John Watson's head hung in his hands, his palms pressed into his eyes so hard he created constellations. Warm fingers pressed into the back of his neck. "Johnny, love, we need to go, we have a flight in an hour. Promise you'll call in the morning?" His sister's voice dripped with sympathy, barely covering the underlying sadness. He looked up at her, putting on the fake smile he'd been abusing so much over the past few days.
"Yeah, of course. Thanks, Harry." He stood and embraced her, harder than he usually would've.
"It was a beautiful service," Clara said, pressing a kiss on John's cheek before turning towards the door. His smile wavered a second, wishing his sister didn't have to leave him alone with Sherlock and the big nothing that now filled his life. He walked them to the door, locking it as they left. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal until it his skin ached. Sighing, he turned and climbed the steps to the bedroom where Sherlock had isolated himself during the morbid get-together.
"Sherlock?" John tapped softly on the door of their bedroom. His husband's tall, thin frame stood stiffly by the window, staring out into the street below. "Harry and Clara just left, they were the last… I'm going to start cleaning up if…" His voice trailed off. Sherlock didn't turn, but minutely shook his head side to side. John noticed his heavy breathing and as he turned to leave he heard his husband trying to suppress a sob.
It had been six days since they'd received a call from their son's school. James had been found in his room unresponsive with an empty bottle of pills on his bedside table. John couldn't remember the remainder of the conversation. He ran over every possible scenario in his head: maybe James was drunk and didn't know how many pills he was taking, maybe someone had tricked him into taking more than he should've, maybe he had been sleep walking, maybe I'm dreaming because I refuse to accept my son committed suicide.
James' predisposition for depression caught up with him when he was ten. It came with the territory of being a late-adoption baby. James completed their family at age four; he had been the first child that Sherlock bonded with, and no matter how many newborns they met after that, they both knew it had to be the precocious child they just couldn't forget. The agency warned them that James had come from a very abusive house hold, that it might take him years to adjust, that he may never fully accept the Holmes' as his real parents.
Despite what the agency had told them, the first six years James lived with Sherlock and John were picturesque. Because both parents worked from home, so to say, they took it upon themselves to homeschool James until he felt adjusted enough to attend school. He often accompanied them to the less gruesome crimes they investigated, and on a few occasions spotted clues even his legendary father missed. But by age ten, he started to have issues. He would break into temper tantrums, he would refuse to talk for days on end, he wouldn't eat or sleep, and on a few occasions John or Sherlock had caught him with scissors or a knife, carving into his own skin. When they asked him why he did it, he simply said "It makes me feel better. It makes the mean people in my head be quiet."
After much debate, Sherlock and John agreed to send James to therapy. All his doctors agreed: his depression and mania was a combination of genetics and an "unfortunate" star to life. This frustrated Sherlock, he would protest saying "He had the best childhood we could've possibly given him, we did everything for him, he was very happy!" The psychiatrists and psychologists would nod sympathetically. It didn't matter what the Holmes' had done for him, years of happiness couldn't erase his first four years in hell.
John stood in their empty living room, observing the half-finished plates of crackers and cheese, an overwhelming sadness slowly penetrating his body. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, channeling the voice of his sister in an attempt to stave on his ensuing anxiety attack.
"In Judaism, the spirit only leaves this world when the family lets it go," she had said, her hands grasping John's. She had converted when she married Clara, and had been a pseudo-spiritual advisor to her brother ever since. "That's your job, Johnny, and you too Sherlock. You need to imagine his spirit as a kite. Over the next few days, while you settle his affairs, you can hold onto that string, but he's going to pull it in your hands because he knows he can't stay with you forever. Slowly let the string out and know that once you let him go, you can't reel him back in. Eventually you're going to need to allow him to go where he belongs."
Feeling slightly idiotic, he held out his hands and mimed holding an imaginary kite. At one end he felt his physical self, standing in the middle of his sitting room, surrounded by deafening silence. At the other end, he began to imagine his son, his only child, slowly pulling up and away. The longer he stood the more he could feel the pull against his hands, the string cutting into his palm, and heard the wind begin to rush through his ears. As if a gust had passed through, he felt a sharp jerk in his hands as he almost lost control of his kite. I'm not ready! He thought desperately and pulled on his imaginary string, trying to draw his child back to earth. He could've sworn he felt resistance, before the string began to give and come back to him. "John."
He opened his eyes and looked towards the doorway where Sherlock now stood. "John…." Tears filled his eyes as he closed the distance between them and threw himself into John's arms, finally letting go of the emotion he'd been trying to lock inside all week. For a moment they stood, holding each other, breathing and crying as one, both wishing the other could now fill the void they felt in their hearts.
After three years of twice-weekly therapy, god knows how many pills, and six different diagnoses, John and Sherlock finally agreed James was ready for school. He had grown into a happy, responsive, engaged, and seemingly stable young adult. He breezed through secondary school, top of his class, and was easily accepted to all his top universities. After much deliberation with his parents, he decided to attend Cambridge with a focus on Political Sciences. It was a sad day when he picked up his last box of things containing a quilt made by Mrs. Hudson when she heard about the adoption that had graced his bed for over a decade, a microscope that his father had secretly snuck in with the hopes he would switch his major to chemistry, and his childhood teddy bear he had tried so desperately to leave behind, that his other father would not let him sleep without. With a kiss on each of his parents' cheeks, he was off. And that was that.
Three days after the memorial service, they received a box in the mail. It was addressed to "James' parents" and was from "Gregory Lestrade." John and Sherlock opened it together. Inside was a huge kite, multicolored, in the shape of a butterfly. "Made me think of him. Best wishes, Greg."
Sherlock laughed lightly, handing the note to John. "It's his spirit kite. I wonder if Harry talked to Greg or if…" He looked outside at the still trees and sunshine. "If James wants us to fly his kite, he needs to send us some wind." John threw the note back into the box and excused himself, overwhelmed. He had been flying his imaginary kite for days, and he knew Sherlock had been too. But no matter how hard he tried, he wasn't ready to let James go. He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, taking deep breaths to calm himself. In the sitting room, he could hear Sherlock slowly taking the kite out of its plastic wrap. John ran himself a too-hot bath and sat inside so long his heart felt it was going to burst through his ribcage.
At first James called home daily from Cambridge. After three months, they were lucky to hear from him once a week. They were thankful that he had adjusted so well, but it was a stark contrast to the days of being an inseparable threesome. He spent Christmas at home, which would be the last time his parents ever saw him. Sherlock was disappointed to notice he had gotten a tattoo of a butterfly on his inner right wrist. "I love butterflies," James said, "They're mother nature's art." The last time they heard from James, he had told them "Everything was going great," "I'll see you in two weeks for Easter," and "Tell Father that if he's looking into the Corelli Murders, to talk to the victim's aunt." Two weeks later he was gone.
Two weeks after James' death, a rough hand shook John awake. "Wake up, you need to wake up. He sent us wind." Disoriented, John squinted at the clock: it read 04:16.
"Damn it, Sher, go back to sleep, its four o'clock in the morning." He grabbed Sherlock's hand and gave it a light kiss, pulling it against his chest and closing his eyes again.
"No, John, James sent us wind. He wants us to fly his kite." Sherlock pulled his hand away and got out of bed. He flipped on the lights and rummaged through their wardrobe. "We need to go now, before we miss it."
John sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Sherlock was right, the wind blew strongly outside 221B Baker Street. The trees were shaking, spring blossoms falling to the damp pavement. Sherlock threw a pair of denim jeans and a jumper at John, hurriedly putting one of John's on himself. John got dressed quickly, grabbing the kite from the corner of the room where it had been exiled since they had received it, and swiftly followed Sherlock out the door.
At age seven, James had noticed his family was different than his friends' and asked his parents where he had come from. Sherlock and John had rehearsed their answer: his own mother had been too young to care for him, she wasn't ready to be a mother, and she didn't know how to show her love so she decided to give him to someone who could give him as much love as he deserved. Sherlock and John had chosen him out of many children because he was the most special, the most perfect, the most beautiful, the most sweet, the most smart, and the only person his fathers would've chosen to join their family. But when the moment came, they simply said "You're here because we love you. You chose us and we chose you." He had seemed content with his answer, and never asked them again.
It took them five minutes to walk to the nearby park. The street was almost dead at 4:30 in the morning, save for a few late night/early morning taxis escorting beautiful young women back to their apartments and anxious tourists on their way to and from Heathrow. Sherlock held the kite tightly in his hand, his other gripping John's arm hard enough to bruise. They moved to the edge of the grassy field, alone in the freezing wind. Sherlock slowly unwrapped the kite and checked to make sure the string was thoroughly attached. "You go," he said after a moment of reflection, handing the string to John. "You need to do it. He needs his dad."
Swallowing, John nodded slowly and took the string from Sherlock. His bond with James had been much deeper than Sherlock's. It wasn't because Sherlock loved him any less than John did, it was simply because John loved the people he loved with all of his being. He looked at the kite in his husband's hands. It was beautiful: a multicolored butterfly with fake jewels adorning its translucent wings. As he grasped the string, he heard a small voice whisper in his ear. Run.
He took off into the field, Sherlock releasing the kite into the wind simultaneously. Almost immediately it soared high up into the sky, tugging relentlessly against John's hands. He turned and looked up, marveling at how high it had gotten so quickly. Sherlock ran after him, cheering and pumping his fist into the air. "Look at him, John! Look at how high he is!" He stopped and stared. A grin grew over John's face, mirrored by the sun peaking over the horizon, spreading warmth throughout his entire body. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist from behind, whispering into his husband's ear: "Look at James fly."
They stood for a moment, the three of them, a family. A sense of finality began to overtake John. He knew it wasn't really his son, but he felt this was it, this was their last moment together. He had spent days wishing that he had had a chance to say goodbye to James, for closure, and this was the closest thing he would ever get. A cold that had nothing to do with the wind penetrated his body: he wasn't ready. "I can't let him go, Sherlock." A solitary tear slid down his cheek. As he spoke, a gust of wind tugged the string in his hand and dried the tear, as if James was saying: It's okay, Dad. I'm ready to go.
"Together, then." Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's and slowly they began letting out the string. James pulled their hands up, gladly rising higher and higher into the sky. Towards the end of the roll, they paused.
I love you, James. I love you and I forgive you. He turned to see Sherlock's eyes squeezed tightly shut. He opened them and locked eyes with John, a soft smile caressing his lips. The looked up at their son and let the last of the string out.
James flew impossibly high above their heads, struggling in the high winds. His jewels sparkled in the morning sunlight, reflecting a rainbow down onto his smiling parents. They stood for a minute, holding him in place, before the winds suddenly stopped. The kite gracefully floated to the ground, and Sherlock ran to catch it. They had allowed him to ascend, and with the last of the winds, James was gone.
He hadn't left a note. Instead, one of his classmates dropped off his journal a few weeks after his death. One entry, dated October 6th, on his most recent birthday, had said "The strangest thing happened. I was sitting outside and smoking a cigarette, wishing I could be home and wishing I could make my heart stop hurting. I was so focused on the pain and my sadness, I didn't even notice a butterfly land on my wrist. It sat for a moment, and as soon as I realized what was happening, it flew off. Right away, it felt like at least a small amount of the weight on my shoulders was lifted with it, as if it knew how I felt and took some of it away. Tomorrow I'm getting it tattooed where it landed, so instead of taking a knife to myself, hopefully I can see the butterfly and remember that life is usually immensely beautiful, if nowhere else, at least in the details."
When they returned home a few hours later, Sherlock and John tacked the kite above the doorway in their bedroom. For years it sat there and after a while it blended in with the rest of the decor. Every once in a while, however, the morning sunlight creeping in their window reflected off the costume jewels, and hit the eyes of his sleeping parents, waking them. Like a child jumping on their bed, asking for breakfast, excited for the new day, James would wake his parents up.