Warning: This fanfic will include spoilers for The Great Game (1:03), A Scandal in Bulgaria (2:01), The Hounds of Baskerville (2:02) and the Reichenbach Fall (2:03).
Also, I do not own any of these characters. The characters from BBC Sherlock belong to BBC. I only own what I have written.
I hope you enjoy!
"I'll burn you."
Sherlock's heart skipped a beat when he turned around and didn't see a murderous villain, a criminal mastermind, but to just see John, looking up at him and the other end of the room. His eyes widen and he curses himself for being tricked, tricked into thinking that maybe he could make a friend who accepted him, but instead was just another person in the world out to get him.
When he sees that the doctor is instead, wearing a jacket strapped with bombs, Sherlock practically just stopped breathing altogether.
"I'll burn the heart out of you."
And now they're all here, Sherlock's quivering fingers wrapped around his gun, pointed down at the vest. Across from him, James Moriarty; and his demonic smile plastered on his face, and the inhuman ways his eyes stare him down. And next to Sherlock is John, his John, breathing shaky breaths and Sherlock can't tell if he's staring at the bomb or him.
The red dots on their faces flickers. The seconds tick down, and each heartbeat reminds him that they're alive for one more moment, just one more precious second.
He takes one last look at the Moriarty, whose eyes are burning through him, and slowly closes his eyes as his shaking fingers pull the trigger.
Sherlock turns around and pulls John to his chest as the world around them surrenders to fire.
"That was amazing!"
Sherlock remembers being taken aback, because not a single soul that has met him long enough to hear him list off all the deductions he can make out of them and tell him they were extraordinary, that they were something else, not some un-human ability he was cursed with. Sherlock continues to stare out of the taxi's window, at a loss of words, before he replies; "That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"Piss off."
And Sherlock remembers that small flinch of hope when he hears John laugh flutter in his heart, the small though that maybe not everyone in the world hates him and that perhaps, just perhaps, he was capable of making a friend.
"Dear me, brother mine."
Everything is a blur when Sherlock manages to finally cling to consciousness: the soft beeps of the machine, slow hums of the fan above him, the rustling of papers nearby his side. His breathing is raspy, his tongue feels like sandpaper, and he can barely keep his eyes open.
"Not all of us survive bomb explosions, you know."
Sherlock groans as he turns his head around to face the smug smile of his brother; the one he had grown to despise. The light entering in from the windows is blinding, and Sherlock squints before he can see clearly again.
"Today, I've been waiting for you to wake up for about-" Mycroft raises his eyebrows and peers down at the watch on his wrist, "-five hours. Which means five hours taken away from working on the Korean elections." He forces an unamused smile on his lips.
"How long was I unconscious for?" Sherlock rasps, because his mouth feels too dry to speak with, and his throat stings.
"A week, believe it or not." Mycroft smiles exaggeratedly. "That's longer than the time you were in the hospital after the cocaine accident." He notes, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes," Sherlock replies, as Mycroft fold his newspaper in half and sets it down on the table beside him, alongside the small vase overflowing with flowers. The thought that Lestrade could have brought them crosses his mind, before he realizes the detective inspector most likely wouldn't want to be caught dead carrying a handful of flowers. Probably left here by Mrs. Hudson, or-
"John!"
Sherlock jerks forward from the hospital bed before wincing in pain. He takes a deep breath-in, out, in, out- before continuing.
"Where is he? John? John Watson, where is he?"
Mycroft just stares at his brother pitifully and sighs before turning his gaze away back to the newspaper. His fingers trace over the headlines, and it takes all over Sherlock's will not to run over and slap Mycroft across the face.
"John Watson, Mycroft, where is he?" Sherlock repeats through his gritted teeth, hatred dripping off of the words. Mycroft sighs and turns his face to see his brother's before continuing.
"We didn't find his body."
Suddenly all of time has slowed down. "What?" Sherlock eyes widen with despair. He stares down at the sheets on the bed, too many thoughts running through his brain, too many to sort out.
"Moriarty."
Sherlock's head shot up and stared at Mycroft, shooting him a somewhat confused look.
"We didn't find Moriarty's body."
It takes a moment for Mycroft's words to process into his brain, and Sherlock narrows his eyes in hatred. "Yes, alright, I don't care," he growls. "Where's John?"
His brother gazes away from his eyes, brushing his fingers across the paper's headlines. The silence that hangs in the air is enough to make Sherlock want to strangle him, if he wasn't on the edge of nausea and if his head wasn't spinning. After a full minute, Mycroft turns his head and smiles pitifully-one small and quick enough to not be noticed.
"Caring isn't an advantage," he says. "Brother mine."
Sherlock knows those words well enough to know what they mean.
"No."
The whole world stops on it's axis.
"No! John!"
Sherlock rips the tubes connected to the machine that hang onto his chest and jumps out of the hospital bed. He lunges for the door and shove sit open, his brother's calls deaf to his ears. He immediately gets overwhelmed with dizziness, but that doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now.
"John Watson!"
Sherlock doesn't even know where he's going, and his feet stumble over each other. Millions of arms are pulling at him, frightened shrieks that get filtered into quiet, unimportant sounds in his brain. He can recognize a few faces; Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Lestrade, the faces of confused nurses and doctors that grab at his arms.
Sherlock grabs the nearest hand to his.
"John Watson. Where is he? Is he okay? Is he alive?"
Suddenly everyone stops talking, and the room falls silent.
"Oh, Sherlock," whispers the timid, hushed voice of Molly after a few minutes.
"He's dead."
"It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? Risking your life to prove you're clever?"
Sherlock felt a small smirk crawl up his face. The shining lights from the police cars flash behind them, and yellow Police Line: Do Not Cross signs are strung around the area. Sherlock stared into the eyes of the retired army doctor, the man who just shot the taxi driver to save his life. He still doesn't know how to react to John's actions, how to say thank you without sounding stupid. "Why would I do that?"
"Because you're an idiot."
Sherlock remembers his and John's light laughs, and the soft smile on his face.
"Dinner?"
"Starving."
It rains on the day of John's funeral. Sherlock would have laughed if it wasn't his best friend that had died.
Everyone falls quiet the second Sherlock stands up to speak. Everyone's sobs are hushed, mumbles and whimpers silent.
Sherlock's eyes scan the crowd of people, all siting down on cheap fold-up chairs, arranged in rows in front of the casket. John's family is placed in the front row; his mothers head is leaned against his fathers shoulder, wiping tears from her face with a handkerchief. Harriet is sitting next to them, staring mournfully down at her shoes. Sherlock can tell from her jacket creases she's been trying to keep off of alcohol ever since her brother died.
John's friends from the army are behind them, soldiers trained to not cry in situations like this. Even so, some of them break down into tears.
Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and most of Scotland Yard are here too.
Every single one of them blames him in some way for John's death, even if they say otherwise. And it is true, it is mostly his fault that John Watson's lifeless body in inside of a casket instead of walking around Baker Street and making tea, or watching crap telly, or groaning about paying the bills.
He hates the feeling of guilt that settles in his chest.
It also rained the day Redbeard died.
William sniffled, and wiped away the tears from his eyes. He was kneeling on the ground, his pants stained with dirt. His hands are placed on top of the rock they placed over Redbeards burial. Mycroft was standing over him, and held an umbrella over them both. He sighed and looked at his wrist for his watch. He cleared his throat; it was getting late.
"Wil-" Mycroft stops himself in mid sentence. His younger brother wasn't William anymore; William was the boy who put on a pirate hat that was too big for his head and ran around carrying a small wooden sword behind him, his dog running along side him. William was the boy who lived carefree, and was accompanied by Redbeard, the only friend he had ever known. The boy who was crying at the edge of grave wasn't William anymore.
"Sherlock." Mycroft whispered, and his brother paused to look up at him, with tear stained eyes. Mycroft held out his hand. Sherlock reluctantly took his hand and pulled himself up to his feet, and Mycroft smiled down at him sympathetically.
"Caring is not an advantage, brother mine."
The flat feels so empty with just Sherlock living in it.
It echoes with silence, and Sherlock hates it from the deep depths of his heart. He refuses to speak out loud, and the only sound in Baker Street is of Sherlock's violin.
Occasionally, Mrs. Hudson will bring in a tray of tea and set it down near his chair, staring at him pitifully before leaving without a word.
Sherlock doesn't want anyone's pity.
At one point, Sherlock walks over to the kitchen after setting down his violin to make tea. It's only after a few minutes that Sherlock gives up, because he doesn't know how to make tea the way he likes it. John always did it.
Molly Hooper comes into Baker Street a few days after the funeral. She holds up a paper bag filled with severed human thumbs, and then sets it on top of the table. Sherlock continues to play his violin and ignore her.
"You look sadder, you know. Now that he can't see you," Molly mumbles after Sherlock has finished the song.
For once in his life, Sherlock is at a loss of words.
"So you don't have a girlfriend."
"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."
The candle Angeleno placed between the both of them flickers. Sherlock stares out the window, studying each individual that walks past Northumberland Street. HIs fingers tap impatiently on the table, and John hesitantly picks through his food, before looking back up.
"…do you have a boyfriend?"
Sherlock pulls his gaze off of the window and looks over to John, eyebrows furrowed.
"Which is fine, by the way."
John glances somewhat uncomfortably at the table edge before looking back at Sherlock.
"I know it's fine."
"…so you have a-"
"No."
"Alright." John licks his lips and smiles a bit awkwardly. "You're unattached. Just like me." He fixes his gaze back onto his plate, shifting the food around with his fork. "Good."
Sherlock stares at him confusingly as the words function in his head before replying.
"…John, you should know, I consider myself married to my work, and though I'm flattered in your interest-"
"No."
"-I'm really not looking for any sort of-"
"No, I wasn't asking you ou-no." John furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."
Sherlock pauses before saying anything else.
"Good."
I felt like this fic moved a bit too fast, and I'll probably go back and write some more bits here and there.
I will be continuing this, so stay tuned if you want to see more.
I'd appreciate it oh so so much if you commented and told me what you thought, or if you spotted any errors or spelling mistakes! Criticism is much appreciated.
Thanks for reading!