than you think. – SH"
John simply shook his head, dragging his fingers ever so lightly along the neck of the violin before answering.
"Why are doing this to me? Why would you do this to me? – JW"
"Not to you. For you. – SH"
"Don't be such a prat. This isn't for me, Sherlock, this is for you. If you wanted to do something for me, you'd be here by now. You'd never have left at all. – JW"
Sherlock snickered. It was incredibly thick, entirely nonsensical that John would ever think that. Why would he think that?
"I'm protecting you, John. – SH"
Now it was John's turn to wonder. How could a mind so brightly brilliant, a mind so fully, dexterously capable of understanding even the most complicated of situations, not understand a concept so simple?
"And I'd much prefer to actually be dead than to be dead only in my own mind, in my own heart, a man caged by his own means, living only in my dreams, when you're with me. Yet, every time, I'm awakened, thinking I hear your violin rousing me. And every time I open my eyes, you are, of course, not there, the singing of a violin only a phantom deeply ingrained in my mind. Those times, I almost wish I could awaken to Moriarty himself, come to end my misery. – JW"
So thick, Sherlock thought, so incredibly thick. He couldn't deny, though, the strongest, entirely foreign pulling sensation seizing his heart.
"Well, I'd prefer you alive on your own to you dead in my arms. The world without Doctor John Watson? Why, that's no world at all. – SH"
John almost, almost cracked a smile at the stark, shocking sentimentality of the text. His stomach turned lightly as he considered it.
"Then what, may I ask, is my world without Sherlock Holmes? I don't only miss you, I don't simply dislike being alone; I love you. I really, truly do. I can no longer live this life without you by my side- I cannot even fathom that anymore. And this, so help me Sherlock, will be my last confession should I be forced to spend another night alone, especially here, back at 221B. It's too cold here without you, I'm shaking. Stop this. Stop this game. Stop this shaking. – JW"
Sherlock watched as an involuntary shiver ran down John's spine. The man was laying himself down, laying himself completely and utterly bare and letting Sherlock in on the one thing that had become the core of his being, the gravity holding him to a life that was driving him mad. Then he sighed.
"If I've learnt anything in the past three years, John, anything at all, if the sum of my experiences is to be aggregated into but one sentence… I love you, too, John. – SH"
"Come home. – JW"
A barrier broke inside John just then, a wall around his heart was irrevocably razed into a million tiny, sharp pieces, pieces that could never be put back together again, not even by the most skilled architects in all of England, in all the world. Hot tears flowed untapped down his cheeks, faster and harder than the rain pounding against the roof of 221B Baker Street.
As Sherlock watched the events inside the window playing out, his resolve, too, came crashing down. This was it, the straw that broke the camel's back, the droplet that overflowed the bucket, the pebble that shattered his shield. Looking up at the stormy sky from under the slight overhang keeping him hidden and dry, Sherlock's mind began to race.
The moon is rising over the building; it's 7:56 PM. Moran's shift is drawing to a close. He's tired, wants to get home. They'll switch at 8.
Sherlock readied himself to leap surreptitiously inside the flat, muscles poised to make the quickly-forming plan in his mind go off without a hitch. Tossing another quick glance toward Sebastian Moran, he strained to sneak a peek through the window a bit farther away. Sherlock's eyes scanned Moran, leaving not one single detail unaccounted for.
Darkened eyes- he's tired. No, exhausted. Fresh piece of gum in his mouth- Moriarty is picking him up. He's quivery, keeps looking at his watch- wants to get out. Black stain on his pants- shoe polish, really quite fresh, only recently dried. Not for his shoes. Not for old shoes, it's just a light-duty shine. He bought Jim new shoes. Wants to give him the gift as soon as possible.
Looking down toward the street, he made out the shape of a sleek, black car pulling up outside the building. Why, if it wasn't the man himself- Jim Moriarty. Sherlock had known since that day at St. Bart's that Moriarty was just as alive as he was, and, by the way Jim had kept a rotating guard on Baker Street, Scotland Yard, and all the places John had used as makeshift sleeping quarters, Sherlock knew Jim knew he was alive as well. This game was never set to end so quickly, so easily, as it had that day. Sherlock and Moriarty were too evenly matched- this game was as old as time itself, and it would probably outlive time itself as well.
7:57. Moriarty is three minutes early. Glow from the driver's side. He's texting. He's smirking. It's for Moran. Jim's in just as much of a rush to get Sebastian home as Sebastian is to get home.
Sherlock readied a text on his own phone as he watched Moran's cellular device light up, signifying the receipt of a new text. He smiled. He actually, for once, smiled. It's Jim then.
"Open the window. Now. Quickly. – SH"
Just as Moran turned his back, John's phone lit up. Sherlock knew the man would do what he was told, and he knew he'd be ready.
Here's hoping you found that rather enjoyable. A second chapter should be up quite soon- and involve John and Sherlock's (tender, loving) reunion.
Do REVIEW! Please ;)
