Hello Sherlock fans. I've got a teensy bit of explaining to do. I started watching Sherlock about two weeks ago and since then have watched every single episode, learned the theme on the piano, and roped my brother in. And now write fanfiction! I know that you guys may be reluctant to let a newcomer in (not to mention that I'm Canadian) but I will gladly work my way into your fandom.
This happens a year after Reichenbach. If you do not want spoilers then don't read ahead! It's that simple! I know that many people have written an aftermath of Sherlock's death but here is a bit of a different take on it. I don't go into any explanation of how he survived like some of the others.
First Sherlock fic so I hope it's okay! I don't own BBC Sherlock.
Sherlock Holmes leans away from the building, arms outstretched, as he begins the fall. He descends, face down, his hair whipping in the wind. Like a glorious falling angel. And then he hits the pavement, with a thump, and the life leaves him.
John Watson wakes up with a start, sitting upright. He pushes his hair away from his sweaty forehead and puts his head in his hands. And like always, the tears come. A year. It's been a bloody year since his best friend died, and every single night, he has the dream.
John gets up, throwing the cover off of him, not even attempting to go back to sleep. He makes himself a cup of tea and sits in his armchair. 221B Baker st. had not changed one bit in the last year. The skull was still on the mantelpiece and the pictures from their last case, were taped to the mirror. The violin sat in a corner, unplayed. Only one thing was missing. The Consulting Detective himself. The place was so quiet, so gloomy. It was missing the usual sounds of gunshots and offkey violin. Sherlock. Even thinking the name turned John into an emotional wreck. Never had he felt so lost, even more then after he had been dispatched the war. For those couple years Sherlock and his crazy had been his life. The late night calls and the murderous kidnappers in the flat were the norm for John. Sherlock and this flat had been the only consistent thing in his life.
He looked around at the flat and every object, every square inch of carpet help memories. Where they had gotten to know each other, where they had had their Christmas party, where they had had many a fight, where they had kissed by accident, where they had fallen asleep in each others arms. He squeezed his eyes together as he felt the tears coming again. He had to forget. He knew what he had to do. He had to leave Baker st.
Breaking the news to Mrs. Hudson had been difficult. The little old lady had gotten very emotional and in the end so had John. He had forgotten that saying goodbye to Baker st. meant saying goodbye to its landlady as well. Packing the flat proved even harder. Watching his home, fall around him, left John feeling even more lost than before. He was finally left with an almost empty flat, save two piles of boxes. One was labeled JW and the other was labeled SH. He would probably have to deliver those to Mycroft.
John felt kind of bad. He hadn't had any contact with Mycroft Holmes or anyone else related to his old life since the funeral (save Mrs. Hudson). But he couldn't face a meeting with any of them, because that would mean talking about Sherlock, and John avoided that like the plague. John walked through the empty flat, taking one more look at everything. He then said his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson, promising to visit and he left. And that was it. He vowed to never see Baker st. again. That vow however, was broken.
John was on his daily walk when he suddenly found himself on Baker st. He had no idea how he had ended up here. He had lost himself in his head and his legs had taken him here. He made to leave but something stopped him. The thing stopping him; a SOLD sign on 221B.
John looked at his old home and emotions coursed through him. He felt so stupid! How could he have said goodbye to this place. It was his last piece of Sherlock, his best friend and lover. Without thinking, he walked up to the door and opened it, not even surprised that it was open. He figured that he could have a little word with the buyer and convince him to give him the flat back. He walked up the familiar steps and opened the door, stepping in.
- "Look here, I have a question about this flat." And then he stopped in his tracks. The flat looked exactly the same as before. Everything was back in its place. And sitting in his armchair, applying resin to his violin bow was a dead man walking. Sherlock Holmes. He turned and smiled at John.
- "I know it's quite nice isn't it? When can you move in?"